House of Cards

MONDAY 25th OCTOBER

Shortly before 10 o'clock the following morning, the members of the Cabinet assembled around the Cabinet table. They had been called individually to Downing Street rather than as a formal Cabinet, and most had been surprised to discover their colleagues also gathered. There was an air of expectation and great curiosity, and the conversation around the table while they waited for their Prime Minister was unusually muffled.

As the tones of Big Ben striking the hour reached into the room, the door opened and Collingridge walked in.

'Good morning, gentlemen.' His voice was unusually soft. ‘I am grateful to see you all here. I shall not detain you long.'

He took his seat, and extracted a single sheet of paper from the leather bound file he was carrying. He laid it carefully on the table in front of him, and then looked slowly around at his colleagues. There was not a sound to be heard in the room.

‘I am sorry I was unable to inform you that this morning's meeting was to be one of the full Cabinet. As you will shortly see, it was necessary to ensure that you could all be assembled without creating undue attention and speculation amongst the press.'

He let out a long sigh, a mixture of pain and relief.

‘I am going to read to you a short statement that I shall be issuing later today. At ‘I o'clock I shall be going to the Palace to convey the contents to Her Majesty. I must ask all of you, on your oaths of office, not to divulge the contents of this message to anyone before it is officially released. I must ensure Her Majesty hears it from me and not through the press. I would also ask it of each one of you as a personal favour to me’

He looked slowly around the table to catch the eye of those present, all of whom nodded their assent as he did so. He picked up the sheet of paper and began to read in a slow, matter-of-fact voice. He squeezed out any trace of regret he might have felt.

'Recently there has been a spate of allegations in the media about the business affairs of both me and my family, which shows no sign of abating.

‘I have consistently stated, and repeat today, that I have done nothing of which I should be ashamed. I have adhered strictly to the rules and conventions relating to the conduct of the Prime Minister.

The implied allegation made against me is one of the most serious kind for any holder of public office, that I have used that office and the confidential information available to me from it to enrich my family. I cannot explain the extraordinary circumstances referred to by the media which have given rise to these allegations, and I have asked the Cabinet Secretary to undertake a formal independent investigation into them.

'The nature of these allegations makes it impossible for me to prove my innocence of the charge of misconduct, but I am confident that the official investigation by the Cabinet Secretary will eventually establish the full facts of the matter and my complete exoneration’

He swallowed hard; his mouth was dry and increasingly he was struggling with some of the words.

'However, this investigation will inevitably take some time to complete, and in the meantime the spread of doubts and insinuations is doing real harm to the normal business of Government, and also to my Party. While the time and attention of the Government should be devoted to implementing the programme on which we were so recently re-elected, this is not proving possible in present circumstances.

The integrity of the office of Prime Minister has been brought into question, and it is my first duty to protect that office. Therefore, to re-establish and preserve that unquestioned integrity, I have today asked the permission of Her Majesty the Queen to relinquish the office of Prime Minister as soon as a successor can be chosen.'

There was a sharp intake of breath from somewhere around the table, but otherwise there was absolute silence throughout the room. Hearts had momentarily stopped beating.

Collingridge cleared his throat and continued.

‘I have devoted my entire adult life to the pursuit of my political ideals, and it goes against every bone in my body to leave office in this fashion. I am not running away from the allegations, but rather ensuring that they may be cleared up as quickly and expeditiously as possible, and striving to bring a little peace back to my family. I believe history will show that I have made the right judgement.'

Collingridge replaced the piece of paper in his folder. 'Gentlemen, thank you,' he said curtly, and in an instant strode out of the door and was gone.

Urquhart sat at the end of the Cabinet table transfixed. As the murmuring and gasps of surprise broke out around him he would not, could not, join in. He gazed for a long time at the Prime Minister's empty chair, exulting in his own immense power.

He had done this. Alone he had destroyed the most influential man in the country, wielding might beyond the dreams of the petty men who sat with him around that table. And he knew he was the only one of them who could truly justify filling that empty seat. The others were pygmies, ants.

He was seized by the same exhilarating perspective which had gripped him forty years earlier when as a raw military recruit he had prepared to make his first parachute jump 2,500 feet above the fields of Lincolnshire. All the instruction in the world could not have prepared him for the chilling excitement as he sat in the open hatchway of a twin engine Islander, his feet dangling in the fierce slipstream, gazing down at the green and yellow landscape far below.

He was attached to a parachute which in turn was fastened to a static line and this, so the instructors had assured him, would guarantee a safe landing. But this was no matter of mere logic. It was an act of faith, of trust in one's destiny, a willingness to accept the danger if that were the only way of finding the fulfilment which every real man sought. Despite the logic of the static line, sometimes even the most courageous of men froze in the open hatchway as his faith deserted him and his self-respect was ripped away in the slipstream. Yet Urquhart had felt omnipotent, God-like, viewing His Kingdom from on high, disdaining the logic and fears which beset the ordinary mortals around him.

As he gazed now at the empty chair, he knew there was no time for doubt. He must have faith in himself and his destiny. He had launched himself and was rushing through the air until he reached that point on the very edge of discovery where he would find what Destiny had decided for him. He gave an inner smile of anticipation, while contriving outwardly to look as shocked as those around him.

Still shivering from the excitement, Urquhart walked the few yards back to the Chief Whip's office in Downing Street. He locked himself in his private room and by 10.20 a.m. he had made two phone calls.

Shortly after 10.30, Roger O'Neill called a meeting of the entire press office at party headquarters.

I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to cancel all your lunch arrangements today. I've had the word that shortly after ‘I o'clock this afternoon we are to expect a very important statement from Downing Street. It's absolutely confidential, I cannot tell you what it is about, but we have to be ready to handle it. It's a real blockbuster.'

By 11 a.m., five journalists had been contacted by various press officers in party headquarters to apologise for not being able to make lunch. All of them were sworn to secrecy and told with various shades of detail and speculation that 'something big was going on in Downing Street'.

Charles Goodman of the Press Association, using the formidable range of contacts and favours he had built up over the years, quickly discovered that there had been a meeting of all Cabinet Ministers at Downing Street that morning, although the Number Ten press office had nothing to say on the matter. Too many official schedules for 10 a.m. had been hastily altered for anyone to be able to hide the fact. On a hunch he then phoned the Buckingham Palace press office, which also had nothing to say - at least officially. But the deputy press secretary there had worked with Goodman many years before on the Manchester Evening News, and confirmed entirely off the record and totally unattributably that Collingridge had asked for an audience at ‘1 p.m.’

By 11.25 a.m. the PA tape was carrying the story of the secret Cabinet meeting and the unscheduled audience expected soon to take place between the Prime Minister and the Queen, an entirely factual report.

By midday IRN local radio was running a sensationalised lead item on their news programmes.

The news at noon is that Henry Collingridge will soon be on his way for a secret meeting with Her Majesty the Queen. Speculation has exploded in Westminster during the last hour that either he is going to sack several of his leading Ministers and inform the Queen of a major Cabinet reshuffle, or he is going to admit his guilt to recent charges of insider trading with his brother. There are even rumours that she is going to sack him. Whatever the outcome, it seems certain that in just over an hour's time somebody in Government is going to be very unhappy.'

In fact it took less than a couple of minutes to infuriate

Henry Collingridge for, when the Prime Minister looked out of his front window, the other side of the street was obscured in a forest of television cameras around which was camped an army of reporters and press photographers.

He was purple with rage as he slammed the door of his office shut with a noise which echoed along the corridor. Two passing messengers witnessed his fury. ‘What was that he was muttering?' asked one.

'Didn't quite get it, Jim. Something about "oaths of office".

When Collingridge walked out through the front door and into his car at 12.45, he ignored the screams of the press corps from the other side of the road. He drove off into Whitehall, where he was pursued by a camera car which in its eagerness to chase him nearly crashed into the rear of the Prime Minister's police escort. There was another crowd of photographers outside the gates of Buckingham Palace. His attempt at a dignified resignation had turned into a three-ring circus.

As he watched these frenzied scenes on live television, Benjamin Landless, alerted more than two hours earlier by Urquhart, contented himself with a broad smile and a second bottle of champagne.

The Prime Minister had asked not to be disturbed unless it was absolutely necessary. After returning from the Palace, he had retired to the private apartment above Downing Street, wanting to be alone with his wife for a few hours. Somehow, those official papers no longer seemed so pressing.

The private secretary apologised. 'I'm terribly sorry, Prime Minister, but it's Dr Christian. He said it was important.'

The phone buzzed gently as the call was put through. ‘Dr Christian. How can I help you? And how is Charles?' It's about Charles I'm calling, Mr Collingridge. As we have discussed before, I have been keeping him very isolated and away from the newspapers so that he wasn't disturbed by all the allegations. But we have a problem. Normally we switch his television off and find something to divert him during news programmes, but we weren't expecting the unscheduled programme about your resignation - I'm deeply sorry you've had to resign, by the way, but it's about Charles I am most worried. I have to put his interests first, you understand.'

‘I do understand, Dr Christian, and you have your priorities absolutely right.'

‘He heard of the allegations about you and himself for the very first time, and how they had helped bring about your resignation. He is deeply upset and disturbed, Mr Collingridge; it's come as a great shock. He believes he is to blame for all that's happened, and I'm afraid is talking about doing harm to himself. I thought we were just on the verge of making real progress in his case, and now I fear this will not only set him right back but in his present delicate emotional state could bring about a real crisis for him. I don't wish to alarm you unduly, but he needs your help. Very badly.'

Sarah saw the look of anguish on her husband's face, and came over to sit beside him and hold his hand. It was trembling.

'Doctor, what can I do? I’ll do anything, anything you want.'

'We need to find some way of reassuring him. He's desperately confused.'

There was a pause as Collingridge bit deep into his lip, hoping it would distract from the pain burning inside.

'May I talk to him, doctor?'

There was a wait of several minutes as Charles was brought to the telephone.

'Charlie, how are you old boy?' he said softly.

Henry, what have I done to you? I've ruined you, destroyed you!' The voice sounded old, touched by hysteria.

'Charlie, Charlie. You've done nothing. It's not you who has hurt me, you have nothing to feel guilty about’

'But I've seen it on the television. You going off to the Queen to resign. They said it was because of me and some shares. I don't understand it, Henry, I've screwed it all up. Not only my life, but you and Sarah too. I don't deserve to be your brother. There's no point in anything any more’ There was a huge, gulping sob on the end of the phone.

'Charlie, I want you to listen to me very carefully. Are you listening? It's not you who should be asking for pardon, but me who should be down on my knees begging for forgiveness from you’

He cut through the protest beginning to emerge from his brother.

'No, listen, Charlie! We've always got through our problems together, as family. Remember when I was running the business - the year we nearly went bust? We were going down, Charlie, and it was my fault. And who brought in that new client, that order which saved us? I know it wasn't the biggest order the company ever had, but it couldn't have come at a more vital time. You saved the company, Charlie, and you saved me. Just like you did when I was a bloody fool and got caught driving over the limit that Christmas. The local police sergeant was a rugger playing friend of yours, not mine, and it was you who somehow managed to persuade him to fix- the breath test at the station. If I had lost my licence then, I would never have been selected by the constituency for the seat. Don't you see, Charlie, far from ruining it for me, you made it all possible. We've always faced things together, and that's just how it's going to stay.' 'But now I've ruined everything for you, Henry.. ‘ 'No, it's me that's ruined things. I got too high and bloody mighty, and forgot that the only thing that matters in the end is those you love. You were always around when I needed help, all the time. But I got too busy. When Mary left, I knew how much you were hurting. I should have been there. You needed me, but there always seemed other things to do. I was always going to come and see you tomorrow, or the next day. 'Always tomorrow, Charlie, always tomorrow.'

The emotion was cracking Collingridge's voice.

I've had my moment of glory, I've been selfish, I've done the things that I wanted to do. While I watched you become an alcoholic and practically kill yourself’

It was the first time that either of them had spoken that truth. Charles had always been under the weather, or overtired, or suffering from nerves - never uncontrollably, alcoholically drunk. They both knew there were no secrets now, no going back.

‘I will walk out of Downing Street and will be able to say good bloody riddance - if only I know I still have my brother. I'm just terrified, Charlie, that it's too late, that I've neglected you too much to be able to ask for your forgiveness, that you've been alone too long for you to want to get better.'

The tears of genuine anguish were flowing down his cheeks. Sarah was hugging him tightly.

'Charlie, without your forgiveness, all this will have been for nothing.'

There was silence from the other end of the phone.

'Say something, Charlie!' he said in desperation.

‘I love you, big brother.'

He let out a sigh of release and total joy.

‘I love you too, old boy. I'll come and see you tomorrow. We'll both have a lot more time for each other now, eh?'

They were both laughing through the tears, with Sarah joining in. Henry Collingridge hadn't felt so whole for years.

She was sipping a drink, admiring the night view of London from his penthouse apartment when he came up behind her and embraced her warmly.

Hey, I thought we came here to discuss business,' she said, not resisting.

'There are some things I don't have the words for’ he said, burying his face in her blonde hair and rejoicing at its freshness.

She turned round in his arms to face him and look directly into his eyes.

'You talk too much’ she said, and kissed him passionately. She was glad he had made the first move; she was not competing tonight, she wanted to be free, uncomplicated, just a woman.

She made no sound of protest as he slipped her silk blouse over her shoulders and it fell away, revealing a smooth and unblemished skin which could have been a model's. Her breasts were immaculate, small but very feminine and sensitive. She gasped as his fingers gently ran over her nipples, which responded instantly. She undid her own belt and let her trousers fall straight to the floor, stepping out of them and out of her shoes in one graceful movement. She stood tall and unashamed against the glittering lights of London behind her.

He marvelled for a moment at what he saw. He couldn't remember when he last had felt like this, so excited and so much a man.

'Mattie, you look lovely.'

‘I hope you are not just going to look, Johnnie’ she said.

He took her to the fireplace where the flames flickered invitingly, held her close against him and prayed that the moment would last for ever.

When they were spent, for some while they lay silently on the rug, lost in their thoughts and each other's arms. It was Mattie who broke the spell.

Is it all coincidence, Johnnie?'

'Let's try again and see.'

'Not this, you fool,' she laughed. 'It's time to talk now!'

'Oh, I wondered how long it would take you to get back to that,' he said with an air of resignation. He got them both blankets to wrap themselves in.

'We find a plan, effort, plot - call it what you will in which our paper is involved, to chop the legs off Collingridge. For all we know it has been going on for months. Now Collingridge resigns. Is it all part of the same operation?'

'How can it be, Mattie? In the end Collingridge hasn't been forced out by his opponents but by his brother's apparent fiddling of share purchases. You're surely not suggesting all that was part of the plan.'

'You have to admit it's a hell of a coincidence, Johnnie. I've met Charles Collingridge, spent several hours drinking and chatting with him at the party conference, as it happens. He struck me as being a pleasant and straightforward drunk, who certainly didn't seem as if he had two hundred pounds to put together, let alone being able to raise tens of thousands of pounds to start speculating in shares.'

Her face was screwed up in concentration as she grappled with her still confused thoughts. It may seem silly, I know he's an alcoholic and they often aren't responsible for their actions, but I don't believe he would have jeopardised his brother's whole career for a few thousand pounds' profit on the Stock Market. And do you really think it's likely that Henry Collingridge, the Prime Minister of this country, was feeding his drunk brother insider share tips to finance his boozing?'

Is it any more credible to believe there is some form of high-level plot involving senior party figures, the publisher of our newspaper and God knows who else to kill off the Prime Minister? Surely the easiest explanation is the simple one - that Charles Collingridge is a drunk who is not responsible for his actions and who has done something so overwhelmingly stupid that his brother's had to resign.'

'There's only one person who can tell us, I suppose. Charles Collingridge.'

'But he's locked away in some clinic or other, isn't he? I thought his whereabouts were a closely guarded family secret.'

True, but he's the only one who could help us get to the bottom of this.'

'And how does our Reporter of the Year propose to do that?'

he teased.

She was concentrating too intently to rise to the bait. Instead, she sat on the hearth rug wrapped deep in thought and an enormous yellow blanket while he refreshed their drinks. As he returned with two glasses, she spun round to face him.

'When was the last time anyone saw Charles Collingridge?' she demanded.

'Why, er ... When he was driven away from his home over a week ago.'

'Who was he with?'

'Sarah Collingridge.'

'And...?'

'A driver.'

'Who was the driver, Johnnie?'

'Damned if I know. Never seen him before. Hang on, being a dutiful deputy editor I keep all the nightly news on tape for a fortnight, so I should have it here somewhere.'

He rummaged around by his video player for a few moments before slotting a tape into the chamber and winding it forward. In a few seconds, through the blizzard produced by the fast replay button, appeared the scenes of Charles Collingridge huddled in the back of the fleeing car.

'Go back!' she ordered. 'To the start.'

And there, for less than a second at the front of the report, as the car swept from behind the building into the main road, they could clearly see the face of the driver through the windscreen.

Krajewski punched the freeze frame button. They both sat there entranced, staring at the balding and bespectacled face.

'And who the hell is he?' muttered Krajewski.

'Let's figure out who he's not’ said Mattie. ‘He's not a

Government driver - it's not a Government car and the drivers pool is very gossipy, so we would have heard something. He's not a political figure or we would have recognised him...'

She clapped her hands in inspiration. 'Johnnie, where were they going?'

'Not to Downing Street, not to some hotel or other public place.' He pondered the options. To the clinic, I suppose.'

‘Precisely! That man is from the clinic. If we can find out who he is, we shall know where Charles is!'

'OK, Clark Kent. Seems fair enough. Look, I can get a hard copy of the face off the video tape and show it around. We could try old Freddie, one of our staff photographers. Not only does he have an excellent memory for faces, he is also an alcoholic who dried out a couple of years ago. He still goes religiously every week to Alcoholics Anonymous, and he might well be able to put us on the right track. There aren't that many treatment centres, we should be able to make some progress - but I still don't accept your conspiracy theory, Mattie. It's still all much more likely to be circumstance and coincidence.'

You cynical bastard, what do I have to do to convince you?'

'Come here and show me a little more of that feminine intuition of yours,' he growled.

At almost exactly the same time in the private booth of a fashionable and overpriced restaurant in the West End of London, Landless and Urquhart were also locked together, in an embrace of an entirely mercenary kind.

Interesting times, Frankie, interesting times,' mused Landless.

In China, I believe, it is a curse to live in interesting times.'

I'm sure Collingridge agrees!' said Landless, bursting into gruff laughter.

He tapped the ash off his thick Havana cigar and savoured the large cognac before returning to his guest.

‘Frankie, I invited you here this evening to ask just one question. I shan't beat around the bush, and I shall thank you to be absolutely blunt with me. Are you going to stand for the leadership?' He glared directly at Urquhart, trying to intimidate him into total frankness.

‘I can't tell yet. The situation is very unclear, and I shall have to wait for the dust to settle a little...'

'OK, Frankie, let me put it this way. Do you want it? Because if you do, old son, I can be very helpful to you.'

Urquhart returned his host's direct stare, looking deep into the protruding, bloodshot eyes.

‘I want it very, very much.'

It was the first time he admitted to anyone other than himself his burning desire to hold the reins of 'Prime Ministerial power, yet with Landless, who wore his naked ambition on his sleeve, he felt no embarrassment in the confession.

'That's good. Let's start from there. Let me tell you what the Telegraph will be running tomorrow. It's an analysis piece by our political correspondent, Mattie Storin. Pretty blonde girl with long legs and big blue eyes - d'you know her, Frankie?'

'Yes,' mused Urquhart. 'Only professionally, of course,' he hastened to add as he saw the fleshy lips of his companion preparing a lewd comment. 'Bright, too. I'm interested to discover how she sees things.'

'Says it is an open race for the leadership, that Collingridge's resignation has come so quickly and unexpectedly that no potential successor has got his public case prepared very well. So almost anything could happen.'

‘I believe she is right,' nodded Urquhart. 'Which worries me. The whole election process could be over in less than three weeks, and it's the slick, flashy television performers who will gain the best start. The tide is eveiything in winning these contests; if it's with you, it will sweep you home; flowing against you, then no matter how good a swimmer you are, you'll still drown’

'Which slick, flashy television performers in particular?'

Try Michael Samuel’

'Mmmm, young, impressive, principled, seems intelligent — not at all to my liking. He wants to interfere in everything, rebuild the world. Got too much of a conscience for my liking, and not enough experience in taking hard, sound decisions.'

'So what do we do?' asked Urquhart.

Landless cupped the crystal goblet in his huge hands, swirled the dark liquor and chuckled quietly.

'Frankie, tides turn. You can be swimming strongly for the shore one minute, and the next be swept out to sea.. ‘

He took a huge gulp of cognac, raised his finger to order another round, and settled his bulk as comfortably as he could into his chair before resuming the conversation.

'Frankie, this afternoon I instructed a small and extremely confidential team at the Telegraph to start contacting as many of the Government's Members of Parliament as they can get hold of in the next twenty-four hours to ask which way they are going to vote. In the next edition of the Telegraph, they will publish the results -which I confidently predict will show Mr Samuel with a small but clear lead over the rest of the field’

'What?' exclaimed Urquhart in horror. 'How do you know this? The poll hasn't even been finished yet...'

'Frankie, I know what the poll is going to say because I am the publisher of the bloody newspaper’

'You mean you've fixed it? But why are you pushing Samuel?'

'Because although the poll will show a very reasonable level of support for you, at the moment you can't win the contest. You're the Chief Whip, you don't have any great public platform from which to preach, and if it becomes a free-for-all you're going to get trampled in the rush’

Urquhart had to acknowledge the weakness of his position as the faceless man of Government.

'So we push Mr Samuel, get him off to a roaring start, which means instead of a free-for-all we have a target at which everyone is going to shoot. In a couple of weeks' time, he's going to be amazed at the number of bad friends he's got within the Party, all trying to do him down. Hell be on the defensive. Fighting the tide.'

Urquhart was astonished at the clarity of the Landless analysis, and began to understand why the East-Ender had become such a striking success in the business world.

'So where do I come into this great plan?'

'You've got to develop a unique selling proposition for yourself, something which will be attractive to your fellow MPs and set you apart from your rivals.'

'Such as?' asked the bewildered Urquhart.

'Frankie, you become the archetypal compromise candidate. While all those other bastards are shooting and stabbing each other in public, you slip quietly through as the man they all hate least.'

'That's what the Social Democrats used to pin their hopes on. Remember them? And frankly I'm not sure I have much of a reputation as being the obvious compromise candidate.'

'But the Social Democrats didn't have my help or my bunch of newspapers behind them. You will. High risks, I know, Frankie. But then they are high rewards.'

'What do I have to do?'

To catch the tide, your timing has to be right Frankly, I would be happier if there were a little time - perhaps a month - between now and when the voting starts to give the other contenders time to tire, for their campaigns to ship a little water and to get everyone bored with the choice of candidates on offer. Then you discover a large press campaign promoting your late and unexpected entry into the race, which brings back an element of excitement and relief. The tide starts running with you, Francis.'

Urquhart rioted that Landless had called him by his proper name for the first time. The man was absolutely serious about his proposal.

'So you want me to see if I can slow the election procedure down a little’

'Can you do it?'

'Although Humphrey Newlands runs the election, according to the Party's constitution the timing of the ballot is entirely in the hands of the Prime Minister, and he would do nothing to help Teddy Williams' favoured candidate. So I think there's a damned good chance...'

TUESDAY 26th OCTOBER

'Prime Minister, I haven't had a chance to speak with you since your announcement yesterday. I can't tell you how shocked and - devastated I was.'

'Francis, that's very kind of you. But no sympathy, please. I feel absolutely content with the situation. In any event, I have little time today for second thoughts. Humphrey Newlands is coming in twenty minutes so we can get the leadership election process under way, then I'm off to spend the rest of the day with my brother Charles. It's marvellous to have time for such things!' he exclaimed.

Urquhart was astonished to see he meant every word of it.

'Prime Minister, you don't appear to be in a mood for maudlin sentiments, so I shan't spend any time adding to them. But you must know how deeply saddened I am. As I listened to you yesterday I felt as if I... were falling out of the sky, quite literally. But enough- Let's look forward, not back. It seems to me that some of our colleagues have served you rather badly in recent months, not showing the support you deserved. Now while you have already said you will not support any particular candidate in the election, I suspect you have some clear views as to whom you do not wish to get his hands on the leadership. As things stand at the moment I have no intention of becoming a candidate myself, so I thought you might like me to keep you informed of what's going on and give you some feedback from the Parliamentary Party on the state of play. I know you are not going to interfere, but perhaps that won't stop you taking a close interest...'

They both knew that even a failed Party Leader in his last days still has enough influence to sway a crucial body of opinion within the Parliamentary Party. It is not only the favours he has accumulated from placemen over time, but also the not inconsiderable matter of his nominations for the Resignation Honours List, which every retiring Prime Minister is allowed to make. For many senior members of the Party, this would be their last chance to rise above the mob of ordinary parliamentarians and achieve the social status to which their wives had so long aspired.

'Francis, that's most understanding’ Collingridge was clearly in a relaxed and very trusting mood.' You know, the Prime Minister is expected to be aware of everything that's going on but, as I have discovered to my cost, it's so easy to get isolated, to have events just slip past you without making any contact with them. I suspect dear old Sir Humphrey is past giving the best intelligence on the state of parliamentary opinion, so I would very much welcome your advice. As you so delicately put it, I shall certainly take a close interest in the matter of who is to succeed me. So tell me, how do things look?'

Tarry days yet, very difficult to tell. I trunk most of the press are right to suggest it's an open race. But I would expect things to develop quickly once they get going.'

'No front runners yet, then?'

'Well, one perhaps who seems to have something of a head start. Michael Samuel.' 'Michael! Why so?'

'Simply that it's going to be a short and furious race, with little room for developing solid arguments or issues. In those circumstances, the ones who use television well are going to have a strong advantage. And, of course, he's going to have the strong if subtle support of Teddy and party headquarters.'

Collingridge's face clouded. 'Yes. I see what you mean.' He drummed his fingers loudly on the arm of his chair, weighing his words carefully.

'Francis, I shall be absolutely scrupulous in not favouring any candidate in this race. My only concern is to let the Party have a fair and free leadership election so they can make their own choice. But you make it sound as if the election won't be as open as it perhaps should be, with party headquarters playing too influential a role’

He chose his words carefully, and uttered them slowly and softly. ‘I would not welcome that. I don't think Teddy's bunch of merry men has distinguished itself recently. A poor election campaign, then all those infuriating bloody leaks. Now I'm told that the news of my visit to the Palace yesterday also leaked out of the backdoor at Smith Square.'

His tone hardened. ‘I can't forgive that, Francis. The Cabinet swore on their oaths of office to keep it confidential, to let me offer my resignation with some dignity instead of being the clown in a damned media circus. I will not stand for it. I will not have party headquarters interfering in this election!'

He leaned towards Urquhart. ‘I suspect you have no great love for Teddy Williams, particularly after he did such an effective demolition job on your reshuffle proposals - I'm sure you guessed that at the time’

Urquhart was glad to have his suspicions confirmed. On Judgement Day it might help to justify a lot of his recent actions.

'So what can I do, Francis, to make sure this election is run properly?'

Urquhart smiled to himself. A 'proper' election was now defined as one in which Michael Samuel felt the full force of the Prime Minister's revenge.

'My interests, like yours, are simply to ensure fair play. I know that neither you nor I wish to interfere in any way -let party democracy have its way, of course. My only concern is that the process is likely to go ahead in such a rush that there will be no proper time for mature reflection or consideration. In the past, leadership elections have taken place only a week to ten days after they were announced - Ted Heath was elected just five days after

Alec Douglas-Home resigned - but on those occasions the resignations were expected. People had time to think, to make a proper and balanced judgement. That won't be the case this time. I'm afraid it will all be over in a breathless rush, and become just another part of the media circus’ 'So?'

'So give them just a little longer to make their choice. Slow the pace down. Enjoy your last few weeks in office, and hand over to a successor who has been chosen by the Party, not the media’

'What you say makes sense. I've no wish to extend the period of uncertainty while the campaign is fought, but I'm sure an extra week or so could do no great harm.'

He extended his hand towards Urquhart. 'Francis, I'm sorry to cut this short; Humphrey will be waiting outside. I shall have to consult him as Chairman of the Backbench Committee, but the final choice on timing is entirely in my hands. I'm going to think very carefully overnight about what you have said, and let you know in the morning what I decide.'

He led the Chief Whip towards the door. 'I'm so grateful, Francis. It's really comforting to have a source of advice with no axe to grind.'

Daily Telegraph. Wednesday 27th October. Page 1.

Samuel is favoured candidate -takes early lead in party soundings

Michael Samuel, the youthful Environment Secretary, was last night emerging as the early front runner to succeed Henry Collingridge as Party Leader and Prime Minister.

In a poll conducted during the last two days by the Telegraph amongst 212 of the 337 Government MPs eligible to vote, 24 per cent nominated him as their first choice in the forthcoming party leadership election, well ahead of other potential candidates.

While Samuel has yet to announce his candidature, he is expected to do so soon. Moreover, he is expected to get the backing of influential party figures such as Lord Williams, the Party Chairman, whose influence as the Party's elder statesman could be crucial.

No other name attracted more than 18 per cent. Five potential candidates obtained between 12 per cent and 18 per cent, including Patrick Woolton the Foreign Secretary, Arnold Dollis the Home Secretary, Harold Earle the Education Secretary, Peter McKenzie the Health Secretary, and Francis Urquhart the Chief Whip.

The inclusion of Urquhart's name in the list at 14 per cent caused something of a surprise last night at Westminster, as he is not even a full member of the Cabinet. As Chief Whip he has a strong base in the Parliamentary Party and could be a strong outside candidate. However, sources close to Urquhart last night emphasised he had made no decision to enter the contest, and he would clarify his position sometime today.'

'Mattie, I think I've got it!'

Krajewski was striding across the room as if he had discovered a blazing fire in his pocket. He was breathless with excitement. As he reached Mattie's desk in the Telegraph news room, he pulled a lOx 12 colour photograph out of the large manila envelope he was clutching, and threw it on her desk. The face of the driver stared at her, slightly blurred and distorted from the lines of the video screen, but nonetheless clearly recognisable.

‘Freddie came up trumps. He took this along to his meeting of AA last night, and the group leader recognised it immediately. It's a Dr Robert Christian, who's a well known authority on the treatment of drug and alcohol addiction. Runs a treatment centre in a large private house near the south coast in Kent. That's where our Charlie is bound to be’ He was flushed with triumph.

'Johnnie, I could kiss you - but not in the office!'

His face contorted into a picture of mock misery.

'And there I was hoping you would want to sleep your way to the top...' he said mournfully.

The Prime Minister read all the newspapers that morning. He smiled ruefully as he read the commentaries which a week before had been excoriating him and for the most part were now, in their fickle and inconstant fashion, lauding him for his statesmanlike and responsible action in allowing the Government to make a fresh start - 'although he must still resolve many outstanding personal and family issues to the public's satisfaction', thundered The Times. As always, the press had no shame in playing both sides.

He read the Telegraph particularly carefully, and twice. Their prompt polling of Government MPs had given them a lead over the other journals, many of which were forced to refer to the poll findings in their later editions. The consensus seemed to be emerging: it was an open race but Samuel was clearly the front runner.

He summoned his political secretary.

'Grahame. I want you to send an instruction to Lord Williams, with a copy to Sir Humphrey Newlands. Party headquarters are to issue a press release at 12.30 this afternoon for the lunchtime news that nominations for election as Leader of the Party will close in three weeks' time, on Thursday November 18, with the first ballot to take place on the following Tuesday November 23. If a second ballot is required it will be held as prescribed by the Party's rules on the following Tuesday, November 30, with any final run-off ballot two days later. Have you got that?'

He noticed his secretary's obvious anguish. It was the first time since his resignation announcement that they had been able to talk.

That means in exactly six weeks and one day, Grahame, you and I will be out of a job. Don't worry. You've been an excellent aide to me. I haven't always found time as I should to thank you properly in the past, but I want you to know I'm very grateful.'

The aide shuffled with embarrassment.

'You must start thinking about your own future. I'm certain that there are several newly knighted gentlemen in the City or any other part of industry who would be happy to make you a generous offer. Think about it for a few days and let me know what interests you. I still have a few favours to cash in.'

The secretary mumbled his thanks, looking much relieved, and made to depart

'By the way, Grahame. It's possible that the Party Chairman might seek to get hold of me and encourage me to shorten the period of the election process. I shall not be available, and you are to ensure he realises that these are instructions, not terms for negotiation, and they are to be issued without fail by 12.30.'

There was a short pause.

'Otherwise, tell him, I shall be forced to leak them myself.'

It is often written that time and tide wait for no man. They certainly did not wait that day for Michael Samuel. He had been as openly astounded and as privately elated by Collingridge's bombshell as the rest of his colleagues. His natural enthusiasm had quickly turned to the positive aspect of events, and the opportunities which they afforded him. He recognised that no one started the race as favourite, and that he had as good a chance as any, if he played his cards right.

He had consulted the redoubtable Lord Williams, who agreed on his assessment of his chances. 'Patience, Michael,' he had advised. 'You will almost certainly be the youngest candidate, and they will try to say you are too youthful, too inexperienced and too ambitious. So don't look too much as if you want the job. Show a little restraint, and let them come to you.'

Which was to prove excellent advice, but entirely irrelevant to the circumstances. The media had been having a busy day. No sooner had the Telegraph hit the streets promoting Samuel's name than Urquhart appeared in front of television cameras to confirm that he had no intention of standing, because he felt it was in the Party's best interests that the Chief Whip should be entirely impartial in this contest. These two events had the instant effect of getting the media hunt firmly under way for those candidates who would be standing, and promoting a wide degree of praise for Urquhart's unselfishness and loyalty. The release later that morning of the detailed timetable for nomination and election only added fuel to the flames. None of which helped the front runner.

By the time the television cameras had tracked him down to the Intercontinental Hotel off Hyde Park, which he was just about to enter for an early lunch meeting, they were in no mood to accept conditional answers. He couldn't say no, they wouldn't accept maybe, and after some considerable harassment he was forced into making a reluctant announcement that he would indeed be running.

The one o'clock news offered a clear contrast between Urquhart, in a dignified and elder party statesman role declining to run, and the youthful and apparently eager Samuel, holding an impromptu press conference on the street and launching himself as the first official candidate, nearly a month before the first ballot was to be held.

As Urquhart watched the proceedings with considerable satisfaction, the telephone rang. A gruff voice which he recognised instantly as Landless said simply, 'Moses parted the Red Sea. We shall see whether Michael can catch the tide.'

They both laughed before the voice rang off.

SATURDAY 30th OCTOBER

The following Saturday, Mattie had a clear day. She climbed into her BMW, filled it with petrol, and pointed it in the direction of Dover. Having barged her way through the shopping crowds of Greenwich, she emerged with great relief onto the A2, the old Roman road which for nearly two thousand years had pointed the way from London into the heart of Kent. It took her past the cathedral town of Canterbury, and a few miles beyond she turned off at the picturesque little village of Barham. Her road map was not very helpful in finding the even smaller village of Norbington nearby, but with the help of several locals she found herself some while later outside a large Victorian house, bearing a. subdued sign in the shrubbery which announced, 'Fellowship Treatment Centre'.

There were several cars in the driveway and the front door was open. She was surprised to see people wandering around with apparent freedom, and no sign of the formidable white-coated nurses she had expected to find patrolling the grounds for potential escapees. She parked her car on the road and walked cautiously up the drive towards the door.

A large, tweed-suited gentleman with a white military moustache approached and her heart sank. This was surely the security patrol, and she had clearly been spotted as an intruder.

'Excuse me, my dear,' he said in a clipped accent as he intercepted her by the front door. 'Have you seen any member of staff about? They like to keep out of the way on family visiting days, but you can never find one when you want them.'

Mattie offered her apologies and smiled warmly in relief. She realised that by good fortune she had struck the best possible day to look around, and could lose herself amidst the other visitors.

She picked up one of the brochures which were piled on the hall table, and found a quiet chair on which to sit while she inspected it. A brief glance at the literature told her that the treatment centre was run on very different lines than she had imagined. No straitjackets, no locks on the doors, just twenty-three well-trained people waiting to give guidance, encouragement and their medical experience to addicts who sought help in an atmosphere resembling more a fashionable country retreat than an institution. Even more encouragingly for Mattie, the brochure had a plan of the thirty-two-bed house, which Mattie used to guide herself around the premises in search of her quarry.

She found him outside on a garden bench, enjoying the view across the valley and the last of the October sun. She wasn't going to enjoy the deception, but that is what she had come for.

'Why, Charles!' she exclaimed. 'What a surprise to find you here.'

He looked at her with a total lack of comprehension.

‘I... I'm sorry,' he ventured. ‘I don't recognise...'

'Mattie Storin. Don't you remember? We spent a most enjoyable evening together in Bournemouth a couple of weeks ago.'

'Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Storin. I don't remember. You see, I'm an alcoholic, that's why I'm here, and I'm afraid I was in no condition a few weeks ago to remember very much at all.'

She was taken aback by his frankness, and he smiled serenely.

‘Please don't be embarrassed. The biggest single step I've had to make in curing myself of addiction is to admit that I am an addict. I had a million ways of hiding it, particularly from myself, and it was only when I was able to face myself that I began being able to face the outside world again. That's what this treatment centre is all about.'

Mattie suddenly blushed deeply. She realised that she had intruded into the private world of a sick man, and she felt ashamed.

'Charles, if you don't remember who I am, then you will not remember that I am a journalist.'

The smile disappeared, to be replaced by a look of resignation.

‘I suppose it had to happen at some time, although Henry was hoping that I could be left alone here quietly...'

'Charles, please let me explain. I've not come here to make life difficult for you, and when I leave here your privacy will continue to be respected so far as I am concerned. I think the press owe you that.'

‘I think they probably do...'

'But I would like your help. Don't say anything for the moment, just let me talk a little.' He nodded in encouragement.

'Your brother, the Prime Minister, has been forced to resign because of allegations that he helped you to speculate in shares and make a quick profit.'

He started to wave his hand to bring her to a halt but she pressed on.

'Charles, none of those allegations make any sense to me. You and your brother risking the office of Prime Minister for a measly few thousand pounds - it doesn't add up. What's more, I also know that someone has deliberately been trying to undermine your brother for some time by leaking damaging material to the press. But I only have suspicions. I came to see if you could point me towards something more tangible.'

'Miss Storin - Mattie, as we seem to be old friends -’I am a drunk. I cannot even remember meeting you. How can I, of all people, be of help? My word carries no weight whatsoever.'

‘I’m neither a judge nor a prosecutor, Charles. I'm just trying to piece together a puzzle from a thousand scattered shards’

He looked far over the hills towards Dover and the Channel beyond, searching in the distance.

'Mattie, I've tried so hard to remember, believe me. The thought that I have disgraced Henry and forced him into resignation is almost more than I can stand. But I know nothing about buying and selling shares, nothing at all. I don't know what the truth is. I can't help you, I'm afraid.'

'Wouldn't you have remembered something about buying the shares, if you had indeed bought them?'

‘For the last month I have been a very sick...' - he laughed gently -'... a very drunk man. There are many things I have absolutely no recollection of.'

'Wouldn't you have remembered where you got the money to buy the shares, or what you did with the proceeds?'

‘I admit that it's hugely unlikely I would have had a small fortune lying around without my remembering it or, more likely, spending it on alcohol. I have no idea where the money could have gone. Even I can't drink away £50,000 in just a few weeks.'

'What about the false address in Paddington?'

'A complete mystery. I don't even know where Praed Street in Paddington is when I'm sober, so it is preposterous to suppose I would have found my way there drunk. It's the other side of London from where I live.'

'But you used it - so they say - for your bank and subscription to the Party's literature service.'

Charles Collingridge roared with laughter. 'Mattie, you're beginning to restore my faith in myself. No matter how drunk I was, I cannot conceive I could possibly have shown any interest in the Party's literature service. I object when political propaganda is pushed through my letter box at election time; having to pay for it every month would be an insult!'

'Have you ever contributed to the Party's literature service?' 'Never!’

The sun was setting and a warm, red glow filled the sky, lighting up his face. He seemed visibly to be returning to health, and to be content.

‘I can't prove it, but I don't believe I am guilty of the things they say I have done. It would mean a lot to me if you believed that, too.'

‘I do, Charles, very much. And I'm going to try to prove it for you.'

She rose to leave.

'I've enjoyed your visit, Mattie. Now that we are such old friends, please come again.'

'I shall. But in the meantime, I've got a lot of digging to do.'

It was late by the time she got back to London that evening. The first editions of the Sunday newspapers were already on the streets. She bought a heavy pile of them and, with magazines and inserts slipping from her laden arms, she threw them on the back seat of her car. It was then she noticed the Sunday Times headline.

'Now why is Harold Earle making such a fuss about environmental matters?' she asked herself. The Education Secretary, not a noted Greenpeace lover, had just announced his intention to stand for the leadership and simultaneously had made a speech entitled 'Clean Up Our Country.'

'We have talked and talked endlessly about the problems of our inner cities, while those who live in them have been forced to watch their neighbourhoods continue to decline. In the meantime, the impoverished state of our inner cities has been matched by the deplorable degeneration of far too much of our rural countryside,' the Sunday Times reported him as saying. 'For too long we have neglected such issues, to our cost. Recycled expressions of concern are no substitute for positive action, and it is time we backed our fine words with finer deeds. The opinion polls show that the environment is the most important non-economic issue on which the voters say we have failed. After more than twelve years in office, this is unacceptable, and we must wake up to these concerns’

'Silly me’ said Mattie. I'm getting slow in my old age. Can't decipher the code. Which Cabinet Minister is supposed to be responsible for environmental matters, and therefore responsible for this mess?'

The public fight to eliminate Michael Samuel had begun.

WEDNESDAY 3rd NOVEMBER

Mattie tried many times during the following week to get hold of Kevin Spence, but he was never available. In spite of the repeated assurances of his gushingly polite secretary, Mattie knew that he was deliberately avoiding her. He was therefore not at all pleased when, in some desperation, she called very late on Wednesday evening and was put straight through to his extension by the night security guard.

'No, of course I haven't been avoiding you’ he assured her, 'but I have been very busy. Working very late.'

'Kevin, I need your help again.'

‘I remember the last time I gave you my help. You said you were going to write a piece on opinion polls and then you wrote a story slandering the Prime Minister. Now he's gone.' He spoke with a quiet sadness. 'He was always very decent to me, very kind, and I think the press have been unspeakably cruel.'

'Kevin, I give you my word that I was not responsible for that story. You may have noticed that my name was not on the article, and I was even more displeased about it than you. It's about Mr Collingridge's resignation that I'm calling. Personally, I don't believe the allegations which are being made against him and his brother. I would like to be able to clear his name.'

‘I can't see how I could assist you,' he said in a distrusting tone. 'Anyway, I'm afraid that nobody outside the press office is allowed to have contact with the media during the leadership campaign. Chairman's strictest orders.'

'Kevin, there's a lot at stake here. Not only the leadership, of the Party, and whether you are going to win the next election or not, but also whether history is going to regard Henry Collingridge as a crook and a cheat or whether he is going to have a chance to put the record straight. Don't we owe him that?'

He thought about it for a second, and she heard his hostility slowly melting.

If I could help, what would you want?'

'Very simply, do you understand the computer system at party headquarters?'

'Yes, of course. I use it all the time to help analyse opinion research. I've got a screen in front of me which is linked directly to our main frame.'

‘I think your computer system has been tampered with. Will you let me see it?'

Tampered with? That's impossible. We have the highest security. Nobody from outside can access it.'

'Not outside, Kevin. Inside.'

There was a stunned silence from the other end of the phone.

I'm working at the House of Commons. I can be with you in less than ten minutes, and I suspect at this time of night the building is very quiet. No one will notice. Kevin, I'm on my way over.'

Before he could mutter a flustered few words of protest, the phone went dead as he held it. Mattie was with him less than seven minutes later.

They sat in his small garret office, dominated by the mountains of files which tumbled over every available fiat surface and onto the floor, with their attention fixed rigidly on the glowing green screen in front of them.

'Kevin, Charles Collingridge ordered material from the Party's sales and literature service and asked them to be delivered to an address in Paddington. Right?’

'Correct. I checked it as soon as I heard, but it's there all right. Look.'

He tapped a few characters on the keyboard, and up came the incriminating evidence on the screen.

'Chas Collingridge Esq 216 Praed St Paddington London W2 — 001 A’ 01.0091.'

'What do these other hieroglyphics mean?'

'The first set simply means that he subscribes to our comprehensive literature service and the second that his subscription has been fully paid from the beginning of the year. If he wanted to receive only the main publications, or was a member of our specialist book club or one of our other marketing programmes, that would be shown by a different set of reference numbers. Also if he were behind with his subscription payments.'

'And this information is shown on all the monitors throughout me building?'

'Yes. It's not information we regard as particularly confidential.'

'And if you felt like bending the rules a little and wanted to make me a subscriber to your comprehensive literature service, could you do that, enter my details from this terminal?'

'Without making the proper payments through the accounts department, you mean? Why... yes.'

Spence was beginning to follow her line of enquiry.

'You think that Charles Collingridge's details were falsely entered from a terminal within this building, Miss Storin? Yes, it could be done. Look.'

Within a few seconds the screen was showing a comprehensive literature subscription in the name of 'M Mouse Esq, 99 Disneyland Miami.'

'But you couldn't get away with backdating it to the beginning of the year because... What a stupid fool I am! Of course!' he exploded, and started thrashing away at the keyboard. If you really know what you're doing, which very few people in this building do, you can tap into the main frame subdirectory...'

His words were almost drowned in the clattering of the keys.

That gives access to the more restricted financial data.

So I can check the exact date when the account was paid, whether it was paid by cheque or credit card, when the subscription was first started...'

The monitor screen started glowing.

'And those financial details can only be entered or altered by accounts department staff with their security passwords’

He sat back to consider the details on the screen. He tapped a few more characters into the computer, and then turned to Mattie.

'Miss Storin. According to this, Mr Collingridge has never paid for the literature service, this month or any month. His details only appear on the distribution file, not the payment file.'

'Can you tell me when his name first appeared on the distribution file?'

A few more keystrokes.

'Jesus. Exactly two weeks ago today.'

'So someone in this building, not the accounts staff or anyone who understood computers very well, two weeks ago altered the file to include Charles Collingridge's name for the first time.'

This is terrible, Miss Storin...' Spence's face had gone white.

'Kevin, can you by any chance tell me who might have altered the file, or from which terminal it was altered?'

'Sadly, no. It could have been done from any terminal in this building. The computer programme trusts us ...' He shook his head as if he had totally failed the most crucial test of his life.

‘Don't worry, Kevin. We're on the trail. But I must ask you not to utter a word of this to anyone. I want to catch whoever did this, and if he knows we're looking he will cover his trail. Will you help me once more, and keep quiet until I have something more to go on?'

'Who on earth would believe me, anyway?' he murmured.

SUNDAY 7th NOVEMBER

The newspapers that weekend were irritable. In the convention of leadership elections, candidates were discouraged from outright electioneering or making personal attacks on their rivals; the right leader was supposed somehow still to 'emerge' without any apparent effort on his part from a process of consensus rather than combat. So all the press had been left with for ten days was a series of coded messages which failed to inspire the public or ignite the hoped-for forest of press headlines. The campaign had not so much run out of steam; it had simply never generated any effective heat

So the press took it out on the candidates - they had no alternative. 'A disappointing and uninspiring campaign so far, still waiting for one of the candidates to breathe life back into the Party and Government', pronounced the Observer. Irrelevant and irritating', complained the Sunday Minor. Not to be outdone, the Sun in characteristic style described it all as 'flatulent, a passing breeze in the night'.

Far from allowing a thorough airing of the issues, as Urquhart had predicted to the Prime Minister, the lengthy campaign was suffering from a severe dose of boredom, as all along he had secretly hoped.

This came as little comfort to Mattie, who was finding her growing conviction that skulduggery was afoot matched only by her inability to find the opportunity to proceed with her investigations. Journalists have to work much harder when there is no news to report, and the flaccid leadership campaign was causing more than a few nightmares amongst the political lobby in their collective efforts to find new angles with which to fill their column inches.

You have to face it, Mattie, you still don't have a case’ Johnnie told her. 'Fascinating circumstantial evidence about computers, perhaps, but what about the shares, what about the bank account, what about Paddington?'

She unwrapped herself from his arms where she had been dozing for most of Sunday afternoon. The weather was appalling, the scudding grey skies hurling angry bursts of rain against the windows. They hadn't needed much encouragement to decide to spend the whole afternoon in bed.

Those shares were bought by whoever had the bank account and arranged the false address in Paddington’ Mattie began, marshalling her arguments. 'That's the only conclusion you can reasonably reach. But the trail is very difficult to follow. Apart from telling us that the account was opened for less than a fortnight, the bank will tell us nothing, and have point-blank refused to let us see the signatures on the documents relating to the bank account. And the Paddington tobacconist's is even less helpful. I think all the attention and notoriety has put paid to some of the more profitable sidelines which he seems to have run out of his back room.'

Johnnie was not finished. 'But what is it you are trying to prove? The documentation is scarcely going to tell you any more than you know already. What you need to establish is not so much whether it was Charles Collingridge, but whether it could have been anyone other than him. If it could, along with your computer tampering you might have the beginnings of a circumstantial story.'

She rolled out of his arms to look him directly in the face.

'You still don't believe it was a frame-up, do you?'

'You haven't even yet proved that a crime was committed, let alone having any idea as to who might have done it’ he argued, but his voice softened as he recognised the growing impatience in her eyes. You have to be realistic, Mattie. If you are going to launch yourself publicly into this great conspiracy theory, you will have a very sceptical audience who will want more than a few 'maybes'. If you turn out to be wrong, you will do yourself and your career a lot of harm. And should you turn out to be right, you're going to have some very powerful enemies out there, who could do you even more harm. If they can nobble the Prime Minister, what could they do to you?’I He stroked her hair tenderly.

It's not a matter of whether I believe your theory, Mattie. It's a matter of caring about you, of not wanting you to get caught in something which could be bigger than both of us and could cause you a great deal of pain. Frankly I'm scared you might be taking this one a bit too far. Is it really worth it?'

Instantly he knew he had said something wrong. He didn't know why, but he sensed her body go rigid, unresponsive, enveloped by a cold shell that had suddenly divided the bed in two.

Hell, Johnnie, I would be even more scared if it turned out to be true and nobody did anything about it,' she snapped. 'And damn it, it was you who encouraged me to go after the story.'

'But that was before... well, before you got into my bed and into my life. This isn't just another story for me, Mattie, this is personal. I really care about you.'

'So that's it. Drop the bloody story and concentrate on getting laid. Thanks, but no thanks! I asked you to go to bed with me, Johnnie, not own me.'

She rolled away from him so that he could no longer see her face. She could sense his bewilderment and pain, but how could she tell him. The feeling of panic which had come over her as he confronted her with a choice between her career and his caring. God, it was' going to happen all over again.

'Look, Johnnie ...' She was having tremendous difficulty finding the right words. ‘I am fond of you - very fond, you know that. But my career is most important to me. This story is most important to me. I can't let anything else get in its way’ She paused for a painful moment. 'Perhaps we made a mistake.'

'What are you saying? Goodbye? Just like that? You drag me into bed as if I'm the last caveman left on earth for a couple of hot nights and then - bugger off ? What is it? Just adding to your collection of notches on the bedpost?'

The sarcasm bit deep and rattled her. ‘I needed you, Johnnie. I needed a man, not a lifelong commitment, I needed to feel like a woman again, it had been so long...'

'Great. A million pricks out there and you had to pick this one. I didn't realise it was just that, Mattie. I really wish you hadn't bothered,' he said with evident bitterness and anger.

'Johnnie, stop! This isn't right. Don't make me say something I don't mean. I like you, very much. That's the problem.'

'That's a problem? Well, I'm glad you have managed to put it behind you.' He gave a dry, humourless laugh and stared straight at the ceiling.

Mattie buried her head in the pillow. She hadn't intended to hurt him, but how could she make him understand. She hadn't told anyone in London before, but maybe now was the time.

There was someone else,' she began, her voice faltering. In Yorkshire. Someone I was very close to. We had known each other since we were children and everyone assumed that our relationship was... sort of permanent. That was the trouble. No one asked me, they just assumed. But I wanted something more, and when he forced me to choose between him and my career, I chose my career. It was the only way for me to live with myself, Johnnie!' she exclaimed, as if fearing that he would neither understand nor accept. His cold expression told her she was right.

'But... he went to pieces. There were begging letters, midnight telephone calls. I would see Him just standing at the end of my street, waiting for hours, sometimes all through the night.'

She drew a deep breath as if the memory were exhausting her. Then, there was a car crash. A long, straight piece of road with no other traffic, and his car hit a tree. They had to cut him out. When I heard, it was as if it were all my fault, as if I had been the one who had crashed the car. I felt so guilty, do you see, yet I felt so angry with myself for feeling that way. I hadn't done anything wrong!'

She desperately wanted to justify herself and convince him that she deserved no blame but tears of anguish and self-recrimination were filling her eyes and starting to roll, one by one, down her cheeks.

It took every piece of willpower that I had to go to the hospital, and the hours I spent in the waiting room were the loneliest I have ever known. Then the nurse came to tell me that he wouldn't see me. Never wanted to see me again. Left me standing in the middle of that hospital feeling completely and utterly worthless.'

She was struggling hard to keep hold of her emotions now, as the recollections stirred deep within her. It was all or nothing for him, Johnnie. I really did care for him, yet all I did was cause him pain and turn his love to hatred. It... it nearly killed him. That's why I left Yorkshire, Johnnie, to bury that feeling of worthlessness and guilt through my work. And for what it's worth, I'm beginning to like you too much to risk all that again.'

As she spoke, his eyes once more met hers. The sarcasm and anger had left him as he listened, but there was still a hard, determined edge to his voice when he spoke.

'Believe me, I know what it's like to lose the one you love and have your world pulled apart around you. I know how much pain and loneliness it's possible to feel when it happens. But you weren't driving that car and you can't change the facts simply by running away from them. And that's precisely what you are doing - running away!'

She shook her head in denial but he cut her short. 'When you came to London, you may have been chasing your future - but you were also hiding from everything which hurt you in the past. Yet it's not going to work, Mattie, don't you see? You can't hide away in journalism- investigating, exposing pulling people's worlds apart in search of the truth - unless you are willing to face those people afterwards and live with their pain.'

'That's unfair...' she protested.

Is it? I hope so for your sake, because if you can't accept the fact that your work may cause a lot of innocent people great hurt, then you'll never be a good journalist. Look for the truth, Mattie, by all means, but only if you're willing to recognise and share the pain it may cause. If you think it's enough just to float like a butterfly from one story to another, never hanging around long enough to see the damage that your version of the truth might inflict on other people, how the devil can you put any real value on your work? It's your job to criticise self-important politicians, but how dare you criticise the commitment of others if you are afraid to commit yourself? You say you are afraid of commitment. But commitment is what it is all about, Mattie. You can't run away from it for ever!'

But she was already running, sobbing into the bathroom and into her clothes. In a minute she had fled out of the front door, and all he could hear was the echo of her tears.

MONDAY 8th NOVEMBER - FRIDAY 12th NOVEMBER

The criticisms of the weekend press kicked the campaign to life early on Monday morning. Encouraged by the media view that the right contender still had not emerged, two further Cabinet Ministers announced their candidatures -Peter McKenzie, the Secretary of State for Health, and Patrick Woolton, the bluff Foreign Secretary.

Both were reckoned to have a reasonable chance of success. McKenzie had been prominent in selling the popular hospital scheme, and had managed to ensure that blame for its postponement had been heaped entirely on the Treasury and the Prime Minister's Office.

Woolton had been running hard behind the scenes ever since his conversation with Urquhart at the party conference, having lunched almost every editor in Fleet Street in the previous month. By emphasising his Northern origins he was hoping to establish himself as the 'One Nation' candidate in contrast to the strong Home Counties bias of most of the other major contenders - not that this had impressed the Scots, who tended to view the whole affair as if it were an entirely foreign escapade. Woolton had been hoping to delay his formal entry into the race, wishing to see how the various rival campaigns developed, but the weekend press had been like a call to arms and he decided he should delay no longer. He called a press conference at Manchester Airport to make the announcement on what he termed his 'home ground', hoping that no one would notice he had flown up from London in order to be there.

The weekend press also incited into action those candidates who had already declared themselves. It was becoming clear to the likes of Michael Samuel and Harold Earle that their gentlemanly campaigns with their obscure, coded messages were rapidly running into the sand. With the advent of new candidates, their appeals needed to be freshened up and their cutting edges toughened.

Under the pressures of an extended campaign, the candidates were becoming increasingly nervous - so the press at last got what they wanted. When Harold Earle repeated his environmentalist criticisms, but this time choosing to attack the record of Michael Samuel by name, the gloves came off.

Samuel retorted that Earle's conduct was reprehensible and incompatible with his status as a Cabinet colleague, as well as being a rotten example for an Education Secretary to set for young people. In the meantime, Woolton's loose language at Manchester concerning the need to 'restore English values with an English candidate' was vigorously attacked by McKenzie, who was desperately trying to rediscover his lost Gaelic roots and claiming it was an insult to five million Scots. Trying to find a unique line as always,' the Sun interpreted Woolton's words as a vicious anti-Semitic attack on Samuel, which had Jewish activists swamping the air waves and letter columns with complaints. A rabbi in Samuel's home constituency called on the Race Relations Board to investigate what he called 'the most atrocious outburst by a senior political figure since Mosley'. Woolton was not entirely unhappy with this overreaction,- 'for the next two weeks everyone will be looking at the shape of Samuel's ears rather than listening to what he's saying,' he told one close supporter.

By Wednesday afternoon, Urquhart felt the situation had developed sufficiently well for him to issue a public call for 'a return to the standards of personal conduct for which our Party is renowned and without which collective Government becomes impossible'. It was echoed loudly in the editorial columns, even as the front pages were splashing the latest outburst of internecine bickering.

When, therefore, on Friday afternoon Mattie walked in to Preston's office asking him if he wanted a fresh angle on the contest, his response was generally unenthusiastic.

'Christ, I shall be glad when we can get back to real news,' he blustered. ‘I’m not sure we can afford to devote any more space than we're already doing to the back-stabbing.'

This bit of back-stabbing,' she said defiantly, 'is different.'

He was still looking at a mock-up of the following day's front page rather than showing any interest in Mattie, but she was not deterred.

'The leadership election was caused by Collingridge's resignation, which in turn was caused in the end by allegations that he or his brother had been fiddling share deals through a Paddington tobacconist and a Turkish secondary bank. I think we can prove that he was almost certainly set up.'

Preston at last looked up. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

'He was framed, and I think we can prove it.'

Preston could find no words to express his astonishment; his jaw dropped so low that with his large glasses Mattie felt she was talking to a goldfish.

'Here's what we have, Grev.' Patiently she explained how she had checked the computer file at party headquarters and discovered the distribution file had been tampered with.

It was deliberately altered to ensure that the false address in Paddington could be tied in directly to Charles Collingridge. But anyone could have opened that accommodation address. I don't think Charles Collingridge ever went anywhere near Paddington. Somebody else did it in his name - somebody who was trying to frame him!'

Preston was listening intently now.

‘I went to Paddington myself this morning. I opened up an accommodation address at the same tobacconist shop in an entirely fictional name. I then got a taxi to Seven Sisters

Road and the Union Bank of Turkey, where I opened up an account in the same fictional name - not with £50,000 but with just £100. The whole thing took-less than three hours from start to finish. So I can now start ordering pornographic magazines, paid for out of the newbank account and delivered to the Paddington address, which could do a lot of damage to the reputation of one completely innocent politician’

‘Er, who?' asked Preston, still having difficulty catching up.

She laughed and threw down a bank book and the tobacconist's receipt onto the editor's desk. He looked at them eagerly.

The Leader of the Opposition!' he shouted in alarm. 'What the hell have you done?'

'Nothing,' she said with a smile suggesting victory. 'Except to show that Charles Collingridge was almost certainly framed; that he probably never went near the tobacconist shop or the Union Bank of Turkey, and therefore that he could not have bought those shares’

Preston was holding the documents at arm's length as if they might catch fire.

'Which means that Henry Collingridge did not tell his brother about Renox Chemicals...' Her inflexion indicated that there was more.

'And? And?' Preston demanded.

‘He didn't have to resign.'

Preston sagged back in his chair. The beads of perspiration had begun to trickle down his brow, plastering his hair to his forehead. He was looking exceedingly uncomfortable. He felt as if he were being torn in two. With one eye he could see the makings of a superb story, which, when promoted vigorously by his advertising agency, could bring with it the substantial boost in circulation he was finding so elusive. Whether the story was accurate or not hardly bothered him; the lawyers could ensure that it libelled no one and it would make a splendid read.

With his other eye, however, he could discern the enormous impact that such a story would make on the leadership race itself, the uncontrollable shockwaves which would stretch out and swamp various innocent bystanders-possibly including himself. And Landless had just told him on the telephone that he had other fish to fry. He brushed back the lick of hair which was stuck clammily above his glasses, but it did not seem to help his vision. He could not focus on which decision would be the right one to take, the one which would be acceptable to Landless. He had been instructed that all major pieces affecting the leadership race were to be cleared with Landless before publication, and he had feared being confronted with an unexpected decision like this. He needed to play for time.

'Mattie, I scarcely know what to say. You've obviously been very ... busy.' His mind was charging through his Thesaurus of flannel, words which were meaningless and noncommittal but which left their audience with an appropriately warm feeling of encouragement. It was a well thumbed volume. But then it hit him, and the book closed shut with a snap.

'You've illustrated very well that it might have been someone else who was charging round London opening accounts in Collingridge's name, but you haven't proved that it wasn't Collingridge himself. Surely that is the easiest explanation to accept?'

‘But the computer file, Grev. It was tampered with. And that wouldn't have happened if Charles Collingridge were guilty.'

Haven't you considered the possibility that the computer file was altered, not to mcrirninate Collingridge, but by Collingridge or one of his friends to offer him an alibi, to muddy the waters after he had been found out? For all we know it was not the distribution file but the accounts file which was altered, possibly only minutes before you saw it, just to throw you off the trail'

'But only a handful of people have access to the accounts file’ Mattie protested with considerable vigour. 'And how could Charles Collingridge have done that? He's been drying out in a treatment centre.' 'But his brother?'

Mattie was incredulous. You can't seriously believe that the Prime Minister took the incredible risk of ordering the party headquarters' computer file to be altered just to falsify the evidence - after he had already announced his resignation.'

'Mattie, think back. Watergate. Files were burnt and tapes erased - by the President. During Irangate, incriminating material was shredded and smuggled out of the White House by a secretary in her underwear. Scores of presidential aides and US Cabinet ministers have gone to prison in recent years. And in this country, Jeremy Thorpe was put on trial for attempted murder, John Stonehouse went to gaol after faking his own suicide and Lloyd George sold peerages from Downing Street while he screwed his secretary on the Cabinet table. Things much stranger than fiction have happened in politics.' Preston was warming to his theme now. 'Power is a drug, like a candle to a moth. They are drawn towards it, no matter what the dangers, They would rather risk everything, including their lives and careers, than do without it. So it's still easier to believe that the Collingridges got caught with their hands in the till and are trying to cover up than to accept there was a great conspiracy against the Prime Minister.'

'So you won't run it!' she accused sharply.

'No, I'm not saying that’ Preston continued, smiling in a manner which betrayed not a shred of sympathy. I'm saying you haven't yet got enough for the story to stand up. We have to be careful not to make ourselves look ridiculous. You need to do some more work on it.'

He meant it as a dismissal, but Mattie had been at the receiving end of too many of his dismissals. She had spent every waking hour since running out on Johnnie working on this story, chasing the details and trying to drown her private pain, knowing that only by uncovering the truth would she find any release from the emotions which were twisted in a state of perpetual warfare deep inside her. She would not leave it there. She felt like screaming at him, but she was determined not to lose her self-control. She took a deep breath, lowered her eyes for a moment to help herself relax, and was almost smiling when she looked at him once again.

'Grev. Just explain it to me so I can understand. Either somebody set the Collingridges up, or the Prime Minister of this country has established his guilt by falsifying evidence. One way or the other, we have enough to lead the paper for a week.'

'Er, yes. But which is it? We have to be sure. Particularly in the middle of a leadership contest we cannot afford to make a mistake on something so important.'

'Doesn't Collingridge deserve the chance to establish his innocence? Are you telling me that the story has to be left until after the contest has finished—until after the damage has been done?'

Preston had run out of logic. Once again he was discovering that this inexperienced woman, one of his most junior members of staff, was slipping every argument he could throw at her. As she suspected he would, he sought refuge in bluster and bullying.

'Look!' he snapped, pointing an accusatory finger in her direction. You burst into my office with a story so fantastic, demanding that I scrap the front page for it... But you haven't written any copy yet! How the devil can I tell whether you've got a good story or simply had a good lunch?'

Her blue eyes glinted like polar ice, her mind tumbling with the many slights she wanted to throw back at him. Instead, a frosty calm settled over her.

'You will have your copy in thirty minutes,' she said as she walked out, barely able to resist the temptation to slam the door off its hinges.

It was actually nearer forty minutes when she walked back in, without knocking, six pages of double-spaced copy clutched in her hand. Without comment she dropped them on the desk, standing directly in front of Preston to make it clear that she would not budge until she had her answer.

He left her standing while slowly he read through the pages, trying to look as if he were struggling with an important decision. But it was a sham. The decision had already been made just a few minutes after Mattie had left his office and seconds after he had managed to reach the newspaper's owner on the phone.

'She's determined, Mr Landless. She knows she's got the makings of a good story and she won't take no for an answer. What the hell do I do?'

'Persuade her she's wrong. Put her on the cookery page. Send her on holiday. Promote her to editor, for all I care. But keep her quiet!'

It's not that simple. She's not only stubborn as hell, she's one of the best political brains we've got.'

'Preston, you already have the best political brains in the business. Mine! All I am asking you to do is to control your staff. Are you telling me you can't do even that?' Landless asked in a tone full of menace. 'There are scarcely two weeks before the leadership race is over,' he continued. There are great things at stake, the whole future of the country, my business - your job. Do whatever you have to do to keep her quiet. Just don't screw up!'

The proprietor's words were still ringing in Preston's ears as he continued to shuffle the pieces of paper, no longer reading them, concentrating instead on what he was about to say. Normally he enjoyed his power as editorial executioner, but he knew she would never fit the typecast role of whimpering victim. He was unsure how he should handle her.

Finally he put Mattie's story down, and pushed himself back into his chair. He felt more comfortable with the support of the chair behind his back.

‘We can't run it. It's too risky, and I'm not willing to blow the leadership contest apart on the basis of speculation.'

It was what she had expected all along. She replied in a whisper, but her soft words hit Preston like a boxing glove.

‘I will not take no for an answer’

Dammit. Why didn't she just accept it, shrug it off or just burst into tears like the others? The quiet insolence behind her words and his inability to handle it made him feel nervous. He started to sweat; he knew that she had noticed this sign of tension, and he began to stumble over his carefully prepared words.

‘I... cannot run the story. I am the editor, and that's my decision.' He wasn't even convincing himself. You have to accept it, or.. ‘

'Or what,Grev?'

'... or realise that you have no future on our political staff.'

'You're firing me?' This did surprise her. How could he afford to let her go, particularly in the middle of the leadership contest?

'No. I'm moving you to women's features, starting right now. Frankly, I don't think you have developed the judgement for our political columns.'

'Who has nobbled you, Grev?'

'What the hell do you mean... ?'

You normally have trouble making up your mind whether you want tea or coffee. Deciding to fire me from this story is somebody else's decision, isn't it?'

I'm not firing you! You're being transferred...'

He was losing control now, eyes bulging in anger and with a complexion which looked as if he had been holding his bream for three minutes.

Then, dear editor, I have some disappointing news for you. I quit!'

God, he hadn't expected this. He was scrambling now to regain his authority and the initiative. He had to keep her at the Telegraph, it was the only way to control her. But what the hell was he to do? He forced a smile, and spread his hands wide in an attempt to imitate a gesture of generosity.

'Look, Mattie. Let's not be hasty. Let's be mature about this - friends! I want you to get wider experience on the paper, you've got talent, even if I think you haven't quite fitted in on the political side. We want to keep you here, so think over the weekend what other part of the paper you might like to work on.' He saw her steely, determined eyes and knew it wasn't working. 'But if you really feel you must go, don't rush into anything. Sort out what you want to do, let me know, we'll try to assist you and give you six months' salary to help you on your way. I don't want any hard feelings. Think about it.'

I've thought about it. And if you are not printing my story, I'm resigning. Here and now.'

She had never seen him so apoplectic. His words came spitting out. In which case I must remind you that your contract of employment stipulates that you must give me three months' notice of departure, and that until that time has elapsed we retain exclusive rights over all your journalistic work If you insist, we shall rigidly enforce that provision, in the courts if necessary which would ruin your career once and for all. Face it, your copy isn't going to get printed here or anywhere else. Wise up, Mattie, accept the offer. It's the best one you are going to get!'

She knew now what her grandfather must have felt as he set out from his fishing village on the Norwegian fjord, knowing that once he had started he could never turn back even though ahead of him lay enemy patrol boats, mine fields, and nearly a thousand miles of hostile, stormy seas. She would need some of his courage, and his good fortune.

She gathered up the papers on Preston's desk and ripped them slowly in half before letting them flutter back into his lap.

'You can keep the words. But you don't own the truth. I'm not sure you would even recognise it. I still quit.' This time she slammed the door.

SUNDAY 14th NOVEMBER -MONDAY 15th NOVEMBER

Some two weeks earlier, immediately after the Telegraph had published the Landless opinion poll, Urquhart in his capacity as Chief Whip had written to all of his parliamentary colleagues on the weekly Whips7 circular which is sent to party MPs.

During the course of the leadership election, newspapers and opinion pollsters will undoubtedly be trying to obtain your view as to whom you are likely to support. I would encourage you not to cooperate, since at best the results of these surveys can only ‘ serve to disrupt the proper conduct of what is supposed to be a confidential ballot, and at worst will be used by the less responsible press to make mischief and subject our affairs to lurid headlines and comment. The best interests of the Party can only be served by discouraging such activity.

The majority of the Parliamentary Party was more than happy to cooperate, although it is a well established fact that at least a third of MPs are constitutionally incapable of keeping anything quiet, even state secrets.

As a result, the two opinion polls which appeared in the Sunday press following Mattie's abrupt departure from Preston's office were profoundly incomplete, leaving the pollsters scratching their heads at the Telegraph's earlier persuasiveness. Less than 40 per cent of the 337 Government MPs who constituted the electorate for the ballot had responded to the polling companies' pestering telephone calls, which gave the impression that the Parliamentary

Party was still a long way from making up its mind. Moreover, the small sample of those who had agreed to respond gave no clear indication as to the likely result. Samuel was ahead, but only narrowly and to a degree which the pollsters emphasised was 'not statistically significant'. Woolton, McKenzie and Earle followed in close order, with the four other declared candidates a little further behind.

The conclusions to be drawn from such insubstantial evidence were flimsy, but made excellent headlines, just four days before the close of nominations.

'Samuel slipping - early lead lost', roared the Mail on Sunday, while the Observer was scarcely less restrained in declaring 'Party in turmoil as poll reveals great uncertainty'.

Tlie inevitable result was a flurry of editorials hostile to the Party, criticising both the quality of the candidates and their campaigns. 'This country has a right to expect more of the governing Party than the undignified squabbling we have been subjected to in recent days and the lacklustre and uninspired manner in which it is deciding its fate,' the Sunday Express intoned. 'We may be witnessing a governing Party which is finally running out of steam, ideas and leadership after too long in power.'

The following day's edition of the Daily Telegraph was intended to resolve all that. Just three days before the close of nominations, it put aside convention and for the first time in its history ran its editorial on the front page. Its print run was increased and a copy was hand delivered to the London addresses of all Government MPs. No punches were pulled in its determination to make its views heard throughout the corridors of Westminster.

This paper has consistently supported the Government, not through blind prejudice but because we felt that they served the interests of the nation better than the alternatives. Throughout the Thatcher years our convictions were well supported by the progress which was made in restoring the economy to health and the inroads which began to be made in some of the more pressing social problems.

In recent months we began to feel that Henry Collingridge was not the best leader to write the next chapter, and we supported his decision to resign. However, there is now a grave danger that the lack of judgement being shown by all the present contenders for his job will threaten a return to the bad old ways of weakness and indecisiveness which we hoped had been left behind for good.

Instead of the steadying hand which we need oh the tiller in order to consolidate the economic and social advances of recent years, we have so far been offered a choice between youthful inexperience, environmental upheaval and injudicious outbursts bordering ‘ on racial intolerance.

This choice is insufficient. The Government and the country need a leader who has maturity, who has a sense of discretion, who has a proven capacity for working with all his colleagues in the Parliamentary Party.

There is at least one senior figure in the Party who not only enjoys all of these attributes, but who in recent weeks has been almost unique in remembering the need to uphold the dignity of Government and who, so rare in present day politics, has shown himself capable of putting aside his own personal ambition for what he perceives as being the wider interests of his Party.

He has announced that it is not his intention to seek election as Leader of the Party, but he still has time to reconsider before nominations close on Thursday. We believe it would be in the best interests of all concerned if the Chief Whip, Francis Urquhart, were to stand and to be elected.

There were forty press, television and radio men waiting outside Urquhart's home in Cambridge Street when he emerged at 8.10 that morning. He had been waiting rather nervously inside, wanting to ensure that the timing of his exit enabled BBC radio's Today programme and all breakfast television channels to take it live. Attracted by the scramble of newsmen, a host of passers-by and commuters from nearby Victoria Station had gathered to discover the cause for the commotion, and the live television pictures suggested a crowd showing considerable interest in the man who now emerged onto the doorstep, looking down on the throng.

The shouted questions from the journalists were identical, and he waved a hand to quieten them so that his answer could be heard. The hand also contained a copy of that morning's Telegraph, and for a moment it looked as if he were giving a victory salute which only encouraged the scramble still further, but eventually he managed to bring a degree of calm to the proceedings.

'Ladies and Gentlemen, as Chief Whip I would like to think you had gathered here because of your interest in the details of the Government's forthcoming legislative programme, but I suspect you have other things on your mind.'

The gentle quip brought a chuckle from the journalists and put Urquhart firmly in control.

'I have read with considerable surprise and obvious interest this morning's edition of the Telegraph.' He held it up again so that the cameras could get a clear shot. ‘I am honoured that such a significant and authoritative newspaper should hold a high opinion of my personal capabilities —one which goes far beyond my own judgement of the matter. As you know, I had made it clear that I had no intention of standing, that I thought it was in the Party's best interest that the Chief Whip should stand above this particular contest.'

He cleared his throat. 'Generally that is still my view.

However, the Telegraph raises some important points which should be considered carefully. You will forgive me if I don't come to an instant or snap judgement out here on the pavement. I want to spend a little time consulting with a few colleagues to obtain their opinions, and also to have a long and serious discussion with my wife, whose views will be most important of all. I shall then sleep upon it, and let you all know tomorrow what decision I have reached. In the meantime, I hope you will allow me and my family a few hours of peace to think about things. I shall have nothing more to say until tomorrow.'

With one final wave of his hand, still clutching the newspaper and held for many seconds to satisfy the screaming photographers, Urquhart withdrew into his house and shut the door firmly.

By Monday evening, Mattie was beginning to wonder

whether she had been too hasty. After storming out of

Preston's office she had persuaded herself that she had

resolved all her personal and professional problems in one

grand gesture - no more Krajewski, certainly no more

Preston, just the story to concentrate on. Yet now she was

not so sure. She had spent a lonely weekend identifying the

newspapers for which she would like to work, but as she did so she quickly realised that none of them had any obvious gaps in their political reporting teams which she could hope to fill. The newspaper world is highly competitive, and although she could offer youthful energy and talent in abundance, she had just thrown away the track record of experience on which most editors hire their

staff.

She had made many telephone calls but they had led to few appointments; she began to discover that somebody was spreading a story that she had stormed out in tears when Preston had questioned her judgement, and sensitive feminine outbursts do not generally commend themselves to the heavily male-dominated club of newspaper editors.

It did not help her mood that the Bank of England had pushed up interest rates sharply to protect sterling from speculators while a new Prime Minister was selected, leading the building societies that morning to threaten a rise in the mortgage rate. It made her realise that she would have no apparent means of paying for it. It was difficult enough with a salary. Without one, her affairs could very soon become impossible.

And she was also lonely. Her bed was once more an Arctic outpost fit only for penguins, and gave her no comfort from her other problems.

Yet the story kept taking over and pushing to one side any thoughts of dismay in her mind, while the Telegraph's editorial intervention had given it a totally new twist. Throughout the early evening she had watched the various television news programmes, all of which were dominated by speculation as to whether Urquhart would stand, and informing a generally unaware audience about what a Chief Whip actually does and who Urquhart was.

She needed to talk, and without wishing to question too deeply the conflicting emotions which were tangling in her mind she found herself waiting on a wooden platform which bobbed in the Thames tide alongside Charing Cross pier. Just a few minutes later she could see the approach of the Telegraph's private river taxi which shuttled employees between the newspaper's dockland plant downstream and the rather more central and civilised reaches of the capital.

As she had hoped, Krajewski was on board. He said nothing as he found her standing on the pier, but accepted her silent invitation to walk.

It was a dry and clear November night, so they wrapped up warm and without speaking strolled along the Embankment, tracing the sharp curves of the river bank and with it the floodlit vistas of the Festival Hall and the Houses of Parliament beyond, with the tower of Big Ben looking down from high above. It was some time before he broke the silence. No questions about the other night, he decided. He knew what was foremost in her mind.

'So what do you make of it all?'

She smiled shyly in gratitude for the lifeline, for not demanding an explanation of her motives which she would not - or was it could not? - give.

It's extraordinary. They're building him up like a Messiah on a white charger galloping to the rescue. Why did Grev do it?'

‘I don't know. He just came in late yesterday, not a word to anyone, turned the paper inside out and produced his front page editorial from out of his pocket. No warning; no explanation. Still, seems to have caused quite a story. Perhaps he got it right after all.'

Mattie shook her head. It wasn't Grev. He's not capable of making a decision like that. It took balls to position' -she almost used the word 'commit' but stopped herself just in time - 'to position the paper in that way, and it could only have come from one place: the desk of our – your beloved proprietor, Mr Landless. Last time he interfered he was dethroning Collingridge, now he's trying to hand the crown to someone else.'

As they traced their way along the winding river bank, they kicked through the windswept piles of leaves and passed by the pale, massive bulk of the Ministry of Defence.

'But why? Why Urquhart?'

'No idea,' Mattie responded. 'Urquhart is very low profile, although he's been in the House for many years. He comes across as being vaguely aristocratic, patrician, old school tie. He's something of a loner, certainly not one of the boys, which means he's got no great fan club but also no one hates him enough to campaign against him as they are doing with Samuel. Nobody knows what his views really are, he's never had to express them as Chief Whip.'

She turned to face him. You know, he might just slip through the middle as the man the others dislike least. Landless could have picked a winner.' 'You think hell stand, then?'

'Certain of it. He told me way back in June that there was going to be a leadership race, and he flatly refused then to rule himself out. He wants it all right, and he'll stand.'

That sounds like a great feature - 'The Man Who Saw It Coming''.'

If only I had a paper to write it for,' she said with a wistful smile.

He stopped and looked at Mattie, her fair hair glowing in the lights which bounced back from the soft yellow stone of the Houses of Parliament behind her, wondering if he detected a hint of regret in her voice.

'Grev refuses to print your story and then announces the paper's support for Urquhart Defusing one bomb and then launching another. Isn't that a bit of a coincidence?'

I've been thinking about that all day,' she said. 'The simple explanations are always the easiest to accept, and the simple fact is that Grev Preston is a pathetic excuse for an editor who is terrified of getting anything wrong. Knowing that Landless was going to throw Urquhart's hat into the ring, he didn't have the nerve to upset his proprietor's plans and I suspect he found my story simply too hot to handle.'

'So you think Landless may be at the bottom of it all?'

It's possible. He certainly welcomed the leadership contest, but then so did many others. Urquhart told me the weekend after the election of all the internal rivalry and bitterness inside the Government. Whoever is stirring it behind the scenes, we have the entire Cabinet to choose from, as well as Landless. And I am going to find out who.'

‘But how, without a newspaper?'

'Preston has been stupid enough to insist that I shall remain employed by the Telegraph for another three months. OK. They may not print it, but I'm still a journalist and I can still ask questions. If the truth is half as devious as I suspect it is, the story will still he worth printing in three months' or even three years' time. They can't lock up the truth for ever. I may have lost my job, Johnnie, but I haven't lost my curiosity.'

And what about your commitment? he asked silently.

'And will you be my spy on the inside, keeping an eye on what that bastard Landless is up to?'

He nodded, wondering just how much she was using him.

Thanks, Johnnie,' she whispered. She squeezed his hand, and disappeared into the night.

TUESDAY 16th NOVEMBER

The following day's news was still being dominated by intense speculation as to whether Urquhart would run. It was clear that the media had excited itself to the point where they would feel badly let down if he didn't, yet at 3 p.m. he was still keeping his own counsel. By this time, Mattie was feeling irked, not by Urquhart but by O'Neill. She had been waiting in his office with growing impatience for a full half hour.

When she had telephoned party headquarters the previous day wanting to get an official view about computers, literature sales, accounting procedures, Charles Collingridge and all the other things which were bothering her, she discovered that Spence had been absolutely right about the ban on staff contact with the media for the duration of the campaign. She could only deal with the press office, and no press officer seemed capable or willing to talk to her about computers or accounts.

'Sounds as if you are investigating our expenses,' a voice only half-jokingly had said down the telephone.

So she had asked for the Director of Publicity's office, and had been put through to Penny Guy. Mattie asked to come and talk the following morning with O'Neill, whom she had met a couple of times at receptions.

'I'm sorry, Miss Storin, but Mr O'Neill likes to keep his mornings free to clear his paper work and for internal meetings.' It was a lie, and one she was increasingly forced to use as O'Neill's time keeping had become spectacularly erratic. He rarely came into the office before ‘I p.m. nowadays. 'How about 2.30 in the afternoon?' she had suggested, playing safe.

She did not comprehend the mind-pulverising effects of cocaine, which kept O'Neill hyperactive and awake well into the small hours, unable to sleep until a cascade of depressant drugs had gradually overwhelmed the cocaine and forced him into an oblivion from which he did not return before midday or later. She did not comprehend this, but she suffered deeply from it nonetheless.

Now she was getting increasingly embarrassed as Mattie sat waiting for O'Neill. He had promised his secretary faithfully he would be on time, but as the wall clock ticked remorselessly on, her ability to invent new excuses disappeared completely. Her faith in O'Neill, with his public bravado and his private remorse, his inexplicable behaviour and his irrational outbursts, was slowly and painfully fading.

She brought Mattie yet another cup of coffee.

‘let me give him a call at home. Perhaps he's had to go back there. Something he forgot, or not feeling too well...'

She sat on the corner of his desk, picked up the direct line and punched the numbers. With some embarrassment she greeted Roger on the phone, explaining that Mattie had been waiting for more than half an hour and ... Her face became gradually more concerned, then anguished and finally horrified before she dropped the phone and fled from the office as if pursued by demons.

Mattie watched these happenings with complete astonishment, rooted to her chair, clutching her saucer, unable to speak or move. As the door banged shut behind the fleeing secretary she rose and moved over to the phone, picking the dangling receiver up from where it was swinging beside the desk and putting it to her ear.

The voice coming out of the phone was unrecognisable as that of O'Neill, or indeed anyone. The words were incoherent, indecipherable, slowed and slurred to the point where it sounded like a doll with the batteries almost dead. There were gasps, moans, long pauses, the sound of tears.

falling, and of a man falling apart She replaced the receiver gently in the cradle.

Mattie went in search of the secretary, and found her washing her face in the cloakroom. Her eyes were red and swollen. Mattie put a consoling arm around her shoulders.

'How long has he been like that, Penny?'

‘I can't say anything!' she blurted, and started weeping once more.

'Look, Penny, he's obviously in a very bad way. I'm not going to print any of this, for goodness sake. I would like to help.'

The other girl turned towards Mattie, fell into her arms, let the pain and worry of the last few months gush out, and sobbed until there were no more tears left.

When she had recovered sufficiently to escape from the cloakroom, Mattie took her gently by the arm and they went for a walk in nearby Victoria Gardens, where they could refresh themselves in the cold, vigorous air blowing off the Thames and talk without interruption. Penny told her how the Prime Minister's resignation had deeply upset O'Neill, how he had always been a little 'emotionally extravagant', as she put it, and the recent internal party turmoil and Prime Minister's resignation had really brought him close to a breakdown.

'But why, Penny? Surely they weren't that close?'

'He liked to think he was close to the whole Collingridge family. He was always arranging for flowers and special photographs to be sent to Mrs Collingridge, doing little favours whenever he could. He loved it all.'

Mattie shrugged her shoulders, as if she were shrugging off O'Neill's reputation once and for all. It's a great pity, of course, that he should be so weak and go to pieces just when the Party needs him most. But we both heard him this afternoon, Penny. Something has really got to Roger, something which is eating away at him from the inside.'

Mattie threw down the challenge. It wasn't fair, of course, but she gambled that Penny would not stand by and see O'Neill accused of weakness. She would loyally try to defend her boss - and would not lie in order to do so.

‘I... I don't know for sure. But I think he blamed himself so badly over the shares.'

"The shares? You mean the Renox shares?' said Mattie in alarm.

'Charles Collingridge asked him to open the accommodation address because he wanted somewhere for his private mail. Roger and I went to Paddington in a taxi, and he sent me in to do the paper work. I knew he felt uneasy at the time, I think he sensed there was something wrong. And when he realised what it had been used for and how much trouble it had caused, he just began going to pieces.'

'Why did Mr Collingridge ask Roger to open the address and not do it himself ?'

I've no idea, really. Perhaps he felt guilty because of what he was going to use it for. Roger just breezed into the office one day during the summer and said he'd got a favour to do for Charles Collingridge, that it was terribly confidential and I was to breathe a word to no one.'

Her words reminded her that she had broken her promise - of silence and more tears began to flow, but Mattie soon reassured her, and they continued their walk.

'So you never saw Charles Collingridge yourself ?'

'No. I've never really met him at all. Roger likes to handle all the important people himself, and as far as I'm aware Mr Collingridge has never come into the office.'

'But you are sure it was Charles Collingridge?'

'Of course, Roger said so. And who else could it have been?' The dampness began to appear again at the comer of her eyes. She shivered violently as a burst of cold November air from across the river sent the dead autumnal leaves cascading around them. 'Oh, God, it's all such an awful mess.'

'Penny, relax! It will be all right. Why don't you take a couple of days off and let Roger take care of himself? He can survive without you for a little while. He knows how to use the office computer, doesn't he?'

‘He can struggle through on the basics reasonably well if I'm not around, but even he wouldn't pretend he's a keyboard magician. No, I’ll be all right.'

So it was O'Neill who had 'struggled through' with the computer file. Another piece fell into place in Mattie's mind. She didn't feel comfortable squeezing information out of a vulnerable and trusting secretary, but there was no alternative.

look, how can I put this... Roger sounds as if he is very unwell. He's obviously been under a lot of strain, and he might be having a breakdown. Perhaps he's drinking too much. I'm not a doctor, but I do know one who's very good at that sort of thing. If you need any help, please give me a call.'

They had arrived back in Smith Square by now, and prepared to part.

'Mattie, thank you. You've been a great help.'

'No, Penny. I'm the one who is grateful. Take care of yourself.'

Mattie walked the few hundred yards back to the House of Commons, oblivious of the chill and wondering why on earth Roger O'Neill had framed Charles and Henry Collingridge.

TUESDAY 16th NOVEMBER - WEDNESDAY 17th NOVEMBER

Urquhart declared his intention to seek the leadership of the Party at a press conference held in the House of Commons at 5 p.m., timed to catch the early evening TV news and the first editions of the following day's press. The surroundings afforded by the meeting room in the Palace of Westminster, with its noble carved stone fireplace, its dark oak panelling and its traditional atmosphere of authority gave the proceedings a dignity which the announcements of Samuel, Woolton and others had lacked. Urquhart succeeded in establishing the impression of a man who was being dragged reluctantly towards the seat of power, placing his duty to his colleagues and country above his own, modest personal interests.

It was seventeen hours later, on Wednesday morning, that Landless held his own press conference. He sat in one of the palatial reception rooms of the Ritz Hotel at a long table covered with microphones, facing the cameras and questions of the financial press. Alongside him and almost dwarfed by his bulging girth sat Marcus Frobisher, the Chairman of the United Newspapers Group who, although an industrial magnate in his own right, was clearly cast to play a secondary role on this occasion. Behind them for the benefit of the cameras had been erected a vast backdrop with the colourful logo TEN' carefully crafted upon it and highlighted with lasers. To one side was a large video screen, on which was playing a corporate video featuring some of the Telegraph's better advertising material interspersed with cuts of Landless being greeted by workers, pulling levers to start the printing presses and generally running his empire in a warm and personal manner. The press conference, for all its immediacy, had clearly been carefully planned.

'Good morning ladies and gentlemen.'

Landless called the throng to order in a voice which was considerably less cockney than the one he adopted on private occasions. 'Thank you for corning at such short notice. We have invited you here to tell you about one of the most exciting steps forward for the British communications industry since Julius Renter established his telegraph service in London more than a hundred years ago.'.

He shifted one of the microphones a little closer to stop himself craning his neck. 'Today we wish to announce the creation of the largest newspaper group in the United Kingdom, which will provide a platform for making this country once again the worldwide leader in the rapidly expanding industry of providing information services.

'Telegraph Newspapers has made an offer to purchase the full issued share capital of the United Newspapers Group at a price which values them at £’I.4 billion, a premium of 40 per cent above the current market price. I am delighted to say that the board of the United Newspapers Group has unanimously accepted the bid, and also agreed the terms for the future management of the combined group. I shall become Chairman and Chief Executive of the new company, and my good friend and former competitor, now colleague.. .' he stretched a huge paw to grasp the arm of Frobisher, as menacingly as if he were grasping him around the neck -'... is to be the President’

Several nodding heads around the room indicated that they clearly understood which of the men would be in sole charge of the new operation. Frobisher sat there trying hard to put on a good face.

'This is an important step for the British newspaper industry. The combined operation will control more national and major regional titles than any other newspaper group in this country, and the amalgamation of our international subsidiaries will make us the third largest newspaper group in the world. To mark this new departure we are renaming the company, and as you can see, our new corporate title will be Telegraph Express Newspapers Company PLC - TEN’ He at last released his grip on Frobisher and waved at the logo behind.

‘Do you like my new corporate design?' he asked jovially. He hoped they did. His daughter's two-woman partnership had been given the contract - its first-for devising the company's new name and corporate design, and he was determined that she be given almost as much attention as himself.

You will find waiting for you at the door a document which gives the full details of the offer and agreement. So, questions please!'

There was an excited hum from the audience, and a forest of hands shot up to catch his eye.

‘I suppose to be fair I ought to take the first question from someone who will not be working for the group,' jested Landless. 'Now, can we find anyone here who won't be part of the new team?' With theatrical exaggeration he shielded his eyes from the bright lights and searched the audience for a suitable victim, and they all laughed at his cheek..

'Mr Landless,' shouted the business editor of the Sunday Times. The Government have made it very clear in recent years that they feel the British newspaper industry is already concentrated into too few hands, and that they would use their powers under the monopolies and mergers legislation to prevent any further consolidation. How on earth do you expect to get the necessary Government approval for this deal?'

There was a strong murmur of assent to the question from around the room. The Government had made loud if imprecise noises during the election about their commitment to increasing industrial competition.

'An excellent point’ Landless spread his arms wide as if to hug the question to his chest and slowly throttle it to death.

You are right, the Government will need to take a view on the matter. And I hope they will be sufficiently wise and visionary to realise that the operation we are putting together, far from jeopardising the British newspaper industry, is vital to its continuing success. Newspapers are just part of the worldwide information industry, which is growing and changing every day. You all know that. Five years ago you all worked in Fleet Street with old typewriters and printing presses which should have been scrapped when the Kaiser surrendered. Today the industry is modernised, decentralised, computerised. Yet still it must keep changing. It has more competition, from satellite television, local radio, breakfast TV and the rest’

'Shame!' cried a voice within the audience, and they laughed nostalgically about the cosy days of Fleet Street and El Vino's wine bar, and the prolonged printers' strikes and disputes which allowed them weeks or even months off to write books or build boats and dream dreams while still on full pay. But they all recognised the inescapable truth in what Landless was saying.

In ten years' time more and more people will be demanding information twenty-four hours a day, from all parts of the world. Fewer and fewer of them will be getting that information from newspapers which arrive hours after the news has occurred and which covers them in filthy printing ink. If we are to survive in business we must no longer think of ourselves as parochial newspaper men, but as suppliers of information on a worldwide basis. So our new group, "TEN", will not just be a traditional newspaper business but will be grown into the world's leading supplier of information to business and homes around the world, whether they want that information printed, televised, computerised or sung by canaries. And to do that we .need the size, the muscle and the resources which only a large group such as "TEN" can provide.'

He gestured generously towards the questioner.

'And as you so rightly point out, we also need the

Government's permission. So the Government have a choice. They can take the narrow view, prohibit the merger and preside over the decline of the British newspaper industry, which will be dead within ten years as the Americans, Japanese and even Australians take over. Or they can be responsible and visionary, and care about the jobs which exist and which can be created in the industry, and think not about narrow British competition but about the much broader international competition which we need to take on and beat if we are to survive. If they do that, they will allow us to build the biggest and finest information service in the world, based right here in Britain’

A blitz of flash guns greeted him as he sat back in his chair, the carefully rehearsed appeal finished while the journalists who still took shorthand scribbled furiously to catch up with him. The questioner turned to his neighbour.

'What do you think? Will he get away with it?'

If I know our Ben, he won't be relying just on industrial logic or compelling rhetoric. He will have prepared the ground very carefully beforehand. We'll soon see how many politicians owe him favours.'

The answer seemed to be that many politicians owed Landless, at least on the Government side. With nominations closing the following day and the first ballot due in just a week, few contenders seemed willing to risk antagonising the combined might of the Telegraph and United groups and their substantial number of national newspapers. Within hours the endorsements for Landless grew into a stampede of support amongst contenders as they struggled not to be left behind in finding airtime to praise his 'enlightened and patriotic industrial leadership'. By teatime, Landless was well pleased with his day's work and the careful planning which had gone into it. Once again, it seemed that his sense of riming and understanding of politicians had been just right. The Independent could not resist the temptation to have a dig at the proceedings. 'The Landless announcement burst like a grenade in the middle of the leadership race -which presumably was his intention. The sight of so many senior politicians falling over themselves to kiss his hand was reminiscent of Tammany Hall at its worst. It is salutary to reflect that these very same politicians, just a few months ago at the time when Landless bought out Telegraph Newspapers, were insisting that he sign a public declaration of non-interference with the editorial policies of his newspapers. Only on the basis of that solemn and binding undertaking did they allow the purchase to proceed. Today, in their craven attempts to placate Landless, they are acting as if they automatically assume that alongside his personal support goes the editorial support of his many newspapers. They seem to prefer to swim with sharks rather than honour their own undertakings.'

Not all the aspirants joined the stampede, however. Samuel was cautious and noncommittal - he had too many knife wounds in his back from the previous weeks to wish to stick his head above the parapet yet again, and he said he wished to consult the workforce of the two groups before reaching his decision. Immediately the union representatives issued their vigorous denunciation of the scheme. They had noted that there were no guarantees about job security in the published document, and they had plenty of experience of Landless's quite ruthless 'industrial rationalisation programmes'. In a careless moment Landless had once joked that he had fired 10,000 people for every million he had made, and he was an exceedingly wealthy man. Samuel realised after his brief consultation with the unions that it would be absurd in the face of their public opposition for him now to endorse the deal, so sought refuge in silence.

Urquhart also stood out from the crowd. Within an hour of the announcement he was on television and radio giving a thoroughly polished and well informed analysis of the global information market and its likely trends, all of which seemed to support the Landless proposal. His technical expertise far outshone his rivals, yet he was cautious.

'While I have the highest respect for Benjamin Landless I think it would be wrong of me to jump to immediate conclusions before I have had an opportunity to consider all the details of the proposal. I think politicians should be careful; it gives politics a bad name if they are perceived as dashing around trying to buy the support of the editorial columns. So to avoid any possible misinterpretation, I shall not be announcing my own views until the leadership contest is over. By which time, of course,' he said modestly, 'they may be of no interest anyway.'

If only all his colleagues could have taken the dignified and principled stand of the Chief Whip', praised the Independent, Urquhart is establishing a statesmanlike tone for his campaign which marks him out from the pack and will certainly improve his chances.'

Other editorials echoed the line, not least of all the Telegraph.

We encouraged Francis Urquhart to stand for the leadership because of our respect for his independence of mind and his integrity. We were delighted when he accepted the challenge, and we are still convinced that our recommendation was correct. His refusal to rush to judgement over the Telegraph-United newspaper merger and his determination to consider his views carefully is no less than we would expect from someone with the qualities to lead this country.

We still hope and believe that after due deliberation he will wholeheartedly endorse the merger plans, but our judgement of Urquhart is based on much more than commercial interest. He is the only candidate who so far has demonstrated that he is also a man of principle.

There was the sound around the corridors of Westminster of doors being slammed shut in frustration as ambitious politicians realised that Urquhart had once again stolen a march on them.

How the heck does that fart-artist do it?' barked Woolton, discarding any vestige of diplomatic restraint.

In a Mayfair penthouse overlooking Hyde Park, Landless and Urquhart smiled serenely and toasted each other's health and good fortune as they reviewed the success of each other's campaign.

To the next Prime Minister’ saluted Landless.

'And to his impartial endorsement of the merger’ responded his companion.

THURSDAY 18th NOVEMBER

When nominations closed at noon on Thursday, the only surprise was the last minute withdrawal of Peter Bearstead, who had been the first to announce his intention to stand.

I've done what I set out to do, which was to get a proper election going,' he announced punchily. I'm not going to win and I don't want a consolation prize of a Ministerial job, so now let the others get on with it.'

He immediately signed up with the Daily Express to write personal and indiscreet profiles of the candidates for the duration of the campaign.

That left nine declared candidates, an unprecedentedly large field. However, the general view was that only five of them were in with a serious chance - Samuel, Woolton, Earle, McKenzie and Urquhart. With a completed list of contestants, pollsters redoubled their efforts to contact Government MPs and decipher which way the tide was running.

The starter's flag had now officially fallen, and Peter McKenzie was determined to make an immediate showing. The Secretary of State for Health was a frustrated man. Having been in charge of the health service for more than five years, he had hoped as ardently as Urquhart for a new challenge and new responsibility after the June general election. The long years in charge of an unresponsive bureaucracy, watching almost helplessly as the remorselessly expensive progress of medical science grew faster than the taxpayers' ability or willingness to keep pace, had left him deeply scarred. A few years previously he had been regarded as the rising star of the Party, the man who could combine a tough intellectual approach with an obvious deep sense of caring, and many said he would go all the way. But the health service had been utterly unresponsive to his attempts to reform and improve it, and his repeated encounters with picket lines of protesting nurses and ambulance men had left his image as a man of conscience and humanity in tatters. The postponement of his much touted hospital expansion plan had been the last straw. He had become deeply dispirited, and had talked with his wife about quitting politics at the next election if his lot did not improve.

He greeted Collingridge's downfall like a drowning man discovers a life raft. It was the only thing that mattered to him, and drew all his concentration and effort. Of course he had made mistakes during the initial stages of the campaign, as had most of his rivals, but he entered the final five days before the first ballot full of enthusiasm and energy. He had planned from the start to make an impact on Nomination Day itself, determined to get his head above the crowd. So he had asked his staff to find a suitable visit for him to make which would provide some powerful photo-opportunities for the cameramen and a chance to revive his tarnished image as a humane and caring politician.

But no hospitals, he instructed He had spent the first three years in the Ministry visiting hospitals and trying to learn about patient care, only to be met on bad days by massed picket lines of boisterous nurses complaining about pay and on worse days by violent demonstrations from ancillary staff protesting about 'savage cuts'. Even the doctors seemed to have embraced the philosophy that health budgets were now set by the level of noise rather than the level of need. He almost never got to see the patients, and even when he tried to sneak into a hospital by a side or back entrance, the demonstrators always seemed to know beforehand precisely where he would be, ready to throw their personal and deeply hurtful abuse at him just when the television camera crews had arrived. No Minister had ever found an effective way of dealing with protesting nurses; the public will always side with the angels of mercy, leaving the politician in the role of perpetual villain. So McKenzie had simply stopped visiting hospitals. Rather than running an inevitable and image-denting gauntlet of abuse, he opted out and stuck to safer venues.

Just a couple of hours after nominations closed, the Secretary of State's car was approaching the Humanifit Laboratories just off the M4 where he would spend a couple of hours in front of cameras opening the new factory and examining the wide range of equipment which they manufactured for handicapped people. They had just developed a revolutionary new wheelchair which would operate to the voice commands of paraplegic patients unable to move their limbs. The combination of new British technology and enhanced care for the disabled was just what he had hoped his office would find for him, and he was looking forward to his afternoon and the media coverage it would generate.

McKenzie had been careful, however, not taking the success of the visit for granted. He had been ambushed by protesters too many times to take chances that the television camera crews would bring a demonstration with them in order to enhance the vividness of their pictures. 'One good demo is worth a thousand new factory openings to us’ a friendly television executive had once advised him, and he had taken care to ensure that the media had been informed only three hours before his impending arrival, soon enough to get their camera crews there, but not sufficient time for anyone to arrange a welcoming demonstration. Yes, he thought as the factory came into view, his office had been very efficient and he had been sensibly cautious. It should all work very well.

Unfortunately for McKenzie, his office had been too efficient. Governments need to know where their Ministers and supporters are at all times, in case of emergency or in case of a sudden vote in the House of Commons for which they will need to be called in at short notice. And the office accorded the responsibility for mamtaining and updating the information on the whereabouts of Ministers is, of course, that of the Chief Whip. On the previous Friday, following her standing instructions to the letter, Mc-Kenzie's diary secretary had sent a full list of his forth-corning week's engagements over to Urquhart's office in 12 Downing Street. Thereafter, one telephone call was all it took.

As they drove the last few hundred yards down the country road to the factory's green-field site, McKenzie combed his hair and prepared himself for the cameras. They drew alongside the red brick wall which curved around the site and, as the Minister in the rear seat made sure his tie was straight, the car swept in through the front gates.

No sooner was it through than the driver jammed on all the brakes, throwing McKenzie against the front seat, spilling papers on the floor and ruining his careful preparations. Before he had a chance to curse the driver and demand an explanation, the cause of the problem immediately confronted and swirled around him. It was a sight beyond his wildest nightmare.

The tiny car park in front of the factory's reception office was jammed with a throng of seething protesters, all dressed in nurse's uniform and hurling abuse, with every angry word and action recorded by three television cameras which had been dutifully summoned by McKenzie's press officer and placed in an ideal viewing position on top of the administration block. No sooner was the official car inside the gates than the crowd surged around, kicking the bodywork and banging placards on the roof. In a couple of seconds the aerial had gone and the windscreen wipers had also been wrenched off. Trie driver had the sense to press the panic button fitted to all Ministerial cars which automatically closed the windows and locked the doors, but not before someone had managed to spit directly into McKenzie's face. Fists and contorted faces were pressed hard up against the glass, all threatening violence on him; the car rocked as the crowd pressed hard against it, until he could see no sky, no trees, no help, nothing but hatred at close distance.

'Get out! Get out!' he screamed, but the driver raised his hands in helplessness. The crowd had surrounded the car, blocking off any hope of retreat.

'Get out!' he continued to scream, overcome by the claustrophobia of the crowd, but to no avail. In desperation the Minister leaned forward and grabbed the automatic gear stick, throwing it into reverse. The car gave a judder and moved back barely a foot before the driver's foot hit the brake, but the closely penned crowd had felt the impact. The protesters quickly withdrew to leave an exit for the car, taking with them a young woman in nurse's uniform who appeared to be in great pain after having been struck by the retreating car. Seeing his opening, the driver smoothly reversed his vehicle out of the gates and onto the road, pulling off a spectacular hand-brake turn to bring the nose of the car round and effect a rapid escape. He sped away leaving large black rubber scars on the road surface. The cameras continued to record every panic-stricken moment.

McKenzie's political career was also left on the road alongside the ugly burnt tyre marks. It did not matter that the woman was not badly injured, or that she was not indeed a nurse at all but a fulltime union convenor and an experienced hand at turning a picket line drama into a newsworthy crisis. No one bothered to enquire. No man who could antagonise so many nurses and act in such a cowardly fashion in seeking to evade their protest could possibly occupy 10 Downing Street. For McKenzie, the tide had turned again and he watched helplessly as his life raft drifted back over the horizon.

FRIDAY 19th NOVEMBER

It had been a difficult week for Mattie, and a lonely one too, and she was having to work hard to keep her spirits up. While the pace of activity in the leadership race had picked up sharply, she found herself treading water, feeling as if she were being left behind by events. Nothing had come of her few job interviews; it had become clear to her that she had been blacked by all the newspapers in the expanding Landless empire, and none of his remaining competitors seemed particularly keen to antagonise him unnecessarily. And on Friday morning the mortgage rate had gone up.

Even worse, while she had more pieces of the jigsaw, still she could find no pattern in them. And it hurt. Inside her head the few facts she had gathered collided with her own speculative thoughts, but nothing seemed to fit. The collision left a dull, throbbing ache in her temples which had been with her incessantly for days. So she had hauled her running gear out of the wardrobe and was soon pounding her way around the leaf-covered tracks and pathways of Holland Park, hoping that the much needed physical exercise would purge both body and mind. But the throbbing in her head only combined with the new and growing pains in her lungs and legs to make it all hurt even more. She was running out of ideas, stamina and time. The first ballot was just four days away.

In the fading evening light she ran along the sweeping avenue of chestnut trees which towered magnificent and leafless above her like a living tunnel inhabited by half-seen, ghostly apparitions; down Lime Tree Walk where in daylight the squirrels and sparrows were as tame as house pets; past the red bricked ruins of old Holland House, burned to the ground half a century before along with its books, beauty and secrets, leaving just its brooding memories of past glories. In the days before what was left of Elizabethan London had grown into a voracious urban sprawl, Holland House had been the country seat of Charles James Fox, the legendary 18th century radical who had spent a lifetime pursuing revolutionary causes and who had used his ancestral home to gather all his conspiratorial colleagues and plot the downfall of the Prime Minister. It had always been in vain. Yet who had succeeded now where he had failed?

She went over the ground again, the field of battle on which Collingridge had fallen. It had started with the general election campaign which had gone badly wrong, with Collingridge and Williams left to blame each other and argue whose fault it all was.

Then came the fiasco of the hospital scheme, courtesy of Stephen Kendrick. There were no leads on the leak of Territorial Army cuts to the Independent; the document had been discovered floating around Annie's Bar, and they could scarcely blame Annie... The opinion poll, too, had been leaked - just another part of Collingridge's death by a thousand cuts - but she had no idea whom to thank for that. O'Neill, she knew, was involved in the extraordinary episode of share purchases through the Paddington address, and Landless had taken a sudden and uncharacteristic interest in high politics, with motive unclear.

That was it. That was all she had. So where did she go from here? As she climbed up the slope towards the highest part of the wooded park, she pounded away at the alternatives.

'Collingridge isn't giving interviews. Williams will only talk through his press office. O'Neill doesn't seem capable of answering questions, and Landless wouldn't stop for me on a pedestrian crossing. Which leaves only you, Mr Kendrick!'

With one final spurt she reached the top of the hill and began stretching out on the long downhill slope which led towards her home. Now she felt better. She had got her second wind.

SATURDAY 20th NOVEMBER

It had not been too bad a week for Harold Earle. The media had nominated him as one of the five candidates most likely to succeed; he had watched Samuel's bandwagon fail to roll and McKenzie's become derailed. And in spite of the Chief Whip's creditable showing, Earle could not believe that Urquhart would succeed because he had no senior Cabinet experience of running any great Department of State, and at the end of the day experience really counted for the top job. Particularly experience like Earle's.

He had started his climb many years before as the Prime Minister's Parliamentary Private Secretary, a post in which he joked that he held more power than anyone below Chancellor. His promotion to the Cabinet had been rapid, and he had held several important portfolios, including, for the last two years under Collingridge, responsibility for the Government's extensive school reforms as Secretary of State for Education. Unlike some of his predecessors, he had managed to find common ground with the teaching profession, although some accused him of being unable to take really tough decisions and being a conciliator.

But didn't the Party in its present mood need a touch of conciliation? The infighting around Collingridge had left its scars, and the growing abrasiveness of the campaign was only rubbing salt in the wounds. In particular, Woolton's attempt to shed his diplomatic veneer and rekindle memories of his early rough and tumble North Country political style was antagonising some of the more traditional spirits in the Party. Perhaps the time was exactly right for Earle.

On Saturday, he planned a rally amongst the party faithful in his constituency to wave the flag. A brightly decked hall packed with supporters whom he could greet on first-name terms - in front of the cameras, of course - seemed an ideal location for a major pronouncement on schools ' policy. He and his officials had been working on it for some time, and with just a little hurrying forward they would have it ready for announcement on Saturday - a Government-sponsored plan offering school leavers who could not find a job not only a guaranteed place on a training course, but now the opportunity to complete that training in another Common Market country, providing practical skills and language training as well.

Earle was confident it would be well received. The speech would glow with rapture about the new horizons and job opportunities which would open up for young people, and the mortal blow he was delivering to the British businessman's traditionally apathetic approach to dealing with foreign customers in their own language.

And then the coup de grace. He had got the Common Market bureaucrats in Brussels to agree to pay for the whole thing. He could already feel the tumultuous applause washing over him, carrying him on to Downing Street.

There was a large crowd of cheering supporters outside the Essex village hall to greet him when he arrived at midday. They were waving little Union Jacks and old election posters which had been brought out to give the occasion all the atmosphere of the campaign trail. The village band struck up as he came through the doors at the rear of the hall, proceeding down the aisle shaking hands on all sides. The local mayor led him up onto the low wooden platform as the cameramen and lighting crews scurried around to find the best angle. He gazed out over the crowd, studding his eyes from the lights, waving to their applause even as the mayor tried to introduce him. He felt as if he was on the brink of the greatest personal triumph of his life.

Then he saw him. Standing in the front row, squashed between the other cheering supporters, waving and applauding with the rest of them. Simon. The one person in the world he had hoped he would never see or hear from again. He remembered how they had first met - how could he ever forget? It was in the railway carriage as Earle had been corning back from the late night rally in the North West. They had been alone, Earle had been drunk, and Simon had been very, very friendly. And handsome. As the train thundered through the night they had entered a different, dark world cut off from the bright lights and responsibilities they had just left, and Earle had discovered himself committing an act which would have made him liable to a prison sentence several years before, and which was still only legal between consenting adults in private. And a British Rail carriage twenty minutes out of Birmingham is not the most private of locations.

Earle had staggered out of the carriage at Euston, thrust two £20 notes into Simon's hand, and spent the night at his club. He couldn't face going back to the home he shared with his ailing mother.

He hadn't seen Simon for another six months, but suddenly he had turned up in the Central Lobby of the Houses of Parliament asking the police attendants if he could see him. When the Minister arrived the youth didn't make a fuss, explaining how he had recognised Earle from the recent party political broadcast, asking for the money in a very delicate and gentle fashion. Earle had paid him some 'expenses' for his trip to London, but on Simon's second visit a few weeks later he knew there would be no respite. He had instructed Simon to wait, and had sought sanctuary in the corner of the Chamber. He spent ten minutes looking over the scene which he had grown to love so dearly, knowing that the youth outside threatened everything he had.

He could find no answer himself, so he had gone straight along to the Chief Whip's Office and spilled the lot. There was a youth sitting in the Central Lobby blackmailing him for a brief and stupid fling they had had many months before, he had confessed. He was finished.

Never mind, don't worry, he had been assured. Worse things had happened on the retreat from Dunkirk. Point him out and leave it all to the Chief Whip.

Urquhart had been as good as his word. He had introduced himself to the boy, and assured him that if he were not off the premises in five minutes the police would be called and he would be arrested for blackmail. The boy was further assured that in such cases the arrest and subsequent trial were held with little publicity, no one would discover the name of the Member concerned, and few people would even hear how long he had been sent down for. Little more pressure was needed to persuade the youth he had made a terrible mistake and should depart as quickly as possible, but Urquhart had taken the precaution of taking down the details from Simon's driving licence, just in case he were to continue to cause trouble and needed to be tracked down.

And now he was back there, in the front row, ready to make unknown demands about which Earle's fevered imagination could only torment itself. The torment went on throughout the speech, which ended as a considerable disappointment to his followers. The content was there, printed in large type on his small pages of recycled paper, but the fire was gone. The faithful had come to listen to him, not his officials' tired prose, yet he seemed to be elsewhere even as he was delivering the lines.

They still clapped and applauded enthusiastically when he was finished, but it didn't help. The mayor had almost to drag him into the pit of the hall to satisfy the clamour of the crowd for one last handshake and the chance personally to wish their favourite son well. As they shouted at him and kissed his cheeks and pummelled him on the back, he was drawn ever closer to the youthful eyes staring benevolently at him, as if he were being dragged towards the gates of Hell itself.

But Simon caused no scene, did nothing but shake his hand warmly and smile prettily, one hand toying nervously with the gold medallion which swung ostentatiously around his neck. Then he was gone, just another face left behind in the crowd, and Earle was in his car speeding back towards London and safety. -

When he arrived back at home, two men were standing outside in the cold street waiting for him.

'Evening, Mr Earle. Simmonds and Peters from the Minor. Interesting rally you had. We've got the press handout, the words, but we need a bit of colour for our readers. like how the audience reacted. Got anything to say about your audience, Mr Earle?'

He rushed inside without saying anything, slamming the door behind him. He watched through a curtained window as they shrugged their shoulders and retreated to the estate car parked on the other side of the street. They pulled out a book and a thermos flask, and settled in for the long night ahead.

SUNDAY 21st NOVEMBER

They were still there the following morning just after dawn when Earle looked out. One was asleep, napping under a trilby hat pulled down over his eyes. The other was reading the Sunday newspapers, which bore little resemblance to the previous week's editions. A leadership campaign which then had been dead in the water had now, with Urquhart's intervention and McKenzie's catastrophe, sprung to life. And the pollsters were beginning to wear down the MPs' resistance to their probing.

'All square!' declared the Observer, announcing that the 60 per cent of the Parliamentary Party they had managed to cajole into giving a view were now evenly split between the three leading candidates - Samuel, Earle and Woolton, with Urquhart close behind and McKenzie now clearly out of it. The small lead to which Samuel had previously clung had entirely disappeared.

But the news gave no joy to Earle. He had spent a ruinous and totally sleepless night, pacing the floors but being able to find no solace. Everywhere he had looked for comfort, he could see only Simon's face. The presence of the two journalists had kept nagging at him. How much did they know? Why were they squatting on his doorstep? The long wait through the night until the first fingers of dawn spread cold and grey in the November sky had drained him of hope and resistance. He had to know for certain.

Peters nudged Simmonds awake as the unshaven figure of Earle, his silk dressing gown dragged tightly around him, appeared at the front door of the house and made towards them.

'Works like a dream every time,' Peters said. 'They simply can't resist trying to investigate, like a mouse after cheese. Let's see what he has to say for himself, Alf - and turn that bloody tape machine on’

'Good morning, Mr Earle,' Peters, shouted as Earle approached. ‘Don't stand out there in the cold, sit inside. Care for a cup of coffee?'

'What do you want? Why are you spying on me?'

'Spying, Mr Earle? Don't be silly, we're just looking for a bit of colour. You're a leading candidate in an important election campaign. Seen the newspapers yet? People are bound to take more interest in you - about your hobbies, what you do, who your friends are.'

‘I have nothing to say!'

'Could we interview your wife, perhaps?' asked Simmonds. 'Silly me, you're not married, of course, are you Mr Earle?'

'What are you implying?' Earle demanded in a contorted, high pitched voice.

'My goodness me nothing at all, sir. By the way, have you seen the photos of your rally yesterday? They're very good, really clear. We're thinking of using one on our front page tomorrow. Here, have a look.'

A hand thrust a large glossy photograph out of the window and waved it under Earle's nose. He grabbed it, and gasped. It clearly showed him gripping the hand and looking straight into the eyes of a smiling Simon. The details were awesomely clear, perhaps too clear. It almost looked as if some hidden hand had added a trace of eyeliner around Simon's large eyes, and his fleshy, petulant lips appeared to have been made darker, more prominent. As his manicured fingers played with the gold medallion around his neck, he looked very, very effeminate.

'Know him well, do you, sir?'

Earle threw the photograph back through the car window.

'What are you trying to do? I deny everything. I shall report your harassment to your editor!'

Earle rushed back towards his front door.

'Editor, sir? Why, bless me, it was him what sent us’ Simmonds shouted at the Minister's retreating back.

As the door slammed shut behind the fleeing figure, Peters turned to his colleague. There goes one very worried man, Alf.'

They settled back to their newspapers.

MONDAY 22nd NOVEMBER

Kendrick had accepted Mattie's request for a chat with alacrity. He wasn't sure he had been so keen simply because as an Opposition backbencher he was flattered to be in demand, or simply because his eyes flared and his knees tingled every time he saw her. In any event, it didn't really matter to Kendrick what his real motives were, he was delighted to meet with her. He was making their tea himself in his single room office in Norman Shaw North, the red brick building made famous in countless ageing black and white films as New Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police. The forces of law and order had long since moved to a more modem and efficient base in Victoria Street, but the parliamentary authorities had been delighted to snap up the vacant, albeit dilapidated, space just across the road from the Houses of Parliament to provide much needed additional working room for the horrendously overcrowded Members of Parliament.

As he gazed out over the Thames towards the South Bank arts complex, Kendrick poured tea and opened his heart.

‘I have to say I never really expected all this,' he said. ‘But I've grown to like it very much indeed.'

You've also managed to make your mark very quickly,' Mattie smiled her most winning of smiles and recrossed her legs. She had been careful to discard her favoured trousers for a fashionable blouse and skirt which showed off her legs and slender ankles to their best effect. She needed some information, and would buy it with a little flirting if needs be.

I'm doing a feature piece on the decline and fall of the Prime Minister, trying to get behind the basic news stories and talk to those who played a part in it, whether they had intended to or not. It won't be an unsympathetic piece, I'm not trying to moralise or lay blame. I'm trying rather to offer an insight into how Parliament works and how politics can be so full of surprises. And when it comes to surprises, yours was one of the biggest.'

Kendrick chuckled. Tm still amazed at how my parliamentary reputation was built on such a - well, what would you call it? Stroke of luck? Throw of the dice? Guess work?'

'Are you saying you didn't actually know that the hospital scheme had been shelved, that you were guessing?' Put it this way. I wasn't absolutely certain. I took a risk.' 'So what did you know?'

'Well, Mattie, I've never really told the full story before to anyone ...' He glanced down to where Mattie was rubbing her ankles, as if to relieve sore shins. 'But I suppose there's no harm in telling you a little of the background.'

He pondered a second to decide how far he should go. ‘I discovered that the Government - or rather their party headquarters - had planned a massive publicity campaign to promote the new plan for expanding hospitals. They had worked hard at it, spent a lot of money on the preparations, yet at the last minute they cancelled the whole thing. Just pulled the plug on it. I thought about this for a long while, and the only explanation I could reach was that they were actually pulling the plug, not just on the publicity campaign but on the policy itself. So I challenged the Prime Minister - and he fell for it! I couldn't have been more surprised myself.'

‘I don't remember any discussion at the time about a publicity campaign. It must have been kept very quiet.'

'Of course, they wanted to keep the element of surprise. I believe all the planning of it was highly confidential.'

'You obviously have excellent confidential sources.'

'Yes. And they are staying confidential, even from you, I'm afraid!'

Mattie knew that she would need to offer much more than a flashing pair of ankles to get that sort of information out of him, and she was unwilling to pay so high a price.

'Of course, Stephen. I know how valuable sources are. But can you give me a little guidance? The leak could only have come from one of two sources, Party or Government, yes... ?'

He nodded.

'And there has been a tremendous amount of publicity about the rift between party headquarters and Downing Street in recent months. Particularly as it was to be a party publicity drive, it would be logical to suspect that the information came out of party headquarters.'

She raised an enquiring eyebrow, and puckered her lips.

'You're very good, very good, Mattie. But you didn't get that from me, OK? And I'm not saying any more about my source. You're too hot by half!'

He was beginning to chuckle merrily when Mattie played her own hunch.

'No need to worry. I want to write a feature piece, not conduct an inquisition. Roger's secret is safe with me.'

Kendrick spat out the mouthful of tea he was trying to drink and started choking.

‘I never... said anything about... Roger!' he spluttered. But he knew he had betrayed his familiarity with O'Neill, and the calm face he was trying to restore simply eluded him. He decided to surrender.

'Jesus. How did you know? Look, Mattie. Big favour time. I didn't say anything about Roger. We're old friends and I don't want to land him in any sort of hot water. He's got enough at Smith Square as it is, eh?'

Mattie laughed loudly, teasing the politician for his discomfort.

‘Your sordid secret is safe with me,' she assured him. 'But when you have risen to become a senior member of Government some time in the future, perhaps even Prime Minister, I hope you will remember you owe me!'

They both laughed loudly at the banter but, inside, Mattie's stomach churned. Another piece of the jigsaw had just fallen into place.

They were there at lunchtime and still there in the evening, just reading, picking their teeth, and watching. Like avenging angels they had waited for Earle in their sordid little car from over forty-eight hours, witnessing every flicker of the curtain, photographing everyone who called including the postman and the milkman.

'What do they want with me?' he screamed to himself inside his head. 'Why are they persecuting me like this?'

He had no one to turn to, no one with whom to share his misery and offer consolation. He was a lonely figure, a sincere and even devout man who had made one mistake, and he knew sooner or later he must pay for it. His mother had always drilled into him the need to pay for one's sins or be consumed by hell fire, and he felt the flames licking at him now with growing ferocity. .

He had been home half an hour on Monday evening when they knocked on the door.

'Sorry to bother you, Mr Earle. Simmonds and Peters again. Just a quick question our editor wanted us to ask. How long have you known him?'

Into his face was thrust another photograph, still of Simon, but this time taken not at a public rally but in a photographer's studio, and dressed from head to foot in black leather slashed by zip fasteners. The jacket was open to the waist, exposing a slender, tapering body, while from his right hand there trailed a long bullwhip.

'Go away. Go away. Please - go away!' he screamed, so loudly that neighbours came to the window to investigate.

If it's inconvenient, we'll come back some other time, sir.'

Silently they filed back to their car, and resumed the watch.

TUESDAY 23rd NOVEMBER

They were still there the following morning. After yet another sleepless night, Earle knew he had no emotional resources left. With red eyes and husky voice, he sat weeping gently in an armchair in the study. He had worked so hard, deserved so much, yet it had all come to this. He had tried so desperately to deserve his mother's love and commendation, to achieve something with which to illuminate her final years, but once again he had failed her, as she always said he would.

He knew he must finish it. There was no point in going on. He no longer believed in himself, and knew he had forfeited the right to have others believe in him. Through misty eyes he reached down into the drawer of his desk, and fumbled as he took out his private phone book. He punched the numbers on the phone as if they were nails being driven through his soul. He fought hard to control his voice throughout the brief conversation, but then it was finished, and he could weep again.

The news that Earle had pulled out of the race left everyone aghast as it flashed round Westminster later on Tuesday morning. It had happened so unexpectedly that there was no time to alter the printed ballot papers except with an ignominious scratching through of the name with a biro. Sir Humphrey was not best pleased that his carefully laid preparations should have been thrown into chaos at the last minute, and had some rough words to use for anyone who was willing to listen. But on the stroke of ten Committee Room Number 14, which had been set aside in the House of Commons for the ballot, opened its doors and the first of the 335 Government MPs who were going to vote began to file through. There would be two prominent absentees - the Prime Minister, who had announced he would not vote, and Harold Earle.

Mattie had intended to spend the whole day at the House of Commons chatting to MPs and gauging their sentiment. Most appeared to think that Earle's withdrawal would tend to help Samuel as much as anyone: 'the conciliators tend to stick with the conscience merchants’ one old buffer had explained, 'so Earle's supporters will drift towards young Disraeli. They haven't got the sense to make any more positive decision.' Behind the scenes and in private conversations with colleagues who could be trusted, the campaign was taking a more unpleasant personal edge.

She was in the press gallery cafeteria drinking coffee with other correspondents when the tannoy system announced there was a telephone call for her. She took it at the nearest extension. The sense of shock which hit her when she heard the voice was even greater than the news of Earle's withdrawal.

'Hello, Mattie. I understand you were looking for me last week. Sorry you missed me, I was out of the office. Touch of gastric 'flu. Do you still want to get together?'

Roger O'Neill sounded so friendly and enthusiastic that she had trouble connecting it with the voice she had heard a few days earlier. Could it really have been O'Neill she had listened to drivelling down the phone? She remembered the reports about his outrageous performance at Urquhart's reception in Bournemouth, and realised the man must be riding an emotional helter skelter, careering between highs and lows like a demented circus ride.

If you are still interested, perhaps you would like to come across to Smith Square later today’ he offered.

He showed no signs of the verbal bruising he had received from Urquhart, which had been particularly merciless. Urquhart had telephoned to instruct O'Neill to make the appropriate arrangements for Simon to attend Earle's weekend meeting, and to ensure that the Minor was anonymously informed of the connections between the two men. Instead he had discovered that O'Neill was sliding steadily into his cocaine-induced oblivion and losing touch with events outside his increasingly narrow, kaleidoscopic world. There had been a confrontation. Urquhart could not afford to lose O'Neill's services inside party headquarters, or have loose ends unravelling at this point.

'One week, Roger, one more week and you can take a break, forget about all of this for a while if you want, and come back to that knighthood you've always wanted. Yes, Roger, with a "K" they will never be able to look down their noses at you again. And I can arrange everything for you. But you let me down now, you lose control and I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your life. Damn you, get a grip on yourself. You've got nothing to fear. Just hold on for a few more days!'

O'Neill wasn't absolutely sure what Urquhart was going on about; to be sure he had been a little unwell but his befuddled brain still refused to accept there was a major problem which he couldn't handle. Why fill one's life with doubts, especially about oneself? He could cope with it, particularly with a little help... Still, a few days more to realise all his ambitions, to get the public recognition he deserved, to wipe the condescending smiles off their faces, would be worth a little extra effort.

He had got back into the office to be told that Mattie had been looking for him, that she was asking questions about the Paddington accommodation address.

'Don't worry, Pen. I'll deal with it.' He fell back on the swaggering confidence of years of salesmanship, of persuading people to buy ideas and arguments, not because they were all particularly good but because his audiences found themselves captivated by his energy and enthusiasm. In a world full of cynicism, they wanted to put their trust in a man who seemed to believe so passionately in what he was offering.

When Mattie arrived in his office after lunch, he was bright, alert, those strange eyes of his still amazingly animated but seeming very anxious to help.

‘Just a stomach upset’ he explained. 'Sorry I had to stand you up.'

Mattie acknowledged that his smile was full of charm; it was difficult not to want to believe him.

‘I understand you were asking about Mr Collingridge's accommodation address?'

'Sounds as if you are admitting that it was Charles Collingridge's address?' she enquired.

'Well, if you want something on the record, you know I have to say that Mr Collingridge's personal affairs are his own, and no one here is going to comment one way or the other on any speculation.' He trotted out the Downing Street line with accomplished ease. 'But may I talk to you off the record, not for reporting?'

He made strong eye contact with her as if to establish his sincerity, rising from behind his desk to come and sit alongside Mattie in one of the informal chairs which littered his office.

'Even off the record, Mattie, there's a limit to how much I can say, but you know how unwell Charles has been. He's not been fully responsible for his actions, and it would be a terrible pity if we were to go out of our way to punish him still further. His life is in ruins. Whatever he has done wrong, hasn't he suffered enough already?'

Mattie felt angry as she watched the loading of guilt onto the shoulders of the absent Charles. The whole world is to blame, Roger, except for you.

'Are you denying that Charles Collingridge himself asked you to open that address?'

'So long as this is not for reporting but for your background information, I'm not going to deny it, but what good will it do anyone to re-open such old wounds? Give him a chance to rebuild his life’ he pleaded.

'OK, Roger. I see no point in trying to subject him to farther harassment. So let me turn to a different point. There have been lots of accusations about how party headquarters has been very careless in allowing damaging ma-, terial to leak out in recent months. The Prime Minister is supposed to blame Smith Square very directly for much of his troubles’

‘I doubt whether that is fair, but it is no secret that relations between him and the Party Chairman have been very strained’

'Strained enough for that opinion poll we published during party conference week to have been leaked deliberately from party headquarters?'

Mattie had to look very hard to detect the faint glimmer of surprise behind his flashing eyes before he sped into his explanation.

‘I think that assumption is very difficult to justify. There are only - what, five people in this building who are circulated with copies of that material apart from the Party Chairman. I'm one of those five, and I can tell you how seriously we take the confidentiality of such material.' He lit a Gauloise. Time to think. 'But it also gets sent to every Cabinet Minister, all twenty-two of them, either at the House of Commons where it would be opened by one of those gossipy secretaries, or to their Departments where it would be opened by a civil servant, many of whom have no love for this Government. Any leak is much more likely to have come from there.'

'But the papers were leaked at the headquarters hotel in Bournemouth. House of Commons secretaries or unfriendly civil servants don't go to the party conference or roam around the headquarters hotel’

'Who knows, Mattie. It's still much more likely to have come from a source like that. Can you imagine Lord Williams scurrying around on his hands and knees outside hotel room doors?'

He laughed loudly to show how ridiculous it was, and Mattie joined in, realising that O'Neill had just admitted he knew the manner in which the opinion poll had been handed over, and he could only have known that for one reason. His overconfidence was tightening the noose around his neck even as he laughed.

'Let me turn to another leak then, on the hospital expansion scheme. Now I am told that party headquarters was planning a major publicity drive during last summer, which had to be scrapped because of the change of plan’

'Really? Who on earth told you that?' asked O'Neill, knowing full well that it could only have been Kendrick, probably egged on by his weakness for a pretty woman. 'Never mind, I know you won't reveal your sources. But they sound exaggerated to me. The Publicity Department here is always ready to sell Government policy, and had the scheme gone ahead then certainly we would have wanted to help promote it, but we had no specific campaign in mind.'

‘I was told you had to scrap a campaign which had been carefully planned and which was ready to go.'

The limp ash from his cigarette gave up its struggle to defy the laws of gravity and cascaded like an avalanche down his tie, but O'Neill ignored it. He was concentrating hard now.

'You've been misinformed. Sounds to me like someone wanting to dig up the story again and trying to show the Party in much greater confusion than it actually was. Your source sounds a bit dubious to me. Are you sure he's in a position to know all the facts, or has he got his own angle to sell?'

With a broad grin, O'Neill tried to smother Kendrick as a reliable source, and the smile which Mattie returned betrayed none of her own wonderment at his impromptu yet superbly crafted explanations. But she was asking far too many leading questions, and even a polished performer such as O'Neill was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. He felt a gut-wrenching need for greater stimulation and support than his Gauloise could give him, no matter what Urquhart had said.

'Mattie, I'm afraid I've got a busy day, and I have to make sure we are ready to handle the result of the ballot later this evening. Could we finish it here?'

Thanks for your time, Roger. I have found it immensely helpful in clearing up a few things.'

'Any time I can help,' he said as he guided her towards the door. As they did so, they passed by the computer terminal stationed in the corner of his crowded office. She bent down to inspect it more closely.

I'm an absolute moron with these things,' she commented, turning to look straight into his flickering eyes. I'm impressed to see your Party is well ahead of the others in using new technology. Are all the terminals in this building linked through the central computer?'

‘I... believe so,' he said, pressing her more firmly towards the door.

‘I never knew you had such high-tech skills, Roger,' she complimented.

'Oh, I don't,' he said in a surprisingly defensive mood. 'We all get put through a training course, but I'm not even sure how to switch the wretched things on, actually. Never use it myself.' His smile had tightened, and his eyes were flickering ever more violently. He propelled Mattie through the door with some force, and bade her a hasty farewell.

At 5 p.m. the doors to the Commons Committee Room were ceremoniously shut to bar any further attempts to lodge votes in the leadership election. The gesture was an empty one, because the last of the 335 votes had been cast ten minutes earlier. Behind the doors gathered Sir Humphrey and his small team of scrutineers, happy that the day had gone smoothly in spite of the appalling start given to their preparations by Earle. A bottle of whisky did the rounds while they fortified themselves for the count. In different rooms around the Palace of Westminster, the candidates waited in various states of excitement for the summons which would tell them that the counting had finished and the result was ready to be announced.

Big Ben had struck the quarter after six before the eight candidates received the call, and at half past the hour more than 120 active supporters and interested MPs accompanied them as the Committee Room doors swung open to allow them back in. There was much good humour mixed with the tension as they filed in and stood around in loose groups, with substantial sums being wagered as Members made last-minute calculations as to the likely result and gambled their judgement against the inconclusive opinion polls which had been filling the press. Outside the room, excluded from what was technically a private party meeting, the men from the media did their own speculating and made their own odds.

Sir Humphrey was enjoying his little moment of history. He was in the twilight of his career, long since past his parliamentary heyday, and even the little misunderstanding over his holiday in the West Indies had helped bring him greater recognition and attention around the Westminster circuit than he had enjoyed for many years. Who knows, if he handled this correctly, his secret longing for a seat in the House of Lords might yet be fulfilled. He sat on the raised dais of the Committee Room, flanked by his lieutenants, and called the meeting to order.

'Since there has been such an unprecedentedly large number of names on the ballot paper, I propose to read the results out in alphabetical order’

This was unwelcome news for David Adams, the former Leader of the House who had been banished to discontented exile on the backbenches by Coilingridge's first reshuffle. Having spent the last two years criticising all the major economic decisions which he had supported whilst in Government, he had hoped for a good showing in order to establish his claim for a return to Cabinet. He stood there stoically, hiding his grief as Newlands announced he had received only twelve votes. He was left to wonder what had happened to all those firm promises of support he had received while Sir Humphrey continued with his roll call. None of the next four names, including McKenzie's, could muster the support of more than twenty of their colleagues with Paul Goddard, the maverick Catholic who had stood on the single issue of banning all forms of legalised abortion, receiving only three. He shook his head defiantly; his rewards were not to be of the earthly kind.

Sir Humphrey had only three more names to announce - Samuel, Urquhart and Woolton - and a total of 281 votes to distribute. The level of tension soared as those present recalled that a minimum of 169 votes was required for success on the first ballot. A couple of huge side bets were instantly concluded in one comer as two Honourable Members wagered that there would, after all, be a result on the first round.

The Right Honourable Michael Samuel’ intoned the chairman, '99 votes’

In the dead silence of the Committee Room, the sound of a tug blowing its klaxon three times as it passed on its way up the Thames could be clearly heard. A ripple of amusement covered the tension, and Samuel muttered that it was a pity tug masters didn't have a vote. He was clearly disappointed to be such a long way from the necessary winning total, particularly after Earle's withdrawal.

The Right Honourable Francis Urquhart - 91 votes.'

Two of the gamblers in the comer looked crestfallen as they calculated the final figure.

The Right Honourable Patrick Woolton - 91 votes’

There was general commotion as the tension ebbed, congratulations and condolences were exchanged, and one Member leaned around the door to give the highlights to the anxious press.

'Accordingly’ Sir Humphrey continued, 'no candidate has been elected and there-will be a second round of balloting a week today. I would remind everyone that those wishing to offer themselves as candidates for the second ballot must resubmit their nominations to me by Thursday. I declare this meeting closed!'

Urquhart was giving some celebratory drinks to colleagues in his room. It was one of the finest offices available to a Member, located on the premises rather than in one of the various annexes spotted around the periphery of the Palace of Westminster, large and airy with a gracious bow window offering a fine view across the river to the Archbishop of Canterbury's ancient Gothic home at Lambeth Palace. The room was now crowded with several dozen Members, all offering their best wishes for the Chief Whip's success. Wryly he noted that it was the first time during the campaign that he had seen some of these faces, but he did not mind. Votes were votes, wherever they came from.

'Quite splendid, Francis. Absolutely excellent result. Do you think you can go on to win?' enquired one of his senior parliamentary colleagues.

‘I believe so,' Urquhart responded with quiet confidence. ‘I suspect I have as good a chance as anyone.'

‘I think you're right, you know,' his colleague said. 'Young Samuel may be ahead, but his campaign is going backwards. It's between the experienced heads of you and Patrick now. And, Francis, I want you to know that you have my wholehearted support.'

Which, of course, you will want me to remember when I have my hands on all that Prime Ministerial patronage, he thought to himself while he offered his gratitude and a fresh drink to his guest.

New faces were still pouring into the room as word spread that the Chief Whip was entertaining. Urquhart's secretary was pouring a large whisky for Stephen Dunway, the most ambitious of the new intake of MPs who had already that evening made brief but prominent appearances at both Samuel's and Woolton's receptions on the basis that you can never be too sure. The secretary excused herself to answer the telephone, which had been ringing all evening with calls of congratulations and press enquiries.

It's for you’ she whispered gently into Urquhart's ear. 'Roger O'Neill.'

Tell him I'm busy and that I will call him later’ he instructed.

He called earlier and sounds very anxious. Asked me to tell you it was "very bloody hot", to quote his exact words,' she said primly.

With an impatient curse he withdrew from his guests and sought shelter in the comer of the bay window from the noise of celebration.

'Roger’ he spoke sharply into the phone. Is this really necessary? I've got a room full of people.'

'She's on to us, Francis. That bloody bitch - she knows, I'm sure. She knows it's me and shell be on to you next, the cow. I haven't told her a thing but she's got hold of it and God knows how but...'

'Roger! Pull yourself together!' snapped Urquhart. O'Neill was gabbling and the conversation was running away like a driverless express. It was clear he had been unable to stick to Urquhart's orders, and was not fully in control.

There was a moment of silence and Urquhart tried to re-establish his authority. Tell me slowly and clearly what all this is about.'

Immediately the gabbling began again, and Urquhart was forced to listen, trying to make some sort of sense of the garbled mixture of words, splutters and sneezes.

'She came over to see me, the cow from the press lobby. I don't know how, Francis, it's not me and I told her nothing. I fobbed her off- think she went away happy. But somehow she had got onto it. Everything, Francis. The Paddington address; the computer,- she even suspects that someone from headquarters leaked the opinion poll I put under her door. And that bastard Kendrick must have told her about the hospital campaign you told me to concoct. Jesus,

Francis. I mean, what if she doesn't believe me and decides to print something?'

'Hold your tongue for a second’ he seethed down the phone, anxious that none of his guests should overhear him. just tell me this. Who came to see you from the lobby?'

'Storin. Mattie Storin. And she said...'

‘Did she have any firm evidence?' Urquhart interrupted. 'Or is she just guessing?'

O'Neill paused for the briefest of moments to consider the question.

'Nothing firm, I think. Just guesswork. Except...'

'Except what?'

'She's been told I opened the Paddington address.'

'How on earth did she find that out?' Urquhart's fury poured like molten lava down the phone.

'My secretary told her, but there is no need to worry because she thinks I did it for Collingridge.'

'Your secretary knew?'

‘I... took her with me. I thought she would be more inconspicuous and she's utterly trustworthy. You know that.'

'Roger I could happily...'

‘Look, it's me who's done all your dirty jobs for you, taken all the risks. You've got nothing to worry about while I'm in it up to my neck if this breaks. I need help, Francis. I'm scared! I've done too many things for you which I shouldn't have touched, but I didn't ask questions and just did what you said. You've got to get me out of this, I can't take much more and I won't take much more. You've got to protect me, Francis. Do you hear? You've got to help me!' O'Neill broke down into uncontrollable sobbing.

'Roger, calm yourself,' he said quietly into the receiver. , 'She has absolutely no proof and you have nothing to fear. We are in this together, you understand? And we shall get through it together, to Downing Street. I shan't let you down. Look, I want you to do two things. I want you to keep remembering that knighthood. It's just a few days away now, Roger.'

A stumbling expression of gratitude came spluttering down the phone.

'And in the meantime, Roger - for God's sake keep well away from Mattie Storin!'

After he had put the phone down Urquhart sat there for a moment, letting his emotions wash over him. From behind him came the hubbub of the powerful men who would project him into 10 Downing Street, fulfilling the dream which had burned inside him all these years. To the front he gazed across the centuries old view of the river which had inspired generations of great national leaders whose ranks he was now surely to join. And he had just put the phone down on the only man who could ruin it all for him.

Trying to sort out the implications of the leadership ballot had left Mattie feeling drained. She needed to assess opinions as they were being formed and while the excitement of the race still gripped the participants, rather than waiting until the morning by which time they would simply be reiterating the noncommittal party line. Even the powerful elder statesmen of the Party would be caught up with the passion of the moment and find themselves offering delphic but expressive signs. Around Westminster a raised eyebrow or a knowing wink can speak as loudly to some ears as a sentence of political death, and it was vital that she knew in which direction the tumbrils were headed.

There was also the complicated election procedure to fathom. The Party's balloting rules made sense to nobody other than those who had devised them; they prescribed that the first ballot should now be set aside and new nominations made. It was even permissible, although not likely, that individuals who had not even stood in the original ballot could now enter the race for the first time. If from the confusion no victor emerged with more than half the votes, a third and final round of voting would be held between the leading three candidates, with the winner being selected by a system of proportional representation which the Government would rather die than allow to be used at a general election. It was clearly a case of one rule for the Party, an entirely different rule for the public. It was all enough to make for furrowed brows and wearied pens amongst the parliamentary correspondents that evening.

She had called Krajewski. It had been more than a week since they had seen or talked to each other, and in spite of herself she felt an inner desire to be with him. She seemed to be surrounded on all sides by doubts and unresolved questions, and she was finding it difficult on her own to pierce through the confusion. She hated to admit it, but she needed to share.

Krajewski was unsure how to respond to the call. He had spent the week debating whether she was important to him or simply using him, or both. When she had asked to see him he had offered a lavish dinner at the Ritz, which he instantly knew was a mistake. She wasn't in a mood for romance, with or without violins. Instead they had settled for a drink at the Reform Club in Pall Mall, where Johnnie was a member. She had walked the half mile from the press gallery in the House of Commons, only to discover that he was exercising the privileges of a deputy editor and was late. Or was this simply his way of expressing frustration with her? She waited in the club's vaulted reception area with its magnificent columns and smoke-laden atmosphere. It was a time capsule, which Gladstone could have re-entered to find scarcely a single significant change since he had enjoyed its hospitality a century earlier. She always felt it was ironic that this great bastion of Liberalism and Reform had taken 150 years to accept women and she had often twisted the noses of its members about their sexual chauvinism until one had reminded her that there never had been a female editor of the Telegraph.

When Johnnie arrived they took their drinks and sat amongst the shadows of the upper gallery in the deep, cracked leather chairs which were so easy to relax in and so difficult to leave. As Mattie drank in the cloistered atmosphere and thick veneer of generations long departed, she desperately wanted to give herself over to the tired will of the flesh and float gently into oblivion. In those chairs, she felt as if she could sleep for a year and wake to find herself transported back several lifetimes. Yet the nagging in her head allowed her no relief.

'What is it?' he asked, although he didn't need to. One glance had been enough to reveal that she was tired, anxious, quite lacking in her usual spark.

The usual,' she responded grimly, lots of questions, too few answers, and the pieces I do have don't make sense. Somehow I know it has to be tied in with the leadership election, but I simply don't know how.'

Tell me about it.'

She brought him up to date, how she could with more or less certainty hang most of the identifiable bits of the puzzle around O'Neill's neck.

‘He almost certainly leaked the poll to me, he as good as admits he opened the accommodation address in Paddington, he caused the hospitals fiasco by leaking the promotional plans to Kendrick, and I'm sure he altered the headquarters' computer file to incrirninate Charles Collingridge. Which means he's mixed up in some way with the share purchase and the bank account as well. But why ?'

To get rid of Collingridge,' prompted Krajewski.

'But what good does that do him? He's not going to take over the Party. What motive does he have for undermining Collingridge?'

He offered no suggestion, but gazed along the gallery at the grand oil portraits of Victorian statesmen to whom conspiracy and cunning had come as second nature, wondering what they would have thought. Mattie could not share his wry amusement.

'He must be acting together with someone else who does have something to gain - someone more important, more powerful, who could benefit from the change of leadership. There has to be another figure in there somewhere, pulling O'Neill's strings.'

'So you are looking for a mystery man with the means and the motive. Well, he has to be in a position to control O'Neill, and have access to sensitive political information. It would also help if he had been engaged in a much publicised and bitter battle with the Prime Minister. Surely you don't have to look too far for candidates.' ‘

'Give me one.'

He took a deep breath and savoured the dark, conspiratorial atmosphere of the evening air.

It's easy. Teddy Williams.'

It was late that evening when Urquhart returned to his room in the Commons. The celebrations and congratulations had followed him all the way from his office to the Harcourt Room beneath the House of Lords where he had dined, being interrupted frequently by colleagues eager to shake him by the hand and wish him well. He had proceeded on to the Members' Smoking Room, a private place much loved by MPs who gather there away from the prying eyes of the press not so much to smoke as to exchange views and gossip and to twist a few arms. The Whips know the Smoking Room well, and Urquhart had used his hour there to good effect before once more climbing the twisting stairs to his office.

His secretary had emptied the ashtrays, cleared the glasses and straightened the cushions, and his room was once again quiet and welcoming. He closed the door behind him, locking it carefully. He crossed to the four-drawer filing cabinet with its stout security bar and combination-lock which the Government provide for all Ministers to secure their confidential papers while out of their departmental offices. He twirled the combination four times, until there was a gentle click and the security bar fell away into his hands. He removed it and bent down to open the bottom drawer.

The drawer creaked as it came open. It was stuffed full of files and papers, each one with the name of a different MP on it, each one (containing the personal and incriminating material he had carefully winnowed out of the safe in the Whips Office where all the best kept parliamentary secrets are stored to await Judgement Day, or some other parliamentary emergency. It had taken him nearly three years to amass this material, and he knew it was more valuable than a drawer crammed full with gold bars.

He knelt down and sorted carefully through the files. He quickly found what he was looking for, a padded envelope, already addressed and sealed. After extracting it he closed the drawer and secured the filing cabinet, testing as he always did to make sure the lock and security bar had caught properly.

It was nearly midnight as he drove out of the entrance gates to the House of Commons, a police officer stopping the late night traffic around Parliament Square to enable him to ease out into the busy road and speed on his way. However, he did not head the car in the direction of his Pimlico home. He first drove to one of the twenty-four-hour motorcycle messenger services which flourish amongst the seedier basements of Soho, where he dropped the envelope off and paid in cash for delivery early the following morning. It would have been easier to post it in the House of Commons, where they have one of the most efficient post offices in the country. But he did not want a House of Commons postmark on this envelope.

WEDNESDAY 24th NOVEMBER

The letters and newspapers arrived almost simultaneously with a dull thud on Woolton's Chelsea doormat early the following morning. Hearing the clatter, he came downstairs and gathered them up, spreading the newspapers out on the kitchen table while he left the post on a small bench in the hallway for his wife. He received over 300 letters a week from his constituents and other correspondents, and he had long since given up trying to read them all. So he left them for his wife, who was also his constituency secretary and for whom he got a generous secretarial allowance from the parliamentary authorities to supplement his Cabinet Minister's stipend.

The newspapers were dominated by news and analysis of the leadership election. The headlines all seemed to have been written by moonlighting journalists from the Sporting Life, and phrases such as 'Neck And Neck', 'Three Horse Race' or 'Photo Finish' dominated the front pages. Inside, the more sanguine commentaries explained that it was difficult to predict which of the three leading contenders was now better placed, while most concluded that, in spite of his first place, Samuel was probably the most disappointed of the contestants since he had failed to live up to his early promise.

'The Party is now presented with a clear choice’ intoned the Guardian.

Michael Samuel is by far the most popular and polished of the three, with a clear record of being able to combine a political career with the retention of a well defined social conscience. The fact that he has been attacked by some elements of the Party as being 'too liberal by half' is a badge he should wear with considerable pride. He would undoubtedly provide a firm lead for the Party and would continue to confront the leading social issues head on - a laudable characteristic which has, however, not always commended itself to his colleagues.

Patrick Woolton is an altogether different politician. Immensely proud of his Northern origins, he poses as a man who could unite the two halves of the country. Whether his robust style of politics could unite the two halves of his own Party is altogether more debatable. He plays his politics as if he were still hooking for his old rugby league club, although his recent experience at the Foreign Office has done much to knock some of the sharper edges off his style. Unlike Samuel he would not attempt to lead the Party in any particular philosophical direction, setting great store on a pragmatic approach. But robustness combined with pragmatism has occasionally been an unhappy combination. The Leader of the Opposition has described him as a man wandering the streets of Westminster in search of a fight for any available reason.

Francis Urquhart is more difficult to assess. The least experienced and least well known of the three, nevertheless his performance in the first round ballot was truly remarkable, far outstripping many of his better fancied senior colleagues. Three reasons seem to explain his success. First, as Chief Whip he knows the Parliamentary Party extremely well, and they him. Since it is his colleagues in the Parliamentary Party and not the electorate at large who will decide this election, his low public profile is less of a disadvantage than many perhaps assumed..

Second, he has conducted his campaign in a dignified style which sets him apart from the verbal fisticuffs and misfortunes of the other contenders. What is known of his politics suggests he holds firm to the traditionalist line, somewhat patrician and authoritarian perhaps, but sufficiently ill-defined for him not to have antagonised either wing of the Party.

Finally, perhaps his greatest asset is that he is neither of the other two. Many MPs have certainly supported him in the first round rather than commit themselves to one of the better fancied but more contentious candidates. He is the obvious choice for those who wish to sit on the fence. But it is that which could ultimately derail his campaign, because as the pressure for a clear decision forces Government MPs off the fence, Urquhart is the candidate who could suffer most.

So the choice is clear. Those who wish to air their social consciences will support Samuel. Those who thirst for blood-and-thunder politics will support Woolton. Those who cannot make up their minds have an obvious choice in Urquhart. Whichever way they decide, they will inevitably deserve what they get.

Woolton chuckled as he munched his breakfast toast. He knew it was most unlikely at the end of the day that his colleagues would support a call to conscience - it was so difficult to explain in the pub or over the garden fence, and popular politics shouldn't be too complicated. If Urquhart's support was going to be squeezed, he decided, then the majority of switchers would come to him, and the bleeding hearts could go hang. Margaret Thatcher had shown how it could be done, and she was a woman. Take away her feminine shrillness and the dogmatic inflexibility, he mused, and you had the ideal political leader -Patrick Woolton.

As his wife replenished his tea he debated with himself whether he should rile another prominent rabbi in the next few days just to remind his colleagues of the Jewish issue. He decided against it; it wasn't necessary, the Party's old guard would see to that without his interfering.

'Darling, I have this feeling it is going to be an excellent day,' he proclaimed as he kissed his wife goodbye at their doorstep. A couple of photographers were outside on the pavement, and they asked him to repeat the kiss before he was allowed to get into his official car and drive off for a day's campaigning in the House.

His wife went through her daily routine of clearing the breakfast table before settling down to handle the correspondence. The volume had increased dramatically in the last few years, she noted with a sigh of resignation. Gone were the days when there was any hope of a personal answer to them all; it was now up to the word processor and its carefully programmed series of standard responses. She wondered whether anybody really noticed or cared that most of her husband's constituency letters were written by computer and signed by a little autograph machine he had brought back from the States on a recent trip. The majority of the letters were from lobby groups, professional critics or downright political opponents who weren't the least bit interested in the content of the replies. But they all needed answering nonetheless, she told herself as she began the monotonous daily task of opening the thick bundle of envelopes. She would never risk losing her husband a single vote by failing to offer some form of reply even to the most abusive of letters.

She left the padded brown envelope until last. It had clearly been hand-delivered and was firmly stapled down, and she had to struggle to extract the infuriating metal clips before getting at the contents. As she pulled out the last tenacious staple, a cassette tape fell out into her lap. There was nothing else in the envelope, no letter, no compliments slip, no label on the tape to indicate where it had come from or what it contained.

'Fools. How on earth do they expect me to reply to that!'

She put the tape to one side before switching on the word processor.

It took her three hours of solid work to go through the letters, persuade the word processor to chum out a reply which had some chance of persuading the recipient that they were receiving personalised attention, watch them being signed by machine, then fold and seal them. The tape she left on the desk. Her mouth was gummed up from licking too many envelopes, and she needed a cup of coffee. The silly tape could wait.

It was very much later that evening when she remembered the cassette. Woolton had come back from a hectic day canvassing at the House, and was feeling tired as the adrenalin of the first ballot began to wear off. He had heeded the advice of his close colleagues not to overdo the canvassing, and to get a couple of good nights7 rest. He was planning later in the week to make three major speeches, and he would need to conserve his energy.

He was sitting in his favourite armchair sketching out some preliminary speech notes when his wife remembered the tape on the desk.

'By the way, darling, a tape cassette was dropped off for you today without any form of identification. Do you know what it is? A recording of last weekend's speech or a tape of a recent interview, perhaps?’

Haven't a clue. Pour me another drink and let's listen to it.' He waved broadly in the direction of the stereo unit.

His wife, dutiful as ever, did as he bade. He was just savouring his freshened gin and tonic when the tape deck ate up the last segment of blank tape and with a burst of red light the playback meter on the equipment began to show that the tape heads were reading something. There was a series of low hisses and crackles, it was clearly not a professional recording, and she turned the volume up.

The sound of a girl's laughter filled the room, followed by her low, deep gasp. The noise hypnotised the Wooltons, rooting them to the spot. For several minutes, the speakers gave out the sound of a series of shorter, higher breaths as the unmistakable sounds of sex were accompanied by the rhythmic banging of a bedhead against a wall. The tape left little to the imagination. The woman's sighs became shorter and more shrill, as the two bodies climbed ever higher, pausing occasionally for breath before pressing on remorselessly until with a shrieking crescendo they had burst through to reach the summit of their mountain. They shared gasps of pleasure and satisfaction before descending gently together, accompanied once more by the sound of the woman's laughter mixed with the deep bass chuckling of her companion.

The laughter stopped for an instant, until the turning tape found the next distinctive sound.

'That was great, Patrick. Can we do it again?' The woman's voice laughed.

'Not if you're going to wake up the whole of bloody Bournemouth!' the unmistakable Lancashire accent said.

Neither Woolton nor his wife had moved since the tape had begun, but now she stepped slowly across the room and switched it off. A soft, gentle tear fell down one cheek as she turned to look at her husband. He could not return her gaze.

'What can I say? I'm sorry, love,' he whispered. I’ll not lie and tell you it's bogus. But I am sorry, truly. I never meant to hurt you.'

She made no reply. The look of reproach and sorrow on her face cut into him far more deeply than any angry words could have done.

'What do you want me to do?' he asked gently.

She turned on him with real anger flaring in her eyes. 'Pat, I've turned many a blind eye over the last twenty-three years, and I'm not so much of a silly little housewife to think this is the only time. You could at least have had the decency to keep it away from me and not rub my face in it. You owed me that.'

He hung his head, and she let her words sink deep into him before she continued. 'But one thing my pride will not tolerate is having a little tart like that trying to break up my marriage and make a fool of me. I’ll not stand for it. Find out whatever the blackmailing little whore wants, buy her off or go to the police if necessary, but get rid of her. And get rid of this!' She flung the tape at him. It doesn't belong in my house. And neither will you if I have to listen to that filth again!'

He looked at her with tears in his own eyes now. I’ll sort it out first thing in the morning. You'll hear no more about it.'

THURSDAY 25th NOVEMBER

Penny cast an unwelcoming frown in the direction of the steel grey November sky, and stepped carefully onto the pavement from the Earl's Court mansion block in which she lived. The weather men had been talking for days about the possibility of a sudden cold snap, and now it had arrived with a vengeance. As she tried to pick her way over frozen puddles, she regretted her decision to wear high heels instead of boots. She was moving slowly along the edge of the pavement when a car door swung open in front of her, blocking her path.

She bent low to tell the driver to be more bloody careful when she saw Woolton at the wheel. She beamed at him but he did not return her warmth. He was looking straight ahead, not at her as she obeyed his clipped instruction and slipped into the passenger seat.

'What is it you want?' he demanded in a voice which was as frozen as the morning air.

'What are you offering,' she smiled, but there was an edge of uncertainty creeping in as she began to discern the ice in his words. She had never seen him so soulless.

He turned to look at her for the first time. He cursed quietly at his folly when he saw how attractive she still seemed to him.

Did you have to send that tape to me at home? It was a particularly cruel thing to do, because my wife heard it. It was also extremely stupid, because it means she knows about it and so you can't blackmail me. No newspaper or radio station will touch it, the potential libel damages will frighten them off, so there's not much use you can make of it.'

He hoped she would be too stupid to see how much damage the tape could do to him in the wrong hands, and his bluff seemed to have worked as he watched the sparkle drain out of her eyes and the lustre fade from her cheeks.

‘Patrick, what on earth are you talking about?'

The tape you sent me# you silly trollop. Don't go bloody coy on me!'

‘I sent you no tape. I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about.'

The unexpected assault on her feelings and the unfathomable questions he was throwing at her had come as a considerable shock, and she began to sob and gasp for breath. He grabbed her arm ferociously and tears of real pain began to flow.

'The tape! The tape! You sent me the tape!'

'What tape, Patrick? Why are you hurting me...?'

The trickle had become a flood and now a torrent and, as the outside world began to disappear behind misted windows, he began to realise he had misunderstood. He began to spit out his words, staccato-like, so there could be no doubt about their seriousness.

‘Look at me and tell me you did not send me a tape of us in Bournemouth.'

'No. No. I sent no tape. I don't know...' She suddenly gasped and stopped crying, his words at last piercing through her confusion. 'There's a tape of us in Bournemouth? God, Patrick, that's horrid. But who?'

Her bottom lip quivered in surprise and horror. He released her arm, and his head sank slowly onto the steering wheel.

'Yesterday a cassette tape arrived at my home address. The tape was of us in bed at the party conference.'

'And you thought that I had sent it and was trying to blackmail you? Why, you miserable bastard!'

‘I... I didn't know what to think. I hoped it was you, Penny.'

'Why? Why me?' she shouted in disgust.

He took his head off the wheel to look once more at her. He had suddenly aged, his skin stretched like old parchment across his cheeks, his eyes red and tired.

‘I hoped it was you, Penny, because if it's not you then I haven't the faintest idea who did manage to record us. And it can be no coincidence that it has arrived now, so many weeks after it was made. It means they're not trying to blackmail me for money, but over the leadership race.'

His voice faded to a whisper. 'As far as next Tuesday goes, I'm dead.'

Woolton spent the rest of the morning trying to think constructively. He had no doubt it was the leadership race which had caused the sudden appearance of the tape; a blackmailer simply wanting money would have had no reason to wait so long before striking. It was the leadership and its power, not money, they were interested in, and he knew their price would be too high. He suspected it was the Russians, who would not be as understanding as the New Orleans police. No, he could not stand.

Faced with such a problem, some might have decided to fade gently from the scene and pray that their quiet retirement would not be disturbed. That was not Woolton's style. He would rather go down fighting, and try to salvage whatever he could from the wreckage of his dreams.

He was in a determined mood by the time the press conference he had called gathered shortly after lunch. With no time to make more formal arrangements he had summoned the media to meet him on the other side of the river directly opposite the Houses of Parliament and under the shade of St Thomas's Hospital, where the Thames and the tower of Big Ben would provide a suitably dramatic backdrop. As soon as the cameramen were ready, he began.

'Good afternoon. I've got a short statement to make, and I'm sorry that I will not have time afterwards for questions. But I hope you will not be disappointed.

'Following the ballot on Tuesday, it seems as if only three candidates have any realistic chance of success. Indeed, I understand that all the other candidates have already announced that they do not intend to stand in the second round next week. So, as you gentlemen have put it, this is a three-horse race.

'Of course, I'm delighted and honoured to be one of those three, but three can be an unlucky number. There are not three real alternatives in this election, only two. Either the Party can stick to the practical approach to politics which has proved so successful and kept us in power for over a decade. Or it can develop a new raft of policies, sometimes called conscience politics, which will get Government much more deeply involved - some would say entrapped -in trying to sort out the everyday problems of individual people and families.'

There was a stir amongst the reporters at this sharp public acknowledgement of the division between the two wings of the Party which politicians habitually denied existed.

'I don't believe that a new emphasis on conscience politics would be appropriate - indeed, I think that however well intentioned that emphasis may be, it would in reality be a disaster for the Party and the country. I think that is also the view of the clear majority within the Party.

Yet paradoxically that is just the way we could end up drifting if that majority support for a pragmatic approach to politics is divided between two candidates, Mr Urquhart and myself. I am a practical man. I don't deal in personalities but in hard-nosed politics. Because of that I believe it would be wrong for my personal ambitions to stand in the way of achieving those policies in which I believe.'

The cold air was condensing his breath and setting fire to his words.

'So I have decided to ensure that the support for those general policies is not divided. I am withdrawing from the race. I shall be casting my own personal vote for Francis Urquhart, who I sincerely hope will be our next Prime Minister. I have nothing more to say’

His last words were almost lost in the clatter of a hundred camera shutters, which continued to click as they captured the sight of Woolton striding so fast up the riverside steps towards his waiting car that he was almost running. A few gave chase, but were unable to catch him before he reached the car and was driven off across Westminster Bridge in the direction of the Foreign Office. The rest simply stood in a state of considerable bewilderment, trying to ensure that they had not only accurately recorded but also understood what Woolton had said. He had given them no time for questions, no opportunity to develop theories or surmise any hidden meaning behind his words. They had only what he had given them, and they would have to report it straight-which is precisely what Woolton intended.

His wife was no less confused when he returned home later that evening and they watched his dramatic announcement lead off the Nine O'clock News.

‘I understand why you had to back out, Patrick, and I suppose that ought to be punishment enough. I shall go on supporting you, as I always have. But why did you decide to support Urquhart, for Heaven's sake? I never knew you were that close’

That superior bugger? I'm not close to him. Don't even like him!'

Then why?'

'Because I'm fifty-five and Michael Samuel is forty-eight, which means that he could be in Downing Street for twenty years until I'm dead and buried as a politician. Francis Urquhart is sixty-two, and is likely to be in office for no more than five years. So with Urquhart, there's a chance that there will be another leadership race before I retire. In the meantime, if I can find out who is behind that tape, or they fall under a bus or get driven over by a Ministerial limousine, then I'm in with a second chance’

His pipe was hurling thick blue smoke into the air as he worked on his logic.

‘In any event, I had nothing to gain from remaining neutral. Samuel would never have tolerated me in his Cabinet. So instead I've handed the election to Urquhart on a plate, and he will have to show some public gratitude for that’

He smiled at his wife for the first time since they had heard the tape. 'How do you fancy being the Chancellor of the Exchequer's wife for the next couple of years?'

FRIDAY 26th NOVEMBER

The following morning's weather was still well below freezing, but a new front had passed over London bringing with it crystal blue skies to replace the leaden cloud cover of the previous day. As Urquhart looked out from his Commons office across the Thames, the riverscape glowed brightly in the clear winter sunshine like a brilliant symbol of what lay ahead for him. As he gazed at the press reports of Woolton's endorsement, he felt invulnerable, almost home.

Then the door burst open. It was O'Neill. Even before Urquhart could demand to know what on earth he thought he was doing, the babbling commenced. The words were fired like bullets in a battle, being hurled at Urquhart as if to overwhelm and force his submission.

They know, Francis. They've discovered that the file is missing. The locks were bent and one of the secretaries noticed and the Chairman's called us all in. I'm sure he suspects me. What are we going to do? What are we going to do?’

Urquhart was shaking him to stop the incomprehensible gabble, and he was surprised at how much physical force was needed before the man was brought under some sort of control.

'Roger, for God's sake shut up!' He pushed him bodily into a chair and the shock caused O'Neill to pause for breath. ‘Now slowly, Roger. What are you trying to say?'

The files. The confidential party files on Samuel you asked me to send to the Sunday newspapers.' He was panting for breath from physical and nervous exhaustion. 'Well, I was able to use my pass key to get into the basement storage room without any trouble, but the files are all in locked cabinets. I had to force the lock, Francis. I'm sorry but I had no choice. Not very much but it bent a little. There's so much dust and cobwebs around that it looked as if no one had been in there since the Boer War, but yesterday some bitch of a secretary decided to go in there and noticed the bent lock. Now they've gone through the whole lot and discovered that Samuel's file is missing.'

You sent them the original file? You didn't just copy the interesting bits as I told you?'

‘Francis, the file was very thick, it would have taken hours to copy. I didn't know which bits they would be most interested in, so I sent them the lot. It could have been years before anyone noticed the file was missing, and then they would have thought it was simply misplaced.'

'You bloody fool, you...'

'Francis, don't shout at me!' O'Neill screamed. It's me who's taken all the risks, not you. The Chairman's personally interrogating everyone with a pass key and there are only nine of us. He's asked to see me this afternoon. I'm sure he suspects me. And I'm not going to take the blame all on my own. Why should I? I only did what you told me... Francis, I can't go on lying. I simply can't stand it any more. I'll go to pieces!'

Urquhart froze as he realised the truth behind O'Neill's desperate words. This quivering man in front of him had no resistance or judgement left; he was beginning to crumble and flake like some old, brittle newspaper. The eyes were flickering furiously once more as the words tumbled out, and Urquhart realised that not even for a week, not even for this week, could O'Neill control himself. He was on the very edge. The slightest wind could send him hurtling down towards destruction. And he would take Urquhart with him.

'Roger, you are over-anxious. You have nothing to fear, no one can prove anything and you must remember that I'm on your side. You are not alone in this. Look, don't go back to the office, call in sick and go home. The Chairman can wait till Monday. And tomorrow I would like you to come and be my house guest in Hampshire. Come for lunch and stay overnight while we talk the whole thing through - together, just the two of us’

O'Neill gripped Urquhart's hand in delight and relief, like a cripple flinging to his crutch.

'But don't tell anyone that you are corning to visit me. It would be very embarrassing if the press were to find out that a senior party official is my house guest just before the final leadership ballot - it wouldn't look right for either of us - so this must be strictly between the two of us. Not even your secretary must know’

O'Neill tried to mutter a word of thanks but was cut short by three enormous sneezes which had Urquhart reeling in disgust. O'Neill didn't seem to notice as he wiped his face and smiled with the new found eagerness of a spaniel.

I’ll be there, Francis. I’ll be there.'

SATURDAY 27th NOVEMBER

Urquhart got up before dawn. He hadn't slept, but was not in the least tired. He knew this was to be a very special day. Well before the early light of morning was breaking above the New Forest moors, he dressed in his favourite hunting jacket, pulled on his boots and strode out into the freezing morning air along the bridle path which led across Emery Down towards Lyndhurst. The ground mist clung closely to the hedgerows, discouraging the birds and damping down all sound. It pressed around him like a cocoon and he was utterly alone, a man on an empty planet who must make his own decisions and decide his own fate.

He had walked nearly three miles before he began a long, slow climb up the southern face of a hill, and slowly the fog began to clear as the rising sun cut through the damp air. He had just emerged from a bank of swirling mist when he saw the stag across the patch of sun-cleared hillside, browsing amongst the damp gorse. He slipped gently behind a low bush, waiting, like a hunter for his prey. But he was not a complete hunter. He had never hunted a man. He had been too young for Hitler, too busy at university for Korea, too late for Suez. He had never known what it was like to exchange another man's life for his own, to condemn someone before they had the chance to do the same to you.

He wondered how his brother had died. He imagined him in a shallow dugout underneath a Dunkirk hedgerow, waiting for the barrel of the first German tank to appear over the brow of the hill. As he lay there ready to kill, to destroy as many other lives as possible, had he felt exhilarated like some savage animal by the chance to shed blood? Had he been immobilised by terror, a man turned rabbit by panic in spite of his training and sense of duty? Or had he felt a calming certainty about the need for. self-preservation which had overcome all apprehension and a lifetime of Sunday School morality - just as Urquhart felt now?

The stag edged closer towards him as it continued to browse, oblivious of his presence. Suddenly, Urquhart stood bolt upright, not twenty yards in front of the deer which froze in confusion. Neither breathed as they stood in confrontation, until Urquhart let forth a peal of almighty laughter, racking his body with the sound which bounced off the surrounding banks of mist. The stag, sensing that it should already have been dead, leapt to one side and in an instant was gone.

Urquhart spent all morning walking through the woodlands and across the downs, not returning home until almost noon. When he did so, he walked straight into his study without changing, and picked up the phone.

He first called the editors of the four leading Sunday newspapers. He discovered that two of them were writing editorials supporting him, one was supporting Samuel and the other was noncommittal. However, all four were confident in varying degrees that he had a clear advantage, a conclusion confirmed by the Observer's pollsters who by now had succeeded in contacting a substantial majority of the Parliamentary Party. The survey predicted that Urquhart would win comfortably with 60 per cent of the vote.

It seems it would take an earthquake to stop you winning now, Francis’ the editor had said.

He then called a Kent number, and asked to be put through to Dr Christian.

'Good afternoon, Chief Whip. Nice of you to take time out of your weekend to enquire about Charles. He is progressing very well indeed, I'm delighted to say. His brother the Prime Minister is down here almost every other day to see him, and it's been like a tonic to both of them’

There's something else I wanted to ask you, doctor. I need your advice. We have a Member of Parliament who has a real problem. He's a cocaine addict, and recently his behaviour has deteriorated rapidly. His physical mannerisms - the nasal problems, exaggerated eye movements -have become much worse. His speech varies between a chaotic cavalry charge and a slow, incomprehensible drool. He has become very agitated and disturbed and has caused several public scenes. He has grown utterly paranoid, making wild accusations and threats. The man is clearly very ill, and I am trying to persuade him to take treatment but, as you keep telling me, addicts are often the last people to face up to their problems.

In the meantime, he occupies a very sensitive position of considerable trust. It could inflict untold damage if he were to break that trust and be indiscreet. The question I have for you, doctor, is to what extent a man in that situation is able to keep his word and any sense of perspective. Is there any chance we can trust him?'

'You sound as if you have a very sick man on your hands, Mr Urquhart. By the time he is unable to keep his behaviour private but makes a public exhibition of himself on a regular basis, showing those sort of physical symptoms, then he is in the final stages of collapse. He is probably taking the drug several times every day, which means he's not only unable to do his work but—much more seriously from your point of view — has lost all self restraint. The habit is very expensive and he will do anything to continue his supply of drugs. lie, steal, cheat, sometimes kill. He will sell anything he can lay his hands on in exchange for drugs, which includes any information he may have. He will also be getting very paranoid, and if you try to persuade him too hard to seek treatment against his will, he may turn on you as a vicious enemy and do anything to destroy you. I have seen it tear husbands from their wives and mothers from their children. They are driven by a need which stretches far beyond all others’

'He's already threatened to break the deepest confidences. Are you saying he might be serious about that?'

'Deadly serious’

'Then we have a problem’

'A very considerable one, by the sounds of it. I'm sorry. Please let me know if I can help’

'You already have, doctor. Thank you.'

Urquhart was still sitting in his study when he heard O'Neill's car draw up in the driveway outside.

As the Irishman stepped into the hallway, Urquhart could not help but note that the man who now stood in front of him was almost unrecognisable as the man he had taken to dinner in his club less than six months before. The casual elegance which O'Neill used to effect had now turned into outright scruffiness. His hair was unkempt, the clothes were badly creased as if he had found them at the bottom of a laundry bag, the tie hung loosely round the unbuttoned and crumpled collar. Trying to look at O'Neill as if meeting him for the first time, Urquhart was shocked. The gradual decline over several months had become part of O'Neill's pattern for those colleagues who saw him frequently, and had largely hidden the true extent to which he had deteriorated. The once suave and fashionable communicator now looked like a common tramp. And those deep, twinkling eyes, the features which women had found so captivating and clients so enthusing, had sunk without trace, to be replaced by two wild, staring orbs which flashed around the room in constant pursuit of something they could never find. This was a man possessed.

Urquhart led O'Neill to one of the second floor guest rooms, saying little as they wound their way through the mansion's long corridors while O'Neill babbled away about whatever came into his mind. Increasingly in recent days his conversation had turned to others and their opinion of him; in O'Neill's mind the whole world seemed slowly and unjustly to be turning on him, betraying him. His Chairman, his Prime Minister, his secretary now. Even his local policeman seemingly patrolled the street for no other purpose than to spy on O'Neill, waiting to pounce on him.

O'Neill threw his overnight bag carelessly on the bed, showing little interest in the room and its fine views across the New Forest scenery. They returned the way they had come down two flights of stairs until Urquhart led him through the heavy oak doors into his book-lined study. He suggested O'Neill help himself to a drink, and watched with clinical concentration as O'Neill filled the entire tumbler with whisky and began draining it Soon the alcohol had begun to do battle with the cocaine, and the raging in O'Neill's eyes became just a touch less frenetic even as his tongue became thicker and his conversation began increasingly to lose its coherence. Depressant fought stimulant inside him, never achieving peace or balance, always leaving him on the point of toppling backwards or forwards into the abyss.

'Roger,' began Urquhart, 'it looks as if we shall be in Downing Street by the end of the week. I've been doing some thinking about what I shall need, and I thought we might talk about what you wanted.'

O'Neill took another gulp before answering.

'Francis, I'm bowled over that you should be thinking of me. You're going to be a class act as Prime Minister, really you are. As it happens, I've also been giving some thought to it all, and I was wondering whether you could use someone like me in Downing Street — you know, as a special adviser or even your press spokesman. You're going to need a lot of help and we seem to have worked so well together that I thought...'

Urquhart waved his hand for silence. 'Roger, there are scores of civil servants to take on those responsibilities, people who are already doing that work. 'What I need is someone like you in charge of the political propaganda, who can supplement the civil service properly and can be trusted to avoid all those mistakes which the party organisation has been making in recent months. I would very much like you to stay at party headquarters—under a new Chairman, of course’

A look of concern furrowed O'Neill's brow. The same meaningless job, watching from the sidelines as the civil service ran the show, as aloof as he thought they were incompetent? What the devil was in it for him?

'But to do something like that effectively, Francis, I shall need support, some special status. I... thought we had mentioned a knighthood.'

‘Yes, indeed, Roger. That would be no more than you deserve. You've been absolutely indispensable to me, and you must understand how grateful I am. But I've been making enquiries. That sort of honour may not be possible, at least in the short term. There are so many who are already in line to be honoured when a Prime Minister retires and a new Government comes in, and as you know there is a limit on the number of honours even a Prime Minister can hand out. I'm afraid it could take a while...'

Urquhart was determined to test O'Neill, to bully him, disappoint him, torment him, subject him to all the pressures he would inevitably come under in the course of the next few months, trying to see how far O'Neill could be pushed before reaching the limit. He had not a moment longer to wait as the Irishman hit his limit and burst through it with volcanic passion.

'Francis, you promised! That was part of the deal! You gave your word, and now you're telling me it's not on. No job. No knighthood. Not now, not soon, not ever! You've got what you wanted and now you think you can get rid of me. Well, think again! I've lied, I've cheated, I've forged and I've stolen for you. Now you treat me just like all the rest. I'm notgoing to have people laughing at me behind my back any more and looking down their noses as if I were some smelly Irish peasant. I deserve that knighthood and I demand it!'

The tumbler was emptied and O'Neill, shaking with emotion, refilled it from the decanter, spilling the malt whisky as it flowed over the edge of the glass. He slurped a huge mouthful down before resuming his avalanche of anger.

'We've been through this all together, as a team. Everything I've done has been for you, and you wouldn't have been able to get into Downing Street without me. We succeed together- or we fail together. If I'm going to end up on the compost heap, Francis, I'm damned if I'm going to be there alone. You can't afford to let me tell what I know. You owe me!'

The words had been spoken, the threat made. Urquhart had offered O'Neill a gauntlet of provocation, which almost without pause had been picked up and slapped back into Urquhart's face. It was clear it was no longer a matter of whether O'Neill would lose control, but how quickly, and it had taken no time at all.

There was no point in continuing to test him, and Urquhart brought it to a rapid conclusion with a broad smile and shake of the head.

'Roger, my dear friend. You misunderstand me entirely. I am only saying that it will be difficult this time around, in the New Year's Honours List But there's another one in the Spring, for the Queen's Birthday. Just a few weeks away, really. I'm only asking you to wait until then. And if you want a job in Downing Street, then we shall find one. We work as a team, you and I. You have deserved it, and on my word of honour I will not forget what I owe you.'

O'Neill could not respond above a murmur. His passion had been spent, the alcohol burrowing its way into his nervous system, his emotions torn asunder and now pasted back together. He sat there drained, ashen, exhausted.

'Look, have a sleep before lunch. We can sort out precisely what you want later,' suggested Urquhart.

Without another word, O'Neill slumped in his chair and closed his eyes. Within seconds his breathing had slowed as he found sleep, but his fingers kept twitching with little spasms of energy as his eyes flickered beneath their lids in constant turmoil. Wherever O'Neill's mind was wandering, it had not found peace.

Urquhart sat looking at the shrunken figure. O'Neill was drooling, with mucus dripping from his nose. It was a sight which would have left some men feeling pity, but Urquhart felt a cliilling emptiness. As a youth he had wandered the moors and hills on his family's estates with a labrador which had earned his tolerance through years of faithful service as a gun dog and constant companion. Yet the dog had grown old and less capable, and one day the gillie had come and explained with great sorrow that the dog had suffered a stroke, and must be put down. Urquhart had visited the dog in the stable where it slept, and was greeted with the pitiful sight of an animal which had lost control of itself. The rear legs were paralysed, it had fouled itself and its nose and mouth, like O'Neill's, were dribbling uncontrollably. It was as much as it could do to raise a whimper of greeting as the tail swung laboriously back and forth. There was a tear in the old gillie's eye as he fondled its ear to bring it some comfort.

There'll be no more chasing o' rabbits for you, old fella,' he had whispered.

Urquhart had dispatched the animal with a single blow of his rifle butt, instructing the gillie to bury the body well away from the house. As he stared now at O'Neill, he remembered the dog, and wondered why some men deserved less pity than dumb animals.

He left O'Neill in the library, and made his way quietly towards the kitchen. Under the sink he found a pair of rubber kitchen gloves, and stuffed them along with a teaspoon into his pocket before proceeding through the back door towards the outhouses which served as garage, workshop and storage. The old wooden door groaned open on its rusty binges as he entered the potting shed, and the mustiness hit him immediately. He used this place rarely, but he knew precisely what he was looking for. High on the far wall stood an ancient, battered kitchen cupboard which had been thrown out of the old scullery many years before, and which now served as a home for half-used tins of paint, stray cans of oil and a vigorous army of woodworm. The door opened with a protesting creak, and he immediately found the tightly sealed can. He put on the rubber gloves before taking it from its shelf and walking back towards the house, holding the can well away from him as if he were carrying a flaming torch.

Once back in the house, he made his way quietly upstairs after checking that O'Neill was still soundly asleep. As soon as he had reached the guest room, he entered and turned the key in the door, securing it behind him. He was relieved to discover that O'Neill had not locked his overnight case, and taking great care not to leave any signs of interference he began methodically to search through its contents. He found what he was looking for in the toilet bag, crammed alongside the toothpaste and shaving gear. It was a tin of men's talcum powder, the head of which came away from the shoulders when he gave it a slight wrench. Inside there was no talcum powder but a small self-sealing polythene bag, with the equivalent of a tablespoon full of white powder nestling in one comer.

He took the bag over to the polished mahogany writing desk which stood by the window, and extracted three large sheets of blue writing paper from the drawer before slowly pouring the contents of the bag into a small mound oh top of one of the blue sheets. Gingerly he opened the tin he had brought from the potting shed and out of it spooned another similarly sized pile of white powder onto a second sheet. Using the flat end of the spoon as a spatula he proceeded with the greatest care to divide both mounds of white powder into two equal halves, scraping one half of each onto the third page of writing paper. With relief he could see that they were of an almost identical colour and consistency, the white grains standing out against the smooth blue background, and he mixed the two halves quickly together to hide the fact that they had ever been anything but one and the same. He made a single crease along the middle of the paper, and prepared to pour the mixture back into the polythene bag.

At that moment it hit him. The conviction which had filled his veins turned to burning acid, the certainty which had guided his hand suddenly deserted him, and the composure in which he took so much pride vanished. His will had become a battleground. The morality and restraint which the system had tried to beat into him from birth screamed at him to stop, to change his mind, even now to turn back, while his guts told him that morality was weakness. What mattered was reality. And the reality was that he was about to become the most powerful man in the country - so long as his nerve held.

It was clarity of purpose which he needed now, which the Government needed. All too often Administrations had been brought to their knees as leaders listened to the siren voices, confronting the harsh realities of power only to withdraw into weakness and compromise. Didn't they say that once they were elected, all politicians were the same? Most politicians were the same - weak, irresolute, insignificant characters, who fouled the nest and got in the way of those who had the resolve to move forward.

Great men had an inner strength, and he was furious with himself now for having doubts. Whether they wished to recognise it or not, all politicians played with other men's lives, and all lives had a price—not just in war, but in placing limits on the care of the sick and the elderly, in setting punishment for crime, in sending men down coal mines or out to the angry fishing grounds of the Arctic Circle. The national interest required sacrifice from many, and often of the few.

He looked out at the mists which still clung tenaciously to the tree tops of the New Forest, blotting out the horizon and transporting his thoughts. He felt as Caesar must have done when faced with the Rubicon, uncertain of what lay on the opposite shore, knowing that he could never retrace his footsteps. Few men were favoured enough to take control of the great decisions of life; most simply suffered the consequences of decisions taken by others. He thought of his brother in the hedgerows of Dunkirk, a pawn like a million others in the games of the great. Urquhart could be one of the great, should be one of them, and O'Neill was as insignificant a pawn as he could imagine.

Once more he picked up the paper with its load of white powder. His hand was still trembling, but less than before. He was glad he was not looking down the sights of a shotgun at some deer; he would have missed. Or building a house of cards. The powder slipped unprotesting into the polythene bag, which he then quickly resealed. It looked as if it had never been touched.

Five minutes later he had flushed all the remaining powder down the toilet, following that with the torn-up pieces of writing paper. The writing table was carefully wiped with a damp rag and polished with a towel to hide any trace that he had sat there, and he replaced the polythene bag in the talcum tin, the tin in the toilet bag and the bag back where he had found it. He was absolutely satisfied that O'Neill would never know his case had been tampered with.

He returned to the bathroom where he ran the taps at full flow. He washed the spoon meticulously and as the gushing water swirled down the drain, he poured the remaining contents of the tin into the water and watched it disappear.

Finally, he left the house once more by the kitchen door, walking across the carefully manicured lawns to a far corner behind the weeping willow tree, where his gardener always had a small pile of garden rubbish ready to bum. It was soon ablaze, with the empty tin and rubber gloves buried deep in its midst. When he was satisfied the fire was burning thoroughly, he returned to the house, poured himself a large whisky which he swallowed as greedily as O'Neill, and at last relaxed. It was done.

O'Neill had been asleep for three hours when he was roused by someone shaking him fiercely by the shoulder. Slowly he focused his eyes, and saw Urquhart leaning over him, instructing him to wake up.

'Roger. There's had to be a change of plan. I've just had a call from the BBC asking if they can send a film crew over here to shoot some domestic footage for their news coverage on Tuesday. Samuel has apparently already agreed, so I felt I had little choice but to say yes. They will be here in about an hour and will be staying all afternoon. It's just what we didn't want. If they find you here it will start all sorts of speculation about how party headquarters is interfering in the leadership race. We must avoid any confusion at this late stage. I'm sorry. I think it best that you leave right away.'

O'Neill was still trying to find second gear on his tongue as Urquhart poured some coffee past it, explaining once again how sorry he was about the weekend but how glad he was they had cleared up any confusion between them.

'Remember, Roger. A knighthood next Whitsun, and we can sort out the job you want next week. I'm so happy you were able to come. I really am so grateful,' Urquhart was saying as he tipped O'Neill into his car.

He watched as O'Neill's car edged its way carefully and with practised caution down the driveway and out through the gates.

'Goodbye, Roger,' he whispered.

SUNDAY 28th NOVEMBER

True to the information their editors had given him the previous day, the quality Sunday newspapers made good reading for the Chief Whip and his supporters.

'Urquhart ahead', announced the Sunday Times, adding the endorsement of its editorial columns to boost the Chief Whip's campaign still further. Both the Sunday Telegraph and the Express openly backed Urquhart, while the Mail on Sunday tried uncomfortably to straddle the fence. Only the Observer gave editorial backing to Samuel, but even this was deeply qualified by its front page report of Urquhart's clear lead in the opinion polls.

It took one of the more scurrilous Sunday papers to give the campaign a real shake. 'Samuel was a commie!' it screamed over half its front page, declaring it had discovered that Samuel had been an active left-winger while at university. Indeed, when contacted by a friendly sounding reporter from the newspaper who said he was 'doing a feature on the early days' of both Samuel and Urquhart and had discovered some youthful indulgence in radical politics, Samuel had rather reluctantly admitted to a passing involvement in many different university clubs, saying that until the age of twenty he had been a sympathiser with a number of fashionable causes which, thirty years later, seemed naive and misplaced.

'But we have documentary evidence to suggest that they included CND and gay rights, Mr Samuel,' the reporter pressed.

'Not that old nonsense again,' responded Samuel testily. He thought he had finished with those wild charges twenty years ago when he had first stood for Parliament. An opponent had sent a letter of accusation to party headquarters,- the allegations had been fully investigated by the Party's Standing Committee on Candidates and he had been given a clean bill of health. But here they were again, risen from the dead after all these years, just a few days before the final ballot.

‘I did all the things that an eighteen-year-old college student in those days did. I went on two CND marches, and was even persuaded to take out a regular subscription to a student newspaper which I later found was run by the gay rights movement’ He tried to raise a chuckle at the memory, determined not to give any impression that he had something to hide.

‘I was also quite a strong supporter of the anti-apartheid movement, and to this day I actively oppose apartheid, although I intensely dislike the violent methods used by some of the self-proclaimed leaders of the movement’ he had told the journalist. 'Regrets? No, I have no real regrets about those early involvements; they weren't so much youthful mistakes as an excellent testing ground for the opinions I now hold. I know how foolish CND is - I've been there!'

Samuel could scarcely believe the manner in which his remarks had been interpreted in the newspaper. It was ludicrous to suggest he had ever been a Communist; he wondered for a moment whether it was actually libellous. Yet underneath the headline, the article got even worse. ‘I marched for the Russians', admitted Samuel last night, recalling those days of the 1960s when ban-the-bomb marches frequently ended in violence and disruption.

He also acknowledged that he had been a financial supporter of homosexual rights groups, making regular monthly payments to the Cambridge Gay Charter Movement which was amongst the earliest organisations pushing for a change in the laws on homosexuality.

Samuel's early left-wing involvement has long been a source of concern to party leaders. In 1970 when the twenty-seven-year-old Samuel applied to party headquarters to fight as an official party candidate in the general election of that year, the Party Chairman wrote to demand an explanation of 'the frequency with which your name was associated at university with causes which have no sympathy for our Party'.

He seemed to satisfy the Party then, and won his way into the House of Commons at that election. However, last night Samuel was still defiant about those early involvements.

‘I have no regrets', he said, acknowledging that he still sympathised strongly with some of those left-wing movements he used to support.

For the rest of the day there was fluster and commotion amongst the political reporters and in the Samuel household. Nobody really believed that he was a closet Communist; it was another of those silly, sensationalist pieces intended to raise circulation rather than the public's consciousness, but it had to be checked out, causing confusion and disruption at a time when Samuel was trying desperately to reassure his supporters and refocus attention on the serious issues of the campaign.

By midday Lord Williams had issued a stinging denunciation of the newspaper for using confidential documents which had been stolen from a security cabinet by forcing the lock. The newspaper immediately responded that, while the Party itself seemed to be unforgivably incompetent with safeguarding their confidential material, the newspaper was happy to fulfil its public obligations and return the folder on Samuel to its rightful owners at party headquarters - which they did later, that day in time to catch the television news and give the story yet another lease of life.

Most observers, after discussing the story at some length, dismissed it as a passing misfortune for Samuel brought about by the typical incompetence of party headquarters. But Samuel's campaign had run into a lot of misfortune since it began. It was not reassuring for someone who claimed to be on top of events, and it was definitely not the way to spend the final weekend of the leadership race.

The phone call upset Krajewski. He had been trying hard to keep a grip on his wayward emotions about Mattie, being alternately eaten away by frustration at her inconsistency and consumed with hunger for her body. He was also discovering that he simply downright missed her, and only occasionally did he succeed in forcing his thoughts about her to the back of his mind. When one of his colleagues telephoned to say that he had met Mattie and that she looked tired and unwell, he hadn't needed a second to realise how concerned he still was.

She had agreed to see him, but rejected his suggestion that he should come straight round. She didn't want him to see the apartment this way, with the dirty plates, the empty cartons which seemed to infest every available table top, and the worn clothes which had simply been dumped in the comer. The last few days had been hell. Unable to sleep, her mind and her emotions snarled up in one immense knot, her bed like a slab of ice, she was no longer sure which way to rum. The walls closed in around her, squeezing out her ability to think straight or feel anything other than growing depression.

So when Krajewski called she had shown little enthusiasm even though she knew she needed support from someone. Reluctantly she had been cajoled into meeting him at the coffee shop on the eastern edge of the Serpentine, the winding duck-strewn lake which dominates the centre of Hyde Park. He cursed as he hurried towards it. The bitter November wind was raising foam-topped waves as it sliced across the water, and as he approached the empty, lifeless coffee shop he realised that it must have closed for the winter. He found the small, forlorn figure of Mattie sheltering under the eaves, wrapped in a thin anorak which suddenly seemed too large for her. She appeared to have shrunk since they had last met. There were uncharacteristic dark rings under her eyes, and the vitality which normally lit her face was missing. She looked awful. 'What a bloody silly place for us to meet’ he apologised. ‘Don't worry, Johnnie. I guess I needed the fresh air’ He wanted to put his arms around her and squeeze the chill out of her bones, but instead he tried to smile cheerfully.

'What's new with Britain's top female journalist?' he enquired. Immediately he wanted to bite his tongue off. He hadn't intended sarcasm, not at all, but it was a clumsy choice of words. She shivered before she replied.

'Perhaps you're right to laugh. A few days ago I thought I had the world at my feet.'

'And now?'

'Now it's all gone wrong. The job... The story.. ‘ - a slight pause -'... You. I thought I could do it all on my own. I was wrong. Sorry.'

This was a new Mattie, all full of self-doubt and insecurity. He didn't know what to say, so said nothing.

'When I was a young girl my grandfather used to take me out onto the Yorkshire dales. He said it was a lot like parts of Norway. The weather could get bitter and inhospitable up there but I never had any fears. Grandpa was always there with a helping hand and a smile. He always carried a flask of hot soup and I never felt better or warmer than when I was out with him, no matter how hard it blew. Then one day I thought I was grown up, didn't need Grandpa any more, so I slipped away on my own. I left the track and the o ground started getting softer. Soon I was sinking up to my ankles and then slipping deeper and deeper.' She was shivering again. ‘I couldn't get out. The more I struggled the deeper I became stuck. I thought I would never get out. It was the first time in my life that I had known what real fear was. But then Grandpa found me and plucked me out, and hugged me while I cried and dried my tears and made everything better’ Johnnie noted how frail and vulnerable she looked now inside the voluminous folds of her anorak, as if she was reliving the experience all over again.

It's just like that now, Johnnie. I'm desperately trying to find some firm ground, something I can stand on and believe in, both about the story and in my own life. But I'm just sinking deeper and deeper, Grandpa's no longer around and I'm afraid. Do you understand? I feel as if I shall never step on solid ground again.'

'But haven't you seen the Sunday newspapers?' he encouraged. 'Someone filched Samuel's personal papers. Another bombshell hits the leadership race from party headquarters. Even more evidence pointing directly at Teddy Williams. Isn't that firm ground?'

She shook her head sadly. If only it were that simple.'

‘I don't understand,' he said. 'We've got the deliberate theft of personal files. We've got the tampering with the central computer file - that's deliberate too. We've had the leaking of all sorts of damaging material out of party headquarters to you, to Kendrick, seemingly to anyone who was passing in the neighbourhood. We've got party officials opening accommodation addresses in false names, and politicians' corpses lying around like hedgehogs on a motorway. What more do you need? And it all leads back to party headquarters - which must mean Williams. He can't make Prime Minister himself, so he's making sure he controls whoever does.'

‘You're missing the point, Johnnie. Why on earth should Williams need to steal his own documents? He could simply have copied the vital information without breaking in and stealing the whole bloody file. And he doesn't need to force locks - he's got all the keys. He is supposed to be

Samuel's strongest ally, yet Samuel's campaign has been pedalling backwards ever since the election began.'

Her eyes were burning with disappointment. 'Can you really imagine an elder statesman like Williams framing the Prime Minister for fraud? Or leaking so much material from party headquarters that it has made him look like a doddering imbecile? No, Johnnie. It's not Williams.'

Then who the hell is it? Samuel? Urquhart? Some other Cabinet Minister? Landless?'

‘I don't know’ she cried. That's why I feel as if I am drowning! The more I struggle, the deeper I get stuck. Professionally. Emotionally. It's like a great quagmire sucking me under. I'm just not sure about anything any more.'

‘I’d like to help you, Mattie. Please don't turn me away.'

‘Like Grandpa, you're always there when I need you. Thanks, Johnnie. But I've got to find my own path now or I never will. There's all this confusion inside me; I've got to sort these things out for myself.'

‘I can wait’ he said gently.

'But I can't. I've got only two more days to come up with the answer and only one strong lead - Roger O'Neill.'

MONDAY 29th NOVEMBER

The janitor found the body just after he had clocked on at 4.30 on Monday morning. He was beginning his morning duties at the Rownhams motorway service area just outside Southampton on the M27, starting with cleaning out the toilets, when he discovered that one of the cubicle doors would not open. He was nearing his sixty-eighth birthday, and he cursed as he lowered his old bones gently onto their hands and knees so that he could peer under the door. He had great difficulty getting all the way down, but he didn't need to. He saw the two shoes quite clearly, and that was enough to satisfy his curiosity. There was a man in there, and whether he was drunk, diseased or dying meant nothing to him except that it was going to put him way behind his cleaning schedule, and he cursed again as he staggered off to call his supervisor.

The supervisor was in no better temper when he arrived, and used a screwdriver to open the lock from the outside. But the man's knees were wedged firmly up against the door, and push as hard as they might the two of them could not force it open more than a few inches. The supervisor put his hand around the door, trying to shift the man's knees, but instead grabbed a dangling hand which was as cold as ice. He recoiled in horror and gave a wail of anguish, insisting on washing his hands meticulously before he stumbled off to call the police and an ambulance.

The police arrived shortly after 5 a.m. and, with rather more experience in such matters than the janitor and supervisor, had the cubicle door lifted off its hinges in seconds.

O'Neill's body was sitting there, fully clothed and slumped against the wall. His face, drained of all colour, was stretched into a leering death mask exposing his teeth and with his eyes staring wide open, hi his lap they found two halves of an empty tin of talc, and on the floor beside him they discovered a small polythene bag containing a few grains of white powder and a briefcase stuffed with political pamphlets. They found other small white granules of powder still clinging to the leather cover of the briefcase, which had clearly been placed on O'Neill's lap to provide a flat surface. From one clenched fist they managed to prise a twisted £20 note which had been fashioned into a tube before being crumpled by O'Neill's death fit. His other arm was stretched aloft over his head, as if the grinning corpse was giving one final, hideous salute of farewell.

'Another junkie taking his last fix,' muttered the police sergeant, who had seen more than a few such sights in his time. ‘It's more usual to find them with a needle up their arm,' he explained to his young colleague who lacked the relevant experience. 'But this one looks as if he was doing cocaine, and either it was too much for his heart or he's got hold of some adulterated stuff. There's quite a lot of drug pushing goes on around these motorway service stations, and the junkies never know what they're buying from whom. You often get impure drugs being peddled, either diluted with anything from castor sugar to baking powder, or mixed with something rather more lethal. The pushers will sell anything for money and the junkies will pay anything for a fix, whatever it is. This is just one of the unlucky ones.'

He started rummaging through O'Neill's pockets for clues to his identity. Funny way the body and face have contorted, though. Well, we can let the police surgeon and the coroner's office sort that one out. Let's get on with it, laddie, and call the ruddy photographers to record this sordid little scene. No use us standing here guessing about... Mr Roger O'Neill,' he announced as he found a wallet bearing a few credit cards. 'Wonder who he is?'

There's a car outside in the car park, been here all night by the looks of it’ volunteered the janitor 'Probably his.'

'Well, let's take the details and check it out then’ instructed the sergeant.

It was 7.20 by the time the coroner's representative had authorised the removal of the body. The sergeant was making sure the junior officer had finished with the required procedures and the ambulancemen were manhandling the rigid, contorted body out from its seat and onto their stretcher when the call came over the radio.

'Sod it’ the sergeant told the radio controller. That'll set the cat amongst the pigeons. I'd better make double sure we've done everything this end before we have CID inspectors, superintendents and chief constables floating in for a look.'

He turned to the fresh-faced constable. 'Got yourself a prize one there, you have. Seems the car is registered to the Government's party headquarters, and our Mr Roger O'Neill is - rather was - a senior party official with his fingers in Downing Street and everywhere else, no doubt. Better make sure you write a full report, lad, or well both be for the high jump.'

It had been another sleepless night. Her physical reserves of stamina had just about run out and she was on the point of surrendering to her growing mood of depression when the phone call threw her the lifeline she needed. It was Johnnie, calling from the Telegraph news room.

'How's this for another one of your coincidences?' he enquired. 'Just come over on the tape. It seems the Southampton police found your Roger O'Neill dead in a public lavatory just a few hours ago.'

Tell me this is simply your tasteless way of saying good morning,' she said without humour.

'Sorry. It's for real. I've already sent a reporter down to the scene, but it appears the local police have called in the Drug Squad. Seems he may have overdosed.'

Mattie gasped as one of the pieces fell into place with a noise like a coffin lid slamming closed.

'So that was it. An addict. No wonder he was all over the place...' As she spoke she nudged in her excitement the large stack of dirty crockery which had built up beside the kitchen telephone, sending them crashing to the floor.

'Mattie, what on earth...'

'Don't you see, Johnnie. He was the key man, the only man we knew for certain was involved in all the dirty tricks. Our Number One lead has just very conveniently disappeared from the scene, the day before they elect a new Prime Minister, leaving us with a big fat zero. Don't you see, Johnnie.'

'What?'

There's not a moment to waste!' she gasped, as he heard the phone go dead.

Mattie almost didn't find Penny Guy. She had rung the bell of the mansion block continuously for several minutes, and was just about to give up when the latch was released by the electronic buzzer and the door swung open. The door to Penny's flat on the first floor was also ajar, and Mattie walked in. She found Penny sitting quietly on the sofa, curtains drawn, staring at nothing.

Mattie did not speak, but sat down beside her and held her. Slowly Penny's fingers tightened around Mattie's hand, acknowledging her presence, begging her to stay.

‘He didn't deserve to die,' Penny said in a hushed, faltering voice. ‘He was a weak man, but not an evil one. He was very kind.'

'What was he doing in Southampton?'

‘He was spending the weekend with someone. Wouldn't say who. It was one of his silly secrets.'

'Any idea who?'

Penny shook her head with painful slowness.

‘Do you know why he died?' Mattie asked.

Penny turned to face her with round, dark eyes which had a faraway look and from which the shock had squeezed any trace of emotion.

You're not interested in him, are you? Only in his death.' It was not an accusation, simply a statement of fact.

‘I'm sorry he died, Penny. I'm also sorry because I think Roger will be blamed for a lot of bad things that have happened recently. And I don't think he's the one who should be blamed.'

Penny blinked for the first time, as if the question had at last disturbed the emptiness which had taken hold of her.

'Why would they ... blame Roger?' The words were formed slowly, as if half of her were elsewhere, in a world where O'Neill was still alive and where Penny could still save him.

'Because he's a victim who has been set up to take the blame. Someone has been using Roger, has been twisting him and bending him in a dirty little political game - until Roger snapped.'

Penny considered this for several long moments. ‘He's not the only one,'she said.

'What do you mean?'

'Patrick. Patrick was sent a tape, of him with me. He thought I'd done it.' 'Patrick who. Penny?'

'Woolton. He thought I had made the tape of us in bed together to blackmail him. But it was someone else. It wasn't me.'

'So that's why he quit,' exclaimed Mattie. 'Who could have made the tape, Penny?'

Don't know. Almost anybody at the party conference I suppose. Anyone in Bournemouth, anyone at the hotel.'

'But Penny, I don't understand! Who could have blackmailed Patrick Woolton? Who could have known you were sleeping with him?'

'Roger knew. But Roger would never...'

‘Don't you see, Penny. Someone was blackmailing Roger, too. Someone who must have known he was on drags. Someone who forced him to leak opinion polls and alter computer files. Someone who...'

'Killed him!' The words unlocked the misery which Penny had been trying to hide since they had telephoned her earlier that morning. But now the barriers burst and tears were flooding from her eyes, forced out by the cries of anguish which racked her body. Further discussion with her was clearly impossible, and Mattie helped the sobbing girl into bed, making her as comfortable as she could. She stayed with her until the tears had emptied her soul and she was fast asleep.

Mattie walked down the street in confusion. The first snow of winter was beginning to fall gently around her, but she did not notice it. She was lost in her own misery of doubt. All the firm evidence she had led back to O'Neill. Now he was dead and the door at which she had been pushing, behind which she knew she would find the answer, had suddenly slammed shut on her. It was not the first time that the frustrated ambition of men had led to blackmail and violence - the appeal of political power had fascinated, seduced and corrupted men and women throughout the ages - but none had daubed blood on the door of 10 Downing Street. Until now. It had to be washed clean. She had a day to do it - and no idea where to go next.

'Come on, come on, come on, come on!' she shouted, beating her hands on the desk in frustration. As the day had turned to evening and she had tossed the facts around fruitlessly in her mind she had become more tense, unable to find any new direction. The clock had ticked remorselessly on, and she found her mind crossing the same old ground, travelling up the same blind alleys and discovering the same dead ends. The harder she tried, the more elusive any new insight became. Perhaps a change of scene might fire her imagination. So she had gone for a walk, driven around, taken a bath and was now sitting at home, crying for enlightenment. But it was to no avail. Her inspiration and intuition had failed her as the sleepless nights took their toll, and the one man who could answer all her burning questions was dead, taking his secrets with him. She buried her head in her hands, reduced to praying for a miracle in a world which God seemed to have deserted.

Something sparked. Later she could never recall what aroused it, but among the dying embers of her confidence a small flame began to glow and lick itself back to life. -Perhaps it was not all over yet.

Two hours later Krajewski arrived clutching a large box of hot pizza. He had telephoned but got no answer. He was concerned, and was attempting to hide his concern beneath the pepperoni and extra cheese. He found Mattie sitting on the floor in the dark, huddled in the comer with her knees drawn up under her chin, clenching her arms around her tightly. She had been crying.

He said nothing but knelt beside her, and this time she allowed him to hug the tears away. It was some time before she could say anything.

'Johnnie, you told me that if I couldn't offer commitment I could never make it as a journalist, that I would be no better than a butterfly. I realise now that you were right. Until today I was simply chasing a story - oh, a big one, for sure, but what really mattered was ending up with my name at the top of the page one lead. Like a film - rooting out the wrongdoers from their hiding places, never giving a damn about the cost. I've been acting a role, the intrepid journalist struggling to unravel the lies in the face of overwhelming odds. But it's no longer a game, Johnnie...'

She looked into his eyes, and he saw that her tears were not tears of fear or pain, but tears of release, as if she had at last struggled from the clutches of the bog onto solid ground.

'All I wanted was a story, a great one. I threw away my job and I even trampled over your feelings just in case you got in the way. Now I would give anything for the whole story to disappear, but it's too late.'

She gripped his hand, needing someone now. 'You see, Johnnie, none of it was coincidence. Woolton was deliberately blackmailed out of the leadership race. Somebody got rid of him, just as they got rid of Collingridge, of McKenzie, of Earle. And of O'Neill.'

‘Do you realise what you're saying?'

'O'Neill's death was suicide or murder. And how many people have you ever heard of committing suicide in a public lavatory!'

'Mattie, this isn't the KGB we are dealing with.'

'As far as O'Neill is concerned, it may just as well have been.'

‘Jesus!'

‘Johnnie, there is someone out there who will stop at nothing to fix the election of the man who in a few hours' time will become the most powerful individual in the country.'

That's terrifying. But who... ?'

She pounded the floor in anger.

That's the bloody trouble. I don't know! I've been sitting here in the dark knowing that there is a man, a name, some clue which will reveal it all, but I just can't find it. Everything leads back to O'Neill, and now he's gone...'

You are certain that it couldn't have been O'Neill, perhaps, who got so deeply involved ... got scared. Lost control and killed himself ?'

'No! Of course it wasn't O'Neill. It couldn't have been...'

The flame spluttered once more, warming her, its heat dispelling a little more of the mists of confusion which clung to her mind.

'Johnnie, while O'Neill played his part with most and possibly all of the leaks, he couldn't have done it by himself. Some of those leaks were from Government, not from the Party. Highly confidential information which would not have been available to all members of the Cabinet, let alone a party official’

She took a deep breath, as deep as if it were the first breath of fresh air she had taken in days.

‘Do you see what that means, Johnnie. There must be a common link. There must be, if only we could find it.. ‘

'Mattie, we can't give up now. There has to be a way. Look, have you got a list of Cabinet Ministers?'

‘In the drawer of my work table.'

He leapt to his feet and scrabbled about in the drawer before coming up with the list. With a broad sweep of his arm he cleared all the papers, books and assorted debris off the top of her large work table, exposing its smooth, laminated white work surface. The whiteness of the desk was like an open page waiting to be filled. He grabbed an artist's pen and began scrawling down on the laminate all the twenty-two names from the sheet.

'OK. Who could have been responsible for the leaks? Come on, Mattie. Think!' The fire had caught inside him now.

Mattie did not move. She was frozen in the corner, all her last reserves of energy concentrated on sorting out the jumble in her mind.

There were at least three leaks which had to come from inside the Cabinet,' she said at last. There were the Territorial Army cuts, the cancellation of the hospital expansion scheme, and the Renox drug approval. O'Neill would never have known about those first-hand. But who in Government would have?'

Slowly, she began reciting the Cabinet members who would have had early knowledge of the decisions. As she did so, Krajewski feverishly began ticking off the names on his list.

Who was on the Cabinet Committee which dealt with major military matters and would have made the decision on the TA cuts? Concentrate, Mattie, even though every part of your mind wants to go to sleep. Slowly the thoughts began to focus and take form. The Defence Secretary,, the Financial Secretary, the Chancellor possibly, and of course the Prime Minister. Damn it, who else? Right, the Employment Secretary and the Foreign Secretary, too.

Then the hospital scheme which would have been considered by another Committee including the Health Secretary and the Treasury Ministers, the Trade and Industry Secretary, Education Secretary and Environment Secretary also. She prayed she hadn't missed any names. The membership and even existence of these committees were supposed to be a state secret, which meant the information was never formally published and was left to become yet another part of the Westminster system of lobby gossip. But the system was so effective she felt sure she had missed no names.

Was she getting closer? The Renox drug approval -damn, that wouldn't have been considered by any Cabinet Committee; it was a Department of Health decision and known solely to the Health Secretary and his Ministers. And of course the Prime Minister would have been informed in advance, but who else?

She leapt up to join Krajewski, who was staring at his handiwork.

'We seem to have screwed up rather badly, I'm afraid,' he muttered quietly.

She looked at the list. There was only one name with three ticks beside it, one man with access to all three bits of leaked information, one man whom her detective work could pronounce guilty. And that was the victim himself - the Prime Minister, Henry Collingridge! Her efforts had left them with the most absurd conclusion of all. The little flame of hope gave one last splutter and prepared to die.

She stood there staring. Something was wrong.

'Johnnie, this list of names. Why isn't Urquhart on it?'

She snorted in ridicule at herself as she provided her own answer. 'Because I'm a silly bitch and forgot that the Chief Whip is not technically a full member of Cabinet and so doesn't appear on my Cabinet list. But it makes no difference. He's not on the Defence Committee, nor could he have known about Renox’

But she stopped with a gasp. The flame had suddenly sprung into life once again and was burning at her from deep inside.

'But of course ... He's not formally a member, but if I remember correctly he does sit in on the committee which dealt with the hospital programme. He wouldn't have attended the defence committee, yet as he is responsible for parliamentary discipline they would have been sure to consult him well in advance about a decision which was going to cause uproar on the backbenches’

'But he couldn't have known about Renox,' interjected Krajewski.

She was gripping his arm so tightly now that the nails were digging into the flesh.

Johnnie, every Government Department has a Junior Whip attached to it, one of Urquhart's men, to make sure there is proper liaison about Government business. Every week most Secretaries of State hold a business meeting amongst their departmental Ministers to discuss the activities of the week ahead, and the Junior Whip usually attends. He then goes back and reports to the Chief Whip to ensure that Ministers don't trip over each other's feet. It is possible, Johnnie. Urquhart could have known...'

'But what about the rest of it. How would he have known about O'Neill's drug taking? Or Woolton's sex life? Or any of the other pieces?'

'Because he's Chief Whip. It's his job to know about those things. He had the means, and hell did he have a motive. From nowhere to Prime Minister in a couple of months! How on earth did we miss it?'

'But it's all still circumstantial, Mattie. You don't have a single shred of proof’

Then let's see if we can get it!'

She grabbed the phone and began punching a number.

‘Penny? It's Mattie Storin. I'm sorry it's so late, butl need some answers. It's very important. I think I know who got Roger into all the trouble. Where did you meet Patrick Woolton?'

'At the Bournemouth party conference’ a sad voice replied.

'But in what circumstances? Please try to remember. Who introduced you?'

'Roger said he wanted to meet me, and took me along to a party to introduce us.'

'Where was the party?'

'At Mr Urquhart's. He had the bungalow right next door to Patrick's, and it was he who actually took me over to say hello to Patrick.'

'Did Roger know Francis Urquhart particularly well?'

'No, not really. At least not until recently. As far as I know they had scarcely spoken to each other before the election, but they have talked with each other a couple of times on the phone since then, and they met for dinner. I don't think even now they are -were - very close, though. Last time they spoke Roger was upset. Something about a computer file which got Roger very angry.'

At last the pieces began to fit.

'One more question, Penny. I presume Francis Urquhart has a country residence as well as his house in Pimlico. Do you happen to know where that is?'

'No, I don't I'm afraid. I've only got a list of Cabinet weekend telephone numbers which I keep for Roger.'

'Can I have the Urquhart number?'

‘I can't, Mattie, they are absolutely confidential. You must remember there have been terrorist attacks at Ministers' homes, and it would be totally wrong for me to give them out to the press, even to you. I am sorry, Mattie, truly.'

'Can you tell me the area in which he fives? Not the address, just the town or even the county?' ‘I don't know it. I've only got the telephone number.'

'Give me the dialling code, then. Just the dialling code’ she pleaded.

There was the sound of a slight shuffling of paper at the other end of the phone.

'Mattie, I'm not sure why you want it, but it is to help Roger, isn't it?'

‘I promise you, Penny.'

'042128.'

Thanks. You won't regret it.'

Mattie flicked the receiver and got a new line. She punched the area code into the telephone, followed by a random set of numbers. A connection was made, and a phone started ringing at the other end.

'Lyndhurst 37428’ a drowsy voice announced.

'Good evening. I'm sorry to bother you so late. Is that Lyndhurst, Surrey, 37428?'

'No. It's Lyndhurst in Hampshire 37428. And it's very late for you to be telephoning wrong numbers!' an irritated voice snapped before the phone was disconnected.

The fire inside Mattie was roaring brightly now as she threw herself across the room towards her bookcase, where she ripped a road atlas from its place. She scrabbled through the maps until she found the South Coast section, jabbed a finger at the page and whooped with triumph.

It's him, Johnnie. It's him!'

He looked over her shoulder at where the finger was placed It was pointing directly at the Rownhams service area on the M27 where O'Neill had died It was the first service station on the motorway back to London from Lyndhurst. O'Neill had died less than eight miles from Urquhart's country home.

TUESDAY 30th NOVEMBER

The morning newspapers fell onto the doormats of a million homes like a death knell for Samuel's candidacy. One by one, editor by editor, they began to line up behind Urquhart. It was not surprising to the Chief Whip that all the newspapers in the Telegraph and United Newspapers groups came to the same conclusion - some with more enthusiasm than others, to be sure, but to the same conclusion nonetheless - but it was of even greater satisfaction that many of the others had also decided to throw their weight behind him. Editorial offices tend to provide little comfort for politicians who trail their consciences; and some still remembered how badly their papers had got their fingers burnt with Neville Chamberlain's pious bits of paper. Others had reached the same cynical conclusion as Woolton about the drawbacks of creating another 'era' so soon after Thatcher which, with Samuel's youth, could last another fifteen years or more. Phrases such as 'experience', 'maturity' and 'balance' were peppered freely around the columns. Still others wanted simply to play safe, wishing to swim with the tide which was flooding strongly in Urquhart's favour.

Only two newspapers stood out amongst the quality ' press, the Guardian for its habit of deliberately swimming against the tide, requiring it to support Samuel, and the Independent which stood proud and isolated like a rock withstanding the battering of storms and tide, refusing to endorse either.

The mood was reflected in the two camps, with Urquhart's supporters finding it difficult to hide their air of quiet confidence, and Samuel's finding it impossible in private to disguise their sense of looming disappointment.

As the tall doors of Committee Room 14 swung open at 10 a.m. to accept the first batch of MPs waiting outside to vote, neither Sir Humphrey nor others present expected any disappointments.

In best traditional style it would be an orderly and gentlemanly ballot; the loser would be gracious and the winner even more so. The covering of snow which was beginning steadily to blanket Westminster gave the proceedings a surrealistic calm. It would be Christmas soon, it reminded them, and the lights had already long been switched on in Oxford Street Time soon for the winter break, for family reunions and peace on earth. The long period of indecision would be over in a few hours and ordinary folk could return to their normal lives. In public there would be handshakes and congratulations all the way round when the result was announced, even as in private the victors planned their recriminations and the losers plotted their revenge.

When Mattie walked towards the office of Benjamin Landless just off Charterhouse Square, the snow was several inches thick. Outside the capital the snow had settled much more deeply, making travel difficult and persuading many commuters simply to stay at home. The streets of the City of London were strangely quiet in their white cocoon as the falling flakes muffled all sound and the few cars crept quietly about their business. She felt unreal, as if she were on a film set acting out a role, hoping she would wake up in the morning and discover that the script had been changed. Even now she was tempted to turn around and forget all about it, to let others concern themselves about the great affairs of state while she concentrated on paying her mortgage and whether she could afford a holiday next year.

Then a flurry of snow blew into her face, blinding her and transporting her back many years before she was born to an isolated Norwegian fjord and her grandfather setting off in a leaking fishing boat to risk his life on the tides of war. He could have collaborated, turned a blind eye, left it to others to sort out the world while he got on with his own life. But something had driven him on, just as she was being driven now.

When at first she had realised the necessity of confronting Landless, she had discovered all the many reasons why it would be futile - she wouldn't even get to see him; if she did he would ruthlessly ensure that she would never work as a journalist again, and she wouldn't be the first such victim. She had seen him bully and intimidate so many, how could she expect to succeed where so many other more experienced and powerful hands had failed? She had to confront him yet she desperately needed his help. And how was she supposed to squeeze support from a man who instinctively would prefer to throttle her with his own huge hands?

It was only when she realised that she had run out of time and alternatives that she summoned up the courage to unravel her excuses and deal with them one by one. Her first problem was access to the heavily protected businessman. He may depict himself as a man of the people, but he took elaborate and expensive precautions to ensure that he did not have to rub shoulders with them.

So she had phoned the writer of the Telegraph's diary column, the keeper of society's gossip and scandal. Had Landless recently had any close female friends, women of whom he was known to be particularly fond? Fine! A lady twenty years younger than him, now safely ensconced in Wiltshire with a new husband and brood, but known to have been the favoured recipient of a large measure of the magnate's hugely expensive overtime. Mrs Susannah Richards. Yes, she hoped that would do nicely.

But nothing seemed easy as she walked along the strange, empty streets. She arrived at her destination and shook the snow from her boots and hair. She was surprised to see how small were the offices from which Landless ran his many empires, and how opulently the East-Ender had learned to live. The place reeked of British tradition. The small foyer and reception area was cloaked almost entirely in English carved oak panelling, on which were hung several fine oil paintings of old London scenes and a vast portrait of the Queen. The carpeting was thick, the electronics sophisticated and the commissionaire very ex-military.

'Can I help you, Miss?' he asked from beneath his pencil-line moustache.

'My name is Mrs Susannah Richards. I am a personal friend of Mr Landless, you understand,' she explained with a hint of intrigue, 'and I was passing in the vicinity. He's not expecting me, but could you see if he has five minutes free? I have an important personal message for him.'

The commissionaire was all discretion and efficiency-it was so rare that one of the boss's 'personal friends' came to the office, and he was eager to make a good impression. He relayed the message to Landless's secretary precisely and with just the right degree of enthusiasm. No doubt the secretary passed on the message in similar fashion, for within a few seconds Mattie was being ushered into the lift with instructions to proceed to the top floor.

As she stood in the doorway of the penthouse suite, Landless was seated behind his desk in the middle of a vast office which had been designed to accommodate his own huge bulk. She had time to take in none of the detail before an animal growl of rage began erupting from his throat.

‘You miserable bloody cow...'

She had to cut him short. Before he had time to make up his mind, let alone utter the angry words of dismissal, she had to take control. It was her only slender chance.

‘It's your takeover of United.'

‘The takeover? What about it?' he shouted, betraying only the slightest edge of interest. It's finished.'

'What on earth do you mean?' he snarled, but a little less loudly this time.

She stood there, silent, challenging him to decide whether his curiosity would overcome his anger. It took a moment before she knew she had won the first round. With a snort, he waved a fleshy hand in the direction of a chair. It was a good six inches lower than his own, down onto which he could glower from beneath his huge, eruptive eyebrows and stare its occupant into submission. She moved slowly into the room, but away from the chair. She wasn't going to give him the advantage of physically intimidating her on the low, uncomfortable perch. Anyway, she felt better moving around.

'You've backed the wrong horse. Francis Urquhart has cheated and lied his way to the party leadership, and possibly much worse. By the time that all gets out, his endorsement of the takeover won't be worth a bean.'

'But he hasn't endorsed the takeover. He said he wouldn't decide until after the leadership election.'

'But you and I know that is only part of the deal you did with him - the support of your newspapers in return for his approval of the takeover after he had won.'

'What the hell are you talking about? You listen to me, you little bitch...'

'No, Mr Landless. It's you who's going to have to listen to me!' She was smiling now, trying to display the quiet confidence of a poker player intent on persuading her opponent that the cards she held were of much higher value than his own. She had no proof, of course, only the coincidence of timing to suggest a deal had been done, but now she understood about Urquhart it was the only scenario which made sense. Anyway, she had to keep raising the stakes, she had to force him to show his hand.

You see, you are not the first proprietor to put puppets into their newspapers as editors, but you made a great mistake when you chose Greville Preston. The man is so weak that every time you pulled the strings he started jerking around totally out of control. He couldn't possibly pretend that he was his own boss. So when you, Mr Landless, decided to go gunning for Henry Collingridge at the party conference, there was no chance that Preston could pretend it was his own decision or hide the fact that he was acting under your direct instructions. And when you, Mr Landless, decided to propel Francis Urquhart into the leadership race at the last, dramatic minute through the editorial columns of the Telegraph, there was no chance that Preston could justify it to the staff. He had to slip it into the edition on a Sunday evening without any consultation, skulking around his own newspaper like a thief in the night. You see, he's very good at doing what he's told, but he simply doesn't understand half the time why he's been told to do it. If you like to put it that way, Mr Landless, in spite of all his university education you're too good for him.'

Landless did not respond to the backhanded compliment. His fleshy features were set uncharacteristically rigid.

‘You made Urquhart's candidacy. Put quite simply - as I am sure you have put it to him yourself - he could not be on the point of becoming Prime Minister without your help. And for that you would have got something in return - his agreement to turn the Government's competition policy on its head and to endorse your takeover of United Newspapers.'

At last Landless came to life, calling her bluff.

'What proof do you have of this extraordinary tale, Miss Storin?'

That's the beauty of it. I don't need proof. I need just enough to stir up the most awful public row and you will find the politicians deserting your camp and heading for the hills, no matter what they have been saying during the leadership contest. You will find yourself without a single friend.'

'But according to your weird and wonderful hypothesis,

Francis Urquhart is my friend, and he will be in 10 Downing Street’ Landless smiled mockingly.

'But not for long, Mr Landless, not for long. I'm afraid you know less about him than you think. Did you know, when you instructed Preston to use the opinion poll to undermine the Prime Minister, that it was Urquhart who had leaked it in the first place? He set you up.'

There was a sufficient look of surprise on Landless's face to let Mattie know that she was right and he resented being used like that.

'But all politicians leak’ Landless responded. It's not criminal, certainly not enough to throw him out of Downing Street.'

'No, but insider share dealing, fraud, blackmail and theft are!' She delighted in the look of concern spreading across his fat jowls.

‘I can show beyond a reasonable doubt that it was Urquhart who set up Charles Collingridge by buying Renox shares in his name in a deliberate and very successful attempt to implicate the Prime Minister. That Urquhart blackmailed Patrick Woolton into standing down by bugging his room at Bournemouth. And ordered, the theft of confidential personal files on Michael Samuel from party headquarters.' She was bluffing on the Samuel file, she had no proof only inner certainty, but she knew her bluff would not be called from the way in which Landless had by now lost his air of confidence. Yet he was one of nature's fighters. He hadn't given in yet.

'What makes you think anyone is going to believe you? By tonight Francis Urquhart will be Prime Minister, and who do you think is going to want to see the Prime Minister and the country dragged down by a political scandal of that sort? I think you underestimate the Establishment and its powers of self-protection, Miss Storin. If the Prime Minister is dragged down, confidence in the whole system suffers. It's not justice which wins, but the radicals and the revolutionaries. Not even the Opposition would welcome that. So you'll find it damned difficult to get any newspaper to print your allegations, and next to impossible to get a law officer to proceed on them.'

He was beginning to relish his own argument now, regaining his confidence.

'Why, it took them seven years before they were forced to indict Jeremy Thorpe who was only Leader of the Liberal Party, not even the Prime Minister. And he was arrested for attempted murder, which makes your charges of petty theft and blackmail look really rather pathetic. You don't even have a body on which to build your case!'

'Oh, but I do, Mr Landless,' she said softly. ‘I believe he killed Roger O'Neill to silence him, and although I'm not sure I can prove it yet, I can raise such a storm as will blow down the shutters of Downing Street and will quite overwhelm your little business venture. Someone in the Thorpe case shot a dog. Here we are talking about murder. Do you really think your Establishment is going to keep quiet about that?'

Landless levered his great girth out of his chair and walked across to the large picture window. From it he could see the chimneys, steeples and hideous tower blocks of Bethnal Green less than two miles away where he had been born and where in the slums of his childhood he had learnt all he needed to know about survival He had never wanted to move far away from the area even with all his wealth; his roots were there, and if he screwed it all up that was where he knew he would have to return.

When he turned around to face her once more, she thought she could detect the signs of defeat etched deep into his features.

‘What are you going to do, Miss Storin?'.

‘I am too late to stop Urquhart getting elected. But I intend to make sure he stays in office for as short a time as possible. And for that I want your help.'

'My help! I... I don't understand. You accuse me of causing all this bleedin' chaos and then you ask for my help. Christ all bloody Mighty!' he spluttered in broadest cockney, his defences in tatters.

‘Let me explain. You may be a rogue, Mr Landless, and you may run a rotten newspaper, but I suspect that deep down you care for the idea of a man like Urquhart running this country as little as I do. You have worked very hard to develop the reputation of a working class patriot. Corny to some people, perhaps, but I suspect you mean it - and if I'm right, you would never dream of conspiring to put a murderer in Downing Street.'

She paused but he said nothing.

In any event, I think I can persuade you to help on straightforward commercial grounds. Whatever happens, your takeover of United Newspapers is dead. You can either watch it be swept away in the storm which will undoubtedly engulf Urquhart, which means the Establishment will turn on you and you will never be able to raise money in the City of London for a business deal ever again - or you can kill it yourself, help me nail Urquhart, save your business and become the hero of the hour.'

'Why should I trust you?'

'Because I need you.'

'Need me?' his jowls fluttered in surprise.

‘I need you to be a good newspaper man and publish the full story. If it's published with the backing of the Telegraph rather than dribbling out over the next few months in bits and pieces, nobody can ignore it. I will give you an exclusive which will blow your patriotic socks off. And once I've done that, I am scarcely going to be able to turn on you.'

'And if I say no?'

Then I shall find an army of Opposition backbenchers who would like nothing more than to take all the ammunition I can provide them with, stand up in the House of Commons where they are protected from the laws of slander, and make accusations against both you and Urquhart which will bring you crashing down together.'

All her cards were on the table now. The game was nearly over. Had he any cards left up his sleeve?

'Urquhart will fall, Mr Landless, one way or the other. The only thing you have to decide is whether you fall with him or help me push him...'

It was early afternoon before Mattie returned to Westminster. The snow had stopped falling and the skies were clearing, leaving the capital looking like a scene from a traditional Christmas card. The Houses of Parliament

looked particularly resplendent, like some wondrous Christmas cake covered in brilliant white icing beneath a crystal blue sky. Opposite in the churchyard of St Margaret's, nestling under the wing of the great medieval

Abbey, carol singers brought an air of tranquillity and Victorian charm to the passers-by, wishing goodwill to all men.

Celebrations were already under way in various parts of the House of Commons. One of Mattie's colleagues in the press gallery rushed over to explain.

'About 80 per cent of Government MPs have already voted. They think Urquhart's home and dry. It looks like a landslide.'

Big Ben tolled; to Mattie it had a new and awesome ring. She felt as if an icicle had dislodged itself from the Palace walls and pierced straight into her heart. But she had to press on.

Urquhart was not in his room, nor in any of the bars or restaurants in the Palace of Westminster. She asked in vain around the corridors after him and was just about to conclude that he had left the premises entirely, for lunch or interviews, when one of the Palace policemen told her that

he had seen Urquhart not ten minutes earlier headed in the direction of the roof garden. She had no idea that any roof garden existed, or even where it was.

'Yes, miss. Not many people do know about our roof garden, and those that do like to keep quiet about it in case everybody rushes up there and spoils the charm. It's directly above the House of Commons, all around the great central skylights which light up the Chamber itself. It's a flat roof terrace, and we've put some tables and chairs up there so that in summer the staff can enjoy the sunshine, take some sandwiches and a flask of coffee. Not many Members know about it and even fewer ever go up there, but I've seen Mr Urquhart up there a couple of times before. Likes the view, I imagine. But it'll be damned cold and lonely today, if you don't mind my saying so.'

She followed his directions, up the stairs past the Strangers Gallery and up again until she had passed the panelled dressing room reserved for the Palace doorkeepers. Then she saw a fire door which was slightly ajar. As she stepped through it she emerged onto the roof, and drew in her breath sharply. The view was magnificent Right in front of her, towering into the cloudless sky, made brilliant in the sunshine and snow, was the tower of Big Ben, closer than she had ever seen it before. Every little detail of the beautifully crafted stone stood out with stunning clarity, and she could see the tremor of the great clock hands as the ancient but splendid mechanism pursued its remorseless course.

To the left she could see the great tiled roof of Westminster Hall, the oldest part of the Palace, which had survived the assault of fire, war, bomb and revolution and which had witnessed so much human achievement and misery. To her right she could see the River Thames, ebbing and flowing in its own irresistible fashion even as the tides of history swept capriciously along its banks. And in front of her she could see fresh footsteps in the snow.

He was there, standing by the balustrade at the far end of the terrace, looking out beyond the rooftops of Whitehall, north to where he knew the moors of his childhood still beckoned. He had never seen the view like this before, blanketed in snow. The sky was as clear as the air in the

Scottish valleys he had deserted; the rooftops carpeted in white he imagined to be the rolling moors on which he had spent so many enthralling hours hunting with the gillie, the steeples became the copses of spruce in which they had hidden while' they watched the progress of the deer. On a day such as this, he felt as if he could see right to the heart of his old Perthshire home, and beyond even to the heart of eternity. It was all his now.

He could see the white stone walls of the Home Office, behind which lay Buckingham Palace where, later that evening, he would be driven in triumph. There stood the Foreign Office, and next to it the Treasury at the entrance to Whitehall which he would shortly command more effectively than any hereditary king. Before him were spread the great offices of state which he would, soon dispense and dominate in a way which would at last lay to rest his father's haunting accusations and recompense for all the bitterness and loneliness to which he had so long condemned himself.

He was startled as he realised that someone was at his elbow.

'Miss Storin!' he exclaimed. "This is a surprise. I didn't think anyone would find me here - but you seem to have a habit of tracking me down. What is it this time - another exclusive interview?'

‘I hope it will be very exclusive, Mr Urquhart.'

'You know, I remember you were right in on the start. You were the first person ever to ask if I were going to stand for the leadership.'

'Perhaps it is appropriate that I should also be in on the end...'

'What do you mean?'

The time had come.

'Perhaps you should read this. It's the Press Association copy I have just taken from the printer.'

She pulled out of her shoulder bag a short piece of news agency copy which she handed to him.

London-30.11.91.

In a surprise development, Mr Benjamin Landless has announced that he has withdrawn his takeover offer for the United Newspapers Group.

In a brief statement, Landless indicated that he had been approached by senior political figures asking for editorial and financial support in exchange for their approval of the merger.

In such circumstances’ he said, ‘I think it to be in the national interest that the deal be suspended. I do not wish the reputation of my company in any way to be impugned by the reprehensible and possibly corrupt activity which has begun to infect this transaction’

Landless announced that he hoped to be able to release further details after he had consulted with his lawyers.

‘I don't understand. What does this mean?' asked Urquhart in a calm voice. But Mattie noticed that he had crumpled the news release up in his clenched fist.

It means, Mr Urquhart, that I know the full story. Now so does Benjamin Landless. And in a few days so will every newspaper reader in the country.'

A frown crossed his brow. There was no anger or anguish in his face yet, like a soldier who had been shot but whose nervous system had still to allow the pain to prize away the blanket of numbness which the shock had wrapped about him. But Mattie could have no mercy. She reached into her shoulder bag yet again, extracting a small tape recorder, and pressed a button. The tape which Landless had given Mattie began to turn and in the quiet, snow-clad air they could hear very distinctly the voices of the newspaper proprietor and the Chief Whip as they conspired together. The conversation was unambiguous, the recording of remarkable clarity and the contents unmistakably criminal as the two plotted to exchange editorial endorsement for political endorsement.

Mattie pressed another button, and the voices stopped.

‘I don't know whether you make a habit of taping all your colleagues' bedrooms, or just Patrick Woolton's, but I can assure you that Benjamin Landless tapes all of his telephone conversations’ she said.

Urquhart's face had frozen in the winter's air. He was beginning to feel the pain now.

'Tell me, Mr Urquhart. I know you blackmailed Roger O'Neill into opening the false address in Paddington for Charles Collingridge, but when the police investigate will they find his or your signature on the bank account?'

There was silence.

'Come now, as soon as I go to the authorities you will have to tell them everything, so why not tell me first?' More silence.

‘I know you and O'Neill between you leaked opinion polls and the news about the Territorial Army cuts. I know you also got him to enter a false computer file on Charles Collingridge into the Party's central computer-he didn't care for that, did he? I suspect he was even less excited about stealing the Party's confidential files on Michael Samuel. But one thing I'm not sure about. Was it you or Roger who concocted that silly tale about the cancelled publicity campaign on the hospital expansion scheme to feed to Stephen Kendrick?'

At last Urquhart managed to speak. He was breathing deeply, trying to hide the tension inside.

'You have a vivid imagination.'

'Oh, if only I did, Mr Urquhart, I would have caught you much earlier. No, it's not imagination which is going to expose you. It's this tape’ she said, patting the recorder she held in her hand. 'And the report which Mr Landless is going to publish at great length in the Telegraph.'

Now Urquhart visibly flinched.

'But Landless wouldn't... couldn't!'

'Oh, you don't think Mr Landless is going to take any of the blame, do you? No. He's going to make you the fall guy, Mr Urquhart Don't you realise? They are never going to let you be Prime Minister. I will write it, he will publish it, and you will never get to Downing Street.'

He shook his head in disbelief. A thin, cruel smile began to cross his lips. He couldn't tell whether it was the freezing weather or the frost he felt inside him, but he had that cold, tingling sensation up his spine once more. His breathing was steadier now, his hunter's instincts restoring his sense of physical control.

‘I don't suppose you would be willing to... ?' He let out a low, chilling laugh. 'No, of course not Silly of me. You seem to have thought of almost everything. Miss Storin.'

'Not quite everything. How did you kill Roger O'Neill?'

So she had that, too. The frost finally gripped his heart. His ice-blue hunter's eyes did not flicker. His body was motionless, tense, ready for action. At last he knew how his brother had felt, yet this was no iron-clad enemy which confronted him but a stupid, vulnerable, defenceless young woman. Only one of them could survive, and it must be him!

His voice was soft, almost a whisper, melting into the snow around them. 'Rat poison. It was so simple. I mixed it with his cocaine.' His piercing eyes were fixed on Mattie; she was no longer hunter, but prey. ‘He was so weak, he deserved to die.'

'No one deserves to die, Mr Urquhart'

But he was no longer listening. He was hunting, in a game of life or death whose rules allowed no respect for moral cliches. When he gazed down the gun sights at a deer he did not debate whether the deer deserved to die, nature decreed that some must die in order for others to survive and triumph. No one, particularly now, was going to deprive him of his triumph.

With surprising energy for a man of his age, he picked up one of the heavy wooden chairs from the terrace and held it aloft, poised to strike- down at her head. But she did not cower as he had expected. She stood her ground, defiant in front of him, even as she tried to comprehend her own danger.

In cold blood, Mr Urquhart? Face to face, in cold blood?'

This was like no prey he had ever hunted. Here, face to face, not a thousand impersonal yards away down a rifle sight but staring right back into his eyes! As her words pierced home, the moment was broken. The look of doubt crept into his eyes, and in a single bound his stag and his courage had disappeared. He gave a whimper as the chair dropped from his hands and the awful truth of his own cowardice dawned upon him. He had faced his challenge, a fight to the death, confronted the truth, and had failed. He sank to his knees in the deep snow.

'You can't prove a thing. It's your word against mine,' he whispered.

Mattie said nothing at first, but pressed the rewind button on her recorder. As the tape spun round, she looked down upon Urquhart, who was shivering violently.

‘Your final mistake, Mr Urquhart. You thought I switched it off.' She punched yet another button. As she did so, the clearly recorded words of their conversation filled the air, damning him in every syllable, the proof which would condemn him.

As she walked slowly away, leaving him wretched in the snow, the silence in his head was filled with the ghostly, mocking laughter of his father.

The setting sun pierced through the frosty sky. As it did so, it glanced off the snow-covered tower of Big Ben and cascaded into a thousand tiny streams of light, blinding the American tourist who was trying to capture the scene on video.

He was quite clear later in his description of what had happened.

The Parliament building had suddenly become like a great torch, set alight by the sun. It was really a beautiful sight, as if the whole building were ablaze. And then from way up under Big Ben, something seemed to fall. As if a moth had flown into the heart of an immense candle, and its blackened and charred body was falling all the way to the ground. It's difficult to believe it was a man, one of your politicians. What did you say his name was?'

She was tired, desperately tired, yet she felt an unaccustomed peace. The struggle with her memories was over, the pain purged. She could stop running now.

He sensed the change and could see it reflected in her exhausted but triumphant eyes. You know’ he mused, ‘I think you might make a halfway decent journalist after all’

Johnnie, I think you may just be right,' she said softly. 'Let's go home’