This Was A Man

1

Number six squeezed the trigger. The bullet left the rifle at 212 miles per hour, hitting its target a couple of inches below the left collarbone, killing him instantly.

The second bullet embedded itself in a tree, yards from where both bodies had fallen. Moments later five SAS paratroopers stormed through the undergrowth past the disused tin mine and surrounded both bodies. Like highly trained mechanics at a Formula One pit stop, each of them carried out his duties without discussion or question.

Number One, a lieutenant in charge of the unit, picked up Pengelly’s gun and placed it in a plastic bag, while Number Five, a doctor, knelt by the woman’s side and felt for a pulse: weak, but still alive. She must have fainted on hearing the sound of the first shot, which is why men facing a firing squad are often strapped to a post.

Numbers Two and Three, both corporals, lifted the unknown woman gently on to a stretcher and carried her towards a clearing in the woods some hundred yards away, where a helicopter with its blades already whirring awaited them. Once the stretcher was strapped inside, Number Five, the medic, climbed aboard to join his patient. The moment he’d clipped on his safety harness, the helicopter lifted off. He checked her pulse again; a little steadier.

On the ground, Number Four, a sergeant and the regiment’s heavyweight boxing champion, picked up the second body and threw it over his shoulder as if it were a sack of potatoes. The sergeant jogged off at his own pace, in the opposite direction to his colleagues. But then, he knew exactly where he was going.

A moment later a second helicopter appeared, and circled overhead, casting a wide beam of light on to the area of operation. Numbers Two and Three quickly returned from their stretcher-bearing duties and joined Number Six, the marksman, who’d climbed down from a tree, his rifle slung over his shoulder, as they began searching for the two bullets.

The first bullet was embedded in the ground just yards from where Pengelly had fallen. Number Six, who had followed its trajectory, located it within moments. Although every member of the unit was experienced in spotting ricochet marks or gunpowder residue, the second still took a little longer to discover. One of the corporals, on only his second mission, raised a hand the moment he spotted it. He dug it out of the tree with his knife and handed it to Number One, who dropped it into another plastic bag; a souvenir that would be mounted in a Mess that never had a guest night. Job done.

The four men ran back past the old tin mine towards the clearing and emerged just as the second helicopter was landing. The lieutenant waited until his men had clambered on board before he joined the pilot in the front and fastened his seat belt. As the helicopter lifted off, he pressed a stopwatch.

‘Nine minutes, forty-three seconds. Just about acceptable,’ he shouted above the roar of the rotating blades — he’d assured his commanding officer that the exercise would not only be successful, but would be completed in under ten minutes. He looked down on the terrain below and, other than a few footprints that would be washed away by the next rain shower, there was no sign of what had just taken place. If any of the locals had spotted the two helicopters heading off in different directions, they would not have given it a second thought. After all, RAF Bodmin was only twenty miles away, and daily ops were part of everyday life for the local residents.

One local, however, knew exactly what was going on. Colonel Henson MC (Rtd), had phoned RAF Bodmin within moments of seeing Pengelly leave the cottage firmly clutching his daughter’s arm. He’d rung the number he’d been instructed to call if he thought she was in any danger. Although he had no idea who was on the other end of the line, he delivered the single word ‘Tumbleweed’ before the line went dead. Forty-eight seconds later, a brace of helicopters was in the air.

The commanding officer walked across to the window and watched as two Puma aircraft flew over his office and headed south. He paced around the room, checking his watch every few seconds. A man of action, he wasn’t born to be a spectator, although he reluctantly accepted that at the age of thirty-nine, he was too old for covert operations. They also serve who only stand and wait.

When ten minutes had finally passed, he returned to the window, but it was another three minutes before he spotted a single helicopter descending through the clouds. He waited a few more seconds before he felt it was safe to uncross his fingers, because if the second one was following in its wake, it would mean the operation had failed. His instructions from London could not have been clearer. If the woman was dead, her body was to be flown to Truro and placed in a private hospital wing, where a third team already had their instructions. If she had survived she was to be flown to London, where a fourth team would take over. The CO didn’t know what their orders were and had no idea who the woman was; that information was way above his pay grade.

When the helicopter landed, the CO still didn’t move. A door opened and the lieutenant jumped out, bending double as the blades were still rotating. He ran a few yards before he stood up straight and, seeing the colonel standing at the window, gave him a thumbs up. The CO breathed a sigh of relief, returned to his desk and phoned the number on his notepad. It would be the second and last time he spoke to the cabinet secretary.

‘Colonel Dawes, sir.’

‘Good evening, colonel,’ said Sir Alan.

‘Operation Tumbleweed completed and successful, sir. Puma One back at base. Puma Two on its way home.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sir Alan, and put the phone down. There wasn’t a moment to waste. His next appointment would be turning up at any minute. As if he was a prophet, the door opened and his secretary announced, ‘Lord Barrington.’

‘Giles,’ Sir Alan said, getting up from behind his desk and shaking hands with his guest. ‘Can I offer you some tea or coffee?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Giles, who was only interested in one thing: finding out why the cabinet secretary had wanted to see him so urgently.

‘Sorry to drag you out of the chamber,’ said Sir Alan, ‘but I need to discuss a private matter with you, on Privy Council terms.’

Giles hadn’t heard those words since he’d been a cabinet minister, but he didn’t need reminding that whatever he and Sir Alan were about to talk about could never be repeated, unless the other person present was also a privy councillor.

Giles nodded, and Sir Alan said, ‘Let me begin by saying your wife Karin is not Pengelly’s daughter.’

One broken window and a moment later the six of them were inside. They didn’t know exactly what they were looking for, but when they saw it, they wouldn’t be in any doubt. The major in charge of the second unit, known as the litter collectors, didn’t carry a stopwatch, because he wasn’t in a hurry. His men had been trained to take their time and make sure they didn’t miss anything. They were never given a second chance.

Unlike his colleagues in unit one, they were dressed in tracksuits and carried large black plastic bin liners. There was one exception, Number Four — but then he wasn’t a permanent member of their unit. The curtains were all drawn before the lights were turned on and the search could begin. The men meticulously dismantled each room, swiftly, methodically, leaving nothing to chance. Two hours later they had filled eight plastic bags. They ignored the body that Number Four had placed on the carpet in the front room, although one of them did search his pockets.

The last things they went through were the three suitcases that had been left standing by the door in the hallway — a veritable treasure-trove. Their contents only filled one bag, but contained more information than the other seven put together: diaries, names, telephone numbers, addresses and confidential files that Pengelly had no doubt intended to take back to Moscow.

The unit then spent another hour double-checking, but came across little else of interest, but then they were pros, trained to get it right first time. Once the unit commander was convinced they could do no more, the six men made their way out of the back door and took separate well-rehearsed routes back to the depot, leaving only Number Four behind. But then he was not a litter collector, but a destroyer.

When the sergeant heard the back door close, he lit a cigarette and took a few drags before dropping the glowing stub on to the carpet next to the body. He then sprinkled the fuel from his lighter on to the dying embers and moments later a blue flame leapt up and set the carpet alight. He knew it would spread quickly throughout the small timbered cottage, but he needed to be certain so he didn’t leave until the smoke caused him to cough, when he walked quickly out of the room and headed for the back door. After he’d left the cottage he turned around and, satisfied the fire was out of control, began to jog back to base. He wouldn’t be calling the fire brigade.

All twelve men arrived back at barracks at different times, and only became a single unit again when they met in the Mess for a drink later that evening. The colonel joined them for dinner.

The cabinet secretary stood by the window of his office on the first floor and waited until he saw Giles Barrington leave No.10 and set off purposefully along Downing Street towards Whitehall. He then returned to his desk, sat down and thought carefully about his next call, and how much he would reveal.

Harry Clifton was in the kitchen when the phone rang. He picked it up, and when he heard the words, ‘This is Number Ten, would you hold the line please,’ he assumed it would be the Prime Minister for Emma. He couldn’t remember if she was at the hospital or chairing a meeting at Barrington House.

‘Good morning, Mr Clifton, it’s Alan Redmayne. Is this a good time?’

Harry nearly laughed out loud. He was tempted to say, no, Sir Alan, it isn’t, I’m in the kitchen making myself a cup of tea, and can’t decide between one sugar lump or two, so perhaps you could call back later? But instead, he switched off the kettle. ‘Of course, Sir Alan, how can I help?’

‘I wanted you to be the first to know that John Pengelly is no longer a problem, and although you’ve been kept in the dark, you should be aware that your fears about Karin Brandt were unfounded, although understandable. Pengelly was not her father, and for the past five years she has been one of our most trusted operatives. Now that Pengelly is no longer an issue, she will be on gardening leave, and we have no plans for her to return to work.’

Harry assumed ‘no longer an issue’ was a euphemism for ‘Pengelly has been eliminated’, and even though there were several questions he would have liked to ask the cabinet secretary, he kept his counsel. He knew that a man who kept secrets even from the Prime Minister would be unlikely to answer them.

‘Thank you, Sir Alan. Is there anything else I ought to know?’

‘Yes, your brother-in-law has also just found out the truth about his wife, but Lord Barrington doesn’t know it was you who led us to Pengelly in the first place. Frankly, I’d prefer he never did.’

‘But what do I say if he ever raises the subject?’

‘No need to say anything. After all, he has no reason to suspect that you stumbled across the name Pengelly while you were in Moscow for a book conference, and I certainly haven’t enlightened him.’

‘Thank you, Sir Alan. It was good of you to brief me.’

‘Not at all. And by the way, Mr Clifton, many congratulations. Well deserved.’

After Giles had left No. 10, he made his way quickly back to his home in Smith Square. He was relieved it was Markham’s day off, and once he’d opened the front door, he immediately went upstairs to the bedroom. He switched on the bedside light, drew the curtains and pulled back the top sheet. Although it was only just after six o’clock, the street lamps in Smith Square were already ablaze.

He was halfway down the stairs when the front doorbell rang. He ran to open it and found a young man standing on the doorstep. Behind him was an unmarked black van, its back doors open. The man thrust out his hand. ‘I’m Dr Weeden. I think you’re expecting us?’

‘I am,’ said Giles, as two men emerged from the back of the van and gently offloaded a stretcher.

‘Follow me,’ said Giles, leading them upstairs to the bedroom. The two orderlies lifted the unconscious woman off the stretcher and placed her on the bed. Giles pulled the blanket over his wife, as the stretcher bearers left without a word.

The doctor checked her pulse. ‘I’ve given her a sedative, so she’ll be asleep for a couple of hours. When she wakes she may well imagine for a moment that it was all a nightmare, but once she finds she’s in familiar surroundings she’ll quickly recover and recall exactly what happened. She’s bound to wonder how much you know, so you have a little time to think about that.’

‘I already have,’ said Giles, before accompanying Dr Weeden downstairs and opening the front door. The two men shook hands a second time before the doctor climbed into the front of the black van without a backward glance. The anonymous vehicle drove slowly round Smith Square then turned right and joined the heavy evening traffic.

Once the van was out of sight, Giles closed the door and ran back upstairs. He pulled up a chair and sat down by his sleeping wife.

Giles must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew Karin was sitting up in bed and staring at him. He blinked, smiled and took her in his arms.

‘It’s all over, my darling. You’re safe now,’ he said.

‘I thought if you ever found out, you’d never forgive me,’ she said, clinging on to him.

‘There’s nothing to forgive. Let’s forget about the past and concentrate on the future.’

‘But it’s important I tell you everything,’ said Karin. ‘No more secrets.’

‘Alan Redmayne has already fully briefed me,’ said Giles, trying to reassure her.

‘Not fully,’ Karin said, releasing him. ‘Even he doesn’t know everything, and I can’t go on living a lie.’ Giles looked at her anxiously. ‘The truth is, I used you to get out of Germany. Yes, I liked you, but once I was safely in England I intended to escape from both you and Pengelly and start a new life. And I would have, if I hadn’t fallen in love with you.’ Giles took her hand. ‘But in order to keep you, I had to make sure Pengelly still believed I was working for him. It was Cynthia Forbes-Watson who came to my rescue.’

‘Mine too,’ said Giles. ‘But in my case I fell in love with you after the night we spent together in Berlin. It wasn’t my fault you took a little longer to realize just how lucky you were.’ Karin burst out laughing and wrapped her arms around him. When she released him, Giles said, ‘I’ll go and make you a cup of tea.’

Only the British, thought Karin.

2

‘What time are we commanded to attend Her Majesty’s pleasure?’ asked Emma, with a grin, unwilling to admit how proud she was of her husband, and how much she was looking forward to the occasion. Unlike the board meeting she would be chairing later that week, which was rarely far from her mind.

‘Any time between ten and eleven,’ said Harry, checking his invitation card.

‘Did you remember to book the car?’

‘Yesterday afternoon. And I double-checked first thing this morning,’ he added as the front doorbell rang.

‘That will be Seb,’ said Emma. She looked at her watch. ‘And he’s on time for a change.’

‘I don’t think he was ever going to be late for this one,’ Karin said.

Giles rose from his place at the breakfast table when Markham opened the door and stood aside to allow Jessica, Seb and a heavily pregnant Samantha to join them.

‘Have you lot had breakfast?’ Giles asked, as he kissed Samantha on the cheek.

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Seb, as Jessica plonked herself down at the table, buttered a slice of toast and grabbed the marmalade.

‘Clearly not all of you,’ said Harry, grinning at his granddaughter.

‘How much time have I got?’ asked Jessica between mouthfuls.

‘Five minutes at the most,’ said Emma firmly. ‘I don’t want to arrive at the palace any later than ten thirty, young lady.’ Jessica buttered another piece of toast.

‘Giles,’ said Emma, turning to her brother, ‘it was kind of you to put us up for the night, and I’m only sorry you can’t join us.’

‘Immediate family only is the rule,’ said Giles, ‘and quite rightly, otherwise they’d need a football stadium to accommodate everyone who wanted to attend.’

There was a gentle tap on the front door.

‘That will be our driver,’ said Emma. Once again she checked that Harry’s silk tie was straight and removed a grey hair from his morning suit before saying, ‘Follow me.’

‘Once a chairman, always a chairman,’ whispered Giles, as he accompanied his brother-in-law to the front door. Seb and Samantha followed, with Jessica bringing up the rear, now munching her third piece of toast.

As Emma stepped out on to Smith Square, a chauffeur opened the back door of a black limousine. She ushered her flock inside before joining Harry and Jessica on the back seat. Samantha and Seb sat on the two tip-up seats facing them.

‘Are you nervous, Grandpops?’ asked Jessica, as the car moved off and joined the morning traffic.

‘No,’ said Harry. ‘Unless you’re planning to overthrow the state.’

‘Don’t put ideas into her head,’ said Sebastian as they drove past the House of Commons and into Parliament Square.

Even Jessica fell silent when the car drove through Admiralty Arch and Buckingham Palace came into sight. The chauffeur proceeded slowly up the Mall, driving around the statue of Queen Victoria before stopping outside the palace gates. He wound down his window and said to the young Guards officer, ‘Mr Harry Clifton and family.’

The lieutenant smiled and ticked off a name on his clipboard. ‘Drive through the archway to your left and one of my colleagues will show you where to park.’

The driver followed his instructions and entered a large courtyard, where row upon row of cars were already parked.

‘Please park next to the blue Ford on the far side,’ said another officer, pointing across the yard, ‘then your party can make their way into the palace.’

When Harry stepped out of the car, Emma gave him one final check.

‘I know you’re not going to believe this,’ she whispered, ‘but your flies are undone.’

Harry turned bright red as he zipped himself up before they made their way up the steps and into the palace. Two liveried footmen in the gold and red uniform of the royal household stood rigidly to attention at the bottom of a wide, red-carpeted staircase. Harry and Emma slowly climbed the steps, trying to take everything in. When they reached the top, they were greeted by two more gentlemen of the royal household. Harry noticed that the rank rose every time they were stopped.

‘Harry Clifton,’ he said before he was asked.

‘Good morning, Mr Clifton,’ said the senior of the two officers. ‘Would you be kind enough to accompany me? My colleague will conduct your family to the Throne Room.’

‘Good luck,’ whispered Emma, as Harry was led away.

The family climbed another staircase, not quite as wide, which led into a long gallery. Emma paused as she entered the high-ceilinged room and stared at the rows of closely hung paintings that she’d only seen before in art books. She turned to Samantha. ‘As we’re unlikely to be invited a second time, I suspect Jessica would like to learn more about the Royal Collection.’

‘Me too,’ said Sebastian.

‘Many of the kings and queens of England,’ began Samantha, ‘were art connoisseurs and collectors, so this is only a tiny selection from the Royal Collection, which is not actually owned by the monarch, but by the nation. You will notice that the focus of the picture gallery is on British artists from the early nineteenth century. A remarkable Turner of Venice hangs opposite an exquisite painting of Lincoln Cathedral by his old rival, Constable. But the gallery, as you can see, is dominated by a vast portrait of Charles II on horseback, painted by Van Dyck, who at the time was the court artist in residence.’

Jessica became so entranced she almost forgot why they were there. When they finally reached the Throne Room, Emma regretted not having set out earlier, as the first ten rows of chairs were already occupied. She walked quickly down the centre aisle, grabbed a place on the end of the first available row and waited for the family to join her. Once they were seated, Jessica began to study the room carefully.

Just over three hundred neat gold chairs were laid out in rows of sixteen, with a wide aisle separating them down the centre. At the front of the room was a red-carpeted step that swept up to a large empty throne that awaited its rightful occupant. The buzz of nervous chatter ceased at six minutes to eleven when a tall, elegant man in morning dress entered the room, came to a halt at the foot of the step and turned to face the assembled gathering.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘and welcome to Buckingham Palace. Today’s investiture will begin in a few minutes’ time. Can I remind you not to take photographs, and please do not leave before the ceremony is over.’ Without another word, he departed as discreetly as he had entered.

Jessica opened her bag and took out a small pad and a pencil. ‘He didn’t say anything about drawing, Grandma,’ she whispered.

As eleven o’clock struck, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II entered the throne room, and all the guests rose. She took her place on the step in front of the throne but did not speak. A nod from a gentleman usher, and the first recipient of an honour entered from the other side of the room. For the next hour, men and women from around the United Kingdom and Commonwealth received honours from their monarch, who held a short conversation with every one of them before the usher nodded once again and the next recipient took their place.

Jessica’s pencil was poised and ready when Grandpops entered the room. As he walked towards the Queen, the gentleman usher placed a small stool in front of Her Majesty and then handed her a sword. Jessica’s pencil didn’t rest for even a moment, capturing the scene as Harry knelt down on one knee and bowed his head. The Queen touched the tip of the sword gently on his right shoulder, lifted it, then placed it on his left shoulder, before saying, ‘Arise, Sir Harry.’

‘So what happened after you were marched off to the Tower?’ demanded Jessica as they drove out of the palace and back down the Mall, to take Harry to his favourite restaurant a few hundred yards away for a celebration lunch.

‘To begin with, we were all taken into an anteroom where a gentleman usher guided us through the ceremony. He was very polite, and suggested that when we met the Queen we should bow from the neck,’ said Harry, giving a demonstration, ‘and not from the waist like a page boy. He told us we shouldn’t shake hands with her, should address her as Your Majesty, and should wait for her to begin the conversation. Under no circumstances were we to ask her any questions.’

‘How boring,’ said Jessica, ‘because there are lots of questions I’d like to ask her.’

‘And when replying to any question she might ask,’ said Harry, ignoring his granddaughter, ‘we should address her as ma’am, which rhymes with jam. Then once the audience is over, we should bow again.’

‘From the neck,’ said Jessica.

‘And then take our leave.’

‘But what would happen if you didn’t leave,’ asked Jessica, ‘and began to ask her questions?’

‘The gentleman usher assured us very politely that should we outstay our welcome, he had instructions to chop off our heads.’ Everyone laughed except Jessica.

‘I would refuse to bow or call her Your Majesty,’ said Jessica firmly.

‘Her Majesty is very tolerant of rebels,’ said Sebastian, trying to guide the conversation back on to safer ground, ‘and accepts that the Americans have been out of control since 1776.’

‘So what did she talk about?’ asked Emma.

‘She told me how much she enjoyed my novels, and asked if there would be another William Warwick this Christmas. Yes, ma’am, I replied, but you might not enjoy my next book, as I’m thinking of killing William off.’

‘What did she think of that idea?’ asked Sebastian.

‘She reminded me what her great-great-grandmother Queen Victoria had said to Lewis Carroll after she’d read Alice in Wonderland. However, I assured her that my next book will not be a mathematical thesis on Euclid.’

‘How did she respond?’ asked Samantha.

‘She smiled, to show the conversation had come to an end.’

‘So if you’re going to kill off William Warwick, what will be the theme of your next book?’ asked Sebastian, as the car pulled up outside the restaurant.

‘I once promised your grandmother, Seb,’ replied Harry, as he stepped out of the car, ‘that I would try to write a more substantial work that would, in her words, outlast any bestseller list and stand the test of time. I’m not getting any younger, so once I’ve completed my present contract, I intend to try and find out if I’m capable of living up to her expectations.’

‘Do you have an idea, a subject or even a title?’ pressed Seb as they entered Le Caprice.

‘Yes, yes, and yes,’ said Harry, ‘but that’s all I’m willing to tell you at the moment.’

‘But you’ll tell me, won’t you, Grandpops?’ said Jessica, as she produced a pencil drawing of Harry kneeling before the Queen, a sword touching his right shoulder.

Harry gasped as the rest of the family smiled and applauded. He was about to answer her question, when the maître d’ stepped forward and rescued him.

‘Your table is ready, Sir Harry.’

3

‘Never, never, never,’ said Emma. ‘Do I have to remind you that Sir Joshua founded Barrington’s Shipping in 1839, and in his first year made a profit of—’

‘Thirty-three pounds, four shillings and tuppence, which you first told me when I was five years old,’ said Sebastian. ‘However, the truth is that although Barrington’s managed a reasonable dividend for its shareholders last year, it’s becoming more and more difficult for us to go on challenging the big boys like Cunard and P and O.’

‘I wonder what your grandfather would have thought about Barrington’s being taken over by one of his fiercest rivals?’

‘After everything I’ve been told or read about the great man,’ said Seb, looking up at the portrait of Sir Walter that hung on the wall behind his mother, ‘he would have considered his options, and what would be best for the shareholders and employees, before coming to a final decision.’

‘Without wishing to interrupt this family squabble,’ said Admiral Summers, ‘surely what we should be discussing is whether Cunard’s offer is worth the biscuit.’

‘It’s a fair offer,’ said Sebastian matter-of-factly, ‘but I’m confident I can get them to raise their bid by at least ten per cent, possibly fifteen, which frankly is as much as we could hope for. So all we really have to decide is do we want to take their offer seriously, or reject it out of hand?’

‘Then perhaps it’s time to listen to the views of our fellow directors,’ said Emma, looking around the boardroom table.

‘Of course, we can all express an opinion, chairman,’ said Philip Webster, the company secretary, ‘on what is unquestionably the most important decision in the company’s history. However, as your family remain the majority shareholders, only you can decide the outcome.’

The other directors nodded in agreement but it didn’t stop them offering their opinions for the next forty minutes, by which time Emma had discovered they were evenly divided.

‘Right,’ she said, after one or two directors began repeating themselves, ‘Clive, as head of our public relations division, I suggest you prepare two press statements for the board’s consideration. The first will be short and to the point, leaving Cunard in no doubt that while we are flattered by their offer, Barrington’s Shipping is a family company, and is not for sale.’

The admiral looked pleased, while Sebastian remained impassive.

‘And the second?’ asked Clive Bingham, after writing down the chairman’s words.

‘The board rejects Cunard’s offer as derisory and, as far as we’re concerned, it’s business as usual.’

‘That will lead them to believe that you might just be interested if the price was right,’ warned Seb.

‘And then what would happen?’ asked the admiral.

‘The curtain will go up, and the pantomime will begin,’ said Seb, ‘because the chairman of Cunard will be well aware that the leading lady is doing no more than dropping her handkerchief on the floor in the expectation that the suitor will pick it up and begin an age-old courting process that just might end with a proposal she feels able to accept.’

‘How much time have we got?’ asked Emma.

‘The City will be aware we’re holding a board meeting to discuss the takeover bid, and will expect a response to Cunard’s offer by close of business tonight. The market can handle almost anything, drought, famine, an unexpected election result, even a coup, but not indecision.’

Emma opened her handbag, removed a handkerchief and dropped it on the floor.

‘What did you think of the sermon?’ asked Harry.

‘Most interesting,’ said Emma. ‘But then, the Reverend Dodswell always preaches a good sermon,’ she added as they left the churchyard and made their way back to the Manor House.

‘I’d discuss his views on Doubting Thomas, if I thought you’d listened to a word.’

‘I found his approach fascinating,’ protested Emma.

‘No, you didn’t. He never once mentioned Doubting Thomas, and I won’t embarrass you further by asking you what he did preach about. I only hope Our Lord will be understanding about your preoccupation with the possible takeover.’

They walked a few more yards in silence before Emma said, ‘It’s not the takeover that’s worrying me.’

‘Then what?’ said Harry, sounding surprised. Emma took his hand. ‘That bad?’ he asked.

‘The Maple Leaf has returned to Bristol and is docked in the breakers’ yard.’ She paused. ‘Demolition work will begin on Tuesday.’

They continued walking for some time before Harry asked, ‘What do you want to do about it?’

‘I don’t think we have a lot of choice, if we’re not going to spend the rest of our lives wondering...’

‘And it might finally answer the question that’s bedevilled us for our entire lives. So why don’t you try and find out if there’s anything in the ship’s double bottom as discreetly as possible.’

‘Work could begin immediately,’ admitted Emma. ‘But I wasn’t willing to give the final go-ahead until I had your blessing.’

Clive Bingham had been delighted when Emma asked him to join the board of Barrington’s Shipping, and although it hadn’t been easy to take his father’s place as a director, he felt the company had benefited from his experience and expertise in the public relations field, which it had been sadly lacking until his appointment. Even so, he had no doubt what Sir Walter Barrington would have thought about a PR man joining the board: like a tradesman being invited to dinner.

Clive headed up his own PR company in the City, with a staff of eleven who had experienced several takeover battles in the past. But he admitted to Seb that he’d been losing sleep over this one.

‘Why? There’s nothing particularly unusual about a family company being taken over. It’s been happening a lot recently.’

‘I agree,’ said Clive, ‘but this time it’s personal. Your mother had the confidence to invite me to join the board after my father resigned, and frankly it’s not as if I’m briefing the trade press on a new shipping route to the Bahamas, or the latest loyalty scheme, or even the building of a third liner. If I get this one wrong—’

‘So far your briefings have been pitch perfect,’ said Seb, ‘and Cunard’s latest bid is almost there. We know it, and they know it, so you couldn’t have done a more professional job.’

‘It’s kind of you to say so, Seb, but I feel like a runner in the home straight. I can see the tape but there’s still one more hurdle to cross.’

‘And you’ll do it in style.’

Clive hesitated a moment before he spoke again. ‘I’m not convinced your mother really wants to go ahead with the takeover.’

‘You may well be right,’ said Seb. ‘However, there is a compensation for her that you might not have considered.’

‘Namely?’

‘She’s becoming more and more involved with her work as chairman of the hospital, which, don’t forget, employs more people and has an even bigger budget than Barrington’s Shipping and, perhaps more important, no one can take it over.’

‘But how do Giles and Grace feel? After all, they’re the majority shareholders.’

‘They’ve left the final decision to her, which is probably why she asked me how I felt. And I didn’t leave her in any doubt that I’m a banker by nature, not a shipping man, and I’d rather be chairman of Farthings Kaufman than of Barrington’s. It can’t have been easy for her, but she’s finally accepted that I couldn’t do both. If only I had a younger brother.’

‘Or sister,’ said Clive.

‘Shh... or Jessica might start getting ideas.’

‘She’s only thirteen.’

‘I don’t think that would worry her.’

‘How’s she settling down in her new school?’

‘Her art teacher admitted she’s letting it be known before it becomes too obvious that the school has a third-former who’s already a better artist than she is.’

When Emma returned from the breakers’ yard late on Monday evening, she knew she had to tell Harry what Frank Gibson and his team had found when they prised open the Maple Leaf’s double bottom.

‘It turned out be exactly as we’ve always feared,’ she said as she sat down opposite Harry. ‘Even worse.’

‘Worse?’ repeated Harry.

She bowed her head. ‘Arthur had scratched a message on the side of the double bottom.’ She paused, but couldn’t get the words out.

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Harry, taking her hand.

‘I do. Otherwise we’ll just go on living a lie for the rest of our lives.’ It was some time before she managed, ‘He’d written, “Stan was right. Sir Hugo knew I was trapped down here”... So, my father murdered your father,’ she said between sobs.

It was some time before Harry said, ‘That’s something we can never be sure about, and perhaps, my darling, it’s better we don’t—’

‘I no longer want to know. But the poor man should at least have a Christian burial. Your mother would have expected nothing less.’

‘I’ll have a quiet word with the vicar.’

‘Who else should be there?’

‘Just the two of us,’ said Harry without hesitation. ‘Nothing can be gained from putting Seb and Jessie through the pain we’ve had to suffer for so many years. And let’s pray that’s an end to the matter.’

Emma looked across at her husband. ‘You clearly haven’t heard about the Cambridge scientists who are working on something called DNA.’

‘Damn,’ said Clive when he had read the Financial Times headline. ‘How can I have been so stupid?’

‘Stop beating yourself up,’ said Seb. ‘The truth is, we are almost there.’

‘We both know that,’ said Clive. ‘But we didn’t need Cunard to find out.’

‘They already knew,’ said Seb, ‘long before they saw that headline. Frankly, we’d be lucky to milk more than another percentage point out of this deal. I suspect they’ve already reached their limit.’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Clive, ‘your mother won’t exactly be pleased, and who could blame her?’

‘She’ll assume it’s all part of the endgame, and I’m not going to be the one to disabuse her.’

‘Thanks for the support, Seb. I appreciate it.’

‘It’s no more than you gave me when Sloane appointed himself chairman of Farthings and then sacked me the next day. Have you forgotten that Kaufman’s was the only bank that offered me a job? And in any case, my mother might even be pleased by the headline.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m still not convinced she wants this takeover to succeed.’

‘Is this going to harm the takeover?’ asked Emma after she’d read the article.

‘We may have to sacrifice a point, possibly two,’ said Seb. ‘But don’t forget Cedric Hardcastle’s sage words on the subject of takeovers. If you end up with more than you expected, while the other side feel they’ve got the better of the deal, everyone leaves the table happy.’

‘How do you think Giles and Grace will react?’

‘Uncle Giles is spending most of his spare time running up and down the country visiting marginal seats in the hope that Labour can still win the next election. Because if Margaret Thatcher becomes our next prime minister, he may never hold office again.’

‘And Grace?’

‘I don’t think she’s ever read the FT in her life, and she certainly wouldn’t know what to do if you handed her a cheque for twenty million pounds, remembering her present salary is about twenty thousand a year.’

‘She’ll need your help and advice, Seb.’

‘Be assured, Mama, Farthings Kaufman will invest Dr Barrington’s capital most judiciously, well aware that she’ll be retiring in a few years and hoping for a regular income and somewhere to live.’

‘She can come and live with us in Somerset,’ said Emma. ‘Maisie’s old cottage would suit her perfectly.’

‘She’s far too proud for that,’ said Seb, ‘and you know it, Mama. In fact, she’s already told me she’s looking for somewhere in Cambridge so she can be near her friends.’

‘But once the takeover goes through, she’ll have enough to buy a castle.’

‘My bet,’ said Seb, ‘is that she’ll still end up in a small terraced house not far from her old college.’

‘You’re getting dangerously close to becoming wise,’ said Emma, wondering if she should share her latest problem with her son.

4

‘Six months,’ said Harry. ‘The damn man should have been hanged, drawn and quartered.’

‘What are you going on about?’ asked Emma, calmly, as she poured herself a second cup of tea.

‘The thug who punched an A and E nurse, and then assaulted a doctor, has only been sentenced to six months.’

‘Dr Hands,’ said Emma. ‘While I agree with your sentiments, there were extenuating circumstances.’

‘Like what?’ demanded Harry.

‘The nurse concerned wasn’t willing to give evidence when the case came to court.’

‘Why not?’ asked Harry, putting down his paper.

‘Several of my best nurses come from overseas and don’t want to appear in the witness box for fear the authorities might discover that their immigration papers are not always, let’s say, in apple-pie order.’

‘That’s no reason to turn a blind eye to this sort of thing,’ said Harry.

‘We don’t have a lot of choice if the NHS isn’t going to break down.’

‘That doesn’t alter the fact that this thug hit a nurse —’ Harry checked the article again — ‘on a Saturday night when he was obviously drunk.’

‘Saturday night is the clue,’ said Emma, ‘that William Warwick would have discovered once he’d interviewed the hospital matron and discovered why she turns on the radio every Saturday afternoon at five o’clock.’ Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘To hear the result of the Bristol City or Bristol Rovers match, depending on which of them is playing at home that day.’ Harry didn’t interrupt. ‘If they’ve won, it will be a quiet night for A and E. If they’ve drawn, it will be bearable. But if they’ve lost, it will be a nightmare, because we simply don’t have enough staff to cope.’

‘Just because the home team lost a football match?’

‘Yes, because you can guarantee the home fans will drown their sorrows and then end up getting into fights. Some, surprise, surprise, turn up in A and E, where they’ll have to wait for hours before someone can attend to them. Result? Even more fights break out in the waiting room, and occasionally a nurse or doctor tries to intervene.’

‘Don’t you have security to handle that?’

‘Not enough, I’m afraid. And the hospital doesn’t have the resources while seventy per cent of its annual funding is spent on wages, and the government is insisting on cutbacks, not handouts. So you can be sure we’ll face exactly the same problem next Saturday night should Rovers lose to Cardiff City.’

‘Has Mrs Thatcher come up with any ideas for solving the problem?’

‘I suspect she’d agree with you, my darling. Hanged, drawn and quartered would be too good for them. But I don’t think you’ll find that particular policy highlighted in the next Conservative Party manifesto.’

Dr Richards listened to his patient’s heartbeat, 72bpm, and ticked another box.

‘One final thing, Sir Harry,’ said the doctor, pulling on a latex glove. ‘I just want to check your prostate.

‘Hmm,’ he said, a few moments later. ‘There may be a very small lump there. We ought to keep an eye on it. You get dressed now, Sir Harry. All in all, you’re in pretty good shape for a man approaching his sixties. An age when many of us are considering retirement.’

‘Not me,’ said Harry. ‘I’ve still got to deliver another William Warwick before I can get down to my next novel, which could take me a couple of years. So I need to live until at least seventy. Is that understood, Dr Richards?’

‘Three score years and ten. No more than the Maker’s contract. I don’t think that should be a problem,’ he added, ‘as long as you’re still exercising.’ He checked his patient’s file. ‘When I last saw you, Sir Harry, you were running three miles, twice a week, and walking five miles, three times a week. Is that still the case?’

‘Yes, but I have to confess I’ve stopped timing myself.’

‘Are you still keeping to that routine between your two-hour writing sessions?’

‘Every morning, five days a week.’

‘Excellent. In fact, that’s more than many of my younger patients could manage. Just a couple more questions. I take it you still don’t smoke?’

‘Never.’

‘And how much do you drink on an average day?’

‘A glass of wine at dinner, but not at lunch. It would send me to sleep in the afternoon.’

‘Then, frankly, seventy should be a doddle, as long as you don’t get run over by a bus.’

‘Not much risk of that, since our local bus only visits the village twice a day, despite Emma regularly writing to the council to complain.’

The doctor smiled. ‘That sounds like our chairman.’ Dr Richards closed the file, rose from behind his desk and accompanied Harry out of the consultation room.

‘How’s Lady Clifton?’ he asked as they walked down the corridor.

Emma hated the courtesy title of ‘lady’ because she felt she hadn’t earned it, and insisted everyone at the hospital still call her Mrs Clifton or ‘chairman’. ‘You tell me,’ said Harry.

‘I’m not her doctor,’ said Richards, ‘but I can tell you she’s the best chairman we’ve ever had, and I’m not sure who’ll be brave enough to replace her when she stands down in a year’s time.’

Harry smiled. Whenever he visited the Bristol Royal Infirmary, he could sense the respect and affection the staff felt for Emma.

‘If we win hospital of the year a second time,’ Dr Richards added, ‘she’ll certainly have played her part.’

As they continued down the corridor, Harry passed two nurses who were taking a tea break. He noticed that one of them had a black eye and a swollen cheek which, despite heavy make-up, she hadn’t been able to disguise. Dr Richards led Harry into a small cubicle that was empty apart from a bed and a couple of chairs.

‘Take your jacket off. A nurse will be with you shortly.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harry. ‘I look forward to seeing you again in a year’s time.’

‘Once we’ve got all the tests back from the labs, I’ll drop you a line with the results. Not that I imagine they’ll be much different from last year.’

Harry slipped off his jacket, hung it over the back of a chair, took off his shoes and climbed on to the bed. He lay down, closed his eyes and began to think about the next chapter of William Warwick and the Three Card Trick. How could the suspect possibly have been in two places at once? Either he was in bed with his wife or he was driving up to Manchester. Which was it? The doctor had left the door open and Harry’s thoughts were interrupted when he heard someone saying ‘Dr Hands’. Where had he heard that name before?

‘Will you report him to Matron?’ the voice asked.

‘Not if I want to keep my job,’ said a second voice.

‘So old wandering hands gets away with it again.’

‘As long as it’s just his word against mine, he has nothing to fear.’

‘What did he get up to this time?’

Harry sat up, took a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket and listened carefully to the conversation that was taking place in the corridor.

‘I was in the laundry room on the third floor picking up some fresh sheets when someone came in. When the door closed and I heard it lock, I knew it could only be one person. I pretended not to notice, picked up some sheets and made a beeline for the door. I tried to unlock it, but he grabbed me and pressed himself up against me. It was disgusting. I thought I’d throw up. No need for anyone to know about this, he said, just a bit of fun. I tried to elbow him in the groin but he had me pinned against the wall. Then he swung me round and started trying to kiss me.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Bit his tongue. He yelled, called me a bitch and slapped me across the face. But it gave me enough time to unlock the door and escape.’

‘You have to report him. It’s time the bastard was removed from this hospital.’

‘Not much chance of that. When I saw him on ward rounds this morning, he warned me that I’d be looking for another job if I opened my mouth, and then added’ — her voice dropped to a whisper — ‘when a woman’s got her mouth open, it’s only good for one thing.’

‘He’s sick, and shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.’

‘Don’t forget how powerful he is. He got Mandy’s boyfriend sacked after he told the police he’d seen him assaulting her, when he was the one who’d hit her. So what chance would I have after a grope in the laundry room? No, I’ve decided—’

‘Good morning, Sir Harry,’ said a staff nurse as she entered the room and closed the door behind her. ‘Dr Richards has asked me to take a blood sample and send it to the labs. Just a routine check, so if you could roll up one of your sleeves.’

‘I suppose only one of us is qualified to be chairman,’ said Giles, unable to hide a smirk.

‘This is no laughing matter,’ said Emma. ‘I’ve already drawn up an agenda to make sure we cover all the topics that need to be discussed.’ She handed Giles and Grace a copy each, and allowed them a few moments to consider the items before she spoke again.

‘Perhaps I should bring you up to date before we move on to item one.’ Her brother and sister nodded. ‘The board accepted Cunard’s final offer of three pounds forty-one pence a share, and the takeover was completed at midday on February the twenty-sixth.’

‘That must have been quite a wrench,’ said Giles, sounding genuinely sympathetic.

‘I have to admit that while I was clearing out my office, I was still wondering if I’d done the right thing. And I was glad no one else was in the room when I took down Grandfather’s portrait, because I couldn’t look him in the eye.’

‘I’d be happy to welcome Walter back to Barrington Hall,’ said Giles. ‘He can hang alongside Grandma in the library.’

‘Actually, Giles, the chairman of Cunard asked if he could remain in the boardroom with all the other past chairmen.’

‘I’m impressed,’ said Giles. ‘And even more convinced that I made the right decision about how I should invest some of my money,’ he added without explanation.

‘But what about you, Emma?’ said Grace, turning to her sister. ‘After all, you’ve also earned your right to a place in the boardroom.’

‘Bryan Organ has been commissioned to paint my portrait,’ said Emma. ‘It will hang opposite dear Grandpa.’

‘What did Jessica have to say about that?’ asked Giles.

‘She recommended him. Even asked if she might be allowed to attend the sittings.’

‘She’s growing up so fast,’ said Grace.

‘She’s already a young lady,’ said Emma. ‘And I’m considering taking her advice on another matter,’ she added before returning to the agenda. ‘After the completion documents had been signed, a handover ceremony took place in the boardroom. Within twenty-four hours, the name of Barrington Shipping that had hung so proudly above the entrance gate for more than a century was replaced by Cunard.’

‘I know it’s only been a month,’ said Giles, ‘but have Cunard honoured their commitment to our staff, especially the long-serving ones?’

‘To the letter,’ said Emma. ‘No one has been sacked, although quite a number of old-timers have taken advantage of the generous redundancy package Seb negotiated for them, along with a free trip on the Buckingham or the Balmoral, so no complaints on that front. However, we need to discuss our own position and where we go from here. As you both know, we’ve been offered a cash settlement of just over twenty million pounds each, with the alternative of taking Cunard shares, which has several advantages.’

‘How many shares are they offering?’ asked Grace.

‘Seven hundred and ten thousand each, which last year yielded a dividend of £246,717. So have either of you made up your minds as to what you’re going to do with the money?’

‘I have,’ said Giles. ‘After seeking Seb’s advice, I’ve decided to take half in cash, which Farthings Kaufman will invest across the board for me, and the other half in Cunard shares. They experienced a slight dip recently, which Seb tells me isn’t unusual following a takeover. However, he assures me that Cunard’s a well-run company with a proven record, and he expects their shares to continue yielding a three to four per cent dividend, while growing in value year on year by about the same amount.’

‘That actually sounds very conservative,’ said Emma, teasing her brother.

‘With a small “c”,’ retorted Giles. ‘I’ve also agreed to finance a research assistant for the Fabian Society.’

‘What a bold gesture,’ said Grace, not hiding her sarcasm.

‘And you’ve done something more radical?’ said Giles, returning the barb.

‘I would hope so. Certainly more fun.’

Emma and Giles stared at their sister, like two students in her class awaiting an answer.

‘I’ve already banked my cheque for the full amount. When I presented it to my bank manager, I thought he was going to faint. The following day, Sebastian came up to visit me in Cambridge, and on his advice I’ve put five million aside to cover any tax liability, and another ten into an investment account with Farthings Kaufman, to be spread across a wide range of well-established companies — his words. I’ve also left a million on deposit with the Midland, which will be more than enough for me to buy a small house near Cambridge, along with a guaranteed annual income of around £30,000. A lot more than I ever earned in all my years as a college don.’

‘And the other four million?’

‘I’ve donated a million to the Newnham College restoration fund, a further half million to the Fitzwilliam, and another half million to be divided among a dozen or so charities that I’ve taken an interest in over the years but have never been able to give more than a few hundred pounds in the past.’

‘You make me feel quite guilty,’ said Giles.

‘I would hope so, Giles. But then I joined the Labour Party long before you did.’

‘That still leaves another couple of million to be accounted for,’ said Emma.

‘I know it’s out of character, but I went on a shopping spree with Jessica.’

‘My God, what did she spend it on?’ asked Emma. ‘Diamonds and handbags?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Grace with some feeling. ‘A Monet, a Manet, two Picassos, a Pissarro and a Lucian Freud, who she assures me is the coming man, as well as a Bacon of a Screaming Pope I wouldn’t want to hear deliver a sermon. Plus a Henry Moore maquette entitled King and Queen, which I’ve long admired, along with a Barbara Hepworth and a Leon Underwood. However, I refused to buy an Eric Gill, after I was told that he’d slept with his daughters. It didn’t seem to worry Jessica — you can’t deny real talent, she kept reminding me — but I put my foot down. My final purchase was the artwork for a Beatles record cover by Peter Blake, which I gave to Jessica as a reward for her knowledge and expertise. She knew exactly which galleries to visit, and bargained with the dealers like an East End barrow boy. I wasn’t sure whether to be proud or ashamed of her. And I must confess, I hadn’t realized spending money could be quite so exhausting.’

Emma and Giles burst out laughing. ‘You put us both to shame,’ said Emma. ‘I can’t wait to see the collection. But where will you display it?’

‘I think I’ve found an ideal house in Trumpington with enough wall space to hang all the paintings, and a large enough garden for the statues to be well displayed. So in future, it will be my turn to invite you to stay for the weekend. I haven’t closed the deal yet, but I’ve set Sebastian on to the poor estate agents and left him to settle the price. Although I can’t believe he’ll do any better than Jessica — she’s convinced that my art collection will turn out to be a more lucrative investment than stocks and shares, which she reminded her father you can’t hang on a wall. He tried to explain to her the difference between “appreciation” and “appreciate”, but he got nowhere.’

‘Bravo,’ said Emma. ‘I only hope there’s the odd Monet left over for me, because I’d also intended to ask Jessica’s advice, although to tell you the truth I still haven’t decided what to do with my windfall. I’ve had three meetings with Hakim Bishara and Seb, but I’m no nearer to making up my mind. Having lost one chairmanship, I’ve been concentrating on the government’s new NHS reform package and its consequences for the Royal Infirmary.’

‘That bill will never see the light of day if Margaret Thatcher wins the election,’ said Giles.

‘Amen to that,’ said Emma. ‘But it remains my responsibility to prepare my fellow board members for the consequences should Labour be returned to power. I don’t intend to leave my successor, whoever he or she may be, to pick up the pieces.’ She paused, before adding, ‘Any other business?’

From under the table Giles produced magnificent models of the Buckingham and the Balmoral, along with a bottle of champagne. ‘My dearest Emma,’ he said, ‘Grace and I will be forever in your debt. Without your leadership, dedication and commitment, we would not be in the privileged position we now find ourselves. We will be eternally grateful.’

Three tumblers that normally held water were filled to the brim with champagne by Giles, but Emma couldn’t take her eyes off the two model ships.

‘Thank you,’ she said as they raised their glasses. ‘But I confess I’ve enjoyed every moment and I’m already missing being chairman. I also have a surprise for you. Cunard have asked me to join their board, so I too would like to make a toast.’ She rose from her place, and raised her glass.

‘To Joshua Barrington, who founded the Barrington Shipping Line in 1839, and made a profit of thirty-three pounds, four shillings and tuppence in his first year as chairman, but promised the shareholders more.’

Giles and Grace raised their glasses.

‘To Joshua Barrington.’

‘Perhaps the time has come for us to celebrate the recent birth of my great-nephew, Jake,’ said Giles, ‘who Seb hopes will be the next chairman but one of Farthings Bank.’

‘Would it be too much to hope that Jake might consider doing something more worthwhile than being a banker?’ said Grace.

5

‘How good was your source?’

‘Unimpeachable. And he wrote down what he overheard, word for word.’

‘Well, I can’t pretend, chairman,’ admitted Matron, ‘that I haven’t heard rumours of this kind before, but never anything that could be substantiated. The one nurse who did make an official complaint resigned a week later.’

‘What options do we have?’ asked Emma.

‘Do you know anything about the nurse, other than the conversation that was overheard?’

‘I can tell you that the alleged assault took place in the laundry room on the third floor.’

‘That might cut it down to half a dozen nurses.’

‘And she’d been on ward rounds with Dr Hands earlier that morning.’

‘When was that?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Then we’re probably down to two or three nurses at most.’

‘And she was West Indian.’

‘Ah,’ said Matron. ‘I wondered why Beverley had a black eye, and now I know. But she’d have to make an official complaint for us to consider opening an ethics enquiry.’

‘How long would that take?’

‘Six to nine months, and even then, as there were clearly no witnesses, I wouldn’t give you much of a chance.’

‘So it’s back to square one and Dr Hands can continue on his merry way while we do nothing about it.’

‘I’m afraid so, chairman, unless...’

‘Many congratulations on the successful takeover,’ said Margaret Thatcher when Emma came on the line, ‘although I can’t imagine it was an easy decision.’

‘I was torn in half,’ admitted Emma. ‘But the board, my family and all our professional advisors were unanimous in advising me to accept Cunard’s offer.’

‘So how are you filling your time, now you’re no longer chairman of Barrington’s?’

‘I still have a few more months before I hand over the chairmanship of the Royal Infirmary, but after last night’s vote of no confidence in the government, it looks as if I’ll be spending most of my time running around the West Country trying to make sure you end up in Downing Street.’

‘I’d rather you were running around the whole country doing the same job,’ said Mrs Thatcher.

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘If you switch on your television, you’ll see the Prime Minister being driven into Buckingham Palace for an appointment with the Queen. Mr Callaghan will be seeking her permission to prorogue Parliament so he can call a general election.’

‘Has a date been fixed?’

‘Thursday May the third. And I want you to take on your brother head-on.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘As you probably know, he’s once again in charge of Labour’s marginal-seats campaign. Those fifty or sixty key constituencies that will determine the outcome of the election. I think you’d be the ideal person to do the same job for the Tory party.’

‘But Giles has vast experience of election campaigns. He’s a consummate politician—’

‘—and no one knows him better than you.’

‘There must be a dozen or more people who are far better qualified to take on such a responsibility.’

‘You’re my first choice. And I have a feeling your brother will not be pleased when he learns who he’s up against.’ A long silence followed, before Mrs Thatcher added, ‘Come up to London and meet the party chairman, Peter Thorneycroft. He’s already set everything up, so all I need now is a coordinator who will put the fear of God into our local chairmen in those marginal seats.’

This time Emma didn’t hesitate. ‘When do I start?’

‘Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock, Central Office,’ replied the leader of the opposition.

‘You asked to see me, chairman.’

‘I did, and I’ll get straight to the point,’ said Emma even before Hands had been given the chance to sit down. ‘I’ve had several complaints from nurses concerning your unethical behaviour.’

‘Several?’ said Hands, who sat down in his chair, looking relaxed.

‘During the past year, Matron has been collecting evidence, and she has asked me to set up an official enquiry.’

‘Be my guest,’ said Hands. ‘You’ll find nothing will stick, and I’ll be completely exonerated.’

‘Nothing will stick? An unfortunate choice of words, I would have thought, Dr Hands, unless of course...’

‘You say another word, Lady Clifton, and I’ll instruct my lawyers to issue a writ for libel.’

‘I doubt it. Like you, I’ve made sure there are no witnesses, and while I accept that you may be cleared of all the charges, I intend to make sure that your reputation will be in tatters, and you’ll never be able to find a job in this country again. So I suggest—’

‘Are you threatening me? If you are, it could well be your reputation that ends up in tatters, once the enquiry proves to be a waste of time and money — and just when BRI has once again been shortlisted for hospital of the year.’

‘Yes, I had considered that,’ said Emma. ‘In the past your strength has always been that it was your word against that of a young nurse. But this time you won’t be dealing with a frightened young woman but the chairman of the hospital. And yes, I am willing to risk my reputation against yours.’

‘You’re bluffing,’ said Hands. ‘You’ve got less than a year to go, and you really wouldn’t want this to be the one thing you’re remembered for.’

‘Wrong again, Dr Hands. When I expose you for what you are, I suspect your colleagues and the sixteen nurses who have provided written evidence —’ Emma tapped a thick file on the desk in front of her, which was nothing more than a surveyor’s report — ‘will be only too grateful for my intervention, while you’ll find it difficult to get a job in a minor African state.’

This time Hands hesitated before he spoke. ‘I’ll take my chances. I’m confident you don’t have enough evidence to open an enquiry.’

Emma leant forward, dialled an outside number and switched the phone to speaker. A moment later they both heard the word, ‘Editor.’

‘Good morning, Reg. Emma Clifton.’

‘Which one of my reporters do you want strung up this morning, Emma?’

‘Not one of your reporters this time. One of my doctors.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘I’m about to instigate an enquiry into the behaviour of a doctor at the hospital, and I thought you’d want to hear about it before the nationals get hold of the story.’

‘That’s good of you, Emma.’ Hands began waving at her frantically. ‘But if the story is going to make the final edition, I’ll need to send a reporter over to the hospital immediately.’

‘I have an appointment at eleven,’ said Emma, looking down at her diary, ‘but I’ll call you back in a few moments if I can rearrange it.’

As Emma hung up, she spotted beads of sweat appearing on Hands’ forehead.

‘If I’m to cancel my appointment with the reporter from the Bristol Evening News,’ she said, once again tapping the file, ‘I’ll expect you to be off these premises by midday. Otherwise, I recommend you pick up today’s final edition, in which you’ll discover exactly what I think of doctors like you. Be sure to stay by your phone, as I have a feeling they’ll want to hear your side of the story.’

Hands rose unsteadily from his seat and left the room without another word. Once the door had closed, Emma picked up the phone and re-dialled the number she had promised to call back.

‘Thank you,’ she said, when a voice came on the line.

‘My pleasure,’ said Harry. ‘What time will you be home for dinner?’

‘If you’re going to spend the next month in London,’ said Harry after he’d heard Emma’s news, ‘where do you intend to stay?’

‘With Giles. That way I’ll be able to keep a close eye on his every move.’

‘And he on yours. But I can’t see him agreeing to such a cosy little arrangement.’

‘He’s not going to be given much choice,’ said Emma. ‘You’ve obviously forgotten I own the freehold of number twenty-three Smith Square. So if anyone’s going to be looking for temporary accommodation, it will be Giles, not me.’