Holly Lester (19 page)

But instead she began to cry, something she had never ever done when they had lived together. Howled with rage, yes; sulked silently until he caved in – yes, all the time. But not cried. Now, as her sobs grew louder and louder, Billings found he couldn't stand it. He felt guilty and sad and in pain, all at the same time. He realized he would do anything to stop her crying. ‘Bring Sam by first thing Sunday morning,' he shouted down the phone. ‘I'll look after him.' Greatly shaken he put the phone down.

He had arranged to borrow McBain's car, and took Sam in a taxi with a reluctant driver to Highgate on Sunday morning. It was a sunny day, with the fuller light of June, and the buds had turned to leaves and were darkening green. At this time of year, he liked the suburbs, and their promise that the city could be countrified.

He found McBain outside washing his Volvo with a hose and sponge. ‘I hope you're not doing that for me,' said Billings, as he paid off the driver and held Sam with his lead.

‘Anything to get me out of the house. Or doghouse.'

‘Are you in trouble then?'

‘No, not really.' He handed the keys to Billings.

‘I don't have to leave this early, you know.' It was only ten thirty.

McBain shook his head. ‘I can't ask you in. Whatever's happened recently to you and Marla, Jackie's on her side. You know how women are.'

Billings sighed. ‘All right. I'll put the keys through the letter box when I'm back. You can ring me a minicab while I stand outside.'

McBain scoffed. ‘It's not that bad. I'm sure my wife's curiosity will overcome her disapproval. We don't know many people who lunch at Chequers. Who else will be there?'

Billings shrugged. ‘I've no idea. I'm not even sure why I've been asked.'

McBain looked sceptical. ‘I think I'll leave that remark alone.'

Billings struggled to look suitably unruffled. McBain said, ‘I predict an arty assembly. A collector or two, maybe Harold Pinter and Lady Antonia, John Mortimer from over the way. And some Tory they're trying to woo.'

‘Maybe that advertising man from the restaurant,' Billings said by way of light counter-attack, but immediately regretted it. For McBain's demeanour changed abruptly, and his face went stern and steely. ‘Not so far off,' said McBain. ‘I've got a lead on that slimy little prick and it's getting me somewhere not a million miles from Millbank. I told you the whole thing smelled.'

‘What have you found out?'

McBain shook his head. ‘Not yet. I'm not saying anything to anyone until I'm sure. But if my suspicions are correct, then I've got the story of the year. And I'm not being paranoid. What they did to me isn't half as interesting as what I'm digging up now.'

‘Well anyway,' said Billings, feeling defensive for reasons he wasn't sure of, ‘here's Sam.' He held out the lead.

‘Don't give him to me,' said McBain.

Suddenly Billings realized he had forgotten to ring McBain and ask him to look after Sam. ‘Oh my God, I forgot to ask you, didn't I? Jesus. I'm so sorry. But it is all right, isn't it? You know he's no trouble.' McBain had often tended Sam before, and his children loved the dog.

McBain was shaking his head. ‘No can do. We're all going to the cinema. We can put him in the basement, but do you really want that? He'll howl the house down.'

Billings looked down at his panting dog. ‘Well, Sam,' he said, ‘it looks like you're going to Chequers.'

He put the dog in the rear of the Volvo estate, and was joined by him in the other front seat within sixty seconds of driving away. The two of them headed towards the North Circular, then out on the M40 to the M25. He had allowed himself plenty of time but managed nonetheless to run out of it; reading the map and driving proved difficult, and the precise instructions sent to him by Number Ten were chewed up by Sam just as the two of them moved into the real country of the Chilterns.

When he pulled up to the gate at the east side of Chequers it was one o'clock; when he left the east gate, having been told it was only for the Prime Minister and Heads of State, it was five minutes past. The guard stared questioningly at Sam, and as Billings drove away towards the south gate, he saw him talking into a portable phone.

Arriving as instructed at the Bothy Gate, whatever that was, he was met by two guards and then three more arriving in a car, coming from the direction of the house. One of them was Terry the Runt.

The tollgate guard was sceptical. ‘Are you expected sir?'

‘Yes,' he said and gave his name.

The guard looked at his clipboard and nodded. ‘May I see some identification?'

Billings produced a driving licence and several credit cards from his wallet; when he sensed their insufficiency, he offered his London Library membership card and, with mild desperation, a New York health club member's card, now expired.

‘Do you have anything with a photograph, sir?'

The simple fact was he didn't. He was well and truly late now – it was ten past one – and he started to feel panicky. ‘Mrs Lester will recognize me,' he argued, and the guard looked at him cynically. ‘And Mr Trachtenberg – if he's here.'

Suddenly he looked over at Terry the Runt. ‘Him,' he said, ‘he'll vouch for me.' The guard waved at Terry, who came over reluctantly.

‘It's okay,' said Terry to the guard, then turned to Billings. ‘But what's with the dog? There's no dog on the guest list.'

‘Family emergency. I didn't have any choice. I'll leave him in the car, don't worry. As long as he gets some water, he'll be good as gold.'

One of Terry's sidekicks was circling the car, holding a mirror on the end of an aluminium pole. ‘We'll have to check the dog,' insisted Terry the Runt. Billings shrugged and walked over to the passenger seat, opened the door, and brought Sam out, holding him gently by his collar.

Terry took a handheld device from his pocket and circled it in the air around Sam. Near the dog's collar, which had metal studs, the device emitted a large squeal. Terry studied the collar, rubbing it between his fingers, then continued his scan. When he hovered near Sam's back quarters with the machine, there was another more muted appeal. Terry moved the instrument closer until it touched Sam directly under his tail. The dog turned and very quickly nipped Terry the Runt on the tip of his nose.

‘Shit,' shouted Terry, and the other men laughed. He scowled, rubbing his nose, which now displayed a small red mark. Billings spoke sharply to Sam, who sheepishly returned to his seat in the car.

‘Can I please go now?' asked Billings, closing the door on Sam. ‘I am very late as it is.'

He drove quickly down the drive towards the house and pulled into a forecourt with a circular drive in front of the house entrance. There were no other cars parked there; slowing down, Billings was wondering if he should go down around the side of the house to park when Holly came out the front door, waving at him.

‘Hello,' she said with a big smile, coming up to the car. ‘I was worried you'd got lost.'

‘I did,' he said, ‘and then this chap here ate the directions.'

‘What's his name?'

‘Sam. Don't worry, I'll leave him in the car. I just need some water.'

Holly directed him around the side of the house to a cluster of buildings in the back. When he had parked and got out, he found her filling a bowl from an outside tap. He put Sam in the rear of the Volvo with the water, then at Holly's instruction left his keys in the ignition. He felt oddly naked without them.

Holly led him into a sort of annexe which contained the kitchen. Here a chef in a toque hat was chopping vegetables while another man stirred an immense pot on a professional range. At a long refectory table in the middle of the room sat Mrs Diamond, drinking from a steaming bowl of black coffee, with a tell-tale bulge under her left arm. She took no notice of either of them, and Holly continued through the room into a small corridor, talking all the way.

‘Don't worry – you're not really late, and it's not very formal today. The American ambassador is here, which is a bit of a bore, but he's friends with the President and we need to get on. Alan's here, naturally, and his mother.'

‘Hang on,' he said suddenly, ‘wasn't that a Van Dyck back there?'

‘No. It's a copy. Someone named John Stone. It used to hang in the Great Hall, but I moved it. If I want Great Masters I can go to the National Gallery, so why have ersatz ones hanging around?'

They had moved into a small hallway with a stone floor. Holly flung open a door and led him into a vast drawing room, with a first floor hallway exposed on one side above an arcade with three arches. ‘This is the Great Hall,' she said matter-of-factly, and led him towards the drinks tray and the other guests. A fire was burning nicely and unnecessarily – it was almost seventy degrees outside, and sunlight cascaded through high windows at the far end.

Alan Trachtenberg was wearing a canary yellow bow tie and holding a promising-looking Bloody Mary. He nodded amiably at Billings. ‘You know each other,' said Holly levelly. ‘Where's Harry?'

‘With the Ambassador,' said Trachtenberg. ‘I've just left them in the White Parlour. That's what it's called, isn't it?'

‘Yes. I think it's my favourite room. Excuse me a minute,' said Holly, and went to speak with one of the waiters.

Trachtenberg looked at Billings with reduced cordiality. ‘Is this your first time here? Or did you have chums in the last lot? I'd have thought you'd have preferred it back then. Those were more your style of politics, weren't they?'

Billings shrugged and tried to stay relaxed. ‘I wouldn't say I had any real preference for a
style
of politics. In fact, I'm not all that concerned about politics, one way or another.'

Trachtenberg found this heretical. ‘That's even worse than being a wet Tory.' To Billings, his intensity was at once fascinating and creepy. Now Trachtenberg said in a hiss, ‘I know you don't care about the Party, I know you don't give a toss about any of the things the rest of us are prepared to die for, but at the very least you could pretend that you're not hanging around solely for the purpose of…' He glanced meaningfully at Holly. ‘Picking up crumbs from the master's table.'

Crumbs? Holly as a desiccating biscuit? Billings couldn't help but smile, which seemed especially to infuriate Trachtenberg. ‘Don't smirk,' Trachtenberg commanded, struggling to keep his voice down.

Billings sighed instead. ‘Tell me,' he said, ‘what are these things you're so ready to die for? You sound like Churchill manning the ramparts in 1940. If I thought you were an old style ideologue – Tony Benn's successor on the Left – then I could understand your contempt for someone apolitical like me. But it's not policies we disagree about, is it? It's simply whether it's reasonable to spend any time when one isn't living and breathing politics. I say it's not only all right, it's the only sane way to conduct one's life. You find this inconceivable. You think I'm an irresponsible elitist. And I,' he said, finishing in a rush as he spotted Holly coming back to them, ‘think you're out of your mind.'

Holly had two other guests in tow. One was an old woman with a sharp face who looked spry and alert. ‘This is Queenie. Alan's mother,' said Holly to Billings. He shook the woman's thin dry hand.

‘And this is Canon Flowing.' Billings looked up at a very tall figure with long white hair, wearing a dog collar.

‘You've just arrived?' the man asked him.

‘I got slightly lost, I'm afraid,' Billings admitted.

‘You drove yourself?'

Billings nodded. The old lady named Queenie snorted, then said crisply to the Canon, ‘I suppose you came by public transport.'

Canon Flowing smiled benignly. ‘Far from it. I have had the generous loan of a car
and
driver from the Palace.'

‘You're
staying
there?' asked Queenie sharply.

‘For the time being,' said Canon Flowing, unperturbed.

There was an edge to this exchange which Billings attempted to smooth over. ‘I imagine with the Queen at Balmoral the royal chauffeur service is fairly underemployed right now.'

Canon Flowing looked at him as if he were insane, then took two canapés from a waiter's proffered tray. Queenie explained: ‘Not that palace. It's Lambeth Palace. The Archbishop's.'

‘I see,' said Billings.

Queenie added, ‘They're not stupid – even they know who won the Election. They're no different to anyone else, whatever some people say – they want to keep the butter on their bread, too.'

Holly broke the slightly awkward silence which ensued by taking Billings by the arm. ‘Come and meet the others,' she said. Leading him away she whispered, ‘Take no notice of Queenie. Alan's devoted to her, so we have to have her here, but politically she's in the Stone Age.'

They moved towards the fireplace where a waiter gave him a large Bloody Mary and he found the now familiar figure of Sally Kimmo talking to another man. She greeted him warmly: ‘I said we would be meeting soon.' The man next to her turned around, and Billings found it was none other than the
Professore
. Before he could express his astonishment a door opened and a man in serving uniform strode in. ‘Luncheon is served, madam,' he bellowed across the room to Holly.

‘Thank you Mr Jenkins. Why don't we all go in?' she announced to the guests, then looked at the man named Jenkins. ‘Will you tell Harr – the Prime Minister and the Ambassador that we're going in?'

They walked through to the dining room, which held a stunning mahogany table, simply set and gleaming with polish. ‘I'll let Harry take the far end,' Holly declared, seating herself at the end closest the door. ‘
If
he ever lets the Ambassador have his lunch. And in case they're very late I'm going to break with men-next-to-women ranks and put Henry beside Harry.' She positioned the rest of them, putting Billings down one end, between Queenie and Adele Eloise, the ambassador's wife. Blessedly, Trachtenberg sat on the other side of Adele and was thus blocked from Billings's view.