House of Cards (21 page)

Urquhart was adjusting the triple carburettors on his 1933 Rover Speed Pilot, which he kept for touring around the lanes of the New Forest, when Miranda called from inside the house.

'Francis! Chequers on the phone!' He picked up the extension on the garage wall, wiping his hands carefully on a greasy rag.

'Urquhart here.'

'Chief Whip, please hold on. I have the Prime Minister for you,' a female voice instructed.

The voice which now came on the end of the phone was almost unrecognisable. It had no more vitality than a voice from the grave.

'Francis, I am afraid I have some bad news. The
Observer
have just called up the Downing Street press office to let us know of a story they will be running tomorrow. I can't explain it all, but apparently my brother Charles has been buying shares in companies just before they benefit from Government decisions, and making a killing on them. They say they've got documentary evidence - bank statements, brokers' receipts, the lot. He bought nearly £50,000 worth of Renox, they say, a couple of days before we are supposed to have approved a new drug of theirs for general use, and sold them a day later for a substantial profit They say he used a false address in Paddington. It's going to be the lead story.'

There was an exhausted pause, as if he no longer had the energy to continue. 'Francis, everyone's going to assume I'm involved with this. What on earth do I do?'

Urquhart settled himself comfortably in the front seat of the car before replying. It was a seat from which he was used to taking risks and making split-second decisions.

Have you said anything to the
Observer
’
'

'No. I don't think they were expecting a comment from me. They were really trying to find Charlie.'

'Where is he?'

'Gone to ground, I hope. I managed to get hold of him. He
...
was drunk. I just told him to take the phone off the hook and not to answer the door.'

Urquhart gripped the steering wheel, staring ahead. He felt strangely detached. He realised for the first time that he had set in motion a machine which was far more powerful than his ability to control it
.
He had manipulated, analysed and considered, but in spite of weeks of planning he knew that events were no longer under his command. He imagined that he was speeding down a country lane, the Rover ready to respond to his every command as he slammed it through its four gears and accelerated around the curve of the road, knowing now that he was lost in the exhilaration of its speed. He thrilled to its performance and the scent of danger in his nostrils, pressing ever more firmly down on the accelerator, oblivious of what lay around the next blind corner. It was already too late for second thoughts. It was instinct, not intellect, which would take over now.

'Where is he?'

'At home in London.'

Yes, I know it
.
You must get someone down there to take care of him. Look, I know it must be painful as he's your brother, but there's a drying-out clime outside Dover which the Whips Office has used for the occasional backbencher. Very confidential, very kind. Dr Christian, the head of the clinic, is excellent. I'll give him a call and get
him
to Charles immediately. You must arrange for someone else from the family to be there, too, in case your brother proves to be difficult. Your wife, Sarah, perhaps? I will find someone from the Whips Office to get there and keep a careful eye on it all. But we must move fast, because in four hours' time when the
Observer
hits the streets your brother's home is going to be besieged by journalists. We have to beat them to the punch. With Charles in his present state there is no knowing what he might say or do.'

'But what do we do then? I can't hide Charlie for ever. He's got to face up to it sooner or later, hasn't he?'

'Is he guilty?'

‘I
simply don't know,' the words said, but the tone conceded doubt and probable defeat 'The office checked after they got the phone call. Apparently we did license a new Renox drug a couple of months ago, and their shares jumped sharply. Anyone holding any of their shares would have made a handsome profit. But Charlie hasn't got any money to splash around on shares. And how would he know about Renox?'

Urquhart came back in a tone which did not imply any argument. 'Let's worry about that when we have taken care of him. He must be put away somewhere quiet, somewhere the press can't get to him. He needs help, whether he wants it or not, and you must get some breathing space. You must be very careful how you decide to respond.'

There was a short pause for the words to sink in. 'You cannot afford to get this one wrong.'

Collingridge's wearied assent was mumbled down the phone. His Chief Whip's sudden authoritativeness had stripped away piece by piece both his family pride and the dignity of his office. He had neither the will nor the capacity to argue. He looked through the leaded windows across the fields surrounding Chequers to an ancient beech wood. He tried to draw strength and confidence from the magnificent trees glowing golden in the evening sunshine of autumn. They had always been an inspiration to him, a constant reminder that all problems eventually pass, yet this evening, no matter how he tried, they left him feeling empty and hollow.

'What else do I do?'

'Nothing. Let us see precisely what the
Observer
says, then we shall have a better idea. In the meantime, instruct your press office to say nothing while we sort out your brother.'

Thank you, Francis. May I call you later when we see what they print? In the meantime, I would be grateful if you would contact Dr Christian. Sarah will be at my brother's home in just under two hours if she leaves right now. I'll instruct her immediately.'

Collingridge had adopted a formal tone in an attempt to stifle the tension inside him, but Urquhart could hear the emotion trembling in his voice.

‘
Don't worry, Henry. Everything will work out. Trust me.'

Charles Collingridge did not object when his sister-in-law let herself into the flat with the spare key. In fact, he was snoring soundly in an armchair, the clutter of an afternoon's heavy indulgence spread around him. He only began to object when Sarah had spent five frustrating minutes trying to shake him awake, and had resorted to ice wrapped in a tea towel. His objections became more vigorous when he began to understand what Sarah was saying, persuading him to 'come away for a few days', but the dialogue became totally incoherent when she began to question him about shares. She could get no sense out of him, and neither could she persuade him to move.

It took the arrival of Dr Christian and a Junior Whip almost an hour later before the situation progressed any further. An overnight bag was rapidly packed, and the three of them bundled the still-protesting brother into the back of Dr Christian's car, which was parked out of sight at the back of the building. Fortunately for them, he had lost the physical coordination to take his objections further.

Unfortunately, however, the whole matter had taken some considerable time, so that when the doctor's Granada swept out from behind the building into the High Street with Sarah and Charles in the back, the whole scene was witnessed by an ITN camera crew, the first to arrive on the scene.

The video tape of a fleeing Charles apparently hiding in the back seat of the car and accompanied by the Prime Minister's wife was played on the late evening news, together with details of the
Observer's
allegations. The night duty editor at ITN had phoned the managing editor to get approval to play the tape before putting it on air. He wanted his arse covered by senior management on this one. As he had explained, 'Once this gets out, there's no way the Prime Minister can argue he's not involved right up to his neck.'

SUNDAY 17
th
OCTOBER

The scenes of the fugitive Charles Collingridge were still being played at midday on Sunday as
Weekend Watch
came on the air. The programme had been thrown together in frantic haste, and there were many untidy ends. The control room reeked of sweat and tension as the programme started. It had not been rehearsed fully, much of it was being done live, and the autocue for the latter stages of the programme was still being typed as the presenter welcomed his viewers.

It had been impossible to find any Minister who would agree to appear on the programme, and one of the invited pundits had not yet arrived. A special overnight opinion poll had been commissioned through Gallup and the polling company's chief executive, Gordon Heald, was presenting the results himself. He had been kicking his computer all morning and was sitting slightly flushed under the hot lights. The computer analysis did nothing to
help his sense of ease, for his
polling agents had uncovered still further disenchantment with the Prime Minister.

Yes, admitted Heald, it was a significant fall. No, he acknowledged, no Prime Minister had ever won an election after being so low in the polls.

The gloomy prognostications were supported by two senior newspaper commentators and an economist forecasting turmoil in the financial markets in the days ahead, before the presenter switched his attention to Peter Bearstead. Normally the garrulous East Midlands MP would have been videotaped beforehand, but there had been no time for recording. The Honourable and diminutive Member for Leicester North was on live. He was scheduled on the director's log for only two minutes
fifty
seconds, but the presenter soon discovered that it was the politician whohad taken charge of proceedings.

‘
Yes, Mr Bearstead, but how much trouble do you think the Party is in?'

That depends.'

'On what?'

'On how long we have to go with the present Prime Minister.'

'So you are standing by your comment of earlier in the week that perhaps the Prime Minister should be considering his position?'

'Not exactly. I'm saying that the Prime Minister should resign. His present unpopularity is destroying the Party, and now he has become enmeshed in what looks like a family scandal. It cannot go on. It must not go on!'

'But do you think that the Prime Minister is likely to resign? After all, there are almost another five years before an election is necessary, and that must leave enormous scope for recovering lost ground.'

'We will not survive another five years with this Prime Minister!' The MP was clearly agitated, rocking back and forth in his studio chair. It is time for clear heads, not faint hearts; and I am determined that the Party must come to a decision on the matter. If he does not resign, then I shall stand against him for election as Leader of the Party.'

You
will challenge him for the Party leadership?' the presenter spluttered in surprise. He was nervous, trying to follow the voluble MP while at the same time listening to instructions in his earpiece which were getting rapidly more heated. 'But surely you can't win?'

'Of course I can't win. But it's up to the senior figures within the Party to grasp the initiative and sort the problem out. They are all constantly griping about it, but none of them has the guts to do anything. If they won't take a stand or won't act, then I will. Flush it into the open. We can't let this continue to fester behind closed doors.'

‘I
want to be absolutely clear about this, Mr Bearstead. You are demanding that the Prime Minister resigns, or else you will stand against him for leadership of the Party
...
?'

'There has to be a leadership election no later than Christmas: it's Party rules after an election. Instead of a mere formality I shall make it into a real contest where my colleagues will have to make up their minds.'

There was a pained expression on the presenter's face. He was holding his earpiece, through which a shouting match was under way. The director was demanding that the dramatic interview should continue and to hell with the schedule; the editor was shouting that they should get away from it before the bloody fool changed his mind and ruined a sensational story.

'We shall be going for a short commercial break,' announced the presenter.

MONDAY 18
th
OCTOBER -FRIDAY 22
nd
OCTOBER

Shortly before midnight in London as the Tokyo financial markets opened, sterling began to be marked down heavily. By 9 a.m. and with all the Monday newspapers leading on the public challenge to Collingridge's leadership, the FT All Share Index was down 63 points, and down a further 44 points by
‘I
p.m. when it became clear that Bearstead intended to proceed. The money men don't like surprises.

The Prime Minister wasn't feeling on top form, either. He hadn't slept and had scarcely talked since Saturday evening. His wife had kept him at Chequers rather than allowing him to return to Downing Street, and had called the doctor. Dr Wynne-Jones, Collingridge's loyal and highly experienced physician, had immediately recognised the signs of strain and had prescribed a sedative and rest. The sedative gave some immediate release in the form of the first lengthy spell of sleep he had had since the start of the party conference a week earlier, but his wife could still detect the tension which fluttered beneath his closed eyelids and which kept his fingers firmly clamped onto the bedclothes.