House of Cards (23 page)

He nodded confirmation.

'So that's why Grev was jumping through the hoops and screwing around with my story. I should have realised it earlier. The ringmaster was cracking the whip
’

'And that's why I feel I can't go on either, Mattie. We are -no longer a newspaper, we're beginning to act as the proprietor's own personal edition of
Pravda’

But Mattie's curiosity had already begun to overhaul her own anger and disappointment. There was a story lurking somewhere, and the excitement of the chase began to take a hold on her. 'So Landless has suddenly turned against Collingridge. All his newspapers were craven sycophants during the election, yet now we are running a lynch party. Why, Johnnie, why?'

'That's an excellent question, Mattie, but I don't know the answer. It can't be politics, Landless has never given a damn about that. He has politicians of every party in his pocket. I can only think it's personal in some way
’

If it's personal it must be business. That's the only thing which really rattles his cage.'

'But I can't figure out why he should have fallen out with Collingridge over business.'

'And I would love to know who he's got on the inside.'

'What do you mean?' asked Krajewski.

'Grev couldn't have concocted that article without the material on the opinion poll. Without my copy on which to work he had nothing, and without the leaked statistics I had nothing either. And at the same time as this occurs, Landless decides to ditch Collingridge. It's too much of a coincidence for that all to have come together by chance
’
. She banged her hand on the table with a renewed passion. 'But it can't be Landless on his own. There's somebody on the inside of the Party leaking polls and pulling strings.'

The same person who's supposed to have been leaking all the material since the election?'

'The one the Chief Whip was trying to sort out? That's a fascinating thought. He found nothing definite and before tonight I was never convinced that it was a deliberate campaign of leaks rather than a series of cock-ups
...'

'But
now...?'

'Now I've got just two questions, Johnnie - who, and why?'

The adrenalin was pouring into her veins, replacing her earlier despondency with electric urges which tingled throughout her body and brain. She felt exhilarated. Something had touched her deep down, an almost animal lust to pursue her prey until she had found and trapped it. This is what she had come south for. This made it all worthwhile.

‘J
ohnnie, you sweet man. How wise you are! Something smells and I want to find out what -
’I
knew it when I saw Landless prowling around at Bournemouth. You're right. Now is definitely not the time to throw in the towel and resign. I'm going to get to the bottom of this even if I have to kill someone. Will you help me?'

If that's what you want - of course.'

'There's another thing I want, Johnnie.' She felt alive, charged with excitement and a feeling burning deep inside her which she thought she had long ago forgotten. Xet's pass on the bloody biryani and go back to my place. I've got a bottle of vintage Sauteme in the fridge, and I need some company tonight. All night. Would you mind?'

'Mattie, it's been a long time
...'

'Me, too, Johnnie. Too long.'

The statement - or briefing, in fact, because it was not issued in the form of a quotable press release - was made available on Wednesday and was simple. As the Downing Street press secretary told the gathered lobby correspondents, The Prime Minister has never provided his brother with any form of commercially sensitive Government information, and has never discussed any aspect of Renox Chemicals with him. The Prime Minister's brother is extremely ill, and is currently under medical supervision. His doctors have stated that he is not in a fit state to give interviews or answer questions. However, I can assure you that he categorically denies purchasing any Renox shares, having a false address in Paddington, or being involved in this matter in any way whatsoever. That's all I can tell you at the moment
’

'Come on, Freddie,' one of the correspondents carped, 'you can't get away with just that. How on earth do you explain the
Observer
story if the Collingridges are innocent?'

‘I
can't. Perhaps they were getting confused with another Charles Collingridge, how do I know? But I've known Henry Collingridge for many years, just as you've known me, and all of my experience tells me he is incapable of stooping to such ridiculous and sordid depths. My man is innocent, and you have my word on that!'

He spoke with the vehemence of a professional placing his own reputation on the line along with that of his boss, and the lobby's respect for one of their old time colleagues swung the day for Collingridge - just.

'We're innocent!' bawled the front page of the
Daily Mail
the following day, with most of the other newspapers following on cue. Finding no more incriminating information with which to play, the media and the Party together sat back exhausted, relishing the opportunity to concentrate for just a moment on other disasters.

Urquhart once again had stepped from the Chief Whip's office at Number 12 Downing Street along to Number 10 at the request of Collingridge. 'You're the only smiling face I see at the moment, Francis, and I need you to keep my spirits up!' They were sitting together in the Cabinet Room reviewing the newspapers, with Collingridge at last managing a smile of his own. For the first time in days he felt he could see the mists beginning to clear.

'What do you trunk, Francis?'

‘P
erhaps we are through the worst.'

'No, not necessarily. But at least we have a breathing space and I can tell you, I need that more than anything. The pressure
..
‘
He shook his head slowly. 'Well, you understand, I'm sure.'

Collingridge took a deep breath to summon up fresh resources from within. 'But it is only a breathing space, Francis.' He waved to the empty seats around the Cabinet table. 'I don't know how much firm support I still have amongst colleagues, but I have to give them something to hold on to. I can't afford to run away. I have to show I've nothing to hide, to take the initiative once again.'

'What do you intend to do?'

The Prime Minister sat quietly, beneath the towering oil painting of Robert Walpole, his longest-serving predecessor who had survived countless scandals and crises and whose magnificent portrait had inspired many leaders during times of trial. As Collingridge gazed in contemplation across St James's Park, the sun burst through the grey autumn skies, flooding the room with light. The sound of children playing rose up from the park. Life would goon.

He turned to face Urquhart.
‘I
have an invitation from
Weekend Watch
to appear this Sunday and put my own case — to restore the balance. I think I must do it - and I think I must do it damned well! They've promised no more than ten minutes on the
Observer
nonsense, the rest on broad policy and our ambitions for the fourth term. What do you think?'

Urquhart chose not to express any opinion. He was more than content to let Collingridge use
him
as a sounding board while he made up his own mind, bouncing ideas and arguments off him to see how they sounded, letting Urquhart know of every move along the way.

'At times like these, men must make up their own minds.'

'Good!' Collingridge exclaimed with a chuckle. I'm glad you think that way. Because I've already accepted.' He took a deep breath and exhaled fiercely through flared nostrils. 'The stakes are high, Francis, and I know there are no easy options. But for once I feel lucky!'

It was Urquhart's turn to gaze out through the window and think hard. As he did so, the sun disappeared once more behind the clouds, and the rain began to beat down on the pane.

Penny put the call from the Chief Whip through to O'Neill in his office. A few seconds later the door was carefully closed. Penny heard the sound of O'Neill's raised voice some minutes later, but could not decipher what he was shouting about.

When the red light on the extension phone flashed off to indicate the call was finished, there was no sound at all from O'Neill's office. Pressed forward by a mixture of curiosity and concern, she knocked gently on his door, and opened it cautiously. O'Neill was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. He looked up as he heard Penny come in, and confronted her with wild, staring eyes.

His voice croaked and his speech was disjointed.

'He
...
threatened me, Pen. He said if I don't he would
...
tell everyone. I said I wouldn't but
...
I've got to alter the
file...'

'What file, Roger? What have you got to do?' She had never seen him like this. 'Can I help?'

'No, Pen, you can't help. Not on this
...
Damned computers!' He seemed to regain a little self-control. 'Penny. I want you to forget all about it. I want you to go home. Have the rest of the day off. I'm
...
going out shortly. Please, don't hang around waiting for me, go home now.'

‘
But, Roger, I
...'

'No questions, Pen, no questions. Just leave!'

She gathered her things in tearful confusion as O'Neill slammed his door shut once again and she heard it locking from the inside.

SUNDAY 24
th
OCTOBER

Collingridge began to relax as the programme unfolded. He had rehearsed hard for the previous two days, and the questions were much as expected, giving him an excellent opportunity to talk with genuine vigour about the next few years. He had insisted that the questions concerning the
Observer
allegations be kept until the end, partly so that
Weekend Watch
could not renege on its promise to restrict the section to ten minutes, and partly because he wanted to be into his stride and in command before grappling with them. He hoped that after forty-five minutes of him talking about the bright future for the country the questions would look mean and irrelevant.

Sarah was smiling encouragingly from the edge of the studio as they went into the final commercial break. He gave her a thumbs-up sign as the floor manager waved his arms to let them know that they were about to go back on air.

'Mr Collingridge, for the final few minutes of this programme, I would like to turn to the allegations printed in the
Observer
last week about Charles Collingridge and possible improper share dealing
’

Collingridge nodded seriously into the camera to show that he had nothing to fear from such questions.

‘I
understand that earlier this week Downing Street issued a statement denying any connection of your family with the matter, and suggesting that there may have been a case of mistaken identity. Is that correct?'

'There may have been some confusion with another Charles Collingridge for all I know, but I am really not in a position to explain the extraordinary
Observer
story. All I can tell you is that none of my family have anything whatsoever to do with this matter. You have my word of honour on that.' He spoke the words slowly, leaning forward, looking directly at the presenter to give added dramatic emphasis.

‘I
understand that your brother denies ever having opened an accommodation address in a Paddington tobacconists
’

'Absolutely
’
Collingridge confirmed.

'Prime Minister, earlier this week one of our reporters addressed an envelope to himself, care of Charles Collingridge, at the Paddington address used to open the bank account. He used a vivid red envelope to make sure it stood out clearly. I would like you to look at this video tape which we took at that address yesterday when he went to reclaim it. I apologise for the poor quality, but I am afraid we had to use a concealed camera, as the proprietor of the shop concerned seemed very reluctant to cooperate.'

The presenter swivelled his chair so that he could see the dark and fuzzy but still discernible video which was being projected onto the large screen behind him. Collingridge flashed a concerned look at Sarah, and cautiously swivelled his own chair around. He watched as the reporter approached the counter, pulled out various pieces of plastic and paper from his wallet to identify himself, and explained to the counter assistant that a letter was waiting for him in the care of Charles Collingridge, who used this address for his own post. The assistant, the same overweight and balding man who had served Penny several months before, explained that he could not release letters except to someone who could produce a proper receipt. 'Lots of important letters come here
’
he sniffed. 'Can't go handing them out to just anyone.'

'But look, it's there. The red envelope. I can see it from here.'

A little uncertain as to what he should do, the assistant turned and extracted the envelopes from a numbered pigeon hole behind him. There were three of them. He placed the red envelope on the counter in front of the reporter, with the other two envelopes to one side. He was trying to confirm that the name on the envelope, c
/
o Charles Collingridge, match
ed that of the reporter's ident
itycards while the camera zoomed in closely on the other two envelopes. It took a few seconds for the operator to focus the concealed equipment properly, but as he did so, the markings on the envelopes came clearly into view. Both were addressed to Charles Collingridge. One bore the imprint of the Union Bank of Turkey. The other had been sent from the Party's Sales and Literature Office at Smith Square.