The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (18 page)

Urquhart found his arm gripped painfully by his guest’s huge fingers. There was real strength behind the man’s enormous girth and Urquhart began to understand how Landless always seemed to get his way. Those he couldn’t dominate with his wealth or commercial muscle he would trap with his physical strength and whip with his sharp tongue. Urquhart had always hated being called Frankie and this was the only man in the world who insisted on using it. But tonight, of all nights, he wouldn’t object. This was one argument he was going to enjoy losing.

Landless drew nearer, conspiratorial, pinning Urquhart ever more tightly in the corner. “Let me give you an example, in confidence. OK, Frankie?” He glanced around to ensure no one was eavesdropping. “A little bird has told me that very shortly United Newspapers will be up for sale. If it is, I want to buy it. In fact, I’ve already had some serious discussions with them. But the limp-wrist lawyers are telling me that I already own one newspaper group and that the Government isn’t going to allow me to buy another. I said to them, you are telling me that I can’t become the biggest newspaper owner in the country, even if I commit all of the titles to supporting the Government!” Perspiration was slipping freely from his face but he ignored it. “You know what they said, Frankie? You know what those numb-nuts told me? That it’s precisely because I
do
support the Government that I’m in trouble. If I so much as wink at United the Opposition’s going to go apeshit. Kick up the most god-awful stink. And no one would have the guts to stand up and defend me, that’s what they said. The takeover would be referred to the Monopolies and Mergers Commission, it’d get bogged down for months with a herd of expensive lawyers stuck in some bloody committee room, with me having to listen to a bunch of closet queens lecturing me on how to run my own business. And you know what makes me really fucking mad, Frankie?”

Urquhart blinked. Up close the man really was rather frightening. “I have no idea, Ben. Please tell me.”

“What makes me really fucking mad”—the prodding finger again—“is that whatever arguments I use, whatever I say, in the end the Government will refuse to let the deal to go through. Why? Because they don’t have the balls for a fight.” He blew cigar smoke in Urquhart’s face. “And because your Government doesn’t have the balls, my dick’s going to be shoved through the wringer. It’s not enough that you’re buggering up your own business, you’re going to bugger up mine as well!”

Only then did Landless remove his finger from his host’s chest. It had been digging in painfully; Urquhart was sure he would find a bruise in the morning. His words came slowly.

“Ben, you have been a great friend of the Party. I, for one, very much appreciate what you have done. It would be unforgivable if we weren’t able to repay that friendship. I can’t speak for the Prime Minister on this—in fact, I find myself increasingly unable to speak for him on anything nowadays—but I would do everything I can to support you when you need it.”

Landless was nodding. “That’s good to know, Frankie. I like what you say, very much. If only Henry could be so decisive.”

“I fear that’s not his nature. But I know he’ll be enormously grateful.”

“For what?”

“For burying that opinion poll. I can’t imagine what damage it would do to him if it were published. It would turn the entire conference into a bear fight.”

“Yeah. It would, wouldn’t it?”

“Mind you, there are those who believe that progress is never made without a little discomfort.”

The frowns of frustration that had covered the Landless brow now gave way to a smile. His skin was remarkably pink and soft, his grin enormous. “I think I see your point, Frankie.”

“What point was that, Ben?”

“Hah! I think we understand each other, you and me.”

“Yes, Ben, I think we do.”

Landless squeezed the Chief Whip’s arm once more, but gently, in gratitude. Then he looked at his watch. “Tickle my tits, is that the time? I have work to do, Frankie. The first edition is closing in less than thirty minutes. I need to make a telephone call.” He grabbed his jacket and draped it over his arm. “Thanks for the party. It’s been fun. Won’t forget it, Frankie.”

Urquhart watched as the industrialist, damp shirt sticking closely to his broad back, pushed his way across the crowded room and disappeared through the door.

* * *

Across the other side of the crowded room, hidden behind the squash of bodies, Roger O’Neill was huddled on a small sofa with a young and attractive conference-goer. He was in a state of considerable excitement. He fingers fidgeted incessantly, his eyes danced as though scalded, his words rattled out at an alarming pace. The young girl from Rotherham had already been overwhelmed with the names O’Neill had dropped and the secrets he had shared, an innocent bystander in a one-way conversation.

“The Prime Minister’s under constant surveillance by our security men, of course. There’s always a threat. Irish. Arabs. Black Militants. They’re trying to get me, too. Been trying for months. The Special Branch boys insisted on giving me protection throughout the election. Found both our names on a hit list, Henry and me. So they gave me twenty-four-hour cover. Not public knowledge, of course, but all the journos know.” He dragged furiously at a cigarette and started coughing. He took out a soiled handkerchief and blew his nose loudly, inspecting the result before returning it to his pocket.

“But why you, Roger?” his young companion ventured.

“Soft target. Easy access. High publicity hit,” he rattled. “If they can’t get the PM, they’ll go for someone like me.” He looked around nervously, his eyes not settling. “Can you keep a confidence? A real secret?” He took another deep drag. “This morning I found my car had been tampered with. Bomb Squad boys went over it with a fine tooth comb. They found the wheel nuts on one of the front wheels had been undone. Straight home on the motorway, the wheel comes off at eighty and—more work for the road sweepers! They think it was deliberate. The Murder Squad are on their way over to interview me right now.”

“Roger, that’s awful,” she gasped.

“Mustn’t tell anyone. The SB don’t want to frighten them off if there’s a chance of catching them unawares.”

“I hadn’t realized you were so close to the Prime Minister,” she said with growing awe. “What a terrible time for…” She suddenly gasped. “Are you all right, Roger? You’re looking very upset. Your, your eyes…” she stammered.

O’Neill’s eyes were rotating wildly, sucking still further lurid hallucinations into his brain. His attention seemed to have strayed elsewhere; he was no longer with the young woman but in some other world, with some other conversation. His eyes wavered back to her but they were gone again in an instant. They were bloodshot and watering, had no focus, his nose was dribbling like an old man’s in winter; he gave it a cursory and unsuccessful wipe with the back of his hand. As she watched, his face turned to an ashen gray, his body twitched and he stood up sharply. He appeared terrified, as if the walls were falling in on him.

She looked on helplessly, unsure what he needed, too embarrassed to make a public scene. She moved to take his arm and support him, but as she did so he turned on her and lost his balance. He grabbed at her to steady himself, caught her blouse, and a couple of buttons popped.

“Get out of my way, get out of my way,” he snarled.

He thrust her violently backwards and she fell into a table laden with glasses before sprawling back onto the sofa. The crash of glass onto the floor stopped all conversation as everyone in the room turned to see what was going on. More buttons had gone and her left breast stood exposed.

There was absolute silence as O’Neill stumbled toward the door, pushing still more people out of the way before he tumbled into the night, leaving behind a room of shocked faces and a young girl clutching at her tattered clothing and fighting back tears of humiliation. An elderly female guest began helping her rearrange herself and shepherding her toward the bathroom. As the bathroom door shut behind them, the room instantly flooded with speculation that quickly grew into a broad sea of gossip that would keep them engaged and entertained all evening.

Penny Guy did not join in the gossip. A moment before, she had been laughing merrily, thoroughly enjoying the engaging wit and Merseyside charm of Patrick Woolton. Urquhart had introduced them more than an hour earlier and had ensured that the champagne flowed as easily as their conversation. But the moment of magic had dissolved in the uproar and Penny’s bright smile withered into an expression of abject misery. She fought a losing battle to control the tears, which spilled down her cheeks and seemed unstoppable despite the encouragement and large white handkerchief that Woolton had provided. Her pain was all too real.

“He’s really a kind man, brilliant at what he does,” she explained. “But sometimes it all seems to get too much for him and he goes a little crazy. It’s so out of character.” As she pleaded for him the tears flowed still faster.

“Penny. I’m so sorry, love. Look, you need to get out of this bloody place. My bungalow’s next door. What say you we go and dry you off there, OK?”

She knew what would happen. But it no longer seemed to matter very much. She nodded in gratitude and the couple squeezed their way through the crowd. No one seemed to notice as they eased their way out of the room, except Urquhart. His eyes followed them through the door where Landless and O’Neill had gone before. He felt deeply content. This was turning out to be a party to remember.

Nineteen

Most by-election candidates are little more than legal necessities, required to make the victor feel he has done something worthwhile. Which he rarely has.

Thursday, October 14

“You’re not going to make a bloody habit of getting me out of bed every morning, are you?” Even down the telephone line, Preston made it clear that he saw this as an instruction rather than a question.

Mattie was feeling even worse than she had managed the previous morning after several hours of alcoholic flagellation with Charles Collingridge. She was having considerable difficulty grasping the finer points of what was going on.

“Hell, Grev. I go to bed thinking I want to kill you because you won’t run the opinion poll story. Then I wake up this morning and find a bastardized version of it all over the front page with a byline by someone called ‘Our Political Staff.’ I’m not
thinking
I want to kill you any more, I
know
I want to kill you. But first I want to find out why you’re screwing around with my story. Why did you change your mind? Who’s rewritten my copy? And who the hell is ‘Our Political Staff’ if it’s not me?”

“Steady on, Mattie. Take a breath before you pop your corsets.”

“I don’t do corsets, Grev!”

“And you weren’t doing much last night, were you? What were you up to, flashing your eyes at some eligible peer or burning your bra at some feminist coven? But
nada
. I tried to call. No bloody answer. If only you’d hung around, you’d have heard all about it.”

Mattie began to recall the events of last night. It was a considerable effort, through a haze. Her distraction gave Preston time to continue.

“As I think Krajewski told you, last night some of the editorial staff here didn’t believe there was enough substantiation on your piece for it to run today.”

He heard Mattie snort with indignation.

“Frankly, I liked the piece, right from the start,” he added, trying to sound as if he meant it. “I wanted to make it work, but we needed more corroboration before we tore the country’s Prime Minister apart on the day of an important by-election. A single anonymous piece of paper wasn’t enough.”

“
I
didn’t tear the Prime Minister apart,
you
did!” Mattie wanted to interject but Preston was already ahead of her.

“So I had a chat with some of my senior contacts in the Party, and late last night we got the backing we needed. Just before our deadline.”

“But my copy—”

“The copy needed to be adapted, the story was moving on. I tried to reach you but since I couldn’t, I rewrote it myself. Didn’t want anyone else touching it, the story’s too good. So ‘Our Political Staff’ in this instance is me.”

“I wrote a piece about an opinion poll. You’ve turned it into the crucifixion of Collingridge. These quotes from ‘leading party sources,’ these criticisms and condemnations. Who else do you have working in Bournemouth apart from me?”

“My sources are my own business, Mattie, you should know that.”

“Bullshit, Grev. I’m supposed to be your political correspondent at this bloody conference. You can’t keep me in the dark like this. The paper’s done a complete somersault over my story and another somersault over Collingridge. A few weeks ago the sun shone out of his backside as far as you were concerned and now he’s—what does it say?—‘a catastrophe threatening to engulf the Government at any moment.’ I shall be about as popular as a witch’s armpit around here this morning. You’ve got to tell me what’s going on!”

Preston had tried. He’d offered an explanation. It wasn’t the truth, but so what? Now he decided it was time to pull a little rank. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. A brilliant bloody exclusive, that’s what’s going on. And it may have passed your notice, Mattie, but I’m editor of this newspaper, which means I don’t have to spend my day justifying myself to every cub reporter stuck out in the provinces. You do as you’re told, I do as I’m told, and we both get on with the job. All right?”

“So who the hell tells you what to do, Grev?” Mattie demanded. But all she got in return was a dial tone. The phone had gone dead. She pounded the arm of her chair in frustration. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—take much more of this. She’d thought new doors were opening up to her; instead, her editor kept slamming them shut on her fingers. It made no sense to her.

It still made no sense a good thirty minutes later as she was trying to clear her thoughts with yet another cup of coffee in the breakfast room. She was relieved there was no sign of Kevin Spence. A pile of the morning’s newspapers lay on the floor at her feet and she had to admit that Preston was right—it was a fine exclusive, the best front page of the lot. Great figures, great quotes. Too good for Greville Preston to have done it on a phone from London. As she scratched away at the puzzle she felt a shadow stretching across the room and looked up to see the vast bulk of Benjamin Landless lumbering across to a window table for a chat with Lord Peterson, the Party Treasurer. The proprietor settled his girth into a completely inadequate chair and leaned across as far as his belly would allow him. He smiled at Peterson, shook his hand, ignored Mattie completely. Suddenly she thought things were beginning to make a little more sense.