The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (22 page)

“What, leaking all that other material since the election, too?”

“Of course!” She finished the rest of her beer in triumph. The adrenalin was pouring into her veins. This was going to make the best story of all. It was what she had come south for.

“Johnnie, you’re right!”

“Am I?” he said, bewildered. He’d lost track of this one a couple of beers ago.

“This 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.”

“Don’t sound so bloody despondent.”

“It’s just that…” Oh, to hell with hesitation. “You remember you said you’d rip my balls off if I didn’t tell you everything.”

“But you have.”

“Could you do it all the same?”

“You mean…” Yes, he did, she could see it in his eyes. “Johnnie, I don’t do office romances.”

“Romance? Who’s talking romance? We’ve both had far too much beer for that. I’d be quite happy with a good old fashioned shag for now.”

She laughed.

“I think we both deserve it,” he insisted.

She was still laughing as they left the restaurant hand in hand.

* * *

The Downing Street statement—or briefing, in fact, because it wasn’t issued in the form of a press release but through the words of the press secretary, Freddie Redfern—was simple. “The Prime Minister has never provided his brother with any form of commercially sensitive Government information. He 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. And that’s all you’re getting on the record.”

“Come on, Freddie,” one of the assembled 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. Mistaken identity, 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 I know he’s incapable of stooping to such sordid depths. My man is innocent. 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 former colleagues swung the day for Collingridge—just.

“WE’RE INNOCENT!” bawled the front page of the
Daily
Mail
the following day. Since no one had been able to unearth any fresh incriminating evidence, most of the other newspapers followed a similar line. For the moment.

* * *

“Francis, you’re the only smiling face I see at the moment.”

“Henry, it will improve. I promise. The hounds will scatter once they lose the scent.”

They were sitting together in the Cabinet Room, newspapers scattered across the brown cloth.

“Thank you for your loyalty, Francis. It means a great deal to me right now.”

“The storm clouds are passing.”

But the Prime Minister was shaking his head. “I wish that were so, but you and I know this is only a breathing space.” He sighed. “I don’t know how much firm support I still have among colleagues.”

Urquhart didn’t contest the point.

“I can’t afford to run away. I have to give them something to hold onto, show I’ve nothing to hide. It’s time to take the initiative once again.”

“What do you intend to do?”

The Prime Minister sat quietly at his place, chewing the end of his pen. He glanced up at the towering oil painting of Robert Walpole, his longest-serving predecessor, that stood above the marble fireplace. “How many scandals and crises did he survive, Francis?”

“More than you will ever have to.”

“Or be able to,” Collingridge whispered, searching the dark, too clever eyes for inspiration. Suddenly he was distracted as the sun burst through the gray autumn skies, flooding the room with light. It seemed to give him hope. Life would go on.

“I’ve had an invitation from those bastards at
Weekend
Watch
. They want me to appear this Sunday and put my own case—to restore the balance.”

“I trust them like I do a nest of adders.”

“Nevertheless, I think I must do it—and 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. Raising sights, lifting the argument out of the gutter. What do you think?”

“Me, think, Prime Minister? But I’m the Chief Whip, you don’t pay me to think.”

“I know I disappointed you, Francis, but right now I couldn’t ask for a better man than you at my side. After this is over, I promise—you’ll get what you want.”

Urquhart nodded his head slowly in gratitude.

“Would you do it? If you were standing in my shoes?” Collingridge pressed. “Freddie Redfern says it’s too dangerous.”

“There are also dangers in doing nothing.”

“So?”

“At times like these, with so much at stake, I believe a man must follow his heart.”

“Excellent!” Collingridge exclaimed, clapping his hands. “I’m glad you think that way. Because I’ve already accepted.”

Urquhart nodded in approval, yet suddenly the Prime Minister swore. He was staring at his hands. The pen had leaked. His hands were filthy, he was covered in ink.

* * *

Penny Guy had been expecting a call from Patrick Woolton. Somehow he’d found the direct line number and had been using it, trying to invite her out once again. He’d been persistent but she had been adamant. It was a party conference thing, nothing more, although she had to admit that he had been fun and remarkably athletic for his age. A mistake, but a memory that hadn’t hurt anyone. Yet the call, when it came, was from Urquhart wanting to speak to her boss. She put the call through and a few seconds later the door to his office was carefully closed.

It was some minutes later that Penny heard the sound of O’Neill’s raised voice, although she couldn’t decipher what he was shouting about. And when the light on the extension phone flashed off to indicate the call was finished, there was no sound of any kind from O’Neill’s office. She hesitated for another few minutes but, pressed on by a mixture of curiosity and concern, she knocked gently on his door and opened it cautiously.

O’Neill was sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, propped up by the angle of two walls. His head was in his hands.

“Rog…?”

He looked up, startled, his eyes full of chaos and pain. His voice croaked and his speech was disjointed.

“He…threatened me, Pen. Fucking…threatened me. Said if I don’t he would…I’ve got to alter the file…”

She knelt down beside him, his head on her breast. She had never seen him like this. “What file, Rog? What have you got to do?”

He tried to shake his head, wouldn’t answer.

“Let me help you, Rog. Please.”

His head jerked up, his expression wild. “No one can help me!”

“Let me take you home,” she said, trying to lift him.

He shoved her away. “Get away from me!” he snarled. “Don’t touch me!” Then he saw the look of pain in her eyes and some of the fire inside him seemed to die. He collapsed in the corner, like a little boy, hiding his head in shame. “I’m fucked, you see. Totally fucked. Nothing you can do. Anyone can do. Go away.”

“No, Rog—”

But he pushed her away again, so savagely that she fell over backwards. “Fuck off, you little slut! Just…leave.”

In tearful confusion she climbed to her feet. He was hiding his head from her again, wouldn’t talk. She left. She heard the door slam behind her and the sound of it being locked from the inside.

Twenty-Three

The dust of exploded ambition makes for a fine sunset. And I love walking out in the evening.

Sunday, October 24

Weekend
Watch
. An entire nation watching. Lions and Christians—or one Christian, at least. Collingridge was beginning to relax as the program unfolded. He had rehearsed hard for the previous two days and the questions were much as expected, giving him an opportunity to talk with genuine vigor about the next few years. He had insisted that the questions about Charlie and the
Observer
allegations be kept until the end—he didn’t want those whores in the production gallery welching on their promise to keep that to ten minutes. Anyway, he wanted to be well into his stride. After forty-five minutes discussing the national interest and its bright future, surely any fair-minded man would find the questions simply mean and irrelevant?

Sarah was smiling encouragingly from a seat at the edge of the studio floor as they went into the final commercial break. He blew a kiss at her as the floor manager waved his arms to let them know they were about to go back on air.

“Prime Minister, for the final few minutes of our program, I’d like to turn to the allegations printed in the
Observer
last week about your brother, Charles, and the implication of possible improper share dealing.”

Collingridge nodded, his face serious, unflinching.

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

“No connection, no. Not at all. There may have been some confusion with another Charles Collingridge for all I know, but I’m really not in a position to explain the extraordinary
Observer
story. All I can tell you is that none of my family has had anything whatsoever to do with Renox shares. You have my word of honor on that.” He spoke the words slowly, leaning forward, looking directly at the presenter.

“I understand that your brother denies ever having opened an accommodation address in a Paddington tobacconist’s.”

“Absolutely,” Collingridge confirmed. “It’s well known he’s not in the best of shape right now but—”

“Forgive me for interrupting, Prime Minister, our time is very short. Earlier this week one of our reporters addressed an envelope to himself, care of Charles Collingridge, at the same address in Paddington used to open the bank account. It was a vivid red envelope to make sure it stood out clearly. Then yesterday he went to reclaim it. We filmed him. I’d like you to look at the monitor. I apologize for the poor quality but I’m afraid we had to use a concealed camera because the proprietor of the shop seemed very reluctant to cooperate.”

The presenter swiveled his chair so that he, along with the audience, could see the grainy but still discernible video that was being shown on the large screen behind him. Collingridge flashed a look of concern at Sarah before cautiously turning his own chair. 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 shopkeeper that a letter was waiting for him in the care of Charles Collingridge who used this address for his own post. The shopkeeper, the same overweight and habitually offensive man who had served Penny several months before, explained that he wasn’t going to 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.”

With a scratch at his belly and a frown of uncertainty, the shopkeeper turned and extracted the envelopes from a numbered pigeonhole 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, matched that of the reporter’s identity cards, when the camera zoomed in on the other envelopes. It took a few seconds to focus before 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.

The presenter turned once more to his adversary. The Christian had been cornered.

“The first envelope from the Union Bank of Turkey seems to confirm that this address was used to buy and sell shares in the Renox Chemical Company. But we were puzzled about the letter from your own Party Headquarters. So we called your Sales and Literature Office, pretending to be a supplier with an order for Charles Collingridge but with an indecipherable address.”

Collingridge knew what he must do. He must stop this rape of his brother’s reputation and denounce the immoral and underhand methods used by the program, but his mouth had turned to desert sand and, while he struggled to find the words, the studio filled to the recorded sound of the telephone call.

“…so could you just confirm what address we should have for Mr. Collingridge and then we can get the goods off to him straight away.”

“Just one minute, please,” an eager young voice said. “I’ll call it up on the screen.”

There was the sound of a keyboard being tapped.

“Ah, here it is. Charles Collingridge, 216 Praed Street, Paddington, London W2.”

“Thank you. Very much indeed. You have been most helpful.”

The presenter turned once again to Collingridge. “Do you want to comment, Prime Minister?”

The Prime Minister stared, silent, wondering if this was the moment he should walk out from the studio.

“Of course, we took seriously your explanation that it might be a case of mistaken identity, of confusion with another Charles Collingridge.”

Collingridge wanted to shout that it wasn’t
his
explanation, that it was nothing more than an off-hand remark made without prejudice by his press secretary, but already the presenter was continuing, cutting off any route of escape.