The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (26 page)

In an exclusive poll conducted during the last two days by the
Chronicle
among almost two-thirds of Government MPs, 24 percent nominated him as their first choice, well ahead of other potential candidates.

Samuel is expected to announce his candidacy within days. In a bitter blow to his rivals, he is expected to get the backing of influential party figures such as Lord Williams, the Party Chairman. Sources predict such support could be crucial.

No other name attracted more than 16 percent. Five potential candidates obtained between 10 percent and 16 percent. These were Patrick Woolton (Foreign Secretary), Arnold Dollis (Home Secretary), Harold Earle (Education), Paul McKenzie (Health), and Francis Urquhart, the Chief Whip.

Urquhart’s inclusion in the list at 12 percent caused surprise at Westminster. He is not even a full member of the Cabinet but as Chief Whip has a strong base in the Parliamentary party. Observers say he could prove a strong outside candidate. However, sources close to Urquhart last night emphasized he had made no decision to enter the contest, and is expected to clarify his position sometime today…”

* * *

The Prime Minister had changed his mind. He read all the newspapers that morning. The commentaries which a week before had been ripping his flesh off in strips were now, in their fickle and inconstant fashion, praising his self-sacrifice that would enable the Government to make a fresh start—“although he must still resolve many outstanding personal and family issues to the public’s satisfaction,” thundered
The
Times
. As always, the press had no shame in sleeping on both sides of the bed, like tarts.

He read the
Chronicle
particularly carefully, as clearly had others. A consensus seemed to be emerging: it was an open race but Samuel was the front runner. Collingridge cast the paper into a corner, where it flapped like a dying swan, and summoned his political secretary.

“Grahame. An instruction to Lord Williams, copy to Humphrey Newlands. He is to issue a press release at twelve-thirty this afternoon for the lunchtime news. Nominations for leadership election will close in three weeks’ time on Thursday, November 18, with the first ballot to take place on the following Tuesday, November 23. If a second ballot is required it will be held as prescribed by the Party’s rules on the following Tuesday, November 30, with any final run-off ballot two days later. Have you got that?”

“Yes, Prime Minister.” The secretary nodded but hid his eyes. It was the first time since his resignation announcement that they had been alone and able to talk.

“You know what that means, Grahame? In exactly six weeks and one day, you and I will be out of a job. I haven’t always found time to thank you properly these past years, but I want you to know how bloody grateful I am.”

The aide shuffled with embarrassment.

“You must start thinking about your own future. There will be my Resignation Honors List. You’ll be on it. As will several newly knighted gentlemen in the City who will be happy to make you a generous offer. I’ll make sure of it. Think about what you want, let me know. I still have a few favors to cash in.”

The secretary raised eyes filled with regret and gratitude.

“By the way, Grahame, it’s possible Teddy Williams might want to get hold of me and encourage me to shorten the election process. I will not be available. You are to make it clear to him that these are instructions, not terms for negotiation, and they are to be issued without fail by twelve-thirty.”

There was a short pause.

“Otherwise, tell him, I shall be forced to leak them myself.”

* * *

The tide waits for no man and it was already ebbing for Michael Samuel. Almost as soon as Collingridge had announced his resignation he had consulted his mentor, Teddy Williams.

“Patience, Michael,” the elder statesman had advised. “You will almost certainly be the youngest candidate. They’ll try to say you are too callow, too inexperienced, and too ambitious. So don’t look too much as if you want the job. Show a little restraint and let them come to you.”

Which was to prove excellent advice but entirely irrelevant to the circumstances. No sooner had the
Chronicle
hit the streets promoting Samuel’s name than Urquhart appeared in front of television cameras to confirm that he had no intention of standing. “I’m flattered, of course, that my name should even be mentioned but I feel it would be in the Party’s best interests if I, as Chief Whip, remain entirely impartial in this contest,” he said, adding a self-deprecatory nod before disappearing, pursued by the shouted but unanswered questions of the mob.

The search was on for Samuel, and the release later that morning of the detailed election timetable added fuel to the fervor. By the time the breathless inquisitors of the mob had tracked him down to the Intercontinental Hotel off Hyde Park, just before an early lunch meeting, they were in no mood to accept conditional answers. Samuel couldn’t say no, they wouldn’t accept maybe, not when they discovered that he had already appointed the nucleus of a campaigning team. So, after considerable harassment, he was forced into making an announcement on the steps of the hotel, surrounded by a chaos of baggage and raised umbrellas, that he would indeed be running.

The one o’clock news offered a clear contrast between Urquhart, the dignified and elder statesman declining to run, and the apparently eager Samuel holding an impromptu press conference on the street and launching himself as the first official candidate nearly a month before the first ballot was to be held.

Urquhart was watching the proceedings with considerable satisfaction when the telephone rang. He heard the sound of a toilet flushing, which faded into the unmistakable sound of Ben Landless laughing before the line went dead.

Twenty-Nine

Some political careers are like a book that has been misfiled in the British Library. It’s a small mistake, as mistakes go, but the result is perpetual oblivion.

Friday, October 29—Saturday, October 30

“This what you want?”

Krajewski’s tone still carried the hurt of their last encounter. He’d been avoiding Mattie in the newsroom since then but now he was leaning over her shoulder, careful not to get too close, clutching a large manila envelope in his hand. He let it drop in front of her, and from it she withdrew a 10x12 color photograph. The face of the driver stared at her, grainy and distorted but with reasonable clarity.

“Freddie came up trumps,” Krajewski continued. “He took this along to his AA meeting last night and the group leader recognized it immediately. The name is Dr. Robert Christian, who’s a well-known authority on the treatment of drug and alcohol addiction. Runs a treatment center in a large private house near the south coast in Kent. Find Dr. Christian, and my bet is you’ve found your Charlie.”

“Johnnie, I don’t know how to thank you,” she said excitedly.

But already he had gone.

* * *

The following day, Saturday, wasn’t a working one for Mattie. Immediately after an early lunch she climbed into her old BMW, filled it with petrol, and pointed it in the direction of Dover. The traffic was heavy as she barged her way through the shopping crowds of Greenwich before she emerged onto the A2, the old Roman road which pointed the way from London into the heart of Kent. It took her past the cathedral town of Canterbury and a few miles beyond she turned off at the picturesque village of Barham. Her road map wasn’t particularly helpful in finding the even smaller village of Norbington nearby but with the help of several locals she found herself some while later outside a large Victorian house, bearing a subdued sign in the shrubbery that declared itself to be the Fellowship Treatment Center.

There were several cars in the leafy driveway and the front door was open. She was surprised to see people wandering around with apparent freedom, and no sign of the formidable white-coated nurses she had expected to find patrolling the grounds for potential escapees. She parked her car on the road and, sucking a mint for courage, walked cautiously up the drive.

A large, tweed-suited gentleman with a white military mustache approached and her heart sank. This was surely the security patrol in pursuit of intruders.

“Excuse me, my dear,” he said in a clipped accent as he intercepted her by the front door. “Have you seen any member of staff about? They like to keep out of the way on family visiting days, but you ought to be able to find one when you need them.”

Mattie offered her apologies and smiled in relief. Fortune had followed her and she had struck the best possible day to avoid awkward questions. The place had the atmosphere of a fashionable country retreat rather than an institution; no straitjackets, no restraints, no locks on the doors, no institutional smells. She found a fire safety map on the wall of the hallway with a detailed plan of the house, which Mattie used to guide herself around the premises in search of her quarry. She found him outside on a garden bench, staring out across the valley in the last of the October sun. Her discovery gave her no joy. She had come to deceive.

“Why, Charlie!” she exclaimed, sitting herself down beside him. “What a surprise to find you here.”

He looked at her with a total lack of comprehension. He seemed worn down, his reactions slow, as though his mind was in some faraway place. “I…I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I don’t recognize…”

“Mattie Storin. You remember, of course you do. We spent a thoroughly enjoyable evening together in Bournemouth a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Storin. I don’t remember. You see, I’m an alcoholic, that’s why I’m here, and I’m afraid I was in no condition a few weeks ago to remember very much at all.”

She was taken aback by his frankness while he smiled serenely.

“Please don’t be embarrassed, my dear,” he said, patting her hand like an elderly uncle. “I’m an addict. Trying to cure myself. Had a million ways of hiding it from everyone but only managed to fool myself. Want to get better. That’s what this treatment center is all about.”

Mattie blushed deeply. She had intruded into the private world of a sick man and felt ashamed.

“Charlie, if you don’t remember who I am, then you won’t remember I’m a journalist.”

The hand was withdrawn, the smile disappeared, replaced by a look of resignation. “Bugger. And you look such a nice girl. Suppose it had to happen sometime, although Henry was hoping I could be left alone here quietly…”

“Charlie, please believe me, I haven’t come here to make life difficult for you. I want to help.”

“They all say that, don’t they?”

“Don’t say anything for the moment, just let me talk a little.”

“Oh, all right. Not as if I’m going anywhere.”

“Your brother, the Prime Minister, has been forced to resign because of allegations that he helped you buy and sell shares to make a quick profit.”

He started waving his hand to bring her to a halt but she brushed his protest aside.

“Charlie, none of this makes any sense to me. It just doesn’t add up. I think someone was deliberately trying to undermine your brother by accusing you.”

“Really?” His old oyster eyes began to wobble with interest. “Who would do that?”

“I don’t know. I only have suspicions. I came to see if you could point me toward something more solid.”

“Miss Storin—Mattie, may I call you that? You said we were old friends…I’m a drunk. I can’t even remember meeting you. So how can I be of help? My word carries no weight whatsoever.”

“I’m neither a judge nor a prosecutor, Charlie. I’m just trying to piece together a puzzle from a thousand scattered shards.”

His weary eyes searched beyond the hills toward Dover and the Channel, as though a different world lay out there. “Mattie, I’ve tried so hard to remember, believe me. The thought that I have disgraced Henry and forced him to resign is almost more than I can bear. But I don’t know what the truth is. I can’t help you. Can’t even help myself.”

“Wouldn’t you remember something about buying so many shares?”

“I’ve been very sick. And very drunk. There are many things I have absolutely no recollection of.”

“Wouldn’t you have remembered where you got the money from, or what you did with the proceeds?”

“It does seem unlikely I would have had a small fortune lying around without my remembering it or, more likely, spending it on alcohol. And I’ve no idea where the money could have gone. Even
I
can’t drink away £50,000 in just a few weeks.”

“What about the false address in Paddington?”

“Yes, they mentioned something about that. A complete mystery. I don’t even know where Praed Street in Paddington is when I’m sober, so it is preposterous to suppose I would have found my way there drunk. It’s the other side of London from where I live.”

“But you used it—so they say—for your bank and subscription to the Party’s literature service.”

Charles Collingridge suddenly roared with laughter, so violently that tears began gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Mattie, my dear, you’re beginning to restore my faith in myself. No matter how drunk I was, I could never have shown any interest in political propaganda. I object when the stuff is pushed through my letterbox at election time; having to pay for it every month would be an insult!”

“No literature?”

“Never!”

Autumn leaves scuttled across the lawn. The sun was settling lower and a warm, red glow filled the sky, lighting up his face. He seemed to be visibly returning to health, and to be content.

“I can’t prove a thing. But on my word as a gentleman, I don’t believe I am guilty of the things they say I have done.” He took her hand once more and squeezed it. “Mattie, it would mean a lot to me if you believed that, too.”

“I do, Charlie, very much. And I’m going to try to prove it for you.” She rose to leave.

“I’ve enjoyed your visit, Mattie. Now that we are such old friends, please come again.”