The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (41 page)

She had smiled, he had succumbed, and now she was following his directions, using the stairs past the Strangers’ Gallery and up again until she had passed the paneled dressing room reserved for the Palace doorkeepers. Then she saw a fire door that had been left ajar. As she stepped through it she emerged onto the roof, bathed in sunlight, and let out a gasp of awe. The view was magnificent. Directly in front of her, towering into the cloudless sky and made brilliant in the sunshine and snow, was the honey-drenched tower of Big Ben. Every detail of the beautifully crafted stone stood out with stunning clarity and she could see the tremor of the great clock hands as the ancient mechanism pursued its remorseless course. To her left she found the vastness of the tiled roof of Westminster Hall, the oldest part of the Palace, survivor of fire, war, bomb, riot, and revolution; to her right the irrepressible Thames ebbed and eddied in its own timeless fashion.

There were fresh footsteps in the snow. He was standing by the balustrade at the far end of the terrace, looking out beyond the rooftops of Whitehall to the white stone walls of the Home Office. Behind it lay Buckingham Palace where, later that evening, he would be driven in triumph.

She trod in his footsteps, for comfort. He turned suddenly, startled, when he heard the creaking of her step.

“Mattie!” he exclaimed. “This is a surprise.”

She advanced toward him, reaching out, but something in his eyes told her this was neither the time nor the place. Her arms fell to her side.

“I had to see you, Francis.”

“But of course. What is it you want, Mattie?”

“I’m not entirely sure. To say good-bye, perhaps. I don’t think we’re going to get much chance to see each other anymore, not like…”

“Our time the other night? I think you may be right, Mattie. But we will always share that memory. And you will always have my friendship.”

“I also wanted to warn you.”

“About what?”

“Something evil is going on.”

“Where?”

“All around us—around you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There have been so many leaks.”

“Politics is a soggy business.”

“Patrick Woolton was blackmailed.”

“Really?” He looked at her in sudden alarm, as though he had been slapped.

“The Collingridges were set up over the Renox shares.”

He was silent now.

“And I think someone killed Roger O’Neill.” She looked at the incredulity bubbling up in his eyes. “You think I’m mad?”

“No, not at all. You looked distressed, not mad. But that’s a very serious allegation, Mattie. Do you have any sort of proof?”

“A little. Not enough. Not yet.”

“So who is behind it all?”

“I don’t know. For a while I thought it might be Teddy Williams, it might still be, but I can’t do this on my own, Francis. I don’t even have a newspaper to write for any more. I was hoping you might help.”

“And how would you like me to help, Mattie?”

“I believe one man was behind it all. He used Roger O’Neill, then got rid of him. If we can find one link in the chain, just one, perhaps the shares, then it will lead to the others, and everything will come out, it always does, and we can—”

She was babbling as it all tumbled forth. He stepped toward her and held her arms, squeezing them gently, forcing her to stop.

“You look tired, Mattie. You’re very upset.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Far from it. You may have stepped upon the greatest story you will ever write. Westminster is a dark and sometimes dirty corner where men trade their principles for a few years in power. It’s a very old game. But it’s also a dangerous game. You must be very careful, Mattie. If you’re right and someone has been responsible for Roger O’Neill’s death, that places you in the line of fire, too.”

“What should I do, Francis?”

“Will you allow me to take charge of this for you, for a little while? With luck by tomorrow I shall be in a position to ask all sorts of questions, put a few ferrets down the rabbit holes. Let’s see what comes up.”

“Would you?”

“For you I’d do just about anything, Mattie, surely you must know that.”

Her head fell forward onto his chest in gratitude and release. “You are a very special man, Francis. Better than all the rest.”

“
You
might say that, Mattie.”

“There are many people who are saying that.”

“But you know I couldn’t possibly comment.”

He smiled, their faces only inches apart.

“You must trust me completely on this, Mattie. Will you? Not a word to anyone else.”

“Of course.”

“And one weekend, very soon, during the Christmas break, perhaps you can come to my country house. I’ll make some excuse about needing to clear some papers from it. My wife will be listening to Wagner in some corner of the continent. You and I can be alone again. Sort this out.”

“Are you sure?”

“The New Forest can be beautiful at that time of the year.”

“You live in the New Forest?”

“Near Lyndhurst.”

“Just off the M27?”

“That’s right.”

“But that’s where Roger O’Neill died.”

“Is it?”

“Probably no more than half a dozen miles.”

He was looking at her strangely now. She stepped away from him, feeling weak, dizzy, leaned against the balustrade for support. And the pieces of the jigsaw moved about in her mind and suddenly fitted precisely together.

“Your name wasn’t on the list,” she whispered.

“What list?”

“Of Cabinet members. Because the Chief Whip isn’t a full member of the Cabinet. But because you’re responsible for discipline in the party they’d be bound to consult you about canceling the hospital program. And the TA cuts. So that you can—what is it you say?—
put
a
bit
of
stick
about
.”

“This is very silly of you, Mattie.”

“And every Government department has a junior whip attached to it to make sure there’s proper coordination. Fingers on the pulse, ears to the ground, all that sort of thing. Your men, Francis, who report back to you. And because you are the Chief Whip you know all about their little foibles, who is off his head with cocaine, who is sleeping with who, where to put the tape recorder…”

His face had gone pale, the glow in his cheeks drained, like an alabaster mask, except for the eyes.

“Opportunity. And motive,” she whispered, aghast. “From nowhere to Prime Minister in just a couple of months. How on earth did I miss it?” She shook her head in self-mockery. “I missed it because I think I love you, Francis.”

“Which doesn’t make you particularly objective. As you said, Mattie, you don’t have a single shred of proof.”

“But I will get it, Francis.”

“Is there any joy in the pursuit of such truth, Mattie?”

A solitary snowflake fell from the sky. As he watched it he remembered something an old embittered colleague had told him when he had first entered the House, that a life in politics was as pointless as nailing your ambition to a snowflake. A thing of beauty. Then it was gone.

“How did you kill Roger?” she asked.

A fire had taken hold of her, a flame of understanding that glowed fierce. He knew there was no point in prevarication.

“I didn’t kill him. He killed himself. I did no more than hand him the pistol. A little rat poison mixed with his cocaine. He was an addict, driven to self-destruction. Such a weak man.”

“No one deserves to die, Francis.”

“You told me yourself the other night, I remember your words clearly. I remember everything about the other night, Mattie. You said you wanted to understand power. The compromises it requires, the deceits it entails.”

“But not this.”

“If you understand power, you will know that sometimes sacrifice is necessary. If you understand me, you will know that I have the potential to make an exceptional leader, one who could be great.” There was a rising passion in his voice. “And if you understand love, Mattie, you of all people will give me that chance. Otherwise…”

“What, Francis?”

He stood very still, his lips grown thin, the cheeks gaunt. “Did you know my father killed himself?” he asked, his voice so soft it all but carried away in the winter air.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Is that what you want of me?”

“No!”

“Expect of me?”

“Never!”

“Then why do you pursue me?” He was gripping her arms tightly, his face contorted. “There are choices we have to make in life, Mattie, desperately difficult choices, ones we may hate ourselves for but which become inevitable. You and I, Mattie, we must choose. Both of us.”

“Francis, I love you, really I do, but—”

And with that tiny, sharp-edged conjunction, he broke. The chaos within him suddenly froze, his eyes stared at her, melting in sorrow like the flake of snow that had fallen from the crystal Westminster sky. He let forth a desperate sob of despair, an animal in unbearable pain. Then he lifted her and threw her over the balustrade.

She cried as she fell, more in surprise than alarm. The cries stopped as she hit the cobbles below and lay still.

* * *

She
was
a
strange
girl. I think she was infatuated with me. That sometimes happens, sadly, to people in public positions. She turned up on my doorstep once, late at night, completely out of the blue.

Disturbed? Well, you might say that but it’s not for me to comment, although I do know she had recently left her job at the
Chronicle
and had been unable to find new employment. I can’t tell you whether she resigned or was fired. She lived on her own, apparently. A sad case.

When
she
approached
me
on
the
roof
she
seemed
distressed
and
rather
disheveled. A number of people including a newspaper colleague and one of our policemen in the Palace can attest to that. She asked me for a job. I told her that wouldn’t be possible, but she persisted, pestered, grew hysterical. I tried to calm her but she only grew worse. We were standing by the balustrade and she threatened to throw herself off. I moved to grab her but she seemed to slip on the ice, the conditions were quite treacherous, and before I knew it or could stop her she had disappeared. Was it deliberate on her part? I hope not. Such a tragic waste of a young life.

It’s not the best way to start a premiership, of course it’s not. I wondered for a while if I should step aside rather than carry this burden forward. Instead I intend to take a close interest in the issue of mental illness among the young. We must do more. I will never forget the sadness of that moment on the rooftop. It may sound strange but I believe that young lady’s suffering will give me strength, something to live up to. You understand that, don’t you?

I
start
my
time
in
Downing
Street
with
a
renewed
determination
to
bring
our
people
together, to put an end to the constant drip of cynicism that has eroded so much of our national life and to devote myself to our country’s cause. I shall make sure that Miss Storin’s death will not have been in vain.

And
now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.

The End

Afterword

It was a most glorious, splendiferous, monumental cock-up that took place twenty-five years ago. It completely changed my life. It was this book,
House
of
Cards
.

I was on the tiny island of Gozo and in a sore mood. I started complaining about everything—the sun, the sea, and in particular the latest bestseller. Soon my partner was fed up. “Stop being so bloody pompous,” she said. “If you think you can do any better, for God’s sake, go and do it. I haven’t come on holiday to listen to you moaning about that wretched book!”

Spurred on by her encouragement, I took myself down to the pool. I’d never thought of writing a book, but now I was armed with a pad, a pen, and a bottle of wine, everything I needed to become a writer—except, of course, for those irksome details known as Character and Plot. What could I possibly write about? My mind wandered back a few weeks, to the reason I was sulking and feeling so sore.

Conservative Party headquarters, 1987. A week before Election Day. I was Margaret Thatcher’s chief of staff. She was about to win a record third election but Maggie had been persuaded by a combination of rogue opinion polls and uncharacteristic nervousness that she might lose. She hadn’t slept properly for days, had a raging toothache, and insisted that someone else should suffer. That someone was me. On a day that became known as “Wobble Thursday,” she stormed, she blew up a tempest, she was brutally unfair. Her metaphorical handbag swung at me time and again. I was about to become another footnote in history.

When we left the room, that wise old owl and Deputy Prime Minister, Willie Whitelaw, rolled his eyes and declared: “That is a woman who will never fight another election.” He’d spotted the seeds of self-destruction that all too soon would become apparent to the entire world.

As I sat beside my swimming pool, Willie’s words were still ringing in my ear. I reached for my pen and my bottle of wine. Three bottles later I thought I had found my character—his initials would be FU—and a plot. About getting rid of a Prime Minister. So Francis Urquhart and
House
of
Cards
was born.

I had no thought of getting it published—for me it was no more than a little private therapy—but through glorious and entirely unplanned good fortune soon it was a bestseller and the BBC was transforming it into an award-winning drama series with the magnificent Ian Richardson. I retired hurt from active politics and became a full-time writer. Now, twenty-five years after the book was published, FU is changing my life again. Step forward Kevin Spacey with his sensational new TV series. My house of cards has been rebuilt.