To Play the King (35 page)

He was staring at her breasts, which held him like a rabbit in the beam of a lamp. She smiled, closed the lid of her briefcase and snapped the locks shut as if inside it she had trapped his innocence. Then she rose and walked slowly around the long table. She wore a tight black body stocking in an oversized silk-cotton jacket from Harvey Nicks, an arrangement he hadn't seen before, and as she approached him the jacket was drawn back to expose her full physical charms. He knew he had made the right decision. It was good for the cause, would ensure continued support and security, Elizabeth would understand that - if she ever found out.

Sally was there, beside him. She extended a hand. 'I can't wait. Partner.'

He stood up, they shook hands. He felt triumphant, all-powerful, as though there were no challenge, no dilemma, to which he could not rise.

She was a remarkable woman, this American, practically a true British sport, his smile suggested. What an utter English prick, she thought.

* * *

Brian Redhead's beard had grown longer and wispier with the years, but his Geordie bite remained formidably sharp. Why else would he have survived so long as the doyen of early morning radio and continued to attract an endless stream of politicians to be mangled and torn even before their first cup of coffee had time to grow cold? He sat in his studio within Broadcasting House like a hermit in his cave, searching for some intangible truth, the table strewn with dirty cups, disused notes and soiled reputations, glowering at his producer through the murky window of the control room. A huge old-fashioned wall clock with a burnished oak surround hung on the wall, like a British Rail waiting room, the second hand ticking remorselessly onward.

'It's time once more for our review of the morning papers and we have our regular Thursday reviewer, Matthew Parris, to do just that for us. The Royal robes seem to be in something of a twist again, Matthew.'

'Yes, Brian. Our home-bred answer to all those Australian soaps begins another tangle-filled episode this morning, but perhaps there are signs that some sort of ending may be in sight. There are suggestions that we could be losing at least one of the key players, because the latest straw poll carried in
The Times
puts the Opposition ten points behind and it could be the straw that breaks the Opposition camel's back. Not that Gordon McKillin will take kindly to being compared to a camel, or a tramp for that matter, but he must be wondering how soon it will be before he's sent off to live in a Royal underpass. He might find it a lot more comfortable than the House of Commons this afternoon. But it's
The Times
editorial comment which has galvanized the rest of Fleet Street in their late editions. Time for an election to clear the air? it asks. No one doubts that it would not only be Mr McKillin's leadership under public scrutiny, but also the King's. The
Mirror
goes back to basics. "Under the present system he could be the biggest twerp in the kingdom yet still get to reign. To use his own words, something has got to be done." And not all the other papers show as much respect. Have you forgotten the
Sun
headline of just a few days ago which shouted "King of Conscience"? The
Sun's
editor obviously has, because he's reused the same headline today - except it's been abbreviated to read simply: "King Con". It seems a week is a long time in Royal politics. There's more in the rest. . .'

In a City office a few miles away from Broadcasting House, Landless switched off the radio. Dawn was still a brushstroke in the sky but already he was at his desk. His first job had been delivering newspapers as an eight-year-old, running all the way through the dark streets because his parents couldn't afford a bike, stuffing letter boxes and catching glimpses of negligee and bare flesh through the badly drawn curtains. He'd put on a bit of weight since then, and a few millions, but the habit of rising early to catch the others at it had stuck. There was only one other person in the office, the oldest of his three secretaries who took the early turn. The silence and her greying hair helped him think. He stood lingering over his copy of
The Times,
laid open on his desk. He read it again, cracking the knuckles of each of his fingers in turn as he tried to figure out what - and who - lay behind the words. When he had run out of knuckles he leaned across his desk and tapped the intercom.

'I know it's early, Miss Macmunn, and they'll still be pouring the milk over their wholemeal cornflakes and scratching their Royal rumps. But see if you can get the Palace on the phone . . .'

He had wondered, very briefly and privately, whether he should consult them, take their advice. But only very briefly. As he gazed around the Cabinet table at his colleagues, he could find no patience within himself for their endless debates and dithering, their fruitless searches for the easy way ahead, the constant resort to compromise. They had all arrived with their red Cabinet folders containing the formal Cabinet papers and the notes which civil servants felt might be necessary to support their individual positions or gently undermine those of rival colleagues. Colleagues! It was only his leadership, his authority which prevented them from indulging in the sort of petty squabbles that would disgrace a kindergarten. Anyway, the civil servants' notes were irrelevant, because the civil servants had not known that he was about to hijack the agenda.

There had been no point in seeking opinions; they would have been so pathetically predictable. Too soon, too precipitate, too uncertain, too much damage to the institution of the Monarchy, they would have said. Too much chance they would lose their Ministerial chauffeurs sooner than necessary. Oh, ye of little faith! They needed some backbone, some spunk. They needed terrifying out of their political wits.

He had waited until they finished smiling and congratulating each other at their favourable showing in the opinion polls -
their
favourable showing! He had called on the Chancellor of the Exchequer to recite for them just how wretched it was all going to be, particularly after the chaos in the markets had knocked the stuffing out of business confidence. A tunnel which had been dug deeper and longer than anyone could have expected, the Chancellor recited, with not a flicker of light to be seen and a Budget in the middle of next month which would blow holes in their socks. If they had any socks left.

While they were chewing nauseously on those bones he had asked the Employment Secretary about the figures. School holidays beginning on March 15, some three hundred thousand school leavers flooding onto the market, and employment prospects which looked as welcoming as a witch's armpit. The jobless total would rise above two million. Another election pledge out of the window. And then he had turned to the Attorney General's report about the prospect for Sir Jasper Harrod's trial. From the ague which crossed one or two of the faces he suspected there were other individual donations which had not yet come to light amongst the high and, for the moment, mighty. Thursday March 28 was the trial date. No, no postponements likely, the dirty linen being hung out to dry within days of the first rap of the judge's gavel. Sir Jasper had made it clear he did not wish to suffer on his own.

The colleagues had begun to look as though they were sailing in an overcrowded dinghy through a Force Nine before he put his own twist to their discomfort. A strong rumour that McKillin was considering resignation at Easter. Only that twerp of an Environment Secretary Dickie thought it good news; the rest had recognized it immediately for what it was - the Opposition's best hope of salvation, a new start, a clean break with McKillin's fooleries and failures, a leap for firm new ground. Even the other dunderheads had seen that - all except Dickie. He would have to go, after the election.

Only after silence had hung in the air for many seconds did he thrown them a lifeline, a chance to be hauled towards dry land. An election. On Thursday March 14. Just enough time if they hurried and scuttled to tidy up the parliamentary loose ends and a dissolution which would squeeze them through before the next storms hit and overwhelmed them. Not a suggestion, not a request for opinions, simply an indication of his mastery of tactics and why he was Prime Minister, and not any of the rest of them. A strong opinion poll lead. An Opposition in disarray. A Royal scapegoat. A timetable. And an audience with the King in under an hour to issue the Royal Proclamation. What more could they want. Yes, he knew it was tight, but there was time enough. Just.

'Your Majesty.' 'Urquhart.'

They did not bother sitting. The King showed no signs of offering a chair, and Urquhart needed only seconds to deliver his message.

'There is only one piece of business I wish to raise. I want an immediate election. For March 14.'

The King stared at him, but said nothing.

‘I
suppose in fairness I must tell you that part of the Government's manifesto will be a proposal to establish a parliamentary committee of inquiry into the Monarchy, its duties and responsibilities. I shall propose to that commission a series of radical restrictions on the activities, role and financing of both you and your relatives. There has been too much scandal and confusion. It is time for the people to decide.'

When he replied the King's voice was remarkably soft and controlled. 'It never ceases to amaze me how politicians can always pontificate in the name of the people, even as they utter the most absurd falsehoods. Yet if I, an hereditary Monarch, were to read from the Testaments my words would still be regarded with suspicion.'

The insult was delivered slowly so that it sank deep. Urquhart smiled patronizingly but offered no response.

'So it is to be outright war, is it? You and me. The King and his Cromwell. Whatever happened to that ancient English virtue of compromise?'

‘I
am a Scot.'

'So you would destroy me, and with me the Constitution which has served this country so well for generations.'

'A constitutional Monarchy is built on the mistaken concept of dignity and perfect breeding. It is scarcely my fault that you have all turned out to have the appetites and sexual preferences of goats!'

The King flinched as if he had been slapped and Urquhart realized he may have gone a step too far. After all, what was the point?

‘I
will bother you no longer, Sir. I merely came to inform you of the dissolution. March 14.'

'So you say. But I don't think you shall have it.'

There was no alarm in Urquhart's demeanour; he knew his rights. 'What nonsense is this?'

'You expect me to issue a Royal Proclamation today, this instant.'

'As I have every right to do.'

'Possibly. And then again, possibly not. An interesting point, don't you think? Because I also have rights accorded by the same constitutional precedents, rights to be consulted, to advise and to warn.'

‘I
am consulting you. Give me as much advice as you want. Warn me, threaten me for all I care. But that cannot prevent you from granting the dissolution I demand. That is the right of the Prime Minister.'

'Be reasonable, Prime Minister. This is my first time at this, I am new to the job. I need to take advice myself, talk to a few people, make sure I am taking the correct constitutional action. I'm sure I could be in a position to grant your request by, say, next week? Not unreasonable, is it? Just a few days?'

'That cannot be!'

'And why not?'

'You cannot expect me to hold an election on Maundy Thursday when those who are not on their knees are flat on their backs for the Easter holidays. No delay. I will not have it, d'you hear!'

The composure had been peeled away; Urquhart's fists were clenched in consternation and his legs braced as if he were about to launch a direct physical attack against the Monarch. Instead of flinching or drawing back, the King began to laugh, a frosty, hollow noise which echoed around the high ceiling.

'You must forgive me, Urquhart. My little joke. Of course I cannot delay your demand. I merely wanted to see how you would react.' The muscles continued to pull his face into the expression of a smile, but behind it there was no sense of warmth. The eyes were like frost. 'You seem to be in something of a hurry. And so, I have to tell you, am I, for your eagerness has helped prompt a decision of my own. You see, Urquhart, I despise you and all that you stand for. The ruthless, relentless, utterly soulless way you pursue your ends. I feel bound to do everything within my power to stop you.'

Urquhart was shaking his head. 'But you cannot delay an election.'

'No. But neither can I accept what I know to be a fact, that you have destroyed my friends, and my family, and now you attempt to destroy me and along with me, the Crown. You know, Charlotte may be a foolish woman but she is basically a kind soul. She didn't deserve what you did to her. But then, neither did Mycroft.' He waited for a second or two.
‘I
see you don't even feel the need to deny it.'

‘I
make no comment. You can prove nothing.'