Freddie’s heart sank. He told the detective to keep on tailing Tony and immediately rang Declan, who was utterly shattered. They both decided, however, that if Cameron had spilled any more beans, it was too late to muzzle Tony now. If, as was just possible, she hadn’t, she was still too important a trump card with the IBA to be frightened off.
They decided to wait until Rupert returned from Rome tomorrow before tackling her.
Next morning, after a restless night, Declan woke up to more snow, and, not wishing to risk either car, walked down to the village shop to get the papers. Yesterday at The Priory, they’d had a power cut and frozen pipes. Today the washing machine and the tumble dryer were kaput, and it was warmer out than in. Three-foot icicles hung from the faulty gutters. The evergreens lining the drive were bent double by the snow. Every blade of grass edging the road was rimed with frost and burned with a white heat of its own.
The traffic was crawling so slowly that Declan didn’t bother to put the dogs on leads. Gertrude, a bit lame from the hard ground, still rushed into every cottage front garden and barked at the snowmen. Claudius, encountering his first snow this year, was wild with excitement, plunging into drifts, leaping to catch the snowballs Declan hurled for him. As Declan passed the white church, he sent up a prayer that Venturer might win. On such a beautiful day, one couldn’t fail to be optimistic. But as he walked into the village shop Mr Banks, who was a great newspaper reader, waved
The Times.
‘Lord Baddingham’s been blowing his own trumpet again.’
Declan felt his throat go dry, his stomach churned.
‘Page five,’ went on Mr Banks, handing the paper to Declan.
‘
Baddingham Set for Victory
,’ said the headline. There was a very nice picture, taken from above and at a slight angle to reduce the heavy jowl. Tony was smiling and showing excellent teeth. The interview had been written by a well-known financial journalist.
As he was so confident of retaining the franchise, Tony had told him, he was only too happy to reveal Corinium’s plans for next year. They were very happy to welcome three new directors on to the Board, all production people, including Ailie Bristoe, who’d just spent three years in Hollywood and who would be Director of Programmes. They were also very excited about their new networked thirteen-part series on marriage which, Tony predicted, would turn James and Lizzie Vereker into big stars.
It was safe enough stuff. Declan sat down on the snow-covered window-ledge outside the shop, obscuring the postcard advertisements for lost gerbils, daily women and secondhand carrycots in the window.
Corinium, he read on, had also made arrangements with the Royal Shakespeare to televise special productions of whatever Shakespeare plays children in the area would be taking for O- and A-levels each year. Then they would offer the videos for sale. They’d also be filming Johnny Friedlander’s
Hamlet
, which had been postponed until the summer.
Shit, thought Declan in horror, those were both Cameron’s ideas. But most exciting of all, he read on, was that Corinium had signed up a new play by Stroud-born playwright, Dermot MacBride, with an option on the second. There followed a lot of guff about MacBride’s towering genius, and how happy Tony was to welcome this lost son of Gloucestershire back into the fold.
‘We paid a lot for MacBride,’ Tony had admitted.
But, as the financial journalist pointed out, the publicity value alone would be worth thousands of pounds to Corinium.
‘Please don’t obscure my advertisement,’ said a shrill voice. ‘I’ll never get a cleaner that way.’
Looking up, Declan discovered an old lady with a red nose glaring at him. Looking down he saw Gertrude and Claudius sitting at his feet, shivering miserably. Slipping and sliding, falling over twice, moaning with rage, Declan ran home to The Priory.
‘Look at fucking that!’ He brandished
The Times
under Maud’s nose. ‘Tony’s bought Dermot MacBride’s play. Cameron must have leaked it to him.’
‘I always thought she was untrustworthy,’ said Maud, who was plucking her eyebrows.
Declan’s hands were so cold it took him a long time to dial the number of Dermot MacBride’s agent.
‘We had a deal. What the fuck are you playing at?’
‘The contract hadn’t been signed,’ said the agent defensively. ‘My duty is to get the best deal for my authors. Tony offered three times as much as you.’
‘You could have come back to me. I’d have matched his offer.’
‘He said if I talked to you the deal was off.’
‘That’s the last deal I’ll ever do with you,’ roared Declan.
‘Never mind. I’m retiring at Christmas.’
Through the window, Declan watched the Priory robin furiously driving a rival robin away from the bird table.
‘How did Tony know about our deal?’
‘Dunno. He phoned about five yesterday. I spoke to MacBride. We exchanged contracts this morning. It’ll buy a few gold watches for me.’
The moment Declan put down the telephone, Freddie rang.
‘Have you seen the
Cotchester News
? There’s a bloody great picture of you an’ me, an’ Rupert, an’ Basil, an’ ’Enry – all in our red coats out huntin’ wiv big grins on our faces, wiv a caption:
“Do you want these butchers to run your television station?”
’
‘That’s libellous,’ howled Declan. ‘Have you seen
The Times
?’
‘Yes,’ said Freddie grimly. ‘Unfortunately that’s not.’
‘I’m not waiting for Rupert to get back,’ said Declan. ‘I’m going round to have it out with Cameron right now.’
But when he got to Penscombe, Mrs Bodkin told him Cameron had gone out and wasn’t expected back until evening. Guilt, thought Declan in a fury.
Cameron got home around eight that evening. She knew she shouldn’t have played truant, but, having brooded agonizingly about Rupert since the hunt ball, she felt she had to get out of the house. The heavy frost had made the white valley look so beautiful that morning. Why should I give up all this without a fight? she had thought. Rupert was an alpha male, he was exceptionally handsome, funny, very rich, clever in a totally different way to herself, and, now that she’d given him six months’ intensive training on pleasing a woman rather than automatically pleasing himself, spectacular in bed.
A great believer in positive action, she drove into Cheltenham to the branch headquarters of ‘Mind the Step’, a support group for step-parents and step-children, which had just opened. Cameron figured the subject would not only make a good programme, but might help her love Rupert’s children and understand her own tortured relationship with her mother and Mike. She had a long talk with the organizer, who then gave her several names and addresses. Driving round Gloucestershire, Cameron was amazed how many people welcomed her in. At their wits’ end, hemmed in by snow and coping with step-children at home for several days, they were only too happy to talk to someone.
Listening to the shrill invective, to half-hearted attempts at love, to occasional genuine affection, to grown women blaming their own step-mothers for lack of love, which prevented them in turn loving their own husbands and children, Cameron forgot her own miseries. She decided it would make a marvellous programme and was already pre-selecting the people to interview.
Like Declan on his way to the village shop that morning, she returned to Penscombe with a feeling of optimism. She found messages from Mrs Bodkin that Rupert had rung twice, Freddie three times and Declan four.
Going into the kitchen, she poured herself a large vodka and tonic and decided to scribble down some ideas for the ‘Step’ programme while it was still in her head. Searching for a biro on the kitchen shelf, she found the yellow sachet that had been included with the flowers that Tony had sent her after he beat her up, which you were supposed to add to the water to make the flowers last longer. Stabbed with sudden misery, she wished she could sprinkle the sachet on Rupert to prolong their relationship.
With a lurch of apprehension, she heard the dogs barking in the hall. Not Rupert, the welcome wasn’t clamorous enough, but it was obviously someone they knew. She went into the hall.
‘Declan!’ Her face lit up. ‘Sorry I didn’t call back. I’ve had a great idea for a programme.’
‘On treachery?’ asked Declan bleakly. ‘You’re an expert on that subject.’
‘What are you talking about? Do you want a drink?’
‘No thanks.’ He followed her into the drawing-room. ‘You seen
The Times
?’
‘Haven’t seen any papers. I’ve been playing hookey.’
Declan picked up
The Times
from the table. It took him ages to find the right page.
‘Here.’ He thrust it at her.
‘What a crazy photo of Tony,’ she said, settling down on the sofa for a good read. ‘They’ve made him look almost benign. Oh my God,’ she whispered a minute later, the laughter vanishing from her face. ‘I don’t believe it. How the fuck did he find out?’
‘You tell me.’
Something chilling in his tone made her look up in alarm. He had moved close and seemed to tower above her, his legs in the grey trousers rising like two trunks of beech trees, the massive shoulders blocking out the light, and, in his deathly pale face, the implacable ever-watchful eyes of the Inquisitor.
Cameron shivered. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I saw you plotting with Tony on Friday night.’
‘He was waiting for me when I came out of the John, for Chrissake.’
‘So Freddie and I had him followed.’
Cameron’s eyes flickered.
‘You’re not going to tell me you and Tony were talking just about cucumber sandwiches for an hour and a half in the Royal Garden yesterday afternoon,’ said Declan.
Cameron suddenly looked the picture of guilt.
‘Sure I saw him. We had tea. I needed advice on, on —’ she flushed scarlet – ‘a personal matter.’
‘You gave him all our programme plans, just as last month you told him the names of all the moles. No doubt he’s got lots of other info about Venturer up his pinstriped sleeve for the meeting tomorrow.’
Cameron looked furious and terrified now – the hawk cornered by her captor about to strike.
‘I didn’t tell him anything.’
‘You bloody liar,’ thundered Declan. ‘How long have you been spying for him? Ever since the beginning, since Rupert got his legover in Madrid?’
‘How could I possibly spy for Tony?’ she screamed. ‘He beat me up, for Chrissake. This —’ she waved
The Times
piece at Declan – ‘sabotages everything we’ve worked for. Someone else leaked it.’
‘Why did you bother to go to London on the worst day of the winter?’ snarled Declan.
Blue, the lurcher, who’d been hovering nervously, jumped up on the sofa beside Cameron and, glaring at Declan, started to whine querulously at him. The other dogs licked their lips. Beaver slunk out of the room.
‘Blue believes me,’ pleaded Cameron. ‘Why the fuck should I come to Ireland, and work so hard on the programme plans, if I was spying for Tony? He’s given my old job to Ailie Bristoe.’
‘That’s a front.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Cameron furiously. ‘Is this some kind of a nightmare? Are you back at Corinium? Am I your guest tonight? Where’s the fucking thumbscrews and the rack, or do you use electrodes and knee-capping like the fucking IRA?’
Grabbing her arm, Declan yanked her to her feet.
‘No one else knew about Dermot MacBride. How much else have you told him?’
Ignoring the low growl from Blue, he started to shake her like a rat.
‘You arrogant, pig-headed Irish asshole,’ yelled Cameron. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’
Maddened because she’d let him down, violent because he felt guilty about wanting her so much, Declan slapped her very hard across the face. The next minute Blue leapt at him, burying his teeth in Declan’s arm.
‘Leave!’ screamed Cameron. ‘Leave, Blue.’ Grabbing the dog’s collar she tugged him off, then, almost carrying him back onto the sofa beside her, collapsed sobbing into his shaggy coat.
Pulling himself together, Declan lit two cigarettes, but, as he handed one to Cameron, Blue gave another ominous growl.
‘It’s OK, boy,’ gasped Cameron.
She wiped her eyes frantically on her sleeve, then took the lighted cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she felt she was drawing the fires of hell into her lungs. Blue struggled up on his front paws and licked her face.
‘My only friend,’ she said tonelessly. ‘You’d better have a tetanus jab,’ she added to Declan.
Massaging his arm, Declan retreated to a respectable distance in front of the empty fireplace.
‘OK, what was the personal problem? And why Tony?’
‘I know he’s a shit, but sometimes I figure he’s the only person in the world who truly cares for me.’
‘After beating you up?’
Cameron fingered her reddened cheek and shrugged. ‘Seems to be catching.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Cameron took a deep breath. ‘I saw Tony because Rupert doesn’t love me any more, and I can’t handle it.’
‘Just because he was bloody-minded at the ball,’ said Declan scornfully. ‘We’re all uptight at the moment.’
Cameron’s lip was trembling again. ‘Rupert doesn’t give a shit about the franchise. All he cares about is Taggie.’
‘Taggie?’ said Declan, flabbergasted. ‘My Taggie? Are you out of your mind?’
‘He saw her when we were in Ireland. In his bottom desk drawer, under the lining paper, he’s hidden pictures of her with his kids.’ Cameron gave a sob. ‘And he’s also kept some totally illiterate thank-you letter she sent him.’
Declan was utterly appalled.
‘Rupert and Taggie,’ he growled so furiously that Blue started rumbling back at him, like rival storms across a valley. ‘I’m not having that profligate bastard laying a finger on Taggie.’
‘But it’s OK for him to finger me,’ hissed Cameron, ‘I’m only a mole.’