Ten Days (30 page)

The cheek of the PM to keep his Home Secretary waiting so long – a power play, no doubt, which demonstrated, if any further demonstration were needed, how bad things were between them. So petty, though – unworthy of a man in power.

Well, at least if Peter had been nursing doubts about what he was about to do, this helped dispose of them. Thirty-five minutes and counting was designed to drive him into a rage. Not that he would be so driven. He would bide his time. Think of something else.

He thought about Patricia, outside in the car (she'd earned that privilege). He wondered how she was finding the wait. And then, without meaning to, he found himself thinking about Frances's question as to how Patricia had managed to get the ammunition that he needed.

No – don't think of that.

He heard a voice raised, presumably in jest because the response was laughter.

So long since he had laughed with Frances. With Patricia on the other hand . . .

‘Home Secretary?'

‘Yes?' When had this functionary of the PM's office appeared?

‘The PM will see you now.'

Time. Head high, he walked through the now open door.

The Prime Minister was at his usual place in the Cabinet room with his chair at its usual angle to the table to distinguish it from the other chairs, even though there was no one else sitting there. Hearing Peter coming in, he raised his bullish head, and said, ‘Peter,' without a smile or a hint of an apology for having kept him waiting. ‘I hear you came in through the back door?' And now a sly grin. ‘Not like you to miss a photo opportunity.'

‘70 Whitehall seemed the more appropriate entry point.' He stood, because the Prime Minister hadn't offered him a seat, and looked down the room, beyond the columns to the other end where the PM's Press Secretary was standing, arms akimbo, glowering, his thin face looking even thinner and full of menace.

‘So?' The Prime Minister's voice drew him back. ‘Have you come to tell me to my face what is already public – that you're launching a challenge?' The Prime Minister narrowed his hooded eyes.

‘No.' Peter shook his head. ‘That's not why I'm here.'

He might as well not have said anything.

‘Your disloyalty takes the breath away,' the Prime Minister went on. ‘I gave you the Home Office against the advice of almost everybody in the Party. Some of your Cabinet colleagues said you weren't ready, some said you didn't know what loyalty was, and others just hate your guts. Well, turns out they had reason. I helped you to grow into the role, backed you when you needed backing. I made you, and you have paid me back by trying to unseat me. Well, let me warn you,' one finger wagged in the air as if he were a school teacher, ‘I might have made you, but I can also break you.'

To hector like this and in front of his malevolent Press Secretary – it was unconscionable.

And simultaneously fortunate, because it cleared Peter of any last vestiges of conscience at what he was about to do.

‘Step out of line one more time,' the Prime Minister said, ‘and I'll fuck you up, good and proper.'

The cheek of the man. And the hubris. ‘I don't think you're in a position to do that, Prime Minister. Not after the public find out what you've been up to.'

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?'

‘Actually, Prime Minister,' he looked pointedly at the glowering Press Secretary, ‘this is for your ears only.'

A flickering exchange of glances between the PM and his Press Secretary, who shook his head almost imperceptibly, a signal that either Peter had misread or his boss decided to ignore. In one of those lightning changes of moods for which the Prime Minister was renowned, he got to his feet and said, ‘Let's go out onto the terrace. I could do with some air. And if you wouldn't mind, Martin,' another quick glance in his Press Secretary's direction, ‘ask someone to rustle us up some tea.'

The walled half acre at the back of Number 10 was a sorry sight, with the box hedge that lined the terrace so spiked and yellowed it looked dead, and the lawn so dry that it blended into the paths that ran through the garden and up to trees whose leaves were wilting.

‘Met Office keeps promising rain.' The Prime Minister sipped at his tea. ‘But at this point, it's difficult to place much trust in anything they say.' He put down his cup so firmly it rattled the saucer. ‘Impossible in your case as well. You know I was planning to stand down after the election. If you'd played your cards right, you might have been my heir apparent. But you've pushed and pushed and driven the Party into disarray.'

‘What I've done,' Peter said, ‘has been out of loyalty to the Party.'

‘Oh, give me a break.' A hollow laugh. ‘You wouldn't know what loyalty was if it came and slapped you in the face. If you had even an ounce of it in your body, you'd have got your allies to pull together with the rest of the Party. That's what's needed more than anything in a time of heat and riot, never mind the coming election.'

‘I couldn't agree more, Prime Minister.' He was suddenly parched. He took up his cup and gulped at his tea. ‘There's a year to go before the election, and we need to unify. But we can't do it with you at our head. Not after what you've done.'

‘Enough, Peter. I'm bored with this. Spit out what you've come to say and then leave me in peace to get on with the real work of governing the country.'

Peter set his cup carefully down. ‘If we lose the next election, we could end up in the cold for a decade or more. That's why I challenged you.' He swallowed – why couldn't they have brought water with the tea? ‘I would have preferred a clean contest. Given how many of our parliamentarians are frightened for their seats, I was confident of my chances. I certainly had enough support to trigger an election, something which your campaign managers must also have told you.' He licked his lips, feeling how shredded they were with dried skin. ‘But,' he said, sitting back, ‘we can no longer afford a contest. You cannot continue in office. You have to go. For the sake of the Party. And for your own sake.'

‘Have to, do I?' His mocking smile stretched from ear to ear. ‘Why is that?'

‘Because of your son. Because of Teddy.'

A blink, just one, as the PM held himself otherwise perfectly still. ‘Go on.' Softly said.

‘This is what I know. What everybody might soon know. Teddy was recently stopped by the police for driving under the influence. A breathalyser showed him to be over the legal limit. He was also in possession of a small quantity of marijuana. I assume you know all about this?'

Nothing. Not even a blink this time. As if this man was made of stone.

‘He was arrested and taken to the police station, where he was given a blood test that confirmed the breathalyser result. He was cautioned and let go. A report was made with a view to charging him.'

Another ‘Go on,' even softer.

‘The paperwork concerning Teddy's arrest should have been passed on to the CPS, who would have charged him – as they always do in cases of drink driving.'

‘So Teddy got himself into trouble. It happens.'

‘Yes, it happens. But what doesn't usually happen is that the arrest record then goes missing.'

‘Has Teddy's?'

He nodded. Said, ‘It has, Prime Minister,' thinking, as you know full well.

‘Are you suggesting that I disposed of a police file?'

‘I'm only telling you what I know. And what I know is that the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Joshua Yares, asked his deputy, Anil Chahda, to pull the records that covered the evening when and the area where Teddy was arrested. Deputy Commissioner Chahda did as he was instructed and, curious as to why a new Commissioner would bother himself with such an ordinary log of arrests, examined it before forwarding it on. Teddy's name leapt out at him, as of course it would. The Deputy Commissioner assumed that Yares had asked for the log so that he could deal with this delicate situation himself, and he expected soon to be informed of the matter. But when Commissioner Yares returned the log, without comment, Chahda saw that the record of Teddy's arrest had been excised.'

‘He saw that, did he?' The Prime Minister stretched an arm across the fence that lined the terrace and snapped a twig off the box hedge. He broke it in half before dropping the pieces into his tea, which he then set aside. ‘And what does this have to do with me?'

‘Well, that's where things become a little muddy. From where I'm standing, and having been informed of Yares's recent secret visit to Number 10 – he came in through the back door just like me – I would hazard a guess that you told Yares about Teddy's arrest and asked him to destroy the file.'

‘And if I were to assure you that I did not?'

‘Then, Prime Minister, I would have to believe you. But that wouldn't disappear your problem. Commissioner Yares was chosen by you and in the face of my strong opposition. He is also known to be a personal friend of yours. He's an intimate of your wife. He's Teddy's godfather. And now, after less than a week in office, he has used his position to break the law so as to benefit your family. Whether the commission of inquiry – I'm sure there will have to be one – or, for that matter, the man in the street, decides that Yares acted on your orders or destroyed the record off his own bat, Yares still remains your man and Teddy your son. I cannot see how you can survive this. Especially after your homily on parental responsibility at this morning's PMQs, never mind your recent and rather odd take on the legalisation of street drugs.'

Another reptilian blink. Rumour had it that the third was a sign that he was preparing to eat you. ‘So is it your idea now to throw me to the wolves?'

‘Not me, Prime Minister. But the situation will.'

‘I won't go down without a fight. You know that, don't you?'

‘You've had a shock. You'll need to think about this. But from where I stand, this is what it looks like: although you may end up exonerating yourself in the short and medium term, the headlines will be punitive. The press will bleed you, and they will bleed your family, digging up any and every piece of dirt they can find and twisting it to make it seem worse. It will wound you, and there isn't a political party that will keep on a wounded leader – remember Thatcher and Blair – especially in the run-up to a poll.'

‘You may be right.' The Prime Minister nodded as if this was a minor point he was acceding to. ‘It might finish me. But it will finish you as well. Nobody likes an assassin.'

Frances's point as well. Peter nodded.

Which seemed to invigorate the PM. ‘Especially one who operates with such blatant self-interest,' he said. ‘Once the faithful find out that it's your doing, any chance of your becoming leader will vanish.'

‘Perhaps it will.' Peter shrugged.

That sound again.

Tick, tick.

‘I'm willing to take that risk.'

Tick, tick.

‘If, that is, you choose to play hard ball.'

‘I see.' And there, that third blink. ‘Am I right in supposing that you have a different game plan?'

‘I have a proposal, yes' – the bait laid – ‘that would spare the Party and spare you.'

‘How very loyal of you.'

His turn to respond with a blink. Tick, tick. And if the Prime Minister didn't take the bait?

‘So what is this proposal?'

Bait taken. Now to close the trap. ‘You step down.' He was still extremely thirsty. He eyed the pot. But the tea would by now be over-brewed and cold. And besides, it wouldn't do to have a trembling hand picking it up. ‘Give family reasons: everybody knows your wife hates this life and that your son needs you.'

‘Bit trite, don't you think?'

‘We could come up with an illness, if you'd rather. Something recoverable from but which would prevent you leading the country in the run-up to the election.'

‘I see. And then?'

‘Whatever happens, Yares has to go. Better to off him now, before anybody gets wind of the scandal.'

‘Another illness? You think anybody would buy that?'

‘No, not an illness. A resignation. Perhaps the riots – which he has clearly not controlled – which have brought to his attention that this is not the job for him. Since he won't want anybody to find out the real reason he has to go, we'll have his silence. We could sugar the pill with a knighthood – rumours are that this is the main reason he took the job.'

The Prime Minister nodded. ‘He does want that K.'

‘We then make Chahda Acting Commissioner, with the guarantee that if he continues to perform we will confirm the appointment as permanent. I know Anil a little and so I know how loyal he is to the police service and to the government of the day. I'm confident he can be persuaded, for the sake of the Met, not to pursue the business of the altered record.'

‘Meanwhile you step into the breach and into Number 10?'

‘That would be for the Party to decide.'

‘But if I were to go quietly, and if we were to publicly bury the hatchet, that wouldn't harm your chances, would it?'

‘That of course is entirely up to you, Prime Minister.'

‘I see.' The PM, who had rested his right hand on the table, now began to drum his fingers rapidly against the hard surface. It was something he would do at moments of high tension during Cabinet meetings and which Peter had learnt to ignore, for to look at those fingers was to see how fast they moved and to be mesmerised by them.

A pause.

‘How many people know about this?' before the drum roll started up again.

‘Apart from myself, only Chahda.' No point in complicating things by bringing Patricia into this. ‘And Frances, naturally, but she is discretion itself.'

The hand lifted off to hover above the surface of the table. ‘I guess she learnt that from her father.' The hand dropped down and, as if to balance it, the Prime Minister drew himself up until he was ramrod straight: ‘You suggested I think about this. I'd like to. I propose twenty-four hours to sound out my wife and so forth. Does that seem fair?'