Tony Park - Silent Predator

The roars of support from the government benches drowned out the opposition and Greeves turned to his colleagues, many of whom nodded genuine wishes of congratulations.

His press secretary intercepted him as he left the chamber. ‘Choice,’ said Helen MacDonald, using a favourite adjective from her New Zealand upbringing. A year earlier Greeves had poached her from a tabloid, where she had put in ten years’ service as a political reporter since leaving the New Zealand Herald. Helen had often been stinging in her criticisms of the Party and its governance of the country, and that had been one of the reasons he had hired her. In part, taking her on board was removing a thorn in their side. However, he also wanted to ensure there was at least one member of his staff who was not a self-serving political apparatchik, merely biding their time until a safe seat could be found for them. A press secretary needed to be independent — ideally, apolitical — honest, and not afraid to deliver criticism. ‘You overdid it a bit at the end. I could almost hear “Land of Hope and Glory” coming out your bum.’

He laughed. He’d chosen Helen well. ‘As ever, you flatter me too much, Helen. What’s up?’ He knew she would not have come looking for him simply to give her critique of his performance in question time.

‘What is it with you and Africa?’ she asked as they walked together along a corridor.

‘You might be from New Zealand but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re smart. You know very well I’m going to South Africa to push the sale of some jet training aircraft to their defence force.’

‘No, that’s not what I mean. A couple of the journos have asked me from time to time why you spend your holidays there as well as jumping on any junket heading for the dark continent. The people that make those planes don’t need you to help peddle their wares.’

‘It was forthrightness I wanted when I hired you, Helen, not impertinence.’

She let the jibe wash over her. Their feisty banter was no greater than usual. ‘I’ve got one who wants to do a profile piece on you — the real Robert Greeves and all that crap. He’s particularly interested in your apparent love affair with Africa — how it started.’

‘Not interested,’ he said, opening a leather-bound folder and checking his next appointments as they continued to walk. ‘Give him the usual line from my bio that I first went to Zambia as a young geologist and developed a great affinity for Africa, its people and its amazing wildlife — you know the drill.’

‘It’s a shame, though. A nice warm and fuzzy profile with you establishing some strong green credentials could help you in the future.’

‘I’m quite happy as Minister for Defence Procurement, thank you, Helen. In case you didn’t catch all of my reply to that question, there is a war on, you know. It’s my duty to concentrate on this portfolio. Where are you lunching?’

‘Sorry, I’m meeting a contact.’

‘Always working, eh, Helen? It’s not good for you.’

Helen MacDonald left the Houses of Parliament via St Stephen’s gate, grateful as ever for a breath of fresh air and a cigarette. As she smoked she weaved to avoid a throng of Spanish tourists armed with digital cameras.

It was grey — as it was most days in London. It was all very well for Robert to tell her all work and no play made Helen a dull girl. He’d be swanning off to Africa soon enough. He was taking Bernard, his defence industries policy advisor, with him. It was obvious there would be no photo opportunities on this trip. A break from Robert would be good for her, in any case, and she might use it to sound out her old contacts in newspapers about a return to journalism.

Unlike many of her former colleagues she didn’t see taking a job as a press secretary as selling out. True, the money was better than she’d earned as a reporter, but that wasn’t her main motivation for crossing over. She’d always been interested in politics and politicians — what made them tick — and if she returned to newspapers she’d be a better journalist for her time in Westminster. She knew all the tricks of political spin-doctoring now — she’d put them into practice at some time or another. No flak would pull the wool over her eyes ever again.

Arriving from New Zealand as a twenty-five-year-old reporter she had been surprised at first at the minute scrutiny in the UK press of politicians’ private lives, particularly in the tabloids. In her country, and in Australia where she had worked for a year on an extended holiday, rumours abounded about the sexual proclivities of members of parliament, and about affairs within the corridors of power, but these rarely made it into the public domain. If they did, the story usually involved a political leader rather than a mere minister or member of paliament, and it was generally revealed by a fellow parliamentarian as part of a wider smear campaign. In England, however, it seemed that who a politician slept with — and how he or she did it — was equally important as their policies or views on world affairs.

She had also wondered why such a high proportion of senior politicians seemed to be committing adultery. That was, at least, until she fell for Robert Greeves. He was a handsome man undoubtedly, and witty and smart and driven, and still idealistic after all this time in politics. But more than that, he was a powerful man. On his word men and women went to war, alliances with other nations were forged and broken, multibillion-pound contracts signed, the fate of a nation decided. And his grey eyes were gorgeous.

‘Stop it,’ she said out loud, flicking her cigarette butt onto the pavement in front of her and grinding it out without breaking step.

Helen had accompanied him on a trip, not to Africa, but to Germany, for a conference of NATO defence ministers. She had felt her feelings for him grow over the three months leading up to the meeting. She had felt infatuation, followed by denial as she told herself it was morally wrong to be attracted to a married man. There were no signs that he was unhappy at home. Still, despite her attempts to subdue her feelings, she wanted him.

A suited businessman walking towards her smiled and tried to make eye contact. Damn him, she said to herself. Not the suit, whom she ignored, but her boss. At thirty-seven she could still turn heads — and get the eye from strangers on the street. She worked out six days a week, and watched what she ate — not easy in the confines of parliament where booze and food and lack of opportunity for exercise were daily threats to one’s shape. Narrow waist, good legs, pretty face, pert bum.

In Berlin Robert had called Helen to his hotel suite late in the evening. It was eleven o’ clock, after the official dinner, and he wanted help reworking his speech. She had been seated with a group of journalists at a back table and, thinking her work was done for the day, had demolished the better part of two bottles of wine by herself.

When she knocked and he opened the door he was in his black dinner suit trousers and white shirt, the sleeves rolled up and top two buttons undone. She caught a glimpse of a thicket of grey chest hair and wanted to put her hand inside to stroke it. ‘Thanks awfully, Helen. I’m sorry to call you up so late, but I want to get this right. I’ve got a bottle on the go if you’d like a glass.’ He had nodded to the white wine in a dewy silver ice bucket. His bed looked enormous.

They had sat side by side on the sofa and gone through the speech. At the end he had been particularly effusive in his thanks for her help. They verbally sparred so often that words of praise had seemed out of place. She knew that he appreciated her work and her counsel, and that had always been enough for her.