Ken McClure: Lost causes

‘Still hoping?’ said Dewar.

As Macmillan was clearing his desk at the end of the day, he suddenly remembered why the name Antonia Freeman should mean something to him. Her husband had been Sir Martin Freeman, an eminent surgeon in his day. It was a long time ago, back in the early nineties, but he had died in the middle of an operation. He’d been operating on a woman who’d had a bad facial deformity from birth, attempting to give her a new face using a revolutionary new technique, when he’d collapsed and died in theatre.

There had been some other scandal surrounding the whole affair whose details he couldn’t remember, but what he did remember was thinking at the time that that was exactly the kind of situation that cried out for an organisation like Sci-Med. In the morning, he would ask Jean to see what she could come up with about the case. It might just be a trip down memory lane, but his widow had just got herself blown to bits in Paris. The niggle had gone; he felt a whole lot better.

The Black Dahlia Restaurant, Chelsea, London

A tall, elegant man sipped gin and tonic and thumbed through the wine list while he waited for the others to arrive. He’d chosen the restaurant because it had a small private dining room, ideal for the five of them. Officially they were the competitions committee of Redwood Park golf club, and he was the secretary, James Black. Unofficially, they weren’t, and he wasn’t.

Toby Langton was first to arrive, a slightly stooped man with an unruly crop of light brown hair, and clothing that suggested an academic, which he was. When he spoke it was in a languid drawl but with an underlying confidence that tended to present opinion as fact. Constance Carradine was next, a woman in her mid thirties, ‘power-dressed’ as expected of a prominent figure in the City of London. She wore a well-cut navy blue suit over a white blouse, and a pale blue chiffon scarf at her throat. Her dark hair was cropped short and she wore fashionable small-framed spectacles that only served to amplify an already piercing stare. Finally, Rupert Coutts and Elliot Soames came in together, having met in the car park. Both wore dark Savile Row business suits, individualised, in their minds at least, by the ties they wore: regimental for Soames, an ex-Guards officer who now headed an asset management group; university for Coutts, a top-level career civil servant.

‘Good to see you all,’ said Black after they’d ordered drinks. When they arrived, the waiter, dressed in black but wearing a white apron and looking as if he’d stepped out of a nineteenth-century French painting, asked if they would like to see menus.

‘Give us thirty minutes,’ replied Black, and the man left.

‘I haven’t seen anything in the papers,’ said Coutts.

‘Nor I,’ said Langton.

‘There was a small piece in the Independent,’ said Constance Carradine. ‘Suspected gas explosion in Paris suburb kills five.’

‘Actually six, but it’ll take them a while to figure out who they all are,’ said Black. ‘After all, none of them were supposed to be there and wouldn’t have told anyone where they were going. As to what they were doing there… that will remain anyone’s guess.’

‘Please God,’ murmured Soames.

‘French was meticulous about security. We’re safe.’

‘It’s all a bit of a shame really,’ said Constance Carradine. ‘I mean, they were the ones who set the whole thing up all those years ago.’

‘And they did a good job in their day,’ said Black. ‘But their day was over. They had their chance before the New Labour nightmare began and they blew it. One prying journalist got nosy and they had to shut the whole thing down before the party twigged what was going on. They had no option but to lie low until the dust had settled, and by that time scandal had destroyed the party and an election was lost. So were the subsequent two. They wanted to go down that same old route again. Can you believe it? They turned our plan down. We’ve spent ten years putting it together and getting everything in place and they turned it down. They had to go.’

‘So here we are,’ said Langton. ‘The new executive of the Schiller Group, the guardians of all we hold precious.’

‘I take it we all saw the Telegraph this morning, and the Carlisle story?’ said Coutts.

‘What an arse,’ said Soames.

‘He is a worry,’ said Black. ‘It was never very clear how much he actually knew at the time. He was such a posturing idiot that no one told him anything if they could avoid it.’

‘But he was such a pretty boy,’ said Constance. ‘Shame he had the intellect of a cabbage. Now he’s starting to look like one.’

‘Well, he served his purpose as the charming front man of his day. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if French and co. had taken him all the way to the top.’

‘Doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘There’s a story going around that he’s been trying to telephone people high up in the party,’ said Black. ‘No one’s talking to him, of course. He’s about as popular as bubonic plague, but he seems to think he has something to bargain with… something to stop the leader pulling the rug out from under him. We’re by no means past the post in this election. We don’t need strange stories doing the rounds, even if they come from a discredited clown like Carlisle. We could be back in the wilderness.’

‘He’s a loose cannon,’ said Langton. The others turned to face him. ‘If he did know more than we think he did, he might well see this as the time to use it.’

‘Blackmail, you mean?’

‘It was more a revelation to the press I was thinking of. If the leader shows him the door, what’s he got to lose?’

‘Maybe we should… help matters along?’ suggested Coutts.

There was a long silence in the room until Constance Carradine said, ‘I think that might be a very good idea. There will be lots of very angry constituents out there; no telling what they might do. It would also give me the chance to test out the new chain of command.’

‘Very well,’ said Black. ‘It’s agreed, unless anyone has objections?’ Thinking there were none, he was about to continue when Langton spoke again.

‘I really don’t think it a good idea to go down the angry constituents route,’ he drawled. ‘It would only amplify the nature of the crime in the eyes of the public — he made them so angry they felt they had to take matters into their own hands, et cetera — that would do the party no good at all.’

‘Good point,’ said Black.

‘What would you suggest?’ asked Constance, irked at having her idea shot down.

‘Something that would elicit public sympathy for Carlisle would be preferable.’

‘Like?’

‘I’ll leave that in your capable hands, Connie,’ said Langton with a smile.

Black decided to move things along. ‘Connie’s already mentioned putting the new regime to the test,’ he said. ‘How about the rest of you? Have you used the information from the disks? Elliot, what’s happening with our finances?’

‘Absolutely no problems there,’ replied Soames. ‘I used the contact number and gave the password. I told them I had taken over as trustee of the Wellington Foundation from Lady Antonia Freeman. It was accepted without question. I requested statements and they arrived the following day. Things are looking good, very good indeed.’

‘Excellent. Always nice to have money in the bank.’

The others reported similar success in touching base with people designated as operational contacts.

‘We have to hand it to Charles French,’ said Black. ‘He did an outstanding job in setting up the network. But the old guard has gone. We are now the only people who know just how many members we have, how many people there are out there who share our views and care enough to change things, organised as cells within cells within cells… people all prepared to do their bit for their country.’