Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

“Excellent,” said Alexander, “but your judgment has always been so good. You only have to look at Fiona to realize that.”

Charles smiled.

Most of the other names Dalglish produced were either unknown, unsuitable, or easy to dismiss. When Alexander left shortly before ten Fiona asked him if the chat had been worthwhile.

“Yes, I think we’ve found the right man.”

Raymond had the locks on his flat changed that afternoon. It turned out to be more expensive than he had bargained for, and the carpenter had insisted on cash in advance.

The carpenter grinned as he pocketed the money. “I make a fortune doing this job, Guv’nor, I can tell you. At least one gentleman a day, always cash, no receipt. Means the wife and I can spend a month in Ibiza every year, tax free.”

Raymond smiled at the thought. He checked his watch; he could just catch the Thursday seven-ten from King’s Cross and be in Leeds by ten o’clock for a long weekend.

Alexander Dalglish phoned Charles a week later to tell him Pimkin had made the short list, and that they hadn’t considered Kerslake.

“Pimkin didn’t go over very well with the committee at the first interview.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” said Charles. “I warned you his looks were again’ him and he may come over a bit right wing at times but he’s as sound as a bell and will never let you down, take my word.”

“I’ll have to, Charles. Because by getting rid of Kerslake we’ve removed his only real challenger.”

Charles put the phone down and dialed the Home Office.

“Simon Kerslake, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Seymour, Whips’ office.” He was put straight through.

“Simon, it’s Charles. I thought I ought to give you an update on Littlehampton.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” said Simon.

“Not good news, I’m afraid. It turns out the chairman wants the seat for himself. He’s making sure the committee only interviews idiots.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I’ve seen the short list and Pimkin’s the only sitting member they’re considering.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“No, I was pretty shocked myself. I pressed the case for you, but it fell on deaf ears. Didn’t care for your views on hanging or some such words. Still, I can’t believe you’ll find it hard to pick up a seat.”

“I hope you’re right, Charles, but in any case thanks for trying.”

“Any time. Let me know of any other seats you put your name in for. I have a lot of friends up and down the country.”

“Thank you, Charles. Can you pair me for next Thursday?”

Two days later Alec Pimkin was invited by the Littlehampton Conservatives to attend a short-list interview for the selection of a Tory candidate for the new constituency.

“How do I begin to thank you?” he asked Charles when they met up in the bar.

“Keep your word — and I want it in writing,” replied Charles.

“What do you mean?”

“A letter to the Chief Whip saying you’ve changed your mind on the main European vote, and you and the disciples will be abstaining on Thursday.”

Pimkin looked cocky. “And if I don’t play ball, dear thing?”

“You haven’t got the seat yet, Alec, and I might find it necessary to phone Alexander Dalglish and tell him about that awfully nice little boy you made such a fool of yourself over when you were up at Oxford.”

Three days later the Chief Whip received the letter from Pimkin. He immediately summoned his junior Whip.

“Well done , Charles. How did you manage to succeed where we’ve all failed — and the disciples as well?”

“Matter of loyalty,” said Charles. “Pimkin saw that in the end.”

On the final day of the Great Debate on “the principle of entry” into Europe the Prime Minister delivered the winding-up speech. He rose at nine-thirty to cheers from both sides. At ten o’clock the House divided and voted in favor of “the principle” by a majority of 112 Sixty-nine Labour MPs, led by Roy Jenkins, had helped to swell the Government’s majority.

Raymond Could voted against the motion in accordance with his long-held beliefs. Andrew Fraser joined Simon Kerslake and Charles Seymour in the Ayes lobby. Alec Pimkin and the twelve disciples remained in their places on the Commons benches while the vote took place.

When Charles heard the Speaker read out the final result he felt a moment of triumph, although he realized that he still had the committee stage to go through. Hundreds of clauses, any of which could go wrong and turn the bill into a farce. Nevertheless the first round belonged to him.

Ten days later Alec Pimkin defeated a keen young Conservative just down from Cambridge and a local woman councillor to be selected as prospective candidate for Littlehampton,

Andrew studied the case once again and decided to make his own inquiries. Too many constituents had in the past demonstrated that they were willing to lie to him in surgery as happily as they would in the witness box to any judge.

Robert was trying to climb up on to his lap. Andrew hoisted him the remainder of the way in one tug and attempted to return to his papers. “Whose side are you on?” Andrew demanded as his son dribbled all over his freshly written notes. He stopped to pat his bottom. “Ugh,” he said, putting the case file by his side on the floor. A few minutes later Robert had been changed and left with his mother.

“I’m afraid your son is not overanxious to help me in my desire to secure the release of an innocent man,” Andrew shouted over his shoulder.

He settled down to go over the papers once more, something about the case didn’t ring true... Andrew dialed the Procurator Fiscal’s number. There was one man who could cut his work in half with a sentence.

“Good morning, Mr. Fraser. What can I do for you, sir?”

Andrew had to smile. Angus Sinclair was a contemporary of his father and had known Andrew all his life, but once he was in his office he treated everyone as a stranger, making no exception.

“He even calls his wife ‘Mrs. Sinclair’ when she rings the office,” Sir Duncan once told him. Andrew was willing to join in the game.

“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. I need your advice as Procurator Fiscal.”

“Always happy to be of service, sir.”

“I want to talk to you off the record about the Paddy O’Halloran case. Do you remember it?”

“Of course, everyone in this office remembers that case.”

“Good,” said Andrew. “Then you’ll know what a help you can be to me in cutting through the thicket.”

“Thank you, sir,” the slight burr came back down the telephone.

“A group of my constituents, whom I wouldn’t trust further than I could toss a caber, claim O’Halloran was framed for the Princes Street bank robbery last year. They don’t deny he has criminal tendencies” — Andrew would have chuckled if he hadn’t been speaking to Angus Sinclair — “but they say he never left a pub called the Sir Walter Scott the entire time the robbery was taking place. All you have to tell me, Mr. Sinclair, is that you have no doubt that O’Halloran was guilty and I’ll drop my inquiries. If you say nothing, I shall dig deeper.”

Andrew waited, but he received no reply.

“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.” Although he knew it would elicit no response, he couldn’t resist adding: “No doubt I’ll see you at the golf club some time over the weekend.” The silence continued.

“Good-bye, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Good day, Mr. Fraser.”

Andrew settled back: it was going to be a lengthy exercise. He started by checking with all the people who had confirmed O’Halloran’s alibi that night but after interviewing the first eight he came to the reluctant conclusion that none of them could be trusted as a witness. Whenever he came across another of O’Halloran’s friends the expression “anyone’s for a pint” kept crossing his mind. The time had come to talk with the landlord of the Sir Walter Scott.