The Image in the Water Page 18

  Julia realised with a shock that David had been preparing for this moment ever since they had got back from France. A thorough detailed plan had been concocted in his study, including her own mother, and all of this without consulting her. She had been brooding all these hours about danger, death, private bereavement while he had been rehearsing safety, success, public rejoicing. Perhaps it was as well that they had hardly conversed. She lay back on her pillow and watched her husband as he made call after call. Enthusiasm seemed to have knocked ten years off him. Lately he had turned sallow. Lines now ran up diagonally inwards from the corners of his mouth, and a vein stood out on his neck. But for these moments, as David leaned forward, slightly flushed with excitement, cuddling the telephone as if it was his child, pyjama jacket open to the waist, lock of fair hair falling over his forehead, he seemed no older than the young man who had held her eye at the memorial service for her father in Westminster Abbey so long ago.

  ‘Finished?’ she asked, in a pause between conversations. She touched his forearm, but tentatively so that she need not feel rebuffed if nothing followed.

  Nothing followed. David was back in the whirlwind of political planning and execution, which alone of all human activities he enjoyed wholeheartedly.

  It was late afternoon before Louise and Simon arrived at Cambridge Street. The outriders who preceded the police car in which they travelled needed the help of a dozen constables on the ground to clear a path down the crowded street. The television companies had had time to build a stand of stepped benches on the opposite pavement, despite the protest of the residents who were thus virtually imprisoned in their homes. The cameras of a dozen nations swung this way and that as commentators set the scene, over and over again, searching for fresh phrases as bulletin succeeded bulletin. They were the warm-up act for the latest drama to capture the hearts of the world. While Julia was not looking the man from Conservative Central Office had removed three large terracotta pots of geraniums from the tiny balcony of the Alcester flat and swept it carefully. The spectators greeted him with the applause, half sardonic half affectionate, with which a waiting British crowd traditionally greets the mundane preparations for a royal ceremony. This crowd, growing fast and spilling round the corner into neighbouring streets, was made up partly of local residents and casual tourists, but increasingly of youths and girls wearing the New England T-shirt and carrying New England banners. When one of them, a handsome young Amazon, began to sing ‘I Vow To Thee My Country’ the response was at first ragged, then hearty. Most of the residents joined in; the tourists remained baffled.

  The arrival of Louise in the police car was greeted with a huge cheer. The camera crews shouted to her to look this way and that and above all to hold up the baby. She hesitated on the doorstep, turned and gave a half-wave, then hurried in as the door opened.

  ‘You’d have thought she’d have learned the trade by now,’ said one disgusted commentator. ‘She was a prime minister’s wife twice, for God’s sake.’

  ‘She’s had a rough week,’ said his companion.

  ‘No excuse …’ then into the mike, ‘And so, fighting back her tears, Louise Makewell, Simon’s granny, takes Simon into the house for the reunion that means so much to them all. We can only imagine …’

  Louise found herself manoeuvred expertly into the lift, then upstairs and into the small dining room, which had been converted into a campaign office. Julia gave her a long hug, and took Simon from her. They had managed to talk without David’s participation on Louise’s mobile while she and Simon were still at the police headquarters in Edinburgh, so there was no need for long explanations. This was just as well, for David was not losing a moment. A police officer, a doctor and two ‘public relations’ men were already seated at the dining-room table. He kissed Louise, kissed his son in Julia’s arms, and spoke to both women as to a company board meeting. ‘Louise,’ he said, ‘it’s marvellous to see you. Julia and I owe you more than we can say.’ A pause, as if for Julia to say, ‘Hear, hear,’ but she did not oblige. ‘The first thing is the medical check-up, and here is Dr Saunders, whom Carlton Television have kindly sent round. I gather this need only take a couple of minutes.’

  ‘The police doctor looked at Simon at the police station in Edinburgh,’ said Louise. ‘He’s fine.’ And indeed he looked entirely composed, indeed half-asleep as he made history.

  ‘That’s good, really good. But we shall certainly be asked about him ourselves and we need to have our own answer. Anyway, this small delay will give time for New England to pack the street tight full. Dr Saunders, Julia, if you don’t mind …’ The doctor and Julia left the room.

  David resumed, talking fast to Louise. ‘A glass of wine, or something soft? You must be exhausted … I’ve run through the procedure with Julia already. Sandy here has worked out a schedule, but it changes all the time as fresh media bids come in, so we must be flexible at every stage. First, of course, the balcony appearance. There’s just room for the three of us. No need for you to say anything, Louise, and perhaps better not to answer any questions that may be shouted up from the street. Just smile. Julia will hold Simon. A couple of minutes will do initially, though we might need to go out again later. The stand they’ve constructed won’t be big enough for all the camera teams we expect, so almost certainly there will be a second shift. After that, the interviews. Twelve arranged so far. They’ll certainly want to see you alone, Louise, almost all of them I expect, but don’t worry about that. We’ve sketched out something quite straightforward and factual …’

  Louise, up to now bewildered and off balance, sipped a glass of Chablis and felt strength return. ‘I’ll go out on the balcony if you insist, David. Once only. But that’s all. No interviews.’

  David misunderstood. ‘Don’t worry, Louise. Of course you’re concerned they’ll ask about what happened at Craigarran. We’ll head them off that before you see them. If they do slip in a question about Craigarran, Mrs Mackintosh and all that, you simply say all this is being investigated by the police and you’ve been advised to say nothing.’

  ‘No, David.’ Louise paused to sip again. ‘I’ve brought little Simon back. I’m glad to do so, particularly as he was stolen when in my care. I want to talk through all that with Julia and yourself. But I didn’t come here to take part in a political campaign.’

  ‘There’s nothing political.’ For the first time David sat down. Louise could see that he was controlling a huge, stressful, pleasurable excitement. ‘There’s just great natural interest. Saturday evening’s not ideal for the TV, but the football season hasn’t started, and the test match is heading for a draw. The BBC have thought up something particular for you. Apparently there are three other ladies whose grandchildren are missing at the moment and they thought you might join a link-up and say something comforting to each of them. I told them to withdraw Joanna Letford’s grandmother – she was the girl whose naked body was found yesterday on Romney Marsh – though I gather she was quite willing to take part with you. Perhaps not in the best of taste …’

  ‘I think you must be quite mad,’ said Louise, backing out of the room.

  Somehow they got out on to the balcony, once, David leading the way. There was a great roar of greeting and approval from the street. As it died away the clicking of cameras continued, holding David in his place. ‘That’s enough.’ Julia pulled at his sleeve. She had managed to keep a smile going, despite the fearful family argument that this appearance interrupted. Simon, reacting late to the quarrelling of adults, which he had just witnessed indoors, began to cry. Louise had no expression on her face at all – ‘Evidently too deeply moved for any ordinary display of emotion’ wrote the Daily Telegraph loyally the next day.

  ‘Again, in a couple of minutes,’ said David, still enthused.

  ‘No,’ said Louise. ‘I’m going to lie down and rest in the spare room. As soon as this lunatic crowd has gone away I shall leave.’

  David could see that she would not be persuaded. He turned to
Julia. Unlike Louise, she and Simon were essential participants in his day – and, since this was a critical day for him, in his future.

  ‘Your mother’s tired,’ he said. ‘You and I will go out on the balcony for just another two minutes. It would be a mistake to overdo it. Then,’ consulting the list in his hand, ‘we have four joint TV interviews planned, five if we decide to do the Irish RTE, then I have three separate, and you two separate. We can do them all in the dining room. Sandy, the Central Office girl, will produce them in the right order. I’d thought we could use the spare room as a waiting room, but as it is …’

  He had made the mistake of pressing on with these arrangements before Louise had left the room.

  ‘Julia,’ she said, ‘I have one other thing to say to you before you go any further with this rigmarole.’

  ‘There’s no time for any more argument,’ said David, pulling at Julia’s elbow. They could hear the New Englanders outside shouting ‘We want Simon.’ But emotional exhaustion had robbed Julia of her usual decisiveness. Simon was quiet again in her arms. Her overwhelming concern was that he should remain there. Strong-minded husband and strong-minded mother were battling way above her head. She sat down on a hard chair.

  ‘I believe,’ said Louise to Julia, sparing her words to give them weight, ‘that your husband David organised the whole thing.’

  ‘Of course,’ said David. ‘Someone had to grip the arrangements once they let Simon go.’

  ‘I don’t mean just that. I mean the whole thing, kidnap and all. It is giving you publicity such as you have dreamed of. It is putting you on the path to win the next election. For this man here your son’s safety, your own happiness are nothing in the scale compared to that.’

  Julia was not taking this in. David gazed at his mother-in-law in amazement. ‘Now, it’s you who are mad. What possible evidence have you?’

  ‘You and that louse Clive Wilson were in touch with the SLA weeks ago through some intermediary. The Scottish police know that, though they don’t know what passed. Well, I could tell them. You were planning the whole thing together – kidnap, change of Tory policy, Simon’s release, publicity. You and the SLA are the only ones who benefit from it all. You had the motive, you had the means, and you have no scruples to hold you back.’

  David now took it all in. He had to move quickly and decisively.

  ‘There is no proof, and it is nonsense,’ he said to his wife, standing over her chair. He thought of putting his arm around her shoulders, but refrained. ‘I swear to you solemnly that I had no hand in planning Simon’s kidnap. It was as much of a shock and horror to me as to you. You could see that for yourself at Cannes.’

  As he spoke Julia was already remembering Cannes, trying to sort out the jostling crowd of her memories, testing Louise’s accusation against what she remembered of David’s reaction to the kidnap.

  ‘Time to go out.’ Once again David mistimed his move. If he had ignored the growing invitation from the crowd and waited for two or three minutes, Julia’s mind might have swung the other way.

  There was a pause.

  ‘No,’ Julia said. ‘Sorry, but no.’

  The ‘sorry’ made the ‘no’ sound considered and final.

  ‘You’re letting me down,’ said David, because he could not help it. Julia said nothing, but sat cradling Simon in her arms.

  David thought of snatching the baby, but that would not work. He went out on to the balcony alone. Quickly there was a hush.

  ‘You will understand that Julia and Simon are both very tired…’

  Chapter 8

  The Chairman of the Party stood up and clapped as soon as David Alcester, folder under his arm, entered the big room next to his own office in the House of Commons where the Shadow Cabinet met each week. It was a mistaken gesture. All the other colleagues felt bound to rise and do the same. David Alcester had not proposed this piece of theatre, but he knew that many of them would think that he had. Feigned loyalty had been one of the vices of the modem Tory Party, and David had no intention of being destroyed by it.

  By contrast he had arranged what happened next. Lord Downbrook spoke. ‘David, we are none of us clear as to why you have called this special meeting, though we can guess. But before you open the business, I would just like to say how greatly we welcome the news of your baby son’s release. This was an atrocious crime, we have all felt that. We have shared with you and Mrs Alcester – Julia, if I may so presume – a small part of the anxiety with which you have lived during this last week. We can well imagine how drained and exhausted Julia and her mother must feel, indeed how you yourself must feel. Please convey to her our warm sympathy and congratulations – and all good wishes to the little lad.’

  It was pleasantly done, and this time the murmur of support was genuine. Lord Downbrook had sat in every Cabinet and Shadow Cabinet for many years. Simon Russell had put him in charge of the annual public-spending review at a critical moment. He was not a well-known figure, and contributed little to discussion. Equally there was no harm in him, and when he became leader David Alcester had kept on the elderly peer in the Shadow Cabinet for the time being, until he decided which of his own intimates he wanted to promote. There were occasions like this when something empty had to be said in the right way. Lord Downbrook had been made a life peer at the time of the Blair reforms, but had earlier sat by right of inheritance. One of the things he had inherited was the right touch for such occasions from a long line of Whig ancestors – a touch that someone like Clive Wilson would never develop, however hard he tried.

  ‘Thank you, thank you. Yes, Julia is exhausted, but Simon is fine. She’ll be delighted to get your message.’

  In fact the Sunday press had been pretty good. Even the Mondays, though they had had the whole of Sunday to sniff around, had not caught any hint of the flaming domestic row in Cambridge Street on Saturday night. Louise had said nothing to the few reporters still lingering at the time the taxi she had ordered came to take her away to King’s Cross and Scotland. His improvisation from the balcony about exhaustion had played brilliantly, though he was conscious that the time gained was short. He had only two or three days to bring Julia round before her silence became noticeable. David Alcester was free with lies when they served his purpose, but he found it monstrously unjust and wicked that when he told the truth, as he had to Julia, he should not be believed.

  But the immediate problem before him was political. It had to be solved at this meeting. He was vexed that Alice Thomson, and following her, other commentators, had expounded the problem so clearly in public. His only hope, he had decided, was to ride the Shadow Cabinet with a high hand, but he began with an apology.

  ‘In a way it is because of what happened to my family last week that I have called this special meeting at short notice. Indeed, I had meant to hold it last week, but you will understand the uncertainties through which I was living each day. I wanted to apologise to you all for doing something in extraordinary circumstances that I would normally have scrupulously avoided. At Nice airport I announced a significant development of Conservative policy, namely our support for Scottish independence, in advance of a decision by Shadow Cabinet. I apologise unreservedly for this. I hope you will agree that this development of policy had become inevitable. I had intended to bring it to you before the recess. Only the timing was in question. Ever since I became Leader we have told the government that the Union with Scotland as at present constituted was intolerably unfair to the English majority as regards revenue sharing, as regards representation at Westminster and in other ways. The government has refused to act. What I have long described as an unacceptable situation, namely the dominance of a Scottish minority over our affairs in the United Kingdom, has continued. In these circumstances the logical next step for us is to encourage the Scots to go their own way. Separation has become, unfortunately, the only cure for an unjust union. That, indeed, is the only basis on which I could continue as Leader. It is hard for a Unionist Party to be force
d to this conclusion, but we have always fared best when we faced uncomfortable facts fairly and squarely.’

  There were many holes in this argument, and no mention of its connection with the kidnap. David was keen to hang on and smother the meeting with detailed proposals, but he allowed a pause lasting about three seconds for an objection of principle, and even dared to look round the table. He was anxious that they should not be able to argue afterwards that they had been bounced. When he saw Sarah Tunstall staring at the shiny oak table in front of her he knew that he had won. She looked deeply unhappy but showed no sign of wanting to speak. He thanked God that it was not as it had been in the old days. Neither Peter Makewell, nor Roger Courtauld, let alone Joan Freetown or Simon Russell, would have accepted this sleight-of-hand for an instant. His colleagues were genuinely irritated by the Scots, and tempted by the glistening prospect of Tory dominance in a country without them. They were inhibited by the noisiness of New England, a body over which they had no control. They were embarrassed by the kidnap. They would all have noted the blackmail in what he had just said about his own future. It would be deeply damaging, indeed unthinkable, to promote another leadership crisis so soon after David had replaced Peter Makewell. All these thoughts were in their minds, as he had intended. He despised the lack of spunk among his colleagues which was giving him such an easy victory.

  ‘I wonder if you have consulted any of the senior members of the Party on this? I am thinking of Peter Makewell and Roger Courtauld in particular.’ Lord Downbrook spoke mildly. He was not putting the point to oppose or even delay the change of policy. But the men he named were some of those who had guided his own views over many years and it seemed odd that they were no longer in conclave with the rest.

  Indeed, it was a better point than he knew, because the media would certainly ask those two at an early stage for their comments. David intended to speak to both of them, but only after he was armed with a Shadow Cabinet decision. ‘An excellent point,’ he replied. ‘Their support will be very valuable. But I think we need to take our own responsibilities first.’