A Secret Worth Killing For. Simon Berthon

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      ‘I’m not sure what took hold of me.’

      ‘The risk taker that lurks within.’

      He leant close to whisper. ‘You may find you get a phone call soon.’

      ‘What?’ For once she seemed genuinely puzzled.

      ‘I’m afraid this may be the one and only time you have to allow me to know something you don’t.’

      ‘You’re incorrigible,’ she murmured, turning to mingle.

      The call came at 8.30 on the Sunday morning, the number showing private.

      ‘He wants to see me? Yes, of course, name your time.’

      She was lying in her bath, soapsuds playing around her toes, incredulity around her eyes.

      ‘Four-thirty. I’ll look forward to it. Oh, and where do I arrive?’

      The instruction was brief. ‘Sure, I’ll remember to smile.’

      She dialled Kieron Carnegie’s number. ‘You set me up again!’

      ‘Not at all,’ he protested. ‘They called me out of the blue.’

      ‘Checking me out?’

      ‘Just one of Lionel’s boys. He was only asking if there was anything they needed to know.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘I said you were the most remarkable young woman I had ever met. It seemed to satisfy him.’ He paused. ‘Good luck. Don’t worry if he doesn’t smile, he left his sense of humour behind in the womb.’

      At 4.28 p.m., conveying herself elegantly on black, lightly heeled boots, she was ushered through the gates of Downing Street by the duty policemen. ‘Good afternoon, Ms Gallagher.’ Their recognition shot a dart of pleasure through her. For the cameras parked outside Number 10 she affected a shy smile. ‘What’s he giving you, Anne-Marie?’ came a shout. She raised an eyebrow at the offender.

      At 4.30 p.m. the black front door opened. A young man with floppy hair, a boy, it seemed to her, at the heart of government, shook her hand and addressed her with a silky maturity.

      ‘Welcome, Ms Gallagher. Philip Wells, private secretary to the Prime Minister. You’re the last by some way and he’s retreated to the flat. If you could bear to follow me up . . .’

      Lionel Buller was dressed in charcoal grey suit trousers and a white shirt, top button open. In the corner, she saw a jacket and tie folded carefully over a chair.

      ‘Anne-Marie, good to see you.’

      ‘And you, too, Prime Minister,’ she replied.

      Without a handshake or embrace, he gestured her to sit down. Somehow she had expected him to forgo formality and ask her to call him by his first name.

      A second man looked on, similarly dressed but with tie in place, topped by retreating sandy hair whitening at the edges. ‘You know Rob McNeil,’ stated Buller. It was an assumption that neither of them challenged.

      ‘Good to meet,’ said McNeil stretching out his hand.

      ‘Yes, indeed,’ she replied, shaking it. She felt not just shock but a punch of dread. Over the years, she had occasionally noticed his rising profile and ultimate appointment as political editor. As she herself grew in her smaller world, there was little danger of their careers crossing paths – until her selection as a parliamentary candidate. Even then a little known, would-be MP was too small fry for a national political editor.

      Now, without any rehearsal, she was pitched together with him. She told herself to stay calm and show nothing – there was no reason, in such a different context, why he should suddenly start thinking about a weekend twenty-four years ago.

      ‘I’ll be announcing Rob’s appointment tomorrow morning as the new Number 10 press secretary,’ said Buller. ‘Unexpected no doubt, but, given he’s done six years as The Times’ political editor, we might at least keep that paper onside.’ He grimaced. Hooded brown eyes, snuggling beneath heavy brown brows, bore in on her. ‘Well, congratulations.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘It was a seat we had to win.’ He looked down at an untidy cluster of papers on the glass table in front of him. ‘I happened to arrive at Festival Hall just in time for your declaration. A turning point.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I watched your speech.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘I watched it again yesterday. We recorded the night.’ He paused. ‘It was remarkable.’

      ‘Oh, good.’ She realized she was scuffing her hands together and told herself to stop.

      ‘Is there anything I ought to know . . .?’ His voice tailed off.

      She suspected he had been told to ask the question. ‘No. I live to work. That’s it.’

      ‘Curiously enough,’ he resumed, as if he had not heard her, ‘I tend to believe the Security Service when it tells me it does not vet ministers.’ God, she thought, what’s this leading to? ‘Unless, of course, they think someone’s going to blow up Parliament.’ He manufactured a twisting of the face, intended to be a smile.

      ‘I’ll try to resist that temptation,’ she said. The face untwisted itself.

      ‘I want this to be a moral government.’ He blurted it out, his eyes coming alive, shining through the hoods. ‘We said that once before and it didn’t work out. This time it will.’

      ‘That’s why I joined the party,’ she said. ‘Why I stood for parliament.’

      ‘There are obstacles.’ Again he did not speak directly to her. ‘Not just from outside, but within the party too.’ He sprang up from his seat, walked to the window and peered down at the Downing Street garden below.

      ‘Steve Whalley.’ He stopped. She resisted any temptation to nudge him. ‘Stalwart of the party. I have asked him to be Home Secretary.’

      She nodded, maintaining a strategy of silence. ‘One of my strongest backers for the leadership. He’s a traditionalist. Needs support from a strong, modern voice. Someone with an unblemished record in human rights.’

      He walked back, sat down and fiddled again with the papers. Was it an act that allowed him to judge her reactions – or was he hamstrung by a social gaucheness? Especially, perhaps, with women. ‘The Home Office, as presently structured – a structure I see no need to change – has three Ministers of State. One oversees crime prevention, the second policing and criminal justice, the third security and immigration.’ He paused. ‘You know all this.’

      ‘Yes,’ replied Anne-Marie, breaking her silence, ‘I’ve had dealings on the other side of the table with the outgoing Minister for Security and Immigration.’

      ‘Of course.’ A hint of a smile appeared and instantly СКАЧАТЬ