'But we have documentary evidence to suggest that they included CND and gay rights, Mr Samuel,' the reporter pressed.
'Not that old nonsense again,' responded Samuel testily. He thought he had finished with those wild charges twenty years ago when he had first stood for Parliament. An opponent had sent a letter of accusation to party headquarters,- the allegations had been fully investigated by the Party's Standing Committee on Candidates and he had been given a clean bill of health. But here they were again, risen from the dead after all these years, just a few days before the final ballot.
‘I
did all the things that an eighteen-year-old college student in those days did. I went on two CND marches, and was even persuaded to take out a regular subscription to a student newspaper which I later found was run by the gay rights movement
’
He tried to raise a chuckle at the memory, determined not to give any impression that he had something to hide.
‘I
was also quite a strong supporter of the anti-apartheid movement, and to this day I actively oppose apartheid, although I intensely dislike the violent methods used by some of the self-proclaimed leaders of the movement
’
he had told the journalist. 'Regrets? No, I have no real regrets about those early involvements; they weren't so much youthful mistakes as an excellent testing ground for the opinions I now hold. I know how foolish CND is - I've been there!'
Samuel could scarcely believe the manner in which his remarks had been interpreted in the newspaper. It was ludicrous to suggest he had ever been a Communist; he wondered for a moment whether it was actually libellous. Yet underneath the headline, the article got even worse.
‘I
marched for the Russians', admitted Samuel last night, recalling those days of the 1960s when ban-the-bomb marches frequently ended in violence and disruption.
He also acknowledged that he had been a financial supporter of homosexual rights groups,
making
regular monthly payments to the Cambridge Gay Charter Movement which was amongst the earliest organisations pushing for a change in the laws on homosexuality.
Samuel's early left-wing involvement has long been a source of concern to party leaders. In 1970 when the twenty-seven-year-old Samuel applied to party headquarters to fight as an official party candidate in the general election of that year, the Party Chairman wrote to demand an explanation of 'the frequency with which your name was associated at university with causes which have no sympathy for our Party'.
He seemed to satisfy the Party then, and won his way into the House of Commons at that election. However, last night
Samuel was still defiant about
those early involvements.
‘I
have no regrets', he said, acknowledging that he still sympathised strongly with some of those left-wing movements he used to support.
For the rest of the day there was fluster and commotion amongst the political reporters and in the Samuel household. Nobody really believed that he was a closet Communist; it was another of those silly, sensationalist pieces intended to raise circulation rather than the public's consciousness, but it had to be checked out, causing confusion and disruption at a time when Samuel was trying desperately to reassure his supporters and refocus attention on the serious issues of the campaign.
By midday Lord Williams had issued a stinging denunciation of the newspaper for using confidential documents which had been stolen from a security cabinet by forcing the lock. The newspaper immediately responded that, while the Party itself seemed to be unforgivably incompetent with safeguarding their confidential material, the newspaper was happy to fulfil its public obligations and return the folder on Samuel to its rightful owners at party headquarters - which they did later, that day in time to catch the television news and give the story yet another lease of life.
Most observers, after discussing the story at some length, dismissed it as a passing misfortune for Samuel brought about by the typical incompetence of party headquarters. But Samuel's campaign had run into a lot of misfortune since it began. It was not reassuring for someone who claimed to be on top of events, and it was definitely not the way to spend the final weekend of the leadership race.
The phone call upset Krajewski. He had been trying hard to keep a grip on his wayward emotions about Mattie, being alternately eaten away by frustration at her inconsistency and consumed with hunger for her body. He was also discovering that he simply downright missed her, and only occasionally did he succeed in forcing his thoughts about her to the back of his mind. When one of his colleagues telephoned to say that he had met Mattie and that she looked tired and unwell, he hadn't needed a second to realise how concerned he still was.
She had agreed to see him, but rejected his suggestion that he should come straight round. She didn't want him to see the apartment this way, with the dirty plates, the empty cartons which seemed to infest every available table top, and the worn clothes which had simply been dumped in the comer. The last few days had been hell. Unable to sleep, her mind and her emotions snarled up in one immense knot, her bed like a slab of ice, she was no longer sure which way to rum. The walls closed in around her, squeezing out her ability to think straight or feel anything other than growing depression.
So when Krajewski called she had shown little enthusiasm even though she knew she needed support from someone. Reluctantly she had been cajoled into meeting him at the coffee shop on the eastern edge of the Serpentine, the winding duck-strewn lake which dominates the centre of Hyde Park. He cursed as he hurried towards it. The bitter November wind was raising foam-topped waves as it sliced across the water, and as he approached the empty, lifeless coffee shop he realised that it must have closed for the winter. He found the small, forlorn figure of Mattie sheltering under the eaves, wrapped in a thin anorak which suddenly seemed too large for her. She appeared to have shrunk since they had last met. There were uncharacteristic dark rings under her eyes, and the vitality which normally lit her face was missing. She looked awful. 'What a bloody silly place for us to meet
’
he apologised. ‘D
on't worry, Johnnie. I guess I needed the fresh air
’
He wanted to put his arms around her and squeeze the chill out of her bones, but instead he tried to smile cheerfully.
'What's new with Britain's top female journalist?' he enquired. Immediately he wanted to bite his tongue off. He hadn't intended sarcasm, not at all, but it was a clumsy choice of words. She shivered before she replied.
'Perhaps you're right to laugh. A few days ago I thought I had the world at my feet.'
'And now?'
'Now it's all gone wrong. The job
...
The story
..
‘
-
a
slight pause
-'...
You. I thought I could do it all on my own. I was wrong. Sorry.'
This was a new Mattie, all ful
l
of
self-doubt and insecurity. He didn't know what to say, so said nothing.
'When I was a young girl my grandfather used to take me out onto the Yorkshire dales. He said it was a lot like parts of Norway. The weather could get bitter and inhospitable up there but I never had any fears. Grandpa was always there with a helping hand and a smile. He always carried a flask of hot soup and I never felt better or warmer than when I was out with him, no matter how hard it blew. Then one day I thought I was grown up, didn't need Grandpa any more, so I slipped away on my own. I left the track and the
o
ground started getting softer. Soon I was sinking up to my ankles and then slipping deeper and deeper.' She was shivering again.
‘I
couldn't get out. The more I struggled the deeper I became stuck. I thought I would never get out. It was the first time in my life that I had known what real fear was. But then Grandpa found me and plucked me out, and hugged me while I cried and dried my
tears and made ever
ything better
’
Johnnie noted how frail and vulnerable she looked now inside the voluminous folds of her anorak, as if she was reliving the experience all over again.
It's just like that now, Johnnie. I'm desperately trying to find some firm ground, something I can stand on and believe in, both about the story and in my own life. But I'm just sinking deeper and deeper, Grandpa's no longer around and I'm afraid. Do you understand? I feel as if I shall never step on solid ground again.'
'But haven't you seen the Sunday newspapers?' he encouraged. 'Someone filched Samuel's personal papers. Another bombshell hits the leadership race from party headquarters. Even more evidence pointing directly at Teddy Williams. Isn't that firm ground?'
She shook her head sadly. If only it were that simple.'
‘I
don't understand,' he said. 'We've got the deliberate theft of personal files. We've got the tampering with the central computer file - that's deliberate too. We've had the leaking of all sorts of damaging material out of
party headquarters to you, to K
endrick, seemingly to anyone who was passing in the neighbourhood. We've got party officials opening accommodation addresses in false names, and politicians' corpses lying around like hedgehogs on a motorway. What more do you need? And it all leads back to party headquarters - which must mean Williams. He can't make Prime Minister himself, so he's making sure he controls whoever does.'
‘
Y
ou're missing the point, Johnnie. Why on earth should Williams need to steal his own documents? He could simply have copied the vital information without breaking in and stealing the whole bloody file. And he doesn't need to force locks - he's got all the keys. He is supposed to be
Samuel's strongest ally, yet Samuel's campaign has been pedalling backwards ever since the election began.'
Her eyes were burning with disappointment. 'Can you really imagine an elder statesman like Williams framing the Prime Minister for fraud? Or leaking so much material from party headquarters that it has made him look like a doddering imbecile? No, Johnnie. It's not Williams.'
Then who the hell is it? Samuel? Urquhart? Some other Cabinet Minister? Landless?'
‘I
don't know
’
she cried. That's why I feel as if I am drowning! The more I struggle, the deeper I get stuck. Professionally. Emotionally. It's like a great quagmire sucking me under. I'm just not sure about anything any more.'
‘I’
d like to help you, Mattie. Please don't turn me away.'
‘L
ike Grandpa, you're always there when I need you. Thanks, Johnnie. But I've got to find my own path now or I never will. There's all this confusion inside me; I've got to sort these things out for myself.'
‘I
can wait
’
he said gently.
'But I can't. I've got only two more days to come up with the answer and only one strong lead - Roger O'Neill.'
MONDAY 29
th
NOVEMBER
The janitor found the body just after he had clocked on at 4.30 on Monday morning. He was beginning his morning duties at the Rownhams motorway service area just outside Southampton on the M27, starting with cleaning out the toilets, when he discovered that one of the cubicle doors would not open. He was nearing his sixty-eighth birthday, and he cursed as he lowered his old bones gently onto their hands and knees so that he could peer under the door. He had great difficulty getting all the way down, but he didn't need to. He saw the two shoes quite clearly, and that was enough to satisfy his curiosity. There was a man in there, and whether he was drunk, diseased or dying meant nothing to him except that it was going to put him way behind his cleaning schedule, and he cursed again as he staggered off to call his supervisor.
The supervisor was in no better temper when he arrived, and used a screwdriver to open the lock from the outside. But the man's knees were wedged firmly up against the door, and push as hard as they might the two of them could not force it open more than a few inches. The supervisor put his hand around the door, trying to shift the man's knees, but instead grabbed a dangling hand which was as cold as ice. He recoiled in horror and gave a wail of anguish, insisting on washing his hands meticulously before he stumbled off to call the police and an ambulance.
The police arrived shortly after 5 a.m. and, with rather more experience in such matters than the janitor and supervisor, had the cubicle door lifted off its hinges in seconds.
O'Neill's body was sitting there, fully clothed and slumped against the wall. His face, drained of all colour, was stretched into a leering death mask exposing his teeth and with his eyes staring wide open, hi his lap they found two halves of an empty tin of talc, and on the floor beside him they discovered a small polythene bag containing a few grains of white powder and a briefcase stuffed with political pamphlets. They found other small white granules of powder still clinging to the leather cover of the briefcase, which had clearly been placed on O'Neill's lap to provide a flat surface. From one clenched fist they managed to prise a twisted £20 note which had been fashioned into a tube before being crumpled by O'Neill's death fit. His other arm was stretched aloft over his head, as if the grinning corpse was giving one final, hideous salute of farewell.