Rod seemed so beaming smiley – elated. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ Jack and Troy stood on the doorstep of Rod’s house in Church Row, wondering if he’d tell them what was so marvellous or let them in. ‘What?’ said Troy. ‘He’s gone. The old bugger’s finally gone.’ ‘Who?’
‘Macmillan. The Prime Minister! He’s said he’ll resign as soon as the Tories can select a new leader.’
‘I thought Tory leaders fell from heaven,’ said Troy. ‘Now, are you going to let us in?’
‘Eh? What? Of course.’
Rod stepped aside. Jack plonked down Troy’s suitcase and his briefcase containing the “documents in the case”, and said, ‘I can’t stop.’
‘Nonsense. Come and have a snifter. It’s been ages since we—’
‘Sorry, Rod. The job calls. Freddie, you will phone me? As soon as there’s anything?’
‘Of course,’ said Troy.
Rod shifted quickly from beaming to babbling. ‘I mean – ideally one would want him there till the last minute, but it’s always such a buzz when one of them finally goes. He says it’s his prostate trouble, but it’s just as much the Woodbridge business. You’ve only just caught me, you know. I only got back from our Party Conference tonight. It was a cracker.’
In the living room Troy slumped on the sofa and wondered if he could be bothered to listen to any of this. Rod perched on the edge of his chair – absurdly animated.
‘For the first time it actually felt as though we were on the verge of power. Hatchets buried. United. It was great. Wilson even made a good speech. An absolute rouser. “The white heat of the technological revolution”.’
Troy had closed his eyes. He opened one at this.
‘Meaning?’
‘Well . . . not meaning anything actually. After all, I should think the nearest Wilson has ever come to grasping technology is playing with his blasted Meccano kit. But that’s hardly the point is it? It’s catchy, it’s new! It’ll appeal to the punters.’
‘Is that the ethos of the new Labour Party? Anything for power? Tell the voters any old twaddle? After all, they aren’t so much voters as punters?’
‘Freddie – so help me I’ll thump you!’
Troy held up his white-wrapped hands.
‘Ready when you are, Cassius.’
Rod seemed to notice him for the first time, took in the broken hands, the whopping great bruise on his forehead, the washed-up, washed-out colour of his skin.
‘Fucking hell. What happened to you? You look like something the cat dragged in!’
Troy told him.
Rod heard him out and then said, ‘Why have you come to me, Freddie?’
‘I can’t let it drop now. Coyn is an ass. I have to bypass him. I have to talk to the Home Secretary.’
‘So?’
‘I want you to arrange a meeting with Nick Travis.’
‘You’ll have to be quick. Their Party Conference starts this week. With Mac out the way it’ll be a free-for-all.’
‘That’s why I’m asking you.’
Rod thought about this.
‘Of course you could just go and knock on his door.’
‘I don’t follow,’ said Troy.
‘He lives on the other side of the Row. The house due opposite.’
‘Good Lord. How long’s he been there?’
‘About a year. He’s not in now. There’s no lights on, and his wife seems to spend as little time there as possible. I get the impression they fight like cat and dog.’
‘Do you see much of him?’
‘What? You mean do I nip over and ask to borrow a cup of sugar? He’s a Tory, for crying out loud.’
‘I just thought. You work in the same place. Travel the same route . . .’
‘We don’t share a cab, if that’s what you mean. He has a Home Office chauffeured car and I take the bloody Northern line. You can’t socialise with the fuckers, Freddie, really you can’t. Cid tried. Popped over to introduce herself to Jane Travis the day after they moved in. Won’t make that mistake again. If there’s one thing Tory wives hate more than Labour wives, its Labour wives with titles. I bet she spat feathers when Cid said “call me Lucinda” after the first utterance of “Lady Troy” – must have choked the bitch to have to utter those two words.’
‘Is she a bitch?’
‘One of the worst. I think the marriage only holds together because he wants a crack at the leadership. Well – now’s his chance.’
Troy pulled Rod back to the point.
‘No – I can’t just walk across and ring on his bell, this is official.’
‘If it’s official, why have you come to me?’
‘You’re the Shadow Home Secretary.’
‘No – I’m your brother. In coming to me you want a favour. You’re pulling a string. So it isn’t official.’
‘Yes it is. If I go through channels, as I’ve every right to do, it’ll take days maybe even a couple of weeks to get to Travis. I need to talk to him tomorrow. The favour you do me is that you create the access – a hotline if you like. Once we get there, it’s official.’
‘You’ll have to give me something in writing.’
Troy held up his hands again.
‘I can’t type.’
‘I can. You’re looking at the fastest two-fingered typist in Westminster.’
‘You mean you’ll do it? You’ll make the call?’
‘Yes. I’ll call him first thing in the morning. And I’ll drop off whatever we bash out tonight. But I’ll warn you now. If you’re going to bang on about the spooks and this Curran chap, forget it. The shutters will come down like closing time at the fishmonger’s. Travis won’t even consider seeing you.’
‘Curran is my suspect. More than that, he did it. He had Clover killed. He had me sapped on the head and dumped in the Thames.’
‘Take my advice. If you mention M15 to Travis you’ll get nothing but silence.’
‘OK,’ said Troy reluctantly. ‘If that’s the way it has to be.’
They moved upstairs to a box room Rod laughingly called his study. He had a prewar manual Corona typewriter set up on a tiny writing desk, a beautiful machine, bright with chipped green paint and gold lettering, the sort that still dealt in guineas rather than pounds. It had belonged to their father. He had personally typed up an account of Lawrence’s entry into Damascus on it more than forty years ago. There was probably sand in the works to this day. In amongst the parliamentary bumf there was just enough room for Rod and Troy.
Troy thought, spoke, Rod typed; Troy thought, spoke, Rod argued.
‘Keep it simple, Freddie. Travis is going to give this about five minutes flat. Just stick to the facts. Stop speculating.’
Troy dictated again. Rod was right. He was the fastest two-fingered typist in the West. All the same, they had taken an age to get through three pages, and they weren’t done yet.
Rod’s wife, Cid, brought in beef sandwiches and beer. She kissed Troy on the forehead. Told him he’d used up eight of his nine lives.
Troy realised he had scarcely eaten in more than three days. He wolfed the sandwiches and left Rod the beer. When they had finished it ran to five typed pages, and struck Troy as oversimplified, but Rod pronounced himself pleased with it.
‘It gets to the point. And above all you won’t trigger his alarm bells. When you’re writing to a politician that’s the first thing to remember. Political man is wired like Fort Knox, designed to go off at the slightest sign of trouble. Now—’
He looked at his watch.
‘You’re staying the night.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘Yes you are. You look like shit. And as my wife so rightly says, you’ve only the one life left. Time you took better care of it. Sleep in in the morning. I’ll call home as soon as I get any word from Travis.’
Troy stopped arguing. Clean sheets could be such a joy.