Ian Rossiter stalked into the room, loosened his tie, then tore the sling from his shoulder and threw it on the desk, oblivious to the opulence of his surroundings.
The press secretary shut the door moments before his employer exploded, then hurried across the floor and waited for the onslaught.
‘What the hell is Will Fletcher doing in my house, Gregory?’
‘Calm down,’ said the other man. ‘We don’t need the rest of the staff to overhear.’ He ran delicate fingers through his thinning grey hair, deliberately keeping his voice low.
Rossiter glared at him, then moved to the window, clasped his hands behind his back and ignored the burning sensation in his shoulder.
‘You should keep the sling on. Someone could see you,’ said Gregory as he joined him.
‘Bugger the sling.’
Rossiter stared through the panels of glass at the motley collection of vehicles strewn across the pristine gravelled turning circle of his driveway, and tried to calm down.
Beyond the driveway, manicured gardens led away from the house, the lawns a lush green after the week’s rain. Carefully pruned shrubs and trees dotted the landscape, and he watched as one of the gardeners moved a wheelbarrow across the driveway, cigarette smoke clouding away from him as he walked.
‘You didn’t answer my question.’ He turned away from the window and glared at the press secretary. ‘What’s Will Fletcher doing here?’
Gregory placed his briefing papers on the desk behind them, and automatically straightened one of the pages that fell loose.
‘We didn’t know he’d definitely show up,’ he began, and held up a hand. ‘Let me finish.’ He moved around the desk and eased into one of the soft leather armchairs that faced it, and tugged the hem of his trouser leg as he crossed his ankles. ‘He’s been given a press pass by Kirby Clark. One can only assume the man is trying to help Mr Fletcher.’
‘But you approve all the press passes!’
Gregory nodded. ‘And I approved his, earlier this morning.’
‘Why the hell would you do that?’
The press secretary pointed at the vehicles on the driveway outside. ‘Because, right now, one of my security personnel is making sure we know where Mr Fletcher goes.’
Rossiter spun on his heel in time to see a figure stand up and move swiftly away from a blue car parked on the periphery of the driveway.
‘Can he be trusted?’
‘Absolutely. Been with us for years.’
‘What did he do?’
Gregory shrugged, and stared at his fingernails. ‘I don’t understand the specifics – I don’t care to be honest. It’s some sort of tracking device.’
‘Untraceable?’
‘Of course.’
Rossiter turned back to the desk, rolled back his chair and lowered his bulk into the soft material, before leaning forward and unscrewing the cap off a small bottle of pills.
As he shook two into his hand and reached for a glass of water, Gregory frowned.
‘How many of those are you taking a day?’
Rossiter tipped back his head, then lowered the glass and re-fastened the bottle cap. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
Gregory leaned forward. ‘I worry, because I need you to be sharper than ever until this is resolved, Ian. Not in some sort of drugged-up haze.’
Rossiter laughed. ‘The only thing you worry about is your own future.’
‘True. And it’s inextricably linked to yours,’ said Gregory. ‘So, do me a favour and don’t fuck it up. We’re too close.’
Rossiter reached forward and began to wrap and unwrap the sling around his hands. ‘I won’t. I told you not to worry about it.’ He frowned as another spasm gripped his shoulder muscles, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the desk.
‘How bad is it?’
‘Bad.’
‘He had to do it.’
‘I’d have preferred not to have been shot at all.’
‘It had to look realistic.’
‘Oh, it was realistic all right,’ said Rossiter. ‘For a moment, I thought he was going to bloody shoot me in the head, too.’ He unwrapped the sling, looped it over his head, and shrugged his arm back into it, a pained grimace crossing his features. ‘I’ll never know how that damned reporter didn’t die on the spot like she was supposed to.’
‘An unfortunate turn of events.’
‘Is she going to die?’
‘Too early to tell at the moment, according to the hospital.’
‘Can we hurry it along?’
Gregory’s face paled. ‘Are you serious?’
‘It’s just a thought.’
‘Ian – there’s a limit to what we can do here. It’s not like the old days.’
‘Shame.’ Rossiter glanced at his watch. ‘What time will the vultures start to leave?’
‘In about fifteen minutes. I’ve instructed Rita to move them on as soon as possible – point out you’re recovering and need the peace and quiet.’
‘What’s next this morning?’
‘A couple of telephone calls, one to that chap in the Midlands who’s keen to lend support to your campaign. He could be a lucrative catch if we can stop him from handing over his money to the bloody Conservatives as usual.’
‘All right. Set it up. I’m taking my niece out to lunch at one o’clock, so make sure we’re done by then.’
‘You should get some rest.’
Rossiter held up his hand. ‘Save it. I’ll rest when this is over and I’m Prime Minister, Malcolm. So will you.’