done.
When I got back to the Mews, Herman was happy to see me—I knew this because his whippety tail was wagging and he wasn’t actively looking anxious. His pointy little face was in neutral gear. I took him out for his walk, and as we walked up the hill, stopping for the usual friendly exchanges with other dog-owners—‘Ooh, look, a sausage dog!’ ‘Sweet!’ ‘Does he speak German?’—I decided what I would do. I’d ring Caroline and tell her that I was sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to help with the fete after all. I hated letting her down, not least because I’d liked her, but there was now no way I’d be able to go. And as I unlocked the front door, trying to work out which of my three excuses—mum ill/dog ill/car problems—would sound most convincing, I saw the light flashing on the answerphone. I pressed ‘Play’.
‘You have. Three. Messages,’ intoned the robotic female voice. ‘First message sent. Today at. Four. Forty-five. P.M.’
‘Hello, darling!’ It was Mum. ‘Just ringing for a chat. But don’t ring me back as I’ll be busy with the boys. I’ll try you again later.’ Click. Whirr. The machine spooled on. ‘Hi, Miranda!’ My heart sank. ‘Caroline here. I just want to thank you again, for helping us out with the dog show—you’ve saved my bacon. But I also wanted to let you know that I’ve just told two of my friends that you’re doing the judging, and they’d both heard of you, from Animal Crackers. So you shouldn’t be so modest—you obviously are a bit of a celebrity. Anyway, we’re all really looking forward to seeing you here on Saturday. Bye for now!’ Click. Damn. ‘Hello, Miss Sweet,’ said a male voice. ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Cooper here.’ Detective Sergeant? I panicked wildly for a split second, adrenaline flooding my veins, then remembered who he was and calmed down. ‘Just to let you know we’ll be sending you those forms I mentioned—I do apologize for the delay—you should get them by the end of the week.’ Oh. Right. The forms. I’d completely forgotten.
‘This is too much,’ I muttered to Herman, as I opened the back door and let the early evening sunlight flood the kitchen. ‘I’ve more than enough pain without this.’ I sat down, and breathed very deeply to calm myself, but this only gave me a sharp twinge in my rib. Then I went to my computer, waited impatiently while it connected to the Net, and then typed ‘James Mulholland’ into Google. A whole slew of entries came up.
‘Welcome to James Mulholland’s Website,’ I read. ‘James Mulholland has been MP for Billington since May 1997…’ Good God—he was an MP! I felt as though I’d been struck by lightning. At the top of the page I read, ‘Links | Fighting for Billington | Billington Labour Party | News | James Mulholland was born in 1965 and was educated at Walton Comprehensive, Peterborough…’
As I read on my heart was racing—there was a photo of Jimmy, smiling smoothly. ‘Click here to find out the latest on James Mulholland.’ I clicked again.
‘James Mulholland has been MP for Billington since 1997. During the 1997-2001 Parliament he was a member of the Education and Employment Committee and the Social Security Committee. He is now Minister of State for Education (Lifelong Learning).’ Christ, he was a Junior Minister! My eyes skimmed down the page. ‘Before going into politics, James was a local radio producer and reporter…’ So that’s what he’d done. ‘He was educated at Walton Comprehensive, Peterborough and Sussex University…where he gained a First in Biochemistry.’ In ‘real life’, I read, ‘James enjoys walking in the Hertfordshire countryside, and relaxing at home with his wife, Caroline, and their three dogs.’
But where did the amazing house come from? He’d been a journalist, not a banker, and MPs aren’t loaded. I scrolled through the other entries—mostly promotional guff—then clicked on the Guardian Unlimited site. There was an anonymous profile. Entitled ‘His Master’s Voice’, it wasn’t exactly flattering.
‘Son of an insurance salesman…early years provide little evidence of his later ambition…Walton Comprehensive, Peterborough…Sussex University…1987 joined Radio York…in 1993 he interviewed Jack Straw…so impressed, he invited him to be his parliamentary researcher…quickly rose through the ranks. At 37, Mulholland is on the fast track…good looks, charm, communication skills…“on message”…journey from radical left to centre right. In 1995 Press spokesman to Alan Milburn, then selected to fight the safe seat of Billington in Lancashire…In the summer of 2000 married the Hon. Caroline Horbury, heir to the Horbury property fortune…’ Ah. ‘…frequently entertain at their grand country pile…smart townhouse in Billington…elegant apartment in Westminster…he now puts her money where his mouth is…’
So that explained Little Gateley Manor. He hadn’t made money—he’d married it. It all made sense. As for the journey ‘from radical left to centre right’—that fitted too. I remembered again the Jimmy I’d known, and tried to square it with the suave pillar-of-the-establishment exterior I’d encountered today. I remembered too how charismatic I’d found him, and, ironically, how principled. That’s what had drawn me to him—his passionate beliefs. How misguided I was, I thought bitterly. What a dupe. And though I was only sixteen, and he was five years older, I was, at best, culpably naïve. Now I wondered whether he’d ever felt the slightest pang of conscience about the terrible thing that he’d done.
I’d always known that he’d escaped prosecution, because if he’d been arrested he would have named me. I remembered his voice on that awful March morning, as I’d stood in his flat, hyperventilating from exertion—I’d run all the way—and from shock.
‘I’ve just…found out,’ I gasped. ‘I’ve just found out.’ I could feel my face twisting with rage. ‘I overheard someone talking about it at the bus stop. How could you!!’ I croaked, my throat aching. ‘How could you! You…you…hypocrite.’ I burst into tears.
He folded his arms, then turned and looked out of the window onto the street below. I could see a muscle in his jaw tense and flex. ‘I should keep quiet if I were you,’ he said.
I was amazed at his self-possession. ‘Keep quiet?’ I wept. ‘Keep quiet?’ I was crying so much that my ears hurt. ‘No. I won’t bloody well keep quiet! I’m going to tell everyone what you did!’
He turned and faced me. ‘No, Miranda. What you did. It was you after all. Wasn’t it?’ he said quietly.
‘No. It wasn’t—because I didn’t know.’
He gave me an indolent smile. ‘The police won’t care about a detail like that. In any case they’ve already got your number, Miranda. Haven’t they? After your trip to the butchers a few months ago. And then there was your little adventure at the fur coat shop. They won’t believe you. Will they?’ I felt sick. ‘In any case,’ he went on smoothly. ‘If you name me, I’ll tell them that you did know. I’ll say we did it together. So I really do suggest that it’s in both our interests for you to keep your sweet little trap firmly shut. Unless you want to go to Holloway, of course.’
It was as though I’d been plunged into a bath of ice water, and I saw, with dreadful clarity, that he was right. So I did keep quiet—for sixteen years—to my shame, and never saw him again. Until today…
I lay on my bed for more than an hour—Herman lying beside me, like a tiny bolster—just staring through the skylight as the hot blue of the evening sky turned pink, then mauve, now deepening to liquid indigo, and a kind of plan began to form in my mind. I would go to Little Gateley this Saturday—and I’d find some opportunity to speak to Jimmy alone. I’d quietly confront him and I’d get him to acknowledge me, and to admit—at last—that he’d done something terribly wrong. And I’d make him
