Edinburgh to Newcastle road was a bugger at any time of the year, and in this weather it was even worse. She hoped a traffic accident wouldn’t make him even later. She peered out into the garden; it was a typical wet, windy November–just the type of night for staying indoors and snuggling up before a roaring fire. The boys were bathed and ready for bed. Pauline had prepared a special meal and romance was on the menu. Hopefully. She smiled. It was a long time since she’d done that–any of it: meals or sex. Even if she said so herself, the smell was delicious. She was supposed to be on a diet but tonight she’d make an exception for him. It was her way of apologizing. Pauline shuddered as she thought of the way she’d treated Alan over the last ten months or so. After all, as her mother had said this afternoon, the credit crunch was affecting everyone, and in Alan’s line of business as a financial consultant specializing in mortgages, it went without saying he would be one of the hardest hit of all.
‘The good times will come again,’ her mother had promised, before warning that this would only happen if she kept her man happy. Pauline blushed, even although there was no one around to see it. Keeping Alan happy in or out of bed had been the last thing on her mind since his income had dropped. It wasn’t just the money. He’d stopped taking care of himself, the pounds had piled on around his waist, and his hair had started to fall out. The doctor said it was stress. Pauline knew that sex would probably relieve the stress he felt, but the simple fact was she just didn’t fancy him any more. Who would? There was no sexual spark now and, unfortunately for their marriage, it was obvious. If only he’d try to get himself sorted out, do some sit-ups, cut back on stuffing his face in front of the telly every night when he was at home. He’d never been God’s gift, but surely it wasn’t hoping for too much to not have her stomach heave when she thought of him touching her? It was hard to know when she had stopped wanting him, but she was determined to do all she could to get things back to normal.
She walked to the window again and pulled back the curtain. Where was he? The boys wanted to kiss him goodnight and Jason had left his Newcastle United teddy in the car. Although he was seven, he slept better when he was cuddling it. Pauline tried Alan’s mobile again. No answer. She poured a glass of wine to calm her nerves. He wasn’t answering his phone because he was driving: he couldn’t risk the automatic points and fine and she didn’t like him using a hands-free kit because it might still affect his concentration. In spite of their recent difficulties, she did love him deep down.
The doorbell rang.
At last. Why wasn’t he using his key? Maybe he’d forgotten it; he was always losing things. She took another sip of wine, deliberately not answering the door, and tried to calm down; she didn’t want to snap at him just as he was coming through the front door. Pauline could feel her irritation rising; his finger was back on the bell and the noise was going right through her. She could feel her romantic mood dissipating.
A blast of cold air hit her in the face as she opened the door.
It wasn’t Alan.
Two police officers stood where he should be; one of them was a woman–that wasn’t a good sign, she thought.
‘Can we come in, Mrs Pearson?’ the female officer asked gently.
‘Well, I’m a bit busy, pet. My husband’s been away on business and I’m expecting him in any minute now,’ she replied. ‘So, no. No. I’m afraid not. No.’ She wanted them to go away. If they had something to say, she didn’t want to hear it.
The woman reached out and took hold of Pauline’s damp, very, very cold hand. Pauline Pearson thought she felt her heart stop.
‘Aye well, it’s Mr Pearson we’d like to talk to you about…can we come in now, pet, do you think?’
Pauline heard herself whispering ‘No’ over and over again as they came in. It made no difference whatsoever.
Lord Edward Hunter took a deep breath as he stepped inside the front door of 10 Downing Street. He had waited for this moment ever since he had first been called to the bar in 1974.
It did not disappoint.
He was still holding his breath as his eyes took in the entrance hall on which many famous feet before his had trodden. This invitation was only the start, he told himself. As he climbed the grand staircase, the portraits of past prime ministers smiled down at him. The lackey had already advised him that the prime minister, Andrew Lairg, was waiting for him in the study. Lord Edward Hunter was excited to see this room, so full of history and promise. Winston Churchill had slept in it and the present PM had restored the tradition of working there. Hunter had long suspected that he still had a bit of the innocent child about him, and he found enjoyment in the fact that he could continue to be impressed by such environments. The fact that he was part of this world often amazed him, and he hoped it would long continue to do so.
‘I’m glad you could make it, Edward.’ Andrew Lairg smiled and held out his hand. The PM’s grip was firm and dry but not painful. ‘I think you’ve met Connor Wilson, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, Connor and I have met,’ Lord Hunter replied. How could he forget the in-depth grilling the prime minister’s right-hand man had given him in the Garrick only two weeks ago? Lord Hunter sat in the seat that Andrew Lairg had motioned towards and stared into the fire which roared in the white marble Adam fireplace. The prime minister sat opposite him whilst Connor Wilson poured the drinks. He didn’t bother to ask how Edward liked his whisky. They knew everything about him–or they thought they did.
Andrew Lairg looked preoccupied. ‘How’s the family?’ he asked his guest.
‘Its just Mary and me now that the children are off to university,’ Hunter replied, hoping that this small talk would not go on for long.
‘Are you both in good spirits?’ the prime minister asked.
‘Fit as fleas.’ Hunter had already been through a thorough medical check and MI5 would already have given Downing Street a copy of the report.
‘Good, good.’ With those words, the gentle, family-man image of the prime minister vanished, and sitting opposite Lord Hunter was the hard-nosed politician who had steered a Labour government through two general election victories in hard times. ‘The party cannot afford another cock-up like the Weatherby scandal. He sat in that chair and bloody lied to me.’ The prime minister’s eyes were cold and hard. ‘When that reporter from The Sun found her…found his bloody wife…’
Lairg went quiet and started brooding again. He didn’t need to finish. Everyone in the country had seen the pictures of Lady Weatherby and her lover. The scandal was not that she had cuckolded her husband, or the fact that her lover was twenty years her junior. It was the fact that the toy boy was an up-and-coming defence lawyer and she had judged a number of his cases whilst she still sat in the High Court. More worryingly he had always won. These cases were now all subject to appeal. Lady Weatherby had held the post of Lord Chancellor of England, the highest judge in the land, and her actions meant the whole legal system was now facing one of its worst crises in living memory.
‘Is there anything, any fuck-up, no matter how tiny it seems to you, in your past, that can come up and bite us on the arse, Edward?’ The PM was known for his language when stressed. ‘When you were a High Court judge, did you ever take a bribe? Did you ever knock up a secretary? Do you have a cocaine habit?’ These questions were not entirely ridiculous–they were specific rumours
