room erupted. Bill Clempson banged his gavel repeatedly to no effect as furious villagers tore into Santiago and into one another in a thoroughly unedifying shouting match. Who did Santiago think he was, sticking up for his rich mates and accusing ordinary villagers of bullying?
‘Wraggsbottom Farm must be worth four million as it is,’ Kevin Jenner, the butcher, pointed out furiously. The Jenners were a well-known Fittlescombe family. Kevin’s cousin Danny was the landlord at The Fox. ‘And we all know Sir Eddie’s rolling in dirty money. Why should those fat cats be allowed to make even more money by exploiting the village and ruining it for the rest of us?’
‘Oh, so it’s about money, is it? I see,’ said Santiago. ‘And here’s the reverend telling everybody it’s about protecting the natural beauty of Fittlescombe! Last time I read the Bible, envy was a deadly sin.’
‘So’s greed!’ someone yelled back.
Penny flushed scarlet with embarrassment, watching her husband take on all-comers. Why couldn’t Santi let Gabe Baxter fight his own battles?
James Craven pulled a bottle of ibuprofen tablets out of his inside jacket pocket and swallowed two grimly. ‘Do you think it’s going to get physical?’ he whispered to Penny. ‘If it does, I warn you, I’m off. I’m a terrible coward. They don’t call me Craven for nothing. I leave all that macho bollocks to your husband.’
In the end, as so often with village tensions, it was Max Bingley, the headmaster, who calmed things down.
‘Look, this is ridiculous. Angela and I aren’t happy about this programme being made here either. And our objections have nothing to do with wealth or how much people’s homes are worth.’
‘I bet they’re not,’ muttered Kevin Jenner.
Angela Cranley, Max’s long-term partner, owned Furlings, the local manor, by far and away the most spectacular house in the valley, if not the entire county.
‘For us, it’s about privacy. However, I don’t believe it’s right or fair to hold meetings like this one without allowing the Baxters and Sir Edward to put their side of the case.’
The vicar opened his mouth to speak, but Max ignored him.
‘It may be possible to reach some sort of compromise. But only if we all behave in an open and reasonable way, and engage the other side in dialogue. The reality is, legally there’s little or nothing we can do. The programme is being shot on Gabriel Baxter’s land, and on public streets. Beyond keeping the cameras out of our own homes and property …’
‘May I say something?’
A loud, authoritative voice rang out from the back of the hall. Everybody turned to see who had spoken.
David Carlyle, editor of the Echo and Fast Eddie Wellesley’s most outspoken enemy, stood with his back against the door. In an expensive but naff grey suit that was cut too tightly, solid gold cufflinks and a garish red silk tie, Carlyle looked every inch the rich and powerful man that he was. When he smiled, as he did now, his teeth flashed brilliant white, giving him a look that was part toothpaste commercial, part wolf.
‘With respect to the last speaker, there’s a lot we can do. As a concerned local resident, I don’t want this valley being defaced any more than you do.’
‘Shame you built that godawful eyesore of a “McMansion”, then,’ James whispered to Penny under his breath. ‘Architectural services care of Barbie and Ken.’
Penny giggled. ‘Don’t be mean. His wife’s really lovely.’
Carlyle was still talking.
‘With the help of my newspaper, and a carefully orchestrated campaign to raise awareness of what’s really going on here, a scandalous abuse of wealth and privilege, I believe we can put an end to this, quickly and finally. Now, it will take money. But I’m happy to foot the bill for any action you can all agree on. And I’ll make sure you get coverage, not just locally but nationally.’
For the second time that evening, order disintegrated. Reverend Clempson’s attempts to assert any authority over proceedings evaporated utterly in the face of David Carlyle’s confidence, charisma and cheque book, as villagers thronged eagerly around their new champion.
‘What do you think of him?’ Penny de la Cruz asked Angela Cranley as both women prepared to leave. Clearly nothing concrete was going to be decided at tonight’s meeting.
‘David Carlyle? I don’t know him,’ said Angela. ‘But I think he means business. He reminds me a bit of Brett. I wouldn’t want him for an enemy, that’s for sure.’
‘He hates Eddie Wellesley,’ said Santiago. ‘How can these people be so stupid?’ He looked at his neighbours, thronging around Carlyle like devoted fans around a famous footballer. ‘Can’t they see he’s using them to further a personal vendetta?’
‘The whole thing is stupid,’ Max Bingley muttered under his breath. ‘And it’s getting quite out of hand.’
David Carlyle was also trying to leave, shaking the vicar warmly by the hand and talking to him intently as he made his excuses to the assembled villagers.
‘Look at bloody Clempson,’ Max Bingley spluttered. ‘He’s blushing like a teenage girl who’s just been asked on her first date. Whatever happened to impartial moral leadership?’
Angela Cranley rolled her eyes. She loved Max, but he could sound so terribly headmasterly at times.
Santiago was tapping away on his phone as they all filed out.
‘What are you doing?’ Penny asked him.
‘Texting Gabe. Someone has to warn him.’
‘Warn him of what?’
‘The lynch mob.’
‘That’s a bit melodramatic,’ said Penny. ‘He already knows people are angry about the show, and the vicar’s trying to curry favour with the congregation. He only has to walk into Preedys’ or down the High Street to realize that.’
‘Yes, but this is different,’ said Santiago. ‘This isn’t just a few disgruntled neighbours and a desperate-to-please vicar with a Che Guevara complex. This is one of the most powerful editors in Fleet Street. David Carlyle’s out to finish Eddie Wellesley. Gabe and Laura are going to get caught in the crossfire.’
David Carlyle leaned back in the taupe leather seat of his new Aston Martin Rapide and pushed his foot down harder on the accelerator. He felt good. Powerful. In control. Tonight’s meeting had gone well. His new car roared impressively, surging forward at the tap of his foot like a tethered lion straining at the leash as he weaved his way through the Downs towards Hinton. He would go home, report his triumph to Louise, his loyal wife of over twenty years, pour himself a glass of Oban single malt, and set about the serious but enjoyable business of pissing on Eddie Wellesley’s latest pet project.
The feud between David Carlyle and Eddie Wellesley had begun years earlier, back when David had worked as the senior spin doctor for Tristram Hambly, the prime minister. Eddie had been part of a group of senior Tories who’d pressured Hambly to get rid of David. The reason for their dislike was simple. They saw David Carlyle as a bully: unscrupulous,
