“Not good news, I’m afraid. It turns out the chairman wants the seat for himself. He’s making sure the committee only interviews idiots.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“I’ve seen the short list and Pimkin’s the only sitting member they’re considering.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“No, I was pretty shocked myself. I pressed the case for you, but it fell on deaf ears. Didn’t care for your views on hanging or some such words. Still, I can’t believe you’ll find it hard to pick up a seat.”
“I hope you’re right, Charles, but in any case thanks for trying.”
“Any time. Let me know of any other seats you put your name in for. I have a lot of friends up and down the country.”
“Thank you, Charles. Can you pair me for next Thursday?”
Two days later Alec Pimkin was invited by the Littlehampton Conservatives to attend a short-list interview for the selection of a Tory candidate for the new constituency.
“How do I begin to thank you?” he asked Charles when they met up in the bar.
“Keep your word—and I want it in writing,” replied Charles.
“What do you mean?”
“A letter to the Chief Whip saying you’ve changed your mind on the main European vote, and you and the disciples will be abstaining on Thursday.”
Pimkin looked cocky. “And if I don’t play ball, dear thing?”
“You haven’t got the seat yet, Alec, and I might find it necessary to phone Alexander Dalglish and tell him about that awfully nice little boy you made such a fool of yourself over when you were up at Oxford.”
Three days later the Chief Whip received the letter from Pimkin. He immediately summoned his junior Whip.
“well done, Charles. How did you manage to succeed where we’ve all failed—and the disciples as well?”
“Matter of loyalty,” said Charles. “Pimkin saw that in the end.”
On the final day of the Great Debate on “the principle of entry” into Europe the Prime Minister delivered the winding-up speech. He rose at nine-thirty to cheers from both sides. At ten o’clock the House divided and voted in favor of “the principle” by a majority of 112 Sixty-nine Labour MPs, led by Roy Jenkins, had helped to swell the Government’s majority.
Raymond Could voted against the motion in accordance with his long-held beliefs. Andrew Fraser joined Simon Kerslake and Charles Seymour in the Ayes lobby.
Alec Pimkin and the twelve disciples remained in their places on the Commons benches while the vote took place.
When Charles heard the Speaker read out the final result he felt a moment of triumph, although he realized that he still had the committee stage to go through. Hundreds of clauses, any of which could go wrong and turn the bill into a farce. Nevertheless the first round belonged to him.
Ten days later Alec Pimkin defeated a keen young Conservative just down from Cambridge and a local woman councillor to be selected as prospective candidate for Littlehampton,.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ANDREW STUDIED THE case once again and decided to make his own inquiries. Too many constituents had in the past demonstrated that they were willing to lie to him in surgery as happily as they would in the witness box to any judge.
Robert was trying to climb up on to his lap. Andrew hoisted him the remainder of the way in one tug and attempted to return to his papers. “Whose side are you on?” Andrew demanded as his son dribbled all over his freshly written notes. He stopped to pat his bottom. “Ugh,” he said, putting the case file by his side on the floor. A few minutes later Robert had been changed and left with his mother.
“I’m afraid your son is not overanxious to help me in my desire to secure the release of an innocent man,” Andrew shouted over his shoulder.
He settled down to go over the papers once more, something about the case didn’t ring true … Andrew dialed the Procurator Fiscal’s number. There was one man who could cut his work in half with a sentence.
“Good morning, Mr. Fraser. What can I do for you, sir?”
Andrew had to smile. Angus Sinclair was a contemporary of his father and had known Andrew all his life, but once he was in his office he treated everyone as a stranger, making no exception.