First Among Equals

Raymond returned to the conference table at nine o’clock the next morning to listen to the French Minister of Commerce put his case for renewed funds. He was savoring the thought of the official banquet at the White House to be held that evening when he was tapped on the shoulder by Sir Peter Ramsbotham, who indicated by touching his lips with his forefinger and pointing that they must have a word in private.

“The Prime Minister wants you to return on the midmorning Concorde,” said Sir Peter. “It leaves in an hour. On arrival in Britain you’re to go straight to Downing Street.”

“What’s this all about?”

“I have no idea, that was the only instruction I received from No. 10,” confided the ambassador.

Raymond returned to the conference table and made his apologies to the chairman, left the room, and was driven immediately to the waiting plane. “Your bags will follow, sir,” he was assured.

He was back on English soil three hours and forty-one minutes later, a little after seven-thirty. The purser ensured that he was the first to disembark. A car waiting by the side of the plane whisked him to Downing Street. He arrived just as the Prime Minister was going to dinner, accompanied by an elderly African statesman who was waving his trademark fan back and forth.

“Welcome home, Ray,” said the Prime Minister, leaving the African leader. “I’d ask you to join us, but as you can see I’m entertaining the President of Malawi. Let’s have a word in my study.”

Once Raymond had settled into a chair Mr. Callaghan wasted no time.

“Because of Tony’s tragic death I have had to make a few changes which will include moving the Secretary of State for Trade. I was hoping you would be willing to take over from him.”

Raymond sat up straighter. “I should be honored, Prime Minister.”

“Good. You’ve earned your promotion, Raymond. I also hear you did us proud in America, very proud.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll be appointed to the Privy Council immediately and your first Cabinet meeting will be at ten o’clock tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must catch up with Dr. Banda.”

Raymond was left standing in the hall.

He asked his driver to take him back to the flat. All he wanted to do was to tell Kate the news. When he arrived the flat was empty: then he remembered she wasn’t expecting him back until the next day. He phoned her home but after twenty continuous rings he resigned himself to the fact that she was out. “Damn,” he said out loud, and after pacing around phoned Joyce to let her know the news. Once again there was no reply.

He went into the kitchen and checked to see what was in the fridge: a piece of curled-up bacon, some half-eaten Brie, three eggs. He couldn’t help thinking about the banquet he wa

s missing at the White House.

The Right Honorable Raymond Gould QC, MP, Her Britannic Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Trade, sat on the kitchen stool, opened a tin of baked beans, and devoured them with a fork.

Charles closed the file. It had taken him a month to gather all the proof he needed. Albert Cruddick, the private investigator Charles had selected from the Yellow Pages, had been expensive but discreet. Dates, times, places were all fully chronicled. The only name was that of Alexander Dalglish, the same rendezvous, lunch at Prunier’s followed by the Stafford Hotel. They hadn’t stretched Mr. Guddick’s imagination but at least the detective had spared Charles the necessity of standing in the entrance of the Economist building once, sometimes twice a week for hours on end.

Somehow he had managed to get through that month without giving himself away. He had also made his own notes of the dates and times Fiona claimed she was going to be in the constituency. He had then called his agent in Sussex Downs and, after veiled questioning, elicited answers that corroborated Mr. Cruddick’s findings.

Charles saw as little of Fiona as possible during this time, explaining that the Finance Bill was occupying his every moment. His lie had at least a semblance of credibility for he had worked tirelessly on the remaining clauses left for debate, and by the time the watered-down bill had become law he had just about recovered from the disaster of the Government’s successful retention of clause 110.

Charles placed the file on the table by the side of his chair and waited patiently for the call. He knew exactly where she was at that moment and just the thought of it made him sick to his stomach. The phone rang.

“The subject left five minutes ago,” said a voice.

“Thank you,” said Charles and replaced the receiver. He knew it would take her about twenty minutes to reach home.

“Why do you think she walks home instead of taking a taxi?” he had once asked Mr. Cruddick.

“Gets rid of any smells,” Mr. Cruddick had replied quite matter-of-factly.

Charles shuddered. “And what about him? What does he do?” He never could refer to him as Alexander, or even Dalglish ; or as anything but “him.”

“He goes to the Lansdowne Club, swims ten lengths or plays a game of squash before returning home. Swimming and squash both solve the problem,” Mr. Cruddick explained cheerily.

The key turned in the lock. Charles braced himself and picked up the file. Fiona came straight into the drawing room and was visibly shaken to discover her husband sitting in an armchair with a small suitcase by his side.

She recovered quickly, walked over, and kissed him on the cheek. “What brings you home so early, darling? The Socialists taken the day off?” She laughed nervously at her joke.