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As the tall doors of Committee Room 14 swung open at 10 a.m. to accept the first batch of MPs waiting outside to vote, neither Sir Humphrey nor others present expected any disappointments.
In best traditional style it would be an orderly and gentlemanly ballot; the loser would be gracious and the winner even more so. The covering of snow which was beginning steadily to blanket Westminster gave the proceedings a surrealistic calm. It would be Christmas soon, it reminded them, and the lights had already long been switched on in Oxford Street Time soon for the winter break, for family reunions and peace on earth. The long period of indecision would be over in a few hours and ordinary folk could return to their normal lives. In public there would be handshakes and congratulations all the way round when the result was announced, even as in private the victors planned their recriminations and the losers plotted their revenge.
When Mattie walked towards the office of Benjamin Landless just off Charterhouse Square, the snow was several inches thick. Outside the capital the snow had settled much more deeply, making travel difficult and persuading many commuters simply to stay at home. The streets of the City of London were strangely quiet in their white cocoon as the falling flakes muffled all sound and the few cars crept quietly about their business. She felt unreal, as if she were on a film set acting out a role, hoping she would wake up in the morning and discover that the script had been changed. Even now she was tempted to turn around and forget all about it, to let others concern themselves about the great affairs of state while she concentrated on paying her mortgage and whether she could afford a holiday next year.
Then a flurry of snow blew into her face, blinding her and transporting her back many years before she was born to an isolated Norwegian fjord and her grandfather setting off in a leaking fishing boat to risk his life on the tides of war. He could have collaborated, turned a blind eye, left it to others to sort out the world while he got on with his own life. But something had driven him on, just as she was being driven now.
When at first she had realised the necessity of confronting Landless, she had discovered all the many reasons why it would be futile - she wouldn't even get to see him; if she did he would ruthlessly ensure that she would never work as a journalist again, and she wouldn't be the first such victim. She had seen him bully and intimidate so many, how could she expect to succeed where so many other more experienced and powerful hands had failed? She had to confront him yet she desperately needed his help. And how was she supposed to squeeze support from a man who instinctively would prefer to throttle her with his own huge hands?
It was only when she realised that she had run out of time and alternatives that she summoned up the courage to unravel her excuses and deal with them one by one. Her first problem was access to the heavily protected businessman. He may depict himself as a man of the people, but he took elaborate and expensive precautions to ensure that he did not have to rub shoulders with them.
So she had phoned the writer of the Telegraph's diary column, the keeper of society's gossip and scandal. Had Landless recently had any close female friends, women of whom he was known to be particularly fond? Fine! A lady twenty years younger than him, now safely ensconced in Wiltshire with a new husband and brood, but known to have been the favoured recipient of a large measure of the magnate's hugely expensive overtime. Mrs Susannah Richards. Yes, she hoped that would do nicely.
But nothing seemed easy as she walked along the strange, empty streets. She arrived at her destination and shook the snow from her boots and hair. She was surprised to see how small were the offices from which Landless ran his many empires, and how opulently the East-Ender had learned to live. The place reeked of British tradition. The small foyer and reception area was cloaked almost entirely in English carved oak panelling, on which were hung several fine oil paintings of old London scenes and a vast portrait of the Queen. The carpeting was thick, the electronics sophisticated and the commissionaire very ex-military.
'Can I help you, Miss?' he asked from beneath his pencil-line moustache.
'My name is Mrs Susannah Richards. I am a personal friend of Mr Landless, you understand,' she explained with a hint of intrigue, 'and I was passing in the vicinity. He's not expecting me, but could you see if he has five minutes free? I have an important personal message for him.'
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