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He was there, standing by the balustrade at the far end of the terrace, looking out beyond the rooftops of Whitehall, north to where he knew the moors of his childhood still beckoned. He had never seen the view like this before, blanketed in snow. The sky was as clear as the air in the
Scottish valleys he had deserted; the rooftops carpeted in white he imagined to be the rolling moors on which he had spent so many enthralling hours hunting with the gillie, the steeples became the copses of spruce in which they had hidden while' they watched the progress of the deer. On a day such as this, he felt as if he could see right to the heart of his old Perthshire home, and beyond even to the heart of eternity. It was all his now.
He could see the white stone walls of the Home Office, behind which lay Buckingham Palace where, later that evening, he would be driven in triumph. There stood the Foreign Office, and next to it the Treasury at the entrance to Whitehall which he would shortly command more effectively than any hereditary king. Before him were spread the great offices of state which he would, soon dispense and dominate in a way which would at last lay to rest his father's haunting accusations and recompense for all the bitterness and loneliness to which he had so long condemned himself.
He was startled as he realised that someone was at his elbow.
'Miss Storin!' he exclaimed. "This is a surprise. I didn't think anyone would find me here - but you seem to have a habit of tracking me down. What is it this time - another exclusive interview?'
'I hope it will be very exclusive, Mr Urquhart.'
'You know, I remember you were right in on the start. You were the first person ever to ask if I were going to stand for the leadership.'
'Perhaps it is appropriate that I should also be in on the end...'
'What do you mean?'
The time had come.
'Perhaps you should read this. It's the Press Association copy I have just taken from the printer.'
She pulled out of her shoulder bag a short piece of news agency copy which she handed to him.
london-30.11.91.
In a surprise development, Mr Benjamin Landless has announced that he has withdrawn his takeover offer for the United Newspapers Group.
In a brief statement, Landless indicated that he had been approached by senior political figures asking for editorial and financial support in exchange for their approval of the merger.
In such circumstances' he said, 'I think it to be in the national interest that the deal be suspended. I do not wish the reputation of my company in any way to be impugned by the reprehensible and possibly corrupt activity which has begun to infect this transaction'
Landless announced that he hoped to be able to release further details after he had consulted with his lawyers.
'I don't understand. What does this mean?' asked Urquhart in a calm voice. But Mattie noticed that he had crumpled the news release up in his clenched fist.
It means, Mr Urquhart, that I know the full story. Now so does Benjamin Landless. And in a few days so will every newspaper reader in the country.'
A frown crossed his brow. There was no anger or anguish in his face yet, like a soldier who had been shot but whose nervous system had still to allow the pain to prize away the blanket of numbness which the shock had wrapped about him. But Mattie could have no mercy. She reached into her shoulder bag yet again, extracting a small tape recorder, and pressed a button. The tape which Landless had given Mattie began to turn and in the quiet, snow-clad air they could hear very distinctly the voices of the newspaper proprietor and the Chief Whip as they conspired together. The conversation was unambiguous, the recording of remarkable clarity and the contents unmistakably criminal as the two plotted to exchange editorial endorsement for political endorsement.
Mattie pressed another button, and the voices stopped.
'I don't know whether you make a habit of taping all your colleagues' bedrooms, or just Patrick Woolton's, but I can assure you that Benjamin Landless tapes all of his telephone conversations' she said.
Urquhart's face had frozen in the winter's air. He was beginning to feel the pain now.
'Tell me, Mr Urquhart. I know you blackmailed Roger O'Neill into opening the false address in Paddington for Charles Collingridge, but when the police investigate will they find his or your signature on the bank account?'
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