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'Damned if I know. Never seen him before. Hang on, being a dutiful deputy editor I keep all the nightly news on tape for a fortnight, so I should have it here somewhere.'
He rummaged around by his video player for a few moments before slotting a tape into the chamber and winding it forward. In a few seconds, through the blizzard produced by the fast replay button, appeared the scenes of Charles Collingridge huddled in the back of the fleeing car.
'Go back!' she ordered. 'To the start.'
And there, for less than a second at the front of the report, as the car swept from behind the building into the main road, they could clearly see the face of the driver through the windscreen.
Krajewski punched the freeze frame button. They both sat there entranced, staring at the balding and bespectacled face.
'And who the hell is he?' muttered Krajewski.
'Let's figure out who he's not' said Mattie. 'He's not a
Government driver - it's not a Government car and the drivers pool is very gossipy, so we would have heard something. He's not a political figure or we would have recognised him...'
She clapped her hands in inspiration. 'Johnnie, where were they going?'
'Not to Downing Street, not to some hotel or other public place.' He pondered the options. To the clinic, I suppose.'
'Precisely! That man is from the clinic. If we can find out who he is, we shall know where Charles is!'
'OK, Clark Kent. Seems fair enough. Look, I can get a hard copy of the face off the video tape and show it around. We could try old Freddie, one of our staff photographers. Not only does he have an excellent memory for faces, he is also an alcoholic who dried out a couple of years ago. He still goes religiously every week to Alcoholics Anonymous, and he might well be able to put us on the right track. There aren't that many treatment centres, we should be able to make some progress - but I still don't accept your conspiracy theory, Mattie. It's still all much more likely to be circumstance and coincidence.'
You cynical bastard, what do I have to do to convince you?'
'Come here and show me a little more of that feminine intuition of yours,' he growled.
At almost exactly the same time in the private booth of a fashionable and overpriced restaurant in the West End of London, Landless and Urquhart were also locked together, in an embrace of an entirely mercenary kind.
Interesting times, Frankie, interesting times,' mused Landless.
In China, I believe, it is a curse to live in interesting times.'
I'm sure Collingridge agrees!' said Landless, bursting into gruff laughter.
He tapped the ash off his thick Havana cigar and savoured the large cognac before returning to his guest.
'Frankie, I invited you here this evening to ask just one question. I shan't beat around the bush, and I shall thank you to be absolutely blunt with me. Are you going to stand for the leadership?' He glared directly at Urquhart, trying to intimidate him into total frankness.
'I can't tell yet. The situation is very unclear, and I shall have to wait for the dust to settle a little...'
'OK, Frankie, let me put it this way. Do you want it? Because if you do, old son, I can be very helpful to you.'
Urquhart returned his host's direct stare, looking deep into the protruding, bloodshot eyes.
'I want it very, very much.'
It was the first time he admitted to anyone other than himself his burning desire to hold the reins of 'Prime Ministerial power, yet with Landless, who wore his naked ambition on his sleeve, he felt no embarrassment in the confession.
'That's good. Let's start from there. Let me tell you what the Telegraph will be running tomorrow. It's an analysis piece by our political correspondent, Mattie Storin. Pretty blonde girl with long legs and big blue eyes - d'you know her, Frankie?'
'Yes,' mused Urquhart. 'Only professionally, of course,' he hastened to add as he saw the fleshy lips of his companion preparing a lewd comment. 'Bright, too. I'm interested to discover how she sees things.'
'Says it is an open race for the leadership, that Collingridge's resignation has come so quickly and unexpectedly that no potential successor has got his public case prepared very well. So almost anything could happen.'
'I believe she is right,' nodded Urquhart. 'Which worries me. The whole election process could be over in less than three weeks, and it's the slick, flashy television performers who will gain the best start. The tide is eveiything in winning these contests; if it's with you, it will sweep you home; flowing against you, then no matter how good a swimmer you are, you'll still drown'
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