Broken Hearts

This didn’t feel like the sort of prank Kelly might play. This had an edge, but was it the edge he had peered over in the past? In spite of himself, Marshall was intrigued.

‘You clearly have a lot of time to waste, haven’t you?’ said the woman. ‘I’ve been to London, Dr Marshall, spoken to your old neighbours. They were very helpful, told me about you, your habits–they even showed me photographs, wasn’t that nice? You’re older, of course, but who isn’t? I took the snaps to a specialist–isn’t it amazing what they can do? It turns out that, with computer age progression, you can’t cheat Nature really. You’ve been caught, Dr Graham Marshall. Caught. Your lies and your cleverness–none of it matters. I know it’s you.’ The woman’s breath was getting faster, rushing towards him as the words fell out of her mouth towards his carefully constructed life. She was rustling paper so much that he could hear it. There was no point telling himself that it could all be fake, that she could be rustling today’s Daily Record and some supermarket receipts.

She knew.

So what? he asked himself. He was Dr Graham Marshall and he would not be taken down by some lowlife scheming blackmailing bitch. Not now. ‘I’m sure you think that your points are terribly interesting, Miss,’ he said, ‘but really, it’s rather old news, don’t you think? Now, I’m assuming that this is all about money and that you’d rather have cash, as opposed to a cheque or money into your bank account,’ he laughed quietly, ‘but I do like to keep things civilized–who am I dealing with? What’s your name?’

‘Names only matter to some people,’ she hissed at him. ‘They’re not everything, are they? For some people, they can be changed as easily as a pair of socks; for others I guess they can be the key to their whole world collapsing around them.’

He felt cold. This needed to end. ‘Name your price,’ he said.

‘You’ve earned a fortune over these last years, haven’t you, Dr Marshall? And, in your game, reputation is everything. If you’re so sure that this is about money, why don’t you tell me what you’re willing to offer?’

‘Have you told your…employer what you’ve discovered?’ Marshall asked, playing for time until he felt more confident. His voice was cold and hard. He needed to know who had instructed her to delve into his past. All he heard was a slow clapping start from her end. A steady, irritating sound that only told him she was using a hands-free and that she was getting stronger, more confident as this conversation went on. It was a long time since anyone had treated him with such disrespect.

‘Well done, good question. What’s the answer, do you think?’ she asked. He heard her drumming her fingers impatiently on a hard surface.

His eyes searched all the parked cars, but from what he could tell she was nowhere in sight. Marshall stared unblinking into the distance and shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘The answer, my dear, is…’ He raised his forefinger to his lips. ‘That I suspect you’re too smart to share this tidbit with anyone else. You’re not working for anyone else at all, are you? Let’s just say I still think it’s our little secret.’ The blackmailer was quiet but her silence revealed nothing more to him. ‘One thing does bother me, though…’ He pushed a stray hair out of his eye as he spoke. ‘You seem very confident about all of this. About dealing with me.’ Marshall paused before he said the next words and they formed a question for himself as much as for his would-be blackmailer. ‘Why aren’t you scared?’

The woman seemed to wait forever before laughing into the phone. ‘When you want something so badly, so desperately, you don’t really care about anything else. You don’t feel fear, you don’t feel anything.’

He had no idea what her game was, but was very keen to believe that she was actually just a money-grabbing lowlife. If so, she would presumably have worked out how much would keep her going for life. Well, let her believe it. ‘I think that five hundred thousand would be fair, don’t you?’ he asked, to no reply. ‘I don’t have that kind of money just lying around,’ he continued, hoping that he sounded convincing enough to buy some time. ‘I need a few days to raise it, to liquidate it. How much time do I have?’

‘Once you’ve paid me exactly what I need, I’ll be out of your life. The sooner the better.’

She switched the phone off just before he whispered, ‘But I won’t be out of yours, sweetheart.’

Chapter Five (#ulink_664c3835-0303-5d1e-86f3-04a5352ab317)

A bare tree branch lashed against the kitchen window. The drumming noise made Pauline Pearson even more impatient to see her husband, to hold him, and tell him she was sorry. Very sorry. When he was away, she genuinely did feel guilty about the constant arguing–when he was there, she was more than happy to blame Alan for his fair share of it. But she really did miss him when he’d been on the road for a while and, each time, she would decide to make a renewed effort.

The Edinburgh to Newcastle road was a bugger at any time of the year, and in this weather it was even worse. She hoped a traffic accident wouldn’t make him even later. She peered out into the garden; it was a typical wet, windy November–just the type of night for staying indoors and snuggling up before a roaring fire. The boys were bathed and ready for bed. Pauline had prepared a special meal and romance was on the menu. Hopefully. She smiled. It was a long time since she’d done that–any of it: meals or sex. Even if she said so herself, the smell was delicious. She was supposed to be on a diet but tonight she’d make an exception for him. It was her way of apologizing. Pauline shuddered as she thought of the way she’d treated Alan over the last ten months or so. After all, as her mother had said this afternoon, the credit crunch was affecting everyone, and in Alan’s line of business as a financial consultant specializing in mortgages, it went without saying he would be one of the hardest hit of all.

‘The good times will come again,’ her mother had promised, before warning that this would only happen if she kept her man happy. Pauline blushed, even although there was no one around to see it. Keeping Alan happy in or out of bed had been the last thing on her mind since his income had dropped. It wasn’t just the money. He’d stopped taking care of himself, the pounds had piled on around his waist, and his hair had started to fall out. The doctor said it was stress. Pauline knew that sex would probably relieve the stress he felt, but the simple fact was she just didn’t fancy him any more. Who would? There was no sexual spark now and, unfortunately for their marriage, it was obvious. If only he’d try to get himself sorted out, do some sit-ups, cut back on stuffing his face in front of the telly every night when he was at home. He’d never been God’s gift, but surely it wasn’t hoping for too much to not have her stomach heave when she thought of him touching her? It was hard to know when she had stopped wanting him, but she was determined to do all she could to get things back to normal.

She walked to the window again and pulled back the curtain. Where was he? The boys wanted to kiss him goodnight and Jason had left his Newcastle United teddy in the car. Although he was seven, he slept better when he was cuddling it. Pauline tried Alan’s mobile again. No answer. She poured a glass of wine to calm her nerves. He wasn’t answering his phone because he was driving: he couldn’t risk the automatic points and fine and she didn’t like him using a hands-free kit because it might still affect his concentration. In spite of their recent difficulties, she did love him deep down.

The doorbell rang.

At last. Why wasn’t he using his key? Maybe he’d forgotten it; he was always losing things. She took another sip of wine, deliberately not answering the door, and tried to calm down; she didn’t want to snap at him just as he was coming through the front door. Pauline could feel her irritation rising; his finger was back on the bell and the noise was going right through her. She could feel her romantic mood dissipating.

A blast of cold air hit her in the face as she opened the door.

It wasn’t Alan.

Two police officers stood where he should be; one of them was a woman–that wasn’t a good sign, she thought.

‘Can we come in, Mrs Pearson?’ the female officer asked gently.

‘Well, I’m a bit busy, pet. My husband’s been away on business and I’m expecting him in any minute now,’ she replied. ‘So, no. No. I’m afraid not. No.’ She wanted them to go away. If they had something to say, she didn’t want to hear it.

The woman reached out and took hold of Pauline’s damp, very, very cold hand. Pauline Pearson thought she felt her heart stop.

‘Aye well, it’s Mr Pearson we’d like to talk to you about…can we come in now, pet, do you think?’

Pauline heard herself whispering ‘No’ over and over again as they came in. It made no difference whatsoever.

Chapter Six (#ulink_489ce43a-592f-5db6-aea7-ec8ec45a4ee6)

Lord Edward Hunter took a deep breath as he stepped inside the front door of 10 Downing Street. He had waited for this moment ever since he had first been called to the bar in 1974.

It did not disappoint.

He was still holding his breath as his eyes took in the entrance hall on which many famous feet before his had trodden. This invitation was only the start, he told himself. As he climbed the grand staircase, the portraits of past prime ministers smiled down at him. The lackey had already advised him that the prime minister, Andrew Lairg, was waiting for him in the study. Lord Edward Hunter was excited to see this room, so full of history and promise. Winston Churchill had slept in it and the present PM had restored the tradition of working there. Hunter had long suspected that he still had a bit of the innocent child about him, and he found enjoyment in the fact that he could continue to be impressed by such environments. The fact that he was part of this world often amazed him, and he hoped it would long continue to do so.

‘I’m glad you could make it, Edward.’ Andrew Lairg smiled and held out his hand. The PM’s grip was firm and dry but not painful. ‘I think you’ve met Connor Wilson, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, Connor and I have met,’ Lord Hunter replied. How could he forget the in-depth grilling the prime minister’s right-hand man had given him in the Garrick only two weeks ago? Lord Hunter sat in the seat that Andrew Lairg had motioned towards and stared into the fire which roared in the white marble Adam fireplace. The prime minister sat opposite him whilst Connor Wilson poured the drinks. He didn’t bother to ask how Edward liked his whisky. They knew everything about him–or they thought they did.

Andrew Lairg looked preoccupied. ‘How’s the family?’ he asked his guest.

‘Its just Mary and me now that the children are off to university,’ Hunter replied, hoping that this small talk would not go on for long.

‘Are you both in good spirits?’ the prime minister asked.

‘Fit as fleas.’ Hunter had already been through a thorough medical check and MI5 would already have given Downing Street a copy of the report.

‘Good, good.’ With those words, the gentle, family-man image of the prime minister vanished, and sitting opposite Lord Hunter was the hard-nosed politician who had steered a Labour government through two general election victories in hard times. ‘The party cannot afford another cock-up like the Weatherby scandal. He sat in that chair and bloody lied to me.’ The prime minister’s eyes were cold and hard. ‘When that reporter from The Sun found her…found his bloody wife…’

Lairg went quiet and started brooding again. He didn’t need to finish. Everyone in the country had seen the pictures of Lady Weatherby and her lover. The scandal was not that she had cuckolded her husband, or the fact that her lover was twenty years her junior. It was the fact that the toy boy was an up-and-coming defence lawyer and she had judged a number of his cases whilst she still sat in the High Court. More worryingly he had always won. These cases were now all subject to appeal. Lady Weatherby had held the post of Lord Chancellor of England, the highest judge in the land, and her actions meant the whole legal system was now facing one of its worst crises in living memory.

‘Is there anything, any fuck-up, no matter how tiny it seems to you, in your past, that can come up and bite us on the arse, Edward?’ The PM was known for his language when stressed. ‘When you were a High Court judge, did you ever take a bribe? Did you ever knock up a secretary? Do you have a cocaine habit?’ These questions were not entirely ridiculous–they were specific rumours that had circulated about the last men to call themselves Lord Chancellor. The reason they were still referred to only as rumours was entirely due to the machinations of Connor Wilson.

‘I can wash my dirty laundry in public, Prime Minister.’ Lord Edward Hunter held the prime minister’s eye as he spoke. ‘And I can assure you there will be no bombshells. Although I rather suspect you know all of this already.’

The hush in the Downing Street study was oppressive. The prime minister finally spoke. ‘You’ve been briefed on why you are here, Edward. If I ask you to be Lord Chancellor, will you accept?’

‘Yes, Prime Minister.’ Lord Hunter could not stop the grin that had spread across his face.

‘Good, then we’ll make the press announcement tomorrow. You’ll be a great Lord Chancellor, an honour to us all.’

‘I am your servant, sir,’ he nodded at the prime minister. His response was rather formal but he felt elated–even if he had known that he would be offered this position long before he stepped over the threshold.

The serotonin continued to pump round his body long into the night. He was unable to sleep. Throwing his legs over the side of the bed he felt his toes dig into the deep carpet; he inched them along the floor until he found his slippers. His wife, Mary, always a light sleeper, tossed and turned beside him. He wandered down to the kitchen and made himself a warm, milky cocoa. He rested his fine bone-china mug on the arm of his Chesterfield chair in the library, blew on the drink and then sipped cautiously. In the small hours of the night, he could be honest with himself. It wasn’t only the excitement of his appointment that prevented sleep. When Lord Hunter had told the prime minister that there were no skeletons in his past he was telling the truth.

But there was a secret.

Few people knew about it, and those who did would not speak. Nonetheless, it bothered him that he’d had to hide it from the man who was fulfilling his ultimate ambition.