'So he's not running the story, he hasn't got the balls to tell me why, and he's told you to do his dirty work for him!' Mattie spat out her contempt. 'What sort of newspaper are we running, Johnnie?'
She could hear the deputy editor clearing his throat, unable to find suitable words to respond. Krajewski appreciated just how tearingly frustrated Mattie felt, not only with the story but with Preston's decision to use him as a buffer. He wondered if he should have made more of a fight of it on her behalf, but in recent weeks he had become increasingly distracted by Mattie's obvious if unpromoted sexuality and he was no longer certain just how professionally objective he was.
'Sorry, Mattie.'
'And screw you, Johnnie!' was all she was able to hiss down the line before slamming the phone back into its cradle.
She was consumed with anger, not only with Preston and politics but also with herself for being unable to find a more convincing argument to fight her cause or a more coherent way of expressing it.
Ignoring the tart look flashed at her by the conference steward on the next phone, she stalked across the foyer. 'I need a drink’ she explained loudly to herself and everyone else within earshot, and made straight for the bar.
The-steward was just raising the grille over the counter when Mattie arrived and slapped her bag and a five-pound note down on the bar. As she did so she knocked the arm of another patron who was already lined up at the varnished counter and clearly intent on being served with the first drink of the night.
'Sorry’ apologised Mattie huffily, without sounding entirely as if she meant it. The other drinker turned to face her.
‘Young lady, you look as if you need a drink. My doctor tells me there is no such thing as needing a drink, but what does he know? Would you mind if a man old enough to be your father joins you? By the way, the name's Collingridge, Charles Collingridge.'
'So long as we don't talk politics, Mr Collingridge, it will be my pleasure. Allow my editor to buy you a large one!'
The room was spacious, but it had a low ceiling and it was packed with people. The heat from the mass of bodies had combined with the central heating to make the atmosphere distinctly muggy, and many of the guests were quietly cursing the insulation and double glaring which the architects had so carefully installed throughout 'Overtime Alley'. As a consequence the chilled champagne being dispensed by Urquhart's constituency secretary was in great demand, and it was already on its way to being one of his more relaxed conference receptions.
Urquhart, however, was not in a position to circulate and accept his guests' thanks. He was effectively pinned in one comer by the enormous bulk of Benjamin Landless. The newspaper magnate was sweating heavily and he had his jacket off and collar undone, displaying his thick green braces like parachute webbing which were holding up his vast, flowing trousers. Landless refused to take any notice of his discomfort, for his full attention was concentrated on his trapped prey.
'But that's all bloody Horlicks, Frankie, and you know it. I put my whole newspaper chain behind your lot at the last election and I've moved my entire worldwide headquarters to London. I've invested millions in the country. And if you lot don't pull your fingers out, the whole bloody performance is going down the drain at the next election. Those buggers in the Opposition will crucify me if they get in because I've been so good to you, but you lot seem to be falling over yourselves to open the damned door for them.'
He paused to produce a large silk handkerchief from within the folds of his trousers and wipe his brow, while Urquhart goaded him on.
'Surely it's not as bad as that, Ben. All Governments go through sticky patches. We've been through this all before - we'll pull out of it!'
'Horlicks, Horlicks, bloody Horlicks. That's complacent crap, and you know it, Frankie. Haven't you seen your own latest poll? They phoned it through to me earlier this afternoon. You're down another 3 per cent, that's 10 per cent since the election. If you held it today, you'd get thrashed. Bloody annihilated!'
Urquhart relished the thought of the Telegraph headline tomorrow, but could not afford to show it. 'Damn. How on earth did you get hold of that? That will really hurt us at the by-election tomorrow.'
'Don't worry. I've told Preston to pull it. It'll leak, of course, and we'll probably get some flak in Private Eye about a politically inspired cover-up, but it'll be after the by-election and it will save your conference being turned into a bear pit' He sighed deeply. It's more than you bloody deserve,' he said more quietly, and Urquhart knew he meant it.
‘I know the PM will be grateful, Ben,' said Urquhart, feeling sick with disappointment.
'Course he will, but the gratitude of the most unpopular Prime Minister since polls began isn't something you can put in the bank.'
'What do you mean?'
‘Political popularity is cash. While you lot are in, I should be able to get on with my business and do what I do best -make money. That's why I've supported you. But as soon as your popularity begins to fade, the whole thing begins to clam up. The Stock Market sinks. People don't want to invest. Unions get bolshy. I can't look ahead. And it's been happening ever since June. The PM couldn't organise a farting contest in a baked bean factory. His unpopularity is dragging the whole Party down, and my business with it. Unless you do something about it, we're all going to disappear down a bloody great hole.' Do you really feel like that?'
Landless paused, just to let Urquhart know it wasn't the champagne speaking. 'Passionately,' he growled. Then it looks as if we have a problem.' 'You do so long as he goes on like he is.' 'But if he won't change...' Then get rid of him!'
Urquhart raised his eyebrows sharply, but Landless was not to be deflected, life's too short to spend it propping up losers. I haven't spent the last twenty years working my guts out just to watch your boss piss it all away.'
Urquhart found his arm gripped painfully by his guest's huge fingers. There was real strength behind the enormous girth, and Urquhart began to realise how Landless always seemed to get his way. Those he could not dominate with his wealth or commercial muscle he would trap with his physical strength and sharp tongue. Urquhart had always hated being called Frankie, and this was the only man in the world who insisted on using it. But tonight of all nights he did not think he would object. This was one argument he was going to enjoy losing.
'Let me give you one example, in confidence. OK, Frankie?' He pinned Urquhart still tighter in the comer. 'Very shortly I expect that United Newspapers will be up for sale. If it is, I want to buy it. In fact, I've already had some serious discussions with them. But the lawyers are telling me that I already own one newspaper group and that the Government isn't going to allow me to buy another. I said to them, you are telling me that I can't become the biggest newspaper owner in the country, even if I commit all of the titles to supporting the Government!'
Perspiration was slipping freely from his face, but he ignored it. You know what they said, Frankie? It's precisely because ‘I do support the Government that I'm in trouble. If I moved to take over United Newspapers the Opposition would kick up the most godawful stink. No one would have the guts to stand up and defend me. The takeover would be referred to the Monopolies and Mergers Commission where it would get bogged down for months with a herd of expensive lawyers stuck in a bloody committee room, with me having to listen to a bunch of closet queen bureaucrats lecturing me on how to run my own business. And whatever arguments I use, in the end the Government will bow to pressure and refuse to allow the deal to go through, because they haven't got the stomach for a public fight.'
He blew cigar smoke in Urquhart's face.
In other words, Mr Chief Whip, because your Government doesn't have the balls, my company is going to go through the wringer. Because you're buggering up your own business, you're going to bugger up mine as well!'
The point had been forcefully made and the pressure applied. It was not a subtle way to lobby a Minister, but he had always found the direct approach to be far more effective than complicated minuets. Politicians could be bullied like any other men. He paused to refresh himself from his glass, waiting for a reply.
Urquhart framed his response slowly, to emphasise that he too, like Landless, was speaking in earnest.
'That would be a tremendous pity, Ben. You have been a great friend of the Party, and it would be a great shame if we were unable to repay that friendship. I cannot speak for the Prime Minister. In fact, I find myself increasingly unable to speak for him nowadays. But from my point of view, I would do everything I could to support you when you needed it.'
'That's good to know, Frankie. I appreciate it, very much. If only Henry could be so decisive, but I know that's simply not his nature. If it were up to me, he'd be out.'
'But isn't it up to you?'
'Me?'
'You have your newspapers. They are tremendously influential, and you control them. One headline can make news and break politicians. You were saying that the polls show the public's dislike for the PM is undermining the whole Party. It's personal, not political.'
Landless nodded his assent.
‘Let you say you are not going to publish because it will turn the conference into a bear fight. Do you really think you are going to be able to sort this out without one hell of a fight?'
The bullying Landless of a few moments ago had disappeared, to be replaced by a subtle man who understood every nuance of what was being suggested to him.
‘I think I see your point, Frankie. And I think we understand each other.'
‘I think we do.'
They shook hands. Urquhart almost winced as his hand disappeared inside the vice-like grip of Landless. He knew the other's handshake was distinctly ambiguous - an expression of friendship, by all means, but also a promise to crush anyone who reneged on a deal.
'Then I have some work to do, Frankie. The Telegraph first edition is closing in less than thirty minutes and I shall have to make a telephone call.' He grabbed his jacket and draped it over his arm.
'Thanks for the party. It's been most stimulating.'