He pressed the rewind button and was watching the twin reels spin round when the telephone rang, summoning him to the Prime Minister for yet another 'plumbing lesson', as he called it.
'Never mind, you'll wait,' he whispered, and relocked both boxes before concealing them in the back of his wardrobe. He was reliving the explosion of excitement he had felt when he had set his first rabbit trap on his father's estate with the help of the gillie. They had gone out into the warm evening air to lay the trap together, but Urquhart could not contain his impatience and had returned alone before dawn the following morning, to find the creature swinging helplessly from the snare.
'Got you!' he exclaimed in triumph.
It was not just the Telegraph which, the day after the Prime Minister's speech, declared it to be a disaster. It was joined in varying degrees by all the other newspapers, several Government backbenchers, and the Leader of the Opposition. Particularly the Leader of the Opposition, whose animated braying appeared for all the world like a hound which had just scented the first sign of real vulnerability in its prey.
The loss of the Dorset East by-election, when the news had burst on the conference in the early hours of Friday morning, had at first numbed the party faithful. It had taken them until breakfast time before they began to vent their frustration and disillusionment, and there had been only one target - Henry Collingridge.
Correspondents in Bournemouth seemed to have been inundated with nameless senior Party officials, each of whom claimed personally to have warned the Prime Minister not to hold the by-election in conference week and who were now absolving themselves of responsibility for the disastrous defeat. In turn, the Prime Minister's office retaliated - unattributably, of course - that the blame was really in the organisational deficiencies of the party headquarters for which, of course. Lord Williams was responsible. The explanation, however, fell on deaf ears. The pack instinct had taken hold of the press as well as the Leader of the Opposition, as the scarcely restrained phrases of one normally pro-Government newspaper indicated.
The Prime Minister yesterday failed to quell growing doubts being expressed within his Party about his leadership with a closing speech to his party conference in Bournemouth which one Cabinet colleague described as 'inept and inappropriate'. Following this week's leaking of disastrous internal opinion polls and the humiliating by-election defeat in one of the Party's safest seats, conference representatives were looking for a realistic acknowledgement of the problems which have caused the collapse of voter support for the Government.
Instead, in the words of one representative, 'we got a stale rehash of an old election speech'.
The open disenchantment with the Prime Minister is no longer being voiced with traditional caution within Government circles, particularly amongst anxious backbenchers with marginal seats. Peter Bearstead, MP for Leicester North, said last night: The electorate gave us a warning slap across the knuckles at the election, and we should be responding with fresh initiatives and a much clearer statement of our policies. But all we got was more of the same, cliches and suffocating complacency. It may be time for the Prime Minister to think about handing over.'
In an office tower on the South Bank of the Thames, near the spot where Wat Tyler 600 years before had gathered disenchanted rebels to launch his attempt at overthrowing the Establishment, the editor of Weekend Watch, the leading current affairs programme, studied the newspapers and called a hurried conference of all his staff. Twenty minutes later, the programme planned for the following day on racketeering landlords had been shelved and the entire sixty-minute slot had been recast. Bearstead was going to be invited to participate, as were several opinion pollsters and pundits, in a new programme entitled 'Collingridge - Time To Go?' From his home in the leafy suburbs near Epsom, the senior manager of market makers Barclays de Zoete Wedd telephoned two colleagues. They agreed to be in the office very early on Monday. 'All this political nonsense is going to upset the markets, and we mustn't be caught holding on to stock when every other bastard is selling.'
The Chief Whip, at his magnificent Palladian country home in the New Forest of Hampshire, received several calls from worried Cabinet colleagues and senior backbenchers, none wishing to make a break from cover but all of them expressing concern. The chairman of the Party's grass-roots executive committee also called him from Yorkshire reporting similar worries. ‘I would normally pass these on to the Party Chairman,' the bluff Yorkshire-man explained, 'but with relations between Downing Street and party headquarters so poor, I just don't want to get caught in the middle of that particular battle.'
The defeated candidate in Thursday's by-election was contacted by the Mail on Sunday just after a lunch spent drowning his sorrows, and showed no reticence in his broadside against Collingridge. He cost me my seat. Can he feel safe in his?'
At Chequers, the Prime Minister's official country residence set amidst rolling lawns and massive security in rural Buckinghamshire, Collingridge just sat, ignoring his official papers and devoid of inspiration. The rock had begun to roll down hill, and he had no idea how to stop it.
When it hit later that afternoon, the news caught almost everyone by surprise. Even Urquhart. He had expected the Observer to take at least a couple more weeks checking the bundle of papers and photostats he had sent them and obtaining their lawyers' clearance. Clearly, however, they had felt pressured by the growing political clamour and feared that a competitor might also be on the trail. 'Damned if we don't publish, damned if we do. So let's go!' the editor had shouted at his investigative reporters.
Urquhart was adjusting the triple carburettors on his 1933 Rover Speed Pilot, which he kept for touring around the lanes of the New Forest, when Miranda called from inside the house.
'Francis! Chequers on the phone!' He picked up the extension on the garage wall, wiping his hands carefully on a greasy rag.
'Urquhart here.'
'Chief Whip, please hold on. I have the Prime Minister for you,' a female voice instructed.
The voice which now came on the end of the phone was almost unrecognisable. It had no more vitality than a voice from the grave.
'Francis, I am afraid I have some bad news. The Observer have just called up the Downing Street press office to let us know of a story they will be running tomorrow. I can't explain it all, but apparently my brother Charles has been buying shares in companies just before they benefit from Government decisions, and making a killing on them. They say they've got documentary evidence - bank statements, brokers' receipts, the lot. He bought nearly £50,000 worth of Renox, they say, a couple of days before we are supposed to have approved a new drug of theirs for general use, and sold them a day later for a substantial profit They say he used a false address in Paddington. It's going to be the lead story.'
There was an exhausted pause, as if he no longer had the energy to continue. 'Francis, everyone's going to assume I'm involved with this. What on earth do I do?'
Urquhart settled himself comfortably in the front seat of the car before replying. It was a seat from which he was used to taking risks and making split-second decisions.
Have you said anything to the Observer’'
'No. I don't think they were expecting a comment from me. They were really trying to find Charlie.'
'Where is he?'
'Gone to ground, I hope. I managed to get hold of him. He... was drunk. I just told him to take the phone off the hook and not to answer the door.'
Urquhart gripped the steering wheel, staring ahead. He felt strangely detached. He realised for the first time that he had set in motion a machine which was far more powerful than his ability to control it. He had manipulated, analysed and considered, but in spite of weeks of planning he knew that events were no longer under his command. He imagined that he was speeding down a country lane, the Rover ready to respond to his every command as he slammed it through its four gears and accelerated around the curve of the road, knowing now that he was lost in the exhilaration of its speed. He thrilled to its performance and the scent of danger in his nostrils, pressing ever more firmly down on the accelerator, oblivious of what lay around the next blind corner. It was already too late for second thoughts. It was instinct, not intellect, which would take over now.
'Where is he?'
'At home in London.'
Yes, I know it. You must get someone down there to take care of him. Look, I know it must be painful as he's your brother, but there's a drying-out clime outside Dover which the Whips Office has used for the occasional backbencher. Very confidential, very kind. Dr Christian, the head of the clinic, is excellent. I'll give him a call and get him to Charles immediately. You must arrange for someone else from the family to be there, too, in case your brother proves to be difficult. Your wife, Sarah, perhaps? I will find someone from the Whips Office to get there and keep a careful eye on it all. But we must move fast, because in four hours' time when the Observer hits the streets your brother's home is going to be besieged by journalists. We have to beat them to the punch. With Charles in his present state there is no knowing what he might say or do.'
'But what do we do then? I can't hide Charlie for ever. He's got to face up to it sooner or later, hasn't he?'
'Is he guilty?'
‘I simply don't know,' the words said, but the tone conceded doubt and probable defeat 'The office checked after they got the phone call. Apparently we did license a new Renox drug a couple of months ago, and their shares jumped sharply. Anyone holding any of their shares would have made a handsome profit. But Charlie hasn't got any money to splash around on shares. And how would he know about Renox?'
Urquhart came back in a tone which did not imply any argument. 'Let's worry about that when we have taken care of him. He must be put away somewhere quiet, somewhere the press can't get to him. He needs help, whether he wants it or not, and you must get some breathing space. You must be very careful how you decide to respond.'
There was a short pause for the words to sink in. 'You cannot afford to get this one wrong.'
Collingridge's wearied assent was mumbled down the phone. His Chief Whip's sudden authoritativeness had stripped away piece by piece both his family pride and the dignity of his office. He had neither the will nor the capacity to argue. He looked through the leaded windows across the fields surrounding Chequers to an ancient beech wood. He tried to draw strength and confidence from the magnificent trees glowing golden in the evening sunshine of autumn. They had always been an inspiration to him, a constant reminder that all problems eventually pass, yet this evening, no matter how he tried, they left him feeling empty and hollow.
'What else do I do?'
'Nothing. Let us see precisely what the Observer says, then we shall have a better idea. In the meantime, instruct your press office to say nothing while we sort out your brother.'
Thank you, Francis. May I call you later when we see what they print? In the meantime, I would be grateful if you would contact Dr Christian. Sarah will be at my brother's home in just under two hours if she leaves right now. I'll instruct her immediately.'
Collingridge had adopted a formal tone in an attempt to stifle the tension inside him, but Urquhart could hear the emotion trembling in his voice.
‘Don't worry, Henry. Everything will work out. Trust me.'
Charles Collingridge did not object when his sister-in-law let herself into the flat with the spare key. In fact, he was snoring soundly in an armchair, the clutter of an afternoon's heavy indulgence spread around him. He only began to object when Sarah had spent five frustrating minutes trying to shake him awake, and had resorted to ice wrapped in a tea towel. His objections became more vigorous when he began to understand what Sarah was saying, persuading him to 'come away for a few days', but the dialogue became totally incoherent when she began to question him about shares. She could get no sense out of him, and neither could she persuade him to move.
It took the arrival of Dr Christian and a Junior Whip almost an hour later before the situation progressed any further. An overnight bag was rapidly packed, and the three of them bundled the still-protesting brother into the back of Dr Christian's car, which was parked out of sight at the back of the building. Fortunately for them, he had lost the physical coordination to take his objections further.
Unfortunately, however, the whole matter had taken some considerable time, so that when the doctor's Granada swept out from behind the building into the High Street with Sarah and Charles in the back, the whole scene was witnessed by an ITN camera crew, the first to arrive on the scene.