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  ‘Do you know how they are appointed?’

  ‘Frankly, no,’ I admitted.

  ‘They’re recommended by the House of Lords Appointments Commission. It has seven members; four are non-political, and one each from the three main parties.’

  ‘That includes the Liberal Democrats, for the moment,’ Paddy Pilmar chipped in, drawing a glance of rebuke from his leader.

  ‘It has come to our attention,’ she went on, ‘that you are being considered by the commission as a potential “people’s peer”, as cross-benchers are sometimes known. We’re wondering whether, if you were nominated and accepted, you would be sympathetic to our cause.’

  ‘If I said that I wouldn’t . . . ?’

  ‘Would we prevent your appointment? I don’t know that we could, but we might well oppose it. If we did, it would come down to a simple vote, and I have no idea how that would go.’

  ‘How much of this does Aileen know?’

  ‘Of the cross-bencher thing?’ Lord Pilmar said. ‘Nothing. Merlin’s office asked her to join Georgia and me in looking for effective new peers. We put your name in the frame straightaway. We were sceptical about whether you’d accept, then we heard about the commission looking at you and we thought there might be mileage in it for us if you came in that way.’

  I stared at him, then at Lady Mercer. ‘Let me be clear about this,’ I murmured, slowly. ‘You two are saying that if I agree to play on your team, behind the scenes, you’ll clear the way for my appointment as a cross-bencher. You’re asking me to accept an independent peerage under false pretences.’

  ‘There would be no obligation, Bob,’ Paddy insisted. ‘We’re just sounding you out here. It needn’t be full time. You could keep your job with the newspaper group. That’s only a day a week, isn’t it? And very lucrative, from what I hear.’

  He had done his homework. ‘You’re sounding me out, but what you’re saying . . .’ I gasped. ‘Man, even if I was so inclined, I couldn’t agree to that without taking advice from a constitutional lawyer. I’d need to be sure of the legality of the proposition. Christ, is this conversation even legal?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ the baroness snapped. ‘If you felt unable to accept our proposing you, we’re asking whether in certain circumstances as a cross-bench peer you would be amenable to supporting our positions and advocating them.’

  ‘And the bit about putting the fear of God in your troops . . . for no mistake that’s what you were saying?’

  ‘That would only apply if you chose to accept the Labour Party’s nomination and take our whip.’

  ‘I see.’ I paused for a second. ‘Who put me forward to the Appointments Commission?’ I asked when I was ready.

  ‘I believe it was Lord Archerfield,’ Lady Mercer replied. ‘He’s one of the non-political four.’

  He was Ronnie Archerfield, to me; a member of my golf club and also of the Burgess in Edinburgh, and of the New Club, to which I had also belonged until I let it lapse. He was a banker in the days when those people were viewed with respect, one of the last Governors of the Bank of Scotland before it lost its independence. He had to be well over seventy; I had no idea that he was still an active peer, or that he held a place on the commission.

  Lord Archerfield barely knew me or anything about me, for our paths crossed only rarely in the club, but I knew one thing about him. He was the father-in-law of Clive Graham, First Minister of Scotland and leader of the Scottish National Party.

  As part of its pursuit of Scottish independence, Clive’s outfit had always declined to nominate members of the House of Lords, even when its representation in the Commons justified it. I got it in an instant; Clive believed that if I was close to anyone politically, it was to him. For sure, he had persuaded his unimpeachable father-in-law to put my name forward with a view to making me his eyes and ears in the place.

  I looked at Baroness Georgia Mercer and realised how politically naive she really was. But Lord Paddy Pilmar was a different animal; he must have made the connection. I knew for sure that the Labour approach had been his idea more than Aileen’s, an attempt to head Clive off at the pass.

  ‘You’re a clever little bugger, Paddy,’ I murmured.

  He smiled and made an open-handed, ‘Who? Me?’ gesture.

  ‘All the same,’ I continued, ‘you should have told Lady Mercer.’

  ‘Told me what?’ she asked.

  ‘The nature of the game, to stop you putting your foot in it. You’re not a politician, my lady. I’ve spent decades around these guys, so I know not to take anything they do or say at face value. I’m worried now that I’ve started to think like one.’

  ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘Paddy will explain,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I will.’ He looked up at me. ‘You might be right about my motives, but you’re wrong about something else. You’ve always been a politician; or thought like one, same difference. You and I used to play each other like fiddles when I was an MP, exchanging information, but always when it suited us, always on our own terms. You’ll be great in this place, all the more so if you’ve got no sworn allegiances. Truth be told, I’d rather have you as a cross-bencher than as a Labour peer. You might do us more good that way.’

  ‘What makes you think I’d want to do you good?’ I countered. ‘Yes, I read your manifesto, and yes, I liked a lot of what was in it, but if I did what you want, what cause would I be advancing now? You said yourself, you don’t have any positive policies.’

  ‘We’ve got one objective, that’s all: to frustrate the Tories. No, two; the other one’s to beat them at the next election.’

  I nodded. ‘Obviously. So let me sum up where we’re at here; you want me, as a cross-bench member of this chamber, to do what’s best for you, rather than for the government or the SNP, rather than what’s best for the people, much of the time.’

  ‘Definitely not the SNP!’ Lady Mercer exclaimed. ‘Those people are hooligans. They’re dangerous, they’re destructive and what they know about economics you could write on the back of that visitor pass you’re wearing around your neck.’

  My Scots hackles rose. ‘With respect, madam,’ I protested, ‘that sounds more than a wee bit xenophobic. The Finance Secretary’s a graduate of my university, first class honours in economics.’

  ‘She’s talking about the crowd in the Commons,’ Paddy said, hastily. ‘You’re maybe being a wee bit harsh, Georgia,’ he told her, trying to repair the damage. ‘There are some good people in there.’

  ‘And most of them were elected in preference to your candidates,’ I added.

  ‘We know that,’ he conceded. ‘Bob, you’re here, talking to us, and I hope listening to us. I don’t expect you to give us an answer now, but will you take time to consider what we’re saying?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ I retorted. ‘I’ve got a lot to consider. Not least whether to square up old Ronnie Archerfield next time I see him in the golf clubhouse. Neither he nor his son-in-law bothered to ask me whether I wanted to be put up for a peerage.’

  ‘Aye, but now you have been . . .’ Paddy’s eyes twinkled. Yes, the little bugger could read me.

  Since I left the police service I have been able to step back and look at myself, to consider what I was and what I am. There is one thing I have to admit. I have always enjoyed having power: not power over individuals, I don’t mean that, rather the power to influence events and to affect their conclusion. The higher I rose in the police, the more power I had, until I reached chief constable rank and found that it was diluted by the need to delegate field control to my deputies and assistants. In the work I’ve done since I left, those private investigative commissions for friends and for my daughter Alex in her legal practice, and in my role as a director of InterMedia, I have exercised power.

  Before I left for London, I had told S
arah that no way was I actually interested in becoming a baron, but with that life behind me, it was inevitable that once I got there and had a sense of what the place was about . . . not only the Lords, but the seat of government . . . that my juices would start to flow.

  Yes, I was attracted by the idea . . . and flattered, let me not deny that. Whatever Clive Graham’s motive had been in having his father-in-law put my name forward, whatever wee Lord Paddy Machiavelli and his lady companion . . . who was not going to last long as leader of her group, that was for sure, for she was a few feet out of her depth . . . suddenly the prospect of being a player in that place, to my great surprise, appealed to me.

  I had to think very carefully about my reply to Lord Pilmar, but eventually I was ready.

  ‘Yes, I will think about what you’ve said. I will think about the whole situation that’s been outlined this morning, but bearing in mind what you’ve said about the policies I might or might not promote, there’s one group of people whose interests come first, and that’s my family. If Sarah approves, if my daughter approves, and if my sons approve . . . all of them, mind . . . then I will consider it.’

  That’s what I would have told him, there and then, if the breezy lady who served the coffee hadn’t intervened to tell me that there was a phone call for me.

  I would have told her to take a message, and pressed on, if she hadn’t added, ‘The caller says her name’s Amanda.’

  Two

  Nobody should have been able to reach me in the middle of that meeting. My mobile was switched off and all my secretary in Edinburgh knew . . . I shared her with the editor of the Saltire . . . was that I would be away for a few days and contactable only by email.

  Nobody would have been able, if I hadn’t had a dinner date for that evening. Even then I wouldn’t have been contactable if it had been with anyone other than my friend Amanda . . . okay, if Sarah had gone into labour, she and Alex had details of my movements, but otherwise I was completely off the radar.

  I’ve known Amanda Dennis since she was a mid-ranking officer in the Security Service, which anyone who watches modern TV drama knows as MI5. Through those years I watched her rise inexorably to the top, forcing her way past barriers of sexism and racism. She wasn’t the first woman to become director general, but she was the first black woman.

  When it became known that I was leaving the police force, the first job offer that came my way was from her. She wanted to beef up the service in Scotland, and she asked me if I would head it. I wasn’t ready for such a role, not on a permanent basis, and so I declined, but told her that any time she really needed my help on one-off situations, she knew where to find me.

  A little while later I had a similar offer from the First Minister of Scotland to do a similar job for him, off the books. I turned that down too, not because I have no interest in the security of what I regard as my nation, but because I’d have been working behind Amanda’s back and potentially in opposition to her, if Westminster and Holyrood ever had a conflict of interest in a security matter.

  She and I have been in some testing situations together; once I was called in to investigate a security breach within MI5. We worked closely on it and I was in on its conclusion, a memory that will live with me for the rest of my days.

  More recently, I worked on another case that led me right inside Thames House and into a confrontation with a man the old boy network had appointed director general over Amanda’s head, when she’d been acting DG. That one ended in a knock-out loss for the fool, his removal, and her long-overdue installation in the top job.

  Every time I visit London, I meet up with Amanda, occasionally in her office, but usually over dinner. Likewise, when she’s in Scotland we see each other. She’s been to my home, and met my family, but I’ve never been to hers. There was a Mr Dennis, but he left the scene years ago. These days she lives alone, and very, very privately, as she must. Bitter experience has taught me that a camera can do more damage than a gun; bullets miss more often than not, but any idiot with a mobile phone and an eye for the main chance can do in your reputation if he catches you in an unguarded moment.

  There has never been anything between the two of us beyond friendship, but we enjoy each other’s company; we were due to meet that evening, in a restaurant of her choice. As I went to take the call, my assumption was that one of her daily crises was forcing her to cancel.

  ‘Hey,’ I said as I picked up the phone, standing at the bar, ‘no worries if you can’t make it; I’ll find a show to fill in the time. My mate’s wife’s in a West End play just now.’

  ‘Dinner may well be off, Bob,’ she retorted, ‘but I need to see you before then. Extricate yourself from your meeting as quickly and as gracefully as you can, and meet me. Please. I can’t say any more.’

  There was a tension in her voice that I’d never heard before. I felt it seize me. I tried to keep it from showing on my face, but instinctively I knew that somewhere close by there was a very large fan, and it had just been hit by a serious quantity of ordure.

  ‘Sure,’ I murmured. ‘It was heading towards natural break time anyway, so that won’t be a problem. Where?’ I asked. ‘Your place?’

  ‘No,’ Amanda said, ‘closer. Go back to the Peers’ Entrance, and I’ll meet you there. But contrive somehow to come alone, I don’t want anyone from where you are to see us together.’

  ‘What about the security guys there?’

  ‘They don’t see anything; that goes with the job.’

  ‘Okay. Give me ten minutes, to let me manage the graceful part.’

  ‘Okay, but no more.’

  As I hung up I realised that she must be very close by. Even the DG goes through palace security and that takes time; she had to be in the building already.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I murmured as I rejoined the two peers of the realm. ‘My secretary panicked. I have a board meeting in Spain next week, and someone sent the papers to me without having them translated.’ That wasn’t a lie, not exactly; it had happened the previous Friday.

  ‘Do you fly over for it?’ Paddy Pilmar asked, buying the yarn.

  ‘Of course.’

  He grinned. ‘Executive jet?’

  I scowled. ‘Six-thirty flight from Edinburgh Airport; I’m met by a driver, but that’s as far as the executive privileges go.’

  I looked across at Lady Mercer. ‘I think we’re done here, don’t you? I will think very carefully about the whole situation before making any decision.’

  ‘How long will you need?’ she asked.

  ‘End of the week?’

  She nodded. ‘That will be fine. Please communicate through Lord Pilmar.’

  I almost ventured, ‘Since we speak the same language?’ but thought better of it. The baroness gave the impression of a woman whose sense-of-humour filter had a very fine mesh.

  ‘One thing, Bob,’ Paddy added. ‘You won’t really say anything to Ronnie Archerfield, will you?’

  ‘Not a word,’ I responded, sincerely. ‘It’s down to him to speak to me.’ I rose to my feet. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ I said.

  Lord Pilmar made to follow, but slowly. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he volunteered.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure you two have to complete my interview scorecard so you can report back. Then you’ll have divisions to divide, marching through corridors, parliamentary stuff like that. Thank you for your offer of consideration. Whether I accept or not, and I’m open minded at this stage, I do appreciate being asked.’

  Without giving them an opportunity to counter, I stepped quickly to the door and out into the corridor.

  Bit of a bugger really, I thought. I’d been looking forward to a more extensive tour of the building and maybe even to testing out one of the dining rooms of which I’d read so much. Of course, I reminded myself, as a member I’ll be a
ble to do that at my leisure.

  It had taken me no more than five minutes to withdraw from my meeting, but when I reached the Peers’ Entrance Amanda was there, waiting for me. That was the moment when I knew for certain that whatever had prompted her to call me was very serious, maybe with another very thrown in.

  The Director General of MI5 was there, in person, waiting for me, a retired cop from Scotland. She could have sent a flunkey to collect me, she could have sent anyone she damn well chose, but she hadn’t. She’d come herself. Friends though we were, in all the times that we’d met professionally, that was most unusual.

  I saw the tension in her eyes as I approached her; she threw me a very brief smile. Was it one of relief? I asked myself, returning it with an involuntary frown. I sniffed, theatrically.

  ‘What?’ she exclaimed, puzzled.

  ‘I thought I’d smell smoke, but I can’t. Where’s the fire?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ she replied. ‘Come on, this way.’

  ‘Hold on,’ I protested. ‘I need to get my coat.’

  ‘Never mind your coat; I’ll send someone to fetch it. Besides, we’re not going outside.’

  ‘Amanda, where the hell are we going? What is this?’

  ‘You’ll find out, soon enough.’

  She marched off at a rate of knots, and I followed, obediently; I had no choice. She led me past the security men, who looked as puzzled as I was, but said and did nothing, then through a doorway that led into yet another corridor. I was getting the hang of the geography of the place by that time and realised that we were heading back towards the Commons, with the Lords chamber somewhere above us and on our right. We continued, until we reached a stairway; we ascended it, passed through a doorway, took a right turn and emerged into the Central Lobby, where I had met Aileen.

  ‘Gimme a clue,’ I said, as we kept on walking, but she didn’t. We were heading straight for the Commons chamber; I could actually see Mr Speaker, in his chair. Remarkably our eyes met; maybe I imagined it, but he looked as puzzled as I felt.