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6
“DO YOU WANT to hear the bad news?” said Giles as he strode into Griff Haskins’s office and plonked himself down in the seat opposite a man who was lighting his fourth cigarette of the morning.
“Tony Benn’s been found drunk in a brothel?”
“Worse. My sister is heading up the Conservatives’ marginal-seat campaign.”
The veteran Labour agent collapsed in his chair and didn’t speak for some time. “A formidable opponent,” he eventually managed. “And to think I taught her everything she knows. Not least how to fight a marginal seat.”
“It gets worse. She’ll be staying with me in Smith Square for the duration of the campaign.”
“Then throw her out on the street,” said Griff, sounding as if he meant it.
“I can’t. She actually owns the house. I’ve always been her tenant.”
This silenced Griff for a few moments, but he quickly recovered. “Then we’ll have to take advantage of it. If Karin can find out in the morning what she’s up to that day, we’ll always be one move ahead.”
“Nice idea,” said Giles, “except I can’t be sure whose side my wife is on.”
“Then throw her out on the street.”
“I don’t think that would get the women’s vote.”
“Then we’ll have to rely on Markham. Get him to listen in on her phone calls, open her mail if necessary.”
“Markham votes Conservative. Always has.”
“Isn’t there anyone in your house who supports the Labour party?”
“Silvina, my cleaner. But she doesn’t speak very good English, and I’m not sure she has a vote.”
“Then you’ll need to keep your eyes and ears open, because I want to know what your sister is up to every minute of every day. Which constituencies she’s targeting, which leading Tories will be visiting those constituencies, and anything else you can find out.”
“She’ll be equally keen to find out what I’m up to,” said Giles.
“Then we must feed her with false information.”
“She’ll have worked that out by the second day.”
“Possibly, but don’t forget, you have much more experience than her when it comes to fighting elections. She’s going to be on a steep learning curve and relying a lot on my opposite number.”
“Do you know him?”
“John Lacy,” said Griff. “I know him better than my own brother. I’ve played Cain to his Abel for over thirty years.” He stubbed out his cigarette before lighting another one. “I first came across Lacy in 1945, Attlee versus Churchill, and like a Rottweiler he’s been licking his wounds ever since.”
“Then let’s take Clem Attlee as our inspiration, and do what he did to Churchill.”
“This is probably his last election,” said Griff, almost as if he was talking to himself.
“Ours too,” said Giles, “if we lose.”
* * *
“If you’re living in the same house as your brother,” said Lacy, “we must take advantage of it.”
Emma looked across the desk at her chief of staff and felt she was quickly getting to know how his mind worked. Lacy must have been around 5 foot 7 inches and, although he’d never participated in any sport other than baiting the Labour Party, there wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him. A man who considered sleep a luxury he couldn’t afford, didn’t believe in lunch breaks, had never smoked nor drunk, and only deserted the party on Sunday mornings to worship the only being he considered superior to his leader. His thinning gray hair made him look older than he was, and his piercing blue eyes never left you.
“What do you have in mind?” asked Emma.
