Farmer waved him on, like a traffic cop. ‘Go on, then. Do your stuff.’ He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, revealing large sweat stains round his armpits.
Sam looked at Pippa, who was smiling. He leaned forward. ‘Eh, okay, well. There’s a lot of people, not unlike me, really, who just want to get on with their lives. They’ve either fled tyranny or their parents struggled to get here so they can make something of themselves. None of us in this country have anything to gain by fighting with each other. We all want peace and quiet and prosperity.’
Farmer clapped. ‘Love it. More!’
Sam felt like a performing seal but he didn’t care: he had their attention and that made a welcome change. ‘Peace and prosperity only thrive where there’s the rule of law. As a criminologist, I know all about what happens when there’s no security. This party is right to support the police. Their job is very difficult and, yes, mistakes get made, but what’s the alternative?’
Farmer turned to Pippa. ‘I think our friend here has just talked himself into a job.’ He returned to Sam. ‘Got any skeletons?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Sex, drugs, rock and roll, anything the tabloids could stick you for?’
Was Karza a skeleton? If so, he wasn’t about to let on.
‘Married? Girlfriend — or boyfriend?’
‘None of the above — currently.’
‘Well, if you do snare one make sure it’s a she and, if possible, one of your lot. Some of our backwoodsmen cut up rough when they see their English roses being plucked by brown fingers. Sorry.’
Pippa gave Sam an apologetic look while Farmer ploughed on. ‘How’d you like to be on telly tonight?’
‘Sure.’
‘He actually has some media experience,’ said Pippa.
‘Fuck me — then he’s perfect. Channel 4 News are doing a hatchet job on us. We could put you up — surprise the shit out of them.’ Farmer seemed thrilled at the prospect.
Emboldened by their attention, Sam felt a surge of confidence. ‘I’ll need a briefing.’
‘Good man. Play your cards right, we might even parachute you into a safe seat.’ Farmer scooped up his papers and winked at Pippa. ‘Do the necessaries, Princess.’ He offered Sam a warm, sweaty hand. ‘See you in Makeup. Jon Snow’s gonna love you.’
21
The smell of Hugh Buckingham’s club was a rich mixture of floor polish, port and old leather.
‘Excuse me, sir, if you would be so good…’ The ancient porter tottered into Tom’s path and raised a gnarled claw to his neck.
‘Oh — of course.’ Tom reached into his pocket and drew out the tie his mother had reminded him to bring. The porter sighed quietly, and glanced apologetically at the portrait of Wellington. But the First Duke’s attention was still focused on Waterloo.
‘Mr Buckingham’s waiting for you in the library, sir.’ The old man gestured jerkily, as if his arm was controlled by wires from above.
‘Thanks.’
As Tom went towards the huge double doors, he remembered his first lunch there with his father, just as he was signing up. It had been a difficult one. Put up to it by Mary, Tom’s mother, Hugh had been tasked to make one last-ditch attempt to deter him. Neither of them understood Tom’s military ambitions and were convinced it was all down to his wilfully rebellious spirit. His father’s pleas had fallen on deaf ears.
‘My dear boy!’
Several of the other readers jumped as Hugh Buckingham pierced the silence. He threw down his Telegraph and leaped out of his chair with an energy that belied his sixty-eight years. He was tanned and bright-eyed, with strong arms that clasped Tom in a brief but impressively firm hug.
‘Hey, Dad.’ It was months since he had seen his father. He had lost even more weight, having late in life discovered the joys of serious exercise. ‘Just looking at you makes me feel exhausted.’
Hugh clasped his waist.
‘Thirty-four and counting — inches not years, of course. And keeping the Alzheimer’s at bay.’ He grabbed Tom’s arm and spun him round, as if he was a clockwork toy. ‘Come on, I’m famished.’ He marched him towards the dining room, where a table for two was waiting by the window. ‘Bloody good to see you.’
Behind the bonhomie, Tom detected his father’s anxious glances. Over the years, Hugh had seen him return from tours thin and bearded, bruised and battered, but always exhilarated by the job that was his life. But Tom knew he could count on Hugh to keep his observations to himself. Tom would discuss what had happened in his own time, if he chose to; there wasn’t going to be any third degree.
‘They’ve got rack of lamb on today — seem to remember it’s one of your favourites.’
‘Why are you staying up in town?’
‘Board meetings. Very bored.’ Hugh chuckled. ‘The old firm’s in the throes of a takeover.’ The city company he had served for three decades had persuaded him to come back as a non-executive director.
The wine waiter glided towards them. ‘Something to start, gentlemen?’
‘How about kicking off with a couple of glasses of your house champagne?’
‘We’re not celebrating anything, are we?’
‘Well, we won’t let that get in the way of a glass of fizzy pop!’
Behind his excitement at seeing Tom, Hugh seemed sheepish.
‘You’re so transparent, Dad. You would’ve made a terrible spy.’
A waitress passed them in the sort of black and white uniform no one wore any more.
‘So what’s it to be?’
‘Yeah, I’ll go with the lamb.’
Hugh waved the menu to flag down the waitress, like a ground-crew member directing a jumbo jet. Tom recalled being embarrassed by the expansiveness of his movements when he was a boy. Now his enthusiasm felt life-affirming and rather welcome.
‘Two lambs.’ Hugh winked at Tom. ‘And leave some space for jam roly-poly — bet you don’t get that in Afghanistan.’
As the waitress retreated, she gave Tom an appreciative look, which Hugh noticed. He leaned across. ‘Always good to see my DNA getting the attention it deserves.’ Tom gave his father a withering look.
The champagne arrived. They raised their glasses and drank.
‘Ah, that’s better.’ Hugh’s fitness regime had done nothing to dull his appreciation of alcohol.
‘Bit of a mess you’ve come back to. What’s your take on it all?’
‘I’m still catching up.’
Hugh furrowed his brow so it resembled rough terrain. ‘Some would say — indeed, are saying — that it’s the inevitable consequence of open borders.’ He gestured at the other diners, all older than himself. ‘That’s the prevailing view of many of us wrinklies. And these people coming and going from Syria, that’s another bee in their bonnet. Frankly, I think that aspect’s been blown out of proportion.’
Tom knew he could count on his father not to swim with the tide. In fact, he made a habit of taking the contrary view, something that had brought a good many dinner parties to a premature halt, requiring Mary’s anxious apologies to smooth things over. It occurred to Tom, perhaps for the first time, that it was one way in which they were alike.
‘What do they think in here, the powers that be?’
Hugh looked round. ‘Well, Chatham House rules, of course, so one can’t pass anything on. But there were very strong words on the subject in here last night. A chap who’s quite high up in the civil service hinted that the government’s terrified. They daren’t do anything drastic for fear of alienating parts of the electorate. And public confidence in the cabinet is ebbing away, never mind in Parliament itself. So the MoD and the police have been meeting privately to lay out emergency measures — even talking about putting your lot on the streets, if things don’t die down. The PM’s buggered off to the States, you know, and that woman Garvey’s been left holding the fort.’