Cane Cars’ Sherwood waiting room was for drivers and walk-in punters alike. Nick read the Mirror’s sports pages. He’d followed football before he went inside. Since getting out he’d struggled to reconnect with the game. When Joe was playing, Nick often went to see him at Meadow Lane, but these days Joe kept his distance from the club.
‘A’right, kid?’
Nick nodded at the bald-headed driver who’d just walked in.
‘Don’t come in here much, do you?’
Nick avoided the cab office when he didn’t have a reason to be there: he didn’t want the other drivers to connect him to Joe. Only Bob and the switch operators knew. This guy had given him a lift back to Joe’s one night but, as far as Nick knew, had not made the connection between the brothers, even though they looked similar. Maybe he didn’t know Joe. This afternoon, Nick was waiting for Joe to return and give him a lift to the flat-letting agency, where he would collect a set of keys.
‘I’ve seen you, anni? Inside.’
‘Sorry, I don’t recognise you.’
‘I was in wi’ the lifers. Got out on appeal.’
The lifers had their own separate block at Nottingham prison. There’d been no reason for Nick to associate with the men there.
‘Been out long?’
‘A few weeks. Look . . .’
‘Don’t worry,’ the guy interrupted, mouth twisted into a wry smile, ‘I won’t mention it round here. Paid your debt, haven’t you?’
‘S’right.’ It wasn’t as simple as that. Your crimes followed you around. ‘How long did you do, before the appeal?’
‘Five year. Thought I were screwed until I got the local MP on my side.’
‘You must have had a good case, for an MP to take it up.’
‘Not bad. Sarah Bone, she’s called. Knew I had her hooked once she came to see me. Wanted a feel of my bone, she did. Couldn’t wait to get me out and have her wicked way wi’ me.’
Nick winced. Inside, he’d developed a nose for sexual braggadocio. He’d been pretty enough to get advances. Chat-ups were often preceded by sexual boasting. The idea was to demonstrate that the suitor was straight on the out, that whatever the pair of them got up to inside was done out of necessity. It didn’t stop them being men. Nick looked at the shaved head, square jaw, slightly piggy eyes. The driver looked like a bouncer, maybe an ex-soldier. There were lots like him inside, which was why Nick hadn’t recognised him. Sarah wouldn’t touch a guy like Ed in a million years.
‘Still seeing her, are you?’ he asked, keeping the cynicism out of his voice.
‘When the mood takes. Not serious, like.’
Nick had never liked discussing sex with blokes. He’d left that stuff behind as a teenager. Once you started doing it, there was no need to talk about it. This guy was a tosser, yet Nick couldn’t leave it alone.
‘Good looking, is she, this MP?’
Ed grinned, and got a leaflet out of his pocket. There was Sarah, smiling as she shook hands with the leader of the opposition. She wore a trouser suit that did nothing for her, but Nick liked her hair. It looked more natural than in the Sun photo.
‘Nice,’ he said.
‘Goes like a rocket,’ Ed told him. ‘What were you in for?’
‘Drugs. You?’
‘Murder. A policeman, and his wife.’
Nick stiffened. ‘Ed, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye, and you’re Nick. I never forget a face.’
Another driver came in, threw a set of keys at Ed.
‘Ta.’ Ed got up to go, grinned at Nick. ‘See you around.’
Ed was sharing a cab, like him. Nick was about to ask the other driver how he knew him. Then his brother came in, accompanied by Nas.
‘You want to watch out, arriving together,’ Nick told Joe. ‘People talk.’
Nas glared at Nick. Joe gave him one of his more bashful grins. Nick was only joking. Even Joe wouldn’t be mad enough to fool around with a married Pakistani woman. Would he?
‘Want me to help you move?’ his brother asked.
‘That’s the plan. But, before we go, did you see that guy with the shaved head, left as you were arriving?’
‘Ed Clark? Yeah, I know about him. Sharing with Mike Dawes, paying a reduced tariff. You got a problem with him?’
‘I’ll explain in the car.’
All Tuesday, the phone rang. Sarah was so busy fielding calls, she had to miss most of the canvassing, joining Winston at the Elm Park old people’s home at quarter past four.
‘Well?’ He was checking the signatures on postal voting forms.
‘Tories are meeting this evening. Barrett’s nomination papers aren’t in, so they could substitute another candidate.’
‘Pity the Post didn’t hold on to the story for another couple of days.’
‘They’d’ve had trouble with electoral law if they had. As it is, the Tories have to back Jones or sack him. He isn’t denying it, so they can’t claim dirty tricks.’
‘Story must have come from the father,’ Winston said. ‘Angry sod must have waited until the moment of maximum damage before taking his revenge.’
Sarah mirrored his knowing smile. ‘I hope they manage to keep the daughter’s name out of it. Think Jones will do the decent thing?’
‘It’d be the first time.’
Sarah did the round of the old folks. A handful of them seemed to know who she was. Not one mentioned the story in that day’s paper, although it had been out since midday. Maybe the story had no legs. There’d been so many corruption stories, what was one more?
Then, as they were leaving, the paperboy arrived. Of course, no evening papers were delivered until school was over.
‘Better than a dozen leaflets, that,’ Winston said, watching the lad heave a bag full of City Finals into the reception area. ‘We’re in with a chance.’
Sarah closed the door behind her. ‘Here comes trouble,’ she told Winston.
The Merc pulling up outside the home had shaded windows, one of which was half open. This was the first time Sarah had seen her Tory opponent in the constituency. She’d brushed by Barrett a couple of times in the Commons, but they had never spoken, not even to acknowledge that they were about to fight each other. Now there was no avoiding it.
‘Hello, Barrett.’
‘Sarah.’ Her main opponent wore a three-piece suit, with shiny black shoes. His shirt lapels were too wide, but seemed in keeping with the unfashionable sideburns he had chosen as his trademark. Hard to imagine him in a torrid tryst with a fourteen-year-old. Fifty was a long way from thirty-five, she realized. It was the distance between nursery school and university, between Jones and her.
‘You’re wasting your time in there,’ Sarah told him. ‘And the evening papers have just arrived.’
‘Maybe I can beat them to the door,’ Jones said, with a suave, unruffled smile. ‘Get my side of the story in first.’
‘Your side being?’
‘A misunderstanding combined with an exaggeration. Nothing to get excited about. It’ll be forgotten by the weekend.’
Jones tried to get into the building but the door was locked, as such doors always were. While his agent buzzed the manager, the minister stared at the ground. He looked tired, run down. Sarah didn’t feel sorry for him. He had come to her patch, looking for a soft landing. The least he deserved was a good fight.
In politics, your whole life was up for grabs. In 1995, when her Tory predecessor died suddenly, forcing a by-election with no Labour candidate in place, the shortlist for Nottingham West’s Labour candidate was drawn up by a Labour Party national executive subcommittee. Sarah came clean with them. She’d smoked a little dope at university and had once had a brief affair with a married man. These were the only things she could think of that might be used against her. They weren’t enough to disqualify her as a candidate, though if she’d told them who the married man was, the committee might have been more concerned. He was still in the Shadow Cabinet.