When a blonde woman stood up, Sarah knew she knew her, but only when she spoke did Sarah take a closer look and work out where from. Polly Bolton, Terry Shanks’ sister, had cut her hair since Sarah saw her last.
‘I’d like to ask each candidate what they are going to do for victims of crime. Seems to me that you lot are more interested in the criminals than the innocent people who get hurt by them.’
The replies started at the other end of the panel, so Sarah had plenty of time to think about her answer. Jeremy Atkinson covered compensation and counselling. The Liberal wanted more funding for victims’ groups and the Green talked about better lighting and urban planning. Sarah wasn’t left with much to say. She worried that Polly had an awkward supplemental saved up to throw at her. Best, therefore, to head her off before she could land a direct hit.
‘I agree with most of what’s been said, especially about compensation. I know – without going into details – that you and your family have been terribly affected by a serious crime where the perpetrators have not been brought to justice.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Polly interrupted.
‘And that isn’t good enough. I’ll be pursuing the matter with the Chief Constable when we meet tomorrow,’ Sarah said, suffering a rush of blood to the head. She was due to meet the police chief for a photo op, not a pep talk on the murder of Terry Shanks. ‘Please don’t think that I’ve given up your case. But we have to follow the law.’
Polly tried to ask another question. The chair wouldn’t let her. ‘We only have a few minutes left. There are several people with raised hands.’
Instinctively, Sarah looked for Nick, to see how he was reacting to the one tricky encounter of the evening. He had his head turned, so his expression was hard to read. He was looking at Polly.
The debate drifted on for another twenty minutes. Sarah tried to stay focused, but it had already been a long campaign. Constituents often thought that MPs led cushy lives. When voters asked Sarah if she’d ever had to work hard, in a real job, she usually mentioned her two-year spell in the police. The reality was that most police worked set hours, during which there was plenty of downtime, whereas an MP, if she were at all conscientious, had to knock herself out every day. But that story didn’t play with voters. Electoral politics was all about perception, not principle or, God forbid, the reality of being a politician trying to get things done.
The event finished just after nine. The candidates nodded at each other, mumbled acknowledgments that it had been a fair fight. Jeremy looked pleased with himself. He was no Barrett Jones, but he hadn’t slipped up, so the local party would be happy with their man. This time, he might find himself with a seat in the Commons for life.
‘Coming to the Peacock?’ Tony Bax asked.
‘No, thanks. I’m meeting an old friend for a meal. I thought I’d take the rest of the evening off politics.’
‘Good idea. You did very well. Bet you’re glad it’s out of the way.’
‘Thanks.’ Sarah was sorry not to spend time with Tony, who was radical Old Labour personified. She looked around. Winston was smiling, fending off a couple who wanted to press her about traffic calming. There was Polly Bolton. Was she going to come over? Sarah ought to speak to her if she did. But no, Polly wasn’t waiting for Sarah. She was waiting for Nick. Sarah tried to interpret the look that passed between the two of them, but it was hard to make out. All she could see was Nick and Polly leaving the hall together. What the hell was that about?
When, five minutes later, her dinner date hadn’t returned, she joined Tony Bax, who was in conversation with Winston.
‘My friend can’t make it. Guess I can have that drink after all.’
Nick followed Polly out of the hall to the side of the ICC. They stood in the shadows as the last stragglers left.
‘Didn’t know you were so interested in politics,’ Polly said.
‘I’m not. I had an hour to kill, thought I’d come along, that’s all.’
‘You wanted a look at that Sarah Bone I keep slagging off.’
‘Something like that, yeah.’
‘Did you call me first, see if I was in, or I was coming?’
‘No. Thing is, I’m meant to be meeting someone.’
‘Who? A woman?’
‘An old friend.’ Nick was never comfortable telling a direct lie.
‘The kids are at Shell’s for another hour. If you gave me a lift, you could come back wi’ me.’ She was offering him another farewell fuck.
‘I’m not in the car tonight.’ Nick wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to speak to Sarah while she was standing by Tony Bax. But he didn’t want Sarah to think he’d deserted her. Had she seen him in the audience? Probably. There was something else. The last time he was at Polly’s, before she’d finished with him, he’d meant to tell her that Ed Clark was working for his brother. Polly would want to avoid getting her taxis from Cane Cars. Now was the time.
‘Before you go . . .’
Nick stepped further back into the shadows. Polly misinterpreted.
‘Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking? You dirty sod.’
‘No, I . . .’ Nick paused, because he could see that the idea turned her on. And at another time, it would turn him on too, a knee-trembler down the side of a building, only yards from a busy road. Polly pushed him back towards the wall.
‘You’ve never had better, have you? All right then. One last time.’
She was right. He wanted raw, real Polly rather than the packaged, permed New Labour edition of Sarah he’d seen tonight, the Sarah he could see walking out of the ICC, accompanied by Tony Bax and a small black bloke. Sarah glanced in his direction. For a moment, Nick thought she’d noticed him. Polly stared daggers at her.
‘I’ll get her good, one of these days.’
‘You already got her,’ Nick said.
‘What do you mean?’
Nick didn’t explain. He knew what he wanted. It was over in two minutes. When he’d zipped himself back up, she ruffled his hair. ‘Gotta run. I like fighting with you. The sex is better.’
He’d still not told her about Ed Clark. Maybe Ed would fail his city council test, and the problem would go away. Nick walked down Mansfield Road. He glanced through the window into the snug at the Peacock. Sarah was drinking red wine, smiling politely, not having fun. Nick could go in, take her out, and tell her about his sentence before she got it from Tony, or anybody else. But he didn’t. He turned around and walked hurriedly, building up a sweat as he cut through back streets, heading for his flat on Alfreton Road. When he got in, he left a message on her answering machine, apologising.
‘I met somebody who needed my help,’ he said, cryptically. ‘Sorry. You did well tonight. Catch you soon.’
It was only after four drinks that Sarah worked out a way to ask Tony Bax the question. Her constituency chairman had praised the fluency of her performance and done his best to persuade Sarah that all was not lost. A stream of party members and well-wishers stopped at Sarah’s table, congratulating her, urging her on. It was good for morale, but by ten to eleven, Sarah and Tony had run out of conversation. He walked her to the taxi rank outside the Victoria Centre. This was her last chance.
‘I thought I saw someone I used to know in the ICC, a guy called Nick Cane. Have you come across him?’
‘Nick, yes. Lovely guy. Very active in the party in the late eighties. Were you at university with him?’
‘That’s right.’ Sarah stopped herself saying more. ‘We were friends. I thought he might come over afterwards.’