‘None at all.’
‘All this free time isn’t giving the devil work for idle hands?’
At least he hadn’t asked the awkward question he’d asked in their first few meetings: Keeping off the wacky baccy? Smoking it wasn’t the same as growing it. According to Dave, Probation Services assessed Nick’s biggest risk factor as a return to some kind of drug dealing.
‘My sister-in-law just had a baby. I’ve been round there a lot.’
‘Good to hear. Have you thought about doing some voluntary work? It’s a good way of getting recent references for a job you like. In the long run, with someone of your experience and intelligence, it could lead to a full-time job. Drug counselling, for instance.’
‘That’s a thought,’ Nick said.
‘I’ll give you some leaflets. Think it over. That’s it, then. Another couple of weeks and you’ll be down to once-a-fortnight interviews.’
After that it would be once a month, until Nick reached what would have been the three-quarters point in his sentence: six years. Beyond that, he would no longer be on license. He could still be recalled to prison if he was convicted of another crime – but only if a punitive judge decided to embellish his sentence with the unused time from his previous sentence. It would be two and a half years before Nick was completely clear. Even then, as he’d served more than five years, the law said that he would always have to declare his conviction on application forms, no matter how inconsequential the job.
‘Anything I can help you with? Courses, references, whatever . . .’
‘No, I’m fine.’
Despite the missed appointment, Nick’s interview had taken less than ten minutes, as usual. He walked back through the city, thinking about the love of a good woman. He’d nearly had that with Sarah. Deep down, though, he’d always known Sarah was too good for him, even in the days when they were living together. Maybe that was why he’d not fought harder to keep her when she joined the police.
He bought a first edition of the Evening Post from a paper stand by the Council House. LOCAL MP JOINS GOVERNMENT the headline said, with the story that Nick had heard on the early morning news. Sarah Bone, after her surprise re-election, was joining the home office as a junior minister. For prisons.
38
‘So he took it well, you dumping him?’
‘I didn’t give him much choice. Nick’s still on probation. He’s liable to be recalled if he commits another crime, no matter how minor. I’ve already got him out of hot water once.’
‘What for?’
‘The police were threatening to do him for perverting the course of justice, pretending to be his brother when he drove a cab. Not serious, but enough to put him back inside if they prosecuted. I care about Nick, a lot. But I couldn’t turn down the job. Think I was too hard on him?’
‘No. If you’d known what he’d done, you wouldn’t have started things up with him again.’
It wasn’t as simple as that, but Sarah wasn’t going to show Andrew how guilty she felt. It was a relief to find somebody she could talk this over with, someone who knew Nick nearly as well as she did. They had both dumped him. That was how friendship worked when you were older – you stuck with someone while you could be of use to each other, then let go when the wind changed. Maybe it had always worked that way.
‘If I’d known . . .’ She shook her head and looked around her. ‘I still can’t believe I’m back here.’
They were drinking tea on the wide terrace of the House of Commons. New MPs were avidly admiring the view over the river. They looked like teenagers dazed on ecstasy. All had just heard their leader tell them they were here ‘not to enjoy the trappings of power but to do a job and uphold the highest standards in public life’. There were so many Labour MPs that there was no room big enough to hold them in the Palace of Westminster. They’d had to go down the road to Church House to listen to the sermon.
‘It’s an exciting time,’ Andrew said.
Sarah described the meeting the previous day, when the fledgling Home Secretary had outlined her new duties. Then she tried to engage Andrew in conversation about the independence of the Bank of England. She quickly gathered that Andrew had no interest in politics, not even fiscal policy, except where it affected how much tax he paid on his profits from property development.
‘How does it feel to be one of Blair’s babes?’ he asked.
‘I’m hardly a babe,’ Sarah said.
‘I think you are,’ Andrew assured her.
Sarah accepted the compliment. There had been a photoshoot that morning with all of the new female MPs. Their wide-eyed optimism reminded Sarah of herself, two years previously. An MP’s job quickly become mundane. Doable, even satisfying at times, but never glamorous. Sarah had missed out by arriving halfway through the government’s term, long after all the committees had been doled out and alliances between new MPs had been forged. The thrill of her by-election victory soon faded. The most exciting part of being an MP was campaigning to get the job. As this election drew closer, she’d helped prepare policies for the near-certainty of power. Her excitement had been dampened by the conviction that she would not be re-elected.
Yet here she was. Was there any feeling better than getting something you’d long since given up on? She couldn’t explain to Andrew how exhilarating this job was, how it made sense of everything she’d done up to this point in her life, how she was living in every moment and couldn’t wait to get out of bed in the morning. She spotted the Prime Minister’s Press Secretary.
‘Would you like me to introduce you to Alastair?’
Sarah watched her guest gladhanding, greasing. It was funny, she reflected, that in all of their conversations, neither she nor Nick had once mentioned Andy . . . she meant Andrew.
Her new office would be ready tomorrow. The Home Secretary had assured Sarah that her concerns about penal reform were shared at cabinet level. Her appointment had created little waves of approval in the liberal press and drew barbed comments about needle exchanges in prisons from The Times and Telegraph. But prisons were low-profile and Sarah was young. She was not being touted as a high-flyer, yet. Even if she did the job well, she couldn’t expect to get into the top team before the next general election. When she was more than likely to lose her seat.
At least the media no longer had her tagged as Jasper March’s totty. Jasper, having lost to a Liberal Democrat, was one of yesterday’s men. He would have to bugger a dozen blokes on Brighton Beach in broad daylight before he saw his name in the tabloids again.
‘So you’ll be spending the next few months slogging round Her Majesty’s high-security hotels, eh?’ Andrew said. ‘Not my idea of fun.’
‘As long as I don’t run into any more old boyfriends,’ Sarah said.
‘Alastair said something about a party for donors at Number Ten.’
‘Are you a donor?’ Sarah asked, surprised. At university, Andrew was always known for being tight with his money.
‘No, but he assumed I was, since you were giving me tea on the terrace. How much would I have to give to get the big invites?’
‘Ten grand is the smallest sum that would get their attention. You’d have to hint it was a down payment while you waited to see if the new government delivers on its promise. But do you like all that rubbing shoulders stuff? I run a mile from fundraising events.’
‘Business is business. Liking’s got nothing to do with it.’