The minister stared down at the table. It was some time before he raised his head. ‘It all happened years ago,’ he began. ‘So long ago, in fact, that until recently I’d almost been able to forget it ever took place.’
Armstrong remained silent as he topped up his guest’s wine glass once again.
‘It was soon after I’d been elected to the Bradford city council.’ He took another sip of wine. ‘I met the housing manager’s secretary.’
‘Were you married to Jenny at the time?’ asked Armstrong.
‘No, Jenny and I met a couple of years later, just before I was selected for Bradford West.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ said Armstrong. ‘Even the Labor Party allows girlfriends before you’re married,’ he added, trying to lighten the tone.
‘Not when they become pregnant,’ said the minister. ‘And when their religion forbids abortion.’
‘I see,’ said Armstrong quietly. He paused. ‘Does Jenny know anything about this?’
‘No, nothing. I’ve never told her, or anyone else for that matter. She’s the daughter of a local doctor — a bloody Tory, so the family never approved of me in the first place. If this ever came out, among other things I’d have to suffer the “I told you so” syndrome.’
‘So is it the girl who’s making things difficult?’
‘No, God bless her, Rahila’s been terrific — although her family regard me with about as much affection as my in-laws. I pay her the full maintenance, of course.’
‘Of course. But if she isn’t causing you any trouble, what’s the problem? No paper would dare to print anything unless she corroborated the story.’
‘I know. But unfortunately her brother had a little too much to drink one night and began shouting his mouth off in the local pub. He didn’t realize there was a freelance journalist at the bar who works as a stringer for the Evening Post. The brother denied everything the following day, but the journalist just won’t stop digging, the bastard. If this story gets out, I’d be left with no choice but to resign. And God knows what that would do to Jenny.’
‘Well, it hasn’t reached that stage yet, Ray, and you can be sure of one thing: you’ll never see it referred to in any paper I own. On that you have my word. The moment you leave I’ll call Sharpe and make it clear where I stand on this. You won’t be contacted again, at least not on this subject.’
‘Thank you,’ said Atkins. ‘That’s a great relief. Now all I have to pray is that the journalist doesn’t take it anywhere else.’
‘What’s his name?’ asked Armstrong.
‘John Cummins.’
Armstrong scribbled the name down on a pad by his side. ‘I’ll see that Mr. Cummins is offered a job on one of my papers in the north, somewhere not too near Bradford. That should dampen his ardor.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ said the minister.
‘I’m sure you’ll find a way,’ said Armstrong as he rose from his place, not bothering to offer his guest a coffee. He accompanied Atkins out of the dining room. The minister’s nervousness had been replaced by the voluble self-assurance more usually associated with politicians. As they passed through Armstrong’s office, he noticed that the bookshelf contained a full set of Wisden. ‘I didn’t know you were a cricket fan, Dick,’ he said.
‘Oh yes,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’ve loved the game from an early age.’
‘Which county do you support?’ asked Atkins.
‘Oxford,’ replied Armstrong as they reached the lift.
Atkins said nothing. He shook his host warmly by the hand. ‘Thank you again, Dick. Thank you so much.’
The moment the lift doors had slid closed, Armstrong returned to his office. ‘I want to see Don Sharpe immediately,’ he shouted as he passed Pamela’s desk.
The editor of the Evening Post appeared in the proprietor’s office a few minutes later, clutching a thick file. He waited for Armstrong to finish a phone conversation in a language he didn’t recognize.
‘You asked to see me,’ he said once Armstrong had put the phone down.
‘Yes. I’ve just had Ray Atkins to lunch. He says the Post has been harassing him. Some story that you’ve been following up.’
‘Yes, I have had someone working on a story. In fact we’ve been trying to get in touch with Atkins for days. We think the minister may have fathered a love child some years ago, a boy called Vengi.’
‘But this all took place before he was married.’
‘That’s true,’ said the editor. ‘But...’
‘So I can hardly see how it could be described as in the public interest.’
Don Sharpe appeared somewhat surprised by the proprietor’s unusual sensitivity on the matter — but then, he was also aware that the MMC’s decision on the Citizen was due to be made within the next few weeks.
‘Would you agree or not?’ asked Armstrong.
‘In normal circumstances I would,’ replied Sharpe. ‘But in this case the woman in question has lost her job with the council, been abandoned by her family, and is surviving — just — in a one-bedroom flat in the minister’s constituency. He, on the other hand, is being driven around in a Jaguar and has a second home in the south of France.’
‘But he pays her full maintenance.’
‘Not always on time,’ said the editor. ‘And it could be regarded as being in the public’s interest that when he was an under-secretary of state in the Social Services Department, he was responsible for piloting the single-parent allowance through its committee stage on the floor of the House.’
‘That’s irrelevant, and you know it.’
‘There’s another factor that might interest our readers.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘She’s a Moslem. Having given birth to a child out of wedlock, she can never hope to marry. They’re a little stricter on these matters than the Church of England.’ The editor removed a photograph from his file and placed it on Armstrong’s desk. Armstrong glanced at the picture of an attractive Asian mother with her arms around a little boy. The child’s resemblance to his father would have been hard to deny.
Armstrong looked back up at Sharpe. ‘How did you know I was going to want to discuss this with you?’
‘I assumed you hadn’t canceled our lunch because you wanted to chat with Ray Atkins about Bradford City’s chances of being relegated this season.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic with me,’ snapped Armstrong. ‘You’ll drop this whole inquiry, and you’ll drop it immediately. If I ever see even a hint of this story in any one of my papers, you needn’t bother to report to work the next morning.’
‘But...’ said the editor.
‘And while you’re at it, you can leave that file on my desk.’
‘I can what?’
Armstrong continued to glower at him until he meekly placed the heavy file on the desk. He turned and left without another word.
Armstrong cursed. If he sacked Sharpe now, the first thing he would do would be to walk across the road and give the story to the Globe. He had made a decision that was likely to cost him a great deal of money either way. He picked up the phone. ‘Pamela, get me Mr. Atkins at the Department of Trade and Industry.’
Atkins came on the line a few moments later. ‘Is this a public line?’ asked Armstrong, aware that civil servants often listened in on conversations in case their ministers made commitments that they would then have to follow up.
‘No, you’ve come through on my private line,’ Atkins assured him.
‘I have spoken to the editor in question,’ said Armstrong, ‘and I can assure you that Mr. Cummins won’t be bothering you again. I also warned him that if I see any reference to this incident in any one of my papers, he can start looking for another job.’