address and number on his old friend’s machine.
The Co-op on Alfreton Road had closed down, leaving Nick to try a minimart on the opposite side of the street. It sold newspapers. Before Nick went away, only newsagents sold newspapers. He saw the Evening Post and was intrigued by the headline. THE MINISTER, THE HOLIDAY AND THE UNDERAGE GIRL. It wasn’t the usual sort of Post headline. Beneath it was a photo of Sarah’s opponent, Barrett Jones, the paunchy minister for whatever was being privatised this week. Alongside was one of Sarah. ‘Distressing if true,’ she was reported as saying.
Nick bought a copy. Barrett Jones was alleged to have had sex with an unnamed fourteen-year-old girl, the daughter of friends he was on holiday with in Southwold. The Minister was thirty-five and between marriages at the time. He now had a daughter aged thirteen and a nine-year-old son with his second wife. The underage girl and her family weren’t named. It seemed the father had made strong protestations when, only a few months after the affair, Jones became an MP.
If she’d been fifteen and looked older, Jones might get away with it. But Jones knew the parents. That made it worse. What kind of man went on holiday with a couple and their kids, unless he had an unhealthy interest in the wife or daughter?
Maybe Sarah had a chance in this election after all. Nick would like to help her. He used to enjoy working on the elections. They’d canvassed together in 1983, even though it was just before her finals and he’d had loads of teacher training work to do. They’d worked hard for the Labour candidate in Nottingham South, Ken Coates, a veteran left-winger whom they admired hugely. The canvas returns were promising. Ken seemed to have a good chance, but lost by several thousand votes. That election campaign, when Labour was nearly overtaken by an alliance between the SDP and the Liberals, was the last time the two of them had been really happy together. It was the last time that Nick had been really happy, full stop.
Winston drove Sarah to the campaign headquarters, a three-bedroom council house on the outer edge of one of the constituency’s better estates. The canvas team were watching East Midlands Today on BBC1. Barrett Jones was the lead item.
‘The MP insists that the story has been hugely exaggerated and will answer the charges at a special meeting of his constituency party tonight.’
‘Like hell he will,’ one of the canvassers said. ‘According to the main news, the girl’s already hired Max Clifford to sell her story to the papers.’
‘Splendid,’ Winston said. ‘Nothing like a tasty tabloid interview to keep the story bubbling away for days.’
The local news report concluded with the chairman of the local Tories.
‘We’ll see what he has to say,’ John Pike told the reporter, tight-faced.
‘Wanted a go at the seat himself,’ Winston said. ‘Maybe he can still get one.’
‘Come on,’ Sarah told the others. ‘Let’s get out on the knocker.’
Much of the canvassing this time was being done on the phone, but voters still liked to know you’d been seen on their street. Tonight, most of the ones who wanted to talk wanted to talk about Jones.
‘I wasn’t going to vote for him anyway, but now I know he’s a kiddy-fiddler, he’d better stay away from our estate,’ said one of the fancy-front-door-to-show-she’d-bought-her-own-council-house brigade.
According to the dossier that Jasper had given to Sarah, when the Conservative party investigated the allegations made by the girl’s father, they discovered that no report had ever been made to the police. The girl, who had been studying for O levels, did not want to make a statement. The father had been warned of the dangers of libel and told that if somebody wanted to nominate him for an OBE for his charity work, the application would be approved. The girl’s name wasn’t in the letter Sarah had given Brian Hicks, but the father’s was.
The Co-op on Alfreton Road had closed down, leaving Nick to try a minimart on the opposite side of the street. It sold newspapers. Before Nick went away, only newsagents sold newspapers. He saw the Evening Post and was intrigued by the headline. THE MINISTER, THE HOLIDAY AND THE UNDERAGE GIRL. It wasn’t the usual sort of Post headline. Beneath it was a photo of Sarah’s opponent, Barrett Jones, the paunchy minister for whatever was being privatised this week. Alongside was one of Sarah. ‘Distressing if true,’ she was reported as saying.
Nick bought a copy. Barrett Jones was alleged to have had sex with an unnamed fourteen-year-old girl, the daughter of friends he was on holiday with in Southwold. The Minister was thirty-five and between marriages at the time. He now had a daughter aged thirteen and a nine-year-old son with his second wife. The underage girl and her family weren’t named. It seemed the father had made strong protestations when, only a few months after the affair, Jones became an MP.
If she’d been fifteen and looked older, Jones might get away with it. But Jones knew the parents. That made it worse. What kind of man went on holiday with a couple and their kids, unless he had an unhealthy interest in the wife or daughter?
Maybe Sarah had a chance in this election after all. Nick would like to help her. He used to enjoy working on the elections. They’d canvassed together in 1983, even though it was just before her finals and he’d had loads of teacher training work to do. They’d worked hard for the Labour candidate in Nottingham South, Ken Coates, a veteran left-winger whom they admired hugely. The canvas returns were promising. Ken seemed to have a good chance, but lost by several thousand votes. That election campaign, when Labour was nearly overtaken by an alliance between the SDP and the Liberals, was the last time the two of them had been really happy together. It was the last time that Nick had been really happy, full stop.
Winston drove Sarah to the campaign headquarters, a three-bedroom council house on the outer edge of one of the constituency’s better estates. The canvas team were watching East Midlands Today on BBC1. Barrett Jones was the lead item.
‘The MP insists that the story has been hugely exaggerated and will answer the charges at a special meeting of his constituency party tonight.’
‘Like hell he will,’ one of the canvassers said. ‘According to the main news, the girl’s already hired Max Clifford to sell her story to the papers.’
‘Splendid,’ Winston said. ‘Nothing like a tasty tabloid interview to keep the story bubbling away for days.’
The local news report concluded with the chairman of the local Tories.
‘We’ll see what he has to say,’ John Pike told the reporter, tight-faced.
‘Wanted a go at the seat himself,’ Winston said. ‘Maybe he can still get one.’
‘Come on,’ Sarah told the others. ‘Let’s get out on the knocker.’
Much of the canvassing this time was being done on the phone, but voters still liked to know you’d been seen on their street. Tonight, most of the ones who wanted to talk wanted to talk about Jones.
‘I wasn’t going to vote for him anyway, but now I know he’s a kiddy-fiddler, he’d better stay away from our estate,’ said one of the fancy-front-door-to-show-she’d-bought-her-own-council-house brigade.
According to the dossier that Jasper had given to Sarah, when the Conservative party investigated the allegations made by the girl’s father, they discovered that no report had ever been made to the police. The girl, who had been studying for O levels, did not want to make a statement. The father had been warned of the dangers of libel and told that if somebody wanted to nominate him for an OBE for his charity work, the application would be approved. The girl’s name wasn’t in the letter Sarah had given Brian Hicks, but the father’s was.
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