can promise you interesting times either way, bang in the centre of power.’
‘Sounds quite a challenge.’
‘It is but I want a no-nonsense PR with a Fleet Street background who knows how to handle the media. I was most impressed by your performance on television after that awful business at the reservoir.’
‘All in a day’s work.’
‘How’s that investigation going?’
‘Not much progress, I’m afraid.’
‘Why so?’
‘Well, the mother was the main route into whatever has happened to the little girl. With her dead, there’s no other prime suspect on the horizon.’
‘You mean there’s no forensic evidence, no DNA?’
‘Nothing has shown up in their flat that links to anyone on police files and neither do her telephone records.’
‘Being at the reservoir that day, I feel somewhat close to this case,’ Inglis said. ‘I’d rather like to be kept abreast of any developments… very much on the quiet, of course.’
‘I’m sure something could be done.’
‘Good. Now, let’s go for lunch.’
Inglis’s aide had booked a table at Rules in Maiden Lane. A black cab took them from the Commons and through the leaderless tribes of tourists in Covent Garden.
Hoare put him in his late forties, still unmarried, six feet tall, heavily built, probably played rugby or cricket in younger days. He could pass as a lawyer now - midnight blue Dege & Skinner suit, pressed white shirt, plain red tie in shot silk.
Hoare’s researches of the public record revealed Inglis got a first in mathematics at Keble College, Oxford and was active in Conservative student politics. He’d become an accountant-cum-banker in the City before the party gifted him a seat in the midlands.
They knew Guy Inglis at Rules. He got bows and scrapes as a way was cleared for them to a corner table. Inglis ordered Mersea oysters and roasted squab pigeon. Hoare went for rack of Suffolk lamb and opted for the Chateau Mouton-Rothschild when Inglis asked him to select their wine.
‘Good choice,’ he said. ‘Did you know that Bing Crosby and John Wayne would dine here when they were in London?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
Inglis unfolded his linen napkin then leaned forward and lowered his voice.
‘I suppose you must’ve heard these whispers about Mrs Thatcher.’
Hoare shook his head. He felt like some favoured Lobby correspondent being given a confidential briefing.
‘There are those who want a challenge mounted against her leadership.’
‘But she’s been your most successful Prime Minister in years.’
‘She’s drawn the unions’ teeth and now it’s time for a change.’
‘So there’s a putsch being plotted, is there?’
‘Look, Lobby rules so keep this to yourself. My seat in the Cabinet is secure but if Thatcher is challenged, who knows which of us will end up in Downing Street.’
‘Does that mean you could be in the running to be the next PM?’
Inglis gave him a modest but knowing smile. His eyes were almost as black as his hair but the grey skin around his jowls was starting to sag like a waxwork left in the sun.
‘The horse-trading will go on behind closed doors first but don’t rule anything out.’
Hoare then became aware of an unsmiling, aggressive-looking man trying to listen to their conversation from a couple of tables away. He was about fifty with gingery hair and a port wine birthmark spreading across his neck.
‘Don’t look round but we’re being ear-wigged.’
‘I’m afraid that comes with appearing on TV,’ Inglis said. ‘Complete strangers think they know one personally and just stare.’
He raised a finger and their waiter brought a second bottle of the Mouton-Rothschild. Inglis then changed the subject.
‘Your colleague at the reservoir… that police inspector. Interesting chap, I hear.’
‘DI Benwick? Yes, you won’t get many like him coming out of Bramshill.’
‘A bit unconventional, is he?’
‘And how - hasn’t been through the blander like so many
‘Sounds quite a challenge.’
‘It is but I want a no-nonsense PR with a Fleet Street background who knows how to handle the media. I was most impressed by your performance on television after that awful business at the reservoir.’
‘All in a day’s work.’
‘How’s that investigation going?’
‘Not much progress, I’m afraid.’
‘Why so?’
‘Well, the mother was the main route into whatever has happened to the little girl. With her dead, there’s no other prime suspect on the horizon.’
‘You mean there’s no forensic evidence, no DNA?’
‘Nothing has shown up in their flat that links to anyone on police files and neither do her telephone records.’
‘Being at the reservoir that day, I feel somewhat close to this case,’ Inglis said. ‘I’d rather like to be kept abreast of any developments… very much on the quiet, of course.’
‘I’m sure something could be done.’
‘Good. Now, let’s go for lunch.’
Inglis’s aide had booked a table at Rules in Maiden Lane. A black cab took them from the Commons and through the leaderless tribes of tourists in Covent Garden.
Hoare put him in his late forties, still unmarried, six feet tall, heavily built, probably played rugby or cricket in younger days. He could pass as a lawyer now - midnight blue Dege & Skinner suit, pressed white shirt, plain red tie in shot silk.
Hoare’s researches of the public record revealed Inglis got a first in mathematics at Keble College, Oxford and was active in Conservative student politics. He’d become an accountant-cum-banker in the City before the party gifted him a seat in the midlands.
They knew Guy Inglis at Rules. He got bows and scrapes as a way was cleared for them to a corner table. Inglis ordered Mersea oysters and roasted squab pigeon. Hoare went for rack of Suffolk lamb and opted for the Chateau Mouton-Rothschild when Inglis asked him to select their wine.
‘Good choice,’ he said. ‘Did you know that Bing Crosby and John Wayne would dine here when they were in London?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
Inglis unfolded his linen napkin then leaned forward and lowered his voice.
‘I suppose you must’ve heard these whispers about Mrs Thatcher.’
Hoare shook his head. He felt like some favoured Lobby correspondent being given a confidential briefing.
‘There are those who want a challenge mounted against her leadership.’
‘But she’s been your most successful Prime Minister in years.’
‘She’s drawn the unions’ teeth and now it’s time for a change.’
‘So there’s a putsch being plotted, is there?’
‘Look, Lobby rules so keep this to yourself. My seat in the Cabinet is secure but if Thatcher is challenged, who knows which of us will end up in Downing Street.’
‘Does that mean you could be in the running to be the next PM?’
Inglis gave him a modest but knowing smile. His eyes were almost as black as his hair but the grey skin around his jowls was starting to sag like a waxwork left in the sun.
‘The horse-trading will go on behind closed doors first but don’t rule anything out.’
Hoare then became aware of an unsmiling, aggressive-looking man trying to listen to their conversation from a couple of tables away. He was about fifty with gingery hair and a port wine birthmark spreading across his neck.
‘Don’t look round but we’re being ear-wigged.’
‘I’m afraid that comes with appearing on TV,’ Inglis said. ‘Complete strangers think they know one personally and just stare.’
He raised a finger and their waiter brought a second bottle of the Mouton-Rothschild. Inglis then changed the subject.
‘Your colleague at the reservoir… that police inspector. Interesting chap, I hear.’
‘DI Benwick? Yes, you won’t get many like him coming out of Bramshill.’
‘A bit unconventional, is he?’
‘And how - hasn’t been through the blander like so many
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