Free Almost a Crime by Penny Vincenzi Page A

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    doctors within the new, rollercoasting Labour Party and be
    photographed playing happy families with his adulterous
    wife.
    ‘I just don’t see why I should, Tom,’ he said, draining his
    claret glass, nodding gratefully as Tom refilled it. ‘I’m
    prepared to take Maureen back because I love her and I
    know she’s sorry—’ ‘Tom doubted this very much, but
    didn’t say so - ‘but I don’t give a monkey’s about the
    wonderful new government being tainted with sleaze, as
    that little shit who called me put it. Why should I? As far as
    I’m concerned, the bloody minister can drown in his own
    excrement. It’s so undignified, and hard on the kids.
    They’re not daft, they know why the press suddenly want
    to photograph us. The lad doesn’t know what’s been going
    on, too young, but the girls have a pretty shrewd idea, and I
    don’t like the signals we’ll be sending them.’
    ‘Like what?’ said Tom.
    ‘Well, like, it’s all right if you don’t get caught, and then
    it’s still all right as long as you keep on lying.’
    ‘Presumably the other chap’s got to put on the same
    performance?’
    ‘Oh, yes, and he’s more than willing. There he is, only
    about a month into his grand new job. His wife’s agreeable
    too; she’s enjoying her new life as well. And their kids are
    younger.’
    ‘I’m amazed they want you to do it,’ said Tom. ‘I’d have
    thought they’d be into a new form of damage limitation by
    now. Everyone knew that picture did Mellor more harm
    than good. No, of course you shouldn’t do it if you don’t
    want to.’
    ‘I bloody don’t,’ said Macintosh. His jaw set in a way that
    Tom recognised, and had come to dread himself.
    ‘The only thing I would say is that there might be
    something you could get out of it.’
    ‘Oh, yeah? What? I’ve got Maureen back, that’s all I care
    about. On my terms too, this time, no more of that lingerie
    party nonsense.’
    ‘But is that really all you care about?’ said Tom.
    ‘Well, yes. That and the kids. I mean, what did you have
    in mind, Tom?’
    ‘I’m not quite sure. It was something Octavia said,
    she—’
    And then he remembered Felix and the missed phone
    call and its inevitable consequences - thinly veiled implications
    that he hadn’t wanted to call at all, truculent
    questioning as to whether he could cope with the project
    anyway if he was so busy, Octavia’s resentment at his
    negligence, when she heard about it from her father — none
    of these things was helping his concentration. He’d have to
    ring Felix straight away.
    ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Look, Bob, can you excuse me a
    minute? I have got an idea, but I’ve got to ring my
    secretary. She was getting some information for me that I
    need before I go on to the House.’
    It always worked, that one; sounded as if he was going to
    the House of Commons to speak on the floor, rather than
    hang about in the committee corridor for an hour or so, or
    in the main lobby, waiting for someone to arrive.
    ‘Sure. Can I order another coffee?’
    ‘Of course. Brandy?’
    ‘No, thank you. Got work to do this afternoon.’
    Tom ran down the wide steps to the men’s cloakroom,
    pulling out his mobile phone, and punched out Miller’s
    private number.
    Felix Miller’s secretary said she was sorry, but Mr Miller
    had left the office for the day and couldn’t be contacted
    until that night, when he would be in Edinburgh. Could
    she ask Mr Miller to phone Mr Fleming from there? She
    couldn’t give Mr Fleming the number as it was a private house, and she had specific instructions not to.
    Tom said that would be very kind of her and would she
    give Mr Miller his good wishes and tell him that he had
    been unable to call any earlier, as he had been in back-to
    back meetings since eight thirty that morning.
    He went back to the table, sat down again, drained his
    coffee cup.
    Macintosh was leafing through some papers. ‘You’ll get
    back to me then on this