Free Political Suicide by Robert Barnard

don’t know. I think they leave it up in the sky.”
    â€œAir,” said Seymour.
    Sutcliffe bought them both enormous tankards of lager, enlisted Helga as a spy for any future happenings of interest in the Partridge household, and then went on his way. The case was beginning to be a case, beginning to get accretions, have reverberations. He was beginning to think he might be able to justify a trip up to Yorkshire.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    While he was clearing out his desk next morning, Sutcliffe had an important phone call. He knew it wasimportant because of the number of people who spoke to him before the caller himself actually came on. It was, a Roedean voice informed him, from Conservative Central Office, the Chairman himself who wanted to have a talk (quite informally, of course) with him.
    â€œSuperintendent Sutcliffe?” said the Chairman, trying to sound like a serious politician.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œLook, you know the last thing we’d do is interfere with a genuine police investigation. But this really does seem over the edge. The PM is absolutely livid, I can tell you. Apparently you’ve been positively harassing the poor little widow of James Partridge. Now, really, I can’t think that can be necessary. In fact, I thought the whole business was dead and buried. Why isn’t it? I tell you, with the by-election starting officially in a week, dragging this thing out as you are doing begins to seem politically motivated.”
    â€œDoes it, sir? I’m sorry about that.”
    â€œWell, it does. Yes, it does—to the PM too, let me tell you. I mean, this poor lady, Mrs . . . er . . . Partridge, in the stress of the moment, fails to mention that she and her husband were temporarily living apart. And now, five or six weeks after he dies, you feel fit to take the matter up. I mean to say, does it matter?”
    â€œWe think it does, sir. And it’s not just that.”
    â€œNo?” (A faintly hollow sound to that “no?”)
    â€œYou don’t, I suppose, approve of lying to the police, sir?”
    â€œGood heavens, Superintendent, you know that our party—”
    â€œMrs Partridge lied to the police about several matters.That she assumed her husband had gone to his separate bedroom, and so on.”
    â€œLittle things, Superintendent. In the stress of the moment.”
    â€œThe statements were repeated at the inquest, sir. And there’s another thing—”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThis is in confidence, sir. Though of course you may repeat it to the PM if you think fit.”
    â€œYe-e-es.”
    â€œWe are investigating a connection—a close connection, if you understand me—”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œâ€”between Mrs Partridge and another politician in your party.”
    â€œBut, good heavens, Superintendent—of course morality in domestic life is absolutely vital, but in this day and age—”
    â€œThe gentleman is your candidate for the constituency of Bootham East.”
    â€œOh Lor’,” said the Chairman.

Chapter 6
Campaigning(I)
    The Unicorn Hotel had acquired a new attraction since Antony Craybourne-Fisk’s first visit at the time of his selection. In the dining-room there was now a Sicilian called Gianni: sallow, with black crinkly hair and appalling teeth, he exuded self-love. He toted a dangerous pair of eyebrows at Antony on the first morning as he took his order for bacon and eggs, and he toted them again when he brought him two boiled eggs and a rasher of bacon on a separate plate.
    â€œOh, for God’s sake,” muttered Antony, but he did not send them back. It was unlikely that Gianni would prove to be a constituent of his—or indeed that he would ever go so far towards expressing approval of anyone other than his delectable self as to put a cross by their name on a voting slip—but Antony was in a hurry. Antony had a campaign to