Free Fifty-First State by Hilary Bailey Page B

he must know it. Quite frankly you’d be doing him a favour, putting him out of his misery.’
    And you a favour too, thought Canning. You want poor old Fred out because you’re the next in line. He was not surprised. He had seen this conversation coming from the moment, that morning, when Petherbridge had asked for a quick chat. Up to now Petherbridge had stayed out of the fray, presumably because it never looks good when the heir apparent takes the knife to his own father. It was plain to Canning that with Muldoon clinging like a barnacle to the ship of state, Petherbridge had been persuaded to take a hand.
    This was not the first time that Canning had been approached to use his influence with Muldoon. It was not the second, or even the third. Previously, he’d refused, giving loyalty as his reason. This was only part of it, and perhaps not a very big part. Muldoon had been Canning’s living for seven years. Where would he go when Muldoon went to the backbenches or perhaps out of Parliament altogether? Back to
The Times?
Would they have him – throwing up a career on a national paper to work for seven years as a Press Secretary is not always much of a recommendation? There were other papers. There was PR. There was consultancy work. But a man who has been a PM’s lackey and ends up stabbing his boss in the back is not always welcome on anyone’s staff.
    â€˜It’d be an act of kindness to him,’ Petherbridge said persuasively. ‘And I’m sure you’d find many people very grateful if you could spare the PM humiliation and the party an agonizing leadership contest in public’
    Canning was not admitting to himself that at that moment he was afraid of Alan Petherbridge, afraid of those dark eyes of his, eyes which never, whether in light or darkness, seemed to reflect anything back to the person he was talking to. He was afraid of that pale, matt face – his own was sweating, he knew – and the firm line of Petherbridge’s mouth.But he could not deny Petherbridge’s intelligence and effectiveness. Like a man held in a marriage to an ailing wife, tempted by a healthy and willing partner, he saw it was time to jump – and he jumped. ‘How grateful would these people be, do you think?’ he asked. Petherbridge told him. Five years on the board of a state-supported institution, the CEO of which was about to retire in two years, three years as Director, then, in all probability, a peerage. Canning asked about guarantees. Petherbridge stared at him with those hard-to-read eyes. ‘I’m your guarantee,’ he told Canning. ‘Believe me – this is the best you can hope for.’
    He added none of the softening phrases that help a man to do what he thinks he should not do. He had offered his deal. It was a good one and Canning, flinching under that steady, determined gaze, had never been more certain that Muldoon was doomed. He had the impression that Petherbridge would be angered by a request for a few days to think the matter over.
    He said, ‘I agree. Shall we talk tomorrow?’ The two men shook hands briefly and parted straight away, leaving Sir Galahad alone in the square, with a pigeon roosting on his head. Tom Canning went home to Clapham Common and hit the local pub and Alan Petherbridge went into Sugden’s for dinner with some good friends from Amical, the Anglo-American friendship society.
    Petherbridge sat down. William handed him a menu. ‘Good day?’ enquired his American guest.
    â€˜Very satisfactory,’ said Alan Petherbridge.

Three
    10 Downing Street, London SW1. June 15th, 2015. 8 a.m.
    Tom Canning sat down opposite the Prime Minister at his small breakfast table in the upstairs kitchen. Muldoon had eaten his eggs and bacon and had started on the toast. His wife was in the country, planning the annual Conservative Ball.
    â€˜So what’s today’s bad news, Tom?’ Muldoon asked, trying