Free Redlaw - 01 by James Lovegrove Page B

masks and ball gags and butt plugs—oh my.”
    Now Wax’s face had taken on a ghastly sheen of desperation.
    “What would the lovely Anthea say?” Slocock went on. “And young Philip, and little Sandra.”
    “Shauna,” Wax said numbly.
    “Shauna. How do you think they would react seeing your saggy white behind on Newsnight ? Bit of a shock, I’d have thought. Hubby, daddy, seemed such an upright man, but all along, this fetish, this perversion he was harbouring. Your ‘vampire’ session is a particular delight. I can see the media having a field day with that. Young ladies dressed up in thigh boots and batwing capes, fake plastic fangs, even faker Transylvania accents... Not to mention the riding crops. The riding crops! Surname like yours, the headlines write themselves. What on earth possessed you, Maurice?”
    Wax buried his face in his hands. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he looked up over his fingertips at Slocock.
    “You use prostitutes on a regular basis,” he said. “You take cocaine. You understand—a man has needs.”
    “Oh, I’m not criticising. Definitely not. That would be hypocritical. The difference between us is that I don’t pretend to be anything other than what I am. You do. You make a big thing out of being a family man, a faithful husband, the perfect father. And I’m sure you are. But with that comes certain expectations, most of which involve staying away from places where they handcuff you to steel frames and twist leather thongs tightly around your privates. It’s a question of degrees of honesty. I make no bones about my bad habits, and that’s why I get away with it. If you’d tried the same approach, maybe we wouldn’t be having this conversation now. Mind you, with your proclivities you probably wouldn’t be an MP in the first place, but that’s another story.”
    “It’s not fair,” Wax lamented. “It’s just not fair.”
    “No, it’s not, Maurice, old chap. But it is politics, and that’s the donkey we’re all riding. So, to recap. This is how it’s going to go. You think Lambourne has come up with an ingenious method for handling the Sunless, putting them out of harm’s way. You’ll recommend to the Prime Minister that Lambourne is given full government backing to pursue his project and bring it to fruition. In a couple of days’ time, you’ll announce the scheme to the world at a press conference, with its architect standing right beside you. You’ll spin it so that it looks like an act of extreme benevolence, which shouldn’t be difficult, since it does. It is. And that, my friend, will ensure that this memory stick does not stray from my safekeeping. It’s not much to ask, is it, in exchange for your life and career staying on track? You might even, if you do this right, emerge as a national hero.”
    Wax sighed, heavily, bleakly.
    “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” said Slocock.
    Popping the memory stick back into the envelope, he exited the Cabinet minister’s office.
    Job done. Lambourne would be happy.
    In fact, the memory stick was blank. The information about what Wax got up to at Mistress Sterne’s Parlour of Correction had been contained on a two-page printout enclosed in the envelope, the text drawn from private testimony provided by Mistress Sterne herself. She did not video her clients, unless they requested it specifically so that they might have a keepsake of the occasion, but she was prepared to furnish details of their preferences and peccadilloes to anyone who wanted to know, as long as the price was right (six figures would usually cover it).
    The stick had been a prop, a conjuror’s wand, nothing more. The rest was embellishment and misdirection.
    Wax had been successfully blagged, and Slocock had every reason to feel pleased with himself.

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Redlaw rose early—three in the afternoon. He opened the curtains and raised the blackout blinds, screwing up his eyes against the slanting spring sunshine. With