Free A Very British Coup by Chris Mullin

introduced. The first bore a letter from Perkins to his defeated predecessor, placing the Prime Minister’s country residence, Chequers, at the disposal of the outgoing Prime Minister until he had made arrangements to go elsewhere. “Just a formality,” said Tweed: “Sign here, Prime Minister.” Perkins signed.
    The second private secretary presented figures showing that three cents had been wiped off the value of sterling in the two hours since the London market opened. Heavy selling was also reported from Hong Kong and Tokyo. “The Governor of the Bank wants an appointment as soon as possible.” One was agreed for the afternoon at five o’clock. The Cabinet secretary also wanted an appointment. He was told to come at six.
    The third secretary said that the White House had telephoned. The President wanted to congratulate Perkins personally and it had been agreed that the Prime Minister should receive the call in his study in three hours’ time.
    Formalities complete, Perkins was shown to a small lift in the rear of the building which conveyed him up two floors to the attic flat built into the roof of Number Ten. “This will be your private quarters,” said Tweed, as he unlocked the door. “You are planning to live here, of course?”
    â€œNot likely,” said Perkins.
    â€œBut, Prime Minister, we’ve already brought your wardrobe here.” Tweed ran a manicured hand through his thinning hair.
    â€œYou what?”
    â€œWe got the key to your flat from your secretary and I sent someone round this morning.”
    â€œThen you can just send them back again.”
    Although it was scarcely an hour since the flat had been vacated there was no trace of the previous occupant. No hint of cigar smoke from the night before. No sign of the whisky bottles that had littered the hearth as the outgoing Prime Minister, surrounded by his closest aides, watched his majority crumble. Before departing for the Palace, Tweed had given instructions that not a trace of the old régime was to remain. The thick carpet had been scrupulously vacuumed. Windows had been flung open. The bed linen and the curtains changed. Even the David Hockney that hung above the fireplace had been replaced by a Lowry print of a Lancashire fairground which Tweed had brought up from the basement. The private office thought of everything.
    In a wardrobe in the main bedroom Perkins found his suits, all neatly pressed, in accordance with Tweed’s instructions.
    â€œMy goodness, you lads work fast,” said Perkins.
    While he was changing there came a knock on the bedroom door. “Inspector Page and Sergeant Block of the Special Branch,” intoned Tweed, who was still loitering in the living room. “These gentlemen will be responsible for your safety from now on.”
    â€œThat’s right, sir,” said Page. A thickset, balding man with a Zapata moustache and a face like a closed book. “Sergeant Block and I will take it in turns to accompany you at all times of the day and night outside of Downing Street and the Houseof Commons. Naturally we will try to be as unobtrusive as possible.”
    Perkins nodded as he selected his brightest tie from a rail along the inside of a wardrobe door.
    â€œOne other thing, sir. I understand that you’re in the habit of travelling around on buses.”
    â€œThat’s right, Inspector.”
    â€œIs that strictly necessary, sir? Makes life very difficult for Sergeant Block and me.”
    â€œI am afraid it is necessary, Inspector. You see, my party wants to phase out the private motor car in cities and encourage people to use public transport instead. If we want to be taken seriously, then I’ve got to set an example.’
    â€œI see, sir,” said Page, who clearly didn’t see. Not one of my voters, thought Perkins as the Inspector and the Sergeant withdrew. As they left, a private secretary entered to say that the