A Secret Worth Killing For. Simon Berthon

says, looking up from her plate. It’s cheese on toast with beans and chips – the kids are gone, having bolted theirs down and rinsed their plates.

      ‘I was gonna ask if it might be possible to swap my weekend off this month.’

      Mrs Ryan’s eyebrows rise disagreeably. ‘That wouldn’t be very convenient, Maire. You never asked it before.’

      ‘I know, it’s just that something’s come up for my studies. Bit short notice but there’s a symposium the weekend after next in Cork – it’s about international law and war crimes.’

      ‘Sorry, love, you’ve got me there, what’s that?

      ‘It’s like . . . a symposium’s like some of the world’s experts on it’ll be gathered there. Lectures and discussion groups. Could help with my degree.’

      ‘It’s to do with your degree?’

      ‘Yes, Mrs Ryan. They’re laying on a bus for the third-years.’

      ‘OK, Maire, I’ll think about it. Maybe Margaret can help out.’

      ‘That’d be great, Mrs Ryan, thanks.’

      She knows that Margaret, Mrs Ryan’s pregnant younger daughter, won’t be doing anything better – but also won’t want the bother. It’s down to how hard Mrs Ryan wants to push it.

      Later that evening, she hears Mrs Ryan on the phone. She edges her room door ajar to make out what she’s saying, but whoever’s on the other end of the line seems to be doing most of the talking, only odd phrases wafting up. ‘Yes, that’s right . . . there’s a bus taking them . . . she says it’s good for her degree.’ She guesses Mrs Ryan’s trying to persuade her daughter – not that Margaret would be impressed by helping anyone get a degree.

      As she’s leaving for the library next morning, Mrs Ryan pops her head out of her bedroom door. Her hairnet’s still in place, along with the cigarette.

      ‘Before you go, Maire – I had a chat with Margaret. You can go on your weekend for whatever that occasion is you mentioned.’

      She’s startled, never believing it would work. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ryan, thanks very much.’

      ‘But no partying, OK?’

      ‘That’s great, it’s only for work.’

      It seems too easy to be true – but what’s to worry about that? She’s off to Connemara with her posh English boy and, no doubt, his posh English friend. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath – eight days to wait.

      It’s going to happen.

CHAPTER 7

       Post-election, Friday, 5 May, to Sunday, 7 May

      On the Friday afternoon Anne-Marie Gallagher had called into Audax Chambers. A ‘Congratulations’ banner hung and they gathered in reception to applaud as she entered. Her timing was fortuitous; the TV was showing the new prime minister, Lionel Buller, leaving Buckingham Palace after ‘kissing hands’ with the monarch.

      ‘You did it,’ said Kieron Carnegie.

      ‘You did it, Kieron,’ she replied.

      ‘Wrong. It’s entirely your achievement. And it doesn’t surprise me one jot.’ They exchanged happy smiles. ‘That was some speech.’

      ‘I’m not sure what took hold of me.’

      ‘The risk taker that lurks within.’

      He leant close to whisper. ‘You may find you get a phone call soon.’

      ‘What?’ For once she seemed genuinely puzzled.

      ‘I’m afraid this may be the one and only time you have to allow me to know something you don’t.’

      ‘You’re incorrigible,’ she murmured, turning to mingle.

      The call came at 8.30 on the Sunday morning, the number showing private.

      ‘He wants to see me? Yes, of course, name your time.’

      She was lying in her bath, soapsuds playing around her toes, incredulity around her eyes.

      ‘Four-thirty. I’ll look forward to it. Oh, and where do I arrive?’

      The instruction was brief. ‘Sure, I’ll remember to smile.’

      She dialled Kieron Carnegie’s number. ‘You set me up again!’

      ‘Not at all,’ he protested. ‘They called me out of the blue.’

      ‘Checking me out?’

      ‘Just one of Lionel’s boys. He was only asking if there was anything they needed to know.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘I said you were the most remarkable young woman I had ever met. It seemed to satisfy him.’ He paused. ‘Good luck. Don’t worry if he doesn’t smile, he left his sense of humour behind in the womb.’

      At 4.28 p.m., conveying herself elegantly on black, lightly heeled boots, she was ushered through the gates of Downing Street by the duty policemen. ‘Good afternoon, Ms Gallagher.’ Their recognition shot a dart of pleasure through her. For the cameras parked outside Number 10 she affected a shy smile. ‘What’s he giving you, Anne-Marie?’ came a shout. She raised an eyebrow at the offender.

      At 4.30 p.m. the black front door opened. A young man with floppy hair, a boy, it seemed to her, at the heart of government, shook her hand and addressed her with a silky maturity.

      ‘Welcome, Ms Gallagher. Philip Wells, private secretary to the Prime Minister. You’re the last by some way and he’s retreated to the flat. If you could bear to follow me up . . .’

      Lionel Buller was dressed in charcoal grey suit trousers and a white shirt, top button open. In the corner, she saw a jacket and tie folded carefully over a chair.

      ‘Anne-Marie, good to see you.’

      ‘And you, too, Prime Minister,’ she replied.

      Without a handshake or embrace, he gestured her to sit down. Somehow she had expected him to forgo formality and ask her to call him by his first name.

      A second man looked on, similarly dressed but with tie in place, topped by retreating sandy hair whitening at the edges. ‘You know Rob McNeil,’ stated Buller. It was an assumption that neither of them challenged.

      ‘Good to meet,’ said McNeil stretching out his hand.

      ‘Yes, indeed,’ she replied, shaking it. She felt not just shock but a punch of dread. Over the years, she had occasionally noticed his rising profile and ultimate appointment as political editor. As she herself grew in her smaller world, there was little danger of their careers crossing paths – until her selection as a parliamentary candidate. Even then a little known, would-be MP was too small fry for a national political editor.

      Now, without any rehearsal, she was pitched together with him. She told herself to stay calm and show nothing – there was no reason, in such a different context, why he should suddenly start thinking about a weekend twenty-four years ago.

      ‘I’ll be announcing Rob’s appointment tomorrow morning as the new Number 10 press secretary,’ said Buller. ‘Unexpected no doubt, but, given he’s done six years as The Times’ political editor, we might at least keep that paper onside.’ He grimaced. Hooded brown eyes, snuggling beneath heavy brown brows, bore in on her. ‘Well, congratulations.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘It was a seat we had to win.’ He looked down at an untidy cluster of papers on the glass table in front of him. ‘I happened to arrive at Festival Hall just in time for your declaration. A turning point.’

      ‘Yes.’