The Final Cut. Michael Dobbs

men, more than made up for any lack of depth in the eyes of most observers. Geoffrey was going places – he left no listener in any doubt of the fact and such enthusiasm to many is infectious. And it was no secret around Westminster that Geoffrey would welcome a new job. As Transport Secretary for the last two years, he had long since grown exasperated with the futility of trying to siphon twentieth-century cars through London’s nineteenth-century road system and desperately wanted to escape the gridlock for some new challenge – any new challenge, so long as it came in the form of perceptible promotion. Move on before you grow roots and others grow bored was the Booza-Pitt rule, a creed he followed as much in love as in politics. He’d already scraped through two marriages; his ribald and envious colleagues referred to his Westminster house as the In & Out Club. Geoffrey’s response had been to make a dubious virtue of necessity and to eschew further matrimonial entanglement, instead choosing his companions on an à la carte basis from the lengthy menu provided by the women of Westminster. Being single, it merely enhanced the dynamic impression.

      Yet in the subdued lighting of Urquhart’s study, the Transport Secretary belied his image. The neatly trimmed sandy hair had tumbled across his forehead, the eyes cast down, the broad and slightly crooked chin which normally afforded an aura of rugged athleticism tonight looked simply askew. A schoolboy come to confess.

      ‘Geoffrey, dear boy. What news do you bring from the battle front? Are we winning?’ He laid aside the gold-ribbed fountain pen with which he had been signing letters, forcing Booza-Pitt to wait, and suffer.

      ‘Polls seem to be…not too bad too bad.’

      ‘Could be better.’

      ‘Will be.’

      Urquhart studied the other man. The eyes were rimmed in red, he thought he could detect the bite of whisky on his breath. Trouble.

      ‘Come to the point, Geoffrey.’

      There was no resistance; his composure drained and the shoulders drooped. ‘I’ve got…a little local difficulty, FU.’

      ‘Women.’

      ‘Is it that obvious?’

      The Minister was known to be a man of modest intellect and immoderate copulation; Urquhart had assumed it was only a matter of time before he stubbed his toe in public. ‘In this business, it’s always either women or money – at least in our party.’ He leaned forward in a gesture of paternal familiarity, encouraging confession. ‘She wasn’t dead, was she? Almost anything can be smoothed over, except for live animals and dead women.’

      ‘No, of course not! But it’s…more complicated than that.’

      More than a stubbed toe – a broken leg, perhaps? Amputation might be called for. ‘Well, so far we have one – one? – live woman. Tell me more.’

      ‘The chairman of my local party is going to divorce his wife on the grounds of adultery, citing me.’

      ‘It is true, I assume.’

      Booza-Pitt nodded, his hands still clasped between his knees as though defending his manhood from the enraged husband.

      ‘Embarrassing. Might make it difficult to get yourself reselected for the next election with him in the chair.’

      Booza-Pitt sighed deeply and rapidly several times, expelling the air forcefully as though attempting to extirpate demons within.

      ‘He says he’s not going to be there. He’s very bitter. Plans to resign from the party and go to the newspapers with the story.’

      ‘A tangled web indeed.’

      ‘And make all sorts of ridiculous allegations.’ This was almost blurted. Control of his breathing had gone.

      ‘That you seduced her…’

      ‘And that I got her to invest money in property on my behalf.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘Property that was blighted by proposed road-building schemes.’

      ‘Let me guess. Schemes which were about to be cancelled. Scrapped. So lifting the blight and greatly increasing the value of the property. Inside information known only to a handful of people. Including the Secretary of State for Transport. You.’

      The lack of response confirmed Urquhart’s suspicions.

      ‘Christ, Geoffrey, you realize that would be a matter for not only resignation, but also criminal prosecution.’

      He wriggled like a worm on a hook. Piranha bait. Urquhart left him dangling as he considered. To convict or to assist, punish or protect? He had just buried one Cabinet member, to bury a second in such rapid succession could look more than unfortunate. He swivelled his pen on the blotter in front of him, like a compass seeking direction.

      ‘You can assure me that these accusations are false?’

      ‘Lies, all lies! You have my word.’

      ‘But I assume there are land registry deeds and titles with dates that to the cynical eye will appear to be more than coincidence. How did she know?’

      ‘Pillow talk, perhaps, no more than that. I…I may have left my Ministerial box open in her bedroom on one occasion.’

      Urquhart marvelled at the younger man’s inventiveness. ‘You know as well as I do, Geoffrey, that if this comes out they won’t believe you. They’ll hound you right up the steps of the Old Bailey.’

      The fountain pen was now pointed directly at Booza-Pitt, like an officer’s sword at a court martial, in condemnation. Urquhart produced a sheet of writing paper which he laid alongside it. ‘I want you to write me a letter, Geoffrey, which I shall dictate.’

      Awkwardly, with the movements of a man freezing in the Arctic desert, Booza-Pitt began to write:

      ‘“Dear Prime Minister,”’ Urquhart began. ‘“I am sorry to have to inform you that I have been having an affair with a married woman, the wife of the chairman of my local association…”’

      Geoffrey raised pleading eyes, but Urquhart nodded him on.

      ‘“Moreover, she has accused me of using confidential information available to me as a Government Minister to trade in blighted property and enrich myself, in breach not only of Ministerial ethics but also of the criminal law. New paragraph, Geoffrey. “While I have given you my word of honour that these accusations are utterly without foundation, in light of these allegations…”’

      Booza-Pitt paused to raise a quizzical brow.

      ‘“I have no alternative other than to tender my resignation.”’

      The death warrant. A sob of misery bounced across the desk.

      ‘Sign it, Geoffrey.’ The pen had become an instrument of punishment. ‘But don’t date it.’

      A dawning of hope, a stay of execution. Booza-Pitt did as he was told, managed a smile. Urquhart retrieved the paper, examined it thoroughly, and slid it into the drawer of his desk. Then his voice sank to a whisper, like a vault expelling the last of its air.

      ‘You contemptible idiot! How dare you endanger my Government with your sordid little vices? You’re not fit to participate in a Francis Urquhart Cabinet.’

      ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry. And appreciative…’

      ‘I created you. Made a space for you at the trough.’

      ‘Always grateful…’

      ‘Never forget.’

      ‘Never shall. But…but, Francis. What are we going to do about my chairman?’

      ‘I may, just possibly, be able to save your life. What’s his name?’

      ‘Richard Tennent.’

      ‘Have I ever met him?’

      ‘Last