Lifeline

THE LONG-AWAITED SEQUEL TO deadline

First published in Great Britain in 2023 by Daniel Pascoe

ISBN 979-8-386187-76-7

© Daniel Pascoe 2023

danielpascoeauthor.com

Also available in paperback.

Daniel Pascoe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording and/or otherwise be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without the prior written permission of the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used entirely in a fictitious manner. Although the story outlined is placed squarely within the known British political calendar of 2015/2016, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events and places is mostly coincidental.

Daniel Pascoe was brought up on smog and boiled cabbage in London many years ago. He worked in the Health Services in the northeast of England for thirty years as a cancer specialist. Now retired, he lives on Teesside and spends much of his time writing fiction far from the hubbub of city life. He also paints portraits and landscapes in oils.  He worries that none of political elite, with ever-changing leadership problems, have the faintest ability to make sensible progress within our sadly divided society.  He has two children and four grandchildren from before. His two youngest struggle to identify a worthwhile future direction.  The family plan to move into a brand-new house this summer with the two Poms and the cat.

Daniel has already published several intelligent commercial crime thrillers, including The London Sniper and its prequel, Our Wilful Assassin.  There was also Dead End, Deadline and Fair Game Foul Play.  Lifeline is the sequel to Deadline and has been a long time coming.

March 2023

Other books by Daniel Pascoe

Our Wilful Assassin (2020)

The London Sniper (2015)

Dead End (2016)

Deadline (2017)

Fair Game Foul Play (2018)

Don’t forget to explore the website www.danielpascoeauthor.com

where you can find descriptions of his books

and other INFORMATION about his life and writing.  There is also the chance to join his READERS’ CLUB for regular bulletins, background and insights, both informative and entertaining.

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if you want to start with deadline

This book is dedicated to all book lovers who enjoy the engrossing experience of an intelligent tale that might never end.

With heart-felt thanks to a most forgiving family.

prelude

London, Friday September 4, 2015

The light of day was fading behind the weather-beaten towers and concrete blocks of the Barbican, as Olivia trudged home in the gloaming of another hectic week. She crossed shadowy courtyards and picked up her post from the estate office. Once in her apartment, she headed for the kitchen and a bottle of wine from the fridge.  With eyes closed, she savoured the cool crisp taste of the Pinot, heartened by its restorative value.  On Sunday she was off to Frankfurt for a three-day European sponsored climate change conference and wondered, not for the first time, whether it would be worth the effort.

Among the post was a brown envelope, her name scrawled across in wonky capital letters. No stamp. No proper address. Inside were three ten-by-eight black-and-white photographs that were familiar to her: the same ones Edward had shown her in that café.  Close-up pictures of the lower rungs of the iron stairs in Hugo’s old studio and the crumpled naked body of the Ukrainian ballet dancer.  Printed on cheap paper, not quality gloss.  There was a hand-written message on a page torn from an exercise book, easy rounded lettering: no address, no date, no signature.

Olivia.

You will remember these copy photographs.

My conscience is pricking me.  I am not sure what I should do with them.  I think we should go to the police, don’t you?  The least we can do in respect for the late, talented Dominic Lebelov.  Or I could give all the originals to you – for a price.

I give you time to think about it.  Ring this number (07590 2xxxxx) with your decision at the end of next week: Friday at 8 pm.

That is your deadline. 

Her deadline, heavens, as if she didn’t have other important things on her mind.  She could picture Edward’s innocent face, sitting opposite her, gloating that he had the upper hand, with dodgy photographs of a dead body between them.  It’s true, they were genuine.  Edward must have been there, hiding in the semidarkness, when Hugo had that bust up with Dominic, who slipped down those steep wrought iron stairs. The sound of his body thudding onto the concrete below was awful, but it was the subtle crunch of his neck breaking, like the snapping of a biscuit, that she will always remember.  It had come just before he hit the floor.

That was nine years ago, Edward, come on, nobody would be interested now. The police abandoned the case long ago, they never found the body.

She presumed the note was from Edward.  Obtained her whereabouts somehow. Followed her from work, probably.  She placed the photographs in a line along her kitchen table.  She had hoped never to see them again and brooded for a while, chewing the inside of her lips, puckering the bridge of her nose between her fine arched brows.  He was persistent, if nothing else, the little bugger.  She would like to leave Hugo out of it but would probably have to talk to him sometime. She needed to meet with Edward, persuade him that his task was futile, nobody would be interested.

The incident was not forgotten, for sure, she still had nightmares remembering that evening.  Which was the trigger for her break-up with Hugo, who was mysteriously summoned to the family home in Greece the next day, his father ill and dying from a succession of heart attacks.  What a dreadful time that was, for all concerned.  She had never known that Edward had been there lurking in the background and had photographed the end result.  Until he turned up years later at a seminar she was giving and told her he had something he wanted to discuss with her.  They had met in a café off Lombard Street, and he had shown her the pictures.  Although she was deeply shocked, she showed no outward emotion and denied all knowledge, telling Edward in effect to leave her alone, nothing to do with her. She could well remember how her legs had trembled when she walked out on him, back to the office.

The sight of these incriminating photos along with Edward’s note laid out on the table was disturbing.  She topped up her glass and slumped on a couch.  Damn Edward, the horrible little brat; she never did take to him.

How much was the going rate for blackmail these days?

Perhaps her best bet was Hugo’s agent, mister fixit himself: Jake Preston.  Hugo had told her that it was Jake who took control during that night, had got rid of the body, dumped in an out-of-town supermarket waste tip, apparently. Dominic was over-sexed and that night he had been irascible, forceful and nothing short of violence would have stopped him.  He was abusing her, naked, forcing himself on her and it was only Hugo’s fortuitous intervention that had saved her.  The accident, Dominic’s fall, was just that: an accident.

Perhaps she should pay Edward off, making sure he destroyed all the photos, and then they could all move on.  How much would he want?  Maybe she would ask Hugo for the money, after all he had inherited a fortune from his father.  Edward would not know that and would pitch his price way too low.

Why should she have to pay?

She placed the envelope of pictures away safely, to lie flat on a high shelf in her bedroom wardrobe, underneath some folded jumpers, and forgot about it for a couple of days. 

part one

Frankfurt, September 6-7, 2015

1

Life was a risky business; always had been, Zap knew that. With only an older brother to occasionally protect him or slip him a welcome tenner, he had taken risks on his own before. He lived by his wits, his instincts. Which had served him pretty well up till now. Perhaps he was tempting providence this time, but Vanilla had been okay with it. If he had had any inkling of the serious risks to his young life, he would never have agreed to come.

‘Think of it as a privilege to be asked,’ Duke had whispered in his ear, pleadingly, last week in his posh Westminster apartment.  ‘Last minute planning, get you a temporary passport. We’ll make all the arrangements. Two nights in a luxury hotel, an interesting city, all expenses paid. There’ll be the other lads there. You’ll have fun.’  Duke had leered at him, the way he always did before they had sex.

Zap had remained uncertain, but the lure of a free trip abroad and a good payday had clinched it for him. From London City Airport early Sunday morning, on the same flight but in separate seats, so as not to be associated with each other, Zap understood that. Duke was a public figure, didn’t want to risk his reputation. The faded grandeur of the Steigenberger Frankfurter Hof was alright.  Stuffed with convention organisers and executives from every country he could think of, baggy political types, businessmen in slick suits, bustling women in bright lipstick clacking across the shiny marble floor of the lobby, all speaking such a variety of languages he gave up trying to understand them.  Not that any of them spoke to him or even noticed him. He was small, for a fifteen-year-old. He was a nobody, a pleb from a lower-class world. He breezed through the busy reception whenever, without any bother, using the service staircase to access Duke’s third-floor room.

So, there he was, a kid in a strange German hotel, servicing the pleasure of an old man and out to make some extra dosh for himself, that’s all.  Just making his way in the world.  Being cooperative, doing what was asked, staying in favour.  Not making waves. Opportunities would come, his brother always told him, sometimes in surprising places, and you have to grab them when you can.  But something Duke had said about a sneak in the woodpile, about newspaper journalists sniffing around, had made him jot his own name and details on hotel note paper that he found on the desk in Duke’s room, and slide it into an envelope. No address or anything, just slipped into the back pocket of his trousers, not sure why.

Duke clasped his silk gown to his wrinkly body and padded over to a corner drinks cabinet. ‘What would you like? A coke?’

Lying naked face down among the ruffled sheets, his pretty head resting on crossed arms, Zap called out cheekily: ‘Soppy coke, nah, I’ll ‘ave a gin, please, mister.’  He flicked his blond fringe out of his eyes. On the bedside table was an array of pill bottles Duke had brought with him, the full range: uppers, downers, beans, peps, boosters, whatever, diplomatically immune, no doubt. Zap reached across to snort at the remains of a thin white line of powder on the glass top, using a crisp curled up one hundred euro note.

‘Your reward will be unusually generous for the evening’s work,’ Duke had said. That was not his real name, obviously, it’s what he wanted to be called. Zap was not stupid. He knew who he was, without letting on, had seen his face on the computer, in the news. A peer of the bleedin’ realm, no less. ‘A hundred and fifty smackers per boy, cash. Euros, if you want.’

Zap could never understand where Duke got his odd phrases from: he was aristocracy. But a hundred and fifty quid was a hundred and fifty quid. He relaxed as Duke rested beside him on the bed and stroked the finest of hairs that glazed along Zap’s lower back.

––––––––

Straddling the bendy river Main, Germany’s most expensive city lay virtually at the geographical centre of the European Union.  Almost as well-known for its brothels as its international banks, Frankfurt had attracted over the past decade or two a most diverse cosmopolitan life, half its population and most of its young people having a migrant background. It swarmed with foreign nationals from dozens of places, like Turkey, Croatia and Italy.

Apart from the fact that two hundred assorted banking companies had settled there, the only other thing Olivia knew about Frankfurt was its world-famous annual book fair.  And its stock exchange, of course.  Oh, and it was home to that iconic German writer from goodness knows when, whose name she had forgotten for the moment.  She wanted to discover whether the city offered anything else and could match up to London, say, for desirability.

From the moment of her arrival at the airport earlier that Sunday morning, she had been surrounded by nerds from every European bank and financial organisation, her own sort, she ruefully supposed.  Once in the Hotel Steigenberger, she had tried to separate herself, seeking the few characters from the City she knew. Appropriately headquartered just along the river, the European Central Bank was sponsoring the weekend convention, so it was not a surprise, but she had vaguely hoped to be able to mix with a broader viewpoint.  Once the proceedings got going and the main subject of the conference was developed, she reassured herself, then she would be able to identify those with intelligent alternative opinions.

Olivia recalled that she had been to Frankfurt on two previous occasions. Once as a teenager with her father, when he was on a business trip, and she had had to entertain herself on her own for much of it, discovering a cobbled area of streets just over the river on the southern side with lovely eating places. The second time was with her girlfriend Beverley on a weekend city break, at the end of her student days. Wanting to enjoy the salacious experiences everyone else was talking about, they had shopped in the Zeil by day and hit the clubs at night. She tried her first snort of coke and hated the irritation it caused, recalling the giddy excitement as they set out over Untermainbrucke.  Half-way across she had leant against the mesh wire railing and stared into the swirling waters below, needing the fresh air blowing into her face for recovery.  Shortly after that she had felt sick and had to forego the raw fish buffet, eels and whitebait.  She drank tap water and nibbled crusty bread with a jolly crowd of tipsy university graduates sprawled under trees and fairy lights.

Milling about in the splendid lobby reception of the ECB tower building, with dozens of other delegates, she marvelled at the cathedral-like space and vast walls of shiny glass that allowed them views over the river. Following the President’s welcome address, bravely delivered in at least five languages against the hushed tinkling sounds of a buffet lunch, they had lounged comfortably through the afternoon in the semi-circular arena listening to formidable presentations on the European Commission’s energy strategy in the modern world, its targets for carbon emission reductions and renewable energy credits, all delivered in passable English.

It was a balmy twenty degrees outside, but inside the air-conditioned ambiance was perfect.  Most people were in loose casual autumn clothes.  During a short comfort break, Olivia, in navy jacket and slacks and modest heels, was tempted to explore the surrounding gardens outside where she saw a couple of men in funny hats clearing a flower bed. Although she had arrived earlier with a clear open approach, needing to learn and be educated like everyone else, several other unrelated topics kept popping uninvited into her mind. The casual little chat she had had with Charles Treadwell just last week, for one: about future directions and her possible role in the firm. He emphasised the areas that needed strengthening and the top floor wanting to establish a wealth management team.  Was he dangling a job promotion in front of her? He was adamant she attended Frankfurt: every institution needed to understand their investment policies in light of significant climate change issues, he said.  She could never tell whether he was genuine or just signalling his political correctness.

Treadwell seemed due a promotion himself, so what would become of his position?  Was he thinking she should be prepared to step up?  Would they want her, more to the point?  Confident she had given the right impression over the years, she mused who her competitors and rivals might be.

von Goethe, that was him, that famous German bloke: writer and philosopher.

Turning away from the windows, she re-joined the chatty bunch of ambitious professionals from the many business and political enclaves of Europe, shuffling in a scrum towards the refreshments. Fund managers, like her, investment bankers, businessmen and women, government lobbyists and various other functionaries, all in animated discussion about the precarious risks to Europe’s energy supply, whether the environmental campaigners would be appeased by progress to date, and how a world leader in motor manufacturing, Volkswagen, would deal with the alleged accusations of being involved in rigging its diesel emissions testing, affecting an estimated eleven million vehicles. And like her, all seeking a glimpse of the future, an investment opportunity or snippet of information that might guide a particular government policy.  Information was power, but not without some afternoon caffeine to stimulate their thoughts.

‘It’s hard to believe that a company of VW’s standing could be involved in such a thing,’ Olivia remarked to a Dutchman who had been hanging around with her since lunchtime. ‘It’ll trash their reputation.’

‘Nothing about the German car industry surprises me,’ he said enigmatically, as if there were other gobbets of evidence of treachery to be found if you looked hard enough.

‘EU energy policy seems to be in as much disarray as back in the UK, wouldn’t you say?’ some bright spark behind her observed.

Resisting the stacks of sticky pastries, she plucked a cup of black tea from a waitress in a blue gingham pinafore, as she edged forwards.  ‘Clear thinking among our European politicians where energy is concerned is rather unusual.’

‘They make it so complicated, don’t you think?’

‘At least politics makes it so,’ Olivia agreed.  Her immediate crowd all nodded wisely as they sipped earnestly at their cups.

An Italian banker with an immaculate tan and greased locks, whose shirt, open a long way down his front, emitted a particularly aromatic cologne, murmured: ‘Look at the sudden way Germany abandons its nuclear programme completely across the board, only to find they have not enough of their own supplies to replace it. I tell you, Chancellor Merkel will be sucking up to the Russians before long begging for some of their gas.’

With a noticeable upwards twitch of an eyebrow, Olivia could not resist: ‘Dear Angela has committed her beloved Deutschland to the highest carbon emissions in Europe.’

Moving in a counter direction, another pushy group of delegates in suits with open shirts and shiny office shoes, was as determined as any to acquire their coffee and pastries gratis. Amongst over-loud chatting about some of the discoveries to be made around the city, the language English but in a whole mix of accents, order soon degenerated into a free-for-all.  Olivia had given up discerning every bit of conversation around her. She concentrated on protecting her drink from being knocked over as she backed away from the scrum around the line of tables. She bumped into someone, their bottoms knocking.  The man had been backing away from the immediate throng with a tower in one hand of two cups of hot drinks with saucers and a plate of cakes balanced on top. ‘Sorry.’ Her teacup clattered as she turned around.  A good-looking clean-shaven bloke with tousled brown hair and a school tie, who looked vaguely familiar to her, was offering pained apologies.  He had a bundle of papers and the golden insignia lettering of the conference introductory pack under one arm.

‘So sorry.  Forgive me. Oh ... hello,’ he exclaimed.  She had definitely seen him before, but it took his polite utterance of the magic words for her to remember: ‘The UK general election, May this year?’

She stood back as best she could to get a wider view, tilting her head, squinting just a little, waiting for further clues.

‘Conservative Central Office, the day after polling. And you were being congratulated - I was in the crowd around you wondering who you were.’  He stood a pace away, gawping with surprised pleasure. ‘Or do I have that wrong?’

A couple of Olivia’s companions were gathered around her, listening. ‘No, I think you’re right.’  She smiled at last, liking his soft mouth and gentle brown eyes that conferred a friendly demeanour.  ‘I’m Olivia.’

‘Yes, yes: Olivia Truelove. Simon Ellwood. That was a great time. Winning elections is always such fun.’

Warmed by his remembering her name, she gushed: ‘Yes, I seem to remember that you were in a pretty jubilant mood. Very inebriated and red cheeked,’ she chuckled.

‘We had all had a bubbly drink or two, don’t mind admitting it.’

Pressed closer by the surrounding melee, Simon’s tower of teacups wobbled precariously.

‘Enjoying the meeting?’ Olivia asked with a raised voice to be heard, focusing her attention on Simon’s crockery with agonising anticipation. ‘Who are you with?’

‘Well, I’m a special adviser now.  With the Department of Energy. Ludovic Blake and Alan Blenkinsop - my ministers, I call them.’

‘Oh, really.  You have landed on your ... well, on your something anyway.’  They laughed.

‘Sorry, I have to be at a negotiation meeting with some French men in a minute. Hence the extra cup and cakes.’  His wide eyes projected his apologies, while no doubt thinking why the hell go to a meeting with the French when he could spend a pleasant five minutes with the most attractive woman in the room. ‘Tell you about it later. At the cocktail reception, this evening, perhaps?’ His eyes crinkled as he willed her to agree.

Olivia curiously eyed her companions who were still crowded around, showing enthusiasm.  She nodded at Simon. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for anything.  Want to hear how you’ve managed to climb that greasy pole.’

Backing away with childish delight, the balancing act still intact, he called, ‘No problem. That would be good. To be sure.’

Was that an Irish lilt, she was thinking, as he retreated uncertainly through the crowd of suits?  While Olivia moved away with her small group of new friends, she missed his backward glances in her direction, at least twice.

*

Simon Ellwood understood he had no real freedom away from his boss.  The Right Honourable Ludovic Blake, Member of Parliament for Hayes & Harlington, Parliamentary Under Secretary Department of Energy and Climate Change, could demand his presence at any time, any hour. And often did. That was the nature of the job. Blake wanted a discreet rehearsal with the team in a private room before their scheduled contract meeting with the French in half an hour.

‘Do we know if the Chinese will be there?’ he had asked several times during their early morning flight.  Everyone just looked blank. ‘We’ve not had a confirmation,’ Simon volunteered.  The others shrugged in agreement.

‘There’s a lot riding on this meeting, Simon,’ Blake had murmured as they progressed through arrivals at Frankfurt airport. Simon had been admiring the honeycomb ceiling effects in the modern terminal building. There’s my career advancement riding on this meeting for one thing, he thought, as they stumbled out to join the queue for the VIP transport.

‘I hope I’ve been suitably briefed,’ Blake continued in worried tones, when they had settled in the deep leather of a swish Mercedes.  Ludovic Blake had not been in his Cabinet position long, recently promoted on the strength of his passion for the energy brief and desire to poke one in the eye of the Russians.  The fact that his sister used to play tennis with the prime minister, in some leafy private club in the Cotswolds when they were on vacation from university, many years ago, probably helped.  Still relatively junior and finding his feet and determined to take advantage of the current political trend for all things environmental, he felt confident in his role, knowing that he would trump his Secretary of State soon enough.

‘You’ve had all the papers in your box for a week,’ Simon reminded him, taking in a mixed waft of Blake’s pungent after-shave and body odour.  As they inched out into the busy traffic, Simon had caught sight of bright sunshine playing across the glittering city buildings in the distance and felt a flutter of excitement.

‘You don’t honestly suppose that I read in minute detail all the crap I get in my box, do you?  They regularly fill the thing up with nonsense stuff just to keep me occupied.’  By they, he meant his wonderfully supportive and well-oiled team of civil servants back at base, who would at that very moment be rooting for the home side.  ‘That’s what I have you for, Simon.’  Blake honestly thought his particular version of ministerial belligerence was amusing.

‘Well, I’ve been through the proposed agreement, and it is as we expected, no surprises.’  In fact, it ran to over two hundred pages of tedious small print, with some dodgy French-to-English translations, and Simon had skipped most of it to get to the bottom line.  Which of course was missing: how much were the French expecting to charge the UK customer per gigawatt hour of power generated from the nuclear plant at Hinkley Point, currently under construction.

His other ‘minister’ on this trip, also Parliamentary Under Secretary in the Energy Department, was the older and equally honourable Alan Blenkinsop. A more subdued character, less talkative but no less an intellect, he had slumped back in his seat with a copy of the Financial Times on his lap, and with the warm rhythmic movements of the car, it was not long before his head had lolled back and his eyelids drooped.

As he headed straight up to the first floor, Simon’s mind was delightfully bubbling with images of Olivia Truelove.  In a stuffy oak-lined meeting room, he found Blake pacing the limited floor space, talking animatedly while Blenkinsop listened quietly, his bottom perched on the back of a chair.  A secretary crouched nearby with a note pad and biro to hand, while a couple of other besuited functionaries from the Department with touch-screen tablets crowded beside her. Bright daylight poured into the room from behind them, highlighting Blake’s familiar stance, the slight arch to his back, his stocky shape.

‘Simon, there you are. Come in. Oh, bless you,’ he said taking the top cup and saucer from Simon’s tower, plonking the plate of cakes down on a table.  ‘Rutherford not coming?’ he asked, pouring the spilt tea from the saucer back into his cup.

‘Mr Rutherford is tied up with his opposite numbers on the EU energy committee, he sends his apologies,’ one of the supporters offered.

Blake nodded.  ‘Let’s hope someone finds a way of cutting him loose.  Okay.  We have a dilemma, Simon, about our approach to this deal.’  Blake had been strutting about in his heavy brown brogues, counting points off on his fingers. A grammar school education had instilled a pugnacious approach to his attitude, which helped him suppress his natural affinity for an Estuary accent.  The jacket of his off-the-peg crumpled grey suit stretched around his belly and its lowest button was under some tension.  With his tight curly light brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses, he looked more television producer than politician.  But his smooth authoritative face commanded the attention of the room.

‘The PM, as you are all aware, wants us to come back with a deal. No matter what.  Wants us to compromise, if we have to, but securing the promise of Hinckley Point is a must.  But Lord Alan here has his doubts.’  He tilted his head toward the older man, barely hiding his irritation, and then slurped more lukewarm tea from his cup.

‘I am concerned by the precarious nature of the existing situation,’ Blenkinsop intoned.  While Blake was always on the move, arms waving, hands gesturing, pacing up and down, head swivelling, Alan Blenkinsop was by contrast calmly still.  Supremely well-groomed as usual, in a powder-grey hand-crafted wool suit, crisp white shirt and silk Etonian tie, resembling a company chairman, Blenkinsop oozed wealth with good taste.  He quietly proceeded: ‘Although this whole deal is dressed up to appear to be with EDF, one of France’s biggest corporations and recognised as a big player in the global energy markets, we all know that there is considerable Chinese interest and investment. Indeed, it is a crucial move for China, with its ambition of further nuclear deals within the European Union and especially with the United Kingdom.  But the extent of its investment remains unclear.  It is uncertain how much they will be in control, although EDF continuously play this down. EDF will be installing their own designed pressurised water reactors, which have already run into difficulties elsewhere.  The Chinese are seeking a commitment to supply its smaller reactors, untested anywhere in the West, may I remind you, which they want to place at Sizewell and Bradwell.  How robust is their data?’

Officials from the Energy Department had rehearsed these arguments several times already over many months of snail-like progress. They never seemed to have the right timely information in front of them when they wanted it. ‘Costs must be escalating enormously,’ someone else ventured.  ‘And delays, we are at least five years behind schedule already.’ It all seemed a touch unreal to Simon, as they were having to focus their attention on a project that would not be up and running for another ten years, at least.

Blake handed his cup aside, for someone else to dispense with.  ‘EDF remain coy; they keep emphasising in public what a great deal we will be getting,’ he said, punching one fist into the palm of his other hand.

‘Which makes me even more suspicious,’ added Blenkinsop, almost under his breath.  The junior team shrugged, but Blake frowned.

Whereas Blenkinsop was forever suspicious, predicting disaster at every turn, Blake always wanted to bring out the positive.  Simon was beginning to understand his method, believing it was the right thing for him. The voting public liked optimism, wanting the good news story, not the real grim truth. They were always happy to accept jam tomorrow.  The route to success meant telling them about the good things that were happening, the great achievements that were on the way.  And it was Blake who had the ambitions to go further, Number Ten if he could.  Simon understood that those in politics who flirted with telling the truth, didn’t stand a chance.  Better to lie and win than be honest and lose, that was Blake’s maxim. 

‘The proposed cost to the consumer will likely be astronomic,’ added Blenkinsop.  ‘I say we bluff our way out without a deal unless they are prepared to come down and be held to it, no going back later.’ 

Blake came to a stop in the middle of the room, hands pleading. ‘No, we need to strike a deal at this meeting. Whatever, we can always renegotiate downwards later if the delays arise, or the costs burgeon upwards.’ He paused, for once standing still, staring at Simon full in the eye. ‘Simon?’

Not for the first time, Simon was being used as the referee, to help them decide what would be the best way forward. At that moment he had something completely different on his mind, marvelling at his good fortune bumping into Olivia like that.  He realised how different she was as a City person: she was attractive, bright, had her wits about her. Not a strand of her beach blonde hair out of place, the emphatic lips, her whole persona in control, something suggestive of the fashion model. Maintaining her look of perfection amongst the hurly-burly of such a male dominated profession deserved a medal in itself.  He could not think of another woman in that world or in his own political circles for that matter quite like her. Maybe the inevitable tedium of this brief conference might be relieved an inkling by a sprinkling of something exciting.  He couldn’t resist the flicker of a smile.

‘Do you have any insight with your opposite numbers?’ Blake was asking.

Simon had to shake himself out of his reverie and quickly concentrate his mind on French Chinese collusion and megawatt pricing.  He hated backroom deals between two parties that would split a third party and his natural instinct was to distrust them all.  ‘Look, they are all out for themselves, no one is going to bend over backwards to give us a good deal. We can agree on any pricing structure within reason, it will all be forgotten in a few years by the paying public amongst all the other hype. The crucial bigger picture here is how much Chinese dominance we are prepared to accept, and how close does it come to weakening our national security.’

‘Prevarication may be the order of the day,’ suggested Blenkinsop slowly.

‘Precisely,’ agreed Simon.

––––––––

Twenty minutes later, Simon guided his two ministers towards the shiny elevators, the rest of the team following.  They were