The Deputy Prime Minister

CHAPTER ONE

The host leant forward a little in his chair before asking his next question.

Clarke, you have been accused of denigrating one of Britain’s great heroes. How do you react to that?

The first thing to remember, I replied, realising that the small talk of the introduction was now over, is that the central character of my book never really existed, or should I say no historical record of his existence can be found. He is a legend, a myth, and as such he can be interpreted in a number of different ways. I paused, allowing the host to interject if he wished to. He didn’t. If he had existed, however, he would have been a man of his time, no more and no less. The legend describes Robin Hood as being an outlaw. My book takes that premise and describes him in terms of the reality of an outlaw of the 12th Century, what he would have been like, how he would have behaved, and how those around him would have behaved. Its all in keeping with the turbulent times that existed then.

But he is one of the great heroes of British history, how could you describe him as you do, as a murderer and rapist?

That is precisely my point, Victor. He doesn’t appear in history, he only appears in legend. He is a set of stories handed down by people who needed a hero, a man of the people, to stand up for them. He didn’t really exist, so people invented him. If he had existed I think history would have recorded him as being someone very different, which is how I describe him.

So you don’t see Robin Hood as stealing from the rich and giving to the poor.

Not quite. I have him stealing from anyone who he came across, and its far more profitable to steal from the rich than it is to from the poor. Giving poor people money could be seen as a bribe to persuade them not to betray him to the authorities for the reward money. Not quite so altruistic, I agree, but possibly a more likely motivation for a thief to give away money.

Many people are up in arms about your book, saying you are anti British, anti heroes. How do you react to that?

Lets be clear, my book has a lot of copies so far. It is the media, especially the more right wing newspapers, who are up in arms. The public seems to like my book and the interpretation I place on a period of history.

OK, but the newspapers suggest that it won’t be long before you are portraying Nelson, Wellington, possibly even Churchill as criminals, just to sell books.

Unlikely, I think. The people you named were real people and history has a lot to say about them. It would be hard for me to portray them in any other way and still keep my books credible. I paused to let my point sink in. I hope that my readers will always remember that I am telling stories, not recounting history. That I leave to others.

So, you might think of writing a similar book about another mythical hero, such as, for example, King Arthur.

Well, I might, if Bernard Cornwall hadn’t done such a good job already.

But Bernard Cornwall didn’t have his hero raping women.

Two separate points there. In his Arthur series Bernard Cornwall leaves all the raping and pillaging to the Saxons. The reality would have been different, with the Celtic warriors doing as much raping of the people they conquered as the Saxons did. In his Sharp series, set around the Peninsular War, he makes it clear that the Redcoats weren’t averse to raping the Spanish occupants of cities that they took by storm. I paused to gather my strength for my final sally. No one accuses Cornwall of being anti-British when he describes the rape of Badajoz.

Victor Maddox conceded the point, then turned to the other guests on the show to bring them into the conversation. I relaxed, satisfied that I had argued my case well, as a minor pop singer admitted that she hadn’t even heard of Badajoz, and had no idea where the Peninsular War had been fought, though she thought that Sean Bean was cute. The conversation moved on into a lighter vein, and the last few minutes of the show drifted towards their end.

The Floor Manager shouted clear and Victor, myself and the other guests rose and shook hands, prior to leaving the set. The audience filed out and I headed for the make-up room to have the slap removed from my face. I didn’t plan on going up to the green room for drinks. No disrespect to either my host or the other guests, I just didn’t feel in the mood for sausage rolls and cocktail party chit-chat.

To tell you the truth, television isn’t my media. This was my first appearance and might well be my last. Given a free choice I wouldn’t have done it, but my publishers said we needed to counter the mauling we were getting in the popular press. My medium is the printed word and always has been, and that is where I believe my future lies.

I had always enjoyed writing, even from an early age. My favourite school lessons had been the ones where we were required to write stories. I never had any trouble writing several pages about what I had done on my holidays. I even wrote stories when I was at home. Rainy afternoons were never a problem for me, as I lost myself in the world of some imaginary character that I had created. I often placed myself as the hero, though that has changed since then.

With my enjoyment of writing it is no surprise to anyone when I studied journalism at University. I had some half formed idea about becoming the next doyen of Fleet Street, but the reality was somewhat different. I never got as far as the local free sheet, let alone Fleet Street.

My first job after Uni was as the assistant editor of a corporate magazine. You know, one of those glossy publications which try to convince the employees that their jobs are important in the great corporate scheme of things. Well, the job title said assistant editor, but as the only other member of staff was the editor herself that title was a little on the grand side. The editor was one of those terribly busy women who is always rushing off to meetings. That left me pretty much to my own devices as far as the magazine was concerned, but the end of the first year I was bored with ‘Mary From Accounts Wins £10 on Lottery’ type stories.

From there I went into PR as a copywriter. I had never had much time for PR when I was younger, but now I found that PR people weren’t the Spawn of Satan as they are often portrayed. They’re just ordinary people who try to help other ordinary people look good to their public, whoever their public happens to be. In my case I wrote glossy brochures for sales reps, pamphlets to go inside mail-shots and that sort of thing, for a couple of years, then went up a notch to help out with writing press releases.

In due course the company decided to open a branch in one of the toughest markets in the world: Hollywood. Many small film studios and production companies can’t afford to maintain a full time PR department, so as a consultancy that was where we came in. Jolly interesting it was as well. A full campaign would start with a carefully orchestrated rumour that a production was being considered, through to start up press releases, then perhaps a behind the scenes TV production, if the film was going to be particularly spectacular. That was then followed by pre-release publicity, release publicity, and then post release publicity. I went on the TV and radio circuit, baby-sitting the stars as they gave their interviews. I even ended up in the Green Room of Victor Maddox’s show on more than one occasion, when I brought the whole circus to Britain.

But the bubble had to burst. We were a small outfit by American standards, and our Branch Manager eventually moved on to pastures new. I waited patiently for the call to tell me I was replacing him, but it never came. Instead I went to work one day to find a stranger sat at the Boss’s desk. We discussed my future, and it appeared that I didn’t have one. He was going to bring in his own people, so there wasn’t any room for me. I could go back to my old job in London, or .....

To say I threw my toys out of the cot would be an understatement. With the benefit of hind sight that probably wasn’t a good idea. One never knows when one will need a little good will from an ex-employer. But boy, did it make me feel good.

From there I bummed around  for a while. The pay in Hollywood had been generous, and I had little time to spend any of it, so I came back quite comfortably off. At a party one night I spent the whole evening regaling my friends with stories of what Hollywood was really like. As I left one of them said the stories had been really funny, and maybe I should write them down and get them published. Of such chance encounters great empires are built. I did just as had been suggested. The book was a moderate success, certainly making me enough money to bum around for another year.

Then I wrote a novel about how boring bumming around is, and that was moderately successful as well. What had started out as a simple childhood pleasure had turned into gainful employment. Outlaw© was my fifth book, and by far my most successful, so far anyway.

I sat in a chair and one of the make-up artists started swabbing my face with cold cream. With my eyes closed I felt, rather than saw, the neighbouring seat being filled. I looked towards the mirror and recognised the face of a well respected political journalist. He smiled towards me as another make-up artist started to apply a dusting of powder to his forehead.

Good show. He commented. You made a good point about Robin Hood having been a man of his time, at least if he had ever existed.

Thanks. Have you read the book?

No, not yet. I don’t get much time for leisure reading. He added hurriedly No offence meant.

None taken. I always feel that the books that I write belong on sunlit beaches, accompanied by something tall and cool.

Have you anything new under way? my neighbour asked.

Not yet. I’m off to the sun to catch up on my leisure reading for a couple of weeks, then who knows? I’ve been thinking of doing something a little more contemporary. Perhaps a thriller.

He fished in his inside pocket and offered something across the gap between our seats.

My card. He explained. Give me a ring when you get back. I may have something of interest to you.

The make-up woman had finished her work on him, his healthy tan requiring, as it did , little attention. He rose from his seat, tossed me a quick Bye for now and left the room. I examined the small cardboard rectangle as I rose from my own seat. It contained only two bits of information, his name, Steven Rycroft, and a telephone number.

I have to say I was intrigued. Steven Rycroft has a well deserved reputation as a hard hitting journalist, known to ask embarrassing questions of politicians of all parties without fear or favour. What he could have of interest to me I could hardly imagine. I made a mental note, later to be transferred to my diary, to give him a ring on my return from Tenerife. With that I left the studio and returned home to see how my cat had enjoyed my TV appearance.

I live alone in a one bedroom flat in the unfashionable part of Islington. I don’t live alone by choice, but I never seemed to have managed to get around to getting married. Well that’s not strictly true. There had been a long term relationship, which I had thought might become marriage, when I had lived in LA, but that had ended abruptly when I found out she was seeing at least two other men. Since coming back to the UK I had joined the bachelor circuit, going round from dinner party to dinner party to make up the numbers, and being forced into the company of females who were just as uncomfortable with the situation as I was. What is it about married friends that makes them see it as their bounden duty to play matchmaker at every opportunity?

I must admit that I accepted the invitations without hesitation. As a single thirty-something one’s social life is pretty limited if you avoid your married friends, and an evening of small talk with a female stranger is a small price to pay for a home cooked meal. OK, some of the women  I was introduced to were attractive and/or witty and intelligent, and under other circumstances I might have asked them out, but I’m afraid that I was determined not to give my friends the satisfaction of thinking they could pick out potential partners for me.

One of the potential partners confided in me that she felt exactly the same way. We stayed in contact for a while, comparing notes and scandal from the various dinner parties we attended, but eventually she found Mr Right, at a friend’s dinner party, and so it was goodbye from her.

I was on the publishing circuit now, which got me invites to book launches, gallery openings and those sort of events. At these I had met some very nice women, and had even gone out with a few as a result of those encounters, but as relationships they never seem to go very far.

There was always that ‘third date’ stage where we would sit looking at each other across a restaurant table, each waiting for the other to say the words that would lead to some sort of longer term commitment. Nothing heavy, you understand. We’re not talking about moving in, or marriage, or anything like that, but just making the shift from casual dating to being ‘an item’. The words never seemed to come, and so we would part, promising to get in touch soon, but each knowing that the other didn’t really mean it. I had to face up to the possibility that I was becoming a full time bachelor. Before long I would be buying a season ticket for the Arsenal and taking up a golf.

The only significant other in my life at present was my cat. His name, for some obscure reason, was Alice. I had inherited him from a cousin who had moved abroad, but we had, so far, failed to hit it off. After two years of sharing the same space this was not encouraging. Don’t get me wrong, I love cats and usually they love me, especially when I have a tin opener in my hand, but Alice seemed to resent everything about me. My arrival home was usually Alice’s signal to disappear through the cat flap, or at least to leave the room. As I arrived home tonight he did both. I don’t think he had even watched my television appearance.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have called him Alice.

CHAPTER TWO

Holidays are always too brief, and I returned to a chilly London to find the entrance to my small flat blocked with two weeks worth of mail, most of it junk. Hearing me arrive my neighbour, a pleasant if somewhat forgetful elderly lady, carried Alice through the open front door. I tried not to feel hurt as the cat paid more attention to my luggage than it did to me. Lilly and I exchanged a few words about my holiday, with me continually referring to Tenerife and her continually asking about Italy.

Lilly left after a few minutes, still under the impression that I had gone to Italy for my holiday. I put food down for the cat, as I usually did on my return from any trip. Lilly is a wonderful woman, but not having a cat of her own she occasionally forgets when she is looking after mine, and so it is not unusual for Alice to be returned to my keeping with an appetite to rival that of a Sumo wrestler on a diet.

I left the cat tucking into a plate of something brown and smelly, and headed for the tiny alcove I refer to as my office. I switched on the computer and started tackling a fortnight’s backlog of e-mails. The majority were from the readers of my latest novel, the one I had been interviewed about by Victor Maddox, which had been forwarded by my publisher. I was pleased to note that the general feeling was that I had painted a realistic picture of the anti-hero, Robin Hood. Only a few were the deranged rantings of right wing bigots who thought Robin Hood was not only a real person, but a great British hero. I triggered of a series of standard replies, in keeping with the view of the original correspondents, and concentrated on the genuine business e-mails that sat in my in-box.

The first was from my agent, reminding me that I had a meeting with her to discuss my new contract with my publishers. On the back of my current book, Outlaw©,  she hoped to get me a much better deal. Good news for me. Perhaps I might move out of my shoe box and find something a little more in keeping with being a successful author. Yeah, and pigs might fly I thought, as I remembered the ridiculous price of property inside the  circle of the M25.

The second e-mail took me a bit by surprise. It was from Steven Rycroft, repeating his invitation to talk, and suggesting dinner the following week. I typed a quick note of acceptance, anxious not to let the opportunity slip away. Curiouser and curiouser, I thought, totally without originality. The good Steven obviously had something eating at him.

Once people find out that you are an author they often tell you what a wonderful idea they have for a story. They are usually wrong, and I don’t encourage people like that. Steven Rycroft, however, was different. Firstly he is a published author in his own right. OK, he writes non-fiction, but that doesn’t change the basic fact. Secondly, Rycroft will know many writers because he works in television, where everyone is a writer, or thinks they are.  If he was pursuing me then he must have a good reason, or at least my natural arrogance allowed me to think so.

I quickly worked through the remaining e-mails, and then shut down my computer. I was tired after my flight, as well as hungry. I put Steven Rycroft out of my mind and settled back into my normal domestic routine. My cat continued to ignore me and went off to sleep in the centre of my bed.

* * *

I arrived at Steven Rycroft’s front door at the appointed time. It was a pleasant enough looking terraced house in Fulham, which had stayed very fashionable with media types despite the Jill Dando murder. The door was opened by an  attractive woman, who introduced herself as Valerie, Steven’s PA. I tried to suppress thoughts about possible alternative meanings for the initials PA. Well, she was very attractive.

A man would have to be made of stone to find Valerie anything other than attractive. She was quite tall, probably near to 6 feet in height. She had elegant curves, which were obvious even though she tried to keep them modestly hidden beneath a severe business suit. Her face was squarish, her cheeks descending from high cheek bones to a slightly pointed chin. Her eyes were a deep brown, competing with the deep chestnut colour of her short cut hair. She could have walked down any cat walk in Europe had she chosen to, and graced the cover of many a magazine. That she was working for Steven Rycroft I considered to be very opportune. I hoped to get to know Valerie a lot better.

Valerie offered me a glass of wine, telling me that Steven was in the kitchen preparing dinner, and would be out in a moment. She disappeared upstairs, returning a few minutes later wearing a coat. She called towards the back of the house, telling Steven that she’d be off now then. A muffled shout was returned, as Valerie closed the front door behind her.

I surveyed the room, trying to divine who the off screen Steven Rycroft might be. The room was plainly if comfortably furnished. A few tasteful if inexpensive prints adorned the walls, but the overall impression of the room was of comfortable utility. Pied a Terre I concluded. A Monday to Friday residence. Steven’s real home, I guessed, was somewhere else. Pictures of a little woman making jam in a country cottage sprang to mind, along with pictures of Valerie wearing something sheer and slinky as she typed Steven’s e-mails in Steven’s London house.

I heard a sound behind me and turned to see Steven entering the room, a glass of white wine in his hand, which he offered to me. I rose to greet him, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, but never threatened to injure. Steven is quite a large man, and such people are occasionally inclined to forget their own strength.

Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Steven advised me, as he waved me back into my chair.

Will your wife be joining us? I fished.

No, not today. He didn’t elaborate, and so I decided to let the matter lie. Steven asked me about my holiday, and we spent the few minutes before dinner discussing the delights of the Canary