they’re up to, who they’re talking to, what they’re spending money on.’ He paused. ‘Helps keep things neat and tidy, knowing what they’re about.’
‘And Alloway?’
‘He knows what they’re about. He’s advising them.’
‘And does he tell us?’
‘So far, yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Patriotism.’ Stollmann shrugged. ‘His word, not mine.’
‘I see.’ I nodded, glancing down at the file again. Mrs Alloway had a point. Sandwiched between MI5, MI6 and Baghdad, her husband was doubtless finding life extremely uncomfortable. I looked up again. ‘So what next?’ I said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
There was another silence. Stollmann reached across for thefile and extracted a photograph from a pocket at the back.
‘Mrs Alloway,’ he said.
I looked at the photo. Beth Alloway had a nice smile, a small shy grin, revealing slightly crooked front teeth. I glanced up. Stollmann was flicking through the digest of the MP’s letter, his finger racing down each page.
‘So far she’s only gone to Priddy,’ he said carefully. ‘It would be a shame if she went anywhere else.’
‘What’s he told her?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How much does he know?’
‘Quite a lot.’
‘But he doesn’t want to be compromised?’
‘Exactly.’
I nodded, turning over the photo, reading the scribbled message on the back. The message had been for Clive Alloway. The photo was evidently a relic from happier times. I glanced up. ‘You want me to go and talk to her?’
‘Yes.’
‘On the quiet? Tell her not to rock the boat? Talk about…’ I paused, ‘the national interest?’
‘Yes,’ Stollmann said, ‘and take a look at Priddy, too.’
4
Stollmann let me photocopy three of the documents in the file. I read them on the train to Wolverhampton the following afternoon. I felt very odd, clattering through the trading estates north of London, trying to work out how Whitehall would ever square the circle: making lots of money out of the Iraqis while denouncing them to all and sundry. There was doubtless a logic in it somewhere, but from where I sat it looked like simple hypocrisy. What was I going to say to Mrs Alloway? How was I going to put it?
The MP, Lawrence Priddy, met the train at Wolverhampton. I’d phoned him from London on Stollmann’s advice. He was younger than I’d expected, tall, slightly stooped, with a careful parting and a mirthless smile. He stood on the platform, looking me up and down, a physical appraisal no less disgusting for being so frank. I’d dressed carefully for this occasion – sensible skirt, high-necked sweater, minimum make-up – but there are bits of me it’s hard to disguise.
‘Sarah,’ he said at once, offering a cursory handshake. ‘Welcome.’
We drove to a nearby hotel, a gloomy, red-brick Victorian establishment. Priddy ordered tea at reception and led me through to a small parlour. The staff were immensely respectful. Evidently, he came here often.
In the parlour, we settled into a couple of uncomfortable mock-leather armchairs, Priddy immediately in command, the kind of facile, effortless charm that comes with a five-figure majority and a promising career. Overnight, I’d done a little research. The man was bone dry, right of centre and had recently become parliamentary private secretary to one of the junior ministers atthe DTI. His constituency was out in Shropshire, a comfortable forty minutes from the ghettos of the black country. Clive and Beth Alloway lived there too, though I fancied in rather less style.
A waitress brought cakes and a tray of tea, and I played mother while Priddy told me a little more about Clive Alloway, not bothering to hide the fact that he had little regard for the man. He was, he said, one of the smaller cogs in the West Midlands machine tools sector, running his consultancy partly from home, partly from his car phone and partly from a seedy two-room office somewhere in the depths of Walsall. He’d been acting as an agent
‘And Alloway?’
‘He knows what they’re about. He’s advising them.’
‘And does he tell us?’
‘So far, yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Patriotism.’ Stollmann shrugged. ‘His word, not mine.’
‘I see.’ I nodded, glancing down at the file again. Mrs Alloway had a point. Sandwiched between MI5, MI6 and Baghdad, her husband was doubtless finding life extremely uncomfortable. I looked up again. ‘So what next?’ I said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
There was another silence. Stollmann reached across for thefile and extracted a photograph from a pocket at the back.
‘Mrs Alloway,’ he said.
I looked at the photo. Beth Alloway had a nice smile, a small shy grin, revealing slightly crooked front teeth. I glanced up. Stollmann was flicking through the digest of the MP’s letter, his finger racing down each page.
‘So far she’s only gone to Priddy,’ he said carefully. ‘It would be a shame if she went anywhere else.’
‘What’s he told her?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How much does he know?’
‘Quite a lot.’
‘But he doesn’t want to be compromised?’
‘Exactly.’
I nodded, turning over the photo, reading the scribbled message on the back. The message had been for Clive Alloway. The photo was evidently a relic from happier times. I glanced up. ‘You want me to go and talk to her?’
‘Yes.’
‘On the quiet? Tell her not to rock the boat? Talk about…’ I paused, ‘the national interest?’
‘Yes,’ Stollmann said, ‘and take a look at Priddy, too.’
4
Stollmann let me photocopy three of the documents in the file. I read them on the train to Wolverhampton the following afternoon. I felt very odd, clattering through the trading estates north of London, trying to work out how Whitehall would ever square the circle: making lots of money out of the Iraqis while denouncing them to all and sundry. There was doubtless a logic in it somewhere, but from where I sat it looked like simple hypocrisy. What was I going to say to Mrs Alloway? How was I going to put it?
The MP, Lawrence Priddy, met the train at Wolverhampton. I’d phoned him from London on Stollmann’s advice. He was younger than I’d expected, tall, slightly stooped, with a careful parting and a mirthless smile. He stood on the platform, looking me up and down, a physical appraisal no less disgusting for being so frank. I’d dressed carefully for this occasion – sensible skirt, high-necked sweater, minimum make-up – but there are bits of me it’s hard to disguise.
‘Sarah,’ he said at once, offering a cursory handshake. ‘Welcome.’
We drove to a nearby hotel, a gloomy, red-brick Victorian establishment. Priddy ordered tea at reception and led me through to a small parlour. The staff were immensely respectful. Evidently, he came here often.
In the parlour, we settled into a couple of uncomfortable mock-leather armchairs, Priddy immediately in command, the kind of facile, effortless charm that comes with a five-figure majority and a promising career. Overnight, I’d done a little research. The man was bone dry, right of centre and had recently become parliamentary private secretary to one of the junior ministers atthe DTI. His constituency was out in Shropshire, a comfortable forty minutes from the ghettos of the black country. Clive and Beth Alloway lived there too, though I fancied in rather less style.
A waitress brought cakes and a tray of tea, and I played mother while Priddy told me a little more about Clive Alloway, not bothering to hide the fact that he had little regard for the man. He was, he said, one of the smaller cogs in the West Midlands machine tools sector, running his consultancy partly from home, partly from his car phone and partly from a seedy two-room office somewhere in the depths of Walsall. He’d been acting as an agent
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