Chapter 7: Chicks with Dixies
One of the problems with the fete was trying to keep track of Rory. I almost wished, like Stig, we could just shut him in the boot room with a bowl of biscuits for a few hours. He’d just disappeared for the third time that morning (under a tractor? On top of the shed? Into a giant tea urn?) and I was rushing around, mildly demented by this stage, when I was grabbed by Barbara from the Parish Council.
“You do know about poor Juliet?” she asked me, brandishing a scary looking breadknife.
“Who?” I asked impatiently, “Look, has anybody seen Rory, my little boy?” I lifted up a starched white cloth to check under the trestle table and was clucked at by the tea delegation.
“Monty’s widow,” Barbara explained.
“Um,no. Should I know about her? She’s not coming is she? I mean, I don’t think Vivian was expecting her after all that’s happened. Guy!” I called out as he passed the kitchen door, a posse of bearded, dapper gentlemen in tow.
“Have you seen Rory? He’s vanished again.”
“I think I spotted him playing with Jon in the orchard. Your Dad’s turned up,” he added, “Let me just sort the band out and I’ll go and round him up.”
“Who, Dad or Rory?”
“Both. Don’t worry about him, he’ll be fine. Er, looks like someone wants you,” he indicated a glowering Barbara, still holding her knife in a threatening manner.
“I may have to abandon the teas and take care of her,” she was saying.
“Who? OK, whatever,” I agreed, “I’ll hunt down a stand-in, maybe my friend Estelle can lend a hand.” I had just spotted her, a bright splash of colour in the orchard, laughing with Jon and Rory. She must have got a lift up with Dad after all.
“Stells!” I shouted, “And Rory, you little ratbag, stop running off.”
“Hi darlin’,” Estelle greeted me, “Lovely day for it, but I brought my wellies just in case. My bag’s in the car. We’ve only just got here and I found this gorgeous young man!” she added happily. I cast a quick, embarrassed glance at Jon, who was in his off-duty get up of green shirt and red cords, still managing to look handsome despite the dubious trousers. Estelle followed my gaze and blushed under her Bobbi Brown foundation.
“Not him, this one!” she hissed, holding up Rory’s hand.
“Auntie Lellie!” giggled my son, charmed as ever by his glamorous godmother.
“Boy, have I got some gossip for you,” she added sotto voce, as Jon made his excuses and ambled off to the beer tent.
“Already?” I marvelled.
“Nooo! Even I don’t work that fast. Hey, what was with those trousers anyway? Is that a country thing? Anyway,” she went on, grabbing my shoulder with a be-ringed hand and setting her bracelets jangling, “I had a call yesterday from Shireen.”
“How’s she doing? I haven’t heard from her for ages. What’s happening in the hothouse of Central Command? I can’t believe she went in with that lot.”
“Well she hasn’t really, she was seconded from the Information Office, she got promoted, that’s how she wound up being on Newchurch’s team, but she’s supposed to be neutral.”
“Huh,” I snorted, “Newchurch isn’t neutral, he was so far up Grant Statham’s arse that – “
“Little pitchers,” Estelle reminded me, indicating Rory, “Although he must hear enough language from your father. Honestly, the way he was going on all the way up here,” she sniffed in a way that reminded me of my mother at her most disapproving.
“He’s a bit of an aggressive driver,” I agreed, “Hang on, just let me sort a few things out and then I’ll get us some Pimm’s from the bar and you can dish the dirt. I’ll find Guy and get him to keep an eye on Rory.”
I headed off to the band’s marquee where the mellifluous toot of a clarinet tuning up lifted my mood from one of harassed preoccupation to a belated appreciation of the scene. Scattered around the lawn, under the gently bowing trees in a frankly welcome breeze, were a number of stalls and games: from bric-a-brac to shove ha’penny; cakes to croquet. Vivian was in magisterial control of the tea tent, ordering the arrangement of scones and advising on the preservation of cream in a coolbox. I spotted Dad having a crafty roll-up in the kitchen garden (Jon’s efforts, again, although I did tend and water it, feeling absurdly proud of myself as I did. This was what it was all about, self-sufficiency!). Guy was setting up a table for the Dixieland jazz gents with a jug and some glasses.
“Is the Rev Bev ready to open proceedings?” he asked.
“I’ll check with Vivian and then I’ll nip down to the field and see how many cars are there.” People had already started to arrive and Guy’s brother Tim had been deputed to be the parking marshall. His military background made him a shoo-in for the job and he took no nonsense from 4x4 drivers intent on riding up the bank.
“What shall we do with The Boy? I was going to grab him after this but I’ve got to fix the marquee, wind’s blown it slightly skew-whiff.”
“Only one man for the job, Pater,” I decided and doubled back to enlist him.
“Stells, find Dad to help with Rory and tell him to put his fag out,” I asked breathlessly, en route to the gate, “I’ll be back in a minute, Pimm’s coming up, I promise!”
“Hey, what about my gossip?”
I cantered down the stony drive, clip-clopping in unwise heels, resolving to change into flatties as soon as I could run back to the house, and caught the Reverend Beverly Barrett just as she arrived.
“Where’s my ribbon?” she asked cheerfully, “I’ve even provided my own shears, courtesy of the flower arranging committee.”
“Ribbon!” I neighed and, performing a u-turn, clip-clopped back to the house with Beverly trotting gamely behind. This chatelaine business was completely knackering.

Ribbon cut, rogue marquees tethered, children gathered up and a very-much needed Pimm’s later, with sandwiches and cakes on plates, we sat on a rug beneath an apple tree and listened to the jazz band fruitily filling the hot afternoon air with ‘Mack the Knife’. Dad was performing a silly dance with Rory, but pretended to collapse because of the heat and got him to fan him with a copy of the Racing Post instead. This caused much giggling.
“So,” I turned to Estelle, who was dreamily gazing at Jon knocking a croquet ball through hoops across the lawn, “what were you going to tell me?”
“He’s got lovely brown arms,” she murmured.
“Um, earth to Stells, come down please.”
“What? Well it was hot off the press but it’s cooled down a bit now,” she huffed.
“You saw Shireen?”
“I met her for lunch yesterday, she just walked out of a briefing and summonsed me, so I skived off for the rest of the afternoon myself. It’s a bit more relaxed in features, you know. Tuesday’s my big day for deadlines,” she explained, “Anyhow, Shireen was looking fabulous, as usual, if a bit plump,”
“Meow,” I said automatically, Estelle’s critical faculties were sharply honed, shall we say, especially on matters of figures and fashion.
“No, no, you misjudge me,” she held up an admonitory finger, “she was glowing,” she tapped the side of her nose, “Know what I’m saying?”
“She’s not -!” I sat up sharply.
“Pregnant!” crowed Estelle, “Told you it was good.”
Next to me, my father suddenly convulsed on the rug and rolled over, coughing.
“For God’s sake, Dad,” I tutted, “How many times have you been told to stop bloody smoking? Go and get a glass of water from the kitchen, I’m sure the WI ladies will oblige. I reckon one of them’s got her eye on you,” I added as he hauled himself up and stumbled off, sputtering.
“I can’t believe it, Shireen in the club,” I was amazed.
“Up the stick,” mused Guy.
“With a bun in the oven – whose bun is it, by the way?” I enquired.
“Well, that’s the thing,” Estelle leaned in to deliver this morsel, “she wouldn’t tell me!”
“Oh. Hasn’t she got a bloke at the moment? I thought she was seeing that Jamie character again? Useless tosser she used to go out with at university,” I told Guy.
“She’s a good looking girl, she could have anyone,” he replied, “We should set her up with Tim.”
“Bit late for that,” I elbowed him impatiently, “Tim’s in love with the army so he wouldn’t be much use to her, off to war zones every five minutes.”
“I think it’s her boss,” Estelle said.
“Why?”
“Because she hates him, of course. Stands to reason. Love, hate, two sides of the same coin. Apparently, he was knocked out at a press conference.”
“Literally?”
“Honestly, that’s why she managed to get away. Apparently, there was such a huge fuss she just sidled out the door and came to meet me instead of going back to the office.”
“While the alleged father of her child lay insensible on the floor? Come off it Estelle, this is a pretty tall tale, even for you.”
“No, I swear. Scott was hit by a flying object, he was out cold and some old woman was arrested for it!”
“OK, that’s gossip,” I conceded, “but who was the mystery assailant? I mean, I know a few people who’d like to hit Scott Newchurch. Wouldn’t mind taking a swing myself if I had the chance. Did you see him on Newsnight last week? What an arrogant – “
“This is where it gets interesting,” Estelle interrupted, “Because apparently, it was Juliet Durdin.”
“Bloody hell! What’s Newchurch got to do with Durdin’s wife?”
“I expect it’s more about what he had on old Monty. Apparently - and Shireen was a bit cagey on this – there were some pretty dodgy expenses

Chapter 6:Jungle Telegraph
Shireen was sitting through an interminable briefing meeting. Notebook open and pen poised, she was actually far away in her own little world, decorating the nursery and choosing bootees in John Lewis. Did babies still wear bootees? It was a long time since she’d been close enough to one to notice. This high pressure aide malarkey didn’t give one much time to spend with one’s family and friends, and children were conspicuous by their absence in this world. The PM might have a brood of six, but they were kept well away from the workings of government, unless a spot of simpering for the press was called for. She was just doodling flowers around her favourite girl’s name (Maia) when the thunderclap of heavy doors banging open brought her back to the meeting room.
“Newchurch, you bastard! I know what you did!”
Shireen and the whole roomful of officials turned as one to see a petite, exquisitely well-dressed woman - who must have been in her sixties at least - reach down to her feet and pull off a tiny, black patent-leather shoe (Shireen had a keen eye for footwear) and hurl it with surprising speed and accuracy across their heads. Scott ducked, actually ducked, up there on the podium, but his reflexes were decidedly un-George Bush like, and he was struck in the middle of the forehead by a kitten heel and went down like a boxer taking a killer blow. The briefing erupted with screams, shouting and a lot of unnecessary fuss, if you asked Shireen. For God’s sake, you’d think Osama Bin Laden had just strolled in sporting an Uzi, not an elderly lady in a well-cut grey suit with some rather lovely accessories (was that necklace real jade?).
“She’s an old woman! Put her down!” she shouted, jumping to her feet as the shoe-thrower was hoisted into the air by two fat-necked security men who had appeared, genie-like, within seconds.
“Old? I’m sixty-two!” cried the woman, defiantly aiming her remaining patent-leather kitten heel at an officer’s gut, “I’m in my prime, and –“ she struggled for breath, twisting out from under a meaty restraining arm and pointing at Scott, now having his brow mopped by a curvaceous information officer, “- that cretinous fool has taken my life away from me!”
“Alright, get her out of here,” the policemen pushed open the doors and bundled her out, still screaming at the top of her voice. Shireen looked down and spotted the second shoe; picking it up, she dashed after them, waving it half-heartedly at their retreating backs and then, somewhat at a loss as to what to do with the thing, popped it into her handbag, shrugged and went to lunch. Scott was receiving plenty of attention, civil servants were surging around him and the clamour of phone calls being made to various offices meant she was able to slip away unnoticed for a little light browsing in Oxford Street. After all, as her boss had often smugly observed of his predecessor; when the sideshow becomes the main attraction, it really is time to leave the stage. As she walked out of the building, flashing her security pass at a distracted receptionist, and along a bustling Whitehall, she flipped open her mobile and made a call.
“Stells,” she said, “It’s me. You’ll never believe what’s just happened to my boss. Oh, and I’ve got other news as well. See you in the John Lewis café.” She stepped boldly off the kerb and flagged down a black cab. Sod the expenses watchdog.

Chapter 5: Country Casual
Guy had gone in to College, Viv had vanished, I knew not where, and Muriel was in full spate in the kitchen. There was nothing for it but to haul on my boots, pour the child into waterproofs (black clouds were now massing over the hills) and go for a walk.
“Stig!” I hollered and rattled a plastic bottle full of stones. At this signal, Stig came belting over the bank from whichever bush he had been investigating and leapt joyfully at my head.
“Down you cursed mutt,” I pushed him away and clipped him onto his lead as he wriggled and thrashed around my legs.
“Cursed mutt!” repeated Rory gleefully.
“Well, it’s cleaner than some of Daddy’s names for him.” I said, grateful that Rory had not as yet uttered the F-word in front of granny.
Muriel jerked her head around the back door as we prepared to exit the boot-room.
“Is this your mobile?” she presented me with a vibrating, jangling device, my new all-singing and literally, all-dancing, phone that Guy, the gadget-geek, had insisted on buying me for my birthday, no matter that I would have preferred book tokens, or lingerie, or anything else, really.
“Bloody thing,” I tutted.
“Can’t see the point of them myself,” sniffed Muriel, “Unless you’re a heart surgeon. Who’s that important they have to be on the end of a phone all the time?”
“Fair point,” I acknowledged, wrestling to answer the thing.
“Grandad!” cheered Rory, the miniature psychic.
“How did you know? Hello Dad,” I said, bemused by my son’s uncanny ability to guess who was calling, “Rory knew it was you.”
“He chose the tune, that’s why,” my dad replied, sounding like he’d gargled with razor blades, his familiar early-morning tone. By the evening, his voice had usually mellowed to that of one who swilled gravel, the legacy of a life-long love affair with the roll-up.
“Oh,” I said, feeling silly.
“We chose ‘Sex Bomb’. Your mother’s favourite - Tom Jones,” he explained.
“Sex bomb!” chirruped Rory at my side.
“Dad,” I hissed, “I’m not sure I want my two year old singing about S-E-X. Couldn’t you have chosen something more appropriate?”
“What could be more appropriate for me?” laughed Dad.
“Spare me the details of your private life. What do you want, anyway?”
“And a good morning to you, my only daughter. Well as it happens, I was thinking about coming up at the weekend. Haven’t seen you all for a while.”
“I thought you were going on one of your exotic holidays.”
“I was, but the political situation has imploded somewhat and the local guides can’t guarantee my safety.”
“I was a bit sceptical about hiking on the Afghan border, father. Why can’t you just go on a cruise like other retired people?”
“Now you’re just trying to provoke me. No, I thought I’d dice with social death instead this weekend. Haven’t you got some event or other going on?”
“The summer fete. You can help Guy with the marquee. Come up and make yourself useful. We’ve got plenty of room, as you know, and it’s not so cold in the east wing at this time of year. Estelle’s coming too, maybe you could give her a lift.”
“She hates my driving. When I gave her a lift after the wedding she made a tremendous bloody fuss. Lovely girl, but very high maintenance. No wonder she’s not married.”
“That’s not very gallant, let alone PC,” I pointed out, “Since when does a woman have to be married to validate her existence?”
“Well even you went for it in the end, it was a long old wait, though. Thank God for my only grandchild. Anyway, looking forward to seeing you on Friday,” and with that, he rang off, coughing. I was left a bit spluttery myself. ‘He only says it to wind me up, he only says it to wind me up’, I repeated the mantra of my father-handling technique.
“Waining,” Rory announced, tipping his chubby face up to the sky.
“Never mind, Stig loves the rain. Any excuse to get wet and filthy.”
“Yes mummy,” Rory assented, “We love muck.”
“That you do.” As we strode on down the road towards the village, I wondered what my dad was up to. He’d cancelled his holiday plans, but he’d also recently cancelled his latest relationship. It was frequently the case that his girlfriends didn’t see eye to eye with him on the subject of vacations, but quite a few were smitten enough to sacrifice a week in the Algarve for that extra bit of edge that my father, even at sixty, still offered. Many of his live-out love interests (he had never, since my mother’s death, lived with another woman) were pretty young; uncomfortably close to my own age, in some cases. It was only the relative certainty that he would never marry again which had allowed me to put up with these liaisons. I kept hoping he’d lose interest (like Kingsley Amis who, at seventy-three, said that the demands of his libido had` been like “spending fifty years chained to an idiot”) or maybe, settle down at last. I grew up with him as my sole parent for fifteen years: the fact that he kept other women well out of the picture during that time was, with hindsight, incredibly selfless. He’d thrown himself into work and his political activities, when he wasn’t keeping a very close eye on me, compensating for the loss of a guiding maternal hand. Now, he seemed to be making up for lost time and dating every female within the M25. I wondered vaguely if there was anyone Vivian might know who he might be interested in. Or would he turn on the mockney and start shedding rolling tobacco all over them if they appeared too posh? Despite referring to my mother as ‘My African Princess’ and humouring her attempts to drag him into the bourgeoisie (she came from a high-achieving Nigerian family and was eternally shocked at his side of the family’s lack of ambition), Dad liked nothing better than a bit of class warfare and I wasn’t sure I wanted it kicking off in my own backyard. He always made remarks about Vivian and her patrician manner and sometimes assumed a fake yokel accent when speaking to her, like one of the lower caste characters in the Archers. Viv, rather astonishingly, seemed to find this heavy-handed comedy turn amusing rather than irritating. Still, at least it meant the outlaws rubbed along reasonably well, so Guy and I didn’t have to suffer too much strain when we all got together.
In the pocket of my raincoat, the dratted phone began to buzz and wiggle again, emitting the unmistakeable chords of ‘Sex Bomb’.
“Grandad!” cheered Rory.
“Now what?”
“You didn’t tell me the most important thing,” accused Dad.
“What? I’m trying to go for a quiet walk in the country here.”
“Durdin’s death. He’s your MP isn’t he?”
“What do you want to know about that for?” I asked, surprised.
“Me and Durdin go way back,” he growled.
“And not in a good way, I’m guessing.”
“Too right. Anyway, off to surf the interweb to find out more. Keep your ear to the ground.” He rang off abruptly.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I said aloud.
“What mummy?”
“Well, first grandma and now granddad. What is going on with this family. Who indeed was Pinky?”
No sooner had my old journalist’s curiosity been aroused than any routes of speculation were brusquely cut off by the heavens opening and the necessity of retrieving Stig and Rory from a ditch.
“Out you two! Let’s hope the weather gets this off its chest before the weekend. We need a sunny day for the fete.” Whoever opens it, of course, I added silently to myself.

Chapter 4: Green Fingers
Barbara was busy sorting foliage on the floor of the vestry when she was disturbed. Humming happily to herself, she ignored the green stains communicating themselves from stem to hem and found peace, as ever, in the contemplation of God’s work. The flowers were for a wedding on Saturday and would do nicely for the multiple baptisms on Sunday. “Hatch, match and dispatch,” she murmured; “In the midst of life and all that.”
The parish was in shock over Monty’s sudden demise. Such a popular man, so well-loved and respected in the town and the surrounding villages that made up his constituency. Barbara tutted to herself; too bad it had to end this way, his glorious career poised on the edge of a comeback to the centre of politics. Revered for his knowledge and sheer bloody-handed experience, he had been set to retake one of the great offices of state after the election. A mere sixty-eight to Barbara’s seventy-two. She shook her head at the waste of it all.
“I knew you’d be here!” came a sudden cry, startling her into upsetting a jug full of water.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, Babs darling! The Rev Bev said you were back here and I had to see you.”
“Christ on a bicycle, Viv, you could have rung!”
“You know I don’t do mobiles, and shhh, someone might hear,” Vivian looked theatrically about her.
“Who? Christ or Beverley? I doubt either would mind. What brings you here, anyway? Conspicuous as you are by your absence on Sundays,” her friend sniffed, mopping the puddle with a handful of paper towels.
“It’s about Monty,” hissed Vivian, “I had to come.”
“Why?” stiffened Barbara, “It didn’t happen here. Although I know the funeral’s been booked for a week on Wednesday, if you’re interested.”
“Of course I’m interested,” avowed her friend, “I’m here because I wanted to talk to you about it.” Her wide-eyed gaze swept around them, taking in the vestments half out of the cupboards, the heap of coloured paper and crayons left over from Sunday school and a large box of assorted biscuits.
“For the Mothers’ Union,” Barbara said swiftly and removed them from Viv’s reach.
“I think his death was suspicious. I think it was murder.” Vivian whispered, even though the vestry was empty apart from the two of them. The vicar, the Reverend Beverley Barrett, had been observed to be on her way out to visit a parishioner when she’d entered the church.
“What? Vivian, you have a heck of an imagination sometimes.”
“How so? The police are still investigating aren’t they? They haven’t confirmed it’s suicide yet. And I knew Monty,” she said firmly, “I knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t, couldn’t do such a thing.”
“You don’t know him!” scoffed Barbara. “He comes to open the fete once a year. Snip of the scissors and a cup of tea and he’s off again! He’s a very busy man. How can you possibly know him that well?”
Vivian arranged her features in a portentous manner, smoothed the turquoise and orange silk bandeau across her silver-blonde fringe and mouthed, rather than spoke the words: “Oh I knew him alright. In the biblical sense too, you might say.”
She got the reaction she was seeking. Barbara dropped the vase she was holding; the second flower-arranging casualty of the day. Following the explosive sound of pottery meeting parquet, both women silently surveyed the mess at their feet.

Chapter Three: The Estate We’re In
Dead local MPs, mothers-in-law with surprising pasts and delicately calibrated cleaning-ladies notwithstanding, it was a beautiful, hot, if somewhat cloudy, July day. I had Rory, the washing, the dinner, the rest of the chores and the forthcoming fete to think about. I took The Boy for our morning constitutional about the gardens.
“Look,” I told him, sweeping my arm outwards to indicate the sward of greenery and pure loveliness that was the setting for the Old Rectory, “All this one day will be yours, bank manager permitting.”
“Pwah!” asserted my son.
“Best not get too attached,” I agreed, “Unless Daddy finds a haul of Saxon gold in the lower field it might not all come good. But hey, it’s fantastic weather and the Dixieland Dance Band has agreed to play on Saturday for much less than their usual fee. Plus unlimited Pimms, of course.”
Rory decided to roll down the bank into the lavender bush at this point, so all conversation was suspended while I hauled him out and we crumpled up ears of lavender to sniff.
“Who’s going to open the fete now?” I wondered aloud. The Old Rectory’s summer extravaganza was Vivian and the late Bernard’s gift to the village. The new rectory was tiny and the church held its annual fundraising summer bash in our grounds as it had done for thirty years. I was due to have a meeting with the redoubtable Barbara from the Parish Council at lunchtime, so she could fill me in on the last of the arrangements. Our main role was to vacate the kitchen for an army of church ladies and to supply the trestle tables. I would pour the teas, Guy would fight with the marquee, and the stalls for bric-a-brac and games would be erected around the lawns. Just then, I caught sight of our occasional gardener who was waltzing the ride-on mower through the trees at the far end of the lawn, giving it a haircut for its big day.
“Tractor!” called Rory with great excitement. ‘Tractor’ was the mainstay of his vocabulary, along with ‘car’, train’ and ‘digger’.
“It’s Jon on the tractor,” I agreed, “Maybe if he sees us he’ll come and give you a ride.” I waved to him and he came to a halt a few metres away.
“Fantastic weather, hope it holds for the fete,” he said, striding over to us, looking like an overgrown schoolboy in his shorts and long green socks. He followed my gaze, “They’re a practical solution. I get too hot in trousers. Get scratched, itchy legs on the mower otherwise.”
I dearly hoped I wasn’t blushing. Jon had a great pair of tanned, hairy legs with enormous knees – from gripping horses’ shanks, I supposed, since as well as accomplishing a little light groundsmanship for us, he ran the stables next door. On one of the rare occasions that Estelle, my closest friend from Dagenham days, had made it up to visit us, she had encountered Jon sitting at our kitchen table enjoying a beer with Guy and formed a very favourable impression indeed. These days, we found it hard to keep her away from the place, despite its obvious disadvantages, like being “In the middle of a lot of shit-covered fields”, which militated against the wearing of high heels and glamorous dresses. I tried not to think of her when I looked at his knees and brought myself to heel.
“Lovely. So sunny!” I beamed, thanking God I was at least partially an Englishwoman and that the weather, that saviour of polite intercourse, could be called upon at just such an awkward moment.
“Fancy a ride, young man?” Jon asked Rory, who nodded so hard I expected to see his head roll off into the azaleas.
“Health and safety,” I murmured to myself, as Jon bore off my firstborn for a zoom around the orchard. That’s the country for you, they do things differently here. Jon had already threatened to take Rory out on a pony, although he’d only just grasped the principles behind staying upright on terra firma. I am terrified of horses, having been led across a field by a horsey friend in Essex at the age of fourteen (a time when all I was interested in was Topshop and clubbing, while she’d spent every weekend riding) and falling ignominiously into a ditch. I really didn’t get the attraction. I guess you can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t wholly eradicate the city from the girl. I liked a nice view from my windows, it really was an improvement on the tyre factory which overlooked our tiny back garden in London, but I had yet to fully engage with ‘the land’: although our ten acres hardly amounted to as much as a smallholding and the wildest life it hosted was Stig, our perpetually muddy and crazed Springer Spaniel. Immediately upon our removal to the countryside, Guy had insisted on getting himself a dog, a pleasure denied to him in the concrete wastes of Hackney, naming it after his favourite childhood book, ‘Stig of the Dump’. I was gradually coming round to the idea of the dog, too. One way and another, the last eighteen months had meant making a lot of adjustments; from hedonistic, city-loving, journalist singleton, to domesticated, countrified, married mother. Estelle was probably more in denial than I was, but she’d made stoic attempts to support me, short of actually donning wellingtons, and was in fact due to put in an appearance at the fete this weekend, an engagement prompted no doubt by the opportunity to run into Jon again. I waved gaily as my son whizzed around an apple tree - at some speed - laughing wildly, and hoped fervently that he would keep his breakfast down. I glanced at my watch and decided to make a move indoors to check on Vivian and to see what Guy was up to.

Chapter Two: In the Pink
We came to the country for the headlines.
In our local paper in London, the prostitute who threw herself out of the window of a burning building, torched by her pimp, only made the third page. Here in rural Hertfordshire, the cover story the week we moved was, ‘Llama Escapes from Petting Zoo.’ My husband’s favourite was a confrontation between a senior citizen and the bin men over too many bottles in her recycling box. But the headline today in Great Marston’s Weekly Recorder came as a bit of a shock – or at least it did to my mother-in-law Vivian, who had swept up the paper on her way in to breakfast.
“My God. It’s Pinky!” she shrieked, unfolding the paper in front of her.
“What the hell’s Pinky?” Guy enquired, in his lovely, drawly voice, made even more drawly after a night on the single malt (and the odd fag, I’ll wager).
“We used to call him Pinky,” Vivian answered, in sepulchral tones.
“Not good news, then?” I supplied cheerily, from my post at the kitchen sink, washing up the breakfast things. Vivian may live in her own ‘grannex’, but she likes to sit majestically at the head of our worn and scratched oak table in the kitchen for most meals and, indeed, for many cups of tea during the course of the day. I have become inured to it, in the manner of a reluctant owner adopting a determined cat. The downside to living in two million quids’ worth of Georgian rectory is dealing with the former chatelaine. When Vivian suggested we take on the rectory and she would retire gracefully to a converted barn in the extensive grounds, it seemed like a dream ticket to the countryside. With a baby on the way in a one-bedroom flat in the east end, we’d seized it with both hands. Every now and then, we felt like shoving it back, but the return to Murder Mile kind of put us off.
“Isn’t he that disgraced minister bloke?” Guy hauled his corduroyed behind over to his mother’s side of the table and began reading over her shoulder.
“Colourful local MP, Montague Durdin, was found hanged in his £1.2 million, five-bedroom farmhouse last night at eight p.m. Police were called to the property in Little Marston after reports of a disturbance and found Mr Durdin, sixty-eight, hanging from – “
“Stop! I can’t bear it! Poor, poor, Pinky!” Vivian wailed.
“I didn’t know you knew him that well,” I said, rather surprised by Vivian’s reaction. I pinged off my trusty Marigolds (the house lacked a dishwasher and we hadn’t got round to installing one in this first phase of the renovations; let’s face it, we hadn’t got the cash) and turned towards her, beginning to feel concerned. Viv starred in the local pantomime most years and most days, she starred in some production of her own. However, those were real tears sliding down her flawlessly made-up face.
“I thought he was just an old acquaintance of Dad’s,” Guy agreed, “He usually pops in to open the summer fete if he’s around.”
“We used to be good friends, many years ago, before I met your father. And now he’s been killed!”
“Well it says here he hung himself with his wife’s scarf,” Guy pointed out.
“He wasn’t the type to kill himself!” cried Vivian, “It must have been murder!”
“What do the Old Bill say?” I asked Guy, drying my hands and scooping Rory up from his wooden high chair, where he was patiently wrestling with a tough bit of crumpet and ignoring the emotional meltdown taking place above his head.
“’The possibility of suspicious circumstances has not been ruled out’”, he read aloud.
“I told you!” Vivian closed the newspaper with an emphatic waft.
“Hang about,” Guy swept it off the table and carried on reading, “Why did you call him Pinky?”
“Drink, darling, I need a drink,” Vivian was grasping the edge of the table like a sea-sickness sufferer and groping her way along to the sideboard.
“Hair of the dog, darling?” I murmured. Guy had crawled in during the early hours of the morning, looking a bit peaky after a night spent reliving old digs (or whatever it is archaeologists talk about when they get together) at a pub in Cambridge.
“We called him Pinky,” Vivian announced, pouring herself a large brandy, “Because he was the most fearful commie at university.”
“Monty Durdin, pillar of the Conservative party, a communist?” I was astounded. Rory grabbed a hank of my hair and pulled for some attention, so I yowled loudly.
“It’s not that unbelievable,” Guy said, “What did Churchill say? If you’re not a socialist at twenty you have no heart and if you’re not a conservative at forty, you’ve got no brain’, or something like that.”
“Well I’m not a conservative and I’m not far off forty,” I huffed. I swear Vivian narrowed her eyes at me at this, although she must know. For heaven’s sakes, my father’s a retired shop steward, and, to her lingering disapproval, I speak fluent Estuary. I do, of course, make many a disparaging aside about wealth and privilege whilst enjoying not a lot of the former, but a great deal of the latter. But hey, I have my issues, and it’s not my fault I fell in love with a gorgeous hippy-looking archaeologist on a Greek beach who turned out to be super-posh.
“Monty changed, of course he did. He grew up, like the rest of us. But he was a passionate man, and he was so committed to the cause at the time. He even went to Russia, I remember, just after he was sent down.”
“What, he was chucked out?” Guy asked.
“I started seeing your father in the Michaelmas term and that was it,” Vivian turned a little misty-eyed at whatever memories she was reliving. Then again, it could have been the cooking brandy taking effect.
“You went out with Durdin?” I asked incredulously. Monty Durdin, former Chancellor, Big Tory Beast and also, apparently, university drop-out and my mother-in-law’s ex. The mental images thrown up almost required that I hit the booze as well, in order to block them out.
“Well, we had a sort of thing,” Vivian shook herself like a wet dog, as if to throw off unwelcome thoughts. “Oh, it’s so terrible! I can’t believe it.”
“Bloody hell, is that why Dad wouldn’t have him in the house? I thought it was to do with the exchange rate mechanism!” gasped Guy.
“Listen, kid,” I whispered into Rory’s ear, “Go play with your trike on the patio and I’ll be with you in five,” I liberated my squirming child through the side door and turned to take in more of the unusual breakfast scene.
“Muriel’s going to be here soon,” I announced, “Shouldn’t we-?”
“Clean up?” supplied Guy.
I moved the brandy bottle out of Vivian’s reach, nodding at him and mouthing ‘Do something!’
“Look, mum, I’ve got to get to work and, apparently, Muriel’s coming in today to clean. Jo’s here,” he looked to me for confirmation. Of course I was. Where else would I be with a child, a stricken mother-in-law, a high-maintenance cleaning lady and a band of builders to support?
“But you were out all night!” exclaimed Vivian.
“Self-inflicted damage, stiff upper lip, it’s only a couple of departmental meetings to snooze through and I’ll knock off early,” Guy rattled off, sounding much like his grandfather during the Battle of Britain, I imagine. I cast a glimpse outside to check on Rory who was shouting “Pow! Pow!” at the crows. Another chip off the old block.
“I’ll be around,” I said sympathetically, “Perhaps we can have another cup of tea and then you can go back to the barn for a lie down.”
“I haven’t got time for a lie down!” Vivian retorted, necking the last of her pick-me-up, “I need to ring Barbara and see what anyone’s doing for poor Juliet.” Guy raised an interrogative eyebrow.
“Monty’s wife. They used her scarf, the barbarians!”
“Hang about, mum, we don’t know what’s happened. There’ll be police crawling all over the place, the last thing she’ll need is people turning up today, especially now it’s in the papers. Just leave it for a day or two.”
Vivian looked mutinous before agreeing to go ‘home’ to the back garden and take a paracetomol for her headache.
Rather unwisely, I switched on the radio and we caught the last few minutes of an interview with Durdin himself, recorded only two days earlier.
“Why should we believe you, Minister?” the interviewer was saying. “With respect” (which meant of course, with no respect whatsoever), “You haven’t exactly been squeaky clean yourself. The scandal has touched you as well as the Home Office.”
“I hardly call a few cigars a scandal,” scoffed Monty. And with that, it would seem, he’d hung himself.

Chapter 1: Beating the Tom Tom

“Get Barker at the Tribune for me now!” bellowed Scott Newchurch, hunched over his pc in Central Office, “Durdin’s history!”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” a senior aide stooped to deliver her verdict, “He was a big beast and some big beasts simply refuse to be made extinct.”
“It’s not the cigars, Shireen, you bloody idiot. It’s the rest of the stuff he had stashed in the cupboard with all the other skeletons. Look,” he handed her a sheet of paper.
“It’s a photocopy of an invoice,” she murmured, scanning quickly.
“Eighty-five grand,” Scott said tonelessly.
Shireen sat down heavily next to him, “I see what you mean. But how?” She was unable to formulate any of the many questions crowding her mind, edged out by the rapidly coalescing scenes of mayhem and disaster for the party.
“Unfortunately, Durdin had form. Forty years of it. It’s like finding a mass grave, we’re still pulling the bodies out.”
Shireen’s eyes flickered with distaste at Scott’s overstated analogy; one of the many. She suspected that the extreme terminology favoured by the men at Central Office correlated inversely with the dangers they faced in their comfortable desk jobs. Responsible they may have been, indirectly, for sending other young men to their deaths in aimless foreign wars, but they themselves confronted no machines more life-threatening than a malfunctioning photocopier in the course of their day. So of course they compensated with overuse of muscular, militaristic language.
“I told Dick. He went ballistic,” Scott answered her next question before she asked it.
“Don’t let him hear you call him that,” she said automatically. Richard Clarke, the leader (and generally acknowledged saviour of the party) liked to present himself as an amiable kind of guy, but he was distinctly lacking in a sense of humour when it came to deploying the diminutive of his Christian name. Unfortunately, the Red Tops revelled in it and it was this form of disrespect rather than any other that wounded him deeply and spoiled the enjoyment of his public life. Richard Clarke was more in favour of dignity, respect and general obeisance than he cared to let on.
“Come on,” Scott got to his feet, shovelling papers into his laptop bag, “I need you to help with damage limitation.” He picked up his Blackberry and pressed his large, stubby fingers over the tiny keypad.
“Are you summoning back-up?” Shireen asked, playing a mental game of Bullshit Bingo.
“There could be some collateral fall-out,” Scott replied with no trace of irony, “I’m going to need cover. You’re coming with me.”
“Right, I’ll round up the troops,” she said, covering up a smirk with her silk scarf.
“Bingo!” she added, under her breath.