A Parliamentary Affair Read Free

invisible hangers-on of government – had returned to London as well. Cab drivers, brows furrowed in concentration, moaned and gesticulated with vigour. Traffic in the square was noisy and aggressive, vehicles zipping impatiently from one set of traffic lights to the next, honking at a lone intrepid cyclist who wobbled out of the way. Here only the nimble and quick-witted would survive.
    At the square’s south-eastern corner two sets of black ironwork gates stood open, leading to the House of Commons car park. Stolid London policemen like sheepish lions guarded the entrance, amiable but watchful. At the left-hand gate, Gerry Keown ran a finger around the stiff collar of his brand-new uniform, consulted a long list of new MPs and pulled a wry face. Behind him the great clock tower glittered in the afternoon sun. Big Ben was striking two.
    ‘Rotten job, this. You have to learn every one.’ Constable Robin Bell, a tall, cheerful man with bushy sideburns, was the doyen of the Commons rifle team. He had been a Commons policeman twenty-four years. It was the kind of job that kept people there for life.
    ‘Not just their names and faces, all six hundred and fifty-one of them – and believe me, some are very obscure indeed. Secretaries as well, and research assistants. And spouses, partners, even children. That’s around two thousand people. Add the House’s own servants – clerks and library staff and refreshment department and cleaners and a few others – that makes around four thousand on a busy day. You’ll find staff all wear their ID badges religiously, the MPs expect you to know who they are and can get quite stroppy if you ask to check – even though it’s them we’re protecting. Got it?’
    Gerry whistled through his teeth. An inch or two shorter than Bell and much younger, he had the glossy black hair and blue-green eyes of Irish ancestry. He was not a policeman but a former prison officer. A month ago he had joined the Metropolitan Police’s own security force used to augment routine police operations around the Palace of Westminster.
    ‘Bit different to security at Broadmoor. We didn’t have nearly so many comings and goings.’
    Robin Bell laughed. Keown would be teased many times about the obvious similarity between the nation’s highest security hospital for dangerous nutters and some of the crackpots going through these portals. ‘It can be a bit of a madhouse here too. Wait till the first day, the election of the Speaker: everyone will be in to vote, the lot.’
    A jostling crowd, cameras and autograph books at the ready, stood on the pavement eagerly trying to spot famous faces. Gawpers and police eyed each other amicably enough. As each vehicle drew close its identity was carefully checked. Within very recent memory a plain white van had casually parked just down Whitehall. A police officer had begun strolling down to investigate. In a trice the roof slid back and mortar bombs were lobbed straight across the road at the Cabinet Office. Fortunately the aim was a fraction out. One exploded in the garden of No. 10, showering Cabinet and Prime Minister with broken glass and forcing them to take cover under the Cabinet table. The IRA again, an ever-present threat to all MPs and ministers. Security was no laughing matter.
    In one corner a battered blue car, still forlornly sporting campaign stickers, was being packed by a disconsolate man in a tweed jacket. He was patted on the shoulder by erstwhile colleagues and then forgotten. Within a month he would sign on the dole and discover that nine modestly successful years as an MP qualified him for nothing.
    A sleek grey chauffeur-driven Jaguar with two back-seat passengers paused briefly before sweeping inside and turning left into the shadows of Speaker’s Court. The police knew its key occupant just by glancing at the number plate: the Right Honourable Sir Nigel Boswood MP, reappointed as Secretary of State for the Environment, his rubicund face looking