Sleeping Cruelty Read Free Page B

date?’
    On the tiny screen were Maynard’s private bank statements, details of his mortgage, life assurance policies, the accounts for his office and staff during the campaign, lists of queries on personal expenses, claims, then details of tax and VAT payments, and sums owing to him.
    ‘I pay my cleaner twenty quid a week,’ Maynard said. It was the one item not listed. But he was angry, confused and dismayed by all the information William had amassed. He continued to scroll through the personal details: his school, his scholarships, university degrees, even the odd payments for speeches he had written for various MPs. He had been so engrossed he had not really listened to what William had been saying. But now it dawned on him. Had he heard correctly? He was not withdrawing any further donations? ‘You will be in financial difficulties within months,’ William said. ‘You’ve taken out a second mortgage, you’ve no collateral left, and no fairy godmother in the wings to leave you a big inheritance. You need me, Andrew, more now than ever, and I’m offering you the deal of a lifetime. I’m going to back you to the hilt, all the way. Just you.’
    William scraped back his chair and Maynard looked up. William needed a smoke, and it was not allowed in the dining room.
    Maynard joined William in the foyer where he sat with his cigar. He was unsure what William had meant by ‘just you’. He felt as if he might be walking into a trap. What was the deal? What strings were attached?
    William puffed until a halo of smoke formed round his head. He suggested that Maynard should go for a good long holidayto recharge his batteries and think clearly about what he should do. William was certain that his election campaign had got him noticed; it would be up to him now to approach the Tory leader to discuss his future.
    Maynard leaned forward. ‘Why are you doing this?’
    William stubbed out his cigar, only partially smoked, in the big silver ashtray on a stand by his chair. ‘I have my reasons.’
    ‘I need to know, sir. Please, you’re offering me so much – why?’
    William frowned. Then after a long pause he cocked his head to one side. ‘Okay. It was just before lunch, a few years back, at the Party conference. Margaret Thatcher was sitting next to me. I watched her watching you. I saw her backbone stiffen. She never took her eyes off you until the end of your speech. You impressed me, and I saw that you had impressed her. That’s it, really. Now, I have to go, old chap. You think about it. Call me tonight, or whenever.’ He grinned at the confused young man, stood up and walked into the foyer.
    William had to go only five paces across the pavement to reach his car. The passenger door was already open, his chauffeur standing by. He touched his cap when he saw Maynard.
    Maynard stood rooted to the pavement, his heart thudding. William was getting into the car. ‘Can I come with you? Could you drop me wherever you’re going? Please?’
    William shrugged, a little irritated: he wanted to get on with the day, but Maynard was fast off the mark, leaped in beside him and slammed the door.
    ‘This is a Rolls Royce,’ remarked William as the car glided away. ‘The doors are perfectly balanced and hinged. They do not require a heavy-handed slam. You should learn that. One day, perhaps, you’ll have one of your own, if we play our cards right.’
    Maynard swallowed. His throat was bone dry.
    William continued, leaning back against the soft leather seat. ‘You need a makeover. It’s all about image – get a professional.Lose those bloody glasses for a start. And you need a red hot PR person.’
    Maynard felt as if he was hyperventilating. William leaned forward and opened a small compartment built into the back of the seat in front of him. Maynard saw that the compartment was stocked with all kinds of drinks, a cut-glass ice bucket, cigar boxes and cutters and cut-glass decanters with silver tops designed by Dunhill.