London Calling - James Craig [52]
Of course, the media lapped it all up. So did the public. Opinion polls suggested that Holyrod’s approval rating had reached the high eighties. No politician could compete with him. The Major’s window of opportunity had arrived, and now he had to decide what to do with it.
It was at this point that Holyrod’s political contacts came into play. His brother-in-law was one Edgar Carlton MP, leader of the opposition and, by common consent, prime minister in waiting. After some detailed discussions with his pollsters, Edgar persuaded his old pal to cash in his chips and take the fight to the real enemy – those disgusting, spineless liberals that had taken over Whitehall in recent years.
After a few phone calls, a bit of arm twisting and the promise of a few peerages, Holyrod was installed as Carlton’s choice for Mayor of London. After six months of campaigning under the party slogan, Change That Keeps Changing, he won a landslide victory over the incumbent, an immensely tired-looking woman with the air of someone who couldn’t get out of the job fast enough. The only time Holyrod ever saw her smile was on the night of the election itself, immediately after it was announced that she had lost.
According to received wisdom, the first hundred days are crucial for any newly elected official. That’s when the new broom can sweep clean, and you make your mark. After that it’s all downhill. For more than three months, Holyrod went in to work each day with a nagging feeling that he should be doing something significant. What, though, he had no real idea. Meanwhile, the less he did, the higher his poll ratings climbed; and the higher his ratings went, the more he was seen as providing the template for Edgar Carlton’s first national government, which was just around the corner. As the national election loomed, Holyrod’s job was to provide living, breathing proof that the party was fit to govern.
After the cameraman had taken the disc out of his camera, and was again breaking up his kit, Carlyle wandered over to join Rosanna Snowdon.
Snowdon watched him approach with a wry smile. ‘You don’t want us to do you as well, do you, Inspector?’
Carlyle held up his hands. ‘No, no,’ he said, stepping closer. ‘Not my kind of thing.’ As discreetly as possible, he breathed in her luxurious perfume. ‘I leave that to others.’
‘Very wise.’
‘I just wondered,’ Carlyle probed, as casually as possible, ‘about the connection between Mr Blake and the mayor …?’
‘It’s not a big deal,’ Snowdon said, stuffing her notebook into an oversized handbag and pulling out a very bling mobile. ‘They know each other from university. Just a minor detail, so not something you guys would necessarily have picked up on at this stage.’
‘And how do you yourself know that?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s just one of those things one knows.’
Carlyle considered asking her about the Mayor’s Office using Alethia, Blake’s PR firm, but decided to hold back. ‘Will that be part of your story?’
‘I doubt it. I wondered if it might make a nice angle, but maybe not. It’s a bit contrived and I probably won’t get anything like enough time to squeeze it in, anyway.’ She grabbed the handles of her bag and hoisted it over her shoulder, before holding out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Inspector,’ she said, pulling up a number on her mobile with her free hand, ‘but I’ve got to rush back to the edit suite. I hope that you’ll like the piece.’
Before Carlyle had the chance