The Edge of Madness Read Online Free PDF Page B

solace in the ranks of the civil service, where he had remained buried in anonymity for most of his professional life. In disappointment, Sir Frank had turned his attentions to his grandson, Mark, who had grown up as shamed by his father’s obscurity as he was inspired by the stories of his grandfather. Then, one day, shortly after his ninety-second birthday, the old man had gone out duck shooting and winged one, insisting on finding the bird to finish it off. He’d stumped back well after midnight, soaked and sore. Three weeks later he died of a chill, cursing with his last breath. After that the young Mark had dedicated himself to changing the world in the image of his beloved grandfather, yet at that time there’d been no handy wars to engage him so he had turned to the battleground of politics. Made a good start, climbed fast through the ranks, and when John Eaton had unexpectedly walked out of Downing Street, Mark D’Arby fought the campaign to succeed him in swashbuckling style. It matched the mood of the time. He had won a famous victory.
    Yet as Harry Jones walked into the Cabinet Room he could detect little of that fighting spirit. D’Arby seemed drained, distracted, sitting in his chair, staring at the brown baize tablecloth, fiddling with his fountain pen although there were no papers in front of him. For amoment he seemed bent, older than his fifty-eight years, until he noticed Harry and sprang to his feet, the fire reignited in his face. ‘Harry, thanks for coming,’ he greeted, shaking Harry’s hand vigorously, and for a little too long.
    ‘No problem,’ Harry lied. ‘Sounded urgent.’
    ‘It is. Yes, it is.’ D’Arby appeared distracted once more, surprised to discover that he was still holding his pen. He threw it down on the table. ‘God, it’s stifling in here. Let’s go out in the garden.’
    ‘But it’s pouring.’
    ‘Nevertheless…’ The word hung between them, insistent, and the smile on the Prime Minister’s face had grown stiff. Harry’s mind suddenly began to spin in alarm. D’Arby clearly didn’t want to talk inside, but why not? What could be so important, so serious, that it couldn’t be discussed here, inside Downing Street? Harry was still trying to find first gear as D’Arby grabbed two umbrellas and led him through the doors at the far end of the room. It led them out onto a small patio.
    ‘You see these red and white slabs?’ D’Arby said, indicating the paving stones on which they were standing. ‘Hundreds of years old. And when those old lead flower troughs were made, America was still our colony, income tax hadn’t been invented, and this country was still the finest nation on earth. Takes you back, this place. Gives you a sense of history.’ The flowers in the tubs nodded their heads in apparent agreement.‘Come on.’ He led the way to the insubstantial shelter of the silver birch that stood at the side of the lawn. The rain beat down with the sound of a dull drum upon the umbrellas. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, sucked deeply. Harry hadn’t realized he smoked. The Prime Minister saw the curiosity in Harry’s eye. ‘Condemned man’s last wish,’ he said, trying to make a joke of it.
    ‘You in the firing line?’
    ‘Always.’ D’Arby’s blue eyes fixed on Harry, as though searching for something he wasn’t sure he would find. ‘Need your help again, Harry.’
    ‘Ah,’ The sigh of reluctance stretched out until it was lost in the rain.
    Help wasn’t a neat, tidy word when associated with Harry Jones. Two years earlier he’d found himself in the middle of a siege of Parliament in which the previous Prime Minister, the Queen, and almost every other powerful player in the land had been held hostage. That most of them had walked out alive had been largely down to Harry. The nation owed him, anything he wanted, and since that day he could have named his own price, but hadn’t done so, had accepted nothing, apart from a George Cross, and had