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boy of his old school: charm itself when things were going well, but displaying a petulance that slid into spluttering inarticulacy when anyone challenged him. Every time the PM leaned forward at the despatch box or in a TV studio, putting on his most sincere expression, Stephen thought of Burrell, whose father was an earl and from whom he had inherited the family bank soon after leaving Sandhurst. Burrell acknowledged Stephen whenever their paths crossed, but he clearly did not consider him important enough to cultivate. That was another parallel with the PM, who seemed barely to know who Stephen was, even though he was popular with the parliamentary sketch writers and often featured in their round-ups.
    He frowned, wondering whether his researcher had found the note he had left in his cramped office at 1 Parliament Street before strolling over the road to the committee — it was always worth tipping off the press gallery that something was about to happen, and Stephen wanted the guys from the
Telegraph
and the
Indy
to be on the alert for this afternoon’s fireworks. A page lead would go down well in the constituency, where there had been barbed comments about Stephen’s refusal of a job on the Shadow front bench — even though it was number two at Northern Ireland, and therefore much more trouble than it was worth. He had supported one of the unsuccessful candidates in the recent leadership election, a moderniser who was regarded with suspicion by the old guard, and Stephen regarded the offer as little more than a half-hearted attempt to shut him up. He wasn’t interested in the province and as for the security implications — well, he certainly wasn’t going to expose Carolina and the boys, not to mention Aisha, to that little nightmare.
    Stephen had still not decided how to begin his assault, and he turned over various opening gambits. ‘Is the Right Honourable Gentleman awarethat the wife’ — not the wife, he must remember that half the new lot had partners, sometimes of the same gender, not that Stephen cared — ‘that the partner of one of his ministers was personally involved in a decision to turn vulnerable elderly people in my constituency out of their much-loved home?’ Perhaps much-loved was over-egging it a bit, for Stephen had been to the place and he wouldn’t want to spend more than an hour there. He tried again: ‘Does the Right Honourable Gentleman agree with me that the welfare of the elderly should always come before profit?’ Trouble was, half his own colleagues unashamedly believed the opposite, which might let the PM of the hook — no point in confusing things, when the aim was to wipe the grin from his boyish features.
    Becoming aware of raised voices, Stephen lifted his head and saw that the woman from Fair World Now! had become involved in a sharp exchange with a member of the committee from the government side. A few minutes ago she was talking about some worthy but doomed project in Colombia, but now she had got on to Afghanistan and things had livened up considerably. Even a woman MP, who had appeared to be fast asleep last time Stephen looked, was sitting up and paying attention.
    â€˜You can’t deny the new government’s brought stability to the region, Miss’ — the silver-haired MP glanced down at the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him — ‘Ms Thompson.’
    â€˜But at what price? Are you saying stability is more important than human rights?’
    Her voice had turned to ice. Looking down at his own copy of the morning’s agenda, Stephen spotted the letters QC after her name: Sara Thompson QC, her auburn hair swept up into a knot, her figure accentuated by the severe cut of her expensive grey suit. Ms Thompson was becoming more interesting by the minute and he wondered whether she knew Sir Ray’s pedigree. He might look like a distinguished member of the MCC, but he was a former