Politics is Murder

by Nick Tyrone

Genres: Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Political Thrillers

Synopsis

A gripping political thriller set in the heart of Westminster for fans of Quintin Jardin's State Secrets and Tony Kent's Killer Intent. 'A gripping story of evil in the influential but murky world of think-tanks' Sir Oliver Letwin 'A tongue-in-cheek, Tarantino-style tour through the Westminster world of think tanks and parliamentarians' Professor Tim Bale, Queen Mary, University of London Charlotte Heard is one of few women in the male-dominated world of a Westminster think tank. Quick-witted and resourceful she is a senior member of the team and the young women in the organisation look up to her. But she is determined to realize her ambition to become an MP. Her dream seems within reach when she finds herself in the midst of a shocking murder investigation. Someone is trying to frame her and Charlotte must find out why. Can she uncover the truth or will it derail everything she has worked for? Readers love Politics is Murder : 'A hilarious political satire bursting with black humour with an unforgettable anti-heroine' ***** Amazon Review 'A fast-paced, witty and entertaining political thriller' ***** Amazon Review 'The story takes some unexpected twists and turns, into less recognisable situations that will have you laughing, turning the pages and pulling you along... Enjoyable, fast moving and well-observed throughout ' ***** Amazon review

Release date: April 9, 2020

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 204

Sample

The worst part of my job is having to sort out these boring morning events. This one is typical: the Associate Directors cook up a terrible idea which they convince Reginald is wonderful. Then, they figure out the only way it will fly is by inviting a minister to speak on the tedious topic they have chosen. At this point they turn to me and ask, as the only person who works at Eligium who has any worthwhile political contacts (apart from Freddie, who cannot reasonably be asked to do anything which would resemble work), if I will suggest a minister for the event and then convince them to come. I execute this task – and then end up here at eight in the morning, in some poky room at the arse end of Westminster, alone, holding the bag.

As I’m putting out the cups at the rear end of the room, Tom turns up.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be back at the ranch answering the phone?’ I ask him, hiding the fact that I’m happy to see him.

‘No one calls the office this time of day, unless it’s Chad Cooper. I figured you’d be by yourself and could use the help.’

Tom is the office dogsbody, doing jobs that are vital yet no one else is willing to bother with. He is 6’2, 6’3, in good shape but without being overly, off-puttingly muscular, with a face that is gorgeous but not in a mawkish, pretty-boy kind of way. I fancy him, but he’s too young for me and besides, I would never foul my own nest.

About three minutes after Tom arrives, Charlie’s Angels appear. These are the three junior researchers, Kate, Aashi, and Violet, given their collective nickname by the male staff of Eligium as they do everything I tell them and although Reginald is technically their line manager, pretty much work for me.

‘Got here as quickly as we could, Charlotte,’ Kate says, her heavy breathing showing she is telling the truth. I had texted the three of them when it became clear the Associate Directors weren’t going to be around to help me set up the room.

‘What can we do?’ Aashi asks, as ever the teacher’s pet. I point each of them in a respective direction and within fifteen minutes the whole room is up and running, ready for the Secretary of State for Emergencies and Contingencies, Geoffrey Bryant, to turn up and put a room full of twenty-three wonks to sleep with whatever twaddle he’s planning to unleash.

Bryant is classic cabinet fodder; the type of person who will never contradict the Prime Minister, simply because they are incapable of forming their own opinion on anything. The department he leads is a joke, created last year as a PR exercise in the wake of several bad floods in the north-east of England. It is often referred to within the Westminster bubble as The Ministry of Silly Walks. It doesn’t hurt that Bryant resembles a poor man’s John Cleese, very tall with exaggeratedly long limbs that make him look a little like a cartoon character.

I walk out into the hallway when I think I hear Bryant’s entourage arriving. Instead, it’s Chad Cooper.

‘Thought I’d come here instead of to the office and see if you needed any assistance,’ he says. Chad Cooper is the most annoying person I’ve ever encountered in Westminster – and that is saying something profound. He is short, fat, bald, and speaks with an affected accent, apparently the result of a childhood which took him back and forth between America and Britain several times. The fact that we share youths marred by constant upheaval should bond us; Cooper’s enervating presence cancels this out.

About a year ago, after a lot of badgering from Cooper, Reginald made him a ‘Senior Fellow’ of the think tank; an unpaid, honorary position. Reginald figured making this gesture would cause Cooper, who had taken to emailing or calling him twice a day, to leave us all alone. Unfortunately, giving Cooper the title he was after had the reverse effect and made the problem dramatically worse. Cooper took being put on the website as a Senior Fellow as licence to enter the office anytime he wished and just generally pretend he works for the think tank. He even had Eligium-branded business cards printed up at his own expense.

I set Cooper to work cleaning the cobwebs out of the toilets. A moment after he dashes off with some rubber gloves and a cloth, Bryant and his crew turn up.

‘Hello, Charlotte!’ Geoffrey says, grabbing my shoulders a little too firmly and giving me a large smooch on the cheek. ‘Where do you want me?’

I take the Minister over to the podium and tell him that after I do the introductions, he has a twenty-minute slot.

‘But no one’s here yet!’ he says to me like a five-year-old boy who has just been deprived of ice cream.

‘That’s because we don’t open the door for another ten minutes, Geoffrey,’ I say. He looks at his watch, confused (or at least, more confused than usual) and, annoyed that he is slightly early, wanders to the back of the room to get himself a coffee.

As the Secretary of State for Silly Walks saunters off to get some caffeine, Reginald runs into the room a sweaty, panting mess, having clearly run to try and get here before Bryant’s arrival.

‘Where’s the minister?’ Reginald just manages to ask me. I point him toward Geoffrey, who is still attempting to figure out how the coffee machine works. Instead of taking a moment to compose himself, Reginald instantly runs up to the minister, tripping a little when he gets to Bryant so that he has to crudely grab hold of the Secretary of State to steady himself.

‘Reginald Beavers. I mean, Meavers! Reginald Meavers! I am so very, very happy that you are speaking at an Eligium event, Minister. Extremely, frightfully exuberant that you are here with us today. Really, really am. Today of all days, today being a day you are here with us to speak about things you wish to speak about. I would be ever so grateful as to buy you lunch on an occasion of your choosing.’

Even pond life like Bryant is going to react negatively to such a pitch.

‘You work at the think tank Charlotte runs, do you?’ he asks Reginald condescendingly.

‘No, I run it! I run it! Me, Chief Executive, Charlotte work for me,’ Reginald answers, ungrammatically. Bryant now looks horrified he’s agreed to this gig, correctly sussing out Eligium as a clown show. He looks over in my direction and I give him a flirty smile to perk him up. It works. Bryant walks over.

‘Keep the Beaver chap away from me. Deal?’ he asks.

‘Of course, Geoffrey,’ I say in response.

That was classic Reginald behaviour. He reacts around frontline politicians the way a teenaged girl does in the middle of a pop star convention. He’s never figured out that this is literally the worst possible approach. I suppose he’s never had to learn – he is living, walking proof of the Westminster axiom that middle-aged white men can only fail upwards. He is 5’5, fat but not grossly so, 56 years of age – although he looks at least ten years older than that – smokes fags and drinks any and all alcoholic concoctions at great volume, as if he’s on a slow-burn suicide mission. His grouchy, perma-hungover demeanour would be half-forgivable if he was brilliant at public policy, or at least reasonably clever, but no, Reginald is an unbelievable dullard. He, like so many middle-aged white men in Westminster, is lucky to be surrounded by extremely bright junior employees who are constantly covering for his and in fact, most of his senior team’s mediocrity. Not that he ever notices; he treats everyone who works at Eligium like crap, with the exception of me, only because I scare him.

Having been ditched by the worst member of Her Majesty’s Government, Reginald searches around for what to do next. As ever, he alights on precisely the wrong thing. Eyeing up a tear in Violet’s tights, one unfortunately very high up on the leg, he walks up to her and says:

‘I bet I know what that hole there is for!’

The look she gives in response terrifies him and he immediately retreats. For a moment I think Violet might physically hurt him, such is the hatred in her eyes, so thank God Reginald possesses some instinct for self-preservation. In the age of political correctness and #MeToo, the Chief Executive of Eligium is a walking lawsuit waiting to happen.

The hour arrives and I open the doors, allowing nine poor souls to drag themselves into the room. They are the usual bunch of in-house public affairs people, think tank junior researchers and weird old men of indeterminate occupation that come to these sorts of things. The crowd is thinner than I had anticipated. I might have to flirt even harder with Geoffrey Bryant if I ever want him to speak at an Eligium event again.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming this morning. I would like to welcome the Secretary of State for Emergencies and Contingencies, Geoffrey Bryant, to talk to us about firewalls,’ I say to a very quiet room. Yes, that was not the world’s greatest introduction, but I can hardly be arsed here. Bryant steps up to the podium and gets right to the point.

‘Thank you, Charlotte. I have been the Secretary of State for Emergency Planning for almost nine months now,’ he says, having made two major errors in the first proper sentence of his speech: besides getting the name of his department wrong, he was appointed almost a year and a half ago. ‘And in that time, I have thought of many ways to try and combat the problems we face with coastal erosion. And I will say something very controversial straight off the bat here: I do not believe that setting walls on fire is going to combat the problem effectively.’

Jesus wept. Surely one of the Special Advisers could have reviewed this speech, one Bryant clearly wrote himself before he got here? I look over at his entourage – they are chatting to Freddie, who must have arrived just as we kicked off proceedings. Freddie is good-looking in an ageing boy band member way; he has amazing teeth, so white they feel like they could burn your eyes out if you gazed at them for too long. He is the only one of the Three Stooges, i.e. the three male Associate Directors at Eligium, that I actually like. Freddie is in his mid-thirties but could pass for anywhere between twenty-six and forty depending on how he decides to dress on a particular day. He is very posh, great fun, and cannot complete any practical task. Freddie knows far less about public policy than your average person on the street, which is an unfortunate trait in someone who creates public policy as his sole profession. Having come from extreme wealth and the connections that come with that, Freddie knows everyone and everything (gossip-wise at least) that happens in Westminster, which is why Reginald keeps him on despite his constant screw-ups and general laziness.

Freddie gives me a wave as I look over at him carrying on with the Special Advisers from the Department for Emergencies and Contingencies. None of them are listening to their minister’s speech at all, which somehow manages to go downhill from where it began.

‘Setting walls on fire? What a palaver! I say let’s do without the fire and think about ways of moving concrete to the coasts, creating sea walls not made of flames, which would no doubt be snuffed out by the splashiness of the waves anyhow.’

I know Eligium is very possibly the crappiest think tank in Westminster, but there is always the off-chance a member of the press decides to turn up for a laugh and then you have an amazing story for any of the tabloids here. I scan the room for journos; looks like Bryant is going to get away with this one.

Jeremy is the next of the Three Stooges to arrive. He wanders in softly, trying not to attract any attention, taking a seat in the back row. Jeremy is the smartest of the Associate Directors by far but is unbelievably lazy, even when compared to Freddie. His work always gets finished off by one of Charlie’s Angels, who will try to extract from the word salad she has been given, something resembling a think tank report decent enough for even an organisation as shit as Eligium to publish. Jeremy is of medium height and build, with a mane of unkempt black hair that has a lot of grey streaked throughout. He seems like he might have been good-looking when he was a young man but it’s hard to tell for certain. Jeremy’s general demeanour is that of a mildly pissed-off sloth or a grizzly bear seconds after having been awoken prematurely from hibernation. I’ve never liked him.

Bryant’s speech finally shudders to a close around the thirteen-minute mark. I take over the podium to ask if anyone has any questions for the minister. No one raises their hand.

‘Well then, hot drinks are available at the back of the room for anyone who would like one. Let’s please give the Secretary of State a warm round of applause,’ I announce to try and close proceedings. Freddie claps and cheers loudly – he is the only person who makes a sound.

Just as the punters are filing out, each of them still shaken by what they have just borne witness to, David, the last of the three Associate Directors, walks in. He looks confused. This is nothing new.

‘Did I miss it?’ he asks me desperately.

‘Yes, David. It was doors at nine.’

‘Oh, Charlotte, I’m so sorry. I thought it was half nine. Silly bugger.’

David is sweet and kind; he is also mind-bogglingly stupid, which makes him hard to like at times, although his pleasant disposition makes him difficult to hate. He is one of those poor creatures blessed with neither looks nor brains. Nor is the man svelte, to put it bluntly. Luckily for him, he had a rich daddy who sent him to the best schools, something which set him up to work in the think tank world despite his almost dysfunctional level of idiocy. Yet David is so lovely, even I don’t hold this last fact against him. He does work hard and can churn out reasonable stuff when prodded and well-supported – meaning, when one of the junior researchers does most of the actual writing for him.

David at least gets stuck in to clearing the room out, and between Charlie’s Angels, David, Tom, Chad Cooper and myself, we’ve wrapped it all up within fifteen minutes.

We all trek back to the Eligium office, about a ten-minute walk away from the venue. Mini-groups form and I end up between Freddie and Jeremy.

‘That was even worse from Geoffrey than anticipated. What a complete bellend,’ Freddie says.

‘Bet you couldn’t do his job any better,’ Jeremy scowls.

‘Actually, while there are few jobs I think Freddie would be qualified for in this world, he probably could run that department better than Bryant by dint of the fact that anyone with a pulse could,’ I say.

‘David would be worse,’ Freddie says.

‘You’re right there,’ Jeremy says.

‘Yeah, probably,’ I concede.

When we get to the office, it is right as the Monday morning meeting is about to commence. These can often be torturous affairs, particularly when Chad Cooper is present. He really winds Reginald up, which makes it even stranger that the Chief Executive never takes any steps to keep him out of a staff meeting that he has no right to attend.

Once we are all seated round the large table in the boardroom, Reginald begins.

‘Hello all. I’d like to start the meeting with a momentous announcement. In precisely two months’ time, I will be stepping down as Chief Executive of Eligium.’

Everyone is completely silent. Reginald was clearly looking for some sympathy and with none forthcoming, he looks annoyed for a moment before continuing.

‘It must be said that the move is not entirely deliberate on my part. I was induced to go and thus I shall. However, there is something else I must share with you all. As a result of the same forces that have given rise to my departure from Eligium, the think tank itself will not be seeking a new Chief Executive, but rather will be shutting shop permanently in precisely two months’ time.’

Pause as everyone goes into shock, having just been told in so many words that P45s will be made out for them in a few weeks.

The remainder of the meeting is mostly the three Associate Directors giving incoherent yet mercifully brief speeches about the progress they are supposedly making on various projects, all of it even more redundant following Reginald’s momentous announcement than it otherwise would have been. The fact the think tank is going to close in several weeks is never reflected in any of their presentations, as if the reality of their impending unemployment hadn’t yet entered their egos.

The mood in the office after the meeting is grim, with the weight of what Reginald had told everyone settling in. A lot of silent staring into the middle distance goes on for most of the hour post-meeting amongst the staff of Eligium. Near the end of this torturous period, at a point when I’m wondering whether sneaking out early for my lunch appointment wouldn’t be taking the piss, Kate motions for me to come and speak to her in the ladies. I oblige.

‘Is your lunch with Lawrence Milding still on?’ she asks immediately once we’re alone together.

‘Yes, don’t worry. In light of what we’ve been told today, I will be looking to fast-forward that situation as much as possible.’

‘Do you think a job offer will be coming your way?’

She’s trying hard not to sound desperate but without success. I can understand, to some extent. I have no idea how she can afford to live in London on the starvation wages Eligium are paying her, never mind how she’ll get by with a sudden cessation of said pittance.

‘Kate, relax. I’m on the motherfucker. It’s all in hand.’

‘OK, OK. Just give me an update this afternoon, please, if you would.’

She seems to feel like this last plea has crossed a line.

‘If you can, of course . . . if you want to give me an update, you know, that would be great. Thanks, Charlotte.’

She cuts her losses and runs out of the toilets, leaving me alone to stare at myself in the mirror. What are you going to do, Heard? Kate is correct, of course: this lunch with Milding has moved from being important to crucial.

When I first started working in the think tank world, I was incredibly naïve about it all. I thought I would be walking into this semi-mystical realm in which brilliant minds sit round and think about how to change the world for the better all day long. Instead, I quickly learned that the whole thing is a horrible grind for basic survival. Think tanks either get their work sponsored or have a sugar daddy or group of sugar daddies to keep them afloat. Either way, the think tank has to bend to the will of a third party. With sponsored work, the think tank has to please the corporate entity that paid for it, meaning everything inevitably gets compromised; if you have a sugar daddy, you have to keep them constantly happy, often churning out reports that are drivel in order to keep their bank transfers coming. If you ever find yourself wondering why we can never generate great policies to fix the problems society faces, look no further.

As I leave the Eligium office building to head. . .