Part 13 (1/2)

Tara Hatch was a formidable woman. A stunning Aryan beauty and an hourgla.s.s figure masked a tempestuous nature and a voice that could strip paint. She'd been a model when she first met Matthew, then a rising star in the last days of a hated, radical government. If there was one thing Matthew Hatch had a weakness for it was the blonde models who frequented the society parties of Knightsbridge and Kensington. A whirlwind romance followed, during which time they holidayed on the Riviera on her father's yacht. They made love for the first time at dusk, as dolphins leapt around them. Then they got married, and things were never quite that awesome again.

Tara stood facing Matthew. 'Ah, the master has returned from carrot-cruncher land,' she announced.

'Shut it,' snapped Hatch. 'I'm just not in the mood.'

'You never are,' agreed Tara.

'Then you'll just have put up with it.'

'Oh, I've put up with a lot for you, Matthew. I've put up with Daddy's disapproval. I've endured your mood swings and your blasted depressions. I'm not even bothered when our former friends call us traitors any more.'

'Yeah,' said Hatch, with something approaching a genuine smile. 'Crossing the floor was about the one good idea you've ever had.'

'I've kissed babies for you. I've stood by you, like a politician's wife should.' Her voice took on the slow, measured tones she used for her innumerable interviews. 'Of course I stand by Matthew. His decision is courageous, but I think he will be vindicated in time.'

'You're the only person I've met who can beat me for bulls.h.i.+t.'

Tara ignored his remark. 'I've even turned a blind eye to your s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g your PA.' Her fingers tightened around the gla.s.s of vodka in her hand.

'One affair, darling. Not bad for an MP.'

'Don't lie to me!' she shouted.

Hatch sighed. 'Look, if this is the best you can come up with after a weekend away then I'll get the doctor to increase the strength of your happy pills.' He turned to the correspondence that awaited him, muttering 'Frigid b.i.t.c.h'

under his breath.

'Oh, that's good!' exclaimed Tara angrily, flinging the gla.s.s at Hatch.

He was used to her aim now, and ducked out of the missile's path easily.

'Down, and a smidgen to the left,' he said, offering her his own gla.s.s for a second attempt.

Tara moved menacingly towards him. 'Maybe I should find myself a real man,' she said in a low voice. 'Somebody who doesn't shoot blanks the whole time.'

Matthew Hatch raised a fist as if to strike her; Tara's eyes invited him to do so, mockingly. A tap on the door silenced them both. For people who fought so regularly, and so often, they could be surprisingly discreet.

Matthew casually picked up the stem of the broken gla.s.s and dumped it on the table while Tara straightened her hair and made for the door.

'Come,' said Matthew casually.

'We'll continue this another time,' said Tara, as the door opened. She left, casting an ominous glance at the new arrival.

Melanie Jenkinson was Hatch's personal political adviser.

She was a matronly woman in her early thirties who wore her dark hair pulled tight into a bun. A pair of very unflattering black-rimmed spectacles dominated a severe face that any ex-public schoolboy would have been terrified of. Despite appearances, she was one of Matthew Hatch's closest friends, a warm and generous woman who had stuck by her mentor during his difficult years in the political wilderness. Her patience, and skilful reading of the climate of the country, had steered him through one crisis after another until now, finally, she had dragged him towards real power. They had also enjoyed a brief and torrid affair three years ago, which began during an official visit to Eastern Europe, and ended in a night of terrifying thunder and lightning at his parents'

home in Hexen Bridge.

Melanie closed the door and gave Matthew a quizzical look.

'Tension?'

'The usual.' He stared out of the window, a faraway look in his eyes. 'One day,' he said softly, 'she'll go too far.'

'Matthew,' said Melanie urgently, 'I have some grave news.'

Hatch turned briskly. 'Well?'

'The Proteus Research building near Birmingham has been bombed. Ten dead, including Jeffrey Squire. n.o.body's claimed responsibility yet, but...'

'b.l.o.o.d.y animal-rights activists,' said Hatch, sitting down, the colour draining from his cheeks. 'Terrible.'

'It gets worse. The warning included a reference to the CJD research they're carrying out. n.o.body's supposed to know about that, Matthew. There's been a leak somewhere, and the PM thinks it must be at this end. He's going ballistic, and the other EC countries have already lodged an official protest.'

'd.a.m.n them all,' said Hatch gruffly. 'Research is research.'

'Not in this area. Too sensitive. Too many skeletons in closets.'

'It'll blow over,' said Hatch, reaching for the telephone on the edge of the desk. 'I ought to phone Jeff's widow. What must she be feeling? Her husband sacrificed to save some blasted monkeys.'

'Your own position is being questioned,' continued Melanie, doggedly.

'What?'

'Some journalist has already looked up Proteus's board of directors, found your name and Squire's...' Hatch swore under his breath. 'I'm already investigating the circulation of memos and confidential reports at this office, Matthew. I have one or two ideas where the leak might have originated.'

'No need,' said Hatch, deep in thought. 'Leave it with me.'

Melanie nodded curtly, and stepped out of the room. Hatch sat quietly, drumming his fingers against the desk. Given that he trusted his own team, and that there was no way that Squire or any of his people would have compromised themselves, only one person remained.

Rebecca Baber.

That slippery, calculating little b.i.t.c.h had wormed her way into his bed and taken more than a good time away with her.