Capital Offence

Chapter 5

The electronic graphics on the walls of the television studio highlighted every twist and turn in the thick of the Scottish Parliamentary election. A politician, Walter Kirkhope, was being grilled amid the frenzy of incoming results.

The professionally concerned presenter turned to face Camera 1 and with a slight squint of intense concentration, she focused on the autocue. As ever her voice seemed to come from the sinuses somewhere in the centre of her forehead.

“One of the consequences of proportional representation for the Scottish Parliament has been that small parties have often held the balance of power.”

She turned to her guest.

“Walter Kirkhope - your party, the Free Unionists, holds only a handful of seats. How can you justify using a hung vote to impose your policies on the Scottish people?”

Kirkhope was a large immovable presence. ‘Perhaps’, ‘possibly’ and ‘maybe’ were not in his vocabulary.

“This is a democratic system, and we have every right to decide which party we wish to support in a coalition.”

“But with respect, Mr Kirkhope, your views are regarded as extreme by many voters, and yet...”

When he interrupted, the audio engineer winced and grabbed the fader to turn down the volume on Kirkhope’s booming voice.

“Extreme! The collapse of law and order in Scotland is extreme! The abandonment of centuries of democratic tradition is extreme! We wish to see Scotland return within the fold of the United Kingdom...”

“But the majority...”

“We wish to see the position of the Monarchy affirmed once and for all as...”

She was not to be outdone by this bully interrupting. That was her job. She looked up at a monitor and spoke on top of his diatribe.

“It looks as if the two main parties are still neck and neck. If you have to decide which to support, what will your conditions be?

“Our conditions are backed by every right-thinking member of the...”

“I'll have to interrupt you there - we're going over to Edinburgh Pentland where the Leader of the PDP is defending a fifteen hundred majority.”

The transmission cut to a town hall filled with teams of people sitting at rows of tables. The votes had been sorted and counted, and the bundles stacked in pigeonholes along the front of the stage.

The returning officer was completing his announcement.

“...twelve thousand three hundred and six votes.”

A cheer arose from a huddle of party workers.

“I hereby declare that Jamieson Maclean is returned as the Member of Parliament for Edinburgh Pentland.”

There is a little distinguished grey at Jamie’s temples, but he is still young, imposing - a man in his prime. He raises his hands presidentially to acknowledge the cheers of his many supporters.

Sir John Campbell-Barclay, the PDP Party Chairman, swore under his breath then adopted a broad smile and clapped his hands. Sir John had fought tooth and nail to prevent Jamie’s election as party chief, quietly, ruthlessly, behind the scenes. Sir John profoundly disagreed with Jamie’s views on some basic issues - particularly Scottish independence and the future of the armed forces. But the party machine saw Jamie as electable, a potential winner. And when a man promises to bring you power and success, matters of principle are rarely high on the agenda.

Much later that night, as results continued to come in, a peach dawn lightened the sky behind Edinburgh Castle. In a large hotel suite half eaten sandwiches lay curling on a table, surrounded by used plastic cups and bottles of mineral water. Jamie's team bustled about, with sheaves of paper and calculators, the adrenalin keeping them going. Several TV screens showed different channels. Walter Kirkhope was now being quizzed on another programme. Sir John Campbell-Barclay watched Kirkhope’s response on the screen, then turned to Jamie.