Capital Offence

Chapter 6

The lobby outside the parliament chamber was temporarily empty. But the noise level was rising as the session came to a stormy conclusion. The sound of hammering gavel and cries of "Order!" became louder as a door burst open and Jamie swept past, his face thunderous. It had just been announced that there had been an explosion in a pub in Larkhall. The area was known for sectarian tension, and it seemed likely that this was a terrorist action. The area was Protestant loyalist to its core, but this pub was an exception. It had the nerve to display green and white Celtic scarves and regalia, which was clearly a red rag to an Orange bull. There had been a warning phoned to a local radio station, and as a result the area had been cleared. Only one person had been injured by flying glass - an old boy who was probably deaf or thrawn and missed the warning, or chose to ignore it. But Jamie was furious, not just because of the horrible parallels with the Ulster of twenty years before, but because he’d had no warning prior to the announcement in the House. At the very least he should have been passed a note and been given a chance to plan his response before the news had been broken to the assembled MSPs.

Kirkhope had taken the chance to announce to the house that he was sure the PM would deal with the outrage promptly and firmly. The brass neck of the man was unbelievable. The people who carried out the deed were probably the very people who voted for him. He didn’t seem shocked or surprised. Jamie wondered what the chances were that Kirkhope would know the people involved. You really couldn’t rule anything out with that scheming bastard.

So Jamie had been left floundering, knowing no more than his political rivals, forced to busk a response condemning the outrage. Even as he said the words they sounded banal and predictable, as if he’d tried to memorise what other statesmen had said on past occasions.

As the session broke up, Jamie strode along the corridor and into his outer office. His minders followed him in, sorting papers and trying to mask their nervousness. Cammy Russell looked strained. Fraser Howe’s broad face was grim.

Jamie tackled his press secretary. “Spell it out, Cammy. I'm not going through a farce like that again...”

Howe stepped in. “He can’t stop bombs going off.”

“Don’t be smart, Fraser. That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about what the public thinks of our handling of the thing. This makes us look a laughing stock!”

Cammy looked awkwardly at the others. Jamie read the situation immediately. “Look, piss off you lot. Give me a few minutes with Cammy here.”

Looking relieved, Fraser and the others picked up their briefcases and files, leaving Jamie and Cammy Russell together.

*      *      *

Jamieson Maclean stared at the figures for the tenth time, each time seeing less of a pattern.

Cammy looked pained, as if trying to explain something to a particularly dense Senior Three doing remedial classes.

“It’s like this, Prime Minister. What the research is telling us...”

“’Jamie’, you sycophant! Call me ‘Jamie’! When you ‘Prime Minister’ me I know you’re being a patronising arsehole. Piss off Cam!”

Cameron almost smiled. Jamie was right. And Jamie’s most endearing virtue was his total lack of pretension. He seemed to have a talent for being approachable - for being one of the boys - while still wielding formidable power. He had institutional power as Scotland’s first Prime Minister since independence, and he also had the inevitable personal sway which could see people hired and fired in a heartbeat.

His enemies, and there were plenty, would say he abused his whims. His allies would say he had a first rate gut feeling about people, which he wasn’t shy of backing. Truth be told, his hunches had proved remarkably astute, and within months of taking power he’d built around him a varied and formidable team.