Capital Offence

Chapter 29

Friday 14th June

12 days left

The House was buzzing with anticipation as Jamie took his seat between his Home Secretary and Minister for Health. There were several matters of Parliamentary procedure to be dealt with before the Prime Minister was due to make his statement on the newspaper photographs. The public gallery was packed with reporters and commentators from throughout Scotland and well beyond. The English papers in particular were licking their lips with relish. There was nothing better than a really embarrassing screw-up by the Jocks to prove that they couldn’t organise a shag in a brothel.

This was a Press Officer’s nightmare. Fraser Howe was planning to watch on closed circuit television with Quentin Ricco and some other members of the PM’s behind-the-scenes team. But an hour before the start of the session he’d received a call from Party Chairman Sir John Campbell-Barclay suggesting that he too might come down to Holyrood from his West End flat to watch the debacle there. The statement would be going out live on cable, and no doubt there would be endless clips and analysis teased out with just the right blend of earnestness and eagerness by the Scottish media mafia; but Sir John wanted to extend his antennae within the Parliament building itself. He knew from long experience that first reactions were often the least guarded, before a party line had been defined and imposed on the troops.

So Fraser had invited Sir John to join him in his own office.

With his usual awareness of the nuances of these things Fraser had moved round to join Sir John on one of the soft visitor seats rather than preside behind his desk on his large leather swivel chair.

“Dram, Sir John?”

“At eleven o’clock?”

Fraser’s expression managed to indicate that Sir John was a bit of a character who’d shown rare restraint in this instance.

“Wouldn’t mind a coffee, if that’s OK?”

“I’ll get one of the girls.”

The coffee appeared in record time, as the PA dived back out of the office to get back in front of the TV her colleagues had commandeered.

On the floor of the House some questions which had been tabled some two weeks earlier were being dealt with in perfunctory fashion by the Home Secretary. Everybody knew that this wasn’t what they’d come for - normally the House would have been three-quarters empty at this point. There was a groan of irritation when a dogged master of parliamentary procedure rose from his customary perch on the back benches to raise a point of order. As this was dealt with, the opposition turned back to reading and re-reading their copies of the Fiona Maclean photospread. The pictures had now become compulsory decoration for factories and garages throughout the country, and most offices had one in the staff coffee room, often adorned with captions added in biro balloons.

Behind the PM, the government MSP’s sat stony faced, refusing to rise to the waved newspapers and heckling.

“Order. Order! I will not have this House turned into a bear pit!”

Voice from the back - “A bare what?” Raucous laughter form the opposition.

“ORDER!”

The Prime Minister’s statement was announced, and Jamie Maclean rose to his feet, his expression sombre.”

“Get yer kit off!”

Uproar.

“ORDER!”

Jamie waited for the din to die down.

“I have been asked by the Leader of the Opposition to make a statement concerning some articles and photographs which have appeared in the press since last Sunday.