Heads You Win Read online

  Urged on by Alex, the cabdriver broke the speed limit several times in an attempt to get to Lawrence’s home before the press beat him to it. But his efforts were in vain, because by the time they reached Beacon Hill a marauding pack of journalists and photographers had already pitched their tents on the sidewalk in front of Lawrence’s town house, and clearly had no intention of budging until the candidate emerged from his castle and made a statement.

  For the past month Alex had been trying to get even one of them to attend one of Lawrence’s rallies and give him some coverage, only to be met with, “Why should we bother, when the result’s a foregone conclusion?” Now they no longer believed that was the case, they were hovering like vultures who’d spotted a wounded animal attempting to hide in the undergrowth.

  “Is Mr. Lowell going to withdraw?” shouted one of the reporters as Alex stepped out of the cab.

  “Will you be taking his place?” Another.

  “Did you know he had sex with a minor?” A third.

  Alex said nothing as he pushed his way through the baying pack, almost blinded by the photographers’ flashbulbs. He was relieved when Caxton opened the front door even before he knocked.

  “Where is he?” he asked as the butler closed the door behind him.

  “Mr. Lowell is still in his room, sir. He hasn’t appeared since I took his breakfast up over an hour ago, along with the morning papers.”

  Alex bounded up the stairs, not stopping until he reached the master bedroom. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, then knocked softly on the door. There was no reply. He knocked a second time, a little louder, but still nothing. Tentatively he turned the handle, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

  Lawrence was hanging from a beam. A Harvard tie his noose.

  31

  SASHA

  Merrifield

  “This one’s from the butcher,” said Charlie. “It’s their monthly account.”

  “Pay it immediately,” said Elena. “Sasha insists on paying all our suppliers by return of post; that way we’re guaranteed the finest cuts, the freshest vegetables, and bread that’s come out of the oven that morning. A week late and you get what’s left over from the day before. Two weeks late, and they palm you off with whatever they haven’t been able to pass on to their regular customers. A month late, and they’ll stop supplying you.”

  “I’ll write out a check now,” said Charlie. “Sasha can sign it when he gets back from the constituency, and we can drop it off at the butcher’s on the way to the station tomorrow morning.”

  “It was good of you to take the day off and give me a hand with all this,” said Elena, staring despairingly at the stack of post on the table in front of her.

  “Sasha’s only sorry he’s not here to deal with it himself, but he can’t afford to take even a couple of hours off at the moment.”

  “Does that mean he’s going to win?” asked Elena.

  “No, it does not,” said Charlie firmly. “Merrifield is a rock-solid Tory seat. Mother Teresa couldn’t hope to win it, even if she was up against the devil himself.”

  “But Sasha is up against the devil,” said Elena.

  “Fiona’s not quite that bad.”

  “But if he can’t win,” said Elena, as Charlie opened the next letter, “why is he bothering, when there’s still so much work to be done here?”

  “Because he feels he has to win his spurs and prove himself on the field of battle, if he hopes to eventually be offered a safe seat.”

  “But surely the people of Merrifield can work out that Sasha would make a better MP than Fiona Hunter?”

  “I have no doubt that Sasha would win if it was a marginal seat,” said Charlie, “but it isn’t, so we’ll just have to accept he’s going to lose this one.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll ever understand English politics. In Russia, they know exactly who’s going to win, without bothering to count the votes.”

  “Just be grateful that cooking is an international language,” said Charlie, “that doesn’t require translation. Now, this one,” she said as she read the next letter, “is a reminder that the dishwasher in Elena Two is now three years old, and the company have recently launched a new model which has double the capacity of the old machine, and can wash everything at twice the speed.”

  “So when will the by-election take place?” asked Elena.

  “Eleven days to go, and then we can all get back to normal.”

  “No, you can’t. Because then Sasha will be a Member of Parliament and your life will be even more hectic.”

  “Elena, how many times do I have to tell you, he can’t win,” said Charlie, trying not to sound exasperated.

  “Never underestimate Sasha,” said Elena under her breath, but although Charlie heard her, she didn’t respond, because she had to read the next letter a second time.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Elena when she saw the look on Charlie’s face.

  Charlie threw her arms around her mother-in-law, handed the letter to her, and said, “Congratulations! Why don’t you read it for yourself, while I go and open a bottle of champagne.”

  * * *

  COWARD!

  screamed the headline on the front page of the Merrifield Gazette.

  “But I never said that,” protested Sasha.

  “I know you didn’t,” said Alf, “but that’s what the journalist assumed you meant when you told him you were disappointed that Fiona wouldn’t agree to take part in a public debate.”

  “Should I complain to the editor?”

  “Certainly not,” said Alf. “That’s the best free publicity we’ve had in years, and what’s more, she’ll have to respond, which will give us another headline tomorrow.”

  “I agree,” said Charlie. “Let her worry about you for a change.”

  “And I see your mother is also making the headlines,” said Alf, turning the page.

  “She most certainly is,” said Sasha, “and it’s no more than she deserves, although even I was surprised that both restaurants were awarded a Michelin star.”

  “Once this is all over,” said Alf, “I intend to take the whole team up to London so they can sample your mother’s cooking.”

  “Nice idea,” said Charlie. “But be warned, Alf, the only thing she’ll want to know is why her son isn’t your Member of Parliament.”

  “So what are we meant to be up to today?” asked Sasha, champing to get back to work.

  “There are still a few villages in the constituency that you haven’t visited yet. All you have to do is walk up and down the high street, and shake hands with at least one local resident, so no one can say you didn’t even bother to visit them.”

  “Isn’t that a bit cynical?”

  “And make sure you have lunch at a local pub,” said Alf, ignoring the comment, “and tell the landlord you’re thinking of buying a house in the constituency.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “And then I want you back in Roxton to canvass the council estate between five thirty and seven thirty, when most people will be getting home from work. But you can take a break between seven thirty and eight o’clock.”

  “Why then?”

  “Because you’ll only lose votes if you interrupt someone while they’re watching Coronation Street.” Sasha and Charlie burst out laughing. “I’m not joking,” said Alf.

  “And after that, do I keep on canvassing?”

  “No, never knock on anyone’s door after eight. I’ve arranged for you to address another public meeting, this time at the Roxton YMCA.”

  “But only twelve people bothered to turn up to the last one. And that included you, Charlie, and Mrs. Campion’s dog.”

  “I know,” said Alf, “but that’s still five more than the last candidate managed. And at least when you sat down, the dog was wagging its tail.”

  * * *

  Sasha was surprised by the warm welcome he received on the doorsteps and in the streets during the last week of the campaign. Se