Chapter XXXI The Party is Over

 

 

 

It was three in the morning when the limo finally returned to London and scattered its contents of drunken half-dead revellers to their different places of abode. Valentina had remained at her new place of residence with her newly acquired blue-blooded spouse, though his newness did not in any way diminish his ability to insist on exercising his medieval “Droit de Seigneur” with each of the female guests, not excluding his own niece. Valentina, as the new lady of the manor, had to make do with receiving homage from Bunty, Ernie, David and me as we knelt in front of her in turn to kiss first her extended hand, then her naked foot and eventually the equally naked and equally extended derriere. David and Amanda had also stayed behind.

The long white limo deposited a semi-unconscious Ernie in Chiswick. He was accompanied by Polina acting as the sacrificial lamb after apparently having drawn the short straw among the girls. She had been cosseting him and caressing him in the car and calling him “my big brave mudak” which had particularly flattered him.  As the limo proceeded on to Westminster to drop Bunty at his parliamentary flat, Ludmila laughingly explained to us that “mudak” was Russian for “wanker”.

The limo then wended its way to my apartment in Framden. I was accompanied by Ludmila who was there to get her promised pound of flesh (my flesh) and probably to ensure that I have a sleepless night. Olga remained in the limo presumably to return to her usual residence near Eddington Station accompanied by the merry Professor who was now heavily into the Russian dirge stage with seemingly endless repetitive verses of “Volga, Volga.”

As soon as Ludmila and I had lurched upstairs into my apartment and closed the door behind us, we dragged off our clothes letting them drop one by one like incontinent revellers, starting with Ludmila’s hat. The clothes formed a tell-tale path leading straight to the bedroom. In fact by the time we had reached my bed, we were completely exhausted as well as stark naked. Even as she grasped my well-worn member with a directness that did her justice, her firm grip loosened almost immediately and she was snoring ever so gently into my ear. I was grateful for this as I was able to slip out from under her grasp for a few minutes, retire to my computer in the next room and make some quick notes of my extraordinary conversation with Lord Smallbridge. I felt that thanks to the talkative aristo everything about the voting intentions of our committee members had been exposed and laid as bare as had been the bodies of the wedding guests. The results were startling. I made my sums and wondered if we still had a chance of a genuine majority to defeat the planning application. It would be a damned close run. Some of the committee members were still wild cards not mentioned by Smallbridge which added to the uncertainty. I was particularly perturbed by the reference to the frustrated “old geezer” in the council flat. That could only be Fred Potts. He was supposed to be on our side! So which way would he vote? Did his recent disgruntlement with the developers reflect his failure to secure the right sized pay down? Or was he still open for business?

Lastly what was I to make to the comments about Emil and his “press woman”? How did they know about that? The identity of Susan had been such a closely guarded secret. Surely Grayson or Trosser would not spill the beans? Smallbridge had claimed that it was I who had mentioned her name. Then he hastily changed the subject. But where could I have done that? And to whom would I have been speaking? I gradually disassociated my consciousness from this tangle of problems, kissed the world good bye and went back to bed with my snoring Russian river nymph.

I have learned with experience that it is one of those twists of nature that women and men are sexually aroused at different times of the day. I think it is one of God’s favourite jokes. Men prefer evenings or possibly a mid-afternoon quickie. Women seem to prefer the morning and when they want it then they want it from their men folk more than once, more than twice even. When a powerful horny melon-mammaried maiden in your bed wants extended sex at a quarter to five in the morning then that powerful horny maiden gets what she wants. This is especially true after she has put on her wide-brimmed summer hat while otherwise dressed solely in her natural summer skin thus exciting me considerably despite my morning grogginess. Eventually after a lustreless performance, your instrument of order is reduced to beating a flaccid retreat into itself, a monument to the insignificance of the spent male accessory. And when the Crimean sperm vampire needs further sustenance again at twelve minutes past five, then sleep or no sleep, arousal or no arousal, you let yourself get milked yet again, knowing that your feats of daring and endurance will have to be repeated at least twice before 7.30 in the morning. You can keep her temporarily on heat by gently circling her clitoris with your forefinger. Only then does sleep finally embrace the hitherto unsated lust machine in your bed, just when you become aware that the duties of office of a morning are now laying claim to you and your half-conscious persona. 

Yet while I was initially ready to shower and drink a cup of coffee alone, in time for my departure to the Planning Department, leaving the sleeping erotisaurus in my bower undisturbed, I realized suddenly that I could not just leave her to her own devices in my apartment. I had heard enough at the wedding celebrations to know that I was now in a deadly endgame where I needed to keep my tracks covered. How could I suddenly leave my apartment and let Ludmila stay there? She could peer through my notes, intercept phone messages and even place a bugging device. I tried to wake her but she turned from one side to the other ignoring my urgings. Finally when I had slapped her face a few times and emptied a small tumbler of water over her hot sweaty body, did she finally half raise herself in the bed with her wonderful breasts flopping onto my pillow and after a winsome “What time is it?” made out to recognize who I was and that I was demanding her prompt resurrection and equally prompt eviction.

Suddenly she declared she felt sick.

“Peter, you go to work. Please don’t mind me. I must have eaten something last night that didn’t agree with me. I’m going to be sick. Just leave me in your bathroom and I’ll stay here.”

I was just not buying it. “Sorry, Ludmila, I hate to sound cruel. You have 10 minutes to be sick and then out you go. You want scrambled egg with baked beans on toast?”

“No,” she gulped and rushed naked into the bathroom.

I could hear her groaning and presumably vomiting. Probably she had learned how to make herself sick. After that there was silence. After a decent interval, I gingerly opened the bathroom door. She was slumped on the bathroom floor between the toilet and the bidet apparently asleep. I roused her again. “Come on Ludmila, time to go. Shall I get you a taxi to your address?”

“Go away. I feel sick.”

“Ludmila, you cannot stay here. We’ve had a great night. Now can you get your gorgeous arse out of here and into a taxi?”

“Peter, you’re such a hard bastard.”

“I know,” I told her, “it runs in the family. I have no intention of being unkind. We’ve had a great time and I’d love to see you again. But not now. Get your shit together. Perhaps a glass of water or a cup of tea can help? I’m going to call the cab to arrive in exactly a quarter of an hour. Got that, Ludu? 15 minutes. You must go and I’m in a hurry.”

“I’m sick. I want to stay here,” she continued to moan half awake.

A mobile phone rang. It was certainly not my ring tone. Suddenly Ludmila got up and swiftly transported her naked Amazonian frame to the corridor leading from my bedroom to the entrance to my flat. As she rushed forward I wondered if she would face down any competition for a film remake of “Xena the Warrior Princess”. Linda Lovelace, eat your heart out! She tripped over her own clothes and mine strewn along the way until she came across her small black handbag. We could hear the mobile phone inside crying for attention to the sound of “Midnight in Moscow”.

She picked up the phone and roared “Da?” The rest of the conversation was a mixture of long silences punctuated by her outbursts of expressive Russian vocabulary. Suddenly she stopped in mid outburst and turned to me.

“Look, I feel a little better now. I understand we must both go now. You want to see me again tonight?”

“No, I’m busy tonight,” I replied. “Council business. (Actually it was the Love Boat!) But I’d be happy to see you Saturday or Sunday evening.”

Ludmila spat a few more Russian words into the phone and snapped her mobile shut.

“OK, Peter, you bastard, you. I go now. I see you here Sunday evening? Saturday no, because I have already agreed to go to Amanda’s house in Chipping Camden. We are going riding somewhere in the Cotswold Hills. She invited me last night. Can you call that cab for me?” Her recovery was truly remarkable.

We both dressed and Ludmila did have a quick mug of coffee as the taxi was late. She gave me a long slobbering kiss when the cab arrived. “I shall be a better lover on Sunday, Ludmila.” I assured her. “It is after my day of rest.”

“You’d better be,” she snarled over her shoulder as she donned her hat and left my flat, “or I beat the crap out of you.” And then she added more gently, “Perhaps I will bring you some Viagra. Bye, lover!”

Nice.

As soon as she had left I closed up the flat and walked to my parking bay, in the meantime calling Roger Clements’ phone to leave him a message. As I approached my car, he rang me back.

I stood by my car gesticulating excitedly as we talked. I gave a quick summary of information Smallbridge had imparted to me including the names of Councillors who had been approached by Nafta Ural. He asked to repeat the names slowly as he wrote them down. Then I mentioned his comments about my mother’s trip and the obvious confirmation that this was by way of a “thank you”. “In view of that” I added, “I’m surprised that they have not noticed yet that I did pay for the trip myself. Trouble is that this could give me away.”

“I think the explanation is quite simple, Peter” said Roger. “I don’t think Mr Kolovetsky has been totally honest with Nafta Ural. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just simply pocketed your money. He probably thinks Nafta Ural is rich enough and anyway they are bound to owe him money for one service or another. So through his own greed he is keeping them in the dark. Luckily for you.”

“The greedy bastard,” I commented. “Anyway there is one other thing that worries me which is a well-kept piece of confidentiality in the Council but does not bear directly on the Pinkerton Plaza Development. It is rather embarrassing. I’m not quite sure where to begin.”

“Take it slowly, Peter, if you think it is relevant. It sounds like you are in the street somewhere. Take a seat, relax and tell me.”

I took a deep breath, opened the car door and sat in the driver’s seat. “OK, Roger. You remember the incident with my former colleague Emil Kapacek. He was filmed by an American tourist having oral sex in the Framden Council Chamber. It was in all the popular press and on the goggle box.”

“I remember. But at the time the matter was not of any professional interest to me. Should it be?”

“Not really; not directly anyway. However one of the hottest issues is the identity of the lady involved. It is one of the most closely guarded secrets in the Council. Ted Grayson knows, the Chief Executive, Andy Trosser, myself and one other senior officer from the department where the lady came from. We were the only people in the know originally. Apart from Emil and the lady herself, of course. Yet Lord Smallbridge told me he knew her identity too and said that he heard me mention it. I have not talked about it anywhere except in the Leader’s office. Perhaps it is bugged.”

“Well I could get that checked theoretically, but initially I would need Councillor Grayson’s permission. He is likely to smell a rat, if we debug his room though. I suppose there is no reason why Grayson himself would have told Smallbridge as it was not relevant to the planning issue and would give Nafta Ural an extra lever with which to bear pressure on those in their thrall.”

“I suppose so. Yet the odd thing was that even there when I was told about the identity of the woman, I did not tell anyone else.”

“Well you are sure you have not told anyone?”

“I spoke about it to Meena Chakravatty, the only other person who knows, but there are important reasons why she would not have passed that information on.”

“Where did you speak to her?”

“In my flat probably or when I went to her parents’ house.”

“Yes but we’ve checked. You have no listening device in your flat.”

“Never mind, perhaps it’s nothing,” I said. I started the car and wished him goodbye. I drove towards Framden Civic Centre.

 The Civic Centre Tower was already visible when a thought struck me. I did not say anything more but carried on driving to the Civic Centre car park. I stopped the car and got out. I re-rang Roger.

“Sorry to bother you again, Roger. I have just remembered where I told Meena the details. In my car! Now it’s just struck me. I have just remembered that about two weeks ago, one of Sheremovsky’s people picked up my car from Eddington Station and delivered it to my block of flats. It could have been bugged.”

“Are you in the car now?”

“You think I was born yesterday, Roger? No way! I am standing in the Civic Centre car park. I am about to visit the Planning Department and meet Phil Marchmont.”

“You visit Phil. In the meantime leave your keys with the Civic Centre Reception for the attention of the Key Lock Company. We’ll take it from there. I’ll ring when the car has been checked.” I followed his instructions.

I entered the main Civic Centre lobby. The Chief Press Officer was there. I asked her how Susan Sweetman was progressing. “Susan had handed in her notice on Monday and she was gone that very same day. At the Leader’s insistence. Not even a going away drink for her. Probably just as well, eh?”

“I hope she landed on her feet,” was the only sensible comment I could make. Hopefully she was now out of my life.

I rang Phil Marchmont from the Reception Desk and arranged with him to meet at the Dutch Pancake Shop nearby for a hearty breakfast together.

It proved a useful meeting. Phil gave me an extraordinary piece of information. 

Apparently one month ago Tesco had approached the Council with a proposal to build a new drive-in hypermarket on the Pinkerton Plaza site and to combine it with a joint venture with a Housing Association. Phil explained that Tesco is developing a new strategy with the Greater London Assembly and the Housing Corporation to build thousands of additional homes in London at supermarket sites. This strategy is a key element of the London Development Plan called for by the Mayor. He wants 50% of all new residential buildings in London be allocated as affordable houses for key workers in hospitals and other vital low paid London jobs. Chris Finneston had not replied to Tesco’s offer and had not even mentioned either the supermarket’s approach or the new London strategy to us.

I was flabbergasted. “Are you sure that Councillor Kapacek was not informed by him before his resignation?”

“Apparently not. Certainly not on paper; but two of my colleagues regularly attended the briefing meetings in the last 6 months between Finneston and Councillor Kapacek and this matter had never been raised. The important thing, Councillor Axtell, is that there is an alternative to the Nafta Ural application. Of course this does not in itself undermine the validity of the Nafta Ural proposals, but it no longer makes us reliant on a one-off take it or leave it kind of proposal from the Russians.”

Phil Marchmont and I went our separate ways and arrived at the Planning Department through separate entrances. In the meantime I walked up to Chris Finneston’s office and asked his secretary to buzz me in.

Chris was tense. He had good reason to be. The sudden departure of Emil Kapacek and the revelations about Owen Draycott had made many people nervous. He was obviously under a lot of pressure with anxious calls from the architects of the Pinkerton Plaza development in the last 3 working days before the big decision. Yet he was by no means in despair. On the contrary, he was quietly confident.

“Are you sure this is it now, Chris? No alternatives possible except acceptance on the conditions already agreed?” He nodded. I skimmed through the conditions and looked again at the drawings.

“You don’t actually mention what housing density we require here,” I ventured.

“That’s not necessary at this outline planning stage. It could be subject to change later if the soil conditions may not allow so many load bearing walls.” This was utter balderdash but I made no objection. Let him think he was dealing with a naïve Councillor who did not question the wisdom of his officers. I remembered the popular semi-official mantra of senior Council officers: “Councillors are opinionated, but officers are knowledgeable.” It was the “Yes Minister” school of conducting council affairs.

But I did not want to make things too easy. “Cannot we not put in a density ratio now?” I asked. “If they need to change it later, surely we can amend it.”

“If you insist, Peter, of course we can.”

I looked through the list of representations. “Few objections shown here, Chris. You have at least 15 positive responses from the public and only 5 negative ones. I thought there were many more to contend with at the public meeting alone. I understand there were several hundred objections and that’s before the petition.”

“True, but we are selective because we want to show the quality of the arguments; not necessarily the quantity. If fifty people all make the same objection then basically in planning terms that is still only one objection, not fifty. Obviously,” Chris added for my benefit, “I understand that in political terms fifty people means 50 votes, or more likely even 150 votes, because of their possible influence, but that should not sway the way a decision is made on the Planning Committee.”

“Chris, never mind the philosophizing. God created Councillors so that they count fifty as fifty and not as one. Even if you do not repeat their arguments, please include in your list of representations the number of people who made alternative comments. Also there will be a public meeting on the night before organized by PPRAC. I would not be surprised if there is a petition and I will be allowing the local Councillor to present the petition and, if possible, make a case. I assume it will be Stelios Karamanlis.”

“Sure, Peter, you’re chairing the meeting, not me. As long as it does not prevent the right and proper decision being made.”

“I have no doubt that the proper decision will be made,” I replied. “OK, are all the utilities’ comments favourable? Electricity, waste disposal, gas, public transport, water, etc…?”

“All clear and supportive.”

“At the public meeting you said that the written comments from the GLA had not yet been received about the new status of Daffodil Hill as a prime London panoramic site?”

“No, only verbal comments so far and all positive. Do you expect that your party’s vote will be unanimous on this Committee on Tuesday?”

“I just can’t say at the moment. Which other officers will be present at the meeting?”

“There will be the usual ones: Transport, Housing, Education, Social Services, Legal,

Finance, etc... And then of course the Committee Clerks.”

  “But from Planning?” I insisted.

  “My usual assistants: Peter Bulmer and Suleiman Kurali."

  “Can we have Phil Marchmont as well, please?”

  “Why?” asked Chris Finneston in surprise.

  “Why not?” I said, equally surprised and equally insistent. “He’s just been appointed a new area planning officer. Let’s give him the experience.”

  “OK, Peter, if you do insist.”

“What about other items on the agenda? There will be several hundred people present for this one issue alone. I think we will all be emotionally exhausted by the time this section of the agenda is completed and there could be considerable turmoil. Cannot we delay the other issues until a fortnight later?”

“Let me check if that is possible; I will come back to you on that, Peter.”

“Lastly, please check with the Legal Department and make sure there is a police presence in the committee room. There may be a disturbance and I insist that both Councillors and officers should not feel intimidated.”

“OK,” answered Finneston, “I have already forewarned the Legal Department. In view of the possible size of the audience, do you still want to hold it in Committee Room 2? Or should we use the Assembly Hall?”

“Let’s have the Assembly Hall,” I agreed.

Chris Finneston made a note of my points. I looked at him leaning over his papers and I felt physically sick in his presence. He had been given enough rope by others and by me to hang himself and he had consistently tightened the noose around his neck with each step.

I thought I would try one last time. “I heard from a London planner that a major supermarket chain had approached us with regard to this site.”

“No, Peter, no foundation for that rumour. Not at this stage. I’m afraid that this application is the only game in town for this derelict industrial site.”

I said, “Thank you, Chris, that will be very helpful. I look forward to seeing you Tuesday evening. In the meantime I shall wait for your e-mail confirmation that the majority of other matters can be dealt with at a separate Planning Committee meeting later in July. You have prepared the ground well. Thanks again.”

But I thought, “You lying turd, Chris Finneston. When this meeting is over on Tuesday evening I shall want your immediate resignation as Chief Planning Officer. After that, mate, your fate is in the hands of the cops.”