The Crash by Robert Peston

Author:Robert Peston
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zaffre Publishing

Chapter 15

L

OSING THE PHONES IS ALMOST my worst nightmare. I am powerless without them. The weirdness of the mugging is sinking in. The cyclist didn’t take my wallet. Is the resale value of a brace of reprogrammed BlackBerries worth the hit and run?

Everything happened so fast. It felt like an accident. When I noticed my phones had gone, I assumed it was a random mugging. But was it? I screw up my eyes and try to recall any tell-tale detail about the rider. Did I see the end of a blond ponytail poking from his balaclava? The same as the thug’s in Marilyn’s hallway? Is it my imagination? I have to talk it through with Jess. I fumble for my phone, before I think Oh yes.

‘You all right, mate?’ The cabbie has been studying me in his rear-view mirror.

‘Bit bruised.’

‘You took a nasty knock.’

I become aware my right elbow is achy, where it hit the kerb. And the palm of my hand is grazed.

‘The arsehole took my phones,’ I say.

‘You should call the police. Not that they’ll do anything.’

He drives me to Scott’s in Mount Street, where I’m due to meet the shadow chancellor Patrick Munis for lunch. Trevor, the front of house manager, is at the desk, greeting customers with his reassuring, silken understatement. I’ve known him for almost twenty years. We’ve risen through the ranks in lockstep. I pour out my heart about the cycle-by robbing.

‘Is there anything we can do to help?’

‘Could I use your phone?’

He leads me to a private office, where I explain my disaster to BBC tech support. The technician says they will block the numbers, and if I go to their office this afternoon, they’ll lend me a bog-standard Nokia for a few days till the new phones arrive.

‘How long will it take?’

‘Depends if our suppliers have them in stock. Could be a week.’

A week? How will I cope? The idea of all those messages from contacts being sent into a black hole is terrifying. I am Major Tom, drifting aimlessly in space, trying hopelessly to connect to Ground Control.

‘Is there nothing you can do to speed up the procurement?’ I hear the pleading in my voice. I’m humiliating myself. ‘They’re the most important tools of my trade.’

I hear a sigh of pity, or maybe exasperation. ‘We’ll do what we can, Gil.’

By the time I’m finished, Munis has been at the table for fifteen minutes. I launch into frantic apologies and explanations even before I sit down.

‘Think nothing of it,’ he says. Munis – whose fleshy face and full lips betoken a voracious appetite for booze, food and power – sees that I’ve clocked the bottle of Puligny-Montrachet beading condensation on the table. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty.’

I do mind. He’s ordered a bottle that on its own will bust the Beeb’s expenses limit. Goodness knows how I’ll explain it to Janice, after I submit the bill and she rejects it. But I try not to let my consternation show.

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