Tell No Tales by Eva Dolan Read Free Book Online Page B

window shattered by a placard bearing some misspelt anti-fascist slogan. His security could have dealt with them but it would have been terrible press coming after his triumphant performance at the Cambridge Union.
    And right now press was what mattered.
    Four months ago a snap by-election, prompted by some shady expense accounting on the part of his Conservative predecessor, saw Shotton elected for the constituency of Cambridgeshire North, but he knew better than to rest on his laurels. He’d won with a narrow majority on a low turnout and any first-year PPE student could tell you how often the electorate used these mid-session changeovers as protest votes against the current government.
    The general election in May might not be such an easy ride.
    He needed to consolidate his position and up until this morning he felt confident of doing that.
    The party already held four seats on Peterborough Council, another three in Fenland, and the polls he’d commissioned showed a strong backing in the area for their core policies, suggesting his win was more than just the locals sending a message to Westminster.
    Not that he needed the polls.
    He’d been pounding the streets, getting out there, talking to ordinary folk, going to their village fetes and community open days, testing the waters, and he knew that they were ready to cast their votes his way come the election. He was giving them what they’d wanted for years and now they were finally prepared to admit it in the polling booth.
    Across the country they’d identified twenty-four constituencies with similar demographics; slim majorities, rising unrest, council seats already won, paving the way for the English Patriot Party to become serious parliamentary players.
    They wouldn’t win them all of course but six or seven this time round would improve their standing nationally, force the Westminster elite and the left-wing media class to admit their growing relevance.
    As long as he could manage this situation.
    He went back to his chrome-and-glass desk where Marshall was standing with his iPad on his forearm, fingertips moving nimbly over the screen.
    ‘Alright, plan of action.’ Shotton spread his hands wide. ‘The line is – “This hit-and-run is clearly a terrible accident and our sympathies go out to the friends and families of those involved.”’
    ‘There’s already speculation online that an English Nationalist League member might be responsible.’
    ‘We won’t dignify that with a response.’
    ‘I think we need to be prepared,’ Marshall said. ‘This woman from The Times is quite likely to ask the question and it’s best to have a response.’
    ‘Don’t worry about her.’ Shotton settled into his chair, looking out through the floor-to-ceiling windows again, sunlight glinting off the Range Rover’s bodywork as his driver washed it down. He pressed a button on his phone. ‘Send Christian in here, please.’
    ‘I’m not sure how he’s going to help,’ Marshall said.
    His iPad chimed. ‘And . . . it’s starting. The HuffPo are running a piece on the presence of high-ranking English Nationalist League members in Peterborough.’ He scanned for a moment. ‘They’ve got a photograph of you and Ken Poulter.’
    Shotton groaned internally. He hadn’t spoken to Poulter in public for over a year, aware of the negative impact on PR, but there was always some dedicated muckraker out there who’d put the hours in to smear him.
    ‘Anything in there I need to worry about?’
    ‘Apart from the photo of you hugging a man with barbed wire tattooed around his neck?’ Marshall didn’t look up from the screen. He rarely did. The thing might be surgically attached to him for all the time he spent away from it. ‘They’re insinuating a causal link between the hit-and-run and the atmosphere of racial tension in the city. You’re being singled out as an agitator.’
    Shotton rocked back in his chair, looked up at the vaulted ceiling, white between the