David Cameron's forthrightness on the Lockerbie case was admirable Photo: PA  David Cameron has had a spectacularly good couple of weeks. For Gordon Brown they have been catastrophically bad – probably his worst since becoming prime minister (although there is a fair amount of competition for that title). You may think that these two closely related facts are simply attributable to events: the release of the convicted Lockerbie bomber, Abdelbaset Mohmed Ali al Megrahi has done a degree of damage to the reputation of everyone who presided over it – or who could conceivably be implicated in it – that is apocalyptic in its scale. So naturally, Mr Brown has been hit hard while Mr Cameron has benefited. Cynics might suggest, therefore, that the Cameron advantage was gained purely by default. Or that Mr Cameron just exploited the Brown disadvantage with enough opportunistic gusto to maximise its effect.  I do not think this is the case. I believe that there was a significant reason why Mr Cameron did so well over this period – and conversely why Mr Brown did so horrendously badly – and that there is a salutary lesson in this for the Conservatives. As always, with a truly disastrous political event, the outcomes for individual politicians depend not so much on the incident itself but on the handling of its aftermath. What will remain in voters' minds, even after their anger over al Megrahi has dimmed, will be the subsequent performances of Mr Cameron and Mr Brown and what they believe it has taught them about the characters of the two men.  Unlike Mr Brown who famously (or infamously) went to ground, Mr Cameron became very visible indeed. Now that in itself is scarcely surprising: opposition leaders tend to want to make hay when the party in power is suffering acute embarrassment. It was not even that what Mr Cameron actually said was so startlingly original or inspiring. It was more his recognition that this was a time when silence was deeply, almost offensively inappropriate: that the country felt so strongly about the matter that only straight talk would do, and that when the circumstances demanded, he was capable of providing that straight talk. There is now an accepted (if largely unconscious) compact between political leaders and the electorate: to refuse to speak to the people, to fail to give them the common courtesy of an explanation, an opinion, an expression of feeling, anything at all to indicate what you really think about a matter of national concern, is no longer acceptable. For this is the truth about modern politics: it is seen (constitutional purists will disapprove) as a relationship between the people and their leaders of an almost domestic kind.  There is a personal element – an expectation of being related to, of common understanding and mutual respect – which contemporary leaders cannot ignore. It has become a truism to say that deference has disappeared from the national scene, but the importance of this particular aspect of it has been somewhat neglected. Voters now expect to be talked to as if they were grown-ups and a fully fledged party to the enterprise of running the country – and they regard the failure to do so as a sign of contempt. This is, for better or for worse (as it were), a human relationship not so very different from the other kinds: and we know what happens in a modern relationship when one partner persistently refuses to talk to the other.  That brings us to Mr Cameron's quite glorious triumph. Not only do voters believe that they have a right to be addressed but they expect to be related to with frankness and candour. And over these past tumultuous days, Mr Cameron has looked unambiguously, unblinkingly candid and sincere. Watching and listening to his broadcast comments, I have never for a second doubted that he was speaking the truth as he saw it, that his outrage and his condemnations were perfectly genuine, and that his interventions had involved almost no carefully premeditated calculation as to precise degree of political risk or possible consequence. Which, I'm sorry to say, is not precisely the effect that his statements on domestic policy have for me.  Can you see where I'm going with this? Mr Cameron scored so well because, I am quite certain, he believed absolutely in what he was saying. He spoke with a quiet but unrelenting conviction which was palpable. It seemed to me that his face and his voice were quite different from the way they often appear in his public performances: there was little attempt to charm or schmooze or disarm. And paradoxically, he became far more engaging in the sense that voters prefer. Now it would be possible to argue that in this case, Mr Cameron could afford to be so frank and unequivocal because he had the wind of public opinion behind him. That may be true but it would be wrong to assume that bluntness and transparent honesty cannot bring their own rewards even to politicians who are uttering controversial or unpopular views. A few years ago, the BBC conducted a survey in which people were asked which politicians they most admired, regardless of whether or not they agreed with their opinions. Top of the poll were the late Mo Mowlam and Anne Widdecombe. What did these two redoubtable women have in common? They were seen as unafraid to speak their minds in defiance of accepted convention. It is worth noting that the most electorally successful leaders of our time have been exceptionally able to project personal sincerity (Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher) or at least a plausible facsimile of it (Tony Blair, Bill Clinton).  Moral of the story for Mr Cameron: you are at your most effective when you say what you believe. Politics has entered the emotionally intelligent age: people can tell when you are faking it, when you are avoiding their eye, when you are evading obvious difficulties, and they do not like it. They would rather be told that there are some real problems with the way we currently fund healthcare (which they know to be the case) than to be "reassured" with the insultingly preposterous statement that there are not. They would prefer to believe that you have strong, unassailable principles of your own which you are prepared to debate openly, rather than to think that you are waiting for them to express a preference before you commit yourself. They want you to say, without hesitation, where you are going, and to allow them to judge that intention. Then they will happily let you lead them.
The Tory leader's sincerely felt anger over the Lockerbie case has been a glorious sight to behold, says Janet Daley