A Parliamentary Affair (60 page)

At last the tiring goat was headed off by a group of Scouts and Terriers and was cornered down by the tandoori restaurant. Mr Ali was standing in the doorway, wiping his hands on a tea-towel, called from his labours in the kitchen by all the commotion. A panting heap of humanity and smelly long-haired goat greeted him as Bulstrode, face livid, strode up and took the leash again.

‘I could make use of the animal, sir, should you wish to dispose of it,’ Mr Ali said helpfully.

‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow,’ responded the goat’s minder grimly.

A hand touched Nigel Boswood’s shoulder. Not wanting to talk to anyone much, still full of tension at his first appearance at a public event, and brooding deeply on all that had happened to him, Nigel shook it off gently but not rudely, refusing to turn around or take notice.

The Queen was leaving, accompanied by grave bows and salutes from those she passed. Around him men in dark-grey and black overcoats pulled mufflers tighter, shook hands and dispersed. A group hovered protectively near the Prime Minister and those Cabinet ministers who were present. For a few polite moments hostilities were lifted and the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition chatted affably.

With a poignant twinge Nigel watched as Roger Dickson, smiling pleasantly, pulled on black gloves, detached himself with practised ease and moved to his Jaguar. He seemed to have grown into the job very quickly. Nigel reflected sadly that Dickson looked the part entirely – more than himself perhaps, for in the last year or two he had been increasingly conscious of being from the wrong generation. Yet it was his own attempt to change, to adapt to a way of life that would have been illegal in his own younger days, which had led directly to his downfall. It all seemed so unfair.

For a brief moment, the unnoticed centre of a slow-moving crowd, Nigel allowed himself the indulgence of a moderate dose of self-pity. If he was not to be famous and central any more he might as well have stayed at home and watched it all from the comfort of his armchair. He gazed around with sadness. He was there not only without purpose but deprived almost of identity. Most of those who should have recognised him pretended he wasn’t there, while many others simply failed to place him at all.

A man moved from in front of Nigel, leaving him suddenly exposed and visible, silhouetted against the white stone, standing alone in the middle of the road. Dickson, hand on open car door, saw him, hesitated, then smiled and waved, and climbed in. His driver in the grey peaked cap stared impassively. Nigel noted it was Alec, who had been Dickson’s driver before; the drivers must have swapped around to accommodate the new Secretary of State’s preference. There was no further acknowledgement of him.

A hand tapped his shoulder a second time. Nigel shrugged resignedly; no one else seemed willing to talk to him. Opposite the Cenotaph at the corner of Derby Gate the Red Lion was open. Perhaps if this were a friend, or even an old acquaintance, it would be pleasant to invite him to the pub for a quick drink. That was what normal people would do. He would have to relearn normal behaviour, the little niceties that everyone else took for granted but which he had entirely misplaced in the years of ministerial grandeur. It might even be an interesting experience. Feeling more optimistic, he squared his shoulders and turned around.

Charles Edward Longhurst was an inch or so taller than Nigel and in his early fifties. Physically there was a resemblance, for the clean-shaven Mr Longhurst was a regular attendee at professional dinners around the country, being a fine raconteur especially if the press were not present. As a result he was carrying only slightly less weight than Nigel, but, given the time spent exercising and lifting weights in the seclusion of his bedroom, the flush on his cheek was healthier.

Mr Longhurst looked into the eyes of the gentleman whose name was on the order sheet in his hand. The man’s appearance had changed since he used to be a minister; he was older, more bowed. Tiny lines criss-crossed the face and fell, reddened by the cold, into deep furrows by the side of his mouth and eyes. If he didn’t know better he would have sworn some looked like scars.

There was no point in drawing attention to what had to be done. Mr Longhurst had dealt with some villains in his time and on occasion would have welcomed the glare of publicity, especially when a public figure got stroppy. But this fellow already had a beaten look about him, despite the
enquiring, friendly expression. Longhurst spoke softly but directly so that Nigel was almost reading his lips.

‘Sir Nigel Boswood?’

Boswood nodded and held out his hand formally. Longhurst was startled for a second, then took it in his own. Most people in his business did not shake hands.

‘My name is Charles Longhurst. Superintendent Longhurst of the Metropolitan Police. Would you be so kind as to spare me a moment? We could go to Charing Cross station, sir. It’s just across the way.’

Nigel’s mind completely refused to grasp the enormity of what was happening and clung instead to trivialities.

‘Charing Cross? Isn’t there one nearer?’

The policeman nodded across the road. ‘It is the nearest one. Used to be called Cannon Row, but you took over that part of the building for MPs and secretaries. It’s at the back, same building, on the Embankment side. We walk through Derby Gate.’

It would look as if they were going into a parliamentary building; all so normal. Almost automatically the two turned and moved away, as the Marines began to erect crash barriers around the Cenotaph to deter vandals from destroying the wreaths.

‘I’d rather take you for a drink,’ Nigel offered bravely, gesturing to the pub. It looked suddenly inviting.

‘Thank you, sir, but this has to be done in a police station.’

Nigel was puzzled. Was he being arrested? He decided to maintain the joviality. A little practice would do no harm. ‘Afterwards, then?’

There was no answer.

At the gate which also leads to parliamentary offices the two men paused briefly and showed their IDs. Gerry Keown knew perfectly well who both men were, but there was a security alert on, what with all the bigwigs at the ceremony a few yards away. The supervisor had reminded gate staff to take no one for granted.

Possibilities, most of them irritating but not devastating, were surfacing in Nigel’s brain. Perhaps his house had been burgled. Maybe his car, the second-hand but stolid Mercedes he had bought after his resignation, would turn out to be stolen; it had seemed an extraordinary bargain. Maybe, more worryingly, he was on a hit list for the IRA – or being warned he could no longer expect the daily protection of plain-clothes detectives with bulges in their armpits. So many times had Nigel been wounded that his system knew when to shut down, to shroud him in an invisible protection.

His eyes told him that he was being nodded through a large modern police station; that the uniformed men and women and the grubby jeans-wearing characters to whom they were talking were locked in combat, though perhaps some of the latter were undercover detectives or Special Branch, policemen too under the stubble. Somewhere a typewriter clattered away and a door clanged.

A moment later he was ushered into what was evidently the superintendent’s office. It was furnished elegantly enough with modern reproduction pieces made from the kind of dark solid wood that had environmentalists demonstrating at the dockside. On the wall, in odd juxtaposition, hung a couple of Bernard Buffet prints of Paris, and a line drawing of Hendon Police College. The
window-ledge
sported a colour photograph of a smiling wife and two grown-up children. The room was well maintained and tidy but with a businesslike air. Charles Longhurst had his sights set on becoming Assistant Chief Constable before he retired, if not with the Met, then in a civilised spot in the Home Counties.

‘You might want your solicitor,’ the superintendent said helpfully and pushed the phone forward.

Nigel had not taken off his coat, but now he undid its buttons and seated himself with a feeling almost of curiosity.

‘What? It depends. Perhaps you had better tell me first how I can help you, Mr … er, Longhurst.’

The policeman realised that the man had no idea why he was here. He sighed. A walking innocent.

‘All right. Perhaps when I have explained you will want to call him. A complaint has been laid against you, Sir Nigel, under Section 13 of the Sexual Offences Act of 1956, and Section 1 of the Sexual Offences Act 1967.’

He paused. Nigel Boswood had a vacant look on his face as if his thoughts were not entirely engaged.

‘That means gross indecency with a man under the age of twenty-one,’ Longhurst continued carefully.

‘Who would say that?’ Nigel was suddenly indignant. Peter had gone: it couldn’t be him. Any other would be from years ago, and could possibly be denied. Or it might simply be somebody lying.

Longhurst opened a large folder on the desk and flicked through the top pages. ‘I think you would know him as Peter Manley, but we have half a dozen names and aliases for him in several countries. Sir,’ he added as an afterthought.

A cold feeling started in the pit of Nigel’s stomach and began to spread down his thighs. Still it seemed best to maintain the bravado. A man without friends must shift for himself.

‘Peter? He’s made a complaint? But I thought – that is, the police told me – he was refusing to make a complaint.’

‘That’s right, sir, he was. I interviewed him myself. But I think he’s been put up to it by one of the newspapers. Wanting to keep the story going, I guess. Anyway he has made a sworn statement. That means I have no choice about acting. I am sorry.’

Longhurst sat squarely opposite, hands placed palm down on the table, as if he preferred to see people sit like that, to be sure of what their hands were doing. His apology was meant to anticipate and soften the impact of the message.

Boswood moved only imperceptibly, but all the thin cheerfulness had gone. His voice was gruff, deeper. ‘Are you arresting me, then? Will I be charged?’

Longhurst lowered his eyes. There was something poignant about the man’s simple courage and dignity. He had been through so much already. The officer had no desire to punish the man any further. The briefest acquaintance with the voluminous file on Peter, with reports from police forces in Belgium, Germany, Holland, France and Ireland as well as complaints from Malta and Madeira, told him all he needed to know about who was to blame and who likely to reoffend in future. Moreover, the names of two senior police colleagues appeared, buried in a sealed envelope marked ‘Secret’. He had wondered if Peter even knew who they were and decided it was best not to find out. There was nothing whatever to gain by making this nasty little prostitute and minor drug-smuggler answer in the full glare of publicity in a witness box. The newspaper must have offered a lot of money to make it worth his while trying again.

It was Longhurst’s turn to say softly, ‘That depends. If I charge you with a serious offence I have to be reasonably sure there is evidence, and that the case would stand up in court. There are photographs, of course. However, your Peter is a thoroughly unreliable witness, as I am sure you realise. We have an address for him at the moment, his sister’s house in Stoke Newington. I am reluctant to go through all the motions only to have him vanish the day before the hearing. Yet he has placed a complaint against you, and I do have to take it seriously.’

There was silence. Both men waited, as if somebody else would provide an answer. Caution and puzzlement obliged Nigel to say nothing. The revelation of Peter’s betrayal did not hurt him
emotionally as much as once it might. As he had not seen the boy since spring, the powerful image, much of which had in any case been created in his own mind, was fading. That at least was a blessing.

The policeman continued, slowly, ‘I am thus very reluctant to go to court, and I have sought the opinion of the Director of Public Prosecutions, who, agrees with me. There is another option, in cases where a serious offence has been committed, where in view of the age or infirmity of the accused a formal caution is more appropriate.’

‘What does that entail?’

‘It’s not at all the same as an informal caution. There is one essential element: an admission of guilt. If you deny the matter then I am obliged to put the matter in the DPP’s hands. If you admit it we could proceed to a formal caution. It is up to you. That’s why I thought you might prefer your solicitor here.’

The mental image of Mr Wharton’s thin dry face, skin scraped and scrawny as if he shaved without soap, swam before Nigel’s mind. Those piggy eyes would glitter at the suggestion of a big court hearing; he would rub together his long fingers and imply that only a fool would do other than plead not guilty, then allow the brilliance of his counsel, charging – what? – ten thousand for a two-day case, perhaps, to overwhelm the jury.

A jury. Men and women like Mrs Perkins – but in public she might purse her lips and condemn him for being so stupid. Or her brother, the one she told him about, whose left-wing sympathies would place him firmly against an aristo like himself. Civil servants like Chadwick, fretting at being kept from their work, wanting it all over and done, not prepared to make allowances. They would sit there, comparing him with the unmarked young boy he had allegedly debauched. Peter had steel inside; he would stand up to cross-examination very well, up to the point when he would burst prettily into tears. Any attempt to browbeat him or put awkward questions about his past would be parried by the cry that he was the subject of constant harassment by men, legally adults, who should know better, or by accusations that the defence counsel was trying to divert attention from the monster who was actually in the dock. And Nigel needed no reminder that the media would have a field day, whatever was said in court, and make up much of what wasn’t, even before the verdict.

Nigel felt a flicker of anger. ‘It sounds as if my former friend is blackmailing us both – pressuring you and me to get what he wants – and laughing all the way to the bank.’