A Woman's Place (35 page)

The man glanced up, pride on his face. ‘You couldn't do it now. In those days printing was a skilled job – and keeping those old presses rolling was a secret art, I can tell you. All done much the same way since William Caxton. This baby's from another planet. It doesn't need us. I could programme it for a week and skedaddle. We produce forty-two different newspapers here – got to keep the monster busy. Now, what can I do for you?'

Betts could have waited till the first edition had appeared in the upstairs newsroom but curiosity had overcome him. ‘Just want to see how my follow-up piece on our Asian chums has turned out,' he answered casually.

The printer flicked through a copy. Even the ink was high-tech and rarely stained the fingers: a source of regret, for to his mind a man should bear the marks of honest toil. ‘Great stuff, Jim,' he remarked. ‘You know, we should turn those buggers round at Heathrow and send them straight back to Calcutta. The crime in our area you wouldn't believe – fights and gangs all hours of the day and night, and it's always the blacks. My mother gets really frightened. If there's a National Front candidate in my area next election, he'll get my vote.'

The sole reaction which might have troubled Jim Betts was no reaction at all. He relaxed. ‘And what if there isn't one?'

The printer chortled. ‘Then I might just set Hermann here to run without my assistance for a bit and have a go myself. Time we British stood up for ourselves. Rule Britannia and all that. Can't have the buggers taking over, can we?'

‘We should defy them!'

Pramila switched off the breakfast news on the television and banged her small fist on the table. Behind hovered the fretful figure of her mother; her sister Lakshmi sat slumped on a kitchen chair, weeping noisily and fanning herself with the remains of the
Globe.
Bits of the newspaper, torn up in despair, littered the floor. The front door, barricaded, was subject at frequent intervals to loud
knocks from rowdy pressmen.

‘How can they say this of my husband? It is not true. He is a man of the highest integrity. Oh, this is too much!'

Lakshmi sat up. ‘Defy them is right. We should not hide our faces. But how?'

Pramila paced agitatedly about. The letter-box rattled; a wheedling voice called her name and requested two minutes to ask a few simple questions. She ignored it. Then she smiled, and put both hands together in a triumphant gesture.

‘A week on Monday is the date for the investiture. It will go ahead, and Jayanti will walk head high to his place in the House of Lords. The usual practice, I am told, is to give a lunch beforehand, but we will do better than that. We have many good friends to consider. We will have a party that night.'

‘A party? Where?' Lakshmi dabbed at her eyes.

Pramila considered. ‘It must be in a very glamorous place. Maybe Lady Porter will lend us her beautiful penthouse, now she is living abroad? But no, that would not be large enough. I know! The Roof Garden in Kensington, if it is free – it belongs to Mr Branson and is available for hire. Perfect for a summer evening. We will have that. Hundreds of people, from Asian and British communities. All the government – we will invite the lot. Newspaper editors – oh, indeed. Television presenters – Mr Paxman, Mr Dimbleby.
Both
Mr Dimblebys. Maybe we should ask the Duchess of York, if she is in England? Champagne. Canapés. Supper at ten – that will suit MPs after the vote. Carriages at two a.m. The event of the season!'

Lakshmi clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful!' She giggled. ‘That will show these dreadful people, won't it?'

But Pramila was not listening. The celebration would demand the rapid placement of orders for catering, drinks, security, printing – already her brain was working furiously. The activity would distract her from the ghastly intrusion on her doorstep. As she reached for the phone she muttered savagely to herself; she would ensure that the tabloids and the gossip columns, friendly or not, would soon have something spectacular to report.

‘This time it is not acceptable. You have to stop them!' Jayanti was aware that his voice had risen almost to a shriek. The dusty room at Merriman, Abrahams and Arnold was again stifling. Perspiration beaded on his brow; he wondered if the solicitor, vast, urbane and imperturbable as ever, turned up the thermostat to discomfort chosen clients, or whether every visitor risked heatstroke indiscriminately.

Sir John pondered. According to the file before him nothing had gone right for Lord Bhadeshia since the day his peerage had been gazetted. The lawyer raised his half-moon spectacles and balanced them on his nose.

‘Would it help, my lord, if I outlined the essence of the current allegations against you?'

‘Yes, yes – get on with it.' Bhadeshia collapsed back in his seat.

‘In the first
Globe
article some weeks ago, at which we made a mild protest, you were accused of somewhat underhand dealings in your commercial activities. The
Panorama
programme repeated these charges – the violence in East Africa, the alleged mortgage deception – but added little, rather as is their wont. But today's newspaper suggests you might have been puffing your company's shares, and that you obtained a substantial grant from the ODA under false pretences. That is far more grave.'

‘It is terrible – terrible.' With a moan Jayanti buried his face in his hands. Sir John twiddled tactfully with a letter opener. Jayanti sniffed, blew his nose and tried again. ‘I
have
to sue. To put a stop to all this. Or my business will collapse.'

The lawyer shuffled through notes and cuttings. ‘So: did you give a personal guarantee of a
million pounds against the loan from Barclays Bank?'

Jayanti nodded unhappily.

‘And did you have the funds immediately accessible to fulfil that promise, if necessary?'

‘I have my house. That is worth a million, easily.'

‘The value of a property is a matter of conjecture in the current financial climate, my lord. And is it yours – unencumbered? Or does it really belong to the bank – a different bank?'

There was no reply. Sir John ploughed on.

‘And have you been encouraging the purchase of your company's shares, using money borrowed from the company, in order to increase their value? A technical issue, but nevertheless it is illegal under section one hundred and fifty-one of the Companies Act…'

Jayanti slumped in his chair, lips pressed together.

‘Then it is my duty to warn you, my lord, that you face something far more troublesome than damage to your reputation. By all means issue writs, even try for an injunction. But from what you have just said matters have gone beyond that.'

His client was not with him. Perhaps the approach was still too indirect. Sir John spoke the next few words very clearly.

‘It appears on the face of it that you may have come close to defrauding the banks – one of them, at least, and possibly several. And your other shareholders. The Stock Exchange will take a dim view. So, I fear, might the Serious Fraud Office.'

Bhadeshia stared around wildly. ‘No – I haven't defrauded anybody! I had to be a little expansive to get the house loan, but that is normal. And ODA were keen to help once they knew about my project. As for the shares bought by my relatives – so what? Anyway, I can pay the banks and ODA back, once the project is a success…' His voice tailed away.

Sir John continued as if his client hadn't spoken. ‘In which case I have to inform you that you may be embroiled in far more than a libel suit or, indeed, a civil case for recovery of funds. What you might be facing is far more serious.' The senior partner leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the desk, his lower lip thrust out. If he was correct then his client was a man of straw: no fees would come from Lord Bhadeshia's pocket. It was unwise to waste too much time on him.

‘I'm referring, Lord Bhadeshia, to … criminal charges.'

Bhadeshia's eyes darted around as if expecting the heavy hand of a police officer on his shoulder any minute. A great sigh escaped from him, as if he had always feared that the world would conspire to ensure that his dreams could never be realised. He knew himself to be basically a good man, not a rogue. He had sought only the best for his family, for his name. He had worked so hard – how he had worked, without complaint. He had supported charities, employed those in need, given money without stint, been a bit of a soft touch. He had aspired, as his heroine Mrs Thatcher had urged, to fortune and to recognition: both had been within his grasp.

‘And now, my lord, if you will listen carefully, I will outline your options to you.'

It was fortunate, everyone agreed, that the introduction of Lord Bhadeshia took place at the same time as two other peers, who seemed to be enjoying themselves rather more. True, the gallery was filled with brightly dressed Indian ladies whose fluttering silks were like so many butterfly wings, and overawed men who chattered inappropriately and pointed; a forbidden video camera had disappeared under a sari before an attendant could confiscate it. But despite so many supporters he hurried away too quickly from the Peers' bar, leaving many of his new colleagues with their
amour propre
wounded and their glasses empty.

Press pictures the next day would show the new baron, his eyes troubled, engulfed in red velvet and white ermine. His ears had disappeared under a black tricorne hat which made him look like an extra on Captain Hook's pirate ship. His sponsors, similarly attired, posed gamely with him for
the cameras, since nobody knew the validity of the
Globe
's attack, and for the moment nobody wished to find out.

Jayanti forced himself to be cheerful, but was conscious that glances both condemnatory and curious followed him everywhere. Even the policeman in the Peers' Lobby, usually the soul of correctness to all their lordships, fell silent as he approached and gave him directions with an unsmiling nod.

Outside it was worse; the commissionaire guardian of the main Lords entrance, normally the most jovial of men, glared down at the new peer.

‘I shouldn't go that way, m'lord,' he said bluntly. ‘Lots of press waiting for you there.'

Jayanti peered around. ‘My car is in the Abbey Gardens car park over the road,' he explained weakly.

The attendant took pity. ‘Leave it there, it'll be safe. Go back inside. I'll wave in a taxi. Where are you off to – Kensington? Right, leave it to me.'

When the cab came, an ordinary black London taxi, Jayanti felt acutely the humiliation of climbing inside. As the cab swept into the traffic, light bulbs flashed in his face. The cabbie, a tubby Cockney, glanced back, his interest aroused.

‘I've carried you before, haven't I?' he enquired.

Jayanti had no idea; he did not make a practice of noting the features of London cab drivers. Habit, however, was beginning to assert itself. ‘I am Lord Bhadeshia,' he started, the tone still proud. It occurred to him suddenly that it might be better to keep his identity a secret, but it was too late. The cabbie chuckled.

‘Bhadeshia, eh? I've been reading about you…'

Twenty-five minutes later it was a harassed and confused man who emerged from the taxi at the side entrance to the Roof Garden Club. The driver had been unmerciful. Only a desire not to lose the fare had stopped him following up the most pointed questions with his personal views on the passenger's alleged behaviour. He would dine out on the tale for many a long day.

As soon as the late vote was over Roger Dickson headed grimly along the back corridor behind the Speaker's Chair to his office. For a moment he read, standing, then sat heavily and slapped the newspaper down on his desk.

‘Christ – not another!'

From the front page of the first edition of the
Globe
gazed back the self-important face of his Minister of State for Health, Welfare and the Family. If the tale in many column inches was even partly true – and the photographed extract from a ministerial letter marked ‘Confidential' to the ODA showed it was no fantasy – then the only welfare Derek Harrison had been looking after had been that of his friends and himself.

The Chief Whip sat forward in his armchair, his fingers cradling a glass of whisky and soda. ‘I have checked: the editor is prepared to stand by the story,' he remarked. ‘The other papers will splash it by morning. Of course he won't say where he got the letter, but we've long since given up making a fuss about leaked Whitehall documents.'

‘No point. To haul editors before the Committee of Privileges merely makes us look complete prats. It doesn't seem to matter whether the press use honourable methods to obtain their material. The ends justify the means these days.'

‘And our Derek made sure that Mr Bhadeshia had the means.' The Chief Whip shifted. He wondered at what point the repeated falls from grace would touch the Prime Minister himself; or would this man retire at a time of his own choosing, his character unblemished but his government's reputation in shreds? ‘The Opposition are sure to make a fuss at Prime Minister's Question Time tomorrow. What will you say – will you back Harrison? Pity you've only just made his accomplice a
peer. Puts you on the spot a bit.'

You,
not
us
. The distinction was not missed by Dickson, whose glance in the Chief's direction was laced with suppressed fury. ‘Where is he?'

‘Right now? At the Bhadeshia party, I believe. With a hundred or so other Members, showing solidarity and blaming a hostile press for the row as they quaff the best champers, no doubt. You were probably invited – we all were.'

‘Get him. And Ted Bampton. In my room at No. 10 in half an hour.'

There were, Betts saw, notable gaps. The evening may have been billed as the event of the year, but Lady Thatcher was busy elsewhere, Lord Tebbitt had pulled out at the last minute, Lord Parkinson had developed an urgent meeting and Lord Archer had decamped to the Bahamas to write his latest bestseller. The entire Cabinet had politely declined. The Party Chairman did pop in but was pulled out of a back door by a worried aide the instant the first newspaper had been thrust into his hand.