Flashpoint (23 page)

“That’s right,” said Fairbrass. “No comment. And don’t twist it into meaning that everything you’ve suggested is true, but the Society won’t comment on it, or I’ll run you up in front of the Press Council.”

The reporter grinned and departed. As soon as he had gone, Fairbrass dialled Tom Buller’s home number. It was Mrs Buller who answered.

“Tom isn’t home yet,” she said. “And Laurence, there are two men in the garden. They say they’re reporters. They wanted to come into the house and wait for Tom, but I wouldn’t let them.”

“That’s right. Keep “em out.
And don’t let Tom talk to them until he’s had a word with me
.”

“Goodness! What’s it all about? Has someone been murdered?”

“Much more exciting. You don’t get more than half a paragraph for murder nowadays. This is headline stuff.”

When Mutt met me at the station I could see that she was worried. She said, “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing that I know of. Why?”

“The papers have been ringing up. And there’s a man who wants to interview you.”

By now I had a suspicion of what it was all about.

“I hope you didn’t say anything.”

“How could I? I don’t know anything.”

“That’s true.”

When we got home they were waiting in the porch; a middle-aged man and a young lady. The young lady had a camera. She seemed to want to take my photograph.

“Would you mind explaining what this is all about?”

“If I’ve got it right,” said the man, “you’re the hero of the story. You work at the Law Society, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And it was you who found the court record – whatever it was – the one that proved that someone was trying to frame Killey.”

“Good heavens,” I said. “I can’t talk about that.”

I realized as I had said it that I had made a mistake. The man said, smoothly, “Of course we appreciate that. It’d be a confidential matter. But from what you say, I assume it
was
you who actually unearthed the document.”

This happened to be true, and heaven alone knows what I might have said, but I was saved from further indiscretion by the Archbishop of Canterbury. He had taken a dislike to the strange man and announced it by starting to scream. The girl said, “Oh, poor darling,” put down her camera and picked him up. I could have told her that this was a false move. The Archbishop was sick all over her.

We had got rid of the press, and had our supper, neither of us talking much, when the telephone rang.

I hesitated before answering it.

“Go on,” said Mutt. “It mightn’t be them.”

It was Tom Buller. He said, “I rang up to find if you’d had any trouble.”

“There were some reporters.”

“I hope you didn’t say anything.”

“I don’t think so.”

“If they bother you again, all you have to say is, ‘no comment’. And if they won’t go away, send for the police.”

“All right.”

In bed that night Mutt said, “It may be all right for people in the public eye, but I don’t like it. I’m a private sort of person. I think it’s rather terrifying when people can come into your house and take photographs and ask you questions and write things about you.”

I said, “I don’t suppose they’ll bother us again. They’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

In the days of the semaphore and the horsed courier it may have been possible to nurse a good scoop. Nowadays, no real news can hope to remain exclusive for more than an hour.

The other evening papers had already started covering the
Banner
story in their own Friday night editions. On Saturday morning the national press opened the doors of the furnace.

I had noticed before, in cases where I happened to know the facts, that although the papers are often inaccurate in matters of detail, they are usually surprisingly right over the shape of a story. The truth is, I suppose, that getting names and dates and statistics correct is a matter of checking and cross-checking and daily papers have no time for this. Appreciating the shape and meaning of an event, on the other hand, is a matter of judgement and experience.

The story which the papers told to millions of breakfast tables on that flaming Saturday morning was, in simple outline, that the Government had become embarrassed at Killey’s attacks on their white-headed boy Will Dylan; that a Government agency had attempted to discredit Killey;
and that the attempt had misfired.

The implications of this were clear; the possibilities boundless. Though the legal trumpets were still somewhat muted by the threat of
sub judice
this could not silence the political orchestra. The knowledge that a general election was pending added an extra shrillness to its tone.

“
We
started it,” said John Charles to his staff with justifiable pride. “It was
our
story. We’re not going to let the other bastards pinch all the gravy. Follow it up, hard.”

The Leader of the Opposition went down to Smith Square to a meeting of his policy-making body. None of them was under any illusions as to the importance and impact of the news.

“It’s the timing that’s so critical,” said the shadow Home Secretary. “They can’t leave the announcement of the dissolution much later than Wednesday week.”

“And the High Court hearing starts on Monday?”

“That’s right. I understand it’s likely to last two days. The Court usually gives its decision immediately on a mandamus. That means that we could have a decision by Tuesday afternoon.”

The Leader considered the matter, sucking on the long-stemmed briar pipe which was his comfort in times of stress. Opinions differed as to his statesmanlike qualities, but he was a noted tactician, a formidable infighter in political brawling.

He said, “As I see it, it doesn’t really matter which way the Court decides. If they quash the application, it will be the establishment trying to cover up for the Government. If they allow the application, there’ll be a strong supposition that this man – what’s his name?”

“Killey.”

“Everyone will believe that Killey is right, and Dylan’s a crook. I take it that even if Killey wins in this Court, he can’t possibly mount a criminal prosecution before the autumn.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said the shadow Attorney General. “He’s got to go back to the magistrate first to get his summons. Then he’s got to get the committal proceedings going. The defence would be bound to ask for an adjournment. They’d get it, too.”

“Good,” said the Leader. “Then we can forget the law and think about policy. The main thing, as I see it, is not to overplay our hand. What we want is a question in the House on Wednesday. It will have to be framed very carefully. Don’t forget that Dylan’s popular. He’s got a lot of friends. We don’t want to appear to aim directly at him. Not yet, anyway. What I suggest is, a question to the Attorney General. ‘In view of the public disquiet, will he direct the Law Society to publish the facts. Were proceedings contemplated against Killey? Were they abandoned? And if so, why?’ And I don’t think we want to involve the front bench.”

“Get Gooley to do it,” suggested the shadow Home Secretary.

Gooley was a raucous backbencher, noted for asking tactless questions on any topic at all.

The Leader considered the suggestion but vetoed it. He said, “Questions asked by Geoff Gooley aren’t always taken seriously. Put Henderson up.”

The Commissioner of Metropolitan Police called by appointment on the Home Secretary. The Home Secretary came immediately to the point. He said, “The Killey case – you know what I’m talking about, Commissioner?”

“Yes,” said the Commissioner. “I know what you’re talking about.”

“It comes in front of the High Court on Monday. I don’t want the sort of disturbances that occurred at Bow Street to be repeated.”

“Do we anticipate them?”

“You’ve read the reports. Do you think the disturbance at Bow Street was a spontaneous expression of dissent by the friends of the accused on the
Watchman
staff?”

“No, I don’t. The men who were removed from the Court had nothing to do with the
Watchman.
They were members of an extreme left-wing organization.”

“Exactly. And those are the same sort of people who are going to try to whip up a disturbance when this case comes on. I want it stopped.”

“The High Court’s not like Bow Street. It’s a difficult place to seal off. Entrances in the Strand, Carey Street and Bell Yard, and from the courtyard on the west side.”

“I don’t care how many entrances there are. They’ve all got to be checked. No one goes into the building who hasn’t got genuine business there. Counsel, solicitors and their clients.”

“I suppose we ought to let the judges in as well,” said the Commissioner.

The Home Secretary looked up sharply. He said, “Personally, I don’t find the situation amusing.”

The Commissioner had seen three Home Secretaries come and go and was not unduly impressed by them. In his opinion the present holder of that office was the weakest of the three, and like all weak men, was an advocate of strong measures. He said, “It won’t be amusing for us, I assure you. We shall have to check a lot of credentials, and people will be kept waiting, and will get upset. Also, the general public has a right of access to the public galleries. They won’t appreciate being kept out of them. I’m not sure, constitutionally, that we can.”

“I’m aware of the difficulties,” said the Home Secretary. “I look to you to overcome them.”

“We’ll do our best,” said the Commissioner smoothly.

Back in his office he summoned the appropriate officials and gave instructions. He said, “I don’t think we’ll have the mounted branch in on this. It’s not very effective and tends to annoy people.”

One of his subordinates said, “This chap Killey. Will there be any difficulty about getting him into Court?”

“Certainly not. He’s now so popular they’ll probably try to carry him in shoulder high. By the way, does anyone know where he is at the moment?”

Nobody did know.

“Find out,” said the Commissioner. “It might be a good idea to keep an eye on him.”

They were not the only people looking for Jonas Killey.

The press, in search of follow-up information, had experienced mixed fortunes with the minor characters. The iron hand of Tom Buller had clamped down on the Law Society, and there was nothing but ‘no comment’ to be had from that source. Lambard had retreated behind the plea of professional privilege and a chained front gate while Jonathan ostentatiously exercised two boxer bitches on the front drive.

Mrs Warburton, who would have been a primary source of information, escaped trouble by accident. She decided, on Friday evening, to visit her sister who lived at Bognor Regis and since it did not occur to her to tell anyone of her plans she spent a quiet weekend at that resort, returning by an early train on Monday.

Deborah was available. In a sense she was too available. She had only one story to tell, and she told it to everyone. Her mother encouraged her and acted as commentator. She had always considered that her daughter had talents which were wasted in a solicitor’s office and she knew that publicity was a key which unlocked many doors.

Young Willoughby was confined to barracks by his father. Mr Willoughby senior held much the same views about press publicity as Mutt did. He thought that it was a bad thing, and that the intrusion of reporters into an Englishman’s home was an impertinence, to be met in the same spirit that he, and his contemporaries, had met the attempted intrusions of Hitler and Goering. He bolted the front and back doors, closed the curtains in all the windows to baffle the photographers and prepared to sit it out. Had the enemy entered the front garden he was prepared to counter-attack and had a stirrup pump, a relic of the last war, ready primed in the hall.

After sitting in semi-darkness for most of that Saturday Willoughby got fed up, escaped by the kitchen window and made his way down to the local. Here he was recognized by the press. A number of his rugby-playing acquaintances were on hand as well, and a warm five minutes ended with the reporters being thrown out on to the pavement.

Will Dylan, being a public figure, had secretaries and assistants who were experienced in the routine of keeping the press at a distance. Pauline took the additional precaution of removing the gangplank which led to their houseboat.

But where, in all this, was the principal figure, the man that everyone wanted to talk to?

When his mother was taken to hospital, Jonas had abandoned the empty house and engaged a room in a small private hotel at Crouch End. The pack, making for it in full cry, had sustained a check.

The proprietor of the hotel, a former officer in the Royal Navy, had himself suffered from the attentions of the press over an unfortunate incident involving the ramming of a light cruiser by a destroyer at Scapa Flow. He had been waiting for a long time to tell the press what he thought about them, and seized the opportunity with both hands.

The reporters retired to lick their wounds, keep observation on the hotel and await Jonas’ return.

They waited in vain, for in fact Jonas had left the hotel on the Friday to attend the conference with Counsel and had not returned.

He was not hiding, nor was he running away. He knew that all the necessary preparations had been made for the High Court hearing on Monday and that there was nothing more that he personally could do either before it or, since the proceedings would be on affidavit, at it. It seemed to him to be a good opportunity to carry out a plan which had been forming in his mind for some days.

He caught an evening train from Waterloo to Salisbury, and a bus at Salisbury which ran out in the dusk of yet another long sunlit day, past Old Sarum and Boscombe Down and out on to the Plain. He was making for a small hotel which he had been told of between Netheravon and Upavon which catered mainly for fishermen. He was not interested in fishing but was a dedicated walker, and it had occurred to him that the open spaces of Salisbury Plain would give him the sort of exercise he was looking for.