Flashpoint (6 page)

“Right now,” said Patrick, “I feel we could wipe the floor with anyone.”

“Mustn’t forget they’ve got Pearly Deans. Semi-final in the
News of the World
last year. Beaten by that Welsh bugger – what was his name – he won it.”

No one could remember his name.

Edgecombe, who had the mournful look which all compositors seem to wear like a uniform, said, “He’s hot stuff, is Pearly, but there’s one thing he can’t abide. Band music. Puts him right off his shot.”

“And just what are we supposed to do about that?” said Marks. “Hire a bloody great brass band and get it to play outside the window. Look a bit pointed, wouldn’t it?”

“What we could do,” said Parsons, “is to have a bit of band music tape recorded. Bring in one of those miniature sets, see, and turn it on accidental when he’s going for his double out.”

Patrick, who had finished his victory pint and was starting work on a follow-up, lost the thread of this interesting discussion. Over his fourth pint he found himself wedged up in one corner with Lefty Marks.

Marks said, “How’s the old profile going along, Patrick?”

“It’s going all right,” said Patrick.

“He’s a fine boy. Worth more than most of the silly sods we waste print on.”

“He’s had an interesting career. I only hope no one tries to spoil it.”

“Is someone trying?”

“I’m not sure. I had lunch today with my brother-in-law. He works in the Law Society. He told me something – mind you, there’s probably nothing in it. He’d got some idea into his head–”

Marks listened, bending forward so as not to miss anything, and nodding his head from time to time.

The celebrations finished with closing time. The members of the
Watchman
staff, who had been given the evening off for the occasion, went home to bed. Patrick made his way back to his bachelor flat in Albany Street. As he was undressing it did occur to him, fleetingly, to wonder if he might have been a bit indiscreet in what he had said to Marks, but he dismissed the thought. Lefty was all right. He was a good chap.

At that precise moment Marks was making a telephone call. He dialled a Clerkenwell number and was answered, in a cheerful and wide-awake voice, by someone he addressed as Syd. There must have been a dual connection at the other end, because sometimes it was Syd who spoke, and sometimes someone called Ben. Marks seemed to know both of them well.

I got home at the usual time that night and found Mutt full of excitement because the Archbishop was cutting a tooth. This may have been top line news for her, but it seemed to be a dead bore for the Archbishop, and he explained his feelings to us at length.

While Mutt was calming him down with one hand and getting supper with the other, I read the two accounts I had brought home with me, one in the green-labelled King’s Bench Reports for 1945 and the other in the yellow-labelled Appeal Cases for 1947. After supper, when quiet had at last been restored, I told Mutt about them.

“It wasn’t Jonas,” I said. “It was his father. He discovered a method of welding which would work under water. It depends on combining electrically induced heat with a flux which contains pyro-manganese powder. Everyone uses it now, but it was a novelty then, and commercially very valuable because it meant you could repair an underwater structure without hauling the whole thing out.”

“And Jonas’ father actually invented it?”

“There doesn’t seem to be much doubt about that. He was the original home-grown boffin. He thought it all up himself, and carried out the experiments in his own tool shed. Then he sold it to a crowd called North West Marine Appliances.”

“Who tried to steal it from him. Typical.”

“That was the general idea. But it wasn’t completely one-sided. The company had certainly put a lot of money into developing it and they had an agreement–”

“Drawn up by their own lawyers.”

“That’s right.”

Mutt snorted. I said, “It wasn’t crooked. It was just badly worded. The company said it meant the inventor got a sizeable lump sum and a limited royalty. Killey senior said it meant that he had the option to take a smaller down payment and a continuing and escalating royalty. Since the thing was a roaring success the royalty was obviously much the sounder bet.”

“So they went to Court about it, and the only people who made any money out of it were the lawyers.”

“Wrong again,” I said. “The person who made money was old man Killey. He lost in King’s Bench, but he was a sticker. He took it on to appeal and had a hell of a fight, which must have cost him every penny he had. There was no legal aid in those days, remember, and at the end of the day he came out top, with costs in both Courts, and a fat royalty. His widow has been living on it ever since.”

“His widow?”

“That was the sad part about it. The fight seems to have taken too much out of him. He died a few months after the case was over.”

Mutt said, “Humph,” and was clearly on the point of drawing a moral from this tale when the Archbishop started up again and sidetracked her.

Dylan said, “I think you ought to know, Minister, that there might be some trouble coming up.”

Bernard Gracey was Minister for Employment at that time. He was the man who dropped the famous clanger at question time in the House. The Honourable Member for somewhere-or-other had asked him how many apprentice pottery hands there were in Staffordshire and how many years it took for them to qualify as potters. Reading rather hurriedly from the slip of paper in his hand he had said, “The answer to the first question is five and to the second question is six thousand seven hundred and fifty.” This had tickled the sense of humour of the members, which rarely rises above schoolboy level. The press had started referring to him as ‘Potter’ Gracey. It was the sort of fatuous thing which a member never seems to live down. It hadn’t done his prospects much good.

The relationship between a boss on the way down and a subordinate on the way up can be prickly but Dylan seemed to get on with him well enough.

The Minister listened to him courteously, and said, “Really, it all seems pretty indefinite. That chap Pilley is a bit of a crank, I believe. Didn’t he have a bee in his bonnet about some Trade Union amalgamation? Remind me about that.” When Dylan had reminded him, the Minister said, “A pity. There’s not a lot one can do to prevent people bringing unfounded charges. A libel action usually does more harm than good. All the same, it could be awkward, just at this moment.”

Dylan looked at him quickly. The coming election was already casting a shadow. That October or the following March were the only real alternatives. The decision would have to be taken soon.

He said, “At least it’s good of you, Minister, to assume that the charges are unfounded.”

“I’ve known you long enough to be certain of that,” said Gracey.

When Dylan had gone he sat thinking about it for quite a long time. Then he picked up the telephone and asked for a number. It was a number which was manned twenty-four hours a day, but which did not feature in any telephone directory or listing, public or private. The people who knew it were expected to memorize it, not to write it down.

A few minutes later he was talking to someone he addressed as Toby.

Air Vice-Marshal Toby Pulleyne, DSO, DFC, was one of those men whom everyone knew, but no one knew much about. Although he had been some years retired he retained an office in the Ministry of Defence. He could be found in the bar of the United Services Club before lunch and at White’s in the evening. After that, being a bachelor and excellent company, he usually had a dinner engagement. He was particularly useful to hostesses on the Foreign Office circuit who had to entertain guests from abroad. He spoke two foreign languages well and half a dozen others quite adequately.

The Air Vice-Marshal switched on a tape recorder when Bernard Gracey started talking. When he had finished, he said, “Seems a lot of balls to me, old man. Do you think I’d better have a word with Dylan? I met him once at a City dinner. Made a bloody good speech. Told all the old stuffed shirts where they got off. And, my God, how they lapped it up.”

“That sounds like our Will. I’d be obliged if you would have a word with him. Get some of the details and look into it. We don’t want any trouble. Particularly just now.”

“See what I can do,” said Toby Pulleyne.

Other men were on the move that morning. Syd Marvin and Ben Thomas came up by Underground from Clerkenwell to Waterloo and by British Rail from Waterloo out to Wimbledon. As midday struck they were ringing the bell in Jonas Killey’s waiting-room.

Mrs Warburton cast an experienced eye over them but could come to no conclusion. Not quite seedy enough for process servers. Too cheerful for debt collectors. But not quite the sort of client the firm catered for.

“Would it be a property matter?”

“Just say private business, love,” said Ben.

“Mr Killey only really sees people by appointment.”

“Perhaps he’ll do us a favour this time,” said Syd.

“I’ll enquire.”

“You do that,” said Ben, and winked at her.

They helped themselves to copies of the
Law Journal,
and settled themselves down with the air of men who understood how to wait. Mrs Warburton retired defeated.

Jonas was, in fact, busy. He was putting the finishing touches to the application which he was due to make, in person, on the following morning before Mr Cedric Lyon in the West London Magistrates Court. There were documents to be referred to, and four copies had to be available of each. One for the magistrate, one for his clerk, one for Jonas himself and one for his opponent, should he choose to appear.

There was also the opening speech to be considered. Jonas had written it and rewritten it, half a dozen times. He fancied that he now had it right. Not offensive, but by no means subservient. A freeborn Englishman insisting on his rights.

“Who
are they?”

“They wouldn’t say, Mr Killey.”

“They didn’t give you any idea?”

“They just said it was private business.”

“Couldn’t Willoughby deal with them?”

“He’s doing a completion.”

“All right. I suppose I’d better see them.”

“Up to you.”

“We don’t want to turn away business, Mrs Warburton, do we?”

Mrs Warburton sniffed but retreated. She soothed her feelings by taking five minutes to finish typing the document in her machine, before opening the hatchway and saying, “You can go in now.”

Jonas Killey took stock of his visitors. He, too, found them difficult to place. They were neither smartly nor shabbily dressed. Passing them in the street he would have put them down as clerks or subordinate employees, but there was something in their faces, and in their voices, which contradicted this; a hint of self-possession, a suggestion of veiled authority.

“And what can I do for you, gentlemen?”

The thinner, and more serious of the men, who had introduced himself as Marvin, said, “Thanks for seeing us, Mr Killey. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

Thomas said, “Mind if we smoke?” He was shorter, thick rather than fat, and had the sort of face which can be seen in thousands any winter Saturday on the terraces of Cardiff Arms Park.

“Certainly,” said Jonas. “I don’t myself, but go ahead.”

“Sure it doesn’t worry you?”

“Not a bit.”

Marvin said, “We heard you were having a bit of trouble – perhaps trouble’s the wrong word – a bit of business with a character called Dylan.”

Jonas stared at him.

“Now don’t jump the gun,” said Thomas. “We’re not going to ask you to give away any professional secrets. Right, Syd?”

“That’s right, Ben.”

“What we came along to say was this. We know all about Will Dylan. He’s quite a character. Wouldn’t you say so, Syd?”

“I’d say he was quite a character.”

“If what we heard is true – and I only say if, because you can never really tell – and you’ve got something you’re trying to pin on him, then it occurred to Syd and me that you might need some help.”

“By help,” said Marvin, “we don’t only mean money. We mean help in getting hold of documents, getting evidence, that sort of thing.”

“We’re friendly characters,” said Thomas. “People talk to us, you’d be surprised.”

Jonas, who had made a number of attempts to break into this extraordinary crosstalk act, managed it at last. He said, “Would you mind explaining a couple of things. First of all, who are you? Secondly, how did you get this information about my private business?”

“First question first, Ben?”

“Right, Syd.”

Marvin extracted a card from his wallet and laid it on the desk.

Jonas picked it up and read it. He said, “The Workers’ League for Peace. I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it.”

“We blush unseen,” said Marvin. “Down in Clerkenwell. Right, Ben?”

“Like roses on a manure heap,” agreed Thomas.

“Or pike in a fish pond,” suggested Marvin. As he said this he smiled for the first time, and exposed, as he did so, a set of sharp and blackened teeth.

“Could we stop talking in riddles,” said Jonas. “I repeat I’ve never heard of this organization of which you, Mr Marvin,” he peered down at the card, “are secretary, and you Mr Thomas?”

“Assistant secretary.”

“So it really takes us no further, does it?”

“Not a lot,” said Thomas. He did not seem upset about it.

“Now perhaps you’ll answer my second question. How do you know that I am – am contemplating – a certain line of action – against Dylan. And in any case, what has it got to do with you?”

“If what we heard’s right,” said Marvin, “and he’s been up to some sort of fiddle with Union funds, that’s something we’re naturally concerned about.”

“Interests of the workers,” said Thomas. “You must see that.”

“I see nothing of the sort,” said Jonas, rising to his feet. “I see only that someone has been making totally unauthorized statements about something which is entirely my own business. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m extremely busy this morning.”