Twelve Red Herrings (19 page)

A few minutes
later, the train starts up again, and this time it does cross the halfway
point.” Three waiters removed our empty plates.

Christabel
touched the side of her lips with a napkin, and gave me a huge grin.

“So then what
happens?” I asked, avoiding her eye.

“When the train
stopped, the terrorists were afraid that there might be a rival group on board,
with the same purpose as them.

But as soon as
they find out what has actually happened, they take advantage of the commotion
caused by young Ben to get themselves into the cabin next to the driver’s.”

“Would you care
for anything from the dessert trolley, madame?” the maitre d’ asked Christabel.
I looked on aghast as she was helped to what looked like a large spoonful of
everything on offer.

“It’s gripping,
isn’t it?” said Duncan, misunderstanding my expression for one of deep concern
for those on the train. “But there’s still more to come.”

“Monsieur?”

“I’m full, thank
you,” I told the maitre d’.
“Perhaps a coffee later.”

“No, nothing, thank
you,’ said Duncan, trying not to lose his thread. “By the start of chapter nine
the terrorists have got themselves into the driver’s cabin. At gunpoint they
force the chef de train and his co-driver to bring the engine to a halt for a
second time. But what they don’t realise is that they are now on French
territory. The passengers are told by the loner over the train’s intercom that
this time it’s not a false alarm, but the train has been taken over by
whichever gang I settle on, and is going to be blown up in fifteen minutes. He
tells them to get themselves off the train, into the tunnel, and as far away as
they possibly can before the explosion. Naturally, some of the passengers begin
to panic. Several of them leap out into the dimly lit tunnel.

Many are looking
frantically for their husbands, wives, children, whatever, while others begin
running towards the British or French side, according to their nationality.” I
became distracted when the maitre d’ began wheeling yet another trolley towards
our table. He paused, bowed to Christabel, and then lit a small burner. He
poured some brandy into a shallow copper-bottomed pan and set about preparing a
cr’pe
suzette
.

“This is the
point in the story, probably chapter ten, where the father of the American family
decides to remain on the train,” said Duncan, becoming more excited than ever.
“He tells the rest of his tribe to jump off and get the hell out of it. The
only other passengers who stay on board are the millionaire, his wife, and the
young newly-married man. All will have strong personal reasons for wanting to
remain behind, which will have been set up earlier in the plot.” The maitre d’
struck a match and set light to the crpe. A blue flame licked around the pan
and shot into the air. He scooped his piece de rbsistance onto a warm platter
in one movement, and placed it in front of Christabel.

I feared we had
now passed the point at which I could tell Duncan the truth.

“Right, now I
have three terrorists in the cab with the chef de train. They’ve killed the
co-driver, and there are just four passengers still left on the train, plus the
black ticket collector who may turn out to be SAS in disguise, I haven’t
decided yet.’

“Coffee,
madame?” the maitre d’ asked when Duncan paused for a moment.

“Irish,” said Christabel.

“Regular,
please,” I said.

“Decaff for me,”
said Duncan.

“Any
liqueurs or cigars?”
Only Christabel reacted.

“So, at the
start of chapter eleven the terrorists open negotiations with the British
police. But they say they can’t deal with them because the train is no longer
under their jurisdiction.

This throws the
terrorists completely, because none of them speaks French, and in any case
their quarrel is with the British government.

One of them searches
the train for someone who can speak French, and comes across the Greek
millionaire’s wife.

“Meanwhile, the
police on either side of the Channel stop all the trains going in either
direction. So, our train is now stranded in the tunnel on its own – there would
normally be twenty trains travelling in either direction between London and
Paris at any one time.” He paused to sip his coffee.

“Is that so?” I
asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.

“It certainly
is.” Duncan said. “I’ve done my research thoroughly.” A glass of deep red port
was being poured for Christabel.

I glanced at the
label: Taylor’s ‘55. This was something I had never had the privilege of
tasting. Christabel indicated that the bottle should be left on the table. The
waiter nodded, and Christabel immediately poured me a glass, without asking if
I wanted it.

Meanwhile, the
maitre d’ clipped a cigar for Duncan that he hadn’t requested.

“In chapter
twelve we discover the terrorists’ purpose,” continued Duncan. “Namely, blowing
up the train as a publicity stunt, guaranteed to get their cause onto every
front page in the world. But the passengers who have remained on the train, led
by the American father, are planning a counter-offensive.” The maitre d’ lit a
match and Duncan automatically picked up the cigar and put it in his mouth. It
silenced him...

“The self-made
millionaire might feel he’s the natural leader,” I suggested.

..
but
only for a moment. “He’s a Greek. If I’m going to make
any money out of this project, it’s the American market I have to aim for. And
don’t forget the film rights,” Duncan said, jabbing the air with his cigar.

I couldn’t fault
his logic.

“Can I have the
cheque?” Duncan asked as the maitre d’ passed by our table.

“Certainly,
sir,” he replied, not even breaking his stride.

“Now, my trouble
is going to be the ending...” began Duncan as Christabel suddenly, if somewhat
unsteadily, rose from her chair.

She turned to
face me and said, “I’m afraid the time has come for me to leave. It’s been a
pleasure meeting
you,
although I have a feeling we
won’t be seeing each other again. I’d just like to say how much I enjoyed your
latest novel.
Such an original idea.
It deserved to be
number one.” I stood, kissed her hand and thanked her, feeling
more guilty
than ever.

“Goodbye, Duncan,”
she said, turning to face her former lover, but he didn’t even bother to look
up. “Don’t worry
yourself
,” she added.

“I’ll be out of
the apartment by the time you get back.” She proceeded to negotiate a rather
wobbly route across the restaurant, eventually reaching the door that led out
onto the street. The maitre d’ held it open for her and bowed low.

“I can’t pretend
I’m sorry to see her go,” said Duncan, puffing away on his cigar. “Fantastic
body, great between the sheets, but she’s totally lacking in imagination.” The
maitre d’ reappeared by Duncan’s side, this time to place a small black leather
folder in front of him.

“Well, the
critics were certainly right about this place,” I commented. Duncan nodded his
agreement.

The maitre d’
bowed, but not quite as low as before.

“Now, my
trouble, as I was trying to explain before Christabel clecided to make her
exit,” continued
Duncan,
‘is that I’ve done the
outline, completed the research, but I still don’t have an ending. Any
ideas ?
” he asked, as a middle-aged woman rose from a nearby
table and began walking determinedly towards us.

Duncan flicked
open the leather cover, and stared in disbelief at the bill.

The woman came
to a halt beside our table. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your
new book,” she said in a loud voice.

Other diners
turned round to see what was going on.

“Thank you,” I
said somewhat curtly, hoping to prevent her from adding to my discomfort.

Duncan’s eyes
were still fixed on the bill.

“And the ending,”
she said.
“So clever!
I would never have guessed how
you were going to get the American family out of the tunnel alive...”

TED BARKER WAS ONE OF THOSE MEMBERS OF
Parliament who never sought high office. He’d had what was described by his
fellow officers as
a ”
good war’ – in which he was
awarded the Military Cross and reached the rank of major. After being demobbed
in November 945 he was happy to return to his wife Hazel and their home in
Suffolk.

The family
engineering business had also had a good war, under the diligent management of
Ted’s elder brother Ken. As soon as he arrived home, Ted was offered his old
place on the board, which he happily accepted. But as the weeks passed by, the
distinguished warrior became first bored and then disenchanted.

There was no job
for him at the factory which even remotely resembled active service.

It was around
this time that he was approached by Ethel Thompson, the works convenor and –
more important for the advancement of this tale – Chairman of the Wedmore
branch of the North Suffolk Conservative Association. The incumbent MP, Sir
Dingle Lightfoot, known in the constituency as “Tiptoe’, had made it clear that
once the war was over they must look for someone to replace him.

“We don’t want
some clever clogs from London coming up here and telling us how to run this
division,” pronounced Mrs. Thompson. “We need someone who knows the district
and understands the problems of the local people.” Ted, she suggested, might be
just the ticket.

Ted confessed
that he had never given such an idea a moment’s thought, but promised Mrs.
Thompson that he would take her proposal seriously, only asking for a week in
which to consider his decision.

He discussed the
suggestion with his wife, and having received her enthusiastic support, he paid
a visit to Mrs. Thompson at her home the following Sunday afternoon. She was
delighted to hear that Mr. Barker would be pleased to allow his name to go
forward for consideration as the prospective parliamentary candidate for the division
of North Suffolk.

The final
shortlist included two clever clogs from London one of whom later served in a
Macmillan Cabinet – and the local boy, Ted Barker. When the chairman announced
the committee’s decision to the local press, he said that it would be improper
to reveal the number of votes each candidate had polled. In fact, Ted had
comfortably outscored his two rivals put together.

Six months later
the Prime Minister called a general election, and after a lively three-week
campaign, Ted was returned as the Member of Parliament for North Suffolk with a
majority of over seven thousand.

He quickly
became respected and popular with colleagues on both sides of the House, though
he never pretended to be anything other than, in his own words, ‘an amateur
politician’.

As the years
passed, Ted’s popularity with his constituents grew, and he increased his
majority with each succeeding general election.

After fourteen
years of diligent service to the party nationally and locally, the Prime
Minister of the day, Harold Macmillan, recommended to the Queen that Ted should
receive a knighthood.

By the end of
the 96os, Sir Ted (he was never known as Sir Edward) felt that the time was
fast approaching when the division should start looking for a younger
candidate, and he made it clear to the local chairman that he did not intend to
stand at the next election. He and Hazel quietly prepared for a peaceful
retirement in their beloved East Anglia.

Shortly after
the election, Ted was surprised to receive a call from so Downing Street: “The
Prime Minister would like to see Sir Ted at .3o tomorrow morning.” Ted couldn’t
imagine why Edward Heath should want to see him. Although he had of course
visited Number so on several occasions when he was a Member of Parliament, those
visits had only been for cocktail parties, receptions, and the occasional
dinner for a visiting head of state. He admitted to Hazel that he was a little
nervous.

Ted presented
himself at the front door of Number o
at .
z7
the next day. The duty clerk accompanied him down the
long corridor on the ground floor, and asked him to take a seat in the small
waiting area that adjoins the Cabinet Room. By now Ted’s nervousness was
turning to apprehension. He felt like an errant schoolboy about to come face to
face with his headmaster.

After a few
minutes a private secretary appeared. “Good morning, Sir Ted. The Prime
Minister will see you now.” He accompanied Ted into the Cabinet Room, where Mr.
Heath stood to greet him.
“How kind of you to come at such
short notice, Ted.”
Ted had to suppress a smile, because he knew the
Prime Minister knew that it would have taken the scurvy or a localised
hurricane to stop him from answering such a summons.

Tm hoping you
can help me with a delicate matter, Ted,” continued the Prime Minister, a man
not known for wasting time on small-talk. Tm about to appoint the next Governor
of St
George’s,
and I can’t think of anyone better
qualified for the job than you.” Ted recalled the day when Mrs. Thompson had
asked him to think about standing for Parliament.