He shook his head, refusing to be distracted, inching himself onto firmer ground. When it came to rows, he was hopeless. ‘We need to make ourselves into an association,’ he began, ‘unincorporated. Answerable only to our own rules. That’s step one.’
Kate was smiling now. ‘We did that,’ she said, ‘some time ago. Before you took leave of absence.’
‘I’m serious. This way we’ll be under no obligation to publish accounts. Financially it’s wonderful. No corporation tax. In fact, no tax of any kind. As long as no one comes away with a profit.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘No problem. It’s the same with any association. I’m drafting constitutions all the time. Bowls clubs. Veterans’ associations. Allotment societies. The concept’s called mutuality. You write yourself a constitution, define what you’re about and off you go. Beautiful.’
‘But we’re talking about a political party, not the Darby and Joan club.’
‘Makes no difference. How do you think the Tories get away with concealing all those foreign donations?’ He prodded the pad. ‘They’re just a network of associations, all over the country, with nothing very much in the middle – just a bunch of guys getting together for their mutual benefit. There’s no chief executive, no profit motive. They’ve got party officials, and directors and so forth, and I think there’s a board of management and treasurers to oversee the financial bits, but that’s about it. Locally, we could set up exactly the same structure.’ He grinned. ‘No problem.’
Kate looked surprised. ‘Is that really the way they do it? I thought they just steam-rollered on. Breaking all the rules.’
Barnaby shook his head. ‘They can’t. They wrote the rules in the first place. That’s why it’s so important to get the constitution right. They are the rules.’
‘I see.’ Kate reached at last for the mug of tea, mollified. ‘So what do we say?’
‘We?’
‘You.’ She grinned back. ‘Mr Lawyer.’
Barnaby paused a moment. Scarcely a day had gone past since Charlie had broached the possibility of creating a brand new political party. In truth, between them, they had nothing but a name. But the name, in a sense, said it all. Pompey First.
‘Let’s do it a different way,’ he said. ‘Forget the legal stuff. I’ll take care of that. Let’s think about what we want to do with it, what it’s there for in the first place.’ He began to scribble on the pad. Then he looked up. ‘I’ve kept it simple,’ he said. ‘Five points.’
He returned to the pad, listing the imperatives. Pompey First would focus entirely on the needs of the city. It would attack the problems of crime, unemployment and poverty. It would involve local people in their own governance. It would attract investment from national and international sources. And it would make sure that the proceeds of that investment found its way to every corner of the community.
Kate nodded, engaged now. ‘What about equality? Fairness? Justice?’
Barnaby pointed at his notes. ‘It’s all there. It’s implicit.’
‘No, it’s not. You need to spell it out,’ she said. ‘Go on, do it.’
Barnaby hesitated, then set to work. Point Six registered Pompey First’s commitment to building a fair society in the city, based on the principles of justice, equality and mutual tolerance.
‘Excellent,’ Kate mimed applause, ‘except for the last bit. Put respect, not tolerance.’
Barnaby’s pen hovered. Then he glanced at her, curious. Words were his business. The change of nuance was important.
‘Why respect? Why not tolerance?’
‘Because respect is what matters. Tolerance is wishy-washy. Too much tolerance and the whole thing falls apart. Ask Jessie. She’d know.’
‘That’s uncalled-for.’
‘No, it’s not, it’s the truth. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t say it.’ She nodded briskly at the pad. ‘Read it again. From the start.’
Barnaby did as he was told, swallowing his pique at her comment about Jessie, warming anew to his brief. Several phrases needed reworking and there were other areas that might repay a little exploration but overall it had a nice feel. He got to the end and capped his pen. Kate had dipped her finger in the milk jug and the cat was licking it.
‘It’s great,’ she said. ‘But you know what it reminds me of?’
‘No.’
‘Singapore,’ she said quietly, at last making room for him in the bed.
Charlie Epple was into the last mile of his morning run before the strategy began to slip into focus. All his life he’d wanted to sell something he truly believed in. Not just consumer goodies, like foreign lagers or designer ice creams, not just financial scams, like privatization, but something with which he’d feel a real kinship. His consultancy with the council people had very nearly done it. Selling the city of his birth, having to package views and history he’d always taken for granted, had opened his eyes to what might be possible. The process, as ever, had been hampered by the inevitable compromises, and it was a pain in the arse to have to kiss goodbye to some of his wilder copylines, but the freedoms extended by the guys on the Strategy Unit had brought him within sight of the ultimate challenge: not simply selling the city but having a hand in shaping an entire way of life.
He was on the seafront now, passing the war memorial, the tall column of names that commemorated Pompey’s fallen. From here to the fun-fair was a good quarter of a mile and the last few weeks he’d been pushing harder and harder, forcing himself into a sprint for the imaginary tape that signalled the end of his run.
It was a beautiful day, bright sunshine, broken skies, and a moist, blustery wind swirling around the beach-side cafés. He bit deeper into that precious reserve he kept for these last few seconds, aware of the slap-slap of his new Reeboks on the paving stones. Ahead of him, the big hovercraft from the Isle of Wight was surging up the beach from the deep water channel and he could taste the salt on his lips as the fine cloud of spray enveloped him. He fixed his eyes on the pilot up in the hovercraft’s cockpit, trying to ignore the rasping in his throat, telling himself that his legs would only jelly when he stopped. Then, moments later, he was there, bent double in the pale sunshine outside the amusement arcade, sucking the air back into his lungs. At length, he stood upright again, sweat pouring off his face, trying to ignore the stares of disembarking passengers. Happiness smelled of stale fish and chips, he thought. God bless Pompey.
He began to jog through the fun-fair, keeping warm. The rides were dismantled for the winter, the big wheel stripped of its gondolas, the Waltzer padlocked, the dodgem cars crated. On the adjoining pier, a couple of kids were fishing, and on the long stretch of promenade that reached towards the harbour mouth Charlie could see one or two elderly couples, walking arm in arm, but otherwise the seafront was empty. Beside the thick-walled stone redoubt that marked the seaward end of Old Portsmouth’s fortifications, Charlie stopped again, leaning back against the railings and staring out across the tumble of rooftops around the cathedral. Fifteen giddy years in the advertising business had taught him that there was nothing that couldn’t be sold. By carefully crafting the message, by appealing to exactly the right measures of greed, or envy, or insecurity, a good campaign could trigger responses that translated within weeks into hard cash. It was a process that had never ceased to amaze him. Get the ad right, and the product, any product, simply got up and walked off the shelves. It had happened time and time again and the only downer was the fact that the money, by and large, went into the pockets of people he despised. Advertising, he’d always thought, was wasted on commerce. Businessmen had no soul, no real appreciation of the things that mattered. Much better, thought Charlie, to try and apply his skills in an altogether worthier cause.
He nodded to himself, feeling the sweat cooling on his face. The commercial he’d shown Barnaby had been the first step. He’d put it together because he’d seen what had happened outside the Imperial and he couldn’t think of any other way of getting at th
e animals responsible. He hated the National Front. He loathed racism. But when he began to build the commercial, shot by shot, he realized that this ugly eruption of violence, so graphically captured, was the perfect image for a much wider brutality. The eighties had taken the gloves off. Thatcher’s shock troops had carried all before them, slashing and burning, and there was fuck-all left of that rather comfortable, rather safe society he remembered from his Pompey days. Much of the onslaught had been fuelled by advertising, and few who had been better placed to watch the process than Charlie, but after the glitz and the promises of the boom years, there’d come the reckoning. Bits of Britain were a wasteland, truly ravaged, and in his gloomier moments Charlie saw no reason why the process should ever stop. Thatcher’s tiger was out of the cage. And no politician had the bollocks to put it back again.
Charlie clambered down to a tiny beach beneath the walls. He stooped for a small flat pebble and sent it skipping across the water. In a society close to disintegration, the video commercial had shown him a way forward. Why? Because the logic at the end of the piece had been irresistible. Images as strong as these, with all their implications of a wider violence, led to only one conclusion. Things had to change. And if you couldn’t start nationally, with the big picture, then you had to think on an altogether smaller scale. Pompey, as it happened, was perfect. Lots of people jigsawed together, nicely curtained away on the south coast. Lots of debris from the eighties: houses repossessed, schools falling apart, kids out of control, jobs non-existent. Lots of scope, in short, for a fucking good shake-out. Pompey First!
Charlie grinned in approval, wondering what Kate and Barnaby had made of it, whether or not they’d seize the baton and run. In their separate ways, he sensed that they both loved power, and the invitation to be in on the birth would give them almost parental rights. He knew that Barnaby, especially, was keen. He’d seen it in his eyes when he’d shown him the posters in the pub, and he had virtually admitted it, outside on the pavement, when he had asked about display rates for the big roadside billboards.
Charlie returned to the promenade. At the head of the steps that led down to the street, he paused, still thinking about Barnaby. Across the road was his new house. Up on the top floor, the curtains in Lolly’s bedroom were still closed and he found himself wondering whether her sexual curiosity ever extended as far as men.
Chapter Ten
Once the meetings were over, Ellis was glad to get out in the fresh air again. He’d driven down to Portsmouth last night, his Datsun developing a leak when the rain got really heavy, and he’d booked into a hotel within sight of the marina development where Askew’s, the London accountants, had built their new complex.
This southern outpost of the big City firm had been retained by the MoD to advise on the negotiations over the sale of the dockyard, and Ellis had spent the morning being briefed by a succession of accountants on the fiscal implications of various options Zhu was currently tabling for discussion. Ellis had no formal training in accountancy, but his years at the DTI had given him little faith in paper qualifications and he was confident that he’d grasped the essence of what the Askew’s people were saying.
Zhu’s business plans were ambitious and almost impossible to test against any contemporary benchmark. Whenever the accountants tried to tie down his figures – his tourist revenue projections, for instance, or his anticipated yield from maintenance and repair work – he simply shifted the goalposts. In a fast-moving world, he kept pointing out, the big prizes went to the swift and the brave. Where this left the politicians was anyone’s guess. Given the imminence of an election, the last thing they could afford was protracted negotiations.
Ellis folded his raincoat over his arm and made his way across the car park. Last night’s rain was still puddled beneath the dashboard on the passenger side of the Datsun and Ellis wondered if he should mop it up before meeting Tully. They’d agreed a rendezvous at a pub on the marina’s boardwalk for half past twelve, and it was just possible that he might be in need of a lift afterwards. He got in and started the engine. The man worked for an investigation agency, for God’s sake. He was bound to have transport of his own.
A road around the edge of the marina took Ellis to the pub where he’d agreed to meet Tully. Beyond a smart executive housing development was a forest of masts, and further down the road he could see a big crescent of apartments, encircling a yacht basin. The apartments looked newly built, each balcony carefully sited to take advantage of the view, and the feel of the place was at odds with the impression of Portsmouth he’d built up from conversations in London. According to colleagues in the DTI, Pompey was the kind of destination for which you bought a day return. Spending any serious time there was beyond the call of duty.
Tully was already in the pub when Ellis walked in. He was sitting beside a window, a small glass of orange juice barely touched. When he saw Ellis he lifted his copy of the Daily Telegraph, got up and extended a hand. He was a small, broad, stocky man with a full beard and deep-set eyes. The flannels and the blazer blended nicely with the view from the window.
Ellis said something complimentary about the marina, then fetched himself a pint of lager from the bar and sat down.
‘It’s about Zhu,’ he said, ‘as I expect you’ve gathered.’
Tully didn’t react. His range of facial expression seemed limited to a wariness verging on acute suspicion. Finally, he asked Ellis for his ID. Ellis extracted a ministry pass from his wallet and handed it across. The photograph, though recent, was horrible. It had been taken when he’d only just recovered from flu and it showed.
Tully grunted and handed it back. ‘Zhu was a client of mine,’ he said, ‘which makes it tricky.’
‘Was?’
‘Yeah. I’ve done nothing for him since the summer. Still,’ he added, ‘that’s not the point. Business is business. There’s a code here. If a man pays me money, he expects confidentiality. You wouldn’t want me to break it.’
Ellis said nothing, but opened his briefcase and took out a file. Louise Carlton had warned him that Tully would be difficult. He had a service background in the Royal Marines. His posting to the Special Boat Squadron had led to a series of covert engagements, and his MoD file, which Ellis had seen, had a great deal to say about his two-year posting to Brunei. This was a man of cast-iron integrity, impeccably motivated, a textbook soldier. For the right cause, he’d do literally anything. Under fire, when others had faltered, he’d fulfilled his mission to the letter. His last commanding officer, a thoughtful Scot now heading the UK division of a major American oil company, had described him as ‘solitary, old-fashioned and utterly trustworthy’.
Ellis handed over the file. Inside, with the exception of the detail of the dockyard negotiations, was a précis of everything he currently knew about Zhu. The fact that nothing in the three-page summary merited even the lowest security classification was a measure of his desperation.
He watched Tully’s eyes move steadily through the text. At the end of each page, he licked a fingertip before turning over. Finally he looked up, his puzzlement edged with impatience. ‘The man’s in business. He’s very successful. Shipping, hotels, construction, he’s a good operator,’ he said. ‘Does that make him a problem?’
‘It might.’
‘Why?’ Ellis didn’t answer. The lager was warmer than he might have liked. He offered the menu to Tully, who declined. ‘Why all the fuss?’ he repeated.
Ellis reclaimed the file. The people at MI6 had confirmed Zhu’s birthplace as Amoy, a city in the southern Chinese province of Fukien. According to them, he was fifty-seven years old and had fled to Hong Kong when Mao’s Communists swept to power in 1949. He’d stayed there for twenty years, laying the foundations of the empire he’d chosen to build in Singapore.
Ellis looked up. ‘You know he’s bidding for the dockyard? Here? In Portsmouth?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Did he ever discuss it with you? Before he opened negotiations?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Does that surprise you?’
‘Not at all. I was an employee, Mr Ellis, a foot soldier. I did the small stuff, the preliminaries, finding little bits and pieces for him to bid for. Zhu was out of my league way before the dockyard.’
Ellis asked him what he meant. Tully explained Zhu’s appetite for land zoned for development. Portsmouth was a crowded little island but there was still space within the city for the odd industrial estate.
‘And he wanted to buy one?’
‘Several.’
‘And you helped him?’ Tully cocked an eyebrow and Ellis knew at once that he’d gone too far. The query had sounded like an accusation. He rephrased it. ‘You were still involved? At this stage?’
‘To some degree. I certainly helped where I could, but the bigger stuff was beyond me. I don’t know about you, Mr Ellis, but in my business it pays to be candid. Never oversell yourself. If you’re out of your depth, you drown.’
Ellis nodded. There was something reassuring about this man. His commanding officer had been right. He was old-fashioned. In a world addicted to small deceits and petty advantage, he had a blunt preoccupation with the truth. Ellis looked at his hands as they tugged at the creases on his flannel trousers. He could see no rings and he began to wonder about his private life. Was he married? Or was he as solitary as he appeared to be?
Tully was gazing at the file. ‘Tell me about this dockyard thing,’ he grunted. ‘How far has it got?’
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