Heaven's Light

by Hurley, Graham

  The lights went up and Barnaby introduced the candidate for the ward featured in the slide show. He was on his feet, tearing into the eighties addiction to out-of-town shopping, when a hand went up in the second row. Barnaby knew the journalist: he was a local stringer who occasionally supplied copy to the weightier broadsheets. He’d already done a nice piece for the Guardian on Charlie’s brand of local electioneering. Entitled ‘Son et Lumière’, it had compared Pompey First’s strategy to similarly impassioned campaigns in France. ‘Who knows?’ he’d concluded. ‘If journalists start to think seriously about the issues, maybe real people will, too.’

  Now he was holding up a copy of yesterday’s Sunday Mirror. As promised, the spread on Poster Wars occupied the centre pages. Coupled with the Sentinel’s exposé of the dockyard sale, the weekend had put Portsmouth squarely on the national map. The journalist had a question: how much of all this was conscious provocation?

  The candidate at the top table, still on his feet, looked down at Barnaby for guidance. Barnaby was signalling to Charlie, who’d slipped into the room during the slide show. Charlie loped down the aisle between the rows of seats. Turnout today was well into double figures.

  Charlie joined Barnaby on the rostrum. He had a roll of posters under his arm and he slid one out, displaying it. Underneath the Sentinel’s photo of Clive Samuels in the dockyard, Charlie had added a line of copy: NAPOLEON TRIED IT. HITLER TRIED IT. WELL DONE, MR SAMUELS. The message took a second or two to sink in. Barnaby could hear the cameraman from the German TV crew asking for a translation. Then people began to laugh. The laughter was followed by applause. Charlie offered a mock bow. Barnaby had felt this moment coming for several days. These media people, normally so hard-bitten, so cynical, saw things the way they did. They were tired of the sleaze and the posturing, bored with the lies and the excuses. The daily briefings had paid off. Pompey First had touched a nerve.

  The stringer was on his feet now. He had another question. ‘How many are you printing?’ he asked, nodding at the poster. Charlie glanced at Barnaby. Barnaby made a delicate gesture with his hand.

  ‘As many as we need,’ Charlie said.

  ‘How many’s that?’

  ‘Full size? Maybe fifty. Smaller ones? Couple of hundred, no more.’

  ‘Where are they going?’

  ‘All over. Wherever they can find a home.’

  The stringer nodded, making a note. Then he glanced up.

  ‘So who’s paying for all this? Who picks up the tab?’

  Barnaby took over again. The question had come up before, but never this direct. There were, after all, limits to spending in local elections.

  ‘We’re picking up contributions from a number of sources,’ he said smoothly. ‘You’d be surprised how much backing we’ve got and where it comes from.’

  ‘I would?’ The stringer’s smile wasn’t altogether reassuring. ‘Surprise me, then.’

  ‘It’s not that easy, I’m afraid. If people contribute privately, if they want a measure of confidentiality, of course we have to respect their wishes.’

  Barnaby turned quickly to another questioner. The reporter with the German news crew wanted to know about right-wing elements in the city. She’d made a note of some of the graffiti featured in the slide show. One spray-painted shop front had read ‘Kill all Nazi scum now’. She gestured round. She’d heard from others that there’d been some kind of riot earlier in the year. Here, outside the hotel. Was this a sign of things to come? And, if so, what did Pompey First intend to do about it?

  Barnaby began to regret not having pressed on with the morning’s briefing. Planning consent for retail parks was a great deal less contentious than the likes of Haagen Schreck. He talked for a minute or two about last year’s little upset, blaming it, as ever, on elements from London. One of the driving forces behind Pompey First, he said, was the overwhelming urge to govern the city in its own interests. If that meant an element of protection from political extremism, then so be it.

  ‘Govern?’ The German reporter was questioning the verb.

  ‘Administer,’ Barnaby corrected himself. ‘Lead. Guide. Represent.’

  ‘But you said govern.’ The German girl was emphatic. ‘And to do the things you want to do,’ she gestured at the screen, ‘then surely you are right. What you need is government. Independence. For your shopping. For your hospitals. For everything. To govern is to choose, nein?’

  ‘Of course,’ Barnaby replied. ‘Of course we’d like to do those things. But politics is the art of the possible. We work within national constraints. There’s no frontier here, no border. We’re not a law unto ourselves. We simply want a fair shout, that’s all. And if important things happen and they’re out of our control, then naturally…’ he tapped Charlie’s latest poster ‘… we’d like to bring it to people’s attention. That’s our democratic right. It’s still a free country. I think.’

  A hollow laugh rang round the room and Barnaby seized his chance to resume the briefing. The ward candidate stood up again, reinforcing his plea for shops to return to the inner city. Taking the car to hypermarkets off the island for the weekly trolleyful of groceries might be wonderfully convenient but it didn’t do much for the families left behind. What if you couldn’t afford a car? What if the Tory version of progress had left you with the handful of corner shops that had managed, so far, to buck the trend? Their prices were outrageous, choice was limited, and soon, no doubt, they too would be driven to the wall. What would happen then? In the densest populated city in the UK?

  The language, as ever, was apocalyptic, a working habit that Pompey First candidates were rapidly turning into an art form. Barnaby sat behind the table, wondering how soon they’d be back on the issue of the dockyard. Zhu’s indiscretions over the weekend had shaken London’s tree, and the windfalls were everywhere. Before lunch, he was due to meet a BBC crew for a Newsnight interview. This afternoon, from a radio studio in the Guildhall, he’d be participating in a three-way debate with fellow politicians from Devonport and Rosyth. This evening, if Charlie could swing it, there was the chance of a live inject into News at Ten.

  He smiled to himself, then stiffened as the Guardian stringer caught his eye. The man was tapping his watch, miming a phone call. He had to leave early. There were important calls to make. He beckoned for Barnaby to join him outside and Barnaby got to his feet, handing over control of the conference to Charlie.

  Outside, in the corridor, the stringer was already on his mobile. Barnaby caught the phrase ‘features editor’ before the stringer saw him coming and brought the conversation to an end.

  ‘Anything I can do for you?’ Barnaby was steering him towards the all-day breakfast bar. A week in this game was long enough to understand the power of free food and drink.

  The stringer stepped through the double doors. ‘I’m still interested in the money,’ he said. ‘Care to give me a steer?’

  Barnaby began to talk about membership lists and fund-raising events. It all added up. With goodwill and a fair head of steam it was amazing what you could afford.

  The stringer interrupted. ‘This is a poor city,’ he reminded Barnaby. ‘Lots of repossessions, not too many jobs. Are you really telling me it’s all down to raffles and bring-and-buys?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Barnaby looked him in the eye. ‘But I meant what I said. If some people prefer to stay anonymous, what chance do I have?’

  The stringer gazed at him. He had a cherubic face, apple-cheeked, bright-eyed, though Barnaby suspected he was a good deal older than he looked. He buttoned his coat and extended a hand.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘You lot deserve everything you’ll get.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ He smiled, tapping the pocket where he kept his notebook. ‘You’re beginning to sound like the Tories already.’

  Tully had been waiting in the car for less than a hour when Jessie emerged from Charlie Epple’s house. He’d reclaimed the recorder from Liz a
nd it sat beside him on the passenger seat. Haagen had rung within the last five minutes. The weather, he’d said, was wonderful.

  Jessie was wearing a heavy sweater against the bitter wind and she hurried across the road, running up the steps that led to the promenade. Passing the car, she looked pale and preoccupied, and Tully wondered what kind of scene awaited her at journey’s end. Liz had told him this morning about Haagen’s dog. As far as she knew, it had already been put down.

  Jessie’s route took her east, along the seafront. Tully followed at a discreet distance. An hour later, at the end of the promenade, she cut inland, following the main road and then crossing a park. Tully knew the area well. Beyond a tangle of residential streets lay a feature known locally as the Glory Hole, a stretch of Langstone harbour protected from the tidal stream by a long, curling finger of shingle. There was a sailing club here, and a line of scruffy houseboats beached on the mud-flats beneath the road. It was one of the few quiet corners the city had to offer, a retreat from the endless noise of traffic, and Tully himself had once owned a boat here, a modest 25-foot ketch he’d occasionally sailed at weekends.

  A single road led down to the water and Tully slowed, knowing that Jessie must be close now. The Glory Hole was already in sight. The road came to an end at a stubby pier used by local fishing boats and the ferry to neighbouring Hayling Island. Jessie was walking on the seaward side, passing the first of the houseboats. Most were semi-derelict, paintwork peeling, wood beginning to rot. At the far end of the curve of muddy shingle, Jessie stopped beside the last houseboat but one. It was slightly bigger than the rest, an old naval launch with a botched extension lashed on the forrard deck. A single plank bridged the gap to the road and Tully watched as Jessie made her way aboard. Not until she was safely on deck did the door beside the curtained window open. A face briefly appeared, too distant for Tully to secure a positive identification, then Jessie had gone.

  It was nearly an hour before the door opened again. Tully had found himself a hide in the boatyard across the road. Concealed behind a dinghy, he was as close as he judged prudent to the houseboat. He raised the camera. In the telephoto lens, Haagen’s face was clearly visible. Tully had last seen him in the photos Liz had shown him. Since then, he’d put on a little weight. Jessie was giving him a kiss. She lingered long enough for Tully to take two more shots, then the door was shut again, Jessie edging carefully back to dry land. When she passed the boatyard, she was barely twenty feet from Tully. He was studying her face. She looked radiant.

  One of the uniformed men who supervised the security checks on the main gate rang through to tell Louise that her visitor had arrived. He was waiting for his pass. Someone would bring him up directly.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Louise rang off, finishing another biscuit. So far, the morning had gone well. Jephson had been on twice, once to check that everything was OK, and again to confirm that they were booked in at Downing Street for noon the next day. Government whips were certain that the Prime Minister would be facing hostile questions about the dockyard, and the political office at Number Ten was requesting a full brief before the Commons session in the afternoon. It was imperative, Jephson stressed, that the brief be as comprehensive as possible. The Tory machine was confronting two threats on the south coast, in the shape of the dockyard and Pompey First, and it was absolutely in Five’s interests to be seen to be dealing with both.

  Louise stood up, brushing the crumbs from her skirt. Another call from Thames House had confirmed that Ellis’s flight was due to land at ten-forty. Customs and traffic permitting, he should be down for the debrief by one o’clock.

  There was a knock at the door. Louise opened it. Without a word, the security guard handed over the visitor. ‘Mr Owens?’ Louise smiled and invited him in.

  Owens was tall and thin, with a chalk-white face and a high, domed forehead. His hair, thinning, was combed sideways across his scalp and there were flecks of dandruff on the shoulders of his coat.

  He sat down beside the desk. The sunlight through the window emphasized his pallor. He produced a file from his briefcase and gave it to Louise. A stamp on the cover read ‘Special Branch, Hampshire Constabulary’.

  ‘I thought you’d seen these before,’ he said. ‘I know I sent a set to the Yard.’

  Louise shook her head, opened the file and pulled out a sheaf of photos. ‘I’ve seen your report,’ she said, ‘but not these.’

  She began to leaf through the back-and-white photos. They all featured a slight, thin, crop-haired youth. In the occasional close-up, a scar was visible on his face, a line of clumsy sutures that ran diagonally from the corner of his mouth.

  She held one up. It showed him emerging from a basement flat, carrying a holdall. ‘Did you ever talk to him? This Haagen Schreck?’

  ‘No, Never had a chance. After the riot he did a runner. Apparently, he’s still abroad.’

  Louise held up another photo. It showed a shopping precinct, and Owens reached across, indicating a middle-aged woman in a belted white raincoat.

  ‘Mrs Barnaby,’ he said helpfully. ‘And I never talked to her, either. Guvnor’s orders.’

  ‘Good.’ Louise nodded in approval.

  She laid the photograph on the desk, removed her glasses and gave them a polish before studying it in detail. One of her files contained a page and a half on Mrs Barnaby and she was still intrigued to know exactly where she fitted into this sad little tale. According to the surveillance reports, her daughter had been living with the German lad and had got involved in heroin. But why, in that case, should her mother be funding a drugs expedition to Amsterdam? She gazed at the photo a moment longer, knowing that the answer didn’t matter. All she needed was the link, and the evidence to back it up.

  Owens had produced an envelope. Close to, he smelt powerfully of dog. Louise opened the envelope. Inside was a photocopy of a cheque. Mrs Barnaby’s handwriting was stylish and firm. She’d had trouble with the name Schreck.

  Owens was writing on the envelope.

  ‘What’s that?’ Louise was peering at the row of figures.

  ‘Her home telephone number. Her husband’s moved out. They’ve had a domestic.’

  His hand was back in his briefcase. He pulled out a sheet of paper and Louise found herself looking at a poster for Pompey First. The candidate’s photo was bordered in a tasteful shade of green. She had a strong, open face framed by a tumble of loose curls. It was rare, Louise thought, to find such an attractive woman in politics.

  Owens was back on his feet, pulling on a pair of gloves. ‘You wanted a poster. She happens to be my ward candidate. You can keep it. She left the missus two.’

  He stepped towards the door and Louise got to her feet. She was grateful to him for sparing the time to drive up. She’d pop the poster on the wall.

  Owens knotted his scarf. ‘I’ve put ours in the window,’ he said. ‘Bloody good idea, if you ask me.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Pompey First.’

  When he’d gone, Louise sat down again. The photograph of Mrs Barnaby was still on the desk. She pored over it for a full minute, moving it into the pool of sunshine where the last of the chocolate biscuits was slowly melting. Then she picked up Owen’s envelope, checking the phone number, and reached for her mobile. The Sentinel’s switchboard answered at once.

  ‘Editorial, please,’ Louise was looking at the photo again, ‘whoever deals with drugs stories.’

  The Newsnight crew were late for the twelve o’clock interview. They were spending the entire day in Portsmouth, exploring every nuance of Charlie Epple’s ‘new politics’, and Barnaby had agreed to meet them in the car park near Southsea Castle. At twenty past twelve he was still sitting in his car, the seat reclined, his head back, his eyes closed. If this is really politics, he was thinking, then I’m only sorry I started so late.

  A tap at the window brought him upright. A young man in a red scarf was standing in the car park. When he wound down the window, Barnaby r
ecognized the voice on the phone.

  ‘We thought we’d do it out there on the grass,’ the reporter said briskly. ‘Castle in the background.’

  Barnaby joined him for the walk across. The camera crew had already set up their equipment and were running sound checks. The interview would be open-ended but the edited piece would probably last no more than a couple of minutes.

  Barnaby stood in front of the camera, letting the young reporter angle his body until the cameraman was happy with the balance of light and shade on his face. After yesterday, outside the dockyard, and another TV interview earlier in the week, Barnaby was getting used to this. Kate had been right when she said he was a natural. All you had to do was tell it the way it was, spell it out the way you felt it, and the curious chemistry of television would do the rest.

  The interview lasted nearly fifteen minutes. Although Newsnight were chiefly interested in the difference Pompey First was making locally, Barnaby was quickly conscious that they were really talking about national issues. Ministerial responsibility. The quango state. The sheer thickness of the curtain that had descended between the people in charge and the men and women who had to live with the consequences of their decisions. Each time the agenda widened, the young reporter tried to nudge Barnaby back to local politics but the longer the interview went on the more it became obvious that these weren’t anxieties you could limit to a single city. Up and down the country, local councillors, local officials, and local voters were tussling with the same problem. Power had leaked away. There was a massive haemorrhage of the nation’s civic lifeblood. Not out to the provinces, where it belonged, but inwards, to what Barnaby termed ‘the dead centre’ of British political life. Even in London, he said, even in the nation’s capital city, no one was trusted with power. There was no voice for London, no elected body in whom the people could place their faith. Alone amongst the great capital cities of the world, London had no voice of its own.