Checking the index he turned to page 231, halfway through chapter ten, and found the reference he had been anticipating when he ordered it up in the first place. Part of him did not want to see it at all. Yet he was compelled to read on. Why? Filial loyalty? Historical interest? Secret nat sympathies? Pride?
The Anti-Union movement suffered another severe blow three days later, on 6 April 2016, with the death of Commander Robert Lestoq in a gas explosion at his home in Ebury Street, London. Lestoq had recently returned from Azania to join, and perhaps even take up the de facto leadership of, the opposition to the Aachen settlement. He had made his name by leading the near-mutiny of the previous summer after the word ‘Royal’ was removed from the Navy’s title. His posting to southern Africa was widely considered to have been a political move of the Defence Commission to sideline this charismatic patriot.
Merely calling it an Insurrection, when the Political Nomenclature Directive 77/765 had long ago decreed that the troubles of spring 2016 should be described as ‘the Nationalist Subversion Period’, would have been enough to have had Riley sent down from Carl-Friedrichs. Horatio wondered whether anyone had ever actually read the thesis, other than himself and Riley’s supervisor. He turned to the back page where previous readers had to sign in.
One of half a dozen names immediately stood out: ‘M.K.C. Ratcliffe, Archer College, Cambridge. 2/6/36’.
He turned back to the thesis itself. After half an hour he had learnt a number of things that his teachers had never mentioned either at school or university. Instead of ‘empathy modules’ and ‘de-contextualised analysis’, he thought, he should have been taught what history was really all about: what happened next. The army mutiny, which took place at roughly the same time as the ‘Fish and Chips Riots’ (largely as a result of the British troops’ refusal to fire on the crowds) had clearly been the crucial moment. The march of London’s street tradesmen, whose livelihoods had been destroyed by Euro-legislation, had provided the spark. Although the ice-cream, hot-dog and chestnut vendors led the way, every other social group harmed by the Aachen result joined in the march on Commission Headquarters in the old Foreign Office building in Whitehall. It had soon turned into a full-scale popular rebellion. Had the ‘twinning’ of British regiments with larger and stronger Euro-corps not been sedulously advanced for years beforehand, to counter just such an eventuality, the German, Austrian and French units stationed in Knightsbridge, Chelsea and Wellington barracks and pouring through the Channel Tunnel might not have been able to disarm the by then tiny British Army and ‘restore order’.
Horatio read about the Carlist rallies after the Mountbatten-Windsors’ decision to leave. They were not banished at all, it seemed, but left of their own accord. The decision was taken on a number of grounds, but principally it was due to their lack of a role in the new continental post-Commonwealth republic. King Charles feared their presence might provide a rallying point for nats and thus lead to unnecessary bloodshed.
The Information Commission had, of course, always presented Charles’ departure as being the result of pique at the removal of his head from the stamps, coins and banknotes, and because of death duties and the 95 per cent Euro-supertax which the Family now faced. They had done him a grave disservice, but the myth lived on. Certainly that was what Horatio had always been taught.
With Australia a republic and Canada a founder member of the American Free Trading Area, Charles III decided to accept New Zealand’s offer of sanctuary. He settled in Auckland and tried to keep what was left of the Commonwealth together, without ever officially abdicating the British Crown.
Much of this was new to Horatio, as his mother never referred to that climacteric period and few others discussed it even privately. His mother had told him that all his father’s papers had been lost when the flat was destroyed, and her memories of that time were altogether too painful for her to disinter. Yet now it seemed she had spoken to Peter Riley nine years ago.
In Riley’s opinion the Insurrection had been too sporadic and disorganised to stand much hope of success. It finally collapsed in late May 2016. As he explained:
Too many individuals had done too well out of the system, regardless of its overall cost to the country. Neither they nor Brussels were prepared to see Great Britain slipping back into becoming a unified, independent, globally-trading nation once again. Unbeknownst to the nats, Brussels had, over the years, been infiltrating pro federalist ‘agents of influence’ into the top echelons of British public life. These people proved a highly effective fifth column during the Insurrection period. The revolt was betrayed from the start, with feds informing Europol of the times and places of secret nat meetings and rallies.
At the last meeting of the Anti-Federalist Movement, on 3 April 2016, in Bonchurch Road, of Ladbroke Grove, Special Branch arrested six nat leaders. These were Matthew d’Ancona, the former Editor of The Times, two former Cabinet ministers, Hywel Williams and Iain Duncan Smith, the cable-don and broadcaster Dr Niall Ferguson, Fraser Nelson of the European Broadcasting Corporation and Fred Heffer. Only Robert Lestoq and the Group Secretary Ella Gurdon escaped the round-up, having been under such close supervision by the security services that their attendance was thought too risky.
The Bonchurch Six, as they were subsequently dubbed, were charged with Anglo-patriotism and ‘activities prejudicial to the integrity of the Union’. They pleaded guilty and were convicted. Four years later they refused to admit to ‘grave and culpable political deviation’ as demanded by the Depatriation Directive of August 2020.
That meant that even when Riley went to interview them in the early Forties, some had only recently emerged from prison. Knowing how widespread phone, pager and modem-tapping by the Security Services had become by then, it astounded Horatio that Riley had been allowed even to research, let alone to deliver, a thesis on this controversial and unattractive aspect of the European integration story.
Klaushofer’s thesis, despite its fantastically dull title, proved compelling reading. Horatio had known how close the Referendum’s ‘Yes’ vote had been – 51.86 per cent to 48.14 per cent, on an 84 per cent voter turnout – but he had never before seen a regional breakdown of how it was reached. Official Commission histories never seemed to refer to it. Horatio had always hitherto assumed the ‘Yes’ vote had been evenly distributed across the country.
‘Voter turnout’ was, of course, as much a misnomer back in 2015 as it would be today, he thought, as even in those days people did not actually physically turn out to vote, but merely pressed the Yes or No button on their home modems. The binary voting system precluded spoilt ballots and Don’t Knows, so only Yes or No counted. The votes were then electronically transmitted to the sixteen regional offices to give area figures, and at 22.00 on Referendum Day they were transmitted to London for the final, nationwide result.
What was remarkable, recorded Klaushofer in his precise, dry, Teutonic prose, was that apart from Greater London and the Home County areas – Southern, South-Western and South-West Central – virtually the entire British Isles had recorded anti-Aachen majorities. The North-East had voted 56 to 44 against, Ulster 59 to 41 and the Highlands & Islands a thumping 63 to 37. But their smaller populations could not outweigh what the German academic called the ‘M25 beltway’ pro-Aachen majorities of southern England.
In some of these areas – particularly the South-West, which had voted 59 per cent to 41 per cent in favour – Klaushofer concluded that ‘Stockbroker-belt Britons had considered that the financial advantages to them in joining a superstate outweighed the importance of outdated sentimental concepts such as national sovereignty and independence.’
During the Government’s well-funded ‘Yes’ campaign, it was often pointed out that fragmentation of the United Kingdom would mean substantial tax cuts for those English who put financial wellbeing above anachronistic considerations of nationhood. Much was made of the superior financial responsibility of the Central Bank, which would be run on Bundesbank low in
flation principles.
Horatio thought wryly how in fact having to shoulder the burden of the Cohesion Fund, Social Chapters Mark IV and V, the Berlin-Brussels Bureau, the new Eastern Members, the M.U.P.s in Strasbourg, the Common Fisheries Policy, the Social Fund, the Regional Fund, Mediterranean fraud, the occupation of the Baltic Protectorates, the Social Action Directives and the New Common Agricultural Policy, meant that the top Euro-tax rates of 95 per cent for 2045 were likely to be increased yet again when Brussels announced the figures for 2046. Stockbrokers’ belts would have to be tightened again this year.
Horatio found it incredible that any Britons could have contemplated voting ‘No’ at all. Throughout the campaign the leaderships of the Conservative and Christian Democrats, Liberal Democrats and New Labour had all called for a ‘Yes’ vote. All the major press and cable groups urged it too. Leading industrialists and business figures such as the Chairs of I.C.I. and the Stock Exchange went on cable to predict mass unemployment in the event of a ‘No’ victory. (Although Horatio noted they did not predict the levels it subsequently reached after Britain voted ‘Yes’.) The chattering classes endorsed the ‘Yes’ campaign en masse and the only people left campaigning against were a motley bunch of nat mavericks and political outsiders.
Then there was the heavily loaded wording of the Referendum question itself:
Do you support Great Britain acceding to the Treaty of Complete Union as negotiated at Aachen by His Majesty’s Government, thereby escaping the risk of exclusion from our principal markets?
‘The overall majority for Aachen,’ concluded Klaushofer, ‘was the result of the large pro-Treaty votes from the three populous southern-English regions. The South-West alone accounted for the anti-Treaty majorities in Ulster and Scotland combined.’
Horatio reread the last sentence. Then he read it again. The implications slowly sank in. He remembered the relevant passage of Percival’s note and congratulated himself for the twentieth time since leaving Basingstoke police station on not putting that down on his pager too. For it connected Percival personally to the paying off of Ratcliffe and Dodson.
Think logically, Horatio told himself. Stay calm and think it through.
South-West Region had virtually swung the Referendum for the feds. Both its Chief Scrutineer and electronics expert later died in mysterious circumstances. After having been paid by the Bureau via Commission Secretary Percival himself.
This went to the very heart of Europe – if it had one.
It was at that point that Horatio realised that he could be sitting on nothing less than the greatest scoop – and the greatest scandal – of the twenty-first century.
CHAPTER 13
15.08 MONDAY 3 MAY
Sweating slightly, and trembling with the enormity of what he was increasingly certain he had uncovered, Horatio returned to his task. He called up Admiral Ratcliffe’s Last Will and Testament. Sure enough, EuroNet had automatically filed it on the same day as the announcement of death. Snell had been right. It was signed and dated 11 April 2016.
It was short and to the point. Twenty-nine years ago the Admiral divided everything he had – which amounted to over seven million euros, as well as the Rectory – between Horatio Lestoq, only child of the late Commander Robert Lestoq E.N., to be managed by his mother, Ms Heather Lestoq, until he reached the age of twenty-one, and …
Horatio could not believe what he saw. Up on the screen was the very last name he could have expected.
‘… My granddaughter, Martina Keppel Cleopatra Ratcliffe, only daughter of my son the late Commander James Ratcliffe and his wife the late Flora Ratcliffe.’
Cleopatra? Cleo!
Using his Freedom of Information rights, he then called up the tax returns for both Ratcliffe and Dodson between 2015 and 2020. He hadn’t really expected to discover much, but there it was in green and white. In the return for the year ending 1 April 2016. Listed under income – but subject of course to 100 per cent tax relief – were five million euros paid to Ratcliffe and two million to Dodson.
Horatio had to admire whoever had thought up the payment method. They had won the top two Euro-Lottery Mega-Bumper Jackpots for December 2015. Horatio was prepared to bet they’d both ticked their ‘no-publicity’ boxes. It was probably the only lottery ticket the Admiral had ever bought in his life.
Shaking with excitement, tinged with a certain sense of dread, Horatio took out his pager. His first call must be to Marty for advice on how to deal with Cleo. Realising it would be better for him to be able to watch her reactions when they talked, he walked down to the basement where the vid-phones were situated under the stairwell. He entered the penultimate booth.
‘I’m afraid Mr Frobisher is on paternity leave, sir.’
‘What do you mean? He hasn’t got a wife, let alone children.’
‘Under the provisions of the Social Chapter Mark V one cannot discriminate between parents and non-parents over the statutory three months compulsory paternity leave.’
‘But that’s absurd!’
‘Might I warn you that is a sexist and antisocial remark,’ came the receptionist’s singsong voice. ‘Can anyone else help?’
‘Yes, may I speak to Cleopatra Ratcliffe?’
‘That was her single name, she’s married now. She exercises her right to take on her husband’s name. She’s called Cleopatra Tallboys now. I’ll put you through.’ A moment later: ‘I’m afraid Ms Tallboys is not at her work-station either. In fact from her I.D. card-swipe record I can see that she isn’t in the building.’
Marty was not at home and could not be raised on his watch or vid. It did not augur well. Horatio left a message on his modem.
Then he called Cleo at home. She had just got out of the shower and was only wearing a small towel. She dried herself as they talked.
‘Horatio! Where are you?’
‘Never mind that, what’s happened to Marty?’
‘He’s on enforced leave of absence for professional incompetence. For letting you out. The warrant for your arrest is probably not going to be issued immediately. They’re watching you though. I’ve been trying to contact you. I can’t talk safely on this but I badly need to see you. Where are you? Can I call you back?’
‘Yes … No! Oh I don’t know. Cleo, I’m horribly confused.’
‘Same here. Can we meet? There’s so much I need to tell you.’ She continued to dry herself, flicking the towel across her broad shoulders and her fine, muscle-toned back, her breasts fully exposed to his view. And that of anyone else who happened to walk past the hallway vid-phone and glance in. He remembered with a start that Tallboys was still in the building somewhere, probably flexing his thumbs.
‘The man you are accused of killing …’
‘Was your grandfather. Yes I know. I didn’t do it, Cleo. You of all people have to believe me.’
‘Of course I believe you. You’re no murderer. I think I can help you, too. But only I can. Marty can’t any more. Don’t try to contact him, I’m not sure you can trust him.’
She had absent-mindedly wrapped the towel around her hair and was reaching for some moisturiser, which she began dabbing on her eyelid. She was standing completely naked and even more completely unconcerned. Her exposed breasts were round and firm and stood up pertly on their own, like a teenager’s. He felt a strong stirring. He must concentrate. Cleo was seemingly oblivious to the effect she was having. He was at the same time perturbed and turned on by her unconscious immodesty. Or was it exhibitionism?
‘Where shall we meet? Speak in code.’
‘Why are you willing to take these risks?’
‘Because I know you’d never kill anyone, especially not for money. And I want to get to whoever did kill him.’ There was a pause – she looked straight into the vid – ‘and anyway I think I’m falling in love with you.’ It was what he wanted, what he needed to hear. Standing there naked to the world like a Plazotta bronze, she was peerless.
‘Will they have listened to our c
onversation yesterday afternoon?’
‘I doubt it. But this one, possibly.’
‘OK. Let’s meet where we were going to anyway. And at the same time.’
‘Good.’ After one last long lingering look at her magnificent physique he clicked off.
Walking back up the stairs towards the West Mercia Room, Horatio saw Gemma Reegan coming down.
Of course! He’d half arranged to meet her here today. He’d entirely forgotten.
‘Hi! Ah was wondering whether you’d show.’ She smiled broadly. ‘You were right, Mr Weaning did ask me to cover the visit. In fact Ah’m going down to your southern coast tomorrow. To South Hampton.’
‘Good, I’m glad. Congratulations. It’s always heartening to see the historical background to a story dealt with properly.’ Although she was a distinctly third-rate historian whose theories about the Mountbatten-Windsors were tripe, it didn’t reduce her attraction. Take the Russian girl in the Amis novel, he thought, it was perfectly possible to be both a delightful person and a crappy writer.
At that moment, looking down the stairwell, Horatio saw Tallboys coming up.
Had he been there when he had called Cleo? When they’d arranged to meet again? Had he been viewing into their conversation? If so, he’d have seen her showing her nakedness to him. Horatio’s eyes suddenly felt very vulnerable.
Tallboys was striding up the stairs. Two steps at a time.
‘Were you leaving?’ Horatio said quietly.
‘Yes, Ah’m off to pick up Oliver.’
‘Can I come too?’
‘Yes, if you like. Ah don’t think you’ll find it too interesting though. He’s taking his weekly test.’ Tallboys turned the first corner. All he needed to do now was look up.
‘Great, I’d love to.’ Horatio steered her towards the exit. He got them both out of sight just as Tallboys turned the corner and carried on up the stairs, oblivious.
The Aachen Memorandum Page 11
