by Jo Bannister
“It’s the backwash of somebody else’s war. It may be reprehensible of them to continue it on our soil, but they’ve kept the action by and large between themselves. An English newspaper office was broken into, an English house was entered and an English girl got a bump on the head. That’s all that need concern you; and that’s pretty small stuff by police standards, surely.”
“A man has been kidnapped. There’s every reason to believe that he will be taken out of this country by force if”—he paused fractionally—“London doesn’t pull its finger out and start sending me answers instead of singing telegrams.”
“The missing man is a South African. The man who’s got him is a South African. They’re going back to South Africa, which is where their differences should have been settled in the first place. We have enough home-grown problems: you spend your time on those, Mr. Corner.”
George Corner thought for a moment. He hung up his coat and sat down behind his desk. Then he favoured James with a friendly smile. “Tell you what, son. You tell the Grand High Poohbar, or whatever it is your chief calls himself these days, to tell the Foreign Secretary what it is he requires. The Foreign Secretary can make a formal request to the Home Secretary, and the Home Secretary can have a quiet word with the Chief Constable. The Chief Constable will tell my Superintendent and my Superintendent will tell me.
“By which time, almost certainly, either I will have found this big Boer who treats other people’s countries like an adventure playground, or the poor bastard who thought he was safe in England will have been dragged beyond the reach of any help I can give him. That will save me having to tell the Superintendent, for the consumption of the Chief Constable, the Home Secretary, the Foreign Secretary and the Grand High Poohbar, that the time to wonder whether Joel Grant was worth protecting was before he was given sanctuary in this country, not when the thug employee of a Fascist government thumbs his nose at our laws and international convention in order to take him back.”
Patrick James said quietly, “I understand your anger.” The slick urbanity had stripped from him like a veneer as Corner failed to succumb to it. “And yes, you’re absolutely right: if we do this through channels it’ll take forever. In fact, it won’t get done at all, because most of the people in that chain of communication won’t put their names to a formal request of that kind. So no, we probably can’t stop you doing your job. But we have a good reason for asking you to hold off.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” Corner said evenly.
“I dare say. But then criminal law—with all its complexities—is like a child’s first reader compared with the world of international relations. You know about choosing the lesser of two evils, but what about backing evil men in preference to good ones because in the long run what they can achieve will be of more lasting value than any amount of well-meaning idealism? We have to do that. The bigger the picture, the blacker parts of it are, but we have to work in those areas precisely because that’s where the dirt is. It’s muck and brass: the dirt is where the power is, and to keep the lid from flying off and the contents hitting the fan we have to find ways of tapping into that power. Yes, we’re working with substandard material—Christ, we are substandard material! But the alternative is a pristine anarchy.
“Chief Inspector, I’m with you. Joel Grant had a right to expect better of us. He fought against tyranny in his own country for as long as his strength held out, and when he was mentally and physically exhausted he was lucky enough to get out, and to be accepted into a country where tradition, government and law all guarantee equal rights for all citizens. He must have thought he’d died and gone to heaven. He was entitled to suppose he was safe. And then he wakes up one morning to find himself back in the hands of the people he damn nearly died to escape from. We’ve let the bastard in, we’ve let him find him, we’ve let him take him—knowing he’ll end up back in Pretoria with his head wired to a trip-hammer—and now some creep from Whitehall is explaining to the only man standing between him and the abyss why we should let him fall.
“And the reason is this. If you catch the Boer, if you kill him in a showdown, if Grant goes free or if any members of the British public become involved, we have a diplomatic incident on our hands. We have to accuse South Africa, they have to deny it, it’ll mean formal protests and recalled ambassadors, it’ll probably end in frozen relations and trade sanctions and God knows what else. And that just could be enough to project South Africa into bloody revolution.
“We are almost the last people they respect still having anything like normal contacts with South Africa. There are plenty of decent people who say that’s not to our credit. But if we scrape them off our shoes they won’t mend their ways: they’ll revert to the old Boer fundamentalism of Kruger and Vorster. The liberals won’t stand a chance before that bulldozer, but the blacks will turn it on its side. They’re not going back; it’s only that tiny trend towards liberalization that has kept them from open rebellion so long. If the whites try to turn back the clock it’ll happen, overnight. It has to. If the blacks ever plan on being free of Afrikaner oppression it has to be now. The country’s a powder-keg: it won’t explode, it’ll erupt, and half Africa will be sucked into the firestorm. The casualties could run into millions. I’m talking about the human equivalent of a nuclear event.”
Chief Inspector Corner sat at his desk, regarding the young man speculatively for rather longer than might have seemed necessary. Finally he said, “Sonny, I’m going to do you the courtesy of supposing that you believe all that and further, of supposing that you care. To me it sounds pretty far-fetched that the likes of Joel Grant could be the catalyst for an African Armageddon; but again, I’ll accept your word for it.
“But I have to tell you, it doesn’t alter one scrap the job I have to do. Juggling the fate of nations may be part of your brief but there’s nothing whatever about it in the police manual. My job is to uphold the law, here and now, and to protect those who wish to live within it from those who choose to act outside it. It is my duty to help Grant to the limit of my ability. Do you understand that? I have no option; it is my duty.”
“You won’t get the help you need to succeed.” The hard edge of frustration on Patrick James’s voice was burred with regret.
“I’d guessed that already.”
Liz loitered downstairs, in the hospital’s reception area, waiting for Mrs. De Witte to emerge from the lift. Her mind was operating, like a sophisticated rotary wing, on two distinct and contra-active levels. On the lower level her thoughts were in turmoil, spinning invisibly without drag or lift, dramatic and useless as a feathered blade. It was crazy enough that De Witte should know nothing—and he clearly knew nothing, Liz had been watching very closely and no one dissembled that well—about the matter she had travelled so far to take up with him, risking her safety every time she opened her mouth; for she had no illusions about the degree of protection her British passport would afford if her prying came to the attention of the authorities. It just meant she would be snatched covertly, after dark, instead of in broad daylight on the public street. If they were prepared to send a man to England in pursuit of Joel Grant, they would not waste a moment’s worry on the prospect of pointed questions should Liz Fallon disappear in Pretoria. Indeed, the very fact that she had been allowed to leave De Witte’s room and reach unimpeded the public parts of the hospital confirmed that she had been asking the wrong questions, or the wrong person.
But what had really set her mind whirling was the extraordinary way Elinor De Witte had responded to the casual use of Joel’s name. If it was clear that De Witte knew nothing of Grant’s predicament, it was equally obvious that his wife was aware of Vanderbilt’s activities. Liz could conceive of no possible reason for such a paradox; at the same time, the afternoon had been a success in that she now knew where to pursue her inquiries, and Mrs. De Witte might—though only might—be an easier nut to crack than the colonel.
All that was on the lower, roiling level. I
mmediately above it Liz had battened down a hatch of half-inch pragmatism. She had things to do which she could not allow her confusion to infect. It would be time enough to sort out the implications when she had more facts: right now the important thing was to avoid being sucked into that mental vortex, to where reason would drown, her grip would slacken, her calm detachment vanish utterly, leaving her naked before her enemies. She had still to control the monster, even though it was changing shape visibly in front of her.
When Elinor De Witte emerged from the lift, alone, Liz fell into step beside her. The older woman did not seem surprised. She said nothing, hardly glanced Liz’s way; but her profile was strained, drawn in lines of quiet despair. She looked as if she had not slept for a month.
Liz said quietly, “I believe we need to talk”; and after only a moment’s hesitation Mrs. De Witte nodded and led the way outside to her car. It was already dark.
Chapter Five
It was late in the evening when the doorbell rang. Will Hamlin answered it. It was not so much that he had moved into Liz Fallon’s house since the drama of Joel Grant’s abduction, more that he had not yet got round to going home. He had only returned to his office once, for a couple of hours; he had achieved nothing useful and left. To all intents and purposes Nancy Prescott was running the place, a situation that was a great deal more familiar to her than her employer would have supposed.
Outside it was raining, cold northern rain falling heavily without any need of a wind to make it penetrate. In the meagre shelter afforded by the Victorian porch and lit wanly by its pale lamp was Detective Chief Inspector Corner, clad in a Manchester raincoat whose only virtue was its stubborn impermeability and a late marque trilby.
Hamlin’s heart, which was altogether too sensitive an organ for even a very minor press baron’s, skipped a beat and then raced. “News?”
“Of a kind, yes.” The policeman sounded dull with fatigue, but something was putting an edge on his voice and he seemed reluctant to meet Hamlin’s gaze. “Is Mr. Shola in?”
Wordlessly, Hamlin showed him into the front room.
The table-top was lost under a welter of papers, unwashed cups, an open telephone directory. Nathan Shola had the phone in his hand, about to dial: when he saw Corner he put it down and stood up. “Have you found Joel, Mr. Corner?”
The policeman shook his head.
A muscle at the corner of Shola’s mouth tightened abruptly. “Then the bastards have won.”
“Not yet,” said the chief inspector, “but—” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Look, this isn’t easy. I’m here to say something I never expected to have to say, and I’d appreciate being allowed to get it said and leave, because I can think of a dozen good reasons why I shouldn’t be here at all.”
He went on, picking his words carefully: “It has been made clear to me that, for political reasons which you probably understand better than I, the range of extra-departmental services and facilities I would normally expect to call on and receive in connection with this type of investigation will not be available to me in the search for Joel Grant. Such a withdrawal of co-operation would always be a major handicap: in the circumstances of the present case the scale of it can hardly be overstated. It means, and I am both embarrassed and ashamed to admit it, that I cannot guarantee that every possible effort will be made to secure Mr. Grant’s safe release. Indeed, I must tell you plainly that I seriously doubt the ability of my officers, unaided, to find Vanderbilt before he finds an alternative way out of the country, with Grant in tow if that is in fact his intention.
“Mr. Shola, I regret and resent more than I can tell you the fact that persons in positions of authority in this country have made it virtually impossible for me to do my job. In these circumstances, and in contravention of every professional instinct and inclination, I feel I must say to you that you would do well to ignore our earlier conversation, when I asked you to keep your people out of the way of my people. If you have the sort of contacts, among your countrymen in exile or other supporters of your cause, who can help you to find Grant, you should call on them now. You are probably his only chance.”
He looked once round the room, located the door behind him with obvious relief. He looked very much older than when he had first come to the house, old and weary and disappointed. He moved stiffly, as if in pain. “I believe, gentlemen, I’ve said what I had to. I’ll go now.” He moved stiffly towards the door.
With the fluency of youth and outrage, Will Hamlin intercepted him. “You do realize, Chief Inspector, I’ll have this on the front page of every newspaper in the land?”
George Corner regarded him levelly. “I hope you will, Mr. Hamlin. But until then, watch out who you answer doors to. No, forget that,” he added, his voice flat, “they don’t wait to be asked in. It’s the ones you find behind your desk when you’ve been out of the office that you have to watch for.”
Nathan Shola moved out from behind the table he had been using as a desk. In the close confines of a small room he was startlingly tall. “Mr. Corner—before you go. I am grateful for your honesty. I recognize that this situation is not of your making. What I can do I will, and without embarrassing your government if that is possible. Thank you for coming.”
After the policeman had gone he sat down again slowly, folding his length into the chair, and Hamlin let out his breath explosively. “The bastards!”
Shola shook his head. “You’re spoilt, Will. I tell you, there isn’t too much wrong with a state where a senior policeman will sacrifice his career for a man he doesn’t know, whose ideals he doesn’t espouse and whose presence in his country he probably rather resents.”
Like Corner, Hamlin was ashamed, too deeply humiliated to listen to a counsel of conciliation. “When the Home Office gave Joel Grant permission to stay here it accepted a duty to protect him. To deliberately renege on that responsibility is monstrous.”
Shola laughed softly. “Will, men like you and Chief Inspector Corner are the keystones of democracy. I doubt you’d last five minutes in my country. But if you did—by God, what a land fit for heroes you’d make there!”
Hamlin could not tell if he was joking. He was not, but he smiled anyway and reached again for the telephone. “All right, I suppose we’d better do something useful with the information Mr. Corner has put his head on the block to give us.”
Evening wore into night, and into early morning. The time passed slowly and, for the two men working in the quiet house, wearily; but not without profit. Colombian coffee put on a couple of points on the FT index and British Telecom was assured a dividend for its shareholders. Finally, a little before dawn, Hamlin was startled awake by a hoarse cry from the front room. For a moment he stood confused, unable to recall where he was or what he was doing. Then he recognized the kitchen sink where he had rested his eyes a moment while the kettle filled yet again; probably he had drowsed for only a few minutes, but it was fortunate that the plug was not in place for the kettle had filled and overflowed.
Then he remembered the cry and hastily turning off the tap hurried back to the front room.
Shola was grinning at him, a slash of brilliant white in the dark face. There were black shadows under his eyes, even if they were hard to see.
“You’ve got something.”
“I believe so, yes. You remember the plane at Gatwick?”
“They’ve moved it?”
“No; no, they’re not that stupid. But it finally occurred to someone—it should have been me but it was in fact Tom Savimbe who works at Heathrow—to check on the pilot’s activities. And it turns out that two hours ago he received a telephone call at home and immediately left for the airport. He told his wife he was required for a mercy flight with a sick child: I told her I was the anxious father and she was very reassuring. But Gatwick doesn’t have him down for a flight of any description. I eventually found him on a flight to Glasgow, travelling as a passenger.”
“Glasgow?” Hamlin’s tired mind worked at it.
“They’ve got another plane.”
“Glasgow has Captain Crane down to take a leased Heron out to Zaire via Cairo with an urgent cargo of mining equipment this morning.”
“Christ. How long have we got?”
“Not long enough. All right: where do we get an air taxi?” Jacob Sithole drove the De Wittes’big car. Liz wondered if it was safe to talk in front of him, but the thought that it might not be clearly did not occur to Mrs. De Witte. Liz shrugged off her misgivings: time was important—for Joel, and also because she could not risk De Witte’s wife having second thoughts about talking to her. As soon as the car was moving and the driver at least partly occupied with the traffic, she said, “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”
Elinor De Witte nodded her head once, precisely. She was looking out of the window at the passing city and made no attempt to meet Liz’s gaze. “About Joel.”
“You know him?”
“I’ve never met him.”
“Your husband tortured him within a few inches of his life but he hardly remembered the name. It meant much more to you. What do you know about Joel Grant that Colonel De Witte doesn’t?”
“I’ve known about Joel since before he was born.” Suddenly she was crying, silently, without tears, betrayed only by a slight rhythmic shaking of her narrow shoulders. It was a way of crying for people who could not afford to be seen crying.
All Liz knew of Grant’s childhood was that he had been born illegitimate, raised poor and more or less adopted by Joshua Mpani in his early teens. Liz made a great leap of intuition. She said incredulously, “Joel is your son?”
Elinor De Witte shook her head again, struggling for control. Her hands were knotted in a cotton lawn handkerchief, twisting and wringing. “Not mine. Joachim’s. Neither of them knew. Neither of them ever knew.”
