The Lost Forest

by John Francis Kinsella

  Chapter 31

  A CAMDEN PASSAGE DEALER

  Jimmy Fogg was known in the business for his connections with the murkier side of the antique and curios world and he was precisely the person that Ennis had needed in his search for the missing skull. Fogg liked to announce himself as a fine arts broker though some spitefully called him second hand dealer at best whilst others treated him as a cheerful crook and those he had crossed at some time did not hesitate to accuse him of being nothing less than a cheap fence.

  The Foggs owned two handsome antique shops, one in Camden Passage and the other in the Fulham Road. It was a family business, his great grandfather, a Jew, had hastily arrived from Czarist Russia, fleeing the wrath of the Cheka well before the Revolution, setting up shop in east London. Over the years the family dealt mostly in second hand furniture and modest antiques, then in the late fifties they moved on to more up market antiques and art as the prosperity of the consumer society grew they catered to the pockets and tastes of the post war nouveaux riches.

  Jimmy had learnt the trade from his father, a character with a strange reputation, whom Ennis had never met and who Jimmy for some reason kept in the background. Jimmy was known in the business from London to Tokyo and from St Petersburg to Sydney; he would buy and sell almost anything that was remotely collected with art and arcane collections

  In spite of his somewhat doubtful reputation he knew his business. A collector could locate and buy the strangest things through Jimmy then have them transported from one end of the world to the other in a couple of days cutting through all kinds of red tape…on the sole condition that the price was right for Jimmy.

  Ennis had confided to Jimmy the job of tracking down the lost skull that had had been illegally exported from Indonesia. The government wanted it back and in particular the Minister of Culture, who had given Aris his support and the permit for the exploration in Kalimantan in exchange for information on the missing fossils that were believed to be in the hands of a private collector.

  Ennis received a mail from Fogg with several attachments, photos of a brown skull. Ennis after carefully examining the photos, comparing them to those Tegu had given him in Jakarta, then he called Fogg.

  ‘So John, no doubt you want to know where I am with your project?’

  ‘That’s right Jimmy, so you’ve been able to locate something interesting?’

  ‘Yes we’re in luck, if we can move quickly, I have checked out things with one of my American contacts who knows a very private collector. Whether they’re ready to play with us or not, I don’t know, there’s a helleva lot of politics involved especially with the troubles out there in Jakarta at the moment. It would have been the best for your friend to do it through official channels but unfortunately that’s out.’

  ‘Do you have anything more precise, you know details?’

  From the photos the skull appeared to be one of Homo erectus but he was not sure. Though he had compared it with the photos given to him in Jakarta he was not sufficiently knowledgeable to come to any conclusion, in any case he knew that photos could be misleading or even manipulated. All he knew was that Tegu Murtopo, the director of palaeoanthropology at Gadjah Mada University in Jakarta, had told him the cranium came from the Solo River area in East Java and was estimated at anywhere between 100,000 to 1.5 million years ago. The photographs Tegu had given to Ennis clearly showed the sutures in the skullcap and overall thickness of the cranial bones indicating that it had probably to a young adult male.

  Fogg went on to explain that it had been tracked down to a private collection of Asian curios belonging to a Los Angeles antique dealer. The question was, how had it arrived in Los Angeles? Ennis had immediately called Jimmy Fogg and learnt that it had been bought as part of a complete collection from the widow of a wealthy American businessman who had spent part of his life living and travelling in South East Asia. He had been a keen collector of tribal art and curios

  The question appeared not to be one of ownership but how much?

  The origin of the skull was unknown to the antique dealer. He had shown it to a friend, an anthropologist at the American Museum of Natural History, who suspected it may have been part of the Peking Man fossils from Zhoukoudian in China, lost at the beginning of World War II during the Japanese invasion.

  However, the lost skull had been found in a sand bank on Solo River in the Sambungmachan District of East Java and had been bought from a workman for a few dollars by a local small time fossil dealer who had then sold it to the American businessman in the antique market on Jalan Surabaya in Jakarta who had illegally brought out of the country. It had been one of three fossil skulls found at the site and had stolen before the University could intervene.

  What was interesting about the skull was the cranium partially resembled the Ngandong skulls. It had certain Homo erectus characteristics with a thick cranial bone and a pronounced browridge but a high forehead and rounded braincase that were more common with archaic Homo sapiens. However, the cranial capacity was low, around 1000cc compared to with 1200cc in archaic Homo sapiens but what was interesting was the brain imprint showed evidence of Broca’s Cap, a sign which indicated the possibility of speech. From the little evidence available Tegu had estimated it to be around 40 or 50,000 years old.

  ‘This could be it, what now, can I send these photos to Jakarta?’

  ‘Yes, send them to Jakarta, as for the rest I’m working on that right now.’

  ‘Working on what?’ Ennis wished he would be more precise, he did not like waiting for the facts that Fogg was taking his time to develop in his slow and pedantic fashion.

  ‘Be patient, you remember the bloke in Zurich?’

  ‘Which bloke?’

  ‘You know the Russian.’

  ‘Okay, I remember the Georgian fellow.’

  ‘That’s him. He’s the collector in New York, but now the skull is too hot and he would like to get rid of it if the price is right.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I reckon after my first feelers, we could get the whole thing for about a million.’

  ‘A million! A million what?’

  ‘Dollars.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘A little bit outside of your budget. I see. If you’re friends are really serious I think we can an effort but I’m not sure.’

  ‘Listen Jimmy we’ve got to get together quickly so we can talk about this, in the meantime tell your pal he’s asking too much.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘No we’ve got to move sooner, this Russian will move if I don’t give him a sign right now.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Listen, I’m going down to Morocco for a few days’ golf with Lombard, you know my friend in Switzerland, why don’t you join us, and it won’t be a waste of time.’

  ‘Lombard!’

  ‘He’ll be looking after the details if we get a deal.’

  Ennis knew Lombard, a Swiss wheeler dealer who often helped Jimmy with the arrangements for his deals in Switzerland away from the prying eyes of British tax inspectors. Lombard was flying down to Morocco, where he was planning to play golf and meet his friends from the Ministry of Mines.

  ‘Okay, send me a mail with the details and book a room for me.’

  Ennis knew that Aris would play along, but at a lower price if the skull was genuine, his new forest concessions probably depended on making the minister happy and would in any case generate some fairly extravagant profits that could support the expenses of half million dollars or so. In his mind he concluded that they should be able to put a deal together.

  Orly Sud was the hub for the airlines of many so called developing countries and charter lines that flew in and out of Paris and its style matched those who used it. It was worn out and with many things in common with a good number of the destinations served by the airlines that used it.

  Ennis had more than once sensed it was an airport of apartheid in th
e land of égalité and fraternité. He remembered an Air France ground hostesses had once explained to him ‘our flights have no seat allocation system for North African destinations, we tried it once but it did not work’.

  It was rather curious he thought, considering that a large proportion of the passengers travelling to those destinations were French. Admittedly that was in the past, security requirements had changed all of that. However, little other had changed he noted looking down at the floor covering that was dotted with cigarette burns. The stains of coffee and wine were old and well trodden in. He watched a group of languishing American tourists waiting for their flight to Egypt. They must certainly have felt that they were already where they were going.

  He was in first class on Royal Air Maroc. After the discomfort of the airport, he felt that he could at least look forward to a comfortable flight. He was shown to his seat where he settled in and relaxed as he was fussed over by the cabin attendants serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The captain announced that the flight time was estimated to be about two and a half hours to Rabat. Fine weather was forecast for the arrival with ground temperatures of twenty five degrees centigrade.

  The flight landed at Rabat Sale Airport at just after eight in the evening. A car from the hotel was waiting to pick him up. He was booked into the Hyatt, a change from La Tour Hassan. It was about two kilometres from the centre of Rabat, a luxurious hotel with a mixture of modern and traditional styles.

  The walls of the hotel’s vast lobby were decorated with carved arabesque style stucco, the floors spread with Arabian rugs and all brilliantly lit by magnificent crystal chandeliers. To add to the ambiance the doorman and baggage porters wore red Fez’s and traditional Djellabahs.

  The majority of the hotel guests appeared to be European or American tourists; others looked as if they were from other African or Arab countries visiting the Cheriffian Kingdom, perhaps on an official visit to the court of Hassan II.

  Ennis recognised Lombard dressed as a relaxed English gentleman, standing in the lobby lounge together with Jimmy Fogg who had arrived by an earlier flight. After the very informal greetings that the comfort of the hotel inspired, they agreed to meet in Lombard’s suite for drinks after he had settled into his own room.

  ‘Well here’s to our success,’ said Ennis lifting his whisky. ‘So Jimmy has told you all about the objects that we are negotiating for Mr Aris?’

  Lombard nodded noncommittally.

  ‘By the way Jimmy before we go any further we’ll need the skull looked over by a qualified palaeontologist.’

  ‘Come off it old pal,’ said Jimmy with a broad gesture of his hands, ‘Do you think I go in for rubbish, you know me, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure of the goods.’

  ‘Okay, but in any case if we come to an agreement at the exchange of documents against goods there will have to be an expert, there’s no other way. I can trust you Jimmy but I don’t know who the other party is.’

  ‘It’s an old lady pal, I mean it, she’s the widow of the person who took it out of the country in the first place and all she wants to do is get rid of it…at a price.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, I thought it was a Russian?’

  ‘That’s right he’s handling things on her behalf.’

  ‘Sounds a bit dodgy.’

  ‘Look don’t worry about that, it’s the skull you want isn’t it?’

  Ennis nodded a little uncertain.

  ‘What about the price?’

  ‘I put the pressure on and they’re willing to deal at six hundred.’

  ‘Thousand.’

  Jimmy ignored him

  ‘So the price six hundred thousand dollars then, John tells me we can get a guaranty from Aris’s bank, his own bank!’ said Lombard.

  ‘Bank Surabaya Mas.... Hong Kong?’

  Fogg nodded.

  ‘It’s not exactly a first class international bank!’ said Lombard.

  ‘But Aris’s group is a first class risk.’

  ‘With the present political disorder I wouldn’t agree one hundred percent with that statement…but don’t worry I think Aris is a good risk.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Ennis.

  ‘Not so quick!’ said Lombard. ‘I must inform you that my fee will be another fifteen percent.’

  ‘That’s quite a bit,” said Ennis then adding “Let’s say it’s not a big problem.’

  ‘Don’t forget it’s all in American dollars, don’t let Mr Aris get any ideas about paying in Indonesian Rupiah.’

  Ennis made a weak laugh.

  ‘Good, what’s our program then,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘This evening dinner and tomorrow golf.’

  It was simpler than Ennis would have though, short and sweet, nothing had been lost for the moment and he left Rabat feeling pleased with himself. The arrangement with Fogg and Lombard looked positive. It only remained for Aris to approve the arrangement, in principal a formality. Ennis had agreed to meet Fogg a week later in England during the bi-annual Asian Arts conference that was held in London sponsored by the Victoria and Albert Museum. It was a good timing as HG was to give a paper on ethnic art in Borneo. The main themes of the conference were the safeguard and restoration of monuments and the illegal export of art from Cambodia.

  His first plan was a weekend in Paris and then a leisurely drive to Calais where HG wanted to take the Channel Tunnel Shuttle then they would drive along the south coast visiting the towns he had known as a child on his summer holidays after heading up to London for the start of the Asian Arts conference on the Tuesday. It would be a few days of business but mostly pleasure.

  They continued driving eastwards along the coast road in the fine spring weather reaching Chichester at the end of the afternoon where they stopped at a small hotel hoping to find a room. Ennis had miscalculated, he had forgotten that May Day was not on the first day of May in England, it had been moved to the first Monday of May and that probably explained why the conference started the Tuesday afternoon.

  The lady of the house was friendly and helpful in spite of the hotel being full, she told them that they would have problems finding a room and suggested telephoning around. After a couple of unsuccessful calls she found them a room at the Bear Inn not far from the town centre. Luckily it was a little off the beaten track of the weekenders out in force for the bank holiday wanting to enjoy exceptionally fine weather.

  The Bear Inn in Winchester was the only hotel available for miles around. As they drove into the car park at the back of the Bear Inn they saw a wedding reception being held in one of the outlying banquet rooms, guests were overflowing into the car park where the men stood around in typical British style holding their pints of beer in clenched fists with their busts thrust outward.

  Ennis realised that they had not got the rooms because they had not all been booked for the wedding. Fortunately the room was fine and HG opened the window out onto the high street where there was very little traffic and the warm Saturday evening wafted in with little or no noise from below.

  After quickly freshening-up they went downstairs where they found the restaurant that was separate from the reception rooms. However, it was almost empty and a quick glance at the menu indicated that the fare was bland British hotel type cuisine. HG preferred to take advantage of the fine evening to explore the surroundings and in the hope of finding something other than the ubiquitous MacDonalds.

  As HG admired the fine mediaeval church with its graveyard and tombstones surrounded by well-kept lawns adjacent to the pedestrian area, Ennis was a little disconcerted to see her studying at it in the same manner as a European would look at a temple in Bangkok. They continued along the high street but apart from a few more pubs, they realised their choice was between fast food and a couple of Indian restaurants.

  They decided on the Star of Kashmir where they found the Saturday night crowd of local thirty year olds who had forsaken the pubs. They ordered a Chicken Vindaloo with a Lamb Rogan Josh, which they ate accomp
anied by an expensive cheap red wine. Ennis ate with relish relieved that they would be sleeping in a comfortable room for their first night in England.

  The next morning after a poor imitation of the traditional English breakfast they set out on the London road. They had not gone far when Ennis regretted their visit to the Star of Kashmir and the Chicken Vindaloo; his stomach had started to churn. He had no choice but to make an urgent stop at the first motorway service area. As he left the mens room was startled he was stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of Garry Lawford, an American who had been introduced to Ennis a couple of days before Suarez had been killed, he was leaning against an electronic games machine reading the Daily Mirror, another person that he vaguely recognised stood next to him.

  ‘What the hell are they doing here?’ he thought then quickly turning towards the exit, his head bowed and his hand over his face. It was more than strange; he knew of no reason for their presence, normally they should have been in Jakarta. But there they were, amongst the bank holiday crowds on the South Coast of England. Ennis at once asked himself whether they were following him, or was it some kind of strange coincidence.

  Ennis knew that Lawford had been investigating Olsson’s conservationist activities for the Tropical Timber Producers Association. On his first meeting with the American, Ennis had realised he could be dangerous living out his Texan tough man fantasy, his marine captain days. He slipped away behind a line of columns hoped that HG would not leave the car to come in looking for him.

  In London they had booked into the Four Seasons on Hyde Park Corner. At the reception there were two messages waiting for Ennis. The first was from Aris informing him that Professor Nordin was dead, he had been found floating in the Kuching River the previous week, an autopsy was to be carried out as the police suspected foul play. The second message was from Jimmy Fogg asking Ennis to call urgently.

  Ennis was called Jimmy from his room, he insisted that Ennis come to his home in Bournemouth at once; he had some urgent news for Aris that could not be discussed over the phone. Ennis agreed to take the train the next morning; it just was a couple of hours from central London by Southern Railways.

  Ennis did not mention Lawford or Nordin, there was no reason to, Jimmy did not know them and very little about the work in Indonesia. But it was a strange coincidence, Lawford’s presence had struck him as sinister, perhaps Fogg did know something. The following morning he took a taxi to Waterloo railway station. He was early as usual. He bought a ticket to Bournemouth and left the station for a little fresh air, the morning was overcast and a little chilly. He strolled back over Blackfriars Bridge with the rush hour crowds to Fleet Street to pass the time before returning for the 9.32 train. London had changed since he had lived there; the City skyline was filled with fine high-rise buildings, giving it an air of prosperity.

  The train rattled out of the Waterloo on time. Ennis to his surprise found himself full of wonder and astonishment at the scene that trotted slowly past. It was like another age, as if time had stood still, except for the odd new office building, it was in total contrast to the City of London, it was the other face of Britain, the hidden face. His idea was confirmed when he realised that the ex-British Railways Southern Region must be one of the most antiquated in Europe. In the twenty years that had passed since he had left London, nothing had changed in the transport system, even back then it had long since fallen into decay.

  He sat in a 1st class carriage, a non-smoking compartment with four businessmen. Twenty minutes later when it was clear that the scenery was not about to change, he decided to take a coffee; he needed something to warm him up a little after his walk over the Thames.

  In the buffet the violent rocking movements of the train shook him. The frequent derailments of British Railways jumped to his mind. It was almost impossible to drink the coffee and eat his Danish pastry.

  As he glanced around, he could not help noticing a loudmouthed individual with a female friend at the other end of the bar. He was getting on in years, short and fat, in shirtsleeves and wearing braces. He greeted each newcomer with loud and excessive remarks, at first they thought that he was being offensive but each time, after a brief moment’s hesitation, he was saved by the British tolerant wait and see attitude of those he cheerfully insulted.

  Ennis quickly his snack as best he could and returned to his compartment. Some minutes later to his great dismay the loudmouthed individual appeared at the door of his compartment took a seat and settled in. After a short moments silence he started to talk loudly to his neighbour, whom he insulted. The neighbour was badly indisposed and did not hesitate to tell him so. Put down he shut up and sulked, his arms crossed waiting for the next opportunity to recommence. Ennis suspected from his accent that he was a Northerner or perhaps Scots. Being put down had obviously spoilt his morning.

  Some minutes later unable to bear the silence he commenced again announcing it was his birthday, he was seventy-one and wanted them all to join in the celebrations, he then proceeded to shake hands with his fellow passengers.

  ‘Sir, I apologise, last night I was at my Lodge dinner at the Savoy. Fogg’s the name, Joe Fogg, and those bits of dead dogs and cats up there are mine,” he said pointing the luggage rack over Ennis’s head which was filled cuts of frozen meat in a large plastic sack.

  Jesus Christ, Ennis thought to himself, so this is Jimmy’s old man.

  One of the passengers wryly remarked, that he hoped the meat was not Joe’s missus as the train arrived at Bournemouth Central and Joe Fogg struggled to collect his bags, wishing the remaining passengers good luck and hoping they would repent and enjoy themselves.

  Jimmy Fogg was on the platform shaking with laughter as he saw Ennis arrive with the old man. They made their way out to the carpark and Jimmy slung the plastic bag of now half frozen meat into the boot his Rolls. Joe flopped onto back seat of the car and almost instantly falling into a deep sleep, grunting with the occasional snore.

  They drove out to the Fogg’s home, about twenty miles outside of Bournemouth.

  ‘Sorry about the old man John,’ said Fogg with a wicked smile. ‘There’s nothing I can do, he’s always off with his pals on some kind of a do, his lodge dinner I think. The meat comes from one of his pals who’s in the meat trade.’

  Ennis waved his embarrassment aside.

  ‘Listen I’m sorry to pull you down here again but I think it’s important, there’s a couple of things. First I have some good news, I could have told you on the phone but I have to be careful.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘The other thing is a bit strange.... ‘

  Ennis looked at him questioningly as they pulled into the driveway of Fogg’s home, a sumptuous mansion set in a fine leafy park.

  After Fogg had sent the old man off to bed he served drinks. Ennis was standing in front of the chimney sipping his scotch as Fogg returned looking more at ease.

  ‘So Jimmy, what’s this story then?’

  ‘Oh yes, well do you know a fellow called Gary Lawford?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Ennis hesitantly then becoming very attentive.

  ‘Well this Lawford chap came to see me, the day before yesterday.’

  ‘He came to see you?’

  ‘Yes, it was very strange, he was in Bournemouth and called me. He said that he wanted to talk to me about a deal in Malaysia.’

  ‘A deal in Malaysia?’

  ‘Yes, but the funny thing when he came, he hardly spoke about his deal at all.’

  ‘What did he talk about then?’

  ‘You!’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, he wanted to know what were doing you doing in England, whether you were here for business. He didn’t ask like that of course, but that’s basically what it boiled down to.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing important, only what everybody knows. But I have the impression that he’s involved with some kind of forestry contractors, Indonesian and Malay
sian. He went to a great deal of pain to explain that they were serious business people opposed to illegal logging and exports, which probably means they are. Who they are exactly I don’t know, but it seemed that they’re not very happy about the allocation of timber concessions and your friend Mr Aris.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He was obviously digging for information.’

  ‘Did he mention our business…the bones?’

  ‘No, but it’s a funny coincidence. It’s none of my business John, but I’d be careful if I were you, my old man knows those Malays very well, he served out there during the Emergency. From the stories he has told me, they seem to be a dangerous lot that is if you get on the wrong side of them.’

  ‘So what’s the good news?’

  ‘Ah, now we come to the essential, our skull appears to be the genuine stuff. The owner, as I already informed you, is the widow of an American diplomat, an amateur collector, who had acquired them some years back from a worker in Solo. Very serious people, he ran into difficulty on the stockmarket just before he died leaving his widow in a little hard up, what she wants now is to reinflate her pension fund, her son is a lawyer and is using the Russian as a front man to sell the skull avoiding any unpleasant scandal for the family.’

  Back in London early that evening he told HG of Lawford’s visit to Jimmy Fogg and they decided to fly back to Paris once HG had delivered her paper at the conference. The pleasure was gone; the trip was going sour. He wanted to get back to Paris for a few days before they flew back to Singapore.

  The next day after the conference they celebrated HG’s success dining at an excellent Chinese restaurant in Soho, the owner an old friend of HG’s parents gave them a warm welcome and they relaxed as they enjoyed the specialities from the excellent cuisine in a rich oriental décor a contrast to many of the sights that they had seen over the previous days. Ennis mused sadly on the changing face of Britain, he regretted the past, which was for him almost a legend, he barely remembered the end of Britain’s glory, just the ‘wind of change’ and the rush back to Albion.

  ‘How have the British have allowed their infrastructure to degenerate to such a point? If you ask me it’s beyond hope and from what I’ve seen it’s everyone for himself, the haves and have-nots,’ said HG.

  ‘Don’t look at me!’ replied Ennis.

  ‘You’re British!’

  ‘I’m Irish,’ he said hiding behind his ancestors.

  ‘It’s the same! Just look at the railway system, it took more than one hundred years to construct, it’s been allowed to decline into a more than lamentable state. In fact it’s the same in practically all of the traditional industries.’

  ‘It’s not my fault! Anyway there are no industries, it’s they call now call the post industrial economy, manufacturing has been exported to Malaysia,’ he said spitefully.

  ‘That’s because you people are just tired, worn out and don’t want to work, haven’t you noticed in the last couple of days in London, behind the veneer whole districts have declined to irretrievable slums. Even the expensive districts have nothing but a coat of paint hiding the rot. Even with new construction it looks as if the task is a gigantic one, more than likely beyond the ability of the men whose job it is to manage that.’

  ‘I suppose in Malaysia it’s better.’

  ‘Don’t try to divert the discussion John, remember I went to university here, I know the British, in Malaysia I can say we’re more directed towards the future than your people, there is more concern for the old and weak.’

  ‘I see, cutting down the forests, displacing populations.’

  ‘I don’t disagree with that, that’s just what I’m trying to prevent.’

  He realised what foreigners had meant, it was the continuation of that long decline, that British disease. It was perhaps why people were constantly shouting, ‘We’re British you know!’ As if anybody could care less, he thought angrily.

  When he saw how HG thought he realised that Britain’s friends and neighbours looked on with a good dose of schadenfreud.

  He could not deny that behind the glitter of new shopping complexes was an impression of decay mingled with the smell of damp and old fat, the greasy chip syndrome or whatever. It was never very far away sometimes disguised with a MacDonald style facade but the odour betrayed its presence.

  There was no doubt that there were areas and sometimes-large areas of prosperity, but the decay was never lurking very far away in spite of the incredible property prices and fresh paint. The prosperous population was often near areas that were declining or struggling to hold their own, trying to escape from the maw of decay that was creeping up like old age.

  Even amongst the ordinary people in the street there was little renewal or vigour, there was a lot of façade and big talk but behind that there was resignation, class and tradition hung on like a creeper, slowly strangling the attempts of new growth, even the immigrants were twisted into its own image.

  He changed the subject, it was becoming to depressing and started to talk about Jimmy Fogg’s meeting with Gary Lawford.

  ‘What does it mean?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure, but it’s very clear that Ministry of Information in Kuala Lumpur is watching things very closely. I imagine they are not at all happy and see you as cheating them out of their heritage. It’s very important for Malaysia’s image, there’s a lot of political interests behind the discovery just as there is in Indonesia.’

  ‘Do you know how Lawford is involved in all that?’

  ‘I don’t know the details but you should know that Lars Olsson suspects Lawford of being involved in a lot of dirty work for people in the Chief Minister of Sarawak’s office and their cronies, especially when locals would be too visible.’

  The next morning in the London drizzle they took a taxi out to the dockland airport. It had been one of developments designed to put new life into East London. Vast areas of ancient docks had been razed to build new office buildings and expensive apartments. Behind them were the endless rows of terraced houses, housing accommodating the working population and the commuters who served the city, the lower working classes who supported the middle class upper strata, who lived comfortably in the Southern commuter belt and smarter suburbs.

  The docks had moved further east, to the Thames Estuary container terminals. That vast area of outer East London was where the have nots lived. It was not the only area, a large belt of run down suburbs surrounded London that varied in thickness as it struggled between the more prosperous that lay on either side of it..

  The areas of prosperity rose above the dismal skyline The Daily Telegraph, Canary Warf and St Katharine’s by the Tower. A financial disaster of Thatcherian dimensions had been transformed into success; rocketing property prices had given a new impulse and fresh hope. The popular rejecting of European values left Britain the possibility becoming an extension of the USA on the edge of the European Union, at that moment enjoying one of the highest levels of inward investments but where an insular tradition could turn hope into a dead end.

  In the DASH 7 they looked at the glossy magazines that pursued a British myth, one pictured on the front cover a chateau or stately home and its lawn was parked a helicopter next to a Rolls and a couple of horsewomen mounted on thoroughbred hunters. It glorified the snobbery and class-consciousness of the British. Ennis flicked over the pages of Corps Diplomatique and the Multinational Executive, a promotion magazine from the City of London, which portrayed similar images.

  ‘Does that really exist?’ HG asked Ennis.

  ‘Yes it probably does,’ he told her.

  ‘They must be joking, the Rolls and the hunters, it’s so unrealistic, living in the past, it’s a Patrick McGee image. In Europe or back home it’s more down to earth, a villa in Cannes or some place and a powerboat.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he replied a little peeved at her remarks.

  ‘The British are so tied to the past in their ideas,’ HG laughed.
r />   ‘Are you anti-British or something?’ Ennis said smiling as the plane left the south coast of England behind them.

  He had caught the news on the TV screen in the business class lounge showing Indonesia troops out in force across the country. Major General Sjafrie Syamsuddin of the Indonesian army had declared, “the last thing the country wanted was to scare away foreign companies that do business in Jakarta.” It was clearly an attempt to reassure expatriates and investors, he had told the official Ankara news agency, ‘I assure all foreigners living in Jakarta not to worry about their safety.’