Flashpoint

by Michael Gilbert

  Killey sat beside the bed. His mother was asleep. He could see the deep lines which life had carved on her face, but sleep had flattened the edges and relaxed the tensions. Her mouth was half open, and she was breathing shallowly.

  He had not needed the matron’s guarded remarks to tell him that she was slipping downhill.

  He had sat there quietly for more than an hour when she opened her eyes. It took her a minute or two to collect herself. When she turned her head to look at Jonas he saw that she was fully conscious and that there was a gleam of animation in her eyes. Her voice had the sharp edge to it which he remembered.

  “What are you doing here?” she said. “You ought to be working.”

  “I thought I’d take the afternoon off,” said Jonas. “How are you?”

  “Bored. Lift the blind a bit. I don’t like this dim light. It’s like being in church.”

  Jonas discovered how the complex of cords on the blind worked and opened the slats, letting in a flood of light.

  “That’s better,” said his mother. “You don’t look too fit yourself. I expect you’ve been overworking. How’s it going?”

  Jonas knew what she meant by ‘it’. He said, “It’s going all right. We’re in the Court of Appeal on Monday.”

  “The Court of Appeal,” said the old lady. “That’s where your father ended up. It never did him a scrap of good.”

  “He won.”

  “I wasn’t talking about winning. I was talking about doing him good. It killed him. You don’t call that doing good.”

  Jonas said, patiently, “I don’t think that’s quite true.”

  “Of course it’s true. Mind you, if he’d known he was going to die the next day he’d still have gone on with it. He was obstinate. As obstinate as you are.”

  There was a long silence. The brief spark of animation had died down. Jonas wondered if she had dropped off to sleep again. But she apparently had been thinking. She said, “If I asked you to stop it, would you do that for me?”

  “I couldn’t,” said Jonas.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s gone too far. I couldn’t stop now. It wouldn’t be possible.”

  “They’re only using you.”

  “Who are?”

  “The newspapers. I’ve read them. They used your father too. I’ve got boxes full of them at home. They all said how wonderful he was. A little man standing up to a big company and beating it. They didn’t really care. A week later they’d forgotten about him. It’ll be the same with you. You realize that?”

  The old lady’s eyes were snapping. There was more vitality in them than Jonas had seen for months.

  “I can’t help it,” said Jonas. “I didn’t ask the papers to join in. I don’t need their help.”

  “You’ll get it whether you like it or not, my boy. Once they get hold of you, you belong to them.”

  “What’s all this,” said the matron. “We mustn’t get excited. It’s not good for us. I’ve brought you both a cup of tea. Then we shall have to turn you out, Mr Killey. We’ve got to make your mother comfy for the night.”

  When Jonas got outside he found two men waiting for him. They fell in beside him as he walked away. One of them said. “We’re from the Evening Banner, Mr Killey. Would you care to comment on a report we’ve had–”

  Jonas quickened his pace until he was nearly running.

  “–A report we’ve had that the Law Society were contemplating proceedings against you but have now decided to drop them.”

  There was a policeman walking along the opposite pavement. Jonas hailed him. He said, “These men are bothering me. Will you tell them to go away.”

  “What’s all this, now?”

  “Press. We were just asking this gentleman a few questions.”

  “If he doesn’t want to talk to you, you’ve no right to pester him.”

  “Thank you,” said Jonas. He walked off quickly in the direction of the station. The men hesitated, then started to follow more slowly.

  “Well,” said Deborah to the insinuating young man who followed her home and was now sitting in the front room, chaperoned by her mother. “I must admit, at the time, I did think it was odd.”

  “Odd, Miss Massingham?”

  “Those two men busting into the office like that. Debt collectors, they called themselves. I mean to say. That’s not the way to collect debts, is it?”

  “Were they abusive?”

  “I don’t know about abusive.”

  “Tell him about the typewriter, Deb,” said her mother.

  “Oh that.” Deborah began to giggle. “They said, if we didn’t pay up they were going to take away the typewriters. Mrs Warburton – she’s a terrific old stick, really – she’d got a new typewriter that week. An electric one. She just threw herself flat down on top of it.”

  “Like a hen with its last chick,” suggested the young man imaginatively.

  “She is a bit like a hen,” agreed Deborah.

  “Tell him the bit about going to the bank.”

  “It was Mr Willoughby sent me. He gave me a cheque. I had to take it down and cash it. That was when I met Mr Stukely. Ever so gentlemanly. He walked back to the office with me.”

  “I don’t quite understand about those two banks and the two different accounts. Do you?”

  “Search me,” said Deborah. “One bank’s the same as another as far as I’m concerned. Why don’t you ask Mr Willoughby?”

  “I expect we shall be doing that,” said the young man.

  The attack on the Law Society came just after I had left. The reporter was referred to the head of the Publicity and Public Relations Section, who had no idea what to do with him, and passed him on to Laurence Fairbrass, who was working late. Laurence listened to his opening remarks, and said, “You must realize that you’re asking me to comment on something which, if your facts were right, which I don’t admit, would be entirely confidential.”

  “I realize that. It’s just that we’ve been given this story about a complaint being made against Mr Killey and the Law Society deciding not to pursue it. We thought we ought to check up on it.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s rather in the public eye at the moment.”

  “That doesn’t constitute a reason for asking impertinent questions.”

  “It does, actually,” said the reporter. “But I can quite see you don’t have to answer them. I’d better say ‘no comment’, I suppose.”

  “That’s right,” said Fairbrass. “No comment. And don’t twist it into meaning that everything you’ve suggested is true, but the Society won’t comment on it, or I’ll run you up in front of the Press Council.”

  The reporter grinned and departed. As soon as he had gone, Fairbrass dialled Tom Buller’s home number. It was Mrs Buller who answered.

  “Tom isn’t home yet,” she said. “And Laurence, there are two men in the garden. They say they’re reporters. They wanted to come into the house and wait for Tom, but I wouldn’t let them.”

  “That’s right. Keep “em out. And don’t let Tom talk to them until he’s had a word with me.”

  “Goodness! What’s it all about? Has someone been murdered?”

  “Much more exciting. You don’t get more than half a paragraph for murder nowadays. This is headline stuff.”

  When Mutt met me at the station I could see that she was worried. She said, “What have you been doing?”

  “Nothing that I know of. Why?”

  “The papers have been ringing up. And there’s a man who wants to interview you.”

  By now I had a suspicion of what it was all about.

  “I hope you didn’t say anything.”

  “How could I? I don’t know anything.”

  “That’s true.”

  When we got home they were waiting in the porch; a middle-aged man and a young lady. The young lady had a camera. She seemed to want to take my photograph.

  “Would you mind explaining what this is all about?”

&
nbsp; “If I’ve got it right,” said the man, “you’re the hero of the story. You work at the Law Society, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it was you who found the court record – whatever it was – the one that proved that someone was trying to frame Killey.”

  “Good heavens,” I said. “I can’t talk about that.”

  I realized as I had said it that I had made a mistake. The man said, smoothly, “Of course we appreciate that. It’d be a confidential matter. But from what you say, I assume it was you who actually unearthed the document.”

  This happened to be true, and heaven alone knows what I might have said, but I was saved from further indiscretion by the Archbishop of Canterbury. He had taken a dislike to the strange man and announced it by starting to scream. The girl said, “Oh, poor darling,” put down her camera and picked him up. I could have told her that this was a false move. The Archbishop was sick all over her.

  We had got rid of the press, and had our supper, neither of us talking much, when the telephone rang.

  I hesitated before answering it.

  “Go on,” said Mutt. “It mightn’t be them.”

  It was Tom Buller. He said, “I rang up to find if you’d had any trouble.”

  “There were some reporters.”

  “I hope you didn’t say anything.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “If they bother you again, all you have to say is, ‘no comment’. And if they won’t go away, send for the police.”

  “All right.”

  In bed that night Mutt said, “It may be all right for people in the public eye, but I don’t like it. I’m a private sort of person. I think it’s rather terrifying when people can come into your house and take photographs and ask you questions and write things about you.”

  I said, “I don’t suppose they’ll bother us again. They’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  20

  In the days of the semaphore and the horsed courier it may have been possible to nurse a good scoop. Nowadays, no real news can hope to remain exclusive for more than an hour.

  The other evening papers had already started covering the Banner story in their own Friday night editions. On Saturday morning the national press opened the doors of the furnace.

  I had noticed before, in cases where I happened to know the facts, that although the papers are often inaccurate in matters of detail, they are usually surprisingly right over the shape of a story. The truth is, I suppose, that getting names and dates and statistics correct is a matter of checking and cross-checking and daily papers have no time for this. Appreciating the shape and meaning of an event, on the other hand, is a matter of judgement and experience.

  The story which the papers told to millions of breakfast tables on that flaming Saturday morning was, in simple outline, that the Government had become embarrassed at Killey’s attacks on their white-headed boy Will Dylan; that a Government agency had attempted to discredit Killey; and that the attempt had misfired.

  The implications of this were clear; the possibilities boundless. Though the legal trumpets were still somewhat muted by the threat of sub judice this could not silence the political orchestra. The knowledge that a general election was pending added an extra shrillness to its tone.

  “We started it,” said John Charles to his staff with justifiable pride. “It was our story. We’re not going to let the other bastards pinch all the gravy. Follow it up, hard.”

  The Leader of the Opposition went down to Smith Square to a meeting of his policy-making body. None of them was under any illusions as to the importance and impact of the news.

  “It’s the timing that’s so critical,” said the shadow Home Secretary. “They can’t leave the announcement of the dissolution much later than Wednesday week.”

  “And the High Court hearing starts on Monday?”

  “That’s right. I understand it’s likely to last two days. The Court usually gives its decision immediately on a mandamus. That means that we could have a decision by Tuesday afternoon.”

  The Leader considered the matter, sucking on the long-stemmed briar pipe which was his comfort in times of stress. Opinions differed as to his statesmanlike qualities, but he was a noted tactician, a formidable infighter in political brawling.

  He said, “As I see it, it doesn’t really matter which way the Court decides. If they quash the application, it will be the establishment trying to cover up for the Government. If they allow the application, there’ll be a strong supposition that this man – what’s his name?”

  “Killey.”

  “Everyone will believe that Killey is right, and Dylan’s a crook. I take it that even if Killey wins in this Court, he can’t possibly mount a criminal prosecution before the autumn.”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said the shadow Attorney General. “He’s got to go back to the magistrate first to get his summons. Then he’s got to get the committal proceedings going. The defence would be bound to ask for an adjournment. They’d get it, too.”

  “Good,” said the Leader. “Then we can forget the law and think about policy. The main thing, as I see it, is not to overplay our hand. What we want is a question in the House on Wednesday. It will have to be framed very carefully. Don’t forget that Dylan’s popular. He’s got a lot of friends. We don’t want to appear to aim directly at him. Not yet, anyway. What I suggest is, a question to the Attorney General. ‘In view of the public disquiet, will he direct the Law Society to publish the facts. Were proceedings contemplated against Killey? Were they abandoned? And if so, why?’ And I don’t think we want to involve the front bench.”

  “Get Gooley to do it,” suggested the shadow Home Secretary.

  Gooley was a raucous backbencher, noted for asking tactless questions on any topic at all.

  The Leader considered the suggestion but vetoed it. He said, “Questions asked by Geoff Gooley aren’t always taken seriously. Put Henderson up.”

  The Commissioner of Metropolitan Police called by appointment on the Home Secretary. The Home Secretary came immediately to the point. He said, “The Killey case – you know what I’m talking about, Commissioner?”

  “Yes,” said the Commissioner. “I know what you’re talking about.”

  “It comes in front of the High Court on Monday. I don’t want the sort of disturbances that occurred at Bow Street to be repeated.”

  “Do we anticipate them?”

  “You’ve read the reports. Do you think the disturbance at Bow Street was a spontaneous expression of dissent by the friends of the accused on the Watchman staff?”

  “No, I don’t. The men who were removed from the Court had nothing to do with the Watchman. They were members of an extreme left-wing organization.”

  “Exactly. And those are the same sort of people who are going to try to whip up a disturbance when this case comes on. I want it stopped.”

  “The High Court’s not like Bow Street. It’s a difficult place to seal off. Entrances in the Strand, Carey Street and Bell Yard, and from the courtyard on the west side.”

  “I don’t care how many entrances there are. They’ve all got to be checked. No one goes into the building who hasn’t got genuine business there. Counsel, solicitors and their clients.”

  “I suppose we ought to let the judges in as well,” said the Commissioner.

  The Home Secretary looked up sharply. He said, “Personally, I don’t find the situation amusing.”

  The Commissioner had seen three Home Secretaries come and go and was not unduly impressed by them. In his opinion the present holder of that office was the weakest of the three, and like all weak men, was an advocate of strong measures. He said, “It won’t be amusing for us, I assure you. We shall have to check a lot of credentials, and people will be kept waiting, and will get upset. Also, the general public has a right of access to the public galleries. They won’t appreciate being kept out of them. I’m not sure, constitutionally, that we can.”

  “I’m aware
of the difficulties,” said the Home Secretary. “I look to you to overcome them.”

  “We’ll do our best,” said the Commissioner smoothly.

  Back in his office he summoned the appropriate officials and gave instructions. He said, “I don’t think we’ll have the mounted branch in on this. It’s not very effective and tends to annoy people.”

  One of his subordinates said, “This chap Killey. Will there be any difficulty about getting him into Court?”

  “Certainly not. He’s now so popular they’ll probably try to carry him in shoulder high. By the way, does anyone know where he is at the moment?”

  Nobody did know.

  “Find out,” said the Commissioner. “It might be a good idea to keep an eye on him.”

  They were not the only people looking for Jonas Killey.

  The press, in search of follow-up information, had experienced mixed fortunes with the minor characters. The iron hand of Tom Buller had clamped down on the Law Society, and there was nothing but ‘no comment’ to be had from that source. Lambard had retreated behind the plea of professional privilege and a chained front gate while Jonathan ostentatiously exercised two boxer bitches on the front drive.

  Mrs Warburton, who would have been a primary source of information, escaped trouble by accident. She decided, on Friday evening, to visit her sister who lived at Bognor Regis and since it did not occur to her to tell anyone of her plans she spent a quiet weekend at that resort, returning by an early train on Monday.

  Deborah was available. In a sense she was too available. She had only one story to tell, and she told it to everyone. Her mother encouraged her and acted as commentator. She had always considered that her daughter had talents which were wasted in a solicitor’s office and she knew that publicity was a key which unlocked many doors.

  Young Willoughby was confined to barracks by his father. Mr Willoughby senior held much the same views about press publicity as Mutt did. He thought that it was a bad thing, and that the intrusion of reporters into an Englishman’s home was an impertinence, to be met in the same spirit that he, and his contemporaries, had met the attempted intrusions of Hitler and Goering. He bolted the front and back doors, closed the curtains in all the windows to baffle the photographers and prepared to sit it out. Had the enemy entered the front garden he was prepared to counter-attack and had a stirrup pump, a relic of the last war, ready primed in the hall.