by C. J. Driver
“I must say, Commissioner,” said Wynstanley, “that seems perfectly proper behaviour to me.”
“There’s no question, sir,” said Lambourn in his smart grey military voice, “of unprofessional conduct by Mr. Grace; it would not be our business anyway, of course.”
Matthew nodded; he knew damn well this wasn’t a matter of professional ethics, but I was profoundly grateful to him for his remark: it meant he was playing this one as a matter of loyalty to his juniors, whatever he thought of the Free People and John Buckleson. I saw Williams and Lambourn exchange glances; had they hoped having Matthew there might fluster me into some kind of openness? Were they regretting not questioning me alone?
As if in answer to my question, Lambourn took over. Would I say which of the following I knew? John Buckleson? Yes, of course. Did I know his present whereabouts? No. Adrian Lester? Yes, vaguely. Sean O’Brien? Yes; he was a pacifist. Shirley Austell? Very vaguely; she made sculptures. The list continued; to each name I answered as well as I could. I’d met them, yes; I didn’t know them very well; at the commune, at a party. Then there were names I didn’t recognise. And then, like a knife,
“Andrew Caister?”
“Yes, I know him; he’s with the others, isn’t he?” I am myself an expert in questioning and in spotting the answer which reveals knowledge better concealed. As I spoke, I knew I had said more than I needed to.
Williams looked at me coldly.
“Caister’s dead, Mr. Grace.”
The crow cawed triumphantly. What was I to say.
“Oh, Christ,” I tried. “What happened? Suicide?”
“No, Mr. Grace,” said Williams, “not that. He was shot. There, at the back of the head.” His hand showed me where. Yak, yak, yak, went the crow.
“When?”
“Yesterday morning or perhaps the night before. Mr. Grace, let me tell you this.”
I had put my head down in my hands, and I kept it there.
“His body was dumped from a stolen car on to the pavement in front of the Yard. We found the car a mile away. They had carried Caister on the back seat, we know that. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was blind-folded, and he had a notice on his chest. ‘Here’s your lost property, pigs’.”
“Oh Christ,” I said; there was no need to try to sound genuine now. I suppose they couldn’t hear what I said through my hands, because Lambourn said,
“What was that, Mr. Grace?”
I moved my hands but kept my head down.
“I swore,” I said. “Sorry.”
“We’ve got some photographs, Mr. Grace,” said Lambourn conversationally. “Would you like to see them?”
My eyes were shut. “Not particularly,” I answered.
“I want to,” Matthew said.
There was a strange note in his voice. Anger? Disgust? I don’t know. I looked up then; you know how it is when you have been keeping your eyes shut in a brightly lit room; things have a luminosity, a kind of edge of light. The senses have their own independence, which is both consolation and fear.
Matthew looked at the photographs, shuffling them in his hands, and then shoved them across the desk to me without saying a word. As he meant, I looked at them. No luminosity there, no humanity either; it wasn’t Caister, it was a bundle of something lying on a pavement, wrapped in … canvas? A groundsheet? Some kind of dark polythene? Heavy brown paper? Then a close shot of the notice that was blurred in the first. Don’t dare read that, said my mind, but read nonetheless: ‘Here’s your lost property, pigs.’ Then a photograph of something else. The wound? I supposed it must be. Would one bullet do that much? The crow cawed again, and others flocked down to join him. Multiply that wound, distribute the total, what would you get? How many bodies, at what angularity of humanity, in what places? I put the photographs back on the desk in front of Matthew.
“Mr. Grace,” said Lambourn, “I must ask you if you have anything to add to what you have told us.”
“About what?” I asked automatically; you don’t exorcise a legal training with three messy photographs.
“About Caister, for instance,” said Williams. I looked at him carefully.
“I have suspected for some time he might be a police informer,” I said.
“Why?” said Lambourn sharply.
“It was clear from Runicorn’s evidence in the trial there was an informer around. When I met Caister, I thought his face was familiar; I couldn’t work out why, but later I remembered having seen him briefly in the company of Inspector Williams here when I was called in to the Yard for a conference; I can give you the exact details of the conference very easily. It was pure chance, a coincidence really.”
“What do you mean by ‘later’?” That was Matthew in a very clerkly voice.
I shrugged. “Actually it was at that Freedom Congress thing; I saw Caister with Inspector Williams here, and then I remembered where I had seen him before …”
“I wasn’t with him at the Freedom Congress,” said Williams.
“I know,” I said. “But he walked past you and didn’t look at you; and you looked at him and then looked away, a little too quickly.”
“That’s not true.”
I shrugged again. If it sounded thin, even to my own ears, the telling was true.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Grace,” said Lambourn, “that does sound a little far-fetched.”
“I can confirm it independently,” I said sweetly; I can’t remember being called a liar for a long time. “I was worried about Caister, and I spoke to a psychiatrist—Dr. Robert Henderson, in fact—who had had some dealings with the Free People; he had reached the same conclusion about Caister. I think Caister had consulted him professionally.”
Williams looked at Lambourn, who nodded his head, then at me to say, “We’ve already seen Dr. Henderson, Mr. Grace; isn’t it somewhat strange he didn’t mention your conversation with him about Caister?”
“Not at all. He was probably trying to keep me out of this.” In just the same way I was telling my story in insufficient detail so that I could protect Henderson.
“Why should he do that?”
“Medical ethics, perhaps,” I answered flatly.
“Is it not true Dr. Henderson told you about Caister, and you told Buckleson?” asked—or said—Lambourn.
“No. First, Dr. Henderson didn’t tell me. Second, I didn’t tell Buckleson. I haven’t discussed my suspicion about Caister with anyone—I repeat anyone—except Dr. Henderson; and since Caister had consulted him, he was in a somewhat special position. Indeed if I remember rightly, Dr. Henderson’s advice to me was to do nothing.” And if he had given me other advice, Caister might not be that thing wrapped in a brown parcel.
“Is that the truth?” Lambourn said sceptically.
I held on to my temper, but before I could answer, Matthew interrupted. “Commissioner, you can check this story of Mr. Grace’s so easily I find that remark of yours hard to accept. Find out if this man Caister was in the Yard the day Grace went for the conference—I can do Grace’s side of that here, through the clerks if you wish. Then find out if Henderson did have this discussion with Grace. For myself I must say I believe Grace.” And thank you, Matthew; I had thought the mess might have made him change sides. But Matthew doesn’t change sides easily.
“I’m not suggesting Mr. Grace is not telling the truth,” said Lambourn smoothly enough, though he looked as if he wouldn’t mind having Matthew in the sights of a rifle for a moment or two.
“You must see our problem, sir,” said Williams. “We are investigating a murder and, by the way—I hope the Commissioner won’t mind my saying this—not a police informer, a policeman. Seconded on special duties. We have reason to believe the murder was committed by Buckleson and others; we are looking for Buckleson now—and we thought Mr. Grace, as an acquaintance of his, might be able to help us. We are also anxious to discover how it was Buckleson might have discovered Caister was a policeman.”
The
crows danced in a circle on the ploughed field. Dare I say I thought Caister would have told John himself? Henderson said he had advised him; and that was one good reason for not telling them. No, two good reasons, for I could not believe John would kill Caister for telling him the truth. Yak, yak, yak, cawed the crows in their circular dance.
“You might ask Henderson that,” I said.
“We have,” said Lambourn. “He insists he did not tell Buckleson.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” I said quickly. “Henderson wouldn’t have told Buckleson; but Caister did go to see him professionally, and there must have been some reason.”
“Dr. Henderson is giving us details at the moment,” said Williams.
So they were questioning Bob too; he would have some awkward things to explain. Williams was being much nicer to me now than he had been at first, but Lambourn was still suspicious.
“Have you anything to add, Mr. Grace? My advice to you in this would be to give us the whole story.”
“Don’t threaten me,” I snapped at him.
“I am not threatening you—I am advising you. For instance, I trust you will inform Inspector Williams here if Buckleson makes any attempt to get in touch with you.”
“Oh, come now, Commissioner,” said Matthew in his most urbanely legal voice. “I hardly think Grace would make any attempt to conceal information from you; and certainly not to put himself into the position of being an accessory after the fact.”
“Quite so, sir,” said Lambourn noncommittally.
I stood up. “If you are finished with me,” I said as cheerfully as I could, “I am due in court in ten minutes, and really must get a rush on.”
The others stood up; Lambourn and Williams shook hands with Matthew, and then with me—Lambourn looking as if I had shit on my hand—and Matthew walked with Lambourn down the corridor to the entrance. I followed with Williams, but when we were half-way down the passage I put out a hand and stopped him.
“Bill,” I said quietly, “I am sorry about Andrew Caister. I liked him very much, though I don’t think much of the business of putting agent provocateurs into organisations.”
“I liked him too, Mr. Grace; and he wasn’t an agent provocateur. He was there to damp things down, not to hot them up.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said insincerely, for I did not believe him. “If I could have stopped this happening, I would have.”
For the first time that morning, Williams smiled—a death’s head smile perhaps, but he was trying.
“So would I, Mr. Grace, so would I. I put him there, you see; there’re quite a lot of us who’ve blood on our hands in this.”
It was three minutes to ten. I was going to be late in court, but even then Matthew stopped me as I was running down the corridor.
“Lunch with me,” he said, and named the place. “I want to talk.”
It was an order not an invitation, but I didn’t have time to say no.
*
Even though I got a cab almost immediately, and changed in it as we hurtled towards the court where I was defending, I was five minutes late, and the judge scowled at me as I bowed my apologies.
It was a bad start to a morning in which I made as many mistakes as I usually make in a whole year; I bumbled my way through the ritual of a defence, being ticked off by the judge twice during the morning for losing my way; perhaps because of that, he kept the court going until five past one, and I was late for Matthew too.
I would have much preferred to be on my own somewhere; I was very tired, and I wanted time to myself, and I wanted to phone Tella, and I wanted to go back to chambers in case Peale had phoned me. But Matthew was not going to let me off.
“Tom,” he said, when we had ordered our food, “I want to talk, or rather to tell you what I think; and, simply, I think you should cut all links with this Free People bunch, both professionally and personally. Buckleson looks as if he’s finished anyway …”
“They’ve still got to find him, Matthew, you know; and then they’ve got to try him, and find him guilty. He’s not a murderer just because the police say he is.” I did not want to think about it, but if Matthew insisted, I would at least fight him part of the way. “And as for the other thing you said, I really do think the personal part of this I’ll have to judge myself.”
“I’m sorry if I seem to be interfering, Tom,” he said—for he is a nice man, one of the nicest I know—“but you are getting yourself into deep water professionally at least; maybe I can’t judge the personal side of it, but the professional …”
I interrupted. “All right, Matthew. I’ll leave chambers and set up somewhere else as soon as I can.”
“Oh, don’t be a fool, Tom. I’m not asking for that …”
“Nevertheless, I will go …”
“I said, don’t be a fool. We need you in chambers; one of you is worth ten people like that little twerp Daventry with his Debrett and silk hankies. I’m thinking of you, as a lawyer, as a person.” His voice was angry but not impatient; there was no point in fighting him.
“You don’t really understand, Matthew …”
“Don’t I? Well, explain then.”
“I had four hours’ sleep last night; I’m weary to the bone. Don’t you understand? I like Buckleson; I liked Caister—I liked him even though he was working for the police; I like a lot of the rest of them. I can’t believe John killed Caister, not like that; above all, I can’t believe he wrote that filthy, callous notice, ‘here’s your …’, you know, that thing. And how can I explain to you their ideas matter? Because they do; oh, sometimes they’re shallow, and sometimes they’re just words, but they still matter.”
“I don’t dispute it, Tom; maybe even this crew have some good ideas—Herford says so too, and he’s not entirely a fool. But do you think they’re going to get anywhere with their ideas? When they end up gunning down police informers, and chucking marbles under horses’ hooves at demonstrations? Of course they seem attractive; any ideas so far away seem attractive …”
“I don’t believe they are totally impracticable …”
“Of course they’re not; everyone believes in some kind of heaven, or Millennium, or classless society, or something. But what are you going to do about it? Talk? Go to church and sing hymns about it? Say, ‘If I’m a good boy, and live a blameless private life, God’ll give it to me when I’m dead and gone’? What I’m talking about is here and now, Tom.”
All the tiredness of the months before seemed to have gone; he believed utterly in what he was trying to tell me, and as always I am chameleon enough to find passionate belief attractive. He leaned forward across the table, shifting the dishes to get close as if proximity would persuade me.
“Listen to me, Tom. Forget this lot, forget Buckleson and the rest of them; let someone else defend them by all means, and try to get them off … well, it’ll be murder, won’t it, for Buckleson at least. Go on being a good barrister—and you know how good you are; I don’t need to tell you. Go on being a good husband and father. And come in with us. I’ll tell you what l’ve told no one else. Within the next couple of months I’m going to be in the Shadow Cabinet; I don’t know what yet—it might even be Home Secretary, but something anyway. When the next election comes, we’re almost bound to get in. I’ll be in the government for sure, I may even be in the Cabinet. I’ve got enough pull right now to get you put up as a candidate somewhere. You could even stand for Brenton; old Stanley is getting on and will retire or take a Life Peerage. People remember your father there, you know—you’d sail through the selection …”
I shook my head hard. It couldn’t possibly be Brenton; anywhere but that, anywhere, even if I did accept the bribe.
“All right, not Brenton; but somewhere else—a good marginal seat; there’s bound to be a swing next election, and you could easily make it, even in a marginal seat. Within twelve months you could be my P.P.S.; and then in five years, ten years, government, maybe even Cabinet. Don’t you think you’d get mo
re done for these ideas of yours that way than standing on the edge of some damnfool demonstration, or sitting in a derelict warehouse somewhere talking philosophic twaddle to a crowd of kids and fanatics? Don’t you?”
“I’m not ambitious in your way, Matthew.”
“Dammit, I’m not talking about your ambition, or mine, Tom: I’m talking about England …”
“The green jewel, you mean,” I sneered at him.
“No; an overpopulated island in a dirty sea. But England all the same. Tom, we’ve already lost so many—all these kids like Buckleson and the rest; and maybe they’re no great loss. But if we lose your kind too, we may as well pack the whole thing in; we can hand over the country to people like Lambourn and a couple of generals. Do you think they’ll give a damn for your ideas then? I tell you, Lambourn would have you—and me too—against the nearest wall and shoot us just like that.”
“The Bucklesons of the Right, you mean.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
Though I did not intend to say so, he was wrong; if words matter at all, it is not only the ends you judge, nor yet only the means. Yet Matthew was going too fast for me; if I didn’t even know where John Buckleson was, how could I say whether or not I would desert him? Matthew’s place was pleasant enough, a green island in the centre of things: but the circle of crows cawed and danced on the edge of his circle.
“I don’t know, Matthew,” I said. “Of course I’m flattered you should think I’m important enough to worry about; but right now I can’t make up my mind about anything—not even small things, much less the big things you are talking about.”
“All right, a small thing then: at least give up this lark of yours with Buckleson and his lot.”
“But I’m not with them.”
“Will you defend him on this murder charge?”
“There isn’t a murder charge yet: and I haven’t been asked.”
“Tom, be serious. Will you defend him if he’s charged?”
“If he asks me?” I prompted.
“If he asks you through his solicitor—I can be as pedantic as you.”
