‘But you’d want to save hunting. You wouldn’t want it made a crime … like mugging Lady Inwood?’
‘Of course I wouldn’t.’ She lit her cigarette, about, he thought, to lose interest in the subject. But he kept to it.
‘By saying all that, I’ve kept the confidence of the electors. When the time comes I can try to keep what your father enjoyed.’
‘By telling a load of lies, you mean?’
‘By winning the election.’
She looked at him through a haze of smoke. ‘You really are very funny indeed,’ she said fondly. ‘Is Kate still away?’
‘For the moment,’ he told her. ‘Yes.’
‘We could meet this evening?’
‘Damn! I’m busy.’
‘Something exciting?’
‘Boring. My agent …’
‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘Some other time.’
Kate came back from London, and she and Terry had dinner in the Magic Magnolia, untroubled by Agnes’s cigarettes. They talked with restraint, about things that didn’t matter, as though they had just met and had not been married at all.
As they spread their pancakes with plum sauce and fragments of duck, Terry told Charlie, the Chinese waiter, that the Labour Party would take immediate steps to improve the lot of those, often underpaid and overworked, toilers in the catering industry and gave him a copy of his election pamphlet. Charlie smiled, nodded and, in return, showed Terry a photograph, in colour, of his sister in Hong Kong. But the questions of fox-hunting, and Terry’s relationship with Kate and Agnes, were solved for the time being.
Chapter Fifteen
‘We particularly regret the fact that the Home Secretary cancelled the Work Experience Programme.’
‘The Home Secretary did that, did he?’
‘Through the prison service, of course.’
‘Through the prison service, naturally. That must have been disappointing for you. After all the work you’ve put into it.’
‘It gave the boys a sense of purpose and a little self-respect. For a day or two they could think of themselves as gardeners and not criminals. I looked on it as an important step on the road to reform.’
‘Nothing like work to keep you on the straight and narrow. I had to work my way up every step of the ladder, which is more than you can say for some of our present masters. Those that sail into government from Eton and Oxford and think they can understand a young lad on a housing estate who’s got no hope of a job and whose only way of a decent income is through the sale of crack cocaine.’
Paul Fogarty looked at his guest in astonishment. Had he gone senile or had the man sitting opposite him, after a lifetime recommending penal reform by way of the birch and the rope suddenly, like Lear passing to sunlight through madness, arrived at a plane of sanity? He said, ‘I’m very grateful to you for saying that.’
‘And I may say it again. In a few influential quarters.’
They were having lunch, dubious meat pie, lumpy mash, soggy peas and a packet of digestive biscuits, served on bright blue plates, with plastic knives and forks, washed down with water in large mugs. It was Paul’s habit to invite important people in the neighbourhood to share the inmates’ lunch at a table in the corner of the Skurfield canteen. Judges, doctors, magistrates, headmasters, university lecturers and editors of local newspapers had, he discovered, not the remotest idea of what life in a youth offenders’ centre was like, and this ignorance was particularly noticeable in judges who, in certain particularly hard cases, seemed to think it beneath their dignity to inquire into the fate of those they found guilty and sentenced. Such matters, they clearly thought, were best left to civil servants and those who carried on the humble profession of prison governor.
Although Sir Gregory Inwood had accepted his invitation and taken a kindly interest in the place, Paul had never felt that there was the slightest point in inviting Lord Titmuss, whose views on crime and criminals were well known from dozens of speeches at Party conferences. But, to his surprise, Titmuss had rung up, solicited an invitation and was apparently in full sympathy with Paul’s theory that crime was an illness to be cured rather than a sin to be punished with all possible severity in order to satisfy a public thirst for revenge.
‘I can understand’ – Paul didn’t want to push his luck with his unexpected Lordship too far – ‘the public revulsion when Lady Inwood was mugged …’
‘A bit exaggerated, don’t you think?’ Titmuss’s capacity to surprise seemed inexhaustible. ‘Dorothy Inwood’s a pretty tough old boot, and it’ll’ve given her a story to bore them all with on the Costa Geriatrica. Of course, it’s unfortunate that someone heard a call of “Slippy”, and that Slippy Johnson was a boy who’d had a day out at the invitation of her husband.’
‘You’re remarkably well informed.’
‘I regard keeping myself informed as a retirement occupation. I play no golf.’
‘Of course, Slippy had nothing whatever to do with the mugging.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Absolutely sure.’
‘You didn’t see him here yourself?’
‘No. My chief prison officer tells me Slippy was locked in his cell at the time of the attack.’
‘You can trust him?’
‘Clifford isn’t exactly Elizabeth Fry, but he’s totally reliable. But that’s not the whole story.’
‘What’s the whole story then? I’d be interested to know.’ Titmuss pushed away his prisoner’s meal half-eaten, while the governor took a brief rest from the lumpy mash to say, ‘Slippy’s got a trade. He learnt it from his father, “Peters” Johnson. Neither father nor son have one incident of violence in their records. They’d regard mugging as beneath their dignity. Slippy robs by picking locks, delicately opening car doors, cunningly extracting coins from apparently impregnable machines. It wouldn’t occur to him to steal by knocking down old ladies.’
Titmuss was silent. Then he took a tube of peppermints from his waistcoat pocket and put one into his mouth, no doubt to banish the taste of the lunch. He asked, ‘When Sir Gregory wanted a boy out for gardening duty, did he mention this young hopeful Johnson in particular?’
‘Well, yes. As a matter of fact he did.’
‘Sir Gregory had visited your nick a number of times …’
‘Yes.’
‘Because he’s interested in penal reform?’
‘I’m sure he is. But there was another reason.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’m afraid it’s confidential.’
‘All secrets are safe with me.’ Titmuss smiled enigmatically. ‘And please remember, I mean to put your case, in influential quarters.’
‘That young man over there. Good-looking boy. He’s Rosalind in our As You Like It.’
‘Isn’t that about a girl pretending to be a boy, or is it the other way round?’ Titmuss frowned with distaste.
‘Part of it’s about that. Well, it’s no secret. He’s young Alaric Inwood, Sir Gregory’s nephew.’
‘I see.’ Titmuss clearly found this news more acceptable than cross-dressing in Elizabethan drama.
‘Public-school drug-dealer with an unusual headmaster who handed him over to the police.’
‘I don’t suppose his parents thought that was what they paid the fees for. Tell me, was that classy young criminal here when Slippy had his first day out?’
‘I think so. I’d have to check.’
‘Please do. And had Sir Gregory met Slippy?’
‘Oh, yes. He came to lunch and I gave him the history of a few of the boys his nephew seemed to mix with in Association. I told him about Slippy to prove that not all our customers are violent.’
‘Told him all about Slippy?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘All that you’ve told me?’
‘Yes.’
‘His talents as a locksmith?’
‘I’m sure I mentioned that.’ Paul ruefully admitted his own weakness. ‘I shouldn’t tell people so
much about the boys here, but I want them thought about as individuals, people with talents and weaknesses and problems of their own. They’re not just numbers in the crime statistics, or a government report on drug abuse.’
‘Of course.’ Titmuss came out in full support of the governor. ‘I understand that. We all get into trouble for different reasons. No doubt this young lock-picker is a likeable enough lad. At any rate, Sir Gregory seems to like him. From what I can discover he had him out to work on the day Peter Millichip was found drowned in his swimming pool.’
There’s not much, Paul thought, that you can’t discover. ‘So far as I can remember.’
‘And I suppose he’d made the booking, I mean, reserved the services of young Slippy, some time before that?’
‘Well. I suppose so.’
‘You suppose?’
‘He said he had. He told me he had when he rang up that morning. But I couldn’t find an entry. I must have forgotten when he asked me earlier.’
‘You’re not as efficient as your prison officer?’
‘Not as meticulous, perhaps.’
‘And you let Sir Gregory take the boy?’
‘I thought it would be good for Slippy, and of course Sir Gregory was completely trustworthy.’
‘Oh, yes. Completely. Only one other thing. I wondered what time it was. When he rang you?’
‘Oh, very early in the morning. In fact he woke me up. I suppose he wanted to get in a long day’s gardening.’
‘I’m sure that’s what it was.’ Titmuss looked round at the young offenders, boys of all shapes, sizes and colours, some sullen, some jaunty, some silently angry, some determined to smile, finishing lunch under the eye of prison officers. ‘And I’m sure that all your lads will grow up to be excellent gardeners.’
Two weeks to go before polling day and Tim Willock’s lead had shrunk to 4 per cent. More importantly, the Liberal Democrat, an intense and desperately well-meaning lecturer in statistics at Worsfield University, seemed to be making a diminishing impression on the voters. Velma Warrington could provide figures from some inexhaustible computer in her head to prove or disprove any argument, but somehow the numbers were not memorable, and cynical voters wondered if she really spent the time travelling the country to discover how many children under fourteen spent over a third of their pocket-money on cigarettes, or the exact proportion of those who, drinking over two pints of beer a day, thereby contracted bronchitis. Although by no means a Conservative, she seemed to spend most of her political energy attacking Terry and thereby confirming his position as the sole opposition candidate.
Penry read of the closing gap with surprise and disbelief. He had expected this Labour campaign to be like the others he had fought, a hard slog leading to an honourable defeat. There had been few surprises in the past, but this campaign was different. He felt he had lost control of his candidate and that the battle was being directed by some hidden hand who might send it chasing off after unlikely enemies, or organize an attack on hitherto unidentified targets. When he was feeling particularly rattled he comforted himself with the thought that 4 per cent was a fairly comfortable lead, and he wouldn’t have to face the embarrassment of a victorious Terry, who had taken none of his advice and seemed to have long ago given up speaking to Nabbs.
The list of surprises for Penry, however, was not yet complete. He and Terry were crossing the high street in Hartscombe, on their way to meet a focus group in the Swan’s Nest Hotel, when a rich, female voice hailed Terry, a sound which brought back to him the day of his nightmare ride to hounds. It was Blanche Evergreen, the plumpish, smiling, grey-haired woman whom hounds obeyed and who chased saboteurs.
‘Thanks for the cap money, Mr Flitton. It arrived at last.’
‘The what?’
‘The sixty quid. For your day out with the Hartscombe.’
Terry, who was not conscious of having made any such payment, gave his fully committed, charming smile and said, ‘Oh, of course. Well, thank you for putting up with me.’
‘Interesting style of riding you have. Did you pick it up in South America?’
‘Oh, well. From here and there, actually.’
‘Anyway. I hope you enjoyed the day.’
‘I found it … extremely interesting.’
‘You’re a political chap, Mr Flitton.’ Blanche’s voice had become more confidential. She moved uncomfortably close to Terry, grabbed the lapel of his jacket as though about to climb up him and said, ‘You’ll save our hunting. You’ll do that for me, won’t you, Mr Flitton darling?’ And with that Blanche patted Terry, as though he were a horse which had just cleared a dangerous jump, and went on her way.
‘Are you making commitments to the hunters?’ Penry was bound to protest.
‘Not commitments. Just hopes.’
The agent said no more. The week before he had received a contribution of £10,000 from the hunting owner of Pooh Corner, with a letter which said that all lovers of country sports should work for the defeat of Willock. The money couldn’t be spent on the election, so he showed it to Nabbs, who recommended it be sent on to Walworth Road without the covering letter but with a note from the nearby M.P. to say that he had managed, while at work in the Hartscombe constituency, to do a bit of successful fund-raising.
‘They got you in the frame, Slippy, for mugging my Aunt Dorothy.’
‘Don’t make me laugh! I was banged up.’
‘They don’t think you’re called Slippy for nothing. They know your reputation with locks. Hope you got a good brief for when they’re doing you for Robbery with Violence.’
Alaric Inwood had clear blue eyes, a high, bridged nose and a perpetual expression of ironical and amused contempt. He enjoyed, and even exaggerated, the troubles of his fellow prisoners, and now, as he played ping-pong with Slippy during an Association period when other boys were watching ‘Home and Away’, he revelled in his opponent’s troubles as though he were enjoying a warm bath.
‘What’m I meant to have done? Broken out, gone to the supermarket in a funny mask, done over your aunty and picked all the locks to get back in here again? That’s ridiculous.’
Alaric relied on the sweeping smash, which often went off the table. Slippy replied with gentler shots, carefully placed, and he was, for the moment, up on points.
‘They’ve got the evidence,’ Alaric said. ‘One of the blokes shouted out, “Slippy.” They’ve got a witness.’
‘That don’t mean nothing. How many Slippys do you think there are in the world?’
‘Only one, I should think. You’re in the frame, old man. One of those bad boys called out your name. You don’t think they’d do that if you weren’t there, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past them.’ Life had left Slippy with little faith in honour among Skurfield inmates.
‘I lay you any odds,’ Alaric tried a mean serve which just toppled over the net, ‘that you get a call to see the governor.’
Alaric would have won the bet. The next day a regretful Paul Fogarty told Slippy that he was destined for Blackenstock, a grim and poorly run Y.O.I. in the north of England, in which four inmates had committed suicide in the last eighteen months. The best Paul could do was to postpone the move until after As You Like It.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Would you like to comment on Terry Flitton’s proposal to have a full judicial inquiry into hunting, Mr Willock?’
‘Certainly. The fact of the matter is, you can’t believe a word that’s said by my lying opponent from the Party opposite. He’ll say anything to appease any sectional interest. My views on what some people call country sports and I call, in plain English, blood sports, are well known. I don’t have to take refuge in a lot of meaningless talk about judicial inquiries.’
There was a sudden silence and a quickening of interest at the morning Conservative press conference in the baptist hall. Representatives of national newspapers, television reporters and political pundits stopped their murmured gossip, raised their eyes fr
om the sports pages and stared at Tim Willock, who was in an unusually abrasive and cocky mood this morning. He sat next to Sir Gregory Inwood and Marcia Turnbull, the Minister for Agriculture, sent down to stiffen the sinews of an apparently weakening campaign, at a table draped with a Union Jack at the end of the hall. The reporters had a suspicion that some sort of news had just broken. A solemn young man in spectacles raised his pencil as though making a bid at an auction.
‘Cornelius Vance of the Telegraph,’ he announced himself modestly. ‘Did you just say that we can’t believe a word spoken by the Labour candidate?’
‘Of course you can’t.’ Tim Willock seemed to be intoxicated with sudden unexpected and unusual courage. ‘I can prove that Terry Flitton’s a liar and has lied deliberately to the electors of Hartscombe and Worsfield South.’
‘Mel Rathbone of the Guardian.’ A girl in the front row took off her glasses to make a bid. ‘When do you say Terry Flitton lied?’
‘In his election pamphlet. A lie delivered to every household in the constituency.’ Willock made the claim confidently. Sir Gregory held the pamphlet in his hand and was getting ready to quote. The Minister half-closed her eyes as though to avoid a disgusting spectacle and looked pained at the stink of corruption.
‘ “Terry Flitton”,’ Sir Gregory quoted clearly and slowly, as though reading the charge in an indictment, ‘ “is a local boy made good. His father was a worker in W.R.F., who spent his life on the shop-floor.” ’
‘Is that a lie?’ Mel from the Guardian asked.
‘It certainly is,’ Willock was delighted to tell her. ‘Flitton’s father was promoted to middle management. Manager in Charge of Human Resources. One of the bosses and not one of the workers.’
‘Bob Pertwee from The Times,’ this was a middle-aged man in a tweed suit. ‘Doesn’t that reflect rather well on Flitton père?’
Sir Gregory took the question. ‘We’re not really concerned with Flitton père. It just proves that Flitton fils is a stranger to the truth.’
The Sound of Trumpets Page 13
