Sitting on the platform among his fellow speakers, Andrew listened to it all for the second time, thinking what a pillock the man was and how easy he would be to demolish. The journalist, who was sitting to his right with her long legs arranged for the camera, looked like a cat with a mouse in her sights. But the presenter had his opening sequence prepared too and moved smoothly on to the next speaker, the representative from Railways South, who folded his neat hands in his lap and spoke with face-creasing sincerity.
‘We are disappointed that Railtrack is putting up a bureaucratic wall of silence at this time,’ he said. ‘The public have a right to know whom to blame for this tragedy. It is in the public interest for the truth to be told.’ He laboured the point for several seconds, concluding that, ‘if necessary’, Railways South would take action against Railtrack to force it to make its findings public. ‘If we have to go to court,’ he ended, his voice ringing valiantly, ‘if we have to go to court to get the answers we want, then we will.’
Andrew was irritated by the speciousness of these two men, making their set speeches without reference to one another, but he didn’t intervene. Some of the studios he’d appeared in had been so young and brash that he’d had to fight for an opening, but this one was relaxed and established, so he knew his turn would come. He looked across to where Catherine was sitting in the front row of the audience and smiled at her confidently. It was going to be a very good show.
The representative from Railtrack was given his moment next. Their report was ‘virtually complete’, he said, but it wouldn’t be made public, ‘so as not to prejudge the separate findings of inquiries by the Health and Safety Executive and British Transport Police.’
Railways South snorted. ‘There’s an exercise in blame-avoidance if I ever saw it.’
Railtrack stood his ground. ‘We are following the correct procedure,’ he said, ‘so as not to prejudice the inquiry of the Health and Safety Executive.’
‘Is there to be a third inquiry?’ the presenter asked. ‘This is a new development.’
‘As we understand it,’ Railtrack stammered. ‘We have been advised …
The journalist leant forward slightly to signify her desire to intervene. ‘Ms Cooper,’ the presenter introduced her.
She spoke languidly but fluently. ‘This,’ she said, ‘is exactly the sort of situation we have got to expect now that British Rail has been broken up into competing companies. It’s a direct result of fragmentation and a very deplorable one. Had our railway system still been run by one national company, there would have been one inquiry and it would have been published and acted upon months ago. As it is, we have two smaller companies – or three, if there is to be a third inquiry – publicly bickering over whose fault it is. Or to put it another way, over who will be financially liable to pay out compensation. This is all to do with avoiding huge bills for compensation.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ Railways South told her. ‘Ask any businessman. That’s good business practice.’
The politician applauded him. ‘Quite right!’
The presenter held out a warning hand. ‘Dr Quennell,’ he said and gave Andrew his turn at last.
Andrew smiled at him. ‘Ms Cooper is right,’ he said. ‘What we should be concerned about is saving lives, not money. That accident could have been avoided in the first place if the new companies had paid proper attention to safety, if they’d kept the rolling stock in good order and maintained the track. That’s what’s important. Avoiding accidents and avoiding loss of life. I think I can claim to be the only person on this panel who was present at the crash and I can tell you it was a shocking event. Twenty-seven people died, don’t forget, and there were some dreadful injuries. It isn’t something to score cheap political points about.’
‘I’m sure nobody here wants to score cheap political points,’ the politician objected, plump hackles visibly risen, ‘as you put it.’
‘I hope you won’t,’ Andrew said, ‘because I’m sure there are accident victims out there who are watching this programme very closely and they want to know what you are going to do to prevent anything similar happening in future.’
‘One of whom was Miss Gemma Goodeve,’ the man with the beer belly suddenly put in. He’d been so quiet since the broadcast began that Andrew had almost forgotten he was there.
The presenter turned, smiled and introduced him. ‘Garry McKendrick.’
Oh for crying out loud! Andrew thought, struggling to control his surprise. That awful man! But he answered at once and boldly. Yes, Gemma had been one of the casualties.
‘Right,’ Garry McKendrick said. ‘And you know her rather well, don’t you, Doctor?’
‘I was the anaesthetist when her leg was amputated,’ Andrew agreed, his heart beating uncomfortably.
‘Oh rather more than that,’ Garry McKendrick insisted. ‘You’ve been her – what shall I say? – her landlord ever since the accident, haven’t you?’
The implication was so scurrilous that Andrew could feel himself colouring as his temper rose. The atmosphere in the studio changed perceptibly. Heads turned in unison towards him, breath was indrawn and held. Landlord! For Christ’s sake!
‘She stayed in your house,’ Garry McKendrick said.
‘For a few weeks … as a halfway house. Good God, man, she was in plaster. She couldn’t walk. She needed care.’
‘Which you gave her.’
‘Now look here,’ Andrew protested. ‘This has no relevance to the matter we are supposed to be discussing.’ He was making a mistake to react so angrily and he knew it even as he heard his voice.
‘OK,’ the journalist said smoothly. ‘So try this for size. Isn’t it true that your daughter is Ms Susan Pengilly?’
‘Yes. It is.’ Now what?
‘That would be the Ms Susan Pengilly who headed the inquiry into the Wandsworth crash. The Ms Susan Pengilly who is now, if my information is correct, a senior executive with Rail North East?’
First Gemma and now Susan, Andrew thought, his heart pinched with distress. It was as if he was walking on quicksands. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘but that has no relevance either.’
Both officials joined in the attack, snorting with delighted derision. ‘No relevance? A family connection? An inside source of information? Of course it’s relevant.’
Andrew looked from one to the other, knowing that the cameras had zoomed in on him and feeling exposed. Under such close scrutiny, it was imperative to keep his emotions under control and not let his eyes wander or he would look shifty and guilty. He tried to catch the presenter’s attention but couldn’t do it without making it obvious. He tried to glance at Ms Cooper, hoping she would help, but she was avoiding his eye. She’s making mental notes, he thought. It’ll be in her bloody paper next.
‘You can’t say it isn’t relevant,’ Railways South insisted. ‘You gave your opinion about the cause of the accident at the scene of the crash, minutes after it had taken place. Long before anyone knew what it was. So how did you know? You knew because your daughter is a railway official.’
Andrew made a supreme effort to keep calm. ‘I was called to the crash because that’s part of my job,’ he explained. ‘I’m trained for emergency work. My daughter was appointed to head the inquiry after the crash and after my involvement in it. It was pure coincidence.’
That provoked an uproar and the presenter intervened at last. A row was good television but the audience had to be able to hear what was being said. ‘Gentlemen!’ he rebuked. ‘Gentlemen! One at a time if you please.’
‘May a lady speak?’ Ms Cooper intervened, ‘or would that be sexist?’ And at that the tension was released in laughter. ‘What I’ve been wondering is when Railtrack’s report is likely to be published. And should it transpire that Railtrack share responsibility for the crash, what will happen to all the claims that are still in the pipeline?’
Her questions defused the situation because they couldn’t be answered and that allowed her to pu
rsue them until the presenter took questions from the floor, which were hot and pointed and all concerned the results of the crash and the sort of measures that ought to be taken to prevent another.
But Andrew was still feeling shaken when the credits began to roll and couldn’t wait to get out of the building.
‘I expected to come under fire sooner or later,’ he said as he and Catherine walked down the ramp, ‘but that was bloody awful. If Susan saw it, it’ll have upset her terribly. And Gemma! What a thing to imply, for Christ’s sake! They’ve got minds like sewers. More than her landlord! It’s a wonder I didn’t thump him. We’d better get hold of a copy of the Chronicle and see exactly what they said.’
‘You handled it well,’ she tried to reassure him.
‘I did not’ he said. ‘I lost my rag.’
Someone was running after them down the ramp. ‘Dr Quennell. Just a minute.’
‘Oh God!’ he said. ‘Now what?’ And winced when he saw that it was Ms Cooper.
‘I’m glad I caught you,’ she said. ‘I’ve got something to tell you. Something you ought to know.’
He assumed his disapproving face. ‘Oh yes.’
She smiled at him. ‘Oh yes,’ she echoed. ‘Look, I admire the stand you’re taking. I’m on your side.’
He relaxed a little.
‘The thing is,’ she went on, ‘McKendrick’s got something else on you and I think you ought to know about it. He was bragging about it in the bar. Something about a kid getting killed out in Cyprus. Sixteen-year-old? Andreas Papa-something?’
He closed his face against her and the information. ‘Well thank you for telling me but it was all a long time ago.’
‘McKendrick’s a nasty piece of work,’ she warned, ‘and he means business. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll step out of the limelight for a week or two and let the dust settle.’
‘I should say that was all the more reason for fighting him,’ Andrew said.
She shrugged her elegant shoulders. ‘It’s your decision. Personally I’d keep my head down. Still, best of luck, whatever you do.’ And she swept off to a waiting taxi.
‘What was all that about?’ Catherine asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said, regaining his balance with an effort. And he changed the subject a bit too obviously. ‘Do you want to go straight home or what?’
This is trouble, Catherine thought, and if we go straight home he’ll brood all the way. He needs a break to recover from it, whatever it is. ‘If it’s all the same to you,’ she said, ‘I’d like to have lunch and see St Anne’s, the way we planned.’
‘Lunch and St Anne’s it is, then,’ he agreed.
But although he didn’t say anything about the boy in Cyprus, he read the Chronicle all through the meal, studying it intently. ‘It’s very clever,’ he said, when he’d finished it. ‘It’s all wrapped up in reported speech. “According to Mr Ledgerwood … Mr Ledgerwood tells us…” and hypothetical questions. “What does this man think he’s playing at?” I don’t think it’s actionable. Have a look and see what you think.’
Catherine knew what she thought even without looking. ‘Don’t do anything in a hurry,’ she advised. ‘See what Gemma thinks about it. It affects her too. It’s her father who’s causing the trouble.’
‘Money,’ Andrew said. ‘That’s what this is about. They’ve dug up the old story about half a million compensation. Did she ever apply for compensation?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Catherine said, ‘but I didn’t ask.’
Andrew sighed. ‘And now we’re in the middle of all this nonsense. Just as well the boys are both abroad. At least they won’t have seen it.’
‘I hope poor Susan hasn’t seen it either,’ Catherine said. ‘It could be very difficult for her, in her position.’
‘I hope to God nobody in the family saw it.’
But, as they both knew only too well, it was a vain hope.
Chapter 30
Susan’s managing director and chairman was one of the new breed of nineties entrepreneurs, a tough, determined man, self-educated, self-made and entirely self-centred. He’d made a fortune in the 1980s when the buses were deregulated, lost another as a financial adviser when he decided to diversify, and was now determined to become a megamillionaire as head of one of the newly privatised railways. His suite of offices dominated the top floor of a concrete office block called Yorvik Posterity House, and, because of his state of wealth and his paranoia, were fully equipped with every high-tech device any empire builder could desire – including a TV set and video recorder. For as he proclaimed to his secretary every time he switched on, ‘Keeping abreast of the news is my number one priority, Miss Green, my number one priority.’
Nobody was surprised when he rescheduled his morning so that he could keep abreast of Friday Forum. For even though Rail North East had no connection with the firm that was running Railways South, it was good business sense to keep an eye on the opposition. And they all had to stay on the right side of Railtrack.
He was annoyed to see that that damned doctor fellow was being given air time again. Quack-quack bloody Quennell. There’d been far too much of him over the last few weeks, bloody commie. Garry McKendrick was bang to rights about him, as he was about most things. Still, the opening skirmish was amusing and he enjoyed the way the fellow from Railtrack managed to stonewall; and when the tables were turned and the commie doctor came under attack, he got up at once to check what the Chronicle had said and was hugely satisfied by their front page. That’s the style! he thought. Root the buggers out. That’ll show ’em. Bloody lefties! He poured himself a Scotch and put his feet up on the desk ready to savour the rest of the programme.
And at that point the broadcast went pear-shaped.
He swore so loudly that Miss Green could hear him in the outer office. Then he sent for Ms Pengilly.
Susan had spent the first part of her morning in Accounts checking the figures in her report. Now it was nearly complete and although she took the lift to the top floor with the usual trepidation that any employee of Rail North East was bound to feel when approaching their MD, she thought she could make a good case for herself. The deadline for the report was six o’clock that evening and the deadline would be met.
But the moment she stepped inside the door of his office she knew she was in a different and difficult situation. The chairman was sitting behind his desk and his entire body was belligerent. Sirens echoed in the air between them, a war map grew across the tinted glass of his wide window, guns bristled from every corner of his desk.
‘Ah – um – Ms Pengilly,’ he frowned at her. ‘Come in. Sit down.’
She sat in the chair he indicated, feeling like a criminal in a court of law. What have I done? she worried. Or not done? Or more dreadful, what has he found out?
He pushed his copy of the Chronicle across the desk at her. ‘What have you got to say about this?’
She saw her father’s face, and Gemma’s, and read the headline, her heart contracting with alarm, but before she could, even think how to answer him, he attacked again, ‘Your – um – ah – father, I believe.’
She had to admit it, but tried to tell him that it was just newspaper talk. ‘There’s no truth in it,’ she explained. ‘He’s been on the television rather a lot recently and he writes a medical column for the Independent. This sort of thing is one of the hazards of being in the news.’
She felt she’d stood up for her beleaguered father rather well. But the thought was no sooner in her head than the guns began to blaze.
‘Your father,’ he said. ‘The man who’s been giving inflammatory speeches about rail safety. That is the one, isn’t it, Ms – ah – um – Pengilly. Your father, the one you’ve been feeding inside information.’
She opened her mouth to protest but he wouldn’t let her speak.
‘Don’t try to deny it,’ he said. ‘It’s all come out. It’s just been on Friday Forum. The proverbial cat is out of the proverbial bag, The connection
is known.’
She fought back as well as she could but she was already defeated and she knew it. ‘I see I’m to be judged before I have a chance to defend myself,’ she said, her control as tight as her lips.
‘There is no defence against disloyalty,’ he told her. ‘A company stands or falls by the loyalty of its employees, as you well know.’
‘You have always had my total loyalty,’ she answered angrily. ‘I have never done less than my best for this company. I have never been indiscreet.’
‘When you came for your – ah – um – interview, you may recall that I asked you whether there was anything that would prevent you from serving this company in the manner we required, did I not?’
She had to admit it.
‘And yet you told me nothing about this relationship.’
‘I couldn’t see that it was relevant. I keep my business life quite apart from my private life.’
‘You expect me to believe that, when your father knows everything that is going on in the industry and sounds off about it on every occasion, on every television screen. There’s never any end to the man.’
‘With respect,’ she said, ‘he is only saying what everybody says.’
‘What he’s saying is that the privatised railway companies are badly run, that we cut corners to save money, that we put lives at risk. If that’s what everybody is saying perhaps you are saying it too.’
She’d been stung too much not to sting back. ‘I may not say it,’ she told him, giving up hope and speaking boldly, ‘but yes, I do think it. Thought is free and this is still a free country.’
He was furious at such insubordination. The woman was a commie like her father. ‘Then feel free to consider your position, Ms Pengilly. Feel free to do that.’
She stood up and tried to look at him coolly but her stomach was shaking and she couldn’t control it. ‘My resignation will be on your desk within the hour,’ she said. And made her escape.
Afterwards she couldn’t remember going down in the lift or walking to her office. Events and emotions were blurred into one long slippery second and slid away from her as she tried to grasp them. This was what she’d dreaded ever since she took the job, what she’d known would happen if they ever found out, what she’d been refusing to face since the New Year. And now it had happened and she couldn’t bear it. She felt as if her legs had been cut from under her and her thought processes were so fouled and furred up that when she came to write her resignation, it was almost impossible to get the words into grammatical order.
Gemma's Journey Page 34
