Devil in the Detail

by Leo McNeir

  “Have I missed everything? Damn! I drove up that field like the Safari Rally to get here.”

  Her eyes scanned the hall. Marnie fixed on her.

  “Estelle, when you drove up, did you see anybody in the field?”

  “Did I …? Gosh, yes. Some bloody idiot on a bike. I was just pulling out from the yard when I saw him bouncing down the track. He turned off before the spinney.”

  “Did you get a good look at the bike? Was it yellow?”

  “Can’t be sure. I was in a hurry. Where’s Luther?”

  “With Ralph over there.” Marnie indicated with her head.

  Estelle stared. “Then Ralph must have had an operation. Quite a change. It suits him.”

  Luther was walking slowly across the hall with Serena, the two of them still grinning together, her hand now on his elbow as she spoke confidingly in his ear.

  Estelle continued. “So, it all seems to have gone well. Serena looks relaxed about things.”

  “Yes. The new programme’s even more exciting. The kids will have a lovely time.”

  “I’m sure they will.”

  Goodbyes were said outside the door, and parents and teachers hurried away to their commitments. The Glebe Farm contingent gathered to one side.

  “How nice of you to come, Estelle.” Serena reached forward and touched her arm. “Especially when you won’t even be around for the scheme.”

  “That’s fine. I wanted to show solidarity and wish you well.”

  Like the other parents, Serena said that she too had to rush. She blew everyone a collective kiss and sped across the playground to her car.

  “I’ve also got transport,” said Estelle. “Who’d like a lift?”

  It was decided that Estelle would take Luther home, and the others would walk. As soon as they were out of the gate, Marnie turned to Anne and pointed at the newspaper.

  “What was that about? Did you see Donovan? Did he give you the paper?”

  “He just took off. I saw him all right, or at least the smoke coming from his tyres.”

  “Er …” Marnie gave her A Look.

  “Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. He was certainly in a hurry. The paper was on the ground outside the door.”

  “Someone else could have dropped it,” Ralph commented.

  “When I picked it up it was warm, like it had been in his back pocket. I almost had the feeling …”

  “Go on.” Marnie’s expression changed to encouragement. She knew what she had seen.

  “I dunno, It was as if he’d left it for me.”

  She unfolded it to reveal the photograph of George and Serena on the front page. If Donovan had wanted them to know about their statement, he was long out-of-date. Passing a waste bin to collect the detritus that attended the ice cream van in summer, Anne reached out to deposit the paper. Marnie and Ralph had gone three paces when they realised that Anne was no longer with them. They stopped and looked back. She was reading an inside page.

  “Anne? We’ve got a copy of that in the office if you want to read it.”

  Anne shook her head slowly, but did not look up.

  “What is it?” Marnie persisted. “Anne?”

  Still holding the paper open, Anne caught them up. There was urgency in her voice.

  “This is different. It’s a later edition, the final. I noticed the lead story had changed, so I checked it out. And look at this.”

  She held up the front page. At the end of George’s statement was a footnote. Ex-MP’s complaint. Brandon’s Manifesto. See page five. Someone had circled it in black ink. Anne turned to the article. Beside a photograph of Garth Brandon was a short piece in which he criticised the police for bowing to intimidation from immigrant factions and releasing all the suspects being held for questioning about the brutal and unprovoked attack on my life. He added that this was symptomatic of the way that English society was being backed into a corner. We can no longer enjoy freedom of speech in our own country for fear that the politically correct lobby will hound us for infringing rules that they – the minority – have imposed on all decent British people. Our natural tolerance and fair-mindedness have been turned against us as a weapon.

  “He doesn’t miss a trick, does he?” said Marnie.

  “What’s that about a manifesto?” Ralph asked.

  Anne opened the paper wide. “It’s this next part: The Shadwell Declaration. It’s a bit long to read out.”

  Ralph looked over Anne’s shoulder. “Can you just pick out the main points?”

  “He calls it his Credo … er … immigration controls … bla-bla-bla … non-acceptance of asylum-seekers … pull Britain out of the CAP …”

  “The European Common Agricultural Policy,” Ralph commented.

  “Uh-huh … investment grants and subsidies for UK firms – let the Eurocrats try to stop us … lottery money to finance low-cost housing.” Anne looked up. “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

  “Read on a little further,” Ralph muttered.

  “Oh, for people whose grandparents were born in this country. That’s a bit different. Five pounds per week extra for pensioners.”

  “If they were born in Britain?” Marnie asked.

  “You’ve got the idea.”

  “I’m a fast learner.”

  Anne read on. “Slash upper tax bands and make the UK a tax haven to encourage enterprise.”

  “He must still have a lot of rich friends.” Ralph did not look as if he was joking.

  “And investments,” Marnie added.

  Anne looked up. “Shall I carry on?”

  “I think we’ve got the picture.”

  “Hang on just a sec. There’s another black circle.”

  “Five pounds for everyone who votes for Brandon, by any chance?” Marnie’s voice was dripping with scorn.

  “Ten pounds, actually,” Anne muttered. “No, seriously, this bit’s about New Force. They’re condemning the police for trivialising the attack on Brandon and doing nothing to find his attackers.”

  “So they’ve become plural now,” Ralph murmured. “What part of their statement has been circled?”

  “Apparently they reserve the right to take action – even pre-emptive action – against any organisation they suspect of planning to attack them or their values.”

  “Ah …” Ralph was sombre.

  Marnie grabbed his arm. “What?”

  “Tell me, Marnie, is it common knowledge that the summer scheme is going to be based in that school?”

  “Garfield Primary? Yes. It was announced in the press a while ago, after the community centre was fire-bombed the second …” Marnie’s voice tailed off. “Oh, God. You don’t think …?”

  “Attacking their values,” Anne repeated. “Do you think Donovan brought this up for us to see?”

  “Strange way of delivering it,” said Marnie. “Come on, let’s go home.”

  She linked arms with Ralph and Anne as they set off towards the field track, no doubt in her mind about what Donovan had done.

  “Why was it called the Shadwell Declaration?” Anne asked.

  “It’s that district in Docklands,” said Marnie. “It’s where Brandon lives in London, isn’t it Ralph? Was it his constituency when he was an MP?”

  “Yes and no. I believe he has a rather nice house there near the river. But his constituency was in the midlands, if I remember rightly.”

  “That’s not a million miles north of here, and he has contacts there.”

  Reaching the field, they went through the gate.

  “It was strange,” Anne began. “An odd way to deliver the news, but I’m sure that’s what Donovan was trying to do. He wanted us to know about this Shadwell thingy.”

  “The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,” Ralph intoned, “But Shadwell rarely deviates into sense.”

  “What’s that?” Marnie asked. “Do I take it you aren’t greatly impressed by Mr Brandon’s manifesto?”

  “It’s John Dryden, the eighteenth
century poet. He came from Northamptonshire, you know. And no, impressed isn’t the word. The whole thing is codswallop.”

  “Dangerous, divisive codswallop,” Marnie added.

  They fell silent, each thinking of what word they would use to sum up their feelings about Brandon’s statement.

  Anne folded the newspaper. “When we get back, I’m going to ask Donovan why he came up to the school.”

  But she did not ask him. When they emerged from the spinney and reached the boats, they looked across to X O 2’s mooring. It was empty. Donovan had gone.

  19

  Tuesday began badly. Marnie was closing the office door behind her when she heard a car coming down the track. Anne saw her expression through the window and came out to join her.

  “What’s up?”

  “That’s what’s up.”

  A grey Vauxhall rolled to a halt in its usual place, and two men got out, Chief Inspector Bartlett and Sergeant Marriner. They rarely brought good news.

  “What is it this time?” Marnie muttered under her breath.

  “Probably looking for more strange characters,” Anne whispered.

  “I wonder how much time they’ve got. They could be here all day.”

  Suppressing a smile, Anne went back into the office. Marnie greeted the detectives.

  “Good morning, Mrs Walker. Nice day.”

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all, unless there’s something you want to confess.”

  “I’ll go and chain myself to the wall while you fetch the tongs and thumbscrew.”

  She regretted it as soon as she had spoken. Marnie had learnt a Golden Rule. Never make jokes with the police. They had a way of having the last laugh.

  “Sorry, I’m being facetious.” She attempted a smile and added, “Sign of a clear conscience.”

  “Or the opposite,” said Bartlett.

  “Shall we start again? If there’s nothing I can do for you, presumably someone else can help?”

  “We’ve come to see Miss Estelle Greenwood and Mr Luther Curtiss. I believe they live here. Are they available?”

  Marnie raised an arm in the direction of cottage number three. As she did so, an upstairs window opened, and Estelle called out.

  “Would you be Mr Bartlett and Mr Marriner? I’ll come down and let you in. Hi, Marnie. We’re being interviewed about the incident we witnessed in Leicester.”

  “That was ages ago.”

  “Just a routine follow-up,” Bartlett said crisply.

  “Right. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Marnie set off to see Bob the foreman in the farmhouse site, feeling as uncomfortable as always when the local CID were around. Sergeant Marriner nodded at her as she walked past. He spoke quietly.

  “We’ll be over with the tongs afterwards, Marnie. Nice to have something to look forward to.”

  *

  It was almost an hour before Marnie spotted Bartlett and Marriner leaving Estelle’s cottage and walking to their car. They reversed out of the yard and went on their way.

  The detectives had barely been gone a minute when Estelle flitted across the yard to land on the corner of Marnie’s desk.

  “Are these people real?” She gave an exasperated sigh.

  “Do I take it you have upheld the noble traditions of Glebe Farm in helping the police with their enquiries, or not, as the case may be?”

  “Did you take down the car’s registration number, Miss Greenwood? I mean, what kind of dumb-ass question is that?”

  “Interesting reply.”

  “It was dark, it all happened very quickly and we were jumping out of our skins that it was going to smash into us!”

  “But you could identify the make, presumably?”

  “Cars aren’t my strong point, but I thought it was a Golf like mine. Then again, most cars look the same these days.”

  “So you were just able to tell them what colour it was.”

  “Colour?” Estelle looked shamefaced. “Well, you know what it’s like under street lights, but I could tell it was dark … ish.”

  “What about Luther? Did he get a sight of it?”

  Estelle shrugged. “I think they thought he was worse than me.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Thanks, Marnie.”

  “No. I mean, you couldn’t tell them anything. How can it get worse than that?”

  “Luther said he thought it was a BMW, black, or maybe dark blue, with fancy alloy wheels and, er, silver wheel arches.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a BMW of that design,” Marnie mused.

  “Marriner said he thought it might’ve been a trick of the street lighting. Bartlett seemed to think Luther made it up, trying to be helpful, about as helpful as if he was describing Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang.”

  A snigger came from the other side of the office. “Sorry,” said Anne.

  Contemplating the police’s star eye-witness, Marnie could understand why Bartlett probably put Glebe Farm in the same category of usefulness as a Black Hole in outer space or the Bermuda Triangle.

  20

  The rest of that week became a running battle. It was played out in the modern way, not with armies of thugs marching the streets. That could come later. This battle was fought through the media.

  Brandon was quick off the mark with a follow-up statement to his manifesto, stressing the need to look after ‘our own people’. Anne cut the item out of the newspaper and began keeping a scrap-book of cuttings. As the campaign wore on it became increasingly useful as a record of what had been said and for planning the next move.

  The statement was in the noon edition of the evening paper that Anne had fetched from the shop. She ordered a copy from Molly Appleton every day until further notice. Over a hasty sandwich the three of them scoured the paper, searching for anything relevant to their battle with Brandon, the BFP and New Force.

  Anne marked up the articles in felt-tip pen. “That’s everything about Brandon in this edition.” She spread the page open on Marnie’s drawing board.

  “Anything interesting from the other candidates?” Ralph asked.

  “Various statements about policy matters. They seem to be keeping out of the racial argument.”

  “That’s what I’d expect, but they’re worth monitoring in case there’s a sudden change in direction.”

  “Is that likely?” said Marnie.

  “If they think Brandon’s running away with the election and leaving them behind, they’ll feel obliged to join in. He’d like nothing better. It would show he was calling the shots.”

  “I think I’ll keep a separate folder of cuttings about them, then.” Anne folded the other pages.

  Ralph moved in closer. “So what’s he saying?”

  Anne began reading aloud. “He says his policies mean no harm to any other people … but no country in the world could afford not to protect its own national identity. There’s a bit about Norman Tebbitt and the cricket test. He says you can tell who is really assimilated into British life by the country they support in a test match. Do you cheer for India or for England, Pakistan or the MCC?” Anne was puzzled. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “He’s saying that people who move to Britain should support everything British. It’s a simple proposition that everyone can understand, dangerously simple.”

  “But it’s silly, Ralph. Look at Luther and his family. They’re completely settled here, but you wouldn’t expect them to cheer for England against the West Indies, if only for sentimental reasons.”

  Marnie put a hand on Anne’s shoulder. “Brandon can’t fool you with dubious logic, but he’ll be trying every trick in the book.”

  “Then it won’t work because we’re all jumbled up in Britain.”

  “That’s part of his attack,” said Ralph, smiling. “He wants all the blond-haired, blue-eyed English people – like you – to vote against the swarthy foreign intruders.”

  Anne laughed.
“Then he’s in for a surprise. My grandpa Price lived in London nearly all his adult life, but he spoke Welsh with his family – except my nan who was English – and always wore his daffodil on Saint David’s day.”

  “Did he watch rugby matches?”

  “What do you think?”

  Marnie looked at her watch. “So what do we do next, and by when?”

  Ralph reached for a notepad. “I think we should draft something straight away, agree it with Serena and fax it to the paper. We might get it in the late edition.”

  “Saying?”

  “We have to refute Brandon’s argument. Why not use Anne’s example about Welsh rugby? It would do the job and keep us away from the black-and-white racist line.”

  “Okay. I’ll ring Serena, make sure we’re not cutting across anything she might be doing.”

  Anne offered Ralph her computer, and the Glebe Farm political machine hummed into action.

  *

  They did not wait for the evening paper to be delivered. Anne went up in the Mini to collect it. There was good news and bad news. Their statement made it to page three. It was short and pithy and was printed in full. The problem was on the front page. An opinion poll carried out the previous day showed Brandon’s rating up by three points since he arrived in town.

  Marnie was distraught. “Damn! What’s going on?”

  Ralph was unperturbed. “Don’t worry. These things are just a snapshot. It means no more than that people recognise his name. And don’t forget, there’s a plus-or-minus tolerance of about five per cent.”