“Tell you what, you read that first,” he said, standing up. “I’m just going down to the shop.”
“Before your breakfast?”
“I’ll have it when I get back; I won’t be long.”
He was still putting on his jacket as he left the house.
As he approached the shop he could see about a dozen or so people talking excitedly outside. They all turned to greet him with wide smiles and cheerful greetings. Fred affected a low bow, and muttered, deferentially, “Your Highness.” Everyone laughed. There was a lot of back-slapping and mutual congratulations.
“Look at this lot,” said Clive, pointing to a pile of papers on the wooden bench in front of the shop. He picked up a copy of the Daily Mail, holding it up for George to see. “‘The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth’,” he read from the headline, “and it goes on to say what a thoroughly splendid lot of chaps we are. ‘We Need Vigilantes!’” he read from the Daily Mirror. “Nice and subtle, as always. I don’t like this one as much, though; it’s all about you and Fred… ”
They all laughed.
“It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?” said George. “Front page on just about every one. That means it was seen as one of the two or three biggest stories of the day.”
“It’s not over, either, George,” said Fred, “you’ve got all those other lectures to do at the other Forum branches.”
“Other lectures?” asked Emily Burton. “What other lectures?”
“Haven’t you heard, Em?” said Fred, “George is spreading the word around the country. We’re having ‘Tour of Holland’ tee-shirts printed.”
“God, I’d completely forgotten,” said George. “Sounds like a good excuse for doing something to settle my nerves. Let’s get together in the Dog at lunchtime. My shout!”
A similar collection of dailies were spread across Andrew’s desk. He, Tom and Grace were dipping into them.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Tom, “I’ve never had to work so hard in my life.”
“But you managed to stay out of trouble,” said Grace with a smile. “No taking sides, no breaks with neutrality. And you’ve got yourself a very big fan.” She picked up The Times and read aloud. “‘If the revolution is to happen, there can be few, if any, more qualified to lead it than Mr Tom Brown, the Member of Parliament representing the residents of Cullen Field, and the chairman of last night’s debate. His record to date speaks volumes in support of that. He is someone who earlier in his life shunned an open door to a privileged position in order to fight his way there from the very bottom of the pile. A man who leads by example, with an effortless style and ability to communicate and empathise at all levels; he is exactly what this country needs in its political vanguard, whatever the issues and challenges. I believe, along with – I suspect – all of the people present last night, that this man really can put the ‘Great’ back in front of Britain and banish that particular cliché for ever’.”
She looked up at Tom and raised her eyebrows. “You will never guess who wrote that.”
“Sounds like it might have been you, Tom,” said Andrew, with not a trace of humour.
“Tell me,” Tom asked Grace.
“Tony Dobson. I thought you two weren’t exactly best friends.”
“You’ve not been crossing palms, have you, Tom?” asked Andrew.
Tom ignored him, speaking to Grace again.
“We certainly weren’t, and I can’t think why we still aren’t.”
“This one says it for me,” said Andrew, reading from the Guardian’s ‘Comments’ page. “‘Although the debate may have been passionate and momentous for the participants, in no way can this be regarded as a meaningful sample of the population from whose collective viewpoint any conclusions can be extrapolated to represent national opinion. Those involved were too close to the recent action to be even remotely objective in formulating their views on the wider issue. So, headline-grabbing though the whole exercise has been, it is little better than worthless in pointing the way forward.’”
Tom shrugged. “Well, I agree with one thing. It was certainly passionate.”
CHAPTER 9
David Gerrard pulled off the M6 into the motorway services at Charnock Richard. After visiting the men’s room and picking up a pack of sandwiches, he settled into the driver’s seat for a welcome rest.
He studied his road atlas, all too aware that he was now approaching what he regarded as the ‘really difficult bit’ – a combination of unknown territory and off-motorway driving. He knew the sat-nav would take him to the doorstep of his final destination, but he always needed to check the route on the map for his personal comfort.
He had been driving for just over three hours and had decided two hours ago that this was not the best way to spend the first day’s holiday he’d had for four months. Not only that, but he had kept the purpose of his trip a secret from both his boss and his second in command, and he was wishing now that he had at least told Jo of where he was going. And not for the first time during the journey he wondered why he was doing this within two days of Lorimar’s trial when he’d had six-and-a-half weeks to do it before now. Perhaps it would be worth it; perhaps he would sleep better after today.
He worked out the remainder of his route, along the M65 – which he never knew existed – on to the A666, then the A59, to the small Lancashire town of Pretherby. He turned on the ignition, tapped the sat-nav screen with his left forefinger, an action as automatic as taking off the handbrake, and pulled out of the services at just ten minutes before noon.
He arrived at the home of ex-Corporal Michael Hanson one hour later, a neat terraced house in an attractive row rising up a hill and overlooking wild moorland. The door was opened by his mother who showed him through to where her son was sitting watching the television from his wheelchair.
Ninety minutes later he left the house feeling that his curiosity and secrecy had been fully vindicated, and started the long drive back home.
It was after 6.00 pm when he arrived back at Parkside. Jo was still at her desk.
“I thought you were on holiday,” she said. “We can manage without you for a day, you know.”
“Come in here, Jo,” he said, walking past her into his office.
Jo followed him, curious to know why he seemed to be in such a state of excitement.
“Well,” she said. “I hope this is good. I usually sneak off early when you’re not here.” She looked very deliberately at her watch.
“Literally two minutes,” said David. “Please, take a seat.”
He walked back past Jo and shut his office door which she had optimistically left open. He sat down and beamed across his desk at her.
“That man is not James Lorimar,” he said.
“Really. Who is he then?”
“Well, I don’t know actually,” he said, instantly deflated. “But I do know it’s not Lorimar – or I’m pretty sure it isn’t.”
“Not absolutely sure, then?” asked Jo, leaning back in her chair.
“God, Jo, I didn’t expect you to punch the air or anything, but you could sound a bit more interested. I’ve driven about eight thousand miles today to check this out.”
Jo leant forward again putting her elbows halfway across his desk and opening her eyes as wide as she could in mock astonishment.
“Wow! That’s amazing!” Then she laughed. “You haven’t been to Pretherby, by any chance?”
“How did you know that?” he asked.
“I’m a detective,” she said.
“You’re too bloody smart for your own good, I know that,” he said. “The point is, what do we do about it?”
“Well, do we need to do anything? We’re certain we’ve got our killer, aren’t we, and even if Lorimar’s not the name on his birth certificate, lots of people change their names for all sorts of reasons. It’s not like he’s changed it after the killings to avoid getting caught. What exactly happened today?”
“I talked to Mike Hanson and he confirmed t
he details of the incident that Lorimar described when Deverall was killed. That’s when he got injured himself. Mike said that Deverall had gone on a bit ahead of the main party to check if the way was clear; he disappeared round a rock – then the explosion. They stayed back for a minute or so and then he – Hanson – went on round the rock. He said there was hardly anything left of Deverall. He doesn’t remember anything after that until he woke up in hospital with both legs missing. Apparently there was a second explosion; he nearly died himself, poor sod. Might have been better if he had. But he did say there was no-one there called Lorimar.”
“Did you show him the photo?”
“Yes, that was weird, actually. He had been okay up to then, except a bit shaky when he was describing the first explosion, but when I showed him the photo of Lorimar, he got really upset. He said something like – ‘what are you showing me that for – that’s not him.’ Then he started crying and I had to get his mother to calm him down. He recovered fairly quickly, but I didn’t want to push it again. I left soon after that.”
“But if most of the details of the incident check out,” said Jo, “then Lorimar must have been there, mustn’t he? Perhaps he was just a very low profile guy who didn’t get noticed in a crowd. Unless someone else told him about it and he’s just acting out a sort of weird fantasy – that would explain why he got it wrong about Deverall dying instantly.”
David remained silent, taking on board Jo’s comments.
“Or,” she went on, “it could be that Deverall had told him all this about his mum before the time he was killed, and Lorimar just invented the thing about the death-bed promise to make it look better for him. But, I mean, on the one hand we’ve got three people who we’d expect to remember him but who say they don’t; on the other hand we’ve got a history that checks out with current employer, his army record… ”
David held up his hand to stop her.
“Sorry, Jo, but I thought you were with me on this one. I understood that after you spoke on the phone to those three guys we both agreed there was something fishy about his statement.”
“We did, but that was weeks ago and to be honest, I’ve not really thought about it recently. We’ve picked up two big cases since then. I didn’t realise you were still bothered about it either. I admit, from what you’ve just told me, there’s a chance he isn’t who he says he is, but why would he confess – or nearly confess – to a murder but not give his real name? Surely if you’re going to lie, you give your correct name and say that you haven’t done it; not the other way round. The question is, have we got the guy who killed the Bradys? If we have, a lot of the other stuff becomes sort of insignificant, doesn’t it? Or am I missing something really obvious?”
David did not answer for a moment. Then he shook his head and sighed.
“I don’t know, Jo, but what I do know – know for certain – is that we don’t have the whole truth. I’m not clear what the process of law is if we convict somebody of murder and then find out afterwards that he’s not who he says he is. Does he get off on a technicality, do you think? I’ve never heard the like before, but perhaps this guy knows something we don’t. And you could be right. It seems he is definitely a loner, so he might have been really low profile compared to the other guys. Perhaps if I’d shown this photograph to either of the other two, they’d have said, ‘Oh, yes, that’s old silent Lorimar; clean forgot about him. We used to call him the Invisible Man.’”
He sighed again.
“Anyway, I’m on holiday, for God’s sake.” He stood up. “Let’s get out of here.”
The following evening, George entered the lecture hall at the Business Centre in the Whitewell Commercial Park in Croydon at 7.20 pm, just a few minutes before he was due to be introduced by Henry Moorcroft, the national President of the 3AF. The rows of tiered seats were completely full, with a large number of people standing at the back of the room. George estimated there were 600 to 700 people in the audience.
As he stood to acknowledge the applause after the President’s opening words, he checked his one cue card, which contained two quotes he was proposing to use.
“Thank you, Mr President, for that wonderful introduction,” he said, smiling at his host and then around the room. “I hardly recognised the person you were talking about. And thank you for inviting me here this evening. I see a couple of familiar faces out there. My wife, Irene, who is here to make sure I’m doing what I say I’m doing. And Mr Tony Dobson, who has been with me at all eight of the previous meetings over the past five weeks, including the first one at our local branch. So far he’s always managed to stay awake right to the end, and his reporting of my speeches in such detail and with such an impressive circulation, has meant that I’ve had to change them every time.”
There was laughter around the room, and Tony smiled and nodded his appreciation at the mention of his name.
“We come together this evening to – I quote – ‘… consider one of the most important issues facing communities in the first quarter of the twenty-first century’. And that issue is whether the pursuit of justice is more important than compliance with the law. However, in all the meetings I have had so far with members of our organisation, in all parts of the country, that general question has been redefined as a much more specific one. Because if it were not for the dramatic events of eight weeks ago on the Cullen Field Estate in East London, we would not be here in this room tonight. What that terrifying incident has catalysed, particularly within our peer group in society” – he spread his arms to collectively embrace the people in the room – “is a fundamental appraisal of how we manage unlawful, disruptive and intimidating behaviour in today’s communities. And the question, ‘Justice or Law’, which has been the banner headline of this series of lectures, is no more than a loose, all-purpose derivative of that much more fundamental concern.
“Tomorrow, James Lorimar will be presented in court for the start of his trial. We do not know anything factual about this person, apart from his name, his occupation and his age. No photographs of him have been produced, nor details of his life and family background released. But it’s what people think about him that makes this man already remarkable. I am not proposing to spend any time with you discussing whether Mr Lorimar, if he did commit this crime, is a hero or a villain. Each of you will have made up your mind on that by now. But whichever he is, I can tell you with absolute certainty that he has enriched the lives of a whole community by one single dramatic act of seemingly premeditated violence.
“And the reason I can tell you that with absolute certainty is that I am part of that community – at least I am now. We were separate communities before – an allegedly brutal estate, and a gentle geriatric village. Now we are happily married and probably still on honeymoon. I anticipate that the parties to this marriage will have their differences in the future, as in all such partnerships, but I believe that the bond between us is already strong enough to allow us to do so without spite and subsequent vendetta. One result of this solitary act has been the gelling of two substantially diverse groups of people into a single entity.
“But the main over-riding benefit has been the freeing of the population from their previous virtual imprisonment. And to my surprise – and that of everyone in Meadow Village – the Cullen Field estate with its appalling reputation was full of people exactly like us. Ordinary, unassuming people who just wanted a normal quiet life. As Tom Brown put it, ‘the challenge that we face, as your elected representatives, is to create this same effect, but within the boundaries of law and order. And we’ – meaning Parliament – ‘need to do something different from what we are doing now to bring about this change.’ Tony was there when he spoke those words” – he gestured towards the journalist – “and he reported them, in fact. Mr Brown was speaking to the people on the estate a few days after the killings and I know they took his words on board as a genuine commitment.
“So what was it, in simple terms, that this person did which has made suc
h a difference? If we are to believe the accounts of the witnesses to the prelude of this crime, he identified the problem, singled out those responsible – very deliberately and publicly – then, having selected them, he removed them – permanently. And that last word is the crux of it all – “Permanently!”
George banged his fist heavily on the table in front of him as he said the last word, his first show of real passion in the whole of his nine appearances. He appeared to be taken a little bit by surprise himself, as were the audience, the whole of which seemed to jump slightly, as a single object, in their seats.
“I have always been a champion of the death penalty. It makes perfect sense to me that, if a person chooses to take another one’s life, they should expect no less than reciprocal treatment if he or she be caught. The finality of these consequences, I would argue, being a greater deterrent than a period of imprisonment – often disproportionately brief – after which the killer can emerge, still relatively young in many cases, to take the plaudits of his peers. The doomed Antisocial Behaviour Orders, mercifully discontinued some years ago, demonstrated the weakness – the idiocy, in fact – of a system whereby people who set out to create mayhem and fear are presented with a badge for doing so. The ASBO was, in effect, an achievement award, just like a swimming certificate. Ridiculous! Youngsters in many areas, as many of us will remember, were being shunned or actually attacked for not having succeeded in getting one.
“Such a structure of recognition, however, only works if you are able to display your trophy at some stage – immediately, if it’s an ASBO, or later, if it’s a prison sentence. Take away that opportunity and the trophy is irrelevant. If the reward for such crimes is permanent removal from the society whose laws and principles the perpetrators choose to reject, then such exploits become acts of self-destruction, rather than an investment, the return on which will be some kind of sick notoriety in the future.
Catalyst Page 15
