The Bell Ringers

by Henry Porter

  While they sat waiting in the benches, the woman in front of her turned round and, with her hand rising to pat the flushed skin at the top of her bosom, introduced herself as Diana Kidd. ‘Did you know David?’ she asked.

  Kate nodded, aware of a blousy old-fashioned scent reaching her nostrils.

  ‘Were you an old friend?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that. We met at college.’ She could see that the woman was trying to work her out: the traces of the East in her appearance – the looks of her father, Sonny Koh – the straight-backed Englishness of her mother, and the American accent which overlaid the voice of a public schoolgirl.

  ‘I began to know David really quite well, considering,’ continued the woman.

  ‘Considering what?’ said Kate.

  The woman ignored the question. ‘He threw himself into the local arts scene here. He had one of the most formidable minds I’ve ever had the privilege to encounter, but you know he was never pushy or domineering.’ With each statement her eyes darted about the court. ‘He never made people feel ill at ease with that great mind of his. And impeccable manners, of course. Unimpeachable! Kept himself to himself though: an invisible barrier around him, if you know what I mean.’

  Kate did, though she wouldn’t have put it like that. Eyam was capable of warmth and loyalty but he had no interest in explaining himself and was impatient when others expected him to. The woman asked if she was family, then if she had visited David since he had moved to High Castle. Kate shook her head to both questions and murmured that she hadn’t seen him for some time. She did not mention the email from Russell, Spring & Co, a firm of local solicitors, which had been forwarded to her by her old assistant in New York and was how she had learned of his death nearly six weeks after it had occurred.

  Once Diana Kidd had decided that Kate had not been a lover and possessed no greater claim on the memory of David Eyam than she did, her interest seemed to wane. However, she told Kate a bit more about Eyam’s circumstances. He had bought and restored a black and white A-frame cottage on the edge of the woods overlooking the Dove Valley; he did not seem to have a job; he attended recitals and concerts, and joined the local film society and a reading group, the novelty of which was that books were discussed on rambles through the Marches of Wales.

  What utter bloody hell, thought Kate, and not for the first time wondered what had driven Eyam to this provincial limbo on the English-Welsh border. The Eyam she knew was compelled by the centre of things; it was unthinkable that he’d opt for life in the back of beyond nourished only by cultural chats with Diana Kidd.

  ‘Why was he in Colombia?’ Kate asked. ‘Did he tell you he was going?’

  Mrs Kidd shook her head as though this was an extremely stupid question. ‘No, he just vanished two or three weeks before Christmas. No one knew where he had gone or for how long. The next thing we heard was about this bomb, but that took several weeks to filter through because no one suspected that he was involved. I mean, how could they?’ She hissed this last observation as the coroner entered and the clerk asked them to rise.

  A filmed interview of Detective Bautista by a British consular official in Cartagena was shown. Bautista’s English was reasonably good but every so often he struggled for a word and looked off-camera to ask for translation. He appeared in front of a white backcloth wearing a neck brace, with a bandage on his forearm and two small strips of plaster above his left eye. Kate put his age at about forty. He had Indian ancestry – an aquiline nose, narrowed eyes and full lips. He talked rapidly, often repeating a question on the in-breath then answering as he breathed out.

  The diplomat timed and dated the interview – eleven a.m. Friday February 18th. An oath was taken then Bautista told the camera that he shouldn’t have been at that restaurant when the bomb went off. In fact he had arranged to meet his girl, Mira, the night before at the Bolivar Creêperie, but there had been an incident down in the port – a murder. He was unable to keep the date and then he’d forgotten to phone her. She was mad with him. He blew out his cheeks and made a chopping motion with his right hand into his palm to underscore that this was a woman you would not want to anger too often.

  So that was how he came to be sitting drinking bourbon outside the restaurant the following day. And of course she had been late just to make her point and he’d fallen into conversation with the man he now knew to be David Eyam and they talked about the book he was reading – The Story of A Shipwrecked Sailor by Gabriel García Márquez. It was incredible how much this Englishman knew about the book, about this shameful period in the history of Colombia and how the author had exposed the corruption of the dictator General Pinilla. He seemed to have so much in his head about everything, this Englishman, and the gift of the book now meant a great deal to him. It was the last act of a true gentleman and he didn’t mind saying that with the book some kind of good luck had passed from Eyam to him, which resulted in his and Mira’s survival. He felt in his pocket, pulled out the book, looked at the cover and held it to the camera.

  ‘What was it that made you run to save your girlfriend, detective?’

  ‘It is the sound of detonator,’ he replied, now holding an unlit cigarette. ‘You know at the back of my mind I thought there was something wrong about that vehicle. It was there in my head all the time but I was not thinking. Why would anyone park there and block the alley? That was the question in my mind. And then I heard the detonator and I knew what was going to happen. I know this sound well since I study at the Explosives Unit and Bomb Data Center.’

  ‘The Explosive Unit of the FBI – in the United States?’ said the official.

  ‘Of the FBI, yes, that is correct, señor. And the Hazards Devices School at Huntsville, Alabama. I study in that place also.’

  ‘You attended training at these institutions last year?’

  ‘That is correct: the programme was six months.’ He paused. ‘And so, señor, that is why I know the noise of a detonator. It lives in my mind and when I hear it on the street I know that another detonator will follow.’

  ‘Could you explain?’

  Bautista put his hands together and began to talk fluently, as though being tested by an examination board. ‘This type of bomb need two detonations. The first detonation this blows the valves on the containers of liquefied gas and so the gas is spread. When it has mixed with the air the second explosion comes in a tiny little core of PETN.’ He held up a finger and thumb pinched together.

  ‘That is explosive material?’

  ‘Yes, that is pentaerythritol tetranitrate,’ he said with a flourish. ‘When the second explosion takes place the large volume of oxygenated gas is detonated. In the regular bomb, the energy comes from the tightly packed core and drive outwards like so.’ He clasped his hands in a ball then threw them apart. ‘But in this devil, señor, in this devil the detonation ignites clouds of gas and there occurs an explosion with a force that becomes greater and greater moving outwards and outwards gaining power all this time.’ His hands mimed a billowing motion, then he picked up a glass of water and drank. ‘It was this type of bomb used to attack the party headquarters.’

  ‘The regional headquarters backs onto the alley where the van was parked? That was the target?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘From your expertise would you say that Mr Eyam had any chance of escaping the explosion?’

  He pouted regretfully and shook his head. ‘The cloud of gas was too large. We believe there were many containers in that vehicle and there was much gas in the . . .’

  ‘Released into the confined conditions of the alley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The British official spoke his last question.

  ‘From your knowledge of the investigation and your colleagues’ work, is there any suspicion that the bomber was not primarily interested in the headquarters?’

  The detective seemed surprised. ‘Are you saying this bomb was to kill Señor Eyam?’

  ‘No,’ said the voice. ‘I am
asking whether there are any foreign groups who may have perpetrated this crime. And if you are sure that the headquarters was the target.’

  ‘We know who made the attack, señor. This was the activities of a terrorist group here in Colombia.’

  ‘The actions of a terrorist group: can you be more specific?’

  ‘We know who these people are. They want to destroy the party headquarters. We know this, señor. We investigate these people.’

  The interview ended. Detective Bautista nodded to the camera and struggled up from his chair. Then the screen went blank.

  The coroner leaned forward to Eyam’s lawyer. ‘Mr Richards, I regret that you will not have the chance to question the witness, as I am afraid that the court’s budget did not extend to bringing Detective Bautista to England. Are there any observations that you wish to make for the record?’

  ‘Not at this stage, sir,’ replied Richards.

  ‘Then we shall proceed with the evidence concerning identification. Is Sergeant Hallam in court?’

  A short man in a grey suit and dark shirt nodded and walked to the stand where, after taking an oath, he turned to the coroner.

  ‘Sergeant Hallam, you were responsible for identifying the remains of Mr Eyam. Is that right?’

  ‘In so far as there were remains, sir.’

  ‘What can you tell the court about their condition?’

  ‘The blast created considerable destruction in the area and there was much difficulty in locating and removing the victims from the scene. This was compounded by the collapse of two buildings after the fire, and the heavy plant that was required to shift the rubble.’

  ‘You’re saying the bodies were recovered after a lengthy time? How many were there?’

  ‘It is very difficult to know, sir – maybe three.’

  ‘All those killed were in or near that alley? The alley was an inferno. Is that right? There wasn’t much left to go on?’

  ‘Yes, sir, a lot was lost in the fire and the operation to clear the area. Some remains were located but the Colombian authorities insisted that DNA tests were carried out locally so as to make certain the right set of remains was sent to Britain.’

  ‘Please tell the court what procedures were followed.’

  ‘Hair samples were collected from Mr Eyam’s home in Dove Valley and sent with his dental records to Colombia, where a match was made with some of the remains found in the alley. We received confirmation of this on February fifteenth.’

  ‘Let me be clear on this. Was the readout of Mr Eyam’s genetic profile sent to Colombia, or were the samples?’

  ‘Both, sir.’

  ‘And then Colombian authorities did their own test on the remains and found a match?’

  The police officer nodded. ‘They have a fully operational lab for this kind of forensic work, sir. It is perhaps a . . . er . . . a more sophisticated operation than you would expect in that country.’

  The coroner nodded and looked at his papers. ‘Thank you. That will be all, sergeant.’

  After asking Lady Eyam’s lawyer if he had any questions and receiving a shake of the head, the coroner turned to the court. ‘We have heard how David Lucas Eyam, formerly a government official who worked in Downing Street, left the United Kingdom for an extended holiday in December last year. Given Mr Eyam’s exceptional qualities and outstanding service to this country and to the Prime Minister, it is only right for me to extend the court’s sympathy to his family and friends and many colleagues in government at the manner of his untimely death.’ Mr Richards bowed his head to accept the words on behalf of his client. ‘In the matter of David Lucas Eyam’s death,’ he said more loudly and formally, ‘I find that while holidaying in Central America he visited the Colombian port of Cartagena. On January twelfth this year at approximately five forty-five p.m. he was in the Colonial District of the city when an explosion took place that killed him outright. Accordingly, I record a verdict that Mr Eyam was killed unlawfully by persons unknown.’

  The incontrovertible fact of Eyam’s death was established. As Kate rose and worked her way along the bench, her resignation was replaced by anger at the waste of the last two years. God knows how things would have been if they had talked on that Saturday – if they had been talking through the two years of his exile in High Castle.

  She came to the entrance, where there was a crush of reporters crowding round the clerk who was handing out DVDs of the film of the explosion. She turned to find the tall man – Kilmartin – looking down at her. When the way cleared he gestured for her to go ahead of him and gave a regretful, thin-lipped smile that seemed to solicit something at the same time as suggesting postponement. She recognised that look: the steadiness of the gaze and the tiny pulse of energy in the eyes – the freemason’s handshake of the intelligence services – and she wondered about Mr Kilmartin with his smell of bonfires, his academic journals and well-thumbed pamphlets, which she now saw were seed catalogues. What was he doing there? Checking that nothing inconvenient was being alleged in open court? Making sure the government was not being accused of anything low or underhand? The former head of the Joint Intelligence Committee – even if only for a reluctant and brief period – being blown up in a terrorist attack was after all something that must still concern the Secret Intelligence Service. She nodded to him and left the court, dodging the television cameras outside.

  2

  The Centre of Things

  Just three people were working in the Downing Street communications centre when the prime minister, John Temple, slipped in and sat down to watch a TV permanently tuned to a news channel. The lights had been turned off at that end of the room as part of the energy-saving fervour that periodically swept the heart of government and Temple remained in the shadows. He was in evening dress, having recently left a private dinner at the embassy for the American secretary of state, but even after a long day he looked his usual dapper and contained self. One of the garden girls – the secretaries that run the prime minister’s office – had pursued him into the communications department with a folder and now hovered about ten feet away wondering if she should disturb him. It was her presence that attracted Philip Cannon, the director of communications, who stirred from his screen, stood up and stretched, then moved slowly towards the prime minister and gave a cough by way of announcement.

  Temple looked up. ‘Ah, Sarah, what have I forgotten to do?’ That was the prime minister all over – blaming himself rather than the people who worked for him. He turned on a desk light and took the folder with a smile that involved squeezing his eyes shut and nodding. She pointed to a passage in the foreign secretary’s statement on the Middle East. Temple read it with the warmth still lingering in his expression then handed it to her. She beamed back at him and almost bobbed a curtsy. Temple’s manners, his inexhaustible consideration whatever the pressures of office, were such a contrast to his recent predecessors: one addicted to a dangerous informality where no one was sure what decisions had been taken until they read it in the next day’s papers; another given to sulks and rages and epic rudeness, in one famous instance turfing a young woman from her chair so he could use her screen.

  Cannon nodded to her as she left and moved to the prime minister’s side. ‘Is there anything that particularly interests you?’ he asked, turning up the volume of the TV a little.

  The prime minister shook his head. ‘Just thought I’d look in. How’s it going, Philip?’ Cannon didn’t answer because Temple’s attention had moved to the bulletin and a reporter who addressed the camera while trying to control her hair in the wind. ‘A coroner’s court in the picturesque market town of High Castle on the English-Welsh border was this morning shown dramatic footage of the moment a former senior civil servant was killed in an explosion in Cartagena, Colombia.

  ‘David Eyam, once acting head of the Joint Intelligence Committee and confidante of the prime minister, was holidaying in the Colombian port where there has been a long-running campaign by the drug cartels against u
nion power and the political establishment. Mr Eyam, who was forty-three years of age and single, was killed instantly by the blast. After it was discovered that Mr Eyam was a likely victim, the prime minister’s spokesman issued a statement saying that all those who worked with Mr Eyam were shocked and saddened by his death. Although he left Downing Street two years ago, he was still remembered fondly by the prime minister’s staff for his acuteness and originality of mind. He had made a great contribution to John Temple’s administration, particularly, it is understood, at the prime minister’s side during international negotiations. The coroner, Roy Clarke, paid tribute to Mr Eyam’s exceptional qualities and recorded a verdict of unlawful killing by persons unknown.’

  They watched in silence as the film of the explosion was run. When it was over Temple sucked air through his teeth and shook his head. ‘Can you get that back for me?’

  ‘What? You want the explosion again?’ asked Cannon.

  ‘No, just the report, not the explosion.’

  Cannon selected instant replay from a menu on the right of the screen. The woman began her report again. Halfway through Temple jerked forward. ‘Stop it now!’ The frame froze with the woman’s hand reaching up again to her hair. ‘No, go back a little.’ The prime minister peered at the screen. Cannon did likewise.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Peter Kilmartin is there on the court steps! What’s he doing at the inquest?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Cannon. ‘You want me to have it copied?’