The Bell Ringers

by Henry Porter

  Cannon smiled. Why didn’t they get it? Why didn’t they realise that Parliament had been Eyam’s target all along? He still didn’t give Kilmartin and Eyam much chance: Parliament would be all but useless to them once Temple had made his short journey up the Mall. Everything depended on what Temple decided to do in the next five minutes – leave for Buckingham Palace immediately or remain in Number Ten and try to sweet-talk Bryant Maclean into suppressing, or at any rate delaying, the two facts that TRA had come from a government laboratory and that the Civil Contingencies Act had been invoked unnecessarily. In the envelope sent to Maclean’s man, Cannon had included a few lines about those detained at Hotel Papa under the act.

  There was only one logical choice for Temple. A few days ago Cannon would have unhesitatingly guided him to the right decision, but he was disinclined to help just now because he was being steered from the room by one of Alec Smith’s heavies. This time Temple would have to work it out for himself.

  The skies had become even blacker outside Parliament and more light was required for the two automatic cameras that filmed the proceedings from above the chairman’s head and from the back of Committee Room Five. A technician switched on lamps either side of the cameras. A small red light on the camera in front told her that she was being filmed and that anyone who was looking for her needed only to glance at one of the many screens in the building.

  As she gathered her thoughts a few people left from the public benches behind her, and the lone journalist at the press table by the window closed a notepad and slid from his chair.

  ‘I thank the committee for allowing me to give evidence,’ she said. ‘I want to start with a story. In every case I’ve ever handled as a lawyer in New York, there was always a story at its heart. However complicated or technical the issues appeared to be, the story was always about human nature, whether ambition, envy, lust for power, love of money or straightforward frailty. My story today contains many of these traits. It is about a civil servant who occupied some of the highest posts in government and was the trusted confidante of the prime minister.’ She stopped and looked around. ‘All those who knew or worked with this man prized his advice and penetrating intelligence. His career was brilliant; he was young and personable and had everything to look forward to. Then he learned about a secret programme known only to a few, which his conscience told him was an offence against the country’s traditions of liberty. Risking everything, he answered questions on this programme in a parliamentary committee very much like this one.’

  She spoke clearly and simply. Her gaze swept the room, trying to engage the members of the committee, but was met mostly with blank stares. One or two were beginning to get restless. An MP named Jeff Turnbull leaned back in his chair with a liverish expression and asked, ‘Mr Chairman, why are we wasting valuable time listening to a story?’

  ‘Well, I am happy to listen to Ms Koh’s story,’ said a man with raffish sideburns and a bow tie who sat behind the nameplate for the Earl of Martingale. ‘But I would like to know what this secret is.’

  She smiled at him but did not lose the seriousness in her voice. ‘This civil servant gave evidence about a system known as SPINDRIFT or DEEP TRUTH, which secretly monitors everyone in the country and is responsible for untold errors, persecution, punishment and political control. That was his secret.’ Now it was out she had to put as much on record as possible and she sped through Eyam’s case – the origins of the system, its covert installation and ever-extending reach, the use of census records and social networking sites, its reliance on phone, ID card and travel databases and finally the hidden payments to Eden White’s company. Each point moved effortlessly to the next, each stage in the summary that had just magically crystallised in her mind was now emphasised by precise brush strokes made by her forefinger and thumb.

  It took no more than a few minutes to transform the proceedings of Committee Room Five. The room was electrified. Some members of the committee were almost levitating with indignation. Others looked aghast. And behind her she heard the room filling with those who had caught what she said on the monitors around Parliament.

  ‘Can we have some quiet, please,’ said the chairman. ‘Ms Koh, I think I am conveying the views of this committee if I say that the allegations you are making have nothing to do with the matter in hand, and are an abuse of parliamentary privilege.’

  ‘Where’s your evidence?’ demanded Turnbull.

  ‘Who sent you?’ shouted another member.

  Kate looked at Lady Somers as someone called for her to be dismissed. The old lady winked at her and made a little sweeping gesture with her hand, as if discreetly encouraging a child on sports day.

  ‘No,’ Kate said.

  ‘What do you mean – no?’ asked the chairman.

  ‘No, I will not be dismissed.’

  ‘That is not up to you,’ replied the chairman. ‘You have one last chance to substantiate and make relevant your testimony.’

  ‘This is not my last chance; it is yours. A general election is about to be called to stop this evidence being heard. We have every reason to believe that the emergency powers brought in on Monday were an attempt to stifle what I and others have to say.’

  ‘Now I know I’m in a madhouse,’ expostulated Turnbull. ‘These are just paranoid fantasies about a police state. What next?’

  ‘You may well ask what is next,’ she said calmly. ‘We don’t live in a police state but it is coming and you, sir, are one of the very few people who can stop it.’

  At this Turnbull got up and said he was leaving. Two others also left their chairs, a woman who had said nothing and a young government apparatchik who wore a badge in his buttonhole. Kate sat back and waited for the tumult to die down. She heard a voice behind her and turned to find Kilmartin bending down. ‘Here’s your evidence,’ he said, putting the book in her hands. ‘And Carrie’s got the library to make photocopies of the main documents. Should be enough to go round. There’s more coming.’ He put the stack of paper on the chair beside her.

  ‘Where’s Eyam?’ she hissed. ‘Is he coming?’

  ‘I don’t know. Keep going – you’re doing brilliantly. If you get this accepted by the committee, we’re halfway there.’

  At that moment she saw Darsh Darshan come through the door with a black shoulder bag and gradually work his way forward, but there was no time to wonder what he was doing there or whether he had come with Eyam. She placed the book squarely in front of her. ‘I want to present this to the committee. It contains all the evidence to support what I have been saying.’

  ‘We can’t accept that,’ said Turnbull, who had had second thoughts and was now returning to his place.

  ‘Why doesn’t the Honourable Member hear the lady out,’ said Lord Martingale with sudden steel in his voice. ‘I want to know the identity of the individual you have spoken of.’

  ‘His name is David Eyam,’ she said.

  A murmur of shock ran round the room.

  ‘The David Eyam who faked his own death and is being sought by police on numerous criminal matters?’ said Redpath incredulously. ‘Do you realise the gravity of your insult to Parliament, to this committee?’ He shot a look at Beatrice Somers.

  ‘I understand your reaction,’ said Kate, ‘because I experienced much the same incredulity.’ She picked up the book and the photocopies. ‘People have risked their lives to bring these to you. Two were killed on Sunday night. David Eyam lost his career and his health to put the documents bound in this book in your hands. Look at them before you turn me away. Read it before you dismiss us as fantasists.’ She got up, walked over to Redpath and laid the book in front of him.

  Redpath turned to Lady Somers. ‘Did you know about this?’

  ‘I confess that I had some inkling of the allegations,’ she replied. ‘The matters seemed so serious to me that I felt it was imperative Miss Koh was given a hearing.’

  ‘But Eyam’s a bloody paedophile,’ said Turnbull, causing the stenographer to loo
k up.

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Kate, placing the five piles of photocopies, each separated by an orange marker, at strategic points along the tables. ‘Because you were told by the government?’

  ‘No, by the police,’ said Turnbull. ‘Why else would he have faked his death?’

  ‘You may care to wonder why he returned,’ she said sharply.

  ‘To cause trouble, as you are doing now.’

  ‘No,’ she said with utter command. ‘He came back to expose a corrupt cabal at the top of government.’

  ‘That seems a little presumptuous,’ said a neat man with silver hair to her right.

  ‘Will you please go through the chair before making comments,’ Redpath snapped. ‘And will the people who have just come in find a place or leave.’ There were now eight or nine journalists squashed into the press bench trying to work out what was going on. ‘Silence,’ said Redpath, looking in their direction and then turned to two men who had arrived behind his chair. One bent down, placed his hand on the table and whispered urgently.

  Kilmartin’s voice was in Kate’s ear. ‘They’re trying to pull the plug on you. I think they’re government whips.’

  Redpath nodded and the two men moved back. ‘I am given to understand that the prime minister is on his way to Buckingham Palace to request a dissolution of Parliament. A general election is to be called, which means that this sitting of JCHR is effectively at an end. It must be obvious to you that we cannot accept this evidence, Miss Koh.’ He began gathering his papers together, flashing angry looks at Beatrice Somers, which evidently cut no ice.

  But it was the Earl of Martingale who spoke. ‘May I suggest, Chairman, that we’ve already accepted this material as evidence and that it is therefore privileged and has the protection of Parliament.’

  ‘Privilege is always qualified by the need for responsibility,’ said Redpath without looking up.

  ‘We have all been looking at these papers.’ Martingale waved a hand. It was true. The book was being handed around the committee and members were feeling the paper and examining signatures, then reading copies of the documents in front of them. ‘That means evidence has been accepted by the committee. This may be reported in the press like any other proceeding in the Houses of Parliament.’

  There was silence. Redpath didn’t know what to do. The two men that had just approached him were plainly desperate that he gave no ruling and were now all but dragging him from the room. But then his patience suddenly gave out. ‘Take your hands off me and show respect to this committee.’ He turned to the room. ‘Does anyone know if the election has been called?’

  To a man and woman the journalists consulted their smart phones, then shook their heads. ‘Not yet,’ said one. ‘But there’s a story running that the red algae leaked from a government laboratory.’

  ‘That does not concern us,’ said Redpath. ‘I’m interested only in bringing these proceedings to an orderly close without interference from anyone – even the government.’ He could have ended everything by formally wrapping things up then and leaving the room, but something kept him there and he sat for a few seconds oblivious of the cameras, his committee and Kate, a finger perched in the parting of his hair.

  Cannon shook himself free of the man who gripped his arm, turned on Alec Smith with a ferocity that he hardly knew was in him and informed Smith that he would submit to any kind of interview they chose to give him, but if there was an attempt to charge him or harm his reputation he would be forced to release information that would destroy the prime minister. This threat was delivered immediately outside the prime minister’s sitting room. Gruppo and Ferris heard him. She came out, leaving Temple talking to Bryant Maclean. Cannon turned to her. ‘This is how it’s going to be, Dawn. I will clear my desk over the next hour and say goodbye to the staff in the Communications Department. Then I will go home, where I will remain unmolested by you or anyone else. At some stage I will take myself to the Scottish Borders for a fishing holiday. Until that time you will be able to reach me on my landline.’ Then he leaned into her face and said, ‘Screw with me, Dawn, and I will take you down too.’

  He went back to his desk and slowly got his things together. There were a few members of his staff around, waiting for the election to be called. They were embarrassed but he reassured them that this was entirely what he wanted. With George Lyme they would be in good hands.

  It was some time after eleven that Lyme burst in and switched the TV to a feed from Westminster. ‘The Whips Office has been on. Eyam’s woman is in the bloody House giving evidence to the bastard Human Rights Committee. She’s just presented a whole lot of documents to them. God knows what’s in them. They’re going to have them arrested.’

  ‘They can’t,’ said Cannon, admiring the composure of Kate Lockhart on the screen and noticing Peter Kilmartin’s head bobbing behind her. ‘You ought to know that, George. Parliament polices its own affairs and unless she is held to be in contempt or offends some arcane tradition, the police will have to wait until she leaves the premises. It all depends on the chairman. He can ask the sergeant at arms to eject her, but otherwise they are going to have to wait.’

  ‘That’s not what Temple thinks. Armed police are on their way now. They’ll put an end to it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said softly. ‘Where’s Temple?’

  ‘About to leave. He’s talking to the Whips Office now.’

  Cannon took the remote from Lyme, wheeled his chair in front of the screen, turned up the volume and flipped through the news channels. Two were already running the live feed from the committee room. ‘This should be interesting,’ he said to himself.

  In those brief agonised seconds, Redpath had created a vacuum and into this came a voice from the back of the room. ‘Before you go you might want to hear how I tampered with David Eyam’s computer, and was made to do this by the Security Service.’ Kate had almost forgotten about Sean Nock. She turned to see first John Turvey, who had been persuaded by her mother to act for Nock, next to him her mother looking erect and immaculate, and finally in the far corner of the room by the window Sean Nock. He stood and held up an envelope. ‘I am David Eyam’s neighbour,’ continued Nock, ‘and I used to help him out. Then they got to me. Threatened me with jail on a charge of growing and supplying cannabis. That’s how they made me put child pornography on his computer.’

  ‘This is not a public meeting,’ said Redpath. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘I’m not sitting down until I have given you this sworn statement. Sworn in front of Mr Turvey yesterday.’

  ‘The celebrated John Turvey is your lawyer?’ said Redpath with some astonishment. ‘One wonders how you afford him.’

  ‘Mr Nock is indeed my client,’ thundered Turvey from the benches. ‘And I believe what he has to say is important – important enough for me as his legal representative to advise him that he may be in a position to bring an action against the authorities.’

  ‘That is of no concern to us,’ snapped Redpath.

  Meanwhile Nock had pushed past the journalists who had peeled off from their bench to find out his name and moved to a spot in front of Redpath. He stood tall and rustic and despite his admission he somehow seemed unimpeachable. ‘This is my confession,’ he said, dropping the envelope on the table. ‘It has been witnessed and is an exact account of how I was instructed to incriminate David Eyam.’ He turned round, looking flushed and awkward. ‘You should listen to this woman. I know she speaks the truth. David Eyam is a good man and I want to apologise to him now, wherever he is.’

  ‘Accepted,’ came a voice from near the door before Redpath had time to react to Nock.

  Kate whipped round. Eyam was standing with Aristotle Miff. He wore heavy horn-rimmed spectacles and was dressed in a lightweight navy-blue suit, white shirt and knitted black tie. He removed the glasses. ‘I wonder if I can join Miss Lockhart at the table. There are a few things I have to say. I am afraid I have to rely on my friend Aristotle here to get me there.’ Miff, a
lso dressed immaculately, held out his arm and they set off.

  ‘You are David Eyam,’ said Redpath, clutching his brow. ‘The police are looking for you. How did you get in here?’

  ‘In a private ambulance, sir,’ he replied. ‘The same way I will leave, because I am technically on my way to hospital.’

  He sat down with difficulty. Turning his attention to the stunned members of the committee, he whispered to Kate from the corner of his mouth: ‘You were wonderful.’

  Several things were happening. Half the press bench emptied and the journalists pushed their way to the door. Behind Kate and Eyam people stood to get a better view and were being told by the doorkeepers to sit down. Two technicians arrived to operate the cameras manually.

  ‘This man should be in the custody of the police,’ said Turnbull, ‘not addressing a parliamentary committee. He and his doxy must be handed over to the police.’

  Redpath turned to him. ‘If there is one person likely to be expelled for contempt it is you. I am running this committee and will not tolerate that sort of intervention. And please watch your language.’ He paused. ‘Mr Eyam, are the police currently searching for you?’

  ‘Yes, but I have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Have you engaged in paedophile activities?’

  Eyam shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘You have evidently made some considerable effort to be here,’ said Redpath. ‘I will consult the committee to see if they’re willing to listen to what you have to say.’ After his moment of doubt Redpath had now got a grip. Kate couldn’t tell whether he was influenced by principle or the straightforward realisation that this was a sensational news event and the public were unlikely to thank him if he stopped the proceedings. ‘I will ask for a show of hands. I don’t want you to speak to any kind of motion. Just tell me whether you want to hear what Mr Eyam has to say. Those against hearing Mr Eyam?’