As far as the eye can see

by Phil Walden

  The League was equally dismissive of the powers of elected governments. Too many politicians, with one eye on their post political prospects, were in hock to multi-national corporations. The reach of the global economy made national boundaries increasingly irrelevant and national governments superfluous. The real decisions were taken in boardrooms far from the countries they might affect. The situation was damaging to the economy, society and to the living standards of the ordinary citizen. It would certainly mitigate against the fundamental, long term and initially painful changes necessary to save the human race and the planet.

  This stance was helped, it was argued, by all the evidence pointing to a widespread disillusion with the state of democracy across the country, fuelled by more than just the MPs’ expenses scandal. Most citizens had realised that whichever way they voted, whoever they chose, little or nothing changed. It was a fact that in the last sixty years, more people chose not to vote at all than had supported the government in power.

  To Deacon’s alarm, The League, in a singular and imperious way, even challenged the very concept of universal suffrage. Fed on a never ending diet of scandal and trivia, interspersed with simplistic and heavily biased political dogma, how qualified was the average citizen to vote responsibly? They had neither the knowledge not the understanding. In the rapidly changing and developing global world a country needed to be efficient, ruthless and adaptable. Did the flourishing economies of the Far Eastern countries find themselves burdened with the red tape and legal constraints endured by our entrepreneurs? Were their vital projects for improvement delayed for years and sometimes abandoned altogether by the self serving interest groups who plagued planners in the western world? Britain- the group refused to call it Great anymore – seemed to stagger along, from one crisis to the next, forever borrowing more and making less, in hopeless denial of its diminishing role and stature in the world.

  The League’s solution was simple and drastic, Deacon discovered. Firstly, it was essential to cut ties with Europe and all the restrictions and limitations which went with membership and potentially inhibited change. Secondly, with the exception of the monarchy, it was time to sweep away the antiquated pillars of society. Thus the replacement of the established parliament was advocated. A radically different authority would take its place, consisting of people with knowledge, experience and expertise in key areas. These people would be drawn from the wealth producers of the nation, the business leaders, the entrepreneurs, the money makers. Accept democracy for the farce that it was and replace the existing failed and discredited oligarchy with a body which was modern, relevant and effective. In addition to a total reform of the energy industry, fifty year plans for the development of the country’s infrastructure, its towns and cities and other essential services could all be devised and put in place, without the threat of challenge or change. No more bowing to the vagaries of short term popularity and electoral need. Certainly the people would be driven hard, but they would be won over as Britain’s economic and social fortunes recovered and the country prospered.

  The defining doctrinal clause, the pledge to distribute that wealth more fairly, would neutralise the few lone voices hankering after the restoration of what were in essence illusory political rights. For the vast majority who had shown by their repeated and growing apathy that they did not care, the eventual improvements in wealth, health and education would be justification enough for such a revolution. In addition, the key focus upon the long term provision of sustainable and affordable energy for all within a clean environment would put Britain at the forefront of technological change.

  The monarchy would be necessary in what initially would be turbulent times. As a body which still garnered popular support, it would provide the glue which bound the country together as well as bestowing legitimacy upon the new regime. And so for the only time in the history of these islands the people would have a government which put this country’s future and the future of all of its citizens first. This model, it was boldly claimed, would become a blueprint for change worldwide.

  However, it was clear that The League was less certain as to how this utopia would be launched. When pressed by critics, supporters deployed the defence that they were merely promulgating some progressive ideas, thinking the unthinkable and contributing to the ongoing discussion. It was down to the political operators to decide if they wished to consider, adapt or adopt any of them. The League was merely a pressure group. It was not a party and had no intention of putting forward candidates in any future elections.

  The movement was rumoured to have some support within both hard right and extreme left political circles but no established parliamentarian had dared to break cover and declare any sympathy for The League and its aspirations. Even if seen as a peripheral think tank cheekily testing the boundaries of what was acceptable debate in a mature democracy, it was simply regarded as politically unwise to be in any way associated with such views. And that is where most commentators left it. It was regarded by some as a haven for provocative free thinkers, by others less kindly disposed, as a nest of eccentric cranks.

  Deacon reflected on his findings, such as they were. Henry Lighterman’s interest in developing fusion energy might explain his decision to donate to The League but just how much of its political philosophy he shared, he could only surmise. If none, then his secret meetings in far flung hotels with senior members of the Establishment could be seen as harmless. If some and any connection with these people would be alarming to say the least.

  But crank or not, Deacon was certain he now knew something else about Lighterman. Because, amongst the articles he had studied, one included a link to a rare and short interview with the reclusive businessman. In no way was the content controversial, the object of the discussion being a rather dry survey of the uncertain future facing the world energy industries. But what was being said was of no concern to Deacon. He had played it back once, twice, three times, until he was sure. The calm deep tone of the voice on that recording was not only familiar but unmistakeable. He had heard it before. It was the voice of Simon.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The South Bank of the Thames had changed beyond all recognition, even in the short period of time Harry Spenser had been an MP. The previously empty and underused squares and spaces in and around Westminster Bridge were now home to a variety of restaurants, cafes and market stalls. Even the acute ugliness of the National Theatre’s stark concrete façade seemed a fitting backdrop to the colourful array of activities carried out beneath its gaze. There were quiet, private spots still to be found, further west, close to the river, places where the hustle and bustle dropped away and peace and calm could be found. Spenser, however, required neither of these. He was merely anxious not to be seen.

  The green bench seat was tucked into an alcove cut into the low hedge which ran along the embankment. A tall, thin man, wrapped in a long overcoat, legs crossed, sat at the far end, gazing out at the river.

  Spenser slid onto the bench. “So he’s survived?”

  The man continued to look straight ahead. A strong breeze blew off the water sweeping strands of long blond hair across his pallid face. “Barabbas intended it as a warning. We’re not barbarians.”

  “Start has a reputation for not giving up.”

  “We’re dealing with a completely different animal now. He’ll stop.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then he will be dealt with more seriously.”

  “The things we do for our country.”

  “Indeed.” He lifted a folded newspaper from an inside coat pocket. “Our man picked this up on his travels.” He tossed the journal along the bench. The headline of the Eastern Mail blazed at Spenser:

  Mystery Woman Disappears!

  Spenser gasped. “Good God! This could ruin everything.”

  “Not at all. However, it does require a change of plan.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The gathering’s been brought forward. We
meet tonight.”

  “But that’s impossible. The Committee reconvenes at seven. I can’t possibly leave London,” insisted Spenser.

  “And you won’t. We’re meeting here.”

  “One hell of a risk isn’t it?”

  “Necessary I’m afraid. We can no longer wait. Judas requires you to act now.”

  “In case she recovers?

  “The location is perfectly secure. I’ll arrange for you to be picked up.”

  “What if she talks?”

  “She won’t.” The man stood.

  “But what about Catchpole? He’s impregnable after this afternoon.

  “I think you’ll find he’s rather preoccupied this evening.”

  “Simon?” Apprehension now entered Spenser’s voice.

  “Trust me, Jacob. It’s all been taken care of.” With that, Henry Lighterman calmly walked away.

  *

  Catchpole had chosen to lie low in the immediate aftermath of the tumultuous events at the opening session of the 1900 Committee. He had thrown down the gauntlet. He half wished that, like some canny political operators in the past, he could summon up some supposedly much needed medical treatment, something to take him out of the limelight for a short period, allowing everything to settle down, alliances to be made, agreements to be reached and events to unfold. But things had gone too far. He hadn’t anticipated the huge groundswell of support his speech had drawn. The evening session was still to follow. He had to be there.

  So he rushed back to the flat, showered and changed, before flicking across the news channels to see how his speech was being reported across the nation. Whilst greeted with surprise, the reception seemed generally positive across the public at large. It was obvious that his face was well known and liked, a fact he attributed to the mass of favourable publicity generated by his affair with Trisha. His actions were viewed as clever, astute even. The pressure for a leadership contest had been cranked up significantly and Catchpole was touted as the prime candidate to succeed. Most important of all, he was also portrayed as someone who, with the death of Wilson and the unfortunate political demise of Caroline Bruce, was being compelled to stand for the good of the party. So Harry had been proved right. He was not seen as too young or too inexperienced, but as fresh, energetic and invigorating, the new blood the country so desperately needed.

  Dragging on his jacket, he left the flat and dashed down the stairs to the basement. The Press would be in and around Westminster in their frenzied droves and he intended to arrive loudly and in style. His Ford Mustang, faithfully shipped over from the States, would do just nicely. As he entered the underground car park, he heard the shouts of the concierge chasing after him.

  “Hold up, sir.” He brandished a parcel. “This came for you this morning, delivered by some American gentleman.”

  Catchpole took the package and smiled. He’d waited a long time for this. “Thank you.”

  The concierge dragged himself back up the stairs, pausing as he pulled open the door. “I heard you on the news. Good luck tonight, sir.”

  Catchpole waved in acknowledgement as the concierge disappeared. He walked towards his car, its lights greeting him as he clicked the remote. He opened the driver’s door and went to toss the parcel across onto the passenger seat. Then he hesitated. This little bundle was best hidden from view. Instead he moved to the rear of the vehicle. He flipped up the boot lid and froze in horror.

  A copy of the Eastern Mail lay across a prostrate, bound and gagged figure. The terrified eyes of Angel stared back at him.

  *

  The two measures of scotch poured were unusually generous but James Devaney felt that he and Paddy Carlton were in need of a tonic. The words reported by Trisha Hunt on the flat screen before them were alarming.

  “Reports are emerging of an extraordinary speech by the Shadow Minister for the Environment at the meeting of the 1900 Committee. We can now go live to our political correspondent outside Westminster.”

  In a Parliament Square already beginning to fill with journalists, camera crews and interested onlookers, a red faced and excited reporter breathlessly intoned:

  “Trisha, I’ve just rushed from the lobby and I’m reliably informed by those at the meeting that the speech amounted to a verbal assassination of James Devaney and his supporters. It’s clear Tom Catchpole aims to force a leadership contest and it’s one he fully expects to win!”

  Carlton punched his thumb down hard on the remote control and the television picture disappeared. “In all my years in politics I’ve never known such treachery.”

  Devaney passed a glass of whisky to his friend. “I think we both know that’s not true.” He sank into a high leather backed chair. “Still he’s made his move earlier than expected.”

  “Too damn right he has, the treacherous bastard. There must be something we can do,” Carlton fumed.

  “Sadly, I don’t think there is. The party has made it quite clear they want me out. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “They’re fools and idiots! They’re throwing any chance of power away.”

  “We’ve had these radical outpourings from various quarters for years. And where has it got us? Years in opposition that’s where.”

  “Perhaps this time they think it will work,” Carlton observed.

  “They need to realise that I want change just as much as they do. But you have to work with the Establishment, not against it.”

  “Undermine the system from within,” Carlton added. “Mind you, we’d have to be in power for a good many years to do that.”

  “All the more reason for us to stay middle of the road and mainstream. Slow and steady is the only way.”

  There was a knock at the door. Lucy Hass peered in.

  “Sorry to interrupt. But Harry Spenser would like to see you.”

  “What does he want?” Carlton snapped.

  “He wouldn’t say. Just that it’s very important,” Lucy replied.

  Devaney sighed. “Well you’d better send him in.”

  She disappeared. Shortly after, Spenser appeared in the open doorway. He looked unusually confident, brash even, with an air of calm determination gripping his face.

  “Harry!” Devaney beamed.

  “Jim.” His direct gaze switched to Carlton. “Paddy.”

  “Do come in. Scotch?” Devaney offered.

  “No, thank you. I won’t detain you long.”

  “You said it was important.”

  “Very important were the words used,” sneered Carlton.

  Spenser dropped into a third chair. “Yes. I believe it is. Catchpole’s speech was nothing less than an attempted coup d’etat.”

  “As moves go, I thought it lacked a little class,” Devaney said.

  “Not even a public school education could give him that.”

  “Well, you should know,” Carlton said.

  “His so called blueprint would be disastrous. The voters won’t buy it. Not after the last leader’s betrayal.”

  “So what do you propose to do about it?” asked Devaney.

  Spenser looked him straight in the eye, his voice dripping with disdain. “Destroy him of course.”

  *

  Catchpole slammed the boot lid shut. He instantly recognised Angel. Her piercing blue eyes remained the same: sad, questioning and accusing, just as they had been all those years ago. He sat for several minutes bolt upright in the driver’s seat, trying to suppress the shock and panic rising within him. Shock that the girl had survived, that she was alive after all these years. Panic that someone else, someone unknown, knew about his past, the knowledge of which would surely bring him down. No noise came from the trunk, not a word or a movement.

  He was shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of a door swinging open. The concierge stood perplexed at the sight of the car still parked in its bay. He began to walk across but stopped as Catchpole immediately fired up the engine and swung out towards the exit. He desperately needed time to think. There was no one
here he could talk to or ask for help. No one could be expected to understand. He had to do something. He glanced down at the package now resting on the passenger seat. He was on the cusp of success. He had so much to gain and everything to lose. Too much was at stake, for him, his party and the country. He would drive as far and as long as it took for him to work out what to do.

  The Ford Mustang sped along the A13, down the long stretch which weaved its way around the refurbished Olympic Park. But Catchpole saw none of the stadium, the velodrome or the revamped aquatic centre. Instead, he focussed rigidly forward as the car devoured the tarmac and left the confines of the city behind. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. Sign after sign flashed past unnoticed but the one which did catch his eye gave him the kernel of an idea and caused him to change gear and accelerate hard along the next slip road. For the giant metal banner reading “M11 and The East” gave the possibility of salvation, of succour from the one person he knew would have no choice but to help.

  *

  Spenser’s venomous declaration of intent had left both men momentarily stunned. Devaney propped himself by the window and was the first to break the silence. “As I recall, it was you, Harry, who pushed for his recruitment.”

  “Pretty boy politics you called it. Freshen things up, you said. Give the party a new coat of gloss,” said Carlton.

  Spenser remained defiant. “Gloss, spin, image. Call it what you will. It wins votes.”

  “And more than likely the leadership!”

  “I couldn’t have foreseen that.”

  “Come off it. You’re his pal.”

  “It came as much of a surprise to me as I’m sure it did to you,” claimed Spenser.

  “He must have said something. If he’s to win, he needs your support.”