by Phil Walden
“Not with Caroline out of the picture,” Spenser retorted.
“Either way I will have to accept the inevitable. You saw how the party reacted,” declared Devaney.
“That could change.”
“Destroy him you said. How?” demanded Carlton.
“I am in possession of certain information.”
“Would you care to share it with us?” asked Devaney.
Spenser grinned. “Alas no. At least, not yet. But rest assured it is enough to deal with our rather noisy recruit from America.”
“So what are you proposing?”
“The party has given a clear indication that the future lies in youth.”
“So?”
“McKenzie’s too old.”
“And too extreme,” Devaney added.
“It was sad about Wilson and, of course, now Caroline is out of the picture.”
“Catchpole too, if you’re to be believed,” said Carlton.
There was a heavy and prolonged pause. Devaney glanced across at Carlton. Eventually he turned to face Spenser. “Correct me if I’m wrong. But doesn’t that leave…..you.”
“I envisage a smooth transition. Allow you to step down with dignity,” said Spenser.
“This is outrageous,” snorted Carlton.
Spenser stood and moved towards the door. “Of course, you have my word that I will look after you both. When the meeting reconvenes, perhaps a subtle endorsement in your speech, Jim?”
“And if I don’t?” Devaney asked.
“Catchpole becomes leader. With the certainty that a future scandal, at a time of my choosing, will bring us all down and wreck the party we love.”
With that he was gone, the door gliding shut behind him.
“The scheming little shit!” Carlton fumed.
“You can’t argue with his logic.”
“Surely you’re not going to endorse him?”
Devaney didn’t answer. He turned away and looked down on the street below. The lamp posts, in denial of the gathering gloom, were gradually flickering into life.
Chapter Twenty
Start had been threatened before. The people he had pursued in the past were invariably powerful and enjoyed the company of persuasive friends. As such they had brought a certain malign pressure to bear upon him, usually in the form of anonymous phone calls laced with the occasional death threat. He had come to regard such attacks as a sign of success, a badge of honour, proof that he was on the right scent and close to his quarry. The bomb on the boat was certainly evidence of that but the frightening scale of the attack meant he was no longer sure of his prey. The link between Angel and Catchpole was baffling enough but, whilst the latter was up and coming and potentially a new leader for his party, the man’s absence abroad for the last two decades hardly made him a long established powerbroker. There must be other people behind him, nurturing and protecting him. If so, who were they and why?
However, there was no mistaking the trail and where it was leading. Back to Hereward College and to a confrontation with its headmaster. This time Olivia would be with him. Admittedly, she had given him little choice but he gauged that Faversham might be a little disconcerted to be interrogated by one of his erstwhile cleaners. She might shake his arrogant poise and between them, they could extract the truth behind the events at the school some twenty years earlier.
It was early evening and the porter leapt from a side office to greet them as they marched through the main entrance. Despite his protestations Start strode by, heading straight for the stairs leading to the headmaster’s study.
Olivia paused to face down the man, who visibly relaxed as he saw who she was. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. We’re here to see Faversham.” With that she sped after Start.
The porter shouted, “But you can’t. You’ll have to wait. He’s taking Evensong.”
Olivia quickly caught up with Start and pulled him by the arm away from the stairs and down a corridor to the chapel. As they approached, they could see Faversham standing at the lectern, heartily singing as he surveyed the host of adolescent boys lining the dark oak stalls on either side. A sculpture of Jesus Christ upon the cross hung high on the wall behind him.
The headmaster’s reverential look hardened as his gaze fell upon the two intruders. He scuttled down from the lectern, much to the surprise of the boys, who gradually broke off from singing to follow his furious path down the aisle.
“This is private property. You are both trespassing!” Faversham barked.
Start was dismissive. “Then call the police.” He thrust a photo of Angel in front of him. “We’ll ask them why you failed to recognise this girl. Why you failed to report the theft of a package, a carefully hidden package.”
“I see.” Faversham’s strident tone faded. “Please forgive me. I get so little time with the choir. How may I help you?”
“Tom Catchpole.”
The mere mention of his ex-pupil’s name made Faversham flinch. He reddened, his manner becoming edgy and uncomfortable. “What of him?”
“Let’s start with his link to Angel? You knew her as Alice Keeling.”
“This time, no lies, no denials,” Olivia added.
The porter arrived, anxious and apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir. They wouldn’t stop.”
Faversham waved him away. “I’ll deal with this.” He stalked past. “Please… if you will follow me.”
He strode away, at first purposefully, as if trying to maintain a degree of control. Start held Olivia back, allowing an embarrassing gap to open up between them, forcing Faversham to slow down and walk at their pace. Unbeknown to all three, their progress was watched by the hidden figure of Ross Williams. After they had passed, he emerged from an alcove and, at a discreet distance, followed after them.
The short walk along the corridor, up the stairs and across to his study seem to drain any remaining fight from the embattled figure, draped in the flowing black gown of ultimate authority. He ushered them in, before collapsing down onto his chair, where he held his head in his hands for several seconds. Olivia sighed impatiently and went to speak but Start beckoned her to wait. He knew the signs. This man was about to crumble.
A crestfallen face slowly emerged from beneath his hands into the sharp light of a solitary desk lamp. The voice was slow and deliberate, as if this moment had been expected and rehearsed many times before.
“If I tell you, can I have your assurance that things will go no further?”
“Not a chance,” spat Start.
“But it all happened such a long time ago. It’s water under the bridge. The people involved and this college have so much to lose.”
“And one seriously sick woman may have everything to gain,” Olivia said.
“You refuse to talk and we walk out of here,” Start threatened. “We blow what we know all over the front page and the vultures are sure to drop on you. All hell will break loose. Or you tell us what you know. We manage events, we stay in control.”
“It seems I have no choice.” He rubbed his face vigorously. “I’d only been in post a few months. It was the night of the Christmas party. I was working late. There was a knock at the door. I shouted to enter but nothing happened. I got up and opened the door. There was no one there. I glanced up and down the corridor but it was completely empty. As I stepped back into the study my foot trod on a piece of paper. It was a scribbled note, just three words: Cricket pavilion now!”
Faversham paused. He looked first at Start, sat on a seat directly opposite him and then to Olivia, perched on the edge of a sofa at the side. He seemed to be asking for sympathy, reassurance, forgiveness even for what he was about to tell them. But nothing was forthcoming either in word or expression. He ploughed on alone.
“I headed straight out. On my way I passed Tom Catchpole. He was obviously drunk. Staggering along and smiling inanely. I thought it was the usual teenage high jinks. I would have reprimanded him on the spot but the urgency of the message demanded I go on. Anyway,
I thought nothing of it until I got to the pavilion. It was dark. There was no one about. I went inside. I switched on the light. There I saw the young girl, lying half naked.”
“You mean Angel?” Olivia demanded.
He nodded. “She was crying.”
Olivia fought to contain her fury. “He raped her?”
“No. I couldn’t be sure that’s what it was. And nor could he. He was too drunk to remember anything. So was she. Anyway no complaint was made. She was probably too ashamed.”
Olivia leapt up. “Ashamed!”
“You have to understand. I was new to the school. I couldn’t afford a scandal.”
“Well, you’ve certainly got one now,” Olivia added.
“The porter collected her. He took her home. Of course we never employed her again. And there for the good of everyone involved, it should have ended.”
“But it didn’t?” Start said.
“No. Many months later she came back. I was writing at this desk when I heard raised voices. I moved to the window where I saw Tom down by the school gates, seeming to remonstrate with the same girl, Angel, as you call her. She was pleading but he was angry. She ended up falling to the ground sobbing. I had to do something.”
“That was big of you!” Olivia snarled.
“I rushed down and out to the entrance. But they were nowhere to be seen. They’d disappeared. I assumed it was just a lovers’ tiff and forgot about it. But then in the early hours of the next morning around four o’clock I was roused by this persistent banging on my door. It was Tom. He was wet, dirty and bleeding quite badly, in a state of shock, and desperate.”
“Get to the point. What happened?” Start asked.
“Once Tom had calmed himself down a little, he managed to tell me what had happened. When the girl collapsed by the school gates, he picked her up and carried her to the pavilion.”
“He didn’t…not again?” asked Olivia.
“No. She was hysterical. He needed to find somewhere quiet, somewhere to talk. She’d come to tell him she was about to have his baby. In fact she was in the early stages of labour.”
“Oh God! No!” Olivia exclaimed. This was far from what she had expected.
Faversham continued. “When they got there, she lifted her smock to reveal a large bump. He panicked. He started to shout at her. She cried even more. And then she began to scream. At that moment water began to run down her legs and onto the floor.” He paused, shaking his head. “You have to remember this was a young boy. He’d made one mistake.”
“Go on,” demanded Start.
Faversham explained how the girl began to hold her stomach and yell out in agony, saying the baby’s coming, the baby’s coming.
“At first he tried to comfort her, to quieten her.”
“Afraid they might be heard no doubt?” said Olivia.
“The pain gradually got worse, the screams louder. He told her to wait there. He’d come back. He dashed out of the pavilion intending to get help. But then he saw the porter’s car. It was unlocked with the keys in the ignition. Tom leapt in and drove round to the pavilion. He said he planned to take her to a small cottage hospital he knew miles away at the top of the Fens and leave her outside. She’d give birth and if there was any comeback, well, he’d deny everything. It would be his word against hers.”
“That’s disgusting,” snapped Olivia.
Faversham hurriedly moved on. “But when he returned to the pavilion to collect her, he found the girl had already given birth. She was cradling a whimpering little boy in her arms. A bloodied pair of nail scissors was lying discarded by her bag. There was blood coming from the severed ends of the umbilical cord. He ripped a handkerchief in two and applied a tourniquet to the cord. He was frightened. Scared he would lose everything he had worked so hard for.”
Faversham went on to explain that Catchpole then lifted her into the car, her arms clutching the baby tightly. He drove off, taking the back roads into and across the Fens.
“He got hopelessly lost. The girl was crying with pain and the baby would not stop screaming. The screaming, the constant screaming got to him, began to distract him. He whipped round, shouting at her to see to the child. The car strayed right and hit the raised edge of the track. Tom jerked the wheel back but the car skidded and flipped over. Over and over it rolled before plunging into the dyke that ran alongside.
“At first the car floated. He thought he could rescue them. But water began to pour into the cabin and the car started to sink. Tom kicked out the windscreen, got out and floated to the surface. He dived back down but could see nothing in the murky darkness of the water. He tried again and again. He did everything he could to save them but it was hopeless. Eventually, he was forced to struggle to the bank where he collapsed, exhausted. He scanned the water frantically but there was no sign of them. But then the light of a full moon picked out a tiny figure floating close to the bank a little downstream. It was the baby. Tom jumped in. He retrieved the body of his dead son.
“And Angel?” asked Start.
“He saw nothing. He assumed she had drowned. But she must have surfaced unseen and drifted downstream in the strong current,” Faversham added.
“What about the baby? What did he do with the boy?” Olivia demanded.
“He held his son for a long time. Buried the poor little chap in a small copse on the edge of a field. After that, he just ran and ran. Somehow he made his way back to school. He needed to talk to someone, needed to know what to do.”
*
Deacon had seen the same news report watched by Devaney and Carlton. He reflected on what would happen to Catchpole’s leadership ambitions if any damaging secrets from his past were to be unearthed by Start and Olivia. He was intrigued also at the speed with which Coburn’s papers and media outlets had swung behind Catchpole’s bid. It was true that there had been much positive coverage of the young politician both in terms of his parliamentary performances and his radical environmental ideas but the emphasis had leant more towards his image and new found standing as a man of the people. Perhaps it was the strategy all along, designed to raise his social profile but also to establish him as a credible future leader. Typical Coburn, thought Deacon, always one step ahead of the game.
But something else interested him more. Catchpole had departed without comment after his address to the 1900 Committee but his friend and staunch supporter, Harry Spenser, had come out to speak with reporters on his behalf. “Yes, Tom Catchpole is the man to lead the country out of the mess left by this government and on to strong and sustained growth and prosperity. Yes, his radical policies are uncompromising but necessary to ensure future success.”
The last point intrigued Deacon the most. Spenser had been called many things since his arrival as a young MP close on ten years ago. Most often a bon viveur who enjoyed the finer things in life a little too much but also a closet toff who had jumped on the wrong political bandwagon. Some did suspect a more skilled political operator lay beneath his somewhat stilted Commons offerings. But it was difficult to countenance that someone, who could easily have crossed to the Government benches opposite, was apparently willing to embrace the levels of dramatic change being touted by Catchpole. Plus, take into account Spenser’s secret meetings with Henry Lighterman and important figures in the British Establishment, and his pledge of support was difficult to comprehend. All Catchpole’s talk of giving power back to the people seem to clash horribly with the anti-democratic stance of the League of Albion.
Deacon now knew what he had to do. Although every ounce of common sense was telling him to leave well alone, the last fading embers of journalistic instinct residing in his creaking body demanded that he act. Perhaps all along he had meant this to happen. All his efforts to resuscitate Start had been a diversion, a means of denying an unpalatable truth. That he, Jack Deacon, former campaigning reporter himself and flagship editor par excellence, had also run and was also hiding. To win back respect for Joe, perhaps it was necessary to resto
re respect for himself. He could no longer sit on the sidelines. He must pursue this to its very core and to the very end, and he would begin by tailing Max Coburn.
*
Faversham momentarily waited, as if to allow his two interrogators time to assimilate what he had said. No sympathy was evident in either pair of eyes staring back at him. “Tom just kept screaming they’re dead, they’re dead!”
“And you did nothing?” Olivia said.
“You have to understand. It was an accident. He was a brilliant student. Such potential. Besides, it was certain that the girl and the baby were gone.
“You didn’t link her with reports of the young woman found in the Top Fen?” Start asked.
“No. Why would I? All the evidence suggested she’d drowned. I assumed the body was trapped in the car at the bottom of the dyke. Anyway no one was looking for her. The police believed she’d perished in that awful fire at her grandfather’s cottage.”
“All very convenient,” Start observed.
“What was to be gained by pursuing the matter?”
“What if she’d talked?” Olivia said.
“Tom would still have denied everything.”
“No doubt with an alibi supplied by you!” Olivia snorted.
“I had the future of six hundred boys to think about,” Faversham replied. “There’s not a day goes by when I don’t regret my actions.”
“Try telling that to the police,” Olivia retorted.
Faversham nodded wearily. “There is something else. Some years later I was blackmailed. The boy who passed the note under the door. It was Harry Spenser.”
“The Harry Spenser?” Start said.
“Yes. He’d had his eye on Angel and must have been furious with Tom for pulling her away at the Christmas party. Felt humiliated I imagine. He must have followed them and witnessed the whole episode unfold in the cricket pavilion. He was jealous of Tom. Always felt second best. Anyway he blackmailed me, threatened to tell all to the Press if I didn’t help him. He wanted to break into politics. I contacted one of the college alumni working in the party’s headquarters. He used his influence to arrange a safe seat.”
