by Ray Connolly
We serve the sentence of death upon those newspeople who betray and deceive the people they pretend to inform.
Through PUMA the dumb shall speak; the deaf shall hear and the blind shall see.
The scales of treachery will be scraped from the eyes of the people.
Because PUMA are the people.
Power to the people.
Power to PUMA.
After each reading the document for the fifth time Mitford and Lloyd surveyed each other. At last Lloyd broke their silence: ‘Power to the Press, too, don’t you think, Donald?’ he said.
Mitford smiled. The story got better by the minute.
At five o’clock the various department heads assembled in the green-sludge-coloured office from which Lloyd directed operations. It was a small office, quite without any of the grandiose fitments that were standard furniture for the more opulent morning newspapers down the road, and the younger members of the staff found themselves having to squat uncomfortably on the floor so that their seniors might sit with greater elegance on the few chairs which the room could accommodate. Huckle, who ordinarily would never have been invited to such a gathering, found himself sitting on a rather too hot radiator and having to fidget continually throughout the conference in order not to roast any particular area of his bottom.
John Lloyd looked at his senior staff rather in the way he imagined Ben Bradlee might regard his men of the Washington Post. He was a self-made journalist, one of the old school without the social and academic advantages of Fleet Street’s younger band of avengers. But neither his accent nor his demeanour suggested anything other than a total classlessness, an attitude he had come to accept since his lower middle-class roots had left him a social drifter, who had in the process of twenty-five years steady promotion managed to relearn all his attitudes, speech patterns and social judgements. Now he was holding a late afternoon conference, not because there was anything to be said which had not already been said or which could not wait until the next morning conference, but because by doing so, by breaking the everyday routine of the office, he was solemnizing something, adding an element of ritually manufactured excitement to an already buzzing atmosphere. Because now the media was the news.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ he said grandly, smiling round the room, and opening the conference. Blank faces returned his smile. ‘Now I don’t think any of you haven’t read the PUMA manifesto … or at least don’t know what it contains …’
‘No …’ A voice from the sports’ department spoke up somewhat timorously. It was Frinton, the Sports chief sub. Frinton would have liked to add that some of the paper had been busy with naming the Chelsea team to face Fulham that night, that Muhammad Ali was reported to be on the point of fighting again and that another manager’s job looked in danger, but he didn’t. He just sat there and felt the slightly withering glances penetrating the back of his head.
John Lloyd rubbed his chin in an attitude that half suggested ‘what am I doing employing these idiots who can’t even understand their own newspaper?’ but he said: ‘Well, basically it appears that this group of terrorists called PUMA have it in for us … that is, newspapers, radio and television. We’ve been asked not to publish their manifesto, but what they are very clearly saying seems to be that we, that is the media, are the manipulators of opinion, and therefore we, rather than the Government, are the enemy of the people. It isn’t a new theory, but what makes it special in this case is that these fellows appear to be preparing to wage a war against us. They don’t say whether they plan any more bombings, but in one way or another journalists both in print and on the air are their targets … that is journalists who express ideas with which they disagree, and I think that probably accounts for most people here …’
He beamed again at his staff, and waited for the fawning, dutiful laughter. Virtually everyone in the room knew all this anyway, but his repetition of it marked it as a moment in their careers which they would be able to remember. It almost seemed to Huckle that someone ought to break open a bottle of champagne, so light-hearted and agreeable was the tone of the meeting. He wished he had had the presence of mind to record it. And then he thought about Sheila Fairclough, and wondered when the funeral was to be held.
Almost as if the same thought had struck him, Lloyd suddenly became serious: ‘It may seem funny to imagine oneselves as the object of so much attention, even flattering, but we have to remember that one young girl has already been killed. So it must be reasonable to suppose that the lives of other people are in danger. The manifesto actually appears to be ambivalent on this subject: while they say they abhor violence at one point they also go on to say that “false prophets” - which I suppose is us - shall receive the “ultimate punishment according to their crimes against the people”. And then later on they talk about the “valiant few who will die in the struggle”.
‘Now I don’t want anyone to be alarmed by this, but I think it is as well that we all know, and that all the members of the individual departments are made aware of the seriousness of what is going on. It is highly unlikely that anyone in this office will become involved … in fact it seems that the more obvious targets are television and well-known political commentators, but all the same it’s as well to be on our guard. I don’t think any of us want to end up as the subject of a front page lead.’
Again there was polite amusement from the staff. Then once again came the piping Scottish voice of the Sports chief sub, voicing, no doubt, what everybody else was thinking: ‘Is it true that the police have no idea who PUMA actually are?’
John Lloyd looked down to the chief crime reporter, John Stebbings, a man bald and shiny who worked hand in glove with the numerous bobbies all over London who kept him informed of activities and who were each sent a number of pound notes per tip off, money sent directly to their homes, unaccounted and unaccountable. Stebbings liked to think that he was the major link between the public and the public’s guardians, and had rather resented the fact that other reporters had been called in to cover various aspects of this story. Most of all he resented the part played by Huckle, which pleased Huckle inordinately.
‘I understand that the Bomb Squad are following up various leads,’ he said pompously. ‘My contacts tell me that we can expect raids on several communes and squats within the next few days …’
Nonsense, thought Huckle. But he said nothing. Stebbings had merely been giving the official police line as leaked to the lower echelons of the force, to keep up morale and for feeding to the Press.
Lloyd smiled again. ‘Well I don’t want to keep any of you from your homes a moment longer than necessary,’ he said, and the shuffling of chairs began as the group heaved themselves to their feet. ‘I think we’re in for quite an exciting time in the next few days, so I wish you all good luck in your work.’ That was a funny phrase, thought Huckle. He’d never heard the editor wish them good luck before.
For Winston it had been a day of snakes and ladders, more to do with detection than reporting, and all the more interesting because of that. He had started the day with a battery of telephone calls, but by lunchtime he knew that if he were to discover anything then the only way was by getting out of the office and making person to person contact. He had gone first to the Rank Laboratories at Denham where he had managed to con his way into the staff canteen for a lunch with some of the laboratory technicians; from there he had returned towards Heathrow Airport where Technicolor did their processing. Getting in to Technicolor had been more difficult, but when the early morning shift finished at 3.30 a ten pound note which changed hands in the car park had again found a willing talker. From there he had made two further stops at smaller film processing laboratories.
By the time he was back in the office at six o’clock he had a list of names and telephone numbers, and was just about to start dialling when the editorial meeting broke up and Huckle and his superiors emerged from John Lloyd’s room. Winston beckoned Huckle across to him.
‘I think I k
now the way the film was made,’ he said.
‘Go on …’ Huckle was smiling. He liked Winston best when he thought he’d done something clever.
‘Well, the Achilles’ heel of all urban guerillas is when they get involved in straight crime,’ said Winston. ‘But to make that piece of film it was likely that they had to. They couldn’t send it to a laboratory for processing and printing if it had their name on it because it would be traced back to them. So they had to get into villainy.’
‘If they weren’t into it already.’
‘No. These characters aren’t regular villains. At least some of them are educated, and I’m prepared to bet they’re in straight jobs, or at least have been in straight jobs.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, just on the off-chance I asked someone I know how I should get a length of black and white film processed and printed without anyone knowing what it was. He’s an independent producer and a bit crooked, and he knows these things. Well, the way to do it is the porno way. Apparently these guys who make pornographic films give the stuff to one of the operators at Rank or Technicolor and he runs it through the bath in his lunch-hour …’
‘The bath?’
‘That’s what they process in … it’s a technical term.’
Huckle smiled at Winston: already he was an expert on film technology, after only a day on the story.
Winston carried on: ‘Look, porno films are illegal. Right! So the makers send their unprocessed footage up to Denham and bung the operator - say - £50 to run it through for them when no one is looking. It isn’t logged, and because it’s black and white it isn’t checked. The guy who sends it through doesn’t even get a chance to look at it. So to all intents and purposes it doesn’t exist. When it’s been processed the porno boys pick up their negative and their positive and no one’s any the wiser.’
‘So?’ Huckle had only an inkling at what Winston might be driving.
‘So, if you want to get an illicit piece of film processed, what better way than to borrow a porno man’s camera for half a day, say when he’s half way through the mag, shoot your stuff, give it back to him to complete the roll and then pick up your stuff from him when he gets it back from the lab. No one at the lab will have seen it, and even if, by chance, they have, your name isn’t on it. The only person who might know anything is the porno picture maker. And he can’t talk because he’s into villainy anyway.’
‘Sounds feasible,’ Huckle had to agree.
‘It’s more than feasible. All day I’ve been traipsing around the labs … and now we’ve got some telephoning to do.’ He sat down at his phone and referred to his shorthand notes.
Huckle could see a name and a phone number written very clearly half way down among the squiggles. ‘What’ve you got there?’ he asked.
‘Twelve names, and twelve numbers,’ said Winston, pleased to have gained the curiosity of his colleague. ‘Twelve men who, in the past six months, have used the big labs to process dirty movies. It can’t hurt to try.’
‘What are you going to say?’ Huckle was pleased more by Winston’s bounding optimism and energy than by the likelihood that they might discover anything.
Winston thought for a moment: ‘What about “You are Loppy Lud and I claim my two hundred pounds” …’ He began to dial the number. Huckle watched him with some admiration. At Winston’s request he picked up the phone extension as he heard the ringing tone.
‘Hello.’ A woman’s voice answered.
‘Hello. I wonder could I speak to Laurence Parmentier?’ Winston’s voice was breezy and self-confident, spiced with a broad sing-song West Indian accent which Huckle had not heard him use before.
There was a slight pause. ‘Who shall I say wants Mr Parmentier?’
‘Winston Collins.’ He gave his name baldly, adding no further explanation. Another pause. ‘Could you give me some indication of what it is in connection with?’
‘I’m interested in talkin’ to him about some filmin’ work …’
‘Just a minute, please.’
Another pause. Winston smiled at Huckle. Then the phone was again picked up. ‘Laurence E. Parmentier …’
Suddenly Winston’s accent was gone. He explained who he was and the name of the newspaper he worked for. Over the extension Huckle heard Parmentier draw in his breath. ‘We have information to suggest that you helped PUMA have a length of film processed,’ said Winston bluntly, his best foot in the ear approach.
‘What?’ Parmentier’s voice sounded angry and confused.
Winston repeated his accusation.
‘Bollocks,’ said Parmentier and put down the telephone.
Huckle looked at Winston and shook his head. ‘That’s what they’re all going to say.’
‘Quite possibly. But being an accessory to guerilla warfare is a long jump from taking dirty pictures. If anybody did help PUMA they’re certain to be a bit worried about what they’ve got themselves into.’
‘But you may be on the completely wrong tack.’
‘So? Eleven more phone calls aren’t going to kill me. And you never know.’
Huckle wondered just what John Lloyd would say if he heard that Winston was ringing up people and accusing them at random of being in league with a guerilla group, but then he remembered that none of the people on Winston’s list was in much of a position to claim Press harrassment. ‘Come on then. We might as well ring up the rest of your list or you’ll never sleep tonight,’ he said at last. Once again Winston consulted his notebook and began dialling. This time the answer was a lugubrious, ‘Piss off.’
‘Nice class of people,’ said Winston.
‘How will we know if we get the right one?’ asked Huckle after three more fruitless calls.
‘They’ll sound frightened as well as being angry. Straight pornographers won’t give a damn. The police know who they all are, and generally leave them alone. But a villain who’s got out of his depth will be scared now.’
Another five calls went by. Three of them were unanswered. Huckle looked at his watch. It was going to be a waste of an evening. He was now hardly listening, then he noticed Winston stiffening in his chair as the phone was picked up on the eleventh call. Again he heard Winston go through the chore of introducing himself and stating his belief that the person who he had called, someone called Joe Chambers, was an accessory to the PUMA urban guerillas. But this time there didn’t come the confused belligerence which he had grown used to hearing.
‘Who’s speaking?’ The voice was high and scratchy.
Winston repeated his name. ‘I’d like to talk to you about your involvement in the terrorist group called PUMA,’ he went on.
At the other end of the telephone there was another pause. By now Huckle could feel waves of tension flowing through him.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about …’
‘Yes you do, Mr Chambers. I’m talking about the film which you helped shoot which was shown on television last night.’
Again there was a pause. Huckle could sense that Chambers was uncertain what to say yet his voice suggested that he wanted Winston to carry on talking so that he might discover more of what Winston professed to know.
‘Sorry, you got the wrong man. I haven’t shot anything like that.’ There was another pause.
‘In that case I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr Chambers,’ said Winston. But he didn’t hang up. Winston and Huckle were both listening hard. Winston pointed to an address scribbled in his notebook under Chambers’s name. Of the twelve names and phone numbers only two had been provided with addresses. Chambers was one of them. Huckle read it to himself: 58A Westbourne Grove Close, W11. Basement flat. It would take about twenty-five minutes to get there.
Suddenly the line went dead from Joe Chambers’s end.
‘That,’ said Winston, ‘is one very frightened man.’
Huckle nodded. Winston was almost certainly right.
The Westbourne Grove area of North Kensington is distinctive fo
r its long-faded elegance. When it was first developed, property barons lost fortunes in putting up fine stucco-covered five- and six-storey buildings for the new merchant classes of London; but now a century later new developers had profited largely from their neglect and by partitioning them into flats and bed sitters.
‘Your old stomping ground, isn’t it?’ Huckle asked Winston as they drove between the large grey and cream shabby buildings.
‘This was smart compared with where I grew up,’ said Winston. ‘This was up-town in those days for us.’
It was a wet and blowy night. During the day a warm front had moved in from the west, blowing away the ice of the past ten days and bringing with it squally showers that whipped across the pavements shining in the street lamps. At last their cab driver found the house they were looking for: one of a large terrace, run down and dilapidated, a place where prosperity meant the painting of a front door in some garish colour. They climbed out of the cab, collars pulled up against the wind and rain. Graffiti had been sprayed across the walls of the house and around the large doorway: ‘Sex rules, okay?’ said one message. ‘Okay!’ agreed Huckle, as he paid the cab and it made good its escape towards parts more fashionable. At the front of the house were some stone steps which led down from the pavement to the basement door. It looked slippery and dark. Huckle peered down. There was no sign of life, no light, nothing. It was silent. ‘After you, Blackman,’ said Huckle. Winston looked round sheepishly, then led the way down the steps, carefully holding on to the hand rail as he walked.
At the bottom of the steps they were met by the foul smell of cats and rotting food coming from the six bins stacked up in front of the basement window. Winston wrinkled up his nose, and leaning across the bins tried to peep into the front room. He could see nothing. Turning back towards the door he studied the name on the bell. ‘Well, it’s the right place …’ He paused nervously, waiting for Huckle to say something.
