by Lewis Orde
Sally gasped. “That’s thirty percent of the total seats.”
“That’s right. What are we going to do?”
“Come up in half an hour.”
Thirty minutes later, Stimkin entered Sally’s office. Katherine was present, as was her father, who had been summoned from the Adler’s store. Roland greeted Stimkin with the same question the editor had asked Derek Simon. “Are you quite certain about this figure of one hundred and eighty-two seats?”
“It was on the radio news not ten minutes ago. Alan Venables sounded damned sure of himself. He said that this time the League would have the added financial benefit of saving most of its deposits.”
Roland smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. “We owe those bastards for so much. The deaths of Archie and his grandson, the Manchester store fire, the poster campaign. None of it could we ever prove in a court of law, but we know in our hearts they were responsible for everything.”
“Don’t forget my accident,” Katherine said. “That was my fault, but it was still caused by them. Our present priority, however, is deciding how to deal with their election campaign. I suggest we begin by adopting a strong editorial position against proportional representation.”
“The Liberal-Social Democratic Alliance won’t like that,” Stimkin argued. “They feel that the current winner-take-all system is unfair to smaller parties.”
“It is, which is why it prevents extremists like the League from sneaking into minor positions of power just because they polled a small percentage of the overall vote.”
Sally nodded approval. Since the beginning of the year, Katherine had been working on the executive floor, sitting in on meetings, and working with Sally and other members of the Eagle Newspapers board of directors. Katherine’s ability to grasp problems and wrest solutions from them came as no surprise to Sally. “That’s a solid start. Beyond that . . .?”
Roland sighed. “I feel like I’m playing some old and cracked record. Cover their campaign the same way we cover everyone else’s. Publicize every lousy, stinking idea they have. Give them enough rope to hang themselves, and maybe the electorate will finally recognize them for the scum they are, and send them packing. We’re supposed to be better off now than we were in 1979, so logic dictates that the base of support for extremists like the League should have shrunk. Let’s hope that logic, for once, is right.”
*
Reporters were assigned to cover the League’s campaign. They brought back news of a manifesto that was little changed from 1979. Law and order. A strong military. Opposition to immigration. A crackdown on welfare cheats. Outlawing of strikes that threatened the public interest.
“Simplistic programs,” commented the Eagle’s opinion page, “guaranteed to appeal to simple-minded voters who believe that simple solutions exist to complex problems.”
A week into the campaign, another similarity to the previous election emerged. A handful of Conservative MPs, all representing constituencies where opinion polls had shown the League to be particularly active, began to push a line that was far to the right of the official party platform. Leading them, as in 1979, were the two politicians Katherine had met at John Saxon’s home, the two who had sponsored the censure of her father: Daniel Cooper and Edwin Johnson. Both men were tipped for possible cabinet positions in any new Tory government.
When Lawrie Stimkin mentioned this maneuver at an editorial meeting, Katherine offered the explanation Saxon had given her four years earlier. “They’re stealing some of the League’s thunder, Lawrie. By doing so, they’re hoping to steal votes that would otherwise go to the League.”
Stimkin snorted. “This particular group of MPs doesn’t need to steal thunder from the League. They’re already so far to the right, they’re an embarrassment to their own party.”
*
Raymond Barnhill was one of the reporters covering the League’s campaign. He attended press conferences, accompanied candidates canvassing for votes, and listened to hours of wholly predictable speeches. The assignment was a stark example of journalism’s tedious side, and Barnhill quickly became bored with it.
“Some junior reporter could adequately handle what you have me doing,” Barnhill complained to Lawrie Stimkin. “I feel like Van Gogh being asked to draw cartoons.”
Stimkin’s face broke into a rare smile at the analogy. He quite liked the American journalist who had decided to make England his home. And he respected him, because he had not let success with a book turn his head away from his newspaper roots. “What do you think you should be doing?”
“What I’d be doing if I were in the States. I’d take a photographer and sniff around. I’d dig up some dirt, see what was underneath. And then I’d splash it across the front page.”
Stimkin’s smile grew even broader. “Why not? We already have McDonald’s and Burger King in the High Street, and Pizza Hut and Wendy’s on every corner, so what harm can it do to try American-style news coverage? I’ll give you until Thursday. Don’t bring me home any libel suits.”
Barnhill sought out Sid Hall. “Grab your long lenses and plenty of film, Sid. We’re going hunting.”
“What’s in season?”
“The head honchos of the British Patriotic League.”
Hall needed no second bidding. He still wore a scar where his cheek had been torn by a flying brick.
Barnhill signed out a company car for three days, then he and the photographer headed toward Patriot House. Instead of entering, Barnhill parked a hundred yards away, with a clear view of the entrance. Hall focused the five-hundred-millimeter lens of his motor-driven Nikon on the entrance, firing off shot after shot of the people who came and went. After half an hour, a short, dumpy man in a brown corduroy jacket and flannel trousers came hurrying out of the building. Hall tapped Barnhill’s arm.
“There goes Trevor Burns.”
The League’s publicity director drove off in a blue van. Barnhill followed. Burns’s journey took him to a large building on which was a sign: “Blackford Printing Company.” He backed up to a loading dock. Through the long lens, Hall took photographs of Burns supervising the loading of four dozen cardboard boxes.
“I thought they had their own press,” Hall said, as Barnhill followed the van back to Patriot House.
“They’re running nearly two hundred candidates in a general election, Sid. The League’s press probably can’t handle the necessary volume.”
The van stopped in front of Patriot House. Half a dozen young men came running out to unload the boxes and take them inside. Burns opened one of the boxes, pulled out a handful of magazines, and began passing them out to pedestrians. An elderly man took one, glancing through it as he walked toward where Barnhill and Hall were parked. He dropped it into a trash can not five yards from the car. Barnhill waited a minute before leaving the car to retrieve it.
The magazine was a special pre-election edition of Patriot. The front cover showed a color photograph of 10 Downing Street, with the Union Jack and the League pennant superimposed across the door. Block capitals declared: “You can make it happen!”
Barnhill skimmed through the magazine. It contained pictures and biographies of the League’s candidates, a slanted history of the organization, and an interview with Alan Venables on why the League was Britain’s last remaining hope. “Check this out, Sid,” Barnhill said. “Sixty-four pages, and four-color all the way through.”
“Even some advertising,” Hall said, studying a full-page ad for a building supply company. “Must have cost a pretty penny to put this together, but the advertising sure didn’t pay for it.”
Reporter and photographer remained in the car until seven-thirty that evening. Although hundreds of people passed in and out of Patriot House, they saw no more of the executive committee. They drove back to Fleet Street, stopping on the way for a sandwich and a cup of tea. While Hall developed the eight rolls of film he had shot that day, Barnhill took the copy of Patriot to his desk. A message in his typewriter asked him t
o telephone Katherine at home.
“Did you find any real dirt?” she asked him.
“I see you spoke to Lawrie Stimkin.”
“He told me you gave him a lecture on how things were done on The New York Times and the Washington Post.”
“I wasn’t that aggressive. I made suggestions.”
“What did you get?”
“Just a super-glossy commemorative edition of the League’s rag, with enough four-color in it to sink a battleship. Sid and I will try again tomorrow.”
“Good luck.”
Barnhill went back to reading the magazine. An hour later, Sid Hall appeared with contact sheets and a magnifier. A dozen frames were of Trevor Burns. The remainder showed visitors to Patriot House. Barnhill sifted through them. Men, women, young, old. The only common denominator was that they were all white, but he had not expected anything different.
“Recognize anyone?” Hall asked.
“Not a soul. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
Early the next morning, they were parked in the same place, in time to see all three members of the executive committee arrive at campaign headquarters. Alan Venables was first, at eight-thirty. Pinned to his tweed jacket was a red, white, and gold rosette. He stopped to shake hands with several passers-by, and posed for a press photograph before entering the building.
Trevor Burns was next, wearing the same clothes as the previous day, a rosette pinned to his corduroy jacket. No one shook Burns’s hand, or asked for his picture. Neville Sharpe, the League’s financial director, arrived just before nine o’clock, tall and somber in a dark blue suit with the inevitable rosette.
Burns came out again fifteen minutes later, carrying a dozen buff envelopes. He stepped into a white Vauxhall driven by another man. Barnhill started his own car, and the tail began again. The white Vauxhall headed west. After a mile, Sid Hall let out a painful groan.
“What’s the matter with you?” Barnhill asked.
“I bet I know where they’re going.”
“Where?”
The photographer did not answer. Barnhill continued to follow the Vauxhall, and soon he knew. Where else did a man seeking publicity go? Trevor Burns was leading them home to Fleet Street.
Burns went from one newspaper to the next, delivering the buff envelopes. He did not neglect the Eagle; he left an envelope there as well, addressed to the editor. Barnhill entered the Eagle building long enough to find out that the envelope contained a copy of the speech Alan Venables would give that evening to a meeting of electrical trade union members.
“Not much of a hunting season so far, is it?” Hall remarked on the journey back to Patriot House.
Barnhill shrugged. “You don’t hit a bird with every shot. We’ll get our chance yet, you’ll see.”
In the afternoon, they followed Venables as the League chairman lent his personal support to candidates in East London. In the evening, when Venables kept his appointment with the union members, Barnhill and Hall returned to the Eagle. Again, there was a message in Barnhill’s typewriter. He telephoned Kate’s Haven, ready for some more teasing.
Katherine did not disappoint him. “How did the American plan go today?”
“You keep riding me, and I’ll find another job.”
“Don’t do that. But I did hear that you and Sid were shown the way back to Fleet Street this morning.”
“Tomorrow,” Barnhill vowed. “Tomorrow we’re going to come up with a story that will win the Pulitzer Prize, or whatever they award over here.”
Katherine blew a kiss into the telephone. “I’ll give you a prize whether you find anything or not.”
An hour later, Sid Hall brought that day’s collection of photographs. More faces going in and out of Patriot House. Burns delivering press releases in Fleet Street. Venables canvassing. “All we need now,” Barnhill said sourly, “are pictures of Neville Sharpe engaged in some thoroughly useless pursuit, and we’ll have the complete set.”
Shortly before noon the following day, they got the complete set. Neville Sharpe emerged from Patriot House, smart and businesslike in a dark gray pinstripe suit, with a large briefcase swinging from his hand. The League’s financial director climbed into a yellow Ford and pulled away. Barnhill followed.
“Where do you think this one’s going to lead us, Sid?”
“I’m paid to take photographs, not think.”
Barnhill tailed Sharpe across the Thames at London Bridge, past the Elephant and Castle, and all the way to Kennington. The yellow Ford signaled a right turn, and Hall began to laugh.
“What the hell’s so funny?” asked Barnhill, who was quite unfamiliar with south London.
“He’s going to the Oval. The cricket ground. In the middle of an election campaign, he’s going to sit on his arse and watch a bloody cricket match!”
“No offense, Sid, but you English are an unfathomable lot.”
“Maybe we’re just more civilized than you Yanks.”
Barnhill grinned. “Please don’t call me a Yank.”
A minute after Sharpe had entered the stadium, still carrying the briefcase, Barnhill and Hall followed. The photographer panned the crowd with the powerful telephoto lens. Barnhill heard the motorized film advance whir into action.
“Where is he?”
Hall passed him the camera. Barnhill looked across the vast playing field, beyond the white-clad cricketers to the crowd on the far side. In a sea of casual clothing, Sharpe’s pinstripe suit was easy to spot. Barnhill returned the camera and wondered how he would explain this to Lawrie Stimkin. Other reporters were busy following election campaigns, and Barnhill was wasting time at a cricket game! So much for sniffing around and digging up some dirt.
Something was happening on the field. Barnhill watched. A ball hit into the air, a barehanded fielder hauling it in, the umpire raising his index finger magisterially into the air. Despite his irritation, Barnhill had to smile. In baseball, the umpire would have signaled the out with a snarling, arm-snapping, thumb-jerking, foot-dragging performance deserving of an Oscar. Here, the man simply held up his index finger. Perhaps Sid Hall was right, and the English were more civilized. They were certainly more restrained.
“He’s going.”
“Huh?”
“Sharpe. He’s getting up and leaving.”
“He’s only been here fifteen minutes. What can he possibly see in fifteen minutes? For crying out loud, the games sometimes last three days, don’t they?” Still complaining, Barnhill followed Hall toward the exit. They reached their car first and waited. Sharpe headed back the way he had come. Before reaching London Bridge, he pulled into the curb. Barnhill drove past, looking for a parking spot.
Hall swung his head around. “He’s going into a bank.”
Alarm bells rang in Barnhill’s head. “Sid, check it out!” He stopped just long enough to allow the photographer to jump out of the car, then pulled into an empty space fifty yards on.
Sharpe came out of the bank five minutes later and drove away. Hall was a minute behind him. “What happened, Sid?”
“While I asked for information about opening an account, I managed to overhear Sharpe’s transaction. He was making a deposit. A bundle of money he had, took it out of that briefcase he’s been lugging around all day. All fifty-pound notes it looked like, as well. Hundreds of them, maybe even a thousand.”
“Was it to his own account? To a League account?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t very well look over his shoulder, could I?”
“No, I guess not.” Barnhill pulled out into the traffic. There was no hurry now. Sharpe had gone. They’d just head back to Fleet Street, and wonder about all that money. “Why a cricket match, Sid? Why did he go to a cricket match at the Oval?”
“Maybe the man just likes cricket. Some people do, you know,” Hall said in a voice which implied he did not.
“I suppose so.” Would he ever understand the English, Barnhill wondered. Sir Francis Drake played bowls before defeating the
Spanish Armada, and Neville Sharpe punctuated an election campaign with a quick visit to a county cricket game.
Sid Hall went straight to the darkroom to develop his film. Barnhill stayed out for an hour, eating lunch. He wanted to defer seeing the other reporters for as long as possible. When he eventually showed his face, the visit to the Oval was common knowledge. Sid Hall had told a couple of people that he’d watched a cricket game, and the word had spread. Barnhill just smiled and nodded as he was ribbed about lazing around while everyone else worked.
Lawrie Stimkin, however, seemed sympathetic. Standing by Barnhill’s desk, he said, “American ideas just don’t work over here, that’s all. Maybe it has to do with us using two hundred and forty volts instead of one-ten, or perhaps it’s because we drive on the other side of the road.”
“Don’t forget the money Sid saw Neville Sharpe deposit. Sid’s sure it was a big bundle.”
“So?”
“Well, where does it come from?”
“It could have been membership dues from the cretins who belong to the British Patriotic League.”
Before Barnhill could think of an answer, Sid Hall’s voice roared across the editorial floor. “Raymond . . .! There is a Santa Claus after all!”
The photographer spread prints over the desk top. Much had been cropped out. Gone was the field of play which had been between camera and subject. Gone was most of the crowd. All that remained was the area where Sharpe had been sitting.
Two dozen spectators were in each picture. Most were staring straight out, intent upon the game. Only Sharpe and the man seated next to him had other interests. In some prints, Sharpe could be seen talking to his neighbor, a fat man stuffed into an open-necked shirt and a sportcoat. He could have been anywhere between forty and fifty, with dark, curly hair that was going gray at the sides, and thick horn-rimmed glasses that gave him the appearance of an obese owl.
And in a series of three pictures, clearly shown, was the fat man passing four bulging envelopes to Sharpe, and Sharpe slipping them into the large briefcase.
