A Very British Coup (26 page)

He was not the only one. A twenty-mile-an-hour wind was blowing due south. At that rate a cloud of radioactive carbon dioxide would take just fifteen minutes to engulf the village of Newby Bridge at the end of Windermere. Then, assuming no change in the direction of the wind, the radioactive cloud would continue south over Morecambe Bay and would reach Blackpool within little over an hour. Within three hours it could be over Liverpool.

“Facilities for the orderly evacuation of Liverpool do not exist,” said the Chief Constable of Merseyside when informed of the news.

By 0935 the Windermere engineers managed to get the emergency cooling system working which stopped the uranium melting, but the radiation level in the reactor hall was higher than ever. The meter reading was showing nearly one thousand millirems in the area of the reactor and even men wearing protective clothing could only work there for a few minutes at a time.

By midday, with the help of experts from London flown in by army helicopter, the engineers managed to insert the warped control rods and close down the reactor. Tests outside the building showed that radiation was reaching dangerous levels. Disaster had been averted. Just.

*

The preliminary investigation showed that the cause of the leakage was a series of hairline cracks in the base of the concrete pressure vessel which contained the reactor. The cracks had developed into fissures when the reactor overheated due to the failure of the emergency cooling system. Later enquiries revealed that the cracks occurred because the concrete used in the construction of the pressure vessel did not match the specifications laid down by the designers and approved by Nuclear Installations Inspectorate. Neither had the vessel been adequately tested despite documentation that said otherwise. In other words, British Insulated Industries had a few questions to answer. A public enquiry was immediately announced, but it was not only British Insulated who would face questions.

On the Sunday morning after the accident at Windermere, David Booth made himself a pot of tea and sat out in the garden with the papers. It was the first time that year that the weather had been good enough to sit outside. His wife had taken the children to lunch at her mother's, so he would not be disturbed.

The papers were full of the Windermere disaster. The
Sunday Times
Insight team had traced the whole history of the project and their report filled a special four-page pull-out. Most of the papers had been quick to pounce upon Harry Perkins' role in the affair. There were long articles describing how he had forced the deal through in the teeth of bitter opposition from his own civil servants, the Atomic Energy Authority and the Central Electricity Generating Board. Several editorials called on Perkins to make a statement.

David Booth took more than a casual interest. He was a principal in the foreign exchange department at the Treasury, but thirteen years ago – exactly at the time the deal with British Insulated had been negotiated – he had been on a six-month secondment to the nuclear division of the Public Sector Department. Indeed he had actually taken part in some of the negotiations.

At the time, Booth had formed a sneaking regard for Perkins. He had been deeply impressed by the way Perkins had stood his ground over the reactors against virtually the entire establishment. He had also been appalled at the way his civil service superiors had behaved: refusing to circulate briefing documents; withholding from the minister information that did not tally with the case they were putting forward. There had been times when he had seriously wondered whether or not some of his colleagues were actually in the pay of the American reactor company.

But none of this concerned Booth that sunny Sunday morning. He was worrying that he knew what the
Sunday Times
Insight team did not, something that would cause a sensation if it became generally known. David Booth knew that, at the time Harry Perkins had been pushing British Insulated's case through Cabinet he had been having an affair with the secretary to the managing director of British Insulated. Booth had seen the Secretary of State discreetly hand the girl that envelope during the negotiations at the department one morning. He had watched them drinking coffee together by the window overlooking the Thames. And in the weeks that followed he had seen the knowing winks and nods, the occasional pat of the elbow that the Secretary of State and the girl had exchanged.

The question was, what should he do about it? In all probability the affair was entirely innocent. Foolish perhaps for a man in Perkins' position, but nevertheless innocent. He had no wish to do Perkins down. God knows, the man had enough trouble on his hands without all this being raked up. In any case he had worked with Perkins. The man was as straight as a die – even his worst enemies would concede that.

On the other hand, a doubt nagged him. Supposing the girl had influenced the decision over the reactor? Supposing she had led him, however unwittingly, to come down in favour of British Insulated? Almost certainly there was nothing in it, but it was his duty to report what he had seen.

Booth wrestled with the problem all weekend. He did not
finally make up his mind until he arrived at his desk on Monday morning. Then he asked for an immediate appointment with his permanent secretary, Sir Peter Kennedy.

When the memorandum from Sir Peter Kennedy arrived on Sir Peregrine Craddock's desk the DI5 chief's eyes lit up. Sir Peregrine was not much given to displays of emotion, but he got up, paced his office and slapped his thigh with the flat of his hand. If this is true, he said to himself, we've got the bastard at last.

Composing himself Sir Peregrine returned to his desk and buzzed Fiennes.

“There's a man called David Booth who works in the Foreign Exchange Department of the Treasury. I want to see him immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I want to get on to our man at the Public Sector Department. Ask him to get me the names and addresses of everyone from British Insulated Industries who took part in the reactor negotiations at the Department thirteen years ago.” He looked up at Fiennes who was standing almost to attention. “Everyone. Do you understand? Typists, clerks, stenographers, the lot.”

“At once, sir.”

“And when you've done that,” Sir Peregrine was still looking at Fiennes, “get on to the Special Branch inspector in charge of the Prime Minister's security. Tell him I would like to see him as soon as possible, but that he is not to let anyone know he is coming here. Neither his superiors nor the Prime Minister. Especially not the Prime Minister.”

What's all that about? wondered Fiennes, as he closed the door behind him and returned to the outer office. He knew better than to ask questions, however. He would find out soon enough.

David Booth arrived at Curzon Street House within the hour and was shown straight to Sir Peregrine's office. His hands
were shaking slightly as Fiennes showed him in. Even now he was not sure he had done right. Perhaps there was something in it after all. All the same, he never expected to be summoned by the head of DI5.

Sir Peregrine was in an affable mood. When Booth entered, he leaned across his desk and shook hands. “So good of you to come, Mr Booth. I shan't keep you long.” He waved Booth to an armchair.

The interview lasted about ten minutes. Booth repeated what he had already told his permanent secretary that morning. Sir Peregrine went over the details carefully. Had he actually
seen
Perkins hand the envelope to the girl? Yes, he had. Did he have any idea what was in it? No, he did not. Could it have been connected with the reactor negotiations? Yes, possibly. Perhaps the Secretary of State had simply handed over some document for safe keeping that she would afterwards pass on to her boss? Possible, but unlikely. And in any case there was all that nodding and winking.

“Quite so,” said Sir Peregrine crisply, “but even Secretaries of State are not above occasionally making eyes at a pretty girl. That didn't mean he was sleeping with her.”

Not necessarily, agreed Booth. He was beginning to feel that it was all in his imagination. There was nothing in Sir Peregrine's reaction to indicate whether he believed the story or not.

“One final question,” Sir Peregrine was saying. “Have you told anyone about this apart from Sir Peter Kennedy?”

“No sir.”

“No one at all? Not even at the time.”

“No.”

“Good.” Sir Peregrine smiled benignly. “Then I'd be obliged if you would continue to keep the whole thing under your hat.”

The DI5 chief rose and Booth rose with him. They walked towards the door. “I am sure you appreciate,” said Sir Peregrine confidentially, “that if any of this got out, there would be the most awful stink.”

*

Inspector Page nearly fell over backwards when he received the summons to Curzon Street. Of course in his job he often dealt with DI5, but only with the liaison man in Downing Street or other government departments. Usually these dealings only involved routine checks on people scheduled to meet the Prime Minister. Occasionally he drew the odd threatening letter to DI5's attention. But a meeting with the chief himself, that was another matter.

Page arrived at Curzon Street House in the early evening. Fiennes had stressed that he was not to tell anyone and so he waited until he went off duty before setting out. Fiennes met him in the lobby and took him by lift to the second floor. He offered no clue as to what it was all about. The truth was that Fiennes did not know. When he had handed over the list of names and addresses of the British Insulated Industries people that had arrived that afternoon, Sir Peregrine had received it without comment.

When Fiennes entered with Inspector Page he noticed that the list was lying on Sir Peregrine's desk and that one of the names had been circled in red. He was not close enough to see which one.

Sir Peregrine waited until Fiennes had left the room before he spoke. “Inspector,” he said, “does the name Molly Spence mean anything to you?”

The inspector's forehead creased to a frown. After a moment's thought he said, “No, sir.”

“Mrs Jarvis, perhaps?”

“No sir.”

Sir Peregrine was sitting sideways on to the window, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair and his fingers joined at the tips. To look at the inspector he had to turn his head sharply to the right. “Am I correct in thinking that you have been looking after the Prime Minister since the day he took office?”

“Yes sir.”

“And as far as you know, no one of that name has visited him during that time.”

“That's right sir.”

Sir Peregrine stared straight ahead, his chin touching the tip of his joined fingers. “Is it conceivable that a lady of that name could visit him without your knowing?”

The inspector smiled. The idea of Harry Perkins receiving secret visits from a young lady was one that appealed to his sense of humour. “Possible, but not likely, sir.”

“When he visits his constituency in Sheffield perhaps?”

“If he goes to Sheffield either I or the sergeant go with him. Normally he returns to London the same night.”

“Or to his flat in Kennington.”

“Nowadays he only stays at Kennington one or two nights a week,” said the inspector. “In which case there would be a uniformed man on duty in the lobby downstairs, day and night. I would expect to be told of any visitors.”

Sir Peregrine turned back towards the inspector. Reaching his arm forward, he pressed the switch on a desk lamp. It illuminated the space between them, giving the inspector his first clear view of the DI5 chief's face.

“Do you have access to the Prime Minister's flat, Inspector?”

“Yes sir, I have a key.”

“Good.” Sir Peregrine smiled. “I want you to do something for me.”

The inspector stiffened a little. “Sir, I normally get my instructions from the Branch.”

“I'll clear this with your superiors,” said Sir Peregrine brusquely. He went on to explain that he wanted the inspector to search the Prime Minister's flat for any trace of the woman called either Molly Spence or Mrs Jarvis. He was to look for photographs, letters, dedications on the inside of books and to search desks, cupboards, drawers and filing cabinets. He was to leave everything exactly as he found it. He was to take no one with him and, above all, to breathe not a word to anyone.

Sir Peregrine scribbled a number on a scrap of paper which he passed to the inspector. “This is my direct line. You are to report to me personally and to bring with you whatever you find.”

*

Inspector Page waited until Friday when the Prime Minister left for his weekly visit to Sheffield under the watchful eye of Sergeant Block. Then he drove to Kennington. He felt distinctly uneasy. It was not every day he was ordered to commit burglary, let alone in the home of the Prime Minister. He might have felt happier had he been told the reason for the interest in this woman Spence or Jarvis or whatever her name was. In any case, why couldn't DI5 do its own dirty work? And so what if Perkins was having it off on the quiet? Good luck to him.

Page had been looking after Perkins for over a year now. Politically they were miles apart. Page was a bit of a law and order man himself, but he did not mind admitting that Perkins was a decent enough bloke. Over the last few months Page had often found himself alone with the Prime Minister. Sharing compartments on trains, sitting together in the back of an official car on the way to a speaking engagement, even sharing a seat on the top deck of those damn buses that Perkins still insisted on riding now and again. Perkins had listened patiently to Inspector Page's views on what should be done with strikers, rioters and Northern Ireland and sometimes they had engaged in good-natured argument. Perkins was forever asking about the inspector's family. On one occasion he had even invited Page to bring his wife and two small sons to Downing Street and had shown them round in person. The inspector would not exactly have described himself as a close friend, but he was as close as a bodyguard is ever likely to get to a Prime Minister.