“And the people responsible got it in the neck, I hope.”
“I wish they had. In fact, nothing happened to them at all.”
“That doesn’t sound possible.”
“But it’s a fact. The volley-ball people went after the ones they took to be the ring-leaders. They didn’t know their names, but they identified them to the police fairly closely. One of them had red hair and another had a broken nose and so on. The police did quite a thorough investigation – one of them had been playing in our team and they were angry about it. They organised an identity parade and three youths were pointed out to them and charged. All of them had respectable family backgrounds and by the time they came to court they all had the most comprehensive alibis. The magistrate decided it was a case of mistaken identity and that was that.”
“And the alibis were organised – don’t tell me – by one of the firms in the City that specialise in that sort of thing.”
Michael said, in a voice choked by outrage and a split lip. “Then it’s true. Firms like that really do exist.”
His father said, “They exist all right, Michael. In the year you were born – I remember the date from that – the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Robert Mark, gave the Dimbleby Lecture on the BBC. All the previous lectures had been by important people, so they attracted a very large audience. This one was a bombshell. Because Mark stated, as a matter of cold fact and without any qualification, that there were half a dozen firms of solicitors, known to the police, who fabricated evidence.”
Tamplin said, “And I suppose the legal unions started screaming.”
“It was before I came into the law, but a friend of mine went, on the morning after the lecture, to have lunch at the Law Society. I don’t know whether the unions were screaming or not, but he told me that he sensed no feeling of hysterical outrage in
that
dining-room. He remembered one man saying, ‘Well, we all know the names of four of the firms the Commissioner was talking about. I wonder which the other two are?’”
Tamplin laughed, but Michael was not amused. He started to say something, fielded a look from his father and choked it off.
“With lawyers like that on your side,” Sherman agreed, “I suppose it wouldn’t be difficult to filter information through to the opposition.”
“Two other points,” said Tamplin, “which might or might not interest you. First, let me tell you about Anna.”
When he had finished, Sherman said, “I can see that having Anna under their thumb would feed South African intelligence a lot of information about the Katanga household. But it isn’t Katanga who’s on trial.”
“I agree. Then let us turn to another less attractive and even more confusing member of the female sex. One Mrs. Queen.”
Again, Sherman heard him out in silence. When Tamplin had finished, he said, “I’m sure that what you’re telling me is important, but I can’t quite see how anything this good woman can have found out could affect Mullen’s defence.”
Michael said, “Katanga’s an important prosecution witness, isn’t he?”
“Certainly. In fact, without his evidence there wouldn’t be a case at all.”
“Then suppose Mrs. Queen knew that he’d been concerned in another case – here or in South Africa – and had been found to have given perjured evidence. That would blow him out of court, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s possible.”
“Well, you said that Mullen had his government’s money behind him. Surely
they
could afford five hundred pounds to find out what this woman knows.”
“No doubt. But I couldn’t involve my client in that sort of expenditure off my own bat. It would have to be a partnership decision.”
“But surely, if you explained how important it was.”
Sherman sighed. He said, “I suppose I might be able to persuade them. But Bantings is an old-fashioned firm. We handle a lot of civil litigation, which is comparatively gentlemanly. We aren’t experienced in criminal work and all the infighting that’s involved in it. I’m sorry, but there it is.”
That same evening, and not much more than a mile away, the same problem was being discussed in the smaller saloon bar of the Dick Whittington public house. This had become the recognised meeting place of Sesolo’s private army. Half a dozen of its regular members were there.
“Have you got any idea, Boyo,” said Norman Hicks, owner of the BMW Alpina, “why the boss wants us to keep an eye on that old bag in Boswell Road?”
“No idea, Norm.”
“It’s not as if she was worth looking at. Now when we were put on to watching that little black packet at Katanga’s house, that was no hardship.”
“Wheels within wheels,” said Boyo.
“Must be something going on. Otherwise, why was the press snooping round her this morning?”
“I’ll tell you what I think,” said Jepson. The others suspended their drinking to listen. He was clearly the leader. “I don’t think it’s anything to do with Katanga at all. I think that old buzzard has picked up something about
Mullen.
Something that would do him no good at all if it came out. And she’s waiting to sell it to the highest bidder.”
“That’s an idea, Ronnie,” said Boyo. He did not have many ideas himself, but was prepared to give credit to those who did. “Let’s order another round.”
There was no dissent to this proposal.
Had Mrs. Queen known that two different sets of men were discussing her, she would, no doubt, have been much gratified by this evidence of her popularity and importance.
“We had every hope,” said Leopold de Morgan, “that the Foreign Office would give us a certificate under Section 4 which would have settled the question of your immunity once and for all.”
“And they’ve refused?” said Mullen. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“No. They have not refused. They have now given their certificate. They have decided that you are
not
in this country as a diplomatic agent.”
“Clearly a political decision,” said Yule. “I suppose one should have guessed that they would spare no effort to be uncooperative.”
“Not uncooperative,” said Mullen. “Hostile.”
De Morgan looked at the three men on the other side of his big, bare mahogany table. Yule and Mullen were angry. Roger Sherman looked worried. He said, “I suppose there’s no way of reversing their decision.”
“None at all. Section 4 says that their decision shall be conclusive in all proceedings.”
“Then we have no choice. We must fight the shop-lifting charge in the Magistrates’ Court.”
“Not necessarily.” De Morgan looked at Martin Bull who was sitting beside him. “We have discussed this development and I am indebted to my junior who has perceived what may be an alternative solution. I’ll ask him to tell you about it.”
“It’s in the Consular Relations Act, 1968,” said Bull. “It’s a less comprehensive protection, but it’s worth trying. We shall argue that even if Mr. Mullen is not a diplomatic agent – which we have to accept, although we think it’s an unreasonable decision – it can still be argued that he is a consular officer. And there’s one thing to be said for it. It’s a matter for legal decision. The Foreign Office can’t interfere with it.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” said Yule. “I will not conceal from you that I regard your Foreign Office as prejudiced and unreasonable. Now explain the drawbacks which, I am sure, exist.”
“
If
we establish that your premises, in Axe Lane, are part of your consular organisation – which should not be difficult –
and
that you, Mr. Mullen, are attached there—”
“Which I am.”
“Then it will be hard for the Crown to argue that you are not a consular officer. However—”
Yule said, “I felt sure there was a ‘however’ in it somewhere.”
“However,” continued Roger patiently, “consular officers are only immune from proceedings – I’ll give you the exact words of the Act – ‘in respect of acts performed in the exercise of consular functions’.”
There was quite a long silence while Yule and Mullen thought this one out. Yule said, “If I say that I despatched Mr. Mullen to that bookshop to obtain copies of Katanga’s book, is that not the performance by him of a consular function?”
“An affidavit on those lines would be most helpful. I will leave it to you and Mr. Sherman to work out the wording.”
When the South Africans and their solicitor had left, Bull said, “Do you really think we’ve got a chance, sir? The Court’s not going to like our changing horses in mid-stream.”
Leopold de Morgan, who had lit his favourite pipe and was now lying back in his chair emitting a cloud of tobacco smoke, said, “I thought we might have had an outside chance when I heard that Ackworth was going to head the Court.”
Martin wondered why his task would have been made any easier if he had to argue in front of Lord Ackworth, one of the most formidable Lord Chief Justices of the century. He was about to say this when de Morgan added, expelling another puff of smoke, “Because I’m told that young Lashmar cornered Ackworth in his Club the other day and spent half an hour proving to him that the sun went round the earth.”
“That should be helpful,” agreed Martin.
“It would have been extremely helpful. Almost, you might say, decisive, if Lashmar had been going to handle the appeal.”
“You mean—?”
“I mean that the Attorney General doesn’t appear to have quite such a high opinion of young Mr. Lashmar as Lashmar has of himself.”
“Then they’re going to use someone else?”
“So Messenger tells me.”
Mr. Messenger was their senior clerk.
“Did he tell you who’s tipped for the job?”
“He thinks it will be Eileen Wyvil.”
Martin whistled. He said, “That’s a different proposition, isn’t it?”
When she had first arrived, the schoolboy humour of the Junior Bar had translated ‘Wyvil’ into ‘Weevil’. But as she progressed upwards, attaining the position of Attorney General’s devil and Treasury Counsel, this disrespectful nickname had fallen out of use. To her friends in Chambers, like fat Sue Studd, she had become ‘Steeple’, a reference both to her height of five feet eleven inches and to her celebrated ancestor, Bishop Wyvil, who had built the world-famous spire of Salisbury Cathedral.
“She’s clever,” agreed de Morgan. “And she does her homework. It’s going to be a difficult case to argue anyway. You might not even have got home if they’d stuck to Lashmar.”
“It’s a pity they didn’t. I’ve seen Steeple in action. She’ll twist those old boys round her elegant little finger.”
“So it seems,” said Captain Hartshorn, “that the pencil story has leaked out.”
“That’s right,” said Sesolo. “A man at the Whittington was talking about it last night.”
“I’m sorry it should have broken.”
“Why?” said Mkeba. “It’s powerful medicine.”
“Agreed. But like all medicinal draughts it’s only really effective if it’s administered at the right time.”
“And you don’t think this is the right time?”
“Almost, but not quite. Our legal friends tell us that this second attempt to wriggle out on diplomatic grounds is likely to fail. That means that Mullen goes back to Court. He’ll opt, no doubt, for the Crown Court and that means a jury of good men and true.”
“And women.”
“Certainly. We mustn’t forget the women. Now if we could have arranged it so that the pencil story broke on the morning of the hearing, they’d all have been so revolted that they wouldn’t have had to leave the box before finding Mullen guilty.”
Rosemary had been urging her father for some time to let her find another job. “Anything,” she said. “I don’t care what it is. I just want to get out and do something.” He had pointed out that this risked an enquiry into her P45 which could lead back to his friends in the City. Rosemary had agreed, reluctantly.
However, that morning a letter had arrived which contained a promise of action. She showed it to her father, who looked first at the signature and said, “Who’s Kathleen?”
“She worked with me at Yule’s office. She left a week after I did.”
“And now she’s got this job at the Newspaper Library at Colindale.”
“Andrew told me you’d put a detective onto watching that solicitor – I forget his name—”
“Sherman.”
“That’s the one. He followed him to the library, didn’t he? But he wasn’t able to get in, so he never found out what Sherman was looking for. Would you like me to find out?”
The Captain looked at his daughter thoughtfully. So much had happened since then that he had almost forgotten why he had considered this particular piece of information important. However, it would get his daughter out of the flat.
He said, “How would you set about it?”
“If you look at the last page, she says that being the new girl she’s naturally landed the dullest job. Checking the slips.”
“Yes,” said the Captain. He had skipped the last page. Now he read it more carefully.
It seemed that anyone requiring a newspaper had to sign a slip which identified the paper required and also gave the name and address of the enquirer.
He said, “I see. So your friend could find out which papers Sherman had out and could produce them for you. I’ll have to get hold of a library card from one of Sesolo’s students. What won’t be easy is spotting what Sherman was after, since you haven’t any idea what he was looking for. It might have been nothing to do with the Mullen case at all.”
“It’s a long shot,” agreed Rosemary. “But it’ll be better than sitting round here all day twiddling my fingers.”
“What a filthy idea,” said Chief Inspector Ancrum. West End Central had got the pencil story twenty-four hours after it hit the Stock Exchange. He had been told it twice already. Neither of his informants had thought it funny.
Inspector Brailey said, “I mentioned it to a doctor friend of mine yesterday evening. He said that if you did something like that to someone and weren’t very careful you’d be likely to kill him. Pain and shock.”
“It isn’t going to make our job any easier.”
“You mean that we’ll have to arrange to protect that bastard?”
“Fortunately, no. It’s only because the shop-lifting occurred in our area and the case being heard at Bow Street, that we were landed with the job of seeing that he gets in and out of Court without being lynched.”