He went unwillingly. He did not consider that the Consul General and his aides had taken his plight seriously enough. Fischer Yule had been a staunch supporter, and his lawyers had pulled out all the stops, but what had the representatives of his own government done, except point out unpleasant facts to him, as brutally as possible?
On this occasion Dieter Langenhoven received him alone. As soon as his visitor was seated he switched on the warning light which indicated that he was not to be disturbed. The tape-recorder by his desk had already been disconnected.
Without saying a word, he pushed across a copy of the
London Gazette
for that week.
The page at which it was folded open was headed, ‘The Aliens Department of the Home Office’ – ‘The Home Secretary has had his attention drawn to ten cases of infringement by proposing immigrants of the Regulations made by him under S.R. and O. 917 for 1985. Although offences, in the cases subjoined, have been established they are all of a comparatively minor and technical character. It has therefore been decided that in order to relieve the pressure on the Immigration Tribunal, in the subjoined cases no further steps need to be taken. This is
not
to be construed as a concession that, should further similar cases occur, they will be treated in a like manner.’
A list followed. Judging by the names, three of the parties concerned were Indian, two were Pakistani and five were West Indian. Mullen skipped the list and looked quickly down to the paragraph at the end, which had been side-lined in red.
‘For parity of treatment, in three further cases to which the attention of the department has been drawn, but in which proceedings have not yet commenced, it has been decided that no further steps need be taken.’
The last of the three names was Professor Leon Macheli.
Mullen stared at the entry for a long moment whilst its implications came home to him. He had hardly realised before how confidently he was relying on the friendly testimony of Anna. Now, for the first time, the future outlined itself before his eyes in uncompromising colours; a bleak landscape of disaster and disgrace.
He was incapable of speech. It was Langenhoven who broke the silence. He said, “I see that you realise the implications of this. A notable piece of chicanery by the British government. It will turn this girl from a friendly, or maybe a neutral witness, into one who will lie her head off to send you down.”
“Yes,” said Mullen.
Footsteps across the floor. A creaking board in front of the sideboard. The tell-tale clink of glass. Suddenly, it was all horribly probable.
“However,” said Langenhoven, “this is a game that two can play. You understand that we cannot allow you to appear before a British Court with a prejudiced jury, lying witnesses and a judge who has probably been instructed to secure your conviction. That cannot be allowed.”
“No,” said Mullen.
“So. You will be in your flat at half past six tomorrow evening. Yule will have ensured that by that time the office is empty and the commissionaire has left. There will be a visitor for you. A Mr. Brown. Yule will admit him, bring him up to you and leave you with him. He will give you certain instructions. You will follow them implicitly. You understand what I am saying?”
“Yes,” said Mullen, thickly. He understood very well.
When Mr. Brown arrived, punctual to the minute, Mullen thought he had never seen anyone so nondescript. Normal height, normal build, unremarkable face, no outstanding characteristics.
He said, “You must understand that I have no official position with the Embassy. I am occasionally asked to help them. I am glad to do so. That is all.”
His accent told Mullen nothing. It could have been of any class or any country. Maybe a South African, but long resident in England.
“I have a passport for you. You will note from it that your name is George Alexander. You work for a firm called Alpine Tours, who have an office in Pimlico and specialise in arranging skiing holidays. A ticket has been purchased for you — a return ticket, of course—” Mr. Brown smiled faintly—”and a place booked for you on the 8.15 flight tomorrow from Heathrow to Geneva. You will pick the ticket up at the Swissair desk, identifying yourself by this passport. Is that quite clear?”
Mullen had been examining the photograph on the passport. Mr. Brown said, “Yes. You will need to make a few, very simple, alterations to your personal appearance. Nothing elaborate. Passport photographs are rarely examined closely. Your beard will have to go. To cover any signs of its removal, you will wash your whole face over with a light-brown stain. I have the stuff here. And you will wear these heavy gold- rimmed spectacles which match those in the photograph. They will not interfere with your sight, the glass in them is plain. You have English money? Of course. And there are Swiss francs in this envelope. You will not need much. Arrangements have been made to look after you on arrival. Carry only this brief-case. Clothes? Your normal outfit, but I suggest that you wear this light overcoat. It will be cold enough in the early morning for it to appear a natural thing to do. Travel by underground. Use the Bank station rather than St. Paul’s. It is more crowded. Allow yourself ample time to reach Heathrow by half past seven. Is there anything more?”
“No,” said Mullen. He felt oddly breathless. “No, I think that covers everything.”
The five men who operated the watch on Yule’s office worked in six-hour shifts, an arrangement which allowed them one day off in four. Harold Ratter came on duty that morning at 2.00 a.m. He studied the reports of his two predecessors. Chris Woodray, taking the 2.00 p.m. to 8.00 p.m. shift, had finished his report with a note. ‘A man, not previously identified, arrived at half past six. Could have been a salesman. Was slung out pretty quick. Yule left ten minutes later.’ The next man had simply noted, ‘No comings and goings.’ His own stint, he guessed, would not get lively before eight o’clock.
At a few minutes before seven he jerked upright in his chair. The front door had opened and someone had come out. Viewed from above, in the half-light, changes in facial appearance were unimportant. He knew, from his shape and his walk, that it was Mullen. No shadow of doubt about it. He had watched him, twenty times, coming and going. He noted the topcoat and the brief-case and jumped immediately to the right conclusion.
Before Mullen had reached the end of Axe Lane, he was speaking on the telephone.
It was the stout detective’s final and decisive intervention in the Mullen case.
“It was cleverly done,” said Chief Superintendent Baron. “And if you want my honest opinion, if we hadn’t been tipped off, I think he’d have got away with it. Our men at the airport had photographs, but they’d never actually met Mullen. I think the slight changes in his appearance would have got him through all right.”
“Thank God they didn’t,” said the Director. He knew that if Mullen had got to Switzerland the resultant gale would have blown anyone held responsible out into the street.
“We let him pick up his tickets and took him when he went through Customs. I thought, for a moment, he was going to try to bolt, but he must have realised that he hadn’t a chance.”
“So where is he now?”
“We’re holding him in the Remand Wing at Brixton. He’ll stay there until he goes to the Bailey. We shall have to mount a full-scale security operation for that move.”
“You think he may try to escape?”
“No,” said Baron. “To prevent him being lynched.”
This was not an exaggeration. As soon as the news broke the press pulled out all their stops, the great organs blared and the chorus of public opinion was roaring behind them.
The
Sentinel
was openly triumphant. They republished the whole of their previous article, and finished with a comment that nearly got them into trouble. ‘At his next Mansion House banquet we hope that one of the courses eaten by the Lord Mayor will be humble pie.’
A few arrows were shot at the South African Embassy, but it was not the main target. It was assumed that a man in Mullen’s position would hold a number of alternative passports and could have organised his own evasion. There was, of course, the question of the tickets, but the girl at the Swissair desk was unable to give any description of the man who had ordered and paid for them. She tried very hard, but “I didn’t really notice him,” was all she could say.
The popular press concentrated on the personal sureties. Nobody would have cared if the South African government had forfeited a million, or ten million, pounds, but they were outraged by the idea that two private citizens, who had come to Mullen’s assistance, with no thought of gain, but from an abstract idea of justice, should have been threatened with the loss of their life’s savings.
Newspapers are never notably keen to puff a rival, but the
Highside Times and Journal
was felt to be sufficiently small to be allowed a modest share of approval. Simon Ramsay became a national hero. Finding, as many people have done, that sitting on a pedestal is uncomfortable, after three tiresome days he took himself off into retreat with a body of Anglican Friars.
With the tit-bit of the trial ahead of them none of the papers felt like letting the matter go. Recalling a previous conversation, the News Editor of the
Sentinel
said to his number two, “We couldn’t see that it would develop in just this way, but it’s top class news now, no question. We’ll still have to steer clear of the rights and wrongs of the case, but we can say what we like about Mullen’s conduct.”
“Lovely,” said his number two. “I was thinking of something on the lines of ‘a South African snake whose final wriggle has landed him with his head in a noose’.”
The Orange Consortium were more interested in deeds than in words. Andrew Mkeba said to Boyo Sesolo, “When it reaches the Old Bailey, how many of your men do you think you can put on the streets?”
“Real fighters? People who mean business? Possibly two hundred. If this shit gets a life sentence they’ll be there to cheer. If by any chance he shouldn’t get all he deserves, then they could show their disapproval, couldn’t they?”
“How exactly?”
“Leave it to me,” said Boyo. “We’ll think up something pretty dramatic.”
On Monday, January 7th, after a shortened Christmas vacation, the Bar resumed business. The Courts had not yet reopened and this gave the Attorney General and his devil an opportunity for an in-depth study of the Mullen papers.
Two hours of this was more than enough for Eileen. Her brain worked faster than the Attorney General’s. Restoring the witness statements and other documents to her own copy of the brief and re-swathing it in white tape, she said, “I hear that Mullen has been moved to the hospital wing at Brixton. The only visitor he’s been allowed so far is the resident psychiatrist.”
“I don’t suppose he got much out of him.”
“He got nothing. Except a few well-chosen insults and a lot of obscenity.”
“He’s his own worst enemy,” said the Attorney General. He was still busy with his own papers, arranging and rearranging them. “I think we’ve put together a pretty solid case.”
“The defence can peck at it,” agreed Eileen, “but they won’t pull it down.”
“Nothing’s certain in the law. And it’s bad tactics to assume that you’re in for an easy ride. De Morgan will make every possible point, but there’s one thing he can’t get over or round. His client tried to bolt. It would have been an admission of defeat in itself – but by trying to leave his sureties in the lurch he’s lost any shred of sympathy from the jury.” When Eileen said nothing, he added, “You agree with that, I’m sure.”
She said, “Oddly enough, that’s the only aspect of the case that worries me. Given a solid, intelligent, middle-of-the-road jury who will listen to evidence and are capable of understanding it, we should get home every time. But I can’t help thinking of these two sureties.”
“The newspaper man and the padre?”
“Right. No doubt the journalist did it for publicity and the clergyman because he loathed Katanga, but does either reason really add up to a chance of losing five thousand pounds – a chance which nearly came off?”
“So?”
“In my book, they were fanatics. And this is the sort of case that breeds fanatics. Get two or three on the jury and little matters like proof and logic are going by the board.”
The Attorney General said, “I see what you mean. I think I’d better have a word with my clerk.”
Mr. Messenger was the oldest, and richest, member of the Chambers. Since there was no retiring age for barristers’ clerks it was felt to be on the cards that he would celebrate his hundredth birthday in harness. No one would have dreamed of suggesting his removal. He was far too valuable. He knew, personally, everyone connected with the administration of the law in London. Most of them he had first met as schoolboys. It would have seemed perfectly natural – though he would never have taken such a liberty – had he addressed the Lord Chief Justice as ‘Shrimp’, his school nickname.
He listened carefully to what the Attorney General had to say. He had a great respect for Sir Humphrey Belling, not only as head of Chambers, but as a staunch upholder of the right in law and politics.
He said, “I’ll have a word with the clerk at the Bailey. Youngish, of course—” Mr. Messenger meant that he was under fifty—”but quite a sound man. The first thing is to make certain that the panel for your Court is drawn from Plumstead and Dulwich.
Not
from Lambeth and Hackney. You might imagine that Lambeth would be reliable, with its ecclesiastical connection, and so it was once, but I’m afraid it’s gone sadly downhill lately. Then you’ll have them all vetted by the C.R.O., the Special Branch and the Anti-terrorist Squad.”
“Of course.”
“So far as the final selection goes—”
“I don’t want any men with long hair or girls with short hair. In fact, I’d be happier without any girls at all.”
“But a few middle-aged women.”
“Oh certainly. We don’t want to be accused of sex discrimination.”