The Loyal Servant (23 page)

30

On Tuesday morning Caroline had to pick her way through piles of empty plastic packing crates to get to her desk. No sooner had she put her bag down than Pam appeared like a giant sprite hovering over her.

‘They finally arrived.’ Pam gestured across the floor.

‘Did we need this many?’

‘There’s a lot of stuff to pack.’ She put her hands on her wide hips and surveyed the office. ‘All the filing cabinets are being cleared.’

‘We’re not taking the cabinets to the second floor?’

‘God no! We’re getting brand new ones.’

‘And these ones?’

‘Crushed in the big crusher parked round the corner.’

Caroline tried to shake the intense feeling of déjà vu from her head.

‘Most of the files are going into deep storage up at Runcorn. The rest of it’s getting dumped.’ Her mouth twitched into a tight ‘O’. ‘Bugger – the confidential waste sacks haven’t arrived. Can you chase facilities management for me? Only I’m up to my eyeballs at the moment.’

That’s why you’re chatting to me, presumably.
Caroline sighed.

‘Are you OK?’ Pam squeezed Caroline’s arm. ‘I tell you to go home early and put your feet up and you come in the next day looking more knackered than you did before.’

‘Thanks Pam.’

‘No offence... I’m just saying…’

‘I didn’t sleep that well.’

‘You should look after yourself better. Do what I do – put yourself first once in a while.’

‘Thanks for the tip – I’ll make sure I ignore my kids in future.’

‘There’s no need to be funny.’

Caroline pushed a couple of crates out of the way and sat down. ‘What’s the plan? Are we packing last thing tomorrow afternoon – try to minimise the disruption?’

‘No – that’s the great thing about the latest plan.’ Pam beamed at her. ‘We don’t actually have to lift a finger. Bishop’s Removals are coming in to do the packing for us. Isn’t that fantastic?’

‘But who’s going to decide what goes into deep storage and what gets dumped into confidential waste?’

‘A team of management consultants. Hand-picked by Jeremy. They’re starting first thing in the morning.’

‘How much is that costing?’

Pam shrugged ‘Jeremy’s dealing with that side of things. And he’s offered to oversee their work himself. Saves me having to stay here ‘til God knows when.’

Caroline switched on her computer. ‘So you’re saying we don’t have to pack at all?’

‘Jeremy decided it would be more efficient.’

‘So why are we overrun with plastic crates?’

‘Last minute decision, yesterday evening. I couldn’t postpone them.’

Did you even try?

Caroline opened the bottom drawer of the pedestal under her desk. It was crammed with all manner of rubbish. She didn’t feel entirely comfortable about some burly removals man going through her personal things.

‘What if I want to do my own packing?’

‘Jeremy’s told me to insist it’s left to the professionals. We’ve got better things to do, he said.’ Pam skirted around a crate. ‘Well, that’s you completely up to date.’ She stopped. ‘I forgot to ask. Have you got any idea why that tall bloke from IT is in with Jeremy?’ she said, pointing to Prior’s room.

Caroline turned to see Greg being shouted at by a gesticulating Prior.

‘Only Jeremy’s been like that for at least five minutes. He’ll burst a blood vessel if he carries on.’

‘I wouldn’t know, Pam. Why don’t you ask him?’

‘I don’t like to pry.’

They both watched the silent scene unfold for a few moments until Greg emerged from the office looking shell-shocked.

‘Another computer cock-up, I expect.’ Pam clucked her tongue against her teeth.

Prior came out of his office and said something to his PA. She jumped up and followed him back in.

Finally Pam set off for her own desk. Caroline watched her nod to Greg as he passed. He carried on towards the exit, without acknowledging her, his movements stiff, his expression blank.

Caroline could only assume Greg had been updating Prior on the surveillance operation. What had he said to make Prior react so violently? She looked back at Prior’s office and saw Lisa looking down at the floor, her shoulders shaking, her chest heaving.

What is he saying to her?

Lisa finally returned to her desk and sat down, wiping her face with a tissue. Prior peered out of his office and Caroline quickly turned back to her computer, hoping he hadn’t seen her gawping at him. Her mobile started to ring. She plucked it out of her bag, saw it was Pete calling and stabbed it silent.

Pete had left the house less than eight hours ago and he’d phoned her at least half a dozen times since. Eight hours ago she’d had to prise Ben’s arms from Pete’s legs, telling him his dad had to go away for a few days. She shoved her mobile in a drawer and logged into her computer. As ever the start-up procedure cranked through the motions of retrieving her system preferences. It seemed to take even longer than usual. Was that because the IT department was monitoring her PC? She stared at the screen for a while and decided watching would only slow it down even more, like a watched kettle stubbornly refusing to boil.

She opened up her bottom drawer wide and peered inside. So much of this stuff could be thrown away. She glanced up to make sure Pam wasn’t on her way over and lifted out a handful of old magazines and glossy departmental brochures. She sorted them into two neat piles on the desk. The next layer of detritus down contained more useful items: a spare pair of tights, a unopened packet of Elastoplast, a box of man-sized tissues and a small zipped bag of painkillers, from co-codamol through to Anadin. In the event of a headache or raging period pains she’d be well sorted. She quickly shoved all of it into the nearest packing crate and moved on to the remaining rubbish lurking at the bottom of the drawer. This was stuff she hadn’t seen for months. Wedged right at the back was a folded Paperchase bag. She reached in a hand, curious to see what was inside – trying to remember when she’d bought birthday card and forgotten to send it. As soon as her hand closed around the bag and she felt the outline of a slim square object, she remembered exactly what was inside. She placed the bag gently on the desk and glanced across the office to check Pam wasn’t looking in her direction.

She sucked down a deep breath and removed the cards and CD from the bag.

She turned over the two birthday cards Martin had sent, both still in their envelopes. The CD had been a gift from him the previous Christmas – more jazz she couldn’t bring herself to listen to. With shaking hands she opened the accompanying Christmas card and read the message inside. Martin’s lengthy and excruciating apology triggered the memory of their one evening together so vividly, she couldn’t quite catch her breath. It all came flooding back at once: the drunken cab ride to the hotel, the giggling at the reception desk as she signed them in as Mr and Mrs Smith, Martin lurking next to the lifts wearing dark glasses and a hat pulled low over his forehead. She screwed her eyes shut and saw the champagne cork bursting out of the bottle and hitting the ceiling. Then both of them collapsing onto the bed in fits of laughter.

Stupid bloody cow.

The next part was less distinct, the most embarrassing moments expunged from her memory. She did still have a vision of herself naked under the covers, but she didn’t remember taking off her clothes, or being undressed by Martin. She shuddered. She hadn’t forgotten what happened after that. She could recall every humiliating second of their hurried grope in the dark. The awkward fumble between a rapidly sobering schools minister and a 40-something civil servant. Wife. Mother of three.

What was I thinking?

The back of her chair rocked.

‘I thought I told you to leave all the packing to Bishop’s.’ Pam was almost level with the desk. ‘What have you found lurking in a drawer?’ She kicked the pedestal. ‘Caroline Barber… you’re blushing!’

Caroline grabbed the cards and CD and shoved them onto her lap under the desk.

‘Oh come on – share! Is it something rude?’

Caroline gripped the little bundle tighter. ‘It’s nothing – just a couple of Valentine’s cards from Pete. He sends them here, the daft apeth.’ She forced a grin. ‘He doesn’t want the kids to know what an old romantic he is. Or my mum – she’d rib him something rotten.’

‘Sexy cards from your hubbie – no wonder you wanted to pack your own crate! You are a dark horse, Caroline.’

You have absolutely no idea.

‘Go on – just a little peek.’

Caroline sat rigid.

‘You’re no fun.’ She started to walk away. ‘Oh yeah – I came over to tell you, don’t bother ordering any waste sacks. They’ve just been delivered.’

Caroline nodded and smiled, gave Pam the thumbs-up, all the while feeling her throat tightening. When Pam was out of sight she stuffed the bundle on her lap back in the paper bag and shoved that into her handbag, resolving to keep her bag close for the rest of the day. The pay-as-you go ringtone sounded from inside. She hooked out the phone.

‘It’s not a great time. Can it wait?’

‘Good morning, to you too.’

Caroline opened Outlook and scanned her emails. ‘I’m serious, I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment.’

‘Haven’t we all.’

Caroline heard Tate sighing theatrically.

‘Following up from that health and safety information I gave you yesterday,’ Tate said.

‘I can’t talk about that in the office. It’s not… safe.’ Caroline glanced over her shoulder towards Prior’s office. She saw Tracy Clarke going through the door.
Oh my God.
First Greg, then Lisa, now Tracy. Caroline’s breath stalled in her chest.

‘Are you still there?’

‘What is it?’ She couldn’t take her eyes from the scene unfolding in Prior’s office. Prior gestured for Tracy to sit down. Tracy remained standing.

‘I’m trying to find out a bit more about those organisations on the spreadsheet. So far I’ve not come up with much.’

Caroline bit her lip, wondered for a moment whether she should tell Tate about the Larson connection.

‘Actually, I’m hoping you can do a bit more probing for me,’ Tate said. ‘I need you to search your system, see what information the department might have on file about the companies.’

‘I already told you – I’m not doing anything else for you. Not until—’

Tracy was still on her feet, Prior standing just a few inches away practically squaring up to her.

‘Please Caroline. I’ve got a really strong feeling this might be the key to the whole thing. What if Martin Fox knew about the dodgy firms and was about to expose them? Wouldn’t that be a reason to silence him permanently?’

‘Are you finally admitting…’ Caroline glanced quickly around the office to see who might be listening. ‘Foul play?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, isn’t it?’

Caroline looked down at her keyboard. Should she trust Tate? She looked back at Prior’s room. Tracy rushed towards the door, her head bowed. She ran out and headed towards the exit. Prior was staring through the glass. He made eye contact with Caroline. She stared right back for a few moments then returned to her computer and quickly navigated to the F-drive. She entered the term ‘VL Construction’ and limited the search to the academies procurement directory. She hit the enter key and waited.

‘Caroline? Are you still there?’

By my fingernails.

A pop-up window appeared on her screen. She read the error message and re-entered the search term and clicked the search button again.

‘Caroline?’ Tate shouted down the phone.

‘Wait a second!’ She tried a third time. ‘I can’t help you,’ she said quietly.

‘But we’re so close. I promise you, I will do my utmost—’

‘Not
won’t
help you. I
can’t
help you.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘I no longer have access to the academies directory.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’m staring at the alert box right now. Permission has been denied.’

31

Time hadn’t been kind to Dennis Watson in the years since Angela Tate last worked with him on the
South London Press
. As he lounged on yellow waterproof seat cushions at the other end of the narrow wooden boat, she couldn’t help noticing the greasy strands of thinning grey hair smeared across his scalp. His teeth were mostly blackened by nicotine, and the skin around his nose and mouth had a purple flush to it, as if the network of fine veins covering his face had burst their banks.

‘Do you think if they’d known we only had a handful of A-Levels between us, they would have let us hire a boat?’ she said.

Dennis Watson sucked languorously on his cigarette. ‘Punt. You speak for yourself. I’ve got a 2:1.’

Angela wobbled dangerously, rocking the punt from side to side, before steadying herself by driving the pole into the soft earth of the riverbank. ‘A 2:1! What in – bullshitting?’

‘History, if you’re interested.’

‘Did you buy it online from a dodgy college in America?’

Watson blew a perfect ring of smoke into the air. ‘I’m a graduate of the Open University.’ He screwed up his face. ‘It happens to be a highly respected institution.’

‘Not quite on this level, though is it?’ Angela nodded towards the twin spires of King’s College just coming into view.

‘There’s no need to belittle my achievement. Do you want my help or not?’

Suitably chastised, Angela hung her head low and concentrated on not ploughing into the other boats on the River Cam. She glanced up at their occupants. Privileged didn’t really cover it. Cambridge was another world.

Dennis shifted on his cushions and the punt rolled alarmingly. He was holding his cigarette stub vertically between finger and thumb, looking for somewhere to stub it out. Angela decided it was probably time to make for dry land.

They decamped to the nearest pub with a decent beer garden and a view. Watson came back from the bar with a pint of dirty-looking beer and a small Pinot Grigio, condensation dribbling down the outside of the glass. He shoved a wooden spoon with a large ‘11’ felt-tipped on the paddle end on the table.

‘I took the liberty of ordering us a couple of ploughmans – on your tab,’ he said and creakily hoicked one leg over the seat of the picnic table, which lurched sideways as he sat down.

‘Steady on, Den. I feel like I’m still on the water.’ Angela lifted her glass and gulped down the first inch of wine. ‘Cheers!’

Watson proffered his packet of cigarettes. She refused and wriggled a shoulder out of her jacket to reveal three nicotine patches covering the top of her arm.

‘Are they working?’

‘I’ll let you know when I’ve finished my second glass.’

Watson unbuckled the canvas bag at his feet and pulled out a bulging file, newspaper cuttings spilling from the edges.

‘Now… I can’t let you keep these.’

‘Wow – real cuttings. I haven’t seen cuttings for years.’

‘Are you taking the piss? I don’t have to help you – you might do well to remember that.’

‘All right, Den! Don’t get your y-fronts tangled.’ Angela held up her hands. ‘I am grateful. Have I mentioned that?’

‘Yeah, well, gratitude is all very nice, but it doesn’t pay the bills.’

‘I’ve already told you – we’ll get you some kind of payment sorted. I’ll have a word with accounts.’

‘It’s not just about the money.’ He looked away and stared into the distance.

Angela knew what was coming next.

‘How about a credit?’ he said. ‘Maybe a joint byline?’

‘You drive a hard bargain, Dennis.’ She smiled at him. ‘Joint byline it is.’

‘It better be.’ He glanced at her, an accusing look in his eyes.

‘I’ve said haven’t I?’

Watson opened the file. The sections of newspaper were yellow and curling at the edges. He tried to smooth them flat. The wind picked up suddenly and whipped a couple of loose pieces into the air. Angela snatched them before they flew away.

‘Maybe we should adjourn inside?’ he said.

‘That’d be a real shame. It’s so much nicer out here.’ Angela leaned down and grabbed a few pieces of flint from a nearby flower border and anchored the clippings to the table.

Watson sniffed out an irritated breath. ‘I’ve compiled all the stories from August ’78 to September ’79, just to give us a bit of a safety buffer either end of the academic year. I’ve only brought you the hundred or so most interesting stories, to keep it manageable.’

‘A hundred?’ She spluttered into her glass.

‘Still overreacting I see.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve whittled it down to a hundred – I can email you the headlines of all of them if you want – but I’m actually only going to talk you through my top five.’

‘How have you rated them?’ She grabbed a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and dabbed her mouth.

‘Relevancy, importance of story and length of coverage were all factors.’

‘You’re sure you can’t just let me take the file?’

‘Do you want the benefit of my invaluable local knowledge or what?’

‘Won’t say another word. But before you get started, how about another drink?’

Angela returned from the bar armed with another beer for Watson and a small glass of white wine for herself.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘the top five, in no particular order—’

‘Oh Dennis, I’m disappointed. I thought you were going to do a proper rundown in an Alan Freeman style.’

‘Shut up and listen.’ He drained his first pint, sediment and all, and spread five newspaper clippings over Angela’s side of the table, placing a restraining lump of flint on top of each one. He pointed to the one on the far left. ‘Right, first up is a drink-driving case. Lecturer from Newton College ploughed into a bus stop while under the influence.’

‘I can see the connection to my major players – Newton’s the right college, but I’m surprised it made it into the paper at all. Was it a slow week?’ Angela peered at the yellowing clipping.

‘A 16-year-old girl was standing at the bus stop at the time. She died in the ambulance on the way to hospital.’

‘Christ. What happened to the lecturer?’

‘Got off on a legal technicality. Had a very high-powered lawyer representing him.’

‘Still can’t see why you think it warrants a mention. Did the lecturer actually teach Fox or King?’

‘Nope.’ Watson was looking decidedly pleased with himself. ‘I can do better than that.’

‘Go on.’

‘The hotshot lawyer who got him off also represented Fred Larson in a compensation case brought against him in the early 80s. The lawyer got Larson off using a legal loophole.’

‘The lecturer had the same lawyer as Larson?’ She picked up her glass.

‘The lecturer was Freddie Larson’s tutor.’

She planted her wine back on the table without taking a sip. ‘You think Freddie asked his father for help?’

‘Looks that way.’ Watson lifted the piece of flint from the clipping and returned it to the flower border. He put the section of newspaper back in the file.

Angela scribbled a quick note in her pad. She had no idea Fred Larson was in touch with his son when he was studying at Cambridge. Betty Larson hadn’t given that impression at all.

Watson slipped another cutting from the file. ‘Next one is a missing teenager. 19-year-old…’ He quickly scanned the text. ‘No, wait… 18 – Stephen Cole. Doesn’t return home after a daytrip to London. Parents report him missing the next day. He’s never stayed away overnight before without letting them know where he was.’

‘And he was an undergraduate at Newton College too?’

‘No, a local. He worked in the students’ union bar.’

‘Frequented by Fox, Larson and King.’

‘Very probably.’

‘Why’s it in your top five? Seems a bit thin to me.’

Watson started on his second pint of beer. He shook a cigarette from his packet and lit it. Angela pressed a hand against her upper arm, trying to get a bit more mileage from her nicotine patches.

‘It came out during the investigation that the lad also worked at another bar in the city.’

‘So?’

‘A gay bar. It was one of your keywords. I was paying attention.’

‘You think Fox might have known him?’

‘I’m just saying it’s a connection – however
thin
.’

‘Point taken. I promise not to jump down your throat again.’

Watson sucked on his cigarette for a few moments, and stared blankly at the clouds of smoke. He took his time tidying away the flint paperweight and clipping, the cigarette dangling from his lips. Angela had the feeling he was enjoying himself. Here she was hanging on the every word of a washed-up hack who couldn’t stick the pressure in London, so ran away to the provinces. This was probably the closest he’d got to a big story in years.

‘The next one you’re going to love, I had planned to save it ‘til last, but I just can’t wait.’ He extinguished the cigarette in the ashtray, still a good inch of smokeable tobacco beyond the filter. Angela stared longingly at it. Watson picked up a cutting and waved it in the air. It was the biggest of the five and the only one with a photograph. Angela could just about make out a figure clad in dark clothes giving a Nazi salute.

‘Right – April 1979 and the run up to the general election. Actually, before I start with the meat of it, I should probably give you a little of the background. What do you remember about the National Front in the 70s?’

‘A bit. I covered the Lewisham riots for the paper. Actually – we both did, as I recall. I was desperate to get a better angle on it than you.’

‘Always so competitive. I suppose that hasn’t changed, even now.’

‘Nothing wrong with a bit of healthy professional rivalry.’

‘Who’s in your sights these days?’

‘Well obviously, no one can hold a candle to you, Dennis. It wasn’t the same after you left.’

Watson snorted a laugh.

‘I mean it! My competitive drive has long since abandoned me. These days I’m concentrating all my efforts in clinging on to my job by my cuticles.’ She drained the last of her second glass.

‘That bad? It’s pretty rubbish out in the sticks too. So many work placements. Even on a local. I can’t compete with a 22-year-old doing the job for nothing.’

‘Don’t get me started on that particular festering open wound – we’ll be here all fucking day.’

‘Fair enough.’ He looked down at the clipping and took a breath. ‘So, anyway… in ’79 there was a policy within the NF to field as many candidates as possible at the general election as a show of strength – but they’d lost a lot of support to the Tories. Maggie’s tough stance on immigration went down very well with your casual right-wing bigot. Consequently the National Front lost all their deposits – it practically bankrupted them.’

Angela stifled a yawn, hoping Watson would finish his history lesson and move on to the main event.

‘The National Front candidate here in Cambridge was the focus of a few Anti-Nazi League demonstrations. At one particular event at the town hall there was a major scuffle and a couple of coppers were hospitalised. Over twenty arrests were made.’

‘Well I know neither King nor Fox have ever been arrested, so I suppose you’re going to tell me Freddie Larson got done for standing up to fascism.’

Watson nodded. ‘He was indeed arrested.’

‘Convicted?’

‘Cautioned.’

‘Shame – a nice juicy custodial sentence would have suited me.’

‘Ah – but that’s not the story.’ He looked her in the eye and smiled. Then he picked up his pint and gulped down a third of it.

‘Come on, Dennis. Don’t dangle a tidbit like that and snatch it away again.’

‘Freddie Larson was not on the side of the angels.’

‘Not on the… you’re kidding me. He was a member of the NF?’

‘Not officially, but as good as.’

‘Bloody hell. No wonder Daddy Larson has kept him hidden from public view – a junky
and
a Nazi.’ Angela reached for her glass and discovered it was empty. ‘Your turn – I can’t take the piss with expenses. And find out what’s happened to those ploughmans.’

Watson carefully extricated himself from the picnic table.

‘Can you get me a list of everyone else arrested at the time?’

‘You don’t ask for much, do you? That’s something that hasn’t changed in the last 30 years.’

While Watson was at the bar Angela read all the cuttings about the NF rally and the other two stories Watson had singled out for her. One was a brief report about a rare 16th Century painting by an Italian artist she’d never heard of. According to the piece, the work of art went missing from the refectory of Newton College during the summer of ’79. Freddie Larson had already been sent down by then, so she assumed it was irrelevant. The other article was much more interesting. In the aftermath of the Jonestown mass suicide in November 1978, a copycat event took place at Newton College. Eleven students were discovered unconscious in an undergraduate common room, having taken overdoses of barbiturates. All the students were brought back from the brink except one young economics graduate studying for his masters. It was revealed at the subsequent inquest that the reason he never regained consciousness was in all likelihood due to the fact he had also ingested half a bottle of whisky.