Ardent Justice

by Research Professor Of Social Policy Peter Taylor-Gooby

  She took the flash drive out of her pocket, pushed it into the slot and tapped a few more keys. The green bar flashed up on the screen, slowly diminishing from one end: six minutes to download. It’s a huge file, everything I need, the whole bloody lot.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Paul stood next to her, staring at the numbers on the screen. She looked up at his face, ghostly in the pale light.

  ‘Better.’ She found his hand and gripped it. He stood next to her in silence, watching the bar. Five and a half minutes, five minutes, four and a half minutes.

  She gave a start at the noise of a key scraping at the lock of the outer office. ‘Quiet, someone’s coming.’

  Paul shut the door between the inner and the outer office and stood behind it, holding onto the handle.

  She found her chest tightening, her hands curling into fists. She breathed out and turned to the computer. The faintest of pings. The file was transferred. He mouthed the word ‘Webster!’ She pointed to the screen. ‘One more thing.’ She nursed her hatred. Soon, very soon.

  She tapped at the keyboard: the addresses of everyone she could think of, the FT, press agencies, Channel 4, an academic she knew at LSE, a few think tanks, a couple of MPs, she had them all ready. Now, upload and send. The bar appeared; it’ll take time to attach. She slipped the flash drive into her pocket and prayed Webster had the bandwidth.

  She heard Webster fumbling at the door handle. Paul wrenched the door open. Webster stood there, dressed in an Armani overcoat, silk scarf, thick leather gloves, a mobile in his hand, his eyes open wide in surprise.

  Paul bellowed ‘Get out!’ and ran at him, head down. He wrapped his arms round Webster’s body and kicked at his shin. Webster grunted, dropped the mobile and shook Paul off. He was so much bigger than Paul, so much stronger.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he shouted.

  He shoved Paul away and punched him hard on the side of the head, so that he fell backwards against the wall. Then he saw Ade framed in the doorway to his office, and spoke in his normal confident tones. ‘You? What are you doing here? I paid you off, remember?’

  ‘Doing my job, Mr Webster.’

  Her heart was pounding. She hoped her voice sounded firm. The anger was tight, compacted, something you could hold in your hand, like a grenade.

  ‘So I didn’t pay enough?’

  ‘Too late for that. I’ve just emailed your spreadsheets to everyone I can think of. If I were you I’d start running. Someplace there’s no extradition.’

  Webster took a pace towards her. A grin spread across his face, he chuckled and gave a great guffaw of laughter. She could smell the whisky on his breath. Her hand was in her pocket, the metal of the pen cold against her fingers.

  ‘Oh, my dear. You’re such an idealist. It would have been so good to… What do you think is going to happen?’

  Ade squared her shoulders. She fixed her mind on the bar on the computer screen, the scale inching slowly, inexorably, left to right. She tried not to look at Paul, who was pulling himself to his feet, shaking his head from side to side, edging silently behind Webster.

  ‘You are going to gaol for fraud. For a very long time.’

  ‘Oh really. Grow up. So who’s going to prosecute? City of London Fraud Squad? You think so? No, it’ll be the Commissioners for me, keep it in the family. My people will tie them up in knots so tight they’ll have to come to a settlement or they’ll never get free again. Lucky if they get ten percent. You know what? I’ll put that down as a business expense.’

  ‘This isn’t going through formal channels. I’m not with the Revenue anymore.’

  ‘Ah. I see. I suppose what you really want is a bit of the action. Same as everyone else.’

  He slapped his hands together.

  ‘Why not? You’re sharp: join the team.’

  ‘You missed the point. I’ve emailed your spreadsheets to the BBC, every journalist I’ve ever heard of, so they all know how you work. This isn’t just your friends slapping you on the wrist. You’re going to be front-page news tomorrow: “The man who steals your money”.’

  She stepped sideways. The green bar reached the side of the screen and she heard the noise, the faintest of beeps, like a mobile getting a text in the next room. Webster took a step forward, hesitated and bit at the thumb of his gloved hand.

  ‘You don’t give up, do you? You’ve no idea what you’re dealing with. Open that drawer.’ He glanced at Paul. ‘Don’t try anything, you. I can deal with you.’

  Paul stood there, looking from Ade to Webster and back.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘Webster’s finished anyway.’

  Webster rummaged in his trouser pocket, took out a small key and tossed it to her. The drawer was heavy and she had to tug at it. It was crammed full of fifty-pound notes, stacked in neat bundles. Paul started giggling and stuck his hand into his mouth, but he couldn’t stop.

  ‘That’s who I am,’ said Webster. ‘And what are you?’

  Ade thrust her hand into the drawer, feeling the paper stiff against her, spread her fingers and forced her hand upwards so that a cloud of notes erupted, fanning out and falling, swaying like russet-coloured leaves to the carpet. She felt his fist on her, coarse in the leather glove. There was something so comfortable, so self-assured about his voice. She froze in his grip. The pen was cold as hail-stones on her fingers and something else, thin and hard, against it. She ran her finger gently over it. The shattered watch.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ he said. ‘Do you think it’s just me? We run this country, the real people, the people with money. Do you think any of us want all this in the newspapers? Let’s go and get a meal. You could enjoy yourself if you’d just let go.’ He was smiling at her. ‘The runt can clear up.’

  The ice in her chest burst apart. She whirled round, grabbed his hand, ripped off the glove, and sank her teeth into his thumb. She felt them grate and skid on the bone. He screamed and staggered backwards. She spat the taste of iron out of her mouth.

  She threw the watch down on the floor in front of him.

  ‘Franck Muller. Remember that, you bastard?’

  Webster gaped at her, his face white. She had the pen gripped in her hand like a dagger.

  ‘You want to know what was in your neck that night? You want to know who put it there? When you were on your face in the mud, whimpering?’

  The hatred blazed up like a furnace inside her and her fist stabbed up at his throat. Paul hurled himself at her, his arm outstretched. All she could feel was the blood pounding in her chest and the metal cold in her hand. She hated Webster and his sneering arrogance, his certainty that it was his world, that nothing in it could ever touch him.

  Somewhere she heard Paul shouting: ‘Ade! He’s not worth it!’ and she jerked her hand sideways. The pen skidded across Webster’s throat, leaving a thin smear of blood.

  ‘Get out!’ she shouted at him. ‘Get out now!’

  Webster stepped back, staring at her, his right hand cradled in his left. He turned and stumbled to the door, gave one backward glance, and was gone.

  Paul had his arms round her. For a second she rested her face against his. Then she pulled free.

  ‘That was close, that was very close. I could have done it that time.’

  They heard the noise of the lift doors. She felt the hatred dulling within her. The blood throbbed in her forehead. ‘Thanks Paul.’

  She held him very tight. He clasped her to him then gently disengaged himself. ‘We ought to slow him down. Nice steel ruler he’s got. Matches the biro.’

  She watched him pick it up, weigh it in his hands, nod, and move swiftly out of the room. By the time she’d caught up with him he was crouching down, levering at the lift doors.

  ‘Give us a hand,’ he said.

  They got the doors half open. She saw the cables
check and shudder to a halt.

  ‘Don’t think he’s the kind of person who’s much good at climbing up lift shafts.’ Paul had the ruler jammed in place between the doors. ‘He’s going to have a very uncomfortable night.’

  ‘But he’s got a mobile… no he hasn’t, he dropped it.’

  Paul stamped on the phone and scooped up the pieces. ‘In the river, I guess.’

  ‘So maybe we win something after all.’

  He had his arm round her. ‘Guess we should have a look at this money.’

  They stood in front of the desk, hand in hand, gazing down at the neatly stacked notes, the moonlight streaming down on them through the window.

  ‘Enough here to put a lot of people who need it into housing.’

  ‘No. It would be nice, but that’s not who we are.’ She picked up one of the bundles of notes. ‘That’ll do, we can do something with this. Leave the rest.’

  She was still breathing hard, like she’d been running.

  As they pushed through the double doors at the foot of the stairs into the lobby they heard a loud buzzing. A light was blinking in the shadows behind the reception desk. They crossed over.

  ‘Receptionist does the switchboard. It’s the lift emergency line. Guess it goes through to a call centre if no-one answers.’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  Paul glanced at the plate glass window, took hold of the metal chair, and swung it over his head to smash it down on the computer-switchboard. Ade reached past him, picked up the handset and placed it on the counter. The buzzing stopped. He hesitated a moment and put the chair back on the floor. They could hear Webster’s voice:

  ‘Is that Emergencies? I’m stuck in a lift in the Webster Building. Get me out of here. I want you here now.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Paul picked up the receiver. ‘It ain’t the Hong Kong Chinese Laundry. Buy your way out of that one.’ He reached down the side of the switchboard and jerked at the phone-cord, snapping it.

  Ade had her fist jammed in her mouth.

  He looked up at her.

  ‘Tax-woman and Robyn.’

  She loved him.

  28

  Ade stood on London Bridge with Paul beside her, looking up at the night sky. It must be nearly nine o’clock, she thought. They’d been walking idly along by the river, just listening to the noises of the city, the rush of the water, the people chattering happily around them, the traffic on the Embankment across the water, the lights gleaming everywhere.

  There didn’t seem to be anything to do. The news was out, somewhere out there. Maybe the police would come after them for breaking and entering or criminal damage to lift doors or touching Webster’s computer or something, or maybe they’d be too busy. Maybe Webster would have the Fraud Squad round with Fleet Street camped outside his Sloane Square mansion and all his business associates explaining how they never knew what he was up to.

  The moon had come out from behind the cloud now and was lighting up the buildings all round them. London, the greatest city in Europe. So many people, from every country, speaking every language in the world. All pursuing their own lives, chasing their own dreams. All needing a government that worked, buses, drains, police, fire engines, street lighting, doctors, day nurseries, clean water, law courts, ambulances, schools, everything you couldn’t have without tax, everything she worked for, keeping the city alive.

  Her phone buzzed.

  ‘Marcus Robbins, BBC News here.’

  ‘Sorry?’ She was instantly alert. Marcus Robbins was the lead for the main BBC evening news programme. He had a soft compelling voice which hardened the instant he found a weakness in one of the people he talked to so politely in front of an audience of ten million.

  ‘I’d like you to help us. We’re doing a discussion on taxation and the City this evening. It’ll be the Chancellor, CI Mayland from the City of London police and, I very much hope, you. Do say you’ll be able to come.’

  ‘But…why me?’

  ‘One of my assistants just picked up something from the FT website. You’re their lead story, all about tax and city corruption. They’re running with the Institute of Director’s line that it’s the Revenue harassing reputable businesses. Our angle’s going to be tax fraud. The fat cats who don’t pay what they should, so the rest of us have to stump up even more.’ His voice softened. ‘The tax inspectors who perform a vital public service tracking them down. The Revenue won’t speak to us. Everything’s confidential. We understand you’re one of their leading experts and that you’re now free-lance. We’re relying on you.’

  She heard a voice in the background, but she couldn’t make out the words. She stared out across the dark band of the river to the towers of Blackfriars Station and the dome of St Paul’s, weightless in the moonlight. She tried to gather her thoughts.

  ‘You’ll have the Chancellor and a senior City of London police officer… and me?’

  ‘Yes. They’re there because we have questions we want to put to them. You’re there because you’re the human face of taxation. I’m right, aren’t I? You’re the one who tracks down the tax cheats? I’m going to have to go in a second.’

  She watched a couple in the street, arm in arm, window-shopping, the man pointing at something and the woman laughing.

  ‘Yes, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He sounded delighted. ‘Broadcasting House, 9.30pm, ask for me. Don’t be late. We pay expenses.’

  The elation rushed back. She clasped Paul to her.

  ‘Webster’s wrong, it’s out there. I’m on TV, we’ll make sure everyone knows about this.’

  ‘That’s brilliant. Number one.’

  29

  Twenty minutes later they were pushing open the swing doors of Broadcasting House. One of the receptionists, a pleasant-faced older woman with reddish hair and dimpled cheeks, looked up and caught her eye. Just then Paul’s phone jingled. She walked toward the reception desk. She could hear Paul’s voice behind her: ‘Nadia? What’s up?’

  The older woman rose and came round the end of the desk, her hand outstretched. ‘You must be Ms Corey. We’re delighted you could come. I’m to take you straight up.’

  Ade looked back at Paul.

  ‘I gotta go. There’s something happening at the house. Nadia wouldn’t say what. I’ll call you.’ He was rubbing at the side of his face. ‘I never heard her like this.’

  The woman had a hand on Ade’s arm, just above the elbow.

  ‘We do need you now,’ she said. ‘You’re the main item.’

  Ade stood there a moment longer. ‘It’s a big chance. I’ll see you soon.’

  Four young men with identical suits and instrument cases strode past, talking loudly. Paul hugged her. ‘Good luck,’ he whispered his mouth close to her ear. ‘Superhero.’

  He turned and was gone.

  The woman from reception led Ade up a flight of stairs, through swing doors and into a darkened space, where everything sounded muffled and none of the technicians looked up at her. She didn’t recognise either of the two people sitting in the pool of light at the far end of the studio, chatting to each other, one in a wheelchair, the other in a leather armchair. The woman ushered her forward, then smiled and turned to go. The lights glared bright in her face. Someone clipped a microphone to her lapel, tapped it and nodded. Another assistant gestured her to the third chair, smiled cordially at all three of them and glanced at a sheaf of papers.

  ‘Mr Robbins will be here shortly. He’s asked me to say how pleased he is you could come in at such short notice.’

  A middle-aged man with neatly trimmed hair and formidable black-framed glasses leaned across the arm of the wheelchair to shake Ade’s hand.

  ‘Chancellor Spalden regrets he is unable to attend this evening. He is needed in the House. I am his assistant in these matters,’ he sai
d smoothly. ‘Christian Mitchkin.’

  ‘Of course. And I represent the City of London police,’ said the young black woman on Ade’s right. ‘Emily Stonepan. We felt it better to have a communications expert on the programme.’

  She had a firm hand shake, a warm smile and guarded eyes. When were you last on the beat? thought Ade.

  ‘I’m Adeline Corey,’ she said. ‘Ex-Revenue.’

  The other two gazed at her a moment longer, as if to fix her face in their memories, then turned away to resume their conversation. The young woman checked her clipboard and turned to Ade.

  ‘You’re able to talk about the day-to-day practice of tax-gathering in the City?’

  ‘Yes. But aren’t we here to discuss the breaking news? Tax fraud on a massive scale? How it means ordinary people have to pay more?’

  ‘Tax avoidance,’ said the assistant. ‘That’s been done to death and there’s never any proof. We want to stress the law and order angle.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Here’s Mr Robbins.’

  Mr Robbins was much shorter than Ade had expected and more genial. He had the face of a matinee idol, the make-up round his right eye slightly smudged. His smile included all of them.

  ‘Sorry, things are happening very fast. Everyone ready? Right, let’s go. We’ve a short film to start with.’

  The film on the monitor in front of them set stills of Webster’s bandaged face against shots of City of London police patrolling the financial district: two Bobbies on glossy black horses moving down Threadneedle Street; an officer with a machine pistol slung over his shoulder scanning the crowd outside Bank tube station. Newspaper headlines were edited in: “City Vampire Strikes!”; “Muggings Up in the Square Mile”; “Tax Panic Grips City”.