Thornwyn

by Laurence Todd

  Looking at Thornwyn, I was thinking I ought to contact Richard Clements afterwards. As a political journalist, possibly he might know someone who could give me a few off-the-record details about Sampson. I decided I would.

  “And that’s the only reason you blackmailed him, because he was gay?” I asked.

  “Bad enough on its own, but he had a wife,” Thornwyn said. “He had a kid.”

  He poured me another coffee. I took two more biscuits. “So I confront Sampson. I tell him: tell the truth, come out and admit the truth about this guy at the Home Office, or I’ll talk to some journalists I know and your name and picture see daylight in the press. He refuses.”

  “Did you mention this to the press?”

  “I held off initially, thought I’d give him a couple of days to chew his options over. He then does the unexpected thing and resigns from Government.” He sounded surprised. “Cites pressure of work, health reasons, the usual spiel. ’Course, you know what happened to me not too long after this.” He waved his arm around to indicate his surroundings. “I was careless and, well . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  “So the rumours are true. He resigned because of you. You forced a member of the Government to leave office because you didn’t like the fact he was gay.”

  He thought about it for a moment. “I didn’t force him; I simply gave him a choice. But, when you put it like that, I suppose I did, yeah,” he said casually, sipping his coffee.

  “And you kept on blackmailing him,” I challenged my ex-boss.

  “Oh, no, not after that. It was a kind of victory getting him out of public life, so that was something.” He paused for a moment. “If you’re expecting me to apologise, Rob, you’ll be waiting for quite some time. I won’t be doing that.”

  I looked at Thornwyn with some degree of disgust. Blackmail is a particularly revolting offence, usually targeted against the weak and defenceless, and for it to be employed by a decorated police officer against a member of Parliament, a man also in Government, albeit a few rungs down from the top, for no other reason than distaste at his sexual persuasion, was venal in the extreme. He’d not even been charged with blackmail at his recent trial, so any liability for this would be evaded, assuming it was ever made known: unlikely now Sampson was dead. My admiration for the man I’d looked up to when I’d served in his team was dissolving before my eyes. Any respect for Thornwyn had dropped rapidly whilst talking to him and, if it got any lower, I’d soon be standing on it.

  I then remembered something else Smitherman had said earlier. “The press mentioned something about the House of Commons’ Intelligence and Security Committee looking into allegations of misconduct amongst Government personnel. It was you who leaked it to the press, wasn’t it? That’s how they knew: you told them.” I said this as an accusation. Any potential security issues relating to MPs would be considered by the Intelligence and Security Committee and also investigated covertly, so any publicising of its considerations could only come from the inside.

  He said nothing in response, sipping his coffee calmly and looking benign, as though he were waiting for an opponent to make the next move on the chess board. We sat silently for a few more moments.

  “Possibly.” He winked at me and sat back in his chair, looking very relaxed. “Let’s just say I had a few fruitful conversations with a tabloid hack I know and told him a few things.”

  “You knew about investigations by the Intelligence and Security Committee? How did you get to hear about them? Was Sampson part of this?”

  He didn’t respond. He picked up his cup and finished his coffee. He sat back.

  “So, you happy now, Rob? You got what you came for. You now know why Sampson resigned,” he said formally. “That’ll make Smitherman happy.”

  “He took his own life a few months ago, you pompous prick.” I said this calmly but with slightly more aggression in my voice than I’d intended. “Sampson took his own life because you threatened to out him.”

  Thornwyn looked indifferent for a moment, then he smiled. “Smitherman hasn’t told you what the bigger picture is, has he? That’s why I wanted to talk to you, but Smitherman hasn’t clued you in, has he? He’s left you thinking it’s all about hidden sexuality. Tsch tsch, naughty Jack.” He shook his head.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Not for me to tell you, Rob. Suffice to say there’s much more to this than you might think.” He stood up and prepared to leave.

  I had another thing to put to him. Smitherman hadn’t answered this; maybe he would.

  “Something else I’d like to know. Given what you’ve just been sentenced for, you had to have some help doing all those things you were convicted of.” I was curious. “What about the others? Who else was involved?”

  He looked almost benign and sat down again. “Not for me to say, Rob. I’ll just say this. When you were in my team, you were the only one I’d have trusted completely. What does that tell you?”

  Almost on cue, the door opened and the same senior prison official entered. Thornwyn nodded to him and picked up his jacket.

  “You should talk to Smitherman. Thanks for coming, Rob. Appreciate it.” He offered his hand again. I didn’t accept. He smiled and left.

  I walked out the same way I’d come. The same prison officer escorted me to the exit and the atmosphere was somewhat frosty. He was not impressed with what he’d seen.

  “Nice cosy little chat, eh? Hope the chairs weren’t too uncomfortable for you. Did you like the coffee?” he said, sourly. “I just really love it when my working day revolves around pampering some corrupt cop and one of his cronies. If there was any justice, we’d—”

  I turned. My face was about twelve inches from his.

  “Fuck you,” I said with controlled aggression. He recoiled. He stared at me for a moment, then turned and walked away. I was surprised at my response.

  Driving back, I wondered why I’d taken umbrage with the aspersions cast by the prison officer. I realised that, despite everything I’d just heard, despite what Thornwyn had been found guilty of and his homophobia and his blackmailing, which had contributed to destroying the life of someone whose only offence was a sexual tendency Thornwyn either couldn’t or wouldn’t attempt to understand, and despite my antipathy to everything he’d done, I couldn’t quite shake off some warm feelings towards my old boss.

  I thought back to joining his team when I’d first become a DC. I’d been part of a new wave of promotions as it was believed several squads needed freshening up and new blood introduced to shake things up. Whilst arrest averages were being kept up and there was no political pressure being brought to bear, it was felt some officers were now past their prime and either they were better suited for a desk role or else they should consider their options, turn in their papers and maybe take that position as Head of Security being offered at a large factory somewhere after all.

  Thornwyn had introduced me as the FNG, the bright spark with the university degree who’d probably use phrases they wouldn’t understand but who could help them spell all the big words they might have to use at some point. However, despite this, I was soon accepted into the team and we all gelled nicely. I later discovered FNG meant fucking new guy.

  Thornwyn’s squad was seen in CID as part of the elite who, along with the Sweeney, went after the hardened villains: the lorry hijackers, the armed robbers and the violent offenders. It was exhilarating work, though occasionally scary, having to tackle criminals armed with guns, knives and other weapons. I remember, soon after joining, someone swinging a lead pipe at me and, had I not ducked instantly, my head would have come off.

  Thornwyn’s arrest record was impressive and the team managed to secure some outstanding convictions of major villains, though doubt had now been poured over the methods used in a few cases. His command style was a kind of charismatic leadership, in that he was able to convince someone of something needing to be done without using the authority of rank. He’d never had to lean on someone to
do something unpleasant. He always exuded an aura of benevolent dictatorship, meaning that, despite his banter, his bonhomie and his ability to appear to be just one of the chaps when we went out on one of the squad’s regular piss-ups, he wasn’t one of the chaps. He knew it and, more importantly, we knew it as well.

  One night in an Indian restaurant in South Kensington, the total bill for the evening, for a group of around twenty people, had been somewhere in the region of a thousand pounds. Thornwyn had startled me when not only did he insist it was his treat, but he produced a wad of £50 notes from his pocket that could choke a horse and paid in cash. Leaving the restaurant I’d asked one of the squad how Thornwyn was able to pay a bill of that size in cash. His reply was along the lines of a jovial, “Come on, mate, it’s not like he’s spending his own money, is he?” To my bemused expression, as I was a new boy, he’d replied in a light-hearted manner with something like, “It’ll all become clear to you soon.”

  Except it never did. Nobody ever took me to one side and explained just how and why Thornwyn was able to pay restaurant bills running into many hundreds of pounds with equanimity. Now, in hindsight, it’s obvious what was being spent was from the proceeds of crime, money extorted from criminals who were financing a squad night out on the razzle. For a while, Thornwyn had found a way to make crime pay.

  It was now nearly five o’clock and, unusually, Smitherman had left early as he was off to a black-tie senior police officers’ gathering later that evening. I sat at my desk and typed an account of my conversation with Thornwyn, concluding with my now knowing he’d used undue influence to compel Sampson to resign from the Government, and requesting to talk to Smitherman about this matter as Thornwyn had alluded to there being more to the issue than was apparent to me.

  I then phoned Richard Clements on my mobile. He was still at his desk. I told him I wanted to pick his brains about a sensitive political issue and asked when he would be available.

  He arrived just before seven. I was about a hundred yards away from the pub when I saw him approaching it from the Trafalgar Square direction. Walking north along Whitehall, however, I’d become acutely aware of a woman the other side of the road walking in the same direction and, despite the crowds, staying slightly behind and on the outer edge of the kerb; she appeared to be keeping me in sight. I’d looked over at her a few times and each time she had looked away. I was sure she’d also been behind me when I’d walked along Great George Street just now. But then, it was busy, lots of people walking along Whitehall, so perhaps it was my imagination. Why would anyone be following me?

  The Clarence, at the north end of Whitehall, was our usual rendezvous point if I needed to talk to Richard Clements. In the past two years we’d met here a few times and a kind of friendship was evolving between Clements and me. We’d been undergrads together at King’s and I’d thought he was just a left-wing jerk-off mouthing the stock phrases and trite clichés such persons usually voiced, like members of a car club. But since becoming reacquainted with him now that he was a journalist on the left-wing fortnightly magazine New Focus, I’d found him no longer to be the hothead he’d been as a student. He’d matured somewhat, had married Smitherman’s daughter and was now making his name as a political writer. It was this I wanted to tap into because he was active in politics and political reporting circles. He had contacts at all levels of the political sphere and in all parties, and he also knew people who knew people, which I was hoping to benefit from. I could have looked up information about Sampson in the files we maintained, but I wanted the views of someone on the ground, someone in touch with daily events. Clements mingled with journalists and politicians all the time and I was hoping he could help me out.

  That he was also Smitherman’s son-in-law was a source of considerable amusement for me, though Smitherman’s blood pressure wouldn’t thank me for that.

  I timed my arrival so I got to the bar just as Clements was ordering and I let him buy me a pint as I was now off duty. I noticed his hair was even longer and tonight he wore it in a ponytail. I could just imagine Smitherman’s reaction if he saw it.

  The quick-drink-after-work crowd was thinning out, so there were tables available. We sat by the window. I looked out the window and could see the same woman standing at a bus stop, looking up and down the road.

  “My father-in-law’s only just down the road from here,” Clements said.

  “Where? Having tea in Number 10?” I was curious.

  “At the Banqueting Rooms. There’s some gathering of top cops for whatever reason, so he’s down there schmoozing with the cream of law enforcement. My guess? They’re gonna talk about Thornwyn and how they can minimise any damage from the fallout.”

  The idea of Smitherman schmoozing with anyone was too much to grasp. Smitherman didn’t schmooze. He’d probably stand around, making one glass of something last a while, feeling extremely uncomfortable and itching to call a taxi.

  “What about Thornwyn, then?” Clements sounded excited. “I was in court for a few days ’cause we’re gonna do a piece about the downfall of a top cop, and I couldn’t believe some of what I heard. No cop’s faced charges like that since the seventies. Did you know him?”

  “Yeah, I was part of his team. I was in CID before joining the Branch.”

  “Yowzah,” he exclaimed. “Did you know about him then?” I knew what he meant. “No, I wasn’t with his team very long. I had no idea about any of this.”

  “Can you imagine my father-in-law being as bent as that? He’s a boring old sod but at least he’s honest. He’s so straight, he’s probably got a broom handle stuck up his arse.” He laughed at his own comment. “Anyway, I’m guessing you wanna pick my brain about something.”

  “Very prescient.” I leaned forward slightly. “You’ve got your ear to the ground, so I’m hoping you can help me with a few things. You okay with that?”

  “Yeah.” He was draining his first pint. “Shoot.”

  “What do you know about Paul Sampson?”

  “The MP who took his own life earlier this year?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, that one.”

  “I don’t know too much about him. I interviewed him once for an article the Focus ran about up-and-coming Tory MPs and which ones we predicted to have a bright political future in the party. We didn’t use his contribution, but I’ve still got it on file if you wanna read it. Seemed a perfectly decent guy to me, though I disagreed with just about everything he said.”

  “Do you know anything else about him?” I looked straight at him, hoping he was reading between the lines.

  “Like what? You mean personal stuff?” He’d caught on.

  “Something like that. You ever pick up on any rumours about his private life or his sexuality, stuff like that, the usual political gossip?”

  “You know something, don’t you?” He smiled knowingly. “You’ve heard something about him and you’re hoping to use me as a sounding board to verify whatever you’ve picked up on, aren’t you?”

  “Am I that transparent?” We both laughed. It felt easy laughing with him. Were we in danger of becoming real friends? There was no denying I was feeling more and more comfortable talking to him, though we both went out of our way not to let on to Smitherman that this was the situation as his reaction would not exactly be hard to ascertain. Clements would be perceived as an undesirable left-wing influence and I suspected Smitherman would not be pleased knowing one of his team was associating with such a person.

  Clements didn’t initially reply. He went to the bar and bought two more pints, though I’d not even finished my first. I’d asked him for this meet and yet he was buying the drinks; fine with me. He sat back at the table and opened a packet of scampi crisps.

  “Okay. Strictly between you and me, off the record?”

  I nodded my agreement. “Scout’s honour.”

  “I did hear it said he might be gay. Someone at the Focus saw Sampson out with another guy one time, and he recognised the other guy: some top off
icial at the Home Office. My friend knew him from university and knew he was gay. Sampson was a parliamentary under-secretary in the same department. This official’s as gay as a summer fruit basket, so the speculation was whether Sampson was as well.”

  “He’s sure it was Sampson?”

  “Oh, yeah, no doubt.”

  “Where’d he see them?”

  “At the gay pride march last year.” Clements smiled broadly. “My friend was taking part in it. They weren’t, they were just walking along the pavement watching. My friend was sure it was this Home Office guy. He checked it out, it was definitely him. Sampson, of course, he recognised immediately ’cause he’s in Government.”

  “Was it Geoffrey Tilling Sampson was seen with?”

  “Yeah, it was.” Clements looked surprised at hearing this. “I was right; you do know something, don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure.” I was hesitant.

  I decided to take Clements into my confidence. I lowered my voice.

  “Your friend’s right. Sampson was gay, but he wasn’t out. He was still in the closet, and I did hear he’d resigned from Government because of being blackmailed about his sexuality.”

  Clements’ eyes opened wide in surprise. “What?” He almost spat his beer back into the glass. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I shook my head slowly.

  “Who told you this?”

  “Someone who knows him; a well-connected, very authoritative source.” I didn’t mention the source was the actual blackmailer himself. “You know much else about him?”

  He looked deep in thought for a few seconds. “No, I don’t think so. His resigning from Government made headline news, of course, especially when he stood down as an MP soon after. All the hacks I’m in contact with were sure he’d be promoted if the Tories won the next election, probably get something near the top of one of the major departments of state, Foreign Office or Defence, something like that. Makes you wonder why he resigned when he had so much going for him and could have toughed it out.” He sipped some beer. “I mean, it’s no big deal being gay nowadays, even in the Tory party, so why didn’t he just come out and declare himself? It wouldn’t be the first time an MP’s done that and survived. Even top-class rugby players have come out as gay and played on with no problems.”