Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

  It didn’t. Forsyth just stared blankly at the camera.

  ‘Where I’d like to start, Mr Forsyth, is with the 1966 General Election campaign.’ I addressed him formally, with the expectation he would stop me and say, “Please, call me Ludo” or something similar.

  He didn’t. He continued staring.

  ‘As I understand it, you were, at that time, Harold Wilson’s political adviser and the party’s campaign manager?’ I said, carefully enunciating the words and consciously directing them into my microphone.

  ‘Harold’s senior and closest political adviser, yes.’

  ‘As I’m sure you’ll recall,’ I continued, ‘the Election was called for 31st March and the campaign coincided with the start of the run-up to the football World Cup in England. In fact, the World Cup trophy, which was on display in London to promote the tournament, was stolen just ten days or so before polling day.’ I paused for Forsyth to confirm that he did indeed recall this.

  ‘Was that a question?’ he said irritably.

  I had better get to the point, I thought. ‘Er no, Mr Forsyth. My question is, did Labour’s General Election campaign involve promoting England’s hosting of the World Cup, in order to generate a feel-good factor amongst the electorate?’

  I expected the sort of evasive, self-serving, non-answer that experienced political communicators have made into an art form; one that would force me to drill down through the obfuscation to discover anything of value.

  So it took me aback when, after a moment’s thought, he replied, ‘Yes, I seem to recall it did. The mid-sixties were a challenging time, socially, economically and, therefore, politically. We needed to create the impression that Labour was transforming Britain into a vibrant, modern, world-leading nation. I believe the slogan I devised for that campaign was “You know Labour Government works” and it was important to ensure the man-in-the-street thought he did know it, because that’s what he sensed.’ He looked directly into his camera and gave a supercilious smile. ‘Do you understand?’

  Although I noticed an occasional weakness in his voice and his attitude and tone annoyed me, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the vigour with which he spoke for a man of his age.

  ‘Completely,’ I said, and I returned the smile, quelling the urge to add, “you arrogant, condescending arse”.

  Encouraged by his apparent frankness, I asked him, ‘Do you remember the Daily Mirror sending you a football writer to assist you with that aspect of the campaign?’

  ‘A football writer?’ From his initial expression, one would have thought I had asked him about a wizard from Hogwarts. Then a memory seemed to come to him. ‘Oh, wait a minute. You may be right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I think we did have a Fleet Street hack to brief us, now you come to mention it - just on the soccer stuff, you understand. It was someone Harold knew. I can picture him now: he wore an awful light grey suit.’

  This sounded like Harry. However, I didn’t want to be accused of leading my corroborative source. So I followed up with, ‘You don’t remember his name by any chance, do you?’

  ‘I very rarely forget a name… or face for that matter…,’ he said slowly and proudly, with a look of intense concentration. ‘I know it was something Scottish… ’

  Scottish! Oh dear, I thought.

  ‘Although he wasn’t Scots. No, he was definitely English - we wouldn’t have used him otherwise… I’m almost certain it began with “M”.’

  With this, my hopes revived.

  ‘Not “Mc” or “Mac” anything. It was quite common though, I seem to recall… Rather like him. I want to say… not Menzies… not Milner… It was like Harold’s… ’ He pondered a few moments longer and then screamed into the microphone, ‘MILLER! His name was Harold Miller.’

  At last! I had a source who could place Harry in Number 10. I now needed confirmation of what he and Forsyth did whilst he was there.

  ‘I didn’t know Miller was a Scottish name. I’ve always assumed it was an occupational one.’

  ‘Then you don’t know your Scottish history or your ecclesiastical politics, Ms Phillips.’ He smiled, as if to add “and, as a political journalist, you really should”. ‘Hugh Miller was one of the greatest Scotsmen of the nineteenth century.’

  I gritted my teeth and said, ‘Really? After this call, I’ll Google him. In the meantime, I hope you don’t mind if we focus on more recent events involving the distinctly less illustrious, Harold Miller?’

  ‘If you wish to. Although I can’t imagine why you would.’

  ‘Well, you see, I’m interested in that particular aspect of Labour’s General Election campaign with which you sought Harold Miller’s assistance.’

  ‘Very well,’ Forsyth said, in a way that indicated he was wondering where I was heading.

  ‘You mentioned you wanted to give the man-in-the street the sense that, under Labour, Britain was becoming a modern, go-ahead, international leader. Is that right?’

  ‘Something along those lines,’ he said suspiciously. ‘Yes.’

  Sensing he was about to back off, I cut to the chase. ‘Was that the aim of “Operation Jules Britannia”?’

  His eyes glared and his mouth tensed. ‘Operation Jules Britannia?’ he said with a smirk. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’ve been led to believe that that was what you called the actions you took to create the desired impression with the general public.’

  ‘And who has led you to believe that?’

  ‘I can’t reveal my sources - as you will be well aware. But it was someone in a position to know. I can assure you of that.’

  Forsyth looked to his right where I assumed David was stationed and gestured towards an ornate sideboard behind him. David came into view, picked something off the sideboard and seemed to present it to Forsyth, before disappearing out of shot again. When Forsyth returned to face his webcam, I could see he was holding a short cigar in a carved meerschaum holder.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to tell me what these so called “actions” were that we took, according to this well-placed gentleman.’ He raised his eyebrows to invite my response, then added, ‘Or was it a lady?’

  I took from this that he suspected my source was Baroness Falkender. He knew I had spoken to her; and, despite his best efforts to keep her in the dark, it was quite conceivable she had discovered the existence of Operation Jules Britannia, even if she didn’t know the details.

  Not minding his suspecting this, I ignored his question. Instead, I gave him a knowing smile and said, ‘There were many actions, as I understand it. I’m happy to give you a few examples.’

  ‘Carry on,’ he said, without warmth or encouragement.

  ‘You ordered a replica of the Jules Rimet Trophy and arranged for it to be swapped for the original that was on display to the public.’

  ‘If I did, it would have been an entirely proper and prudent action given that the trophy was valuable and wasn’t ours to lose. Indeed, given that - as you yourself have pointed out - the trophy was stolen whilst on display, such a precaution might well have been considered, in hindsight, very wise.’

  ‘If anyone outside Number 10 had known of the swap, I’m sure it would have been considered remarkably prescient. But the fact is no one did.’

  He gave a derisive snort. ‘If, for security reasons, we had displayed a replica trophy in the place of the real one - I’m speaking entirely hypothetically you understand - why, pray, would we announce the fact?’ He leaned back in his chair and lit his cigar.

  ‘You may not wish to disclose the fact in advance. But once “the trophy” had been stolen and there was a great deal of public apprehension that it wouldn’t be available to present to the World Cup winners, why - speaking hypothetically - wouldn’t you put everyone’s minds at rest by announcing it then?’

  His eyes narrowed and lips tightened. ‘That’s quite enough hypothesising. I’m sure you can make better use of the final few minutes we have.’

  This was
the first mention of any time limit for the interview. I was determined not to let Forsyth dodge the issue. ‘But you didn’t want to put everyone’s minds at rest, did you? Quite the reverse. You wanted to arouse the electorate by manufacturing a sensational crisis and then tell them in a blaze of patriotic publicity that it had been averted.’

  I could tell I had scored a hit. Forsyth spun towards David and back to camera. With anger constricting his voice, he said ‘Your source is that Miller, isn’t it?’ He shot me an accusatory stare. ‘He’s the only person who would have fed you such outrageous fiction. Admit it: you got it from him, didn’t you?’

  ‘You can badger me as much as you like, Mr Forsyth. I won’t reveal my sources.’

  He leaned into the camera and said, ‘Then let me tell you something about Miller you won’t know,’ adding with a sneer, ‘because he won’t have told you, certainly.’

  I tried to appear unconcerned. In truth, my heart was heading to my heels.

  ‘Your Mr Miller was fired from the Daily Mirror for reporting what is now, I believe, called “fake news”.’

  ‘Really?’ I said with a forced smile. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Like you, I have my sources. In my case, though, they have a truthful reputation, so they can be trusted.’

  ‘Are you saying my source is a liar?’

  ‘Yes, and a serial one at that. I don’t suppose he told you about his lengthy affair with my former secretary, Miss Davies, either?’

  I must have betrayed my astonishment, if not alarm; for, after releasing a thick plume of cigar smoke, he said, ‘No, I thought not. Needless to say, he didn’t tell his poor wife, either. Your Mr Miller has a rather tenuous relationship with the truth, you see. It wasn’t that he occasionally had one over the eight at lunchtime, embellished the odd bland story or screwed the office tart at the Christmas party: in Fleet Street, that would have been merely par for the course. No, aside from conducting a long and sordid liaison with my secretary, he regularly submitted fantastic, drink-fuelled concoctions to his editor that no reputable newspaper could possibly print.’

  After his vicious attack on Harry’s reputation, I could no longer restrain my annoyance. ‘Oh, now you say they were drink-fuelled?’ I countered. ‘So Harry wasn’t just a liar and an adulterer, but an alcoholic to boot?’

  ‘You know him as “Harry”, do you?’

  I stared blankly at my webcam, whilst I mentally kicked myself.

  Forsyth took a satisfied draw on his cigar. Then, with a smug glint in his eyes, he said, ‘I can see I was right. Miller hasn’t shared that part of his personal history with you.’

  My reaction to Forsyth’s assault on Harry’s credibility was purely instinctive. In reality, my source’s drinking habits fifty years ago - like his sexual morals at that time - were beside the point. All that mattered was his veracity in the present. His alleged history of fabricating stories clearly had a bearing on this. Although, if on these occasions he was under the influence of alcohol, as Forsyth maintained, this was arguably a mitigating, not an aggravating factor.

  My real concern, however, was not this, but the direct and fundamental conflict between Forsyth’s account of matters involving Harry in 1966 and Harry’s own. Whilst I had no reason to prefer the word of a wily professional propagandist to that of a man who, over four months of meetings, I had come to trust and respect, his denial of key aspects of Harry’s story was troubling to say the least.

  In an attempt to quell my consternation, I went on the attack. ‘You have made some very serious allegations. I assume you can justify them?’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. I won’t be getting a writ from Mr Miller, I can assure you.’

  ‘Then let’s put him to one side and concentrate on what you did back then. In particular, did you orchestrate the theft of the Jules Rimet trophy - replica or otherwise?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘How about its subsequent recovery, which conveniently occurred three days before the Election?’

  ‘I think you’ll find that a dog called Pickles took credit for that.’

  ‘And the blaze of patriotic publicity that followed? Didn’t you at least persuade a tame reporter to get the message out that the World Cup was safe on Labour’s watch?’

  Forsyth turned towards where I presumed David was stationed off-camera. ‘Oh dear: I can’t seem to hear her now. The wretched Internet must have gone down.’

  I tried to make myself heard, before quickly realising the fault wasn’t with the Internet.

  ‘Never mind, we were scheduled to finish about now anyway,’ he said.

  David came into shot, leaning in front of Forsyth, I assumed to terminate the call for him. Just before the sound and picture disappeared, I saw Forsyth put an affectionate hand on David’s arm and whisper, ‘Thank you, Baba.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Tuesday, 18th October 2016

  The video call with Forsyth was meant to produce the corroboration of Harry’s story that would allow Damian at the BBC to option it. Not only had it spectacularly failed to do this, it had generated a contrary narrative that placed a large red question mark over Harry’s veracity and, therefore, the whole of Williegate.

  This was the kind of crisis that every investigative journalist has nightmares about. Over six months of work and ten thousand pounds in savings were in jeopardy. I needed to speak to Harry - and fast.

  Following the call, I had tried telephoning Harry’s landline, calling and texting Alison’s mobile and contacting Alison at work on her direct line and by email. I had even resorted to “snail mail”. When, almost a week later, I had received no response to any of my communications, I decided I would drive up to see Harry the next day.

  However, just as I was getting into my car to leave for Waterloo, the postwoman arrived. She handed me, along with the usual bills and junk mail, a cream textured envelope on which my address was typed (not printed) in the traditional, indented manner. I thanked her and, suspecting the envelope contained a letter from Harry, I hurried back indoors and opened it.

  The letter was indeed from Harry. It was dated, curiously, 30th June 2016 and its opening paragraphs were deeply disturbing.

  Dear Jay,

  I’m afraid I have a confession to make. There is no gentle way of expressing this; so I will give it to you straight: I have told you lies.

  I know you deeply value the truth, as do I, which is why I am confessing now. I wish I could have done so in person; but, for reasons that will become apparent, that was impracticable.

  Reading this, I shared the experience the authenticator of the Hitler Diaries must have had when they were pronounced fakes. At one and the same time, I felt incredulous, angry and ashamed. Fortunately, these feelings didn’t last long. For, as I read on, equally intense ones of sadness and admiration soon replaced them.

  You will recall that, in late June, I reduced the price for my story to £10,000 and told you I would no longer be moving into Green Valley; instead, Alison was going to take care of me at home and I would use the £10,000 to meet the cost of this. Only the first of these statements was true.

  It won’t have escaped your notice that, over the months we have been meeting, I have been slowly, but surely, misplacing my marbles. When Alison returned to England, she insisted I see a doctor. Shortly before I offered you a cut price for “Williegate”, I did.

  He diagnosed early, stage five Alzheimer’s. Based on his prognosis and research Alison did, I decided against progressing to stage six (inability to control bladder or bowels; not knowing who I am, where I am or who you are; believing England will win the next World Cup). There’s a slim chance - thanks to the tobacco companies’ deceptions - that cancer will put me out of my misery. Otherwise, I intend to travel to Zurich whilst I still can and take matters into my own hands. This, I was told, will cost approximately £10,000.

  So I lied to you when I said I needed the money from my story to pay for home adap
tations, meals-on-wheels, etc. The truth is, I need it so I can avoid a distressing and undignified death.

  I am very sorry for deceiving you. I did so to shield you from a threat of prosecution. Shamefully, the suicide laws in this country, not only forces anyone who wishes to die with dignity to deceive a whole host of people, but also makes a criminal out of anyone who helps them, however compassionately. I couldn’t risk the police investigation that could well follow my death, finding that you assisted my suicide by funding it. I do hope you will forgive me.

  You will see from the date of this letter that I am writing it, or rather typing it (with considerable help from Alison), the day after we agreed revised terms for my story. When it’s finished, I have asked Alison to keep it and send it to you after my death.

  I want to thank you for allowing me to tell my story. I don’t suppose I will see what the BBC do with it. I hope they do it justice and, more importantly, it proves profitable for you. You deserve it.

  With kindest regards,

  Harry.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  TWENTY NINETEEN: Thursday, 31st October

  Getting Williegate published proved as intractable as Brexit. At a further meeting with Damian, I reported on my interview with Baroness Falkender. I explained she had put me on the trail of Ludovic Forsyth, who I discovered wasn’t dead but living in luxury in Abuja. I followed this with a fanfared announcement that I had secured a Skype interview with Harold Wilson’s former right-hand man, who had confirmed, on the record, that he had engaged Harry Miller to assist him in a political campaign centring on England’s hosting of the World Cup. Damian greeted this with a “clever girl” and clapped his hands like an excited child.

  When he specifically asked about Operation Jules Britannia, however, I was forced to admit that neither Forsyth nor Falkender had acknowledged its existence; nor had they corroborated any of the operation’s details Harry had reported to me. At this point, Damian’s demeanour switched from “toddler with new toy” to “sulky teenager”. He rapidly brought our meeting to a close, and a week later I received a curt email from the BBC saying they didn’t wish to take the project any further.