"What's that?"
"It's using computers to break into people's mobile phones, to eavesdrop."
"Why did you do it?"
"I didn't, but they wanted me out. I broke some other rules too and they're using that to blackmail me. So, I'm running away from it all, away from London, away from my tainted past. But I need to write again and something brought me here."
She looked at him, possibly for the first time, trying to make him out. He let her stare, feeling her eyes roam critically over him.
"You asked about this room," she continued in a less formal voice. "The door is normally kept closed. I'm not sure why it's open now. It's empty because we don't go in there. The previous owner warned us that it was a room with a bad feeling. People who had stayed in there had been troubled afterwards. So we never use it."
"What sort of trouble?"
"Bad memories, they said. Like pain from the past."
"Have you experienced it?"
"No. But then I don't go looking for that sort of thing."
She led him out into the courtyard. The contrast between the inside of the dark house and the brightness of the outside momentarily blinded him.
"I hope that helps with your writing." She smiled at him with a warmth that hadn't been evident before. He felt himself liking her.
"You've been very helpful. If I need any more information, could I contact you? Do you have an email address?"
"Yes. But I'm not sure there's any more I can tell you. My husband doesn't really like people coming here."
She handed him a card, smiled again and then walked back into the house.
'Julia Masters. Penhallam Antiques'
He heard the hinges squeal as the door closed and the sound of bolts being drawn. For a moment, he stood blinking in the sunlight, aware that his ancestry lay rooted in this place. They were his own forbears who stole, cheated and wrecked from their home here at Penhallam. Did that same blood which coursed through Kate and her father's veins run through his too? How was he connected to this place?
His phone vibrated. There was a text from his lawyer saying that he needed to meet him urgently in London tomorrow.
Chapter 6: London, April 14th 2011
The long drive back to London left him feeling exhausted and the sight of his tired and sparsely furnished flat reduced him to a state of unusual depression. He managed a black coffee then pulled the worn duvet over his head and tried to imagine he was in some distant paradise whilst he waited for sleep to claim his consciousness.
The radio alarm woke him at seven with the annoyingly exuberant voice of a DJ. He dressed soberly in a jacket and tie, realising that he had to take this meeting with his lawyer seriously. What had started as a preposterous allegation against a small number of journalists in early 2011 had now turned into a major witch hunt. Operation Weeting, as it was known, had been set up to investigate alleged phone hacking. Originally, it was thought to have involved one rogue reporter hacking into the phones of members of the Royal Family, but recent revelations about the interception of calls made to a young murder victim and to people injured in the July 2005 London bombing campaign had led to a public outcry and to calls for perpetrators to be publicly named and shamed.
The offices of Dalton, Brown and Sidley were situated close to the law courts in Chancery Lane. He waited in the high-ceilinged, oak-panelled visitors' room.
"Douglas. Nice to see you. How are you?"
Winston Brown was in his late thirties – stocky and with a ruddy face. He was at that age when the last remnants of a previously athletic body were being swallowed up by the ravages of long hours, too much pizza and alcohol.
"Come with me."
They walked up a sweeping stairway making awkward small talk, each knowing that the issues they had to discuss far outweighed the banality of this social convention. Winston's office was surprisingly small for a partner, requiring that Doug press himself against the door so that Winston could squeeze past to reach his seat – a piece of physical contact that neither of them relished.
"So come on, Winston, what's this all about? They've interviewed me twice now and I've told them all I know. And that's not a lot. Can't you get them to drop it?"
Winston's eyes were firmly fixed on the file that was open in front of him. He looked up.
"They're going to press charges, Douglas. This afternoon. They want you to attend for an interview at 2.30. They'll formally charge you and you'll be bailed pending a court appearance."
"Charged with what?" he exploded. "I've done nothing wrong. This is outrageous!"
"There are additional accusations against you. They claim they have 'significant new information'. I believe they'll be charging five other journalists too. This is big, Douglas. And it's about the people at the top offloading blame and responsibility. You've been caught in a trap. But we'll fight it. So we need to start talking now."
"How do we fight it?" he asked, with an air of desperation creeping in to his voice for the first time.
"We need to find out who did know. Was phone hacking countenanced from the top or was it the act of rogue reporters who were out of control? And we have to show why you didn't know. That may mean painting you as a principled but out of touch hack who simply lost his grip. But if that's what it takes, then it may be our best chance."
"You mean publicly make a fool of me?"
"It's either that or a couple of years in gaol."
The police station was the same one he'd been taken to after his flat had been raided. They were made to wait for twenty minutes before being ushered into an antiseptic interview room containing a metal table and four chairs. He had been warned by Winston not to provoke any argument. This was a formality – a procedure which had to be gone through. A disinterested officer of some apparent seniority sat opposite them at the table, accompanied by an assistant.
"Douglas David Penhallam, I am formally charging you with the crime of unlawfully conspiring to intercept voicemail messages at the premises of The Nation's Voice between August 2007 and February 2011. You will be bailed to appear at ..."
He found his mind wandering, unable to take in the reality of this absurd situation. What was phone hacking anyway? Listening to messages that people left for each other. They were no different to what you might write on a scrap of paper and leave on the kitchen table. 'Sorry – late home tonight. Got a meeting'. They had a achieved a status and celebrity that was far beyond their actual worth. And everyone knew that governments were eavesdropping on emails and voice messages with seemingly no control whatsoever.
His thoughts were disturbed by the practical business of arranging bail. Papers were duly signed and suddenly they were outside again.
"OK, the committal hearing will be in a couple of days," he heard Winston say. "Nothing to worry about there. So long as you can remember your name and address you'll be OK."
He didn't appreciate the banal humour.
"I'll get the office to contact you with times as soon as I know. You look after yourself now, Douglas. Speak soon.''
And with a cheery wave, he loped off towards his office.
Doug walked along The Strand, and then Fleet Street, the home of British newspapers until the industry had dispersed, driven by new technologies and the Government's determination to break the power of the unions. In his mind, he could still hear the metallic buzz of the compositors laying out their stories and the smell of hot metal being poured into casts to make the printing plates. As a young reporter, this had been his world – a world he was proud to be a part of. And now this!
He made his way down Ludgate Hill until he reached St. Paul's. The steps were filled with Chinese tourists, jostling to take photos in front of Wren's great cathedral. He began to think that somehow he had misunderstood – got things jumbled in his mind. Lives don't just turn upside down within a few days without some reason. Maybe if he could talk to James Welland again. OK, they didn't see eye to eye, but they had been cub reporters together. They'd s
hared some laughs and got pissed in the same bars. He couldn't just sit there and let all of this happen to him.
He walked along Cheapside and decided to call into a pub. Two scotches later and he was convinced. He would talk to James – like old mates – and get it sorted out. Perhaps he had been a bit arrogant, a bit difficult. Perhaps he should assume his responsibilities as a manager with a bit more dignity. He'd hold his hands up and say, OK, he'd had a good run but now it was time to grow up – join the management team and play his part.
One final whisky and he made his way to Bank Station where he caught the Docklands Light Railway. As it wound its way on a raised line between thrusting new office blocks surrounded by fingers of sparkling water – remnants of the old Royal Docks – he recalled the times when he used to drink in the pubs down there. Smoky, dark places full of working people who lived in the back-to-back terraces that crisscrossed the area – bulldozed now and eradicated. Where did they go? What happened to them? Was it their sons and daughters who now hurried to work along the new pedestrian walkways or sat at tables by the water's edge speaking earnestly into their iPhones?
He got out at Canary Wharf, making his way uneasily up the long escalators. The effect of three whiskies was beginning to make itself felt. Emerging into daylight, he paused to get his bearings and then made his way through a small park to the black glass skyscraper that was home to The Nation's Voice. He paused for a moment – a fleeting thought making him doubt. But it was gone – dismissed. He had come to make amends. Normally, he would sprint up the steps, a little demonstration to anyone who doubted his fitness. But today, he moved more slowly, navigating the revolving doors and finding himself in the marbled dome that was reception. On any other day he would have passed swiftly through the security gate using his pass – but that had been invalidated. He recognised the elderly security man standing by the gate.
"Reg, how are you mate?"
"Fine thank you, sir."
Reg looked slightly on edge – his response lacking the usual wit.
"Reg, I just need to pop up to the office quickly. Only be a few minutes. A few things I've left up there."
"Sorry, sir. That won't be possible."
"Why not?"
"We've instructions not to let you through."
"Only for a few minutes, Reg. I'll be straight up and straight back down."
"Sorry, sir."
Then the rage – the suppressed anger – replacing the thin veneer of civility.
"Fuck you, Reg! If I want to go up there I bloody well will."
He lifted one of his legs to clamber over the bright steel barrier. Reg grabbed hold of his arm and tried to pull him back. A small crowd gathered, bemused by the disturbance.
"Leave me alone, Reg. You've no right to …" Other voices joined in.
"Come on, Reg, get him out."
"Piss off, Penhallam. You're not meant to be here."
He felt himself falling backwards and flailed wildly to break his fall. As he did so, his right hand came into contact with Reg's jaw, delivering a hefty blow. He heard Reg groan and felt blood on his hand. The crowd were braying. More security guards arrived. This time, younger and stronger. He was heaved to his feet.
"You bloody idiot, Doug!" It was Raff. "What the hell are you up to? This is madness."
He could hear people calling for someone to fetch the police. Two young women were tending to Reg's injury and asking him if he wanted to press charges. He couldn't make out Reg's reply but Raff seized the opportunity to haul him out of the foyer. As he was dragged through the revolving doors, he briefly caught a glimpse of James Welland standing on the first floor landing – a look of triumph pasted across his face.
In the plaza outside, Raff let rip – unconcerned by the small group that gathered at a distance to witness the spectacle.
"You stupid, stupid git! What did you think you would achieve by doing that? Reg could easily press assault charges. How's that going to look?"
"I've been charged, Raff. They're going to prosecute." Raff stopped – bemused.
"I've got to appear in the magistrates' court in two days."
"What have they charged you with?"
"Unlawfully conspiring to intercept voicemail messages."
"Shit. And you're probably only the tip of the iceberg. This one's going to roll."
"What do you mean?"
"There's talk of a Government Select Committee calling witnesses – the top boys, the owners – being called to give evidence in public. They're wetting themselves – naturally. Their best defence is to say they knew nothing about it – it was all sanctioned lower down. And so they're co-operating with the police – feeding them evidence. I expect that's how they got on to you. Did they say what evidence they have?"
"No. They just said new information had come to light. You think it came from Halshaw?"
"I'm sure it did. Ably supported by a certain James Welland. You two have never got on. This is his chance to get you out."
"What do I do, Raff? I don't know where to turn."
"Listen, mate. I've got to dash. If I'm out of the office too long there'll be trouble. If I were you, I'd make yourself scarce. I'll call soon."
He watched him stride up the steps until he was engulfed once more within the bowels of The Nation's Voice.
Turning his back on the mocking headquarters building, he returned slowly to the underground station. His mobile vibrated in his pocket and he struggled to disentangle it from various other bits of debris that had resident status there. It was a text from Nick.
'Aleena's father's found out about us. Seems her brother let it out. He's furious. Ordered her home. She's scared. What do I do?'
He felt a twinge of remorse. With all that had gone on in the last twenty-four hours he'd forgotten about Nick. He steadied himself against a railing and found himself peering into the inky waters of the dock around which this urban hub had been constructed. Quickly moving away from the water's edge, he sought an empty table at a nearby cafe. It was only four o' clock and still warm enough to sit in the sun. He prepared to order a black coffee from the approaching waiter but instead found himself asking for a large white house wine.
How could he help Nick? Should he go and see the girl's father? But he knew nothing about their culture. He was ill-equipped to get involved.
He drained his glass and looked around. The plaza where he was sitting was filling with people. He examined their faces. So many colours, so many nationalities, so many cultures. It was different to the docklands he'd known as a cub reporter. Then they were East Enders – coarse, rough and tough – born from generations of poverty and hard toil. But now few wore the overalls of working men and women. They wore striped suits, crisply pressed jeans and ostentatious 'bling'. A change had taken place under his nose. The nation of solid and dour Anglo Saxons who were his parent's generation had gone – replaced by a new nation that was still struggling to find its identity. This was twenty-first century Britain – and he didn't recognise it.
He left ten pounds on the table and pulled himself to his feet. He felt distinctly unwell. He decided to try and walk it off before subjecting himself to the mayhem of the train.
Turning away from the main plaza, he followed a cloistered promenade alongside one of the many waterways. Now he was away from the main populated area, he felt less conspicuous grabbing onto anything he could find to steady himself. Suddenly, he felt his right foot slip. He grabbed out with his left hand to steady himself but his hand grasped thin air. His body spiralled forward and down. He prepared to hit the pavement but his head travelled on beyond his feet as if he was pitching into space. Then the ice cold grip of water seized his body and enveloped him as he continued his descent.
It felt as if a million needles were jabbing into his body and suffocation seemed imminent. If he was going to die, then so be it. He couldn't struggle to save himself, his body was completely unresponsive. He felt strangely detached from his physical self. Looking up, he coul
d see light penetrating the blackness like a distant star. All around him was dark. He felt strangely at peace. If this was death, he could live with it.
He regretted he couldn't help Nick. Somewhere from afar he could hear his voice – fearful and tense.
He wished he had said good bye to Rachel – just to say he still loved her. He felt her fingers caress him, one last time.
The star was just a glimmer now. Soon it would be gone.
He sensed another presence close by – brushing his face – swirling like a warm current. A woman's voice, soft but anxious – familiar yet unknown. He reached out to touch her but she was gone and he drifted into peace.
Suddenly, his tranquil world became disturbed. Water eddied around his face and the distant star was lost. He was grabbed from above. A man in a mask mouthing at him. Then noise. The throb of petrol engines revving. His descent halted. Lifted, semi-conscious into the rescue boat above.
He already knew when he reluctantly opened his eyes that he was not in heaven. The bright lights and softly whirring machinery belonged to the harsh reality of the world from which he had nearly departed. The nurse who greeted his arrival did so as if he was just stepping off the number 84 bus.
"Good morning, Mr. Penhallam. How are we feeling?"
The days that he spent in hospital recovering were a welcome break from his calamitous existence. No alcohol. A few friends. Rachel came and held his hand. Winston brought him a new phone to replace the one that was with him when he fell into the dock. No sooner had he received it than the texts began again.
'Glad you're OK. Aleena very frightened about going home. Should I go with her? What do you think? Nick'
Propped up on his white pillows and able to disengage for a while, it was clear that he had arrived at a crossroads. His life no longer revolved round the all-consuming lads club that was The Nation's Voice. He'd been ejected from that surrogate family and without his wife and son he realised he didn't belong anywhere. Sifting through the thoughts and memories which drifted through his mind, he came to the conclusion that he had to start with Nick. His failure to support his son and be there when he was needed was the cause of much guilt and self-reproach. He had to demonstrate to Nick that he could be a real father.
The Voice Within Page 5