Truth and Lies

by Marguerite Valentine

  Arnsberg was called to give evidence to the Energy and Climate Change Committee. She argued strongly that the government’s commitment to the development of nuclear power was based not on scientific principles but on the size of the potential profit for investors. The costs of building extra roads to and from the site, the management of the increased flow of traffic, the construction costs of a new jetty to bring materials in by sea and the employment of skilled and unskilled labour; all were construction developments which provided profiteering opportunities for the unscrupulous.

  She, like Lee, had refused to be silenced. Turning to the Freedom of Information Act and the EU Environmental Information regulatory framework, they continued their investigations. They trawled through the contracts, costs, billing and relevant emails of these early developments and before long before it was blindingly obvious that certain firms were being used over and over again. A closer examination had shown Fortescue and Makepeace were both on the Board of Directors of a large construction company and, in addition, Makepeace just happened to be a large shareholder in a concrete manufacturing firm – a firm consistently used by the developers at Langhithe.

  At this point the services of a friendly accountant were called upon. A member of the ‘Stop Langhithe Marshes Nuclear Plant Campaign’ and a Forensic Auditor, he proved to be of outstanding assistance. Working on a voluntary basis and after a two-month search through the accounts, he was of the view there were sufficient discrepancies to indicate the possibility of ‘kickbacks’.

  Arnsberg, together with her friends, reviewed the evidence, including the photographic, and concluded it was highly likely the ‘kickbacks’ were not just financial ─ there was also a strong possibility they included ‘sweeteners’: access to vulnerable young girls and possibly boys. She, like Lee, had duly consulted a lawyer and he confirmed what had already been advised. The privacy laws would make publication risky and defending any challenge potentially costly.

  But this hadn’t stopped Arnsberg. Using the parliamentary right of MPs to legal immunity within the Commons, she made a searing speech which included everything so far known about the financial misappropriation relating to the construction of Langhithe. She also stressed the evidence seemed to indicate, that as part of the package, children were being sexually exploited.

  Her speech was met with a shocked silence, followed by uproar. Arnsberg remained implacable. She was, as everyone knew, protected by Parliamentary Privilege and this enabled her to say, more or less, whatever she wanted. The outcome couldn’t have been better. The press descended on the evidence like a pack of starving wolves.

  Seb followed all the media and press speculations closely. He was on a high and with good reason. The exposure of Fortescue, Makepeace and fellow travellers, which included his father, and the agreement by Grassroots’ operational group to hack into the Langhithe computer system – both interventions were working and his father’s downfall meant they were quits now. He had no desire to see or contact him. His one regret being that he couldn’t show his hand to anyone or share with Nixie that he was the one who’d broken into his father’s office, had found the evidence of financial corruption and had posted it on.

  He was pleased, very pleased. It was a sophisticated rip-off. For the first time ever, members of Grassroots could print as many leaflets, pamphlets, and attend as many conferences as they wanted. So despite all the press speculation about who might have been the whistleblower, it seemed he’d almost got away with it.

  Almost, but not quite, because he was still being stalked. He could hardly ask for help from the police or from Gimp. He was on his own and his paranoia was rising day by day. He’d got in the habit before entering his flat of first standing opposite and checking out whether there was anything untoward. It seemed a wise thing to do, given what was going on.

  One particular night something was different. He noticed straightaway that the curtains had been pulled across the windows, and he hadn’t left them like that. Somebody must have been inside his flat after dark and for all he knew, could still be there.

  He waited for fifteen minutes becoming increasingly jumpy with the passing of each minute. He was no good at this, waiting for persons unknown, and the thought that somebody could be or was going through his personal things made his skin crawl. It began to rain. A steady downpour, the kind of rain that only fell in London, dirty, incessant, polluted by the constant traffic, and he wasn’t dressed for it. He moved down the street, and took cover under one of those large trees which border London pavements. It gave some protection but not enough. His view was restricted and the longer he stood waiting, the angrier he got. Quite suddenly, he had had enough. He’d return to his flat, and face up to whoever was there.

  He walked back, climbed the front steps and tentatively tried the door to the flats. There was no sign of a break in. He stood and listened. The house seemed empty. He walked stealthily into the hall towards his front door and put the key in the top lock. It was stiff, the key difficult to turn. Something was wrong. He tried the lower lock. It was open. He was sure he’d double locked it. He walked in, glanced around It was immediately obvious. There’d been a break in. Someone had been in his flat and it looked like a professional job.

  There was no damage, but whoever it was had been in a hurry and looking for something in particular. Cupboards and drawers were left open, clothes strewn on the floor and the laptop he’d left on the table had gone.

  He wasn’t too concerned. Everything he wrote, at each and every stage, was encrypted, deleted, before being transferred to a USB and immediately passed onto Gimp. The more important facts were stored in his head. That had been how he wanted it, even though he’d been told it could make him vulnerable if picked up by opposing forces. His mind went back to the man lurking outside his flat and following him. He must have been tracking his movements, waiting for the right time. He systematically began going through his possessions, itemising what was missing but, apart from the laptop, the only other item was his TAG Heuer watch. That pissed him off, but it also reassured him. It was an opportunist break-in after all. His watch had been nicked to sell, along with his laptop.

  He glanced around the room again. An A4 sized brown envelope was propped against the television. It had been left. He picked it up carefully, weighing it in his hand. Nothing was written on the outside and it was sealed. From the size and shape, it seems like it might contain photos. He tore the envelope open and pulled out the contents. He was right.

  The first image Liverpool Street station. The second, Imogen standing outside the station and getting into a black cab. A wave of disgust passed through him. She looked like a tart. She was heavily made up, her mouth red, her eyes dark, ringed with false eyelashes. She was dressed in a very small, denim jacket, a short, white skirt and ridiculously high heels. He forced himself to look at the third image. Taken on a different occasion, she was entering a building. She was on her own and wearing a skin tight, black satin dress.

  He looked closely at the background. He knew exactly where it was. Eaton Square, home to the uber-rich, the millionaires, the profiteers, the hedge funders, the amoral, the immoral, the tax avoiders, the off-shore account holders, the playboys of the world – the type that paid for sex and the younger the better. There were more images: Imogen with Makepeace and Fortescue in a night club, Imogen watching a pole dancer with Makepeace, Imogen dancing with Makepeace. Drunk or drugged, she seemed oblivious to Makepeace, whose hands, octopus like, were everywhere. Imogen being supported from the club, Makepeace with his arms round her, half carrying, half dragging her into a cab. She looked out of it, her top barely covering her breasts, her skirt indecently short.

  He’d seen enough. He felt sick. It had happened. Her innocence lost, abandoned by her mother, neglected by her father, corrupted by Makepeace’s attention and seduced by his money, she had no idea how to protect herself. Her childhood stolen, she was a lost soul. Her ideas o
f attending art school now irrelevant, she’d given herself up to Makepeace like a sacrificial lamb. She was being used by the rich and powerful, with Makepeace as her pimp. Seb poured himself a whisky and sat down.

  He felt strangely calm. Who had left these photos and for what purpose? They knew where he lived. He’d been stalked and now this; a break in. It could only be Makepeace. He was paying someone to get his own back and to warn him off. It was psychological warfare. He was showing him that he, Makepeace had the upper hand and that he could do just what he liked, regardless of Seb. Motivated by rage and hatred, he’d found out that it was him who’d beaten him up on the beach.

  He stood up and, still carrying his glass, walked into the kitchen. The window was open. Who ever had been there had exited through the window. The window lock had been disabled from the inside. It could have been like that all the time but he hadn’t noticed. For all he knew, the intruder could be living in a flat in this same house and knew of his movements on an hourly basis. He had to speak to Nixie. He picked up his mobile and rang her. She didn’t ask why, but said she’d wait up for him. He stuffed the photos in a holdall and left immediately.

  She could tell something was wrong. He must have looked in a state of shock. ‘What’s going on, Seb? You look as if something’s or somebody’s got to you big time.’

  ‘My flat’s been broken into.’

  She took it calmly. ‘I thought you shared a flat.’

  He remembered, just in time. ‘I did, but they moved out, and I stayed on.’

  ‘Well, that’s how it is in London. Sorry to sound hard, but it happens.’

  ‘Maybe, but I don’t like it. It’s not just that… someone’s playing head games.’

  ‘Like what?’

  He hesitated. How much could he tell her? Certainly not the truth, the words came easily. He was getting good at lying.

  ‘Photos were left of a young girl. Vile photos. But I know who she is.’ Nixie didn’t say a word. She was looking hard at him. ‘I knew her years ago. My parents were friends with a couple who’d adopted a little girl. She’d had it tough. Sometimes I’ve wondered what she was up to. Well, now I’ve found out. She’s been got at. She’s the plaything of Makepeace and Fortescue. It shows her in a night club and she looks drugged. She’s been bought, corrupted. She looks out of it. ’

  Nixie looked attentively at him. ‘Got at? What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s being used. Sexually.’

  ‘How do you know it’s the same girl that you knew?’

  ‘Because I know what she’d look like.’

  ‘You could be mistaken.’

  ‘I’m not mistaken. I knew her well enough. It’s her.’

  She interrupted him. ‘Who do you think it is?’

  ‘Makepeace. He’s her pimp. He’s in the photos.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘You haven’t seen them.’

  ’So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Go to the police.’

  ‘Are you fucking crazy? If you do that, everything, all our plans, the hacking ─ they’ll be blown apart. You can’t. Don’t even think about it.’

  ‘Have you got any better ideas?’

  ‘Nope. You can do nothing, absolutely nothing. Just grin and bear it. She’s not your responsibility, and has it occurred to you, whoever it is, might want you to do that? You could be the fall guy, a diversion for something or somebody else. You’re panicking, Seb, letting personal stuff get in the way of the cause. And don’t give me that look. You’re an activist You’re one of us, and if you contact the fuzz, they’ll crawl all over you and the rest of us.’

  ‘I thought you’d care, about a young girl being used.’

  ‘Fuck off, Seb, maybe I do.’ There was a long silence, before she spoke again. ‘Show me the photos.’

  ‘I destroyed them.’

  ‘You destroyed them? What for?’

  ‘Why keep them? You think I’d want to keep them? Why do you want to see them? ’

  Nixie didn’t answer immediately. Then she said, ‘You’re lying. You’ve still got them. I want to see them.’ She moved across to his bag, unzipped it and rummaged inside. Seb watched but didn’t stop her. She pulled out the envelope, opened it, and flicked through the photos.

  ‘I see what you mean. Evil bastards. But why you? Why send them to you?’

  ‘It’s obvious. Isn’t it? Because I care about her, and Makepeace is in the shit. He’s looking for who shopped him. Maybe he knows I’m in Grassroots and he’s out to get me.’

  ‘That doesn’t hang together. There’s more to it than that. You know more than you’re telling me.’ She glanced at him. ‘I’m keeping these. That way, I know they’re safe and you’ve got nothing to hand over to the police.’

  Seb watched impassively. ‘Do whatever. You don’t trust me, that’s obvious.’

  ‘No, I don’t. That girl, why do you care about her so much?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  Nixie shrugged. ‘Just didn’t know you could be like that.’

  ‘What? That I can care? Not such a bad thing, is it?’ She continued staring at him. ‘Why are you eyeballing me?’

  ‘You want to know?’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘I’m thinking it was you who beat Makepeace up.’ He looked away. ‘Am I right or wrong?’

  ‘You are, but how did you guess?’

  ‘Because the story doesn’t stack up… now it does.’

  ‘Okay, so now you know.’

  ‘Yeah I do know, but here’s something you should know − when push comes to shove, your heart rules your head and that’s not good.’

  ‘Maybe.. but can you keep your mouth shut?’

  Yup, so my mouth shut, let’s go to bed.’ Seb stood up, walked across to the window and looked out into the night. She walked over to him. ‘Stuff happens. Forget it. We have to get on with our life.’ She put a hand out to him. ‘Come on, it’s late.’

  He glanced at her. ‘I’m not sure of my next move.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Okay?’

  Hours later, Nixie woke him. It was serious. She’d been listening to the local news. Somewhere in Seven Sisters, the exact address hadn’t been given, a house had been torched. Petrol had been poured through the letter box of a large Victorian house. Fire officers said it bore all the signs of an arson attack. Everybody in the flats had been evacuated, except for the occupant in the ground floor flat, who, the residents had said, must be away. The police were trying to track him down

  Seb listened in silence. The arson attack on his flat wasn’t random, it was meant for him. Nixie stared at him, ‘Well, was that your place?’ she asked. He’d never taken her to his flat. He’d always said it was a mess, and that he didn’t want her to see it. Now he had to say something.

  ‘Yeah, it is, or it was. Somebody’s out to get me. Somebody prepared to kill.’

  Two days later the operational group of Grassroots met as a matter of urgency. Things were stacking up. First the Big Ben demo had had to be pulled, then the stalking, and now the arson attack; things had got serious. But the group was divided over who it could be. Suspicions had grown that someone, somewhere in Grassroots was an informer, and that he or she was feeding information back to a criminal gang, the police or possibly MI5.

  A consensus emerged, one that backed up Seb’s view. Somebody, possibly linked with Makepeace and/or Fortescue, or someone acting on their behalf, viewed with extreme hostility the recent investigations. Press reports hinting that young girls and boys might have been procured and used as sweeteners for the rich and powerful and that this was tied up with multi-million pound contracts in the nuclear industry, was now in the public domain, and they didn’t like it. In fact, they violently objected to it.

  Nixie had argued that Seb’s
life was in danger. He was a significant member of the inner circle. He’d set up the hacking of Langhithe, and knew so much, he had to be protected. Her proposal was put to the vote and carried. There was no opposition and she was charged with implementing a plan to protect him. The exact details of how this was to be carried out were to be kept secret, known only to the few, and that included Seb. It was for his sake, Nixie had said, since the less that was known, the better, and in the meantime he was to stay with Nixie.

  She worked fast, a week later, the plan was underway. Nixie had asked him the previous evening to be ready the next day at seven. Then she disappeared, which gave him just enough time to give an edited version of the whys and wherefores of the arson attack to Gimp. He’d said he’d liaise with the Met and to protect his identity, ask for them not to be too thorough in their search for the missing occupant of the ground floor flat.

  Nixie turned up the following day in a hired car. She’d also bought him some clothes. He glanced through them. ‘Where d’you get these?’

  ‘Charity shops and Primark.’

  ‘Primark. You must be joking. It’s a multinational and it exploits its workers.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I’m really surprised that you…’

  ‘Look, needs must…don’t you like them?’

  ‘Well, they’re okay. Thanks, they’ll do. So where are we off to?’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’ She looked briefly at Seb. ‘Wales. Home, the farmhouse.’

  ‘Home? Your home?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve consulted Dad. He’s got the know-how about how to keep you safe.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘To keep moving. From one place to the next, never staying long. That way, no one’ll be able to keep tabs on you. He’s done it before.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound great.’

  ‘Maybe not, but you know the score . There’s no alternative, that is, if you want to keep alive.’