“My c..c..client engaged me to c..c..convey this,” he paused to catch his breath, “article to you.” With these words, he pushed a padded brown envelope in my direction. The clock struck the quarter of an hour. He looked at his watch, checking its accuracy. It was slow, I supposed, because he began fiddling with the wind-up mechanism.
“Your client?” I asked.
“Mr Strachan.”
I was not surprised. I knew Ken had collected a mountain of paper work to support his case against Kelly. I opened the package carefully. Crabb looked at his watch again, as if making the point that his time was money and he couldn’t be late for his next meeting.
“It’s a diary,” I said, turning the purple book over in my hands.
“Indeed.”
“Did you know, he had left me his diary?”
“Mr Strachan’s last will and testament won’t be read for a week, but he gave specific instructions that you were to be handed this package discreetly immediately after his funeral.”
This didn’t make any sense.
“When did he give you these instructions, and the package?”
“A fortnight ago.”
“But that’s impossible. How could he have known…..?”
“I never mistake a client’s instructions, Ms Lighthorn.”
“Well, you have this time. He must have deposited the diary with you for safekeeping for his family. You are confusing it with other papers he wished me to have.”
Crabb looked shocked.
“Ms Lighthorn, I never confuse my client’s instructions.”
“This time you have,” my voice was firm. “Ken Strachan was in robust health. He could see me any time he wished. Indeed, he did last week. A diary is a private document for posterity, for future generations.”
He stood. “Ms Lighthorn, I have another appointment. Trust me, Mr Strachan wanted you to have his diary. It is not my business to know why. I merely suggest, it is natural to wish to put matters in order before one dies.”
“He wasn’t facing death, he was in robust health,” I repeated.
“Fear death, then.”
“No, that’s not possible,” I shook my head. “That means…”
“It means he wanted you to have his diary.”
I continued shaking my head in disbelief. “It’s not possible. He couldn’t have. There must be another explanation.”
Crabb sat again. Maybe Strachan’s hourly fee wasn’t quite used up. He cleared his throat noisily several times. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.
“In our jobs, we both see much which is…” but there he stopped. I don’t think his heart was in it.
“Will you tell them? The police?”
“My instructions were to hand this package to you. I have fulfilled the obligation for which I was paid.”
He stood again. My time was up. As I walked down the stairs, I wondered how Ken could have used the services of such a man. But then, I seemed to know so little of the real Ken any more.
The plane was in the air before I opened the book again. I had spent the time in the airport lounge catching up with the news. Suicide bomber in Algiers, a shooting on Moss Side. The market had closed, after a day of falling prices. The slide was looking unstoppable. Fear beginning to take hold.
Purple was not a colour I would have associated with Strachan. In my mind, he had already ceased to be Ken. I turned first to the final entry, only to be disappointed. It offered little clue to his state of mind before he died.
Monday October 1
Janey left me a fish pie for tea. Can’t wait. My favourite.
These didn't sound like the words of a man on the verge of blowing his family away. The plane would touch down at City airport in 45 minutes, so there was only time for a quick skim of the diary. I turned back to the beginning, scanning the opening pages. Like many of his age, his grammar and spelling were meticulous. It began two years ago on October 3 2000. It was his 50th birthday and two years to the day before he died. The diary was a present from his beloved Emma, his daughter.
The first entry read:
I must have done a good deed to someone sometime, dear lord, how you rewarded me. Life hasn’t always been easy. We struggled when we were young. But you gave me the best wife and family any man had a right to. And work which has paid for a good life for us.
How easy it could be to believe in a jealous God. Ken got his reward from heaven all right. Less than eighteen months later, Kelly’s Brewery called in the liquidators. He was about to lose his job and his pension. I skimmed on. Soon after that, he was in full swing, campaigning for compensation for his members, after they had discovered the pension kitty was empty.
In April he wrote:
Interview with Radio Scotland went well. The more we do to highlight the cause the better. Jim says we should write again to the prime minister.
But it wasn’t all good news. The entries logged the times when his spirits flagged, and strain told on his marriage.
Last July 24 he wrote:
Came home to find Janey in tears. What’ll we do, What’ll we do, she kept crying. I had no answer.
My name cropped up from time to time. My heart sank as I read the entry for September 28, when we had last met.
Very successful meeting with Julia. I know she’ll take up the cudgels on our behalf. She is very good, and knows all the right cages to rattle.
Well, if he thought our meeting had been a success, he must have been losing his marbles. The next sentence was puzzling though.
Couldn’t tell her the half, of course. In good time. Then we’ll crack both birds with one stone.
What couldn’t he tell me? I read on. Two days later on Sunday he wrote:
Hoping to see R tomorrow. Then the game will be up.
Who was R and what game was he talking about?
I flicked through the pages, scanning entry after entry; meetings with other trade unionists, some I recognised, while others names were unfamiliar. Little snippets of news. It seemed that on that weekend Janey and the kids had gone to visit her sister in Inverness for a few days, which explained why the fish pie had been ‘left’. They must have returned on Tuesday or Wednesday.
I reread the penultimate entry. Hoping to see R tomorrow. Then, the game will be up. Who was R? I thought back to the funeral.
Could it be Raeburn from the union or that dangerous Bearsden MP Ragland? What about Crippledown, the junior minister? His Christian name was Richard. Had Ken finally secured a meeting?
I looked out the window. The plane had begun its descent; the lights of London twinkled below. It was impossible. The pages were littered with people whose names began with ‘R’.
I turned back to the book, and all of a sudden, on the page before me, his face appeared. And I saw him all over again, in my office, banging his fist on the desk.
And he was shouting, all over again, “This things bigger than all that. Bigger than, you ken.”
A chill crept through me. What did he mean “bigger than you ken,” and who was R? Had something at that meeting tipped him over the edge? Or was R the man who had sold him the gun?
Chapter 7
8am Wednesday, October 10,
City of London
The next day began with breakfast with Andrew Ludgate. We had postponed our meeting until after the funeral. I so needed this to go well. I was desperate for a fresh start. A distraction.
It was dark when I emerged from Bank tube station and made my way down Pope Head’s Alley. Within minutes, I left the shadows of old London, and arrived at a glass tower. The lift whizzed me to the top floor. The view was magical. Lights flickered across the city. They never dimmed. Workers traded London during the day, New York all evening, and Tokyo through the night.
I was directed to a glass bubble at the end of a vast open-plan office. It was good to be back in a newspaper office. A few bleary-eyed hacks were making their way to their desks, slowed by the excesses of the previous night. Sounds w
ere muted and hushed. Later the office would erupt into energy; phones would ring incessantly, editors shout instructions to their underlings, and at each other, amid the rows and power struggles of the day. Then, I would be glad to be gone.
Andrew was an interesting specimen. He had that easy charm which all journalists can switch on and off. Right now it was on.
“Julia, it’s good to finally meet,” he signalled for me to sit on a red sofa. He sat on a white one opposite.
“We’re looking to refresh our team of writers, and wanted to discuss possible assignments with you. We like your work.”
“That’s kind.”
“What are you working on right now? “
“There's a firm of brokers in Guildford, churning investments. Ripping off clients for commissions,” it was a rumour I’d picked up.
“Regulator?” he referred to the city police.
“Are on to them, that's why we need to do it soon.”
“Can we, without being sued?” I determined not to blanch at the word “sued” – even though it hit a raw nerve.
“If we’re careful yes. A little bird tells me, the Regulator’s going public next week. We need to get it away before this weekend.”
“See if you can.”
“I've been wanting to take a look at Estuary Bank,” I continued.
“Creighton’s a friend of the chairman,” Andrew said, killing that idea, because of the friendship between the two boards.
“Also we need to look at the magic circle.”
He shook his head. “It’s in hand. That reminds me…”
“What about price fixing in the housing market,” I was beginning to panic. This wasn’t going well.
He cut me dead. Raising a hand, he shouted through the open door to his secretary.
“Helen, ask Dan Newall to come and see me in five.”
My windpipe tightened. He had lost interest already. I was about to be dismissed.
He turned his gaze back to me and spoke the words I least wanted to hear. “The pensions story. We need to stay on top of it,” he paused.
“How was the funeral?” Was it my imagination or did his tone soften?
“Awful.”
“Good. We'll have a colour piece for Saturday, and a full analysis of how we got here.”
He stood and walked to a filing cabinet, opening the top drawer and rattling inside for a few moments. He returned clutching a wad of papers.
“I’ve had a contract drawn up. Our standard terms. Not ungenerous, I think you’ll find.”
My heart leapt as I flicked through the package. Not ungenerous was an understatement. I had to stop myself snatching the pen out of his hand, and signing as fast as I could before he could change his mind. Play it cool, a little voice whispered.
“So, can I welcome you aboard?”
I smiled and bent to sign, but something made me hesitate.
“Andrew, have you heard?” I could have pulled my tongue out, but, too late, the words slipped through my lips. He cut me short.
“We know about the court case. I’ve read the story. So has the editor. It was a fine piece. We’re both convinced you’re the kind of writer we’re after.”
I smiled perhaps a little too gratefully, and signed. Then I stood and we shook hands.
“I won’t disappoint you,” I promised.
“I hope not. By the way, do you know the Kelly’s?” he asked, still holding my hand firmly in his.
“Only from Ken.”
“I followed them closely at one stage. I was covering the drinks industry for the Financial Times. Must be ten years ago.”
“Were they legit?”
“As far as I could see. But I never liked them. Had several run-ins with Jack Kelly. Constantly had his lawyers on my back.”
His voice trailed off, as if he were lost in thought.
“There was something about the business that didn’t add up, but I could never quite put my finger on it.”
His secretary entered with Mr Newall, and began to usher me out.
Ludgate came back from his memories.
“All steam ahead then!”
“All steam ahead,” I replied, walking backwards towards the door.
His attention diverted to Mr Newall. I was forgotten.
“Oh Julia, one more thing,” he suddenly turned back to me, before I disappeared out the door. “Watch the language. Tone it down. At least until the court case is settled.”
I blushed, but he was grinning, so I grinned back. There was a spring in my step and a smile on my lips all the way to back Whitechapel. I had my first assignment in a long while, and it tasted sweet.
Chapter 8
10.30am Wednesday, October 10,
Whitechapel
Call it second sight, but I had known she would come, though I was surprised she had come so soon.
Omar and Marsha were waiting for me. They emerged from Marsha’s office, the instant they heard my footstep on the stair.
“You've got visitors, doll,” Marsha’s face wasn’t as relaxed as her tone.
The frail little lady in funeral black, still with that strange hat on, sat at my desk, back ramrod straight, with Jim Sugden at her side. She didn’t turn when I entered, although Sugden rose to greet me.
“Jim,” I grasped his hand, before moving towards Ken’s mother.
I stretched out a hand to her, but she didn’t respond.
“Mrs Strachan, can I say how saddened I was…”
Still, she didn’t respond, so I sat at my desk, opposite her. She didn't look at me.
Jim began for her, “Mrs Strachan wanted to meet you,” he paused. “Ken spoke of you so often. I told her you were at the funeral yesterday.”
“I'm sorry I didn't… I didn't want to intrude.”
“On private grief...” she turned her eyes on me, and I could see the sockets were black with tears. “How can you know what grief is, you slip of a girl? One day you'll lose the thing you love. Then, you’ll know pain.”
I said nothing. Her bitterness could be forgiven, so raw was her loss. But she was wrong to say I didn't know grief.
“Julia, we’re here because of Ken, and what he would have wanted.”
I nodded, listening.
“You said you'd investigate Kelly’s Brewery,” Jim said.
“I..I…” I had said no such thing, but that was hardly the point.
In the vacuum of my hesitation, Mrs Kelly stood and banged the table with her tiny fist, just as her son had done. It made quite an impact, for such a frail body.
“My son never killed naebody.”
I stood up to face her.
“Mrs Strachan, I really am very sorry about your loss, all our loss. I was very fond of Ken. But this is a matter for the coroner.”
“Idiots and crooks,” she wheezed.
I sent Jim an imploring look. He had to make her see. I had watched too many loving relatives destroy their lives because they refused to bury their ghosts.
Sugden failed me. “The pensions... if we could find someone to blame... then it would make all this...” he said.
I shook my head. I wanted to scream at them. “No it won’t. No, it won’t make all this better. It won’t make it right. It won’t bring them back.”
But I was too big a coward. I nodded gently, instead, when Jim made one last plea for me to investigate. And I looked with shame at the tears of gratitude, which sprang into his eyes.
The tiny crow-like creature with him leant across the desk and grasped both my hands in a vice-like grip. She only released them when Jim said it was time to go. She left without another word.
After they were gone, I sat for a moment with my head in my hands. Why was life so goddamn awful?
When I looked up, Omar was standing in front of me, watching silently.
“Tell me you have some good news.”
He shrugged, grinning apologetically.
“The court papers have come,” he threw them casually across th
e desk. “You need to look at them.”
“Let's settle. Ring Kane’s lawyers tomorrow and say we’ll settle. Let him bankrupt me.” Suddenly, a row over a few loose words didn't seem to matter anymore.
“No,” Omar’s voice was calm, but determined. “We’re not settling. Someone has to stand up to the likes of Kane.”
“But not me... I can't do everything on my own.”
“You are not on your own.”
His face was a mask.
Chapter 9
11.15 am Wednesday, October 10, Whitechapel
Shortly after 11am, an email from Ludgate pinged its way into my inbox, confirming this week’s commission.
It read:
1,500 backgrounder on the pensions story, plus 700 colour piece on funeral. Deliver by 9am Friday. And get digging. We want to stay on top of this story.
So I started work, the anxiety of financial insecurity now replaced by that equally sickening fear of failure to deliver. Oh, not the backgrounder, that would be easy enough. The colour piece, I would do against my better judgment, but occasionally the need to pay the rent drowned out the inner voice of integrity. The funeral was a story. It would be written by someone. Better me, from the Strachans’ perspective, than someone else.
Beyond that, where was the story going? My mind flashed back to the numerous times Ken had sat in my office, thumping that same desk. “They stole our money. It’s not right.”
He was convinced that Kelly had stolen money out of the fund, but was there any evidence? Sure, Kelly’s scheme had collapsed with a shortfall rumoured to be around £2 billion. Plenty of funds had gone down. It didn't mean the management were crooks. People were living longer, stock markets had failed to perform. Companies couldn’t afford promises they had made 20 or 30 years ago. It was terribly sad, but as for criminal negligence, or wilful theft, that was another matter.
On the other hand, the scale of the Kelly black hole was unusually large for a scheme of its size, compared with other collapses. Certainly, eyebrows had been raised in a few other cases over last minute transfers of cash into directors’ accounts just before schemes imploded. Companies were strictly prohibited from withdrawing cash from pension funds, unless there was enough money in the kitty to pay all the pensions promised, and there was a well-padded safety cushion besides.
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