At Dead of Night

by Tony Whelpton

  ‘I shouldn’t if I were you!’ said Isabella. ‘Especially since I was intending to put you next to him on the table plan.’

  Blanche immediate reaction was to resolve that she would indeed wear a mini-skirt; it could turn out to be a useful litmus test of Jason’s susceptibilities. ‘But tell me more about these research assistants,’ she said. ‘Have any of them complained about him? And has there been one in particular?’

  ‘I don’t know if there has been one in particular, no, but I doubt if there have been any complaints…’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I believe there has been a fair turnover of research assistants, and there’s been some talk of Jason paying them when they left, to make sure that they don’t tell anyone…’

  ‘You mean he gets them to sign a non-disclosure agreement?’

  ‘I don’t really know what that means…’

  ‘It means he would be buying their silence once they’ve stopped working for him…’

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes, that’s what I’ve heard, but of course you can’t believe everything you hear!’

  ‘But on the other hand, there’s no smoke without fire.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Isabella’s reluctance to say anything further on the matter was intended to convey to Blanche that she wanted to end that particular topic of conversation, and Blanche was content to go along with that, for she was happy that she had a potentially fruitful line of inquiry anyway, and Isabella had already confessed that she knew no more.

  The following morning, Isabella’s husband Alistair arrived from the airport. Blanche had been looking forward to meet him, because the last time she had seen Isabella had been six years previously, and at that time Isabella and Alistair had not yet even met. But Alistair declared himself jet-lagged after his flight from New York and took himself off to bed, saying that otherwise he would risk falling asleep at the dinner table that evening, so Blanche had to postpone getting to know Alistair until the following day: after all, that evening she would have other fish to fry…

  At about 7.30 that evening the dinner guests arrived, Jason wearing a dinner suit, as was Alistair, whilst both Hermione and Isabella were wearing elegant, full length dresses. As for Blanche, her dress was elegant enough, but extremely short, especially for her age; it had even crossed her mind that in a day or two Hermione and Isabella might even describe her as ‘mutton dressed as lamb’, but she did not care, for her choice of dress was intended to attract the attention of one person only, and in that it was certainly successful. During pre-dinner drinks Jason was affability itself – as, indeed, was Alistair, although Blanche hardly noticed Isabella’s husband, or indeed the other ladies, for she was undoubtedly on a mission.

  Already, while they were eating their first course, Blanche felt Jason’s hand brush her knee, not in a way that could not have been construed as accidental, but a few moments later it happened again. Once more the hand was removed almost as soon as it had made contact with her knee, but the third time it happened there could have been no mistaking his intention, for it remained in contact with her flesh for several seconds before being removed, and next time it happened, she made sure that her own hand was on her knee, and she went on to stroke his hand in return, thus making it clear to Jason that his attentions were far from being unwelcome. By the time the main course arrived, it was obvious to both of them that each hand was seeking contact with the other.

  In the interval between main course and dessert, Blanche excused herself, got up from the table and went to the bathroom. When she emerged from the bathroom a few moments later, she found Jason waiting outside. ‘Blanche,’ he said, ‘you are so desirable I would like to see you again. Would you like that?’

  ‘I don’t think it would be very appropriate,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, please let me kiss you, just once.’

  She allowed him to kiss her, but her intended short kiss metamorphosed into an extended kiss, and she felt his arms envelop her. At length she pulled away, and said, ‘You’ve made a mess of my lipstick now! I shall have to go back to my room to repair the damage!’

  ‘Can I come to your room too?’ he pleaded.

  ‘No, you certainly can’t! People will wonder where we’ve got to! You’d better go back downstairs at once.’

  To her surprise he obeyed and went downstairs again; she rejoined the company a few seconds later, and for the remainder of the meal their hands were joined under the table. But, although Blanche had enjoyed his kiss, the gratification she sought was different, for she was storing up evidence to use against him: for her, mere sexuality had been transformed into a sadistic desire to create at least mischief, and preferably mental injury.

  When the party broke up about midnight, she avoided being alone with Jason to say goodnight; he had to be content with a mere handshake, whereas his wife, in her capacity as a former school chum, was granted a kiss on either cheek. Even so, he managed surreptitiously to pass his card to her, on which, she was pleased to note later, she was able to find both his landline and his mobile numbers, both business and personal.

  Blanche returned home the following day, but did not contact Jason that day, because she still had some research yet to do. On the Monday, however, she spent most of the day at the local reference library, where, after a long trawl through a mass of newspapers, she found the information she was looking for: the identity of Jason’s current research assistant, Sukie Jameson.

  That evening, Blanche decided that she should strike that very night; again she would call at dead of night, because at that time of day the human mind is more susceptible to panic. She also decided to change her speaking voice, because she had spoken to Jason a lot at Isabella’s dinner party, and she did not want him to recognise her voice. Accordingly she spent most of the evening practising a range of voices, and finally settled on a husky tone, much deeper than her normal voice.

  So, at about two o’clock in the morning, she called Jason on his mobile number – using her own mobile instead of her landline to make the provenance of the call more difficult to find. She hesitated for a moment before making the call, because she suddenly asked herself, ‘What if his wife answers it, or his wife is there too?’

  Deciding what to do in that eventuality, however, was a matter of seconds. She would tell Hermione about Jason’s dirty little secrets. But if she did that, she would be unable to blackmail him. She shrugged her shoulders; it did not really matter, for her object was not principally to gain money. It was nice to have, of course, but her main reason for blackmailing was to cause pain, and if she caused pain to two people rather than one, her pleasure would be doubled. But just a minute – she knew his wife, didn’t she, she had been to school with her. This reservation was also quickly rejected: she had never been especially close to Hermione, even at school, and it had been so long since she had been in contact with her that seeing her at Isabella’s had been like meeting a stranger.

  Blanche heard the phone ring out; as usual at that time of night, she had to wait a while for a response. At last she heard a familiar voice: ‘Jason Spencer…’

  Remembering just in time to use her assumed voice, Blanche replied, ‘Does your wife know about Sukie Jameson?’

  ‘Who’s that speaking? Do I know you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Does your wife know about Sukie Jameson?’

  ‘What about her? She knows she’s my research assistant, of course she does.’

  ‘And does she know everything else?’

  Jason remained evasive. ‘Does she know what else?’

  ‘Does she know what else you get up to with Sukie?’

  ‘I don’t get up to anything else with Sukie!’

  ‘Oh, she’s different from all the other research assistants you’ve had, is she?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Jason! Are you planning to make her sign a non-disclosure agreement like the others, or has she alr
eady signed one? And does your wife know about all the girls you’ve paid off in return for their silence? And does your agent Tom Bland know? And what about your constituents? Or the Chief Whip?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I think your constituents and the Chief Whip would like to know about them though. What say I tell them?’

  ‘They won’t believe you!’

  ‘You’re joking! It’s only going to cost you a grand to stop me telling your wife, by the way. Oh, and another grand to stop me telling Tom Bland, and another grand for the Chief Whip… That makes £3000 in all…’

  ‘I can do the maths, thank you. No, £1000 is the absolute limit!’

  ‘£1000 will only stop me telling one of them. Which one do you want to keep it from most? Hermione? The Chief Whip? Or your agent?’

  Jason made no answer, so Blanche continued, ‘Or I suppose I could also tell the Chairman of your local party, or a newspaper… Which newspaper would you prefer to have your name dragged through the mud by? The News of the World, the Express, the Sun? It will be £1000 each to keep it out of all of them by the way…’

  ‘The most I will pay is five grand.’

  ‘All right. For five grand I will not say anything to your wife, your agent, to the Chief Whip or to any of the papers. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And the money will be paid in cash…’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And you will leave it in an envelope bearing only your name, Jason Spencer, at the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And don’t tell the police. If I even suspect that you’ve been talking to the police about this, I shall go immediately to the papers. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And you must leave it at the Ritz within 48 hours, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  With that, Blanche switched off her phone and terminated the call.

  Two days later, Blanche called at the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly to collect her ‘winnings’, as she regarded them. She went to the Reception desk, said that she had come to collect an envelope which would have been left for her, marked with the name Jason Spencer. This was a routine which she had performed several times, and which had previously been accomplished without a hitch. But on this occasion she was asked to sign a receipt, and provide her address and telephone number. She questioned this, but the answer she received from the receptionist sounded alarm bells in her head. ‘Yes,’ said the receptionist, ‘we have a new procedure in the interests of security, because we have had occasional problems with such things as money laundering.’

  Feeling she had no choice other than to comply, Blanche signed with a false name and false address, after which she left the hotel with the envelope still sealed; only when she was safely in the taxi on the way home did she check the contents, and find that the envelope did indeed contain the amount she had demanded.

  When she arrived home, she paid the cab fare and went inside. Two minutes later she heard the doorbell ring, she went to the door and found herself facing two police officers.

  ‘Would you mind telling me your name?’ said one of the policemen.

  Blanche thought about this for a minute, and wondered about giving the false name she had given at the Ritz, but thought better of it, because it would have been easy for the police to check the names of the residents of her apartment block.

  ‘My name is Blanche Delaney,’ she replied.

  ‘And do you live in this flat?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘How long have you been living here?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, several years anyway…’

  ‘You just returned home by taxi.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘We saw you getting out of a taxi. We’d been following you home from Piccadilly. Do you deny being at the Ritz hotel earlier?’

  ‘Did you see me there?’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘So there’s no point in my denying it, is there?’

  ‘Would you mind showing us the envelope you were handed at the reception desk of the hotel? We did see you accepting it, and signing for it…’

  ‘Yes, and with a false name too,’ added the other.

  Blanche realised from that that she was in serious trouble, and decided to go on the attack.

  ‘How do you know I was the person at the Ritz? I don’t have any envelope to show you, so you’re wasting your time!’

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, but I’m afraid that won’t wash! You see, we had a tip-off that the envelope was being picked up, and we were there when you entered the hotel. We both know that you are the person who picked up the envelope, got into a taxi, and then came here, because we followed you in the police car. So just be a good girl and show us the envelope…’

  ‘Who gave you a tip-off about the envelope?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to give you that information, madam, but targeting a Member of Parliament is not the smartest thing anyone could do, especially if your accusations are false.’

  ‘My accusations were not false! If he says they are, he’s a lying toad!’

  ‘But he’s a Member of Parliament, madam!’

  ‘But politicians lie to us all the time!’

  ‘So why are they called Honourable Members, madam?’

  ‘Ha! That’s a good one! Jason Spencer is far from being honourable, I assure you! No woman is safe from him!’

  ‘Do you want to make an official complaint, madam?’

  ‘There’s no point! If I did, the establishment would all close ranks! God knows how many women he’s groped, just as he groped me!’

  ‘So are you making an accusation of sexual assault, madam?’

  ‘No, I told you there’s no point.’

  ‘So please show us the envelope you picked up from the Ritz…’

  At last Blanche saw that she was facing defeat, so she went over to her bureau, opened the drawer and retrieved a foolscap envelope with the parliamentary portcullis printed on the back. The police officer opened it, and checked some of the numbers of the banknotes it contained against a list he withdrew from his pocket. ‘There you are, you see, the numbers match. This list is one that the Member of Parliament we’ve been talking about provided us with…’

  ‘I warned him not to tell the police!’

  ‘Blanche Delaney,’ replied the policeman, ‘I am charging you with blackmailing the Member of Parliament for South Middlesex. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be used in evidence against you.’

  ‘So what happens now?’ asked Blanche.

  ‘You will accompany us to the police station, where you will be charged formally. After that, it depends on the magistrates. I advise you to call a lawyer before we go to the police station.’

  But Blanche rejected the policeman’s advice, bowed her head and meekly accompanied the two officers to the car.

  Eventually Blanche appeared before the magistrates, although, of course, blackmail is such a serious offence that all they could do was pass it on to the Crown Court. Bail was refused, because the magistrates were not convinced that she would not repeat the behaviour, partly because of her mental state, partly because of her addiction to alcohol. Naturally, she was the subject of endless psychiatric investigations, although her defence lawyers were unable to convince the judge at her ultimate trial that she was legally insane, and therefore unfit to plead. Those investigations, coupled with the collection of a whole mass of evidence – for the charge was that she had blackmailed more than twenty people – meant that preparing for the trial was an extremely lengthy process, and it was actually more than three years after her arrest that her trial was held.

  The fact that, once she had decided to become a blackmailer, she had proceeded to act in such an amateurish fashion, even after so many years, meant that the prosecution had no difficulty in proving their case; their principal concern turned out to be the immensely complex legal wrangle over whether sh
e was fit to plead or not. In his summing-up before he passed sentence, the judge observed that at least three of her victims appeared to have been driven to commit suicide – although no charge was ever levelled at her in connection with these deaths. That, the judge went on, along with the sheer number of blackmail attempts, was sufficient to persuade him to pass the maximum sentence permitted by the law, a sentence which was eventually confirmed by the Appeal Court.

  Although during the course of the case, there were innumerable allusions to the fact that one of Blanche’s victims was a Member of Parliament, Jason Spencer did not give evidence to the court, nor was his name ever mentioned. A number of popular newspapers, however, did make every effort to identify the politician involved, and yet no individual’s name was ever printed by any of them.

  ‘What a vicious creature she was!’ was Margaret’s first comment after reading the last of David’s scenarios. ‘But I’m surprised she ended up in prison though, because she was obviously mentally deranged.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ said David, ‘but the fact that a lot of people agree that a criminal is obviously mentally deranged, is not enough to prevent a conviction. There are very careful tests that have to be passed before someone is regarded as legally insane. I mean, I think that anybody who commits murder is obviously mentally deranged…’

  ‘So do I,’ said Margaret.

  ‘But should that mean that none of them should be punished? That’s the point really.’

  ‘But that MP in your story went unpunished, didn’t he? What a scoundrel he was, abusing all those young women…’

  ‘I deliberately didn’t put any evidence for that in my story!’ said David. ‘Perhaps it was a case of Blanche adding two and two and making five!’

  ‘You authors get away with murder! You lead your readers up the garden path all the time!’

  David simply laughed.

  Chapter Nine