Flashpoint

by Michael Gilbert

  Jonas could feel his own heart pumping. He could make very little sense of it all. He said, “What’s happening? What’s being done?”

  “Ah! There’s the doctor’s car now. He’ll look after her.”

  “For God’s sake,” said Jonas, “What is it? What’s happening? No, don’t bother to explain. Tell them I’m coming right back.”

  He was lucky enough to pick up a taxi in Wimbledon High Street and was at his house twenty minutes later. As he was on the point of paying off the driver, Mrs Frampton, who had been watching from her own front window, darted out to meet him. She was a large untidy grey-haired kindly woman, flustered to incoherence by the excitement and importance of the occasion. Fortunately her daughter followed her out, and it was from her that Jonas got the story.

  At about one o’clock a car had stopped outside the gate, two men had jumped out, and had hammered on Mrs Killey’s front door and rung her bell. When Mrs Killey appeared the men had started shouting at her. Bellowing, amended Mrs Frampton. Then they had pushed roughly past her and gone into the house. There had been sounds of banging and crashing and more shouting, lasting for about five minutes –

  “Why the hell didn’t someone send for the police?” said Jonas.

  “We didn’t like to interfere,” said Miss Frampton. “It didn’t seem to be our business exactly. When they’d gone, Mum went over to see what it was all about. The front door was locked, so she went round the back and found your mother–”

  “Poor soul,” said Mrs Frampton. “White as a sheet. Lying back in her chair–”

  “And she sent for the doctor. I’m sure I hope she did right.”

  “Quite right,” said Jonas. “I’m sure I’m very grateful. Where is she?”

  “The doctor took her down to the Archway Hospital. In his own car.”

  “White as a sheet,” said Mrs Frampton.

  “Hop in. I know where it is,” said the taxi driver, who had been listening, fascinated. “I’ll run you down.”

  The doctor was coming out as Jonas arrived. He said, “Are you Mr Killey? I’ve given your mother a sedative. She won’t be able to talk to you until this evening. She’s in a state of shock.”

  “Did you find out what happened?”

  “She told me something about it on the way down. As far as I could make out those two brutes forced their way in and accused her of having stolen a child. They insisted she was hiding it in the house. They stormed up and down, more or less ransacked the place. Of course they didn’t find anyone. So they pushed off. Not a pleasant experience for an old lady with a dicky heart.”

  “Is there anything I can do for her?”

  “What I think you ought to do is find her somewhere nice and quiet for the next few weeks. She won’t want to go back to that house. Not until she gets her nerve back. Every time the door-bell rings she’ll start imagining things.”

  “I suppose you couldn’t keep her here?”

  “It’d be next to impossible,” said the doctor. “We’re so pressed you have to have some medically treatable complaint to hold on to your bed.”

  “Isn’t there a convalescent home?”

  “Several. All fairly booked up, too. Why don’t you have a word with the almoner? If anything can be done, she’ll do it for you.”

  The word almoner suggested to Jonas a formidable lady, more dragon-like even than the matrons and sisters who ruled the wards. It was an agreeable surprise to meet a girl of about twenty-five. It was even more surprising when she greeted him by name, and said, “I believe you used to work for Daddy, didn’t you? It was a few years ago, but I remember seeing you when I came to the office.”

  He glanced down at the desk and took in the name on the card for the first time. Penelope Lambard. “So you’re Edward Lambard’s daughter,” he said. “I can’t pretend I remember you.”

  “Since I should have been wearing school uniform and had my hair in pigtails you can be forgiven. Now let’s see what we can do for you. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll probably have to do a lot of telephoning.”

  It was nearly two hours later when Jonas left the hospital, but it had been worth the wait. At the sixth effort the helpful Miss Lambard had fixed his mother up with a fortnight’s berth at a nursing home at Woking. She was to stay in hospital for three more days and to move there at the weekend. There would be fees to pay. Jonas had made arrangements about that. He suddenly realized that he was very hungry.

  “Go out and get yourself something to eat,” said Penelope. “Come back at half past five. The ward sister will have finished her rounds by then, and you ought to be able to see your mother for a few minutes.”

  He had not known what to expect, and had been surprised and relieved that his mother looked so unchanged. She seemed more worried about him than about herself.

  “Don’t you fret,” he said. “I’m used to looking after myself. I’ll get most of my meals out.”

  As he was leaving she said, “How are things going with – you know?”

  “They’re going all right.”

  “Don’t you think you might–” His mother stopped. Jonas was uncertain whether it was embarrassment, or a twinge of pain. He waited for her to go on, standing at the foot of the bed, and then saw that she had her eyes closed. Alarmed, he went back to her side, but she seemed to be breathing deeply and gently. After a moment or two he stole away.

  He walked home, up the long hill under the Archway viaduct, with the sun beginning to throw long shadows across the road. As he opened his front door he heard the telephone ringing. It was Willoughby. He was too young to disguise the panic in his voice. He said, “I think you ought to come back to the office at once. It’s rather serious.”

  Willoughby had got back from his lunch at a quarter past two. He heard from Mrs Warburton that Jonas had been called away by a message about his mother, and said something unkind. It meant that he would now have to cope with Mr Stukely; who would be justifiably disappointed at not seeing Mr Killey, and might be difficult to handle. Also he had not carried out all the research he ought to have done on the subject of discretionary trusts, relying on the expertise of his senior to carry him through. He hurried to his own room to remedy the deficiency.

  His room was next to the top of the stairs, and he could hear visitors as they came up.

  “As a result of the 1971 Finance Act it is no longer possible both to distribute income to a beneficiary and to escape estate duty on that beneficiary’s death. The legislature–”

  Footsteps coming up, but not Mr Stukely. Two men at least, and walking heavily.

  He heard the front door being opened urgently and the sound of voices. Men’s voices. Men who were not exactly shouting, but were talking very loudly indeed. Mrs Warburton came in. She was angry, and upset. She said, “You’ll have to come and deal with these men, Mr Willoughby. I can’t make out what they want.”

  The two men were standing in the middle of the small reception room, almost filling it with their aggressive bulk. They wore corduroy trousers and jackets belted at the waist. Willoughby thought they looked like removal men.

  As soon as he came into the room, the older man turned on Willoughby and said, “You the guv’nor?”

  “I’m one of the partners.”

  “Where’s the guv’nor then?”

  “He’s out. What do you–”

  The man took two quick steps forward, until he was almost touching Willoughby, and said, “I’ll show you what I want.” He had a piece of paper in his hand. Willoughby could see the heading, ‘Raven Services’ and something about Messrs Poynters and a sum of four hundred pounds now payable. Before he could read any more the man had whisked it away. “That’s what I want. Four hundred bloody smackers. And we’re not going till we get “em.”

  “You’ve got no right to come bursting in here like this. If you want your money, go to Court and get an order.”

  The words were brave, but his voice let him down. Willoughby was worried. He had one eye on the
clock. It was twenty to three. Mr Stukely was due at three o’clock.

  “I don’t need no more order than this. You owe the money. Right? We’ve got orders to collect it. If you can’t pay in cash we’ll take it in kind. That looks like a good typewriter. Say sixty pounds.”

  Mrs Warburton gave a squeak of outrage.

  “Must be other typewriters here,” said the younger man. “Tape recorders too, I expect. We might clear the lot, with a bit of luck.” He made a move towards the inner door. Mrs Warburton flung her arms round her new electric typewriter. Willoughby said, “Stop that. They’ll have to have the money. Give me the chequebook.”

  “We’re not all that keen on cheques, actually,” said the older man. “Like rubber balls. They got a way of bouncing.”

  “Deborah can go round to the bank with it.”

  Mrs Warburton had got two chequebooks out of the drawer in the safe, and put them both on her table. After a moment of hesitation, Willoughby took the larger of them, and wrote out a cheque for four hundred pounds payable to cash. Deborah, who had been attracted into the room by the noise, and seemed to be enjoying the drama, took the cheque and departed reluctantly.

  “Hurry,” said Willoughby.

  “No hard feelings,” said the older man. “Just a job we have to do. Not necessarily agreeable. Like some of your jobs, I expect.”

  Willoughby had nothing to say to that. They sat in silence until they heard Deborah’s footsteps ascending. Other and heavier steps with her. She was not alone.

  Mr Stukely held the door open for her, and followed her in. He said, “I happened to meet this young lady at the bank, and as we were both making for the same destination, I offered to escort her home. She was telling me that you had a little trouble.”

  “That’s quite all right,” said Willoughby stiffly. He handed the money to the older man, who counted it carefully, and said, “Dead right. The young lady done a good job. I’ll give you a receipt.”

  He signed the paper he had brought, handed it to Willoughby, winked at Deborah, and led the way out of the room. The younger man shut the door softly behind him. It seemed like a curtain coming down at the end of a violent scene.

  Willoughby took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry that Mr Killey isn’t here. He was called away unexpectedly. However, I think I can bring you up to date with our thoughts on the matter.”

  Mr Stukely made no attempt to move. He said, “I, too, am sorry that Mr Killey is not here. I imagine that if he were here he would be able to explain something which has been puzzling me ever since I met this young lady at the bank.”

  Willoughby said, “Oh?” He tried to make it sound like a polite enquiry.

  “When I was here last, you gave me an interesting explanation of the rules of the Law Society which govern solicitors’ accounts. You told me, correct me if I am wrong, that you kept your own money at the Investors and Suburban Bank and your clients’ money quite separately at the London and Home Counties Bank. Right? Now I gathered from my conversation with this young lady that the account you had been called upon to meet was a private account of your own. Builders, wasn’t it?”

  Willoughby gulped and nodded.

  “Then perhaps you could explain to me why you were drawing money to meet it from your clients’ account at the London and Home Counties Bank. An account which, I cannot help reflecting, contains twenty thousand pounds of my money. You appreciate my interest in the matter?”

  “What happened next?” said Jonas.

  “Nothing much. He just pushed off. I’m terribly sorry about it. It was the coincidence of those two blighters turning up just when we were expecting Stukely.”

  “And the coincidence of me being away.”

  “Yes. There was that too. Do you think he’s going to make trouble?”

  “Yes,” said Jonas. “I’m sure he’s going to make trouble.”

  14

  As a Junior Minister, Will Dylan had the use of a small room in the House which he shared with his three colleagues. At the moment it was occupied only by him and his agent, Mr Clover.

  Mr Clover looked worried. He said, “It’s difficult to put a finger on it, but I can smell trouble.”

  “Things seemed happy enough when I was up there last Monday.”

  “That’s just when it seemed to start.”

  “What started?”

  “Talk.”

  “Who’s been talking?”

  “Edgar Dyson, for one.”

  “Edgar’s a hardline Communist. He says what he’s told to say.”

  “He’s well thought of,” said Mr Clover. “Next to you, he’s probably the most influential man in the district.”

  “As long as he’s only the second most influential,” said Will. He considered the matter. Clover was a good agent, a man who kept his ear to the ground. If he said that trouble was building up, it was a fact and would have to be faced.

  “Can you give me some idea what line he’s taking?”

  “What he’s saying is that he doesn’t, personally, think you pocketed any of the Union money–”

  “Kind of him.”

  “But he does think you ought to meet the accusation openly, now that it’s been made, and not hide behind the technicalities of the law. They seem to have got hold of a slanted account of what happened in that Magistrates’ Court, and they don’t like it much.”

  “They don’t care a lot for Magistrates in Todmoor,” agreed Will. “What exactly does Dyson mean when he talks about meeting the accusation openly? Officially there’s no accusation to meet. If Killey does succeed in getting out a summons, I shall defend it, of course.”

  “It’s awkward.”

  “Until that happens, I think it’s a case of least said, soonest mended.”

  A colleague shot into the room with a bundle of papers, saw Mr Clover, said, “Sorry,” dumped the papers on the table and made for the door.

  “It’s all right, Mick,” said Dylan. “We’ve finished.” To Clover he said, “You say this trouble started up early last week?”

  “That’s right. After your visit.”

  “I wasn’t the only visitor. Killey was up there too.”

  “I wasn’t told about that,” said Clover. “Do you think it was something he picked up while he was up there that started the trouble?”

  “The only thing he picked up in Todmoor,” said Dylan with a grin, “was a lovely black eye. Don’t fret, Charlie, we’ve ridden out worse storms than this together.”

  It was eight o’clock that evening when he got back to Chiswick and he was surprised to find Fred still up.

  “You ought to have been in bed a long time ago,” he said.

  His wife came in from the kitchen. She said, “I told Fred to stay up until you came home. You’ve got to do something about it. I told him he’d be punished next time he did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “He’ll tell you,” said Pauline and went out again, shutting the door behind her.

  Fred looked at his father and his father looked at Fred.

  “Well?” said Will.

  Fred said, “I diddun go to school.”

  “Why not?”

  “I diddun want to.”

  At this point his own father would have said, “Get your pants down. You’ve earned yourself a belting.”

  He found himself incapable of saying it. Instead, in tones that were far from fierce, he said, “I thought you liked school. What’s gone wrong?”

  “They started saying things.”

  “You ought to be able to stand up to that. Call “em names back again.”

  “It wasn’t me they said things about,” said Fred. “It was you. They said you’d been stealing money. They said it’s in all the papers.”

  And he burst into tears.

  “Aren’t children beasts,” said Will. Supper was over. Fred was tucked up in bed, unbeaten but fortified by much good advice. Pauline was sewing a patch into the elbow of a coat. She said, “Of course the pape
rs never said any such thing.”

  “Papers don’t have to say things. They’ve trained people to read between the lines. They’ve got a shorthand of their own. If you read that a clergyman has been charged with an offence involving choirboys you don’t assume that he has been training the choir in shoplifting, or conspiring with them to burn down the chapel, do you?”

  Pauline said, “Sometimes I think we were happier before we had newspapers. Who can be ringing you up at this time of night?”

  It was the Prime Minister’s private secretary. He said that the Prime Minister would be most obliged if Dylan could come round and have a word with him. Would he come by the private access through the Foreign Office and the garden of Number Eleven, as there was a deputation of Biafran ladies camped out in front of Number Ten and quite a number of pressmen with them.

  “I’m sorry to drag you out on one of your few evenings at home,” said the Prime Minister. “It must be particularly pleasant on the river on a night like this. The trouble is that my own day is parcelled out for me into strict sections. When I want to conduct a little business of my own it has to be squeezed in at odd hours.”

  Dylan said he quite understood. Typical of the old man to indicate, indirectly, that he was sufficiently interested in you to know where you lived. He sounded friendly. Dangerous to build on it. The hand behind his back could hold a bouquet or an axe. You wouldn’t know until he brought it out.

  “One of the reasons I didn’t want the press and certain other people to see you coming in was that they might have jumped to conclusions. Which, in this case, would have been perfectly correct. I’ve made up my mind to go to the country in October. The precise date hasn’t been fixed, but it’ll be in the first two weeks of the month. I never embark on a general election without assuming” – the Prime Minister switched on his famous smile – “that I’m going to win it. I make my plans on this assumption, and I make them well in advance. In the next Government which I form I want to offer you the Ministry for Employment.”