‘I’ll explain when we’re in our room,’ said the juryman in the blazer, taking her by the arm.
In the court everyone was standing and talking. Patrick swept out, alone and without a glance at Tancred or the lawyers on the other side. Tancred stepped down from the witness box and followed, Cranley Burrows taking him by the arm. Mordecai gathered up his sticks and began his inevitably slow exit, hardly looking up from the floor, now and then waving a stick to clear his passage.
‘Where to?’ Adams asked him.
‘The conference room.’
Mordecai settled with a crash into the chair behind the table, flinging his wig to Adams. Goodbody, Spenser and Waite came in, followed by a white-faced Price. Mordecai raised a stick and pointed at Waite. ‘Out,’ he said. Waite started to object. ‘Out,’ Mordecai roared. ‘Lawyers and clients only. I’m taking charge from now on, as I should have taken more charge earlier in this disaster of a case.’
As Adams led Waite from the room, the others sat, except for Price who leant against the wall at the side of the room.
‘Well,’ Mordecai began. ‘What have you to say? Do you dare now to leave this case to the decision of the jury?’
Chapter Six
The telephone call to Paris came at twenty-five minutes past noon, Paris time, an hour ahead of London and before the court had adjourned. When Helena had replaced the receiver she ran to the library and, sliding back the panel on which was hung the pen-and-ink drawing by Modigliani, she punched in the code and opened the safe. Removing a thick package of dollar banknotes and the velvet box with the slim diamond necklace, also a diamond pendant and two ruby-and-diamond brooches, she closed the safe and slid back the panel. In her dressing room she locked the door and took down a small Louis Vitton dressing case from the top of her wardrobe. At her dressing table she placed the banknotes and the jewellery at the bottom of the case; emptied the few pieces that were in the jewel case on to a silk nightgown and packed it into the dressing case. She added some underclothes, her hairbrushes and cosmetics, and slipped her passport into her handbag. Then she sat at the dressing table and carefully wiped the make-up from her face. This done, she went to the kitchen carrying the dressing case and told the maid, Matilde, that she would not be in for lunch. She was going to the hairdresser, a new salon that a friend had recommended. She was late and was taking her make-up with her. She went through the drawing room and hall, and passed the office at the front of the apartment. The duty secretary looked up, surprised. ‘To the hairdresser,’ Helena said, ‘a new one. I am very late.’
Leaving the apartment, she walked hurriedly down the rue Casimir Perrier, turned right and when she reached Les Invalides she hailed a taxi, ordering it to take her to the place Vendôme. There she walked through the Ritz and out of the side door. She walked west for a little while before getting into another taxi. ‘The airport. Charles de Gaulle,’ she said, ‘and hurry.’
It was noon, English time, when the court adjourned and a white-faced Price accompanied by Spenser left the conference room in the Law Courts to telephone Paris. Once the door had closed behind them, Goodbody said, ‘But how do we know it’s true? We have not been served with any witness statements from the Turville woman, or from anyone called Harry Cheung, or—’
‘Do you think the judge would refuse leave to serve witness statements late if I were to continue the cross-examination and challenge Tancred’s story?’
‘No,’ Goodbody replied, ‘but it would give us time.’
‘Time for what?’ Mordecai said roughly. ‘The question we have to decide is whether I am to continue the cross-examination and call him a liar when we have not a vestige of evidence to show that he is.’ He paused before going on, ‘That’s what he wants us to do for if we go on and fail, the damages will be enormous.’
They sat in silence until Price and Spenser came back into the room. ‘We have not been able to reach Madame Helena,’ Spenser said. Price sat heavily in a chair beside Goodbody. ‘Is it true what he’s been saying?’ he asked.
‘You heard him. What’s your opinion?’
‘But do we have to accept it, without even hearing from the woman who looked after the girl or anything that corroborates the story?’ Spenser asked.
‘No, but you heard him. What do you think the jury will make of it?’ Mordecai asked. No one answered him, so he went on, ‘What evidence have we to challenge it?’ He looked round the room before he continued, ‘Am I to return to court and say that he’s a liar, that he’s invented the whole story? If I do, just think of the impression that will make on the jury and the damages you’ll have to pay when they realise we have no evidence to prove his story false.’
‘Then what’s your advice, man?’ Price asked brokenly.
‘Make an offer, negotiate a settlement and do it now. It is the best chance we have of restricting the damages.’
‘Tens of thousands of pounds?’ Spenser asked tentatively.
Mordecai snorted. ‘Hundreds, hundreds of thousands at the very least. Perhaps more.’ There was silence, then Mordecai said to Price, ‘The press will now be after the woman Tancred says was the mother of his daughter – and they have a name to help them, the name you were so concerned I should not probe.’
Again there was a silence before Goodbody said, ‘Could we not ask for an adjournment for several days, if necessary for some weeks, while we investigate the story?’
‘Why should the judge allow that? The burden was on us to come to court and prove the truth that these were corrupt payments – and our duty was to do that today. The judge will see, and will tell the jury, that all we were relying on was the meetings between Tancred and Sleaven, and the evidence of the bank statements. And Tancred has explained both.’
‘But is it true?’ said Price.
‘What do you think? Or, more important, what do you think the jury think?’ Mordecai looked around the room, at each in turn. None replied. He continued, ‘Foxley won’t consent to a long adjournment. Why should he? He’ll say we should have come prepared to prove our case.’ He turned to Price. ‘You were sure you’d come up with evidence to prove Tancred was corrupt and you believed that when we found that money had been passing between him and Sleaven that was sufficient. You thought he would not be able to explain it. Now he has.’
‘The story of the child—’ Price began.
Mordecai interrupted him. ‘The story of the child begins with the story of the mother of the child – and her mother.’
Mordecai waited but Price said nothing. ‘How long had you known Helena Cheung before you were brought the diary?’ Mordecai asked suddenly.
Price stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘Spenser says she encouraged you to go on.’
Price put his hand to his head. ‘It was I who decided.’
‘Ask her about the daughter. Now.’
‘She is not in the apartment.’ Price paused. ‘I knew there had been a relationship between her and Tancred many years ago. I found letters. She was very bitter about him. I did not know there was a child.’
‘If there was a relationship,’ said Walter Morrison quietly, ‘there could have been a child.’
Again there was silence. Mordecai turned back to Goodbody. ‘What is your opinion of how the jury will react if I return to that court and suggest that Tancred is a brazen-faced liar as well as a corrupt scoundrel – and then produce not a shred of evidence to back that up? What do you think that would do to the amount of damages the jury would award him?’
Goodbody looked down at his long, slender fingers and shook his head.
Mordecai went on, ‘Then there is Lacey and the memorandum he is going to say he made on his return from Paris. He’ll say’ – he spoke now to Price — ‘he’ll say you made clear your hatred of Tancred and your determination to publish, that it was a good story that would stimulate circulation and so you’d take the risk. If Lacey does say that, the claim for punitive damages is established.’ He turned back to Goodbody. ‘Th
at and the story of the mother and the daughter and the dead child. Imagine me continuing to blackguard him publicly in court! Think about it. What is your professional opinion on the effect that would have on the award of damages?’
Goodbody said at last, ‘The damages could be enormous.’
Mordecai looked at Walter Morrison, who nodded, and once more addressed Price. ‘The only chance of any mitigation in the amount of the vast award of damages you’re going to have to pay is to negotiate – and it must be done promptly, before that judge orders us to go on. If I go back into court and continue to attack Tancred, the damages will be astronomical.’
There was a prolonged silence.
Eventually Price lumbered to his feet. ‘Do what you think best. I’ll be at the Savoy.’ To Spenser he said, ‘I’ll call Paris again from there.’ At the door he turned. ‘Telephone me what they’ll accept.’
When Price had gone, Mordecai said, ‘It was a trap, a carefully planned trap. Knowing Price’s obsession, Tancred manoeuvred so that it was inevitable that we went on. And we fell for it.’
From his suite in the Savoy Digby Price called Paris. Madame was still out, no one knew where.
Mr Justice Traynor sat in his room, waiting for a message from counsel. At 1.15 he was told by his clerk that counsel were conferring. He sent a message that he’d be back in his room at 2 p.m., walked to his Inn and ate a substantial lunch. He knew it was over.
The jury ate theirs in their stuffy room: solid, heavy food from the canteen, quite unsuitable for the warmth of the July day. ‘What do you think is going on?’ the middle-aged jurywoman asked the young Asian woman, envying her the coolness of her sari. The young woman shrugged, refusing the food, sipping water.
The juryman in the blazer pushed aside his plate, hardly touched. ‘The newspaper has made a fool of itself,’ he pronounced.
‘Made fucking arses of themselves is what you mean,’ the pugnacious juryman said. ‘They’ve got the money. They won’t miss it. But I don’t fancy giving it to a bloody politician.’ He got up from the table. ‘I want a fag.’
‘Then go over to the window, there’s a dear,’ said the other middle-aged jurywoman. He glowered at her but did as she asked. The man in the blazer began coughing and pointed at the sign ‘No smoking’. The pugnacious juryman glowered at him and the coughing petered out. But the cigarette was not lit. When the waitress came to clear the dishes he asked her, ‘How long are they going to keep us shut up here?’
‘All afternoon they say,’ she said cheerfully. ‘The usher says the barristers are still talking.’
‘About their bloody fees I shouldn’t wonder,’ said the juryman by the window, his unlit fag between his lips.
It was almost five o’clock when the judge took his seat on the bench and the jury filed in, the men now all in their shirtsleeves with their coats over their arms. Tancred was no longer in the witness box but sat impassively in his seat beside Cranley Burrows in front of Patrick Foxley. Neither Digby Price nor Spenser was in court. Mordecai sat bent forward with his chin resting on his hands, which were grasped about the head of one of his sticks; in front of him Oliver Goodbody sat very erect and pale, looking straight ahead at neither judge nor jury.
The clerk called out the name of the case and Patrick Foxley rose to his feet. Before the judge had entered the court he had looked behind him and smiled at Anna. But it was not a triumphant smile. ‘I am happy to tell Your Lordship,’ Patrick began, ‘that neither you nor the jury will be troubled further with this case. The defendants have agreed to withdraw each and every allegation made against Mr Richard Tancred. They accept that the relationship between him and the late Mr Oscar Sleaven was neither corrupt nor concerned in any way with any matter arising from any contract between the Ministry and Mr Sleaven’s company. They accept that Mr Richard Tancred, when a minister of the Crown, acted at all times with complete integrity and they apologise unreservedly for publishing the diary of Francis Richmond, which carried the libel about him. To mark their regret and the sincerity of their apology and the complete withdrawal of all allegations that might arise from what was published in the Sunday News, the defendants have agreed to pay to Mr Tancred a very substantial sum by way of damages and to bear all his legal costs. In these circumstances I ask leave for the record to be withdrawn.’
As Patrick sat, Mordecai lumbered to his feet. ‘I endorse what my learned friend has said. The withdrawal of the allegations made in the defence and levelled in this court is total, the apology complete. News Universal regret their publication of the diary and on their behalf I repeat the apology.’ He slid back into his seat and, turning, he whispered to Walter, ‘And so say all of us.’
As the judge thanked the jury, releasing them from further attendance, Mordecai went on whispering to Walter. ‘Foxley behaved rather well in the negotiation. Adams says there’s a woman somewhere who’s made him more amenable. Why isn’t there one who’d do that for me?’
‘No one would,’ Walter whispered back.
Mordecai turned round and faced the rigid back of Oliver Goodbody in front of him. He has come worst out of this, he thought.
With a final glance at the young Asian woman who had revived for him such poignant memories, the judge made a perfunctory bow to counsel and left the court. In his room, as he unrobed, he said to his clerk, ‘The roody prima donnas weren’t too bad after all.’ He left the Law Courts by the back entrance and travelled by bus back to Hampstead.
‘Fucking waste of time,’ grumbled the pugnacious juror, as he ambled out of the courtroom, an unlit cigarette already between his lips. ‘Lawyers playing fucking games.’
The public, and especially the press, had heard rumours that there was to be a settlement before the judge had taken his place, so the statements by counsel caused no surprise. Now the journalists swarmed around Tancred and Patrick; they knew better than to come within the range of Mordecai’s sticks and left him alone. How much? they kept asking. How much did you get? Tancred smiled his enigmatic smile and pushed his way through the throng. On Burrows fell the task of trying to satisfy them, which he knew he could not. ‘As counsel said, the amount is very substantial,’ he confirmed. Half a million, a million? they asked him. ‘It is a term of the settlement that the amount of damages is to remain confidential,’ Burrows kept repeating.
‘Any of it going to charity?’ one reporter asked.
‘It is too early for any decision like that. My client is delighted to have been cleared of the wicked smears about his distinguished service as a minister of the Crown. He has been completely vindicated.’
A million was the opinion of the journalists as they reported back to their offices. The costs would be as much again. Make it a two-million bill for News Universal, they calculated. And this was what was published.
Burrows had kept them at bay sufficiently long for Tancred to slip out of the Law Courts by the back entrance to the car that Burrows had waiting for him. In case he were being followed, the car took a long detour, doubling back on its tracks, eventually emerging on to the M4, along which it drove fast to Heathrow.
But the sensation of the end of the law case Richard Tancred versus News Universal was overshadowed that afternoon by other more important national news that was announced shortly before Patrick Foxley made his statement in court. The Prime Minister had resigned – for, the official announcement said, personal and health reasons. As was generally known, the statement went on, he had been contemplating retirement for some time and now, on the advice of his doctors, he had decided that this was the time to go. There was to be no General Election, however. Ministers were to remain in their places until a new First Minister was appointed. It was expected that the Chancellor of the Exchequer would be invited by the Queen to form a ministry.
When Adams told him the news in the robing room, Mordecai snorted, ‘What was it that Hilaire Belloc wrote? “The accursed Power which stands on Privilege/ (And goes with Women, and Champagne, and Bridge)/ Broke,”’ he
recited as he ripped off his crumpled collar, ‘“and Democracy resumed her reign: (Which goes with Bridge, and Women and Champagne.)”’
‘Indeed, sir,’ Adams replied. ‘Indeed. Very true, sir.’ He’s surprisingly cheerful, Adams thought, considering the result of the case.
In the cab taking him home to Albany, Mordecai was thinking of Oliver Goodbody.
Chapter Seven
When, shortly before one o‘clock, Digby Price returned to his suite at the Savoy Hotel, Spenser also slipped away. He knew better than anyone else that in the context of the circulation war and the campaign by Ogilvy Grant’s Telegram to destroy News Universal, defeat in the libel case, the fall-out on News’s reputation by its blunder, and the vast sum of damages and costs would be crippling. In his office in Docklands he telephoned his broker. News Universal’s stock price was falling fast. Report of the morning’s proceedings had reached the markets before they closed. Nevertheless he instructed the broker to unload what remained of the stock in the nominee’s name that disguised his personal holding as soon as possible. The previous sales had made a reasonable price; these, inevitably, would be disastrously low. But he knew he had to sell for whatever he could get. Next he emptied his briefcase and went to his office wall safe where he kept what he had long considered might be his ‘insurance policy’ in the event of total disaster – the manuscript of Francis Richmond’s original diary. It was in Richmond’s own handwriting, unedited, unexpurgated.
When Spenser had bought the diary from Job Streatley, he had demanded that Streatley hand over to him not only the typescript that Job had made but also the book in which, in his rounded, old-fashioned handwriting, Richmond had made the entries. Four copies had been made of Streatley’s typescript and distributed to the editor of the Sunday News, Godfrey Lacey, the Chairman and one he had kept for himself. Price had ordered the reference to the Prime Minister to be cut; Spenser himself had excised the references to Mordecai Ledbury before the extracts were set in type for printing. It was the original leather-bound book with its manuscript entries that Spenser now removed from the safe and packed into his briefcase. It would be, he trusted, his passport for his imminent transfer of loyalties. He then made a lengthy telephone call. When he had finished he told his secretary to call him a taxi.
The Richmond Diary Page 24