Catalyst

by Michael Knaggs

  “Well, it must have been very badly edited,” said Tom, dismissively. “Because it wasn’t like that at all. And now, Ms Goody, if you’re through giving me my weekly appraisal, would you please wheel in the first victim.”

  She left the office, stopping briefly in the doorway.

  “Hey, I’ve just thought of something. I spent all last night washing and pressing my canary suit. I suppose that was a waste of time if you’re chairing the debate.”

  “That’s politics,” he called after her, enjoying the mental image of Grace in her fancy dress and reflecting on the rare unguarded moment when she had let the information slip. No-one knew anything about Grace’s life outside her work. There was never any mention of a partner, male or female, and given the amount of time she spent at her job, and her availability at short notice at all hours on any day, it seemed unlikely that one existed. It was rumoured that in the past she had experienced a deep emotional trauma which had caused her to build a defensive wall around herself. But it was only a rumour, like the one about her having a long-term – albeit unspecified – working relationship with Andrew Donald.

  As Tom prepared to start his first constituent meeting, he couldn’t help but feel slightly privileged that she had chosen to step out of character to share that small private secret with him.

  Four hours later he phoned George Holland.

  “Six weeks!” Jo’s eyes were wide in disbelief.

  “That’s right; that’s what Jane said.”

  “But that’s about – what – a tenth of the time I would have expected.”

  “Well, they are trying to reduce the period between charging and trial… ”

  “Yes, but even so, six weeks!”

  “It’s not going to get any longer just by you repeating it over and over,” said David, laughing.

  “And was Jane okay with that?”

  “Yes, she seemed pretty relaxed… ”

  “But why?”

  “Why was she relaxed?”

  “No, you know what I mean. Why such a short time?”

  “I don’t know. All Jane would say is that they want our man off the radar as soon as possible. Seems he’s just too high profile.”

  “In which case, why the Old Bailey?”

  “No idea. Just add it to the list of things I can’t work out. Anyway, Detective Sergeant, here’s to a result at last – as far as it goes.”

  They raised their glasses and took a celebratory sip of their drinks. David Gerrard looked pensively out of the window of the Dog and Duck. After the drama of the past few days they had decided to take time out from the familiar surroundings of Parkside. They were seated in the main bar area, overlooking Settlement Lane at the point where it became Main Street. The place was filling up and the atmosphere was friendly and relaxed. The venue had been Jo’s suggestion, after visiting the library on the estate the previous day and seeing the notice about the debate. It was the first time either of them had been in the pub.

  “Because there’s still a lot of stuff I don’t get,” David went on. “His confession doesn’t go anywhere near answering all the questions. Here’s a few that really bother me.” He leant across the table towards Jo, speaking softly and counting them on his fingers.

  “One – how come he knew the names, especially the middle names, of Deverall’s parents? I don’t know why, but that’s kept me awake the last few nights. Two – why did he take such care not to leave a trail to Mrs Deverall when she moved? All that stuff about cash and her maiden name – totally unnecessary. Three – how come not one of those guys from the same unit, who all knew Deverall, had ever heard of him? Four – if Deverall was killed instantly, what was all that crap about a dying request? Five – assuming he’s the one responsible for vacating the property – letter to the council with forged signature – why did he wait until after he’d killed the Bradys to do it? Why not immediately after Alma’s death? Six – why did he confess when he did, and, seven – what the hell was his lawyer doing sitting there contemplating his bloody navel while he was doing it?”

  “Well, he didn’t actually confess, did he, sir, even though it was sufficient for the CPS? I think he said just enough to stop us pursuing the answers to those questions.”

  “That’s right. Like someone had a word with Granville and told him to advise his client to give us at least enough to bring a charge. Even if he did do that, if I was Lorimar, I’d have told him where to shove his advice and got another lawyer.”

  “The thing is,” said Jo, “all this doesn’t really matter now in the process of law. Getting answers to these questions would have been critical without that clear statement of intent, but now they’re academic, I guess, unless he chooses to retract it?”

  “Academic as far as the law is concerned,” he agreed, “but more than that in terms of good policing. I believe we need to understand this, even if we don’t need the facts to close the case. I don’t believe we’ve finished the job; we’ve had it taken off us, and we need to know why. The guys have worked really hard in the course of this investigation; we owe it to them to tie up the loose ends.”

  “But when are we going to do that, sir?” she asked.

  David sighed and leant back in his chair.

  “You’re right. We’d need to take this on almost as a personal thing. It’s not on the official radar any more, and, to be honest, I don’t even know whether the guys will be all that bothered anyway. They’ll be in no doubt they’ve done their job. They’ve caught the bad guy – well, the guy who did the murders – and that was what we asked them to do.” He brightened a little, half joking, “We could even argue that he gave in because he realised we were so good, there was no point in trying to hold out; we’d get him anyway. And who’s to say that’s not the truth. I mean, we’re a bloody good team, aren’t we?”

  “We sure are, coach,” said Jo, laughing. “And I like that – ‘we’re so good, there was no point in trying to hold out; we’d get him anyway’. I’m conceited enough to believe that.”

  “Anyway, I’m hungry. Let’s order that Sunday roast before they run out of Yorkshire puddings.”

  When Tom Brown stepped out of the taxi at the same venue two days later, he was greeted at the front door by George Holland and a large, sixty-something gentleman in light grey trousers and wearing a double-breasted blazer over a cream shirt and a blue and yellow striped tie, which Tom assumed was old-school or cricket-club. His ruddy face, huge moustache and military bearing shouted ex-RAF. George introduced himself and Arnold Danby.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr Brown. There’s a crowd in there wanting to meet you, but we’ll get quickly through the pleasantries and down to business. I know you’re a busy man and… ”

  Tom held up his hand.

  “It’s Tom, not Mr Brown, George, and the only thing I’m busy with tonight is a couple of pints and a chat to you good people about what’s happening tomorrow. Everything else is off limits for the next few hours.”

  They went inside and Tom met with the other customers in the pub, most of which were members of the 3AF. After furnishing themselves with a pint each of Thwaites ‘Lancaster Bomber’ – the landlord’s ‘guest ale’ of the week in deference to the Squadron Leader’s visit – George, Fred, and Arnold adjourned with Tom to the snug which the landlord had reserved for their meeting.

  “You were in the military yourself, Tom?” said Arnold, briefly high-jacking the agenda.

  “That’s right. Started in the army at seventeen, three years later transferred into the Marines, then finally the SBS. I left around six years ago after eighteen years in total. I can’t imagine I’ll last that long in politics.”

  “Seventeen?” said Arnold. “You started at seventeen? I would have thought you’d have gone a different route – you know, through college, commission and all that. Especially with your father being who he is.”

  “Why, who is your father, Tom?” asked Fred.

  “General Sir Richard Tomlinson-Brown,” Arnold
answered for him.

  “And he was the reason,” said Tom. “It was my tilt at parental authority. That’s what everybody expected me to do – get a commission – father’s footsteps and all that. So instead, I enlisted at the earliest possible opportunity right at the bottom and changed my name to plain Tom Brown. I just couldn’t stand the thought of being constantly compared with – and coming up short against – the good General – or Lieutenant-General as he was then.”

  “How did he feel about that?” asked George.

  “Well, publicly, he supported the decision, but in private he told me exactly what he thought of it. Caused some problems between us at the time but we’re friends again now. And speaking for myself, I’ve never once regretted the decision.”

  “I’m not surprised considering what you achieved,” said Arnold. “Why did you leave, by the way?”

  “Well, when I reached the rank of Colonel, I had to swap the firing line for a desk, so I thought I might as well have a desk nearer home.”

  “Anyway,” said Arnold, getting to his feet, “I’m afraid I’ve deflected you from your purpose, George. I’m a gate-crasher, Tom. I’m not part of the group. Leaving tomorrow; sorry I can’t make the debate.”

  “Arnold gave an amazing talk on the Falklands conflict at last week’s meeting and decided to stay on for a few days here at the Dog,” said George.

  Tom stood and shook Arnold’s hand. “Perhaps you can give me a private hearing of that speech some time, Squadron Leader. I’d love to swap a few stories.”

  Arnold left the snug and they got down to business.

  Tom arrived at the council offices at 6.30 pm and was met by George, who showed him to the Lecture Theatre where the debate was scheduled to start in an hour’s time. As people settled into their seats and the sound and lighting engineers carried out their final checks, Tom spent the last few minutes on the floor above in the Banqueting Suite with people who would be watching the event on two large screens.

  “Actually,” he joked, pointing to one of the screens, “my only reason for coming up here is to let you see me in the flesh so you can say things like, ‘well the camera certainly doesn’t do him justice’. Which is only the truth, after all.”

  Someone shouted from the back of the room. “You look good to me in the flesh and on TV, Tom!”

  “Annie Berryman!” he exclaimed, “Are you stalking me? I do hope so.”

  There was laughter all round, then the announcement was made that the debate would start in five minutes and would the audience take their seats and the officials their places on the platform.

  Around 1,600 people turned up to attend the function. By allowing nearly 300 to stand around the back of the two rooms of the suite and using every available seat in the Lecture Theatre, including those normally left vacant because of line-of-sight problems with the stage, they managed to accommodate all of them.

  Tom, George, and a rather white-faced Fred Dawson, took their seats on the stage, the last of these attempting to hide behind the decanter of iced water in front of him. The council had generously provided a professional Master of Ceremonies from their own resources, who banged his gavel loudly on the baize-covered trestle table, perhaps a little over-zealously for the good of its fragile construction.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” he bellowed. “Please put your hands together for your Member of Parliament, Mister… Tom… Brown!”

  Tom raised his hand to acknowledge the enthusiastic response to the MC’s announcement, mouthing the words ‘thank you’ around the room, and at the camera conveying the images to the Banqueting Suite, as the applause was sustained effortlessly for nearly a minute.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, in his well practiced House of Commons voice. “Welcome to what I am sure will prove to be one of the most interesting and stimulating evenings any of us will have experienced. I thank you all for your attendance – we have around sixteen hundred people in this building – which is amazing – and hopefully all are here to listen to our debate. If any of you have been in hiding for the last week and have turned up for the Ivory Tower concert, then my apologies, but I can tell you that they will be playing at Croydon Civic Hall next Thursday. So you can catch them there and then.”

  There was laughter all round the theatre, and also in the Banqueting Suite.

  “Seriously,” Tom went on, “we must apologise to Ivory Tower for postponing their concert and thank them for their cooperation in agreeing to do so.

  “I don’t want to delay the start of the debate any more than necessary, but I feel we need to agree a few house rules, given the unusual circumstances that have brought us together tonight. Let me make just a few remarks about the process of the debate.

  “Firstly, this is not a public debate, as such. This has been arranged by the local branch of the Third Age Forum – or 3AF as it is more normally referred to. And just in case – like me, until recently – you are not fully aware of what the 3AF is and does, it is a national network established for the purpose of sharing information and promoting learning in retirement. It boasts a membership of around half a million countrywide; it is managed and maintained by volunteers and funded through charitable donations. The two main officials of the Meadow Village branch are with me on stage tonight. On my left,” and he half-turned to smile at him, “is Mr George Holland, President of the group, who will be proposing the motion; and on my right,” turning again, “Mr Fred Dawson, Secretary, who will oppose it. I think we should all express our appreciation for their generosity in extending invitations to attend to so many people, and their efforts, along with other members of the branch, in making it happen.”

  With Tom leading there was enthusiastic applause again from all present.

  “I’d particularly like to thank them for asking me along. I spend a lot of my time in a room with up to this many people in it, but only around half of them are ever smiling at the same time!”

  Laughter again.

  “I would like to welcome the ladies and gentlemen of the press who are here tonight representing both the local and national media. And I’d ask that they respect the process of the debate by listening and reporting rather than participating. No-one in this room – and I repeat, no-one – is here this evening to provide official comments relating to the subject under discussion.

  “The rules of the meeting are simple, but for those who have never attended a formal debate before, let me outline the procedure. The motion before us tonight is,” and he referred to his notes, “‘Extreme action by an individual or individuals, which may result in the permanent removal of another individual or individuals, is justified in circumstances where this results in an overwhelming benefit to the community at large, even in the case where such extreme action is outside the law.’

  “Mr Holland – George – will propose the motion by adding his supporting remarks to that point of view. Mr Dawson – Fred – will then oppose the motion by pointing out what he feels are the negative aspects. After they have completed their formal inputs to the meeting, anyone in the room will be entitled to say their piece for or against the motion. I only ask that you raise your hand to indicate your intention to speak rather than shouting out. I will then decide which speaker next has the floor – or should I say – the microphone. There are four people – all raise your mikes, please – two in each of the aisles who will hand you a microphone so we can all hear you. And all remarks should be addressed to the chair – that’s me. And if you want to do it very professionally, then you should start your contribution by saying, ‘Mr Chairman’. However,” and he smiled again at the audience and camera, “I won’t be offended if you miss that bit out.

  “At the end of the session,” he continued, “which is timed for ninety minutes – until around nine-fifteen – by which time I hope we will have given everyone who wishes to speak the chance to do so, we shall have a show of hands – in here and in the Banqueting Suite – for and against the motion. All clear? – Good.

>   “Just one last, and very important, point. The motion has been carefully and deliberately worded in general terms. We are not here to discuss what has happened recently in Cullen Field. The issue is much wider than that, and I must ask you to ensure that any remarks you have are consistent with the motion and are not related to that very specific event. The two issues are clearly linked – it would be nonsense for me to pretend they were not. But it is imperative that we stick to the subject as clearly stated for us by Mr Holland and his group. Is everyone very clear about that?”

  He could see 600 or so nodding heads. He had done what he could up to now. He turned to George.

  “Mr Holland… George… ”

  The debate began.

  George had the Daily Telegraph delivered to his house Monday to Saturday each week. As he sat down for breakfast the following day, he picked up Thursday’s offering and read the account of the meeting, which had made the front page despite its late conclusion. He then re-read, twice, the parts of the article which gave details and comments on his own contribution. It was like reading about somebody else, he thought, a close acquaintance perhaps, but surely not himself.

  Irene had been reading the article over his shoulder. The actual result of the voting was presented in a small table on page two.

  “‘Number of attendees; 1,612’,” she read. “‘Votes for the motion; 1,503 – ninety-three percent. Against; 109 – seven percent I’ll tell you what, that was a hundred very brave people given the mood in there, don’t you think?”

  “I know. I felt really sorry for Fred when they booed him at the beginning after he’d opposed the motion.”

  “I thought Tom did a great job in rescuing him, though. In fact, he was brilliant all night, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, and he’s happily married to a very beautiful woman,” said George with a teasing smile. “So you’d best resign yourself to making do with me.”

  Irene laughed. “Oh, I don’t mind that so much. You’re obviously going to be more famous than him very soon. By the way,” she added, “there’s an editorial piece inside.”