Trouble

by Michael Gilbert

  “Well?”

  “There was a policeman outside the library all the time I was there this morning.”

  “So?”

  “And he followed me home. He’s outside the house now.”

  19

  The news of the arrest of the five Pakistanis spread with the speed of a prairie fire racing through brushwood. On Friday evening it was a rumour. By midday on Saturday it was a fact. Five boys from the Bisset Street area had blown up and killed four white boys and near enough killed a fifth. The criminals were known and had been charged with their crime.

  Old supporters of capital punishment found ready listeners. What’s the point of gaoling them? They’ll be out in a year or two, ready to burn up a few more of our boys. The rope’s the answer. Some people felt it was a pity that they couldn’t be flogged first and hanged afterwards.

  On that same Saturday afternoon South London had a home game. They had chosen the occasion to honour Norman Younger. The Secretary said a few appropriate words over the loudspeaker. He made a sympathetic reference to his mother, Mrs. Younger. He finished by saying, “We decided that a fitting tribute to this young man whose career has been so shockingly cut short would be to stand for a minute in silence before the game starts.”

  The crowd rose obediently to their feet and the two teams, which were already lined up on the ground, stood to attention.

  Ghulam Sher Kahn, a middle-aged Pakistani greengrocer, did not stand up. He meant no disrespect by this. The truth, which he tried to conceal, was that he was almost stone deaf. He was sitting in the south stand, behind the goal. This stand was only half full. A man behind Ghulam shouted, “Stand up you black monkey,” and another said, “Doesn’t just burn our boy. Dishonours him too.” He wasn’t shouting, but in the sudden silence his voice was heard all over the stand. Heads turned.

  Realising, at last, that something was happening Ghulam shambled to his feet. By the time he sat down again he was isolated. The people on either side of him had moved back to other seats. It was clear to him that something was wrong and that it affected him. He had no idea what it was all about.

  When the game was over he decided that it would be better to let the crowd get clear. There was a stall that served teas. He bought a cup and took his time over drinking it. When he reached the exit point most people had left the ground. But not everyone. Half a dozen men were hanging about inside the gate. He realised that he had been stupid. He should have gone out with the crowd.

  One of the men shouted, “There’s the Paki bastard. Come on Sambo, we’re waiting for you.”

  Ghulam saw the stone coming and dodged in time. But the sudden movement dislodged his glasses, which fell on to the asphalt. As he stooped to pick them up a second stone hit him on the side of the face. He abandoned his glasses and bolted for the exit. There were two turnstiles and an open gate beyond them. Not being able to see the gate he made for the nearer of the turnstiles. This had been set for entry and when he pushed frantically against it, it refused to move. He tried to scramble across the top. When he was halfway over a stick landed across his back. Then another one, much harder.

  A voice, which tried to be authoritative, said, “Now then lads, stop that.” It was Sergeant Ames, the long-haired Community Liaison Officer.

  “Naff off, Charlie. This is one of the bastards who burned our kids. We’re just teaching him a little lesson. Leave him to us.”

  “You can’t do that.” The Sergeant was already speaking into his bat phone. This was noticed. One of the men said, “More bluebottles here soon. Better be moving.” And, giving Ghulam a final lash, “This time you were lucky. Maybe next time you won’t be. Think about it.”

  The Sergeant found Ghulam’s glasses, which were not broken, and handed them back to him. He said, “You’d better come along with me to the Station. You’ll want to make a charge.”

  “No,” said Ghulam. “No, I want no trouble. I only wish to return to my house.”

  “I’d better go with you, then,” said Sergeant Ames sadly. He would have to make a report. No doubt Brace would have something scathing to say. As usual.

  That same afternoon, Anthony was just finishing his tea when the telephone rang. It was Azam Kahn. He said, “Mr. Leeown. I would so much like a word with you. Might I come to your house?”

  Anthony thought about this. Then he said, “It would be better if I came to you.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “I’m not a cripple. And I’d like the exercise. Expect me in about an hour’s time.”

  His own house was in Old Mill Road, south of Wynns Common. A short walk up the east side of the common brought him out into Plumstead High Street, which was full of folk doing their last-minute weekend shopping. The contrast when he crossed the High Street into the Pakistani quarter was unpleasant. It was a place of empty streets and silence. It had never occurred to him before what a segregated area it was: a triangle of small houses, bounded on the south by the High Street and on the north by the railway.

  There were a few small shops. Most of these were not only shut, but shuttered.

  The Kahn house was at the north end of Bisset Street. There was a light in the ground-floor window. When Anthony knocked on the door he noticed, with a stab of alarm, that the letter-box had been blocked with a metal sheet. There were footsteps in the hall. Anthony identified himself, bolts were shot back, a chain was lifted and he was allowed inside.

  “What’s all this barricading in aid of?” said Anthony crossly. People who overreacted always irritated him. “Are you getting ready for a siege or something?”

  “There will be trouble,” said Azam. He spoke resignedly. Trouble was nothing new in his life. “You did not hear what happened at the football ground this afternoon?”

  “No.”

  When Azam had told him, Anthony said, “You always get a few roughs at soccer matches. They don’t need much excuse to start throwing their weight around.”

  “Ghulam had done nothing. The attack was not on him. It was on us, as a people. It will get worse, no doubt. Then it will die down again. It was not of that I wished to speak, but of my own boys and their friends.”

  “I heard they’d been charged. They’ll be brought up on Monday, but that won’t be more than a formality.”

  “Even so, I should wish them to have help.”

  “Of course.”

  “I spoke to Mr. Nabbs. He is the only lawyer I know. He said that he could not help me. He will be representing the police.”

  “Not for long. They’ll be bringing in heavier metal soon. All the same, difficult for him.”

  And even if he could have acted, thought Anthony, it was most unlikely that he would have agreed to do so. He was not a defender of unpopular causes.

  He said, “I could probably get you someone.”

  “If you could.”

  “It might not be easy. Solicitors don’t work at weekends. But I’ll have a try.”

  He walked home thoughtfully through the silent streets. What he was refusing to believe was that the scenes he had witnessed in Abbottabad were going to be re-enacted in south-east London. Men being dragged from their houses and torn into pieces, or soaked in petrol and burned alive. Not only men. Women and small children, too. Impossible. Azam had magnified a single incident into a jihad.

  When he got home Sandra said, “So what did he want?”

  Anthony told her, but he said nothing of the uncomfortable thoughts at the back of his mind.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I thought of asking Dan Sullivan.”

  “Yes. He’d help if he could.”

  Dan Sullivan, who was one of the middle-rank partners in the very large firm of City solicitors, (still known as Macintyres, though the original Macintyre had long been in his grave) was at home and listened patiently to Anthony.

  “It’s the Wick Lane fire, I suppose,” he said cautiously. “I’d have to have a word with my senior partner before I allowed us to g
et involved in that. Luckily we’re both members of the same golf club. I’ll talk to him tomorrow and ring you back.”

  His senior partner, Sir Wilfred Paternoster, had white curly hair and a deceptive look of innocent benevolence. He was feeling cheerful because he had done well in the morning four-ball match and had lunched well. He and Dan Sullivan sat together on the balcony of the Sunningdale clubhouse watching the afternoon players strolling towards the first tee.

  “This chap Leone,” he said, “would you call him a reliable type?”

  “Totally reliable, I should say.”

  “How did you come to know him?”

  “Over one Ron Perkins.”

  “Come again.”

  “It would not perhaps be reasonable,” said Sullivan with a smile, “to assume that the senior partner of a firm as large as ours—”

  “Too large, in my view. But go on.”

  “—should know the name of all his employees. Particularly of employees as humble as post-room boys. Perkins was in trouble over some discrepancies in the postage stamp account. He lives in Plumstead and Leone was asked to help. He weighed in and persuaded everyone that what had happened was an honest mistake.”

  “And is Perkins still with us?”

  “Oh, certainly. He tells me he’s very interested in the law.”

  “I expect he’ll be asking for a partnership soon,” said Sir Wilfred gloomily. But he wasn’t thinking about Ron Perkins. He was thinking about the Wick Lane disaster. He often talked about one thing when he was thinking about something quite different. He said, “All right, Dan, go ahead. You’ll have to get Counsel involved as soon as possible. A strong Junior to start with. I was impressed by the work Eric Lording did for us in the Westlake business. And he’s in a first class chambers, so we’ll have a choice of good leaders when the time comes.”

  “Fine,” said Sullivan. Choice of Counsel could safely be left to his senior partner who had a dearly bought knowledge of their strengths and weaknesses.

  “It’ll be a legal aid case, of course.”

  “I’ll apply for an emergency certificate on Monday.”

  “One advantage of legal aid,” said Sir Wilfred, rising heavily to his feet and preparing to renew his assault on the golf course, “is that your client has got to do what he’s told:”

  The residents in Charndon Lane, Barons Court, looking out of their windows that Sunday afternoon would have noted two visitors to Mr. Featherstone’s house. One of them they had seen before, a nondescript man carrying a violin case. The other was new. He was a small man, not a dwarf, but certainly no more than five foot high, if as much. It was noted that he walked with a limp, dragging his left leg. A new pupil, they imagined.

  When the three men were safely installed in the sound-proof music room, Sean said, “I thought it was time that I made you two known to each other.”

  The small man had not offered to shake hands. Nor did he smile. He said, “Who’s your friend, Professor?”

  “Murphy. Pat Murphy.”

  “And why did you think Mr. Murphy and I ought to know each other?”

  “You’ve been given my name,” said Liam. “Wouldn’t it be fair if you told me yours?”

  The small man inspected him. He seemed puzzled by what he saw, but in some way reassured. He said, in a more friendly tone of voice, “You can take your pick. Jimmy Taylor or Jack Walker or Tommy Tucker. They’re as genuine as Pat Murphy.”

  Sean said, “Then let’s stick to Jimmy and Pat. Pat is interested in what’s going on in south-east London. The Wick Lane fire and its repercussions. I imagined that you and your—er—organisation would be interested in it too.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Your organisation being—?” said Liam smoothly.

  The little man smiled for the first time. “I’ll tell you something for free,” he said. “When you’re doing work like mine it’s a great mistake to give it a name. Once people have got hold of your name, they’ve got something to shout at. They can nail you to the tree. That’s the mistake Militant made. As long as they were a movement without a name, they were effective. Now they’re sitting ducks.”

  Liam, listening intently, knew the sort of man he had to deal with.

  He said, “Agreed, it’s sense not to publish your name. But you must call yourselves something, among yourselves I mean. A sort of by-name. Might it be Triple F, Fascists for Freedom. Or perhaps HJF. That’s Houses Jobs and Families, isn’t it?”

  “Your friend seems to know a great deal.”

  “Oh, he’s very well-informed,” said Sean. “It occurred to both of us that what was happening in Plumstead was ready-made for your organisation. Only the National Front seem to have got ahead of you. I’m told they’ve billed a meeting in Plumstead Victory Club for this Thursday. Abel Drummer has promised to speak.”

  This calculated insult had the desired effect. The little man drew himself up. Almost everything he said was platform-built, ready for delivery to the faithful.

  “The National Front,” he said, “is exactly what its name implies. A front. Everything in front and nothing behind.” (Pause for applause, thought Sean.) “They publish a newspaper and they use up a lot of chalk, which might more usefully be employed in schools, putting NF on other people’s walls. Also, as you have noticed, they hold meetings. Public meetings. But what do they actually do? Tell me that.”

  “Tell me what you think they ought to do, Jimmy.”

  “What we do. Recruit. At the school gates and in the factory canteens. Sound out and enrol real supporters. Young men, who are prepared to go to the limit.”

  “And young women?”

  “Women can be useful, but mainly we need fighters, wholehearted fighters, who will operate without too much regard to what may happen to them. If my men had been at that football ground the Pakistani would not have escaped with bruises.”

  “I imagine not.”

  “To control the masses you must first control the street.”

  Liam recognised the quotation from Mein Kampf. He was beginning to be extremely interested. He said, “You are a professional organisation and you will not therefore be offended if I mention money.”

  “Did not Lenin say, ‘Ideas can be planted in the soil of men’s minds, but they are matured by a judicious application of gold’?”

  “And very well put, too. Now I’ve been considering an idea. It’s connected with the man my friend mentioned. Abel Drummer.”

  “The father of two of the boys involved.”

  “Yes. I made his acquaintance some time ago and have cultivated him very carefully for reasons of my own. An interesting man. Heavily biased, but basically honest. An uncomfortable combination, you’ll admit, Jimmy.”

  The little man had got up and was moving round the room, apparently to relieve the pain in his left leg.

  Liam said, “It’s an idea that would cost money. Not much. But a certain amount. I could arrange a donation for you of £5,000.”

  “How would it come?”

  “In cash, of course. A gift from an anonymous friend.”

  “And what would you expect in exchange?”

  “Let me explain. These public conflagrations which are set off by such incidents as the Wick Lane disaster have a habit of burning fiercely to start with, but dying down for want of fresh fuel. Public support and enthusiasm is easy to arouse, but difficult to maintain. You agree, Jimmy?”

  “Correct.”

  “So what is needed is a stimulant, or, better, a series of stimulants, applied at the right moment. Let me tell you the sort of things I had in mind.”

  Liam spoke for ten minutes. Mr. Taylor, alias Walker, alias Tucker, who spent most of his own working day talking, was, for once, content to listen. He recognised a superior professional.

  20

  When Mr. Norrie came into court on Monday morning he could sense that he was in for trouble.

  It was not only the crowding of the public and the press benches: that was expected.
Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of the Wick Lane murderers and the crowd outside the court had been even greater than inside. No. It was the conduct of those who had managed to get in. A number of youngish men had forced their way to the front and were now collected immediately behind the dock. They had listened impassively whilst the morning’s work began, and Mr. Norrie dealt with his normal stream of drunks, prostitutes and motorists. This was not what they had come for.

  There was a stir of interest and a ripple ran through the crowd when the gaoler said, “Bring up Salim Kahn, Rahim Kahn, Javed Rahman, Rameez Rahman and Saghir Abbas.” The boys filed in. Salim seemed to be as controlled and resolute as when he had stood in the same dock a month before. The others looked terrified.

  “The charge,” said Mr. Combs, the Clerk, “is conspiracy to steal government property—”

  Before he could get any further a red-haired man, in the centre of the group behind the dock, shouted out, “You got it wrong, chum. The charge is murder.” This was followed by a concerted shout. Norrie rapped his gavel on the desk for some seconds, before the shouting subsided, apparently at some signal.

  “If there is any more disturbance,” he said, “I shall have the court cleared.”

  “Just you try it,” said a thin man next to the redhead.

  “Come on, what are we waiting for?”

  “Bring the bastards outside and string ’em up.”

  The attack was so unexpected that it very nearly succeeded. Sergeant Blascoe, who was posted at the end of the dock, was pushed aside and two men grabbed Saghir Abbas who succeeded in kicking one of them on the knee. Other men had got hold of Javed and Rameez by the hair and were trying to pull them over the rail at the back of the dock. Salim came to their assistance. He hit one of the men hard, in the throat.

  Then the police reinforcements that Brace had stationed in the corridor surged in. For a moment everyone seemed to be fighting: policemen, spectators, pressmen and the prisoners.

  Norrie, who had kept his seat and his head, noticed something. The small knot of men who had started the riot were now edging out of it and had nearly reached the door. With their withdrawal the impetus of the fight was slackening and it was clear that the police, now further reinforced, would soon have the court clear. He shouted to Sergeant Montgomery, “Grab hold of that red-haired man. I want him back here.”