Red Crystal (25 page)

Despite all his years of legal training, Henry Northcliff was a great believer in instinct. One still had to keep one’s mind open to new possibilities, of course, to different interpretations of the evidence, to shifts of emphasis. But, having studied all the facts and heard the various arguments, that first intuitive conclusion – what the Americans called gut-feeling – was, in Henry’s experience, rarely wrong.

He’d got a very strong feeling about this one an hour ago and since then the other two had said nothing to make him change his mind.

They were sitting in Henry’s office at the House. The Sunday stillness, devoid of traffic noise and secretaries’ chatter, clung to the room, creating an air of unreality.

Opposite Henry sat the Commissioner of Police, Peter McCabe, looking slightly uncomfortable in golfing clothes, and David Garner, the DPP, immaculate in blazer and flannels.

‘The fact remains,’ said Peter McCabe, ‘that if no prosecution is brought against this Wheatfield they’ll have made monkeys of us. And that’ll be bad for morale.’

‘But we
will
be prosecuting – what – about thirty people,’ pointed out David Garner. ‘In fact, nearly all those arrested. I’d have thought that would keep morale high enough.’

The Commissioner indicated the Sunday newspapers. ‘But not the person responsible for
this
. I realize that we’re not blameless and that the officer in the photograph went a little too far perhaps. But, according to the Special Branch evidence, we were set up. The lads know that and they want to see justice done. So do
I
, for that matter.’

Henry sat up in his chair. They were repeating themselves. It was time to bring the discussion to an end. ‘Let’s just be clear about the facts,’ he began. ‘There is absolutely no doubt that this Wheatfield
was
assaulted by a police officer. The newspaper pictures are, I’m afraid, irrefutable. Now, whether that officer used reasonable or
excessive
force can never be established. Neither can we ever know how many of Wheatfield’s injuries were sustained at the hands of the police officer and how many as the result of the attack by his companions.’

He chose his next words carefully. ‘There is also the problem of pinning the whole case on the evidence of one man, albeit a Special Branch officer, who was in the centre of a heaving, jostling crowd, where, as I understand it, there were a large number of skirmishes going on. Can he be certain of what he saw? Can we establish that the kicks Wheatfield received to the face were delivered
deliberately
? For all we know the men who kicked Wheatfield might have been perfect strangers to him, or, if we believe that they were indeed friends of Wheatfield, then there is nothing to say they didn’t kick him for some purely personal motives, without the slightest intention of conspiring to prevent the course of justice.’

There was a silence. The Commissioner looked unhappily out of the window. Henry thought: He knows he’s lost.

Time for the concluding shot. Henry added, ‘As David has said, it would be best to go for what we can be reasonably sure of getting – affray. Even then – well, we might have trouble getting good witnesses. As for assaulting a police officer …’ He shook his head. ‘In view of the rather damning evidence of the newspaper photographs, that may be difficult to prove, particularly if it goes to a jury. In which case Wheatfield could become something of a martyr and the image of the police suffer accordingly.’

The Commissioner shook his head. ‘So they get away with it almost scot-free?’

Henry sympathized with the Commissioner’s point of view. To his own mind there had undoubtedly been a plot to make the police look like bully-boys, but his instinct told him that no case of conspiracy could ever be won on the existing evidence.

He offered a few crumbs of hope. ‘But I think it’s certainly worth proceeding against this fellow Reardon on assault charges. He was seen carrying the sharpened banner pole and he was seen wielding it against a police officer. I know it’s not as much as one would have hoped for. However …’ He paused, hoping he was not about to make a rash promise. ‘I’m sure the Home Secretary will examine the facts of the apparent conspiracy very carefully. He may even choose to make a statement …’ Henry left it at that, hoping that he had judged the situation correctly.

Later he spoke to the Home Secretary. It was their third conversation that day. Predictably, the Home Secretary was worried about the risk of martyrdom inherent in bringing the charges, but finally accepted Henry’s recommendation to proceed.

Remembering the Commissioner’s concern, Henry mentioned that, to his own mind, a conspiracy
had
almost certainly taken place, although it was impossible to prove. The Home Secretary agreed. ‘In fact, I was thinking of making a statement in the House to that effect … But it would have to be suitably vague.’

‘Even so, it would be very effective in improving police morale,’ Henry suggested gently.

It was impossible to keep everyone happy, but as Henry got into his car to drive back to Hampstead and a late and probably ruined lunch, he felt he had done his best.

Nick waited until the ward was quiet, then slowly sat up in bed. Not a pleasant experience. A hammer tried to pound its way out of his head. He felt a moment’s hatred for the truncheon-happy SPG man, then concentrated on exerting mind over matter.

After a minute, he felt better and got gingerly to his feet. Yes: not too bad at all. It just went to show how over-protective these hospitals were. The doctor had talked about a week in bed. He had to be joking.

The hospital-issue dressing-gown was not exactly what he would have chosen – faded plaid with a pink collar which had been washed almost to destruction – and the slippers were fluffy and rather feminine, but he put them on all the same, to make it look as though he had permission to be wandering around.

He padded up to the doors at the end of the ward and peered through the windows. No fierce nurses in sight. He went out into the corridor and, going in what he hoped was the right direction, started reading the labels on the various doors.

No private rooms that way. He retraced his steps past the ward and along the opposite corridor.

It was the third door along. Wheatfield.

The window was blocked by a curtain on the other side.

A nurse appeared at the far end of the corridor. Without any further hesitation, Nick pushed the door and went in.

He had a brief impression of a figure with a heavily bandaged face lying on the bed before he realized with a slight shock that there was someone else in the room.

A girl. Back to the window. Dark hair lit by the sunlight. Attractive face. Camera in hand.

Strangely familiar.

Then he had it.

Of course – the
photographer
. Standing on the car.
The taker of those damned pictures
.

‘Hi,’ he murmured.

She regarded him coolly. ‘Hello.’

‘I came to see my – er friend.’ He indicated Wheatfield whose bleary eyes gazed black and bruised from beneath the stark whiteness of his turban of bandages.

‘Your friend?’ she asked, tilting her head to one side.

‘Well, in a way.’ He went up to the bedside and said to Wheatfield, ‘I heard you were bashed around yesterday, like me. A truncheon, was it?’

Wheatfield was silent. Nick gave a short ironical laugh. ‘They came for me when my back was turned. Bloody marvellous.’

‘Going the opposite way, were you?’ There was a hint of scorn in the girl’s voice and Nick looked at her sharply, thinking: Charming!

He said, ‘Just getting my breath back. Ready to go for another.’

‘Another?’

‘Cop. I’d already got one. Mashed nose. Bled like a pig.’

She dropped her gaze. ‘I see.’ When she met his eyes again her expression was softer, less critical. ‘Pity I didn’t get pictures of that.’

‘You were there?’

‘Yes. I’m a freelance journalist.’ Briskly, she moved to the bedside. ‘Well, Mr Wheatfield, thanks for the pictures. I hope they didn’t tire you too much. Get well soon. Goodbye.’

She moved towards the door.

Nick said, ‘Did you take those pictures in the paper?’

She paused beside him, so close that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, and the slight break in the line of one eyebrow. ‘It depends which paper. But yes, most of them had my pictures.’

‘Congratulations. They were very good.’

Something seemed to amuse her and she smiled suddenly. It transformed her face and Nick couldn’t help noticing that she was rather attractive. Pity she was a journalist.

Wheatfield or no Wheatfield, he suddenly wanted to provoke this self-confident lady who’d caused all the trouble. He repeated his thoughts out loud: ‘Pity you’re a journalist.’

‘Why?’

He wanted to say, because you’re biased as hell and only show one side of things. Instead he said drily, ‘Journalists are the most promiscuous people I know.’

She stared at him, uncertain and defensive.

He said, ‘They’re only faithful to a cause or a story as long as it gives them what they want. Then they abandon it. They’re anybody’s for a night.’

She scoffed, ‘At least we give satisfaction while we’re around. I’d rather do some good for a short while than stand on the sidelines and do fuck all. Anyway – I haven’t abandoned
him
, have I?’ She indicated Wheatfield.

‘You will when you’ve finished with him.’

‘But he’ll have had all the publicity he needs by that time, won’t he?’

Nick conceded the point with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘What about me though?’

‘You?’

‘I get a bash on the head and no publicity at all.’

She hesitated and he was aware that she wanted to end the conversation. She said vaguely, ‘I didn’t get any pictures of you … It’s different.’

‘Always the bridesmaid.’

‘Tough.’

Suddenly everything went a bit strange. Nick leant back against the wall, feeling very ill. The girl looked at him curiously. ‘You okay?’

He didn’t reply. A hot sweat was spreading over his body and his legs had gone weak. He sat down on a chair and put his head in his hands.

He was aware of the door opening and closing then the bossy nurse stormed in and demanded to know what on earth he thought he was doing. As they put him in a wheelchair to take him back to the ward he caught sight of Wheatfield staring at him impassively from the bed.

The girl, however, had gone.

T
HE WIND SWEPT
down from the hills, gusting against the blank, farmhouse windows, sending an army of dry leaves scritch-scratching across the drive. The place looked desolate and neglected, as if nobody had ever cared for it.

Saddened, Victoria led the way round the corner into the yard. At least the camper was there, as Janey had promised. It sat in front of the tractor shed which still contained the shell and entrails of the Massey Ferguson, now brown with rust. She noticed that the fencing round the kitchen garden, which they had repaired during the early days of the commune, was down again, and that the garden itself had already become a wild tangle of weeds and overgrown vegetables. She was surprised at how detached she felt. It was as if her time here belonged to a dream long in the past.

But Giorgio. He belonged to the present. And she didn’t want him to see her depressed. Indicating the house, she said brightly, ‘I’ll have to go in and find the keys to the van.’

She unlocked the back door and he followed her into the kitchen. The auctioneers had taken away some of the better furniture – the scrubbed table and a pine dresser – and the room was bare and cold. ‘It used to be lovely …’ she said wistfully.

The keys of the camper were in their place on the mantelpiece. She picked them up and, having no desire to prolong the visit, turned to go. There was no sign of Giorgio. She found him wandering through the living-rooms, glancing incuriously at the faded curtains and brightly-painted walls that now seemed garish and out of place.

Giorgio stooped to pick up a leaflet from a window-sill. Victoria recognized the estate agent’s brochure. He flicked through it and, pausing at one page, shot her a glance.

‘A lot of money …’ he said.

‘What?’ She looked over his shoulder. He was pointing at the estimated price for the forthcoming auction. ‘It’s the land that makes the price so high,’ she explained. ‘But I’ll be lucky to get it. Quite honestly, I’ll be very happy just to get my money back. The place is a bit run down, you see …’

They strolled back into the hall. Idly, Giorgio opened the door to the cellar and peered down the steps. He turned back and said casually, ‘So you’re rich.’

Was he mocking her? She said a little defensively, ‘No, not really. I don’t have money to
burn
, if that’s what you mean.’ Then, because she wanted him to enjoy her company, she made a little joke of it. ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t complain. If you’re good I’ll buy you an outrageously expensive dinner in Paris.’ She grinned up at him, with a look that she hoped was full of fun and the promise of good times to come.

He accepted the remark with a slight nod. She turned away to hide her pleasure.