A Woman's Place (30 page)

Pramila shivered. She could see more clearly than her husband the dangers of being blamed for what was beyond their control; and that in turn came from extending themselves overseas, into an environment with which, despite their history, they were now unfamiliar. Neither Jayanti nor herself would ever have had the stomach for violence, whether in Kampala or King's Cross: essentially peaceable, their first instinct was to avoid trouble.

‘What can we do about it now?' she asked, but suspected she knew the answer.

‘Nothing. What can we do? We can't give the property back after all this hassle. It is ours now and I have the papers to say so. If necessary I can sell it to help raise capital for the new shops, but it would be a drop in the bucket. And who would I sell it to?'

He stopped. The picture he was painting, though accurate, was bleak and in too stark contrast to his dreams and hopes for the new project. He went to his wife and took her gently in his arms.

‘You must understand, my darling, that there will be more rubbish in the press. Sometimes it will be true but not our fault. Mostly it will not be true. Often it is … ah … legitimate business practice, you know? Hard to explain, but necessary.'

Pramila looked away and sighed. ‘You are a good man, Jayanti. You have worked hard and made us comfortable and respected. I am frightened, for the first time. You are to be a public figure. Your every move will be watched. Who is to make allowances for “legitimate business practices” now? Who will give us the benefit of the doubt? Nobody.'

Her husband picked up the newspaper and ceremonially threw it in the bin. He forced a laugh. ‘Certainly not the
Globe
, that is for sure,' he murmured.

The year was waking up. Window-boxes were stuffed with multicoloured pansies and wallflowers, in high-walled town gardens wisteria and early roses came into flower once more, and the starkness of
trees vanished overhead as their green canopy spread and flourished. Days lengthened and the sun grew stronger: the streets round Westminster filled with coaches and its pavements disappeared under untidy herds of tourists.

A moustachioed figure walked jauntily down the road near Battersea Park checking house numbers. It might have been an estate agent, though the stained raincoat and generally seedy air were no longer so appropriate for that benighted profession now the housing market had at long last recovered.

Jim Betts told himself that, despite a substantial increase in his salary since promotion to deputy news editor at the
Globe
, it made good sense for him to dress down, as he always had. He preferred to be a face in the crowd, observer but never observed. He abjured the Armani suit and the media appearances of an Andrew Neil or Charles Moore; for him obscurity and anonymity were tools of the trade.

His girlfriends took an opposing view. Over the years many had tried to tidy him up – had complained about the faint tide-mark at the back of his neck, or about his not changing his underpants every day. He could not see the point. In Liverpool when he was growing up a daily bath was considered a foppish extravagance, an attitude of which he quietly approved and which had never left him. As long as you smelled clean and could pass, that was sufficient.

Girls, now: in short supply at the moment. Plenty of tarts around, but funds had to be spent on them which he resented. Here he was, a professional man in the prime of life, not overweight – a bit reedy, rather, but some dames liked that – all his own teeth, or nearly, and no need for glasses. Plenty of mileage for the right bitch, surely. The females ought to be queuing up.

Love didn't come into it. James Betts, unloved, unwanted and ignored as a child, had no time for sentimentality. Better to have no ties, and a different girl on his arm each time he entered Stringfellow's. Pressed, he might have indicated a penchant for spending time with a bird he liked, and had taken several women out more than once without demanding sex the first time around. But if the real thing was not quickly forthcoming the friendship would end. Women were for bed, and not much else.

To work. He whistled to himself, a tuneless thin sound, as if to give himself the illusion of friendly company. The Asian articles were having their effect and had been syndicated around the world – or pirated, at least in India, where there had been demonstrations against the British. Betts chortled happily. That his matchless prose had roused a few hundred crazies to fury pleased him no end. The power of the pen, no less. And the TV companies had followed up the theme, though naturally were slower off the mark. He had set the video for tonight, though he'd seen the programme at its press preview. Should keep the pot boiling nicely.

But a top journalist could not let the grass grow under his feet. Even as the last of his Asians articles was being typeset, he was on the trail of material for the next series of hard-hitting reports. This time he would examine several choice government Ministers. It was a couple of years since the most recent batch of scandals. Guards would have been relaxed. It was merely a question of finding the best way in.

For this purpose, PPSs were included. They were on the ladder of government even if not exactly of it. The distinction was blurred, particularly in the public's mind, and so didn't matter. A PPS shared many of the characteristics of a Minister. He would attend departmental briefings and be positively vetted to see secret documents. His twopenn'orth would be invited in discussion; wiser heads would mull over his ideas. Both Ministers and PPSs were appointed by the Prime Minister. Therefore, successful attacks on them were barbs directed at the PM himself. If any were obliged to resign, a hole appeared in the government's armour. Some other poor mug would then be invited to fill the gap, and would arrive at No. 10 to the sound of popping flashbulbs, chest out, panting in eager anticipation. Lambs to the slaughter, the lot of them.

It was a pity many of the current crop of names on the front benches were so dull. There were too few larger than life figures these days. Like Nick Soames, grandson of Churchill, whose mournful battles against his genetic tendency to resemble a large pear were matched only by his jovial good humour. Betts got muddled up between all the Evanses and Joneses in government – making them even sound interesting was an impossible task. Not a single vivid personality or double-barrelled name among them, except in the Foreign Office where blue blood was
de rigueur
.

He might try that lady PPS in the Department of National Heritage – now what was her name? She had spoken out as a Young Conservative in favour of legalising cannabis; maybe she practised what she preached. Or what might Mr Anthony York, PPS at the Department of Health, Welfare and the Family, have got up to in his short life? Betts checked his map; he was nearly there. His destination, York's London home, was the next block.

Not married at the age of nearly thirty-four – that was suspicious for a start. Most of the rumours about this one, however, indicated that he was too darned moral for his own good: never met a female up to his standards, probably, and scared as shit to lower them, along with his trousers. Betts paused, congratulated himself on this intelligent turn of phrase and noted it for future use.

It might be easy to set him up. Find a bright capable lady – on the
Globe
's staff, perhaps, or a student journalist, somebody with a name to make. Had to be a bird with brains and a good head on her – that'd be his type. Better still, if the man could be persuaded to make love in a bedroom wired for sound – even write a few love-letters: however chaste, something could be made of them. Anything for a belly-laugh.

And if by chance Mr York were up to no good he, Betts, would know it in an instant. Guilt would be written all over his face as questions, seemingly innocuous, would be put. Not that the victim would be confronted right away. No, instead he'd be given enough rope to hang himself; his frantic phone calls recorded, his midnight pacing photographed, so that eventually every loving detail would be splashed on the front page for the world to see.

This was it. Betts looked up at the house and noted the neat net curtains, the tidy path. The electoral register indicated that three men lived here, at least on 10 October the previous year, the qualifying date. Two were MPs but for the moment he was only interested in York. Perhaps the third man was a boyfriend? That would be interesting. He stepped forward and rang the bell.

A girl's voice cried out from the back of the house, telling him to wait. A girlfriend? Housekeeper? Cleaner? He wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. The sound of footsteps could be heard along the hallway.

The door opened and Betts found himself staring into a young face he knew too well and had hoped never to see again.

‘You!' Karen spat the words out. ‘What the fuck are you doing here? You've got a nerve. Go away!'

She was taller than he remembered, more formed, adult. Tight jeans and T-shirt.

‘No – don't go. Hello, Karen. I had no idea you lived … your name isn't on the register.'

‘I wasn't here then,' Karen informed him tartly. Instantly she regretted allowing the reporter to start a conversation. She tried to push the door shut but found it blocked. Hand on hip she glared at him belligerently.

‘So what have you come for? If you're looking for my mother she's at the department, as you'd expect. I suggest you contact her press secretary.'

‘No, it's her PPS I'm after.' Strictly speaking York was Harrison's gofer, but the discrepancy was minor. ‘Mr Anthony York. Is he in?'

‘No,' Karen answered shortly. ‘He's at work too. Would you mind removing your foot, Mr Betts? Because if you don't I'm going to cause you a serious injury.'

The expression on her face told him she meant it. Betts turned to go, then hesitated. What was
the girl doing there? To have a promising line of inquiry disappear so suddenly went against his principles.

‘Look, Karen, I don't suppose it'll make any difference now, but I'm sorry –'

The door slammed shut in his face, the knocker rattling in concurrence. Jim Betts pursed his lips in annoyance and trudged back the way he had come.

The overweight lawyer with the shock of white hair heaved himself to his feet and swayed in the direction of his private filing cabinet. His client's voice rose to a squeak.

‘I think you should sit down and listen to me!'

Sir John Merriman took no notice. When he had found what he sought he returned to his desk and lowered himself carefully into the extra-wide chair which had been his, as head of the firm of Merriman, Abrahams and Arnold in Fetter Lane for over twenty years.

His client's face was a rictus of misery and fear, but that was true of many who had entered this dusty, book-lined room. On trial here was the frailty of man, his greed, jealousy, cupidity and ignorance. How foolish most of them were, and how scared – not least at the thought of the bill which would inevitably follow even the speediest consultation. Time and again he would advise them not to sue, to forget the insult; or, on the other hand, to bow to the inevitable and apologise. Those who ignored his advice and ended up in court might have even greater cause to worry about the financial consequences. The rules permitted the recovery by a winner of only a proportion of the full costs, while a loser had to bear most of the other side's (probably inflated) expenses on top of his own. Yet Sir John's livelihood depended, as it always had, on a steady supply of injured egos trailing writs for defamation, and the deep pockets which accompanied them.

‘I can well understand your feelings, my lord,' Sir John intoned portentously. ‘However, I should ask you to consider the question Lord Mishcon puts to clients, and which seems to me to sum up the issue.'

‘I do not wish to play games,' Jayanti responded testily. The room was hot and he was beginning to perspire.

‘That question is, would your friends believe this of you?'

Jayanti fidgeted in agitation. He did not like the drift of the conversation. ‘I don't understand you. Please get to the point.'

Sir John sighed. ‘You are being accused, as I understand it, of underhand dealings in your business. Some of your accounts do not add up. The use of violence to repossess your African property … not that you would encourage or condone such action, but it is linked with your name. A possible misleading overstatement of your personal wealth to obtain a mortgage for your new house. This is the relevant substance of the articles in the
Globe
and tonight's
Panorama
television film on sleaze, of which we have an advance copy. Am I right?'

Bhadeshia looked at the carpet. ‘The mortgage … a little exaggeration … that is normal.' Then he gazed at his legal adviser, his eyes round and tearful. ‘I
have
to put a stop to all this. My wife has become a nervous wreck. My children are being spat at – teased and bullied. Even at a private school! My family … my life will not be worth living –'

‘You have yet to answer my question – and I must ask you to consider it. Would your friends believe these charges against you?'

Jayanti's head rocked from side to side. ‘Yes … no … What's that got to do with anything? You set me riddles at a time like this. Why – what does it matter?'

Sir John's huge shoulders shrugged imperceptibly. ‘Well, if your friends wouldn't believe it, you have no need to sue: your reputation is intact, far more so than I could make it. And if your friends do believe it, or might, then you have a problem which suing won't readily put right.'

The sophistry was beyond Bhadeshia. Sir John waited, then tidied his folder and leaned back.
Under the desk he pressed a hidden button.

‘Our task today is in the nature of damage limitation. We must test the water and establish whether our opponents are firm under pressure or not. I will draft suitable letters demanding a retraction, an apology and, naturally, substantial damages.'