Making Enemies (26 page)

Whoever the Patriots of the 24th Tank Regiment might be, it appeared their secret was secure.

The telephone jarred me from the depths of sleep. My watch said it was ten to seven.

‘I need you in the office as soon as you can make it – half an hour at the latest,’ Charlie said, sounding hoarse with exhaustion. ‘Something’s come up.’

Charlie and Simon were both waiting for me when I arrived in Eccleston Street, a copy of a political weekly open in front of them.

‘Read this first,’ Charlie said. ‘Then we’ll talk.’ He handed me the paper. Someone, I presumed it was Simon, had underscored some of the comments in the article on Watson-Jones by a Tory backbench MP I’d never heard of called Nathaniel Naismith.

Watson-Jones was a dangerous warmonger, I read. There was a consistently bellicose line throughout his speeches and in the columns of
Front Line
, the political newsletter he published. The Soviet Union was portrayed as more villainous than Nazi Germany, a threat to the free world that could be resisted only by rearmament on an unprecedented scale. Was this a truly held belief or were murkier motives at work? We were reminded that money was not something Watson-Jones had much of before his marriage to the American heiress, Meredith Devereaux. The Devereaux fortune came from the profits of an American aeronautics company which held a number of lucrative government defence contracts. Hardly surprising that Watson-Jones was such a staunch supporter of major rearmament in the West. He had more than just the national interest to promote.

It was a devastating attack, the writing full of anger and loathing. There was little doubt Naismith meant business, though what kind of business wasn’t clear.

‘Who’s Naismith?’ I asked.

‘A maverick Yorkshireman,’ Simon said. ‘Likes to be known as
a bit of a rebel. He hangs on to the Party whip by the skin of his teeth. I wouldn’t count him as a friend.’

‘This is heavyweight stuff,’ I said. ‘There has to be more to it than personal dislike.’

‘What did I say, Charlie?’ Watson-Jones nodded furiously at me, endorsing my view. ‘There’s a conspiracy. Someone’s got it in for me and I want to know who.’

Charlie looked exhausted. I guessed he’d been woken up a lot earlier than I had. I felt guilty. I hadn’t meant to feed Watson-Jones’s paranoia.

‘We’ve no grounds for thinking that,’ Charlie said with great control. ‘None whatsoever.’

‘The evidence is here, Charlie. In black and white. Every damn word of it.’ Watson-Jones waved the magazine in front of him. ‘This man wants my head, not for himself – he hasn’t got the gumption – but because someone has put him up to it.’ He turned away to look out of the window. ‘Where the hell is Gelfmann?’

‘He’s on his way,’ Charlie said. ‘He said he’d get here as soon as he could.’

‘Why can’t he be here when I want him? I’m paying him enough.’

In our previous meetings, Watson-Jones had always impressed me with his self-control. There was a coolness about him that encouraged the belief he’d be effective in a crisis. That was gone now. He betrayed his tension through a succession of nervous gestures while his words fell over each other in the fight to make some sense of what had happened. There wasn’t even a pretence of coolness now. We were seeing the man as he was, not the man he had invented. It didn’t fill me with confidence.

‘Is Naismith important?’ I asked. ‘Does his opinion matter?’

‘Good God, no. The man’s a nonentity,’ Watson-Jones said quickly. ‘Nobody gives a damn what he thinks.’

‘The editor of this rag takes a different view,’ Charlie said.

‘Whose side are you on, Charlie? His or mine?’

‘For God’s sake, Simon.’

‘I’m under great strain,’ he said, taking a deep breath and attempting some semblance of self-control. ‘I’ve got to believe Naismith didn’t write this piece off his own bat. It’s not his style. That means it’s a put-up job. We have to find out who’s behind him and what they’ve after. Then we have to put a stop to it before any more damage is done.’

‘Have you any idea who that might be?’ I got the message that Charlie didn’t believe in conspiracy theories. His hint was lost on Watson-Jones.

‘I’m baffled,’ Watson-Jones said. ‘I don’t expect to be liked by everyone, but there’s no evidence I can think of to suggest this was in the wind.’ He looked down at the magazine. ‘There’s something else, too. If a political editor wants a controversial piece, he gets someone with a reputation to write it. Weight is essential to credibility. Naismith’s a cantankerous old bugger who bores everyone rigid with his unending tales of how things are managed better in Yorkshire. He’s not got the standing for this sort of thing.’

‘In that case,’ Charlie said, ‘no one’s going to take this piece seriously. If we ignore it, it will fade away in its own good time.’

That touched Watson-Jones on a raw nerve. ‘Read what he’s said about me and you’ll see why I can’t let the bastard get away with it.’

‘We’ve both read it, Simon,’ Charlie said coldly. ‘More than once.’

‘It’s lies, Charlie.’ Watson-Jones was shouting again now. ‘I don’t like people spreading lies about me. Is that understood?’

‘All right,’ I said, trying to steer a course between them. ‘It’s malicious. Let’s look at how we handle it.’

‘Gelfmann should be here by now,’ Watson-Jones said, with signs of growing irritation. ‘I shall sue if he lets me.’

Charlie gave me a despairing look.

‘Why not let others come to your defence?’ I said. ‘MPs who mean something to the public. The big boys. Get them to speak for you. I am sure we can rally the troops to put the boot into Naismith. It might be more effective that way.’

‘Danny’s right, Simon. Leave this thing with us and we’ll sort it out for you. No harm done.’

‘No.’ Watson-Jones was adamant. ‘I want blood.’

‘I think that’s very unwise.’

‘You’d think differently if you were the victim of smears like these.’

‘You’re falling into his trap,’ Charlie said. ‘If you show him it hurts, he’ll know he’s hit the target. Show some dignity and take no notice.’

‘I am not going to be pushed around by some little bastard from Barnsley, Charlie.’

We heard the doorbell ring. ‘That’ll be Gelfmann,’ Charlie said. ‘Let him in, will you, Danny?’

I’d met Gelfmann before. He’d struck me as a competent solicitor, though too much in awe of Watson-Jones. He looked hot and breathless.

‘Couldn’t get a taxi for love nor money,’ he said. ‘Had to run most of the way. I came as fast as I could. Hardly had time for a shave. I gather there’s a flap on.’

‘How much do you know?’

‘Only what Charlie told me on the telephone and that wasn’t much.’

‘A Tory MP has gone into print attacking Simon,’ I said. ‘Not surprisingly he’s taking it badly.’

‘Bound to,’ Gelfmann said, mopping his head and face with a large handkerchief. ‘Bound to.’

‘We’ve got to put it right for him.’

‘I take it that’s an instruction?’ Gelfmann asked. We were standing outside Charlie’s room.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He’s very upset. The first task is to calm him down and do nothing precipitate. This is cooling-off time. So, no decisions, just options.’

‘I’m your man,’ Gelfmann said conspiratorially. ‘Count on me.’

I led the way in. Gelfmann didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. I didn’t know why Watson-Jones used him.

‘Christ, Bernard,’ Watson-Jones said. ‘You took your time.’

‘No cabs, Simon. Sorry.’

‘You should have run.’

‘I did. It nearly killed me.’

‘Well, don’t die on me yet. You’ve got work to do. Read this and then tell me what I can do.’

Charlie beckoned me. I leaned across the desk as he whispered: ‘We’ve got to work out how we keep this problem under control. I’ll speak to you when Simon’s gone. Nothing of importance is going to be decided now. I’ll see to that.’

I left them to it. I trusted Charlie, and I hoped in the end Simon would too. He always said Charlie was a wise old bird. Now he had to show whether he meant it or not.

*

We had a few phone calls during the morning, all from well-wishers expressing astonishment at Naismith’s outburst. No one was any the wiser about the motive, and Naismith himself had gone to ground. I thought the papers would be on to us but for a few hours at least they ignored us, and I was thankful they did. Gelfmann stayed until mid-morning. Simon spent another half-hour with Charlie after that, then I saw him leave just before twelve. Charlie lent him Thomas and the Rolls to take him to the House. When Charlie’s buzzer went soon after I raced upstairs with my papers. Beryl stopped me before I went in.

‘He’s not well, dear. I want him to go home but he won’t listen to me. He’s not up to all this, not in his state. Will you say something? He may listen to you.’

I said I doubted I’d succeed where she’d failed and went in. Charlie looked frail, his face a leaden grey and his body sunk into his wheelchair in exhaustion. For the first time I saw that his spirits were low too. I wondered if Watson-Jones had thought what all this might do for Charlie’s health.

‘How did it go?’ I asked.

‘What with Simon’s paranoia and Gelfmann’s willingness to roll over and agree with every crackpot idea he comes up with, not well. I despair of Gelfmann. Simon naturally won’t hear a word against him. We managed to avoid taking any decisions, so I suppose we can count that a plus. Jesus, I’m tired.’

‘Why don’t you take a break? I can come back later.’

‘For God’s sake, that’s Beryl talking. Don’t listen to her, the woman’s fussing over nothing. I’d far rather talk it over with you than brood on my own but she doesn’t seem to understand that.’ He smiled at me. ‘What I need is a large gin.’

‘What’s the damage?’ I asked, pouring a drink for both of us.

‘Naismith’s been very clever. He knows what he’s talking about and he’s hit where it hurts. He pours doubt over Simon’s probity, painting him as a man not to be trusted. That suggests he’s not trying to destroy him, so much as discredit him. His aim is to wound, not kill.’

‘Do you agree with Simon that someone’s behind it?’

‘I can’t see Naismith doing this on his own because I can’t see what he’s got to gain. But I can’t see any grounds for a conspiracy either. Simon may speak his mind on some issues but he doesn’t upset the top brass in the Party. I’ve seen to that, and I know the
Party managers rate him. He’s able, ambitious – they like that. Goes a bit too far sometimes but his heart’s in the right place, so small excesses are easily forgiven. A man to watch. That’s the verdict.’

‘Until today.’

Charlie pulled himself together then. It was a huge physical effort, and gave me an insight into how ill he really was.

‘Until today, yes. Something seems to have gone badly wrong and I’ve missed it. That’s what’s worrying me. This is about silencing Simon. The problem is, I don’t know what needs to be silenced. I fear I’m losing my touch.’

*

It was a warm afternoon as I cycled over Chelsea Bridge, down Prince of Wales Drive and into the heart of Battersea. I couldn’t get rid of the thought that this incident had come about because Simon was being unfaithful to Charlie: that some opportunity had come up, he had seized it and got in over his head before he had time to talk it over with Charlie. That was the charitable explanation. Now his actions had blown up in his face, he had to keep any knowledge of it away from Eccleston Street. That explained his angry posturing, outrage and hurt vanity. He’d cleverly offered no opinions as to why all this had happened. If I was right, we were going to get no real help from Simon, but a series of blustering performances to keep us off the scent.

‘What do we do now?’ I’d asked Charlie as we reviewed the situation. I didn’t mention my theory to him because I knew his loyalty to Simon wouldn’t let him agree.

‘The only person who’s likely to tell us anything is Naismith,’ he’d said, giving me the address of a flat in Battersea. ‘See if you can make him talk. If he’s not in, wait. I don’t want to hear from you until you’ve cornered him.’

Naismith wasn’t in when I arrived at his flat, or at least no one answered the doorbell. There was a café opposite and I went in and read the paper. I’d had a good round of spam, sausages in gravy and fried bread by the time a woman showed up about three, but there was no sign of Naismith until well after five by which time I had drunk more cups of tea than was good for me. I went across the road and rang the bell. The woman answered and I asked for Naismith.

‘Who are you, dear, the press? I can’t make him come to the door if you won’t tell me who you are.’

‘I’m a friend of Charlie Faulkner’s.’

She went in, leaving me on the doorstep. The door was opened a couple of minutes later by a small round man in his early sixties, balding and with a florid face. He had taken off his jacket, his stiff collar and tie. He stood before me, bright red braces holding up dull brown tweed trousers, the top of his shirt open where the stud had been. He had undone his cuff links and rolled up his shirt-sleeves to the elbow.

‘Old Charlie Faulkner sent you, did ’e?’ He spoke with a strong Yorkshire accent.

‘That’s right. I work for him.’

‘You’d better come in then, lad. We go back a long way, Charlie and I do. Cup o’ tea?’

‘No thanks.’

‘This lassie makes a grand cup o’ tea. I’ll have a cuppa, Vi. Sit yourself down. Now then, what’s all this about?’

‘I read your piece about Watson-Jones. You were pretty hard on him.’

‘Toffee-nosed bastard. ’Bout time someone put ’im in ’is place. I’ve been a member of the ’Ouse of Commons for more than twenty-five years and ’e won’t so much as give me the time of day. I’ve no liking for the man. I can’t say plainer than that.’

‘Why put your dislike in print?’

‘Free country. I can say what I like about who I please within the law. That’s what we were fighting for, wasn’t it, lad? Freedom of speech. You said you worked for Charlie Faulkner. Seems to me you’re carrying the flag for Watson-Jones.’

‘I’m here on Watson-Jones’s behalf.’

‘Then I’ve nothing more to say to you, son. Good day.’ He got to his feet.

‘I think we’ve got things to talk about,’ I said weakly.