What a Carve Up! (37 page)

Thomas nodded and bit eagerly into his muffin.

‘Unemployment, for instance,’ Henry continued. ‘When was the last time you saw a newspaper headline about unemployment? Nobody gives a hoot any more.’

‘I know: and all this is very reassuring, old boy,’ said Thomas, ‘but what I really want is some concrete guarantee …’

‘Of course you do. Of course.’ Henry frowned and focused his mind upon the matter in hand, which was the case of Farzad Bazoft, a British journalist recently imprisoned in Baghdad on charges of espionage. ‘I understand your point entirely. You and Mark want to protect your investments: I can quite sympathize with that.’

‘Well, it isn’t even just Mark. We’ve got plenty of other clients besides Vanguard who are doing very nicely servicing Saddam and his shopping list. We’re all committed up to our necks, frankly.’

‘You don’t have to remind me.’

‘Yes, but look: this sounds to me like a very delicate situation. This man’s a British subject. Surely this new chap at the Foreign Office – Major, or whatever his name is – is going to come under a bit of pressure to get him released.’

Henry raised his eyebrows in mock innocence. ‘How could he possibly do that?’

‘Well, sanctions, of course.’

‘Really,’ said Henry, laughing out loud, ‘I’m amazed that you think we’d even contemplate such a thing. We’ve got a $700 million surplus with Iraq. Confidentially, there’s going to be another four or five hundred where that came from in a month or two. If you think we’re going to jeopardize all of that …’

He tailed off: the sentence didn’t need finishing.

‘Yes, but what about Mark’s little … line of business?’

This time Henry’s laughter was shorter, more private. ‘Put it this way: how on earth can we impose sanctions on something, when we’re not even selling it in the first place. Mm?’

Thomas smiled. ‘Well, I can see you have a point there.’

‘I know Major hasn’t been in the job for long and we’re all a bit worried that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s playing at. But take it from me – he’s a good boy. He does what he’s told.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘And besides, he might be moving again soon.’

‘What, already?’

‘It looks that way. Margaret and Nigel seem to be heading for a final bust-up. We suspect there’ll be a vacancy at Number Eleven pretty soon.’

Thomas tucked this information away at the back of his mind for future reference. It had considerable implications, which he would need to contemplate and examine at his leisure.

‘Do you think they’ll hang him?’ he asked suddenly.

Henry shrugged. ‘Well, he was a rotten chancellor, it has to be said, but that would be a bit drastic.’

‘No, no, not Lawson. I mean this journo character. Bazoft.’

‘Oh, him. I dare say they will, yes. That’s what happens if you’re silly enough to get caught snooping around Saddam’s arms factories, I suppose.’

‘Making trouble.’

‘Exactly.’ Henry stared into space for a moment. ‘I must say, there are one or two snoopers over here that I wouldn’t mind seeing strung up on Ludgate Hill, if it came to that.’

‘Nosey parkers.’

‘Precisely.’ Briefly a frown crossed his face, comprised half of malevolence and half recollection. ‘I wonder whatever happened to that scruffy little writer that Mad Tabs set on us a few years back?’

‘Him! Good God, that fellow got up my nose. What on
earth
she was thinking of …’ He shook his head. ‘Well, anyway: she’s just a poor witless old fool …’

‘You spoke to that chap, then, did you?’

‘Invited him up to the office. Gave him lunch. The works. All I got in return was a lot of impertinent questions.’

‘Such as?’

‘He had a bee in his bonnet about Westland,’ said Thomas. ‘Wanted to know why Stewards had been so keen to support the American bid when there was a European one on the table.’

‘What, and he supposed you were snuggling up to Margaret in the hope of a knighthood or something, did he?’

‘Even more devious than that, I’m afraid. Although, now you come to mention it, I seem to remember there
was
something promised …’

Henry shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I haven’t forgotten, Thomas, really. I’m seeing her tomorrow. I’ll bring it up again.’

‘Anyway,
he’d
got this absurd theory that Sikorsky had tied up some huge arms deal with the Saudis, and the only reason we all wanted to climb into bed with them was to get ourselves a slice of the cake.’

‘Preposterous.’

‘Outrageous.’

‘And so what did you say to that?’

‘I sent him packing,’ said Thomas, ‘with a few choice words once directed at myself, on one very memorable occasion, by the late, great and much lamented Sid James.’

‘Oh?’

‘I said – and here I quote from memory – “Do us all a favour, laughing boy: piss off out of it and don’t come back.” ’

And then the room echoed as Thomas attempted his own version of the comedian’s smoky, inimitable laugh.

∗

It had happened in the late spring of 1961. Thomas arrived at Twickenham Studios at about lunchtime and made his way to the restaurant, where he spied three vaguely familiar faces at a corner table. One of them was Dennis Price, still best known for his leading role in
Kind Hearts and Coronets
twelve years earlier; another was the wizened, eccentric Esma Cannon, who reminded Thomas irresistibly of his mad Aunt Tabitha, still confined to a high-security asylum somewhere on the edge of the Yorkshire moors; and the third, unmistakably, was Sid James, one of the stars of the film currently in production – a loose comic remake of an old Boris Karloff feature,
The Ghoul,
under the new title
What a Carve Up!

Thomas fetched himself a tray of corned beef hash and jam pudding, and went over to join them.

‘Mind if I sit here?’ he said.

‘It’s a free country, mate,’ said Sid James, indifferently.

Thomas had been introduced to all three actors a few weeks ago, but he could see that they didn’t recognize him, and their conversation, which had been lively, dried up when he sat beside them.

‘We have met, I believe,’ he said, after taking his first mouthful.

Sid grunted. Dennis Price said, ‘Of course,’ and then asked, ‘Are you working at the moment?’

‘Well, erm – yes,’ said Thomas, surprised.

‘What are you in?’

‘Well, I don’t know how you’d describe it really: I suppose I’m in stocks and shares.’

‘Stocks and Shares,
eh?’ said Sid. ‘That’s a new one on me. Something the Boultings are cooking up, is it? Taking the lid off the City: Ian Carmichael as the innocent young bank clerk, Terry-Thomas as his conniving boss. Sounds good. Should be very droll.’

‘Not exactly: I think there might be a small misunder–’

‘Hang about, I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.’ Sid had now been studying his face for a few moments. ‘Didn’t you play the vicar in
Two-Way Stretch
?’

‘No, silly, that was Walter Hudd,’ said Dennis, before Thomas had had the chance to deny it. ‘Surely, though, you were the policeman in
Dentist in the Chair
?’

‘No, no, no,’ said Esma. ‘That was Stuart Saunders. Darling Stuart. But didn’t I see you in
Watch Your Stern
?’

‘Come off it – I was in that one,’ said Sid. ‘You think I wouldn’t remember? No, I’ve got it:
Follow That Horse.
You were one of the spies.’

‘Or was it
Inn for Trouble
?’

‘Or
Life is a Circus?’

‘Or
School for Scoundrels?’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ said Thomas, raising his hand. ‘But you’re all quite wide of the mark. I’m no thespian, I’m afraid. When I said I was in stocks and shares, I meant it literally. I work in the City. I’m a banker.’

‘Oh.’

There was a longish silence, broken at last by Esma, who said cheerfully: ‘How fascinating.’

‘What then brings you,’ said Dennis, ‘to these foreign shores? If you don’t mind my asking.’

‘The bank I represent has invested heavily in these studios,’ said Thomas. ‘They like to send me down occasionally, to see how things are coming along. I thought that, if it wouldn’t be too intrusive, I might watch some of the filming this afternoon.’

Dennis and Sid exchanged glances.

‘Well, I hate to say this,’ Sid ventured, ‘but I think you’ve cooked your goose there, mate. You see, it’s a closed set today.’

‘Closed set?’

‘Just Ken and Shirl and the technicians. They’re filming what you might call a rather intimate scene.’

Thomas smiled to himself: his information had been correct.

‘Well, I’m sure that nobody would mind – just for a few minutes …’

But this time, it looked as though he’d finally found himself out of luck. When he strolled over to the set a few minutes later, he learned that the scene to be shot that afternoon involved Kenneth Connor wandering into Shirley Eaton’s bedroom just as she was getting undressed. Onlookers, the assistant director was at pains to make clear, would not be welcome.

Inwardly seething, Thomas withdrew into the shadows beyond the arc lights and contemplated his next move. He could hear the director and the two performers going over their lines, discussing floor-markings and camera angles; and soon after that, there was a call for quiet, a cry of ‘Action!’, and the cameras had presumably started rolling.

It was intolerable. Thomas had caught a glimpse of the beautiful Shirley Eaton in her dressing-gown as he came from the restaurant, and he could not bear the thought of such loveliness now being unveiled away from his greedy gaze. Hard-hearted, cool-headed businessman that he was, so used to presiding impassively over the building and wrecking of huge financial fortunes, it made him want to cry. The situation was desperate. Something had to be done.

As he prowled around the outskirts of the studio floor in semi-darkness, salvation presented itself in the form of a stepladder propped up against the back of some scenery. Cocking his ear against the plasterboard, Thomas could hear the actors’ voices on the other side as they attempted take two of the bedroom scene. He glanced up and noticed two small pinpoints of light drilled into the wood, just where the ladder was resting. Could it possibly be that they would look out on to the set? (As he later discovered, they were cut out of an oil painting, a gruesome family portrait hanging on the bedroom wall, behind which the watchful eyes of the murderer would sometimes make a chilling appearance.) Silently he climbed the ladder and found that the drillholes were exactly positioned to accommodate a pair of human eyes. They might almost have been designed for that purpose. After taking a few seconds to accustom himself to the glare of the lights, Thomas looked down and found that he now had an uninterrupted view of the forbidden bedroom.

It wasn’t immediately clear what was going on, although the scene appeared to revolve around Kenneth, Shirley and a mirror. Kenneth had his back to Shirley while she took most of her clothes off, but he could still see her reflection in the mirror, which was on a hinge and which he was doing his best to keep tilted, for the sake of her modesty. Shirley stood by the side of the bed, facing the portrait through which Thomas’s widened eyes were now staring out, unnoticed. He seemed to have arrived during a lull in the proceedings. Kenneth was in conversation with the director while two young assistants made small adjustments to the angle of the mirror in response to shouted instructions from the cameraman. Finally the director called out, ‘OK, positions, everyone!’, and Kenneth went over to the door to make his entrance. The set went quiet.

Kenneth opened the door, walked in, and looked startled to see Shirley, wearing only her slip and about to put on a nightgown.

He said: ‘I say, what are you doing in my room?’

Shirley said: ‘This isn’t your room. I mean, that isn’t your luggage, is it?’

She clutched the nightgown modestly to her bosom.

Kenneth said: ‘Oh, blimey. No. Wait a minute, that’s not my bed, either. I must have got lost. I’m sorry. I’ll – I’ll push off.’

He started to leave, but paused after only a few steps. He turned and saw that Shirley was still holding on to her nightgown, unsure of his intentions.

Thomas stirred excitedly on the ladder.

Kenneth said: ‘Miss, you don’t happen to know where my bedroom is, do you?’

Shirley shook her head sadly and said: ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

Kenneth said: ‘Oh,’ and paused. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go now.’

Shirley hesitated, a resolve forming within her: ‘No. Hang on.’ She gestured with her hand, urgently. ‘Turn your back a minute.’

Kenneth turned and found himself staring into the mirror, in which he could see his own reflection, and beyond that, Shirley’s. Her back was to him, and she was wriggling out of her slip, pulling it over her head.

He said: ‘J– just a minute, miss.’

Thomas heard a movement behind him.

Kenneth hastily lowered the mirror.

Shirley turned to him and said: ‘You’re sweet.’ She finished pulling her slip over her head, and started to unfasten her bra.

Thomas felt his ankles suddenly gripped by a strong pair of hands. He gasped and nearly fell off the ladder, and then looked down. He was confronted by the grizzled features of Sid James, who flashed him a menacing smile, and whispered: ‘Come on, laughing boy. I think it’s time you and I went for a walk.’

Pinning Thomas’s arm firmly behind his back, Sid frogmarched him out into a corridor, ignoring the illustrious banker’s garbled protestations.

‘Now I know this looks bad,’ he was saying, ‘but I was really just checking on the soundness of the construction materials. It’s absolutely essential that we know our investment is being –’

‘Look, mate, I’ve read about people like you in the papers. There are words for people like you: not very nice words, most of them.’

‘Perhaps this isn’t the best moment,’ said Thomas, ‘but I really am a huge fan of yours. I don’t suppose you could manage an autograph at all …?’

‘You’ve really slipped up this time, matey. The thing about Shirley, you see, she’s a lovely girl. Very popular round here. Young, too. So you’re in big trouble if you ever get caught doing this sort of thing again.’