Noose (20 page)

‘Journalism – so chancy.'

‘For a while it was, yes.'

‘I see your byline in the papers – a lot of different papers.'

‘Best like that. I didn't plan it this way. It just happened.'

‘Spread your talents?'

He'd done the statutory learning year on a provincial daily then came to London. It had been hard, and occasionally he regretted turning down the Underhill-Fisher-Emily invitation.

Bain said: ‘Could we meet? I've got something to discuss. Not on the phone, though. There's a Mooney's pub in Fetter Lane. Serves the true Guinness, plus Gorgonzola with crusty bread.'

‘Yes, I know it.'

‘I have a driver. I can get dropped and picked up there. It's quiet in the evenings. Near the
Mirror
building, opposite side of the road, but the staff all go to Barney's –
The White Horse
.'

‘Yes, they do. You keep informed.'

‘What my job is about.'

‘Mine, too,' Ian said. ‘I do some work for the
Mirror
now and then. When they want a particular kind of reporting.'

‘Which?'

‘Celebrity-based, emotional, sympathetic, dramatic.'

‘So how did you crack all these papers?' Bain said.

‘I had some luck.' It had been a little slow arriving, though. At first he'd had to grab casual, holiday-relief, sickness-relief, maternity-relief reporting shifts on most of the Fleet Street papers, broadsheet and tabloid, ‘quality' and popular. None had asked him to join their permanent pay roll. The work was sporadic and now and then absent altogether. Of course, this worried Ian. There had certainly been times when he almost rang the accountancy number to activate the Underhill-Fisher unconditional offer. Gradually, though, the rather frantic, unpredictable work opportunities became a plus. The sheer range and enormous variety of assignments across the whole national Press output built him a terrific spectrum of contacts.

‘Yes, luck, Ray,' he said. ‘Things started to improve fast during that wonderful, doomed romance of Princess Margaret and Group Captain Peter Townsend. News and magazine organizations all over the world were avid for stuff about a possible heiress to the British throne and the fighter plane ace – the divorced, and therefore markedly unsuitable suitor, fighter plane ace. And I got some of it for them.'

That Adjutant, Training, who'd given Ian benign, superfluous advice about prophylactics, had mentioned that he'd served with Townsend and used to speak about him and his flying career occasionally in the Mess, a long time before the romance. The ex-adj had been posted elsewhere now and was himself promoted Group Captain but Ian traced him and got more insights into the Townsend, Distinguished Service Order, Distinguished Flying Cross (twice), he'd once known. Ian plumped out reports on the royal tale with these extra, exclusive bits. ‘The thing was, Ray, I managed to become a specialist on the sex life of Maggie and Pete. Some news editors abroad who discovered I'd been in the Air Force obviously thought I'd known Townsend myself – and possibly Margaret as well. I tried not to mention that my feet had stayed very safely on the ground and that I'd been trained like a soldier, not a daredevil pilot. My reputation as someone who had access to more or less everybody soared. Editors like correspondents with access, especially access to royals.' By spring 1956 he had established a sound, freelance service to a growing market and couldn't have afforded to join any paper's salaried staff.

‘Lucy OK?' Bain said. ‘Getting near her time.'

‘You keep informed.' She did have a regular post as an Economics Correspondent on one of the heavies, and had helped support him for the first few London months. She'd take time off to have the baby, and wasn't sure she'd go back to her paper afterwards. She thought of working with Ian. He approved. She'd bring gravitas.

‘This phone number of yours – a flat in Russell Square still?' Bain said. ‘Home and office. I don't blame
you
for the colour of your front door. It must be the landlord's taste. But bloody mauve!'

‘You keep informed. Ray, this meeting – you and me – is it … is it, well … is it to do with your sort of game? Shades of Lorna-Jane and Charles Fisher?'

‘They're still with us. Mooney's nine p.m.,' Bain replied.

Although he wasn't sure he liked altogether the idea of a meeting with Bain, he knew he'd go. Oh, of course, he'd be glad to see him as a former mate cadet and rival, and especially if he seemed content; or as content as his state allowed. But Ian wondered what Bain was after, and perhaps what someone above Bain was after. Ian didn't fancy getting pulled into the kind of official shadows Ray Bain must permanently inhabit these days. Secrets dominated: they were due to discuss something that couldn't be mentioned on the telephone; and they'd talk about it in a secluded, very off-Broadway pub. Ian still resented the power of gratitude. And he knew gratitude was what made it certain he'd turn up. After all, he had his own legs to walk on. Matters might have been reversed – and fates.

Just the same, he didn't care for the way Bain obviously relished showing how much he had on record about Ian and Lucy's life and location. Some serious work had been done. Why? To intimidate? And, by intimidating, to persuade? Underhill and Fisher had pulled the same kind of ploy. There'd be ruthlessness as a routine in their game. He described the conversation to Lucy. She found it funny and childish, as he'd known she would. She despised anything to do with furtiveness and surveillance. Just the same, though, she agreed he had to go to the meeting. She'd realized why he felt obligated. ‘It's absurd but inescapable, love,' she said. ‘They're having another go for you. She must be really … really obsessed.' He sensed a moment's sexual jealousy in her. A long time ago, he'd told her the Emily story from the paddle-steamer rescue on, through the OCTU to her RAF Norton emissaries. Lucy obviously sensed that the Bain call might continue the campaign.

‘Did he mention, hint at, recruitment?' Lucy said.

‘Sailed near it. Claimed the people who came to Norton were positive about yours truly. Their orders told them to be positive – that was my impression.'

‘Tread carefully, love. These are tricky people.'

Ray was on tin legs now and using a cane. Seated, he looked pretty much as he had when Ian first met him at the training unit, though it would probably be wrong these days to describe his face as mischievous: more like strong, responsible, purposeful. Devious? Possibly. His red hair was as thick and shiny as ever, worn longer than at the OCTU and with no retreat from his forehead. He'd be around twenty-seven or eight.

He was already in the pub when Ian arrived. Two pints of Guinness plus the food stood on a table in front of Bain, his stick propped against it. With a bit of an effort he stood to shake hands. Ian saw this was important to him: the ability to get up on cue. ‘Welcome, welcome famous Blitish journablist,' he chirped. Ian grinned. But was it funny, or did it recall an episode that helped send Ray into battle and then crippledom? Had he ever discovered what happened in the occult tallying of points, and the Sword award, with its safe and guaranteed, non-K, OCTU posting? He and his new colleagues seemed able to find out quite a lot, didn't they? He had a black briefcase which he lifted in his left hand when he stood. It was on a chain locked to his wrist and would have dangled very obviously otherwise.

There were two elderly men drinking and talking at a table on the far side of the room; no other customers. A barman appeared, disappeared, appeared again. The Guinness exuded dark charm, compromised a bit by the drink's sharp tang, but only a bit. The cheese exuded, too – a rich, penetrating, slightly foul pong, the way Gorgonzola should, young or old, and he thought this might be oldish.

‘We're looking for some help, Ian,' he said.

‘Help from me?'

‘It's to do with this Suez invasion muck-up.'

‘Which “we” do we mean?'

‘There was quite an argument back in the office about whether to try you,' Ray replied.

‘Which office – that accountancy outfit?'

‘Coldstream, Fay and Partners? They went into liquidation.'

‘An accountancy firm in liquidation? Does this happen often? If they can't make a go of things, who can?'

‘But, of course, others took over their practice and offices.'

‘That's a relief.'

‘Some people there, headed by Lorna-Jane, said that since you had conspicuously ignored the original approach, it would be “unwise, even perverse ” – those were the words – to seek contact with you again, especially when the country's in a war situation with Egypt over the canal. Lorna-Jane has gone up a peg or two since their visit to Norton, despite the failure to land you. She's management now, only a notch below me. Gets a car and a PA. Her opinions rate for something.'

‘But not as much as yours, and those of—'

‘Of the famous E. No. As I see it, Ian, Lorna-Jane's only real knowledge of you is through that Norton encounter and the dossier material they dredged, which is admittedly considerable,' Bain replied, ‘but one or two of us there can bring something markedly deeper.'

‘Two.'

‘And Charlie Fisher, who accompanied Lorna-Jane at Norton, gave you true support. He lacks her new departmental clout, but his views are not negligible. Not negligible at all.'

‘I took him to be the thug side of things.'

‘He's been in therapy and the improvement is startling. The job paid for his treatment, naturally. Quite a few staff need something of that kind. Nobody would have mentioned consistency as one of Fisher's qualities before but now, yes, he's more often consistent than not. But even so we're talking about his own style of consistency, I admit. You've got to settle for what you can get, haven't you, and therapy is expensive. Charlie took up Lorna-Jane's words – the “unwise” and “even perverse” – and did quite an analysis of them, regardless of her rank, a really aggressive taking apart.'

‘He'd be good at that. But I thought they worked harmoniously together.'

‘Before the promotion, yes. Charlie's intervention – very much to your advantage. He said he thought that “unwise” in this context suggested you could not be regarded as discreet, secure, able and willing to maintain confidentiality. He wouldn't have this. He considered that by declining the offer made at Norton and, instead, going for the journalistic career you'd always wanted, you showed strength and focus. Whether your choice was “conspicuous” or non-conspicuous didn't matter a toss, in his opinion.

‘He argued that if we came to you for assistance and asked for this request to remain covert, at least temporarily, you would have the discipline and resolve to accept such a condition. I, naturally, endorsed that, Ian. As to “even perverse”, Fisher said he believed this actually meant Lorna-Jane felt insulted by your refusal of the offer and that it would be degrading, humiliating, to come crawling to you for aid, even if you could provide it. This he considered a negative, vengeful, illogical, arrogant response. In not quite such blunt terms, we endorsed that, of course.'

‘Which we?'

‘As in any organization there are disputes. Occasionally, it can appear as though our people are more intent on fighting one another, rather than the outside enemy. This impairs efficiency. I sometimes think I'd like to write a book about it. Call it, say,
The Looking Glass War.
I won't, of course, but I offer the idea.'

Was all the verbiage a sales pitch? Ray Bain wanted him to know there'd been a squabble over whether he should be asked for help. And so the strung-out baloney about what Lorna-Jane had done, and what Fisher had replied, despite his inferior rank. And so, also, the quibble about Ian's ‘conspicuous' ignoring of their invitation, or non-conspicuousness. Those in favour of an approach to Ian, including Bain, had won the dispute. Therefore, the reasoning went, Ian would see how much he was prized by some. He should feel gratitude – and agree to what they asked – since some had fought so gallantly for his suitability and right to be asked. More gratitude. Another noose.

He found it hard to guess how he could help, anyway, if it was to do with ‘this Suez invasion muck-up'. He didn't know much more than anyone else about this Suez invasion muck-up, except that it
was
a muck-up. The basics were simple, and the basics were all he had: Egypt's President Nasser recently decided to nationalize the Suez Canal; Britain had sent an army and war planes to stop it happening. Some people here and abroad were outraged by Prime Minister Eden's decision to attack. There had been near-riots around Whitehall and Westminster. Ian had gone to report on one of them and was just able to skip out of the way of a police horse charge. His familiarity with the issue extended no further than that.

Or only a bit further: one night he'd been hanging about the newsroom of the
Mirror
when the editorial director, Hugh Cudlipp, cigar alight, breezed in, bright with an idea. Ian had been glancing at some pictures of youngsters in a club obviously enjoying a new kind of high-spirited music and dancing brought over by Bill Haley from the United States. The
Mirror
would use one of the photographs and a couple of deskmen were trying to pick the best. Jack Porter said: ‘So what is this rock 'n' roll, Henry?'

‘I don't know, Jack, but I bet they fuck afterwards,' Henry said.

Cudlipp wasn't concerned. He suggested to Ian a trawl through right-wing newspapers for anti-Eden comment. It was important they should be Rightist, Conservative sheets. Cudlipp wanted to show that even Eden's pals thought him wrong. Ian had done the scan and a couple of days later the
Mirror
came out with a string of the quotes and a front-page, upper-case, big-type headline EDEN MUST GO. Maybe it had been a foolish mistake of Eden to have the kind of short surname that fitted easily on to page one in those massive, unmissable letters.