Red Crystal (11 page)

‘For the Republicans?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Henry laughed. It was impossible to imagine his parents being for anyone but the people.

‘So were you a communist at that time?’

‘Now let’s get this quite clear,’ Henry said firmly. ‘I was a fervent
socialist
at that time – as indeed I am now. The International Brigade included all sorts of people with all sorts of beliefs – including communists. But just because we fought together didn’t mean we shared identical beliefs. So, let’s not be confused about
that
.’

The journalist didn’t like being talked down to, but he’d got the message, which was just what Henry intended.

The young man asked, ‘So was it your family’s idea for you to go?’

‘Oh no, the idea was mine. I went entirely on my own initiative. Because I felt that one must follow things through and put one’s beliefs into action.’

‘Do you still believe that?’

Henry drew a deep breath. Journalists always tried to push you into a trite, quotable remark. He wasn’t going to fall into that trap, he’d been in the game far too long. But at the same time he must produce a good reply and today it was rather an effort. It had been a long hard week.

‘I believe you must do all you can to bring about the system that you believe is just—’

‘Not by
any
means surely—’

‘
No
. By political means.’

‘But how do you define political means?’

He was fishing, Henry decided. Looking for a statement that he could apply to a specific issue. Henry wondered which one. He replied, ‘Political means are the means of political expression which are permitted by the law of the land.’

The journalist came in quickly, ‘Does that include demonstrations?’

Henry thought: Ah, so that’s it. The Paris uprising. He hedged, ‘Peaceful demonstrations are perfectly legal, therefore they are valid political means.’

‘But demonstrators using violence are to be punished excessively?’

‘I really cannot speak for what’s been happening in France.’

‘France? Oh no, I meant closer to home.’

Henry suddenly realized where all this had been leading. ‘You are referring to the Linden House convictions, I take it?’

The journalist exclaimed, ‘Of course. A three-year sentence for a first offence is excessive by anyone’s standards. And you must admit that the convictions have been highly unpopular.’

He was right about that: the outcry had been considerable. There had been questions in the House, leading articles in most of the newspapers and hot debates in the correspondence columns of
The Times
. He remembered the final paragraph of one leader: ‘These sentences are, presumably, designed to deter future demonstrators from the use of excessive violence. However, where the punishment is seen to exceed the crime, the effects may be quite the reverse, and serve to inflame the very young people whom it is intended to deter.’

Privately Henry thought the sentences were excessive too, but it was out of the question for him to say so.

‘As you are aware,’ he said firmly, ‘I can only comment on the prosecution of the case, not on the sentences. But as the judge commented, it is immaterial whether violence stems from gang warfare or from political motives.’

‘Do you agree with that?’

The aggressive young man was getting on Henry’s nerves, but he said calmly, ‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Although you yourself fought for your beliefs in an illegal manner?’

Full circle. And not a very subtle circle at that.

‘If you want to be pedantic about this, wars usually
are
legal.’ Suddenly he was impatient with this intense rather unlikeable young man. ‘But
really
– is this worth debating?’ He rose to his feet. Realizing the interview was over, the journalist closed his notebook with a snap.

Caroline met them coming across the lawn and, grasping the atmosphere immediately, took charge of the journalist to show him out. Henry returned to the chair under the tree, annoyed with himself for agreeing to give an interview on a Saturday afternoon. He liked to keep his home as separate from his work as possible, and now the loveliness of the garden seemed a little spoilt by the aggressive young man.

Spain. The memories, sharp yet vague, echoed in his mind. He’d been desperate for action, he remembered. Burning with righteousness. And bitterly disappointed when he’d been wounded after a scant two weeks in the Brigade. It had all been very intense. He’d never felt quite so passionately about anything since.

He supposed the young people who’d terrified the diners at the Linden House Hotel felt passionate too. But their actions had been provocative and wantonly dangerous. And that was the difference.

Caroline re-emerged from the house and he got up to meet her. She said, ‘The young man left looking less than happy with his interview.’

‘Well, I was less than happy with it too. I’m used to getting stick in court and the House, but I object to smart-alec questions from a young man who’s merely trying to prove a point.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Actually, his principal mistake was to catch me on a Saturday when all I wanted to do was sit in the sun with you.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘Why don’t we sit out here and have tea? Just us.’

‘Ah …’ Caroline looked a little sheepish. ‘We’ve got a visitor.’

Henry groaned. He hated it when people dropped in. ‘My God –
who
?’ he asked peevishly.

‘Victoria. She swears she’s only staying a minute.’

It could have been worse, Henry decided. It could have been Victoria’s mother.

They found Victoria in the kitchen. Henry blinked at her. The Indian outfit of a few months ago had been replaced by a floral yokel costume of quite astonishing design. There were enormous baggy trousers in vivid yellow, a loose top in white embroidered with large flowers whose colours took your breath away, and a battered old straw hat on top of the mass of fair hair. Just in case you failed to notice all that, she also had flowers painted on her cheeks.

‘Cor,’ said Henry. ‘Don’t you look rural.’

Victoria grinned and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m only popping in because I
know
how busy you are – but I just had to bring you
this
.’ She delved deep into her shoulder bag and brought out a jar which she waved triumphantly in the air. ‘Honey!’

‘Good Lord! Where did this come from?’ Henry asked, already knowing the answer.

‘From the farm! Isn’t it wonderful?’ She threw her head back and laughed and Henry was struck by the intensity of her happiness. He found himself smiling too.

‘Don’t tell me you got hold of some bees and persuaded them to produce in four weeks flat.’

‘No,
silly
.’ She creased up her nose, taking the teasing in good heart. ‘We found them in an old hive at the far end of the upper meadow and the honey was already
there
… But we got it out! Isn’t that amazing!’

Knowing the experience that Victoria and her friends had of farming and bee-keeping, Henry thought it probably was.

‘And we’ve got two cows producing milk,’ continued Victoria. ‘And a goat. Oh
and
we’ve bought a pig. We’ve named her Bella. She’s absolutely gorgeous!’

Henry guessed that the animals on the farm were going to live long and happy lives without fear of the slaughterhouse. ‘How’s all the work going?’ he asked cautiously. ‘The renovations and so on?’

‘Oh, we’re all working like mad,’ breathed Victoria. ‘From dawn till dusk. We’ve done two roofs and cleared out the yard and got the kitchen scrubbed and
planted
things and …’ She shook her head. ‘Honestly, it’s terrific.’

Henry couldn’t resist asking, ‘And how’s the communal decision-making going? Do you have solemn pow-wows at the end of each day?’

Caroline shot him a warning glance but he avoided her eye.

Victoria giggled. ‘No-o-o. We just discuss things round the kitchen table. There are only six of us, after all.’

‘I thought it was going to be ten.’

‘Well, the others weren’t really committed, so …’ Suddenly she was kissing Caroline. ‘Must fly. I only came up to see my stockbroker.’

To sell more shares, no doubt. Henry wondered how much the whole exercise was costing and if anyone else in the commune was chipping in. But he was afraid he knew the answer to that.

‘By the way,’ Victoria said on the doorstep, ‘perhaps you’d better know … Mother’s not best pleased, so I’m keeping clear of her for the moment.’

A wise move at the best of times, Henry wanted to say.

When the Mini had disappeared up the road, Caroline turned and said, ‘Oh dear, I do hope it’s going to work out. She’s so desperately keen to be happy.’

‘If only that were enough.’

He closed the door and, leading Caroline through the house into the dappled sunlight of the garden, gratefully pushed all unwelcome thoughts from his mind.

The briefing meeting was already under way when Ryder arrived. An officer of the Security Service was speaking. The Security Service – known in the Met as Box 500 after its internal mailing address, and never by its more famous name of MI5 – regularly briefed Special Branch. The officer today was Reece-Jones from the ‘F’ Branch of Box 500, which covered extreme political parties on both right and left. Nick knew him well: Reece-Jones specialized in the Left. That didn’t mean to say that the two men got on. On the contrary, Nick sometimes wondered if Reece-Jones didn’t come from another planet. Or perhaps all Box 500 men were secretive and obscure.

‘According to the latest reports,’ Reece-Jones was saying, ‘bar a few minor strikes, the workers have all returned to work. De Gaulle’s government is firmly back in the driver’s seat and the revolt has well and truly collapsed.’

The eight Special Branch men fidgeted in their seats. It was very hot and there was a fault in the air conditioning. Detective Chief Superintendent Straughan, Ryder’s boss, sat sprawled in his chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up over his heavy forearms, beads of sweat running down his cheeks into the plump folds of his neck. The DCS roused himself and asked, ‘So what’s happened to all the French troublemakers? Any coming our way?’

‘Not as far as we know,’ replied Reece-Jones. ‘But obviously we are interested in any political group who might try to start trouble of the same kind here. Specifically, it has now been decided that we would like you to keep a closer watch on certain Leftist groups. You’re already familiar with these organizations, but now we’ve got to take an even closer look at them.’ He handed out a duplicated list. ‘We want to know about their leadership, about their links with known communists and subversives. It is quite a task, we realize.’

Nick read the list. All the organizations were well established, and some quite large. There were eight of them, ranging from the International Marsists to the Vietnam United Front and the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. Nick raised his eyebrows. ‘Why are the peace campaigners included?’

Reece-Jones replied in a tone that suggested the answer was obvious. ‘They are communist-based, and they’ve got strong links with the World Peace Council.’ It was well known that the World Peace Council was Soviet-backed and had been manoeuvring behind the scenes for years. None the less, Nick felt that Box 500 were on the wrong track.

He said, ‘Surely these people aren’t about to start a revolt in the Paris style?’

‘No, maybe not,’ said Reece-Jones defensively. ‘But their aims are still subversive, and it has been decided to keep a much firmer eye on potential troublemakers.’

Straughan gave Nick a look that suggested it might be best for him to shut up. But Nick continued, ‘Well, if we’re looking for real troublemakers shouldn’t we be looking at the latest splinter groups?’

Reece-Jones took a deep breath. Nick sensed that the intelligence officer wished he was back among his colleagues in Box 500 where the atmosphere was more co-operative. Reece-Jones said patiently, ‘Well, I think we have to concentrate on the main groups, the ones on this list, because they’re the ones
known
to be communist-controlled. They’re also the most
organized
.’

Nick frowned. Reece-Jones – and the rest of Box 500 for that matter – had tunnel vision when it came to looking for Soviet and orthodox communist links. That was virtually all they were trained for. Which was all very fine when there were spies and fully-fledged Soviet-trained subverters around. But the students weren’t like that. Most of them had rejected conventional communism. But he was on to a loser here, he could see that. The policy had been decided somewhere in the Ministry of Defence and it wasn’t going to be changed on his say-so. He decided to shut up.

Reece-Jones brought the briefing to a close with a resumé of the information Box 500 itself would be providing.

‘We’re putting taps and mail intercepts on all the leaders of these organizations who have communist contacts or sympathies. This information will be available to you as necessary.’

Nick thought: Like hell. Box 500 were notoriously mean with their intelligence. Their attitude was guarded and, if not actually obstructive, then distinctly unhelpful. Nick suspected this was partly because they were all public school and Oxford and stuck together, and partly because they regarded Special Branch as a force which existed solely for their convenience – to do all the dog’s work and to make arrests for them.

Reece-Jones was summing up. ‘So what we need is a record of these people’s movements and who they associate with, the things they write and for which publications’ – he smiled ingratiatingly – ‘but then I don’t have to tell you what we need, gentlemen. You’ve done it all before.’

Nick winced slightly. The flattery was unnecessary and more than a little patronizing. He resented it. He glanced at Conway and saw that he did too, but then, like Ryder, Conway had spent some time out in the big wide world of regional CID. Which was more than ninety per cent of Special Branch ever had. In fact, Ryder and Conway were something of an experiment. Men with outside experience. And, Ryder sometimes thought, the only people used to getting things done.

When Reece-Jones had gone Straughan continued the meeting. ‘Right, we’re going to go into the mechanics of all this tomorrow, when the commander has okayed the deployments. In the meantime, let’s tidy up some loose ends.’