The Queen v. Karl Mullen (15 page)

“No,” said Hartshorn. “I don’t think I’d do that, Andrew. It’s only a side issue. Let’s keep our guns pointed at the target we really want to hit. Mr. Karl Mullen.”

“What I’d really like to do,” said Mkeba, “is give him a touch of his own pencil drill.”

On Saturday morning, over breakfast in his digs, Fred Tamplin studied the correspondence columns of the
Sentinel.
He saw exactly what his editor had meant. A comment at the head of the column said, ‘We have received forty-eight letters in reply to the one we published on Wednesday from a Lover of Justice. Forty-seven of them were hostile to the opinions he expressed. We have, of course, been careful to exclude from publication any which expressed views on the actual case, or those which were extreme in their wording, but the following will give our readers a sample of public opinion on this interesting case.’

If the half-dozen letters which followed were among the most reasonable, thought Tamplin, the others must have been fairly hot.

To the Editor:

Dear Sir,

My friends sometimes accuse me of being a chauvinist. This odd French word has had many different translations. To me it means, quite simply, that I put my own country first. The writer of the letter which you saw fit to publish last Wednesday apparently puts his own country last. And not only last, but behind a country like South Africa which has affronted every canon of civilised conduct. The latest sample of its citizenry, a man called Mullen, stands charged with the offence of shop-lifting. It seems that, rather than face this charge squarely, he is now trying to hide behind the doctrine of diplomatic privilege – a privilege developed in an age when one could, at least, rely on diplomats being gentlemen of honour, sent here by countries which respected the rule of law—

Dear Sir,

I wonder how a Lover of Justice (self-styled) had the effrontery to write to you in the terms that he did and how you dared to publish his letter. Surely the appropriate comment was the one made by the magistrate when the matter first came before him. ‘Put your own house in order before you criticise others’—

Dear Sir,

As it happens I was in Court when the loud-mouthed bully now charged with a criminal offence was at Bow Street. In my view, far from treating him without respect, the magistrate would have been fully justified in finding the accused guilty of gross contempt of court—

Dear Sir,

I also am a lover of justice so let me give some advice to Lover of Justice whose fatuous letter you published on Wednesday and to Karl Mullen, an unwelcome visitor to these shores—

Dear Sir,

As an old Eighth Army man who remembers the surrender of Tobruk—

Truly, thought Fred Tamplin, they have let down their nets and have trawled up some fine fish.

He did not suppose that the correspondence, if he happened to read it, would prick Mullen’s thick skin, but he had a feeling that if the matter came before a jury, it might be difficult to empanel twelve disinterested citizens. He wondered whether, in subsequent issues, the Sentinel might restore the balance by publishing a few letters on the other side. He guessed not. The hunt was up and the hounds were beginning to cry.

“I’m not sure,” said Professor Macheli, “how much you know about crystallography.”

“Practically nothing,” said Tamplin, “but don’t let that worry you. I’m a great picker of other people’s brains. So fire ahead.”

“You must understand that my speciality is physical crystallography. That is to say, the study of the physical features of the crystalline form and their optical properties. These, as perhaps you know, can be uniaxial or biaxial. Take, for instance, a cubic octahedron—”

Fred listened patiently, understanding about one word in six. This did not bother him, nor did it distract him from observing the clean but shabby sitting-room and the signs which his experienced eye quickly noted of poverty near to, but not yet on the wrong side of, the subsistence line. He thought that the Professor was a nice, simple old man, and he decided that, without diverting from his main objective, he would do anything to help him that he could.

When the Professor had finished with the oblique rhomboidal prism and the double six-sided pyramid, and had paused for breath, he said, “Is it right that you’ve written a book on the subject of cleavages?”

A twinkle appeared in the Professor’s eye. He said, “My—er—daughter Anna has explained to me that the word cleavage has a possible secondary meaning. I was not, of course, aware of that. Yes, I have written such a book. It was intended for popular consumption and I was therefore forced to simplify the subject.”

“Just what I had in mind. Do you think you could write, say, four or five thousand words on your subject – what you might call an introduction to crystallography for the layman? I’m sure we’d be happy to publish it in our weekend magazine section, with some of those really beautiful coloured photographs you’ve shown me. Our rate for such an article is around five pence a word.”

“Well—” said the Professor, doing some rapid mental arithmetic, “I’m sure that would be very gratifying.”

“I’d do a short piece, introducing you to our readers. If I’m to do that, I’d have to know a little about your past. When you came here and why. That sort of thing.”

“When is easy. I came here about three years ago. Why is more difficult. I think the simplest way of putting it is that I was scared. South African forces have made so many incursions lately into neighbouring territories that they no longer feature as leading stories in the press of this country.”

“I remember one. A surprise attack into Botswana, which ended in a lot of deaths – including a six-year-old girl. That’s the sort of thing which does get reported here.”

“The Lesotho raid was about six months after that one. We were living in Maseru at the time. That’s on the western border. In fact, it’s the only big town in Lesotho – I’ll show you on the map – and you can see that it’s the terminus of the railway which runs in from South African territory. From Johannesburg in the north and Kimberley in the west.”

Tamplin examined the map. Lesotho, of which he had never heard before that morning, seemed to be very small and full of mountains. He said, “You’re right. Maseru is the front door into the country.”

“The back door out of it, too, I’m afraid. I mean that it’s a convenient way for anyone from Mozambique or Zimbabwe who wants to get into South Africa without calling attention to themselves. We knew that there were a number of ANC supporters lying up, waiting for a chance to slip across. I suppose the South Africans knew it too. Anyway they descended on us one night, with tanks and armoured cars, and destroyed a number of houses – and people. None of them were anything to do with the ANC. There were no apologies. In fact, their State Security Council published a statement saying that they would probably repeat the dose. That’s when I decided to leave.”

“Don’t blame you.”

“It took a little time to arrange, but I had been a student at the Physics Department of London University and they supported my application. I was put in touch with the Orange Consortium. They arranged this house for me and got me some lecturing work. Things became a lot easier when my – when Anna got a job.”

Tamplin said, with a smile, “I can’t help noticing, Professor, that every time you mention Anna it seems to cause you some difficulty. I’m unable to make out whether she’s your daughter, your granddaughter or your god-daughter.”

“To be frank with you,” said the Professor, “she isn’t any of the three. She’s an orphan, who came to work for us when she was about twelve. That was – let me see – it must have been six years ago. My wife and I have both become very fond of her and she pleaded not to be left behind, so in the end – I tell you this in strict confidence – I included her in my application as my daughter.”

“Not a very serious offence and in anything I write, if she features at all, it shall be as your daughter. Her job you mentioned—”

“That was rather a coincidence. It turned out to be working for the author of that book everyone’s talking about—”

“Jack Katanga?”

“Yes. It seems he moved house and could no longer employ the woman, a Mrs. Queen, who used to look after him—”

Tamplin was not really listening. He was trying to absorb the astonishing piece of information which had been dropped into his lap. He was uncertain what it meant, but sure that it meant something.

He said, “Katanga is one of the most interesting men to have come here from your country lately. I shall want to have a word with him. I wonder if you could give me his address.”

“Certainly. It’s called the Homestead, in West Mead Close, on the west side of Putney Heath—”

Having got the information he was angling for, Tamplin was now anxious to get away, but not wishing to forfeit the Professor’s good opinion of him he sat on patiently for a further twenty minutes. When crystallography surfaced again he felt that it was time to apply the closure. He said. “I’ll leave you to get on with that piece you’re going to write for me. If you remember to keep it fairly simple, I’m sure it’ll be what we want. Tell your wife I was sorry to miss her.”

He had parked his car some yards down the road, opposite a tobacconist’s shop. The words
Highside Times and Journal
were painted on the panel of the car door on the passenger’s side. This had often proved useful. More than one promising story had started from people stopping him in the streets and talking to him.

The proprietor of the shop, who had been standing in the doorway, now came out and said, “You a reporter?”

“I am,” said Tamplin. “Why?”

“Want a story?”

“Clean or dirty?”

The tobacconist sniggered and said, “I mean a real story. A news story.”

“You can try me. But keep it short.”

“I saw you coming out of that house. I can tell you something very interesting about the people who live there.”

“Carry on.”

“How much?”

“How much what?”

“What I mean is, how much will you pay me for this story?”

“You must be mistaking us for
The Times
or the
Telegraph.
We haven’t got money to buy stories.” So saying Tamplin opened the door of the car, but unhurriedly. He could see that the man was bursting to talk to him.

“Don’t be like that,” said Mr. Sundridge hastily. “I thought newspapers always paid for info. But I’ll tell you what. If it turns out to be a story you can publish, will you mention my name? Jimmy Sundridge.”

“Yes. I expect we could do that.”

“Well, it happened the Saturday before last. Or rather, on Saturday
and
Sunday. They were here both days—”

When Mr. Sundridge had finished Tamplin said, “So who were these men? Did you get their names?”

“Not their names. But I know the firm they worked for. They showed me their card. City Detectives. It was an address in London Wall—”

“Do you think they were telling you the truth?”

“About the girl, you mean. And men-friends visiting her. No. I didn’t really swallow that bit. I mean, why would men come to the house where she’s living with her father and mother? Both respectable people, I’d guess.”

“Then what do you think they were doing?”

“I think they’d been following her, from wherever it was she’d come from. And then they followed her to see where she was going.”

“Doesn’t add up, really, does it? You say you’ve seen her before, coming here at lunch-time on Saturday and pushing off again on Sunday evening. Which means she’s got a resident job somewhere and has the weekends off. Right?”

“I suppose that’s right, yes.”

“Then if they’d followed her from where she came from, why would they want to follow her back again to find out where it was?”

“When you put it like that, it does sound a bit odd,” said Mr. Sundridge. He had a feeling that his story had fallen flat. “All I’m telling you is what happened, see.”

“No one can do more than that,” said Fred Tamplin blandly. “If it should come to anything I’ll see you’re not forgotten.”

Chief Inspector Ancrum of West End Central Police Station studied, without pleasure, the document which had landed on his desk. Having read it through he handed it to his colleague, Inspector Brailey, and said, “What do you make of that?”

“Trouble,” said the Inspector. “That’s what it means. Trouble. Why can’t these types stay at home? We don’t want them here.”

“Whether we want them or not,” said Ancrum, “we’ve got ‘em.”

He quoted from the document in front of him.

“’It would seem that on the last occasion on which Karl Mullen appeared in Court at Bow Street in connection with a charge against him of shop-lifting there was a considerable public presence both inside and outside the Court.’”

“For ‘public presence’,” said Brailey, “substitute ‘a shower of half-baked loonies’.”

‘”The appeal to the Divisional Court on the question of diplomatic privilege is now fixed for Thursday, October 25th. Either it will be successful or it will not.’”

“Amazing the way these Special Branch characters work things out.”

‘”In either case, it will be remitted to the stipendiary, for the case to be dismissed, or for it to proceed. In both instances the reaction of the public is likely to be unfriendly to Mullen.’”

“’Unfriendly’ means they’d like to castrate him.”

‘”It is therefore important that the police presence should be adequate.’”

“Adequate to restrain the public presence,” said Brailey. “What a crowd they are. Why can’t they look after these diplomats themselves? It’s what they’re paid to do.”

“This Thursday,” said Ancrum thoughtfully. “Better start looking at the leave rosters.”

The following morning Fred Tamplin headed for Putney.

When he reached West Mead Road he drove past the turning to West Mead Close and parked his car some way along. The Close ran between the Convent of the Sacred Heart on one side and a plot of open ground on the other. There was only one house in it, a small two-storey building at the far end. A highly desirable location, he thought, for someone in search of privacy. He wondered by what string-pulling Katanga had secured it.