Catalyst (22 page)

He could see 600 or so nodding heads. He had done what he could up to now. He turned to George.

“Mr Holland… George… ”

The debate began.

George had the
Daily Telegraph
delivered to his house Monday to Saturday each week. As he sat down for breakfast the following day, he picked up Thursday's offering and read the account of the meeting, which had made the front page despite its late conclusion. He then re-read, twice, the parts of the article which gave details and comments on his own contribution. It was like reading about somebody else, he thought, a close acquaintance perhaps, but surely not himself.

Irene had been reading the article over his shoulder. The actual result of the voting was presented in a small table on page two.

“‘Number of attendees; 1,612',” she read. “‘Votes for the motion; 1,503 – ninety-three percent. Against; 109 – seven percent I'll tell you what, that was a hundred very brave people given the mood in there, don't you think?”

“I know. I felt really sorry for Fred when they booed him at the beginning after he'd opposed the motion.”

“I thought Tom did a great job in rescuing him, though. In fact, he was brilliant all night, wasn't he?”

“Yes, and he's happily married to a very beautiful woman,” said George with a teasing smile. “So you'd best resign yourself to making do with me.”

Irene laughed. “Oh, I don't mind that so much. You're obviously going to be more famous than him very soon. By the way,” she added, “there's an editorial piece inside.”

“Tell you what, you read that first,” he said, standing up. “I'm just going down to the shop.”

“Before your breakfast?”

“I'll have it when I get back; I won't be long.”

He was still putting on his jacket as he left the house.

As he approached the shop he could see about a dozen or so people talking excitedly outside. They all turned to greet him with wide smiles and cheerful greetings. Fred affected a low bow, and muttered, deferentially, “Your Highness.” Everyone laughed. There was a lot of back-slapping and mutual congratulations.

“Look at this lot,” said Clive, pointing to a pile of papers on the wooden bench in front of the shop. He picked up a copy of the
Daily Mail,
holding it up for George to see. “‘The Meek
Shall
Inherit the Earth',” he read from the headline, “and it goes on to say what a thoroughly splendid lot of chaps we are. ‘We Need Vigilantes!'” he read from the
Daily Mirror
. “Nice and subtle, as always. I don't like this one as much, though; it's all about you and Fred… ”

They all laughed.

“It's unbelievable, isn't it?” said George. “Front page on just about every one. That means it was seen as one of the two or three biggest stories of the day.”

“It's not over, either, George,” said Fred, “you've got all those other lectures to do at the other Forum branches.”

“Other lectures?” asked Emily Burton. “What other lectures?”

“Haven't you heard, Em?” said Fred, “George is spreading the word around the country. We're having ‘Tour of Holland' tee-shirts printed.”

“God, I'd completely forgotten,” said George. “Sounds like a good excuse for doing something to settle my nerves. Let's get together in the Dog at lunchtime. My shout!”

A similar collection of dailies were spread across Andrew's desk. He, Tom and Grace were dipping into them.

“I'll tell you what,” said Tom, “I've never had to work so hard in my life.”

“But you managed to stay out of trouble,” said Grace with a smile. “No taking sides, no breaks with neutrality. And you've got yourself a very big fan.” She picked up
The Times
and read aloud. “‘If the revolution is to happen, there can be few, if any, more qualified to lead it than Mr Tom Brown, the Member of Parliament representing the residents of Cullen Field, and the chairman of last night's debate. His record to date speaks volumes in support of that. He is someone who earlier in his life shunned an open door to a privileged position in order to fight his way there from the very bottom of the pile. A man who leads by example, with an effortless style and ability to communicate and empathise at all levels; he is exactly what this country needs in its political vanguard, whatever the issues and challenges. I believe, along with – I suspect – all of the people present last night, that this man really can put the ‘Great' back in front of Britain and banish that particular cliché for ever'.”

She looked up at Tom and raised her eyebrows. “You will
never
guess who wrote that.”

“Sounds like it might have been you, Tom,” said Andrew, with not a trace of humour.

“Tell me,” Tom asked Grace.

“Tony Dobson. I thought you two weren't exactly best friends.”

“You've not been crossing palms, have you, Tom?” asked Andrew.

Tom ignored him, speaking to Grace again.

“We certainly weren't, and I can't think why we still aren't.”

“This one says it for me,” said Andrew, reading from the
Guardian
's ‘Comments' page. “‘Although the debate may have been passionate and momentous for the participants, in no way can this be regarded as a meaningful sample of the population from whose collective viewpoint any conclusions can be extrapolated to represent national opinion. Those involved were too close to the recent action to be even remotely objective in formulating their views on the wider issue. So, headline-grabbing though the whole exercise has been, it is little better than worthless in pointing the way forward.'”

Tom shrugged. “Well, I agree with one thing. It was certainly passionate.”

CHAPTER 9

David Gerrard pulled off the M6 into the motorway services at Charnock Richard. After visiting the men's room and picking up a pack of sandwiches, he settled into the driver's seat for a welcome rest.

He studied his road atlas, all too aware that he was now approaching what he regarded as the ‘really difficult bit' – a combination of unknown territory and off
-
motorway driving. He knew the sat-nav would take him to the doorstep of his final destination, but he always needed to check the route on the map for his personal comfort.

He had been driving for just over three hours and had decided two hours ago that this was not the best way to spend the first day's holiday he'd had for four months. Not only that, but he had kept the purpose of his trip a secret from both his boss and his second in command, and he was wishing now that he had at least told Jo of where he was going. And not for the first time during the journey he wondered why he was doing this within two days of Lorimar's trial when he'd had six-and-a-half weeks to do it before now. Perhaps it would be worth it; perhaps he would sleep better after today.

He worked out the remainder of his route, along the M65 – which he never knew existed – on to the A666, then the A59, to the small Lancashire town of Pretherby. He turned on the ignition, tapped the sat-nav screen with his left forefinger, an action as automatic as taking off the handbrake, and pulled out of the services at just ten minutes before noon.

He arrived at the home of ex-Corporal Michael Hanson one hour later, a neat terraced house in an attractive row rising up a hill and overlooking wild moorland. The door was opened by his mother who showed him through to where her son was sitting watching the television from his wheelchair.

Ninety minutes later he left the house feeling that his curiosity and secrecy had been fully vindicated, and started the long drive back home.

It was after 6.00 pm when he arrived back at Parkside. Jo was still at her desk.

“I thought you were on holiday,” she said. “We can manage without you for a day, you know.”

“Come in here, Jo,” he said, walking past her into his office.

Jo followed him, curious to know why he seemed to be in such a state of excitement.

“Well,” she said. “I hope this is good. I usually sneak off
early
when you're not here.” She looked very deliberately at her watch.

“Literally two minutes,” said David. “Please, take a seat.”

He walked back past Jo and shut his office door which she had optimistically left open. He sat down and beamed across his desk at her.

“That man is not James Lorimar,” he said.

“Really. Who is he then?”

“Well, I don't know actually,” he said, instantly deflated. “But I do know it's not Lorimar – or I'm pretty sure it isn't.”

“Not absolutely sure, then?” asked Jo, leaning back in her chair.

“God, Jo, I didn't expect you to punch the air or anything, but you could sound a bit more interested. I've driven about eight thousand miles today to check this out.”

Jo leant forward again putting her elbows halfway across his desk and opening her eyes as wide as she could in mock astonishment.

“Wow! That's amazing!” Then she laughed. “You haven't been to Pretherby, by any chance?”

“How did you know that?” he asked.

“I'm a detective,” she said.

“You're too bloody smart for your own good, I know that,” he said. “The point is, what do we do about it?”

“Well, do we need to do anything? We're certain we've got our killer, aren't we, and even if Lorimar's not the name on his birth certificate, lots of people change their names for all sorts of reasons. It's not like he's changed it after the killings to avoid getting caught. What exactly happened today?”

“I talked to Mike Hanson and he confirmed the details of the incident that Lorimar described when Deverall was killed. That's when he got injured himself. Mike said that Deverall had gone on a bit ahead of the main party to check if the way was clear; he disappeared round a rock – then the explosion. They stayed back for a minute or so and then he – Hanson – went on round the rock. He said there was hardly anything left of Deverall. He doesn't remember anything after that until he woke up in hospital with both legs missing. Apparently there was a second explosion; he nearly died himself, poor sod. Might have been better if he had. But he did say there was no-one there called Lorimar.”

“Did you show him the photo?”

“Yes, that was weird, actually. He had been okay up to then, except a bit shaky when he was describing the first explosion, but when I showed him the photo of Lorimar, he got really upset. He said something like – ‘what are you showing me that for – that's not him.' Then he started crying and I had to get his mother to calm him down. He recovered fairly quickly, but I didn't want to push it again. I left soon after that.”

“But if most of the details of the incident check out,” said Jo, “then Lorimar
must
have been there, mustn't he? Perhaps he was just a very low profile guy who didn't get noticed in a crowd. Unless someone else told him about it and he's just acting out a sort of weird fantasy – that would explain why he got it wrong about Deverall dying instantly.”