Exposure (24 page)

‘What do you do about Sutton now?' he demanded. Joe had seemed surprised at the question. ‘Call him, tell him no sale.'

‘You bloody fool,' it pleased King to bully him. Too much praise might go to his head. ‘You drop it like that, he'll see it's a put-up. You're stupid, but maybe he's not. You give him another story. A real one.'

‘What story?' Joe protested. ‘I don't have anything.'

On a mischievous impulse, King solved the problem for him.

‘We've set up Leo Derwent. Get the dirt from Freda and give it to Sutton. Derwent likes publicity.' He had laughed and Joe sniggered loyally with him. They had tapes and hidden camera records of Mr Leo Derwent's sexual preferences, supplied by the call girl introduced to him for that purpose. Harold King set off for America with his daughter, light in heart and full of manic energy. He had decided to short-circuit his financial difficulties by taking the massive Pension Funds and using them as his personal security. He wouldn't waste time, he'd conclude negotiations with Field Bank and introduce Gloria into the deal. They might as well accept that she would be side by side with him from now on. It gave him a satisfying sense of continuity to show off his heir.

He had told her about using the funds; it was a test of her business ethics and she hadn't failed him. ‘Why not? You need the money – who's going to know?' She was his girl and he was proud of her.

During the four-hour flight to New York they worked on the figures together. He enjoyed teaching her, initiating her into the way he manipulated money. She would never have his originality or lateral brainpower in creative accounting, but all she need do was keep to his guide-lines. The businesses would run themselves.

When he reached the Waldorf he sent several faxes, including one to Joe Patrick at his Export Import number.

‘Retain Harper and Drew until further notice.' Surveillance on Julia Hamilton and Ben Harris was to continue.

No hostages to fortune. Once he laid hands on those Pension Funds he had put his whole business empire on the line.

It was Ben's idea that they rent their flats. They couldn't remove the telephone bugs without blowing Sutton's cover story. And neither place was as secure as Ben wanted. Julia didn't argue with him; she was chilled at the idea that her flat had been penetrated and her movements watched. The thought of Jean Adams haunted her with guilt. And the guilt overcame her fear for her own safety. Ben was right. They needed a place in a high-security block of flats, where nobody would be let in without authorization. The cost would be borne by Western. Ben insisted on that and Western didn't quibble. They found what they wanted in Chelsea Green, a charming backwater off the King's Road, where a purpose-built luxury block had a fourth-floor flat for sale. A substantial price, paid confidentially, secured its withdrawal from the market. They moved in together with the ginger cat. Ben had wrung a further concession from Western. Money was available for Julia to redecorate and refurnish it to her own taste. It had amused him to watch Harris turning the screw on him and let him get away with it.

He would turn a very tight screw of his own when they were safe in the plush little fortress he had provided.

Felix Sutton had come up with a story about the Junior Minister, Leo Derwent, courtesy of the man they suspected of being in the pay of Harold King. Sutton passed it on as genuine, and, as a result, tended to view Harris's conspiracy theory with some doubt. Ben didn't waver.

Joe Patrick had been a plant, and he was simply lending himself credibility and keeping contact with someone in touch with Julia.

‘Are you going to run this muck on Derwent?' he asked her.

‘I don't want to, but we've got to fill the November slot with something. I'll talk to Western about it.'

Ben had seen the photographs and listened to some of the tapes. Felix had thought they were extremely funny and guffawed at the absurdity of the dialogue between the principals in the fantasy games.

Harris decided his sense of humour was the result of a twenty-year age gap. He saw nothing amusing in human degradation.

Western would have no scruples; if it was a strong story, he would authorize it. Julia made an appointment to see him. She took the evidence supplied to Sutton with her.

He was in brisk, cheerful spirits when she came into his office. ‘How is your nice new flat?' he greeted her immediately. ‘Everything fixed up by now? Good; you want to talk about the November feature – we'll get that over with first. Sit down, Julia. What have you got in that briefcase?' The words came out in a torrent; it was a subtle form of bullying because it deprived the subject of a chance to speak. How well she knew the technique – it always infuriated her.

‘I did send you a note of thanks,' she said. ‘We're secure and that's the main thing. I've got the material for November in here. It's not very pretty, I'm afraid, but you had better see it and decide whether we should go ahead.' She opened the case and gave him a sealed envelope. He opened it, skimmed through the pictures, his face completely impassive as if he were looking at someone else's holiday snaps.

‘Nasty,' he said looking up at her. ‘I don't need to listen to those—' He put the tapes back in the envelope and replaced the sheaf of photographs with them. ‘Derwent was your first assignment, remember? He was a nasty little specimen even then. Before we use it, we'll have to clear it with the lawyers first. I doubt he'll decide to sue.' He smiled.

‘I had another angle,' Julia suggested. ‘There is a point, Lord Western, that could be argued on moral grounds. Whatever Leo Derwent does in private has no relevance to the performance of his public duties.'

‘Unless it lays him open to blackmail,' he countered. ‘Which these activities certainly do.'

‘Exactly,' Julia said. ‘So who took them and why? Who was going to use them to blackmail Derwent? Why don't we chase up that angle and get Derwent to co-operate in exchange for keeping his name out of it? Ben thinks this is a typical entrapment of a politician someone wants to put in their pocket. I believe he's right. Now they're throwing Leo Derwent to the lions. Maybe he wouldn't give in to blackmail?'

‘Very clever.' Western beamed at her. ‘We fill the slot and we have the little brute in
our
pocket. Good, strong stuff. Blackmail attempt on prominent political figure, et cetera, et cetera. It'll have every hare running in Westminster worrying in case they've been found out. But you're not going to do it, Julia. You've got a damned good staff, give it to John Stevens.
You and Harris
have one target and you're not wasting your time on anything else. Harold King. A war criminal. That's what I want to hear about from you – hot dirt like this.' He swept the envelope aside. ‘What's your next line?'

She had to face him.

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘We have an allegation without dates or locations beyond the Western Desert. No charges were ever brought, there's no record in the official histories of the campaign of any prisoner being murdered. It was a clean war out there.'

‘There's no such thing,' Western snapped at her. ‘Minor atrocities happened everywhere on both sides. I know, I fought in it.'

Julia looked up at him. ‘You did? In the Western Desert?'

‘Briefly, yes, till I was captured. I'd been wounded and I was repatriated.' He dismissed the subject. ‘I'm not going to do your job for you. And I have to remind you that one more slip like the last, when a leak cost that poor Adams woman her life, and there won't
be
a job. For either of you. You've got a month, Julia. I want Harold King in the December issue of “Exposure”. Good morning.'

Julia stood up. She said, ‘I can't guarantee it by December, Lord Western. But I'll prove him guilty. For Jean Adams, not for any other reason.' Then she left the office.

Western sat quietly; he was a very still man when he was thinking. He knew Harold King was in America. And he knew why. He was gathering his forces for a frontal attack on Western International. Western had contacts in the banking world in Canada and the US. He had friends and he rewarded them for safeguarding his interests. The buzz about Harold King was growing. And he knew that if the scale being mentioned was right, he would lose the battle. December. It wasn't a date plucked out of the air. It would take King time to set up such a huge financial operation, and there was talk of him marshalling private funds. He was throwing everything into the bid. And the opening moves would start early in the New Year. He pressed the red button on his desk. It signalled to his secretary that he was not to be disturbed.

He rested his head in his hands and let his mind roam backwards. Back to heat and sandstorms and the danger of death in the desert.

A clean war, that young woman had insisted, with the assurance of the unborn at the time. Nothing in the official history.

Nothing in the laudatory biographies of the two great commanders, Montgomery and Rommel. A gentleman's war, some idiot had described it.

There had been books written by men who had fought in the Western Desert and distinguished themselves in battle, and viewed it through a romantic haze. Brave men, knights of the desert. He hadn't been one of them.

He had the scars on his body to prove it. They were on his back.

‘I'm going to see Leo Derwent myself,' Julia announced.

‘Good idea,' Ben agreed.

‘I want to find out if we're right and King is mixed up in this. Then Stevens can take over. You know, I almost walked out this morning when he said that about Jean Adams!'

‘He was needling you,' Ben said. ‘He doesn't give a bugger about her or anyone but himself. Don't let it get to you. That's what he wants. He was sticking the spur in to get you fired up. Bastard,' he added, pouring wine for them both. She had been right to leave King out of it. She was learning how to deal with William Western.

‘Do we have a copy of
Who's Who
?' she asked suddenly. Ben's books had come with his sparse furniture. There were a lot of them.

‘I've got it, and Debrett's and all the other references. Over there, top shelf,' he told her.

She got up. ‘I want to look up Western.'

She was edgy that evening; the interview had upset her. That barb about the unfortunate Jean Adams had drawn blood. He knew how much she agonized over it.

‘Here it is,' she said. ‘Look, served with the East Anglian Regiment in North African campaign, 1942, wounded, taken prisoner and repatriated 1943.'

‘So?' he asked her. ‘What's your drift?'

‘The way he talked this morning. “Minor atrocities happened everywhere on both sides …” I wonder, Ben.' She was frowning; she snapped the heavy book shut and put it back. ‘You said you were sure King had some lever on him, and that's why he pulled you out of the first investigation.'

‘There was no other reason,' Ben said. ‘He was out for King's blood, just as he is now, and then he backed off. No warning, no explanation, he called me in, told me to drop it and forget the whole thing, and gave me the News Editor's job.'

‘Could it have been something he did in the war? Give me the timetable again. When did he kill the project?'

Ben shrugged. ‘About ten years ago. Year before he got his peerage. I was sure it was tied in with that. Whatever King threatened him with, he backed down. But why the war? It's a hell of a long time ago—'

‘I know, but a lot of things happened then; like King shooting unarmed prisoners. It was the way Western talked … he wasn't shocked by the idea, he just wanted to prove it so he could finish off King.'

‘J, darling,' Ben reminded her, ‘you're not investigating Western. He's a cold-blooded bastard, nothing would shock his conscience, he doesn't have one. You're letting this morning get under your skin. Forget it for a few days, make an appointment to see Leo Derwent, and I'll see if I can come up with anything. I'll ask my pals in the War Office. They helped out before. Your feathers are all ruffled – come here.'

After a while she looked at him.

‘What would I do without you? I don't deserve you, Ben. I come home and rant on all evening, and I haven't even started to make dinner.'

‘Dinner', he said firmly, ‘can wait.'

7

Leo Derwent was on edge. He'd taken the personal call from Julia Hamilton and when he put the telephone down he was uneasy.

She was doing ‘Exposure' and there were rumours flying about the subject of the opening feature in November. The boast made to Gloria King during that dinner party was suddenly an awful threat.

She wanted a private interview, stressing the word private.

He had proposed a meeting in his office in the House. When she came in he appeared to be relaxed and well briefed about her career since they last met.

Very much the junior minister entertaining a member of the quality press, but sweat was beading under his armpits and on the palms of his hands while he went through the small talk. His secretary brought a tray of coffee. ‘Well,' he said at last, ‘I know you're a busy lady, and my time is limited. What can I do for you, Miss Hamilton?'

Julia opened her shoulder bag and took out an envelope.

‘These have come into our possession,' she said quietly. ‘I thought you ought to see them.' She watched him as he opened the envelope and saw the first of the photographs. Blood rushed into his face and then drained till he was a ghastly white. He opened his mouth as if to speak. He put the photographs face down on his desk and looked at Julia.

‘Where did you get these? What is this?'

He sounded as if he were choking.

‘They were sold to my newspaper,' she said. ‘With some tape-recording sessions between you and the woman in the pictures.'