Flashpoint (25 page)

The crowd on the opposite pavement took this badly. There were shouts of “Leave him alone”, “Pick on someone your own age” and “Shame”. A large and overripe tomato sailed across the road and hit a policeman in the face. The crowd started to advance across the road.

“Reserves from Bell Yard, clear the road,” said Hallet.

A squad of policemen who had been waiting for the word emerged from the mouth of Bell Yard and forced their way down the street using their combined weight, hustling and treading on toes until the road was clear and the traffic piled up in the Strand and Fleet Street could move on again.

The middle-aged man, his shirt-tails flapping, but his top hat still wedged defiantly on his head, was carried by four policemen to a tender. Onlookers cheered. Cameras flashed.

“No trouble really,” said Hallet into the radio-telephone link with Central. “One crackpot who tried to get into the building in fancy dress. He put up some sort of fight and we’re holding him for the moment, but I don’t think we’ll be making a charge. The crowd’s a lot thinner now than it was this morning. We ought to be able to send some of our men home this afternoon.”

“In the expectation – or perhaps I should say, the hope – that your Lordships
would
admit Mr Mauger’s record,” said Cairns, “I have had sufficient copies prepared for the Court, and I will ask the usher to hand them up. My learned friend has a copy already.”

Pallant smiled briefly. He had indeed read Patrick Mauger’s record, had recognized its damaging potentialities and had fought hard, giving back precedent for precedent, to prevent its production. The Attorney General had attempted to support him, but had, in Pallant’s view, been more of a hindrance than a help by trying to pull rank and bully the Lord Chief Justice. It was common knowledge that the Lord Chief Justice loathed him.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. It showed five minutes to three. It looked as though a second day was going to be necessary. This was a nuisance, as it would mean surrendering the brief in a company matter which was a great deal more to his taste than quasi-political wrangling.

“I do not propose,” said Cairns, “to take you line by line through this bulky exhibit, but would refer you only to one or two extracts which I have marked. At page seven, halfway down the page, you will see the following:

Killey: With regard to the Instrument of Amalgamation I am in this position that I am only able to produce a made-up draft.

Magistrate: A what, Mr Killey?

Killey: A made-up draft.

Magistrate: I don’t understand. Do you mean it is some document you have made up yourself (Laughter).

Killey: As you are perfectly aware, a made-up draft is a copy of the final document into which such details as the date and the names of the signatories have been inserted.

Magistrate: You mustn’t tell me what I’m aware of and what I’m not aware of. It’s for you to make your application in a proper way.

Killey: I am trying to do so. In the face of considerable obstruction.

“I have read you that extract, which is typical of many, because it seems to me to demonstrate what went wrong. I need not remind you that the magistrate was a lawyer and must have known perfectly well what a made-up draft signified. On the other hand I would concede that the applicant was not an easy man to deal with. There were occasions when he demonstrated less than a proper respect for the Court. But in my view this ought not to have prevented the learned magistrate from coming to an unbiased decision on the merits of the application. I am sure that your Lordships have, on occasions, been provoked by the conduct of persons appearing before you, but this has not prevented you from arriving at a dispassionate assessment.”

(This produced the smile that Cairns had anticipated. There had been an occasion, not long before, in which an infuriated female litigant, who was conducting her own case, had thrown a law book at the Lord Chief Justice. It had been widely reported.)

“Again, at page eleven, final paragraph, we find:

Killey: The point I am trying to make is entirely supported by the authority of the case of Foss against Harbottle.

Magistrate: Who against who?

Killey: If we had that window shut you might be able to hear me better.

Magistrate: If the window is shut, the court becomes quite intolerably hot.

Killey: It’s not much use my going on, if you’re not going to listen to what I have to say.

Magistrate: Whether you go on or not, Mr Killey, is entirely a matter for you. I happen to regard the comfort of people in my court as more important than the convenience of advocates. You will have to speak more clearly.

“You will find, however, that when the learned magistrate came to announce his decision – it is at page 22 – he
did
have the window closed. No doubt he wished everyone to hear what he had to say. Now I have already made my submissions on the substance of that judgement. I think it was wrong in law. But whatever the Court’s view may be on that, there can, in my submission, be no doubt at all that the final comment which the learned magistrate saw fit to make was so uncalled for that it must colour and cast doubt on all that had gone before–”

The attack came in at three o’clock precisely. It was preceded by a diversionary manoeuvre. Half a dozen men started to climb rather slowly over the railings of the car park behind the Queen Elizabeth Building at the west end of the Court. Chief Superintendent Hallet had been as good as his word, and had thinned out the cordon in Carey Street. Most of the men who were left ran to intercept the climbers.

At this moment an assault group burst from the passageway which leads from New Square. The front rank were carrying mattresses. They jumped up on to the sand-bin which stands conveniently in an angle of the railings next to one of the padlocked gates, threw the mattresses over the iron spikes of the railings, and held them in place while the men behind swarmed over, and dropped on to the steps behind. These led directly to an unlocked back door of the Court building.

The two policemen still left at that point were jostled to one side. The ones who had been drawn away, realizing almost too late, that they had been fooled, swung round and raced back. It was one of them who flung himself at a climbing figure and got hold of his ankles, at the same moment that one of his friends, already safely across, grabbed his arms to pull him over.

If the mattress had stayed in place, it might not have mattered, but it slipped to one side and the steel spike which it had covered was driven into the body of the man straddled across it.

“I imagine, Mr Pallant,” said the Lord Chief Justice, “that you will have something to say about the extracts which have been read to us.”

“I have a number of observations to make,” said Pallant. And this was all that he did say, since at this moment the van of the intruders reached the Court. The door was flung open with a crash. Pallant turned to see what was happening. The two ushers rose in scandalized protest to their feet. Half a dozen men were in the room already shouting and waving banners, with reinforcements crowding in behind them. High above the growing tumult sounded the clarion voice of Ben Thomas. “Justice. We want justice.”

The next few minutes might have been less confused if the Court had not already been crowded. In spite of the precautions of the police a great many people seemed to have made their way, on one pretext or another, into the building, and most of them were in the Court. One of the intruders jostled a burly solicitor’s clerk, who hit back. Battle became general. The weapons used were fists and feet, the missiles law books, inkpots and anything else to hand.

The junior bar was engulfed in the fighting. The two leaders and the Attorney-General scuttled towards the Bench. Only the three judges preserved their dignity. Taking their time from the Lord Chief Justice they rose to their feet, bowed punctiliously, first to the Bar and then to the body of the Court, and left the scene of conflict without haste.

Outside, in the corridor, came the pounding of feet as the first police reinforcements started to arrive.

Superintendent Hallet reported to Central. “It’s under control now. We’ve arrested about twenty of the ringleaders. We know most of them. Hardline troublemakers.”

Central said something. Hallet said, “It was an accident. They’ve taken him to the Middlesex. He was still alive when they got him there. But they don’t hold out much hope. The spike went through the bottom of the ribs and the top of the abdomen. The real damage was done when they pulled him off.”

The man at the other end said, “Hold on, Superintendent. The Commissioner has something he wants to say to you.”

The Commissioner of Police for the Metropolis said, in a voice which crackled, “You realize, I hope, the seriousness of the situation. No statement or comment of any sort is to be made by you, or any of your men. The matter will be handled by me, personally, from this moment. You understand?”

Superintendent Hallet said, unhappily, that he understood.

The press understood, too. And the people were beginning to understand.

The heart of the great British public is cold and hard to stir. It has a built-in inertia factor, a massive scepticism. It has been braced too often to face non-existent crises; titillated by hints of unborn scandals which never come to birth; stirred by banner headlines which bear, on closer examination, as little relationship to the story underneath as the shouts of the barker to the exhibits in the tent.

But now, at the last moment, a perception that something of real significance had happened began to dawn. The fruits of that broiling July were being gathered at high speed. The harvest was coming home.

The front page headline of the
Watchman,
in a size of type which had not been used since 1939, consisted of one word, ‘Impaled’. The cartoonist, pursuing the same theme, showed the figure of Justice transfixed on an iron railing with frock-coated figures on one side, representing the Government, pulling at its legs and the bewigged representatives of the law hanging on to its arms on the other side.

The Opposition papers screamed down like dive-bombers on an undefended convoy.

“We are entitled to ask–” said the
Daily Mentor,
using one of its favourite openings. It then proceeded to ask itself a number of unanswerable questions. Had a Government agency in fact had a hand in an attempt to discredit Jonas Killey? Had the Law Society unmasked the plot and defeated it? Was there a connection between yesterday’s riot in the High Court and a recent attack on the police in a case at Bow Street? And finally, why had the Attorney-General seen fit to interest himself in what appeared to be a private application by a citizen for a writ of mandamus? Ought not the Prime Minister to make a statement to set at rest the very disquieting stories which had now received considerable currency? The foreign press was beginning to comment, and national prestige was at stake.

It was left for
The Times
to sum matters up. Until this point it had been notably reticent, dealing with the news in short paragraphs and refraining from comment. Now it reverted suddenly to its traditional role. Olympus awoke. The Thunderer spoke.

“What we are faced with,” it said, “is nothing less than the old struggle, which historians would persuade us was finally won in this country more than two hundred years ago with the Act of Settlement; the struggle between the Executive and the Judiciary. Yet, in spite of all the fair words which have been spoken, it remains a hard, inescapable fact that those who govern are irked by the fetters of the law. Law is an excellent thing for the governed, no doubt. It teaches them their duties and keeps them in their place. But it must not be allowed to control or constrict the governors. They have a task and a duty which must sometimes override the law.
Salus populi suprema lex.
‘The safety of the state is above the law.’ It is an attractive notion. It is also the first step towards despotism. For there is a second, an older and a wiser Latin tag.
Fiat justitia ruat coelum.
‘Let justice be done though the sky fall.’ And if we may allow for the fall of the sky, surely we can contemplate with comparative equanimity the fall of a Government which has seen fit to disregard the law. A Government which has dirtied its hands–”

The Leader of the Opposition said to a full meeting of the Shadow Cabinet, “They won’t be able to put off the announcement of the dissolution for more than a few days. Keep up the pressure. We have been laying off Dylan. Now we must go for him.”

This produced a murmur of approval.

“Have we got to be a bit careful of contempt of court?” said the shadow Home Secretary.

“Only if you comment on the actual mandamus proceedings,” said the shadow Lord Chancellor. “Even then you’d probably get away with it on the grounds of overriding public interest.”

“What about Killey? Wouldn’t it be a good idea to give him a bit of a build-up. That couldn’t do any harm.”

“I understand that he’s gone to ground,” said the Leader. “But I imagine the press will unearth him.”

The Prime Minister walked down that afternoon from the House to Smith Square. He enjoyed walking in London when the weather was fine. It gave him a rare opportunity to stretch his legs. The only person who found his habit a trial was his private detective.

At the headquarters of the party the two men who worked behind the scenes, but were of decisive influence in the party machine, were waiting for him. The Chairman, a man who never minced his words, said, “Two months ago, Prime Minister, I told you that Dylan was worth thirty or forty seats to us. If things are allowed to go on as they are he may still be worth that number of seats – to the Opposition.”

“It couldn’t have happened at a worse moment,” said the Deputy Chairman.

“I agree,” said the Prime Minister. “When do we expect the verdict?”

“The Court reserved judgement. They don’t usually do it, but it was an unusual case. They promised to pronounce it early next week.”