Red Crystal (18 page)

‘Any particular reason?’

He exhaled slowly, a long pensive sigh. ‘For the first time I feel that, as a government, we’ve failed – in a number of important areas. We’ve been evading some vital issues and now we’re paying the price – the highest strike record of any government, wages out of control, prices going mad. And it’s going to get worse. I feel it.’

‘Why do you think so?’

‘There’s a new discontent – a real anger. People are in a militant mood …’ He looked up at her. ‘It’ll lose us the election, you realize that?’

‘I see.’

He patted her hand thoughtfully. ‘For myself, I won’t be that sorry.’ He examined her face. ‘In fact, I thought of stepping down anyway. Even as Shadow Attorney-General. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it—’

‘Whatever you think is best—’

‘Would you mind very much?’

She laughed a little. ‘Mind? No, of course not. You work too hard and if it’s what you
want
…’

Having voiced his decision, Henry knew it was the right one, and felt the beginnings of an immeasurable relief.

T
HE RAIN BEAT
furiously against the showroom windows, cascading down the glass and blurring the outlines of the buildings opposite. Manchester at its wettest. Not a good afternoon for selling cars, even the expensive ones that filled the showroom. In monsoon conditions, well-heeled people liked to stay at home just like everyone else. Bisley, the joint proprietor, sales director, chief – and only – salesman, got out his paper and had another look at the clue for twenty-five across. ‘Illegitimate form of history (7).’

Bastard something? he wondered. No, that didn’t sound right. What else were illegitimate children called …? Another word was just easing its way into his mind when the showroom door opened with a bang. He looked up and saw a young woman shaking out an umbrella.

She was well dressed in a modern casual sort of way. Comfortable middle class, he decided, with artistic tendencies. Not the buying type – Bisley could tell these things at a glance – but very striking. Worth a pleasant chat anyway.

He put on a smile and went to meet her. ‘Good afternoon,’ he began warmly, running an admiring look over her. ‘And what can I do for you on this
lovely
day?’

She looked at him as if he were slightly mad. ‘I want the blue Aston Martin, please. Assuming there’s nothing wrong with it, of course.’

Knock me down with a feather, thought Bisley. You never can tell.

‘Ah, now that’s a very fine car – one owner, regularly serviced. And of course, less than a year old. I think you’ll—’

‘Let’s cut all the talk, shall we?’ she said briskly. ‘Just tell me what you’re prepared to offer?’

‘Offer? Do you want a part-exchange?’

‘No, no,’ she said with a touch of impatience. ‘I want a price reduction for cash – and I mean notes, not a cheque.’

The car was an expensive model – a DBS – and was priced at five thousand four hundred. Bisley thought quickly. The cash would certainly be useful; he could easily falsify the books. At the same time he was a little annoyed at this young woman’s peremptory tone. He wasn’t sure he was prepared to play her game.

‘It’s already a fair price,’ he said firmly. ‘In fact, we price
all
our cars fairly. There really isn’t a lot of room for manoeuvre.’

She gave him a hard stare and he could see the anger behind the dark eyes. ‘I was offering you a straightforward deal,’ she said sharply. ‘And all
you
want to do is go through the boring old rituals just to satisfy your ego. Don’t you think it’s rather a juvenile waste of time?’

Bisley blinked. For northern bluntness she beat any Mancunian into the shade. Although, from her accent, he’d bet she was a southerner.

Trying to recover the advantage, he joked weakly, ‘My ego’s perfectly satisfied. I have it serviced regularly. How’s yours?’

They settled on five thousand one hundred – a drop of three hundred on the asking price. It was much further than he would normally have gone, but he’d bought the car at a good price and the sight of the tax-free wads of crisp new notes was too much to resist.

She produced an insurance cover note and announced she was going to take the car with her.

‘For yourself, is it?’ asked Bisley, wondering where she’d got the money for such an expensive machine.

‘No. For my employer. He’s a wealthy businessman.’

That explained a lot. When she’d gone Bisley wondered if she wasn’t
more
than just a rich businessman’s employee. She was very –
animal
, that one. Definitely one of the permissive society.

It was 4.00 p.m. and Friday. He would take the money home for the weekend and bank a small part of it in his business account on Monday – some, after all, had to go through the books. The rest he would keep in cash. He might even buy a new lawnmower tomorrow, and a bicycle for his daughter.

Flush with well-being, he went back to the crossword. A moment later he grinned with satisfaction. He had it at last: illegitimate form of history –
natural
history.

He decided that, despite the rain, it had turned out to be a most satisfactory day.

Gabriele chose Hendon to dispose of the car because it was a prosperous area of London and the garage forecourts were already thick with used Jaguars and Mercedes. The first garage offered her a cheque, which she turned down, but the second promised cash by 11.00 a.m. on Monday. She decided it was safe to accept. There was no way that the hot money could be spotted in the Manchester banking system, traced back to the car and every garage in the country alerted in that time. Even assuming the police were bright enough to realize the point of the whole exercise.

Nevertheless when she returned on the Monday morning she watched the garage for an hour before driving on to the forecourt. By noon she was back in the mews house with four thousand seven hundred pounds in used notes. Enough to pay rents, bills and major expenses for some months.

That left only nine hundred of the difficult money to dispose of. It should be safe to use it for small transactions, as long as it was spent in crowded places well away from the area of the mews house.

Things were beginning to look a little tidier.

She had several more jobs to do that day. First she went to a small printer’s nearby and picked up some business cards. These gave her name as Gabriella Carelli and her occupation as photo-journalist accredited to
La Posta
. The address and phone number of the mews house were printed at the bottom.

Next she telephoned several photographic processing laboratories, and went to visit one in Covent Garden which specialized in fast developing and machine duplication. It was run by three energetic young men who were perfectly happy at the idea of doing rush jobs at odd hours. She left them one of her new cards.

At three she went to a firm called Inter-News, off Fleet Street. This was a photo-news agency which, for a modest fee of fifteen to twenty per cent, took freelancers’ pictures and tried to sell them to newspapers and magazines worldwide. The firm had a staff of five, including the tea boy, and was headed by Stan Geddes, a former picture editor on a national newspaper. Like most newspapermen, he liked to think he’d seen it all.

Putting his head out of his office door he spotted the girl waiting. Quite a looker. He decided to see her personally.

He glanced at her card. ‘
La Posta
– but we can’t handle their stuff.’

‘No, no. I’m freelance,’ she said firmly. ‘
La Posta
commissions me to do occasional jobs. Otherwise I’m on my own. Will you handle my pictures?’

‘I’d have to see some of your work. We don’t take on people just like that.’ He thought: Even when they’re as tasty as you.

She eyed him firmly. ‘Look – if I walked in here with some hot news pictures, what would you do with them?’

Ah, he thought, a smart dolly, this one. He gave in gracefully. ‘We’d flog ’em.’

‘Quite.’ She got to her feet and shook his hand. ‘You’ll be hearing from me then.’

After she’d gone, Stan Geddes smiled to himself. Then, taking her card, asked Beryl, his secretary, to enter her name and address on the file.

On her way home, Gabriele made a detour to the Marylebone Public Library and spent an hour in the reference section, taking notes from such diverse publications as
Who’s Who
,
Encyclopaedia Britannica
, the
Legal Gazette
and the London Telephone Directory. It was amazingly easy to discover who did what in Britain, and, more important, their private addresses.

It was six when she finally got back to the mews. Giorgio and Max were already waiting. She didn’t like Max coming to the house, but since they were going to meet so rarely in the future the risk was really quite small.

‘Well, what have we got then?’ she asked Max.

He fished a copy of
Red Notes
out of his pocket and, opening it at the right page, passed it to her.

The item was listed under Forthcoming Events for October, and was printed in bold type and capital letters, to give it emphasis. The item read: ‘25th:
DEMONSTRATION AGAINST NATIONAL FRONT
. Meet 12 p.m. Speakers’ Corner. March to Russell Square. All welcome. Organizers: Third World Liberation Council.’

Max also passed her a leaflet, giving the objectives of the march:

Gabriele read it a second time. Yes, it would do very well. The National Front always provoked strong feelings. This counter-march should produce an explosive situation. A popular journalistic phrase came into her mind: emotions are likely to run high.

She said, ‘It looks as though it’ll be quite an event. How many people are likely to turn up, Max?’

‘Several thousand.’

‘I think we’d better find out exactly who’s going to be there. We need to be sure that the crowd will be – the right sort.’ She added, ‘What about your group. How many people can we rely on?’

‘Twelve or so. Including Reardon, of course.’

Gabriele pondered. It would mean depending to a certain extent on people over whom she had no direct control. Her instincts were against it. And yet an opportunity like this might not turn up again for months.

She looked sharply at Max. ‘And you’re prepared to’ – she didn’t know quite how to put it – ‘to be the
star
?’

Max looked at the floor, frowning. Yeah. It’s okay. I don’t mind.’

Gabriele guessed that he was thinking of Stephie, and how the event would cheer her up. She warned, ‘We’re going to keep a low profile on this, you know. There can’t be a communiqué.’

‘No, I understand.’

Giorgio roused himself from his silence. ‘But some time?’

‘Maybe. When it’s necessary.’

‘Then we should have a name,’ Giorgio said. ‘The Fifteenth of May Group!’

‘Too – complicated,’ Gabriele said. And, though she didn’t voice it aloud, far too similar to the names of other groups in Europe. It was important to have their own quite separate identity. She suggested quietly, ‘The Crystal Faction. I prefer that.’

Giorgio frowned. ‘What does that
mean
?’ Gabriele sighed inwardly. Sometimes Giorgio could be very awkward. ‘Crystal, as in clarify –
harden
– and faction, as in
splinter group
.’

She fetched her bag and took out the notes she had made in the library. ‘Now, I’ve been making a list. A sort of strategy. It’s only provisional. But I think it’ll make a good start.’

It takes four hours in an unheated warehouse early on a cold October morning to seize up one’s bones, Ryder discovered. It takes less than an hour to become bored rigid.

The gates of the factory opposite were deserted. Very sensibly, the pickets were having a nice warm breakfast elsewhere. He thought: What a waste of bloody time.

Conway turned up late, at ten past eight, muttering, ‘Don’t complain, mate. You’ve only done
one
morning of this. We’ve done
four
.’

Nick went straight to the office, shuffled through the pile of bumf on his desk for an hour, then joined the rest of the squad in the briefing-room.

‘Okay, let’s get going then,’ said Straughan. ‘The National Front march and counter-demonstration. One, A8 has given permission for both marches. You’ll find details of the planned routes and stops on the operation order. Two, there are going to be about fifteen hundred on the National Front side. No surprises likely there – all the usual faces. Three, the leftist march is being organized by the Third World Liberation Council. Now, this lot has always been reasonably peaceable in the past. Mainly lobbying and propaganda.
However
– ’ he paused to add weight to his remark ‘ – this time they’re obviously out to provoke. Choosing to rally in Russell Square at the same time as the Front.’