Red Crystal (19 page)

Straughan clasped his hands together to make a precise arch. ‘Now, what I want is the following – I want to know who’s in with this Third World Liberation lot. Normally they’ve only a few dozen members at the most. Now, all of a sudden, they’re expecting a thousand supporters. Where do they come from? My bet is that they’ve been busy phoning round their friends.’

The DCS looked at Nick. ‘I want to know exactly who those friends are, Ryder. Then we’ll know who to be looking out for on the day. Right? Any questions?’

The room was silent. Nick scribbled on the information sheet:
CPGB
,
IMG
,
IS
,
VUF
. They’d all be there, he’d bet his life on it – the Communist Party of Great Britain, the International Marxist Group, the International Socialists, the Vietnam United Front.

He thought for a moment then added
SSL
– The Socialist Students’ League.

The briefing turned to other matters. The DCS held up a copy of the
Strike Back!
pamphlet. ‘We’re still on the look-out for this, all right? If you see something like it, I want to know where it came from and how it got there.’ The DCS shot a glance at Nick. ‘Although I gather we do have something from Technical Branch, Ryder?’

‘They seem to think it might have been printed on the Continent.’

‘Right!’ Straughan’s eyes gleamed triumphantly. ‘Probably a foreign group then. As we thought. Still, we’ve got to keep a sharp look-out. In the wrong hands this could be dynamite.’

The pun was awful. Nick gave a short derisory laugh. Straughan shot him a hard look and Nick realized the joke had been strictly unintentional.

As soon as the meeting broke up, Nick went to Records to see what they had on the Third World Liberation Council.

The Council appeared to have a staff of one, a part-time secretary who worked in a borrowed office in Camden Town. Originally it had been formed by the ‘broad left’, including some members of the Labour Party and the Communist Party of Great Britain. It still had a Labour peer as its president. The organization was run on a shoe-string and had at one point almost faded into obscurity. Recently, however, it had come to life again, becoming increasingly vocal on the subject of immigration and the rights of millions of citizens in former British colonies to full British citizenship.

Nick wondered how best to tackle this one. Sometimes there was nothing like the direct approach. He closed the office door and dialled the number of the one-roomed headquarters in Camden Town. It seemed to be permanently engaged but finally he got through on the sixth try.

A crisp female voice answered. ‘Yes?’

‘I’d like to know about the march …’

‘Twelve noon. Meet at Speakers’ Corner.’

‘What about banners. Are we co-ordinating?’

There was a slight pause and the voice asked cautiously, ‘Who is this calling?’

‘Manchester branch of the SSL. The name’s Randall.’ The name was perfectly accurate. He just hoped the secretary didn’t know Randall.

‘Oh, nice to talk to you.’ The voice was trusting, friendly. ‘We’ve been lent a place, in fact. Belonging to the Vietnam United Front. 2a Berners Road, off the Holloway Road. We’re getting together there most evenings. Bring some materials, won’t you? We don’t have much money. Paint and stuff. You know. Are you in London now?’

‘Er, not yet. On the Thursday, I hope.’

‘Right. Well, we look forward to seeing you. You’ll be bringing a group down, will you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, good. How many?’

‘Not sure yet. But at least fifty. We
hope
. Look forward to seeing you.’ He cut the conversation short. He didn’t want it to get too detailed.

He picked up the jottings he’d made in the inspector’s office and ticked off the Vietnam United Front. No prizes for getting that one – the Vietnam protesters were into everything.

2a Berners Road. That was new. He checked his pocket notebook which he used for quick reference. The Vietnam people had been using a place in Tufnell Park up till now. He went back to the main files. Yes: just the Tufnell Park address.

He made a call to his friend Barbara at the GPO and within five minutes had three phone numbers in use at 2a Berners Road. One he immediately discounted: a tailor’s on the ground floor. The other two, on the first floor, were in the name of the Holloway Workers’ Council.

Another name, another organization. It was like a jigsaw puzzle which was impossible to complete because the pieces were constantly changing shape. Yet the connections would be there, in the people. The same faces turned up time and time again.

The direct approach had got him this far. He decided to keep going, and dialled first one then the other number serving the first floor of 2a Berners Road.

No reply.

What next? It might be worth trying Nugent. If he could find him.

He phoned the flat where Nugent sometimes stayed. Eventually a sleepy masculine voice answered and told him that Nugent had ‘split, man’. The voice had no idea where he’d gone and, no, they didn’t know when he’d be back, if at all.

Nick wasn’t surprised. Nor was he disappointed. Nugent had more or less dropped out and, apart from the pamphlets, the information he’d been passing recently hadn’t been worth very much.

There were two other possibilities; good contacts Nick had built up in the previous year. But he wouldn’t be able to find either of them until the evening, and he was impatient.

It had to be 2a Berners Road then.

He took the Tube to Islington and walked up the Holloway Road, not yet certain of what he was going to do. Number 2a was at the beginning of Berners Road, an undistinguished two-storey building, its façade once painted but now streaked in grime. The tailor’s window was covered in heavy reinforced grilles. Those of the upper floor were blank and uncurtained. There was no access to the first floor from the front of the building; however there was an alleyway running down the side.

It was two in the afternoon. The sensible thing would be to come back later and watch for the evening arrivals – the organizers and banner painters. But to do it properly he’d need the van and the full camera set-up. Too much aggravation.

Besides, he was feeling lucky.

He walked purposefully into the alley. It led to a courtyard and an unexpectedly large two-storey storehouse which abutted the main building. There were two doors. On one of them was a sign:
Holloway Workers’ Council
, and beside it in chalk:
Vietnam United Front
.

The door was unlocked. At the top of the stairs were two doors, one of them open. The open door led to a large airy room which was empty except for four trestle tables, several piles of boxes and, spread over the floor, wooden poles and sections of white fabric.

On the nearest table was a pile of broadsheets; on the next posters. Mostly Vietnam United Front, but some for the Third World Liberation Council, advertising the march.

‘Hello.’

The voice startled him, but he made the effort to turn slowly.

It was a girl in her mid to late twenties. Plump. Long frizzy fair hair decorated with beads. Ethnic clothes. Sandals. No make-up. Freckles. Nice smile.

He replied, ‘Hi,’ and waited.

She came forward, looking friendly. ‘
Sorry
. I just popped out … Can I help? Did you want some literature? There’s quite a bit here. And more in the office …’ She indicated the closed door across the landing. ‘Gosh, I’ve been here all morning and the moment I pop out somebody
comes
. Honestly,
typical
!’ She laughed awkwardly, waiting for him to respond and ease the moment along.

‘Just wanted some details of the march on the 25th.’

She brightened visibly. ‘Oh, right! No problem. Gosh – do you want a poster or would a broadsheet be okay? And, let’s see – what
else
do we have? Mustn’t let you go away without
everything
, must I!’

Nick thought: God, what
have
we here. The accent – straight out of Cheltenham Ladies’ College. Upper-class Belgravia gone native.

She handed him a broadsheet and a leaflet. ‘That’s all there is, actually. Sorry. Will that be enough? We’re only helping out on this one. It’s not really a Vietnam Front thing, although of course we all support it. God, wouldn’t
anyone
? I mean, really, when you see the blatant racism it’ – she shook her head as if it were impossible to find the right words – ‘it makes you
sick
, doesn’t it?’

‘Ya. Makes you sick.’ Nick agreed. He strolled towards the closed office and paused by the door. She got the hint and, opening it, let him in. He wandered casually around. There were two desks, two telephones, and a clutter of papers piled haphazardly on the floor.

She came up behind him and asked, ‘Who are you with?’ The question was conversational rather than probing.

‘Oh. Er – various groups. But mainly the SSL.’

‘Ah.’ A moment of complete blankness, then she nodded doubtfully.

She obviously hadn’t a clue. Nick almost smiled. With growing confidence he asked, ‘Er … D’you know what the order of marching is … You know, who’s going to be there and who’ll be leading the thing up … That sort of thing?’

She frowned. ‘Oooh. Got me there. You see, I’m a bit new and, well, I man the desk and do what I can. To be honest, I’m just a volunteer and …’

He amended his opinion: naïve upper-class Belgravia do-gooder with a social conscience – perfect left-wing fodder. He nodded understandingly. ‘Know where I can find out?’

‘Oh yes! Tomorrow evening. There’s a meeting here at seven. I expect they’ll be discussing all that …’

Nick thought: As simple as that. He said easily, ‘Thanks. You’ve been really helpful.’

Her face lit up at the compliment. ‘Not at all! That’s what I’m here for!’

He paused at the top of the stairs. ‘Bye. Er – sorry, what was your name?’

‘Oh, Victoria. Victoria Danby.’

The moment he’d gone Victoria realized she’d forgotten the name of his organization – SOL, was it? And she hadn’t even asked for his name. She
should
have – the committee were very keen on that.

She muttered ‘Blast!’ and made a mental note to get everyone’s name in future.

Still, it was only her second day here and, all things considered, she wasn’t doing too badly. She’d read all the information sheets, articles and pamphlets issued by the VUF, and quickly realized how little she really knew about the Vietnam conflict. It made her ashamed to think how ignorant and ostrich-like she’d been in the past.

All that was going to change now. She was determined to be useful, and that meant knowing her stuff.

Taking a doughnut out of the desk drawer, she began to read a pile of news clippings. The doughnut disappeared very quickly and she found herself eating another. Weak and sinful. But she was
definitely
starting a new diet next week.

The telephone rang a couple of times. One caller wanted to join the VUF, the other wanted details of the anti-Front march. At first she’d been confused at the VUF’s involvement in the march. But as one of the committee had pointed out to her, the coloured immigration issue and the Vietnam anti-colonial struggle were two sides of the same coin. She’d never thought of it like that, but of course it was absolutely true. Blindingly obvious, in fact.

The Workers’ Council phone rang on the other desk and she took a message. There’d be someone in later. People were always coming and going.

The time began to pass more slowly; she had nothing more to read and by three she’d finished sticking down the last batch of envelopes she’d been given. By four she was wishing she’d brought a book with her.

There was a sound. She gave a slight start and looked up.

A man was standing in the doorway. She smiled. ‘Hello, can I help you?’

He came in. He was very dark, with rich black hair that came down to his collar, and a thick but well-trimmed beard. He wore jeans – good ones, she noticed – and the sweater was pale blue cashmere.

He looked slowly round the room then fixed his eyes on her. They were dark brown and penetrating.

Victoria thought: Absolutely gorgeous. The kind you could die for.

She reminded herself that dozens of women probably had.

She laughed nervously. ‘Did you want some information?’

He gave her a small, rather mechanical smile. ‘I want information about the march …’

An accent. Very attractive. Latin? She replied, ‘Yes, of course. I’ve got a leaflet or a poster or—’

‘Yes … But we wanted details – ’ He came up to the edge of the desk and looked down at her. He was even better close up. She caught a scent of eau de cologne.

He went on: ‘We want to know who will be there, and how many … We want to bring many, many friends, but we want to know what is happening … You understand?’

‘Yes, of course. There’s a meeting. Tomorrow at seven. For all the organizers.’ She looked away hurriedly, aware that she had spoken in a silly girlish voice, and thought: Get a grip. This one is
way
out of reach.

She suddenly remembered to ask, ‘Who are you? Which organization do you come from?’

For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he replied a little grudgingly, ‘We are foreign students. We want to show our solidarity against fascism.’ He pronounced ‘fascism’ in a totally foreign way – Italian or Spanish, she decided.

He was wandering back towards the door. ‘Thank you,’ he said, looking back at her with a sudden warm smile. ‘You have been most kind.’

She smiled to herself until long after he’d gone.

Then she remembered that she was large and whalelike and unattractive, and he wouldn’t have smiled so much if he’d seen her standing up.

Completely beyond her reach. But there was no harm in imagining.