Whistle Blower (23 page)

JIM HAD JUST emerged into the arrivals hall at Heathrow Airport when he heard the familiar Irish accent.

"Jim. Welcome to London. In fact, welcome home. Was it a good flight, Jim?"

"Restful."

"No more bags? Are the paintings in there? You're lucky with the weather—very unseasonal. Even Dublin was warm." Tom chatted nonstop. Jim listened and followed Tom. "The beard is coming along nicely, Jim… I hired a car…I flew in from Dublin last night… stayed the night at a hotel in Windsor and I booked you there also… close to London, but not in it if you get my meaning…and I left Mrs. O'Casey in charge of the shop, so I did…she's OK for weeks if I give her a cut of the takings."

Jim remembered the hotel in Windsor. It was where Margaret had first expressed misgivings about his going into politics. After check-in, he looked around his room.

"Like it was yesterday… bed too high…bath big enough for ducks to swim in…pink soap…and what's this?…His and Hers white dressing gowns. Dear me, Mother, how typically British and quaint."

He lay horizontally on the bed for a while staring at a pink light shade. "I suppose you'd like the color scheme, Margaret. For the feminine touch it deserves a higher score than Amsterdam. Personally, though, I would recommend a total revamp."

Tom had told him not to rush. "Have a shower, Jim, take a nap. No rush. Got to take it easy. I'll wait."

He showered, used the toilet, checked the growth of hair on his face in the mirror, cleaned his teeth, checked them in the same mirror. "I've told you not to do that, but you never learn." Then he changed into a pair of crumpled, long trousers and a long-sleeved shirt and went downstairs where Tom was drinking Guinness and working through a pile of newspapers. He glanced up.

“Hah! Smart enough to take tea with the Queen, Jim.”

"Only the Tudors wore as much clothing as this for afternoon tea."

"Sure you'll get used to it. Beer?"

The barman took an order and they went to a corner table by the window overlooking the street, but if Tom thought it was going to be an hour of relaxation, he was wrong. Jim had plans and the formal manner—the one Tom had first encountered in the hospital—had returned.

"I have a few phone calls to make, Tom—not many—a few friends and contacts. First, though, we need to decide how best you can help me and how I can help you. There can be no written contracts, only mutual trust. Misplaced trust of others was a weakness but I'm willing to try it once more.

“This is my proposal. First, there are things I need to do towards providing evidence for the accusations I made in Parliament. This could take time. Days? Weeks? I really cannot be sure. If it looks like it will take much longer then we'll need to decide what to do. But to begin we will meet two friends of mine who have been working with me to gather the evidence…"

Tom interrupted, grinning. "And are they getting anywhere, Jim? But I'm so pleased to hear that. I really thought you were just sitting out there hiding and doing nothing. This is more like the Jim Smith I used to admire."

"We will meet them on Saturday. In secret."

"Jim," Tom interrupted again. "Trust me. Just let me help. If there's a story at the end of it you want written then tell me. If not, I'll just keep everything to myself. Meanwhile, I'm here to help—in any way I can."

Jim nodded. "I don't want press and media descending on us in droves. Our location must remain a secret and no mention will be made of restarting the old campaign until we are ready. Then we will need a few appropriate words and phrases to release. That's your job. Media management was something I'd never thought about before."

"Ah. 'Tis something I also learned about—the hard way—but from the other side."

"Then," Jim went on, "I need some urgent help on another matter—the truth behind those photographs of me. Nice, juicy bits of unearthing from a freelance investigative journalist that the tabloid responsible will, whether they want to or not, have to publish just to satisfy the mentality of their loyal, scandal-loving readers. Track down Polly if you can, Tom. Get her story—nearly four years after the biggest thing that had ever happened in her life—lovely stuff for the entertainment of some. She might even give you names of those behind it. That would be useful."

"OK," said Tom with a smile.

"Also," Jim went on, “I need to see my wife." He took a mouthful of his beer and looked out the window. "I can't foresee the outcome to that just yet. But it is a very private matter. I will have no control over what my wife may decide to do or say afterwards. Similarly, I cannot anticipate what my own feelings will be. It's something we'll have to play by ear for the time being.

"But as for what you write, how you write it and who you sell it to, that's your choice. Just choose the right publication. You negotiate your own financial arrangements because that is your private matter. Whatever deal you strike is of no concern of mine. But, what I am saying, Tom, is that I am offering you exclusive rights to report on the reasons for my leaving the UK and my return and hopefully the evidence—the evidence I lacked at the time."

"And the paintings, Jim?"

"Leave that with me for a day or so. I might try to arrange a small exhibition somewhere. What do you think?"

"Small? Well, I suppose an unknown artist has to start somewhere. But may I make one other personal suggestion, Jim. And please don't get me wrong because you know my feelings on the subject. But, well, for the benefit of the public it might be better if you adopted a smart, clean-shaven approach. You, more than anyone, know what the press is like. Think about it. Compare a picture of a bearded recluse trying to recover a seedy political reputation with a smart, bronzed, handsome-looking brute, an ex-politician and captain of industry and now an international artist of some repute. You know which will win hands down in the eyes of the image-conscious public, don’t you?"

Jim's smile, or what counted as one, appeared. His teeth showed and the gray hair on his face moved upwards and outwards towards his ears and eyes. "Ah, my image consultant as well as my press agent, I see."

"And also a good and trustworthy friend, Jim."

"I hope so. But the beard stays, OK? I'm comfortable with it and that's what matters. And there's no need of a haircut either. I'll might just tie it back a bit—for the sake of appearances. Though perhaps I could use a new suit." 

"And may I suggest a couple of mobile phones—numbers only known to you and me? Why don’t we venture into the town to see if we can find an outfitters, suitable for an English gentleman? And two phones. After a decent lunch that is. When did you last eat?"

"Two days ago," said Jim.

"YES, I AM listening, Toni. You want to talk to me about Cherry Picking Investments while I am driving in the middle of Zurich?"

Guido was in the black Mercedes, sitting low in the driver's seat, his head barely above the steering wheel.

"What do you mean, I gave you the wrong name? It is not Cherry Picking? Then what is it?…Cherry Picking, Cherry Pick… there is no difference… I will still wring your parrot neck for impertinence, you understand. Wait—I will stop the car…OK I have stopped. What is it?"

The news from Toni was clearly not good.

"Yes, I know that Hamid and Farid have a Nigerian connection. What is the problem? Did you speak to Hamid? Did you speak to Farid?… Why did they not want to speak to you? Where are they now? Beirut or Lagos?…So is the telephone not working in Beirut?… And they refused to speak to you? Did you remind them that you are a member of Guido's senior management team like I told you?…What the fuck?…So did you try the Lagos number?…Very good, Toni…And you pretended to be another consultant offering to help with funding bids…this is much better. Maybe I'll pay your salary after all…And what did the Lagos office say?…What does this Mr. Johnson do?…He's their fucking consultant now?…No, no, no, this I cannot believe. There is more to this. A Nigerian? A consultant? No, no. If anyone mentions Nigeria you think scams, scams and more scams. Even a Lebanese would not trust a Nigerian to help with this. Nigerians are clever at scams and nothing else. I think we need to mention this Cherry Picking to Mr. E…Yes, Mr. E. Do I need to say his name aloud into my telephone…Yes, that Mr. E. If we have lost this one maybe Mr. Eischmann will be able to pull it back on track from his side. I will phone him. But I must go, my appointment with Credit Suisse is in twenty minutes."

JIM IGNORED THE three plastic bags of new clothes on the bed next to him. Instead, he retrieved an old address book from his duffel bag and set about checking the new pay-as-you-go mobile phone. Taking a deep breath he phoned the number of his old house in Wiltshire—Margaret—but the number was no longer available.

Another deep breath and he tried the next number—that of Douglas Creighton, his one-time, so-called, constituency party chairman. The phone was answered by a man whose voice he did not recognize. "Good afternoon. I am sorry to trouble you but I am trying to locate Mr. Douglas Creighton."

"Oh yes—Doug. He owns this house—we rent it from him. His wife died a few years ago. He moved away and rents it out. Do you want his mobile?"

Jim then called the mobile. It was answered by a man with an elderly voice he hardly recognized, but Douglas was now over seventy. "Douglas?" Jim checked.

"Yes. Who is it?"

"It's Jim Smith." There was a silence as though the listener was checking a hearing aid. "Douglas? Are you there?"

"Yes. My God."

"It is not God, Douglas. It’s only me, Jim Smith—once an Independent Member of Parliament, a role in which I was grateful for your undying support during some brief but trying times.”

"My goodness. Where are you? We thought you were dead or living abroad."

"Did we? Well, I'm alive you'll be pleased to know, and I'm in England. I arrived this morning."

"Where are you staying? What are you doing? My God, Jim, this is quite a shock hearing your voice after so long."

"I was hoping we could meet."

"My goodness, Jim. Ah, yes. Does anyone else know you are here? Why the return?"

"Time to have another go, Douglas."

"At what, Jim?"

"At addressing the same problem that made me go away."

"It's a long time, Jim. Most people have forgotten."

"But, I haven't forgotten, Douglas. I am here to resurrect things, make a few more people jump around, possibly the same ones. And if a few media people manage to find space to publish a few facts instead of fairy tales perhaps they'll jump even higher."

"You haven't changed much then, Jim."

Jim wanted to move quickly on to his reason for calling, but first: "Tell me about Megan. I heard something when I phoned your old number."

"Megan died about two years ago. We'd been married thirty-five years. Cancer. Getting over it a bit now, but it takes the stuffing out of one."

"I'm sorry, Douglas. I have fond memories of Megan."

"Thank you… and what about your private plans?"

Jim saw through it. Private plans meant Margaret. "Private plans are private plans, Douglas. But can you and I meet? Cup of coffee? Beer?"

"Yes, I suppose. Why not, I suppose. When?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. It’s rather short notice for which I apologize, but I'm in a hurry—as ever, you might say. Can you get to London?"

"Yes, I suppose. By train. Goodness me. Where?"

"Let's not make it too dramatic, Douglas. I know you used to frequent the Ritz from time to time but their strict dress criteria means I may not be allowed in. How about the Cumberland Hotel, Marble Arch as I wouldn't even need to wear a tie. Say about three? Tea? Coffee? Beer? Gin and tonic? But please, Douglas, this is between you and me at present. It's strictly confidential."

Jim lay back on the big, soft bed, reflecting on Douglas and his irritating habit of saying ‘My God' and 'I suppose' at every opportunity. It was a habit the man had dragged around for decades, yet no one seemed to have told him how annoying it was. "Wasted opportunity, Mother. If that was me they'd have found some cartoons and jokes there."

Beside him on the bed lay the bags of new clothes. Two new suits off the peg, one dark gray and one navy blue, three white shirts, two ties, three pairs of navy socks, a pair of black lace-up shoes and a plastic pack of underwear—all Tom's choice, like a caring and thoughtful wife. He stood and held the suit against his chest, brushed a hand through his hair and beard. Tom was right. He should probably shave and have a haircut. But, no, they either saw him as he was or not at all. Wearing a suit and, perhaps, a tie was as far as he was prepared to go, but only if necessary.

He tried on one of the shirts, the underwear and socks and finally the trouser half of one of the suits, tried to remember how to tie a knot in the tie but gave up. Finally, he bit off a few sales labels with his teeth, pulled on the new shoes, tied his hair back with an elastic band and looked at himself in the full-length mirror.

"Hah! Lek! Sawadee Kap! Recognize me? It's Jim. How's the business?"

The clothes felt heavy, cumbersome, restrictive and itchy and he knew the shoes would cause trouble. He took them off, sat on the bed cross-legged and made the third phone call. Jonathan had been expecting the call for most of the day.

Meeting fixed for Saturday, Jim pulled the new shoes back on, tied them loosely and walked painfully down to the bar to find Tom with an opinion.

"Well, I suppose we’re part way there, Jim, but frankly I prefer you in your shorts and sandals. Ah well. Never mind. It's alright. It'll help to serve a purpose so it will."