The Friends of Harry Perkins Read online

  ‘I can assure you we will,’ said Farquar gravely. ‘You have been most helpful, Mr . . . er, William. Most helpful.’ They stood and shook hands and Farquar showed the little man out, gesturing to Thompson that he should stay put. They disappeared down the stairs, the little man protesting that he just wanted a quiet life and that he would never have got involved, but he was sick and tired of hearing Flather ranting about immigrants. Farquar assuring him that he had done right. ‘I’m not that keen on foreigners myself,’ the little man was heard to say as the front door closed, ‘but I can’t stand all that hype-ocrisy.’

  * * *

  A minute later and Farquar was back in the drawing room, refilling their glasses. ‘Well, dear boy, what did you make of that?’

  ‘Fascinating, but why are you letting me in on this? Why not just tip off your friends in high places and let them do the necessary?’

  He leaned forward, a wicked grin illuminating his plump visage. ‘Because, dear boy, I want you to bring the bastard down.’ A pause and then he continued. ‘If I tip off the higher-ups, it will all be hushed up. A quiet word and Flather will announce that he is standing down for family reasons and disappear back into the cesspit from which he crawled. I want him eviscerated.’ There was a malicious gleam in Farquar’s eye. He went on, ‘You need to understand that I am one of an almost extinct breed in my party – a one-nation Tory. I loathe these greedy, profiteering, tax-avoiding pinstripes who grew up believing the Thatcher decade was a golden age. And Flather is one of the worst.

  ‘Plus,’ he added quietly, ‘we need a bit of detective work, and you are just the man for that.’

  * * *

  A statement from the foreign ministry in Tokyo announced that, as a gesture of conciliation and in the interests of world peace, the captured Chinese soldiers would be repatriated. Meanwhile there were unconfirmed reports, in an obscure scientific journal, that Japan had for the last twenty years been secretly developing nuclear weapons. A spokesman for the Japanese foreign ministry denounced the suggestion as an outrageous slur, but didn’t quite get round to a categorical denial.

  SIX

  In death Harry Perkins acquired more friends than he had ever had in life. A bronze bust was unveiled in the members’ lobby, on a ledge just to the left of Clement Attlee, another of Perkins’ heroes. Madam Speaker presided in a lobby jam-packed with the great and good of the political class. The new Labour leader, Sylvia Jones, a bland, pleasant woman who radiated mediocrity, made a gracious little speech, the gist of which was that although she and Harry had their differences, no one could be happier than she that Perkins was taking his rightful place among the giants of British politics. ‘May God look sideways on you,’ muttered Jock Steeples audibly enough to cause heads to turn and even a fit of giggles among several of those closest.

  As they were filing out into the library corridor, the vast shadow of Farquar loomed. ‘Ah, there you are, Thompson. I’ve got something for you.’ He took a small envelope from his pocket and slid it into Thompson’s hand. ‘Let me know how you get on,’ he whispered. And with that he was gone, disappearing in the direction of what was once the smoking room.

  * * *

  ‘Who did you say you are?’ She peered at him over the top of horn-rimmed glasses. An elegant, though fading woman, whose demeanour radiated disappointment. No sign of a wedding ring.

  Thompson took out his House of Commons pass and handed it to her. She examined it carefully and returned it to him. She was harvesting sweet peas on a trellis attached to the garden wall.

  ‘I want to talk to you about Michael Flather.’

  ‘Michael who?’ She affected not to recognise the name.

  ‘You used to work for him.’

  ‘Oh, him.’ Her tone suggested that he was someone about whom she did not wish to be reminded. ‘You’d better come in.’

  She led him to the back door. It was an ordinary house on the edge of a quaint West Sussex village. One of half a dozen former council properties that had long since been sold off, a leftover from the days when local authorities took responsibility for housing those who could not afford a home of their own.

  ‘You live here alone?’ asked Thompson for want of something to say.

  ‘Yes, since my mother died.’ She indicated a photograph of an elderly lady on the dresser.

  She made two mugs of mint tea. They sat at the kitchen table. ‘Does Mr Flather know you are here?’

  ‘No. Nobody does.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Ten, maybe twelve years ago.’

  ‘And how long did you work for him?’

  ‘Five years. I left when the business changed hands.’

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  A large ginger cat strolled in, took one look at Thompson and did an immediate about-turn. ‘He doesn’t like strangers,’ she said.

  ‘What were your responsibilities?’

  ‘I was his personal assistant. I looked after his appointments diary, correspondence and kept the books.’

  ‘I understand there were two sets of books.’

  Silence.

  ‘The ones I am in interested were kept by a man called Stanley.’

  Her eyes didn’t quite meet his. ‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask Stanley?’

  ‘I would if I knew where he was to be found.’

  ‘He went abroad. America, I think.’

  ‘So I understand. I take it you don’t have an address for him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In that case I must rely on you. What were Stanley’s responsibilities?’

  She hesitated. ‘I . . . I . . .’ The ginger cat reappeared and, steering a wide circle around Thompson, made its way to a cushion by the boiler. ‘He ran the other part of the business. I was never involved with that. The accounts, all the paperwork were separate. Stan dealt directly with Mr Flather. He was very discreet.’

  ‘What was the other part of the business?

  ‘I . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘I am sorry, I can’t help you.’

  ‘It was people smuggling, wasn’t it?’

  She didn’t get indignant, denying all, rushing to her former employer’s defence. There was no ‘how dare you’. No demand that he produce evidence or withdraw the outrageous slur. She just repeated quietly, ‘I can’t help you.’ All the while looking at the table.

  He pressed her for several minutes, but she was adamant. So far as she was aware it was a haulage business. Nothing more, nothing less. Never once did she raise her voice. On the contrary, the more he pressed the quieter her replies became until they were almost inaudible.

  * * *

  He got up to leave. She walked behind him to the door and then to the garden gate. At the gate he hesitated and turned towards her. ‘Mrs . . . Eames . . .’

  ‘I am not married.’

  ‘Ms Eames, this is not the end of the matter. There will be an inquiry. Maybe prosecutions in due course. Your name is in the frame. Unless you help me, your next visitor may well be a police officer.’

  She turned pale. Looked at the ground, fidgeted, sighed deeply. At length she said, ‘You had better come back inside.’

  They returned to the kitchen. The sweet peas were in a basket on the table.

  ‘If I help, will you promise to keep my name out of it?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but I can offer no guarantee. You may have to make a statement.’

  She gave a deep sigh. ‘I knew that, sooner or later, someone would come. As soon as I saw him on the television going on about migrants, I thought, “You are living dangerously.” Reckless, that’s what he was. Everything he did involved risk – and greed. He didn’t give a fig about anyone but himself. He was a class A shit.’

  She spoke with such passion that it occurred to
Thompson there was more to her relationship with Michael Flather than met the eye. ‘How well did you know him?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘If you must know, we had an affair. It lasted three years, and then, when I was no longer of any use to him, he dumped me. The biggest mistake of my life.’

  ‘Tell me about the other side of the business. The one that Stan ran.’

  ‘As you say, it was a people-smuggling operation. Cattle were being trucked to southern Italy. The trucks were then hosed down and filled with people. Well, not filled. Actually just a handful at a time. There were false ceilings, compartments in the roof in which they had to hide before they crossed frontiers. Albanians mostly, but there were others. Some from the Middle East. They paid big money.’

  ‘When did you find out what was going on?’

  ‘Michael told me. He needed my help. The money had been going into someone else’s bank account, not his. But whoever it was got cold feet and backed out. He needed someone he trusted to open another account and, like a mug, I agreed.’

  * * *

  ‘Well, my boy,’ said Jock Steeples. ‘You’ve hit the jackpot.’ They were seated at the far end of the House of Commons terrace, beyond the sign that said ‘Members Only’. The seats around them were empty.

  ‘The question is, how do we handle it? First, you need to be sure of your facts.’

  ‘I have a statement from his former personal assistant – and mistress – signed and witnessed by a solicitor.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, there’s the man who first alerted me. He also used to work for Flather, but he’s not going to stick his head above the parapet. Also, there’s a lorry driver called Albert, but I haven’t spoken to him.’

  ‘I think you should,’ said Steeples. ‘You need two sources for something as explosive as this – that’s what I was taught when I was a young journalist.’

  * * *

  Albert, the driver, was easily traced. Farquar merely went back to William who gave him a surname and pointed him in the direction of a council estate in Croydon, all the while insisting that he wanted his name kept out of it. Armed with that information, all that was required was a trawl of the electoral register.

  It was a 1950s estate, from the golden age of public housing. Three-up, two-down houses, each with a little garden front and back. The sort of place that had once been entirely white working class, solid Labour until Mrs Thatcher had started selling off council houses at knock-down prices. Most of the houses had been bought; you could tell which ones by the new porches, Velux windows in the roof, brightly coloured front doors. Even a solar panel or two. Many were now in the hands of buy-to-let landlords. Most of these were instantly identifiable, too, by their unkempt gardens and overflowing rubbish bins. Albert’s front garden, in contrast, was neat and trim, a rose spilled over the porch, catmint lined the path to the front door.

  Albert’s missus answered. The television was on in the background. ‘Albert, there’s someone to see you. Says he’s a member of parliament.’ In the old days a visit from an MP would have been a big deal, but the age of deference had long since passed.

  Albert appeared, dressed in overalls. He hadn’t been home long. A big man, overweight, nicotine-stained fingers. Mrs Albert was a mouse by comparison. He peered at Thompson from the gloom of the hallway. ‘An MP? What does he want with me? You’re wasting your time round here, mate. I haven’t voted for twenty years. Not since that Tony Blair let in all those migrants. All over the place, they are. We’ve got hundreds of them round here.’

  ‘Actually, migrants – that’s exactly what I want to talk to you about. Can I come in?’

  Hesitantly, Mrs Albert stood aside. Thompson stepped gingerly into the hallway and followed Albert into the sitting room. A copy of the Daily Express, open at the racing page, lay on the sofa. Albert plonked himself in an armchair by the television. Fred sat down opposite him without waiting to be asked. EastEnders was on the telly, a lot of unhappy people shouting at each other. ‘Would you mind turning that off ?’

  Slowly, with a little show of reluctance, Albert leaned over and switched off the television. The tattoo on his biceps was of a dragon breathing fire.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Thompson, Fred Thompson.’ He proffered his MP’s photo pass. Albert examined it carefully and handed it back.

  ‘Never heard of you.’

  ‘I’ve not been in that parliament that long.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  Mrs Albert, hovering in the doorway, asked if he wanted a cup of tea. An offer Thompson gratefully accepted, if only to break the ice.

  ‘You used to work for Michael Flather, the Tory MP.’

  ‘That was years ago. What of it?’

  ‘Mr Flather takes a strong line on immigrants, doesn’t he?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’ His tone was quieter, now. Cautious, even. Somewhere in the far distance a little light was coming on.

  ‘But it wasn’t always so, was it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What was it you did for Mr Flather?’

  ‘I drove trucks. Haulage, that was the business.’

  ‘And what did those trucks carry?’

  ‘All sorts. Goods, cattle . . .’

  ‘People . . .?’

  ‘I don’t know nothing about that. I think it’s time you was going.’

  At which point Mrs Albert reappeared with two mugs of tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits. Thompson ate one, munching slowly. ‘Are those your grandchildren?’ he enquired, indicating photos of three small cherubs on the mantelpiece.

  Albert glowered; Mrs Albert glowed. ‘Jordan, the youngest. He’s four. And that’s his sister, Chelsea, aged five. Belong to my oldest boy Alan, they do. My other boy, Harry,’ she indicated a photo of a muscular young man in his late twenties, ‘has one and another one is on the way. That’s his, Maggie. Cheeky little monkey, she is.’ She handed the photo to Thompson who made a little show of admiring it and handed it back.

  ‘Have you got children, Mr Thompson?’

  ‘Two – girls aged six and eight.’

  ‘Lovely. I wish I’d had a girl. Not that I am unhappy with my boys,’ she added hastily. ‘Turned out well, they have. Alan works for Honda in Swindon and Harry’s a chef at a hotel in the Midlands. I wish we saw more of them, but they’re always busy, what with one thing and another.’

  ‘I think you’d better leave us alone, Mother,’ said Albert firmly. ‘Mr Thompson and I have some important business to discuss.’ Mrs Albert promptly disappeared.

  ‘Now, where were we?’ said Albert. A hint of menace in his voice.

  ‘We were discussing Michael Flather. Or rather his business. He was smuggling migrants, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know nothing about that.’ Even so, he did not sound shocked at the suggestion.

  ‘Oh I think you would.’

  ‘And what makes you think that . . .?’

  ‘Because you were up to your neck in it.’

  There was a long silence. Outside two youths were kicking a football against a wall. Thud, thud, thud.

  ‘Who told you that? Tell me and I’ll kick his arse . . .’

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

  Another long pause. The football hit the wall – once, twice, three times.

  ‘Fucking hypocrite, he is. It was his idea, not mine.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘We was delivering cattle to southern Italy and coming back empty. One day he asks me if I want to make some serious money. He knew someone, he said, who was interested in bringing in foreigners. Not many, like. Just a handful at a time. Albanians mainly, but some from further afield – Iranians, one or two Afghans. He had a false compartment fitted, with air vents. They only used it when we reached the Channel. We used to pull up in a forest about ten miles short of Calais, clear up the debris in the back and then they’d disappear into the compartment. Usually I dr
opped them off in a lay-by outside Dover and someone would pick them up, but on one occasion no one turned up and I had to bring them back to the depot. That’s when we got seen. That William who worked in the office. He was working late. I bet it was him that told you, wasn’t it? Came across him once in Lanzarote. Nervous little fellow. I should have known he couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut.’

  ‘Actually, it was Mrs Eames. Remember her? She worked in the office. Knew all Flather’s secrets.’

  ‘You mean that Rosalind? Stuck up so-and-so, she was. Very proper, she appeared, but we always reckoned she was sleeping with Flather.’

  Thompson said nothing. The football hit the window.

  ‘Bloody kids,’ said Albert, half rising from the armchair. ‘So what the hell made her blab?’

  ‘How would I know?’ said Thompson innocently, as if he had nothing to do with it. ‘She couldn’t bear the hypocrisy, I guess.’

  ‘Well, to tell you the truth, neither could I . . .’ He paused, perhaps realising it was a bit late to claim the moral high ground. ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘I want you to make a sworn statement, setting out exactly what you know. Mrs Eames has already made one.’

  ‘Oh no. Now look here, Fred, Frederick, or whatever your name is, I don’t want no trouble.’

  Thompson had the upper hand now. ‘Well, Albert – may I call you Albert? – I’m afraid it’s too late for that. If you do co-operate though, we can probably keep you out of jail.’

  ‘Jail?’ The blood drained from Albert’s face. ‘It was years ago, I only made half a dozen trips – ten at the most. In the end I got cold feet and told Mr Flather I was leaving. He wasn’t best pleased about that.’

  ‘If this goes to court,’ said Thompson doing his best to sound sympathetic, ‘your best hope is to give evidence against Flather.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. Mr Flather has got some nasty friends.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Thompson, ‘I’m afraid you’ll go down with him.’

  * * *

  It took a while to get a statement out of Albert. Two more visits, in fact. The first time, he failed to show up to a prearranged appointment at the office of a local solicitor. Second time round Thompson appeared unannounced on his doorstep accompanied by Stephen Carter who, it transpired, was a solicitor by profession. Mrs Albert, looking distinctly uneasy, answered the door. ‘He’s not in,’ she said.