A Taste for Death (4 page)

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parliamentary responsibilities, and spend the weekend listening to the grievances of their constituents, might have been designed to ensure that major decisions were made by men and women tired to the point of exhaustion. It certainly ensured that they were heavily dependent on their permanent officials. Strong ministers were still their own men; the weaker degenerated into marionettes. Not that this Would necessarily worry them. Departmental heads were adept at concealing from their puppets even the gentlest jerk of strings and wire. But Dalgliesh hadn't needed his private source of department gossip to know that there was nothing of this limp subservience about Paul Berowne.

He came forward from behind his desk and held out his hand as if this were a first meeting. His was a face, stern, even a little melancholy in repose, which was transfigured when he smiled. He smiled now. He said:

'I'm sorry to bring you here at short notice. I'm glad we managed to catch you. It isn't particularly important but ! think it may become so.'

Dalgliesh could never see him without being reminded of the portrait of his ancestor, Sir Hugo Berowne, in the National Portrait Gallery. Sir Hugo had been undistin-guished except for a passionate, if ineffective, allegiance to his king. His only notable recorded act had been to commission Van Dyck to paint his portrait. But it had been enough to ensure him, at least pictorially, a vicarious immortality. The manor house in Hampshire had long since passed from the family, the fortune was diminished; but Sir Hugo's long and melancholy face framed by a collar of exquisite lace still stared with arrogant conde-scension at the passing crowd, the definitive seventeenth-century Royalist gentleman. The present baronet's likeness to him was almost uncanny. Here was the same long-boned face, the high cheekbones tapering to a pointed chin, the same widely spaced eyes with the droop of the left eyelid, the same long-fingered pale hands, the same steady but slightly ironic gaze.

Dalgliesh saw that his desk top was almost clear. It was

21

a necessary ploy for an overworked man who wanted to stay sane. You dealt with one thing at a time, gave it your whole attention, decided it, then put it aside. At this moment he managed to convey that the one thing re-quiring attention was comparatively unimportant, a short communication on a sheet of quarto-sized white writing paper. He handed it over. Dalgliesh read:

'The member for Hertfordshire North East, despite his fascist tendencies, is a notable liberal when it comes to women's rights. But perhaps women should beware; proximity to this elegant baronet can be lethal. His first wife was killed in a car accident; he was driving. Theresa Nolan, who nursed his mother and slept in his house, killed herself after an abortion. It was he who knew where to find the body. The naked body of Diana Travers, his domestic servant, was found drowned at his wife's Thames-side birthday party, a party at which he was expected to be present. Once is a private tragedy, twice is bad luck,

three times looks like carelessness.'

Dalgliesh said:

'Typed with an electric goltball machine. They're not the easiest to identify. And the paper is from a pad of ordinary commercial bond sold in thousands. Not much help there. Have you any idea who could have sent it?'

'None. One gets used to the usual abusive or porno graphic letters. They're part of the job.'

Dalgliesh said:

'But this is close to an accusation of murder. If the sender is traced I imagine your lawyer would advise that it's actionable.'

'Actionable, yes, I imagine so.'

Dalgliesh thought that whoever had composed the message hadn't been uneducated. The punctuation was careful, the prose had a certain rhythm. He or she had taken trouble over the arrangement of the facts and in getting in as much relevant information as possible. It was certainly a cut above the usual filth and drivel which dropped unsigned into a minister's postbag, and it was the more dangerous for that.

He handed it back and said:

'This isn't the original, of course. It's been photocopied. Are you the only person to receive it, Minister, or don't you know?'

'It was sent to the press, at least to one paper, the Paternoster Review. This is in today's edition, I've only just seen it.'

He opened his desk drawer, took out the journal and handed it to Dalgliesh. There was a folded marker at page eight. Dalgliesh let his eyes slide down the page. The paper had been running a series of axtides on junior members of the Government and it was Berowne's turn. The first part of the article was innocuous, factual, hardly original. It briefly reviewed Berowne's previous career as a barrister, his first unsuccessful attempt to enter Parliament, his success at the 1979 election, his phenomenal rise to junior ministerial rank, his probable standing with the Prime Minister. It mentioned that he lived with his mother, Lady Ursula Berowne, and his second wife in one of the few extant houses built by Sir John Soane and that he had one child by his first marriage, 24-year-old Sarah Berowne, who was active in left-wing politics and who was thought to be estranged from her father. It was unpleasantly snide about the circumstances of his second marriage. His elder brother, Major Sir Hugo Berowne, had been killed in Northern Ireland and Paul Berowne had married his brother's fianc6e within five months of the car accident which had killed his wife. 'It was, perhaps, appropriate that the bereaved fianc6e and husband should find mutual consolation although no one who has seen the beautiful Barbara Berowne could suppose that the marriage was merely a matter of fraternal duty.' It went on to prog-nosticate with some insight but little charity about his political future. But much of that was little more than Lobby gossip.

The sting lay in the final paragraph and its origin was unmistakable. 'He is a man who is known to like women; certainly most find him attractive. But those women closest to him have been singularly unlucky. His first wife died in

a car smash whil lie he was driving. A young nurse, Theresa

Nolan, who nurrsed his mother, Lady Ursula Berowne,

killed herself alto er an abortion, and it was Ber0wne who

found the body. ' Four weeks ago a girl who worked for

him, Diana Traxrtiers, was found drowned following a party

given for his wife on her birthday, a party at which he was

- - 'esent Bad luck is as lethal for a olmc

expecteo to De orr ' D ' ' 'an

� . r Id yet follow him into ' '

as hahtoss. It coty hs political career

It could be the .sour smell of misfortune rather than the

suspicion that he doesn't know what he really wants which

� - - rediction that here is the Conserva could mock the p. , next

tive Prime Minist ter but one.

Berowne said:

'The Paternoster Review isn't circulated in the Depart ment. Perhaps it hould be. Judging from this we might be

missing entertainrnent if not instruction. I read it occasion all-y at the club mainly for the literary reviews Do you know anything a�ut the paper?' He could, thovght Dalgliesh, have asked the Depart ment's own publi: rlations people. It was interesting that

apparently he hatn t chosen to. He said:

'I've known Cc5nrad Ackroyd for some years. He owns and edits the Pate'ri�stet' His father and grandfather had it before him. In tlose days it was printed in Paternoster Place in the City. Ackroyd doesn't make money out of it. Papa left him rea;�nably well provided for through more orthodox investmnts, but I imagine it just about breaks even. He likes to print gossip occasionally, but the paper isn't a second Priate Eye. Ackroyd hasn't the guts for thing. I don't thiPk he has ever risked being sued in the history of the pal7er' It makes it less audacious and les;.; entertaining than ehe Eye, of course, except for the literary and dramatic revifws' They have an enjoyable perversity.' Only the Paternosler, he recalled, would have described 'S a revival of PriestleY An Inspector Calls as a play about a -. :

vho caused a great deal of trouble to a very ureso ., He added. 'Th �

respectable famfiy,

. � e facts wfil be accurate

-- 'l'his will have been checked But

t's

as

ar as mey go. . '

surprisingly viciou

for the Paternoster.'

24

Berowne said:

'Oh yes, the facts are accurate.' He made the statement calmly, almost sadly, without explanation and apparently without the intention of offering any.

Dalgliesh wanted to say 'Which facts? The facts in this journal or the facts in the original communication?' But he decided against the question. This wasn't yet a case for the police, least of all for him. For the present, anyway, the initiative must lie with Berowne. Fie said:

'I remember the Theresa Nolan inquest. This Diana

Travers drowning is new to me.'

Berowne said:

'It didn't make the national press. There was a line or two in the local paper reporting the inquest. It made no mention of my wife. Diana Travers wasn't a member of her birthday party but they did dine at the same restaurant, the Black Swan on the river at Cookham. The authorities seem to have adopted that slogan of the insurance company. Why make a drama out of a crisis?'

$o there had been a cover up, of sorts anyway, and Berowne had known it. The death by drowning of a girl who worked for a Minister of the Crown and who died after dining at the restaurant where the Minister's wife was also dining, whether or not he himself was present, would normally have justified at least a brief paragraph in

one of the national papers. Dalgliesh asked: 'What do you want me tO do, Minister?' Berowne smiled.

'Do you know, I'm not exactly sure. Keep a watching brief, I suppose. I'm not expecting you to take this on personally. That would obviously be ridiculous. But if it does develop into open scandal I suppose someone eventu-ally will have to deal with it. At this stage I wanted to put you in the picture.'

But that was precisely what he hadn't done. With any other man Dalgliesh would have pointed this out and with some asperity. The fact that he felt no temptation to do so with Berowne interested him. lie thought, there'll be reports on both the inquests. I can get most of the facts

25

rorn official ources. Fr the rt

tn open accu .. ,.

happened, wa�'' ne 11 have q if it does blow u, int emer it b ,

nd for the tcame a *(ome clean And if th, eat the scse, new squt*tter for hi en,

recisely. He e�Y real t would depen

- rea what g sus icion to do; find a oten .... P and of what ".ble . ? ua blackm Wne was e � qOu ...% t ;, ,.. -xDectlnff him ort would e'

u.,:emea nT?' or investigt been sent to tt Y break. I[.l that a SCandal of some

qe ratemost Revzi,,le communication -

been sent to q- . ther a e ' the nauonals. The p or joft had almost certainly their fire but - y m ght at ptls, possih ? . matdid ,.- , lytosomeof

C�mmumcatmh in* .,f.t mea? nt be ch%sine to hold

robably spik:.77 er. wmt' ey'd have thrown the

I the meanti nne ney s'per baskets. They had

'I'm meetin . ant to be sho partyfc� nst

aou . Z ey

� Y q walk to - without ex-

fdo of S' - the HoU e s to Bi -s , � ,, P rdcae Walk. W re thinv hi o s s Park. D}he lonv. , -- o comma � .

.

t way, alon,

re easily be

aid

nl

n WlSh

esh wondered if the; htrancing

if fq ,. ut.qf the m

t::

confide which could

Da., rmallze

beaut,

.

oxt

s SO conveq. . .

. '.. xnc nl

et,, acres o c

blly designed tq'snLt at they

'

} the park,

Yrossed

3qst, he thoue

) aa t?

one ce

t have been .......

-rt oi uonoon,

.u ,,,

= oi power to another,

ut if that

re Berow

e,s inttnl:

ecrets than any other

thwarted. Whey had hardlT

on, it was destined to

b

ed Birdcage Walk

when they were hailed by a cheerful shout and Jerogaame Mapleton trotted up beside them, rubicund, sweaty.fac5ced, a little out of breath. He was the member for a SoO�uth London constituency, a safe seat which he neverthelleless hardly ever left, as if fearing that even a week's abserence might put it in jeopardy. Twenty years in the House still hadn t dampened hs extraordinary enthusiasm for the 1 J b and his not unappealing surprise that he should actu; ally be there. Talkative, gregarious and insensitive, he attacLIhed himself as if by magnetic force to any group larger 0r m�re important than the one he was actually in. Law and ora'7der was his chief interest, a concern popular with his pr4r�s' perous middle-class constituents cowering behind tleir security locks and decorative window bars. Adapting his subject to his captive audience, he plunged at once iint� parliamentary small talk about the newly app0inSted committee, bobbing up and down between Ber0wne and Dalgliesh like a small craft on bumpy water.

'This committee, "Policing a Free Society: The N,:iext Decade", isn't that what it's called? Or is it "Policing in a Free Society: The Next Decade"? Didn't you spend * the first session deciding whe, ther to include that little I.re' position? So typical. You re looking at policy as well t as technical resources aren't you? Isn't that a tall order? It's made the committee larger than is usually thought effect ive hasn't it? Wasn't the original idea to look again at the application of science and technology to policing? Ihe

committee seems to have enlarged its terms of referenc e.' Dalgliesh said:

'The difficulty is that technical resources and policy aren't easily separated, not when you get to practical policing.'

'Oh I know, I know. I quite appreciate that, my d, ear Commander. This proposal to monitor vehicle m0vements on the motorways, for example. You can do it, 0fcom'se. The question is, should you do it? Similarly with surv,'eillance. Can you imagine advanced scientific mcthods divorced from the policy and ethics of their actual use? That's the question, my dear Commander. You know it,