Dunster (21 page)

There was a murmur of assent round the table. And then the long-winded interrupter said the few short words which made my heart sink, it was delivered to each of us this morning. Personally. By motor bicycle.'

‘Well, what's it say?' Cris asked. ‘This precious letter?'

‘The chairman didn't receive a copy?'

‘Not so far as I know.'

‘And you would know, Chairman, had you received it. Undoubtedly. That is indeed strange. Then perhaps colleagues would like me to read it out, so that it may be incorporated in the minutes. I promise to do so quite without comment or digressions, whether tedious or no. Chairman, may I proceed?'

‘In your own time, Sydney.' Cris was calm again, even smiling. I couldn't join him.

‘The heading is Streetwise Productions and the date today. It is signed Richard Dunster.' Sid Vicious gave a further jerk to his ear to speed him on his way:

Dear Member of the Megapolis Board

Today you will be told that my
War Crimes
series is to be cancelled. This is because I have obtained incontrovertible proof that your chairman is himself a war criminal who, up till now, has managed to avoid arrest. You will have been told of the destruction of the church at Pomeriggio. Captain Bellhanger thought up, planned and commanded that operation. Its sole intent was the murder of almost the entire population as a punishment for betraying escaped prisoners. There can be no doubt that this is the truth. I have interviewed a Major Blair, who served in the SAS with Bellhanger, and Lance Corporal Sweeting, who now lives in Italy. One of the other members of the squad who performed this atrocity, Sergeant Blaker, lost his life later in the war. I have not yet interviewed the explosives expert. When I do so, I have no reason to think that his evidence will not bear out all that the other witnesses have told me.

I am determined that this information shall be made public, if not by television then through some other medium. You, as members of the Board, may agree that the truth cannot be suppressed and may decide that the series should proceed as planned. Whether or not you do so, I am completely dedicated to the cause of justice for the innocent inhabitants of a small Italian town. Perhaps, in his heart, your chairman will agree and intends that my work shall be his public confession. Yours sincerely [etc.]

The style was appallingly familiar. These were the sort of words I had been hearing throughout my life, but those days were a rehearsal for this final blast of moral outrage, the explosion calculated to do the maximum possible damage. That they were read out in Sydney Pollitter's high snuffle made them no less the voice of Dunster. And as he sat listening to them, I had never admired Cris so much. He looked as detached as if someone were reporting on the sale of videos and T-shirts in the Megapolis gift shop. When the letter had been read, even Sydney was silent for a moment, impressed by the enormity of the charges.

Then Cris said, ‘Very interesting. But pure fiction.'

‘Speaking for myself and I hope for the rest of us' – Lady Mendip spoke as one accustomed to take a hard line with unsubstantiated allegations of snogging in the music room – ‘I am prepared to accept our chairman's word entirely. If he tells us that it's fiction, then that's the end of the matter.'

There were sounds of approval led, unexpectedly, by the ever vocal Sydney. ‘I will second Lady Mendip's excellent motion, if I may. We unhesitatingly accept the chairman's complete denial of these shocking allegations.' Was that it? Could we gather up our papers and leave the black marble? Could I ring Lucy and suggest the Muswell Hill Odeon? Apparently not. Sydney still had another trick up his sleeve. ‘However, that can't be quite the end of the matter, can it? The chairman said this letter was interesting. He said so, of course, with that complete fairness we have come to expect of him. Now, I am no lawyer. I am a man of figures and accounts, tedious matters, perhaps, in the view of some around this table. Here I speak purely as a layman but is this letter not also a flagrant libel? Through the Chair, of course. I turn to Charles Glasscock for legal advice.'

‘Clearly libellous.' The youngest member enjoyed his moment of glory. ‘I have no doubt that would be the advice of any reputable counsel.'

‘I will be shot down in flames by Charles if I am in error on this point, Chairman, but does not the sending of this letter, this very morning by motor-bicycle rider, amount to publication of the libel?' Sid Vicious, who denied all knowledge of the law, looked extremely knowing.

‘Publication has occurred,' Glasscock the solicitor told us, ‘and further publication is apparently threatened.'

‘There now, Chairman.' Sid leant back and looked at Cris as though congratulating him on having won a much-coveted award. ‘You have an unanswerable case. You will also have the full support of colleagues, many of whom are far more learned in these matters than I could ever pretend to be, in issuing a writ immediately.

For the first time in that long meeting I thought Cris looked troubled. He stared down at the table, took in a deep breath and then began to collect up his papers.

“Thank you, Sydney. Thank you all for your support. I will, of course, have to consider my position carefully, very carefully indeed. No doubt I'll take legal advice. Well, thank you all for coming in at short notice. Let's hope I shan't have to trouble you again.'

‘A final word, Chairman, while you are considering the matter, as indeed you must. And this is spoken, I do hasten to assure you, in the spirit of true friendship and lasting respect. If no action is taken on this wretched letter' – at which Sydney liberated his ear lobe and brought a large hand down smack on the offending document – ‘a terrible slur will remain on the reputation of our chairman and of course' – and here a note of almost religious awe came into the Pollitter voice – ‘on the good name of this great company, Megapolis Television plc.'

That's right!' Barney Fawcett, a stout and elderly man, had the cheeky schoolboy face and unsettled hair of the hero of the William books I used to read as a child. ‘This business has got to be put a stop to. Who is this fellow Dunster? Some sort of leftie agitator? Let's see how he'll stand up in court. Not too well, if you want to know my opinion.'

‘One doesn't like to resort to the courts, of course. But it may be that the threat of proceedings will be enough to force an apology.' The trouble was that Lady Mendip had never met Dunster.

‘I would like to see a writ issued and served tomorrow,' young Charlie Glasscock said, and I thought he would also like his firm to be instructed to do it.

‘Why tomorrow?' Sydney Pollitter began a little, snuffling giggle at his own final joke. ‘Why not deliver it this afternoon? By
motor-bicycle
rider!'

‘The spirit of true friendship!' Cris had taken his jacket off when we got back to his office and was pouring two large whiskies. ‘When Sid Vicious starts to talk to me about true friendship I can feel the knife tickling my shoulder blades. You understand what he was doing?'

‘It was fairly obvious.'

‘He thinks he's got me in a corner. Sue for libel or give up your job.'

‘You think he wants it?'

‘Of course. And he wants the golden handcuff the company'd give him. A big lump of money to induce him to take on the job he's been angling for this last ten years.' He put his legs up on the sofa as though he were intending to sleep off his troubles, clutching the chunky glass of dark liquid for comfort, ‘I've a good mind to make him a present of it. Our precious directors would probably have him, or he'd go on talking until they gave in. Board meetings mean being bored by Sydney Pollitter.' Something was happening I had never bargained for. It seemed I was seeing Crispin Bellhanger, who took to command so easily, in a rare and unexpected moment of defeat.

‘You're not going to resign?'

‘What's the alternative? Days in court. Headlines in the papers. The hopeless business of trying to prove things that all the witnesses have forgotten, even if they're still alive and talking. What's that going to be like for Angie? No. I've got a good mind to jack it in. Perhaps they'll let me run that little touring opera. Now that's a nice, peaceful job for an old soldier.'

‘It wouldn't stop him, you know.'

‘What did you say?' Cris seemed far away in the world of whisky and Mozart.

‘If you give up, it's not going to stop Dunster. He'll be cock-a-hoop. He'll say your resignation proved him right. He might even get the newspapers to agree with him.'

He turned his head slowly to look at me and seemed amused. ‘What's your advice? What are you telling me to do?'

‘He's got to be fought,' I told him. ‘He's got to lose.'

Cris swung his long legs down from the sofa, put his glass on the coffee table and looked at me with an entirely new interest.

‘Something's changed you, Philip.'

‘Perhaps this has.' This, or too much of Dunster. Perhaps it was also the fact of Beth receding in last night's lovemaking in the bed that hadn't been hers for so long. Or was it seeing Cris cornered and taken off his guard?

‘You seem to have become quite ruthless.'

‘I've had enough of him.'

He stood up and went to his usual position, looking down at the water with his back towards me. He emptied his glass slowly and said, “All right. I'll go and see the lawyers. You know so much about it now. Would you be good enough to come with me?'

‘Anything,' I told him. “Absolutely anything I can do to help.'

I started this account by telling you about my chronic anxiety and that I could always find something to worry about, even if it were the way I seemed to worry about nothing at all. This feeling was a perpetual handicap, a pain I grew used to and lived with but which was always there, like an unloved companion I couldn't ignore. The morning after the board meeting I woke up and felt that something had gone seriously wrong because I was not really worried any longer. And the worrying thing was that this had happened at a time of great anxiety, when I had started to fight against an enemy I now knew to be implacable for the honour and reputation of a man I knew to be innocent. Perhaps these uncharacteristic decisions had suppressed my worries like some strong pain-killer, or at least a placebo. I really don't know how else to explain it.

I had been to the Muswell Hill Odeon after the meeting at which Sydney Pollitter had performed his delicate manoeuvre, and I woke up with a dark head beside me on the pillow, which may have helped to explain my alarming absence of doubt. As I went downstairs to make the tea, the phone was ringing. It was Cris who said the top libel QC, Robin, or Robbie, Skeffington, was finishing a case in Hong Kong and couldn't see us until Monday. He hoped I'd be able to fit that into my diary. He sounded cheerful when we said goodbye and, as I spooned the Earl Grey into the teapot, I wondered why I wasn't particularly worried by the extraordinary fact that Sir Crispin Bellhanger had taken my advice.

For the rest of that week events were suspended. I called in at Streetwise and told Peregrine Gryce that, although the series had been cancelled, all the work he had done would be paid for and I was taking possession of the files as Cris's lawyers had asked for them. ‘I must say, Philip' – he was looking extremely sulky – ‘nothing's gone right since you came on to the artistic side. Why did you want to get us mixed up with lawyers? Lawyers simply don't understand the creative imperative. Also they dress so terribly badly. Rather like you, actually.'

‘I didn't get us mixed up with lawyers. Dunster did. Have you spoken to him at all?'

‘I keep leaving messages but he doesn't return my calls.'

‘He's probably busy trying other forms of expression. He seems to have lost his faith in television.'

‘This mess with
Megapolis
has shaken mine, rather.'

‘Goodbye then, Perry. We may meet again some time.'

‘Oh, I don't expect so. I imagine you'll sink back into accounts. You do look just a tiny bit out of place in Wardour Street.'

Miss Pippa Marching didn't look up from her copy of
TV Quick
to return my parting salute.

Tash came for her weekend. On Sunday night she cooked me a surprisingly good dinner – a cheese
soufflé
and roast lamb – and left the kitchen looking as though we had been entertaining a group of some forty-five drunk and starving teenagers. As we sat over our coffee, getting on, I thought, rather better than usual, she said.

‘What's the matter, Dad? Have you become a hippy or something?'

‘Have I changed as much as that?'

‘I mean, have you taken to wearing these?' She put her hand in her jeans pocket and pulled out a pair of green earrings which I had last seen decorating Lucy.

‘Where did you find those?'

‘Top shelf in the bathroom. Didn't you notice?'

‘I should have done but I've had a lot to think about.'

‘It wasn't the pallid job who gave you the inappropriate shirt, was it?'

‘You mean Lucy? She was my Nina.' I don't know why I felt I had to add that as some sort of an excuse.

‘I don't care what she was of yours. I'm just not going to make friends with her.'

‘It'd be nice if you could.'

‘Horrible! So many people at school have to do it. Go to awful chatty lunches with their father's girlfriends. So they can discuss Dad as though he were a difficult child they were both crazy about, really. And so the girlfriends can be told his marriage was breaking up anyway and it's not their fault.'

‘It had broken up long ago. And it certainly wasn't Lucy's fault.'

‘No. I know.' She looked thoughtful and then she said, ‘I don't think I'll be coming to stay with you again, Dad. Not for some time, anyway.'