Chapter XV The Yanks are Coming

 

 

The Mayor’s Parlour was empty. The cupboard with the drinks was still open. The bunch of keys was still lying on the table where I had left it. Hastily I put away the drinks and locked up the cupboard. I was sorely tempted to take the keys and lock Emil and Susan in the Council Chamber. It would serve them right for the shock they gave us, particularly to Meena.

However, my sense of fairness overcame my sense of mischief. We must have been a wonderful sight to behold, and it is not exactly as if Emil had been peeping at us empty-handed. He was in fact part of the same party. Perhaps we were the inspiration for his dalliance with the trendy young Press Officer. Good luck to him, I thought.

I left the Parlour, ensuring that the door was shut but not locked. I made my way to the Members’ Room to find Meena. She was not there. I looked in the canteen but with no luck. I rang her number on my mobile but all I could do was to leave a message to ring me back. 

Before I left the Civic Centre I checked into the Leader’s Office. Ted’s secretary was there. No, she had not seen Meena. But she was anxious to know if I had a copy of the press release. I told her I was certain that Miss Sweetman, the young Press Officer, would have copied both Ted and myself with a copy of the text when she e-mailed the media an hour earlier. She promised to check his electronic mail.

Following this exchange, I retraced my steps back to the Members’ Room to check my own e-mails on the computer and print out a copy of the press release. In the corridor between the Leader’s Office and the Members’ Room I ran into Jim.

“Not driving today, Jim?” I asked politely.

“Good afternoon, Councillor Axtell,” he said, “No driving for me today. I’m standing in for some sick porters at the moment. I was just checking the rooms, as I have a group of American tourists to take round the building in a minute. I was told by the Chief Executive’s office that you might still have the keys to the Mayor’s Parlour. Do you have them?” 

“Well actually, no,” I said hesitantly. “I last time I saw the keys they were with Councillor Kapacek.”

“OK, I thought that might be the case but I cannot find him at all at the moment. Also he’s not answering his mobile. We need to be careful about the Parlour. There are many valuables in there.” He went on his way.

I must warn Emil, I thought. Again I was interrupted.

“Hello, there, Peter,” I spun round. It was the bulky frame of Andy Trosser, just emerging from the Members’ Room. “I’ve just checked the e-mails. The press report is just right: short and effective. Your quotation is spot on. Well done!”

I had thought previously of rushing to the Parlour to warn Emil in case he had not locked it yet, but Andy had distracted me. I now walked back into the Members’ Room. I opened one of the computers, entered my password and checked the e-mails. There was the usual mish-mash of adverts and intrusive pop ups, notices from book sellers, agendas of oncoming Council meetings, including my local area committee, and a couple of messages from my constituents. It is amazing how when you think to yourself “I must spare a minute to check my e-mails”, that “minute” soon becomes fifteen minutes.

The Press Release was indeed on screen. I downloaded and printed a copy. I also noticed copies of acknowledgement from two local freebies. Just as I watched the incoming mail, a new piece of mail was flashed up. It was from the Framden Journal. Could I ring them to give an interview on the Pinkerton Plaza Development? What could I say to that? Only yes.

Before I rang the Journal I checked with the Chief Executive’s office to see if the exact date and time had been fixed for the public meeting, as well as the venue.

As over three hundred people were expected to turn up at the public meeting the CEO had decided to opt for one of the biggest halls in the Borough, the Friend’s Meeting House, which was owned by the Quakers and was an alcohol free zone. Apparently, Ted Grayson had approved this in the last half hour and all the details were now fixed.

Good. I had something with which to go back to the Journal. In the meantime, I checked the messages on my mobile, which had been switched off ever since the meeting in the Parlour had begun. There were three messages. One was from my Mother, one from my business partner, asking sarcastically if I was still a member of our joint partnership, and one was from BBC London. They too wanted me to contact them.

I rang the BBC first. They wanted to feature a story on the Pinkerton development and on the business interests of Yakov Sheremovsky. I told them that I could comment on the development but not on the other subject of the programme. That was fine with them. Could I meet them outside the site gates on Monday morning of the following week? I agreed to write this into my diary. Our public meeting was to be held only four days later, so that would certainly be in time.

Next I e-mailed a short letter to the “Evening Standard” criticizing Sheldrake’s comments and stating that a public meeting would be held prior to the committee session where the outline planning application would be considered.

Then at last I rang the Journal. Their star investigative reporter, Penelope Wyndham, wanted to see me in two hours’ time in order to catch their weekend deadline. Again, I agreed.

I sat back. I had had a trying two days, with the site visit, the happenings in the House of Shame, the pre-meeting this morning and the lunchtime shenanigans. I was also hungry. I ordered a pizza sandwich to the Members’ Room, bought a tea from the machine and then sat back in the chair reading a newspaper, while I waited. I was vaguely aware that I should have rushed to the Mayor’s Parlour to speak to Emil over something, but I needed to eat first. So I waited for the pizza sandwich. And while I waited I dozed off again …

 

 

I was being shaken by a young black woman. I tried to work out where I was exactly. I suddenly realized that I was still in the Members’ Room. The woman was one of the Civic Centre’s catering staff. My pizza sandwich was cold now as was my tea. She saw I was tired and asked if I wanted to have the sandwich re-heated. I thought for a minute and decided that I would eat it cold. I looked at my watch. It was four thirty. To my horror I realized that I was already half an hour late for my interview with the Journal. Desperately I rang the journalist and apologized for my lateness, saying how immersed I had been with a delegation of French Councillors from our twinned Borough in Normandy.  The journalist listened politely to my tissue of lies and said that she would wait if I came immediately.

I ordered a minicab from the Members’ Room and was told one would be available for me outside the Civic Centre to pick me up. Gathering together my papers and my briefcase, I stuffed part of the cold pizza sandwich in my mouth and I rushed to the lift. It all seemed to take so much time as a party of American tourists got out on my floor chatting and laughing with an uncharacteristic lack of restraint. The women were squealing with laughter and the men were obviously enjoying a joke too, especially one old buffoon waving his video-camera. “I got it all on film,” he seemed to be shouting.

Eventually I descended the 2 floors to the ground floor and rushed towards the entrance gobbling up the last of the pizza sandwich as I went. As I passed the porter’s desk, I saw Jim talking heatedly with someone over the telephone. As he saw me he waved to me, almost frantically, as if he wanted to tell me something. But I had no time for his risqué jokes and his gossip at the moment, as I could see my minicab waiting outside. I tried to call out “Later” to him, but my mouth was still full of food, so I was not too successful. I gave him a polite wave and rushed outside.

 

It was the Framden Journal news editor who met me in the newspaper office lobby as Penelope was on the phone. He took me straight to the interview room on the ground floor. I begged him for a cup of hot black coffee. This was provided. A photographer came to take my picture. A minute later Penelope Wyndham, their top reporter, breezed in with a beatific smile. To an experienced politician that smile could only spell danger with a capital D. I shook myself mentally to prepare.

 While she conducted the interview my brain was still reeling and trying to adjust to reality. My eyelids were fighting with the coffee over who had the rights to my consciousness, temptress Sleep or the charming wily dangerous Penelope.

Yet right from the opening question Penelope seemed happy to put me at my ease. What did I think of the merits of the planning application for the Pinkerton Plaza project? I was allowed to give her a balanced view of the outline application and what the benefits of the application would be to the community if a proper arrangement could be agreed.

She mentioned that there was strong vocal opposition to the project. Was not the timetable for approval too fast? I pointed out that the Council was keeping to a statutory timetable as the project had been lodged nearly 6 months ago and if the developer did not obtain a planning decision from the Council by July, he would be entitled to appeal to the Deputy Prime Minister’s Department for a speedy decision. Consequently, time was short. Yet, I added, the Council was determined that informed public consultation should be widespread. Letters had already gone out to 5000 local households in the southern wards of the Borough and a public meeting would be held on June 30th to which vocal opponents of the scheme (and I took the trouble to mention the names of Dr John Wheeler as well as two very vocal letter writers to the Framden Journal) would be invited to put forward their views after the developer had presented his case in public.

“Councillor Melanie Sheldrake has suggested that the reason the scheme was first prepared last year but the consultation on the application was put off until May and June this year was because the Council had wanted to avoid the contentious issue during the elections,” volunteered Penelope slyly.

“That is a preposterous suggestion,” I blustered (even though I knew it to be largely true), “and presumably made by a person seeking to gain political capital out of what should be a non-political issue. No such claim has been made by Dr Wheeler, as far as I know, and obviously we will be taking careful notes of what those voicing doubts over the project are saying.” I could afford to make such empty claims because I was unaware of any detrimental comments made by Dr Wheeler whom I was particularly keen to build up because he was the more amenable and less strident voice of the opposition. I was determined to isolate Sheldrake from the other opponents to the scheme and to undermine her objections by politicizing them.

Penelope carried on with her questions based on various objections including the role of a Russian tycoon. Then she asked:  “Councillor Axtell, are you personally in favour of this application?”

I was ready for that one.

“The scheme has considerable merits for reasons I have already given.” I droned on pompously. This really was going easily. All too easily. “It meets many of the objectives of the Council Plan. It appears to be well prepared. However, I cannot make a pre-judgement at this stage as to my attitude to this application until we have seen all the evidence, all the comments from statutory bodies and the utilities and until we have conducted a full consultation, including the results of the public meeting next Thursday.” 

“About that public meeting,” asked Penelope. “Will it give all members of the public a chance to voice their views?”

“Of course.” I replied. “We will have maps of the outline planning on the walls of the Meeting House and pictures of the development on an enlarged screen. The developer will introduce the details and answer questions. The public will be able to ask questions and make their points. The Council is providing the venue and funding the meeting from its consultation budget. There will be at least five Councillors present, including Councillor Batchelor, leader of the opposition, to represent the Council, as well as planning and transport experts.”

“Which Councillors, may I ask?” Penelope intoned politely. It was a surprising question. Normally who would care about Councillors being present? Suddenly I sensed something rather ominous in this seemingly simple innocent question.

“Well as I mentioned before, there will be Councillor Batchelor. Obviously Councillor Kapacek and I will be there as Chair and Vice Chair of the Planning Committee and also Councillor Chakravatty, as Education spokesperson, and one of the councillors for the local Claybury ward. Councillor Kapacek will be in the chair.”

For some reason, Penelope’s smile broadened even further. It became wider than that of the Cheshire Cat. Wider even than the mouth of Goldie Hawn. If it gets any wider it will swallow me up, I thought.

“Councillor Kapacek in the chair?”

Suddenly I felt that the ground under my feet was swaying. I did not know why. That made it even more scary. It was a sixth sense. A premonition, perhaps. I soldiered on, however. “Yes, Councillor Kapacek is Chair of the Planning Committee which is the development control body of the Council mandated to carry out the statutory tasks of considering planning applications.”

“Surely, Councillor Axtell, you were aware that Councillor Kapacek has just resigned from that post?”

The ground that had been swaying had now opened up. I was plunging into the abyss.

“Whaaat?! When?”

“Just one hour ago. Were you not informed?” Her seeming look of surprise and raised eyebrows showed that she was enjoying herself at this moment

I felt terrible. Quite sick. I was in a cold sweat. An hour ago I had been dozing fitfully in the Members’ Room, oblivious to the world.

By sheer force of habit, I collected my wits together. “Penelope, we are now going off the record. Say yes or I won’t say another word.”

“OK, Peter.” She got up. “I have got my details on the Pinkerton Plaza. I have recorded our conversation and I’ll get our typist to get it ready for the printers in the next half-hour. Give me a couple of minutes to sort that out. Of course I won’t say a word in it about Kapacek. It has not yet been officially confirmed and you can’t, or won’t, corroborate it. The story is sufficiently interesting without that distraction. Will you wait for me? I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

I was too shocked to think clearly. I said I would wait when I should have said no. My place now was back in the Civic Centre. I needed to get in touch with Ted Grayson or Andy Trosser. Very quickly.

As soon as Penelope left the room I gathered my papers and my briefcase and rushed out of the Framden Journal building.

Once outside the building I frantically rang Grayson’s office. It was now 5 o’clock and I was concerned that the office was closed. Suddenly I heard Grayson on the line. “Peter, where are you? Are you still at that weekly rag?”

“No, I’m outside the building. I’ve just heard a weird story about Emil….”

“Yes, Peter. It’s all true. Stupid bastard got caught having sex with that haughty bitch from the Press Office. You know the one. Sweetland or something. And I won’t tell you where they were caught doing it. Can you get back here? Now?!”

I forgot my hasty promise to Penelope. With my mind in a whirl, I hailed a cab and returned to the Civic Centre.