Chapter XXXIV The Whiterock Boys

 

 

Next morning, the first call of the day came from Andy Trosser. I glanced blearily at the bedside clock. It was 8.30 in the morning. No way was I going to get out of bed at such an unearthly hour on a Saturday morning and certainly not for “ex-schoolboy” Andy. I let him leave his message three times on my answerphone, something along the lines of “Peter, we must talk. Where are you? Ring me for Christ’s/heavens’/fuck’s sake!” With each call, the emotional intensity of the epithet increased.

In fact, I had only arrived home a couple of hours before, after staying up for some hours at Carlo’s apartment, reliving and even re-enacting some of the scenes from the boat trip. Susan, in particular, seemed to have been on a particular high. It was not the presence of Penelope that had caused Susan such intense embarrassment at the last minute. It was the presence of Andy Trosser whom she had spotted much earlier than I did. And for good reason! Andy, it transpired had been her former boyfriend, before she became Emil’s secret lover. (She was not very choosy, I thought.) She not only recognized the timbre of Andy’s voice. She recognized the form of activity too. Fascinated and yet repelled by his sexual leanings she left him eventually last year for the more mainstream sexual appetites of Emil. There was a certain element of schadenfreude when Andy had to clear up the scandal with the Mayor’s chair, though to be fair he was the one primarily responsible for retaining Susan, not me. I guess he did it partly through old-fashioned loyalty and partly because of the beans she could spill on him. All in all Susan had all the trump cards. If she were vindictive or mercenary could have destroyed a number of reputations at Framden. Luckily for us she seemed to be a sort of kinky innocent who kept her own counsel.

In fact, it was the astounded expression on Andy’s face when he discovered me, and then a few seconds later Susan, that I found the most memorable feature of the night. Penelope had led him along quite unscrupulously just as she had led me along. She had given him no opportunity to draw back from his performance and she let him discover our presence only after his humiliating display. There was a trace of sadistic deceitfulness in Penelope which justified her budding media career. I remembered how she had played me along just over a fortnight ago when she deliberately allowed me to talk about Emil as a Committee Chairman when she knew damn well that he had been forced to retire barely an hour or two before.  Suffice it to say that the woeful look on Andy’s face signified his frantic signalling to the Starship Enterprise above urging Scottie to beam him up.  

Then he waved us a diplomatic farewell, threw in a quick promise to call me on Saturday and disappeared from our sight for the rest of the evening. I wondered whether he had not simply jumped overboard.  

Now he was ringing me but I had not the heart to speak to him yet, even though I knew that I had to explain the whole saga of the Pinkerton Plaza application and explain to him why both we and the opposition had to reject the project to which the Council in which he had loyally served had been consistently in support since the beginning of the year. First however I needed my beauty sleep. So I switched off the telephone signal, rolled over in bed and went back to sleep.

By the time I woke it was midday. I listened to the messages on the answerphone. Andy Trosser had rung three more times, Meena had called and so had Noel Graham. When I rang Andy on his home phone he was out in turn.

 I rang Meena on my landline. First, she wanted to know where I was last night. This was an irritating question as she was not my partner or my wife. Politely I told her that. Then she changed the subject. She had been contacted by Melanie who said that she needed to organize a joint strategy for the Planning meeting between the two parties to ensure an overall majority. I told her that meeting Melanie anywhere in the daytime was not a good idea as it was better for my working relationship with Melanie be kept secret; otherwise, the developers would smell a rat. The public and our fellow Councillors still wanted to see the grandstanding confrontations between Melanie and myself. It was one of the fixed certainties of every council agenda that what was white for me was black to her and vice versa. It was advisable for that to continue. I told Meena the best option of coordinating party tactics was to have Andy Trosser meet Melanie but for that to happen I had to meet Andy myself and introduce him to the new political landscape.

I took the opportunity, once Meena had rung off, to call Noel Graham. His wife answered. “Hi Peter, I’m sorry to have to tell you this but Noel has a serious bout of ‘flu. He’s in bed now. I don’t think he will make that important Tuesday meeting he was telling me about.”

Barely did I have a chance to let this information sink in when Meena rang me back. “Look, I’ve just had a call from Angela Craven. She seems to be terribly worried about Tuesday. Can you ring her? By the way she has tried to ring you on your mobile since first thing this morning but it seems to be blocked. I can vouch for that. I’ve tried to ring your mobile too.”

Puzzled, I picked up my mobile. I forgot that I had switched it off last night just before the Love Boat. Hastily I switched it on again. To my alarm I found more than 11 missed calls and three text messages. There had been a further three calls from Andy, one from Angela, a thank you message from Carlo, two from Noel, one from Meena and 3 from an unknown number, two of them sent last night while I was on the Boat. The text messages were from Noel (“Am not well. Can we talk?”), Andy (“Peter where are U?”) and from the same unknown number (“Will call you. RC”).

This was bewildering. Where to start? As I pondered on this, in came an incoming call. It was Roger’s voice. Of course. “RC!” Roger Clements had a new number. But why?

“Where the heck are you, Peter?! I was about to come and look for you.”

“I’m fine. I’m at home. Had problem with my mobile but it has just sorted itself out.”

“Alone?”

“Sure am.”

“Then, Peter, listen. There are serious developments. Have you seen the news?”

“Actually, no. I’ve not even seen a newspaper today. Last news I listened to on telly was yesterday afternoon.”

Roger explained. “There was a car accident involving Sir William Tallis last night. It’s been all over the news though we were not keen to advertise it. I have been trying since last night to contact you. Luckily he wasn’t hurt badly; but he is in hospital.”

“OK, I’m sorry. He’s Sheremovsky’s chief architect, isn’t he? I expected he would be turning up on Tuesday.”

“He resigned three days ago, Peter, in protest at the way the plans have been tampered with and because he thinks the new structure could be unsafe. He has been our major source on the fraudulent planning presentation and we have been communicating with him secretly for two weeks now. He had threatened to divulge details of the fraud in public. Apparently, the last letter he wrote before his car accident was addressed to you.”

“To me?”

“He was urging you and your committee to refuse permission. This letter also mentioned 4 planning officers who had been on the Nafta Ural payroll, including three from Framden and one from the GLA, though it does not name them. Luckily we have a copy of that letter because he e-mailed it to us just before he started his journey. His car ploughed into a hedge on a road in Buckinghamshire. He was found semi-conscious and he sustained a fractured skull and a broken arm as well as some backbone problems. It looks like he will pull through. However, we have asked doctors not to be too explicit in their news bulletins on him and even to avoid any mention that he has regained consciousness.”

“Are you implying this was not an accident?”    

“Two things to bear in mind here. Our motor people are convinced the breaks were tampered with. Also his laptop, his briefcase, his mobile phone and a parcel of papers including the duplicated plans were missing from his car. Yet his wallet was untouched. We don’t intend to tell the press all these details for a few days yet. But be careful, Peter. You could be a marked man now and these people stop at nothing. I am seriously considering giving you a bodyguard for the next week, or at least until the aftermath of the planning committee meeting. I have already offered one to Melanie.”

“Look, Roger, thanks, but I’ll be all right. I am sure they do not suspect anything yet about me.”

“OK but remember that they can be vicious. Also, if they have Sir William’s mobile phone then they will know my number. They may have the electronic know-how to trace my outgoing calls from my old number. So I am using a new one already. I’ll text it to you.”

“Can you e-mail me Sir William’s letter?”

“Of course. Feel free to use it. Sir William is watched by us day and night in the hospital ward so he is no longer in any danger. Are you preparing your colleagues for Tuesday?”

“I am in the throes of it but I’m concerned about two of them backsliding. I was about to ring them when you rang. Also I have an important meeting with Trosser this weekend. He will be a key figure.”

“OK, Peter. Good work. Keep me informed by tomorrow. And watch your back. If you feel threatened in any way, let me know immediately.”

 Next on my list was Andy Trosser. Like me, Andy lived on his own with his mother. He was a confirmed bachelor boy. This time his mother answered. Andy, I was assured, was out but would be back home by 7 o’clock. She was aware that Andy had been keen to contact me in the morning so when I suggested to her that I would come round about 7.30 for a cup of tea and a chat she agreed. “I’ll let you know if it’s not convenient for Andy. Otherwise do feel free to come. Can I have your number please?”

Then I rang Angela Craven. Another female voice, probably Angela’s partner, answered. When I asked for Angela I was told she was not in yet. When I tried to elicit more information about where and when I could find her I came across a stone wall.

I rang Fred Potts. Fred answered the phone. “Don’t worry yourself, Pete. I haven’t changed my mind. I’ll be there on Tuesday.”

“Did anyone approach you over how you should vote on Tuesday?”

“Course not. If they did I’d tell ‘em to go jump in a lake.”

I rang old man Perera. I was given a lecture on “these capitalist exploiters who are still preying on the livelihood of working people in Britain and Russia.” Vote to refuse application on Tuesday? Of course he will. I drew a sigh of relief.

Meena rang me again. Angela had just telephoned her. She said she was too frightened to speak to me. But she was very concerned and felt she could not go to the meeting and refuse the application. Why? “She just does not want to talk on the phone. Peter, I think she will want to talk to you, but privately. Do you have time to go round and see her?”

“Now? Now I think I do.”

“OK. Look, Peter. Pick me up in your car and we’ll go there together.”

“Fine, let me just check my e-mails first. I’m expecting an important letter from an architect.”

Angela and her partner Vivien were pretty distraught when Meena and I got round. I had never got on well with Angela but it was pretty obvious that Vivien was the butch coupling in this arrangement and the vibes emanating from her in the direction of a red-blooded heterosexual male like me did not seem to be very positive. Be that as it may, they both appeared to have got a scare on their way back from their weekend shopping that same afternoon when they were accosted at the end of their road by three thugs with Irish accents. The thugs were very menacing and knew Angela by name.

“Are you the fucking Councillor? Angela Craven?”

Angela had ignored them thinking that this was something to do with a recent decision by Social Services Department in her ward to take some children away from their abusive Irish stepfather. The two women hurried their steps toward their block of flats but the three men followed hot on their footsteps.

“Now then, this is your butch lover, is it?” one of them snarled, catching Vivien by the arm. She struggled to shake him off and eventually managed to free her arm. “Not very pretty, eh? Well we can make her even less pretty. With a razor blade.” Terrified the women broke into a run. “If you vote against the development in Claybury on Tuesday, your young friend will have her face carved up, you fucking dyke!” they heard the men shout as the women dropped their shopping bags and ran towards their block as fast as they could.

They turned the corner and looked round. The three men were busy kicking their shopping bags all over the pavement and into the carriageway. Then they stormed off.

They had not rung the police as they thought it a waste of time. I thought otherwise. I rang Roger immediately and described what had happened. I told the women a bit more about the background than I had told Angela earlier in the week. I urged Angela to accept police protection for a few days, stick it out, perhaps away from Framden at a friend’s address and then definitely come to the Tuesday committee meeting to vote down the development. I read out to them the content of the e-mailed letter from Sir William Tallis which described all the shortcomings and the deceitful misinformation about the development and urged the Councillors to reject the application as a matter of principle.

I did not go into all the ramifications but assured them that the police will take great interest in this case. When I started explaining, the women were initially downright sceptical. They looked at each other anxiously trying to second guess the other partner’s reaction. Angela slowly began to come round to my arguments, but Vivien remained aloof. Only when I sounded more concrete about the possibility of police protection did I bring her round. Angela and Vivien gave each other a long intense embrace. It lasted several minutes. I watched in some amazement. This was not the kind of passion to which I was used to in my easy-going meandering love life.

Within twenty minutes of my calling Roger, we watched a police car arrive outside with two women officers. Just as the policewomen were travelling up the flat to Angela’s flat, I could not resist asking one more question.

“What kind of Irish accent was it?”

“How can we answer such a stupid question?” spat out Vivien. “It was just Irish.”

“Yes, OK,” I persisted. “But did it sound like Father Ted, or like Ian Paisley?”

“Like Ian Paisley,” Angela answered triumphantly.

 So from Northern Ireland then. The U.D.A. offshoot branch, which Sheremovsky had been planning to supply with weapons? This was no longer a joke!

Just then Angela remembered a further detail. In between shouts of abuse as the thugs followed them down the road they sang what sounded like a tribal song. “It sounded like ”No Pope of Rome”. I remembered that Roger had told me that the new young unionist thugs had described themselves as the Whiterock Boys, and that would just about be the kind of song they would sing.

While Angela allowed the policewomen into the flat, I slipped outside into the corridor and rang Roger again on my mobile with the latest information and to thank him for his prompt response.

“Peter, I am offering some protection to Melanie now and to one of her colleagues. We will look after Councillor Craven too. Are you sure you are all right? Is there anyone else on your side we need to protect?”

“Definitely not for me, but let me investigate and come back to you.”

I left Angela Craven’s flat with the policewomen busily taking down their statements, and Meena running backwards and forwards offering everyone a cup of tea. I had decided now to pay an unannounced visit to the Graham household.

Noel Graham, my Vice-Chair, lived in a small terraced house in the eastern part of the Borough with his wife Elizabeth and two teenage daughters, one of whom was a qualified 10 year old gymnast with prospects of representing Britain in the future.

I rang the doorbell tentatively. There was silence at first. Then I heard some shuffling behind the door and an unmistakable male voice asking “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Noel. It’s Peter.”

“What ya doing ‘ere, man. I’m ill. I can’t help you. Please go home, Peter.”

“Noel, please let me in. We have got to talk.”

“Go away, Peter. Please go away.”

“Noel, what’s happened? I’m not going anywhere until you let me in.”

Then I heard Elizabeth’s almost hysterical voice. “If you don’t go away I’ll call the police.”

“No, Elizabeth, you’ve got it wrong. If you don’t let me in, I will call the police!”

There was a long silent pause. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a latch chain being pulled back and bolts being removed. A minute later, a sheepish looking Noel opened the door.

“What ya’ want, man?” he asked again, “we’s just eating.”

“Let me in, Noel, and I’ll explain. Come on!  I’m sure I can smell ackees and salt fish. Hey, I’m your white brother, Noel. Remember?”

I was led into the kitchen where the two young girls had just finished their meal. The plates of the two adults were still unfinished. “Leah, Josephine, leave us now. You got some homework to do for Monday, haven’t you?”

“No, Pops, we’re all done. It’s the last week of term anyway. We’ve got nothing set.”

“Good afternoon, girls. I’m sure you’ve got some interesting games to play in your room. I hear you’re quite a gymnast, Leah?” I said to the younger girl.

The girls looked at me in silent awe.

“Where’s your manners, girls! Say “Good afternoon” to our guest. This is Councillor Peter Axtell. Then go upstairs and do what you want to do quietly.”

“Good afternoon, Councillor,” the girls spoke in chorus. One of them ran upstairs straight away, but the younger one, Leah stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Yes, Mr Councillor, I’m the gymnast. I’m in the Heathrow team. That’s where they select their national team,” she said with pride.

“You going to represent us at the China Olympics?” I asked in a jocular fashion.

She looked at her parents and laughed. Then she followed her sister upstairs.

“Great kids,” I complemented Noel and Elizabeth. “Very well behaved. You should be proud of them. Leah’s obviously too young for the 2008 Olympics. I was just kidding”

“Well they are grooming her for the 2012 Olympics. She will be 18 then. Just the right age,” explained Noel. “I think they’re going to hold them somewhere nearby in Europe. Paris probably. So we can all go and support her.”

He stopped talking and looked at his wife. She had remained meaningfully silent until now. Then they looked at me and Noel said, “And that is why I’ll still going to be indisposed on Tuesday.”

“They got to you, Noel, didn’t they? They said something threatening to you, didn’t they?”

Noel just shook his head. Elizabeth looked at Noel and then at me. “You men folk go on talking. I’ll go get the tea.” She left the room.

“They said something threatening to you about your daughters? Your daughters, right?” Noel still sat there looking at the floor.

“I ain’t saying nothing, man,” he mumbled.

“Something about Leah, right?” I persisted. “Something about Leah. They were going to hurt Leah, something to do with her gymnastics record.”

Suddenly Elizabeth came roaring back into the room. “How did they know? How did those bastards know that my baby was a gymnast? That’s what I want to know! My poor baby! (I felt like pointing out that it was all in the local paper, but I thought better of it.) They said they would break her arm in two places. How could they say that?” Noel jumped up to console his wife.

“Now you understand, Councillor Axtell. I know you’re a big man. And you’re a good man. But how can you say my husband has to go and vote this Tuesday when these thugs say they will cripple our little baby.”

“Who said it? Where did they threaten you?” I looked at Noel but he looked straight away at Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth, come on,” I pursued her relentlessly. “They spoke to you. You said ‘they’ yourself. So there was more than one?”

“Don’t waste your breath, Councillor. You couldn’t save my daughter. I ain’t saying nothing more.”

“They were Irish, Elizabeth?” She stood stock still and looked away at the far wall. “Irish? They had an Irish accent?” More silence. “There were three of them?”

“How you know that?”

“I know because if they were three Irish then they were the same people who threatened Angela Craven. The police know who they are,” I lied.

“They stopped me outside the Hospital when I finished my afternoon shift. It was about 8 o’clock. I passed these three guys. They were a little drunk and they were singing a weird song. When I passed them they starting walking after me and calling me a “black coon”. I’ve not heard that kind of abuse for years. I was really frightened. I didn’t stop but they made these horrible comments about Leah. They said Noel must not turn up on Tuesday. I was sick to the pit of my stomach. I got to the bus stop where I saw some of my colleagues from the hospital standing waiting for a bus. When I looked round again they had disappeared.”

“Do you remember the song they sang?” I asked.

“Whaat?”

“You said they were singing a weird song.”

“No, I can’t. I don’t think so,” she snapped in irritation, “Why?”

“It wasn’t ‘No Pope of Rome”?’”

“Yeah! That’s right! It was!”

“See, we know who they are. That’s a popular Ulster song. We must tell the police. They’ll pick them up anytime soon. Your daughter has nothing to fear, trust me.”

“No. No. No way.”

“Let me call the police. We can get you police protection right through until this vote is taken. Just give the police a description of these men. Come on, Noel, the game is up for them. This is their last throw of the dice. It’s nasty but it shouldn’t scare you because it’s their last desperate move.”

“I don’t know, man. What happens afterwards?”

“Afterwards? After the meeting, they’re finished. Let me read you this letter, man. It’s written to our Committee. It’s written to you and me. It’s written by a brave and fearless man, one of Sheremovsky’s architects, who has stood up to his criminal boss and outlined all his mean tricks and falsehoods. (For some reason I forgot to add that Tallis was now in hospital for his pains. But why complicate such matters with unnecessary little details?) We can’t let him down. You and me, we’re in the vanguard. We’re fighting for what’s right. And Noel, it’s you! You were the first to say it. You said these are not our people. You said they were a rent-a-crowd. And you were right! See, you were the first to see through them. See, I need you. This William Tallis needs you. He’s risked his own life to say this. You can’t turn away from that. Especially if the police come and protect your home and your family.”

I read him Sir William’s letter with as much pathos as my amateur dramatic training would allow me. He listened in silence. Then he looked at Elizabeth. There was no answer in her sphinx-like expression. “You really think the police can protect us?”

“And catch these Irish bastards? Sure. Let me just ring them now.” I stepped into their sitting room and dialled Roger on his new number. “We have more fish to farm,” I told Roger, “but it’s the UDA factor all over again. Anyway, it’s also one more vote for us on Tuesday if they feel safe.” I gave him the address.