see,’ said Pascoe feeling the crack about his promotion was a little under the belt. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever heard of them.’
‘So what? You’d never heard of Bangkok massage till you married me.’
‘That’s true. But I’d still like to know which of my worldwide sources of intelligence I can blame for my ignorance. Where did you hear about them?’
Ellie blushed gently. It was a phenomenon observed by few people as the change of colour was not so much in her face as in the hollow of her throat, the rosy flush seeping down towards the deep cleft of her breasts. Pascoe claimed that here was the quintessence of female guilt, i.e. evidence of guilt masquerading as a mark of modesty.
‘Where?’ he pressed.
‘On the list,’ she muttered.
‘List?’
‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘There’s a list of ultra-right-wing groups we ought to keep an eye open for. We got a copy at WRAG.’
‘A list!’ said Pascoe taking another drink. ‘You mean, like the RC’s Index? Forbidden reading for the faithful? Or is it more like the Coal Board’s famous hit list? These organizations are the pits and ought to be closed down?’
‘Peter, if you don’t stop trying to be funny, I’ll get dressed again. And incidentally, why are you drinking from both those glasses?’
‘Sorry,’ said Pascoe handing over the fuller of the two. ‘Incidentally in return, how come at nine-thirty in the evening you’re wearing nothing but the Evening Post anyway?’
‘Every night for what seems weeks now you’ve been staggering in late. Rosie instantly sets up that awful howl and you stagger upstairs to talk to her. I dread to think what long term effect these little monologues are having on the child!’
‘She doesn’t complain.’
‘No. It’s the only way she can get your attention for a little while. That’s what all this is about. The next stage is for you to stagger back downstairs, have a couple of drinks, eat your supper and then fall asleep beyond recall by anything less penetrative than Fat Andy’s voice. Well, tonight I’m getting in my howl first!’
Pascoe looked at her thoughtfully, finished his drink and leaned back on the sofa.
‘Howl away,’ he invited.
The Unusual Will item had caught other eyes that day too.
The Mid-Yorks Evening Post was one of several northern local papers in the Challenger group. The Challenger itself was a Sunday tabloid, published in Leeds with a mainly northern circulation though in recent years under the dynamic editorship of Ike Ogilby it had made some inroads into the Midlands. Nor did Ogilby’s ambitions end at Birmingham. In the next five years he aimed either to expand the Challenger into a full-blown national or use it as his personal springboard to an established editorial chair in Fleet Street, he didn’t much care which.
The other editors within the group were requested to bring to Ogilby’s notice any local item which might interest the Challenger. In addition Ogilby, who trusted his fellow journalists to share a story like the chimpanzee trusts its fellow chimps to share a banana, encouraged his own staff to scan the evening columns.
Henry Vollans, a young man who had recently joined the staff from a West Country weekly, spotted the piece about the Huby will at half past five. Boldly he took it straight to Ogilby who was preparing to go home. The older man, who admired cheek and recognized ambition to match his own, said dubiously, ‘Might be worth a go. What were you thinking of? Sob piece? Poor old mam, lost child, that sort of thing?’
‘Maybe,’ said Vollans who was slim, blond and tried not unsuccessfully to look like Robert Redford in All the President’s Men. ‘But this lot, Women For Empire, that rang a bell. There was a letter in the correspondence column a couple of weeks back when I was sorting them out. From a Mrs Laetitia Falkingham. I checked back and it had the heading. She lives at Ilkley and calls herself the founder and perpetual president of Women For Empire. The letter was about that bother in Bradford schools. She seemed to think it could be solved by sending all the white kids to Eton and educating the blacks under the trees in the public parks. I checked through the files. Seems she’s been writing to the paper off and on for years. We’ve published quite a few.’
‘Yes, of course. Rings a bell now,’ said Ogilby. ‘Sounds nicely batty, doesn’t she? OK. Check it out to see if there’s anything there for us. But I suspect the doting mum/lost kid angle will be the best. This racial vandal stuff at the Kemble theatre looks more interesting.’
‘Could be if there’s some bother on the opening night,’ said Vollans. ‘Shall I go? I could do a review anyway.’
‘Theatre correspondent too,’ mocked Ogilby, admiring the young man’s pushiness. ‘Why not? But talk to me again before you do anything on Mrs Falkingham. We’re treading very warily about Bradford.’
Bradford’s large and growing Asian community had highlighted by reversal the problems of mixed race schooling. It was the usual question of how best to cater for the classroom needs of a minority, only in this case the minority was frequently white. The Challenger’s natural bent was conservative, but Ogilby wasn’t about to alienate thousands of potential readers right on his doorstep.
‘OK, Henry,’ said Ogilby dismissively. ‘Well spotted.’
Vollans left, so pleased with himself that he forgot his Robert Redford walk for several paces.
Nor did interest in the will end there.
A few hours later the telephone was answered in a flat in north Leeds, quite close to the University. The conversation was short and guarded.
‘Yes?’
‘Something in the Mid-Yorks Evening Post that might interest. Women For Empire, that daft Falkingham woman’s little tea-circle out at Ilkley, could be in for a windfall.’
‘I know.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes. You’re way behind, as usual. All that’s long taken care of.’
‘Oh. Sorry I spoke.’
‘No, you were right. You’re in a call-box?’
‘Natch!’
‘Good. But don’t make a habit of calling. ’Bye.’
‘And up yours too,’ said the caller disgruntledly into the dead phone. ‘Condescending cunt!’
Not far away in the living-room of his small suburban flat, Sergeant Wield too reclined on a sofa but he was wide awake, the Evening Post with its news of wills and vandals lay unopened on the hall floor, and the ice cubes in his untouched Scotch had long since diluted the rich amber to a pale straw.
He was thinking about Maurice Eaton. And he was marvelling that he had managed to think so little about him for so long. Lovers beneath the singing sky of May, they had even wandered once close to the decision, momentous
