thirteen

ALAN KNEW HE HAD TO TELL COLIN he’d finally teamed up with Hugh and Radu: ‘No getting round it. Got to bite the bullet. I’ll go round first thing Monday before going in to work. It’s out of my way, but he’s sure to still be at home if I get there early enough. No point in putting it off.’

He telephoned almost as soon as I got to the office. ‘Dinah.’ His voice sounded odd.

‘What is it?’ He never rang me at the office.

‘Colin’s been arrested.’

I stared at Stanley across the room. I must have looked strange, for he half rose. ‘Something up, Di?’

Alan was barking hoarsely down the wires. ‘His landlady answered the door and said he’d been “taken away by the police”. On Saturday,’ he shouted. ‘The stupid woman has no idea where he is.’

‘Can they arrest you for being a Communist?’ I said stupidly.

‘No!’ Alan shouted down the phone. ‘It’s to do with Titus, must be.’

‘How do you know?’ I was too shocked to react, mentally or emotionally, but Stan was there, looking alarmed. I knew he’d help. ‘I’ll talk to Stan. He’ll know what to do.’

It took all day to find out what had happened. Stan’s lawyer sorted it out, tracked Colin down to the police station where he was being held and telephoned Stan quite late in the afternoon with the news. Stan was looking at me grimly as he listened. The call ended, he said: ‘They’ve charged him with Mavor’s murder.’

The next day Colin was moved to prison on remand and the day after that Alan visited him. Later, Hugh came round to the flat. He’d brought some corned beef as a twisted sort of guilt offering. It was obvious they both felt so guilty about Colin. In theory, of course, cutting him out of the deal with Radu had nothing to do with the arrest, but I could see why they felt guilty. They’d cheated him. I felt guilty too. Somehow it seemed to me that if we’d all been nicer to Colin, he might not have got so angry and bitter. The row in the Café Royal might never have happened –

I made corned beef fritters, but they tasted horrible.

‘Colin’s bearing up fine,’ said Alan, ‘as we knew he would. He says he can’t see what evidence they could possibly have – they asked him about the row at the Café Royal … that seemed to be about it, they were playing it close to the chest. Asked him where he was on the evening in question.’

‘There isn’t any evidence, how can there be?’ said Hugh, furious. ‘Bannister’s heard all about how Titus and Colin couldn’t stand each other, how Titus accused Colin of being a spy. No doubt all those spiteful little Soho tittle-tattlers told him about their row – and there was another quarrel, you know, we didn’t know about, almost a fight, in Tommy’s one evening. Gerry Blackstone told me. But all the same – I don’t see how they can hold on to him. They haven’t got a leg to stand on. Just because they quarrelled doesn’t mean Colin murdered him!’

Alan said slowly: ‘I suppose the spy stuff is a motive … of sorts. It blackens his character, anyway. He’s a Communist, therefore he must be a devious person, he must be some kind of … well, he must be twisted in some way. Communism’s become a kind of moral defect. A perversion.’

Hugh smiled, but he was sceptical. ‘The love that dare not speak its name, eh?’ They exchanged looks. Something was left unsaid. Did they really think he might be a spy, after all? ‘You’re being a bit paranoid, aren’t you?’

‘Hugh – that’s how it’s getting to be these days.’

‘Britain isn’t a totalitarian state, you know.’

‘He must have been framed,’ I said.

Alan looked at me pityingly. ‘Don’t be absurd. Who would do that?’

But there seemed to be hardly any evidence, and what real motive could there possibly be? We talked and talked late into the night, but got absolutely nowhere. By three in the morning we’d reached a state of exhaustion. Hugh dossed down on the sitting-room sofa.

.........

‘Colin gave me the name of some CP contact he wants me to get hold of; the secretary of his cell, or whatever they call it. He’s hoping the Party will find him a lawyer, he hasn’t got one.’

‘What about Stan’s lawyer?’

‘He’s a property lawyer. He just helped out in an emergency, as a favour to Stan, I imagine. We need someone who does crime.’

‘Wouldn’t it be more sensible to ask Daddy?’ But then I pictured my father’s reaction. He’d have a fit. So Alan phoned the man whose name Colin had given him: Jock Bunnage, who was what Colin called a branch secretary. Apparently he was a foreman at an engineering works in North London.

The next evening we trudged up Liverpool Road past the terraces of battered old houses until we came to River Buildings, which reared up like a prison from the joyless street. I still couldn’t understand why Colin had chosen to live in this dismal district.

By contrast the flat itself was warm and cosy. Upright chairs were set at a round, modern table. A utility sofa with wooden arms, upholstered in sage green, and a matching chair were arranged behind it, so that the room was crowded with furniture. A framed picture of a man in a cap hung on the wall. Alan later told me it was Lenin.

Jock Bunnage was about forty-five. He resembled his own living room: neat, contained, buttoned up. He was spick and span in a pullover and flannels, no jacket, but a tie. His swept-back hair had been savagely Brylcreemed, his red face had a bare, almost raw look, as if it had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life, his blue eyes in startling contrast, his movements slightly military, his handshake crushing.

‘This is a grim business,’ he said as he handed us cups of tea. ‘Comrade Harris has been framed, in my opinion. There’s those in power want rid of people like him, plus it brings the Party into disrepute.’

I glanced at Alan, who nodded sagely. Jock Bunnage looked at us with undisguised appraisal. ‘I don’t know if you’re sympathisers, although as you’re friends of Comrade Harris …’ He paused for confirmation. Alan nodded emphatically. ‘Now, how do you think the Party can assist in the present circumstances?’

‘Colin needs a lawyer. He thought you – the Party – could help. In the sense of recommending one, that is.’

Jock Bunnage nodded. ‘We had thought of that. And from our point of view … well, anyway, I expect that can be arranged. At the same time I can’t believe it’ll ever get to court.’ The doorbell rang. ‘Excuse me.’

Bunnage returned with a woman who was vaguely familiar. As she looked us over, I remembered we’d seen her outside the CP headquarters in Covent Garden, the evening I’d quarrelled with Alan.

To begin with she addressed the branch secretary as if we weren’t present, or were children, or deaf: ‘Are these Comrade Harris’s friends?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Bunnage looked uncomfortable. ‘Alan and Dinah Wentworth. This is Comrade Doris Tarr.’

‘Good evening,’ she said. She neither smiled nor shook hands, just a frosty nod, that was all.

‘Comrade Tarr has recently been to the Soviet Union with the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom.’

The older woman removed her woolly beret and her belted tweed coat and finally granted us a wintry smile. ‘But you’re here about Comrade Harris. Jock asked me to meet you, because of course in this very unfortunate situation the Party also has an interest.’

‘Colin needs a lawyer,’ said Alan. He was impatient already. I hoped he wouldn’t antagonise her.

Doris Tarr sat down at the table. ‘We’ve thought of that. From our point of view, it’s better to have someone who’ll understand the politics of the situation. I recommend Julius Abrahams. I’ll give you his address and phone number.’ And she took a small notebook from her bag. ‘It’s very disturbing. Sinister, don’t you think? To have picked on a progressive activist?’ she went on, leafing through the pages. ‘Ah, here it is.’ She watched as Alan wrote. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d convey to Comrade Harris – I assume you’ll be visiting him – that the situation creates difficulties for the Party. I’m sure he’ll understand. Julius Abrahams will, of course, do all he can to help. With any luck the case won’t come to court. In the meantime there’s no sense in making a big issue of it, that will only make matters worse. So I hope Comrade Colin will understand if the Daily Worker doesn’t make a song and dance about the allegations. These are very difficult times for the progressive movement. We’re putting all our energy into pulling together to make a success of the export drive. We’re a parliamentary party, we must act responsibly. And in any case with the paper shortage we have to prioritise. You understand what I’m saying.’

Alan frowned. ‘But supposing Colin isn’t released. Supposing it does come to trial?’

She stared at him. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But you know, Communists always think positively. Optimism. That’s the key to the advance of the socialist movement.’

Alan got to his feet. That meant we were leaving. I felt we’d only just begun, there was so much unspoken in the air, and I liked her idea of optimism; but I stood up obediently too.

Bunnage saw us out. ‘Colin has been engaged in some sharp debates with the London District Committee, but of course we’ll all stand by him. I hope you’ll convey our good wishes.’

As if Colin were ill; I expected the words ‘for a speedy recovery’ any minute.

Alan paused in the doorway. ‘Will you be visiting him? You know remand prisoners get visits every day.’

Bunnage looked uncomfortable. ‘That might be difficult. Don’t see how I could get time off work. Perhaps one or two of the women comrades … but most of them are working too, or else they have small children; campaigning too – we’re very active in the community.’ But in the passage he shook hands. ‘We are behind him, you know.’

‘What was all that about difficulties?’ I asked as we walked back to the Angel. ‘I don’t understand the Communist Party at all.’

Alan was scowling. ‘They’re embarrassed; all they care about is how the blasted Party looks. They see everything entirely from the perspective of the Party. Nothing else matters to them. It’s bad enough to have a party member up on a murder charge. That’s disgraceful and humiliating in itself. But I bet the real problem is they’ve heard something about the spy stuff – rumours fly around, you know, Gerry’s got a mate at the Daily Worker – whispers about spying is the last thing they want. You can understand that, really. Respectability. That’s what it’s about. And now we’re all supposed to hate the Russians again, they don’t want a whiff of treason, do they. As if going around preaching about the glories of the Soviet Union doesn’t give precisely that idea, not to mention completely putting every potential voter off before they’ve even started.’ He sighed. ‘You can understand it in a way,’ he repeated wearily, ‘but they could be a bit braver about Colin. It wouldn’t hurt them to run something in the Daily Worker about a frame-up.’

‘You don’t think he’s been framed, do you?’

‘There must be some reason he’s been charged.’

.........

We met Julius Abrahams in his dim, shabby, comfortable rooms off Chancery Lane. Abrahams wasn’t how I’d expected a Communist to be. He was more like us than like Doris Tarr or Jock Bunnage, only older, with a sardonic manner and an urbane smile. He wore a dark three-piece suit and what I guessed was actually a regimental tie. His dark hair was cut rather long, and as he wrote the light from the desk lamp caught his signet ring.

‘Colin didn’t do it.’ Alan leaned forward and spoke the words with intensity. I knew Alan would stand by Colin to the bitter end, and all the more so because of the betrayal over Radu.

The lawyer’s narrow lips twitched in a little smile. ‘Naturally I’m operating on that assumption,’ he said. ‘Were you to suggest otherwise it would put a very different complexion on things.’ His air of detached irony shocked me. He seemed so blasé, as though nothing would surprise him. ‘Perhaps you can tell me what you know – I take it you’ve visited him?’

Alan wriggled around in his chair. ‘They haven’t told him a lot, but he did say they claim he was seen at the Mecklenburgh Square house, or leaving it, on the Friday evening, which is when they believe Titus Mavor was murdered. Colin told me he has an alibi – but that’s a bit of a problem too.’ He hesitated. ‘It was – he met someone. Well, it was an – assignation.’

Abrahams watched us, still ironic, almost mocking: worldly, that was it. ‘An assignation?’ You could hear the invisible quotation marks round the pompous word.

‘Of a particular kind.’

It must be a prostitute then. I flinched away from the thought of Colin with one of those raddled-looking women who stood on the corner of the Bayswater Road, or even with a sluttish girl like Fiona. And to think I’d secretly been hoping – without fully confronting it, but ever since that afternoon when we’d had our heart-to-heart – that he was secretly nurturing a tendresse for me. Nothing too tragic, of course …

‘If you’re suggesting something illegal,’ said the lawyer, ‘that could make things extremely difficult. On the one hand: he’s up against a murder charge, although it wouldn’t wholly surprise me if they have to drop it, I’m not sure it’ll stand up. On the other hand, there are all sorts of practical problems with the alibi: can this person be traced; if they are traced will they be prepared to take the witness stand – inherently unlikely – but then if they do, Mr Harris’s character is blackened even as he’s exonerated and he’s effectively pleaded guilty to another crime, which, to be frank, members of the jury might think was worse than murder.’

‘What d’you mean?’ I cried. ‘What are you talking about?’

Alan groaned impatiently. ‘Darling, for heaven’s sake, Colin’s queer. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.’

I felt my face turn crimson. I shut up. After the first few moments of shock, a wave of revulsion left the taste of bile in my mouth. I felt physically sick. Of course in theory I had nothing against pansies. The effete young men you saw at parties from time to time were rather sweet. I was a modern young woman, wasn’t I, things like that didn’t shock me in the slightest. I just felt so sorry for them.

But – Colin! He didn’t look queer. He was masculine, manly, he’d done dangerous things in the war.

I sat there, feeling as if I’d been punched in the stomach. The lawyer and Alan must have gone on with the discussion, but I didn’t hear a word. I was sunk in my own embarrassment and – well – shame: shame for Colin, shame at my own reaction, and shame at being so green. How stupid of me to suppose he’d been in love with me! Stupid, stupid, stupid. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, I was now so obviously shocked. How humiliating! What an idiot I was! I was afraid I was going to cry. But I pulled myself together. It was selfish and childish to be thinking of myself when it was Colin who was in danger – and in danger partly thanks to me. I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to listen to what they were saying.

‘I’ll do my best to find this friend of Colin’s,’ said Alan, ‘but I’m not that hopeful.’

The lawyer smiled. ‘Nor am I.’

‘He doesn’t even want me to, actually.’

‘He may well be right. You’ll have to find out if it was a casual meeting in a public place – a pub or … club. This sort of thing is very difficult, as I’m sure you realise. Homosexual activity is illegal. Even if a witness were prepared to say they were somewhere known to be a meeting place for men with those inclinations, they’d risk everything – and the prosecution would cast doubt on every aspect of their evidence. It would have to be passed off as a different kind of meeting – just a drink in some ordinary pub where there are no such connotations.’ He paused, then said in a different voice: ‘It is desperately embarrassing all round. I probably shouldn’t say this, but you’re Colin’s friend and he’s going to need all the support he can get, so I’ll be frank. You probably realise anyway, more or less, how awkward this is for the Party. Some of the comrades are … rather puritanical, shall we say. There was a certain … reserve in some quarters about my taking on the case. On the other hand, I have heard rumours about Colin – things the dead man accused him of, and there is a view that I’d be better able to handle the case from that point of view.’

‘What do you mean, exactly?’

‘What I mean is that I’m representing Mr Harris as a solicitor who specialises in crime among other things, not as a fellow Party member,’ said Abrahams. ‘On the other hand, my particular position, my political angle on it may benefit the Party as well as Mr Harris. But my aim is to help him.’

I didn’t understand any of this. But as I’d been listening I’d decided I had to come clean. ‘There is something you have to know.’

I could tell my confession surprised the blasé Julius Abrahams because he raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. ‘That certainly fits in with my suspicions about the post mortem. Incompetent forensic procedures, if the St Pancras Chronicle is to be believed. That would mean that Titus Mavor was killed much earlier than the police have assumed.’ He paused. ‘Give me a day or two to think about how best to handle it. From your point of view, it’s a bit of a minefield, isn’t it.’ He looked at me, obviously puzzled. ‘Didn’t you realise you should have gone to the police at once?’

‘Yes … I suppose I did, really, but … at the time … It was late and so cold and … it seemed all right to leave it till the morning. We – well, I never thought of murder.’ It sounded awfully lame; and the truth was I didn’t even understand myself. Stanley didn’t want his name brought into it. That had seemed an adequate explanation at the time, but now I saw it explained nothing. It didn’t explain my collusion with his need for secrecy. It didn’t explain why he’d wanted his part in events kept quiet. It just raised more questions. ‘I just thought he’d died,’ I said feebly. And I wasn’t even sure that was true now. I could no longer remember exactly what I’d thought or felt at the time. Hadn’t I had some sense of things being wrong even from the beginning? I couldn’t remember. It was all overlaid with what had happened since.

‘Even so …’ Abrahams continued to look at me. He tapped his pen on the blotting pad. Then, as if dismissing some train of thought: ‘Well … anyway, we’ll find out what Colin was doing earlier in the day. That will become important if we can get the police to accept that the time of death was earlier.’

‘If I tell them the truth they’ll have to, won’t they?’

He smiled. ‘Not necessarily.’ He paused, and then used exactly the same phrase as Doris Tarr. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’

But it was not this languid older man who would have to cross that bridge. It was me.