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Tuesday, 13th March 2012, 9.00 a.m.
Arthur found it difficult to concentrate on his work but he just had to get it done ... and quickly. He’d yearned, just a little, for more excitement in his life and now he had it, along with fear and confusion ... in spades, as he’d heard them say.
Joan had helped him move the bed against the wall in their third bedroom and they’d set up the desk in front of the window. It was fortunate that a builder, some forty years ago, had had the foresight to place both a power and a phone switch in that corner and he now had a lovely aspect, with his desk, computer and phone, looking over their small back yard, over to the St Mary Magdalene church, with the sun smiling in at him.
Yes, most pleasant, had it not been for the unnerving situation he now found himself. He’d spread the files out on his bed, in vaguely logical order, and tried to reconcile them all. It seemed that Lord and Lady Atkinson had both been tied up while their house was being burgled. Unfortunately, Lord Atkinson had resisted and his arm and a rib had been broken in the struggle. Having just arrived from New Zealand, their daughter and son-in-law wondered why they’d not been met at the airport and, sensing something wrong, took a taxi from Heathrow to the property near Kings Wood in Surrey. That seemed quite clear to Arthur. The rest of the information, however, wasn’t so clear.
The local police reported that they had been called, along with the ambulance, by one of the servants. The office had been ransacked while the rest of the house was untouched. Lady Atkinson had difficulty breathing, with the shock and her asthma, and Lord Atkinson was in considerable pain but would not leave the house to have his arm and rib attended to at the hospital – the ambulance people treated him as best they could, with a temporary brace and sling. He insisted on helping the police inspection of his office and was looking for an item or items (undisclosed) quite frantically. Tyre marks were noticed across part of the lawn, near the office and Sergeant Tomlins felt it was most likely from a four-wheel-drive vehicle. He had had no chance to confirm this.
A half hour into their investigation, four plain clothes men from MI5 turned up and, using their higher authority, ordered the police to leave the premises. Against their wishes, Lord and Lady Atkinson were forced into the ambulance by the MI5 team and the ambulance was ordered off the property. This was most irregular and Sergeant Tomlins insisted on completing a report, on behalf of his team, and forwarding copies to both his supervisors and to the Atkinsons’ insurance company, Allied Insurance Ltd.
The ambulance driver’s report (confirmed by his assistant) noted property damage as well as footprints by the tyre marks on the lawn, as per the police report. Their report confirmed the Atkinsons’ injuries per the police report and that they were ordered from the property by a second group of police. This, again, was most irregular and both reported their concern, in writing and verbally, to their supervisor at the hospital. Lord Atkinson’s arm was put in a plaster and sling and his rib cage was bandaged. He was released and returned to his home. Lady Atkinson was suffering from lack of breath, was put on oxygen and kept overnight in hospital for observation.
A succinct report from MI5 confirmed that they were called to the house and found local police in attendance. Because of their lack of experience in these matters, these police were sent away. The Atkinsons proved to be particularly uncooperative and were dispatched to the local hospital for attendance on their injuries. The report also briefly mentioned that the daughter and son-in-law (Melinda and John Maranui) had had arrived later and had been taken to the Send office for questioning and no results of that were indicated.
What the MI5 report did not mention was that Melinda and John Maranui were questioned, separately, for four hours without a break, in a military-like establishment in Send, Surrey. They were
Philip J Bradbury
asked about every moment of their lives for the past six years. They averred that they had nothing to hide but the relentlessness of the interrogation team suggested MI5 did not believe this.
The report also omitted to mention that a Mr Brown (later presumed to be the lead character of the MI5 team) initially refused to allow Ahmed Khan and his two assessors, from AIL, to enter the property. The insurance team was eventually allowed in on the second morning. Ahmed and his team found no smashed windows or doors, but newly-repaired ones. The lawn near the corner of the library looked like it had been run over by a hundred different vehicles and no tyre treads could be identified in the remaining slush.
Lord and Lady Atkinson made a written a statement, along with an insurance claim for property missing – none of it particularly valuable and all of it portable. Their statement confirmed that, at 10.30 p.m., they were about to leave for Heathrow airport to pick up their daughter and son-in-law when they heard a crash downstairs and, shortly after, a man in black burst into their bedroom, brandishing a pistol and tied them up, with more force than was necessary. The man could not be identified as he said nothing and his face was covered by a balaclava. Lady Atkinson was sure she heard glass being broken – the office, she surmised, at the time – while they were being tied up, suggesting at least two burglars. Their attacker then left the building and a vehicle was heard, leaving. One of the servants (who called the police and ambulance) was adamant that it was a four-wheel-drive, by the sound of it.
Arthur felt that it was all quite clear but for the dissenting report from MI5, which could not be ignored. And, what were they doing at the scene, ordering everybody about? Lord Atkinson may have been a politician but a break-in was hardly cause for such tactics or such high-level investigation ... unless they knew something no one else did. Surely such a high profile person as the Minister of Immigration wouldn’t risk his reputation and position with silly misdeeds.
The discomfort was that Arthur knew or sensed there was something behind the facts, the bland objectivity of a list of items missing and actions taken. Arthur knew he needed to get behind the data to the reasons for the incident. In order to accept or reject part or whole of any claim, there had to be clear evidence (or lack of it) to substantiate his decision. With the FSA breathing down his neck, he could not take any chances or have any ambiguity. Somehow, he needed to talk to Lord Atkinson and/or his wife, and hear their story. As these unwelcome thoughts crowded his mind, his phone rang.
“Arthur, how are you? How is it all going? Any progress?” asked a breathless Mary.
“Yes, yes, making progress ...”
“Good, good, Arthur,” said Mary, interrupting. “Now, I have a favour to ask and I know it would help speed up your investigation.”
“Oh?” said Arthur, thinking this was beginning to sound like a request he couldn’t refuse.
“Now, I hope you don’t mind, but Lord Atkinson wanted to know who was dealing with the case,” said Mary, in full flight. “I gave him your name and he wants a meeting with you.”
“Oh! Mary!” said Arthur. “That’s just what I was thinking!”
“You were? How strange ... Now, Arthur, the touchy bit, I’m afraid,” said Mary, obviously faltering while she phrased the next bit. “Your situation is a little ... a, interesting. There is a possibility, just a small one, that you could be followed at some time.”
“I already am, Mary, by an Australian and his gang,” said Arthur, smiling. That bit sounded quite exotic, quite ... well, 007ish.
“You are?” asked Mary with evident surprise. “And we thought they ... oh, he, was from New
Zealand? Gosh ... so you know you could be followed again?”
“Yes, I suppose I do,” said Arthur, with the exotic label quickly fading while the fearsome one lit up bright neon lights. He wiped his brow.
“So, Arthur, we have a plan,” said Mary, who loved plans, Arthur knew. “You’re not planning on going anywhere today, are you?”
“No, no, I wasn’t ...”
“Good, so the plan is this,” said Mary. “A tradesman’s van will pull up outside your house at ten o’clock this morning. He will knock on your door and you’re to let him in. Understand?” “Yes. Is that it?” asked Arthur.
“No, Arthur, I just want to make sure you understand every bit of the procedure,” said Mary. “Now, you and the tradesman will exchange overalls and boots and you can then go out and hop into his van. There will be a passenger who will give you driving directions. You can drive, can’t you?”
“Uh, yes, I can drive though it has been a long time,” said Arthur, wondering if it was all that much fun being James Bond.
“Now, the tradesman will be Toby McGuire, my secretary. He’s younger but about your size,” said Mary, obviously ticking things off a list as she conveyed them to him. “You’ll be away for an hour or so, if your wife wouldn’t mind plying him with cups of tea for that time ... and please don’t take your cell phone. It can be traced. Then, when you come back, you and Toby can exchange clothes and boots again. Do you follow all that?”
“Ah, yes, I think so,” said Arthur.
“Good,” said Mary. “And good luck.”
As Arthur put the phone down he realised his apprehension over meeting the Lord and Lady was not his only problem. He had another problem – Joan. How was he going to explain this strange turn of events, especially when she wasn’t keen on him starting the project, anyway? As well as that, she’d asked little about the project and he’d told her little. And now, in fifty minutes’ time, a stranger was going to come through the door, exchange clothes with Arthur and stay in the house while Arthur drove off in his van to destination unknown, with a passenger unknown. How much to tell and where to start?
What a conundrum ... and one that wasn’t going away!
Oh well, gird the loins, take a deep breath (a very deep breath) and wing it – just say whatever comes to mind. His brain froze, his body rose and he wondered how he’d got himself in this pickle – life was so regular, ordered and predictable two weeks ago and he’d disliked it. Now, well, yes, it was anything but regular and predictable and, yes, he had to admit, it was just the tiniest bit exciting. And fearful.
Putting on his sternest face, he strode up the short hallway, turned down the stairs and called for Joan before he reached the bottom.
“Yes dear,” said Joan, from the kitchen. “Can it just wait a minute? I was just about to ring Dottie and thank her for her help over the funeral.”
“No Joan,” said Arthur, frowning rather seriously. “That will have to wait. I’d like to talk to you now, please.”
“Oh Arthur, you do sound masterful!” said Joan appearing in the doorway of the lounge where he was standing. She was wiping her hands on her floral apron. “What has come over you? You’re diff
...”
“Joan, I’m sorry, but I don’t have a lot of time,” said Arthur, indicating her chair.
“Right, yes, if you insist ...” said Joan, unused to such direction from Arthur.
“Now, at ten o’clock a young man I don’t know will come to the door,” he said, discovering his mouth (or was it his brain that was in charge?) was diving straight in. No preamble. “I will let him in, we’ll exchange clothes, I will drive off in his van and he will stay here with you until I return. Probably about an hour.”
“Right, yes,” said Joan. “This stranger – he’s quite safe, is he? He won’t be torturing me or anything will he?”
“No, of course he won’t!” said Arthur, not sure if she was joking or being very logical. “He’s
Mary’s secretary, a nice young man by all accounts.”
“That’s good,” said Joan, smiling. “What else did you want to tell me, dear?”
“I ... ah, well, that’s what’s going to happen,” said Arthur, expecting objections that didn’t eventuate. “I can tell you more if you want to know more.”
“Not really, if you don’t have enough time, Arthur,” said Joan. “I’ll have a whole hour with this charming young man so I can drill him, can’t I?”
“Yes, yes, I suppose you can,” said Arthur, now wishing she did want to know more so he could tell her. “It’s about this Atkinson case, actually.”
“Yes, I had guessed that,” said Joan. “I’d like to know more about it some time but there’s probably not the time now, is there?”
“Well, I could make a start,” said Arthur, wondering where that bossy and demanding Joan had gone. A quite pleasant one had stepped into her body somehow, recently.
And so Arthur spent the next half hour explaining everything.
“Oh my gosh, Arthur, I didn’t realise it was that Atkinson,” said Joan, clapping her hands gleefully. “You certainly do move in exalted circles.” Any previous apprehension seemed to have been dissolved by immersion in excitement and intrigue. Arthur went upstairs and assembled all his papers – again and again – while Joan spoke to Dottie on the phone.
“Come on, Arthur!” called Joan from downstairs, “I’ve made you a nice cup of tea to calm your nerves.”
“Okay, okay,” said Arthur, who felt he had done so well concealing his nerves.
As they were drinking their tea, with Joan assuring him he would be fine and safe, there was a knock at the door. Toby, in very efficient and assertive manner, had their clothes changed, Arthur’s papers in his tool box and ready to go before Arthur could draw breath. There was nothing else to do but get into the van but Toby held him back.
“Let’s wait a few minutes before you go out,” suggested Toby.
Arthur agreed that no normal tradesman would just walk straight in and out of someone’s house so they sat while Joan made Toby a cup of tea. Arthur sensed Toby looked quite nervous. Very nervous, actually. He was sure, however, that Joan would put him at his ease soon. When Joan returned with the tea and biscuits, Arthur bade them good bye, walked out to the van and opened the door ... well, he tried but it was locked. Confused, he looked back at his house and saw Toby’s hand, in front of the net curtain, waving frantically at him, pointing up the street. The penny dropped. Wrong van. He wandered nonchalantly up the street, in the direction of Toby’s finger and tentatively tried the door of the next van. There was an older man, with a black woollen hat pulled low and overalls, in the passenger seat.
“Welcome Arthur, and I’m terribly sorry I can’t help you with your bag – this arm’s a bit useless at the moment,” said the man, chuckling. Arthur noticed his right arm was in a sling. “Bit embarrassing but you’re in the right van now!”
“Uh, yes,” said Arthur, feeling quite stupid and knowing full well James Bond would never make such an error. Maybe he was not cut out for this kind of stuff. Though he didn’t believe in omens, if he did he would have recognised it as a bad one.
“Right, my man, let’s get this show on the road, as they say,” said the man. “Dashed exciting, really, isn’t it, my man. I’ve never done this sort of thing before – usually have my chauffeur drive me around. However, we should be able to find ourselves out of this place, eh what! Belt up and let’s get moving, shall we?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Arthur, thankful for some direction, since his brain had none at that moment. He belted up, started up and indicated that he was pulling out ... except that the wipers went instead of the indicators.
“Oh!” said Arthur, his brain unable to formulate any more coherent words. They were soon underway with the man directing from a map on his lap. They managed to find themselves at the same point on the Croydon overpass three times and they chuckled together, a brotherhood of errors. Eventually, they were headed south to Kings Wood.
“Right, Arthur Bayly, I should introduce myself properly, now we’ve negotiated the tricky part,” said the man, taking off his hat. “I’m Lord Atkinson. Pleased to meet you, old chap and we’ll have to dispense with the hand-shaking, obviously. Let’s just take it that we’ve shaken, shall we?” He raised his plastered arm a little and Arthur nodded and smiled. Arthur had vaguely suspected it was the Black but was afraid to confirm by asking. Arthur noted that he had been promoted from my good man to old chap.
“Now, old chap, our estate is just round the corner here,” said Lord Atkinson after a ten-minute drive. They turned left off the main road and were soon passing beneath a massive stone archway as the gates opened for them. The hundred-yard, gravel driveway wandered through manicured gardens and curved in front of a three-storey Georgian mansion. Arthur noticed two gardeners working away and other assorted people walking around. A butler opened the van door for Lord Atkinson and then came around to Arthur’s side to suggest that he could park the vehicle for him, if he preferred.
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Arthur, as if this happened every day of his life.
Arthur took his boots off at the door and a second butler ushered them through ten-foot-high, oak doors, through a marble and oak reception area at the bottom of a curved stairway that led, it seemed to Arthur, to heaven. He had little chance for further inspection as he was whisked into a cavernous drawing room that, despite its size, had been filled to overflowing with furniture, statues, ornaments, paintings, books and all manner of collectible things, leaving little room for the lady who was sitting on one of several chairs around the stone fireplace. The fire crackled happily and she stood and smiled warmly as Lord Atkinson introduced Lady Atkinson to Arthur.
The Black suggested a cup of tea, to which Arthur assented, despite the three he had already had that morning. He really needed a toilet stop but was hesitant to ask. The Black then excused himself to change his clothes and asked Arthur if he would like to refresh himself. With a flood of relief, Arthur was led by the butler into a bathroom the size of Arthur’s dining room, all tiles and gold and with plumbing worse than he’d ever experienced before. He did manage to get the toilet to flush, after much pumping, and found his way back to the drawing room.
Soon they were all settled round the friendly fire, with tea and cakes before them and with a small desk for Arthur’s papers, at his side. He spread his papers out but, despite his lengthy preparation at home, was uncertain where to start. He kept shuffling his papers, hoping his brain would start.
“Now, Arthur, old chap, we have you here, ostensibly, for an insurance claim but, for us, that’s incidental,” said Lord Atkinson. Now that he was in his accustomed clothes, Arthur could see better that he was a tall, spare man with a good head of silver hair – a man who obviously took great care of his body and clothes, as did his wife. She was slightly shorter than his six foot, wore minimal makeup and looked immaculate. They were dressed in what might be called the casual estate collection – both were in checked shirts (hers with the collar pulled up and his with a school tie), fawn slacks and sturdy leather brogues. “We did lose some items in the burglary and some had a reasonable value, but we’ll be far from upset if we’re turned down for the lot, old chap.”
“Oh, you will?” said Arthur, with relief and puzzlement. He wondered, in the split second that you can wonder something really big, why he’d had to spend so much time on this claim, considering it had so little import to the claimant. Squeezed into the same split second was a question mark, bigger than the drawing room in which they sat, over his real reason for being here – obviously not the reason he was led to believe.
“Of course, you’ll probably want to approve a substantial portion of it so the FSA fellows don’t become too suspicious,” said Lord Atkinson.
“Look, let’s not skirt around the woods,” said Lady Atkinson. “We know your Sam Black better than you think we might and he recommended that you’re to be trusted in this matter.”
“Yes, absolutely, dear,” said Lord Atkinson. “You see, the police and the FSA are not necessarily on our side and I’m not sure which of my political colleagues can be relied on so it always comes back to Sam Black. He’s been a brick over the years, such ...”
“Anyway, the crux of the matter, Arthur,” said Lady Atkinson, interrupting again, “is that a particularly important item was not taken but we suspect it was the reason for the burglary. And now
Sam has disappeared, only a few weeks later. We think they might be related.”
“Oh dear,” said Arthur. “You think Mr Black was behind the burglary?”
“Oh no, oh dear no,” said Lady Atkinson, leaning forward earnestly. “It may be because Sam was close to completing a contract, on our behalf, and that information may have leaked. We aren’t looking for stolen items – we really want to know who’s behind all this nasty business.”
“Oh?” said Arthur, sensing that sensible questions were less embarrassing than sensible statements.
“We’re sure there’s a link – initially we were concerned about the plans but now we’re more concerned about the safety of Sam,” said Lord Atkinson. “They’re serious, these people, absolutely ruthless rotters ...”
“So, the plans my husband mentioned,” interrupted Lady Atkinson, returning to the crux again, “could mean the end of the petroleum and all other energy industries and that would be catastrophic for hundreds of thousands of workers and for the billions in profits of these companies.”
“Oh?” said Arthur, finding it the only one of the two million words in the English language that he had any use for, right now.
“Yes, oh!” said Lord Atkinson, smiling grimly. “That’s what we thought when all this was presented to us. You see, our son-in-law, John Maranui, is a publisher in New Zealand and, though his interests are a little ... shall we say, off to the side, he’s a jolly good man to our daughter and, as we’ve got to know him, full of integrity.”
“Because of his ... shall we say, interesting interests, as my husband said, he’s been drawn into something we now feel as passionate about as him,” said Lady Atkinson. “He met a man who wanted him to publish his book and it started from there. This Bruce Cathie, who had written his controversial story, had been a pilot for NAC, New Zealand’s national airline, now called Air New Zealand. This Captain Cathie had first seen a flying saucer over the Manukau Harbour, in Auckland, and, in discussions with other airline pilots, discovered this wasn’t uncommon. However, his bosses were not impressed that he publicised his discoveries.”
“There’s nothing so motivates a chap to do something as to tell him not to do it!” said Lord Atkinson, chuckling.
Arthur smiled and nodded, remembering how, a few hours earlier, he had almost wished Joan had objected to him coming on this trip – then he would have had cause to stand up for himself. Maybe there was a belligerent side to his nature, unrecognised till now.
“So, our Captain Cathie felt impelled to know more about those flying saucers – how they moved and powered themselves,” said Lady Atkinson quickly, warming to the subject. “In the course of his investigations, he met a Robert Adams, a scientist with New Zealand’s Department of Scientific Research. Robert had started working on a free-energy motor and was impelled, by Bruce’s enthusiasm, to carry on.”
“Robert called his invention a ... now, let me get this right ... an Adams Switched Reluctance Pulsed DC Permanent Magnet Motor Generator and, after many attempts, developed a motor that was 137% efficient. That means that it produced more energy than it used,” said Lord Atkinson
interrupting, his enthusiasm bubbling over. “And that’s where Robert’s problems started.” “Problems?” asked Arthur, feeling a knot beginning to form in his stomach.
“Yes, problems,” said Lord Atkinson. “You see, in New Zealand, as in many other countries, the patent office can classify any patent application under a Military Use Clause, meaning that inventors are prohibited from publishing details of their devices or promoting them in any manner. In other words, their devices automatically become the sole property of the government and the inventors lose all rights to their inventions.”
“But they invented the device ...” said Arthur, astonished.
“Absolutely!” said Lady Atkinson. “But the state has the last say – you either take the risk to get your invention patented (and lose it) or don’t get a patent at all.”
“And that’s what our Mr Adams did, in his naivety – he applied for a patent for his free energy machine and lost it to the state,” said Lord Atkinson. “Mr Adams survived an attempt on his life by an individual affiliated with the New Zealand Secret Intelligence Service, the SIS. He believed that the former Prime Minister of New Zealand, Robert Muldoon, suppressed his invention, with pressure from unknown but powerful sources.”
“Oh, my God ...” said Arthur, wondering how he’d got himself involved in such matters and where it all could lead.
“Yes, my God alright!” said Lord Atkinson. “Just not cricket, by jove, no!”
“However, the government or whoever was involved, did not reckon on the persistence of people like Mr Cathie and Mr Adams,” said Lady Atkinson. “Though his invention was suppressed, under the Military Use Clause, for 20 years, Mr Adams, with help and encouragement from his friend Mr Cathie, continued to develop his motor and eventually decided that his life would be safer if he published his findings – publish and be damned, if you like! If the public knew about it, then attempts on his life (and his wife’s) would be pointless – the information’s still out there. So, he published his findings in New Zealand’s Nexus magazine and the death threats and constant surveillance stopped, much to his relief.”
“My gosh!” said Arthur, enthralled. Then, he quickly realised, he was in a large drawing room in England, not in New Zealand, to investigate an insurance claim. “But, please excuse me, but what does this have to do with the burglary or your claim?”
“Ah, yes, good question,” said Lord Atkinson. “This is where our son-in-law, John, comes in.”
“By this time, Arthur, Mr Cathie had written several books on flying saucers and other related things and he wanted his friend Mr Adams to write a book about his invention,” said Lady Atkinson. “However, Mr Adams did not feel confident about such a project and so Mr Cathie sent our John along, in the hope that he could facilitate a book somehow ... perhaps ghost-write it or something.”
“The problem was, however, Mr Adams’ health,” said Lord Atkinson. “The attempts on his life, the constant surveillance from New Zealand’s SIS and his advanced years – he was over seventy by then – meant that he was becoming more frail. He wanted to have his book written but didn’t feel up to it at that time. He promised to keep in contact with John and the next thing John knew, Robert Adams died.”
“And so did his invention and all his writings,” said Lady Atkinson dramatically. “Till they unexpectedly turned up with us.”
“And so, Arthur old chap, you might see why you’re here,” said Lord Atkinson, smiling and leaning back in his chair as if everything was perfectly clear. “Would you like another cup of tea?”
“Uh, oh, yes ... no ...” said Arthur, unsure which to answer first.
“You probably mean you’d like another cup of tea and you don’t have the faintest idea why you’re here,” suggested Lady Atkinson, ringing her little bell for the butler, who arrived and poured Arthur another cup of tea.
“Ah, thank you and, yes, Lady Atkinson,” said Arthur. “I’m afraid you were rather reading my mind.”
“She does that, you know,” said Lord Atkinson, smiling at his wife. “It’s all rather uncanny.”
“Now, to cut a very long story short, Robert Adams’ plans, and one of his motors, was couriered to John shortly after Mr Adams’ death and John still has no idea who sent them,” said Lady Atkinson. “John, in his ... shall we say, interesting philosophy, puts it down to some sort of destiny he must fulfil and so he kept them firmly hidden, under lock and key, and told no one, believing he would be given a sign of some kind of sign when it was time for him to do something with them.”
“Then he fell in love with this English girl, visiting New Zealand, married her and, in the process, discovered her father was a member of the House of Lords and has a passion for the environment,” said
Lord Atkinson, smiling. “As soon as he met us, he felt he knew what to do with the plans.” “Right,” said Arthur, determined to use a different word.
“He knew it was too dangerous to do anything with them in New Zealand, given the trouble Mr Adams had,” said Lord Atkinson, “and when he found about my ... er, our interest in stopping all this dashed pollution, and I’m in a position of some influence here, he approached me about them, eventually, wondering if there was anything I could do to get these devices, these motors, manufactured for developing countries.”
“But I would have thought New Zealand would be safe from all kinds of interference, being so remote,” said Arthur.
“Absolutely, Arthur, that’s what we thought,” said Lord Atkinson. “But a few years ago a chap from Hamilton, in New Zealand, invented a car battery that never went flat. He needed money to manufacture them, couldn’t find any investors and eventually sold his patent to Mitsubishi for a tidy sum. And we’ve never heard of the Never Flat Battery again – Mitsubishi had no intention of manufacturing them for who can make money from a product that never wears out?” “Oh yes, obviously,” said Arthur.
“So, what we’re saying, old chap, is that nowhere is safe but, in a large place like Europe, it may be easier to be a little more anonymous,” said Lady Atkinson.
“Ah, I’ve just got it!” said Arthur, as a light went on in his brain. “You had the plans, or the motor, and someone tried to find them, using a common burglary as a diversion, somehow?”
“Absolutely, Arthur, we’re not sure if we should go ahead with our plans until we know who is behind all this and if it’s safe,” said Lord Atkinson.
“But I still don’t see where I come into all of this,” said Arthur, “if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Yes, a perfectly reasonable question and the truth of it is that you’re just a pawn in the whole game, as are we all,” said Lord Atkinson. “Initially, I didn’t let on to Sam, or anyone else, that the real reason we submitted an insurance claim was to help us find the culprits. I suppose I thought you insurance chaps, with the resources you have to hand, might turn up something, even if it was just a lead to something else.”
“And so I got the job and, later, Mr Black found out the full implications of it,” suggested Arthur, as pieces began to fall into place.
“Absolutely, old chap!” said Lord Atkinson, suddenly smiling. “They did say you were good at puzzles ... you know, piecing things together.”
“Anyway, we had to tell Sam, eventually, ‘fess up’ as the Americans would say,” said Lady Atkinson, smiling. “There was nowhere or no one else to turn to so we entrusted Sam with the information.”
“And then things really started to go haywire,” said Lord Atkinson. “The word got out ...”
“You think Mr Black leaked the information?” asked Arthur, thinking that the explanation didn’t go with his gut feelings.
“Good heavens no!” said Lord Atkinson. “We don’t know who but the chief suspect is Sam’s rather dotty ... pretty but dotty secretary who may not be as dotty as we all suspected. We’re not sure ...”
“So, Sam had you on the case, feared for your safety and rearranged your job while the investigation continued,” said Lady Atkinson.
Oh gosh!” said Arthur. His mind went blank after thoughts of the enormity of the situation and thoughts of gratitude to Mr Black flashed through. His brain was now full and it was all a bit much. “So, the plans are safe, the culprits are still skulking out there and could return, Sam disappeared and we were desperate for the investigation – any investigation – to continue,” said Lord Atkinson.
“Sam had appraised us of your loyalty, discretion and ability with puzzles, as he put it.”
“Oh gosh!” said Arthur. This phrase was becoming an automatic response and all he could mutter right now.
“So we prevailed upon Mary, Sam’s deputy, to talk with you directly,” said Lady Atkinson.
“Mmm, prevailed might be an understatement,” said Lord Atkinson. “She was most insistent that you not be put in any danger so we put rather a lot of pressure on her and, being in the House of Lords,
I can do that. I exercised my royal prerogative, if you like, for what we considered the common good.” “Oh gosh!” said Arthur, wishing he could form new words.
“So, Arthur, old chap, you now know why you’re here – it’s a conspiracy to keep you out of trouble!” said Lady Atkinson, happily. “A nice conspiracy.”
“A nice conspiracy,” Arthur mused, not feeling totally comfortable quite yet.
“Mmm, a nicely intentioned conspiracy that may have somehow backfired, dear,” said Lord Atkinson gravely.
“Yes, dear, I daresay you’re right,” said Lady Atkinson, blushing a little as she looked at her husband. “We all volunteered for this mission, so to speak, but you, Arthur, seem to have been volunteered by accident. Oh dear, we are sorry we’ve somehow got you into this mess.”
“Yes, hmm,” was all Arthur could manage, knowing he should really say something gracious but not sure what it was.
“Anyway, here we are, all probably being followed, Sam gone and the sods still at large ... oh, my gosh!” said Lady Atkinson, with a stark realisation. “What a time for Belinda and John to be here! I do hope they’ll be safe ...”
“I daresay they’ll be safe, dear, they’re holidaying in Scotland and it’s unlikely anyone knows it was he who brought the plans to England a few years ago ... I hope,” said Lord Atkinson, with the conviction in his voice fading noticeably.
“Look, what you don’t know ...” said Arthur.
“Oh Arthur dear, please tell us,” said Lady Atkinson interrupting. She started to look very tired.
“Well, it’s nothing much but my son and Mr Black’s daughter are both on the lookout for Mr Black as well,” said Arthur, “and I’ve got two of my best repo agents ... repossession agents, looking for him too. The agents have their ears in all sorts of devious places we’d never know about ...” “But can we rely on them?” asked Lord Atkinson, interrupting.
“Oh yes, I’ve used them for years and, of course, Martin, Emily and the agents know nothing of the burglary or of Sam’s connection to it,” said Arthur. “They’re just looking for a man who has disappeared.”
“So, Arthur, can you piece together any of this?” asked Lady Atkinson.
“No, I have no idea who these people are or where Sam is or why he has disappeared,” said Arthur, clearing his brain of all the drama and clutter. “But it does seem to me we have two alternative courses of action open.”
“See dear, just what Sam said,” said Lord Atkinson. “Decisive thinking, cuts through the butter with a hot knife.”
“Darling, let Arthur continue,” said Lady Atkinson.
“Oh yes, yes, just so,” said Lord Atkinson with the thought of action and clarity obviously energising him. “Do go on, Arthur, please do.”
“Well, we can either carry on being secretive, as we’re now doing, everybody sneaking about in disguises and having whispered conversations in safe places,” said Arthur, “or we can follow Mr Adams’ example and go public. It seems, for him, that secrecy played into his aggressors’ hands and his disclosure, his article, reduced any danger to him altogether.”
“Hmm, right, so what do you propose we do?” asked Lord Atkinson.
“Me? We do?” asked Arthur shocked, realising that a Black of the realm was asking for his advice – advice that could save or endanger a number of people. “Oh dear, I have to say I have no clear plan of action but, as I speak, I do keep having a picture of you standing up in the House of Lords where, I understand, you have a measure of legal immunity, and telling your complete story.”
“By jove, that sounds very cavalier and dashing” said Lord Atkinson, laughing. Then he became serious. “But might it not endanger us in some way
?”
“Well, they tried to endanger you when this was in a cone of silence, so to speak,” said Arthur. “I daresay they could have shot you in your own home, here, if they’d wanted to but they didn’t, by choice.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right, old chap,” said Lord Atkinson. “It all sounds a mite dangerous ... though, I must admit, it does get the blood boiling. A little bit of excitement, dear!”
“Mmm, yes dear, it might be fun but I really do think we’d need to plan it properly, cover all our bases as they say,” said Lady Atkinson. “I’d hate it to go off half-cocked and it just ends in a fizzer.”
“Absolutely, Lady Atkinson,” said Arthur. “Now, my son’s a lawyer in the law firm, Shaftsbury Burton ...”
“By gosh, that’s our law firm,” said Lord Atkinson, interrupting, his palms on the arms of his chair, his elbows up as if he was about to launch himself somewhere. “Dashed good chaps, they are.”
“Yes, I believe they’re quite a prestigious law firm,” said Arthur, “and I feel we need someone good at advertising or public relations ... I’m not sure, but someone who can organise the publicity with the newspaper and television people properly.”
“Oh Charles, how about Lord Blunt?” asked Lady Atkinson. “Doesn’t he own the Herald or the Mirror or something ... and that television station?”
“Yes, you’re right my dear!” said Lord Atkinson, still in launch position, eyes wide. “He’s quite busy at the moment. He’s buying up some American magazine or newspaper chain or something, but I’ll certainly ask him. He may be a mite cynical about all this environmental, free-energy stuff, but he does love a good scrap, a good controversy, to spice up his papers.”
“Hmm,” said Arthur, his mind seeing all sorts of possibilities. “So, what else do we need? We should start amassing some evidence – we could get copies of that, ah, what was it, Next magazine?” “Nexus magazine,” corrected Lady Atkinson, helpfully.
“Oh, Nexus, thank you,” said Arthur. “And can we contact this Mr Bruce Cathie – would your sonin-law be able to organise these things?”
“Why, yes Arthur, I’m sure he could,” said Lord Atkinson.
“In fact I know he could and, what’s more, he’ll be at it like a rat up a drain pipe, as he’s wont to say!” said Lady Atkinson. “Oh, my gosh, of course, he’s a publisher and will know others in the publishing world down under. This could spread like wildfire.”
“Oh whew!” said Arthur, feeling like he’d grabbed at a small branch and found it was the tail of a snake. What was he getting into, he wondered with dread. “So, we have the start of a battle plan – you talk to your people, as they say, I’ll talk to mine and we could perhaps get together somewhere as soon as we can.”
“Right, Arthur, that’s absolutely spiffing,” said Lord Atkinson, leaping up with more vigour than his age would indicate. “Gosh dear, I suddenly feel like a teenager again!”
“Ah, one thing we should mention, though it’s probably quite obvious by now,” said Lady Atkinson. “Given that we don’t know who we’re dealing with we must ask you not to talk to the police or any government agencies about this, till we’re quite certain who we’re dealing with.” “Yes, yes, of course,” said Arthur.
Philip J Bradbury
“Probably best for all of us, we feel,” said Lord Atkinson.
“Yes, I understand completely,” said Arthur, feeling as if they were children, keeping secrets from the adults. He stood up and had his hand shaken ruggedly and then Lady Atkinson had a turn with a strong and lengthy hug. She seemed to have tears in her eyes. She stood back a little with her hands on Arthur’s shoulders as if she had something to say. He waited uncertainly, awkwardly.
“Oh Arthur, oh Arthur,” said Lady Atkinson as tears rolled down her cheeks. “I feel all choked up
...”
“Yes, it’s alright dear,” said Lord Atkinson, obviously embarrassed by her tears.
“Let me say this, please,” said Lady Atkinson, not taking her eyes from Arthur’s. “This probably sounds a bit weak or something ... I don’t know what you’ve done here today, Arthur, but I feel so released, so clean, somehow. We’ve let the cat out of the bag, told a complete stranger, one we can trust, and it feels better, having it out. And now, at last, we have a plan of action, as you said, something to do.”
“Oh but ...” said Arthur, finding this all a little confronting.
“No Arthur, I must say this,” said Lady Atkinson, wiping her tears and smiling. “I’m not one to beat about the bush and what must be said must be said – by me here, by Lord Atkinson in the House, by all of us. We must have our secrets out, cleanse our souls, if you will, and with this battle plan ... I don’t know, I’ve felt paralysed, helpless ever since we got those plans from John, three years ago, and more so since the burglary. I felt impotent, so useless and angry at that. Now, we all have something to do, a ray of hope.”
“Absolutely dear!” said Lord Atkinson, thumping Arthur on the back. “It’s so dashed annoying to have the hope for a better world, of helping people, but no way to get it done ...”
“And, most important of all, Arthur, Charles, is that none of this matters,” said Lady Atkinson. An unexpected still fell on them. “It doesn’t matter if this all ends in some stupid tragedy or just a whole lot of nothing or in some amazing success. We don’t know how this will end up but, in the end, we’re actually doing something that fires us all up. We’re trying to make a difference and our hearts are on fire!”
“Yes darling, you’re so right,” said Lord Atkinson, quietly, as if recalling something long forgotten. “I used to have such plans for this place, for my career, when I took over the title from my father. And then, somehow, the dreams faded. I hadn’t realised how many of them I’d forgotten, till now. Ah Arthur, you have done more than you can imagine.”
“Oh, thank you, both of you. I don’t quite know what to say,” said Arthur. “I feel as if I’ve done so little ...”
“And maybe you have done so little,” said Lady Atkinson, interrupting. “Big or little, you’ve got us back to where we belong, back to a sense of ... I don’t know ... a sense of the warrior rising, as if we can actually make a difference and see a better world through us being here. I don’t know the words but I certainly have the feeling. I know I’m not just here to attend endless cocktail parties and fill in the space between my birth and death with cups of tea and nice chats. I now have a reason! I’m sorry, Arthur, I could go on! Let’s get you back to your family and we’ll all keep in contact and have a meeting with all our knights at the round table soon.”
“Yes, absolutely!” said Arthur, relieved that the emotional moment was over. He gathered his papers, put on his tradesman disguise and drove off with the butler, this time, beside him. His heart felt like popping and he couldn’t get the silly smile off his face.
“Oh Arthur, sir, you think you be going quite fast?” asked the butler solicitously.
“Oh, oh dear,” said Arthur, “just a bit excited, I daresay.”
“I understand sir, with today decisions,” said the butler, “and if you like, I have idea.” “You have?” asked Arthur and then remembered himself. “Look, I’m Arthur. And you are?” “My name Dominik, sir,” said the butler.
“Yes, pleased to meet you, Dominik,” said Arthur, extending his hand awkwardly in the small van. “Yes, sir, I have idea. We just scare these people a little. Just a little.”
“Oh dear, what people are these?” asked Arthur, his concentration on the road wavering as he imagined bodily harm to someone, somewhere. He brought the van back on track and tried to focus on driving.
“The ones who come here. They tell others, the good police, to go away,” said Dominik.
“Oh, you mean the MI5 chaps?” asked Arthur. “Why them?”
“Well sir, we know there be lots of people doing this ... ah, how you say, um, involved?” “Yes, involved,” said Arthur.
“So lots involved but only these we know about, yet,” said Dominik, with unshakeable logic.
“Right, so we scare these particular MI5 men?” asked Arthur. “What exactly do you mean by scare?”
“Ah, you leave that to me. That is my speciality!” said Dominik, smiling broadly.
“Oh dear, I don’t think we need to have any violence,” said Arthur, shivering a little, trying to focus on the road as he imagined this bear of a man breaking necks and doing other dreadful things to people. “But how do we find these particular people?”
“Ah, that easy!” said Dominik, winking at Arthur. “They come to my brother’s club and Andrzej he check the list and know where they live. Easy!”
“Oh dear, I’m not sure all this is necessary at all, Dominik,” said Arthur, with the feeling he was trying to stop a steam roller by lying in front of it.
“It safe too!” said Dominik, trying to twist in his seat towards Arthur, with little success. “We be, ah, how you say ... discrete. Nobody know we do scare thing and nobody connect to anybody else.”
“But, if they don’t know who is scaring them, as you put it, they won’t know why they’re being scared and they won’t know who to stop harassing,” said Arthur, desperate to intervene with unassailable logic.
“Mmm, yes, that problem, yes,” said Dominik, looking out at the surrounding mist.
“And, if they do know it’s us scaring them, then they might go after us more determinedly,” said Arthur, ramming his point home.
“Yes, you right, Mr Arthur,” said Dominik, thumping his fist on his knee with a grimace.
All was quiet as Arthur negotiated his way through Croydon and he could tell, by the facial contortions and knee thumping, that Dominik was not letting his idea go. As Arthur manoeuvred into a parking space near his home, he really wanted to ease the pressure Dominik seemed to be putting on himself – diffuse the smoking cordite, so to speak.
“Well Dominik, it has been a pleasure to meet you and thank you for your great idea of scaring people,” said Arthur, offering his hand, which disappeared into Dominik’s massive paw. “Leave it with me and I’m sure I will come up with a way round it – a way to make them listen.”
“Oh Mr Arthur, that be good if you think for it too,” said Dominik, his face relaxing into a smile. “There many bad men out there and they should be stopped. I know these things.”
Arthur had the impression that Dominik had dealt with many “bad men” in his life and he knew, from the frowns and lip-chewing, that Dominik had not totally delegated the solution to him. He stepped out of the van as casually as he could, while his mind wanted him to flee as quickly as he could, from this maniacal bear beside him.
“Mr Arthur, your bag!” said the grinning Dominik.
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Arthur, reaching to grab the proffered bag.
His heart wanted him to dash across the twenty yards to his door, to escape the rather unnerving Dominik, and to fall into the welcome arms of his familiar home again. He sauntered, as best he could, and turned the handle to his own front door. It didn’t move. Joan never locked it. He knocked, uncertainly. He knocked again, harder. Still no answer. He knew, from the bite in his stomach, that there’s something wrong. Something very wrong.
