Red Crystal Page 2

  Though the bath was only half full he was impatient and, undressing quickly, got in. Shivering, he lay back and felt the hot water creep slowly up his body. In another five minutes, when the water covered his legs, it was going to be very pleasant indeed.

  The phone rang.

  Ryder breathed, ‘I don’t believe this.’

  For a moment he lay still, considering whether to answer it. If it was the office they could go to hell. On the other hand, it might just be Anne …

  He got out, grabbed a towel and padded wetly across the bedsitting-room to the phone.

  A cheery, horribly familiar voice echoed down the earpiece. ‘Hello, sport. Didn’t disturb anything interesting, I trust?’

  ‘Sod you, Conway. What is it?’

  ‘Oxford. That Vietnam demo. A real fracas. Rampaged round the dining-room waving placards. About thirty or forty of them.’

  Ryder sighed. ‘The Oxford lads were warned, for Christsake. Several times …’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, mate, but the fact remains that it was a right cock-up. The ambassador got hit on the head. And there was an injury caused by a brick. Geezer’s all right, but it could have been nasty. There’s mutterings about bringing serious charges. Trouble is, they’re short of customers—’

  ‘Didn’t they nab any of them?’

  ‘Two, I think.’

  ‘God, how many lads did they have on the job then?’

  ‘They’re not saying, but can’t have been many, can it?’

  Ryder was silent for a moment. ‘I suppose they want some names tonight.’

  ‘You got it.’

  Wearily, Ryder went back to the bathroom and got dressed again. He should have known. This had happened before. It was the fault of the structure. There was no national police force, just a large number of county and borough forces, each, Ryder sometimes thought, more stubbornly independent than the next. You could give them all the information you liked, but you couldn’t force them to act on it.

  Names, they wanted, did they? Well, they were asking a lot. All the same, he was already turning some ideas over in his mind.

  In 1968, as much as now, the work of Special Branch was deliberately unpublicized – not to say shrouded in secrecy – and the police liked to keep it that way.

  It was generally believed that the three hundred or so officers of the Metropolitan Police Special Branch were merely the legmen for the Security Service – known to the public as MI5 – and indeed one of their main responsibilities was the arrest and charging of spies and subversives previously identified by the Security Service. But in fact Special Branch’s brief went further, treading an uneasy line between pure police work and intelligence-gathering. Officially, the Branch had to keep an eye on undesirables – mainly foreign- entering and leaving the country, to help guard government ministers and foreign VIPs, and to investigate foreigners applying for naturalization. But they were also expected to keep abreast of developments among the ‘lunatic fringe’ – the anarchists and the far-left and far-right extremists: those who were ‘likely to threaten the country’s security or to cause a breakdown of law and order’. Whereas MI5 dealt with foreign-linked plots and security leaks – counter-intelligence – the Special Branch kept tabs on home-grown troublemakers.

  Or tried to.

  Ryder had transferred from Lancashire CID to Special Branch twelve months before and his speciality was Trotskyists.

  He took a number 10 bus across the river and arrived at Scotland Yard shortly before ten. Special Branch was located on the seventh floor of the brand-new metal and glass tower block off Victoria Street that was the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police.

  Ryder found Conway sitting in front of a heap of files.

  ‘Oh there you are,’ Conway said. ‘The boss phoned. He wanted to know if this shemozzle was our fault.’

  ‘You told him?’

  ‘Yeah. He was somewhat relieved.’

  Ryder took off his jacket. ‘Any more news?’

  ‘They’ve caught a few more. No names yet. But apparently they were local Oxford troublemakers.’

  ‘What about the two they nabbed?’

  Conway handed him a file. ‘Haven’t got anything on one, name of Lampton, but there’s a bit on the other, name of Reardon, Paul.’

  Ryder took the file and remembered having seen it quite recently. Unlike other branches of the Criminal Investigation Department, Special Branch kept large numbers of files on people who had no form. In fact almost all the people the Branch were interested in had never been near a court of law, let alone a prison.

  The file on Reardon was very thin. One four-line report on a slip of paper. It was no wonder Ryder had recognized it – he’d written it himself.

  It read: Reardon, Paul. Date of birth: 17th April 1946. Student at LSE, 1964–67. Failed to sit finals. Feb 1968: Member of SSL Central Committee. Address: unknown as at February 1968.

  Since Reardon had no passport, there were no further birth details or photographs, which Ryder would normally have obtained from the passport office.

  Conway stared over Ryder’s shoulder. ‘There could have been less, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, it’s a damn sight more than there was before—’ He almost said ‘before I sorted it out’ but didn’t. Conway was well aware of the situation. Until recently there’d been quite a gap in the Branch’s intelligence on the far left. Marxists, anarchists, and the Communist Party of Great Britain were covered by the relevant Branch sections, but the Trotskyist Section had got into a bit of a mess. The problem was that the Trots were increasingly difficult to keep track of. Some were still pro-Moscow, others vehemently anti-Moscow. The groups were continually splintering and merging, and almost impossible to categorize.

  This Paul Reardon was on the committee of the SSL – the Socialist Students’ League, a militant Trotskyist group, but violently anti-Moscow. It had been formed by a group of students at the London School of Economics – known in the Branch as the London School of Comics – an institution famous for its left-wing views. In the past LSE students had been revolutionary in an intellectual non-violent kind of way. But the Socialist Students’ League was distinctly aggressive. That was why Ryder had opened a file on them.

  Ryder examined the main file now and looked at the list of people suspected of membership of the SSL. It was impossible to be sure who the members were because the league was typically disorganized, charging no subscription and keeping no lists.

  The list was very short, fifteen names, if that, and consisted of speakers at the two meetings that Ryder himself had attended. He tried another tack.

  ‘What addresses have the two given?’ he asked Conway.

  ‘Home addresses. Reardon’s in Birmingham. The other bloke – Lampton – in Cheshire.’

  ‘What about occupations?’

  ‘Market stallholders.’

  That was a new one on Ryder. ‘Oh, yes. What do they sell?’

  ‘Second-hand books, apparently.’

  ‘And they haven’t given a London address?’

  Conway looked at his notes and shook his head.

  So, no lead to the other demonstrators that way. Ryder asked without optimism, ‘Anything else to go on?’

  Conway made a face. ‘Well, the dinner guests did offer some descriptions. For what they’re worth. You can imagine the sort of thing – student types, long hair, bearded, unkempt. Really helpful. But the assailant – the brick-lobber – was female, and the Oxford boys don’t seem to have got her in custody. The description’s a bit better.’ Conway read from his notes. ‘About twenty-five, long mousy hair, pale complexion, very thin, jeans, distinctive patchwork jacket covered in flowers.’

  Ryder tried to fit the description to one of the names in the file, but couldn’t.

  Nothing for it then. It was time to go out and about.

  Ten-thirty on a Saturday night was not the best time to find informants. As he left the Yard, Ryder resigned himself to the fact that he was unlikel
y to find any of his regular sources until late in the night, if then.

  He began at the Carlton Arms, a pub off Gower Street, near one of the London School of Economics’ halls of residence. Ryder had no trouble passing as a student. His fair wavy hair was down to his collar and he invariably wore jeans and an old denim jacket. He was twenty-six but could have been less. He had the classless anonymous look of a thousand other young men, which was just what he wanted.

  The pub was crowded, mainly with students. But neither of the two men Ryder was hoping to see was there. He gave it ten minutes, until just before closing time, and hurried off to the Duchess of Teck nearby.

  No one there either.

  He didn’t like pressurizing his informants, and usually took care to make the whole process of giving information so casual that it was almost painless. But he needed those names.

  Against his better judgement he went into a hall of residence off Endsleigh Place and asked for one of the men by name. Someone went to look for him. He was out. Ryder was almost relieved.

  He found a callbox and phoned the flat where the second student lived. Also out.

  It looked as though he’d have to wait until the next day.

  Although there was always Nugent. He might be worth a try. Nugent had been at the LSE until he dropped out the previous year. He now lived on social security and, Ryder suspected, was heavily into drugs. Nugent lived in a flat in a rundown house in Upper Holloway and wasn’t on the phone. It was a long way to go on the off chance.

  Ryder hesitated, then, with a small sigh, set off for King’s Cross to catch the Piccadilly Line north to Finsbury Park. It would probably be a wild goose chase, but at least he would have left no stone unturned.

  It was shortly before midnight by the time he got to the decrepit house where Nugent lived. The front door was open. The sound of loud beat music echoed across the street. Inside there was a party going on. About a dozen people were draped around a purple-lit room, in various stages of intoxication. There was a strong smell of grass.

  Nugent was sitting on the door, his lank Jesus-style hair falling forward over his face. He was smiling benignly. Ryder sat down beside him and raised his voice above the din. ‘Hi.’

  Grinning stupidly, Nugent made a valiant effort to focus. With a sinking heart, Ryder realized Nugent was more than well away, he was totally gone.

  When Nugent finally spoke, it was to utter a stream of gibberish that was hard to make out over the noise, but seemed to involve a forthcoming Ying-Yang uprising and an Inner Space Adventure. Ryder nodded sagely. Then, without much hope, he shouted in Nugent’s ear, ‘D’you know Paul Reardon or someone called Lampton?’

  Nugent made an effort to concentrate. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Where do they hang out?’

  Nugent’s eyes clouded over and took on a look that wasn’t so much far away as out of sight.

  ‘Who’re their friends?’ Ryder prompted.

  ‘Friends, man? Who’s got friends …?’ Nugent giggled and nodded his head in time to the music.

  Ryder repeated the question. For a moment Nugent ignored it, then turned abruptly and, his eyes suddenly hard and bright, said distinctly, ‘Five smackers.’

  Ryder thought: You’re not so high as you seem, my friend. He said, ‘Okay, but I’ll want addresses.’

  Nugent grinned. ‘That’s all I got, man. Try a house in Manor Road, Kentish Town. Can’t remember the number … But the door’s sort of purple.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Nugent shook his head.

  ‘What about a girl? Thin, tall, fair-haired. Wears a jacket covered in flowers.’

  Someone passed Nugent a joint and he drew on it deeply. Ryder waited. Eventually Nugent mumbled with bad grace, ‘Stephie. Same house, man.’

  Ryder allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction, then paid Nugent his five quid. If the information was good, it was cheap at the price.

  Gabriele turned over and closed her eyes more tightly, but the morning light was bright and intrusive and she knew she wouldn’t get back to sleep.

  She had been dreaming of light, the light she had seen as a child: bright yellow summer light full of promise; the promise of fulfilments and pleasures and freedoms she could barely guess at, but which she knew with absolute certainty that she had to have. In the dream, however, the light was elusive, reduced to a few thin tantalizing shafts that managed to find their way between the heavy oppressive curtains in the front room of the house where she had grown up.

  Then, as in the dream now, every detail of the room was vivid in her mind. The curtains and the dark furniture pressed in on her, claustrophobic, devoid of life or hope, exuding blank despair. Tea was on the table: scones and heavy cream cakes, a pot of tea for her parents, milk for her. A pervasive deadly quiet, the clock sounding unnaturally loud on the mantelpiece. Her father reading, her mother bent over her embroidery. No one saying a word. Then for some reason Gabriele started to cry – she couldn’t remember why – and her mother looked up in surprise. Gabriele asked for something – was it to go out and play? Or just to go for a walk? Or to be told a story? Or just to do something different? Whatever, the request was denied. With quiet and relentless patience her mother explained that the next day was a schoolday and she must rest.

  And then the silence had closed in again, like a shroud.

  Even now Gabriele tensed at the memory of her feelings: the intense frustration, the voiceless rage, the corrosive loneliness.

  With an effort she pushed the memory out of her mind.

  Opening an eye, she looked at her watch. Not even eight, and she hadn’t got to sleep till three. She murmured ‘Hell’, and sat up naked on the edge of the bed. She reached for a towel and, wrapping it round herself, padded slowly out of the room.

  Another memory nagged at her mind. Last night. The red-stained dress, the bleeding head. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Not happy anyway.

  The kitchen was a mess. Glasses, bottles, saucers of ash lay everywhere. They’d talked for a long time last night. Then Stephie and Max had had a row – she couldn’t even remember what it was about – and Max had stormed out. Gabriele wondered if he’d returned.

  Her private supply of instant coffee was still behind the fridge where she’d hidden it. She looked in the cupboard for the muesli she’d bought the previous day. The packet was there. Empty. That was the trouble with living in a commune – people were apt to share things. The muesli wouldn’t have been any good anyway – there was no milk. She settled for the coffee, strong and black.

  Upstairs she tapped lightly on Stephie and Max’s door and looked in. Stephie lay curled up in the bed alone. No Max. It must have been a big row.

  Stephie was still fast asleep. Gabriele closed the door and went back to her own room. Tuning her transistor to Radio 4, she lay on the bed. The carefully enunciated voice of a BBC presenter talked about farming. An establishment voice. An audible reminder to the lower orders that the ruling class existed and was still firmly in control.

  While she waited for the next news summary, she turned the radio down a little and, pulling a suitcase from under the bed, opened it and took out a book. She kept all her books in the case, otherwise they got borrowed and never returned.

  She got back into bed and started to read. The book was entitled The Revolutionary Society and its author was an Italian philosopher named Petrini. She had already read the book twice. But there were still a number of passages she very much wanted to read again.

  From the first reading, Petrini’s ideas had impressed her deeply. He had taken the outworn ideas of the old left, discarded those that were flawed or unworkable, and advanced those which were manifestly based in truth. His observations, his logic, his conclusions were faultless. He had made that great leap of the imagination which took his theories beyond the half-baked ideas of the past, to a series of brilliantly original truths that actually related to people’s needs.

  Society was structured, according to
Petrini, to serve the capitalist system … The establishment controlled the people’s very existence … People were not seeing the real world, but what they had been trained to see. They were encouraged to want material things, TV sets, cars and washing machines, because those things effectively subdued them. Their time was filled with empty repetitive pursuits to stop them from thinking …

  This was all so true that Gabriele could only shake her head and wonder why she’d never realized it before.

  The way forward was not to improve the present structure, but to replace it. People needed to rediscover the world as a physical sensual extension of themselves, and to realize they need not be cogs in the machinery of a harshly unnatural and alien world.

  To achieve this, all institutions – schools, universities, factories – had to be subverted, so that people would question the existence of those institutions, and see the truth.

  Gabriele marked her favourite ideas with a pencil and turned over the corners of the pages, so that she could find them more easily. There was one particular passage that she kept returning to.

  It said: ‘The way forward for the political activist is to sharpen and crystallize attitudes on the two sides of capitalist society. The social contradictions must be exaggerated, so that people are able to see them for the first time.’

  Contradictions must be exaggerated.

  Sharpen and crystallize.

  Gabriele liked those phrases. It was what the demonstration had been about – hardening attitudes to Vietnam, getting some action. Yes: sharpen and crystallize. She underlined the words twice.

  The voice on the radio had changed. She turned it up. The end of a programme. Finally, the news.

  It was the third item. There had been a violent demonstration at a dinner in a hotel in Oxford. The US ambassador had been slightly injured … Another man still in hospital … Five people charged.