“Very funny,” said Lady Maud.
But afterwards as she washed up in the kitchen she found herself thinking about Dundridge, if not fondly, at least with a renewed interest. There was something rather appealing about the little man, a vulnerability that she found preferable to Sir Giles’ disgusting self-sufficiency… and Dundridge had taken a fancy to her. It was useful to know these things. She would have to cultivate him. She smiled to herself. If Sir Giles could have his little affairs in London, there was no reason why she shouldn’t avail herself of his absence for her own purposes. But above all there was an anonymity about Dundridge that appealed to her. “He’ll do,” she said to herself and dried her hands.
Next morning Dundridge went round to Sir Giles’ constituency office at eleven. “I’ve had a word with Lord Leakham and I think he’ll be amenable,” he said.
“Splendid, my dear fellow, splendid. Delighted to hear it. I knew you could do it. A great weight off my mind, I can tell you. Now then is there anything I can do for you?” Sir Giles leant back in his chair expansively. “After all, one good turn deserves another.”
Dundridge braced himself for the request. “As a matter of fact, there is,” he said, and hesitated before going on.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Sir Giles coming to his rescue. “I don’t know if you’re a betting man but I am. I’ll bet you a thousand pounds to a penny that old Leakham says the motorway has to go through Ottertown. How about that? Couldn’t ask for anything fairer, eh?”
“A thousand pounds to a penny?” said Dundridge, hardly able to believe his ears.
“That’s right. A thousand pounds to a penny. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it,” said Dundridge.
“Good man. I thought you would,” said Sir Giles, “and just to show my good faith I’ll put the stake up now.” He reached down to a drawer in the desk and took out an envelope. “You can count it at your leisure.” He put the envelope on the desk. “No need for a receipt. Just don’t spend it until Leakham gives his decision.”
“Of course not,” said Dundridge. He put the envelope in his pocket.
“Nice meeting you,” said Sir Giles. Dundridge went out and down the stairs. He had accepted a bare-faced bribe. It was the first time in his life. Behind him Sir Giles switched off the tape recorder. It was just as well to have a receipt. Once the Enquiry was over he would burn the tape but in the meantime better safe than sorry.
Chapter 14
Lord Leakham’s announcement that he was recommending the Ottertown route provoked mixed reactions. In Worford there was open rejoicing and the Handyman pubs dispensed free beer. In Ottertown the Member of Parliament, Francis Puckerington, was inundated with telephone calls and protest letters and suffered a relapse as a result. In London the Prime Minister, relieved that there hadn’t been another riot in Worford, congratulated the Minister of the Environment on the adroit way his department had handled the matter, and the Minister congratulated Mr Rees on his choice of a trouble-shooter. No one in the Ministry shared his enthusiasm.
“That bloody idiot Dundridge has dropped us in it this time,” said Mr Joynson. “I knew it was a mistake to send him up there. The Ottertown route is going to cost an extra ten million.”
“In for a penny in for a pound,” said Rees. “At least we’ve got rid of him.”
“Got rid of him? He’ll be back tomorrow crowing about his success as a negotiator.”
“He won’t you know,” Rees told him. “He got us into this mess, he can damned well get us out. The Minister has approved his appointment as Controller Motorways Midlands.”
“Controller Motorways Midlands? I didn’t know there was such a post.”
“There wasn’t. It’s been specially created for him. Don’t ask me why. All I know is that Dundridge has found favour with one or two influential people in South Worfordshire. Wheels within wheels,” said Mr Rees.
In Worford Dundridge greeted the news of his appointment with consternation. He had spent an anxious weekend confined to his room at the Handyman Arms partly because he was afraid of missing the telephone call from Miss Boles and partly because he had no intention of leaving the money he had received from Sir Giles in his suitcase or of carrying it around on his person. But there had been no phone call. To add to his troubles, there was the knowledge that he had accepted a bribe. He tried to persuade himself that he had merely taken a bet on, but it was no use.
“I could get three years for this,” he said to himself, and seriously considered handing the money back. He was deterred by the photographs. He couldn’t imagine how many years he could get for doing what they suggested he had done.
By the time the Enquiry re-opened on Monday, Dundridge’s nerves were frayed to breaking point. He had taken his seat inconspicuously at the back of the courtroom and had hardly listened to the evidence. The presence of a large number of policemen, brought in to ensure that there was no further outbreak of violence, had done nothing to reassure him. Dundridge had misconstrued their role and had finally left the courtroom before Lord Leakham announced his decision. He was standing in the hall downstairs when a burst of cheering indicated that the Enquiry was over.
Sir Giles and Lady Maud were the first to congratulate him. They issued from the courtroom and down the stairs followed by General Burnett and Mr and Mrs Bullett-Finch.
“Spendid news,” said Sir Giles. Lady Maud seized Dundridge’s hand.
“I feel we owe you a great debt of gratitude,” she said staring into his face significantly.
“It was nothing,” murmured Dundridge modestly.
“Nonsense,” said Lady Maud, “you have made me very happy. You must come and see us before you leave.”
Sir Giles had winked prodigiously – Dundridge had come to loathe that wink – and had whispered something about a bet being a bet and Hoskins had insisted on their going to have a drink together to celebrate. Dundridge couldn’t see anything to celebrate about.
“You’ve got friends at court,” Hoskins explained.
“Friends at court?” said Dundridge. “What on earth do you mean?”
“A little bird has told me that someone has put in a good word for you. You wait and see.”
Dundridge had waited in the hope (though that was hardly the right word) that Miss Boles would call but instead of a demand for a thousand pounds he had received a letter of appointment. “Controller Motorways Midlands with responsibility for co-ordinating… Good God!” he muttered. He made a number of frantic phone calls to the Ministry threatening to resign unless he was brought back to London, but the enthusiasm with which Mr Rees endorsed his decision was enough to make him retract it.
Even Hoskins, who might have been expected to resent Dundridge’s appointment as his superior, seemed relieved. “What did I tell you, old boy,” he said when Dundridge told him the news. “Friends at court. Friends at court.”
“But I don’t know anything about motorway construction. I’m an administrator not an engineer.”
“All you have to do is see that the contractors keep to schedule,” Hoskins explained. “Nothing to it. You leave all the rest of it to me. Basically yours is a public-relations role.”
“But I’m responsible for co-ordinating construction work. It says so here,” Dundridge protested, waving his letter of appointment, “‘and in particular problems relating to environmental factors and human ecology’. I suppose that means dealing with the tenants of those council houses in Ottertown.”
“That sort of thing,” said Hoskins. “I shouldn’t worry about that too much. Cross your bridges when you come to them is my motto.”
“Oh well, I suppose I’ll just have to get used to the idea.”
“I’ll fix you up an office here. You’d better set about finding somewhere to live.”
Dundridge had spent two days looking at flats in Worford before settling on an apartment overlooking Worford Castle. It wasn’t a prospect he found particularly pleasing, but the flat had the merit of being comparatively modern and was certainly better than some of the squalid rooms he had looked at elsewhere. And besides it had a telephone and was partly furnished. Dundridge placed particular emphasis upon the telephone. He didn’t want Miss Boles to get the false idea that he wasn’t prepared to pay a thousand pounds for the photographs and negatives. But as the days passed and there was still no demand from her he began to relax. Perhaps the whole thing had been some sort of filthy practical joke. He even asked Hoskins if he knew anything about the girl at the party but Hoskins said he couldn’t remember much about the evening and hadn’t known half the people who were there.