It was a true hatchet job with the comment section of the paper getting in on the act to criticise Enstone senior for having produced such a monster.
I was still packing the relevant pages of The Pump into the padded envelopes at a quarter to midnight when the buzzer of the internal phone sounded outside the kitchen door. The porter/security downstairs informed me that my pre-ordered late-night courier service had arrived.
I took five of the envelopes downstairs with me in the lift. I was slightly taken aback to find a motorcyclist in reception dressed in black leathers and wearing a full-face helmet, but he turned out to be the real thing, a courier and not a gunman. He took the packages and assured me they would be delivered during the night.
‘The first three can arrive any time you like,’ I said. ‘The fourth must arrive after five o’clock when you’ll probably find him feeding his cattle. And the fifth should be delivered last, on your way back.’
‘Right.’ His voice was muffled by the helmet that he seemed determined not to remove. He stuffed the packages in a bag and swung it onto his back.
‘Don’t go to sleep and fall off your bike,’ I said.
‘I won’t,’ he mumbled, and left.
What would be his route, I wondered. New Scotland Yard first, I expected, for Detective Superintendent Aldridge, then on to Thames Valley Police headquarters in Oxfordshire to drop the one for Inspector Johnson. Then down to Cheltenham to deliver the one for my friend Chief Inspector Carlisle. Next to South Wales, to Brecon, to find Evan Walker’s farm for package four.
Finally, on his way back, the motorcyclist’s last stop was to be at the House of Lords. Package five was for his lordship. The videotape was in case he didn’t believe what he read in the newspapers.
The bodyguard I had arranged for Marina arrived promptly at eight and turned out to be a six-foot-two ex-Marine with biceps bigger than my thighs. The biceps, along with an impressive pair of pecs and assorted other bulging muscles that I didn’t even know existed, were squeezed into a bottle-green T-shirt that looked to be at least two sizes too small.
He dismissed my suggestion that he should sit in reception and wait for Marina to come down when she went out to lunch. No good, he said. He wanted to have ‘the target’ in sight at all times.
I said I would rather he did not refer to Marina as ‘the target’ and he couldn’t have her in sight at all times as she was still in her dressing gown and was about to have a shower. He covered his disappointment well.
In the end, he settled for a chair outside the flat door, opposite the lift.
‘But how about the windows?’ he asked. ‘Someone could come through one.’
‘We’ll take our chances,’ I said. After all, as I pointed out to him, we were on the fourth floor. But he still wasn’t happy.
However, it was a great relief to see him there when I left for Archie Kirk’s office at nine to deliver the last of the videotape packages. And, in the interests of my own security, I telephoned for a taxi that was waiting for me at the front entrance of the building with its engine running for a quick getaway.
‘Well, you have caused a bit of a stir,’ Archie said as I arrived.
I needn’t have bothered to bring the pages of The Pump as he already had a copy open on his desk.
‘Is it all true?’ he said.
‘Perfectly,’ I said. ‘And the full interview with the girl is on this tape.’
I handed the sixth package to him.
‘Thank you.’ He took it. ‘Good job that truth is now a defence against libel.’
‘Hasn’t it always been?’ I asked.
‘Good God, no,’ he said. ‘In the past, one could be guilty of criminal libel even if you were telling the truth. Just to ruin someone’s reputation was enough despite the fact that they may have deserved to have it ruined. The European Convention on Human Rights has stopped all that. No one can now be convicted for telling the truth.’
Tell that, I thought, to the mothers of the cot death babies sent to prison for murder due to the erroneous evidence of a so-called medical expert.
‘I will leave it to you to decide who gets the information on the internet gambling and gaming,’ I said. ‘I realise it was not really what you wanted but it’s a start and I will do a bit more digging before you get my final report.’
‘What do you think will happen?’ he asked.
‘About the murders,’ I said, ‘or the gambling?’
‘Both.’
‘I hope the police pick up Peter Enstone pretty quickly. I don’t think Marina, that’s my girlfriend, is very safe with him on the loose. Then, with luck, there will be enough evidence to remand him in custody, and then to convict. I think there should be.’
‘And make-a-wager.com?’ said Archie.
‘I think it will be far more difficult to prove anything against George Lochs. He’s a very sharp cookie indeed and he will have covered his tracks very carefully. However, punters like to have confidence when they gamble and all this is going to severely shake their trust in his website.’
‘And I’m sure you could help to further undermine that trust,’ he said, spreading his hands wide.
‘Indeed, I could,’ I said with a smile. ‘And I think I just might. Especially the trust required for on-line gaming. If I can show that he has been involved with some dodgy dealings with race fixing, it is only a small step for people to believe that he has also been fixing the games on his website. I think the earnings and value of Make A Wager Ltd are about to take a major dip in the market.’
‘George made a wager, and lost,’ he said.
I left Archie still chuckling at his little joke and took another taxi back to Ebury Street. My Charles Atlas look-alike was still on guard outside the door. I wondered if he ever went to the lavatory.
Jenny arrived on the dot of twelve thirty as promised. In spite of being announced from downstairs and being met by me at the lift, she was still keenly scrutinised by the bodyguard who insisted on looking in her handbag before he would allow her into the flat.
‘But I know this person,’ I said. All too well.
‘Sir,’ he said, sounding a little patronising, ‘most people are murdered by someone they know.’
I decided against mentioning that Indira Gandhi, the former Indian prime minister, had been murdered by her bodyguards.
After an inspection of the bag had revealed nothing more lethal than half a packet of menthol cigarettes, Jenny was allowed to proceed. At least he hadn’t performed a full body search.
‘What’s that all about?’ she said.
‘The man who shot Marina is still on the loose,’ I said. ‘And I don’t want him having another go.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Was going out to lunch such a good idea after all?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘We can’t hide away for ever. And I’ve arranged for Muscles out there to go with you.’ She opened her mouth. ‘It’s all right. He won’t sit at the same table. You can tie his lead to a lamppost.’
Marina was ready and itching to get out of our cramped home if only for a couple of hours.
‘Take care,’ I said as they squeezed into the lift with the muscles. They were both giggling as the doors closed. Would I ever have thought that Jenny, my ex-wife, and Marina, my future one, would be giggling together? Not in a thousand years.
I went out on to the balcony to watch them leave. The muscleman was too big to fold himself into the back seat of Jenny’s little town runabout so he rode up front while Marina sat behind. The girls were still laughing but I was happy that Muscles, at least, was taking their security seriously as he scanned every nook and cranny for potential danger. None transpired, and they drove off safely.