The Unraveling of Innocence: A Tale of Friendship and Betrayal

Fiction by Graham Wright

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

As had become a habit, James Brooke drifted into consciousness through a minefield of emotions; elusive shreds of dreams, foreboding, troubling uncertainties, all scattering beyond reach as he opened his eyes.  Reality –an odorous four by three metre space, colourless and dimly seen in the smudge of light leaking around the ill-fitting steel door.  He turned on his back; the thin mattress unmoving on the narrow bench, stretched, and joined his hands beneath his head.  In another life he would have crept from the room, careful not to disturb Mary, brew some coffee, check his email, catch up with the news and prepare for the day.

In the first week or two, he had struggled to read his cheap digital watch in the light from the door – but what did it matter, he could only wait, waiting now seemed to be his principal occupation.  If punishment was the intention, well he was being well and truly punished for he was never a man to waste a minute.

His mind spun to the inevitable, how it had come to this.  James had always firmly believed that in Britain, justice would prevail, that it was impossible for an innocent man to be locked up.  Now he knew better.  A couple of years ago he would have agreed with those who demanded the maximum punishment for the crimes of which he had been accused and convicted, but he now returned repeatedly to the question, what was that crime? The more he pondered, the more he realised that the accusations made against him had been nebulous, nonspecific, and mainly mealy-mouthed fabrications larded with euphemism.

The judge’s directions notwithstanding, for the jury it seemed that some key words were enough, enough to spark an almost predictable and irrational outcome guilty as charged on all counts.  He speculated, wondered how many men in that courtroom, even among the jury, were troubled by the thought; ‘There but for the grace of God…’

Long discussion with John Brown and later research and reading had brought insights and conclusions that only a year ago would have been unthinkable.  Before that, he would then have probably agreed with the jury!

For the umpteenth time his mind went back to the beginning a few weeks after he and Mary had dropped daughter Charlotte off at her new school.  Mary had presented a fait accompli by announcing that she had invited the Baileys to tea and telling him that she wanted him to be kind to the boy, Tim.

Mary had explained that one of her clients, Chris Bailey, had been deserted by her wealthy, philandering husband who had left her with three children and barely adequate means.  That the bright, 13-year-old boy was angry, bewildered and was giving his mother a hard time.  Initially, he had joined his father in London, but his resentment toward his stepmother had grown to the point where she had insisted that he be returned to his mother.  Predictably the boy felt betrayed and appeared to have rejected his father.

James knew of Charles Bailey by reputation but had never met him.  He was known as a high-flying entrepreneur who always seemed to come out on top; he had heard him described as having the Midas touch.

CHAPTER TWO

Returning from breakfast, James was summoned by the duty officer who instructed him to report at the block gate at 0950.  Mystified, James asks what he had done, but the officer pleaded ignorance and opined encouragingly; “I expect you’re for the high jump”.

James arrived at the gate a few minutes early and waited to be noticed.  Promptly at 10.00am the section officer arrived and opened the gate and nodded for James to follow him.  James expected to be conducted to the Governor’s office, or at least to the administration area, but the escort marched on down the corridor into the visitor suite just inside the main entrance.  The officer consulted his clip board and tapped on the door of interview room four, paused briefly and then swung the door open.  Addressing someone inside said; “Prisoner Brooke, as requested.  Please ring the bell on the wall when you’ve finished your business.” He moved aside and James was surprised to see John Brown and Tom Bradley sitting at the chrome and plastic table.  James entered; the section officer nodded again and closed the door behind him.

“Tom, John, how good to see you,” exclaimed James as he extended his hand, “What a pleasant surprise”.  Chairs scraped on the bare floor.  James took the chair opposite the visitors, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

John glanced at Tom who nodded.  “Well, we have some good news and some bad news,” said John with a grin, “which will you have first – no that’s not fair, we’ll take it in the logical order.”

James sensed that they were sporting with him and if so, then they must have some really good news.  “How long must I wait? …till you’ve had the maximum entertainment out of this?”

Tom adjusted the papers lying on the table; “Well, it’s like this, the good news is that we have all the evidence we need to get you out of here, but the bad news is that we can’t use it!”

“You what?” said James, bemused.

“Is this place secure, I wonder” said Tom, glancing around the room.  “Conversations between a lawyer and client are privileged – but these days, you just don’t know.”

At that, John got up and walked around the room scrutinising the walls and ceiling.   “We should have brought a bug scanner – although that might be regarded as contraband and probably wouldn’t detect a camera anyway. There’s nothing obvious here, but gear these days is so small that if someone is determined to hide it, there’s no way of seeing it.  But I agree with Tom, I think it would be foolhardy for anyone to try that one.  Why would they anyway?”

“Okay, let’s make a start”, suggested Tom.  “Perhaps I should leave the preliminaries to John since you have him to thank for what we have here.”

“Right,” said John, placing his hand on the thick file that Tom had produced, “This is dynamite and contains all that we need to overturn your conviction.  As you’ll see when you read it, it was acquired from Bailey himself by rather unorthodox means.”

“I see, I’ll take your word on the content” said James, “but how did you get it, it’s hardly the stuff that he would leave lying around.”

“Okay”, said John, “I just hope that these walls don’t have ears.   Two years ago, I was sent to the FBI Academy at Quantico in Virginia for a six-week course on criminal profiling.  Midway through the course we took a long weekend break and one of the participants, Frank Hermann, an FBI field agent from Chicago invited me to join him for the weekend.

For the first time we really had the leisure to talk about ourselves and it transpired that Frank’s speciality was computer crime and the object of the course was to allow him to introduce profiling at the Chicago field office. I won’t go into detail, because it’s not really germane to what we’re dealing with here, but we had a great weekend and discovered a common interest.  As the Yanks say, it was pure happenstance.  Anyway, to cut a long story short, I have kept in touch with Frank and as soon as he heard about the problem here, he offered to help.  Frank flew over and spent a couple of weeks with me after your trial and we went to work.

“All at no cost to the defence” added Tom with a grin.

“First Frank managed to hack into the diary at Bailey’s office, and we found that he and his lady invariably head for their country estate on Friday, for a long, leisurely weekend.  This gave us an opportunity to physically examine Bailey’s computer and grab anything relevant to your predicament.  Just to be sure we followed them out-of-town and then waited a couple of hours over a leisurely dinner before returning and entering the Bailey town house.  Frank was really enjoying himself; it was a joy to watch him at work – we could use him in our Force.

Using his own high-powered laptop, he downloaded the entire content of Bailey’s PC, removed and replaced the hard drive with an identical clean one, and then uploaded the original data.  He assured me that the process would be practically undetectable.  A top forensic computer techie might spot it, but Frank thought that unlikely that anyone would even think about it.”

James and Tom both spoke at the same time; “You go first James – I think maybe we both have the same question.”

“Well, I just wondered why; if you downloaded all the data from the original drive, why bother to replace the drive with a fresh one?”

“Yeah, that puzzled me too, but according to Frank the hard drive would have contained long deleted files which he could recover.   He could download the entire contents of the working directories but figured that there was likely to be some interesting and possibly useful stuff lurking on the hard drive.   And so, it proved.   The other thing about removing the original hard drive was that we were then able to work on it at our leisure, without having to take into account the possibility of discovery.”

“Yes, I was wondering about that,” said James with a grin, “did you actually break into Bailey’s house?”

It was John’s turn to grin.  “No, not at all, we had the full resources and skills of the FBI at our disposal, and we were able to enter with ease, sophisticated alarm system and all.  I must admit that it was all so quick that I missed what Frank did.  Over to you Tom.”

“Well, as you observed James, the content of that file is indeed dynamite and clearly because of the way in which the information was collected we can’t simply front up and expect it to be accepted.  Although the information is valuable and highly relevant to your predicament, it confirms what we have believed all along, that you were, as they say, set up, framed.

James was transfixed; “I think I’m beginning to see why we can’t use this evidence.”

Collecting the evidence this way does raise legal and ethical questions and for that reason I have refrained from referring the information to the silk – who would probably insist on killing it dead.  I can imagine his reaction!  But there is no question about it, we have to do something and after considerable discussion and thought, I believe that we have come up with the only safe, workable solution.  In light of the circumstances in which the whole affair started, John does not feel that we would gain much sympathy by going directly to the police or even be Home Office.  John, perhaps you would like to outline our thinking and the plan.”

“Yes, the only way that this will get needed attention, and hopefully action, is to create a public stir.  Firstly, the full file will be delivered anonymously to Tom’s law office, together with simultaneous deliveries to the Home Office, the director of public prosecutions, and then to two selected newspapers, a broadsheet and a tabloid.  If that doesn’t create the necessary stir, then we’ll have to think again.” He added with a grin.

“Sounds good,” said James, “when you plan to put the scheme into operation?”

John opened a diary that he had placed on the table, “Well obviously we would like to get the ball rolling as soon as we possibly can, but there are a few things we have to do first.  Tom feels that after careful scrutiny, as much as possible should be included in the final presentation, together with an executive summary designed to focus on the essentials and to get maximum attention.”

“At the moment, it seems best that we prepare the material, provide a table of contents and possibly an index, and then have the documents neatly bound for impact,” added Tom, “realistically all this will probably take a couple of weeks.  But you can be assured that we will do it just as quickly as is possible.”

James pursed his lips, “Mmmm, supposing everything goes according to plan, what sort of time frame will we be looking at and how is it likely to be handled?”

John considered the question, “It’s difficult to guess the period between disclosure and action, but I suspect that if the material is accepted at face value and verified, then you’ll be promptly bailed pending a decision by the Home Office on the best course of action.  All things being equal we shall certainly be pressing for a quashing of the conviction on all counts.”

“I was wondering,” said James, “assuming that this is not the only copy of the file, if you could leave this one with me?”

“Yeah, we had thought of that, but on balance we feel that it would be better if we held a copy for you until after it’s released.  Our thinking is that if you have this copy, it could be checked in a cell search and possibly prejudice co-ordinated action and compromise the element of surprise – and perhaps raise questions as to its origins.

Indeed, we feel that we should let the Home Office, and the Director of Public Prosecutions have their copies, perhaps seven days before release to the newspapers.  Our thinking here is that if they move voluntarily, we may not need to involve the press – at least not until the matter becomes public.  There is always a risk, albeit small, that to involve the press from the outset might be seen as antagonistic, some might say unethical.  If we include a distribution list with each copy, and the Home Office and DPP are aware that Tom also has a copy, this will act as a subtle inducement to get cracking.”

“Okay” said James, “It probably is best that I simply leave things to you gentlemen.  But not having had the benefit of a detailed study of the file, I still don’t understand why Charles Bailey felt it necessary to attack me.”

John look at Tom, “Perhaps you’d like to give James a quick rundown on the salient points of what we’ve discovered.”

“Yes sure,” said Tom, flicking idly through the first few pages of the file as if to refresh his memory.  “I guess that it’s in the nature of a story within a story and started shortly after the divorce when Charles Bailey then felt able to give free rein to his ambitions.  Typically, those seeking power and influence find that the best way to make a start and get noticed is to make a few well targeted contributions to the coffers of the favoured political party and to influential individuals.  Might even be a title in it”, he grinned.

“True to type, Bailey then started to canvas for invitations to social functions and other occasions that enabled him to make those useful contacts.  If nothing else, Bailey seems to be a good judge of men and within a very short time was able to sort the wheat from the chaff and discreetly suggest that he might be in a position to help selected individuals with their campaign funds and other expenses.  Bailey kept a spread sheet detailing these contributions with notes on the recipients and most tellingly, how he perceived that they might be of use to him.”

“Frank Herman was astounded that Bailey could be so naïve, he did not even password protect the incriminating files, much less use encrypt them.”

“In the midst of all Charles Bailey’s political activities, came the trouble between the son and his stepmother which escalated out of hand whilst Bailey’s attention was elsewhere.”

“But I still don’t understand how any of this has any bearing on what has happened to me,” questioned James.

John Brown continued.  “Judging from diary entries, Bailey knew little of your involvement with the boy until after the Kenya trip, and even then, he just registered surprise that he hadn’t been told.  He heard about the trip from Sarah, the eldest girl, who also told him about Tim’s photographs and eventually delivered the album to him.  The short answer is that Bailey was not only jealous but outraged that – as he saw it – you had come between him and the boy.  The Buffalo Springs shots with the African boys was the clincher and as the diary shows, a scheme began to form in Bailey’s mind to separate the boy from you and make a point.  Clearly, Bailey did not stop to think through the consequences, the effect his design would have on you and so many other people.  The rest is history.

John’s account was followed by silence in the room as James gathered his thoughts.  “But why, why would he want to destroy me? If I’d had any idea of how he would take things I would have talked to him at the outset; about what I proposed for Tim, the trip, the school, everything.  But he never showed the slightest interest.”  He paused.  “I suppose my thinking and actions were coloured by what Mary and his former wife had told me about Bailey.  God, I wanted only what was best for the boy.  I couldn’t turn my back on him…”

Tom interrupted; “James if we get you out of here, clear your name and get the conviction quashed, I think you would have a good case against Bailey, both criminal and civil, in fact the police could well be interested in the activities of Mr Bailey.

Tom paused, looked at John Brown as if seeking approval; “James there are a couple of other issues that don’t have a direct bearing on clearing your name, but that you should perhaps know about.” He sorted some papers, found what he was looking for; “The records on Bailey’s computer show that substantial payments were made by him to Superintendent Noble’s Kenya contact, to the two African witnesses, and to the foreman at The Old Horning boatyard, Les Peak, and to several others.

“You mean he bribed them?”

“Well, that’s the polite name for it!”

“…and the other?”

“This I’m afraid is rather more delicate, and Mary wondered whether we should tell you at all.  He paused, drew breath, and continued.  “Rupert and Tim had a homosexual affair whilst Rupert was over on holiday last year.”

James looked from one to the other, seeking reassurance, but when neither spoke, he said; “I don’t believe it.”

“I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it, Mary stumbled upon them in bed together.  It seems that Mary discussed it with Rupert before the Norfolk Broads trip, expressing her disquiet at what she had seen.  In the end, Rupert said that he would talk to you.  Obviously, he did not.”

James blanched and looked from one to the other seeking reassurance, “Well I’m not prepared to take this at face value, I feel sure there has been a mistake.”

Tom started packing documents into his briefcase, avoiding James’s eyes.

John Brown cleared his throat, “James I don’t think there’s any mistake, and anyway it’s not the end of the world…”

James interrupted, “Tom, what about all this, would my case be affected?”

“Well, it wouldn’t look good for Rupert because Tim was then underage at the time, but the facts of that matter cannot impinge upon the case against you.  Should he ever hear of it, it might give Bailey something new to rage about.  I think we should certainly act now to ensure that this remains in the family, as it were”, Said Tom with a smile.  “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure that all in the know are well briefed.”

“My God,” said James, “This would account for the lies told by the yard foreman from The Old Boatyard, but how could he possibly have confused me with my son?”

“I don’t think that he did, anyway Tim and Rupert confirmed that Les Peak had had a long and alcoholic lunch… Look, it doesn’t matter; we can now show that he was paid to give evidence anyway.” Tom reflected.

John Brown scooped a well wrapped package that James hadn’t noticed before; “This is a top of the range laptop, and this is a letter from the Governor with consent for you to keep and use in your cell.  Now, your techies went over it, and I understand that there are a few surprises built in, like a concealed antenna that will link you to the mobile network, and some documents that might interest you – encrypted of course.  If any enquire, you’re working on an autobiography.  By the way, the Governor expects a complimentary copy!”

Tom snapped the latch on his briefcase and stood, “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, about Rupert I mean, but we’ll have you out of here very soon and we can deal with that then.”

James shook hands with his visitors and John pressed the buzzer.  “We’ll see you shortly with some good news,” said Tom.

The officer eyed the package; “I’ll have to check that Brooke”.

James produced the letter on official paper; “It’s a laptop, and here’s the Governors consent.”

“Keep in touch” said John winking, as he headed for the gate.

The section officer escorted James back to the block and on entering his cell he found that in his absence a steel stationery cupboard had been bolted to the wall above the small table.  On the table was a notice on which rested a key.  He scanned the notice which said that the cupboard was a privilege and had been installed as a repository for valuables but that the inmate should understand that that a duplicate key was held by the block officer and the cupboard could be subject to random inspection.  Thoughtful.  This was a relief because it had occurred to him that he might have difficulty keeping the laptop safe when he was absent from the cell.

James decided to take a look at the computer after lockup and explore the mysterious that Tom had mentioned.  Come to think of it, maybe he would make a few notes on events since that fateful day when Mary had told him that she had invited the Bailey family to a picnic lunch and asked him to be kind to the boy, Tim.  If he had known then the way things would turn out would he have agreed, he wondered.

CHAPTER THREE

When he returned from the trip to deliver Charlotte to her new school and a break that had lasted longer than intended, James was delighted to find that IsoComm had not collapsed in his absence, and he wondered if he dare take such breaks more frequently.

His PA, Jane, brought him up to date and dumped a pile of paper on the desk.  “You may want to take a look at the one I have flagged”.

He pulled the folder from the pile and was immediately impressed by the letterhead signifying the Republic of Tajikistan.  A quick skim suggested that the Republic’s Minister of Commerce was about to call tenders for an independent, self-contained, satellite-based emergency radio system incorporating a chain of isolated solar powered stations.  He initialled the file and made a note for Stephen to go through the specifications to see if bid would be tenable.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town Christine Bailey was quietly fuming over a letter that had arrived in the morning mail – no, fuming was too mild a word, she was both angry and distressed – the bastard didn’t even have the guts to tell her himself.  He ducked for cover and preferred to have his solicitor break the news in cold, clinical legal language, citing incompatibility and irredeemable differences.  The letter went on to say that a document outlining a settlement in terms of the PNA – PNA, what was that? – would be forwarded as soon as possible.  In the meantime, an appropriate sum in maintenance had been deposited to her account.

Given his increasing absences from home of prolonged duration, the separation was not unexpected, but after fifteen years she felt that he could at least have been more sensitive.  His convenience, gratification, was obviously more important than any duty to her or his children.  The thought made Chris sit up, Oh God how will I break it to them – especially to poor Tim who worships his father. At that, she pushed her coffee mug aside and lowered her head to the table and sobbed.

Recovering, to hell with it she thought, stumped to the kitchen cabinet and poured herself a brandy.  She had always made it a rule, never to drink before lunch.  It had all started so brilliantly, young, handsome and persuasive, Charles has soon made a name for himself and seemed unstoppable, everything he touched turned to gold and the family enjoyed a lifestyle envied by many – a mansion, cars, boats and the best holidays in exotic destinations.  The children attended the best schools.

She poured another brandy.

When they had married, she had soon learned that he had an exceptional sexual appetite, almost insatiable, and concluded that this was a facet of the alpha personality that made him so successful in business.  But, as time passed and the children were born, Tim and the girls, he could not accept that her energies were seriously depleted by household chores and child rearing.  He ranted and raved as she went to bed exhausted.  He was unrelenting until there came a period of unexpected and inexplicable calm.  Chris was grateful for the relief until one day the truth struck her; he must be getting sex elsewhere.

Almost without thinking, she poured yet another brandy and smiled as she recalled that Charles always insisted on carefully hand warming his cognac in a balloon glass before, as he put it, savouring the bouquet.  To hell with you, she thought, and knocked down the brandy in one.  Must remember, she thought woozily to check his booze store in the cellar, maybe she could use some of his best for cooking.  Then she recalled that soon there’d be no cellar.

Chris jerked back into consciousness and realised that the main door had slammed and could only mean that Tim was home.  She raced to put the bottle away, but somehow her body refused to do her bidding, and she was poised by the cupboard as Tim breezed in demanding something to eat.  He stopped a look of horror and concern clouding his handsome face; “Mum you look terrible, what’s the matter?”

Chris tried to collect her thoughts, but realised that she couldn’t lie to Tim, there was no room for pretence, he had to know and maybe she could handle it better with the remains of the brandy still lending her some Dutch courage.  Better to get it out of the way before the girls appeared.  She sat back at the table.

He looked at her, “Its dad isn’t it, and he’s not coming home”.  He couldn’t really remember when his dad had last spent any time at home, he was always busy, had appointments, meetings, always some reason why he could only pop in for a moment

“Tim dear, I’ve had some bad news today, your father is asking for a divorce – which means that, no, he won’t be coming home again.”

“But why, what’s his problem, doesn’t he love you, us, anymore? What did we do?”

Oh dear, my poor dear Tim, thought Chris, you didn’t do anything my love.  It’s just that daddy wants this year’s model, and, like a spoilt, irresponsible child, this is the only way he can get it – legally.

“Tim dear, it’s really hard to explain just now, but I don’t think that we did anything – you certainly did nothing wrong.  Your father will always love you.  It’s just that, well, he doesn’t love me anymore…”  Chris put her head in her hands and sobbed.  Tim lifted her hands from the table, pulled her from the chair and embraced her.  He wept in sympathy.  They swayed gently and cried.  Chris remembered the girls would soon be home and gently pulled away.  “Tim, Rachel and Sarah will soon be home and I don’t want to upset them, I’ll talk to you later – promise.”

The girls breezed in and rushed up the stairs to change and probably noticed nothing amiss.  Good, thought Chris.  They’ll have to know, but in good time.  Maybe she should call a family conference at the weekend and break it gently, perhaps a short trip to sugar the pill.

Tim stood by the table.  “Right mum, I’ll get changed.” He paused by the door, “I love you mum.”

Chris thought her heart would break.  She tried to smile but just managed another sob.

CHAPTER FOUR

Chris and Sarah sat in the lee of the dunes and watched as Tim chased Rachel who was trying to avoid being tossed into the waves.  Her laughter and screams carried across the beach.  She slipped; Tim caught her and lifted her over his shoulder and raced through the shallow surf.  He spun around, retraced his steps and deposited her on the sand and the game started over.

Sarah threw away the piece of driftwood with which she had been sketching in the sand.  “Mum, what is it?”

Chris knew that the time had come.  She had intended to talk to the girls together, but Sarah was the oldest and maybe like Tim, she deserved to be treated as an individual.  She was after all, ten, and mature for her age.

How to put it gently? There was really no way.  “Sarah, daddy is asking for a divorce.”

Sarah was wide-eyed, shocked.  She tucked into Chris’s shoulder and Chris kissed the top of her head and tightened her hug, stroking her hair.

“Why?” said Sarah in a whisper.

All or nothing, thought Chris.  “He wants to marry Jacqueline”

Sarah pulled away.  “I don’t believe it; she’s just a bimbo!”

…Out of the mouths of babes, thought Chris.

“Who told you that, that she’s a bimbo?”

“Tim.  You remember the time she stayed the weekend.  Tim said she was just a bimbo.  I liked the word.  She’s just a bimbo,” Sarah said defiantly.

“Well, you might be right dear, but better not to say it.  Especially don’t say that to daddy.” It was only too easy to picture Charles reaction on hearing that.  Chris would be to blame.

Sarah picked up her stick again and repeated; “But why?”

Chris knew that she had to tread warily, try to be objective and non-judgemental.  It wasn’t the children’s fault if their father turned out to be an ageing gigolo.  He was still their father.

“Well dear, people change and sometimes the change is so small that they manage to carry on, to get on with their life.  For other it’s not so easy and as they change, they feel that things can only be put right if they make big changes to their lives.  I think that’s how daddy feels.

“But what about us, doesn’t he love us anymore.  What about you, what will you do?”

Good question thought Chris.  “Well, these things happen, and we must all try to make the best of it.  I’m quite sure that daddy will never stop loving you, Rachel and Tim, but he wants a new life and maybe you can help him.  I’m sure that he will be feeling very sad too.

“But he doesn’t need to feel sad, he could just come home, and we could all be together again.”

“Sarah, he has decided, and I have agreed to a divorce.  You’ll still be able to see him and perhaps visit and stay with him…”

Chris could see that Sarah was losing her composure.  She threw herself full length on the sand; “I don’t want to see him, he’s mean, I hate him…”

Tim and Rachel tumbled into a heap beside their mother and Tim caught Chris’s eye and looked at her quizzically.  She nodded imperceptibly.

“Right team, it’s starting to get chilly, time to be heading home.  She wondered if she could just let things filter through to Rachel.  Tim and Sarah would talk, and Rachel would hear.  Maybe she would not be affected so badly.  Damn Charles Bailey she thought as she gathered the picnic things.

CHAPTER FIVE

The year was on the wane, but the mornings were still mild enough to permit use of the patio for brunch.  Rising late, James found Mary sitting out in the sun with the Sunday papers and a jug of fresh coffee.

“Ah, finally,” she said with a touch of sarcasm, “You have decided to grace us with your presence – you were very late last night so if you’ll now produce something to eat – maybe I’ll forgive you – I waited for you, and I’m starving”.

“Well, I didn’t get away from the Embassy till after ten o’clock and I must say, for Muslims they’re very fond of the vodka – lucky I decided to take the train.  When I arrived at the station at 1.00am I saw the last cab driving away. More delay until the porter managed to call one for me”.

Mary poured more coffee and waved the jug at him, “Make some more will you.  So, when do we leave for Tajikistan?” she queried, laying the papers on a spare chair.

“Probably not until well into the New Year, they want to appraise the system proposal and if they keep trying to pare the quotation, if they cut much more, it’ll be a technical and financial flop”, he opined, as he poured the rest of the lukewarm coffee into his mug.  “Anyway, I’m told the place is a hell in winter with nothing to break the Siberian blasts.”

“Well, that’s a relief, maybe we’ll get some time to relax and perhaps take another weekend before Christmas – say a quick trip to somewhere warm?”

In the kitchen he found that the brunch ingredients had all be laid out and just needing a quick application of heat.  The job was soon done.  He finished the toast, piled a couple of trays and ferried the meal to the patio where they ate in leisurely silence, skimming the papers.  After carefully mopping up the bacon fat, James started to collect and stack the plates and prepared to return to the house.

“Don’t go away, I want to ask you a favour,” said Mary, as she reached for a thick manila folder.  “You’ll realise of course that in general I can’t talk about my clients, but I think this case is something of an exception, because I need your help.  For a couple of months, I have been dealing with a woman who has been totally deserted by her husband of fifteen years and has been left practically destitute with three children.”

“Is that possible?”

“Is what possible”

“Well for the husband to just opt out and leave his family destitute?”

“Mostly it’s not possible, but this is an unusual case with many options circumscribed by a very tight pre-nuptial agreement – it’s so tight that you would almost believe that he had planned it, and needless to say it’s all in his favour”.

“What a bastard! Where’s he gone?”

“Well, in a nutshell, off with a girl less than half his age – as a matter of fact his PA”

“Mmm, sensible chap, actually I’ve been taking a long look at Jane recently and I suppose I could do worse” responded James, dodging a piece of toast.

“Help yourself, but don’t think that you could get away with anything, I’d ruin you first!” she threatened with a laugh.

Mary leafed through the folder to signal that it was back to business.  “The children are a boy of thirteen, Timothy, and two girls, Rachel and Sarah, aged eight and ten respectively.  The problem is the boy, he’s very bright, somewhat precocious, and proving a bit of a handful and is sometimes more than the poor women – Christine Bailey by the way – can handle.”

“What do you want from me,” ask James, “You want me to give him a good thrashing?”

“Hardly,” said Mary, pulling a photograph from the folder and handing it over, “That’s Tim”.

James took the photograph and studied it for a moment in silence; “He may be a small problem now, but he’s going to be one hell of a problem in a few years – with the females, I mean.  He’s more than handsome, he’s beautiful, unreal.”

“Wow, that’s high praise coming from you; I don’t think I ever heard you say that of anyone, not even me in my prime!”

James realised that he had reacted to what he saw in very much the same way as he had to the boys diving from a wharf on their post Charlotte delivery trip, at an emotional level that took him by surprise.  “So where do I come in?” he queried.

“Well, he is very bright, I find him a little like Rupert at the same age, but probably brighter and he also has the other attributes you so gushingly describe.  Actually, I want to ask you to take him under your wing, give him a bit of time and perhaps get him interested in your toys out there in the workshop.” She concluded.

“Well firstly, my models are not toys and secondly, when in hell do you think I would have time to spend on him? I hardly have time for the things that I have to do, much less devote time to a kid who you admit is a bit of a problem”

“That in fact is my point, if you could bring yourself to give him some time, it would also mean that you too would be able to enjoy some much-needed leisure.  If you go on at the present rate, you’ll kill yourself and I will be left without a husband and the children without a father – and all probably destitute to boot! I assume that you’ll not be dashing off to the office today.

“No, I think that after yesterday, and a slight hangover, I’m entitled to one day of rest.”

“Good,” declared Mary, “because the Bailey family is coming for tea this afternoon and I want you to be a good boy and show Tim your toys – I promised him that you would.”

“So, whether or not I had intended to go to the office suddenly becomes academic – I’m committed, like it or not”, he said with a spurious display of testiness, “I hope that at least I have time to read the papers?”

“Yes, and I’ll even warm your slippers, you poor doddery old thing”.

But James put the papers aside and drifted toward the workshop, conscious of the fact that he had not so much as opened the door in months.  The room struck cool, and he turned on the heater and set it to medium.  The project that back in March had seemed so pressing lay half complete on the bench and had gathered a light veil of dust.  He picked up the fuselage and made a guess at time to completion – a month he thought with just an average commitment.

Opening the sealed, dust proof cupboard, he scanned the rank of transmitters and resolved to mount a campaign during the next week to cycle and recharge all the batteries, including those in the airborne packs that were mounted in models that were otherwise ready to fly.  The chart on the back of the door revealed that the cells had been neglected for over four months.  The fuel container, cardinal sin, was less than half full and certainly no longer fresh – perhaps it would be OK to use in one of the hacks, the fun-fly machines.  He had a sense that, weather permitting, he would be flying models next weekend.

Time passed as he pottered about the workshop sorting and locating models ready for the cycle and charge routine.  He became aware of voices approaching and soon Mary pushed open the door and ushered in her pet project, the Bailey family; mother, son and two daughters.

“This is my husband, James – James this is Christine Bailey, Timothy, Rachel and Sarah, and this,” she added sweeping her arm around, “is the playroom!” James ignored the jibe and nodded a greeting, shaking hands with Christine and acknowledging the children, but he found that he could not take his eyes of Tim as the photograph did not do him justice.  He was aware that he was staring and turned back to the array of models.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just finish what I was doing and then come up to the house for tea.  Tim, would you like to stay and take a look around?”

“Thanks Dr Brooke, this is awesome, do you fly all these planes?”

“To tell you the truth I’ve been a bit slack this year, too busy at work, but I was just setting up for a big maintenance job and was thinking that I might go out to the club field next weekend.  I hear that you would like to come.”

Tim’s face lit up and the effect was stunning, the big grin revealed a set of perfect teeth; all he really needs is a halo, thought James.  “Have you ever seen models flying” he asked.

“Well, during the school holidays, I went for a bike ride one day and saw some guys flying models on the airfield at Bourne.  It looked pretty cool, but I was on the road so I couldn’t get close”.

James knew then, for all his protestations to Mary, he was committed, not only would he be spending time with this boy, but within weeks Tim would be competently handling the old PT40 trainer.  The more he thought about it the more the idea appealed to him, Tim could be a sort of surrogate Rupert and Jeremy.  Perhaps Mary was right – no, he knew that Mary was right, all work and no play…

Tim studied the inside of the models lined up on the bench.  “How does the remote-control work Dr Brooke?”

“Do you know how a radio works?” countered James.

“No, not really, we learned last term that radios, and television work by using the electro-magnetic spectrum, but I don’t think that we actually learn how it’s done?” he said doubtfully.

“OK”, said James, “The fact is that you don’t need to know how the gear works to use it, most people never know, but it’s part of my work, so I have to understand it.  Unfortunately, it is pretty technical, but in a nutshell, the signals sent by the transmitter are digitally coded and mirrored in the receiver and the output tells the servos, these things, how much to move.  That’s why it’s called digital proportional, in other words, the amount of stick movement on the transmitter proportionally actuates the servos in the model, which in turn, impart movement to the controls in the plane.  This one here is a pretty basic type, a trainer and it has controls for throttle, aileron, elevator and rudder – look I’ll show you.”

James checked the list on the cupboard door, selected a transmitter, switched on and then flicked the little switch on the side of one of the models.  “Look, when you move this stick, you can see what happens, the rudder moves – this one and the elevator moves, then the ailerons and the throttle – simple, see!”

“Right, hold the transmitter like this” he said offering the box to Tim.

“Oh, I dunno, suppose I drop it or break it?” said Tim dubiously.

James laughed, “If you break it, we’ll use another one – come on, you won’t drop it or break it, and anyway I’m going to teach you how to use it to fly this model, so you have to get used to holding it”.

“You really mean that? He said as he accepted the transmitter.  “Mum said that Mrs Brooke had said you might teach me to fly – you really mean that?”

Making a mental note to talk to Mrs Brooke, James reinforced the promise.  “Of course, I mean it, why do you think you were invited here today, just to eat tea? It’s so that we could meet and make some arrangements.  Actually, winter is not the best time for model flying, but it is a good time to build models ready for flying in the spring and summer.  Next time you are around, we’ll look through the plan catalogue and choose something that you like, we’ll get the plan and then I’ll show you how we make a list of all the materials and fittings that we need”

“Wow, I can’t believe this is happening.” Said Tim as he gingerly began to move the stick and watch the control surfaces responding.

One of the girls appeared at the door, “Dr Brooke, Mary said to tell you that tea is ready, would you please come”.

Noting the reference to Mary, James made a note that at an opportune time, as far as Tim was concerned, Dr Brooke would become James, or perhaps Jim.

The tea was a happy affair, and it was clear that Mary was determined to make it memorable.  James found himself sneaking looks at Tim, catching him at different angles as he animatedly joined in the conversation whilst doing justice to the spread.  Tim caught his eye a couple of times and smiled confidently; he seemed to be aware that he was under scrutiny.  I wonder if he knows the effect, he is likely to have on people.  He talked brightly to Mary and even indulged in a bit of banter, whilst his mother gently cautioned him not to be cheeky.

Mary came to Tim’s defence, “Oh, I don’t mind a bit, Chris; I’ve had to put up with worse than that with three men in the house.  Besides it takes me back to when Rupert and Jeremy were that age – I enjoy it”.

James decided to pre-empt Mary’s questions, “Tim says that he would like to learn to fly model planes, so we have decided that he will learn on one of my planes whilst he builds one of his own.  So, I guess we need to make some arrangements, arrangements that will not affect his chores or homework.  I think the best thing would be for him to talk it over with mother, to decide when she can spare him, and then he can give me a ring.”

Chris had not said much at all during tea, except to make sure the children behaved; “That’s very kind of you Dr Brooke, I know Tim would like that, but really I think it’s up to you to say when he can come around – we’ll work around that.”

“Well, one other thing Chris, my name is James, and so in that case, you and Tim can decide whether it’s to be Saturday, Sunday, or both days.  In fact, as Tim gets up to speed, there’s no reason why he should not use the workshop when I’m not here, I can give him a spare key.  He’d be more than welcome”.

Chris looked dubious, and James wondered if he had gone too far too soon.  But he had a feeling about this and was sure that everything would work out just fine.

Time passed quickly and as the afternoon started to fade, Chris looked at her watch and started to make departure noises.  Sensing that she wanted to leave, rather than outstay her welcome, Mary piped up; “Well, when you’re ready, James will run you home”

Predictably Chris started to protest, but James got to his feet and said, “Come on Tim, we’ll get the car out and make a final check on the battery chargers – call us when you’re ready to go.

Chris insisted on helping with the aftermath of the tea and James calculated that with no heavy washing up, they’d be ready in ten minutes or so.

James and Tim strolled out to the garage.  “Try this” said James, handing him the garage door remote, “You may as well get used to radio remote control!”

The double door rolled ponderously upward and as Tim glimpsed the BMW in British racing green, he could not suppress an exclamation; “Wow”, he said, “Awesome”.

“Hop in” said James as the central locking sprung to his command.  He watched the boy take in the luxurious interior.

“Dad has a Merc” he said, eyeing the radio and CD deck.  A quick skim of the neatly racked discs was enough to show that there was nothing there for him.  James edged the car into the yard and swung onto the driveway.  “Let’s just do a final check on the battery chargers whilst we await the ladies’ pleasure”, he said

CHAPTER SIX

One morning about six months after the Bailey family visit, Jane had put a folder on his desk which concerned the arrangements for his forthcoming trip to Kenya to check progress on the Simu Project.  The job had dragged on because it had proved hard to find competent technicians locally and it had become necessary to recruit an overseer and five men in the UK. After the arrival of these men in Kenya things had moved and Graham Knowles, the supervisor, thought that the system should be ready for test by mid-year.

He mentioned to Mary that evening that he would be flying out to Kenya in a couple of weeks.  The following morning when he appeared for breakfast Mary made another of her suggestions; “Why not extend your Kenya visit to a month and take Tim with you? That would give you plenty of time for business, a visit the coast, take in Lamu, and then maybe if there is time, a couple of the bigger National Parks.

James had initially brushed aside the idea, but the more he thought about it the more appealing it became.  There would not be much time to make the necessary arrangements, but Jane could take care of all that.  He knew that Tim had a valid passport, but he would have to check on the legalities of taking him abroad and find out what consents he would need. So, the same evening he asked Mary to check with Chris Bailey.  James rang his lawyer and explained the circumstances.  Tom Bradley couldn’t see any snags as the mother was the boy’s legal guardian but suggested that it might also be as well to check with Social Services, just to be sure.

Chris was delighted with the idea and offered to chip in with some of the funding, but James dismissed that telling her that he would be taking Tim as his assistant and so the cost would fall to IsoComm.

When all was cut and dried, James picked Tim up from school and asked him what he was planning for the holidays. Tim knew that something was up, or James wouldn’t have collected him from school, but said that he had planned nothing specific, time in the workshop, maybe a short bike tour if his mother agreed and perhaps some visits to the swimming pool.

“Well, I’m going to Kenya next week, I need an assistant to carry my bags and wondered if you might be interested in the job?”

“You’re kidding.” Said Tim excitedly but knew that James would not string him along if he didn’t mean it. “But as your assistant, what would I have to do?”

“Oh, nothing much, make sure that my morning tea is hot, fight off any marauding predators or hostile natives and generally keep things neat and tidy.  There is one snag however, you’ll have to take an extra week off school.  You want the job?”

“Try and stop me!”

So, it was settled. The PA performed in her usual efficient way, the arrangement and bookings were soon tied up and James and Tim left Heathrow the following Monday.

On landing the big plane swung ponderously toward the terminal and Tim glimpsed the large title emblazoned across the facade; “Jomo Kenyatta International Airport”.  It was out of proportion, he felt, just too big.  He turned to Jim in the adjoining seat, “Who’s Jomo Kenyatta?”

Jim looked around uneasily, “He was a local hero, the first president of Kenya after independence from Britain in 1963.  He had been locked up, in detention, for about ten years because the British tried him for fomenting the Mau Mau rebellion.”

“Fomenting?”

“Yes, you know, inciting, inflaming”

“Ah yes, what was Mau Mau?”

“Mau Mau was a secret organisation set up by the Africans to fight the British for independence.  The rebellion started in 1952 and lasted about ten years.  It was pretty unpleasant.  The Mau Mau attacked isolated European farms and killed the occupants, but most of all they killed fellow Africans who didn’t agree with them and their aims.  I’ll tell you about it.” Maybe I should have given Tim some preparatory reading, he thought.

The stewardess switch on the PA, “May I have your attention please; the captain and crew thank you for flying with us.  We hope that you enjoyed your flight and have an enjoyable stay in Kenya.  For your own safety, please remain seated until the aircraft comes to a halt at the terminal.  Thank you.”

Tim saw that many people ignored the advice and were busy emptying the overhead lockers and preparing to disembark.

The plane rocked gently as the pilot applied the brakes.  He heard, or perhaps felt the engines spool down.  After a short pause, the big door opened, and several smiling Africans momentarily blocked the doorway.  One very black guy in a neatly pressed uniform took the mike from the stewardess; “Welcome to Kenya, we hope you have a good stay in our country.  Please have your completed immigration and customs forms ready.  Passengers in transit for Dar-es-Salaam should remain in the aircraft until landing passengers have left.  Thank you.” He repeated the message in another language, still smiling hugely – almost as if he knew that few people would understand him.

“What’s he saying now Jim?

“The same message, but in Swahili”

“Ah” said Tim, “I should have known, I’ve heard you say Jambo sometimes.  Can you understand him?”

“Yes, it’s pretty simple – anyway we just heard the same thing in English”, he said with a grin.

An hour later Jim and Tim spilled out of the main doors to the terminal and were immediately besieged by smiling Africans touting souvenirs, five-star hotels and other, more dubious, delights.  Tim couldn’t believe the milling disorder, people of many races, colourful clothes, some squatting in the shade with baskets of vegetables and fruit, soft drinks, cigarettes and toiletry.  A large area of pavement was taken up by displays of neatly carved wooden animals.  It was hot, dusty and chaotic.  Two, tall thin serious looking policemen stood by the door, both wearing a khaki uniform topped by curious red inverted plant pot like hats and carrying sub-machineguns.  They seemed to ignore what was going on around them.  Music blared from a radio in a parked taxi, duelling with the incessant sound of car horns.

A young African in a suit and tie approached.  “Dr Brooke? I am Matthew Kichege from the Ministry of Industry, Development and Communications”

James held out his hand; “Nice to see you again Mr Kichege.  This is my assistant, Tim Bailey.” Kichege turned and shook hands with Tim; “Welcome to Kenya sir, is this your first visit?” He must have noted Tim’s youth but didn’t bat an eye.

“I have a car waiting sir; these boys will carry your bags – indicating three Africans who were certainly not boys.  Please follow me.” He walked toward a late model Mercedes parked on a double yellow line under the nose of the two policemen.  The luggage was loaded into the boot, and they entered the car which turned out to be comfortably air-conditioned.

Kichege took the seat next to the driver and turned to Tim; “How do you like our country sir?”

Having just landed; Tim was taken aback.  “Er, well, it’s pretty hot.”

“Kichege grinned; “That is true sir, but at night it can also be quite cold.  Nairobi is situated at almost two thousand metres, so you will need your London clothes later.  When I studied in London, I found that sometimes London was hotter than Nairobi”

James intervened; “We are booked at the Norfolk?’

“Yes, of course sir, just as you instructed.

“Thank you.” James settled back for the ride, but Tim was on the edge of his seat taking in the strange, exotic, life viewed from the clean air-conditioned interior of the car.  He noticed a large sign pointing to the Nairobi National Park.

James soon found that he had made the right choice in appointing Knowles as supervisor. The project had leapt ahead since his last visit. There was some concern about security of the more remote installations, and he had agreed to extending out the security fence by another ten metres and adding razor wire.  The Ministry said that the police wanted to electrify the fence, but James was worried about the increased load on the main solar power supply. In the end they compromised with the Ministry reluctantly agreeing to the added cost of a separate power system for the fence.

In the meantime, Tim had enjoyed a conducted full day tour of the Nairobi National Park, saw all of the big five animals and made good use of his new camera. On other days he visited the National Museum, the Railway Museum which featured the man-eaters of Tsavo.  At the Uhuru Park Museum, he learned about Jomo Kenyatta and the Mau Mau, or Freedom Fighters, but the message was not quite what he had expected.

When James had completed his discussions with the government and with Knowles, visited the construction team working at one of the outlying installations, he and Tim headed for the coast. They stopped at Voi, visiting the Tsavo National Park where they were assured that the days of the man-eating lions were long past.

At Mombasa they saw Fort Jesus and visited the Old Port with its dhows, before heading south to Diani where they spent two nights. Tim couldn’t believe the uninterrupted expanse of white sand that comprised the beach all topped by dunes with groves of coconut palms. He went out with a guide in a ngalawa and spent a morning goggling over the reef.  James spent the time catching up on paperwork and talking with the office in Cambridge. After the stay at Diani, they took a charter flight from Moi International Airport in Mombasa to the small airport on Manda Island and then a boat to Lamu.  James had visited Lamu during his gap year thirty years before and was amazed at how the place had changed – not necessarily for the better he thought.

With a week remaining, James and Tim returned to Nairobi, rented a car and set out for Nanyuki from whence they planned to see something of Mount Kenya.  They spent a night in the hotel’s game lodge on the slopes of the mountain where they saw rhino and elephant as they appeared in the floodlights at a salt lick. The hotel manager recommended a day trip to Buffalo Springs which were in the National Park, just north of Isiolo where, he said, they might encounter more big game.  The Park was renowned for its photo opportunities.

There was a large sign on the road indicating the track to the Springs which proved to be a series of deep rock pools containing relatively cool crystal-clear water. At one end was a small sandy beach where footprints showed that the pools were frequently visited by game animals.  As they ate their picnic lunch under an adjacent rustic shelter, a flock of goats emerged from the bush herded by two slim boys carrying sticks and what appeared to be wooden bowls.

The boys stood a few metres away regarding the visitors.  James held out a couple of bread rolls and some pieces of salami and said, “Karibu chakula“. The boys grinned and one of them reached for the rolls, “asante“, he said. But when James tried to make conversation, it was clear that they knew little or no Swahili. They squatted and ate the rolls obviously enjoying them and chatting between themselves.  James offered more bread and some bananas which they took. One held up a banana and said “ndizi“, clearly pleased with himself.

Tim watched the boys eat and guessed them to be fourteen of fifteen, he found it hard to tell. “Do they come here just to water the goats, or do they swim?”

James said that he didn’t know and added that they looked as if they could use a good wash. “Ninyi unaogalea hapa?” he said, but it seemed that the question was beyond their limited Swahili. Tim stood and went to the edge of the nearest pool and made diving and swimming gestures.  The boys laughed and nodded, and one put down his stick and bowl and jumped into the water, the other followed. “I think that answers your question Tim.”

Tim quickly stripped and joined them in the water where they spent the next ten minutes splashing and diving. The water was refreshing in the heat of the day and Tim was amazed at the clarity of the water. He called to James; “Where does this water come from, there seems to be a weak current toward the beach.” James stood and went over to a sign which was fixed to the end of the shelter; “It comes from Mount Kenya apparently, from snow melt, travels underground and emerges here, among other places, around the mountain”.

The boys climbed out and placed their loin clothes over a bush, Tim followed and grabbed a towel. “Hey James, how about taking a picture of me with our friends?”

James collected Tim’s new camera from the car; “Let me know when you’re ready.”

“We’re ready now.”

“Err, I mean when you are respectable.”

“What about now, this is Africa, not Parker’s Piece.”

James remained doubtful. Tim persisted; “Aw, come on its just a little bit of fun”.

James switched on the camera and checked the settings; “Be it on your head then” he said. Little thinking that this moment would come back to haunt him.

Tim called to the laughing boys, beckoned them over, placing one on either side and putting his arms around their shoulders. Several shots were taken in quick succession, and a couple of Tim alone.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Stephen Walker flicked the folder closed and was ready to leave.  James pondered their discussion; “Stephen, in light of their comments about installation security, perhaps it might be as well to have the team check over that aspect again.  I can see their point and…” The office intercom buzzed.  “Yes, alright, put him through.” Stephen nodded to James and left.

“Good afternoon, Mr Bailey, nice to hear from you.”

“Yes, thanks for talking to me at such short notice, you must be busy and I’m sorry to ring you in office hours, but there are a couple of things I’d like to clear up with you.”

“Certainly, no problem, the reception will hold calls.”

“Mr Brooke, I understand that you took my son on a month-long trip to Kenya.”

“Yes, that’s right, back in March.”

“Can I ask, was it just you and Timothy, or was anyone else with you?”

“I’m not sure that I follow you Mr Bailey.” James couldn’t see where this was leading and anyway, what the hell had it to do with Bailey.

“Right let me put it another way, I was wondering why you did not seek my consent to take Timothy out of UK jurisdiction.”

“Frankly it didn’t occur to me to ask for your consent.  I had the unqualified consent of Tim’s legal guardian, his mother, and from the family’s case officer at the Department of Social Security.  Mrs Bailey’ solicitor was also consulted and could see no impediment.  I did in fact check on whether your consent was necessary, and the consensus was that it was not.  May I also say that since I had to go to Kenya on business, it seemed like a great opportunity for Tim, and it provided a break for his mother.  And as you will doubtless have noted, I did return Tim to the UK jurisdiction and as far as I am concerned no harm was done.”

“Well Mr Brooke, it’s that that concerns me, the question of harm.”

“I’m not sure that I follow.”

“Well, there are two things, you were alone with Tim throughout this trip, and I have to ask myself why you would be so indulgent toward a boy who is not even a member of your family.  There must have been considerable costs involved”

Ah, thought James, maybe he wants to salve his conscience and offer a contribution.

“Frankly Mr Bailey, I don’t think that my motives or the cost of the trip are any of your business and, what’s more, I don’t feel under any obligation to answer your questions, or to provide you with any kind of explanation.  If you have nothing further, I’ll bid you good day.”

“Brooke, I’m sorry that you elect to take that line and if you will not talk with me and respond in a reasonable fashion, there are other ways that I can get the answers to my questions.  Good day.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ever since Rupert had announced that, as he put it, he would be taking a vacation and visiting with the family, Mary had been planning a family celebration to which the Baileys, virtually now part of the family, would be invited.  She decided to make a weekend of it so that everyone could get acquainted.

Rupert had been both intrigued and curious when she had told him in one of her monthly letters about Tim and how close he had become to James.  Rupert had questioned her closely the last time they had talked on the phone, and she wondered if he was just a little bit jealous.  Still, he had made his choice, rejecting a job with the firm for the challenge and excitement of Silicon Valley and at just twenty-four he had made quite a name for himself over there.

She reasoned that Rupert would want a few days to get settled in and so she had built her scheme around the second weekend.  A family barbecue on Saturday to break the ice and then to London on Sunday for the festival performance of Swan Lake by the Royal Ballet–something she knew that Rupert would not want to miss, or the Bailey girls for that matter.  With a little bit of juggling, Chris, Tim and the girls could stay over on Saturday night and they could all get an early start on Sunday morning.

Mary and James drove up to Heathrow on Thursday afternoon to meet Rupert who was arriving on a direct flight from LA.  They were early and after managing to find a couple of seats in one of the mezzanine cafés overlooking the main international arrivals gate, settled down to wait an hour over a leisurely coffee.

Mary enjoyed people watching and there was plenty to see as passengers, visitors and officials ebbed and flowed through the concourse, and she never ceased to marvel at the sheer diversity of the human condition.  The hour passed quickly and when Rupert’s flight was announced they figured on at least half an hour before the passengers exited customs and immigration.  So, as they prepared to leave the café, they were surprised to see Rupert and another young man in deep conversation by the exit gate.  Rupert looked around, then took the other boy’s hand and embraced him.  It all happened so quickly that neither Mary nor James could afterwards be absolutely certain, but it did look as if Rupert had kissed the other boy on his cheek.

Rupert then turned and surveyed the concourse and finally spotted them as they stepped from the escalator.  In the meantime, Mary and James had agreed not to mention what they had seen and leave it to Rupert to volunteer comment if he wanted to.

Hugs, smiles and general banter sufficed as they headed for the exorbitantly priced short term car park.  Mary appraised her son and decided that although he looked a little on the spare side, there was nothing that a month of home cooking would not put right.

Once out of the northern suburbs and with the worst of the traffic left behind, the journey home was uneventful.  Rupert was obviously jet lagged, and it was generally agreed that catching up could wait until the next day.

On the Saturday of the following weekend, the day set aside for the barbecue and sleepover, the Bailey family arrived a little late among profuse apologies from Christine who blamed herself. Mary dismissed the apologies, noted the look on the face of the elder girl and guessed that there had been some family trouble. Introductions were made and Tim joined Rupert at the barbecue where they hit it off immediately.  The event proved a great success and was enjoyed by all.

The Bailey girls had excused themselves a couple of hours back and after the dishes and glasses had been ferried back to the kitchen and arranged in the dishwasher, Mary and Chris decided to head for bed.  Mary had shuffled rooms and beds to everyone’s satisfaction, and it was arranged that Rupert and Tim would share the boys’ old room above the garage.  Leaving instructions about lights and locks, the ladies left James, Rupert and Tim still talking computers, electronics and aviation – and they talk about women jawing, she reflected.

“Rupert, I’m going to have a nightcap,” said James, “Will you join me?”

“A scotch would go down nicely dad, no ice, just a dash of water.”

“Tim, the ladies have gone, and I think a weak one could be permitted – what d’you say?”

“Not another Jim – oh well, if you twist my arm,” he said disarmingly.

James held the bottle and glass up to the light to gauge the tot and continued; “So you think California is the centre of the world Rupert – used to be Piccadilly Circus in my day.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that dad, but it’s sure the place where things happen and where fortunes are being made.”

“Talking of fortunes, there’ll be no lie-in tomorrow morning and so I think that we should seriously think about some shut-eye – I’m for bed anyway – it’s getting chilly out here,” said James as he emptied his glass.  “See you folk in the morning.”

“Well,” said Rupert, “perhaps you’re right, what about it Tim?”

“Cheers,” said Tim, as he imitated James and downed the remains of his weak whisky, “I agree, it’s time for bed – need to use the bathroom anyway.”

Rupert and Tim took the short cut through the garage and, Tim ducked urgently into the bathroom off the boys’ room.  As he made use of the facilities, he remembered that he had no pyjamas, having been accustomed to sleeping in his jockeys or nothing at all.  Whoops, he thought, now what do I do.

He pulled the plug and switched off the light and was surprised to find Rupert standing naked just inside the bedroom, near the door, a single bedside lamp behind him.

Rupert took a pace toward him and took his hands; “Tim I’ve waited for this moment all day – you are so beautiful – I just have to hold you.  Do you mind?”

Tim was totally confused, and his first inclination was to retrieve his hands and bolt.  Taking Tim’s hesitation for consent, Rupert embraced him, and he felt Rupert’s lips grazing his neck whilst his hands moved urgently over his back.  He could feel Rupert trembling as his hands grew more insistent and found their way under his shirt and as far down his back as the waist band of his jeans would allow.

Tim recovered his wits and gently pushed Rupert away.  Rupert looked startled and stood with his hands spread from his side, palms outward and plainly aroused.  He uttered one word: “Please”.

“Please what,” said Tim, “You’re gay right,” – more as a statement than a question.

“Please don’t be offended, I mean you no harm, it’s just that…well I’ve been watching you all day and you’re so beautiful I just have to…I’ve fallen in love with you Tim”

“Are you gay?” Tim countered.

“Can I deny it,” said Rupert, “What about you, are you offended.”

“I’m not offended, just a bit shocked.  I mean you father and mother are my friends and they have been so kind to me…I don’t want to do anything – in their house – that might let them down.  They don’t know, right?”

Tim was relieved when Rupert pulled on an old towelling robe and sat on his bed.  He looked deflated.  Rupert sighed; “No they don’t know.  Can we talk about it?”

“What is there to talk about,” Tim stalled.  “Look, you assumed that I would leap into your arms – you could at least have warned me – you could have told me that you were gay.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right, I could have handled it better, what I did was clumsy.  Will you forgive me?”

Tim sat on the edge of his bed and faced Rupert, and it suddenly struck him, Rupert Brooke! Was it a coincidence, the poet was certainly gay – and more according to old Lockley, the English beak.

“Well, there’s nothing to forgive.  You’re not the first to assume that I’d be a pushover.”

“Not my father?”

‘No, never, a couple of guys at school and then you get the odd guys who hang out at the pool and haunt the changing rooms – especially those who like the younger kids.  Is your father gay?”

“No, no, I’m sure he’s not.  So how do you feel – feel about me being gay?”

“Do you write poetry?’

Rupert chuckled, “Oh not that, I’ve lived with that all my life.  The short answer is that I do try, without much success.”

The tension in the room eased and Tim felt that he could talk to Rupert, in many ways he was like his father and Tim wanted to like him.  Well, he did like him, very much, but his revelation had been a shock.  He is a  good-looking guy too, thought Tim, momentarily surprised as that idea popped into his head.

“What do I feel about you being gay? Well, the idea of homosexuality does not offend me, we’ve talked about it at school and well, it just is…I mean it seems that people who are gay hardly have a choice about it…they just are, and it don’t make life easy for them.”

“You can say that again,” said Rupert with a wry smile.

“Yeah right, we have sex education at school, but the classes didn’t include any talk of homosexuality until Bryant killed himself last year.”

“Why,” asked Rupert…dreading the answer, “Why did he kill himself?”

“Well, he came out and was given such a hard time that he couldn’t take it…simple as that.”

The conversation had taken an unintended turn and Rupert sought to turn it away from such a distressing topic.

“So, Tim, what about you, are you straight?”

“Is anyone, is anyone one hundred per cent straight.  I don’t know.  I guess that I have just assumed that I am because I’ve been able to resist the guys at school.  I was really cruel to one of them and strangely, I rather liked him – I regret that – maybe that’s why I rejected him – he threatened me – threatened my sexuality perhaps.  But I’ve never been alone, in private, with a good-looking guy before.”

Rupert did not know what to make of that.  An admission, he determined to take it slowly.  He really loved this boy, and he didn’t want to foul up again.

“Thank you for the compliment.  I didn’t plan this you know; it was mother’s idea that we should share a room – get to know each other, she said.  Well, I’d like to get to know you,” he said with a grin.  “I’ll not deny that once I saw you, I did not resist the idea of sharing a room with you!”

“I’ll bet she didn’t mean what you mean though,” Tim suggested.

Boldness be my friend, thought Rupert, as he eased himself off his bed, took two paces and sat beside Tim, intoxicated by his nearness and the scent of him.

Tim didn’t resist when Rupert laid his left arm across his shoulders; “Do you mind? He asked. The towelling robe had fallen from Rupert’s left leg and Tim put his hand on his thigh.  He raised his eyes to Rupert’s and there was no need to say more – he didn’t mind at all.

CHAPTER NINE

Mary was first up the following morning and glancing at the clock decided that it was time to get the household moving if they were to be on the road in good time.  It was Sunday, but there’d still be plenty of traffic.  She set about preparing a set of trays…tea, coffee and some biscuits, should give family and guests a half an hour or so to collect their wits and get down for breakfast.

James was awake and asked for the Sunday papers, to be informed that they had not yet been delivered.  Chris was already busy, accepted a tray for herself and the girls and promised to lend a hand with the breakfast.

Rather than risk disaster, Mary placed the boy’s tray on a small hall table before quietly easing the door open and receiving the shock of her life.  She took in the scene at a glance, one bed was undisturbed and in the other the two boys lay in a relaxed embrace, out to the world.  Clothes were scattered on the floor around the bed.  Confused, she paused to think before gently closing the door and backing away.  Small boys and she would not have given the scene another thought, but Rupert and Tim – neither of whom would be afraid of the dark and in need of comfort!  Mary decided that she could draw only one conclusion, and her mind went back to the scene at the airport – perhaps she might not have been mistaken when she thought that Rupert had kissed his companion.  She carried the tray back to the kitchen and sat down to think.

Five minutes later, she returned with fresh tea.  She set down the tray by the door and hammered on the panel; “Rupert, there’s a tea tray by your door, you have thirty minutes to breakfast.”

Breakfast was an ad hoc affair, and everyone took their chance on what was going.  James arrived last and asked Rupert if he would drive him into town.  “I quite forgot to mention it, but I have arranged a ten-seat mini-bus – it’ll be much more comfortable than trying to cram everyone into the BMW.  It would be stupid to take two cars.

Mary studied Rupert and Tim.  She was not sure what she expected to see but was surprised to find them behaving quite normally.  Why not, she thought, perhaps I was mistaken.  No, there was no mistake, they were not only in bed together, in each other’s arms, but it looked as if they had been there all night.  She felt she had to mention it to Rupert – but only at the right time.  In the meantime, she resolved to keep her eyes open.

The day went very well; they arrived in London in time to take lunch at the Trocadero.  With the afternoon to kill, they agreed to split up and meet again at the Troc at six for some tea before heading for Sadler’s Wells. Mary was a little worried that perhaps they should have arranged to stay in town so that they could have freshened up and changed before the theatre, but no one batted an eyelid when they arrived at Sadler’s Wells in casual clothes.  Mary and Chris had seen Swan Lake several times, but each time was like the first.  After the final curtain the party sat entranced, but James reminded them that they had a drive ahead and reluctantly they gathered coats, bags and themselves.  As they left the theatre, Sarah and Rachel announced that they planned to be ballet dancers.

The day had gone well, and it was tired party that arrived home just after midnight.  After some discussion it was agreed that rather than add miles to the journey, the Baileys would stay another night.  Mary resolved not to pry and that she would let the boys rise in their own good time the following morning.  The families were up and about early.  It was agreed that Rupert would run Chris, Tim and the girls back home using Mary’s car.

Rupert returned just after noon and Mary sensed that he was excited or edgy about something; “You’ve been a long time; I had expected you home long since for some breakfast.”

“Well, I ran into Cambridge, had some breakfast in town and then went to Banhams.”

“Banhams, I didn’t know that you were interested in boats.”

“Well, yes and no, I talked with Tim at the weekend and since he’s at a loose end for the holidays which start at the end of this week, we decided to see if we could hire a sailing boat from Banhams Horning yard for a couple of weeks.  After a bit of toing and froing, several phone calls, we managed to get a neat little two berth for two weeks, one of the old-fashioned kind – really neat.  Tim hasn’t sailed on the Broads before.”

“Did you talk to Chris about that, she may have other plans for the family?”

“No, but Tim did, and she didn’t object – in fact I think she might even have been a little relieved.”

Mary wondered if this might be the right time to broach the subject that had been troubling her – was troubled the right word, she wondered–oh well…

“Rupert, do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Of course not mum, what?”

“Well yesterday morning when I brought the tea tray to your door, it was my second trip to deliver your tea.” She paused, but Rupert did not seem to make the connection, or if he did, he hid it pretty well.

“So, I’m not quite with you…” he said with a frown.

Damn, thought Mary, he’s going to make me explain.  “Well dear, the first time I opened the door without thinking and, well, to be frank, I was a little surprised at what I saw.”

Rupert blanched, “You mean the sleeping arrangements?”

“Well, yes…I was a bit taken aback.  Can you tell me what it means?”

Rupert briefly studied his fingernails and then looked at his mother.  “What do you think?’ he asked, playing for time.

“Well, one bed was clearly undisturbed, and you and Tim looked very comfortable with your arms around each other.  Does that mean what I think it means?”

“OK mum, you’re onto it in one, Tim and I love each other.”

“Rupert this is all a bit sudden, how long has this been going on?”

“Well since Saturday evening, I suppose, after the party.”

“No, I mean how long you preferred boys, or men, to females?”

Rupert grinned; “All my life I suppose, certainly as long as I can remember.  I think I would have told you one day – but I wasn’t ready yet”

“Rupert, when we picked you up from Heathrow, when we spotted you, you were talking to a boy, in fact you gave him a hug and I’ll swear that to kissed him as you parted.”

“Oh God, you were not supposed to have seen that – but I guess now it   doesn’t matter very much.  Did dad see that too?”

“Yes, but I don’t think he had time to take in what he saw.  Who is he?”

“His name is Raymond Cherry and I flat with him in LA.”

“Flat with him?”

“Well, actually, I live with him, we rent an apartment together.”

Mary’s heart sank, and all sorts of things rushed through her mind, not least what she’d heard about AIDS on the West Coast.  “Do you want to tell me about Raymond?”

“Nothing to tell really, he’s twenty, he’s American, we work for the same firm, I met him there and we clicked right away, we love each other.”

“Where is he now?”

He’s staying with friends in London and we’re going to meet up next week.”

“Pardon me, but I thought you were planning a trip on the Broads for next week.”

“Yes, that’s right, and Ray is joining us on the Broads.”

“On a two-berth boat?”

“Mum, it can be quite chilly on the Broads at this time of the year,” he replied with his usual disarming smile.

“Rupert, it’s going to take me some time to reconcile all this in my mind.  It’s a shock to say the least – I’m not sure what I think.  But I don’t think it’s very wise to involve Tim Bailey in your plans.  He’s only a boy and, for what it’s worth, it’s probably OK to take him for a sailing trip on the Broads, but if you have ideas about anything more than that, you might want to consider the law in this country.  Also, I think that dad would be appalled at the idea.”

“Does dad know?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Will you tell him?”

“Mmm, again I’m not sure.  I’ll have to think about that.  He will have to know eventually, and I think that you will have to bight the bullet and tell him yourself.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll have to think about that.  How would he react?”

“Frankly I don’t know.  I don’t think he would throw you out or disown you, or anything like that, but let’s face it, he would be bound to be a bit rattled.”

“Mum, about the law, I assume that you’re talking about the age of consent.  No one takes any notice of all that crap anymore.  The law will be changed anyway, sooner or later.

“Well maybe dear, but at the moment its 16 and the papers are constantly full of men in trouble for consorting with boys under the age of 16.”

“Mum that’s all-just hysteria.  It’s the same in the States, but perhaps worse.”

“Rupert, is it worth it? I mean it’s OK with Raymond, but can’t you just be good friends with Tim.”

“Mum, why don’t you ask Tim what he wants.  It’s really hard for kids of that age.  It was hard for me – still is for that matter – but people are more accepting over on the West Coast – in Cambridge these days too, for that matter.  Tim is not sure about his sexuality.  Until we met, he thought he was completely straight but knew that he had certain feelings and it’s alright for him to explore those feelings – and he needs guys he can trust to deal with it.”

“Well, you make it all sound very simple, but what about his mother, what about dad – he dotes on that boy – and Tim has been good for him too since you chaps all left.  It’s also possible that you could compromise dad – legally I mean.”

“Oh, come on mum, how could we compromise dad?”

“Rupert, I’m not sure if you are out of touch, or completely unaware.  Every week honourable men are sent to prison on the flimsiest of evidence.  I asked dad to take Tim under his wing so I would feel responsible if anything happened.  At first, he refused to even consider the idea and had real worries about how such a friendship might be interpreted.  Now that he knows Tim and has seen the benefit of their friendship, he is more relaxed.  Nonetheless, he is very careful.

“Mum, you amaze me; this sounds like paranoia to me.”

“Rupert, I assure you that there is no question about paranoia, I’m talking reality, as I see it in my job.  You’d be surprised at the sort of allegations some busybodies make.  They all have to be investigated, and most are found to be malicious or groundless.  But the atmosphere out there has definitely changed, and I don’t want to see you at risk, or any threat to dad.”

“OK, point taken, but what do I do? Tim will be very disappointed if I call it off.”

“Well, far be it from me to run your life, but there are a couple of possibilities.  Put Raymond off, take Tim, and just enjoy the sailing, or go with Raymond and tell Tim you could not find a suitable boat.”

“Mum he already knows that I found the boat.  He knows about Ray and is looking forward to meeting him.”

“Mmm, well, think about what I have said and make up your own mind.  When would you leave for Horning?”

“I thought we could drive up – using your car – on Sunday, stay the night in a hotel and pick up the boat on Monday morning.”

CHAPTER TEN

The week passed quickly, and Rupert formed the habit of collecting Tim from school in the afternoon.  With schoolwork over for the term, Tim had no commitments.  They spent hours together listening to music, chatting, and as Tim informed his mother, “just hanging out”.  On a couple of evenings, they took in a movie – several movies in fact – at a gay film festival running at the Arts Theatre.

On Saturday morning they drove to Norwich where they met Raymond who had travelled up from London by Train.  Predictably Tim took an instant liking to Ray and was intrigued by his laid-back Californian manner and his blond surfer boy good looks.  Tim conceded the front seat to Ray and as they drove out of the city heading for Horning, they were soon chatting like old friends.

Rupert confided that he had not booked a hotel, but hoped to persuade the boat yard to let them have the boat a day early; “Shouldn’t be a problem” he grinned with a knowing look, be cosier, don’t you think?”

In fact, it proved harder than they thought, the yard was busy servicing returned boats and preparing them for the following week, and the manager was away on business.  However, a liberal backhander to the yard foreman facilitated a deal; “You’ll get me bloody hung” he grumbled, “Come back ’bout 3 o’clock and I’ll see what I can do,” he agreed in a broad Norfolk accent.

After lunch at the “Swan”, they enjoyed an hour or so watching the local lads bombing off the bridge to the discomfort of the occupants of passing small craft.  The object seemed to be to hit the water as close as possible to a passing boat to achieve the maximum impact.  Fun, but dangerous, and fortunately the boys landed with unerring accuracy.  One red faced blimp, who had clearly had too many lunch-time gins, was not amused and threatened to call the police on his mobile.  He was then disconcerted to be bombed a second time on the downstream side of the bridge.  He took off as fast as his antique Seagull motor would take him, yelling dire threats.

When they returned to Banhams, the yard foreman was nowhere to be seen.  “Les likes a little bit ‘o rest after his dinner” volunteered one of the cleaning girls, “he should be ’ere soon,” she suggested.

A half hour later a very old Morris Minor creaked erratically into the yard disgorging Les from the driving seat.  He spotted them with their gear camped beside the boat.  “Here,” he said, “I been thinking, this ‘ere boat ’ul only take two.  If yer planning on the three-’o-’y taking her away, then that’ll be another ten quid.  Cash ’ul do” he added with a cagey grin.  “Alright?” he asked.  Rupert handed over a tenner and Les staggered into action.

“Now let’s see,” he said as he led the way to the office and scrabbled among the papers on the desk.  He finally settled on a large diary and flicked through to the current date.  “Now what name is it?”

“Brooke” said Rupert.

“Nothing here in that name”, said Les with satisfaction.

“Try tomorrow.” Rupert suggested.

“Are, there you are, Harmony III, booked till a fortnight tomorrow in the name of Rupert Brooke.  That right? ‘Ere, you’re not the poet bloke, are you?”

“Hardly” responded Rupert, “He died in 1915.”

“Just ’us well” opined Les as he made a laborious entry against the booking, “A pouf, y’know.”

“You know his work,” queried Rupert.

“Na, not really, remember that thing of his, how’s it go; “If I should die – bury me deep” or some such, learned it at school.  Alright” he said, “She’s all yours – get out of here afore I change me mind.  If I get fired, I’ll be arter yer!”

“Thanks, we appreciate your help.  See you in a couple of weeks,” said Rupert.

“Not if I see ’un first like”, retorted Les, amused at his own wit.

The gear was quickly stowed and the supplies lodged in the cramped galley.  “I’m just going to nip over to the “Swan” off-licence,” announced Rupert, “We mustn’t forget the essentials – I’ll leave you in charge Tim – don’t know if I can trust a Yank with a British boat”.

Tim and Ray re-arranged the squabs in the cockpit and relaxed.  “He’s a great guy,” Ray ventured, nodding toward the departing Rupert, “I hear you got acquainted.”

Tim coloured, “You mean…?”

“Yeah, right, he told me”

“Oh, I’m surprised; I mean I didn’t think he would tell anyone…”

“Hey man, I’m sorry, Rup and I don’t have any secrets, and anyway we’re in this together.  I’m sure we can get along just fine; it’s just a question of being open about things – it’s the best way.  This is a small boat and by the end of the cruise we’ll know each other pretty well.”

“You’re not mad about Rupert and I, I mean he’s your friend first,” Tim queried.

“The way I see it, there are times when we all need a friend and Rup just happened to be there in your hour of greatest need – so okay man – no problem”

Spin thought Tim; “That’s not quite the way it happened Ray, I mean…” Shit, he thought, I don’t want to drop Rupert in it.  “Look, that night, I think we were both looking for something and, well, we found it.”

For all he’s a great looker, this kid is really naïve, thought Ray.  “Right man, no worries, I’m really pleased Rup found you, we can be friends.  Hey, here’s the man, loaded like a pack mule.  Hey Rupert let me give you a hand,” he said as he leapt onto the jetty and helped hand down assorted boxes.  “Holy shit,” he added, “We heading out for six months!?”

Rupert laughed, a frank barking sound with which Tim had become familiar – in fact he sounded like James.  “Nope, not six months, but sailing’s thirsty work and its mostly soda pop for Tim!

“Thanks for nothing,” said Tim, joining in the banter and hauling the boxes into the small cabin.  “There’s nowhere to stow it,” he added.

“Just take a look under the bunks and get to work.” ordered Rupert.

Sure enough there were four neat little drawers with space enough to take most of the stash.  “Where do we put our clothes?” asked Tim.

Rupert paused for a moment; “Well you could try wearing them, but failing all else, chuck them in the sail locker for’ard – which is more important, clothes or comforts?”

“Right, now that’s out of the way, what’s keeping us? I’d better give you guys a quick lesson – you’ll soon learn the ropes – no pun! I think we may as well motor down to the bridge and then make sail on the other side.  Just watch this, I’ll talk my way through it” With that he lifted the top off the small engine casing and tried to remember the starting sequence on the small two lung Stuart Turner motor.

“Hey, I thought that was just a table – what’y know Tim, there’s a little motor under there.” Jested Ray.

No need to check the oil, the boat will have been serviced.  “Set the gear lever, neutral, gas on, close the choke and swing the crank – easy see” He swung the engine over a couple of times to suck in some fuel, then he switched on and opened the throttle.  This time the motor fired and settled into a steady cadence, noisy but effective.  He replaced the casing top, and the sound subsided a little.  He paused for a moment and then checked that cooling water was flowing from the small outlet in the transom.

“Right guys, you can let go the lines and jump aboard.  Push off for’ard Tim and we’ll get under way” Rupert took the tiller and gently eased in the gear lever and Harmony edged away from the jetty as Rupert opened the throttle.

“Hey Rup man, how many gears this thing have?” quipped Ray as he settled on the squabs and reclined against the cabin bulkhead.

“Well, there’s the motor, the sail and in the last resort, you on that quant pole.”

“Say what?” said Ray, looking alarmed.

“The quant, that long pole with the knob on top and the forked foot, when all else fails, you pick it up, grasp it firmly and drop the foot to the bottom of the river, wait till it’s inclined forward and push.  Simple really and you should be good at it!”

“Okay, okay, can we just stick with the motor?”

“I thought we came here to sail, not use a smelly, noisy engine”, responded Rupert, as the boat eased under the centre of the low road bridge.  On the downstream side, he closed the throttle and eased the boat against the rushes and cut the motor.

“The motor bust? Now what?” said Ray quizzically?

“Now we get serious man.  Don’t bother to tie up, I’ll show you guys how we handle the mast.” Rupert lifted the hatch in the foredeck.

“Hey”, said Ray, “what’s this large lump of lead, here on the bottom of this pole?”

“Well, that’s it.” said Rupert, “That’s the mast counterweight.  Here I’ll show you.  Tim, could you just loosen that rope – that’s it, the one running out of that tackle in the bow and when I say the word, heave on it.  Ray, you help me here a moment and then lend Tim a hand.  I’ll check that everything runs freely.  Right Tim take up the slack and start to heave, Ray we just help lift till the mast is high enough for the tackle to purchase.  That’s it, up she goes, nicely.”

“Wow,” exclaimed Ray, “an erection already.” Tim sniggered.

“Right, make fast that halyard and with the weight down and locked, the mast should stay put.  Now I think we can make sail.  Fortunately for your introduction the wind is across the river and so it’ll be a broad reach till we fetch that windmill and then we have to beat to windward for a mile or so.”

“Hey man, I can’t keep up with all this technical jargon, you mind speaking English?”

“I guarantee that by the end of the week you’ll be speaking English, boat English.”

Tim was fascinated by the way in which the large head tackle easily hoisted the heavy timber gaff, and hoops on the luff of the sail slipped freely up the mast.  Once in place, the sail flapped gently in the cross breeze, and he watch as Rupert hoisted the gib.

“Tim, could you make sure that the dinghy is securely tied to the ring in the stern.  You know how to make a bowline? It’s quite a circus when you’re roaring along under sail and the dinghy breaks loose.” Then, Rupert started to haul in the main sheet and applied a little weather helm.  The boat slipped off the bank and as the boom came in and the big gaff mains’l filled she picked up speed and was soon creaming along at four or five knots, healing only slightly.”

Ray did a little dance.  “Hey man this is awesome – you sure you can handle this thing Rup? How the hell do you stop – no brakes?”

Rupert put the helm down and the boat’s head came up into the wind with both sails flapping furiously.  “Like that” he said, as the bow gently kissed the bank.  “Got it? Like to have a try, Ray?”

“Err, no, I don’t think so.  Hey, where’d you learn all this boat shit man?”

“When I was a kid, we came up here with mum and dad and later we were allowed here by ourselves in the summer.  One year we took a cheap hire before Easter, out of season, and it actually snowed as we crossed Breydon Water.  We had the lee deck under on that crossing and later, when we tied up back in the river, we found that the bilge water had invaded the drawers under the bunks and all our clothing was soaked.”

“Hey, so long as we don’t damage the booze, how come there’s no rope for this little sail at the front here?”

“OK, that’s the jib, and the way it’s rigged, it’s known as a lazy gib.  See how the sheet just hangs on that bar.  When we go about onto the other tack, the gib just follows.  You’ll see when we round the bend up ahead because we’ll have to beat to windward.  It’s a labour-saving device”

“Hell, you’ve just lost me, tack, beat, windward, what the hell, I think I’ll just take me down to the cabin and sleep – or I may take a couple of samples from the drawers! Bye…”

Rupert grinned as Ray disappeared.  “Chicken” he yelled.  “Hey, Tim, you want to try this?”

Tim edged back into the cockpit.  Truth to tell, he had been wondering if the old adage about two’s company mightn’t have something in it.  He was glad to be noticed again, but not too sure about taking the tiller.

“Come on, there’s nothing to it”

“OK,” he agreed, “but don’t go away”.

After an exciting beat to windward up a narrow reach with the tacks cut so fine that the dinghy was actually sledged through the rushes on each tack, the wind died just before sunset.  The crew lowered and stowed the sails and cranked up the motor.  Rupert knew exactly where he was heading and turned into the mouth of a small broad and edged into a wide expanse of rushes.

“This will do” he opined, “We’ll moor here for the night.  Pipe cooks to the galley!”

“But how will we moor?” asked Tim a little puzzled.

Ray emerged from the cabin looking equally perplexed, “Where’re we at” he demanded.

“Just about to moor for the night, you want to help?”

“How, there ain’t no jetty.”

OK, take the quant and set it upright about midships bear down and sink it into the mud and then just take a turn around quant and the scuppers with this rope.  There’s no wind and that should hold us for the night.” Rupert added.  Rupert watched as Ray and Tim moored the boat.

“I feel like a swim,” said Ray.

“Well, you don’t look like one” quipped Tim

“Seriously man, is it OK to swim here?”

Rupert winked at Tim, “Should we tell him do you think?”

Tim caught on.  “It’s only fair I think; after all he is a foreign guest.”

“Right, unfortunately Ray, these Broads are very shallow and are infested with killer eels.  You might be lucky and get away with it, but over the years many people have been taken.  Some hold that the eels are more voracious than piranha.”

“Aw come on man, you’re kidding, there ain’t no dangerous beasties in little old England, I learned that in first grade.  Even the snakes are friendly – well some snakes anyway.”

“Well, don’t take my word for it, if you’re feeling lucky, have a go.”

Unnoticed by either Rupert or Ray in the failing light, Tim had edged along the deck to where they were debating on the stern.  He hit them both simultaneously and they went over the stern.  Tim hung onto the scissors supporting the boom and convulsed with laughter; “Quick Ray, get on board or they’ll have you!”

Rupert was first back on board and reached down to offer Ray his hand.  Ray took a firm grip and heaved Rupert back into the water.  Meanwhile, Tim migrated to the bow, clutching his sides.

Finally, both the bathers emerged dripping onto the stern and coolly and systematically shed their shorts, shirts and underwear before advancing along both sides of the deck, one to port and one to starboard, with malice aforethought.  “Right Bailey, you’ve had it, you’re eel fodder,” said Rupert.

Tim leapt for the mast and using the clutch of halyards, hoisted himself from the deck and headed north.  He arrived at the truck, hauled himself up and sat on the polished wooden disc, secure from immediate attack.  “Right, you guys, you want vengeance, start climbing!”

Rupert did just that, “This is nothing,” he said, “In the old days I used to ride the truck whilst the boat was underway and heeling.” He went up the halyards hand over hand and Tim saw that he had miscalculated.  Quick decisions were called for and Tim reckoned the leap to be around 20 or 25 feet.  He stood on the truck, leapt and yelled “Banzai” as he headed south again.  The water struck cold, but he stayed under and struck out for the rushes surfacing in concealment only to catch a breath.  He listened.

“Where the hell is he,” said Ray, “the eels get him?”

“Quick,” said Rupert, “get my flashlight from the cabin–it’s in my bag.” He surveyed the surrounds from his perch high on the mast but could see nothing and felt a shiver of alarm.  Ray reappeared with the torch and carefully combed the water surrounding the boat, but the light was reflected off the glassy surface and it was impossible to see anything.  Rupert lowered himself to the deck, keeping his eye on the spot where Tim had disappeared.  “I’m going in,” he said, “You stay on deck and keep your eyes open”.

Rupert lowered himself from the chain plates, measured the distance and sunk beneath the surface.  He reached the bottom and pulled himself through the rushes.  Nothing.  He surfaced for air to find Ray with the torch aimed at him.  “Don’t shine that here Ray, I’m blinded.  The water is shallow and there’s no current so he can’t be far away.  Rupert was about to dive again when a voice said, “Behold I rise from the dead!”

Ray swung the torch and showed Tim emerging from the rushes on the other side of the boat with a wide grin on his face; “That’ll teach you guys to bully a poor, helpless teenager.  Give me your hand Ray.”

Ray hung onto the shrouds and offered Tim his hand.  Tim hoisted himself and was about to swing onto the deck when Ray let go and Tim landed back in the tide still laughing.  He swam to the stern and heaved himself out of the water on the rudder and lay panting on the deck, still heaving with laughter.

Rupert went to the stern, “OK Tim, I think that’s enough for now, you had me really worried.” He held out his hands and Tim could see that he was rattled.

“Sorry, maybe that was a bit unfair, but I couldn’t resist the chance for a bit of fun.”

“OK, no harm done – let’s think about something to eat.” He held out his hands and pulled Tim to his feet and then gently peeled off Tim’s shirt, whilst Tim shucked off his board shorts and revealed that he was sans underwear.  Rupert pulled him close and wrapped his arms around him and kissed him on the mouth.  “Please don’t ever scare me like that again, I couldn’t stand it.  Come on, time for a warm drink and something to eat.”

In the cabin, Ray had the small, gimballed oil lamp alight and was busy in the galley – just two gas burners and a small oven.  “You guys relax; I’ll just scare up some chow.  No problem.”

Rupert secured the cabin hatch and propelled Tim to the end of the starboard bunk leaned against the bulkhead and pulled Tim down between his naked legs and put his arms around him.  Tim leaned back against Rupert’s shoulder, and they watched Ray rattling pots on the stove.  “You want a drink”, Rupert whispered.

“What?” asked Tim.

“Well how about a small, Tim sized, vodka and coke?

“Okay”.

“Steward,” said Rupert, “Could you please bring two vodka and coke to the captain’s stateroom.”

The small oil lamp cast a warm, rosy glow over the cabin and Tim couldn’t remember when he had last felt so content.  Yet here he was, confined in a small space with two handsome guys, both naked.  He felt a familiar stirring as that thought passed through his mind.  He felt that he really needed time to think about this, yet he had known all along what to expect.  Was he ready for this, was he comfortable with it?” Ray handed over the two glasses and as he leaned over to kiss Rupert.

“Guys, I’m going to find me some duds before I have an accident at that stove” After a couple of minutes Ray emerged from the foc’sle in tee shirt, boardies and deck shoes.

“Right,” said Rupert, “I think Ray’s right, time to dress for dinner.”

“Fifteen minutes’ guys,” said Ray as he worked his magic in the galley.  “Superb risotto of fragrant rice and sautéed killer eel, followed by canned peaches and rich cream,” he added.  “That do ya?”

Dressed, relaxed and hungry, the ship’s company setup the small folding table and ate a leisurely meal and made a hole in a couple of bottles of wine.  The banter continued till Rupert announced that he for one was ready to turn in.  Tim volunteered to do the dishes, which involved no more than dipping them over the side and brushing off the residue, and stack them in a wire drainer.

Tim had wondered about the sleeping arrangements but was soon left in no doubt.  “You take the port bunk Tim and oh, just crack the hatch a few inches or we might die of suffocation in our sleep!”

Someone doused the lamp, and Tim lay back listening to the others arrange themselves in a single, narrow bunk.

The next day the run down to Yarmouth was leisurely but toward evening a sou’westerly breeze started to blow and during the night became increasingly strong. The next morning Rupert took stock and decided that they should lay up for the day and try to get a weather forecast. So, a visit to the nearest hostelry was indicated where the spent rather too much time. The forecast predicted easing weather, and the next morning dawned clear and fine, but with still a stiff breeze. After a long breakfast they felt ready to brave Breydon Water and head to the River Yare and maybe a visit to Norwich.

In the open water it was necessary to tack into the wind all the way and in the strong breeze, the yacht heeled until water was running over the lee deck. Whilst Rupert and Tim found the beat to windward exhilarating, Ray became worried and took to the cabin. As they entered the calmer waters of the River Yare the excitement died, and Ray emerged looking a little green.

“What the hell were you guys doing, you scared the crap out of me”

“Just a brisk beat to windward,” said Rupert.

“Couldn’t you have just run the motor and avoided all the beat and tack crap?”

“We could have, but why waste fuel when we had so excellent a breeze. Anyway, if I thought the boat was going to capsize I for one would have felt safer on deck.”

“…and probably die of pneumonia or hypothermia in all the wind and wet. Anyway, how come the thing don’t just roll over?”

“Think about it. There’s a large chunk of lead bolted to the keel, plus the lead counterweight at the foot of the mast, the buoyancy of the lee bilges and the weight of the windward side of the boat, all acting to keep it upright. A bit like one of those rubber dolls with lead feet.”

And so, it went on, Rupert and Ray constantly ribbing each other and occasionally turning their attention to Tim. Fortunately, apart from the first evening, in the cabin at night the boys had largely ignored Tim and by the end of the first week Tim concluded that he had made a mistake in joining them on the trip.  He also worried about what had happened between him and Rupert at the Brooke house and a nagging feeling was growing that he had betrayed James and Mary. He decided that he would ask to be put ashore in Norwich and take a train home.  He then set his mind to thinking up a logical explanation for an early departure.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They returned rather late from a successful day at the club model flying field. “Well, that’s it,” said James, as he swung the car door shut, “Time for some tea.” Tim was still stowing wings and sorting and cleaning fuselages and as James closed the workshop against the early spring chill, the light was fading in the west.  “You should be pretty pleased with yourself, you had a faultless run today and those last two landings were perfect, the flare and touch-down just right”.

“Thanks to you”, said Tim, as he carefully distributed the charger leads ready to plug in.  He turned and his face was a picture, his hair awry, those sparkling blue eyes, perfect complexion, and melting grin, “Thanks,” he repeated.  Rupert was right, thought James, he only needs a halo and wings.  My own angel, he reflected, surprising himself with the thought.

James was on the back foot when the boy embraced him, placed his head against his shoulder and said, “You’re so kind to me, it makes me want to cry”, tightening the hug.

James gently held him at arm’s length and looked into those eyes, the grin had gone, and the expression was melancholy.  “Don’t” he said, “It’s my pleasure and besides I rely on you.  Ask Mary, if it were not for you, I’d be a couch potato!”

Tim pulled him back and resumed the hug and James felt a small tremor wrack the lithe young body, “Jimmy, I wish my dad could be more like you – I wish you were my dad”.  The voice told the story, James realised that the boy was barely in control of himself.

“Tim I can never be your dad, and I’m sure he thinks about you all the time, but he’s a busy man who has worked hard to be successful”.  What can I say, thought James, the bastard?

“Yes,” sobbed Tim, “that’s all he thinks about, his work and his girlfriend.  Whenever I call him, at his office or at home, he’s always in a meeting and will get back to me.  He never does.” Another series of sobs shook the boy.

James sensed that anything he might say would only make things worse; he’d have to talk with Mary about this.  Was he getting in over his head? The boy’s reaction was natural and predictable, he needed his father, but James reasoned he could never be a substitute.  Well, the boy deserves to be cared for, and he’d damned well see that he was looked after.

“Tim, I know how you feel, I can’t be your father, I never can, but I can be your best friend, and you can rely on me.  We can do all the things that I’m sure your dad would want to if he lived here and had the time”.  Better shut up, thought James or I’ll just make things worse.  “Come on, let’s finish in here and see what’s for tea, I could go a plate of crumpets!”

Tim loosened the hug and placed a quick peck on James’s cheek, as he turned to the bench and straightened the last of the charger leads and started to engage the plugs.  James handed him the box of tissues, “Here”, he said, “leave that, I’ll do it later, let’s feed.”

They left their coats on the hooks by the back door, the breakfast room was bright and cheerful against the drab chill outside, with the open fire that Mary insisted they enjoy at weekends.  Mary came to the kitchen door wiping her hands on a towel, “I heard you arrive; tea will be about five minutes.” She sensed an atmosphere and cocked an eye at James, who responded with a well understood – I’ll tell you later look.  “How did it go today” she asked.

James put his arm around Tim’s shoulder, “Meet the next world champ” he said, and Tim grinned shyly.  Mary took the hint and disappeared back into the kitchen.

James shuffled the magazines on the side table and found the latest RCME, the Radio Control Modeller and Electronics.  “Here, this arrived on Friday, take it home with you, I’ll have a look when you’re finished.”

The tea arrived to a rattle of crockery and they sat around the fire in a companionable half-circle.

“What are you planning for the Easter hols Tim”, Mary asked, attempting to lighten the atmosphere.  “I ask, because Jeremy has a week’s leave, and he mentioned that he would like to spend a day at Duxford – and I’m sure he would like some company”.

Tim paused with a heavy coating of honey starting to run off his third crumpet, “Well nothing really, I haven’t talked to mum about the holidays, but I want to do some work on the Spectre – if Jim agrees – but a trip to Duxford would be awesome – would Jeremy mind, do you think?”

“I’m sure he would be pleased to have your company”, Said Mary whilst pouring the tea.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rachel Thomas looked up from her notes as the door opened and her team leader and a stranger entered the room.  A spring gale lashed rain against the windows making the drab, institutional, centrally heated room, seem almost comfortable.

“Rachel, this is Detective Inspector Fred Stevens from Cambridge, and he’ll be sitting in on the preliminary interviews,” said the team leader, June Smythe, “He is here semi-officially and as far as anyone need know he is a member of our staff taking notes – he just wants to get a feel for the case”.  Rachel thought this a bit odd, possibly not quite ethical, but she held her tongue.

“James Brooke is a name in the city and has some standing – we just want to be sure of our ground”, Smythe added.

The seating had been arranged so that it seemed casual, informal and hopefully less threatening.  June Smythe explained the family circumstances and briefly that Mary Brooke had been relieved of her task as the Bailey case worker; “In light of the allegations directed at her husband, that was a formality”, she added.

The extension rang and June mumbled her thanks.  “Mrs Bailey and the boy at reception, if there are no objections; I think we’ll talk to the mother alone first.”

“Whatever” said Stevens, “It would be helpful to just conduct the interview as you would normally – I’ll take no part”.

June Smythe excused herself and when she returned, she introduced Christine Bailey to Rachel Thomas and Fred Stevens, the latter as a colleague sitting in to take some notes.

Christine was puzzled; she sensed an atmosphere, but what? Where was Mary Brooke? When Mary had called, she said nothing about these other people.  What was going on? Why the request to bring Tim, but not the girls.  Was Tim in some sort of trouble? There seemed a reluctance to cut the pointless chat and get down to business.  It was all very strange.  She had a feeling that she knew the note taker, Fred Stevens, but couldn’t immediately place him.

“Mrs Bailey,” opened June Smythe, “Some matters of a serious nature have been brought to the attention of the department, and we have no option but to make enquiries” She paused and shuffled the paper in the file before her.  “There may well be nothing at all in it, but we have to ask, and we would naturally appreciate your co-operation.  Because there may be a simple explanation, we thought it would be better to check things out with you before troubling Timothy.

“Essentially, our concern centres upon the relationship between your son and James Brooke.  You know about this of course.  We understand that they have been close for more than three years, have spent a lot of time together, and that Dr Brooke took Timothy with him on a business trip to Kenya last year.  Can you comment on this?” June Smythe returned to her notes, whilst Fred Stevens tried to catch her eye.  The seating arrangement made this problematical, but if he could have commented, the message would have been, “Stop beating about the bush.”

Christine Bailey paused, “Well what you say is true, James and Tim have been like father and son since Mary introduced them.  James and Mary have been so kind to the whole family, but James and Tim are very close.  If Mary had not asked James to take Tim under his wing, I dread to think what might have become of him.  Tim really needed his father, but you know the problem there, it’s all in your file, and James has been more than a father to him”.

“More than a father?” said June Smythe, “Can you tell us what you mean by that?”

“Well, I mean that James Brooke has gone out of his way to make Tim feel wanted, to make him happy.  He has helped him in so many ways.  I often think that every boy should be so lucky – really, as far as I am concerned, it’s been like a miracle, as has the way in which Tim has responded.  James managed to get him a place at a good school and has helped with fees.  Tim’s 16 now and he and James are planning what would be best for him to study at university – so that he can go into computers and electronics.  That’s what he wants to do, and James says that he’ll be good at it.  There’s even talk of a place in his company, IsoComm, when he graduates – but of course that’s a long way off.” Christine smiled expectantly, wondering if she had answered the question.

“Yes, right, but wouldn’t you say that the relationship goes beyond what you have described?” countered June Smythe.  Fred Stevens rolled his eyes.

“How could it? Surely James could not do more for Tim, and Tim could not be more appreciative.  When we sat down here, you mentioned that serious matters had been brought to the attention of the department, why don’t you just come to the point?”

June Smythe extracted an envelope from the file, “I have some photographs here that I would like you to take a look at”, she said, spreading the prints on the coffee table in front of Christine.

Christine recognised them at once, they were pictures of Tim taken in Kenya, they had been swimming at some place in the bush, something Springs, what was it? She flipped the photographs and there it was in Tim’s handwriting, “Swimming at Buffalo Springs with friends – North of Isiolo 23/03/97.  Saw elephant nearby.” The only remarkable thing about the pictures was that Tim was naked with his arms around the shoulders of two grinning African boys similarly unclothed.  Christine recalled that they had discussed this when the pictures were first processed, but James and Tim had just laughed and commented that the Africans didn’t wear much anyway.  Nonetheless, Tim had been rather reluctant to have the photographs publicly displayed – mainly because the girls were bound to see them.  But after he and James had talked it over the pictures had been fixed in the safari album along with all the other photographs.  The rationale was that Tim had nothing to hide.  Christine too had had reservations about the pictures, but after Tim and James had sorted it all out, she could see the sense in what they said, and such openness was in its way refreshing.  They had seemed to say, “We have nothing to hide” – that’s what happened, so why pretend otherwise to satisfy prudes.

“Yes,” she said, “These are Tim’s photographs, and I would like to know how they came into your hands?”

June Smythe looked a little disconcerted, she had not expected that kind of response – perhaps she had been expecting surprise and then outrage.  “Well, I’m not at liberty to disclose how they came into our hands, but we would like to have your reaction to the photographs”.

Christine remembered her private talk with James and Mary when the subject of the photographs had first been raised.  James had explained that Tim had urged him to take the shots, as a kind of game, a joke, that at the time it seemed harmless enough.  That it was not till the films had been processed that he sensed that the photographs might cause ripples if they got into the wrong hands.  He had explained that he had thought about the issue very seriously and concluded that in the long run he felt that openness would be the best thing – that a cover-up would send the wrong message to Tim – that his nakedness was in some way shameful, to be hidden and denied.

Christine remembered thinking how sensible this had seemed and how, finally, she had been pleased that the pictures had been taken.  She recalled too, James’s comment that there were just too many ugly pictures in the papers and on TV of boys lying dead in pools of blood, and that this sort of happy pictures lends a balance.

“My reaction – two things” said Christine, “Firstly my reaction to the photographs; I’m really proud that I have such a beautiful son, and secondly, unless you tell me how you came by the photographs, I’ve nothing more to say.”

This was a showstopper, and June shuffled the paper in her file.  “As I’ve said, I can’t tell you how the photographs were drawn to the attention of the department”.  Fred Stevens would have liked to have intervened, but he bit his lip – he saw the interview slipping away as June Smythe lost the initiative.

“Well,” said Christine, “There really seems no point in prolonging this discussion, so if you’ll excuse me…” She stood and as she did so, she scooped up the photographs and slipped them into her bag.

June Smythe hastened to stop her and seized her by the upper arm.  Christine paused, looked directly at her and said simply, “Please take your hand off me”.

June dropped her hand and realised in her fright that she had gone too far.  “Mrs Bailey I’m afraid you can’t take those photographs – they are required as evidence”.

“Evidence of what?” countered Christine.  “So now there are three things,” she added, “One, how you came by the photographs, two that they are Timothy’s property and in so far as I know he gave them to no one, and three, evidence of what? Unless you are prepared to offer some explanation, there really is not much point in pursuing this conversation.  I have been grateful for all the help that the department has given me in the past, but I do not think that that places me under any obligation to put up with this kind of thing”.  With that she moved towards the door.

“Just a moment Mrs Bailey”, said Smythe, “we now need to talk with Timothy”.

“No”, responded Christine Bailey, “Unless you can tell me more about all this, I’m not having him subjected to this kind of thing.  Good morning to you”

Fred Stevens could contain himself no longer, and stood, “Mrs Bailey, I think you would be wise to co-operate with Mrs Smythe.  I’m sure that this whole thing can be sorted out, but to do so we need your help”

Christine stopped by the door.  “We?” What did you say your name is?”

“Stevens, Fred Stevens” he said.

“You don’t remember me Mr Stevens?

“Can’t say I do” said Stevens, looking puzzled.

“Mmm,” mused Christine, “It’s going back a bit, but I remember you, you were the community constable when Charles and I lived in Trumpington when we were first married, must be fifteen or more years ago”

“Top marks for memory” he conceded, “Yes I was the constable at Trumpington, but I don’t remember you”

“There’s really no reason why you should, I was hardly a pillar of the community then, or indeed now for that matter.  But your presence here poses other questions.  Are you still the community constable and what’s your interest in all this?”

“No, as a matter of fact I’m not, haven’t worked in Trumpington in years.  Right now, I’m detective Chief Inspector in charge of CID in Cambridge.  Because of the implications of the department’s enquiry, I had asked to sit in.  I hope you don’t mind”.

“Mind”, responded Christine, “I think that this interview has been insulting and underhand from the outset.  I’ve better things to do with my time.  So, if you’ll excuse me…’

June Smythe’s face fell as she realised that the game was up.  She could not see any way of regaining the initiative and she rather hoped that Stevens would be able to retrieve the situation.

He picked up a file.  “Mrs Bailey, please accept my apologies.  I am prepared to explain if you’ll just give me a few minutes.  This is a DSS enquiry, and I am here by invitation.  I sense that you hold James Brooke in high regard, and I think I’m right in believing that you would want to help him?”

Christine paused yet again.  “Well, perhaps that’s the first honest remark I’ve encountered here this morning.  Alright, I am prepared to talk with you but would prefer to do so in the absence of these ladies.  If this is a police matter, I can’t see why they need to be involved at all”.

“I think Mrs Smythe would accept that – wouldn’t you? He said, turning in her direction.

“If you think that would be for the best Inspector, then of course I’ll have to agree, but the department will still need to conduct its own enquiry into the safety of Mrs Bailey’s children”, she countered.  Fred Stevens gave Smythe a withering look.

“You what!” exclaimed Christine, “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.  I certainly think that I need to know what all this is about.  Would it be possible Mr Stevens to talk at my home, or at your office?”

Stevens consulted his dairy and suggested calling on Mrs Bailey at 9.30am the following Monday, three days hence.

“Right”, said Christine, that will be fine”.  She turned towards Smythe and Thomas and then pulled open the door and left – her look said it all.

As soon as she arrived home, she tried to ring Mary Brooke but was unable to contact her until late in the evening.  Then, Mary was at first reluctant to talk about the case, as she called it, citing departmental confidentiality and professional constraints.

“Mary, I’ve been subjected to an inquisition, with the police present and I still don’t know what all this about and I’m going to have to get through the weekend with the whole thing hanging over me.  I need to know what’s going on”.

There was silence, but Christine could hear Mary breathing so she knew that she was still on the line.  Finally, she said; “Chris, James has been arrested – well not actually arrested but asked to go to the police station to help with enquiries.  I had expected him home before now – they can’t hold him unless they charge him with something”.

Christine felt as though she had been hit, and all sorts of things raced through her mind, but more than anything the need to go to Mary.  The questions tumbled out, with ‘why?’ at the top of the list.  “Can I come over to see you, I’ll take a taxi and be with you in ten minutes – I need to know what’s going on.”

Mary thought about this, technically she felt that probably she should say ‘No’, but to hell with them all, the whole thing would be over in a few days, and everything could get back to normal.  “Chris, I’d appreciate it if you could come over, I need to talk with someone and since you’re involved, like it or not, who better”.

“The children will be OK, I’ll see you in a few minutes,” she replied, as she gathered up her bag and grabbed her coat in the hall.  Surely, they couldn’t make such a fuss over a handful of photographs, she thought, what was going on?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

James Brooke had been immersed in the minutiae of a lengthy contract when the intercom buzzed.  “Dr Brooke there are two gentlemen here to see you”.

“Jane, I’d prefer not to be disturbed, I’ve got to wrap up this contract by tomorrow at the latest, see if you can make an appointment for some time next week”, he suggested.

“James, they are from the police and say that it’s urgent, but they won’t tell me what it’s about” she replied.

“OK, send them in, but I can’t give them long.” The police, he mused, that contract was finalised two years ago, and he had had no inkling of any problems.  Apart from the usual maintenance commitment, the contract had been wrapped up to mutual satisfaction.

The door opened and Jane showed them in.  The older, taller man looked familiar, but James couldn’t place him.

There were no preliminaries; “Thanks for seeing us Dr Brooke, I’m DCI Stevens of Cambridge CID and this is DS Brown.  We’d appreciate it if you could spare a few minutes to help us with a few question – we shouldn’t take too long”.

Well, it’s not the comms contract, thought James as he pulled a couple of chairs up to the table, “Please sit down and tell me what’s on your mind”.

Stevens put a file on the table; “Dr Brooke, we understand that you know Timothy Bailey?”

“Yes” said James anxiously, “Tim’s my friend, is something wrong, has he had an accident or something?”

“No, Tim’s OK”, said Stevens, “Nothing to worry about, but we need to ask you a few questions about your relationship with him.”

“May I ask why?” James countered.

“Dr Brooke, Tim’s father, Charles Bailey, has made some serious allegations about your relationship with the boy.  He suggests that you are more than just a friend, in fact he alleges that you and the boy are lovers”.

James felt as if he had been hit by a bus, adrenaline surged and for a moment he felt faint.  He gathered himself and walked around the desk and pressed the intercom button; “Jane, could you ask Lawrence to join us please”

“Right Dr Brooke, he just went to the cafeteria, but I’ll get him right away”

“Lawrence Tyrell is the company solicitor; I hope you don’t mind if he joins us and that we suspend this till he arrives”.

“Fine,” said Stevens, leafing through the file, “no problem.”

When Tyrell arrived, Stevens allowed James’s time to make the introductions and brief him.  When the solicitor was settled, James said; “Lawrence, I know that this is not quite your area of expertise, but I’d appreciate your presence until we can see how this matter develops.”

Lawrence Tyrell retrieved a notebook and a mini recorder from his pocket and said, “If you don’t mind Inspector, can you give me an idea of your intentions.  Are charges to be laid, or is this just an enquiry?” He held up the recorder; “Do you mind?”

Stevens paused for a moment, “No that’s OK,” he said indicating the recorder.  “I think that right now we can say that it’s an enquiry, there’s certainly no firm evidence of any wrongdoing, but having received a complaint from the boy’s father who has made some serious allegations, you’ll understand that we have to look into it”.

“Quite” said Tyrell, “Can you set out the allegations.  I can’t advise Dr Brooke until we have a firm idea of the way ahead”.

“Essentially, Charles Bailey has alleged that over a period of years, since the boy was thirteen, Dr Brooke and his son have been engaged in a relationship that involves some measure of sexual activity.  At the moment, it’s no more than that, an attempt to get at the facts.  Perhaps I should add that the boy has not yet been interviewed and perhaps we’ll not need to trouble him.  That will depend to a large extent on Dr Brooke.”

He paused as if weighing his words; “Mrs Bailey has been subject of a rather unproductive interview by senior social workers of the Children and Young Persons Service, but I have now requested that they take their enquiry no further for the moment – in other words, I’ve asked them not to question the boy.  So, if you agree, I’d like to ask Dr Brooke if he has anything to say in answer to the allegations”

Tyrell countered at once; “I’m advising Dr Brooke to say no more.”

The detective sergeant looked up from his notes and Stevens looked at James; “Am I to take it that you don’t wish to comment Dr Brooke”.

“Lawrence, would it be damaging, prejudicial or whatever, if I were to say simply that there is absolutely no substance in these allegations.  I think I know why Bailey is taking this line, in fact after Tim and I returned from Kenya last year he threatened me.  He took exception to the fact that I had taken Tim out of the UK jurisdiction without his knowledge or consent.”

Stevens pursed his lips.  “You didn’t have his consent?”

“No,” said James, “We asked the DSS and the family lawyer if we needed any consent other than that of Christine Bailey and they were both agreed that since she had legal custody and Bailey was not supporting the boy, we needed nothing further for Tim to join me on the trip.”

“You say that Bailey threatened you, what do you mean?”

“Well, he phoned me out of the blue just a few weeks after we returned – he had only just learned about the trip – and we had a disagreement over the phone – he made all kind of wild allegations and threats.  I didn’t really pay too much attention because ever since Mary first brought Tim to our place, Bailey has been trying to make trouble.  In fact, I recall that one of the reasons that we decided not to ask him about the trip was the certainty that he would refuse permission.”

“But you said that you found that you didn’t need his consent to take the boy out of the country,” questioned Stevens.

“Yes, that’s true, we didn’t need his permission, but the consensus was that if he had been asked, or had learned of the trip before departure, he would have vetoed it and ethically and morally it would have been hard to go against the father’s wishes.”

“So, the department acquiesced, indeed were party to the decision to allow Tim Bailey to join you on the trip? I understand that your wife is a social worker with the department.”

“Yes, that’s correct on both counts,” said James.

“OK,” said Stevens, “I don’t think the issue of the trip is germane to the present enquiry, although some things that happened on the trip might be”.

“What do you mean” interjected Tyrell.

“Mr Tyrell, at the heart of these allegations are some photographs that were taken in Kenya at a place I understand is called Buffalo Springs and…”

“Oh God,” James groaned, “I had a feeling about those bloody photographs, that they might come back to haunt us – but really, what do they prove – nothing except that Tim with some young African friends were swimming au naturel.  I mean what the hell, we arrived at the springs hot and dusty, to find a couple of young herd boys enjoying a bathe.  Nothing could have been more natural than to join them and the boys had a whale of time splashing around and ducking each other…there was no other communication because of the language barrier…but they got on fine together.”

“Whose idea was it to take the photographs?” queried Stevens.

“As I recall it was Tim’s idea of a bit of fun, I don’t think that we thought about it at the time – it was just one of those things that happened.  It was totally innocent.”

“There is just one thing,” Stevens interrupted, “Innocent or not, there is no doubt at all that in the photographs young Bailey is sporting a semi-erection.  Can you explain that?”

“No, except to say – as you gentlemen will well know – it’s not unusual in a boy of that age, he was just 15, to be easily aroused.  I think the sheer freedom and innocence of the occasion got to the boy.  There was certainly nothing more to it.  No one commented about it.  As I recall, we made tea and invited the herd boys to share our lunch.  We had another swim before leaving and then returned to the Mawingo Hotel at Nanyuki in time for dinner and ready to go up Mount Kenya for a night at the game lodge.” James recollected.

The sergeant looked up from his notes; “Dr Brooke, you say that you took a swim – he flipped back a page, “we had another swim before leaving” – did you swim?”

“Yes”, said James.

“And were you also swimming naked?”

“Yes, I was” James replied.

Tyrell had been making notes during this exchange; “These photographs, where are they now?”

“Charles Bailey had sent them to the DSS and during the interview with Mrs Bailey earlier today, the social worker spread them on a table to ask her about them.  When Christine Bailey declined to continue the interview and was about to leave, she scooped up the photographs and took them with her – to the confusion I might add, of the social worker”, Stevens reported with a grin.

“So, Mrs Bailey has the photographs?” Tyrell persisted.  James could not resist a chuckle – good on Chris, he thought.

“That’s right”, Stevens confirmed.

“Do you know how they came to be in Bailey’s possession, given that they were somewhat sensitive”, asked Tyrell.

“No, we don’t know how he came by them; DSS assumed that Timothy Bailey had given them to his father.”

“That’s very unlikely,” Said James, “given the state of the relationship between Tim and his father – perhaps you should ask him how he came by them!” he added.

“I might, but that’s neither here nor there,” Stevens responded, “What do you mean about the relationship between father and son.”

“Well for at least two years to my knowledge, Tim had spoken to his father only a couple of times and the boy has been very troubled about that.  Latterly he seems to have come to accept that that’s the way it’s to be.  He doesn’t mention him much anymore.  I remember only a few weeks after I first met him, Tim told me that he called his father frequently, but he was always busy, meetings and things.  Tim would leave messages for him to return the calls, but he never did.  I sense that Tim has now given up on his father.”

“Although it’s nothing to do with the allegations, Bailey also said that you have deliberately alienated the boy and turned him against him”, Stevens added.

“Well, if that’s so, it’s happened by default – more as a result of his neglect rather than anything that I have done.” James opined.

There was a pause, “OK,” said Stevens, “Can we talk briefly about your actual relationship with the boy.”

James looked at Tyrell who nodded imperceptibly, “If you are willing to talk about it, I don’t see any reason why not – its background really and I think it might help the officers understand that you have nothing to hide.  In other words, it’ll help put things into perspective.  Can this be off the record inspector?”

“Provided that what Dr Brooke tells us does not have a direct bearing on the allegations – I don’t see why not – we can always come back to it if necessary”.  Stevens signalled to the sergeant, who closed his notebook.

“Inspector, what exactly would you like to know”, asked James.

“Well, I think you’ll agree that taking someone else’s child under your wing to the extent that you appear to have done, is bit out of the ordinary to say the least, and I wonder how you would account for such generosity.”

“Mmm, I see what you mean, viewed in that light, it may seem a little out of the ordinary, but then you don’t know the boy…” James countered, whilst trying to get his thoughts together.  “I guess what you suggesting is why I would do that and, probably viewed from your position, what might I be expecting in return?”

“Precisely, these days an outsider could be forgiven for wondering… I mean, it seems that you are paying his school fees, financing expensive trips abroad, facilitating a costly hobby, mounting him on a top of the range mountain bike and, now it seems the boy is learning to fly!  Why would you do all that – why not just make a substantial donation to a boy’s charity, a sports club, or such like?”

Charles Bailey has done his homework, thought James, the bastard.  On reflection, he realised that it might all look a bit sus, but he had never stopped to think about in that way, to look at it in money terms, or to reflect on how it might appear to others.  Besides everything had happened over a period of several years, but cumulatively he could see the problem.

“In a nutshell inspector, I guess I could say that helping Tim and his family gives me pleasure.”

“Pleasure, what do you mean?’ Stevens countered.

“Perhaps satisfaction would be a better word, less emotive, I guess.  I must say that this is interesting, although I have thought about it, I had to because of the cost, I have never really analysed my motives or thought deeply about what I get back from helping Tim.  I certainly get a lot of pleasure – whoops, there’s that word again – from having him around.  I never thought though that I would need to defend myself on the issue.”

“I thought cost wasn’t an issue?” Stevens countered quickly.

“No, it’s not, not in the way you see it, but I have to think of how our friends at the revenue might perceive it…”

“James, I don’t think…” interjected Tyrell.

“What does Mrs Brooke think about all this?” Stevens asked, tactfully changing the subject

“Well, you’ll have to ask her, but actually it was all her idea, in fact, she asked me to take Tim under my wing!” James recalled.

“Can I put it another way, why Tim Bailey, would you have done the same for any boy in need your wife might introduce?” Stevens asked.

“Good question,” James allowed, “Well I’d like to think that I would, but can I ask you a question?”

“Sure” said Stevens grinning.

“Have you met Tim?”

“No, not yet, but you’ll understand that I’ll have to talk to him – sooner, rather than later,” said Stevens.

“Well, when you’ve met him, you’ll probably understand more clearly where I’m coming from,” James explained.

“Do I have to wait till then, or do you want to tell me what you mean?”

“Well, it’s not easy, especially in the context of your enquiry, but this is off the record, and I guess that if I’m to be honest, there is really no other way of explaining my involvement or commitment to Tim.”

The three men waited, each speculating to themselves on what they were about to hear.  Tyrell wondered if he should stop the whole thing there and then, but he mused that to do so would probably be seen as putting James on the defensive – he had no idea what to expect, so he resolved to be alert.

“Can I first say that in the three years or so that I have known Tim, our relationship has been entirely honourable and above the waist – if you get my meaning – please be perfectly clear about that.  Charles Bailey is flying a kite in suggesting anything else – and he is apparently choosing to play dirty.  “When you meet Tim, you’ll be struck by his personality, he’s bright, intelligent, more than friendly and totally trusting – and about as naïve as you’d expect for a lad of his age – but above all, he’s handsome.”

You could have heard a pin drop at that – the other men were clearly disconcerted by that simple statement, but each was struck by the depth and sincerity in the way it had been delivered.  If James had intended to shock, he had succeeded.  Lawrence Tyrell wondered again if this was wise, but Stevens was smiling, and the sergeant was deeply interested in the cover of his notebook.

Reluctant to intervene, Stevens asked if James would like to qualify that perception.

James thought for a moment.  “The first time my younger son, Rupert, met Tim, he described him as an angel – in fact he said that all the boy needed was a halo and a pair of wings – that he was like something from a Renaissance painting.  Those are my feeling too.  So, in answer to your earlier question about whether I would have done the same for any boy – I think I probably would have – but this boy is special, he is irresistible – you’ll see what I mean.”

There we have it, thought Stevens.  Do you mind if I ask you a rather personal question; “Dr Brooke, are you gay?”

James pondered for a moment, and responded carefully: “It’s a fair question, and something that I’ve asked myself.  The short answer is that I don’t know, on one level maybe, on another I’m not sure.  It’s all rather subjective; there are some who argue that we have a bit of everything in us – it just takes something, a little thing, to trigger our emotions one way or the other.  But what I would say is that I feel that I am responding to Tim in the same way that I might to anything of beauty; a painting, a colt, a sculpture, an old sailing boat, you name it.  Is that fair? I think it’s more about beauty than sex, and if you add all the other attributes that the boy brings to the equation, then like I say, he’s irresistible.”

No one moved or spoke, and James drew breath.

Stevens looked at his watch and stood: “Dr Brooke I’ve taken enough of your time.  I’ll have to ask you for a formal statement for the file – perhaps we could arrange a time sometime early next week if that would be convenient to you.”

Tyrell switched off the mini recorder and turned to Stevens: “Inspector, can you tell me what you propose in this matter?”

“I can’t say until I have talked with the boy and his mother, but from what I’ve heard here today I’m satisfied that nothing in the nature of Mr Bailey’s allegation took place.  However, like our conversation, that’s off the record too.  I’ll be in touch Dr Brooke”

James showed the officers to the door and turned to Tyrell: “Well that was a turn up, what do you think Lawrence?”

“It’s hard to say, but I think you acquitted yourself very well James and I’m certain the Inspector was satisfied with your explanation.  It’s just a pity that you have somehow got on the wrong side of the boy’s father.  He seems determined to make trouble and from my point of view it might be better if you dropped the boy and his family with the least possible delay.”

James looked thoughtful: “Perhaps you were not listening Lawrence.” He said with a smile.  “I can’t drop the boy, for his sake and my own – I love him as if he were my own son”.  He sat down at his desk and thought, well there it is, I’ve said it and acknowledged it in public, well at least to Lawrence, there’s no going back now.

Lawrence stopped at the door and turned: “James, I would not be too hasty in the present climate in making statements like that.  Think about Mary and the family.  Let me know if I can do anything and…oh, it might be a good idea to see Tom and let him know what has happened – you might need a solicitor with more competence in criminal law than I.  I’ll see you on Monday.

“Thanks Lawrence, yes, I’ll call Tom this evening and arrange to see him over the weekend.” James paused at that, criminal law, is that how they saw him, a criminal, surely not.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

After discussing the events of the day, James and Mary ate a late dinner.  Mary was looking for the kind of assurance that James could not provide, because he had no way of knowing how things would fall out.  Mary insisted that she was responsible for the problem by having introduced the Bailey family in the first place.  James was equally adamant that he would now have things no other way but refrained from repeating his last words to Lawrence.  Mary accepted his word that all dealings with Tim had been above board – in fact she said that she had never doubted that.  In reality, he reflected, it was absolutely true, he had nothing to hide.  There was now no doubt in his mind that he loved and admired Tim, both for his beauty and his brains, he thought with a smile – but is that a crime?

They had both decided to have a nightcap when, around 9.30pm the phone rang.  James picked up the cordless and switched on.

“Hello”

“Is that Dr Brooke?”

“Speaking” he said, trying to place the voice.”

“Dr Brooke, this is John Brown, and I wondered if you could spare me half an hour sometime tomorrow.”

Still unable to pin down the voice, James said: “Just a moment, I’ll need to go to my study to have a look at my diary…do you mind holding for a moment.”

Mary raised her eyebrows questioningly, but James elected not to notice, he just had a feeling about this call.

“Right,” he said as her closed the door to the den, “Can you tell me who you are what this is about?”

“John Brown, Dr Brooke, we spoke this afternoon in your office”.  James still could not make the connection,

“In my office, when?”

“I’m detective sergeant Brown; I was with DCI Stevens.”

“Ah,” said James, “Got you.  What can I do for you, is this in connection with the events of today?”

“Yes and no,” replied Brown, “But I would like to talk with you in a private capacity – I think that I may be able to help you.”

“You think that I need help?”

“Frankly I think that you might.  Charles Bailey has some powerful connections, and they are pushing hard on his behalf”

“I wonder,” said James “Is this strictly ethical, I mean is it in order for you to talk with me privately about the case, why would you do that?”

“Let’s just say for now that I have my reasons, and I feel that I could be useful to you.  Will you see me – at least do that and then you can make up your mind.”

James pondered, the sergeant knew the story, so what had he to lose and if he felt that it was OK, why not.  “Right, when and where would you like to meet? You could come here if that’s convenient.”

“It might be convenient, but probably not wise.  Somewhere more neutral and ideally somewhere relatively private would be better” Brown said.

James thought quickly: “Right, I’ll be in the members’ lounge at the Aero Club at 11am tomorrow.  Do you know where that is?

“Yes, that’s a good choice and I’ll find you OK.  Thank you very much.”

Who should be thanking who, wondered James as he hung up.

“Who was that” Mary questioned when he returned to lounge and picked up his drink.

“Curious”, James opined, “It was the police sergeant who was with the inspector this afternoon – wants to talk to me privately – but wouldn’t say what it’s about, except that he has his reasons.” James was about to add that he mentioned Charles Bailey, but thought better of it, no point in worrying Mary about that.  “Well, I feel a bit tuckered after the events of the day and I’m ready to turn in…join me?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The following morning James could not concentrate on anything and in the end wandered over to the workshop, but he found that he was unsettled by the many signs of Tim.  He recalled that in the normal course of events Tim would have been busy at the bench by now, but perhaps Chris had thought it better that he does not appear today.  James thought about that, he wanted to see the boy and maybe talk with him…ought he to ring him? He wondered what the police would make of that – yet to cut him off would be tantamount to an admission of guilt – he’d need to talk to Tom about that.

Perhaps there was time before he left for the club to ring Tom and brief him – Tom picked up the phone on the second ring, but it seemed Lawrence had already been on to him.  They arranged an appointment for Monday morning and rang off.  James did not mention his rendezvous with John Brown.

Thirty minutes later he eased the BMW out of the drive and turned towards the Huntingdon Road, calculating that this early on a Saturday he should make the club easily in half an hour.

The first-floor lounge was empty when he topped the stairs, and the bar looked as if it had been hit by a hurricane – the morning after the night before! There was a lingering unpleasant smell of beer and tobacco smoke.  Almost dead on 11am, a smart, bright red, sporty looking two-seater coupe drove cautiously up the ramp and parked by the fence.  The driver sat for a moment as if completing shut down checks and then stretched himself from the low-slung machine.  He paused briefly to take in the parking area and scanned the front of the clubhouse.  James recognised him and realised that he had not really paid too much attention to him the day before.  Dressed in jeans, a sporty shirt and a light fawn bomber jacket, he realised that Brown was quite a good-looking athletic type–he certainly looked more at home without his suit and tie.  Brown paused, turned, unlocked the car and bending, reached across the seats and extracted a large brown envelope.  He then walked across to the main door and disappeared beneath the front of the building.

James waited on the landing as Brown appeared and caught sight of him.  “Morning” he called, “Come on up”.

Brown took the steps two at a time and paused with his hand out on the landing.  James took the proffered hand and noted the firm grip and was struck by the open, sincere face.  Why didn’t I notice this chap yesterday, he wondered, there’s something about him that’s quite appealing.

“Come, take a seat,” James said, leading the way across to the table by the window.

Brown took in the lounge.  “We’re alone?” he queried.

“Yes, things will liven up here by midday and several of the aircraft are already out on cross country flights – been out here before?” he asked.

“No, passed the club many times, but I guess the members are all too well behaved to require our attentions”.  He paused and looked at James, “Sorry,’ he said, “That was a bit insensitive”.

“Not a bit,” said James, “life goes on!”

“I expect you’re wondering why I’m here?” Brown essayed.

“Well, I must say that the thought had crossed my mind” James smiled.

“First I want to assure you that I am here entirely in a private capacity and wanting to talk with you has nothing at all to do with the investigation.  On the contrary, as I said, I may be able to help you.”

“I’m intrigued, but tell me, why should I trust you? I mean you could have been sent by Stevens to ferret out information that did not emerge from our meeting yesterday, to put not too fine a point on it, perhaps to trap me into some kind of admission”.

“In a way, you’re probably right about the ethics of meeting you whilst the investigation is on progress – so I’m compromised anyway!” he said with a grin.

Brown reached for the envelope that he had deposited on the table.  He pulled out a couple of photo pouches, the kind supplied with processed films.  He selected one, apparently by date and pulled a wad of prints, sorted through them and then arranged half a dozen on the tabletop.  “That’s my boy,” he said with a smile, “He’s been my friend since he was ten.”

James leaned over the prints and scanned a series of head and shoulder shots of a remarkably handsome boy, possible about fifteen or sixteen years.  “What do you mean your boy – your son?”

“No,” Brown said, “He’s to me what Tim seems to be to you, he’s my friend.  Would you like to see some more photographs”?  He sorted through the two packets and handed the wad of prints to James.

James took his time pulling prints from the top and transferring them to the bottom of the pile.  They were all of the same boy in various situations; in speedos on a beach somewhere, on a sailing boat, and a series on what appeared to be a mountain side, and all kitted out in serious hiking gear, and then in ski gear – some included Brown with his arms around the boy’s shoulders.  Medium height, slim, but beautifully built, with long dark hair and the kind of eyes that suggested depth and mystery.  A Mediterranean type or Arab James decided.  “He’s quite handsome,” James said shuffling the pictures into a neat pile and placing them on the table.  “Who is he,” he asked.

“Like I said, he’s my friend” Brown smiled enigmatically.  “Confession time” he added: “About six years ago, when I was a constable on the cars, I was called to a domestic in one of the less salubrious parts of the city and I found a woman who had been pretty badly knocked about and a boy and a girl hiding in a bedroom.  That boy was Spyro, the one in the photographs, “He’s Greek Cypriot, now a UK resident”.  The father left the family in a pretty bad way, the mother had several broken bones and needed hospital care, and the children were taken to a DSS home.  He, the father, has not been seen since and it’s thought he left the country.  Probably just as well.”

“How long have you been in the Force?” said James doing some calculations.

“About six and a half years”

“And already a detective sergeant”

“I entered under a graduate entry scheme designed to bring accelerated promotion.  I have a master’s in history and social science.” He added.  James was impressed.

“So, what about the boy, Spyro?”

“Well, he was ten then and through the following week I could not get him out of my mind.  He looked so scared and vulnerable on the day of the fracas.  I knew that I had to see him again in more relaxed circumstances and after about ten days I tracked him through DSS on the pretext that I needed to confirm some points for a statement.”

“Morning Dr Brooke”, a cheery voice came from the bar.

“Ah good morning, Jim, any chance of some coffee?”

“Just give me a couple of ticks and I’ll get right on to it,” said Jim sweeping debris into a bin and swabbing the bar top.

“I’d suggest that you put your pictures back in the envelope sergeant, nice chap, but overdeveloped curiosity–a mine of information!”.  James warned.

“John, Dr Brooke, please call me John”

“OK, then I’m James”.  They went through the silly ritual of shaking hands again – a tacit understanding perhaps.

“I saw Spyro in the safe house and took him a few little treats.  He seemed overwhelmed and leapt onto my lap, flung his arms around my neck and sobbed.  He said that no one had ever given him anything like that before.  I found that hard to believe, but as I learned more about the family and their troubles, it seems he was telling the truth.  I couldn’t believe that anyone would treat a child like that.  I spent an hour with him that day, until he calmed down and could talk without sobbing.  When I eventually tore myself away, I saw the social worker in charge and told her what had happened and she confirmed that he had been like that most of the previous ten days, at times inconsolable and that they had just left him to cry himself to sleep.

It seems the sister, Katerina, had not been so badly affected, but then she was only six at the time.  I was completely hooked and, tongue in cheek, asked if I might take Spyro out for the day on the following weekend.  The social worker said that she would check it out and let me know.  She rang a couple of days later and said that if it was OK with me Spyro would be ready at 10am on the following Saturday.”

John paused and James took the opportunity to interject: “John, why are you telling me all this?”

“Several reasons really.  First, I need to convince you that I mean you no harm and secondly, I want you to understand where I’m coming from; I love Spyro”.

“Isn’t it dangerous for you to make a statement like that to me?” James queried.

“Tell me something, your relationship with Tim – how would you describe it?”

“I see what you mean, I can’t deny it, I love the boy, more than anything else I can imagine”.

John smiled, “Quite” he said and left the affirmative hanging.

James continued: “Mmm, I think I can see what you’re getting at, but it’s not the kind of love that Stevens was hoping to find yesterday.

“Quite,” said John, grinning, “But to set the record straight, I must say that Fred Stevens was hoping that there would be no evidence…as a matter of fact he admires what you have done for the boy.”

“My company solicitor recommended that I should brief a criminal lawyer – but I’m not a criminal, what have I done, just gave a boy a chance in life that he would not otherwise have had.  Without my strong feelings toward him, I probably would not have felt impelled to get so close to him and help him – Christ that sound patronising, but without thinking about it, I don’t know how else to put it.  But what I have done is not an issue, I can afford it and helping Tim has given me a new lease of life”

“Look, I know exactly how you feel and what you have done, boys weave an irresistible spell.  However, I think your solicitor was wise to suggest a brief, because there are many people out there who are not fortunate enough to see things our way, and Charles Bailey is one of them, he wants blood.”

“Why, he’ll only harm his son if he pursues this.”

“From what I hear, there is only one person in Charles Bailey’s life; and that’s Charles Bailey.”

“I had thought of trying to see him and get to the bottom of his apparent antipathy toward me.”

“Well, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, at least not now… you’d be more likely to antagonise him rather than to achieve any sort of understanding.  Look, you know now where I’m coming from… right?  Well Fred Stevens is satisfied, no convinced, that you are on the level, that there is no case to answer and has so reported.  That view has gone back up the chain to the Chief Constable and beyond.  Unfortunately, Bailey will not let it rest, and he has talked to the Home Secretary – member of the same club – and his view seems to be that any association between a man and a boy must be corrupting to the boy.  I’m afraid that’s a pretty widely held view in some circles…it’s neither rational nor reasonable, but that’s the way it goes.”

John Brown paused as the barman arrived with the coffee and set it down on the table; “There y’ go gentlemen…nice day for it.”

“So, what you’re telling me” James continued, “is that although you and the inspector are satisfied that there is nothing in Bailey’s allegations, your joint opinion as professionals counts for nothing against unbridled prejudice?”

“That’s about the measure of it.”

“As a matter of fact, although I seem to have been under intense scrutiny, I don’t actually know what I am accused of.”

“Yeah…I know, we don’t normally get down to essentials until the investigation reveals some evidence of criminal wrongdoing – and in your case there is none.”

“But suppose there was, what then?”

“Well, we would assess the evidence, relate the evidence to the law and make a recommendation to the DPP – the Director of Public Prosecutions.  It would then be up to his office to decide whether there appears to be a case to answer and whether or not to proceed.”

“Yes, but proceed with what?”

“OK, there is no law against helping a boy in any way at all… the only issue is whether there has been any actual physical sexual contact with a minor and of more import, whether any such contact can be proved.”

“In that case, there’s nothing to worry about, because it has just never happened.”

“You must remember that the boy has not yet been interviewed Fred, and I are seeing him on Tuesday.”

“Well, what will he do, but confirm what I have already told you.”

“There’ll certainly be impartiality from Fred and me, but it is just possible that the interview may be taken out of our hands.  It all gets pretty complex if they decide that an in-depth assessment is needed…psychiatrists, social workers and so on.  You’ve heard about the Orkney and Peterborough cases? There’s a definite witch hunt atmosphere abroad… recovered memory syndrome and so on.”

“But I’ve only known Tim for three years, since he was thirteen, so recovered memory can’t be an issue, can it?”

“No, the issue driving Bailey, is those photographs you took in Kenya.”

“Well, what do they prove? I must confess that I had reservations about them at the time…you see, a conscience even then… but Tim regarded it all as a bit of fun and I felt that nothing could be more innocent.”

John Brown drained the last of his coffee: “Right, I agree, but the minds of people like Charles Bailey work in mysterious ways and, in the words of the old cliché, forewarned is forearmed.  Look, the main reason I asked to talk with you is firstly to let you know that unofficially I’ll keep you posted on developments, and secondly to tell you that you are not alone.”

“What do you mean, I’m not alone.” James queried.

“Well, there are hundreds, if not thousands of men in the same position as you, here in the UK and around the world.  There are well-developed information and support networks…”

“I don’t quite follow,” said James – although he sensed that he followed only too well and was not sure that he really wanted to be part of any such network.  Were they really talking about him… all the old stigma and prejudices leapt to the front of his mind and a feeling of distaste.  “Can you explain?”

“Well, love between men and boys is not at all unusual and there is evidence that it has always been so, part of the natural order of things – and when you think about it, it makes sense.  Until quite recently little was heard about it, but two things have happened that have brought it into the public arena, one good and one not so good.  On one hand there is growing public hysteria about harm and abuse, driven largely by politically correct academics and right-wing religious fundamentalists in the US, but increasingly in this country, and on the other hand the internet has brought men, and boys, together to support each other and fight prejudice.  Thirty years ago, gays were in very much the same position, vulnerable, unaccepted and persecuted as perverts – but, although some stigma remains, gays are largely accepted.  The man boy movement now seeks to effect the same kind of change and acceptance that gays now enjoy.”

James tried to keep the shock out of his face: “I had no idea”, he said.

“Well, that’s only part of the story, but I can give you some internet sites that you might like to look at”, added John Brown, “then you’ll be able to see the larger picture and at the same time get a feel for your own position”.

“Tell me” James pondered, “Are we talking about the sort of friendship that Tim and I have enjoyed, or are we talking about something else?”

“You mean sex?”

“Well, yes, I suppose I do.  I mean I’ve heard of men molesting boys and being pretty severely dealt with by the courts, and I must say I don’t have a lot of sympathy for those men”, said James.

“Maybe so, but unfortunately the bigots and do-gooders don’t differentiate between the kind of friendship that you and I enjoy, and the other kind of friendship,” John countered.  “Some people are convinced that no matter what his motives, if a man so much as looks at a boy in anything other than a macho sporting or military way, then it’s corrupting to the boy.  That’s why I suggest that you need to know about this – I mean you can’t go back now and say that whatever its character, that no relationship exists between you and Tim – if you see what I mean.”

“I’m beginning to see what you mean, but it’s crazy, taken to its logical conclusion, boys would have no contact with men because the men would be too scared to even entertain the idea.”

“Exactly.  But that’s the way things are going, and I’ve even run across cases where fathers are now reluctant to touch their sons for fear of being accused of abuse.  The consequences of that and want of affection are well documented and the statistics on delinquency and crime lend credence.  Too many boys are now growing up without a male figure in their lives, no role model, and no love.”

“Tell me,” James paused, almost reluctant to say the word, “Where do you stand on the sex thing?”

“It’s a problem for some men.  With Spyro it’s never been an issue, we’ve talked about it because he’s as curious as any adolescent, but we’ve never gone beyond that.  I tried to be frank and honest – and I have explained to him that no matter what our feelings might be – there is a legal problem.  He accepts that.”

“But what about those who are not as honourable as you?” asked James.

“I’m not sure that I see it quite that way, a matter of honour.  You’ll find many views on the net, but in general, the idea is that in a good man boy relationship the adult must never take a sexual initiative.  The man acts as a friend, mentor and counsellor, and the interests of the boy must always come first.  That’s the honourable position – if you like.  But it sometimes happens that the boy takes the initiative with someone he trusts and wants to experiment sexually.  Opinions vary about how to deal with that and range from its fine, go with the flow, to it’s just not on.  Rationally, apart from the nature of the relationship, circumstances must play a part.

Some countries are more liberal in outlook and law than others.  Age of consent is also a consideration – in Holland and Spain it’s the lowest at age 12, but elsewhere it can be 18 or 20 years, even for gays.  In New Zealand the age of consent is 16, but if a sexual relationship occurs between an older male and a boy between 12 and 16 years old, provided that no complaint lodged within 12 months, then there’s no offence.”

“That’s interesting, but I’m glad that it has never become an issue for Tim and me.  It’s just been a matter of friendship and shared interests, and that’s how I’d like to keep it.  I’ve certainly never even thought about it.”

“James, I have to go, but if you’d like to, I’d like to continue this conversation sometime,” said John checking his watch.

“In light of what I’ve learned, perhaps I had better get up to speed on the issues, so yes, that would be helpful.  I might even need to see where my solicitor Tom Bradley stands.  He may not even be aware that there are any such issues.”

“He is aware, I know for sure, but it would do no harm to talk with him – in confidence,” said John, smiling.  “I’ll give you a call in a few days – at home.”

“Many thanks, I’ll look forward to it,” James said, standing and picking up his jacket.

“Are you flying today?” John queried as they watched a Tomahawk taxi up to the apron.

“No, apart from Tim’s lessons, I haven’t done much flying lately, and I’ll be giving it a miss today.” He replied as he put out his hand.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

On the following Monday morning John Brown sat at his desk with the unopened Brooke file on his desk.

“Penny for them,” said Fred Stevens as he breezed it the room.  “Good weekend,” he asked.

“Yeah, so,” replied Brown, not quite relishing the start of another week.

“How’s Brooke,” asked Stevens.

John Brown’s confusion showed.  “What do mean,” he asked, “have there been developments?”

“No, I just wondered if you learned anything new from your little tete a tete?”

“How do you…”

“Know,” said Fred, “Depend upon it, I knows evrysing,” in a not very good German accent.

John couldn’t hide his confusion.  “No, I didn’t learn anything of value, we just had a little chat, and I got a better feel for where he’s coming from.  The man may be an electronics wizard, but he’s naïve in other things.  For what it’s worth, I would say he’s totally innocent and, very vulnerable.”

“Yeah, that’s the way I see it, but I’m beginning to think that we’ll not be able to keep a lid on it.”

“Boss, how did you know,” asked Brown, who had by now gathered his wits.

“John, in a few days you’ll get a little ticket that’ll cost you two hundred big ones.  Didn’t you see the flash; you were doing 70 in a 30 zone.  The mobile followed you to the Aero Club, but when he recognised you, and saw Brooke, he assumed that you were on duty, chatting up an informer or something.  So, he decided that discretion was…”

“Ah,” said Brown with relief, more sinister explanations had been crowding his brain.

“It’s OK,” added Fred Stevens, “Quite a good idea really, but it might have been a good idea to have put me in the picture.  I suppose you wouldn’t like to put a sanitised version of the conversation on paper?”

The phone rang.  “Good morning, CID, DS Brown – right sir, he’s here, I’ll tell him.”

Stevens raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Nifty would like to see you – at your convenience of course” said John Brown with a grin.

“Oh God, why did you tell him that I was here, OK, I’d better trot along now I suppose.”

Stevens turned and paused at the door, “By the way John, how’s Spyro” he said with a wicked grin.

Stevens always dreaded interviews with Superintendent Neville “Nifty” Noble who was widely regarded in police circles as a pompous old bore coasting toward retirement and a fat pension after more than 40 years of undetected crime.  The rumour mill had it that Noble had been a clerk in the Pay Corps before joining the old Cambridgeshire Constabulary and he’d never really lived it down.  He liked to patter on about the mess and tell stories about the CO and the adj –”first class types y’ know”.

Stevens knocked and was invited to “Come”.  Noble continued to shuffle paper in a file before deigning to notice Stevens.  “Ah Fred, thank you for sparing me a moment,” he opened, pointing to a chair.  “I wonder if you could give me a brief update on the Brooke affair – lots of interest higher up you know, pillar of the community and all that – shocking business.”

“Well sir, I think I can say that we have the matter wrapped”, Fred ventured, “there really is nothing to go on and I am satisfied that the boy’s father is out of line.  In fact, I’d go as far as to say that Brooke has done far more for the boy than his father ever did.  He’s clean – Brooke I mean.”

Noble ponderously hefted a large cigar.  “You’re aware of course what’s at stake here?”

“I don’t follow sir,” said Stevens.

“Well, as I say, there’s a good deal of interest in this case and the general feeling, from the Home Office down, is that where there’s smoke…if you get what I mean.” Noble clipped the cigar and passed it under his large heavily veined nose –”Offer you one Fred, Cuban”.

“No thanks sir, I still don’t indulge, try to keep in shape you know.”

“Yes, quite, well, as I say, the CC is expecting some positive results here.  Are you sure that you’ve covered all the possibilities?  Nothing under the rug, you know what I mean, no nasty little secrets?”

“Brown and I are seeing the boy tomorrow morning, but it’s only really a formality, the boy’s bright, articulate and a hundred per cent loyal to Brooke.”

“Loyal you say?” Noble pursed his lips.  “Had him examined, have you, you know what I mean”.

Knowing full well what he meant, Fred acted dumb, “No sir, I not quite with you.  He’s been seen by a social worker, two social workers in fact, but they drew a blank.  According to the boy nothing at all has happened.  In fact, he became quite angry at any suggestion of anything untoward”.

“Well, there you have it, scared I’d say, threatened probably.  It’s quite common for the victims not to want to face up to what’s happened to them, you know, bury the unpleasant bits.  Denial it’s called.  Quite common I’m told.  You ought to have the surgeon see him, settle things once and for all, any damage you know where, hard to hide”.

God give me strength, thought Fred.  “I should have a better picture by noon tomorrow, after we have seen young Bailey.” He continued.

“Good, I’m sure you’ll come up with something positive,” Nifty smiled.

“Well, it’s all been fairly positive so far, I mean there’s just nothing in Bailey’s allegations and the interview with the boy should just tidy things up.”

“Word of advice,” Noble countered, “Don’t be too hasty to close this file – have a good ferret around.  Like I say, where there’s smoke there’s likely to be fire – you get what I mean?”

“Very good sir, I’ll keep you in the picture.  If there’s nothing else…” he said as he rose from the chair, keen to get away before Noble lit his cigar.

“Just one thing Fred, you don’t mind me calling you Fred, how long have you been with us, I mean in the Force?”

“Twenty-one years’ sir, give or take a few months.”

“Good, good, ambitious, are you?”

“No more than the next chap, I’d say, just keen to do a good job”

“That’s right then – just remember a successful career is based on good results, get what I mean?”

“Thank you, sir, I’ll remember that.” Stevens turned, headed for the door.

“By the way Fred, I think I might sit in the interview with the boy tomorrow” said Noble between puffs at his cigar.

Fred’s heart sank and he tried without success to think of a good reason why not, “You sure that’s necessary Sir, I mean, as I say, I don’t expect any developments.”

“Yes Fred, that’s what I’m afraid of…’nother pair of eyes and ears, fresh look, you know, I might pick up something you and Brown miss.  Won’t interfere – just observe.” Said Noble, replacing his cigar and waving his hand in dismissal.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Tuesday broke crisp and fine, under an arching, pale blue East Anglian sky and John Brown recalled seeing the first daffodils breaking through on Parker’s Piece.  As he slipped into his allocated parking spot his bright red Mazda sports coupe contrasted with the more sedate motors of his colleagues.  He sat for a moment contemplating the events of the past few days and the task ahead – it was intolerable, he thought, that the boy should be subjected to such a charade.  It was clear, and Stevens agreed, that there was nothing in Bailey’s allegations, yet unlike routine investigations on this one the big guns were determined to find something, anything, to satisfy the pressure from above.  He scooped up a drink container and some wrappers left by Spyro on Sunday – must talk to him about that he thought with a grin.  How long before they pick on John Brown, he wondered.

Settling at his desk, he flicked through the file yet again and honestly could not put his finger on anything that would suggest any hint of impropriety on the part of James Brooke.  The Kenya photographs were a bit of a problem, but it really was a case of “Honi soit qui mal y pense,” not evidence – impossible to draw any conclusions from that episode which was almost certainly a boyish prank that Brooke had gone along with in the spirit of the moment.  If he had shot pics of the African boys alone, no one would have raised an eyebrow.  A question yet to be answered was how the photographs came into the hands of DSS.

The door opened and Fred Stevens dumped his battered briefcase on his desk; “You want the good news of the bad news?”

“Let’s have it,” said John Brown, “It can’t get worse – can it?”

“Depends which way you look at it, the good news is that I told Nifty that there was nothing to go on, and the bad news is that he is certain that there is, and he wants to sit in on the interview with the kid”

“But he hasn’t even seen the file,” said Brown incredulously.

“Right”, said Fred, “But senior officers have second sight – don’t you know.”

“Christ, he must be under pressure for somewhere.  Will you let him sit in?”

“Bit hard to stop him really – the best we – I – can do is to make sure that he doesn’t get carried away.  That’s all.  Let’s just skim the file again, with Nifty in attendance we’ll have to go through the motions – dream up twenty questions.”

Ten minutes later the phone rang, Brown picked it up and listened briefly.

“The boy and his mother are at the front desk” he reported.

Stevens snapped the file shut; “OK, would you like to collect them and bring them up to the interview room.  I’ll be waiting.  I guess I’ll have to alert the old man that we’ll be ready in five minutes.”

Stevens entered the interview room, and it struck chill with its institutionally painted block walls, high windows and sparse furniture – just a long table set end on to the outer wall and a twin track tape recorder.  He thought again that he should have stuck to the original plan of quietly talking with the boy at home.  As he waited, he set up the recorder.

The door opened and John Brown ushered in Mrs Bailey, the boy, and a neatly dressed young male whose dress and bearing screamed lawyer.  This was a development that Stevens had not foreseen.

Brown introduced them in turn, turning finally to the young man; “This is Malcolm Stiles who is representing the Bailey family”.

Although the answer was obvious, Fred Stevens felt that he should check; “you mean Charles Bailey?”

“If I may”, said Stiles, “I’ve been retained by Mrs Bailey to watch over the interests of her son Timothy.  I have no connection with his father, Charles Bailey.  I hope you don’t mind”.

Stevens paused; “No, Mr Stiles, I have no objection to your presence, though it’s a little unusual for a witness helping the police to be so represented – Timothy is under no threat here”.  Nifty is not going to like this, he thought, cramp his style.

“Yes, I understand,” said Stiles, “But Timothy believes that there is err…how should I put it…there is a conspiracy to compromise his friend James Brooke, and he consents to this interview only on condition that he has legal support”.

Right, thought Fred Stevens, not such a bad idea in the circumstances.

At that point the door opened and Noble blustered in filling the room with his presence and an overpowering reek of cigars.

“Brown, will you do the honours”, he said.

John Brown went through the introductions again and watched Noble’s eyebrows twitch as he introduced Stiles.

Noble turned to Stevens.  “Err…what’s going on here inspector; I hardly think that the boy, a potential witness, needs a lawyer.”

“With respect sir, it’s Timothy’s wish that Mr Stiles sit in on the interview, and I took the liberty of agreeing.”

Stiles coughed; “If I may Superintendent, my presence is a condition of Timothy agreeing to an interview.  I have advised him that he has that right.  If that is not acceptable to you then we should take no more of your time”, he said, half rising from his chair.

Noble thought about this for a moment: “Very well, but we should have had prior notice,” he said petulantly.

Stiles opened his mouth, but Noble waved and said, “Go ahead with the interview Chief Inspector.

Fred paused, “Mr Stiles may I take it that there would be no objection to recording this interview?”

Stiles smiled, “I think that would be most helpful inspector – provided of course that you provide my client with a certified copy.”

“No problem, right Timothy…”

“Tim” said the boy.

“I’m sorry…,” responded Stevens.

“Tim, my name is Tim”

“Right Tim, for the record could please tell us your full name and your age?”

“My name is Timothy Michael Bailey and I’m 16 years and 3 months and I’m a student at The Kings School, Cambridge.”

Right, as you know we are enquiring into certain allegations relating to your relationship with James Brooke.  We shouldn’t take long.  Can you tell us a little about that?”

“What, relationship sir,” said Tim, “you make it sound as if Jim and I are married or something”

“No, no, I mean how would you describe your relationship with Mr Brooke”.

“He is my friend; he’s the best friend I’ve ever had.

“Friend, you say, what do you mean by friend – I mean has he ever been anything more than a friend?”

Tim’s gaze did not waver “Are you talking about the stories my father has told about Jim and me, because that’s all a pack of lies.  He’s just jealous.”

“Jealous, what do you mean.”

“That Jim has taken his place in my life”

“You mean that James Brooke has taken the place of your father in your life”, countered Stevens.

“Yes, that’s right.  But he’s more than a father to me, he’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Do you love him?”

Tim was momentarily stalled by this question, but sensed that a simple, honest answer would be best.  “I haven’t really thought about it that way, but yes, he means a lot to me – I guess that I do love him – he’s so kind and thoughtful.”

Noble snorted, as much to say, “I told you so.”

Stevens ignored him, but felt that he had to press the point to prevent Noble’s intervention: “Why do you think he is so kind and thoughtful to you?”

Tim didn’t hesitate, “I’m not sure about that, I don’t know, why he would give me so much? I don’t know – I guess he’s just that kind of guy – unlike my father, who’s more interested in his bimbos.”

Chris Bailey spoke for the first time; “Tim, that’s not fair and you shouldn’t talk about your father like that.” Tim gave her a withering look but said nothing.

Stevens knew that he had to grasp the nettle.  “Tim, has Mr Brooke ever asked anything of you, you know, ever asked you to do anything for him?”

Tim held his gaze, “Like…what do you mean? I clean his car sometimes, but I enjoy doing that.”

Brown sensing that the questioning was going nowhere, partly because the questioning was hesitant and not to the point, but partly also that he suspected that Tim Bailey knew exactly what Stevens was getting at but was too astute to yield anything.

He interjected, “May I sir?”

Stevens half turned and could hardly conceal his relief, “Feel free sergeant”.

“Tim, you say that Mr Brooke is your friend, that you have strong feelings of affection for him, and I expect that he has a similar affection for you.  Have you or he ever expressed your feelings toward each other physically?” Brown felt that that was as far as he could go under the gaze of the Noble, the mother and the solicitor.

“Yes, when we are having a happy time, Jim sometimes gives me a hug.  Is that what you mean?”

Brown was certain that Tim knew exactly what he meant and that no matter what, that was probably as far as he would go.

Noble leapt off his chair and placed his knuckles on the table and leaned toward Tim.  “Now young man, you know exactly what the sergeant means, and you had better tell us about it”.  He glared at Tim.

Stiles came to life, “Superintendent, if there is something that you and your colleagues want to know I am sure that Timothy would respond to a direct question, but he can hardly respond to vague innuendo”.

Noble realised that the solicitor had a point; it was all very awkward.

“Do you play rugby boy?”

“No”

“Football”

“No”

“Well, what the devil do you do!?”

Tim frowned, “I thought we were talking about Jim Brooke and me, now you want to talk about sport”.

“Can I too ask what you are getting at Superintendent?” queried Stiles.

Noble was visibly embarrassed, and Stevens silently rejoiced.

“I think you know what I’m getting at,” Noble went on, “The sort of thing that goes on in the changing room or behind the bike shed.  Was there ever any of that?”

Tim saw his chance to nettle Noble, “You asking me?”

Noble sat down, seemed about to make a scathing reply, but thought better of it, “If you would be so kind.”

“Can I ask a question?” said Tim.

“Certainly, if it’ll help us clear up this matter.”

“Well, can you tell me what does go on in the changing room or behind the bike shed – then maybe I can answer your question.” Checkmate.

All eyes turned on Noble who was visibly shaken, discomforted, and for the first time in anyone’s memory at a loss for words.  There was an expectant pause as Noble fondled a cigar and gathered his wits.

“Can I help you there sir?” Brown asked, thinking that if we go on like this we’ll still be here tomorrow.  It was obvious that Noble had dug a hole for himself and could see no way out and that Stevens was simply enjoying Nobles discomfiture.

Noble, looking as if he’d sooner be anywhere but in the interview room, replied; “Very well sergeant if you feel that you can help.”

“Tim, I think that you have a pretty good idea what boys get up to in the showers, and elsewhere for that matter, and what is at the centre of this enquiry, so I will ask you in plain language: did you and Mr Brooke ever do anything together of a sexual nature?”

“Like?” said Tim, obviously now enjoying their discomfiture that he was laughing at them.

“OK,” said Brown, “You must realise that this is not an easy matter to deal with, but since you want it spelt out…” This would be a lot easier with just him, Stevens and the boy, he thought.  “Did physical contact between you and Mr Brooke ever go beyond a hug – did Mr Brooke ever touch you inside your clothing – or you touch him?”

“Mmm,” said Tim, “You mean did we ever touch each other intimately?”

There was a poorly stifled snigger from the young female constable standing by the door and Noble had a sudden, overriding interest in his immaculately polished, hand lasted shoes.  This whole thing is becoming a farce, thought Brown, the boy took control from the moment he entered the room and was now enjoying himself.  Pity the issue is so serious and the possible consequences so perilous for James Brooke.

“That’s another way of putting it – so, did you?”

“No, never,” said Tim.

At that moment there was the trill of a mobile and Noble patted his pockets before extracting the phone; “Noble,” he paused, “Right sir, give me five minutes.”

Whilst he was doing this, Stevens told the tape that the interview was suspended at 1005 hours.

Noble fussed with the mobile before returning it to his pocket; “Inspector, I think we’ve gone as far as we can with this, perhaps you could spare me a few minutes before lunch – in the meantime I have to see the Chief Constable.” At that he rose and headed for the door.  He turned; “Thank you Mrs Bailey, Mr Stiles, I’m sure the inspector can tidy up any loose ends, good morning.”

There was palpable relief in the room at his departure – a distinct feeling of hostility had left with him.

Stevens too felt that they had gone just about as far as they could, and that Tim’s last reply had probably settled the matter.  He felt relieved, if the boy denied anything but an affectionate hug, where was the case.

Stiles obviously felt the same; “Inspector, is there any point in prolonging this? Unless you see profit in pursuing another line of questioning, I think you have your answer – all on tape.” He smiled.

Brown raised his pencil; “If I could just go back briefly to Tim’s last reply – on the record…”

“Is it necessary?” queried Stevens.

“Perhaps not absolutely necessary, but as the super suggested, I’d like to tidy a loose end.”

Stevens sensed that Brown felt that he had a personal stake in this case and decided to indulge him.  “If you have no objections Mr Stiles…”

“Not at all.” Stiles had decided that any hazard had departed.

Brown switched on the tape recorder and chanted the formula.

“Tim, I just want to impress upon you the seriousness of this enquiry and the possible consequences for Mr Brooke if the Crown felt that there was sufficient evidence to lay charges.  You’ve had your bit of fun here this morning, baiting the Superintendent, but my job and that of Chief Inspector Stevens is to get at the truth.  I believe that your answers to the questions have been honest, but literal.  In other words, you have fully understood the implications of the questions put to you, but you have volunteered nothing – that is your right, but I would not want this morning’s events to come back to haunt you, or Mr Brooke.  Do you understand what I am getting at?”

Tim was still grinning at the idea of him baiting the Superintendent; “Yes, I think I understand.”

“OK,” said Brown, “Now, you will also understand that there are many other means of sexual contact between two people.”

“Yes, I suppose so” conceded Tim.

“Right, then if you did not touch each other in that way – you touching him, or he touching you, did you at any time perform any other sexual act – kissing for instance – on the mouth or elsewhere, caressing or fondling, or any other way that you can think of.  I want you to be quite clear about this, it’s very important that we eliminate all the possibilities.  What do you say?”

Tim was serious now.  “Jim kissed me,” he said quietly.

Stevens sat up, Mrs Bailey looked concerned, and John Brown thanked God that Noble had left.

“Can you tell me when and where – the circumstances in which this happened?”

“Yes, it happened the first time that I landed his Cessna without any help.  When we had parked the plane and returned to the clubhouse I had to go for a pee and when I came out into the member’s locker room Jim held out his hands, pulled me to him and when he hugged me, he kissed me on my cheek.  I’ll never forget that moment – we were both so happy.”

“That’s it?”

“Absolutely”

Stiles cleared his throat, “I think this takes us about as far as we can go in this matter inspector?”

“If it was my decision Mr Stiles, I would agree with you, but there are others of a contrary view.”

“Can you tell me what you mean?”

“Look, I can’t right now, but if there are significant developments, I shall certainly feel that you should be briefed.”

“I don’t understand” said Stiles, snapping shut his briefcase.

“Well, look” replied Stevens, “I have to think about the way things are trending in this enquiry, but I promise to let you know just as soon as there is a decision.”

“Very well, thank you.” The party stood, ready to leave.

“Sergeant Brown will show you to the door – John – meanwhile I must see the Superintendent.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Fred Stevens climbed the stairs with a sense of foreboding, casting around for a reason why the hierarchy should apparently have it in for James Brooke – the lack of evidence notwithstanding.  The whole thing between him and Tim Bailey was so patently innocent, in fact, in Fred’s view, Brooke had done no more than act as a surrogate father to Tim Bailey.  It all flew in the face of reason, and not to put too fine a point on it, it wreaked of conspiracy – yes, that’s the right word.  But why?

He knocked on the glass panel, “Come”.

“Ah, take a seat Fred, you sure I can’t tempt you to a Cuban?” he said as he passed a cigar under his nose.

“Don’t think so sir, don’t smoke at all.”

“Right, yes, I remember, pity, sure you’d enjoy it”, he said as he clipped the ends, taking care not to disturb the band.  “I remember when the regiment was out east, everyone in the mess took to Burma cheroots–now there’s a man’s smoke.  Hard to get now…”

Fred looked at his watch.

“Ah, can see you’re keen to get back to the fray, eh?”

“Quite sir, now about the Brooke enquiry.  The boy finally admitted to one moment of intimacy…”

“He did? I knew it…”

“Well sir, it doesn’t amount to much, just a hug and a peck on the cheek after young Bailey made his first solo landing in Brooke’s Cessna.”

“Cessna?”

“It’s a light aeroplane sir”.

“But why would he do that Fred.”

“You mean the landing or the hug sir?

“Well, both, I suppose.”

“Well Brooke has been teaching young Tim to fly and naturally when the instruction bears fruit, they’re both pretty happy.  The boy said that he had never been so happy in his life.  What followed was, in my estimation, a natural and innocent reaction to that happiness – it’s what any father would do.  Nothing more to it”.

“But he’s not his father,” said Noble, looking smug and taking a long drag on his Cuban.

“Well, that’s the point sir, he’s more of a father to Tim than Charles Bailey ever was and, as I say, he was just behaving like a loving father.”

“Well, I don’t buy it,” opined Nifty, adjusting his regimental tie.

Fred tried to recall when he’d seen Noble wearing anything other than that damned tie – whatever it signified – the Brigade of Guards probably.

“I’ve had a lot of experience in cases of this kind, and I’d bet my bottom dollar that there’s more to this case than meets the eye.  These people are skilled in dissembling and why else would Brooke have paid so much attention to the boy?

Fred Stevens hesitated but felt that he had to speak out.  “With respect sir, with the exception of your presence this morning, I have conducted all the interviews relating to this enquiry and I must say I have been struck by the candid response of all those I’ve talked to, especially the boy.  Frankly I can’t see where we can go from here – there is no case and I can see little point in trying to contrive something that simply does not exist.”

Noble paused and contemplated the glowing tip of his cigar.  “Ah yes Fred, you’re right, on the face of it I would have to agree, but the Chief has let me have information that throws a different light on things.

There was a long pause, but Noble would not meet Fred’s eye.

Noble coughed, cleared his throat and tugged on the knot of is tie.  “In the circumstances, the Chief feels that it might be as well to bring in a fresh set of eyes and wants us to hand over the case to the RCS, the child abuse team to be precise.  You know Chief Inspector Morrison of course, fine officer, years of experience in this kind of case, some very impressive convictions.  Perhaps you could brief him and hand over the file – as soon as possible, if you please.

Christ Fred thought, the bloody Moke, if you want to lock someone up, come what may, leave it to the Moke, “If you say so sir.  Perhaps after the CI has been briefed and seen the file, he’ll not want to spend any time on it.  If that’s all sir…”

“Yes, fine, thank you Fred.”

Fred felt that he had to get out before he said something he’d regret.  He had his hand on the doorknob when Nifty spoke again; “Fred, are you a Mason?”

Taken aback, Fred paused.  “No sir, never been one for gentlemen’s clubs, don’t really have the time.”

“Mmm” said Nifty, “remind me to talk to you about it sometime.”

Fred couldn’t get out of the room quick enough, and the thought crossed his mind, that maybe it, the Masons, the key to this potential shambles.  Must ask John Brown to try to find out if Bailey is a Mason.  Figures, he thought.

Fred Stevens returned to his office and found John Brown still mulling through the file.  “You may as well put that away; we have been relieved.  You’ll be pleased to hear that the investigation is to be handed to the Regional Crime Squad and their superior skills.  In particular, to the tender mercies of Chief Inspector Arthur Morrison, the Moke”

“My God, they are really serious about nailing James Brook.  If I was paranoid, I’d say that here we have the makings of a conspiracy.”

Fred sat at his desk and rested his head in his hands.   “Funny you should say that, because as I was leaving Nobles office, he asked me if I was a Mason.  The conspiracy idea occurred to me too.  But in light of what we have learned so far, I don’t know how they could make anything stick – unless they are prepared to fit up Brooke.”

John Brown studied his fingernails.  “You know that I worked with Morrison briefly, and frankly I did not like his methods.  Nothing you could put your finger on, but he was prepared to gild the lily if he thought that he could build a case.  I often wondered how many innocent people were sitting inside in consequence of his zeal.”

“Well, like it or not, them’s the instructions.  We are to set up a meeting with the Moke, brief him and hand over the file.  Can you contact his shadow, Collins, and fix a date?”

“Boss I’m really uneasy about this one.  I mean we’re dealing with decent people here.  There’s the potential to wreck several lives if things get out of hand.  I shouldn’t ask, but have you any objection if I continue to work on the file, unofficially?”

Fred Stevens locked eyes with his detective sergeant; “No, you certainly shouldn’t ask, and I don’t want to know about it.  Okay?”

“Yeah, right, thanks,” responded Brown.

“Set up that meeting then.  I’m out for a couple of hours, should anyone want to know.”

“Right”

Stevens paused at the door and grinned; “John, good luck.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Chris Bailey and Tim arrived home.  Tim dropped his school bag by the hat stand in the hall and started up the stairs.

“Tim, I have to go to see Sarah’s form teacher this afternoon so I can drop you off at school on the way.”

Tim paused on the stairs.  “Mum I’m not going to school this afternoon.  I need a quiet time, a time to think.” He started back down the stairs and when he reached the hall, he embraced Chris.  “Oh God mum, what is this all about – are they all mad?”

He put his head on her shoulder, something he didn’t do often these days, and she savoured the moment.  He stood back; “Why?”

“Timmy dear, I suspect it’s my fault.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Well, when dad and I split up, perhaps I could have been a little less bitter and behaved in a more understanding way.”

“Oh, c’mon mum, he did it, not you.”

“I know, but he probably doesn’t see it that way, he’s a very proud man and I didn’t fight him at all, I didn’t fight or plead…”

“Well, he deserved what he got, but I still don’t see why he should want to take it out on James Brooke.  What did Jim ever do to him – he doesn’t even know him.”

“I agree, but if he feels a need to lash out, James is an easy target – a way of hurting me perhaps.”

“Uh? How can he hurt you by decking James?”

“Tim it’s very complicated.  Believe me, that’s what this is all about.”

“Mum, I think I’ll go to London to see him and have it out.”

“Mmm, I talked with Malcolm Stiles abut that possibility and he advises against it, and I think he’s right.  In your father’s present mood, I don’t think it would help.

“Why, I could tell him the truth.  He’s just dreaming to think James would sink to the things he’s been suggesting to the police.  Anyway, even if James and I did have something going, it’s got to be none of his business…”

“He’s your father Tim and unfortunately there’s nothing to prevent him making it his business, at least till you’re 18.  There’s something else you should know; not only has he made it his business, but he seems to have involved a lot of his influential friends in London who are putting pressure on the local police, as they put it, to get a result.”

“But mum, that’s crazy, insane.  Jim Brooke has been all the things to me that I might reasonably have expected from my own father – and much more.  As far as I am concerned, there is no one like James Brooke, he’s an ace!”

Chris moved forward and hugged Tim; “I know dear and all we can do is rely on the truth, then everything else will be fine.  I’ll get some lunch now and then I’ll have to go.”

Tim slowly climbed the stairs, went to his room and flopped face down onto his bed.  The lump in his throat became overpowering and he sobbed quietly.  He had this feeling, a foreboding, that truth would be the loser in this case, but why!?” He had recovered a little by the time his mother yelled “lunch”, by then an idea was forming in his mind.

During lunch Tim and his mother made trivial conversation and the enquiry was not mentioned again.  He offered to wash up and tidy the kitchen.  Chris Bailey gathered her things and headed for the door – she returned, paused with a smile and pecked Tim on the cheek; “Don’t worry dear, I’m sure that it will all work out.” Tim heard the front door close and then the car started.  He went to the front window and watched as his mother pulled onto the street and drove away.

He hastily scribbled a note, found an envelope and set it in front of the tea pot, knowing that the pot would be used as soon as his mother got home.  He decided to use his school bag, collected some spare clothes, raided his small store of cash, and locked the door behind him.

Chris returned with the girls soon after four and was surprised to find the house empty and quiet.  She checked Tim’s room but noticed nothing amiss; maybe he had decided to go to school after all.  Sarah called from the kitchen; “Mum, have you seen this – there’s a note for you addressed in Tim’s writing.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

At that time Tim was sitting in a coach passing through Royston and heading for Victoria Station.  He rehearsed his piece for the umpteenth time and again wondered if he was doing the right thing.  But the more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that there could be no possible harm in seeing his father – after all, as his mother had said, he is my father and surely, I can talk to him.  Still, he had nagging doubts.  Why would the solicitor Malcolm Stiles advise against seeing dad?

The bus was caught in the afternoon traffic in North London, and it was almost 7.00pm before he rang the bell on Charles Bailey’s elegant front door.  After a delay, the door was opened by the new Mrs Bailey.  “Hello, remember me?” he asked.

“Your father is not at home,” she said in a plummy voice, but she couldn’t hide her origins, the underlying East Anglian accent was too strong.

“Well, I don’t mind waiting,” he ventured.  He appraised his stepmother and concluded that she really was not all that much older than himself.  “Do you think I could come in.”

“Well, I don’t know, I’m sure, Mr Bailey is not at home just now and I’m not expecting him till late.  He’s dining at his club this evening.”

“That’s OK,” replied Tim, “I’ll wait.  It’s Jacqueline, isn’t it?”

“I think you had better call me Mrs Bailey.  That might be more appropriate.”

Tim couldn’t resist it; “Maybe I could call you ‘Mummy’.”

Jacqueline blanched; “I don’t really think that would be at all appropriate at all.”

Tim was beginning to enjoy himself.  “Well, what say I come in and we can discuss the possibilities, – maybe, “wicked stepmother!””

Jacqueline started to close the door; “I really think it might be better if you called back tomorrow when Mr Bailey is here.  Perhaps you could call and make an appointment.”

Tim put his foot in the door.  He smiled to himself, he’d never had to do that before, but plainly it worked.  “Uh, just one thing mummy, Mr Bailey is my father, and I really don’t think that I should have to make an appointment to see him.  Also, I’m legally underage and don’t have anywhere to stay in London.  He probably wouldn’t be too pleased if I had to spend the night on a park bench or in a squat.  You see what I mean?”

Tim could almost sense the wheels turning as she thought her way through that.  The girls were right; she is just a bimbo.  Whatever was dad thinking about?

“Well, I would invite you in, but I’m here alone.”

Tim couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  “You’re joking! Look Jacqui, let’s cut the crap.  I intend to wait for my father and if that bothers you, well you could always go out.”

“There really is no need to be offensive; one can’t be too careful these days, especially with young men.” She looked at Tim archly; “But then I hear that you prefer men.”

It was as much as Tim could do to refrain from violence at that gem.  He pushed the door open, walked past her and started opening doors till he found a nicely furnished room with a massive TV and a collection of videos.  Jacqueline stood uncertainly in the door and watched as he perused the titles–Tim couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“This is a private family room,” she warned.

“It’s OK Jacquie, I get the picture,” he replied, hardly able to believe his luck.  He’d heard about this sort of thing but had never seen any before, it should be an interesting evening.  “Sure, you won’t join me for some entertainment,” he taunted.  “I expect you’ll be offering me some refreshment, chicken sandwiches perhaps – or should I just make myself at home?”

Jacqueline turned and he heard here hurrying up the stairs and then a door closed.  Tim found the TV remote and soon discovered that as well as the regular channels they had at home, his father was hooked to cable.  He started to surf and was suitably impressed by the range and variety of programmes available.  He’d never seen anything like this.  He settled back in a deep, soft chair and finally settled on a channel offering non-stop pop and lost track of time.

He found himself nodding occasionally and was not sure of how much time had passed when he became aware that his father had entered the room.  Tim flicked off the TV and stood; “Hi dad.” He eyed his father and was appalled at the change in him since he had last seen him, admittedly at least two years ago.  Always thickset, Charles Bailey had developed a pronounced gut, his face was florid and unhealthy looking, and he seemed to be out of breath.

“Timothy, this is an unexpected pleasure, is your mother in town?”

“No dad, just me – she couldn’t afford to come.  I had to see you.”

“Mmmm, well it’s rather inconvenient just now, it would have been better if you had let me know that you were coming.  My wife called the club to let me know that you were here.  I must say that I am not overjoyed at your attitude toward her.  I understand that you were most offensive.”

“Oh, come on dad, she tried to make me wait outside on the step, said I was a threat to her…”

“That’s not quite the way I hear it, but no matter, what is it that you want?”

“You’re not just pleased to see me?”

“Yes, yes, of course I’m pleased to see you Timothy, but I’m a busy man.”

“Nothing has changed has it dad?”

“What do you mean?”

“That you were always a busy man – too busy to spare any time for me.”

“Timothy, this is getting us nowhere, why don’t you just tell me what it is you want.”

“Sure, it’s simple really; I just want to know why you have set the police on my friend James Brooke – why?”

Charles Bailey paused and was obviously weighing his words; “Your friend you say.  He’s old enough to be your father – how can he possibly have anything in common with you.  I’m appalled.”

“Right, he is old enough to be my father, and frankly I wish he was.  As to what we have in common, that’s an interesting question, I’ve never even thought about it.  James Brooke is more than a father to me; he is just about the kindest person I’ve ever known.  In fact, I would have thought that since you are too busy, you would be pleased to know that someone is being kind to your son.  You should be grateful to him!”

“Now you are being offensive my boy and I’ll wager that you’ll come to regret your attitude.”

“Regret, regret, whatever do you mean?”

“Because when Brooke is safely locked away, you’ll need me.  Then you’ll know who is really your best friend.”

“Dad, I can’t believe what I’m hearing – how could you be so stupid, so vindictive?”

“Timothy, quite apart from anything else I have my reputation to think about, your reputation and that of my family.  This sort of thing tends to stick, and it won’t help you in your career, I want my son to do well, to achieve something for himself…”

“Dad, I really can’t believe what I’m hearing.  About reputation, wouldn’t that have been something to think about when you split with mum and married this…this…this lady? And on my friendship with James – why didn’t you talk to me before you went to the police – or would the truth have spoilt the fun?

“Timothy, you are impertinent and I’m not sure that there is any point in continuing this conversation.  I hadn’t realised the extent to which you have been corrupted by Brooke.  It seems I’m only just in time.”

Tim was momentarily lost for words as he absorbed that.  Contrary to expectations, it was becoming clear to him that it wasn’t possible to talk constructively with his father – his own mounting anger had not helped.

Charles Bailey sensed that Tim was on the back foot.  He was articulate but not accustomed to the cut and thrust of adult debate, he thought smugly to himself.  Buying time, he walked to the wall cabinet, pulled down a door and revealed a well-stocked liquor cabinet.  He poured himself a liberal glass of brandy.

For his part, Tim was wondering how he had been landed with this oaf for a father.  Never close, father and son, the gap was irreparably widening.

“By the way,” said Tim, “It was good of Jacquie to offer me refreshment after my journey.” He did not try to conceal the sarcasm.

“She did? Well, that’s good,” said Bailey, oblivious and savouring his brandy, “Tim, when you’re older, you’ll thank me for taking your part and…”

“Thank you for what? Trying to destroy a fine man and the best friend I’ve ever had? Dad you are wrong, so wrong, you just don’t know…”

“Know what Tim, I have eyes and ears, and I’ve had the benefit of employing one of the best private investigators in this country – probably the best – at some cost I might add.  There’s something that you sadly overlook – I don’t blame you at all – when you are older, you’ll understand…”

“What?” said Tim, back on the boil.

“Tell me this then; why would Brooke spend so much of his valuable time with you, buy you expensive gifts – the fancy mountain bike for instance – allow you the use of his model aeroplane workshop with all the tools and supplies, teach you to fly his aeroplane at his expense and, last but not least, take you on a month-long trip to Kenya.  Yes, I also hear that he is paying your school fees.  Answer me that, why would he do all that?”

Tim held his father’s gaze.  “Dad, I suspect that you are wealthier than James Brooke and you could easily have done all those things if I had meant anything to you.  I’m just immensely grateful to James for his kindness – he has given me opportunities that I would not otherwise have had, because of the divorce.  Why would he do all that, well I think he and his wife were appalled at the way you treated mum, me and the girls – nothing more than that, he’s just a very kind person.”

Charles Bailey ignored those remarks.  “I’ll tell you what Timothy, he’s been grooming you, placing you under an obligation that you can repay in only one way, indeed, according to what I hear, you have already started to pay that price.”

“Hear, hear from whom? Your fancy PI.  What have you heard?”

“Timothy, do understand me, I do not blame you at all, but my information suggests that you have been fooled or coerced into granting Brooke certain sexual favours…”

Tim could barely contain himself.  “Well father, I don’t know how you can possibly have any such information, because it is simply not true.  It’s laughable! It’s a pack of lies.  Who would know better than me? Not your PI, or anyone else.”

“Tim, Tim…Brooke has virtually admitted it to the police – I’ve seen his statement.  And I’ve also seen what you told the police.” At once, Charles Bailey could have bitten off his tongue, he had been faxed copies of the statements in strictest confidence.

Tim was visibly rattled by that – how could he have seen any statements – he’d only been interviewed by the police that morning, not more than eight or ten hours ago.  He knew that James had also been interviewed, but he couldn’t recall when, it must have been within the last few days.

“That’s funny dad, when I spoke to the police this morning, they told me and mum’s lawyer that anything I said would be confidential.  I made that a condition for talking to them at all.  The lawyer also insisted that we have a certified tape of the interview.  There was certainly nothing in my statement to support what you say.  At the end, the inspector said that he was satisfied that there was no case against James and that I would not have to give any evidence anyway.

Bailey realised that he had made an error in mentioning the statements.  Perhaps Tim would not realise that and forget about it.  “Your mother has a lawyer?”

“Yes, the police did not seem too happy about that, the old guy, the Superintendent I think, said it wasn’t necessary because I wasn’t accused of anything.  When we got up to leave, he agreed to the lawyer staying for the interview.”

“Your mum’s lawyer, what’s his name?”

Tim thought for a moment, Malcolm Stiles, he recalled, but he be damned if he was going to tell his father.  There was something very fishy going on.  “Can’t remember,” he said, “only met him this morning.”

Bailey fidgeted with his glass and then decided that it was time for a refill.  The atmosphere was tense.  Tim wondered how he had allowed himself to be deflected from his planned strategy.

“Dad, could I ask you a favour?”

“Certainly, my boy, anything I can do, you just need to ask.  You know that”

“Right, will you please – I beg you – back of.  Tell the police that you have talked to me and that you were mistaken.  Call them off and let us be…”

It did not take Charles Bailey more than few seconds to realise that there was no way that he could acquiesce to such a plea, he would lose an enormous amount of face, credibility with people who mattered.  The business ramifications would be enormous, not to mention his political aspirations.  His contributions to the party were already being noted by the movers and shakers.

“Dear Timothy, you must understand that I’m thinking only of you.  I’ve given this matter a lot of thought and taken expert professional advice and I would be failing in my duty to you and to the community if I did not pursue this dangerous predator.  He’s a menace to society…”

Tim blanched; he looked at the blob before him, cradling his glass of brandy.  “OK Mr Bailey, then there’s nothing more to say, you’ll never see me again…” he said as he grabbed his bag and headed for the door.

Bailey panted after him but was in time only to see and hear the front door slam shut.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

John Brown waited until the door closed and keyed the memory of his personal mobile.  The ring was picked up right away; he asked to speak James Brooke and was put through, “James, its John Brown here.  I just thought I’d suggest that maybe it’s time we met again.”

“I was hoping that you’d call because I have some interesting news for you.”

“Better not discuss it on the phone.  Could you manage the same place, same day, same time?’

“Sure.  I was wondering, I have to keep up my flying hours and I wonder if you’d like to hop over Lasham with me.”

“I can certainly meet you, same time, same place, but I had rather planned the rest of the day.”

“Spyro?”

“Yes, how did you guess?”

“Look, why don’t we make a day of it, you bring Spyro and I’ll see if Tim is free.”

“Hey that sounds like a great idea.  Are you sure about Tim?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that, and I conclude that if Tim and his mother are in agreement, we should not have our lives dictated to and ordered by Charles Bailey.  Also, I can’t turn my back on Tim and there is the point that if I were to do so, could it not be misinterpreted?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if I suddenly stop seeing Tim, quite apart from hurting him, might not some people see that as a tacit admission of guilt?”

“Mmm, I see what you mean.  OK, I’d like to meet you anyway, but I might get back to you about the trip – if that’s OK.”

“Fine, I’ll look forward to hearing from you”

John Brown closed his mobile and paused at his desk – ought he to be seen in the company of James Brooke.  It was one thing to meet him clandestinely, quite another to spend a social day with him.  But then, they could hardly be seen in a light plane at 5,000 feet and it was unlikely that connections would be made at a strange airfield.  Pity he had not met James in happier circumstances, he felt that they had a lot in common.  Snap decision, OK, he’d do it; Spyro would be over the moon at the idea.  He’d see Spyro this evening and get back to James.

So, the following morning just after 9.00am John and Spyro pulled into the Aero Club car park and immediately saw James and Tim doing a walk around a neat little four place Cessna.  James waved them over.

“Dead on time,” said James extending his hand to John.

“Spyro, this Dr Brooke and this is Tim Bailey”

The men were amused to see Tim and Spyro eyeing each other and measuring the threat, but Tim grinned and stuck out his hand, “Hi Spyro, good to meet you.”

“Spy,” said Spyro.

“Spy?”

“Yeah, call me Spy, it’s easier than Spyro, and it’s what he calls me,” he said, grinning at John.

Tim turned to John, “Aren’t you the sergeant I saw at the police interview?

“That’s right; I’m an old friend of James.”

Tim didn’t look convinced, and he turned to James quizzically.  “It’s OK Tim, I’ll explain, and in the meantime it’s a beautiful day.  He turned to the others, “Now that’s settled.  I’ll just ring in a flight plan and we’re off.  Tim, can you get our friends seated and buckled in.  I suggest you ride in the back for the outward flight and Spy can take the back seat homeward.  Then you can show ’em how it’s done.”

James returned in a couple of minutes and after his cockpit checks, started and run-up the motor before taxiing out to the active runway.  After a brief pause, James checked the passengers and getting thumbs up all round, the plane turned onto the runway where he released the brakes and fed in throttle.  The plane lifted off into the calm morning and after reporting airborne to the tower, James turned onto the planned heading and continued the climb out.

The flight took just over an hour, and it seemed no time before James was doing his landing checks and after a circuit to allow a glider and tow to take off, he was lining up for the main grass runway.  The wheels kissed and there was a rumbling as they ran over the slightly uneven ground.  The plane turned off for the visitor parking area.  The motor was soon shut down and the four sat in silence for a moment before Tim unbuckled, opened the right-hand door and hopped out.  It was pleasantly warm.

James waited for the others to join him; “OK guys, do you think you could give John and me ten minutes to talk a little business and then we’ll join you at the club for coffee.”

“OK,” Tim replied, still a little puzzled by the turn of events, “We’ll take a look at the gliders – right Spy?”

They watched Tim and Spy hurry over to the glider launch point; “It’s like a bloody uniform, those ridiculous baggy pants dragging in the dirt and the enormous trainers–it must be uncomfortable on a day like this.  I’ve tried to convince Spy that he should resist fashion and dress for comfort…”

“So?” queried James, as he and John ambled toward the clubrooms.

John paused in his stride.  “Fred Stevens and I have been taken off the enquiry and it’s handed to a Chief Inspector in the Regional Crime Unit, a blimp called Arthur Morrison.”

“Is that significant?”

“To put the mildest interpretation on it, it’s odd, because Fred had more or less closed the file on the basis that there is no case to answer and he has told Noble so.  Fred believes that for some reason the Chief Constable is under pressure to get a result.”

“Pressure, pressure from whom?” queried James.

“Well right now, we don’t know, but it does seem that your friend Mr Bailey has some influence in London, and we can only assume that that’s where the pressure is coming from.”

“But why, what does he want– a public hanging?”

“Has he any reason to have it in for you?”

“Good question, if he has, then I don’t know what or why.  When he rang me after the Kenya trip, he just seemed to be upset that I had not asked his permission.  Tim certainly seems to have gone off him in a big way.  He may feel some resentment about that, but that’s hardly my fault.  For God’s sake, he’s virtually ignored the boy since the divorce.  This, Morrison character, what does his involvement signify, you sound ominous?”

“Difficult to say, except that he’s the archetypal Mountie, he has a reputation for always getting his man.  The powers tend to depend on him for that.”

“But surely he can only go as far as the evidence will take him?”

“Theoretically, yes, but that’s the point, the Moke tends to be an illusionist, he has the knack of conjuring something from nothing and making it stick.”

“Can I convey this gem to Tom Bradley?”

“Well, I was going to suggest that you do just that, your lawyer should know, naming no source of course,” replied John, with a grin.

“You said that you had some news for me.”

“Right, but we have an interruption.”

John and James had watched the boys walk over to the glider launch point and were now aware that Tim was heading back in a hurry.  He skidded to halt and could barely contain himself.  “Two of the glider pilots have offered us trips in those neat two-seater Blaniks, but they said we had to ask you first.  Please…”

“What d’you reckon John?” said James, tongue firmly in his cheek.

“Well, I don’t know, those things don’t have engines, are they safe, I mean how do they stay up?” asked John, entering into the jest.

“My thoughts entirely,” said James.

“Aw, come on, they won’t wait forever, just say yes…”

“Yes” said John and James simultaneously.

“Cool” said Tim as he took off.

One of the glider pilots held up a hand in query and James gave him a thumbs up.

“Now your news,” said John.

“Well, it came by a roundabout route from Chris Bailey.  She told her solicitor, who felt that we should know.”

“And?”

“It seems that when she was recently tidying her eldest daughter’s room, she found a mobile phone sitting in its charger.”

“So?”

“Chris had no idea that Sarah had a mobile and when she confronted the girl about it, the story came out.  Sarah had had the phone for some time and usually charged it overnight and on this occasion had forgotten to conceal it when she went to school.  Her father had given it to her, seemingly at her request.  Then, coincidentally, just after the Kenya trip, and before she had the mobile, Charles Bailey left a message at her school, for Sarah to call him collect when she was able to do so.  So far so good.  She called him and among other things he asked her about Tim’s trip to Kenya.  The girl volunteered that Tim had an amazing collection of holiday photographs in an album.  By arrangement, Bailey met the girl in Cambridge the following weekend.  Chris thought that Sarah was visiting a school friend.  In the course of conversation, Charles Bailey asked if she could bring the album the next time they met.  Of course she agreed, and the rest is history.”

John considered this news.  “Bit devious,” he opined.

“Well, I can imagine Tim’s reaction had his father asked him directly.  I suppose the girl thought nothing of it.  On the other hand, it may well have been plain curiosity on Bailey’s part until he saw those Buffalo Springs shots.”

“Pity Tim could not have been persuaded to omit those pics from the album,” John reflected.

“He was quite determined about that, and I felt that it was not worth making an issue of it.  It now seems that the discovery of the mobile and so on, has caused a family rift.  The girl wants to live with her father.  It seems that originally, he had agreed but is now lukewarm to the idea.  Chris Bailey went along on the premises that he is after all her father and that she could understand her daughter’s wish.  But it all remains in the air.  The theory is that Bailey was amenable to the idea, but that his lady objected.”

They stopped and watched as the first of the Blaniks took to the air with Tim waving vigorously from the front seat, closely followed by the other with Spyro riding high.

“I guess it’s interesting to know how the photographs came into Bailey’s hands, but it’s not really germane to the case?”

“Right.  He apparently persuaded the girl to let him keep the album for a week and during that time he must have had a selection copied.  By the way, Tim knows nothing about this or that the album had been removed from his room.  Chris is a little apprehensive as to how he might react should he find out.  There’s already tension between him and Sarah, about her wish to live with her father.”

James paused; “Hey, I’m not sure which one, but one of the Blaniks must have caught some good air, she’s going up like a rocket.  Wow, looks as if the other has also hooked into it too.”

“You know how to fly those things, James?”

“Well, I’m not a gun glider pilot, but that’s how I started flying.  Got an ATC scholarship whilst I was at school and spent a few summer camps at the London Gliding Club at Dunstable.  In fact, we came here to Lasham one year.  It’s quite something, but I didn’t have enough patience for the down time, the waiting around and ground handling.  Sadly, I gave it away…regret it a bit now…”

“Well, we might have a problem with those guys – having sampled the delights.”

“Strange isn’t it, until a few weeks ago we were strangers and here we are nannying other people’s kids.”

“Is that how you see it James?”

“No, stupid choice of word, far from it, rather, I see it as a privilege.  I’m sorry, I’ve thought about this a lot since our first conversation, and I’ve had to face some facts…”

“Like?”

“I’m not sure that I’m ready to put my feelings into words, to publicly commit myself to a particular position.”

“On?”

James smiled; “You’re determined, aren’t you?”

“No not at all, it took me a long time to sort out my own feelings, not only emotionally, but intellectually–I just thought that it might help you to talk about it.”

“Ah,” said James, “we’re back to “it” again.  Maybe time to call a spade a spade – to be honest I guess.”

“James, that’s up to you, you don’t have to talk to me about anything at all.  You may feel that you want more time.”

“No John, I think I do want to talk about my feelings to someone who will understand.  Come to think about it, I don’t think I’ve thanked you for taking me into your confidence, taking a risk in fact – I really appreciate that.”

“Not at all, it takes one to know one, or so they say,” replied John Brown with a grin.

“Look, when you and Fred Stevens interviewed me, he asked if I am gay.  That question came as a bit of a shock, I’d never given it any thought and so I was a bit equivocal.  It had never occurred to me that my feelings for Tim could have any such connotations, but the question was a wake up.”

“And?”

“In truth, I still don’t know for sure, how do you know? But I guess I’m ready to concede that its but a short step from liking to loving on any level and I’ve been trying to convince myself that so long as the love is benign – by that I mean causes no harm – then where is the harm? Indeed, if love persuades us to do more for the loved one than one might otherwise be the case, then love is positive, a benefit.”

“Amen to that.”

“You agree?”

“Why not, you sum it up nicely, simply and elegantly in fact.  But unfortunately, you don’t have to convince me.  There are those, the majority, who are seized by the prevailing hysteria that loving a boy, not of your own family, can mean only one thing.”

“Yes, I can see the problem, theirs and ours…”

“James that’s a big step!”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve joined the other camp, you said ‘theirs and ours.’”

James paused, looked John in the eye; “Mmm, almost unconsciously – but yes you’re right, but I feel that I can be honest with you.  Are you gay?”

John didn’t pause; “No” he said simply.

“Thanks John, it’s good to have someone with whom I can talk frankly, someone I can trust. On a rational level, what’s the point in trying to persuade myself that I’m not gay, or at least bisexual? I mean, I have to face facts, I have accepted that I love Tim, and I’m not prepared to insist that it’s platonic.  It’s more than that, much more.  But it’s not sexual.  Confused? So am I!”

“Right,” John agreed, “I’m not sure that it’s capable of cold, rational analysis and definition.  But why bother anyway, does it matter?

“Probably not, but I’m afraid I’m one of those who like to put things into a slot, or at least try to, and that leads me to an idea.  It’s all rather subjective, but there are some who argue that we have a bit of everything in us – it just takes something, a little thing, to trigger our emotions one way or the other.  But what I would say is that I feel that I am responding to Tim in the same way that I might respond to anything of beauty; a painting, a colt, a sculpture, an old sailing boat, you name it.  Is that fair? I think it’s more the beauty thing than sex, and if you add all the other attributes that the boy brings to the equation, then like I say, he’s irresistible – one in a million.”

“I have a theory,” he continued, “I think that adolescent boys are designed to be that way, to disarm us, and to claim our attention, it’s all part of the scheme of things, just as much as the biological pressure to perpetuate the species.  One could even take that argument further and add a Darwinian dimension…”

“How do you mean?” said John.

Well, boys like Tim and Spyro attract attention.  They seem to have a lot going for them, looks, intelligence, ability, you name it, but I have to ask myself, would I be interested if Tim was dumb and ugly? In other words, those attributes tend to ensure that they are noticed and nurtured.

“Mmmm, interesting that you should say that, I read a piece on the net a couple of years ago, by an Australian I think, and his thesis was similar.  Briefly, he suggested that the drive to protect and mentor boys would have been strong among the adult men in tribal, hunter gatherer societies.  He suggested that this would have applied not only to the biological fathers, but to all men in the group sharing the same gene pool – to ensure the perpetuation of those genes.

James had been scanning the sky for sight of the Blaniks; “I see no sign of the aviators; why don’t we get that cup of coffee whilst we talk?”

“Good idea.” Said John, gathering his train of thought, “The guy put it this way, that a female, a girl is capable of having one child a year, whereas a boy could father as many children as there were fertile females to receive him.  Thus, the tribal gene pool would be better safeguarded by ensuring the survival and development of the boys.  So, he argued, the tendency among adult men to favour and nurture boys is innate.”

“Here?” said James, indicating an outside table.  “I don’t think there’s much choice, just a coffee?”

“Fine,” said John as he took a chair that would enable him to keep a view of activity on the field.  It really is a superb day, he thought, no wind and a haze beginning to shroud the distant hills.  A real summer day.  His mobile trilled and he hit the button, “Hi, John, I’ve been trying to raise you at home.” He recognised the voice of Fred Stevens.

“Can you drop by the nick in about an hour?”

“Er… Fred, I’m about two hundred miles from home, in Hampshire, I’ll be back this evening, latish.”

“Ah, OK, it’s not too urgent, but I’ve just heard that the Moke is going out to Kenya.  Seems he has an old chum, and ex Colonial, who retired out there and has agreed to help dig at that end.  God knows what he thinks he’ll find.  Can you picture Morrison swanning around the bush looking for a couple of naked herd boys!”

John saw James heading for the table with a laden tray.  “Right, can I call you tomorrow?”

“Fine, no problem,” Fred broke contact whilst John wondered whether to mention this latest development to James.  He decided not to until he had more information.

“Trouble?” Said James as he deposited the tray on the table, and I eyed the mobile.

“No, just Fred Stevens, he expected me to be in Cambridge and be able to meet him in one hour.  We’ve arranged to meet tomorrow”.

“You don’t have a day off on Saturday?

“Sometimes, we run an informal roster so that one of us is always available.  It’s Fred’s turn to hold the fort this weekend.”

“But he doesn’t leave you alone on your day off?”

“To be fair, he doesn’t often bother me, but the old idea in the police of being on duty 24 hours a day dies hard – it’s part of the culture.”

“No sign of the gliders?” asked James as he savoured his coffee.  “Contrary to my fears, this is not bad coffee.  Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” he added.

“You can ask…” replied John with a grin.

“If you are confronted with a case such as this which is not simple and does reveal evidence of a breach of the law, how do you handle it?”

“Mmmm, well firstly, I have a job to do and as a sworn constable I like to think that I would be objective, impartial and fair.  I mean that if an offence has been committed, then I have to deal with in the same way as any other breach of the law.”

“Has it happened?’

“No, I’ve been on the periphery of a couple of similar cases, just making routine enquiries, but neither came to anything, so I was not put to the test.” John paused thoughtfully whilst he studied the sky.  “Look, the way I see it, cases of this kind occur on several levels, maybe three distinct levels with perhaps variations between.”

“Explain?” said James with immediate interest.

“OK, At the top are cases such as yours where it is clear that you have been acting out of kindness – or whatever motivation you might want to put on it – but where there has been no breach of the law.”

“Hey, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Well, it’s true and as far as I am concerned the book should never have been opened on this.”

“Secondly?”

“This is the difficult one.  I’m thinking along the lines of a close and loving relationship between and man and a boy, where there has been physical expression of mutual affection.”

“You mean where both the man and the boy have consensually permitted physical acts to occur.”

“Yes, where there is mutual agreement and certainly no coercion or misrepresentation as to the nature of the acts.”

“What do mean by misrepresentation?”

John smiled, “Well you’ve heard the old chestnut about the choirmaster– if you let me do this, or that, it will improve your singing voice.  That would be misrepresentation.  But that would take us into another realm – possibly bordering on level three.”

“How would you define physical affection in the consensual sense?” James queried.

“I guess, you might say it’s anything that goes beyond a hug or a peck on the cheek.  But I should emphasise that in the level two scenario, anything more would still be contrary to the law.  But of course, where there is mutual agreement it’s unlikely that anyone else would hear about it.  Let’s face it; the boys are hardly likely to kill the goose…”

“And level three?”

“That’s quite simple, I mean any act that is coerced, forced, that amounts to an assault, and in such cases the offender is likely to be a member of the family, or a friend, or at least someone with whom the child is familiar.  It’s sometimes a stranger, but that’s the exception.  Statistically it’s as likely to be a heterosexual attack, as homosexual.  I would certainly have no trouble with investigating and prosecuting such a case.

“Mmmm, I see what you mean, might be an argument in there for tidying up the law” opined James.

“Well, you can see it, I can see it, but don’t hold your breath.  As a matter of fact, in some countries the possibility of a harmless, consensual relationship is recognised by the law.  In Holland for instance, if a child of twelve years or over has a physical relationship with an older person, there is a statutory limitation on complaints.  If a complaint is not lodged within one year of the event, then it’s out of time.  This would seem to recognise that a child frightened or affronted by whatever happened would tell someone right away and that a delay of twelve months before making a complaint might suggest other motives and prejudice a defence.”

“John, I’ve no right to ask this, but how do you stand with Spyro in this issue?”

“No, I don’t mind telling you, because I have nothing to hide.  Obviously in my position I have had to be very careful and from the outset I have talked with Spyro and his mother and made it plain that our friendship must always be purely platonic.  Any deviation from that, I quit.”

“He accepts that? No, perhaps that’s not a fair question after what you’ve said because it implies that Spyro might have pressured you for more…”

“He has, or rather did, but I have been candid about it, we have talked, and he understands that no matter what he, or I, might want, there can never be more.”

“And if the law were to be changed…?”

“Ask me then!” John said with a grin.

“I’m afraid I rather interrupted you when you were explaining the theory you read about on the web.”

“That was about it really, interesting, but probably unscientific.”

“Well, as I say, how can you be coldly scientific about this sort of thing?”

“Hey, John, watch this!” said James pointing toward the downwind end of the glider strip.  One of the Blaniks was fast approaching in a shallow dive.  As it passed along the strip a liquid erupted from the bottom of the fuselage.

John looked appalled; “What the hell’s he doing? What is that, fuel?”

“Hang on” Said James “Just watch.”

The glider tilted into a steep climb and levelled off as it began to slow and turned toward the side of the field and began descending in the direction from which it had entered its run.

“My God,” exclaimed John, “Is that safe?”

“It’s safe, those are high performance machines, but I’m a bit surprised that he did that with one of the boys on board.” No sooner had he said that than the second Blanik commenced its run across the field and performed the same manoeuvre.  “It’s a classic crowd pleaser at air shows.  The pilot makes a rapid descent, almost a dive and trades altitude for speed – he was probably doing over 150 knots at the bottom of the dive – calls for some precision flying.  The liquid he dumped was just a few gallons of water ballast, looks spectacular.  Then at the end of the run, he uses the accrued energy and loss of weight to gain height, probably climbing to about a thousand feet, before he turns downwind and starts his descent and landing approach.  There, they’re down.”

James and John watched as the second glider rolled to a halt and lowered its wing tip.  There was a brief pause before the canopy lifted and the pilots and the boys stepped out.  Together they rolled the machines back, behind the launch point, and after a brief conflab, all four headed for the club rooms talking animatedly.  As they approached, James and John stood and strolled toward the gate.  It was clear that the boys were beside themselves with excitement.

Tim couldn’t wait and yelled as they approached; “Hey, did you guys see that!?”

James grinned; “Well, we would have liked to have seen it, but it was all too fast!”

Tim introduced Jim Perry and Spyro followed with Mike Wills.  They all shook hands, and James thanked the pilots for taking the boys for the flight.  “Will you join us for coffee?” he added.  As they walked toward the club house James asked if Mike was related to the Phillip Wills.  Mike chuckled; “No, nothing so grand, I’m just a run of the mill glider guider, not championship material.” James took orders for coffee, and the boys opted for coke.

They took a table in the shade and the excited talk continued with Tim and Spyro trading notes on the flight.  James found himself watching Jim Perry who was displaying a more than passing interest in Tim – or so he imagined.  He smiled to himself and thought what a fool he was becoming.

He turned to Perry; “Is this your home base Jim?”

“For gliding, yes, but I live and work in London.  I manage to get down here most weekends.  Tim tells me that you are all from Cambridge Mr Bailey.”

“Ah, not Bailey, my name is Brooke, James Brooke.  Tim’s dad lives in London, but he lives with his mother in Cambridge.  I qualify as a friend of the family.”

“Sorry, I must have misunderstood.”

“No problem.  He’s going to be talking about this for weeks, I hope he thanked you.”

“He did, he’s an impressive young man,” Perry added.

“Not you too, he has that effect on most people he meets”.  Charms the hell out of people, I call it witchcraft!”

“I must admit that I’m impressed, he took the stick on the way back, and he’s a natural pilot, apart from anything else.

Look, if you or Mike ever cross country to Cambridge and want to stop over, just give me a call–here, this is my card.  Don’t hesitate to get in touch if you are over that way.”

With that, the group split and James, John and the boys boarded the Cessna for the return flight.  As promised, Tim impressed their guests with his prowess in handling the aircraft, take off, the flight and landing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mary Brooke emerged from the French doors and carefully placed a mug of breakfast coffee and a rack of toast on the battered patio table.  “You were late last night, how was the trip?”

“The trip was fine and after we landed about eight o’clock, we all had dinner at the club.  It was a great day.”

“So, what was the urgent news from Sergeant Brown?”

“Well, it wasn’t really urgent, he just wanted to let me know that he and Fred Stevens have been relieved of the investigation.”

“They have, why?”

“Brown is not sure.  After the interview with Tim, Stevens was called to see the Superintendent, the one they call “Nifty”, and all he could learn was that the change was a directive from above.  John remains confident that the enquiry is going nowhere.  It seems that Noble was rattled during the interview; Tim gave him a hard time.  Apparently, he had some trouble articulating the words necessary to eliciting the answers he sought, and Tim ran rings around him – having fun at his expense, John reckons.  John characterises Noble as a time server, a bag of wind who has been an administrator all his career.  It was most unusual for him to become involved in an enquiry at all, and according to John, almost unethical…

“What did you do all day yesterday?”

“Well, the boys charmed their way into lengthy flights in high performance sailplanes whilst John and I had a long and interesting discussion on the issues that seem to have prompted Bailey’s allegations and the enquiry.”

“You said boys, plural?”

“Yes, Tim and Spyro.”

“Spyro?”

“I thought I told you about John Brown and his young friend Spyro.  He’s a Greek Cypriot boy about Tim’s age has been under John’s wing since he was 10.”

“And he’s a police sergeant!”

“Is that an issue Mary?”

“Well, it’s not an issue with me, but isn’t it a little unusual – even a bit risky?”

“Not you too!”

“What do you mean?

“Well, that’s one of the things John and I were talking about yesterday whilst the boys were aviating – society’s inability to conceive that a friendship between a man and a boy could be anything other than evil.”

“Hang on James, I didn’t say that.”

“No dear, but your reaction was typical, and you are an educated social psychologist!”

“Mmmm, I’m sorry, you’re right.  But I wasn’t condemning John Brown, simply thinking about the implications for him if that friendship became widely known.”

“John tells me that Fred Stevens knows and it’s no secret in local police circles.  John is discreet and keeps a low profile and typically he’s more worried about the effect on Spyro should things go wrong.  He now questions whether he should have become involved with the boy at all but concedes that he couldn’t back out now even if he wanted to – he feels morally committed.  I think you and John would have a lot in common.”

“Why?”

He has a master’s in history and social science and is thinking of doing a doctorial on inter-generational relationships.  He laughs and suggests that the research would serve as a great smokescreen should things turn to custard for him.  He joined the police under a graduate’s accelerated promotional scheme and is entitled to a sabbatical after seven years for a research project.”

“Silly of me I suppose I had rather assumed that he was just another Mr Plod.  How wrong can one be?”

“Right Mary but isn’t that what’s happened with Charles Bailey’s allegations – I mean, it seems, mention a friendship between a man and a boy and everyone draws an immediate conclusion – the police certainly seem to have done so – well all bar Fred Stevens and John.

“I would like to meet John Brown; can we ask him to dinner?”

“Well, he was a bit cagey about meeting with me other than clandestinely.  That was why we met at the Aero Club, but if he’s no longer on the case, why not.  I’ll ask him and let you know.”

“Why don’t you ring him now and suggest Wednesday at 7.00pm?”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, do it!”

James was about to put the phone down when John Brown answered, “Brown,” he said.

“John, its James here.  I’ve just been talking with Mary, and we were wondering how you would feel about having a meal with us on Wednesday at our place.  She would very much like to meet you – I’ve been telling her what a great chap you are! I realise that you may feel that it might not be appropriate in light of the enquiry, and we’ll understand if you feel that you’d rather not.  So, what do you say?”

There was a pause as John mulled it over; “Well I’m now officially off the case, so damn ‘em all, why not.  I’d be delighted.

“You know where we are? Say around sevenish.  Quite informal, just the three of us and be prepared for some talking!”

“Fine, I’ll look forward to it.  By the way, more news, I’ve been promoted to detective inspector with effect from the 1st of last month.  So, I’ll bring a bottle of bubbly, bought out of my princely back pay!”

“John that’s great news, but does that mean you’ll be shifted, transferred or whatever you call it?”

That’s a possibility, but not immediately.  I’m to keep working with Fred for at least six months.  Fred’s to act as a sort of nanny for the new boy.”

“That really is great news.  Does your friend know?”

“Yep, couldn’t wait, he was the first to know and he’s planning a special celebration, all very secret, but I hear that in true Greek fashion it’ll involve breaking some china!”

“Will this development affect your sabbatical?”

“Tell you truth, this has been so sudden that I haven’t been able to think that far ahead.  But in terms of my contract of employment, it ought not to.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The doorbell rang and James and Mary converged from different parts of the house, but Mary got to the door first.

“Mr Brown, I presume?”

“And you must be Mrs Brooke.”

James arrived and shook hands with John; “Mary, I’d like you to meet John Brown.”

“Well, we’ve already met, but it’s nice to be formally introduced” said Mary with a welcoming smile and put out her hand.  “Anyway John, come in, we have time for a drink before dinner.  By the way, I like your car – although it may not fit the popular image of an Inspector of Police.”

It was James’s turn to josh, “No, you’re right Mary, but I expect John will be thinking about upgrading to a Porsche on the strength of the promotion!”

“Funny you should say that someone else has already made that suggestion, although I think he had in mind something rather more exotic.  My little Mazda already turns a few heads at headquarters, but can you imagine the raised eyebrows if I were to appear in a Porsche!”

“Point taken” said James, “Now what would you like to drink? Beer, wine or something harder?”

“A beer would do me fine.  What a beautiful garden.”

James headed for the fridge; “That’s all Mary’s doing, she’s the green thumb around here.”

“With a little bit of professional help” added Mary self-deprecatingly, “Let’s sit outside, everything is ready and just needs to be lifted from the oven.  James, did you remember to open the bottle of claret?” She turned to John with a smile; “According to James, the wine must breathe.”

James set down a tray; “I assume you’ve not adopted the barbaric habit of drinking from the bottle John, brought you a glass.”

“It rather depends on the company!” he replied.

“Cheers” said James as he raised his GT.

“Thanks,” said John, “I hope you won’t mind if I let you have a minor update.”

“Not at all”

“Well, Fred Stevens heard today that Morrison’s plan to take a fishing trip to Kenya had been vetoed for budgetary reasons.  Too bad for the old Moke, we heard that he was quite excited about the idea of playing the white sahib for a couple of weeks.”

“Bwana”

“Sorry?”

“Bwana, it’s Bwana in Kenya, Sahib in India.”

“James, I’m sure John does not need a lecture on exotic modes of address!” interposed Mary.

“That’s OK Mary, my chance will come.” He took a pull at his lager.  “It seems that he has been able to retain his old Colonial chum to do a bit of legwork for him.”

“Is that normal – I’m damned if I can see what he could hope to find out there.”

“No, it’s far from normal, but according to Fred’s source, the holders of the purse strings agreed once the travel, accommodation and interpreter’s fees were removed from the equation.

“So Mid-Anglia is paying for this exercise?”

“As far as we know, yes”

Mary looked at her watch; “Isn’t that a bit over the top, I mean, I thought that you had agreed that there was nothing in Charles Baileys allegations.”

“That’s right, we were ready to close the file when it was removed and handed to Morrison to apply his redoubtable forensic skills.  By the way, James, Fred also heard that he intends to re-interview you.  Look, I don’t want to be a wet blanket…”

“That’s alright,” said Mary, looking at her watch again.  “James, give me five minutes and then bring John in.”

John waited until Mary had entered the house; “How does Mary feel about all this James?”

“Well, she’s not exactly overjoyed, especially since she feels that it’s all her fault.”

“How so?”

“Because it was she who asked me to take Tim under my wing in the first place.  She was Chris Bailey’s case worker and was worried that Chris might not be able to cope with an increasingly angry and rebellious adolescent.  Tim had just turned 13 at the time and had been badly affected by the departure of his father and the divorce.”

“Right, I think you mentioned that at the interview.  Of course, they could have put Tim in foster care to give his mother time out.”

“You’re jesting if course! Actually, when Mary first mooted the idea that I could spend some time with Tim, I did have reservations, but more along the lines of could I spare the time, rather than any perception of possible risk.  I mean that didn’t occur to me.  On the day she asked me, a Sunday and I had a mild hangover, she had invited the family to tea.  But as soon as I saw Tim, time became a non-issue…”

“Well, no one in your position could have foreseen that Bailey would react in so diabolical a way.”

“Right, it really never ever entered my head.  I mean I was totally ignorant of the great child abuse wave sweeping the west, quite outside of my experience and ken.  That’s one reason why Mary feels so bad about the way things have turned out, she knew and is convinced that she should have foreseen the possibility.  Nonsense of course, but I do wonder if I would have handled things differently had I given it a thought – more arm’s length,”

“You might have done that, but I’m certain that such a strategy would not have lasted long.  I mean, you’re either for the boy or agin him and I’d venture that you couldn’t have kept Tim at arm’s length for long.”

“Mention arm’s length, I think we had better do as we were told, I suspect it’s more than five minutes since Mary departed.  Bring your beer – too much talking – not enough drinking!”

“Ah,” said Mary, “I was just about to call you.  Would you like to sit here John? Nothing special, just a family meal…”

“Well Mary, speaking as a bachelor, any meal that you don’t have to cook yourself, is a special meal.”

“You cook for yourself?”

“Very simply, or I eat out, and once a week Spyros’s mother does her best to immobilise me with her Greek hospitality,” said John with a laugh.  “I’m serious, she seems to think that I don’t eat during the remainder of the week, and she has a duty to ensure that I survive!”

“That’s sweet.  But I can understand why she feels that doesn’t want you to fade away!”

“I think it’s more the mothering instinct, more likely regards me as another son.”

They paused as various dishes were passed around and James topped up the wine glasses.  “This is a New Zealand cabernet, from…” he held up the bottle, “The Marlborough regions in the South Island.  Not a bad drop.”

“Have you been to New Zealand?”

“No, Mary has a cousin out there who urges us to visit, but so far we haven’t got round to it.  One day – especially if they have more wine like this!”

Mary put the lid back on the casserole.  “Yes, Jenny lives in Auckland, married a chap in the New Zealand Air Force who was over here on an exchange.  Been out there about fifteen years now and thrives.  Sounds Idyllic, they have two children, two boys, a boat, and a bach on the beach somewhere north of Auckland.”

“Bach?” enquired John.

“Yes, apparently it’s a sort of beach cottage with the minimum of refinements.  They have to shower outside and if you want to linger in a bath, you have to light an open fire under a tub of water beneath the stars.  We keep in touch at Christmas.  Rangi’s been back here a couple of times, he flies one of those big four engine transport planes, but I haven’t seen Jenny since she went out there.”

“I’d have thought that New Zealand would have been good for your line of business James, all those open spaces, miles from anywhere.”

“You might think so, Australia maybe, but New Zealand has a well-developed telecommunications infrastructure, one of the best in the world in fact.  So large networks of solar powered, remote stations are not on their shopping list.  We have done some business in Australia, but fully kitted stations, ready to install, so I haven’t needed to visit.  One day.”

Mary turned to John.  “None of this can be leftover John, so I hope you’ll help us out?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to another portion and some more spuds – if I may.  Are these wild mushrooms?”

Mary signalled that John’s glass needed topping.  “Yes, from the paddock right behind you.  There are never too many, but we like to take advantage when we can, they’re so different from the shop variety.  James tells me that you are thinking of taking a year off to write a thesis.”

“Yes, right.  The graduate entry scheme allows for a sabbatical year for further study.  The only proviso is that the topic must be relevant to the job.”

“And your topic?”

“The idea is pretty broad at the moment, but a much-neglected area is male inter-generational relationships.  As far as I can see, very little work has been done on this, and a lot of people are being hurt in consequence.”

“Hurt?”

“Yes, hurt, even victimised, to satisfy a pervasive and uncompromising perspective.

“Which is?”

“It’s simple, the fashionable view among many professional and lay people, perhaps the majority, seems to be that if a man takes an interest in a boy – not his son, or immediate family – then the man must have sinister motives and that can mean only one thing.  Actually, it’s now worse than that, at the drop of a hat, even fathers are suspect.  Too little is known on the subject and what is known, is largely ignored.

“Mmm, are you sure that it’s that big an issue.”

“To put it into context, surely we need look no further than the present company.  How are you two feeling about Charles Bailey’s tantrum?”

“Point taken…”

“I mean, let’s assume for a moment that there is substance to Bailey’s allegations, would Tim Bailey strike anyone as a basket case, a long suffering and damaged victim of sexual abuse?”

James interjected; “But he’s not!”

“Quite but hear me out.  I don’t know him all that well, I’ve seen him only a couple of time, both in completely different circumstances, once as the subject of a police interview, and last Saturday in a more social setting.  But first impressions; he’s alive, happy, intelligent, and I would judge by the way you allowed him to handle the return flight to Marshall’s, an achiever with a lot of potential.  He does not strike me as a victim of anything, except perhaps that he’s being spoilt!”

James nodded and added pensively; “If I read you rightly, what you are suggesting, to put it bluntly, is that if Tim and I were having a physical relationship, then it doesn’t show adversely.”

“Precisely, and that’s why I think we need to know more about the issue.  It is wrong and potentially very damaging to jump to subjective conclusions.  The question needs to be asked, if it does happen, and I have no doubt that it does, is it inevitably harmful in every case.  Do we not have a duty to be more analytical and compassionate?”

Mary pursed her lips; “Wow John, you may be right, I don’t know, but asking a question like that, you’d be more than just sticking your neck out, you’d be asking to have it lopped off.”

“Mary, I am not advocating anything, I’m simply saying that the question is deserving of objective examination – in the strictly academic sense.  As a social scientist, do you know of any recent research?”

Mary considered the question; “Now that you mention it, no, I don’t think that I do, not recent studies anyway.  I recall some work on the continent in the late 19th century, but mainly by elderly academics trying to justify a personal perspective or predilection.  I’m not suggesting they were wrong, but from what I remember, and I only read summaries in passing, and I don’t think the work was highly regarded or seen as academically pure.”

John agreed; “That seems to be the problem, these days’ people are not too keen to tackle such a sensitive subject–probably for fear of being tarred by association.  But I think I’m in a rather unique position; a duly certified academic in the right discipline, a commissioned police officer, and I now have the opportunity.  I think that it would be irresponsible of me to neglect the opportunity.”

“And Spyro?”

“On Spyro, my conscience is clear, and I would defy anyone to suggest otherwise.”

Mary looked a bit taken aback by the vehemence of that assertion.  “I’m sorry John that was rather insensitive of me…”

“No, not at all, that’s quite alright Mary.  It’s a question that I have had to ask and if anyone is foolish enough to take issue, it will give me a chance to make some useful points.  My friendship with Spyro gives me valuable insight that I might otherwise not have had – I’d probably have been looking for some other doctoral topic!”

“But surely, your friendship with Spyro differs little from that Tim enjoys with this family.”

“Exactly, and that’s another reason for me to try to illuminate the subject.  Call it a pre-emptive strike if you like!” John concluded with a grin.

Mary collected the plates.  “Why don’t you gentlemen adjourn to the lounge – I think it’s probably a bit chilly now to go outside – I’ll bring in desert and put the coffee on.”

John insisted on helping carry the debris to the kitchen.  “Are you still working for the department Mary?”

“In theory, I was quickly taken off the Bailey case and things have a been a little awkward at the office to say the least.”

“Well, that just underlines what I say, people, innocent people, are being hurt! The issue is not black and white, and that’s why I feel that I have an obligation, perhaps a duty, to shed some light

Mary took the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher; “Do join James in the lounge and make yourself comfortable.  I have a feeling that we’ve not heard the last word on this subject…”

Mary soon joined them in the lounge bearing a tray of dessert.  James took the tray whilst Mary handed a dish of mousse to John and invited him the help himself to whipped cream.

John laughed; “Did I say that Spyro’s mother sought to sabotage me every week!”

“Well, I don’t suppose once, or even twice a week, can do that much harm to your figure.  Are you an athlete?”

“Not anymore.  I used to be very keen at university, but time is the problem now, not to mention irregular working hours.  I do try to work out though –much of this and I’ll need to do more.”

“I was thinking about what you said before, about the need to be more analytical.  Wouldn’t that be rather difficult and possibly subjective? I mean how do you measure or quantify harm? Mary queried.

“I’ve been mulling that over for some time, because it seems to be central to achieving anything.  On balance, I think we would be back to questionnaires and sampling.  Three academics in the US completed a research project a couple of years ago using a very small sample of undergraduates and were rather surprised by their conclusions – in general that in the age group, none of the sample reported and perceivable harm from early male on male sexual activity.  Most regarded the experience as positive.  They published in the APA journal and the article caused uproar in US to such an extent, that Congress was asked to vote on it and overwhelmingly rejected the findings.  Though why a bunch of politicians should feel it necessary to dignify a piece of academic research with their attention is not clear.

“Maybe they felt that it threatened the status quo?” said James, “There is one thing that puzzles me.  If, as seems likely, more often than not friendships between men and boys are positive, beneficial, why is society generally so antagonistic?”

“What do you think?” responded John quizzically.

“Well until the Charles Bailey thing erupted, I’d never given it a thought, but on the face of it, I suppose people are reacting in total ignorance.  But why?

“It’s the sex thing James, fear, ignorance and the ingrained Anglo-Saxon conviction that anything that may give pleasure is wrong, a sin! There’s no quarter, no possibility that a man and a boy could simply be friends and enjoy each other’s company.  The idea of love, platonic love, is totally alien.

“Well people certainly hold strong views…”

“Inflamed by the media and our moral guardians, like our friends in the child protection industry, who have convinced themselves that if an adult even looks at a child, boy or girl, then the child must suffer irreparable harm.

“But this phobia is recent? I mean a generation ago fears of this kind were unheard of.  I’m not saying that questionable relationships between adults and children did not exist, they certainly must have – it’s undoubtedly part of the human condition – and it’s good that abusive relationships are exposed and dealt with, but there no longer seems to be a recognition of degree.”

“Degree?

“Yes, that adult–child relationships span the range, from abusive and harmful, to benign, loving and caring.”

“Right, but western society has become more sophisticated and self-analytical.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

A week after that pleasant dinner interlude James was summoned to attend the Regional Police Headquarters for yet another interview.  He and Tom Bradley arrived in good time, and both immediately sensed a more hostile atmosphere.  They were informed that the investigation had been taken over by Chief Inspector Morrison of the Regional Crime Squad who turned out to be a late middle-aged gentleman who was all business.  Seated in an interview room with the two-deck tape running, Morrison started by running through the detail contained in the file and startled James and Tom by a vehement rejection of what had passed before.  It was, he declared, a total pack of self-justifying lies and, patting the file, flew in the face of the reams of evidence since collected in statements from persons both here and in Kenya.

Tom Bradley interjected and asked whether his client was to be charged with any offence in light of the new evidence and if so, with what?

Morrison extracted a sheet of paper from the file and slid it across the table.  Tom picked it up and glanced at the few lines of neat typescript and certain words and phrases leapt off the paper at him:

• Grooming a young person under the age of sixteen years for sexual purposes;
• Unlawful sexual connection with a young person under the age of 16 years;
• Procuring a young person, or persons, under the age of 16 years for the purposes of producing pornography;
• Producing pornographic material depicting sexual acts between young persons under the age of 16 years.

After giving Tom time to absorb the contents of the sheet Morrison said, “Of course these are just holding charges and counts of a more serious nature are likely to be added”.

Tom slid the charge sheet along to James and turned to Morrison.  “Inspector, the defence requests a copy of all the new statement and evidence…”

“Chief Inspector”

“Sorry…”

“Chief Inspector, please address me as Chief Inspector”

“Very well, Chief Inspector, the defence requests a copy of all the new statements and evidence.”

Tom recognised the tactic; he was being back footed and shown who was in charge and this told him something about Chief Inspector Morrison and his new evidence.  He sensed that the Chief Inspector was not as sure of his charges and new evidence as he appeared.

Morrison nodded to his sergeant who pushed a thick file across the table.  Tom picked it up and flicked through the pile of statements, some evidently from people who had never been mentioned before, some local and some from people in Kenya.

“Now I think we will disregard what emerged from the earlier interview and start again with more specific questions relating to the evidence contained in those statements,” said Morrison, joining his hands across his not insignificant stomach and fixing his gaze on James.

“Just a moment Detective Chief Inspector Morrison, I am advising my client that he should say no more unless, or until he is formally charged and cautioned” responded Tom.

Morrison said nothing, leapt up and headed for the door leaving his sergeant with pen poised over his notepad.

“What now?” queried James, to which Tom just raised his hand signifying that he should say nothing.  Tom poured himself a glass of water.  The sergeant leaned over and switched off the tape recorder before settling back to read some notes from the file.

The silence was broken by the return of Morrison who stood by the table and without further ado said “James Michael Brooke I am arresting you on a charge of having sexual connection with a male person under the age of sixteen years contrary to section 9 of the Sexual Offences Act 2003.  “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.  Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

This was followed by a stunned silence broken by Morrison who said “Cuff him sergeant”

Tom Bradley was visibly shocked but responded “Detective Chief Inspector I am advising my client not to answer any further questions and to make no comment.  We shall be asking for police bail”.

It was increasingly clear that someone up the ladder of command was pulling Morrison’s strings; he said “The question of bail will be decided when the accused appears in court, in the meantime he will remain in custody.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The court again remanded James in custody and after a preliminary hearing a few days after his arrest a date for trial was set for some six weeks hence.  At the preliminary hearing Tom Bradley again requested bail but the court had clearly been influenced by the police and probationary reports which both inexplicably suggested that James presented a risk of reoffending.

At James’s suggestion Tom Bradley met John Brown privately and discussed the case with him.  John admitted being puzzled by the prosecution determination to secure a conviction, which flew in the face of all the evidence adduced by him and Fred Stevens.  Having been shown the statements from witnesses in Kenya and the UK which placed an entirely different complexion on the case, John immediately dismissed them as worthless and doubtless obtained by underhand means, probably by bribery.  They agreed that the outcome hinged on testing the reliability and destroying that evidence under cross examination.  Tom also mentioned that the eminent criminal counsel Sir Thomas Bartlett QC had been briefed and would act for James.

In the meantime, Chris Bailey called Mary and asked if they could get together, perhaps over a coffee in town.  When they met, Chris didn’t beat about the bush; she proposed that she and Mary should go to London and tackle Charles Bailey on his motives and try to persuade him to stop his campaign that was hurting so many people, including his own family – especially his family.  Mary was torn, the idea had merit but from all she had heard about Charles Bailey, she thought it unlikely that he could be swayed.  She called Tom Bradley, who was equally pessimistic but couldn’t see that any harm would be done but added that it might be better if he knew nothing about the proposal.

It was decided and Chris rang Charles’s office and made an appointment for 11.00am two days hence.  As they drove toward London they made only desultory conversation, both lost in their own thoughts.  What Mary wondered, could she really say to Bailey that would not appear to be anything but self-serving? She concluded that the issue really hinged on touching him on the potential damage to his own family, especially the boy, and that she must leave to Chris.

“What did he say Chris, when you made the appointment?

“He doesn’t know that I made an appointment.  I spoke to his secretary and said that I needed an urgent appointment to talk to him about the Thompson Deveraux proposal.”

“What’s that?

“Nothing, I just used the first names that came into my head.”

“But won’t that make him suspicious?”

“He deals with so many offers and proposals that he wouldn’t have any idea about a Thompson Deveraux proposal, but if it spells a chance to make money, he’ll be on to it.”

The time passed quickly and by ten minutes to eleven they had announced themselves using their own names and were sitting in reception.

At ten minutes past eleven the receptionist picked up her phone, stood and said, “Sir Charles will see you now”

Chris paused; “Sir Charles?”

“Yes, he received a knighthood in the birthday honours, isn’t it splendid?”

The receptionist announced them, and Mary thought that Charles looked momentarily discommoded, but soon recovered; “Christine, how nice to see you, how are the children?” he gushed.

“How is Lady Bailey?” Chris couldn’t resist that small dig.  “The children are managing, but they’d be a lot happier if they had a father!”

“I’m not sure that I should be in the same room as Mrs Brooke, much less talking with her whilst the case against her husband is sub-judice”.

“It’s actually that that we would like to discuss,” said Chris.

“For the very same reason I don’t think that it would be ethical to discuss the case with anyone, especially people who are not themselves actually involved in the prosecution.  Perhaps you’d like to call my solicitor, I’m sure that he could answer any question you might have about the case”

“Thanks, but I doubt that your solicitor could help.

Again, for a moment Charles seemed to lose his tongue and started to arrange the pens on his desk.

Chris continued: “Charles I am at a complete loss as to why you should show such antagonism and choose to persecute James Brooke who had done nothing but good toward me and your children”

“But there is the other side of the coin of which you are clearly unaware or which you chose to ignore; and it is essential that I act in the interest of my son, who seems to have become beguiled by Brooke and his largesse.  It is surely self-evident that no man would spend so much time, energy and indeed money on a boy, not of his family, unless he was expecting, or is receiving something in return.  It would be naïve to believe otherwise.  I’m sorry Mrs Brooke; I’m not sure why you are here, but that is the plain truth.

“God Charles, are you so blind or so vindictive that you chose to disbelieve the word of your own son – the son about whom you say you care so much – yet whose life you are about to ruin.  Because as sure as God made little apples, if you continue with this pointless charade, you will lose him.  Lose him for good.  Irretrievably.”

“Oh, come Christine, you exaggerate, surely you must see that I do this for Timothy’s own good, for the good of him and perhaps other boys.  He is bright enough to understand this and one day he will thank me…”

The pompous ass, thought Chris, was he so out of touch that he couldn’t see what was before his very nose.  She realised that she had be very careful and not antagonise him, angry though she was.  “Look Charles, I can see that you’ve made up your mind about this, but I ask you to look again at the evidence, to rationally consider the word of Tim, and others, as to the propriety of his relationship with James Brooke.  Please just do that for me.”

“Christine I can see that you are under a misapprehension, it is not I who seeks to prosecute Brooke, but the Crown based on a stack of evidence.”

Chris saw that there was no swaying him, “Sir Charles, don’t tell me that with all your influential friends that a word in the right place couldn’t make all this go away.”

Mary realised that she had stood by and not said a word.  “Sir Charles, if I may.  As you probably know I am a case worker with DSS – although as the result of all this it looks as if I may lose my job – and it was I who asked my husband to take an interest in Timothy.  I could see that Tim was disturbed by what he saw as a rejection by you and when he returned to his mother his behaviour deteriorated to such an extent that it demanded drastic measures…”

“Mrs Brooke, I have not and will not ever reject my son…”

“So you say Sir Charles but try to see it from the point of view of a 13-year-old who loved and needed his father.  That aside, my husband was reluctant to become involved because he saw it as unethical that I should involve him with a client.  In fact, he took a lot of persuading.  James and I have been married for almost 25 years; we have three children, two sons and a daughter.  We have always been close, I know him very well and if there had ever been any been any signs of an interest in boys for other than pure altruistic reasons, then I think I would have known about it.  I would ask you to consider the likely effect on our family if this matter proceeds, even if James is found innocent, and the effect on Tim, Christine and your daughters.”

“Mrs Brooke, as I have already explained, the matter is completely out of my hands and, if as you say, Mr Brooke is innocent then no harm will have been done.”

Both Chris and Mary started to respond, and Mary indicated that Chris should go ahead; “Ha! You say that no harm will have been done – how little you know your son…”

“Look, my next appointment is about due and so I would ask you to excuse me.  Frankly I see no point continuing this conversation because as I’ve explained the whole thing is now beyond my control.  Good day to you both”

Chris gave the door a good slam and said, “I’m really sorry Mary, I hadn’t realised what a bastard I had married, he is completely beyond reason,

The receptionist kept her eyes down and showed no reaction.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Lined with carved and polished mahogany up to the high Georgian windows, the court was not spacious and felt cramped. On the first day of the trial the public gallery was full with some overflow standing to the rear. The press was present in force, including some cameras from national television. At the bar were bewigged gentlemen of the legal profession, the prosecution and defence, chatting amicably together.

When Christine and Tim arrived at the court on the first day of the trial, they learned that Tim would be called as the first witness for the prosecution.  He was called shortly before 11.00am and took his place in the witness box and plainly made an impression on those in the court.  The clerk held out a bible and Tim said, “I prefer to affirm”.

One of the lawyers at the bar of the court rose and addressed the bench, “May it please your Lordship, I am George Lowell, counsel for the Crown in this matter”.

“Very well Mr Lowell, are you ready to proceed?”

“I am my Lord”

Lowell turned to Tim and said, “Please state your full name, and age for the court”.  Tim did so in a strong clear voice.

Lowell went on; “Do you see the accused in the court”

“No”

“Let me put it another way; do you recognise the person standing in the dock?”

“Doctor James Brooke”

“Will you please explain to the court your relationship with the accused?”

“He is my friend”

“Wouldn’t you say that he is more than a friend?”

“I don’t understand the question; how can anyone be more than a friend – he’s either a friend or he’s not a friend.”

“Quiet.  But it is clearly understood that it is possible for a friend to be more than a friend – a lover for instance is more than a friend.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so and I want to suggest to you that you enjoyed a loving relationship with James Brooke.”

“James and Mary Brooke have been so kind to me that I suppose they must have grown to love me.  I certainly love them as much as I do my own family, my mother and my sisters.”

Lowell realised that this boy was not as naïve or pliable as he had been led to believe.  “Would it be true to say that your friendship with James Brooke had a sexual element?”

“Well, I can’t speak for Doctor Brooke, but as far as I am concerned, our relationship is one of friendship – nothing more.”

“You are saying that nothing of a sexual nature happened between James Brooke and you.”

“You got it in one…”  There was a snigger of muted laughter from the public gallery.  “Order” the judge tapped his gavel.

Lowell leaned over the desk and picked up some paper.  “Now I want you to take a look at these photographs and tell the court what you see.”

Tim could see that they were copies of the photographs that James had taken of him and the two Samburu herd boys at Buffalo Springs in Kenya.  “Well, wouldn’t it be better to show the pictures to the court rather than have me try to describe them?”

The judge interjected; “Please do as counsel asks.”

Tim sensed that he had gone too far in his effort to ridicule the prosecution.  “They are pictures of me and two Samburu boys that James took whilst we were on safari in Kenya.”

“Right, is there anything unusual about the photographs?”

“Not that I can see – they’re just holiday snaps of me and the two boys who we met at the springs.”

“Come Mr Bailey, are you telling the court that there is nothing unusual about the snaps?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m telling the court, I don’t see anything unusual in them.”

“Well, let me put it to you another way, do you usually cavort with other boys whilst you are all in a state of nudity?”

“No, but I still don’t see anything unusual in the pictures.”

“Who took the pictures?”

“James took them.”

“Was it his idea?”

“No, as a matter of fact he didn’t want to take them at all, but I persuaded him do it as a bit of fun.”

“Fun? Were you not worried that people might see them when you returned home?”

“Worried, why?”

“Well, is it not usual to put pictures depicting nudity in the family album, is it?”

“They’re not in the family album and anyway that leads me to wonder how you got copies of them.”

“Does James Brooke have copies of these photographs?”

“I don’t know; I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know.”

“No, I don’t.  I do recall that after we returned to England there was some discussion between my mother and James as to whether the pictures should appear in the safari album.”

“And?”

“Well, I persuaded them that the pictures should be in my safari album.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I thought about it and felt that the pictures were taken in a lighthearted way, a holiday moment, and that it was right that they should appear along with other pictures taken on the trip.  Not to include them could suggest that we had something to hide.  So, I persuaded my mother and James that they should be included.”

“You could have destroyed the pictures and the negatives and solved the problem.

“Problem? Who said that the pictures were a problem?

“Well, you said that you had to think about their inclusion which tends to signify a problem” suggested Howell.

“No, it’s usual to sort photographs before including them in an album, nothing more, and it was never a problem.  In fact, if there is a problem then I suggest that it lies in the mind of people looking at the pictures – honi soit qui mal y pense.” There was a rumble of amusement in the public gallery–his Lordship glared at the offenders and there was silence.

“You may proceed Mr Lowell” thank you to you

“I would crave your indulgence my Lord whilst I consult with my learned colleagues”

“Very well, perhaps now would be a good time to adjourn for lunch, the court will reconvene at 2 o’clock.

Just before 2.00pm Tim again took his place in the witness box, the jury entered and were seated.  “All rise” and the judge took his place on the bench.

“Are you ready to proceed Mr Lowell?”

“Indeed, my Lord and the prosecution would seek your consent to declare Timothy Bailey a hostile witness.”

“You are aware of the consequences of this application?

“Indeed, my Lord”

“Members of the jury, it seems that the prosecution has concluded that the evidence adduced from this witness does not materially assist, indeed may detract, from the case they seek to present and have determined that he should be declared a hostile witness, in other words, that his evidence tends to be inimical to their case.  You, of course, will draw your own conclusions but it may be that the witness is telling the truth, that there is nothing more between the witness and the accused than friendship.”

The judge turned to Sir Thomas Bartlett; “You wish to cross examine Sir Thomas”

“Indeed, my Lord”

“Please proceed”

“Timothy Bailey, I would remind you that you are under oath”

Tim nodded; “I understand sir”

“I heard you say that you had never had any sexual relations with the defendant, Dr James Brooke.  You stand by that statement?”

“Yes sir, absolutely”

“What is your present age?

“I’ll be seventeen in three months’ sir”

“Will you then please confirm to the court that you have never, ever, indulged in any homosexual activity with any other person.”

The court room was hushed; one could have heard the proverbial pin drop.

“Sir Thomas waited; “Well Timothy?”

Tim looked uncomfortable, but reminded himself that he was under oath; “I can’t confirm that sir”

“You mean that you have indulged in homosexual activity?”

“Yes sir.”

“…and can you say with whom you have engaged in such activity?”

Mr Lowell leapt to his feet; “Objection my Lord, irrelevant…”

The judge paused, “I’m not sure that you haven’t forfeited your right to object to any evidence forthcoming from this witness Mr Lowell.  However, Sir Thomas, you’ve made your point and I’m not sure that an answer to that question would add anything.  Objection sustained.

“Very good my Lord, I have no further questions.” Said Sir Thomas.

Then in quick succession, the court heard from one Daniel Boniface Karioki wa Njau, a room staff supervisor at the Norfolk Hotel in Nairobi and Ali Isaak, a servant at the Mawingo Hotel near Nanyuki.  Both confirmed that James Brooke and Tim Bailey had stayed in their respective hotels and, under questioning, that they had each had separate rooms.  Karioki wa Njau said that he knew and recognised James Brooke because he had stayed at the Norfolk several times in the past few years.  Direct and almost leading questioning notwithstanding, neither would say that they had witnessed anything unusual or untoward.  Lowell persisted with each witness in turn, edging around the issue, rephrasing questions, posing questions that all but hinted at what he wanted to hear.  To such an extent that he was in danger of being accused of hectoring his own witnesses.

Finally, after almost a half hour with Ali Isaak, the judge intervened; “I think that you have gone as far as you can with that line of questioning Mr Lowell, do you have any other questions?”

“No, my Lord”

The judge turned to the jury; “I believe that in assessing the evidence that you have heard from these two African witnesses, you must take into account the fact that English is a second language for both of them and that this court is indeed an alien environment.  I commend the dignity and demeanour of the witnesses.

“Mr Lowell, shall we proceed.”

“Indeed, my Lord.  The Crown calls Leslie Pierce.”

Les appeared as a caricature of a country gentleman, all mismatched tweed, a loud tie, black shoes and he remembered to remove his cap as he walked to the witness box. He grinned as he glanced around the court and clearly enjoyed being the centre of attention. Leslie Pierce was sworn and told the court that he was yard foreman at The Old Boatyard at Horning in Norfolk.

Lowell rose and addressed the witness; “Now Mr Pierce do you recall a booking made by a Mr Brooke in May last year?”

“That I do sir.”

“…and do you see Mr Brooke in the court?”

“I do sir, that’s ‘im over there.”

“Will you point to the person you identified.”

Pierce pointed to James Brooke. “You’re certain about this?”

“That I am sir.”

“Now to the best of your recollection will you tell the court what happened at the boat yard on that day?”

“Well, the boat were booked fer 10 o’clock Sunday but ‘e turned up with a couple ‘o young ‘uns on the Saturday afore the boat were ready and said ‘e wanted to take ‘er away then. Well, I tell him that it weren’t up to me but ‘e carried on so, and I were on me own, the boss being away like, that in the end I let ‘er go. I were a bit worried cos Harmony, the boat, she were two berth and there were three of ‘em, but Brooke ‘e said as how they’d manage.”

Finally, Mr Pierce, do you recall anything about this hire, anything that struck you as odd?”

“Well, come to think about it, they did seem a bit odd – nothing to do with me like – but I did wonder if they be poufs.”

“Thank you, Mr Pierce. Nothing further my Lord.”

Sir Thomas, do you have any cross examination?”

“Indeed, my Lord, I do have some questions.

“Please proceed.”

“Mr Pierce, how long have you worked at the boat yard?

“I reckon ’bout ten years.”

“…and before that?”

“I were skipper of a wherry hauling rushes down t’ Yarmouth.”

“Why did you leave that employ?”

“I ‘ad the offer ‘o this “ere job wi’ better pay.”

“Were there no other reasons.”

“Not as I recollect”

“Was there not a question of a loss of a boat and its cargo”

“Aye, there was some such.”

“Would it not be true to say that the boat hit a bridge buttress and sank whilst you were incapacitated by alcohol”

“Well, that weren’t me, that were the boy who were steering and misjudged the tide.”

“Where were you at that time?”

“Well, I were in the cubby resting up a bit.”

“Now, returning to the day of the hire of the boat Harmony at Horning, did you receive a gratuity from Mr Brooke?

Pierce looked blank; “I don’t understand sir.”

“Gratuity, payment, did you personally receive an amount of money from Mr Brooke?”

‘No sir, that were all done by the office, I don’t ‘andle no money.”

“Yes, that would be the hire fee, but did you yourself not receive a tip from Mr Brooke.”

“Ah, a tip, yeah, the gentleman did leave me a tip for services.

“Now Mr Pierce I want you to look at this register of boat bookings for the day in questions–what name do you see against the Harmony booking?”

Pierce by now had lost some of his cockiness and looked around as if he was expecting some help. “Well Mr Pierce, what do you see?”

“I see the fella what took her away were Rupert Brooke.”

“Is there any mention of my client, Mr James Brooke?”

“Not that I can see sir.”

“So, who took the boat?”

“I can’t rightly say sir, the gentleman said that ‘e were Mr Brooke and I left it at that.”

“You didn’t make a jest about a poet called Rupert Brooke?”

‘No, I never ‘eard of ‘im.”

“Mr Pierce you said that you thought that the men who hired Harmony could be poufs. On what do you base that perception?”

“Oi don’t quoite unnerstand sir”

“You might rephrase the question Sir Thomas” suggested the judge.

“Thank you, my Lord. What made you say that you thought that the men hiring the boat might be poufs?”

“Ah, well I was in the Andrew weren’t I” he said, glancing around with a grin.

The judge frowned; “The Andrew, Sir Thomas?”

“An alternative name for the Royal Navy my Lord, a nickname if you will.

Lowell rose; “I have no further questions for this witness, but the Crown would now like to call Doctor Lawrence Babcock.”

After Babcock was sworn and had stated his name and profession as a doctor specialising in paediatrics, Lowell asked him if he had examined Timothy Michael Bailey for signs of sexual activity, specifically of a homosexual nature.

Babcock said that the examination had taken place some six months ago under a court order. The examination took place at his rooms and that the patient had been hostile and uncooperative throughout the proceedings.

“…and will you tell the court the results of the examination”

“I saw a youth of sixteen years, well-nourished and in excellent physical condition in the late stages of puberty.  As would be expected, there were no external signs of sexual activity.  However, an examination of the anus and lower gastrointestinal tract, made under considerable protest from the patient, revealed a number of small, but well healed lesions, that could only have been caused by the insertion of a large foreign object of some diameter.”

“Are you able to say what such a ‘large foreign object’ might be?”

“No, that is not possible, one can only say with certainty that the observed lesions were not caused by the normal, natural excretory processes to which the alimentary canal is well adapted and not likely to suffer damage.”

“Thank you, Doctor Babcock. I have no further questions my Lord.”

“Sir Thomas, do you have any cross examination?”

“I do my Lord.”

“Doctor Babcock, are you able to say that in your experience that the damage you found, the lesions, on the walls of the interior of the rectum were caused by sexual activity.”

“Although that is a possibility, it is not possible to categorically say that that is the cause in this case.”

Sir Thomas paused and glanced down at his notes; “Doctor Babcock you earlier said that the lesions you saw were almost certainly caused by the insertion of a foreign object into the rectum. Is reference to a foreign object a matter of medical fact, or merely your opinion, in other words, could not the damage you saw have been caused by natural, internal processes?

“I suppose it could be said that I voiced an opinion, but such opinion is based upon almost thirty years of clinical practise and, as I said before, that part of the anatomy is well adapted to the natural function, and it is most unlikely that the simple act of excretion could have caused the damage.”

“Unlikely, Doctor Babcock, so you cannot say with certainty that the lesions were not caused by natural processes.”

“No”

The court adjourned and the following morning the prosecution rested its case.

The judge turned to Sir Thomas Bartlett; “Sir Thomas does the defence wish to call any witnesses?”

“We do my Lord. The defence calls Doctor James Brooke.” This statement brought a wave of expectation and low mumbling around the court, enough for the judge to tap his gavel a couple of taps.

James entered the witness box, was sworn and gave his full name and occupation. “I hold a doctorate in electrical engineering and own a company which designs, builds and installs self-contained telecommunication stations for use in remote locations.”

Sir Thomas put down his notes and turning to James said, “Doctor Brooke, will you please tell the court when and how you met Timothy Bailey?”

“My wife is a social worker in Cambridge and about three years ago she mentioned a family, a mother and three children, who had been left struggling after the departure of the husband and father.  She was particularly worried about the boy who, at thirteen years, was angry and proving difficult for his mother to manage.  She was impressed by the boy who she found intelligent and likeable but felt that as well as his anger at the departure of the father he was not being challenged by the school he was then obliged to attend.  I did question the ethics of discussing one of her clients and pointed out that I didn’t really have enough free time to become involved.  But, in a way my meeting the family was fait accompli because Mary, my wife, had invited them to tea that same afternoon.”

“…and what was your assessment of the boy on meeting him?”

“I must confess that by the end of the afternoon I had reached the same conclusion as my wife, that the boy was not only handsome, but bright and intelligent.”

“On what did you base this quick assessment?”

“For many years I have kept a hobby workshop at home in which in my spare time – although I don’t have a lot of that these days – I built rather sophisticated radio-controlled model aeroplanes. When I took Tim to see the workshop I was impressed by his attention, searching questions and his quick grasp of the fundamentals.  This led to a promise to take him to the club flying site and teach him how to fly a model.”

“…and you did this?”

“Oh yes and within weeks he was competently flying a trainer model. Like most boys of that age, if they are interested, they are quick learners. He then started some model building projects of his own.”

“After that you saw a lot of the boy?”

“Yes, I saw Tim fairly regularly, especially at weekends and, when I was satisfied that he was responsible, I let him have a key to the workshop so that he could work on his building projects in my absence.”

“At some point you decided to assist with his education?”

“I sensed that Tim had potential, but from what he told me the school which he had been obliged to attend because of the family’s straightened circumstances, offered him little and certainly was not challenging him in the least.  I talked with his mother, made some enquiries and finally enrolled him in a local public school which has an excellent reputation.  After just two terms his scholastic performance and behaviour at home improved out of recognition.”

“This would have been a costly decision which, presumably, fell on you.”

“Yes and no. I set up a trust in the Bailey family name, the trust made some investments which should see him and his siblings through at least to the end of their education.”

“At the centre of his father’s complaint was the trip to Kenya which he claims was unauthorised.  Will you tell the court how this came about?”

“My company is under contract to the Kenya Government, and this calls for not infrequent visits to deal with progress and meet my staff.  As that visit coincided with Tim’s school holidays, I felt that he would benefit from joining me on the trip.  I naturally had the agreement of Christine Bailey, his mother, my wife checked with her office, and I talked with my lawyer who assured me that since the boy was in the formal custody of his mother there would be no need to consult his father.”

“…You didn’t see any necessity to clear the trip with him?”

“At that time, I hadn’t met Charles Bailey and to tell the truth, after all that I had heard about him and his attitude toward his family and Tim in particular, I was relieved that I did not have to involve him.  I felt that in all probability he was likely to be obstructive.”

“…isn’t that a little harsh?”

“Perhaps, but by this time Tim was so excited about the trip that I was reluctant to do anything that might impede or prevent the holiday.”

“…But the trip was not all business.”

“No, my business of course took up some time, but we managed a visit to the Masai Mara, the coast and to Mount Kenya.

“…It was during the latter that the photograph was taken that is at the heart of Sir Charles Bailey’s complaint.”

“Yes, it was taken in Buffalo Springs National Park where we stopped for a swim in the pools.”

“You heard Timothy Bailey’s explanation for the photographs, may we assume that you agree with his account?”

“Yes, it was all perfectly innocent and really nothing more than a prank.”

“Finally, Doctor Brooke, are you able to tell the court that there is absolutely no substance to the allegations that your relationship with Timothy Bailey was anything more than a close friendship?”

“I am happily married, have three children of my own and would never entertain or do anything that would harm them or Tim in any way whatsoever.”

“Thank you, Doctor Brooke.”

The judge turned to the prosecution; “Mr Lowell I expect that you have some questions for the witness, but I think we will now adjourn and return at 10am tomorrow.” He then rose and left the court.

The following morning after the formalities and James had resumed his placer in the witness box, Mr Lowell rose to cross examine.

“Doctor Brooke in addition to the activities which you have outlined to the court, did you not also teach Timothy Bailey to pilot an aeroplane?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What would you estimate to be the cost of all this largesse, sundry gifts to the Bailey family, workshop materials, school fees, the Kenya trip and lastly, the cost of keeping and using the aeroplane?”

“I have never counted the cost.”

‘But you must have some idea, a rough estimate?”

“If these were business expenses I could give you the total to nearest penny, but for my private funds I’m accountable only to the Inland Revenue Department.”

“Right, let’s make an educated guess, twenty thousand, thirty thousand, or more…”

“As I’ve told you, I don’t know.”

“On the face of it, you’ve spent an enormous sum on a boy and his family who are not blood relatives, but as you put it, just good friends. Why?”

“Because I saw a need and it gives me and my wife pleasure to help them.”

“Ah yes, pleasure. Would it be going too far to ask what kind of pleasure you derive from this association?”

“Yes, it would, and as Tim so elegantly put it; ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense’ “

“I have no further question my Lord.”

“Thank you, Mr Lowell. We will hear closing statements from the prosecution and the defence tomorrow morning.” The judge rose and left the court.

The following morning the closing statements were soon dispatched.

The prosecution asked the jury to look at the facts dispassionately and to consider why a man would offer so much to a boy if he was not if he was not receiving something in return. Consider the evidence in total, disregard isolated items and take the evidence as a whole and draw the only possible conclusion.

Sir Thomas Bartlett for the defence; challenged the jury to find one shred of evidence that conclusively showed that the relationship between his client and Timothy Bailey was anything other than an honest friendship. He reminded them that to draw any other conclusion, then the evidence must show proof beyond all reasonable doubt and, based upon what the court had heard, this was simply not possible.

The judge summed up and enjoined the jury to base their verdict upon what they had heard in the court, to set aside personal perspectives, prejudice or bias, and to disregard media chatter. The jury retired.

Shortly after 5.00pm the court reassembled, and the jury returned. The clerk asked the foreman to stand and asked if the jury had reached a verdict.

The foreman, looking a little nervous, faced the judge and said “We have my Lord. The jury finds the accused, James Michael Brooke guilty on all counts.”

There was uproar in the court with people, for and against, shouting from the public gallery, the press rushed for the exit, moving the judge to rap his gavel and the noise died. At that moment a voice, later identified as that of Tim Bailey, shouted “No, it is untrue, it’s all lies!”

Sir Thomas Bartlett rose and addressed the judge; “My Lord the defence seeks leave to appeal the verdict and asks for bail for the accused.”

“Very well Sir Thomas, you have thirty days in which to lodge an appeal. In the meantime, the prisoner will remain in custody.”

The same evening Tom Bradley met John Brown to discuss the case. Both had difficulty in coming to grips with the outcome of the trial.

“It’s incomprehensible that the jury could have found anything in that evidence to justify the verdict. Sir Thomas was incensed and asked for a meeting with the judge in chambers, but I gather that he didn’t get very far, and his Lordship opined that the verdict stood a very good chance of being overturned on appeal. It almost makes you wonder if the jury could have been got at,” said Tom.

“I doubt that, it would be necessary to suborn the whole jury, and I don’t think that would be easy, or even likely to succeed.  More likely I should think that one or two members of the jury argued from a position of bias or prejudice and were able to persuade the others to go along. We shall never know.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Six weeks had passed since the verdict and James tried to stay positive, he was buoyed by the recent visit of Tom and John and their news on the possibility of exposing Charles Bailey but was becoming impatient for some action. Another two weeks elapsed before he had an encrypted email from Tom saying that the proposed file had been delivered to the Home Office, the Director of Public Prosecutions and to Tom’s office. They were all holding their breath. If there was no response, then these files would be followed in seven days by identical dossiers to two selected newspapers. Tom added that they had considered sending files to radio and television, but on balance had concluded that this might be unnecessary overkill.

A couple of weeks later James was in his cell working on the notes he had been writing covering the period since he met Tim Bailey and wondering if the story might make a book, when the duty officer appeared at the door. “You’d better get your bags packed Brooke. It looks as if you’ll soon be out of here.”

James managed to look puzzled; “Why what happened.”

“Well from I see in today’s Mirror, your lawyer has managed to get to the bottom of the nonsense that put you in here.”

James maintained his inscrutable demeanour; “What are the chances of seeing the paper?”

“I don’t see why not because it looks as if you’ll get immediate bail, but I’ll have to check with the block officer.”

He returned after a few minutes with a bundle of papers, the Mirror and several others, among them the Telegraph which James opened.  The headline said it all; “Tycoon Faces the Music”. Below there was a photograph of Charles Bailey and a list of charges including making a false complaint, perverting the course of justice, interfering with witnesses and went on to say that more serious charges were likely to follow.

The duty officer put his head around the door again; “Oh, by the way, you’re to see the Governor at 11.00am.  It looks as if you’re sprung because I’m to tell you to take all your worldly goods with you.”

James went through all the papers which all said more or less the same thing, that incontrovertible evidence contained in a mysterious dossier delivered to the authorities, had led to the arrest of Charles Bailey on a range of charges. Based on the evidence in the dossier, the High Court automatically quashed the conviction on all counts. There had been some speculation on the source of the dossier, but all the evidence had been corroborated when police seized and examined Bailey’s computer. It was noted that James Brooke was a computer expert, but he was ruled out as the source because he was in prison. Another opined that Brooke would probably have a civil case for damages against Bailey, the police and maybe the Home Office. Elsewhere legal experts commented on apparent flaws in the justice system.  Questions were being asked as to the part played by officers of the Mid-Anglia Constabulary in the arrest and conviction.

At the block gate James turned, put out his hand and said, “Thank you Mr Canning for all the many kindnesses you’ve shown me over the past weeks.”

Canning took the hand with a grin; “It was a pleasure sir, and good luck.”

James was not surprised to find Tom Bradley in the Governor’s office. “Well, what a turn up Tom, how in God’s name did you do it?”

“Smoke and mirrors James, but seriously does it matter, you’re out and vindicated, your reputation restored”

The Governor interjected; “If I may gentlemen; Doctor Brooke as you will by now have gathered your convictions have been quashed and you are to be released immediately. Your property is in the anteroom and if you will please check it, change, and sign this form, you are free to go.”

Whilst James was recovering his gear, Tom Bradley chatted with the Governor.  “Mr Bradley this is all quite extraordinary, I don’t remember similar case in all my years with the service. Do the police know where the mysterious dossier came from?”

“The last I heard, they have no idea and, in a way, perhaps that’s just as well.” The Governor gave Tom a look which said – you know more about it than you are letting on. However, he let it go, none of his business.

James returned, handing the signed receipt to the Governor and feeling strange in a collar and tie. He was surprised that his clothes had been washed or cleaned and ironed.

“Well,” said Tom, “shall we go?”

The governor held out his hand to James; “Doctor Brooke, I’m glad that things have turned out this way, I was always uneasy about that conviction and if ever I can be of help with accommodation in the future, just let me know. Good luck.”

James took his hand and said with a smile; “Thank you for your many kindnesses, sir, but I think that in the future I’ll try to be a little more selective in my accommodation.”

Tom took it easy driving to the Brooke home where James expected to find all the family. He wondered if the Bailey family would be there too. Mary met him at the door with a big hug and led him into the lounge where contrary to all his expectations the gathering resembled a wake.

Puzzled, James asked what was going on, he had expected champagne, balloons and lights, but found a subdued air. He noted that none of the Bailey family were there.

Tom Bradley stood by Mary and said, ” James, perhaps I should explain, please sit down.”  Now James was becoming alarmed as it was increasingly clear that all was not well.

Tom hesitated and then said; “James, Tim is in hospital recovering from a drug overdose…”

“An overdose, what do you mean, what drug?”

“James, he tried to kill himself believing that all that had happened to you was his fault. He left a note, in fact several notes, which made clear his intention.”

James sat down heavily, “But that’s absurd, did no one tell him that it has all been big mistake, that I was being freed?”

“I’m afraid not, John and I felt that it would be better to keep everything under wraps until we were certain that your conviction would be quashed and that you would be released.  We had no idea that things were anything but normal with Tim.”

“Right, but what happened, is he alright, I mean will he recover?”

Tom felt that it would be best to let James have the full story.  “He is in Addenbrookes hospital, and the doctors are pretty confident that he will make a full recovery, but it was touch and go for a bit.  He broke into his father’s Cambridge office two nights ago, where he took the drugs.  It was lucky that the cleaners arrived early and found him, comatose on the floor.  He was rushed to emergency where they said that another hour and it would have been too late.”

“My god. Charles Bailey, you have a lot to answer for…”

“Tim left a note for his father, one for his mother, and one for you.” Explained Tom

“Okay, but can we see him?” said James anxiously.

“His mother was in touch this morning and said that he is doing well, but that the doctors felt that given the trauma that he has put himself through, he should have a few days of rest and quiet.  She thinks that he may be discharged by midweek.”

“Poor kid, what he must have gone through, all because of his father’s ambition, desire for vengeance, and a warped sense of right and wrong.  Judging by what I read in the newspapers he has put himself in an unenviable position and will certainly have to pay for it.  It seems there is such a thing as justice after all.  Anyway, I think I’ve earned a drink, who will join me?

Eight weeks later found the Brooke and Bailey family at Heathrow airport about to fly out to the south of France.  At the last minute, they were joined by John Brown and Spyro.  James had rented a house on a quiet part of the Languedoc coast where the party would stay for four weeks.

The families had largely been able to put behind them the events of the past year and life had in general return to normal.  Tim seemed to have returned to his old self and quite deliberately no one mentioned his suicide attempt.  Nonetheless, James felt that something had gone out of their relationship although he could not put his finger on any particular cause.  It could be the events surrounding his father’s machinations, maybe now that Tim was 17, he was becoming his own man.  Whatever, James had resolved that he would always be there for him and indeed the whole Bailey family.

After much thought and long discussion with Tom Bradley and John Brown, James had decided that he would not pursue civil suits against the Crown or the East Anglia Constabulary for wrongful conviction and imprisonment.  He reasoned that the Crown had acted only upon the evidence presented to them and that the fault must lie with the police.  On the police, he was divided, on one hand senior officers had unremittingly pursued a case against him, and on the other hand were it not for several junior officers he would not be free today.

Charles Bailey had entered pleas of guilty on all counts and was now serving the first of 11 years’ imprisonment.  There were rumours that his knighthood would be revoked.  His business, which had grown to a not inconsiderable size, had been sold for an undisclosed sum.

Chris Bailey had told Mary and James in confidence that as a result of the settlement she was well set up for the rest of her life.  A large sum had been placed in trust for the three children each of them receiving a more than adequate sum at regular intervals.  Sir Charles “bimbo” continued to live in some style.