Ken McClure - Lost causes

Steven phoned at one thirty and was told that Macmillan was still in theatre. He suggested that Jean go to lunch and waited until she returned before checking again. The operation was over: the surgeons were optimistic that they had managed to remove all the tumour, which had proved to be benign, but only time would tell the extent of collateral damage caused by its excision. For the moment, he was stable and sleeping peacefully.

‘So far so good,’ said Jean, but both were considering what ‘collateral damage’ might mean, without actually mentioning the subject.

Steven went out to get a sandwich and some fresh air while Jean started to make enquiries about Carlisle and French’s university days. She had an answer when he returned.

‘They were at Cambridge at the same time, but at different colleges.’

‘Same course?’

‘No. Carlisle left with a lower second in history; French took a double first in maths and physics.’

‘So they might not have known each other,’ mused Steven.

‘I’m working on that. My source says she’ll call me back in a couple of hours.’

‘Okay. I think I’ll go over to the hospital and see if I can have a word with John’s wife.’

‘She could probably do with a bit of moral support.’

Steven didn’t stay long at the hospital because there was nothing to be done except wait, and that was best left to family. Once he had assured John’s wife that the thoughts of the people at Sci-Med were with her, and had enthused about the fact that the tumour was benign and the surgeons had got all of it out, he left and went back to the flat in Marlborough Court.

Jean phoned as he was making coffee. ‘They did know each other,’ she said. ‘Both were members of the Conservative club throughout their time at Cambridge.’

‘Well done, you. Now we’re getting somewhere.’

‘There’s more. French had a falling out with other members of the club at the start of his final year and left to set up a breakaway faction, taking quite a few of the others with him. My source also seems to think there was some trouble involving the police at a later stage and French appeared in court, but she doesn’t have details. Would you like me to run with it?’

Steven thought for a moment before saying, ‘No, I think I’ll ask Charlie Malloy about that. I wanted to talk to him anyway about the others who died in Paris. Jean, I’ve been thinking. Maybe I would like to have a word with John Carlisle’s wife after all. Do you think you could set that up?’

‘Will do.’

Steven called DCS Malloy.

‘I heard you were back,’ said Malloy. ‘Unfortunate circumstances, though. How is he?’

Steven brought Malloy up to speed on John Macmillan’s condition.

‘Good bloke, your governor.’

‘He is,’ agreed Steven. ‘Charlie, that bloke Charles French who died in Paris, did he have a record?’

‘A record? Well, he was a victim, not a suspect. I’m not even sure if we ran a check once we’d identified him. We probably had no reason to once we’d established he was the millionaire boss of a computing company and a pillar of his local community.’

‘I think he might have got into some trouble when he was a student in Cambridge.’

‘That wasn’t yesterday,’ said Malloy.

‘No, it was a very long time ago,’ agreed Steven. ‘And maybe you could run record checks on the others killed in the blast too?’

‘If you think it necessary…’

‘I’d be obliged, Charlie. I’m clutching at straws here, I admit, but this is John’s thing and if he thought it worth pursuing…’

‘Fair enough. I’ll be in touch.’

The phone rang almost as soon as he put it down. It was Jean asking him if he could meet Melissa Carlisle at her home, Markham House in Kent, at eleven the following morning. ‘She’s going abroad the day after and doesn’t know when she’ll be back,’ Jean explained.

‘Absolutely fine.’

At seven p.m., just as he was beginning to think that it would be the following day before he heard back from CS Malloy, Steven got a call.

‘You were right. French picked up form back in 1975. Apparently he was heavily into politics at university, but fell out with the Conservatives and went on to set up a rival group that went from strength to strength under his leadership. It was their practice to invite various right-wing speakers to their meetings, something that annoyed their fellow students no end. When French and his pals asked along a South African politician not noted for his liberal views on race, the lefties set up a protest rally and succeeded in stopping the meeting. French lost the plot and went after one of the protesters. He laid into him like a man possessed, according to witnesses. The chap ended up losing an eye and French was charged with causing grievous bodily harm.’

‘Not the best start in life for either of them,’ said Steven.

‘French got off with a fine,’ said Malloy.

‘What?’

‘The judge was minded to see what happened as the passions of youth getting a bit out of hand. He saw no good reason to destroy the future career of a brilliant student.’

‘Who was the judge?’ Steven wrote down the name. ‘Anything on the others in Paris?’

‘Pure as the driven snow, unless you count giving large sums of money to the Conservative Party as criminal.’

‘I’m much obliged to you, Charlie.’

Ending the call, Steven looked at the judge’s name on the pad in front of him, the phrase passions of youth running through his head. ‘Seems a bit lenient for the loss of an eye, m’lud,’ he murmured as he turned on his laptop and set up a Google search for his lordship. This revealed that the good judge had not enjoyed a reputation for leniency during his career. On the contrary, he had been renowned for the harshness of his sentencing. One observer had noted that the frustration of not having hanging and flogging among his options had left him with a grudge that he took out on everyone unfortunate enough to be tried before him and found guilty.

‘Then why go easy on French?’ muttered Steven, giving birth to the cynical thought that perhaps his lordship was a Cambridge man himself

… No, that wasn’t the case, Steven learned as he looked through his personal details. The judge had died back in 1988, leaving behind him a wife, Matilda, and a daughter, Antonia, who was married to a surgeon, Sir Martin Freeman. There were no grandchildren.

Steven stared at the screen. The judge who’d let Charles French off with a fine had been Antonia Freeman’s father?

Steven called Tally to talk over the day’s events.

‘I got your text,’ said Tally. ‘It’s good news about the tumour, and that they managed to get all of it.’

Steven agreed. ‘Now it’s a case of waiting to see how much trauma was caused to the surrounding brain tissue.’

‘I take it they’re not hazarding a guess?’

‘You know surgeons.’

‘Mmm.’

He told her what he’d come up with during the day.

‘Sounds like you’re making progress.’

‘Placing Carlisle and French at Cambridge at the same time was a plus,’ he agreed, ‘as was establishing their common interest in right-of-centre politics. Antonia Freeman’s father popping up as the judge who let French off on a GBH charge was a bit of a showstopper, though. I didn’t see that coming.’

‘So, what was going on there, d’you think?’

‘Difficult to say. I’m inclined to think there must have been some good reason for it… something I’ve yet to establish. Something else I’ve yet to establish,’ Steven added.

‘And then French and the judge’s daughter end up being blown to bits in Paris together some twenty years later,’ said Tally. ‘Just where do you go with that?’