Isaac phoned Jill Dundas, made an appointment to meet with her later that day. Meanwhile, Larry Hill and Wendy Gladstone were getting acquainted with London’s very own anarchists. Not that Wendy, a committed socialist, had any problems with people who wanted a better deal for themselves, but violence and extremism did not sit well with her. Larry had formed his opinion the moment they drew up alongside the ramshackle lockup garage, pre-war by the look of it, with its two wooden doors literally falling off their hinges. Outside on the street, four men stood. One was tall, and academic in appearance. ‘All he needs is a soapbox and a spot down at Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park,’ Larry said.
Wendy switched off the car engine and looked to where Larry had been pointing. She could see what he was talking about. The academic, judging by his corduroy jacket and his faded jeans, had the other three assembled around him. He was making a speech.
‘The workers need us, and they need us now. For too long they have been downtrodden and made to feel the boots of the capitalist overlords on their backsides. That will change when we take control. When we ensure the distribution of the wealth amongst the people. I live for that day, and so must you.’
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Wendy said, although she wasn’t concerned if they were upset. A check on the Anarchist Revolutionaries of England website had identified the academic as Professor Giles Helmsley, faculty member of the London School of Economics until he staged a demonstration inside the main building complaining about the disparity in salaries between the teaching faculty and those working in administration. Once evicted from the LSE – Bridget had done the research – he had drifted from organisation to organisation, demonstration to demonstration, until he had founded the ARE.
‘A smart man, once,’ Larry said.
‘Disturbed,’ Wendy said.
Helmsley had taken no notice of her the first time. ‘Mr Helmsley, a moment of your time,’ Wendy shouted again.
Helmsley, temporarily interrupted, looked Wendy straight in the eye. ‘The filth, I suppose,’ he said to his audience of three.
‘If, by that, you mean a police officer charged with protecting you and every other ratbag from themselves and others, then I am. Sergeant Wendy Gladstone. A few minutes of your time, if you please.’
‘We do not recognise your right to be here. We have dispensed with the need for the capitalist lackeys.’
‘No doubt you haven’t dispensed with their fortnightly handouts of money for the unemployed, the vacuous, and the just plain stupid. And a public footpath is open to all people, even the police.’
‘Is that an insult? If it is, I will be forced to take action.’
‘What? Sue me? Threaten me with violence?’
‘I will defend my rights as a citizen of this country. Neither you nor anyone else has a right to criticise me or take action against me.’
‘Freedom of the masses, is that it?’
‘If you understood our manifesto, you would agree.’
Helmsley, realising that he had met his match, turned away from the three converts and came over to where Wendy and Larry stood.
‘What do you want? I’ve not broken any law,’ Helmsley said.
‘We’re not saying you have,’ Wendy said. ‘We need to find Michael Lawrence.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He’s on your website. Five feet eight inches, dark hair, spikey. He’s got a tattoo on his arm of an eagle.’
‘I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.’
‘That’s fine,’ Larry said as he took out his phone. ‘16 Grantly Street, Putney. A lockup garage, currently occupied by the Anarchist Revolutionaries of England. Check it for class A and B drugs, weapons, subversive literature, incitement to riot. You know the drill.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Helmsley said.
‘Do you want me to cancel it? It’s up to you.’
‘Okay, I know him. One of our most fervent.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
Larry reached for his phone again.
‘Very well. 246 Hazelmere Road. It’s a five-minute walk from here. He shares with some of the other comrades.’
‘You’ve been there?’
‘Not me. I’ve got a place not far from here.’
‘No doubt you share it with your fellow revolutionaries.’
‘I do my bit.’
‘And what bit is that? The bit where you incite them to violence? The bit where you take a share of their benefits? Mr Helmsley, you’ve never been arrested, other than for causing a minor affray. Fifty pound fine, is that the limit of your anarchy?’
‘You don’t understand what we are trying to achieve. Some of us need to remain at a distance, to provide leadership and guidance.’
‘And have a good time,’ Wendy said. ‘Is Michael Lawrence having a good time?’
‘He’s into heroin, a hopeless drug addict.’
‘Do you know of his family?’
‘I do.’
‘Did you kill his grandfather? You must have hated what he represents.’
‘One of the elites. I am glad that he is dead, but no, I did not kill him, nor did any of our members.’
‘And what’s going to happen when you succeed?’ Larry said. ‘Tumbrels taking the capitalists to the guillotine? The women sitting there knitting, the men cheering?’
‘It won’t be like that. The people will welcome us, even those who oppose us now.’
‘Mr Helmsley, you’re full of hot air. If we don’t find Michael Lawrence, we’ll be back, and this time, not only to your headquarters but also the house you own. You’re no different from Lenin driving around in a Rolls Royce: just a hypocrite. We’ll meet again, Mr Helmsley, and soon.’
Chapter 8
Ralph Lawrence, free of Challis Street Police Station, realised there were imponderables for which he had no solution. He made two phone calls. The first was to a psychiatrist whom he had known from his school days, an eminent man in his field now.
