Stephanie by Winston Graham
‘Thank you, sir. When will that be?’
‘Oh, I’d expect in a matter of weeks.’
The meeting was over. The stiffness, the sharpness of the examiners had gone, and they rose with a smile to shake his hand. Arun rose also, adjusting his pince-nez, his own tension slower to go. ‘If I should be out of the country would a letter be sent …’
‘Of course. Leave your address with the Graduate Studies Office. Maybe, just to be on the safe side, you could leave a forwarding address at your college too.’
Arun turned and walked out through the high echoing corridors of the Examination Schools. Outside, in the sulky grey sunlight, he allowed himself a breath or two of satisfaction, and walked home. As he went he looked with some interest at the city he was leaving for ever. Although by and large he disliked the people, the colleges appealed to his sense of antiquity, of a useful tradition of culture and learning. He remembered particularly one day he had taken a pretty Indonesian girl on a punt from the Cherwell Boat House to the Victoria Arms and what had followed. He thought of the chiming of Big Tom; and eating in Hall with one or two congenial companions who did not make fun of his precise manners and style of dressing; he thought of his supervisor, Professor Jenkins, of Brasenose, who seemed to have no aversion for Indians. He remembered slights and semi-slights through the three years. Sir Tony Maidment had once said to him: ‘Forget your chip, Arun. There’s no such thing as colour prejudice in this place. It doesn’t exist! It’s all in your subconscious. Look around you! Who the hell cares?’ Being a baronet, he had been listened to without dissent, but Arun could tell him the other side of the story, the sly smirks he had caught, the occasional look of laughter or distaste in some girl’s eyes.
Well, there was one girl who would never show her distaste for him again. A pity. There were others he could have put away with greater satisfaction. Particularly a bitch called Clara, who had gone out with him several times and led him on and then turned him down, pretending she had never meant it that way.
Well, it was all over and done with. He had booked a flight to Paris tomorrow morning. Goodbye, England. There was almost time to catch a train to Birmingham tonight and try to get on the night flight. But that was rushing things.
Near Caxton Street was a garage where he kept his battered elderly Hillman, untouched for three weeks. He went in and paid the owner and told him to sell the car for what he could get. He asked him to post what he got to Professor Jenkins, who would know his address and forward it on.
There was time still to call on Mrs Velayati; but the rent was paid until the end of the quarter, and Mrs Velayati was liable to talk too long. The few sticks of furniture belonging to him would fetch very little; she was welcome to the proceeds to settle electricity and telephone bills.
He walked down his street. The usual accumulation of parked cars. No room outside his own place, of course. The Parretts next door always overlapped into his parking space.
Hungry now. Once he had taken off his cap and gown he would slip round the corner to a mini-market, pick up enough to cook an evening meal. His plane meant leaving Oxford Station at 8.15. He had an alarm clock, but would ask the telephone people to give him a call just to be on the safe side.
He went up the steps of his house, feeling in his pocket for the key. As he did so two youngish middle-aged men in grey sweaters and slacks got out from a car parked opposite. They came up the steps after him.
‘Dr Jiva?’
Arun stared at them, thinking for a moment that they came from the organisation. But something in their manner told him they did not.
‘Yes?’
‘Dr Arun Jiva?’
‘Yes?’
‘We are police officers and we have a warrant for your arrest.’
‘What do you mean? I don’t know what you mean.’
Identity cards were thrust at him and a document which he stared at vaguely, feeling for the first time a sense of insecurity and fear.
‘Dr Arun Jiva,’ the older of the two men said, ‘we’ll have to ask you to accompany us to the police station. We have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of possessing dangerous drugs.’
Chapter Two
I
Nari had spent his time in Oxford Remand Prison in the company of a man accused of burglary and another of child molesting. He did not enjoy their company or like their habits. But on the Thursday he was called out of his cell and told someone wished to see him. He followed the warder to an interview room where two middle-aged men were waiting. They introduced themselves. One was Detective Chief Inspector Hampton of the Thames Police, the second was Deputy Chief Investigation Officer Warren of the National Drugs Intelligence Unit.
‘Prasad,’ said Inspector Hampton after they had sat down, ‘your case is not yet due to come up in court, but I expect you are aware that when it does it will be something of a formality.’
‘Formality?’
‘Well, you are quite an intelligent man. You must know that there can be no adequate defence you can put up to the charge of being in possession of a hundred grams of heroin. The capsules were discharged from your body in the presence of witnesses. It will save time if you plead guilty. It will not save you, of course.’
‘So then – what will happen?’
‘You will go to prison. The maximum sentence is fifteen years.’
Nari blinked. ‘It cannot be that much … I – it was only a small amount.’
‘You are lucky you’re in England,’ said Warren grimly. ‘In many countries in your part of the world the sentence would be death.’
There was silence. Nari fingered the marriage ring on his finger. They had allowed him to keep that. ‘Why are you telling me this? I have said, I know nothing.’
Hampton pushed across a packet of cigarettes. After hesitation Nari took one. A lighter was held to it. He inhaled gratefully.
‘I expect you like American cigarettes,’ said Hampton.
‘Yes …’
‘My wife,’ said Warren to Hampton, ‘prefers Egyptian. Likes the taste better.’
The two men discussed smoking for a few moments while Nari sat and watched them with his sad, liquid brown eyes.
Hampton said: ‘ We look at it this way, Mr Prasad. We think you have been used, maybe against your will, made use of by an organisation that smuggles drugs into this country and distributes them. That right?’
Nari did not reply. He had not shaved yet, and his skin was itching.
Hampton said: ‘ We think you know something; you must do to have come to this pass. But it may not be much. You probably only dealt with underlings. You might be able, if you felt like it, to tell us about the safe house you came to when you arrived in England. You might be able to give us a few names, but they would almost certainly be false. So it isn’t much you have to offer even if you wanted to talk. Right?’
Nari drew at his cigarette.
‘Answer me, please.’
‘I know nothing.’
‘Exactly. So we shall do our best to get you the maximum sentence when you do come up in court. Have you enjoyed your time in the remand prison?’
‘I am innocent. I know nothing.’
‘Fifteen years is a long time. Even with remission you’ll be an old man when you come out. Old, even if you’re still only forty. I know. I’ve seen enough men. And you have to be tough to survive in prison at all. You’re not tough. You’ll crumple and break. I know your sort.’
Nari finished his cigarette in silence.
‘We’ve been talking over your case, Mr Warren and I. He had an idea. He suggested there might be a way out.’
Nari looked at the pack of cigarettes but they were not offered him again. His fingers were unsteady as he screwed out the butt.
‘Want to hear it?’
‘Hear what?’
‘Mr Warren’s suggestion.’
Nari hesitated. ‘If you like.’
Hampton said: ‘We often talk together, Mr Warren and I. We lau
‘Just in a few small things,’ said Warren.
‘These last few days Mr Warren has been taking an interest in your case. He thinks he can see a way out for you. Instead of fifteen years you’d get three months.’
Nari looked from one to the other. It seemed that always now he was being victimised one way or another. Quite clearly these two men were preparing some sort of a trap for him.
‘I don’t understand.’
Warren was the heavier and the older of the two. They both had strong, hard faces, no more to be trusted than Mr Mohamed or Shy am Lai Shastri.
‘I can’t of course promise you anything,’ Warren said. ‘If you plead guilty it will be up to the judge to sentence you. He might give you five years. We can’t stop that. But I could promise to get you out in three months. There are always ways. Mr Hampton knows that as well as I do.’
Hampton smiled and nodded. ‘Let’s say between us we could promise you that.’
‘Top of it all,’ said Warren, ‘we could arrange for you to remain in England, find you a secretarial job; you could apply for naturalisation papers; we’d see that there was no obstacle raised because of a short prison sentence. It can all be done.’
A second cigarette was passed across. Nari lit it himself this time.
‘You say I am an intelligent man. So please say to me what you could possibly expect me to do to receive such treatment.’
‘Let’s have a cup of tea first, shall we,’ said Detective Chief Inspector Hampton.
II
‘This is the arrangement,’ said Hampton agreeably. ‘You will be brought before the magistrates again tomorrow and you’ll be remanded for a further two weeks; but this time you will be released on a bail of one thousand pounds put up by a friend. See?’
Nari frowned doubtfully.
‘On release you will spend the night at a small hotel on the outskirts of Oxford, and on Saturday morning you will take a taxi to a house called Postgate, which is north of Oxford, near Woodstock. When you get there you’ll instruct the taxi to wait, and at the house you will ask to see Sir Peter Brune. Say it is a personal message you wish to deliver. Refuse altogether to give the message to anyone but Sir Peter Brune. When you meet him – and we shall make sure he is at home before you leave Oxford – when you meet him you will ask him five or six questions. That is all. Give him time to reply to each one before you ask the next. But take no other notice of his replies. Just put your five or six questions and then leave as you came.’
Nari stared at the two men, looking for the trickery. ‘Who is this Sir Peter Brown?’
‘Brune. He’s a highly respected philanthropist and millionaire. He cannot molest you, for he will be anxious above all to avoid any hint of scandal. He is expecting to receive an exceptional honour in two weeks’ time, bestowed on him by Oxford University. He cannot refuse to let you return, with a taxi waiting at the door.’
Nari’s stare was unblinking. ‘And then?’
‘Then you’ll continue your stay at the hotel, until at the end of the two weeks you will be granted further periods on remand until the time comes for you to appear at the Crown Court for trial and sentencing. This cannot be avoided and we cannot guarantee the sentence. What we can guarantee, as I say, is that within three months of your being sentenced an excuse will be made to free you.’
At last Nari blinked. ‘ This is all you wish me to do? What are the questions to be?’
‘We’ll tell you that tomorrow, if you agree to put them. Sleep on it and let me know.’
‘How can I sleep on such a possibility? How can I be sure what danger there is for me?’
‘For the reasons we’ve told you. If Sir Peter Brune connived at an illegal act he would be socially disgraced. You can come to no harm.’
‘What have you to gain by this? I do not understand why you can offer so much for what seems to be so little. It cannot be little. It must be of great importance to you – to the police.’
‘Leave that to us,’ said Warren grimly. ‘We know what we’re doing, that’s all that should concern you.’
‘And what will the police be doing while I am visiting this man?’
‘They’ll not be far away. We can promise you that too.’
Nari thought longingly of home. But he was not being offered a way home. Home was what he could not hope to see for ten or twelve years. What he was being offered, it seemed, was a new life in England. It was all too complex. Ever since he borrowed the money from Shyam Lal Shastri he had felt himself to be in the grip of forces too strong and brutal for him. He was being manipulated, first one way and then the other. These two men were persuasive. But who was instructing them?
‘If – if I were to do this – this thing, how can I believe your promises? Who is to say you will keep them?’
It was Hampton who answered.
‘You have probably heard the saying in India, Mr Prasad, that an Englishman’s word is his bond. There are many sad exceptions, but generally speaking it still holds good. I am a chief inspector of the Police, answerable to a superintendent and above him to an assistant deputy commissioner. Mr Warren is a deputy head of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. We cannot put anything in writing but we could not have attained our present positions if we were in the habit of giving undertakings we couldn’t fulfil. We can’t make this offer official, but if you do your part, rely upon it we’ll do ours.’
III
Friday the 8th was the best day of a fine week. Nari stared out of the window of his cell and thought that it was a little bit – just a little bit – like Bombay. Since he came to England the weather, to him, had been constantly cool and cloudy. And unwelcoming. He had not really seen either an English winter or an English summer. During the anxious days he had been here he had been too preoccupied, chiefly with pain, to look at the trees or the burgeoning countryside. Nor had he ever given real thought to what it would be like to start life over again, living in a cold safe country like England. Two years ago he would have leapt at the idea. As a teenager he had not been without ambition. He had done sufficiently well at school to dream of later success. He had felt himself a cut above the others – quicker and smarter even than Shyam Lal Shastri. Shyam had been the bully, the leader, up to most forms of mischief, but not specially bright. Nari had thought of himself as quietly special. What had happened? Where had it all gone wrong?
Both his parents had died quite suddenly soon after his marriage. Had this made the significant break in his life – in his luck? Soon afterwards he had failed in his first law exams: it had been a moral and psychological shock. He knew that before he took them again it would mean hard concentrated studying such as he had never had to do before. Instead he had taken to going out in the evenings and had drifted into a poker set.
During his spell in hospital and in prison on remand, he had thought more seriously about himself than ever before. He had even been self-critical, realising that it is not always the wrong behaviour of other people that is the cause of misfortune.
If he ever got a chance to take a grip of a new life, to try to begin again … Perhaps nowadays he was looking at his past existence in Bombay through rose-coloured spectacles? Anyway, as he had reminded himself before, there was not likely to be any choice. What would these men say when they came in?
They came in and sat down, and as if mesmerised he nodded and gave his consent. They then passed him a sheet of paper with eight typewritten statements on it.
‘Between now and tomorrow you will have to learn these by heart,’ said Warren. ‘Get them off word for word. Understand?’
Nari stared at the paper.
(1) ‘My name is Nari Prasad. I have come with a message
from Arun Jiva.’
Pause for reply.
(2) ‘I would like to speak to you absolutely privately, sir.’
&
(3) ‘Arun Jiva has been arrested in Oxford for smuggling
drugs.’
Pause for reply.
(4) ‘He says you must help him. Otherwise …’
Pause for reply.
(5) ‘He says if he comes down you will come down.’
Pause for reply.
(6) ‘Arun Jiva says the police would like to know all he knows
about Stephanie Locke.’
Pause for reply.
(7) ‘Well, I have given you his message, sir, I can do no more.’
Pause for reply.
(8) ‘I will go now. I have a taxi waiting at the door.’
Nari’s hand began to shake. ‘ I do not think I can do this.’
Hampton said: ‘Don’t worry about nerves, Prasad. We can give you something to quiet them and to help your confidence. You’ve only to remember your lines. You’ve got – what? – pretty well twenty-four hours to learn them.’
Nari went over the eight remarks he was being asked to make. To a strange man in a strange house. How could it help the police – or anyone else? It must be dangerous for him to go to this house, he knew it in his guts. But ten years or more in an English prison …
The two men had got up, were talking together. He looked at them.
‘You can come along with me now,’ said Detective Chief Inspector Hampton kindly. ‘We can take you straight along to the magistrates’ court and get you remanded on bail for a further fourteen days.’
Chapter Three
I
Alistair Crichton said: ‘Well, of course, it’s quite ridiculous, Henry! It’s simply not worth giving credence to such a scurrilous rumour!’
‘That’s exactly my feeling,’ said Henry Gaveston. ‘ Well, it was my feeling when Locke rang up. Since then there have been a few things which have rather affected my conviction.’
‘But good God, Catherine and I stayed with him in Corfu! There was no question of anything underhand going on! What the hell is Locke insinuating?’