that’s that. End of story.’
‘But it’s not the end,’ I said. ‘Huw Walker’s been murdered. Maybe he was shot because he was fixing races. Or perhaps for not fixing them when he had been paid to do so.’
‘Maybe, but I don’t want to get involved.’
‘You may not have that luxury,’ I said.
‘I won’t thank you for getting me involved with this business and it will be to your advantage not to.’ He shifted in his chair and moved closer to me. ‘Leave it alone, Halley. Let the police do their job. Do you understand me?’ It was said with venom and there was little doubt that I was being warned off.
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘but the police are still likely to talk to you because you had seven horses in Bill Burton’s yard.’
He smiled, leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. ‘I know nothing.’
Here was a member of the House of Lords, the highest court in the land, intent on obstructing justice. But honesty and integrity have never been prerequisites to remaining in the House of Lords. A criminal conviction and prison sentence of twelve months or more results in expulsion from the House of Commons, but their Lordships remain immune to such inconveniences and can return to Her Majesty’s Parliament on release from any length of stay in Her prisons. And they do, often.
Even a conviction for high treason does not disqualify members, save actually during their imprisonment. In the past this was not a problem as there was little chance of a return from the block and the axe.
And then there was the case of the 7th Earl of Lucan. A coroner’s jury established that he had indeed battered his children’s nanny to death with a length of lead piping in 1974 before disappearing for good. Even when, twenty-five years later in 1999, the High Court made a ruling that, body or not, Lord Lucan was officially dead, his son and heir could not sit in the House as it was deemed by their Lordships that there was no ‘definite proof’ that his father would not suddenly walk outof the jungle and claim his rightful place on the red leather benches.
However, the House does have some standards. Undischarged bankrupts cannot take their seats.
Clearly, to a Lord, being broke is a greater crime than being a murderer.
Lord Enstone and I finished our lunch mostly in silence and I was content to pass again through the revolving time-portal and back to the present.
I walked down Victoria Street towards my flat, stopping twice on the journey. First, I went into an office equipment store to buy a new telephone answering machine. My trusty old one had served me well but had been overtaken by the electronics revolution. I decided on a fancy replacement that came complete with a vast number of megabytes in its digital memory, and one that could also tell me the dates and times when my messages were received. And, secondly, I popped into a betting shop.
I wasn’t sure what to expect. I hadn’t been in a betting shop for years, not since the law prevented them having any decent chairs or televisions, or any creature comforts like a coffee machine or a lavatory. Nothing that could persuade the itinerant gambler to linger.
Now we lived in more enlightened times when gambling was not seen as some shifty addiction of the low-life and was even to be encouraged in the form of the National Lottery, to ‘provide for good causes’. That some of the ‘good causes’ were a touch suspect and others were simply an excuse for underfunding in the public services did not seem to deter the millions whose hopes each week far exceeded their true expectations. A few bigwinners gave the multitude faith, so much so that nearly a fifth of the population was seriously relying on winning the lottery to provide for their old age.
In spite of the change in the law, one would hardly describe the interior of this particular establishment as plush. The floor was covered in bare linoleum that had seen better days especially around the high
‘But it’s not the end,’ I said. ‘Huw Walker’s been murdered. Maybe he was shot because he was fixing races. Or perhaps for not fixing them when he had been paid to do so.’
‘Maybe, but I don’t want to get involved.’
‘You may not have that luxury,’ I said.
‘I won’t thank you for getting me involved with this business and it will be to your advantage not to.’ He shifted in his chair and moved closer to me. ‘Leave it alone, Halley. Let the police do their job. Do you understand me?’ It was said with venom and there was little doubt that I was being warned off.
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘but the police are still likely to talk to you because you had seven horses in Bill Burton’s yard.’
He smiled, leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. ‘I know nothing.’
Here was a member of the House of Lords, the highest court in the land, intent on obstructing justice. But honesty and integrity have never been prerequisites to remaining in the House of Lords. A criminal conviction and prison sentence of twelve months or more results in expulsion from the House of Commons, but their Lordships remain immune to such inconveniences and can return to Her Majesty’s Parliament on release from any length of stay in Her prisons. And they do, often.
Even a conviction for high treason does not disqualify members, save actually during their imprisonment. In the past this was not a problem as there was little chance of a return from the block and the axe.
And then there was the case of the 7th Earl of Lucan. A coroner’s jury established that he had indeed battered his children’s nanny to death with a length of lead piping in 1974 before disappearing for good. Even when, twenty-five years later in 1999, the High Court made a ruling that, body or not, Lord Lucan was officially dead, his son and heir could not sit in the House as it was deemed by their Lordships that there was no ‘definite proof’ that his father would not suddenly walk outof the jungle and claim his rightful place on the red leather benches.
However, the House does have some standards. Undischarged bankrupts cannot take their seats.
Clearly, to a Lord, being broke is a greater crime than being a murderer.
Lord Enstone and I finished our lunch mostly in silence and I was content to pass again through the revolving time-portal and back to the present.
I walked down Victoria Street towards my flat, stopping twice on the journey. First, I went into an office equipment store to buy a new telephone answering machine. My trusty old one had served me well but had been overtaken by the electronics revolution. I decided on a fancy replacement that came complete with a vast number of megabytes in its digital memory, and one that could also tell me the dates and times when my messages were received. And, secondly, I popped into a betting shop.
I wasn’t sure what to expect. I hadn’t been in a betting shop for years, not since the law prevented them having any decent chairs or televisions, or any creature comforts like a coffee machine or a lavatory. Nothing that could persuade the itinerant gambler to linger.
Now we lived in more enlightened times when gambling was not seen as some shifty addiction of the low-life and was even to be encouraged in the form of the National Lottery, to ‘provide for good causes’. That some of the ‘good causes’ were a touch suspect and others were simply an excuse for underfunding in the public services did not seem to deter the millions whose hopes each week far exceeded their true expectations. A few bigwinners gave the multitude faith, so much so that nearly a fifth of the population was seriously relying on winning the lottery to provide for their old age.
In spite of the change in the law, one would hardly describe the interior of this particular establishment as plush. The floor was covered in bare linoleum that had seen better days especially around the high
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