Free The Anti-Social Behaviour of Horace Rumpole by John Mortimer

haven’t got an answer to the question.’
    â€˜She was meant to report regularly to a police station in the Paddington area. Did she?’
    â€˜I did ask. They’ve got no record of her reporting anywhere in Paddington.’
    â€˜I thought not. So what would have happened if she hadn’t been discovered at Dover?’
    â€˜She’d have gone on to a garage in some office block in the Canary Wharf area. Didn’t Scottie Thompson tell us that?’
    â€˜Exactly. As I would expect, you have the facts of the case at your fingertips. But which garage, under precisely which office block?’
    â€˜I have no idea.’
    â€˜There may be stories going around. There can’t be many office blocks where girls get out of boxes. We need a detective. You can put it down to further inquiries. Send for Fig Newton.’
    Ferdinand Ian Gilmour Newton, clothed in the old mac he wore in all weathers, and with the cold that apparently afflicted him in all weathers, was just the man to pick up any rumours that might be going round about girls in boxes in the Canary Wharf area.

17
    Shortly after these events I received an invitation from the corridors of power. Henry rang to say in a voice full of awe and wonder that the office of the Minister for Constitutional Affairs had rung. It seemed the Minister would like to share a drink with Mr Rumpole in his club.
    It was not until then that I remembered who the Minister for Constitutional Affairs was. He was none other than the Peter Plaistow, QC, MP, who had dangled the offer of a Circuit (I call them Circus) Judgeship to me during the case in whichhe was prosecuting the unfortunate Dr Khan, who was accused of terrorism, a case which I won, if you remember, satisfactorily alone and without a leader.
    So there we were, under the soft lights of the Sheridan Club, where drinks were asked for quietly and members and their friends murmured together, so the occasional loud welcome or braying laugh seemed as out of place as it would in a chapel of rest.
    Peter Plaistow looked aged by his time in government. His boyish charm had faded, to be replaced by what I could only call a look of grim determination. His eyes seemed tired and his eyelids swollen, but he nonetheless greeted me with enthusiasm and ordered champagne for both of us.
    When we were seated with our drinks and he had told me how pleased he was to see me, he said, ‘I see Leonard Bullingham is backing your application for silk. I thought you two were sworn enemies. How did you manage that?’
    â€˜I think my wife managed it.’
    â€˜The remarkable Hilda? Well done her! Of course you have to go through a lot of tedious stuff before the new committee, but in the end thedecision will come to me as Minister for Constitutional Affairs.’
    What was I meant to do precisely? Offer to buy the next round of drinks? Thank him profusely? I hadn’t thought that the process of sliding into a silk gown could be managed so easily. But then I was to discover the real purpose of our meeting in the Sheridan Club.
    â€˜Immigration!’ The Minister for Constitutional Affairs almost spat out the word, as though it were some sort of incurable disease. ‘The curse of all governments.’
    â€˜Is it as bad as that?’
    â€˜Worse. They imagine we are letting in floods of foreigners who’ll take away their jobs, their houses, certainly their wives, probably their children if they get half a chance. And when it comes to letting in Russian prostitutes… I can just imagine the headlines in the
Fortress
.’ He had obviously been following my little Flyte Street murder case.
    â€˜Someone decided to set the girl free to apply for permanent residence.’
    â€˜We heard you’d been making inquiries.’
    There was a pause then while the Minister for Constitutional Affairs sipped thoughtfully at his champagne, then he said, ‘Of course that was alllong before the murder.