The Secret of Spandau Read Free Page B

‘Didn’t it go the distance?’
    â€˜Four rounds. Our boy was disqualified for low punching.’
    Fleming screwed his fat face into an expression of shock. ‘Deplorable. I presume he was innocent.’
    â€˜He was British.’
    â€˜Good point, Dick. The Marquess of Queensberry really ought to have put in a rule to safeguard our lads from over-zealous referees. Still, if it had to happen, rather the fourth round than the fourteenth, eh? It should make the late edition.’
    â€˜Mm.’
    â€˜It
was
Queensberry, wasn’t it?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Wrote those rules.’
    Garrick shook his head. He moved closer, to make himself heard above the clatter of machines. ‘It was a Welshman called Chambers. He got up a competition for amateur glove-fighters in 1867, and persuaded Queensberry to present some cups. They were known as the Queensberry Cups, and fighting was according to the Queensberry Rules.’
    Garrick moved on to the sportsdesk and picked up a phone.
    The night editor said, without looking up from the layout on the table, ‘That’s either a very bright young man or a nut.’
    â€˜Both,’ said Fleming with approval. In his experience, the ability to recall facts was the hallmark of a good journalist. He was not much impressed with the dictum that nothing is worth remembering that can be checked in a reference book.
    He had poached Dick Garrick from the
Daily Telegraph
in 1978, when he had made a good impression subbing as a casual on Saturday nights. The lad had been assigned to the sportsdesk to fill a temporary gap, and stayed. Starting with no more than a mild interest in rowing, he had steeped himself in the lore of each major sport, and was now the paper’s main authority on athletics, boxing, rugby football and water sports.
    Towards 11.00 p.m. Fleming gave the nod to the front page, ambled across to the sportsdesk, and asked Vernon Padfield, the sports editor, to spare him a few minutes.
    â€˜It’s about Garrick,’ he said in the upholstered quiet of his office, as he poured a couple of scotches. ‘How would you feel, dear boy, if I took him off sport for a bit?’
    â€˜Do you want a short answer? Shattered.’
    â€˜He’s that good?’
    â€˜Dare I say indispensable?’
    Fleming handed over the drink. His physical bulk and almost apologetic style of speech were deceptive. He was amiable to a point – the point of decision; at various times in his twelve-year tenure as editor, he had taken on the print unions, the NUJ chapel, the proprietor and the Press Council, and not merely defended his autonomy, but caused heavy casualties among the opposition. His capacity for survival was both legend and mystery.
    He lowered himself gingerly into the bentwood armchair that had supported him through the whole of his journalistic career, starting with the
Ballroom Dancing Times
, a credit he coyly concealed from the compilers of
Who’s Who.
‘Vernon, my boy, I’m going to come clean with you. Queensberry Rules, right? I need a ferret, a bloody good ferret.’
    â€˜You’re onto something?’
    â€˜A sniff, just a sniff.’
    â€˜Soccer bribes?’
    â€˜Nothing to do with sport. Much bigger. Can’t say more.’
    â€˜And you want Dick to do the digging?’
    â€˜Some of it. Others will be involved.’
    â€˜Would Red Goodbody be one of them?’
    Fleming’s eyebrows peaked in surprise. ‘How do you know that?’
    â€˜He was tanking up in the Cock when I went over for a sandwich, announcing to the clientele that you summoned him back from Berlin to a house party. I thought you sent that guy to Germany to give us all a break.’
    â€˜I’ve got to use him for this.’
    â€˜Goodbody and Garrick? It’s not up to me, I know, but are you sure the mix is right, Cedric? Dick is a first-rate journalist and he’ll do your research as well as