the inner page of a Christmas card dated 1986 from Exeter University. Below the ordinary seasonal greetings Roger Courtauld had written: â
With all good wishes. I enjoyed our day together and I hope everything goes well with you. Roger Courtauld
.â
On the right was another photograph of Friedrich Vogl, this time alone. Once again he was on a beach, wearing swimming trunks, but this time crouched on his heels and holding out his arms in welcome, a broad smile of invitation on his face.
As portrayed in that setting the implication of that smile could not be mistaken. Macdowell was amazed. âThen he did see Roger again?â
Seebright laughed, delighted that even a seasoned journalist should jump to that conclusion. âNot exactly.â Again he hesitated, but his pleasure at his own cleverness overcame his caution. He showed Macdowell the original of the second photograph. Cut out from the version displayed on the cardboard was a buxom blonde woman holding a small boy and girl. The happy laughing family group was complete.
âHis wife and children?â
âI suppose so. The photograph hung with dozens of others in his lavatory.â
Macdowell gathered round him the tatters of his professional reputation. âThat is utterly wrong and unacceptable. You are creating an insinuation which we know is false.â
âWe know no such thing.â Seebright was still reckless. âAnyway consider what we might have done. You see that in the right-hand picture the German haunches are thicker and the German hair thinner. It was taken several years after the first one. We could easily touch out these differences as if the two pictures had been taken on the same day. We could even strip off these absurd bumbags and show Fritz as God made him. That would remove any doubt. But I, too, have my scruples. Itâs better if the facts are left to speak for themselves.â
âThe facts,â said Macdowell bitterly, and nothing more. He had to think of his family and his bank balance, the two being closely connected. He resigned that night, but without fuss. The severance terms were not bad, and he did not have to take his children away from their private schools.
Chapter 3
Roger told Hélène, his staff at the Home Office, his constituents, journalists and himself that he enjoyed the work. Certainly this had been true in the first year or two at the Home Office. Was it still true? Yes, of course, there could be no doubt about it. He still approached a locked red box full of government work with the zeal of an archaeologist about to force open a sealed tomb. He still relished the canter through each day of meetings. He enjoyed the fierce battles across the floor of the House of Commons or the Cabinet table, each of which revealed something new about the character of those with whom he dealt, and possibly also about himself. Lately, perhaps, had there been some slight cooling of enthusiasm? Yet that surely could not be true, given that so far from dropping off the ladder he was now trying to reach its topmost rung.
In these days Roger found it useful to stick as closely as possible to his usual daily routine. He did not want those around him to regard the leadership contest as extraordinary. He feltthat if he changed the structure of his day he would be increasing his own stake on the board. He did not want to do this. When Upchurch had offered to hold back or send junior ministers to attend to less urgent matters of Home Office business until the contest was over he had demurred. âNo, fill the boxes in the usual way. Iâll get through them somehow.â
Upchurch had not entirely obeyed. Even so Roger had had to invoke his one oâclock rule two or three times, by which he closed the red boxes of work one hour after midnight, shutting any unread papers out of sight and mind.
On Tuesday, 23 March, Roger left his bed in South Eaton Place at six thirty as usual, and performed ten
With all good wishes. I enjoyed our day together and I hope everything goes well with you. Roger Courtauld
.â
On the right was another photograph of Friedrich Vogl, this time alone. Once again he was on a beach, wearing swimming trunks, but this time crouched on his heels and holding out his arms in welcome, a broad smile of invitation on his face.
As portrayed in that setting the implication of that smile could not be mistaken. Macdowell was amazed. âThen he did see Roger again?â
Seebright laughed, delighted that even a seasoned journalist should jump to that conclusion. âNot exactly.â Again he hesitated, but his pleasure at his own cleverness overcame his caution. He showed Macdowell the original of the second photograph. Cut out from the version displayed on the cardboard was a buxom blonde woman holding a small boy and girl. The happy laughing family group was complete.
âHis wife and children?â
âI suppose so. The photograph hung with dozens of others in his lavatory.â
Macdowell gathered round him the tatters of his professional reputation. âThat is utterly wrong and unacceptable. You are creating an insinuation which we know is false.â
âWe know no such thing.â Seebright was still reckless. âAnyway consider what we might have done. You see that in the right-hand picture the German haunches are thicker and the German hair thinner. It was taken several years after the first one. We could easily touch out these differences as if the two pictures had been taken on the same day. We could even strip off these absurd bumbags and show Fritz as God made him. That would remove any doubt. But I, too, have my scruples. Itâs better if the facts are left to speak for themselves.â
âThe facts,â said Macdowell bitterly, and nothing more. He had to think of his family and his bank balance, the two being closely connected. He resigned that night, but without fuss. The severance terms were not bad, and he did not have to take his children away from their private schools.
Chapter 3
Roger told Hélène, his staff at the Home Office, his constituents, journalists and himself that he enjoyed the work. Certainly this had been true in the first year or two at the Home Office. Was it still true? Yes, of course, there could be no doubt about it. He still approached a locked red box full of government work with the zeal of an archaeologist about to force open a sealed tomb. He still relished the canter through each day of meetings. He enjoyed the fierce battles across the floor of the House of Commons or the Cabinet table, each of which revealed something new about the character of those with whom he dealt, and possibly also about himself. Lately, perhaps, had there been some slight cooling of enthusiasm? Yet that surely could not be true, given that so far from dropping off the ladder he was now trying to reach its topmost rung.
In these days Roger found it useful to stick as closely as possible to his usual daily routine. He did not want those around him to regard the leadership contest as extraordinary. He feltthat if he changed the structure of his day he would be increasing his own stake on the board. He did not want to do this. When Upchurch had offered to hold back or send junior ministers to attend to less urgent matters of Home Office business until the contest was over he had demurred. âNo, fill the boxes in the usual way. Iâll get through them somehow.â
Upchurch had not entirely obeyed. Even so Roger had had to invoke his one oâclock rule two or three times, by which he closed the red boxes of work one hour after midnight, shutting any unread papers out of sight and mind.
On Tuesday, 23 March, Roger left his bed in South Eaton Place at six thirty as usual, and performed ten
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