Read Online 1990 by Wilfred Greatorex - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wilfred Greatorex
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yarn?'
Kyle shrugged. 'None of us did. We're all so conditioned now.' He steered her towards the door. 'I hear you're going to need more of these Ombudsman's Courts.' It was a deceptively casual remark.
'What?'
'I hear you're getting around five hundred exit visa appeals every week?'
He felt her elbow stiffen slightly in his hand. 'You do hear some funny things.'
'We have some funny things going on.' Her loss of composure tickled him.
She seemed quite shaken. 'You can't run a rumour like that!'
'Five hundred people a week is twenty-six thousand a year,' Kyle pointed out. 'And that's just the front runners who go all the way to the Ombudsman's Courts - wanting to get the hell out!'
'To line their pockets,' she put in, as a matter of course.
'That's right, love,' he agreed, coolly. 'Greedy, ungrateful sods, all of 'em.'
She moved closer to him, pressing slightly against his side and turning her face so that he found himself looking directly into a pair of wide, bold eyes.
A flock of lawyers wheeled past them, like starlings. Delly had switched to full voltage charm, hinting that he could help her - her department. She mentioned Scholes, the escaped nuclear engineer.
'I was in court when his appeial was turned down...' Kyle gave her a mischievous glance. 'Feeble-looking bloke. I'm surprised he swam all that way.'
She looked uncertain, then said persuasively, 'You were the one who got on to the Devon racket.'
'Those Devon yachtsmen?'
'
You
exposed
them
,' she emphasized: 'Our inspectors didn't blow their game. You did.'
'The bastards were making a fortune out of human misery,' he pointed out, carefully.
'They were spiriting out illegal emigrants. Under our noses.'
He reminded her that her boss had maintained the PCD was on to the racket anyway.
'Were we?' she gave him a wide-eyed look. 'Skardon's made a Whitehall career out of claiming other people's successes as his own.'
He studied her, agreeably. 'I reckon you hate your boss more than I hate my editor. Toss you for who hates the mostest.'
Diverted, she giggled and they walked on into the circular central hall, from which ten doors led, each to a different Ombudsman's Court. The lawyers scurried between them carrying important-looking files, bound in red tape. Very Kafkaesque, Kyle thought.
Delly had directed the conversation towards his disappearances from the PCD's surveillance screens.
'We know why you go underground, Kyle,' she claimed, with an understanding smile. 'We know you have to pick up so many official secrets, from civil servants. Especially from one in my own department.'
He gazed at her with exaggerated lustfulness. 'Faceless? A figment of your department's neurosis,' he said absently, while issuing an unspoken but unmistakable invitation.
'We didn't make up the name.' The tip of her tongue was showing against her lips.
'You've only to nod and it's on,' he said it straight, and not simply to entice her from the subject. 'I could vanish for a month with you and still want more.'
'Don't you be so sure.' Long, black lashes lowered over the warm eyes.
In the main entrance to the building, the Vickers family was being pushed indifferently into position by a few press photographers. They looked helpless and the child was audibly gasping for breath.
'Even a year ago, there'd have been at least fifty press men around them,' Kyle said irritably.
Delly replied coldly, 'The Press was overmanned.'
'So now we're down to three national papers, one State-run, and a couple of Sundays,' he said with some edge. 'The rest of that lot over there are working for foreign news agencies. All doing stories about poor old Britain with its identity cards and rationing and bully boy bureaucrats.'
She gave a deliberately exaggerated sigh. 'You're back in your reactionary mood. I go off you when you revert...'
By now he was fuming, watching the Vickers family being jostled and used. 'And your State-run rag will come out showing that poor sod looking like some
Kyle shrugged. 'None of us did. We're all so conditioned now.' He steered her towards the door. 'I hear you're going to need more of these Ombudsman's Courts.' It was a deceptively casual remark.
'What?'
'I hear you're getting around five hundred exit visa appeals every week?'
He felt her elbow stiffen slightly in his hand. 'You do hear some funny things.'
'We have some funny things going on.' Her loss of composure tickled him.
She seemed quite shaken. 'You can't run a rumour like that!'
'Five hundred people a week is twenty-six thousand a year,' Kyle pointed out. 'And that's just the front runners who go all the way to the Ombudsman's Courts - wanting to get the hell out!'
'To line their pockets,' she put in, as a matter of course.
'That's right, love,' he agreed, coolly. 'Greedy, ungrateful sods, all of 'em.'
She moved closer to him, pressing slightly against his side and turning her face so that he found himself looking directly into a pair of wide, bold eyes.
A flock of lawyers wheeled past them, like starlings. Delly had switched to full voltage charm, hinting that he could help her - her department. She mentioned Scholes, the escaped nuclear engineer.
'I was in court when his appeial was turned down...' Kyle gave her a mischievous glance. 'Feeble-looking bloke. I'm surprised he swam all that way.'
She looked uncertain, then said persuasively, 'You were the one who got on to the Devon racket.'
'Those Devon yachtsmen?'
'
You
exposed
them
,' she emphasized: 'Our inspectors didn't blow their game. You did.'
'The bastards were making a fortune out of human misery,' he pointed out, carefully.
'They were spiriting out illegal emigrants. Under our noses.'
He reminded her that her boss had maintained the PCD was on to the racket anyway.
'Were we?' she gave him a wide-eyed look. 'Skardon's made a Whitehall career out of claiming other people's successes as his own.'
He studied her, agreeably. 'I reckon you hate your boss more than I hate my editor. Toss you for who hates the mostest.'
Diverted, she giggled and they walked on into the circular central hall, from which ten doors led, each to a different Ombudsman's Court. The lawyers scurried between them carrying important-looking files, bound in red tape. Very Kafkaesque, Kyle thought.
Delly had directed the conversation towards his disappearances from the PCD's surveillance screens.
'We know why you go underground, Kyle,' she claimed, with an understanding smile. 'We know you have to pick up so many official secrets, from civil servants. Especially from one in my own department.'
He gazed at her with exaggerated lustfulness. 'Faceless? A figment of your department's neurosis,' he said absently, while issuing an unspoken but unmistakable invitation.
'We didn't make up the name.' The tip of her tongue was showing against her lips.
'You've only to nod and it's on,' he said it straight, and not simply to entice her from the subject. 'I could vanish for a month with you and still want more.'
'Don't you be so sure.' Long, black lashes lowered over the warm eyes.
In the main entrance to the building, the Vickers family was being pushed indifferently into position by a few press photographers. They looked helpless and the child was audibly gasping for breath.
'Even a year ago, there'd have been at least fifty press men around them,' Kyle said irritably.
Delly replied coldly, 'The Press was overmanned.'
'So now we're down to three national papers, one State-run, and a couple of Sundays,' he said with some edge. 'The rest of that lot over there are working for foreign news agencies. All doing stories about poor old Britain with its identity cards and rationing and bully boy bureaucrats.'
She gave a deliberately exaggerated sigh. 'You're back in your reactionary mood. I go off you when you revert...'
By now he was fuming, watching the Vickers family being jostled and used. 'And your State-run rag will come out showing that poor sod looking like some
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