The reporter frowned. ‘What you’re proposing doesn’t sound like tolerance to me.’
Rolt smiled regretfully. ‘How can you honestly tolerate people whose stated aim is to kill and maim?’
The reporter looked uncomfortable.
Rolt continued, ‘We have turned a blind eye to extremist ideologies. We have let them import terror into our green and pleasant land. For their own good as much as ours, they would be happier elsewhere.’
‘So, let me get this clear. You’re advocating we repatriate people we regard as a threat to society?’
‘I’m advocating freedom from fear.’ Rolt leaned forward. ‘Go to the people staying in our hostels. Talk to the men and women from our armed services who are struggling to find their way back into the country that sent them off to war. Add up the expenditure on policing the potential terrorists, the incarceration of the convicted terrorists, the surveillance of suspects. Then add up what it would take to give those ex-servicemen and — women a decent job and a decent home. To give them some dignity, something in return for risking their lives to uphold our freedoms. What’s the point of their risking their lives if they come home to find the place awash with folk who want to take their freedom away?’
‘That’s pretty strong stuff.’
‘Not really. Ask yourself why none of our politicians is saying this. They’re so scared of alienating these “communities” that they’ve lost their nerve. Give the electorate some credit. Draw a line between the good, productive, useful members of our society — and those who aren’t. Get the good ones to help you weed out the others.’
The last time Tom had seen Rolt in fighting form was in the boxing ring. He was a scholarship boy with none of the advantages of his peers, who had tried hard at everything but never came top. Tom had respected him for his dogged determination and refusal to be put down by snobbery. But he had beaten him squarely in three rounds. Rolt had had the drive but not the super-quick reactions to deliver his punches with sufficient surprise or to dodge Tom’s relentless battering.
‘But, Mr Rolt, isn’t this just your anger talking — because your hostel was bombed?’
‘You ask if I’m angry. I’m bloody furious. Furious that this has been allowed to happen. Our politicians have yet to come up with an answer so I’m offering them one.’
‘One last thing, you’ve sunk your personal fortune into your hostels and apprenticeships. What happens when the money runs out?’
A flicker of hesitation. He hadn’t seen that one coming. ‘I’ll do what any decent businessman does and convince others that my projects are worth investing in.’
Phoebe leaned over to Tom and whispered, ‘Sorry about this. I hope we haven’t messed up your day.’
‘No. It’s very useful. He’s very measured under the circumstances.’
Phoebe’s eyes lingered on him. She was in her mid-twenties, he guessed, a blonde English rose, just the sort his mother would like. He thought of Delphine and how far away she seemed now.
Rolt was on his feet. He shook the hand of the interviewer and turned. The cold, focused gaze melted when he saw Tom. He strode towards him, hand outstretched. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’
‘Why not?’
Rolt’s hand wrapped itself round Tom’s. ‘An old schoolmate calling out of the blue — who needs that?’
They both laughed.
‘And with all that’s going on.’
‘I was very sorry to hear about your people.’ They shared a moment’s silence before Tom continued, nodding at the TV crew packing up, ‘I see you’ve not lost your taste for a fight.’
Rolt gave Tom a knowing smile. ‘Nor you, I hear.’
There was a note of compassion in Rolt’s tone. But Tom ignored it. He had other reasons for being there.
Phoebe came and stood by Rolt’s elbow. ‘Perhaps you’d like to get away from this lot. Why don’t you go through to the office and I’ll fetch some tea?’
Rolt showed Tom the way down the hall. The office was impressive, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto St James’s Park. It must be costing him a fortune. And that livid skyscape of red and orange over the fireplace. Was it an original?
‘Don’t tell me that Turner’s real?’
‘Isn’t it a beaut? They used to think it was pigment degradation. Now it’s believed the colours are accurate — refraction by volcanic ash in the atmosphere.
‘There were three eruptions in his lifetime, Tambora in 1815, Babuyan Claro in the Philippines in 1831 and Cosigüina in 1835. Not that Turner knew.’
‘So you were paying attention in class all along.’
‘I think it got in by osmosis. No actual effort on my part.’
Tom turned back to the painting.
‘Tambora spat an estimated twelve cubic miles of magma into the atmosphere. There was so much ash in the atmosphere they called 1816 “The Year without Summer”.’
Rolt beckoned him to turn round. Hanging opposite was a huge faded tapestry, with the faint images of figures visible in the weave. ‘It predates Bayeux. I found it at an auction in Texas. God knows how it fetched up there.’ Rolt pointed at the standard bearing the word ‘Invicta’, held high by solid yeomen, the cliffs of Dover beneath them.
Tom had also remembered something from school. ‘Undefeated — Roma Invicta. The Romans had it stamped on their coins to boost morale when the empire was on the wane.’
Rolt smiled. ‘Correct. And much later, when William defeated Harold at Hastings and set his course for Winchester, these men of Kent, a few with swords but most armed with no more than wooden staves, marched against him. William saw their determination and knew they would fight to the death, so he offered them a deaclass="underline" safe passage for his army and in return the men of Kent would keep their ancient rights and liberties. Hence “Invicta” became the motto of the county.’
Tom nodded approvingly. ‘Good name.’
Phoebe appeared, carrying a tray laden with a silver teapot and small chocolate cakes, and set it on a low table in front of the fireplace.
‘It was Phoebe here who tracked you down.’
Tom saw her blush faintly as she lowered the tray. She gave Rolt a mock-disapproving look, which he didn’t notice. Tom gazed at her, expecting some kind of explanation, but none came. Instead she lifted the teapot. ‘Shall I pour?’
Rolt waved her away. ‘No, that’s all right, Phoebe, thanks. Close the door behind you, will you?’ He waved at a pair of wing-backed chairs either side of the fireplace. Tom took a seat as he watched her leave.
‘Well, it’s very good of you to come. I’m sorry about bothering your father.’
‘Oh, he quite likes to be bothered. He doesn’t have enough to do, these days.’
Rolt sighed as he poured the tea. ‘Like so many of his generation. So much wisdom and common sense — such a shame it’s not listened to.’
‘I hope he didn’t bang on.’
Rolt looked faintly shocked. ‘No, not at all. We exchanged views on what’s been happening here…’
‘You aren’t pulling any punches with the media.’
Rolt snorted. ‘Well, the time’s come. Someone’s got to say it. And I’m in the enviable position of not having some party line to toe. I can say what I think and they can go screw themselves. How do you like it?’
‘Black, no sugar, please.’
Tom watched Rolt closely. His movements were studied, precise, not extravagant. He showed none of the arrogance of success. He had been an unmemorable teenager who had grown into a charismatic figure, outwardly charming, but the steel was visible beneath the surface.
He passed him a cup. ‘I wasn’t at all sure you’d get back to me. I’m something of a pariah in certain circles.’