One Missing Phone. One Very Convenient Gap in the Evidence.
There is an old principle in the law of evidence that individual facts, each innocent in isolation, can combine to form proof. No single thread condemns. But weave enough of them together and the picture becomes impossible to deny. Keir Starmer spent years applying that principle to other people. He is about to have it applied to him.
Morgan McSweeney's phone went missing in October last year, one month after Lord Mandelson was removed from his post as ambassador to Washington, and shortly after Downing Street officials had begun interviewing witnesses as part of an internal inquiry into how that appointment came to be made. The Metropolitan Police, we now learn, closed the investigation without speaking to McSweeney. They had written down the wrong address. The case has since been reopened after a journalist asked the right question.
The phone matters because of what it almost certainly contained. McSweeney and Mandelson were close. McSweeney drove the appointment. The messages between them would have constituted, as lawyers sometimes say, the best evidence: direct, contemporaneous, unmediated by retrospective account. Those messages are gone. This would be less troubling if WhatsApp messages vanished when phones were stolen. They do not. They are stored. They can be recovered. Their disappearance is not a technical inevitability. It is a choice, or a failure, and nobody has yet explained which. One missing phone. One very convenient gap in the evidence.
There is more. McSweeney was bound by guidance requiring him to preserve significant government information onto official systems. The Cabinet Office holds some of his messages. Not all. The remainder have not been accounted for.
Meanwhile the documents that have been released tell their own story. Jonathan Powell, the national security adviser, described the appointment process as weirdly rushed. He had raised concerns about Mandelson's reputation with McSweeney directly, and was told the issues had been addressed. Sir Philip Barton, a senior foreign policy official, raised concerns too. Both men were overridden. The appointment proceeded. Months later Mandelson was sacked, the internal inquiry began, and then, with a timing that strains credulity, the phone disappeared. Then the police misfiled the report and closed the case.
History offers us a word for this kind of sequence. Not conspiracy, which implies coordination and intent that cannot here be proved. The word is omerta: the closing of ranks, the convenient forgetting, the institutional instinct to protect itself from the reckoning it has earned. It does not require a villain. It requires only a culture in which the right questions are not asked, the right addresses are not recorded, and the right messages are not preserved.
Keir Starmer came to office promising a different kind of politics. Transparency. Accountability. The rules applying to everyone. What his government has produced instead is a missing phone, a botched police report, unrecovered backups, a rushed appointment, a severance payment made to stop a disgraced peer talking, and a paper trail with a hole in it exactly where the most important evidence should be.
That is not bad luck. That is a pattern. And patterns, as this Prime Minister knows better than most, are evidence.
"The messages between them would have constituted, as lawyers sometimes say, the best evidence: direct, contemporaneous, unmediated by retrospective account. Those messages are gone."