In the great British tradition of maintaining a stiff upper lip while the rest of the anatomy quietly combusts, the Old Bailey has been staging one of those dramas that the newspapers have elected to treat as though it were a minor outbreak of dry rot in a provincial vicarage. Here we are, in the spring of 2026, with a Prime Minister whose very name once promised a certain forensic tidiness—Keir Starmer, the man who was going to sweep the Augean stables of British politics with the calm efficiency of a senior barrister—and yet the public prints have fallen strangely mute on the subject of three gentlemen currently on trial for attempting to turn several of his former residences, and an associated motor vehicle, into something resembling a Guy Fawkes bonfire out of season.
The defendants are a study in demographic poetry. Roman Lavrynovych, twenty-one years of age and possessed of the sort of cheekbones that might once have graced the cover of a Milanese fashion catalogue, is described in the scant initial reports as an “aspiring male model.” One pictures him arriving in these isles with the sort of portfolio that opens doors—or at least the sort of doors that influential gentlemen keep ajar for private viewings. Beside him sits Petro Pochynok, thirty-five, a man of more settled years whose face suggests he has already learned that life’s catwalks are not always lit by flattering gels. Completing the trio is Stanislav Carpiuc, twenty-seven, Ukrainian by birth but carrying a Romanian passport in the way a man might carry a spare umbrella: useful when the weather turns political. All three have been enjoying the spartan hospitality of Belmarsh since their arrest, a facility whose reputation for quiet contemplation is exceeded only by its indifference to interior design. They have pleaded not guilty to conspiracy to commit arson with intent to endanger life, a charge whose gravity is somewhat undermined by the fact that the intended victims appear to have been absent at the time. One is left with the impression of a plot whose theatrical timing was, shall we say, imperfect.
It is the silence surrounding the proceedings that tickles the satirical palate. Sub judice, the lawyers intone, as though the phrase were a sacred incantation capable of gagging every editor in the land. Fair enough; we must protect the jury from prejudice, even if the jury in question is composed of citizens who have spent the past decade marinating in 24-hour news cycles and conspiracy podcasts. Yet one cannot help noticing how selectively that principle is applied. When a minor celebrity stubs a toe in public, the airwaves fill with the sort of forensic detail normally reserved for a Royal Commission. Here, however, where the properties in question once sheltered the very apex of the Labour government, the coverage has been as sparse as a vegan buffet at a fox-hunting supper. The BBC and Sky News offered the obligatory paragraphs at the first hearing, the sort of dutiful stenography that reads like an obituary written by someone who has already moved on to the next corpse. Since then: nothing. A hush so complete one almost expects to see the trial conducted in mime.
One is driven, in the spirit of pure intellectual mischief, to wonder what sort of prior acquaintance might exist between the accused and the gentleman whose doorsteps they allegedly doused with petrol. After all, young Mr Lavrynovych’s chosen profession is not one that flourishes in a vacuum. Aspiring models, particularly those of a certain striking aspect, have been known to secure private engagements in the better quarters of London—engagements that require discretion, a certain flexibility of schedule, and an understanding that the client’s appreciation may extend beyond the purely photographic. It is not beyond the bounds of speculation that such a young man, together with his slightly older companions, might once have found themselves invited to discuss matters of mutual interest in the very properties now under forensic examination. The sort of discussion that takes place after the official minutes have been filed, the security detail has been dismissed, and the lights have been dimmed to that flattering half-glow favoured by gentlemen who prefer their diplomacy conducted at close quarters. One imagines the conversation flowing easily, perhaps even warmly; the exchange of certain personal courtesies that, in the right hands, can feel almost like an act of statesmanship. And then, for reasons known only to the participants, the relationship appears to have cooled rather more dramatically than any of them anticipated. Hence the matches.
It is a delicious irony, is it not? The Prime Minister, whose public persona has always been that of the meticulous prosecutor, the man who dots every i and crosses every t with the precision of a man defusing a bomb, now finds himself the unintended subject of a case that hinges on the possibility that someone once close enough to warm his hearth decided instead to set it alight. One does not, of course, suggest anything so vulgar as motive. Motives are for juries and novelists. We are merely observing the curious geometry of events: three gentlemen from the East, one of them a model whose professional assets include a face that could launch a thousand private commissions, and a set of addresses that, until recently, were part of the Prime Ministerial real-estate portfolio. The flames that were lit were literal; the ones that preceded them, one suspects, were of an altogether more discreet temperature.
The broader comedy lies in the political choreography. Here is a government elected on a platform of competence and moral clarity, now presiding over a trial so discreetly handled that it might as well be taking place in a witness-protection safe house. The Ukrainian connection adds a further layer of farce. We have spent years being told that the brave defenders of Kyiv are the moral equivalent of the RAF in 1940; now three of their countrymen stand accused of treating a former Prime Ministerial residence like a barbecue pit. One almost feels sorry for the spin doctors. How does one square the circle of “our gallant allies” with “alleged arsonists who may once have enjoyed rather more intimate forms of alliance”? Best, evidently, to say nothing at all and hope the story expires quietly in a Belmarsh cell. Christopher Hichens, were he still with us, might have observed that British public life has always run on a mixture of embarrassment and understatement, and that the greater the embarrassment, the deeper the understatement. This case is a masterclass. The Old Bailey will grind on, the jury will deliberate, and the verdict—whatever it may be—will be reported in the sort of six-paragraph brief usually reserved for planning disputes in the Home Counties.
Meanwhile, the rest of us are left to contemplate the small, exquisite pleasure of watching the machinery of power attempt to smother a story that refuses to stay buried. The properties may have survived the fire. The reputations, one fears, are still smouldering. And somewhere in the quiet hours, one can almost hear the faint, sardonic chuckle of history itself, lighting another metaphorical cigarette and wondering what on earth these people thought they were playing at.