The Lighterman: The Kray Twins are out for revenge... (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 3)

by Simon Michael

  Charles remains very proud of his membership of the Inn, an institution that symbolises to him the very best of the British establishment; a place where merit, industry and integrity are rewarded, regardless of race, creed or background. His call night was one of the proudest moments of his life, more so even than when he was decorated with the DFC for valour as a Spitfire pilot. Although he would never have expressed the thought or even admitted it to himself, he expected being a barrister to qualify him as an English gentleman; he would no longer be an outsider and, most importantly, he’d be worthy of his marriage to Henrietta, the daughter of a viscount.

  He was, as it transpired, entirely wrong; it changed nothing. Indeed, as he was to learn, in many ways it made things worse. On his call night, while all the other pupils were supported by parents, siblings and friends, he was accompanied only by Henrietta. He’d been cast out, permanently and completely, by his family. And the rewards for merit, industry and integrity? No. He found himself the subject of overt and covert class, religious and racial discrimination by his colleagues and, often, by judges. He’d made himself an outsider.

  Nonetheless, and despite the shine on this “honourable profession” having been well and truly tarnished in the meantime, Charles is now finally able to offer David a glimpse of that to which he’d aspired, some conception of why he made the choices he did. He’s unaware that David, still faintly susceptible to the childhood idolisation of an older brother, especially one who could handle himself in the boxing ring, has followed Charles’s career surreptitiously ever since his name was banned in the Horowitz household.

  Charles walks swiftly across Ludgate Circus and up the slight incline of Fleet Street towards the Temple, scanning the street and alert to any sudden movement in his peripheral vision. But the day is warm and the people on the street so apparently innocuous that his pace gradually slows and he begins to think that the odd event in the robing room was, after all, just a prank by a chambers colleague. He’ll probably return to chambers after lunch to find the clerks grinning at him as he is teased by a couple of the junior barristers.

  Charles passes the entrance to the “Old Bell Tavern”, which claims to be one of the oldest pubs in London, allegedly built by Sir Christopher Wren to house the builders reconstructing St Bride’s Church after the Great Fire, and turns left into Tudor Street. He finds himself facing the back of a brewer’s dray and the pavement blocked by a pile of barrels. He skirts the sweating and cursing drayman and continues along the cobbles towards the entrance to the Inn. The wind picks up as he walks parallel to the River Thames and overhead, between the buildings, a handful of seagulls wheel and screech.

  As Charles enters the Inner Temple he looks, as always, to his left along Kings Bench Walk to assess the river. The wind is really picking up now, and the white-flecked waves of the incoming tide race one another westwards. Charles slows to watch a group of barges, three tied abreast with one behind, inching downstream past Temple Gardens against the elements.

  At that moment the tug captain looks to his right, as if staring straight at Charles, and Charles is tempted to raise his hand in greeting. Instead he smiles to himself, turns, and walks on past Crown Office Row towards Middle Temple Hall. He greets the uniformed official guarding the door and descends the stairs to the cloakroom where he hangs up his robes and deposits his briefcase. He washes his hands in the adjoining lavatory, nodding at one or two barristers of his acquaintance, and then returns upstairs to sit by the entrance and wait for David.

  David arrives exactly on time at one o’clock. Charles signs him in and they go into Hall for luncheon, finding two spaces facing each other across the trestle table towards the far end of Hall. Over the next ten minutes there is a mass influx of barristers. The Hall throngs with them, many still in court robes. They compare cross-examination notes, exchange chambers gossip and order quick lunches before returning to their trials.

  The uniformed waitress approaches their bench. David chooses a salad and a glass of water and, so as not to offend his brother, Charles follows suit, with only a minor pang at having to decline what looks, from the meal served to his neighbours, to be excellent rare roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with lashings of gravy, roast potatoes and pigs in blankets.

  While they wait for the meal to be served, Charles regards his younger brother across the table as David takes in his surroundings. David is taller, slimmer and blonder than Charles, and unlike Charles does not look Jewish or even Mediterranean in appearance. Superficially he would fit in perfectly with some of Charles’s more thoroughbred English public school colleagues but, as an Orthodox Jew, he wears a head covering at all times, and having left his hat in the cloakroom with Charles’s robes, the black skullcap covering the fair hair at the back of his head is very obvious and draws frequent glances from barristers and judges passing behind them. He seems oblivious to the scrutiny, but Charles feels an uncomfortable tension in his chest as he is torn between fierce protectiveness and a contrasting envy of his younger brother.

  Unlike Charles, David has never been uncomfortable in his own skin. David is Jewish, and proud of it. His life revolves around his new bride, Sonia, his Jewish home, his synagogue where he prays standing next to their father, and the firm of consultants where he is employed. Almost half the partners are Jewish and several are members of the same synagogue as David himself. He has never wanted anything more and finds it difficult to understand Charles’s sense of dislocation.

  Charles points out various features of the institution of which, despite all, he remains so proud, but has the impression that only half of David’s attention is on his explanations. Sensing that something is wrong, Charles falls silent and waits for David to raise it. However, by the time they’ve finished coffee, David has said nothing significant and Charles is impatient and slightly disappointed that the lunch hasn’t been as successful as he had hoped.

  ‘Nu?’ he asks. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You seem a bit preoccupied, Davie. Is it Mum and Dad?’

  David shakes his head. ‘No, they’re fine, or at least as fine as normal.’

  ‘So…?’

  David chews his lip for a moment and then looks up into Charles’s dark, almost black eyes. ‘I’m not sure how to tackle this, Charlie. I don’t want to offend you.’

  ‘Davie, you couldn’t offend me,’ reassures Charles with a smile. ‘What’s up?’

  David takes a deep breath. ‘Well … I’m worried about you.’

  ‘Why?’ asks Charles with some surprise. ‘I’m fine. The press are finally off my back, work’s beginning to build up again, I’ve got a new girlfriend … what could be wrong?’

  ‘Well, let’s start with the girlfriend. Her name’s Sally, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you two have been seeing one another, what, six months?’

  ‘About that.’

  ‘And before that it was Rachel.’

  ‘And your point is…?’ asks Charles, smiling.

  He expects to be chided by his rather conservative, religious, younger brother about his modern lifestyle. He suspects that both David and Sonia were virgins on the night of their wedding, and he knows that his family would disapprove of sex before marriage.

  ‘So, two girlfriends in the space of a year since Henrietta’s death.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Charles with a smile, satisfied that he now understands. ‘You’re fretting over my promiscuity. It’s 1964, Davie. Things are changing, at least outside the Jewish community they are.’

  David pauses for a long moment before answering and, when he does, he fiddles with his empty glass nervously, looking down at the old polished table.

  ‘It’s not that at all; that’s your business. You were married to Henrietta for thirteen years, Charlie. Yes —’ he holds his hand up to forestall Charles’s intervention — ‘I know things were very difficult before she died.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s why the police thought I’d
killed her.’

  ‘But you loved her, didn’t you?’ David looks up and his penetrating grey blue eyes lock onto Charles’s.

  ‘Yes, of course I did.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be able to tell.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ demands Charles, his voice rising slightly.

  ‘I’m sorry, that probably sounded a bit brutal. What I mean is: I’ve seen nothing to suggest that you’ve mourned her.’

  Charles lowers his voice. ‘You may have forgotten, but I was on the run from the police at the time,’ he whispers hoarsely.

  ‘I know that. And then you got involved in that Robeson trial, which is where you met Sally.’

  ‘No, that’s not right. I’d known Sally for years before then. But it was during the trial that we started … seeing one another.’

  ‘I’m not criticising your morality, Charlie. It’s nothing like that. I’m just worried for you. I don’t think you’ve dealt with your feelings about Henrietta. You seem so … normal. And that’s not normal. The woman you loved was murdered; you were charged and had to go on the run to prove your innocence. Most people would be devastated by that, emotionally wrecked. But you’ve just gone about rebuilding your career, forming a new relationship, two in fact, as if it never happened. I’m just worried that somewhere down the line this is all going to hit you pretty hard.’

  ‘What are you, my rabbi? It’s not my fault I’ve had two relationships,’ remonstrates Charles. ‘Rachel Golding left me for some other bloke in New York!’

  David puts his hand gently over his brother’s forearm. ‘I know, I know. But that’s not the point. You fell into another relationship with Rachel within days of Henrietta’s death —’

  ‘That was just circumstance! She was helping me, while the police were looking for me! She was all I had, remember?’

  Charles immediately regrets saying that, but the intensity of resentment he still harbours at having been cast out by his family takes him by surprise; he thought he’d long since come to terms with it. He realises from David’s sideways glance that they’d been overheard by the barristers next to them. Charles glares at them and they look away hurriedly.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ mutters Charles and he climbs off the bench. David waits in the entrance while Charles pays the bill and collects his robes and David’s hat and raincoat. They walk together towards a bench on Fountain Court. The earlier sunshine has been replaced by dark clouds scudding across the sky and it looks as if it will rain soon.

  ‘I know you mean well, Davie, but I think you’re worrying about nothing. Henrietta and I had been drifting apart for years. Yes, I still loved her, but I couldn’t make her happy and I knew we’d reached the end. So, of course I’m not going to feel the same as if we’d been in a loving relationship.’

  ‘Have you asked yourself why you didn’t make her happy? You must have loved one another so much at the start. Look what you both gave up to be together.’

  ‘Of course I’ve asked myself!’ says Charles, his temper rising. He controls himself with an effort and lowers his voice again. ‘Look, I’ve got a lot to do, and frankly I’ve no time for this.’

  As he answers, Charles wonders why he doesn’t mention to his brother that he still hears Henrietta’s voice. Not just in his imagination; her voice suddenly comes out of thin air right next to him. Being the logical and unemotional man he is, after the second or third occasion Charles visited a library, found his way to the Psychiatry section, and looked up “Hearing Voices after Bereavement”. He was reassured to find that it was quite common. He had closed the books, satisfied, and expected it all to stop in due course.

  It hadn’t; now, months later, when his life seems otherwise to have reached a new “normal”, Henrietta’s voice still intrudes, usually with some acerbic comment on Charles’s behaviour. Even so, Charles refuses to believe he’s having auditory hallucinations; that would mean he’s ill and needs help and, as he tells himself, psychiatric illness is the last thing on his mind. He likes the joke; it’s just a pity he can’t share it with anyone. There’s another reason why he doesn’t want to mention Henrietta’s running commentary on his life: he welcomes it and doesn’t want it to stop, and David would assuredly recommend medical intervention designed to stop it.

  ‘Please don’t be cross with me, Charlie,’ says David softly. ‘I love you, and I’m only concerned for your wellbeing. But will you think about what I’ve said? I know that circumstances brought you and Rachel together but almost as soon as she’s gone, different circumstances bring you and Sally together. There’s been no gap. No time for you to grieve over Henrietta. No time for mature reflection. It’s as if you’re still sprinting for some finishing line.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, I’ve probably expressed it badly. But please think about it.’

  Charles sighs and shakes his head. Then he shrugs. ‘OK. I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Good. And thank you for lunch. I’ve never eaten in such splendid surroundings.’

  Charles offers his hand to David, but instead of grasping it David wraps his arms around his brother and pulls him into a warm embrace. ‘You know where I am, if you need me,’ he says quietly into Charles’s ear. He steps back. ‘Same time next week?’ he asks.

  ‘Sure, assuming I’m in court in central London. I’ll come to your office canteen next time. They do kosher food don’t they?’ asks Charles, trying to restore some normality to the conversation. ‘At least I’ll know you’ll be able to have something more than salad and a glass of water.’

  They part on the steps leading down from Fountain Court, David walking back to his office via the Embankment and Charles returning to Chambers. Contrary to his promise, he doesn’t actually think about his conversation with David, pushing it to the back of his mind. Now there are two flies buzzing about there, both contributing to his irritability.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Charles side-steps a black cab pulling up outside Middle Temple Hall, crosses the cobbles of Middle Temple Lane, and ducks under the arch into Pump Court. The courtyard is small and bounded by tall seventeenth-century buildings, and for that reason is sometimes rather gloomy, but the sun is at its zenith and today the courtyard is warm and beautiful, with golden shafts of sunlight illuminating the small manicured garden at its centre.

  A workman in Middle Temple overalls kneels on the grass with a trowel in his hand as he weeds the borders, and two young women sit on a wooden bench in the sunshine eating sandwiches, their heads together, giggling and whispering furiously. The click-clack of court shoes on the flagstones — Pump Court is used as a short cut from Middle Temple Lane into Inner Temple — and birdsong are the only sounds, and it is difficult to believe that twentieth century Fleet Street, with its lorries and buses thundering past, is no more than one hundred yards to the north.

  Charles emerges into Church Court and crosses the courtyard, passing Temple Church on his left. A gaggle of robed barristers who have also just finished luncheon descend the steps from Inner Temple Hall and turn to their left, walking swiftly towards Fleet Street and the High Court to resume their cases. They resemble a murder of crows with their black robes flapping behind them.

  Charles walks under the tall plane trees, their leaves fluttering in the light breeze off the Thames, and looks to his right across Inner Temple Gardens to the river. As he often does, he silently thanks the fates for allowing him to work in such beautiful surroundings. He knows that few, especially those with his start in life, are fortunate enough to have an occupation that fires them with enthusiasm every morning and allows them to work in surroundings of such historic tranquillity right in the centre of one of the world’s great cities.

  He climbs the worn stone steps of his chambers and pushes open the heavy outer door. The door is almost three inches thick and Charles has often wondered how much of that is actually timber and how much made up of the layer upon layer of paint applied over the last three h
undred years. He passes beneath the arched doorway ascribed to Sir Christopher Wren and runs, two at a time, up the slightly irregular wooden steps to the first floor. Shafts of early afternoon sunshine slant through the sash windows behind him, picking out motes of dust on the ancient staircase.

  Charles pushes open the door of the clerks’ room on the first-floor landing. It’s reasonably quiet at this time of day, with most of the barristers in court and the telephones relatively silent. Barbara, Chambers’ senior clerk, a fierce redheaded Scotswoman in her early forties, sits at the largest desk in the corner of the room from which she can survey her domain. She appears to be working on Chambers’ accounts as her desk and the wooden floorboards around her are hidden beneath ledgers and unpaid fee notes.

  At smaller desks sit the junior clerks, Jeremy and Jennie, known by the barristers compendiously as “JJ”. Jeremy is a bright eyed and slightly over-enthusiastic young man in his early twenties, who in Barbara’s opinion will make a fine clerk eventually if he learns to calm down and think before opening his mouth. Jennie, in contrast, is thoughtful and methodical, but painfully shy. Although she has been in Chambers longer than Jeremy (it’s almost two years since, at age sixteen, she was appointed to the post room) she still cannot look senior members of Chambers in the eye without blushing. At this moment she is standing by the barristers’ pigeonholes explaining to another young person their purpose, and pointing out the name of each barrister above each opening. As Charles approaches his pigeonhole to see if any new briefs and, more importantly, new cheques have been delivered since he last looked, Jennie turns round.

  ‘Oh, hello Mr Holborne, sir. I was just showing Clive how the pigeonholes work,’ she says, just about making eye contact.

  The young man spins round. He’s in his late teens and very fashionably dressed, outfitted in drainpipe trousers, a dark tweed Hepworth jacket and a narrow tie. He has an open, slightly spotty, face and reddish-brown hair. He sticks out his hand confidently.