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

by Simon Michael

  ‘And that’s another thing. They normally rummage in teams of two, but this one was alone,’ continues Merlin. ‘Anyway, he orders me to help him shift the bottles onto his launch — there were about six or eight — and off he goes. Couple hours later Jack comes back and I tell him all about it. At first he don’t believe me, but then he says he knows someone in the Waterguard and he’ll have a word, you know, see if he can find out what’s going on.’

  ‘Do you think Jack was in on it?’ asks Charles.

  ‘Union Jack?’ replies Merlin, eyebrows raised. ‘Never. I’d swear on me life. I knew him since I was tiny, two or three. He was me godfather! Straight as a die, one of the most decent men I ever knew. A few weeks after that, he was dead.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘We was on Millwall Dock, unloading a huge consignment of tins of salmon from Canada. There was four of us, ten or twelve barges in all. We’d almost finished and Jack was on the quayside. One of those grain vacuums was above him, and it suddenly discharged several ton of grain, right on ’is nut.’

  There is silence in the cell except for the sound of Charles’s pen nib scratching on his notebook as he writes furiously, trying to catch up with Merlin’s story. His neat angular handwriting now covers five or six pages. He looks up.

  ‘Was it an accident?’

  Merlin shakes his head in disbelief and shrugs. ‘That’s what the coroner reckoned.’

  ‘There was an inquest, then?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ replies Merlin cynically. ‘It took ten minutes. Accidental death.’

  Charles lifts his head and stares, unseeing, at the tiny square of light above Merlin’s head which penetrates through the grubby light-well at pavement level. It is darkened briefly every few seconds by the shadows of passers-by, unconscious of the dramas unfolding literally beneath their feet. Charles ponders the information Merlin has given him for a few moments. Then: ‘OK; interesting. Let’s move on to how you come to be here.’

  ‘After that first time when the APO came aboard, I got me ticket and two of me own barges. One of them was Jack’s old Belgian barge, remember all that lovely paintwork inside? A few months later and I notice that every now and then things are out of place. I couldn’t work it out, but eventually I realised someone must be coming on board. When they’re empty we usually tie the barges up overnight by the buoys. They’re not locked; you never expect anyone to nick ’em. But it means anyone with a boat can get aboard. I was getting suspicious, so one day I was on a three-day trip to the River Medway, four barges. After I discharged I took the Belgian one into a dry dock run by a fella I know, and we took it to pieces. We found four hidden compartments, all stinking of spirits. So, then I knew what was going on.’

  ‘This Assistant Preventive Officer was using your barge to smuggle booze?’

  ‘Brandy. Yeah. It was clever. It meant I was taking all the risk. If I got rummaged by someone else it would all be down to me, and saying I knew nothing about it wouldn’t get me nowhere. So I decided to catch him. I’d tie up the barges every night, wait till it was dark, and then sneak back and sleep on board. It only took me a week before I caught him.’

  ‘And?’ For the first time Merlin avoids Charles’s gaze. ‘And?’ repeats Charles with heavy emphasis, guessing what’s coming.

  Merlin pulls a face, and shrugs. ‘Yeah, well, you know me. I told them I wanted my cut. I said I’d even run a few trips for them.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘I never met anyone except this APO, Evans, but more than once he let slip he was working with others, more senior people. I got the impression he was the junior partner. My stuff was small beer by comparison. You know what was going on round that time.’

  ‘Are you saying he couldn’t have done this without his superiors having known?’ probes Charles.

  ‘Certain of it.’

  Charles makes some further notes. ‘Did you run a few trips for them?’

  Merlin gives a wry smile. ‘Nah. Tried to persuade him, but he said it was a Waterguard enterprise, no outsiders. Shame; it would have been a nice earner. But after that he would leave me a few bob each time he used the barge, just enough for a couple of drinks to keep me sweet. He used to call it “rent”. So I always knew when he’d been there.’

  Charles shakes his head slowly, more in sorrow than in surprise. He and Merlin had got up to quite a bit of mischief when they worked together. The younger lightermen and apprentices used to play cricket on the empty barges or, when they were moving fast, for example when towing up from Tilbury, their tugs would race with apprentices surfing behind on gratings. There were also occasional illegal bareknuckle boxing matches on the barges, and large sums were wagered.

  When Merlin realised how good a boxer Charles really was, he cajoled Charles into letting him become his unofficial manager, and Charles had several successful fights from which they each made more than a week’s wages. There was also minor pilfering but, as far as Charles could tell, almost everyone was at it, so he didn’t pass judgement. He was having too good a time: he exulted in the freedom of being on the river, so far away from his restrictive, anxious, parents, and for the first time in his life having money in his pocket and girls on his arm.

  He sensed even then that it was different for Merlin. His cousin was a comical and likeable rogue, but he always had his eye on the main chance. What started off as a bit of petty thievery slowly changed. Merlin’s dishonesty became more serious, and Charles found himself being drawn into more carefully-planned criminal enterprises, here a stolen lorry, there a bung to a tally officer to turn a blind eye to goods being lifted. And then, finally, there was the incident at the warehouse at Saint Katharine’s docks. Thereafter Charles wanted nothing more to do with the darker side of Merlin’s ambitions. When his father finally did turn up, Charles was very sorry to leave Shadwell and his unofficial apprenticeship on the river, but his disappointment at having to return to school was also tinged with relief.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Merlin, returning to his story, ‘one day the rent payments stopped.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  Barristers practising in the criminal courts day in, day out develop a sixth sense for truthfulness. It’s by no means infallible and Charles has been taken in by a plausible liar more than once, but he has learned to rely on his instincts, and there’s something about Merlin’s tone, the increased intensity of his gaze — as if challenging Charles to disbelieve him — that rings a false note.

  ‘Is that true, Izzy? Do you really not know?’

  Merlin chews his lower lip for a moment and a grin spreads slowly over his face. ‘That’s the problem, ain’t it, Charlie? You know me too well.’

  ‘Look, Izzy, nothing you say to me, in this room or anywhere else, goes any further than the two of us. It’s called legal professional privilege. It doesn’t matter what you say to me, I can’t tell anyone anything. There’s one exception: if you admit to killing this bloke I can’t put forward a positive case suggesting you didn’t. It’s against the rules; I’m not allowed to mislead the court, so I couldn’t call you to give evidence. But, and this is important, I’m still allowed to test the evidence of the prosecution witnesses, and if it doesn’t come up to scratch, you have to be acquitted, whether you did it or not.’

  Merlin doesn’t answer. Watching his face is like watching fast-moving cloud shadows flowing across an undulating landscape. Charles sees uncertainty, relief and fear cross the handsome face in quick succession, reflecting an internal debate. He can’t decide how much to divulge, thinks Charles, whether he can trust me; where the truth, once uttered, might lead.

  ‘What…’ ventures Merlin eventually, ‘what — just saying you understand — but what if I killed him, to stop him killing someone else?’

  ‘Then it’s not guilty.’

  Merlin hangs his head, and all Charles can see are the golden locks swinging as his cousin rocks very slightly on the wooden chair. Eventually he looks up again.
‘I need time to think this through, Charlie.’ His face is almost apologetic.

  ‘Of course,’ reassures Charles. ‘Of course,’ he repeats. ‘But, as I said, we have no time to mess about. I’ll come to Brixton as soon as I can and collect the prosecution depositions. We can talk again then.’

  Without a further word, Merlin stands and bangs on the door, signalling that the interview is over. Charles is surprised, but he nonetheless closes his notebook and screws the top back on his fountain pen.

  ‘I have to ask, Merlin: do you have one pound three and six?’ he asks diffidently.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, but my professional rules require that you pay me one pound three and six for the dock brief before I take the case.’

  Merlin looks astonished. ‘What, you mean that unless I have the money you won’t defend me?’

  Charles is now very uncomfortable. ‘Those are the rules. I’m not supposed to. But…’ Charles hesitates briefly before reaching a decision which he knows, if revealed, would land him in hot water with the Bar Council. As he answers, part of him wonders if this is only the first compromise to which he’ll be forced, and whether he’d been wrong after all not to mention his relationship with Merlin and decline the case. ‘Forget it,’ he says. ‘But, if anyone asks, you paid me. OK?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to get into any trouble,’ says Merlin with some bitterness.

  ‘Forget it, I said. I don’t like breaking the rules, but in this case…’

  Merlin nods slowly. ‘Fair enough.’

  They hear the gaoler approaching from the corridor outside, keys jangling. Merlin turns again to Charles. ‘I’ve got a question for you, Charlie.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When you was on the run from the law over Henrietta’s death, why didn’t you come to us? We would’ve helped you, you know that. No question.’

  ‘I know,’ confesses Charles. ‘I did think about it. But I hadn’t seen any of you for over a decade.’

  ‘So? We’re family. We love you.’

  Charles is shamed by Merlin’s frankness. ‘I was embarrassed. I felt guilty at having let our friendship die.’

  Merlin looks at him, astonished. ‘Die? What are you talking about Charlie? Nothing died.’ He stabs his forefinger at Charles just as the gaoler swings the door open. ‘You’re a fuckin’ idiot,’ he says, walking out of the conference room.

  ‘Yes,’ says Charles, raising his voice at Merlin’s receding back. ‘I know that now.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Charles pushes open the door to the tiny flat in Fetter Lane. The smell of frying bacon greets his nose and immediately makes his mouth water. Sally, only three or four yards away in the kitchen, hears him enter.

  ‘I’m in here!’ she calls.

  Charles throws his robes bag and papers from the day’s part-heard trial onto the couch and puts his head round the corner. Sally is still in her work clothes, but her dark pleated skirt and waisted jacket covered by a pink flowery pinafore she bought specifically to use at the flat.

  ‘Bacon?’ asks Charles.

  ‘Gammon steak,’ says Sally over her shoulder. ‘Special treat.’

  Charles grew up in a kosher home where eating pork would have been unthinkable, but he developed a fondness for bacon and eggs in the RAF and now pays little attention to the dietary rules which strictly govern his family’s life.

  ‘Fried eggs or poached?’ asks Sally. ‘I bought some carrots, too.’ Charles doesn’t answer. ‘Charlie?’ calls Sally.

  When Charles still doesn’t respond she takes the pan with the half-cooked gammon steaks off the gas and comes into the lounge. She finds Charles slumped in the armchair, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. She perches on the arm of the chair next to him.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Charles continues massaging the back of his neck with both his hands, draws a deep breath and replies without looking up. ‘I got a dock brief today.’

  Sally knows that this wouldn’t be cause for celebration for any busy barrister, but realises there must be more to this story, so she waits.

  ‘The bloke’s charged with murdering a Waterguard while resisting arrest,’ Charles says.

  ‘Waterguard?’

  ‘They’re a sort of river police, basically Customs and Excise men. Which means the rope if he’s convicted.’

  ‘Blimey.’

  ‘And guess who the judge is.’

  ‘The Recorder?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘Not Fletcher?’

  Charles nods. ‘He’s given us till the morning to prepare. But that’s still not the worst of it.’ He looks up. ‘I know the accused; he’s my cousin.’

  A moment passes as Sally absorbs the information. ‘Jesus, Charlie,’ she says softly. ‘Who is it?’

  Charles has never before had cause to speak about this period during the war when he worked as an apprentice lighterman, and so he explains about his time in Shadwell and his relationship with Merlin.

  ‘You can’t possibly represent him, can you?’ asks Sally when he finishes. ‘Surely, you’re conflicted?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any rule preventing a barrister from representing a member of his family,’ replies Charles, shaking his head slowly, ‘but I know the Bar Council would say it’s not wise, and I should certainly tell the judge about the potential conflict. And I didn’t take the fee either, which is definitely a breach of my rules.’

  Sally kneels in front of Charles, her hands on his knees, trying unsuccessfully to make eye contact with him.

  ‘I’ve never known you break any of your professional rules before now,’ she says gently.

  ‘So?’ replies Charles, looking up now, the suggestion of a challenge in his voice.

  ‘I’m not having a go, Charlie. I would’ve done the same. I’m just saying it must have been hard. I know how much these things mean to you; the integrity.’

  Charles draws a deep breath and his shoulders slump. ‘I’m sorry. Yes, you’re right. I watched myself do it and wondered what was happening. But, honestly, Sal, I didn’t feel I had a choice. I value the law immensely, you know I do. I try to live by it, when no one else swimming in this sea of effluence seems to give a shit.’

  Sally notes Charles’s language with surprise, as he rarely swears in her company, but says nothing. He speaks calmly; he sounds less angry than resigned.

  ‘Not the gangs, nor the Filth, nor even most of the judges. But I do. But … in the end, my loyalty to Merlin, Izzy, was stronger. He’s in the worst possible trouble, and I’m all that’s standing between him and the hangman.’

  ‘I know. You made the right call,’ Sally says, trying to reassure him. The frown on his face tells her that she’s not been completely successful. ‘Are you hungry?’ she continues.

  Charles looks up. He takes her white hand in both of his paws and kisses it tenderly several times. ‘Yes,’ he answers.

  ‘You get changed, and I’ll finish the cooking.’ Sally stands and makes to go back to the kitchen but Charles holds onto her hand.

  ‘Can you stay tonight?’ he asks.

  ‘Betty can’t go in tomorrow so I was going home to get Mum up before coming in,’ Sally says regretfully. Then she sees the disappointment on Charles’s face. ‘You look like a little boy who’s broken his favourite toy. I’ll call Tracey and see if she can fill in for me.’

  Charles smiles with gratitude. ‘Thank you.’

  He remains slouched in the armchair, desultorily watching Sally’s rear as she returns to the kitchen, gathering the energy to get up. He hears her striking match after match trying to get the gas ring to light again. It’s been causing problems for a week or more. It finally “whumphs” loudly into flame and Sally emits an inarticulate squeak of surprise.

  ‘You need to get this thing looked at,’ she calls. ‘It still doesn’t light properly. Can you get someone in tomorrow, maybe, before we go?’

  ‘That’s the other
thing. This weekend’s looking a bit dodgy, Sal,’ calls Charles.

  He hears the gas extinguished again and wonders briefly what the gammon’s going to taste like when treated this way as Sally re-emerges from the kitchen, a scowl on her face.

  ‘No. You’re not cancelling again?’

  Charles approaches her and lifts his hand, planning to stroke her hair to placate her, but Sally’s head jerks back and she stays out of reach.

  ‘It’s been in the diary for weeks, Charlie,’ she says. ‘I’m really looking forward to it. And you know the trouble it’s taken to arrange Mum’s care for a complete weekend!’

  They’ve been invited to spend the weekend with one of Charlie’s RAF friends who’s moved recently with his wife and young son from London to Brighton. Charles hoped it would be easier to introduce Sally to friends outside the legal profession, people who’d have none of the prejudices and preconceptions about barristers’ clerks and their guvnors. He expected the false accounting trial to finish by Friday but, even if it didn’t, he’d have finished his speech and could afford to take the weekend off. Accordingly, the plan was to drive down late Friday night once the traffic cleared and return Sunday afternoon. Sally’s sisters rearranged their weekends —Tracey’s new husband even changed shifts — to provide cover and permit Sally to go to the seaside with her new beau. Sally has been bouncing with suppressed excitement for a fortnight. An entire weekend of being a normal couple, and by the seaside!

  Charles spreads his hands in eloquent plea. ‘Fletcher’s threatening to arraign Izzy tomorrow. I don’t think he’ll have time, but that means Monday by the latest. I’ve only got the weekend to prepare his defence.’

  ‘Can’t you get an adjournment?’

  ‘Of course I’m going to try, but you know what Fletcher’s like. I can’t take the risk he’ll say no. I’ve got to be ready to start on Monday, whether he gives me more time or not. Which means working this weekend.’

  ‘This isn’t fair Charlie.’

  ‘It isn’t fair to Izzy, that’s for sure. His life’s at stake.’

  Sally purses her lips and draws breath heavily through her nose as she tries to control her temper. She can’t get used to the frequency with which Charles breaks social arrangements. There is always a good reason, and of course this is the best reason yet, but the result remains the same; somehow, she’s made to feel guilty and unreasonable for making demands on Charles’s time and is left frustrated and impotent. Month after month she’s been kept in Charles’s demarcated compartment labelled “Love Life”, a butterfly pinned inside a glass case, and she is sick and tired of it.