‘I know that. He was preventing you being raped. That’s self-defence. But he needs your evidence to prove it. He hasn’t mentioned it to the police at all.’
It takes a moment for David to absorb Charles’s words but slowly his eyes open wide and he shakes his head agitatedly. ‘But I can’t give evidence! It’ll be all over the papers! My mum’ll see it!’
‘But you were an innocent victim,’ protests Charles.
‘That won’t make any difference. Everyone’ll know I’m gay. It’s bound to come out. And the way I’ve been living. Isn’t it?’
Of course it is, acknowledges Charles to himself. It’ll all come out. If he was prosecuting he’d almost certainly cross-examine on the same basis. Despite the Wolfenden report, homosexual acts are still illegal and likely to remain that way. This poor kid would face conviction himself, despite having been the victim of a rape and a severe beating.
‘I like Merlin, a lot,’ says David. ‘He’s been very kind to me and we became very … close.’
Charles is aware that Merlin invited David to spend the night on the barge and no payment was anticipated between them. They were indeed close.
‘But I can’t help him,’ finishes David, anguish in his voice.
‘He’ll hang if convicted.’
David drops his head again and Charles hears him crying. ‘I can’t help him,’ repeats David, his voice shaking.
Charles reaches inside his leather jacket pocket and comes up with a clean-ish tissue which he hands to David. He stands. This response is pretty much what he expected. He reaches into his other pocket and takes out three ten pound notes, much more than he’d expected to pay for information.
‘Here.’ David doesn’t look up. ‘David!’ says Charles firmly, holding out the notes hand.
David looks up, his cheeks wet with tears, and sees the money.
‘There’s probably enough for dental treatment and dentures,’ says Charles. ‘It’s definitely enough to get home, if that’s what you want.’
‘Really?’ asks David, eyes wide.
‘Really.’
‘Is it from Merlin?’
‘No,’ says Charles. ‘It’s from me. Now take it,’ he instructs.
David reaches out tentatively and takes the money. He then launches himself from the bed at Charles, holding him in a firm embrace and kissing him repeatedly on the cheek. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ he says, with a kiss between each “thank you”.
Charles pats him gently on the back and disengages from him.
‘Can I … do anything for you?’ asks David. ‘I know I don’t look much, but...’
He lets the kimono fall open to reveal a skinny white body and Y fronts.
‘No,’ says Charles. ‘Thank you, but no.’
He turns to leave when David speaks again.
‘I don’t know, but maybe this’ll help. Evans was well-known at the Rack, a regular. I was one of the few who refused him, and more than once. I never trusted him, see? He gave me the creeps. I think that’s why he did this to me.’
‘And?’
‘There were rumours about him. I don’t know the details but he was caught with his pants down.’
‘With one of you?’
‘Yes, but there was someone else involved, too. A big-wig. He got into real hot water; almost lost his job and was going to be prosecuted. We didn’t see him for months. But then he suddenly reappears, as if it never happened. It was all hushed up. But everyone at the Rack knows about it, even some of the coppers, the decent ones.’
‘Are there decent ones?’ says Charles sceptically.
‘A few. The ones who give us the price of a bag of chips every now and then.’
‘Well, I’ve yet to meet any, certainly on Vice. Anyway, thank you. That may be helpful.’
‘Give my best to Merlin, would you?’ calls David after him. ‘Tell him I’m sorry.’
Charles closes the door and returns to the street. He looks at his watch and sets off at a jog back to Charing Cross.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Thick fog rolls in from the Thames, a cold, damp quilt, deadening the traffic sounds from the city and covering everything in a fine layer of water droplets. The gas lamps on the Embankment are disembodied, floating globes of yellow light surrounded by hazy halos. There are very few people around now at almost four in the morning, but every few minutes someone returning from a late shift or a desperate soul with insomnia emerges suddenly from the roiling clouds, the sound of their approaching footsteps undetectable until the last couple of yards.
Charles waits at Embankment Pier. Water laps only a few inches below his feet and he leans out slightly over the water, straining hard to listen. He has changed his clothes and now wears baggy trousers, a leather jerkin, a short-sleeved shirt and a cloth lighterman’s cap. He shivers slightly; his lightweight clothing is inappropriate for this weather, but there’s a reason for that. By his feet, which wear light canvas shoes with rubber soles, is a rucksack. The fag end of a rollup, cold, damp and long-since extinguished, hangs from the corner of his mouth. He hears footsteps above him on the pavement and he crouches. The chance of being seen in the dark and this impenetrable fog is slim, but he is taking no chances. He waits for the footsteps to fade before standing up again.
The muffled sounds of ships’ horns reach him every now and then along the invisible waterway, the mournful wails of lost marine souls. For a moment Charles imagines he hears the chug-chug of an engine some distance upstream, but before he can be sure the noise disappears. Half a minute later a tugboat emerges silently out of the fog from the west. It shows no lights and its appearance out of the white clouds is so sudden that it resembles a ghost ship. It coasts towards Charles’s position and out of the air snakes a rope which falls almost on Charles’s shoulder. He captures it neatly and pulls. The tug bumps gently against the tyres hanging from the pier edge and comes to a halt. The dark shape of a broad man looms over the gunwale, hand extended.
‘Wotcha, Jonjo,’ the man whispers hoarsely. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’
Charles slings his rucksack over one shoulder and takes the offered arm, gripping it wrist to wrist, and is hauled aboard.
‘You still look the part,’ says the skipper as he returns to the wheelhouse. ‘Bet it’s a few years since you wore that lot, eh?’
Charles picks up a boathook from the deck and shoves them off back into the stream.
‘You’re right there,’ he says, climbing the steps into the wheelhouse. ‘I only kept the clothes for old time’s sake. I’m very grateful, Piper. I owe you one.’
‘No you don’t, mate. Where to?’
‘Harpy Waterguard Station.’
Piper looks sharply across at him in surprise. ‘Whatever you say, boychick.’
‘There shouldn’t be anyone there, but can you cut the engines anyway and coast in? Just run straight past and I’ll jump. I might be twenty minutes, half an hour. Then, if you can spare the time, circle round and pick me up. I’ve got a torch and I’ll flash when I’m ready.’
‘Easily done.’
Using the tide, Piper steers them into the centre of the current and only then starts the engine. For a moment Charles just enjoys the sensation of being on the river again at night. Despite the cold and the damp clothes, he feels more alive than he has for ages, years perhaps. I should’ve stayed doing this, he thinks to himself. I’d have been happier, working with honest to goodness East Enders, even the bent ones, when I knew who I was.
The tug goes under Blackfriars Bridge and, bringing himself back to the present, Charles opens the rucksack and roots around inside until he finds what he’s looking for. He pulls out a handful of folded sheets torn from his blue counsel’s notebook.
‘Can we get a bit of light in here?’ he asks.
In response Piper switches on a lamp over the instrument panel and bends the flexible arm down towards Charles.
‘Thanks,’ says Charles.
The illumination allows Piper to see Ch
arles’s face for the first time. ‘Still boxing, I see.’
Charles looks up from the sketches and frowns. ‘Oh, the face. Yes, every now and then.’
‘You might want to get yourself a new sparring partner,’ says Piper dryly, eyes fixed forward into the fog.
Charles pores over the sketches he made at Brixton Prison. Having passed the Waterguard Station on literally hundreds of occasions while working up and down the Thames, Merlin had been reasonably sure of the layout of the lower deck. He could look into the windows to the main office and the locker rooms and, as he floated past, often watched the Waterguard officers in their crowded recreation room between shifts, playing cards, making drinks and getting changed.
However, it’s the upper deck which most interests Charles, and of that Merlin knew far less. The windows were much higher than Merlin’s usual position, low in the water, and on the night he was taken there by Vermeulen he was too distressed to notice much about his surroundings. Nonetheless, Merlin’s guess is that the upper deck houses both the CPO’s office and the secure room for seized goods where he was interviewed.
‘Coming up on London Bridge,’ announces Piper.
Charles peers ahead into the foggy darkness. Custom House Quay is only a couple of hundred yards downstream of the Bridge, and that’s where the two-storey Waterguard Station is moored, its lower deck connected to the Quay by a railed bridge which slopes up or down depending on the state of the tide. Charles doesn’t know what security may exist at the Customs House end of the bridge, so he plans to jump on the lower deck as the tug coasts past.
Piper cuts the engines and allows the tug to drift with the tide. Charles steps out of the wheelhouse into the moist night air and peers ahead. He can see nothing in the swirling fog. There appear to be no lights ahead, which is good if, as Charles hopes, the station is unattended. On the other hand, it’s impossible to see the station as they approach and there’s a real risk the tug will drift straight past it.
A gust of wind parts the fog slightly, and Piper points. ‘Coming up on the port side! Get ready!’
Charles turns back to the wheelhouse, grabs the rucksack and slips it over both shoulders, tightening the chest strap as far as it will go. At the same instant as he looks up again, he sees the lower deck landing and before he can move the tug is already halfway along its length. They are also at least four yards away from it, much too far for a standing jump.
‘Hang on!’ shouts Piper, and he spins the wheel to port. The tug heels over but turns swiftly enough to narrow the gap just as it goes past the final corner of the deck. Charles leaps into the fog, reaching blindly with his hands in the hope there’ll be something to grab as he lands. The first thing he encounters is the rope strung between the metal posts at waist height all around the deck, but it’s wet and although his hands strike it, he isn’t quick enough to hold on. As his hands slap on the edge of the decking and grip, his lower body hits cold water.
The tide is stronger than he imagined, and almost instantly he feels it pulling him away from the station. Using all his strength, he clings to the decking and hauls himself partially out, wriggling to get more of his body weight onto the timber. Satisfied that he’s no longer at risk of being dragged off, he casts a glance over his right shoulder for a sign of the tug. It has disappeared completely and silently into the fog, taking with it Charles’s sketches of the station.
Charles pulls himself completely out of the water and rolls under the barrier rope. According to Merlin’s information at this time of night, only an hour after high tide, the boarding crew should all be out on river patrol. If anyone remains on board they don’t appear to have noted Charles’s arrival; no new sounds, no lights suddenly illuminated. In any case flotsam and jetsam frequently wash against vessels moored on the Thames, clunking against their hulls and floating off again, and he doesn’t think he made more noise than that would have done. Nonetheless, he remains cautious.
He crouches down, sidles up to the nearest window and slowly lifts his head to look inside. The building appears to be in complete darkness. As far as he can see, the room into which he is peering is an office. He ducks down again and crawls to the next window: a changing room, with lockers along one side; and then the last two windows: a recreation room, over-stuffed with what appears to be government-issue furniture. Some of it is old enough to have been pre-war, and Charles recognises the style from his days in the RAF.
Charles steps back to the edge of the decking and cranes his neck to see the windows above him, but the walkway around the upper deck completely obscures his view. As far as he can tell it’s in darkness. He slips off the rucksack and unties its mouth, feeling around until he encounters a pair of lightweight leather gloves. He looks up above him at the upper deck and changes his mind. He puts the gloves in his pocket, closes the rucksack and puts it back on his shoulders. He doubts that he’d leave fingerprints on the wet decking above him in any case, but more importantly he reckons the gloves will dangerously reduce the grip he can exert when he jumps.
He takes a breath, bends his knees, and with all of his considerable quadriceps strength, launches himself upwards to grab the edge of the upper deck. His hands get a good grip despite the moist conditions but at the very same moment the Harpy is struck by the wash of another vessel and rolls first landward and then back again. The articulation between the lower deck and the bridge creaks loudly, and for a frightening two seconds Charles finds himself hanging in white mist over cold, black water. He waits until the station rolls back the other way and pulls himself up, grabbing the first rung of the metal railings on the upper deck. He is reliant entirely on upper body strength as his feet still dangle in mid-air, and it’s harder than he imagines because of the wet clothing and the rucksack, but in a moment he is safely on the upper deck.
This storey of the floating building also seems deserted. Charles slips off the rucksack again and reaches in for the jemmy. This time he does don the gloves. Forcing the window’s rudimentary lock is the work of five seconds and within ten he’s inside a small office, dripping Thames water onto the floor. He tiptoes to the door, puts his ear against it and, hearing nothing, is about to open the door when he notes the uniform hanging on a hook on the inside. It has three braid rings round the cuffs: the uniform of a Chief Preventive Officer.
Charles quickly rifles through the pockets and finds a dry-cleaning bill in Vermeulen’s name. Satisfied, he returns to the rucksack and takes out a small torch which he holds between his teeth.
The next ten minutes are unproductive. He opens the top two drawers of Vermeulen’s desk: various shift rotas and documents passing between HM Waterguard and Customs House, blank paper, envelopes, an HM Waterguard rubber stamp and ink pad; the usual paraphernalia of an administrator.
Charles moves down to the bottom drawer. This one is locked, and Charles’s heart flutters in anticipation, but once it is broken open it reveals only a sectioned wooden tray holding a couple of fountain pens, rulers, pencils, paper clips and a bottle of ink. Why lock this away? It’s not impossible that colleagues keep “borrowing” pens, ink and so on; that happens in Chambers all the time, and Charles has more than once been tempted to lock his desk.
On the point of giving up, Charles lifts the wooden tray. Underneath is a notebook. At first glance it appears merely to contain a repetition of some of the shift patterns on the sheets in the top drawer, but then Charles notices asterisks against certain shifts. His finger travels down several pages in succession and notes that the shifts with the asterisks always contain Vermeulen himself, APO Evans and two other officers whose names keep reappearing, Butler and Kincaid.
Only the first few pages of the notebook have writing on them, and Charles flicks to the back. Inside the back cover is a loose sheet of paper. Against the initials “V”, “E”, “B” and “K” are careful pencil-written entries. Charles brings the torch close to the sheet. “600 cigs”, “2 btls brandy”, “1 cask sherry” … paydirt!
Charle
s celebrates silently. This is the document he hoped, prayed, would be somewhere in this office: the evidence of the smuggling operation run by Vermeulen and his select group of bent Waterguard officers. For the first time since he spun round in court to see Merlin, the optimism he has unfailingly presented to his cousin has some actual substance, and Charles can permit himself a small, satisfied smile. Now they have some ammunition; something with which to fight.
Charles slips the notebook and the piece of paper into the rucksack, repacks the jemmy and torch, and pulls tight the drawstring. He pauses before reopening the second desk drawer and pulling out a sheet of blank paper headed “HM Waterguard”. After a moment’s hurried consideration, he writes his home telephone number and puts the sheet in the third drawer in place of the notebook. Then to make absolutely sure it will be discovered, he leaves that drawer open by half an inch.
It’s an enormous risk, he knows, but at that moment he can think of no other way of ensuring Vermeulen contacts him. He can’t even be sure the CPO will be on duty again over the weekend, before Merlin’s trial starts. What if he doesn’t even come to the Harpy before going to court?
Charles remembers the dry-cleaning bill in the uniform pocket, and moves hastily back to the office door. He rifles through the pockets and fishes out the bill: no address. He grimaces in the dark to himself; he’s done all he can. Time to get out.
Charles surveys the room swiftly to make sure he’s missed nothing and climbs back out of the window, closing it behind him. The lock is broken, but insofar as Charles can tell in the dark, no obvious damage has been caused to the window to alert immediate suspicion from outside. The puddle of water left by his dripping clothes at the desk side is another matter.
Fifteen minutes later, as the horizon behind them gradually lightens, Charles is back in the wheelhouse of Piper’s tug, a towel over his shoulders and his freezing hands wrapped around a large mug of hot chocolate, as they make their way against the tide back to Embankment Pier.
The Lighterman: The Kray Twins are out for revenge... (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 3) Page 17