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

by Simon Michael

  ‘Surely there must be one decent copper in the whole Metropolitan police force you could turn to?’

  ‘Sure there is. Do you know which one he is? Look, I’ve got to go.’ Charles has seen the usher from Court 4 waving urgently at him from the door. He stands up and retrieves his wig.

  ‘But Charles, you’ve got to do something.’ David’s voice is insistent, and he doesn’t want Charles to break the connection.

  ‘I know. I’ll come up with something. Got to go.’

  Charles hangs up. The usher, seeing Charles finish the call, approaches. ‘We’ve a verdict.’

  Charles walks silently down the carpeted stairs in the company of the usher, his heartbeat picking up speed. It’s always like this, the surge of adrenaline and anticipation, exactly like the walk from the dressing room to the ring or, when he was a teenager, manoeuvring a barge as under the hail of a Luftwaffe bombardment: the times when he feels most alive.

  The usher holds open the courtroom’s double doors for Charles to precede him down the aisle. It appears that Charles is one of the last to resume his place because the court is packed, the public gallery full, and there are half a dozen journalists standing with their backs to the panelled walls who’ve been unable to find seats. Montgomery and his junior sit in their respective benches, surrounded by extraneous barristers who have returned to hear how Charles got on with his dock brief. The clerk of the court stands by the door behind the judge’s seat, waiting for Charles to reach the barristers’ benches. The courtroom crackles with tension.

  ‘Ready, gentlemen?’ asks the clerk.

  ‘Yes,’ Montgomery and Charles reply simultaneously.

  The clerk slips through the door but it doesn’t close completely, and it’s evident that Fletcher has been waiting in the corridor outside to enter. The clerk knocks on the door.

  ‘All rise!’ calls the usher, and there is the rumbling thunder of over one hundred people getting to their feet.

  Mr Justice Fletcher enters and takes his seat and the clerk places his papers and notebook on the bench before him. Fletcher waits for the shuffling and banging of seats to finish before addressing counsel.

  ‘I understand we have a verdict. Is there anything either of you wishes to say before I call on the jury bailiff?’

  ‘No, thank you, my Lord,’ answers Montgomery, half-rising from his seat. The judge looks across at Charles, who shakes his head.

  ‘Very well.’

  The usher knocks on the door leading to the jury retiring room and it opens almost instantly. The jury members file into their benches. With some surprise Charles notes that the person first to take her seat in the front bench, in the foreman’s position, is not the ruddy-faced man but one of the women who formerly sat in the top row.

  Some barristers assert that it’s impossible to predict the jury’s verdict from the jurors’ facial expressions, but Charles has a rule of thumb which, although not infallible, is usually reliable: if the jurors, in particular the foreman or forewoman, are able to make eye contact with him as they take their seat, it’s usually a good sign, particularly in a capital case. It’s very hard for jurors to make eye contact with either the accused or his counsel when their next words will sentence the prisoner to death.

  On this occasion the forewoman flashes a glance towards Charles and they make eye contact for a fraction of a second before she takes her seat, notes gripped tightly in her hand. Charles’s heartbeat quickens further still, and his hands clench tightly on top of the bench. He notes his white knuckles and removes his hands to his lap where they can’t be seen.

  The court settles again, this time into absolute silence. The clerk stands and picks up the indictment.

  ‘The accused will stand,’ she orders. Merlin complies, pushing the light brown locks off his forehead and setting his face, ready for the worst.

  ‘Will the foreman or forewoman of the jury please stand?’

  The woman at the end of the front row rises hesitantly and the clerk addresses her.

  ‘Please answer the following question “Yes” or “No”. Have you reached a verdict on which all twelve of you are agreed?’

  ‘Yes,’ says the woman, her cheeks and ears burning red.

  ‘On the charge of murder, do you find the accused guilty or not guilty?’

  There is an awful moment’s hesitation as the woman takes a deep breath and then announces: ‘Not guilty!’

  The tension breaks and there is a buzz of conversation and movement in the public gallery and the press benches, but Charles is oblivious to it. He turns to Merlin in the dock. All the strength appears to have left the lighterman’s body. His fists grip the rail of the dock and his arms, rigid and locked at the elbow, continue to hold him upright but his knees are bent and he stares at his feet, taking great gulps of air. His face is as white as a sheet of paper. He manages to look up and lock eyes with Charles for a moment, a weak smile on his pale face.

  Montgomery turns to Charles’s bench and leans across. ‘Well done, Charles. I hope your client realises just how lucky he was to have got you, and on a dock brief! Terrific piece of advocacy.’

  Charles smiles thanks for his opponent’s generosity, and is dimly aware of other barristers clapping him on the back and congratulating him, but he can’t make eye contact with any of his celebrating colleagues. If only they knew, he thinks to himself. To secure this acquittal he has committed burglary and blackmail and broken half a dozen professional rules, the discovery of which would certainly end his career and lead to imprisonment. He doesn’t deserve plaudits bought at that price.

  The judge ploughs on through the commotion, ordering that the prisoner be discharged, and rises immediately. Counsel stand but the court is too full of excitement for anyone else to heed the usher’s shout of “All rise!”

  Charles turns and looks up at the public gallery. The watchers are busy putting on coats, talking animatedly to one another and queueing to leave the courtroom, but as far as Charles can tell, Ronnie’s spy is nowhere to be seen. Charles doesn’t know what this signifies.

  Merlin is being escorted back down to the cells to collect his belongings and complete the final paperwork.

  Charles calls across to him. ‘I’ll be down at the cell doors!’

  Merlin nods and disappears.

  Charles pushes his way up the aisle through the crowds and makes his way to the basement cells, constantly looking about him for the young man or any other sign of danger.

  Merlin is waiting for him when he reaches the steel door. The cousins embrace.

  ‘Thank you!’ whispers Merlin with intensity into Charles’s ear. Charles pats his back. ‘What can I ever do to repay you?’

  ‘One pound three and six,’ jokes Charles. ‘And perhaps stay out of trouble?’

  Merlin disengages and holds Charles away from him by the upper arms.

  ‘I’m gonna have to. The Waterguard’ll be all over me like a rash from now on. And that Vermeulen’s not likely to forgive and forget.’

  ‘Not just him. Don’t forget the Krays.’

  Merlin frowns. ‘I think you’ve got more to worry about on that score than me. What’re you going to do, Charlie?’

  ‘I really have no idea, Izzy. Emigrate, maybe?’

  ‘Seriously, Charlie!’ chides Merlin, looking very worried.

  ‘I’m not sure I was joking. First things first: we need to get you to a phone. Your mum’ll be tearing her hair out with worry.’

  Charles starts to move off when Merlin grabs his upper arm tightly, dragging him back. ‘Keep your eyes peeled when you leave,’ he instructs.

  ‘Why? Do you think something’s going to happen immediately?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but Ronnie’s eyes and ears have suddenly disappeared, and it’s going to be crowded out there. You’ll be vulnerable.’

  Charles nods. ‘I think I know someone who can get me out a different way.’

  Twenty minutes later, one of the ushers from Court 1, whom Charles has kn
own for fifteen years, opens a side door usually reserved for members of the judiciary, checks outside, and allows Charles to slip away unnoticed by the crowds of journalists and onlookers waiting in the Great Hall and on the court steps. Charles walks swiftly towards Holborn Viaduct, the opposite direction to the one he would usually take, his shoulders hunched, hat pulled down over his eyes and collar up.

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It is two weeks later, and Charles crosses the damp cobbles of Kings Bench Walk and walks towards Chambers, pulling his raincoat tighter about him with one hand and holding his hat firmly on his head with the other. The blustery wind which has been blowing all day has left shifting drifts of litter in the gutters and against the wheels of the parked cars. It’s late afternoon but the light is already failing, with dark clouds scudding up the Thames from the west bringing an early sunset. A thin band of blue sky is still visible at Charles’s back behind the dome of St Paul’s and the silhouetted buildings of the City, but in the direction he’s heading the horizon is dark purple, despite the fact that it’s not yet five o’clock. On the corner of Crown Office Row Charles passes the uniformed officer of the Honourable Society of the Inner Temple with his long pole — Charles always imagines it to be a six-foot matchstick — struggling against the wind to light the gas lamps.

  Charles hurries up the worn stone steps into Chambers and pushes open the door to the clerks’ room. Barbara is in the act of replacing the handset of the telephone and sees Charles enter.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ she calls. ‘Have you got a minute?’

  Charles hasn’t spoken to Barbara in person since Merlin’s trial finished. In fact he has barely talked to anyone, having virtually imprisoned himself inside the apartment at Fetter Lane. He told the clerks that he needed a few days out of court to address the backlog of paperwork, which was true enough, and thereafter only left the apartment when absolutely necessary, if unable to persuade the local shopkeepers to deliver for him or he needed a book from Chambers. Then he would disguise himself as well as possible with his raincoat and hat, check the street below for several minutes and rush out and back as quickly as possible, constantly scanning for signs of danger. On the one occasion he had no choice but to attend court, he arranged to travel with a colleague and spent the entire time distractedly looking over his shoulder.

  Charles has managed to re-establish some dialogue with Sally, but only by telephone. She was cool, and the conversation strained. He explained that securing Merlin’s acquittal was only a temporary respite and had probably only served to increase Ronnie’s fury. Now he had to find a way of resolving the dispute for once and all, and he suggested they didn’t meet until it was settled, and safer; he didn’t want to put her at risk. Sally hung up without objection or tenderness, leaving Charles wondering how the idyll of their love affair had come to such a juddering end.

  The only reason Charles is outside the apartment now is that urgent completed work has to be taken back to Chambers to be booked out before being posted to the solicitors, and the clerks are too busy to collect it.

  ‘Yes, what’s up?’ asks Charles, handing over to Barbara the Instructions now bearing his endorsements.

  Barbara takes the papers offered by Charles, places them on the desk without glancing at them, and collects something from the filing cabinet behind her. ‘Would you mind coming with me, sir?’ she asks.

  Without waiting for an answer, she walks past him and leaves the clerks’ room. This is unusual; Barbara rarely leaves the clerks’ room at this, the busiest time of day. Charles follows her as she runs lightly upstairs to the first floor, her skirts rustling and leaving an inviting wake of perfume. Barbara knocks on the door of the first room she comes to, that of another barrister, pushes the door open and tentatively puts her head into the room. Satisfied that it’s unoccupied, she flicks on the light and holds the door open for Charles.

  Barbara closes the door behind Charles and turns to regard him steadily. ‘You’ve been very difficult to contact over the last few days.’ It’s a statement, but her intelligent blue eyes seek an explanation.

  Charles nods. He’s reluctant to lie to Barbara. Leaving aside the fact that his career depends on her continued support and goodwill, he likes her efficiency, her quick brain, and her complete unflappability. But he cannot tell her the truth.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. My personal life has become a little … complicated.’

  Barbara waits to see if anything further will be forthcoming but Charles looks down at the carpet and it’s clear that she will get no greater explanation.

  ‘In that case, do you want me to give these away?’ She holds out several pristine sets of instructions tied in pink ribbon.

  ‘What are they?’ asks Charles.

  ‘Three sets of new instructions, all murders. Only one has a silk in place, and the implication from the Instructions in the other two is that you can either recommend a silk to lead you, or do the cases solo. Everyone in the Temple is still talking about your success in the dock brief.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised.’

  ‘Well, if you’d been in Chambers a bit more or perhaps picked up the phone, I would’ve told you. One of these is urgent as they want you for the committal; the solicitor’s been on the phone every day for the last four days.’

  Charles holds out his hand and Barbara passes the papers to him. He looks briefly at them. ‘Wow,’ he says. ‘A prosecution. And a defence from Kingsley Napley.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Barbara watches Charles carefully as he puts the other papers on the desk behind him, unties the ribbon on the Kingsley Napley instructions and scans the list of enclosures on the first page.

  ‘This could be your big break, sir. As long as you don’t muck them up completely, you might even be applying for silk next year on the back of this surge.’

  Charles looks up. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. But you need to focus. You can’t go disappearing for days on end.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘And one other thing…’ she hesitates, apparently having difficulty finding exactly the right words to use. ‘The influx of work has been the subject of some comment in Chambers. Naming no names, but one of the silks saw the briefs coming in and has already been onto the solicitors trying to persuade them that you’re too inexperienced for this level of work.’

  ‘What? Trying to get the case moved to him?’ demands Charles, disbelieving.

  ‘I don’t think it was quite as blatant as that, but that was the implication.’

  ‘I’m going to bloody report him!’

  ‘No, sir, you’re not. Firstly, I’m not going to tell you who it was —’

  ‘I could hazard a guess —’ interrupts Charles.

  ‘And secondly, it was a lot of hot air. You know what it’s like. There’re a lot of insecure members of the Bar, and they’re often jealous of others’ success, especially young juniors coming up on the inside. But unless you start work on the papers now, you do risk losing them. And the bigger prize.’

  Charles nods in agreement. ‘OK. I get it.’

  ‘So, no more disappearing off the radar, OK? If you need a holiday — and I’d be the last to stop you taking one — let’s book time out of the diary for over Christmas or perhaps just into the New Year. Get some conferences with these new clients under your belt, and we’ll try to fix the trial dates according to your availability.’

  Charles had intended to return directly to the flat, but instead goes to his room and starts work on the three new briefs. Now out of his self-imposed confinement he finds he is able to concentrate better and fret less. Nonetheless, he decides not to remain in Chambers too late and so, at just before seven and while the Temple is still quite busy, he clears his desk, replaces his coat and hat and descends the stairs. Clive, the junior clerk, is locking the huge outer oak door to the clerks’ room and sees Charles.

  ‘Oh, ’allo, sir. I didn’t know you was in. I got something
for you.’ The young man holds out a slightly crumpled piece of paper. ‘Sorry. I was gonna post it through the door over the road earlier, but it was so busy I never got the chance.’

  Charles unfurls the paper. It’s a note of a telephone call, recorded as having arrived at quarter past six that evening.

  Meet me after work tonight? Been making enquiries and I’ve got an idea. 7:30 at New Fresh Wharf. I’ll be on the General Grant towing up from Greenwich.

  ‘Did you take the call?’ asks Charles, suspicious. The last time he received a note of a telephone call left with the clerks, it ended up with a knife fight in a telephone box.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What did he sound like?’

  Clive shrugs, and glances at his watch, clearly anxious to be away. ‘Young, I guess? Local. I mean ’e sounded like me. Cockney, like.’

  ‘But he didn’t give a name?’ persists Charles, still suspicious.

  ‘Well, yeah, ’e did, but I thought it was a joke, so I didn’t write it down. Now, what was it? Some wizard or other…’

  ‘Merlin?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. Merlin. Sorry, sir, but I’m going to miss me train.’

  ‘No, that’s OK. You get off. Thanks.’

  Clive turns and runs off, leaving the front door banging. Charles reads the note again. The detail contained in it, the reference to New Fresh Wharf and the name of the tug, which are unlikely to be known by the Krays, are reassuring.

  Charles looks at his watch. It’s a thirty-five-minute walk or a twenty-minute jog from Chambers to the wharf, just past London Bridge; it’s one of Charles’s favourite training routes and he knows it well. But if he’s going on Merlin’s oily old tug he doesn’t want to do it in his suit, and he doesn’t have time to return to the apartment, change, and then run to London Bridge. There’s no way he can rely on getting a taxi without a prolonged wait at this time of the evening.