The Brief

by Simon Michael

  ‘Sir! Mr Holborne sir!’

  Charles opened his eyes. There was a woman’s black court shoe in front of him, and an ankle in stockings. Charles couldn’t fathom why a shoe or an ankle should be on his pillow. He then realised that he was extremely uncomfortable and not after all in his bed. He tried to sit up and a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes again to prevent the room spinning.

  ‘Sir? Are you all right?’

  Charles tried again, opening one eye just a fraction. ‘Sally?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Have you fainted, sir?’

  ‘Do you want to try to sit up, sir?’ said another voice, a young man’s this time.

  ‘Yes,’ responded Charles, and he felt hands from each side under his armpits pulling him into a seated position. Charles realised that he was on the floor just outside his office in Chambers. He was still disorientated.

  ‘Sir, should we get an ambulance?’ Sally asked.

  ‘No…At least I don’t think so. I don’t understand… What’s the time?’

  ‘Just gone 8 in the morning, sir,’ said the man. ‘Have you been here all night?’

  Charles moaned. His head was full of little men with big hammers. ‘I’m not…yes, I must’ve been. The last thing I remember is coming up here late last night to get my Archbold. I remember… there was a light on… but then there wasn’t…’

  Charles opened his eyes further and saw Sally and Robert, the office junior, both crouched in front of him, looking concerned. ‘Christ, my head hurts.’

  Charles reached behind him and found a large lump on the back of his head. He took his fingers away and examined them, but there was no blood.

  ‘Looks like you hit your head as you fell,’ said Robert.

  ‘Yeh…maybe…’ replied Charles. ‘Robert, can you help me into my room?’

  ‘Don’t you want to go to the flat, sir? You’re pretty muddy, if you don’t mind me saying so and maybe you need to change.’

  Charles looked down at his clothes, shook his head, and wished he hadn’t. ‘Jesus, remind me not to do that again. No, I’d just like to sit down for a few minutes. I’ll make my own way over in a bit.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Sally. ‘I’m about to put the kettle on.’

  ‘Sally, I could propose,’ replied Charles with gratitude.

  ‘Yes, but what, sir? Marriage, or something more interesting?’ she said cheekily.

  ‘I’m afraid it may be some days before I’m up to anything more interesting,’ he replied.

  Robert helped Charles back to his room and he collapsed in his leather chair. He had barely sat down when there was a knock at his door. Tea, he thought.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  Sally entered, looking worried. ‘Erm… sorry Mr Holborne… but there’s a couple of men here to see you. They say they’re policemen.’

  Charles frowned. ‘Better show them in,’ he said, standing.

  Sally stood back, and permitted two large men to enter the room. The first of them spoke.

  ‘Mr Charles Holborne?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am Detective Constable Sloane, and this is Detective Constable Redaway.’ The officer showed Charles his warrant card. ‘We’re from the Thames Valley Police.’

  ‘Yes, officer. Do you want to take a seat?’

  ‘Er, yes, alright. You’d better sit down too, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ replied Charles, sitting back down cautiously. Standing suddenly had made his head swim, and he thought he might be sick. He felt the back of his head again.

  ‘Something wrong, sir?’ asked one of the policemen.

  ‘Not sure,’ replied Charles groggily. ‘The clerks found me on the floor outside, with this on the back of my head. I must’ve been there since late last night.’

  Charles turned his head gingerly and showed the lump to the two officers. He didn’t see the look which passed between them.

  ‘Mr Holborne?’ said the officer who had introduced them, DC Sloane. ‘Mr Holborne, I need you to focus on what I’m saying.’

  Even in his befuddled state Charles recognised the stress in the officer’s voice. He looked at the two men’s grave faces and knew that he was about to receive very bad news. His heart was suddenly pounding. ‘What is it?’ he asked, aware of a slight tremor in his voice.

  ‘Your wife, sir, Henrietta Holborne. I’m afraid there’s been an incident at your home in Putt Green. I am very sorry to tell you that your wife is dead.’

  ‘Dead? She can’t be. I saw her yesterday evening.’ Charles did not register that his answer was being quietly recorded by the second officer. ‘What sort of incident? You mean a car crash?’

  ‘No sir, I don’t think it’s that sort of incident. I’ve been asked to collect you sir, if that’s convenient, and take you to Putt Green now to identify the…your wife. I’m sure the situation will be made clearer when we get there.’

  ‘Yes, but…what happened? Please, tell me.’

  ‘I’m sorry sir, I would if I could. But we’re just chauffeurs, so to speak. We’ve been asked to come here and drive you to your house. I don’t know any more detail than I’ve just told you,’ he lied. ‘Do you have a coat?’ he asked, as he stood up.

  ‘Jacket – yes – there,’ replied Charles, pointing.

  The second officer picked it up, noting the mud stains. ‘I’ll carry it for you, shall I sir? You won’t need it in the car.’

  ‘Yes… sure. I just need to speak to the clerks, tell them what’s happening.’

  ‘We’ve already had a word with them, sir. Best that we get a move on.’

  •

  During the journey that followed Charles tried several times to get the officers to divulge more detail about what had happened, but he soon realised that they either did not know or had orders to say nothing. By the time they came off the A40 the occupants of the police Ford Zephyr had been silent for forty minutes. Every now and then Charles was aware of being observed via the driver’s mirror.

  The car swung into the drive of The Old Farmhouse. There were already several cars there, two obvious police cars with their lights still flashing, two or three unmarked cars and, on the grass verge, an ambulance. A small crowd of onlookers had been confined to the opposite side of the road under the willows and Charles recognised a couple of the stable boys and Mrs O’Connell from the post office in the next village.

  Standing on the doorstep was a man in a light grey raincoat and a shiny grey suit speaking to several other men, all of whom wore plastic shawls and wellington boots. One had a dog on a lead. They departed, and went round to the back of the house. The man in the raincoat approached the car as it stopped, and opened the door.

  ‘Mr Holborne?’ he asked. He was tall, with thinning grey hair cut in a military short back and sides, in his late 50s. He sported a thin pencil moustache perched on an unusually long top lip. The moustache, which was so dark in colour that Charles wondered if it was dyed, moved precariously when the man spoke, as if it might fall off. Charles recognised the policeman from somewhere, but at that moment he couldn’t place him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Wheatley, in charge of this investigation.’

  ‘Would you please tell me what’s going on?’ Charles pleaded. ‘All I know is that Henrietta’s supposed to be dead.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. In a moment I shall show you inside – ’

  Charles tried to walk straight towards the house but found his arm grabbed from the side by DC Sloane and the Superintendent’s hand firmly on his chest.

  ‘In a moment, sir,’ insisted the Superintendent. ‘I must warn you that it is not a pretty sight. It appears as if your wife has been murdered.’ Wheatley watched Charles’s face intently as he gave this information.

  ‘Murdered?’ asked Charles, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Who by?’ he asked stupidly.

  ‘Now we don’t know yet sir, do we?’ replied the other. He led the way t
o the front door, and then paused. He turned back to Charles. ‘All I’d like you to do at the moment sir is identify her. Please can I ask you to take off your shoes before we go in?’

  Charles complied and found that DC Sloane was holding out his hand for them. With an instant’s hesitation, Charles handed them to him.

  Wheatley continued: ‘And can you tell me where the keys for the garden doors are kept?’

  ‘The French doors?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’re usually on the bookcase to the left of the door, under the little window.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He nodded to DC Sloane, who hurried off down the hallway towards the back of the house. ‘Follow me.’

  Wheatley led the way through the front door. Charles quickly looked at the door frame and door: no signs of forced entry there, and judging by Wheatley’s comments, none at the back either.

  Two men were crouched by the overturned umbrella stand dusting it with silver powder. Wheatley guided Charles around it and into the lounge. Charles’s heart was pounding so hard in his chest he was sure the police officers must be able to hear it. He rounded the door, and stopped suddenly. The walls were splattered with blood; there was overturned furniture everywhere; broken glass crunched under his feet. A blanket – the blanket he and Henrietta used to take on their country walks – was spread over a bundle in the centre of the room, as if it had been laid on a grass hillock for some obscene picnic. From under the blanket emerged a viscous pool of almost black glistening liquid which saturated the thick pile of the rug.

  ‘Just stay there please sir. I’m sure you appreciate it’s important not to touch her or to disturb the crime scene,’ said Wheatley. He took a step towards the centre of the room and lifted a corner of the blanket. Henrietta’s white face was revealed, her eyes closed tightly, like a child’s, waiting for a surprise. A wide black grin disfigured her neck.

  ‘That’s her,’ said Charles, choking back tears.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Wheatley replaced the blanket, and took Charles firmly by the arm, guiding him back through the carnage to the hallway.

  ‘I shall ask an officer to take you to Aylesbury police station where we have an incident room. We shall need to take some details from you, and it would be better to do it there. He’ll be able to arrange for some tea. Sergeant Bricker?’ he called.

  A stocky broad man who had been doing something on the stairs bent down so he could see them. ‘Sir?’

  ‘This is Mr Holborne.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said, coming down. He reached the foot of the stairs and turned to Charles. ‘These yours, sir?’

  He showed Charles a pair of black brogues which Charles hadn’t worn in years.

  ‘Yes. Where did you…’

  ‘From your wardrobe, sir. The ones you arrived in are a bit wet, so we thought …’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charles. He took the shoes and slipped them on.

  ‘If you’re ready, sir?’ said Bricker.

  ‘Bricker,’ said Wheatley quietly. The other turned, and Wheatley leaned in and whispered to him. ‘By the book, Sergeant. Everything by the book.’

  ‘Understood sir.’ The sergeant smiled to himself as he took Charles’s elbow to escort him out of the house. That’s rich, he thought, coming from you.

  He walked Charles out through the open front door in a daze. Charles knew it was a cliché even as he thought it to himself, but he wondered if it was all a drunken dream, and that in a moment he would wake to find himself on the floor of Chambers’ library. He had the detachment to wonder also if everyone in this sort of situation took refuge in hoping it was a fantasy, and decided they probably did.

  •

  Charles sat in the interview room, nursing his second cup of tea, now cold. Brief details had indeed been taken from him but that had taken ten minutes, and then he had been asked to await the return of the Superintendent. At that stage he had felt no compulsion about his remaining, but he had been left alone with his thoughts now for almost two hours, and he began to wonder. The officers who had spoken to him had been scrupulously polite but certainly not as friendly or sympathetic as Charles would have expected when dealing with a recently bereaved widower. The last time he had checked the door was still unlocked, so in theory he could just leave, but somehow he doubted that he would be permitted to do so.

  The scene that greeted him as he’d walked into the lounge kept replaying in his head, over and over, the jagged glass, the horrible mound under the blanket and the metallic smell of the blood. And Henrietta’s face. Most of all her beautiful face, so white, so frightened. It was a struggle to accept that it was real. In some alternate reality I’m at my desk drafting an indictment, Charles thought to himself, and everyone at Chambers is getting on with their day as normal. But somehow I’m in a police room at Aylesbury Police Station and Henrietta has been murdered.

  He was about to get up and complain when the door opened and Superintendent Wheatley entered, flanked by another officer.

  ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long, Mr Holborne, but there were a number of matters that I had to deal with before speaking to you. I must now officially arrest you on suspicion of the murder of your wife, Henrietta Holborne. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you say will be taken down and given in evidence.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The dream-like impression that Charles had changed roles with one of his clients grew ever stronger. He knew the script all too well, it was one he read every day of his life, but he was acting the wrong part. He had been taken out again to the custody room, his possessions had been taken from him, and his personal details recorded. A custody record sheet bearing his name at the top had been opened, and he had been placed in a cell. His request for a solicitor had been refused on the grounds that the presence of a solicitor would lead to harm to the evidence connected with the offence. Charles knew that the grounds for the refusal were questionable at best, spurious at worst, but he was powerless to do anything about it. It was all very well scoring points in court; he was a long way from the armour of his wig and gown and the protection of a benevolent judge.

  The temptation to do as he normally could – knock on the door, make some quip with the gaoler, and be let out – was almost overwhelming. The question kept returning: why would somebody want to murder Henrietta? Was it a burglary gone wrong? But if there was no damage to the doors and they were both locked, Henrietta must have let the burglar in. No, Charles corrected himself; that would depend on the time of the attack. The garden doors had been open when he’d left, so it may have happened later that afternoon.

  He paced the cell, unwilling to sit on the filthy bunk and the even more disgusting blanket which bore questionable brown stains. Now that his watch had been taken from him he found it difficult to judge the time, but he guessed from the growling of his stomach that it was past lunchtime. He remembered how so many of his clients used to tell him that the best way of keeping track of time was the state of one’s digestion.

  Finally he heard footsteps from the far end of the corridor and his door was unlocked. ‘This way, sir,’ said the gaoler, and he was led back to the interview room in which he had first sat.

  Superintendent Wheatley and DC Sloane awaited him. Wheatley carefully cautioned Charles again, and the interview began. Charles found himself in such a familiar situation that he almost laughed. Time and time again throughout his career he had told clients: Say nothing! Even when you’re innocent, say nothing! Words get twisted, displaced, muddled, only to be dissected in minute detail by experts, surgeons of syntax, in the harsh glare of a courtroom, until you don’t remember what you said or what you were trying to say. And yet… and yet, the impulse to speak, to explain everything, to persuade them you’re innocent so the nightmare can end! For the first time ever, Charles appreciated how experienced clever criminals, those who ought to have known better, spoke out, only to give themselves away. And yet,
knowing all this, he still spoke.

  Wheatley asked all the questions and DC Sloane made notes. The Superintendent went slowly, carefully, watching Sloane’s pen to make sure that nothing said remained unrecorded.

  ‘How was your married life Mr Holborne?’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘Were you and your wife happy?’

  ‘Not very, no.’

  ‘Did you live at home?’

  ‘Er…yes. I have a flat in London which I use some week nights. But we live together.’

  ‘Did you have arguments?’

  ‘Yes, we argue. What couple doesn’t?’

  ‘Violent arguments?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say so, no.’

  ‘So you would say it would be impossible for your neighbours to have overheard arguments on occasion?’

  ‘No. It wouldn’t have been impossible. But it would have been rare. I don’t like to argue.’

  The policeman looked at some papers in front of him, and then changed tack.

  ‘You come from London, do you not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘East London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your parents are…what?’

  ‘My father used to be a furrier.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not in touch with them.’

  ‘But you’d agree that there’s not much money in your family?’

  ‘I can see you from a mile away, Superintendent.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt, Mr Holborne. We’re both experts at questioning. But let’s not play games. Your wife is dead, and you are under suspicion of killing her. I’m trying to arrive at the truth, so just answer the questions if you will. She was the daughter of a Marquis?’

  ‘A Viscount, but if you’re asking if she was rich, the answer is, obviously, yes. If you’re asking if I killed her for her money, the answer is, definitely, no.’

  ‘You stand to gain a fortune from her death.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Really?’ sneered Wheatley.

  ‘You’ll have to ask her family. They didn’t approve of the marriage. She gets her money through a family trust. I doubt any of it’ll fall into her estate; they’ll have made sure I don’t receive a penny.’