The Brief

by Simon Michael

  Charles raced the twenty yards across Hare Court, barged through a group of startled barristers just returning from Inner Temple Hall after lunch, and bounded up the steps into number 2. He chanced a look over his shoulder, and saw the young copper about sixty yards back, half way across the courtyard. Charles had been a pupil here and knew the steps led to a landing which also served Chambers in Middle Temple. On the far side of the landing was another short staircase, leading back down into Middle Temple Lane. This was his one advantage – he knew the Temple like the back of his hand whereas Thames Valley officers did not. He jumped down the steps into Middle Temple Lane and turned left, effectively turning back on himself. He felt the beginning of a stitch in his chest but pressed on, his breath coming in short ragged gasps. He reckoned he had about ten seconds to round the next corner. If he made it without pursuers emerging from Hare Court, they would have three potential routes to choose from. He counted as he sprinted. 5…6…7…8… made it! Hugging the wall, he ran through Fountain Court and out of the night gate, leaving the Temple, and passing the Devereux Public House where he had spent so many Friday evenings standing in the sun, chatting to other barristers. That last turn, he thought, would give them three further options.

  Charles emerged, sweat streaming down his forehead, onto Essex Street and ran straight into a taxi pointing towards the Embankment and pulling away from the kerb. He leapt in.

  ‘Waterloo East!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got four minutes to make a train!’

  ‘Right you are, guv,’ replied the cabbie, and away they sailed.

  He was free.

  PART FOUR

  ON THE RUN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘What time d’yer make it, mate?’ asked Charles through the screen. He deliberately softened his accent, slipping into the Cockney he had tried so hard to eradicate, in case the cabbie was asked about a posh fare.

  ‘4.58,’ replied the cabbie over his shoulder. They were going over Waterloo Bridge. ‘When’s the train?’

  ‘Five,’ replied Charles.

  ‘Then you’ve ‘ad it, aincha? It’s gonna take more than that from ’ere. There’s always a jam at the other end of the bridge.’

  ‘Yeh – you’re right. Tell you what: turn left at the end of the bridge, and try London Bridge Station. I might just catch it there.’

  ‘Righto.’

  Charles hoped that even if anyone had been near enough to hear him ask for Waterloo, the change of direction would finally throw them off the scent.

  They made good time to London Bridge.

  ‘Don’t bovver wiv goin’ inter the station,’ said Charles to the back of the cabbie’s head. ‘Go right inter Tooley Street. If I’ve missed it, we can go on to New Cross, the next stop.’

  The cabbie regarded him with narrowed eyes through the rear-view mirror. He was being dragged further and further south of the river, somewhere London cabbies never venture voluntarily. And now the geezer wanted to get out and check the platform before paying. Charles held his breath for the answer.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said the cabbie, eventually. ‘At this rate, I might as well take yer all the way ’ome!’

  The cabbie turned right, and pulled up by the steps that ran up to the station.

  ‘Won’t be a sec,’ called Charles, and ran off up the stairs. For a man who prided himself on his honesty and integrity he realised with a shock that he was lying and cheating as well as any of his clients; probably better than most. He didn’t like to bilk the innocent cabbie out of his fare but he was penniless and he couldn’t afford a wrangle.

  He walked swiftly onto the station concourse, crossed the front of the platforms and left the station by the far exit that took him out onto St Thomas Street. He walked off down the road and onto the High Street.

  His first problem was money, or the total lack of it. He stopped in a doorway and went carefully through his pockets. He always used to lose tickets in this jacket because there were so many little hidden pockets. Maybe…just maybe…Yes! He felt a coin in a tiny pocket inside one of the others. He took it out. Half a crown. Enough for a bus fare and a sandwich, maybe a cup of tea.

  He caught sight of a bus approaching. He decided to change direction again, and he crossed the road, ran to the next stop, flagged it down, and got on. It was going towards Aldgate.

  •

  Rachel stepped out of the door of the Whitechapel Gallery followed by another young woman. Charles watched from the shelter of a closed shop doorway on the other side of the street. Rachel and the other woman chatted for a moment, waved, and separated. Rachel walked towards the station. Charles crossed the road swiftly and approached her from behind. He grabbed her elbow.

  ‘Rachel.’

  She turned and smiled. ‘Hello. What’re you doing here?’

  Charles leaned forward, speaking quickly. ‘I’m in trouble. I need your help.’

  She heard the urgency in his voice and searched his face. ‘Let’s go to my place. You can explain there.’

  She turned round and led the way to a bus stop. A bus was coming. ‘Quickly!’ she urged.

  They got on and without asking Rachel paid for both of them. She led the way upstairs to the front of the bus where there was an empty seat. Charles sat on the aisle, looking frequently at the pavements as they flashed by. After a few minutes he seemed to relax a little, but Rachel saw him wipe away beads of sweat trickling from his temples.

  Fifteen minutes later they were walking along a quiet residential street in Hackney as dusk fell. Entire families of Hasidic Jews passed them. Charles realised that it was Friday night, the start of the Sabbath. They’re all off to synagogue, he thought. Rachel led the way up the steps to a narrow terraced house, and opened the door.

  ‘Come in,’ she said. She led Charles up a carpeted staircase. He caught a glimpse of a lighted kitchen at the back of the house and a woman stirring something on a stove. He followed Rachel up two narrow flights to the next floor where she unlocked another door and led the way into a large bedsit. There was a double bed with a cheap plywood bedside table, a sink in the corner of the room, and a heavy oak sideboard which once belonged in a Victorian dining room. A single wooden chair, once part of a different dining set, was piled with books. There was no wardrobe, but a rack of clothes on hangers.

  ‘You can sit on the bed,’ she said. She hung her coat and bag on the back of the door, shut it behind Charles, and started filling a kettle. She placed it on a small two-burner electric hob on the sideboard. ‘I’ve only got tea.’

  ‘Tea’s fine.’

  ‘OK. What on earth is the matter? Is someone chasing you?’ she asked in disbelief.

  ‘Can you leave that alone for a minute? I need you to sit down.’

  Rachel glanced sharply at him, but she turned off the hob, lifted the books from the single chair onto the floor, and drew it up two feet from Charles. She sat down.

  ‘I’ll tell you what the headlines will say tomorrow,’ started Charles. He took a deep breath. ‘They’ll say “Leading Barrister Murders Wife – Escapes from Police”.’ He heard her sharp intake of breath and he forged on. ‘Underneath it will explain how I viciously cut her throat; how I did it for the money; how I was having an affair with some blonde floozie; how I killed her to stop her divorcing me; how the evidence against me is overwhelming. And how I am very dangerous and any member of the public seeing me should immediately call the police.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘And will any of it be true?’ Rachel asked in a small voice.

  Charles did not answer immediately. Rachel shrank back as he leaned forward towards her. He reached out to hold her shoulders at arm’s length, felt her freeze with fear, and looked straight into her eyes. He measured every word carefully, pouring sincerity into each one as he spoke.

  ‘Henrietta is dead. I had to identify her body. That’s true. Beyond that, not a single word of it, Rachel. I swear on everything I hold dear, not a single word.’

 
; Rachel stared deep into Charles’s eyes, and he tried not to look away.

  ‘Tell me,’ she demanded. ‘Everything.’

  Charles did – the problems with his marriage, the row at the house, his arrest, the trip back to Thame with the police, and his escape. She sat on the chair, occasionally asking questions but for the most part listening intently as darkness filled the room. Her face didn’t betray any emotion and Charles couldn’t tell if she believed him or not. When he had finished she stared out of the black curtainless window over the rooftops, and said nothing. Charles sat on the edge of the bed, waiting.

  ‘Well?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Can I see the bump on the back of your head?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, if you want.’

  He stood and turned his back to her. ‘There,’ he said, probing carefully, and parting the hair.

  She stood and explored gently with her fingers.

  ‘OK. Sit down again,’ she commanded.

  ‘Do you believe me?’

  She paused before replying. ‘I did wonder if you had concussion and were having hallucinations or something. But… yes, I do believe you. If you take my advice, you’ll hand yourself in. By running off like that you’ve confirmed your guilt in their eyes.’

  Charles sat back on the bed, and rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted, but there would little chance of sleep that night. ‘I know. But someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to set me up, and all the evidence points to my guilt. The police are not going to listen to me. Especially the man leading the investigation.’

  ‘Why? Who is he?’

  Charles told her about Wheatley’s methods, the investigation and his exoneration.

  ‘But was your client guilty?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, the jury said he was. But I do know this: he was beaten black and blue by Wheatley before he confessed. Maybe he was guilty, but Wheatley’s methods stink. He sets himself up as the jury, makes his decision, and then creates the evidence to support it. There’s no way I’ll get a fair hearing from him. If he thinks he’s got a watertight case he won’t let it unravel it by looking elsewhere. He likes things neat and simple. If anyone’s going to prove my innocence, it has to be me.’

  ‘I think you’ll just make things worse.’

  ‘How can it be worse? I’m facing the hangman in any case. And that’s the thing so far as you’re concerned.’ Charles paused. So far he’d banked on her not turning him in, but this was the crunch. ‘If you help me, you’ll be an accessory.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Prison, probably – if I’m convicted. We only have tonight before you’re at risk. My escape was too late for the last evening editions, but it’ll be all over the papers by morning. After that, you can’t be seen to assist me.’

  ‘And if I help you right now?’

  ‘You’d have to lie. Say you knew nothing about it – you just bumped into me.’

  She thought for a long time. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I need some money. But the tricky thing is, I have to get into Chambers. I need my notebooks.’

  Rachel frowned, puzzled. Charles explained. ‘Barristers all use these blue notebooks – you must’ve seen them. No? Well, perhaps not. Foolscap light blue notebooks. Anyway, every case I’ve ever done is recorded in them. I date and number them. I’ve got the names, addresses, and modus operandi of hundreds of active criminals, most of whom I’ve defended. It’s a directory of crime. And most of them have cause to thank me. So I need the notebooks, but I don’t know if the building’s being watched. But…’ Charles hesitated. ‘But… if you decided to go for a walk through the Temple, you could find out for me. If not, I’ll try to break in. I doubt they’ll be looking for me there – they’ll think I’ll try to get as far away as possible – but I can’t take the risk of just walking in.’

  •

  Rachel and Charles entered the Temple from the Embankment entrance by the new Queen Elizabeth Buildings. It was a more open access than the Victorian alleys off Fleet Street and Charles would be able to see if it was being watched. The sky was overcast and the Temple was darker even than usual. The only person they passed was the lamp lighter in Fountain Square. Charles pointed Rachel in the right direction and she left him at the corner of Essex Court and Middle Temple Lane. Charles backed into a nearby doorway to wait. He would have been completely invisible to anyone passing, but in fact no one passed him at all. Rachel only had to walk 200 yards or so to the door of 2 Chancery Court, and Charles expected her to return within a couple of minutes.

  Two minutes turned into five, and five into ten. By fifteen minutes Charles’s anxiety had reached breaking point and he was certain that Rachel had been arrested. He was on the point of emerging from the shadows and walking the remaining distance to Chancery Court when he heard muffled footsteps approaching. He backed into the shadows and watched a figure emerge, almost bent double with a heavy burden. The figure approached, passed Charles, and hesitated, looking around the dimly lit square. Charles stepped out, and Rachel whirled round.

  ‘Oh, there you are. It was all clear, the lights were on and the doors were wide open. Here,’ and she unslung from her shoulder a red robes bag. ‘I think I got them all.’

  ‘But how on earth did you – ’

  ‘The cleaner was at the back, empting the bins. Your room was obvious – there was police tape across the door. So I ducked in. Your blue notebooks were on the shelf behind your desk, right?’

  ‘Yes!’ responded Charles, astonished.

  ‘I think I got them all. They’re bloody heavy, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, let me take that. We need to get out of here.’ Charles took the bag, pulled the cord tight, and hoisted it onto his shoulder. They set off back the way they had come.

  ‘What took so long was finding something to carry them in, but I found the bag hanging on the back of the door. It’s got your initials on it.’

  ‘I think you’re amazing,’ said Charles. ‘But that was really dangerous. Are you sure you weren’t seen?’

  ‘There were definitely no police, and the cleaning lady was vacuuming in the basement when I slipped out. I don’t think anyone saw me at all.’

  ‘Amazing,’ repeated Charles, and he put his arm round Rachel’s shoulder and pulled her towards him. It had been intended as a friendly squeeze, but she turned her face to his, put a hand behind his head, and pulled it down to her. It was awkward because they were still walking, but her lips touched his and they stopped. The kiss was short, but their faces remained inches from one another.

  ‘My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst through my ribs,’ she whispered. ‘And it’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever done in my life!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Rachel put a plate bearing a sardine sandwich on the chair next to what had been Charles’s third cup of instant coffee and sat on the edge of the bed. Charles lay on his front on the bed, poring over the notebooks, making notes on a sheaf of blank pages torn from the current one. Rachel’s glance lingered on his broad shoulders and the curly hair at the nape of his neck. Every time he finished a notebook he reached over and put it in a growing pile on the floor beside the bed, and Rachel studied the muscles under his white shirt as they rippled, like the uncoiling of a large snake.

  Charles picked up the next notebook and checked the date and number. Then he reached over to the remaining pile and fanned them out, running his finger across the neat numbers written in black ink in the top right hand corner of each cover.

  ‘There’s a gap,’ he concluded. ‘At the end of 1960. Is there any chance you missed one or two?’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘No. The shelf was empty when I left.’

  Charles checked the numbers again. ‘Well, there’s definitely … one…maybe two missing.’

  ‘Could it be anywhere else?’

  ‘Not that far back. November 1960…’ Charles swung his leg round and sat upright. ‘What was I doing at the end of 1960
?’ He shrugged. ‘Never mind, there’s plenty here.’

  Rachel stood. ‘I know you’ve a lot to do, Charlie, and nowhere else to do it. But I have to go to sleep. It’s almost 2.’

  Charles looked up from his notes. ‘Is it really? I’d not realised the time.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can concentrate when you’re so tired.’

  ‘I’m used to it. “Burning the midnight oil” as they say at the Bar. I do it once or twice a week.’

  He rolled over and looked up at her, and then at the bed littered with notebooks. ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘Yes. It poses a problem. Would you be able to work on the floor just using the bedside lamp?’

  ‘I should think so.’

  ‘Then I’m going to get changed in the bathroom and go to bed.’

  Charles looked around and realised there was nowhere else he could sleep but the floor. ‘Right. I’ll be fine on the floor,’ he offered, standing.

  ‘I have no spare bedding.’

  ‘I’ll manage. It’s not that cold.’

  ‘Well… Charlie, look… it’s a big bed, and I’m only little. Once you finish, I have no problem with you getting in… but…’

  ‘Of course. On my honour.’

  ‘I know what lots of people are getting up to nowadays, but… I’m not one of them.’

  ‘Understood.’

  •

  Charles finished at almost 4.00 am. He got undressed, looked across at Rachel in the bed, and put his underpants back on. Then he slipped into bed beside her. She had started on one side of the bed but had migrated to the centre, so Charles moved as far as he could to the edge and curled round her so they wouldn’t accidentally touch. His face was only inches from the back of her head, her short dark hair fanned out over the pillow, and the moonlight from the un-curtained window struck the skin of her slim white shoulder as it protruded from the blanket. Charles watched as it rose and fell with her regular breathing. He was suddenly conscious of the fact that, for the first time in years, he was sharing a bed with someone other than Henrietta. Rachel was a stranger – lovely, desirable and astonishingly kind – but a stranger nonetheless, and Charles was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of loss. His breath caught painfully in his throat as a sob rose in his chest. He slid his legs back out from under the covers and he sat on the edge of the bed, his feet hard against the cold lino and his body rigid as he tried not to disturb the sleeping woman behind him.