The Brief

by Simon Michael

  Hot silent tears spilled down his cheeks as, for the first time, he was overborne by loss, fear and dislocation. He cried silently, his huge shoulders shaking uncontrollably. He felt a cool hand on the back of his neck.

  ‘Lie down,’ said Rachel softly. Charles shook his head vigorously but couldn’t trust himself to speak. ‘Lie down,’ she commanded again.

  Charles did as he was bid, facing away from her, knees drawn up to his chest. He felt Rachel’s body as she curled into his and stroked his hair.

  ‘Hush,’ she whispered.

  As Rachel stroked, Charles’s sobs gradually became less frequent and his breathing more regular. Rachel watched as he became still. After a few minutes she began to allow longer pauses between each movement of her hand and then, slowly, she stopped. She moved away slightly from the sleeping man and propped herself up on her hand, staring at the stranger in her bed. Charles turned over in his sleep, now lying on his back, his muscled arm hanging out of the bed. Rachel noticed for the first time how long were his dark curly eyelashes, almost as long as a girl’s. Her eye travelled down his neck to the rise and fall of his enormous barrel chest with its central patch of black curls. Rachel had had boyfriends in the past – she was no virgin – but they had been boys compared to this powerful, very masculine man. She was tempted lean over and kiss his full lips as he slept, but she resisted. She knew how exhausted he was and, despite his apparent confidence, how frightened. She divined that the one relationship in which this man had placed all of his trust – his relationship with the law – had failed him, and it was that as much as losing his wife that had left him completely disorientated. She also knew what might follow if she succumbed to the temptation to place a kiss on those lips. And, as she reminded herself, within days he’d probably be in prison, maybe even sentenced to hang. She did believe Charles was innocent – she trusted her own judgment on people – but even she could see how the case against him seemed impregnable. It was plain foolish to become romantically involved with someone in his position. She lay down again and settled herself once more to sleep.

  Some hours later Charles’s eyes opened and he was suddenly and completely awake. It was still night, but there was now a blue tinge to the dark rectangle of the window which heralded the dawn. He reached over gently and felt for his watch on the floor beside the bed. Rachel stirred, turned towards him sleepily and jumped, her eyes also now wide open.

  ‘Sorry!’ she said, ‘I’d forgotten you were here.’

  Charles smiled. ‘It must be really weird waking up to find a hunted man in your bed. I’d do the same if our roles were reversed. What time is it?’

  Rachel turned away from him and leaned over the edge of the bed to look at an alarm clock also on the floor. Charles watched her nightie ride up and expose most of her buttocks.

  ‘Just gone 6,’ she replied, laying on her back and pulling the bedclothes up under her chin.

  ‘OK. I’ll get out of your way,’ said Charles, swinging his legs down and sitting up. ‘Can I use the bathroom?’

  ‘Yes – it’s directly opposite. I share with Nina – in the attic room above – but she’s on nights this week. She won’t be back for an hour. Use the towels on the left.’

  Charles turned to Rachel. ‘You’ve been wonderful, Rachel. Whatever happens… thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.’

  She smiled. Then: ‘Oh, I’ve just remembered: you asked for some money. I haven’t got much, but there’s £15 in the sideboard drawer. I needed another seven and six for next month’s rent anyway, but I’m never going to find it, so you might as well have what I’ve saved.’

  ‘Thanks. I promise I’ll repay it.’

  Their eyes locked again, and this time Rachel sat up and took Charles’s head in her hands and kissed him hard on the lips. Then she shoved him away with a grin.

  ‘That’s all for now Charlie. If you get out of this mess… then we’ll see.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Superintendent Wheatley was still seething at Holborne’s escape. But escaped he had. Despite managing to persuade the Met and the City police to set up roadblocks at both half a mile and one mile radii from Fetter Lane within 20 minutes, somehow Charles had slipped through. It was extremely frustrating but Wheatley was confident it was no more than a temporary setback. An almost unrecognisable photograph of Holborne had appeared on the television news that night, but the morning papers had something more recent splashed across the front pages, and it was only a matter of time before someone recognised him. How long could a man like that survive on the run, with no money and no passport? Especially in such a high-profile case involving a barrister and a Viscount’s daughter. It would be in the news for weeks, months probably.

  So Wheatley had returned to the scene of the crime with seven officers who were in the process of going through every scrap of paper in the place to build a picture of Holborne’s life. Usually within 24 hours they would have a list of friends, acquaintances and contacts where he might have sought shelter. But – and this was odd – it was if Holborne was almost completely unconnected. Enquiries with his parents and brother revealed reliably that he had not been in touch with any member of family for almost a decade, and all the contacts turned up at Putt Green were those of the deceased. Wheatley began to get the flavour of the Holbornes’ marriage and was not at all surprised it had been failing. Holborne was a loner and, as Wheatley assured himself, possessed of just the sociopathic profile he’d have expected of a cold-blooded murderer.

  It was Wheatley himself who happened to be at the foot of the stairs when the doorbell rang. He opened the front door to find a man in oily overalls on the doorstep.

  ‘Where’s the car, mate?’ asked the man cheerfully.

  ‘What car?’ asked Wheatley.

  ‘The Jag. I was told it would be in the garage, but it ain’t.’

  ‘Who told you it would be in the garage?’

  ‘My guvnor. I’ve come to collect it.’

  ‘Can you explain please sir? Who are you?’

  ‘Roger, from Breck & Co.’

  ‘Well, Roger from Breck & Co., who exactly asked you to collect the Jag?’

  ‘Look,’ said Roger, very patiently, because he was clearly dealing with an idiot, ‘Mrs Holborne rings us up on Tuesday or Wednesday, or whenever it was, and says that the Jag won’t go and would we book it in for work, right?’

  Wheatley glanced swiftly over his shoulder and escorted the mechanic away from the front door. He walked him to the end of the drive, where a tow truck was parked next to one of the police vehicles, engine idling.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘Well, we were so busy that we couldn’t do it till today. My foreman asks me to come and collect the car and leave a courtesy car, which I have. Over there.’

  Wheatley looked across the road where another man stood by the open door of a grubby Ford Anglia.

  ‘But the Jag isn’t there,’ continued Roger.

  ‘OK,’ replied Wheatley. ‘We have the Jaguar and it’s now important evidence in an investigation. So it won’t need repairing.’

  ‘What about the Anglia?’

  ‘Didn’t you watch TV last night?’

  Roger looked puzzled, but shrugged. ‘We had a darts match.’

  Wheatley nodded. ‘Well Mrs Holborne won’t be requiring the Anglia, thank you very much.’

  ‘I can go then?’

  ‘Yes. One thing less for you to do today.’

  ‘Suits me.’

  And Roger walked across the road to tell his colleague, who got back in the Anglia, and started up. Roger climbed back in the tow truck and the two vehicles departed. Wheatley watched them disappear. It might mean nothing – cars, especially Jags, did develop intermittent faults – but Wheatley wasn’t going to waste police resources investigating a peripheral issue. Even if – most especially if – it might confirm Holborne’s story that he couldn’t have driven off after the murder.

  •

&n
bsp; Charles stepped out of Covent Garden Tailors, having spent over half of Rachel’s loan. He wore narrow Hepworth trousers, a white cotton shirt with a narrow black tie, a boxy black leather jacket, and a trilby. With his new Mod haircut and his big-framed glasses containing clear glass he looked like a darker version of Michael Caine. He paused to look at his reflection in the window. People who knew him well would have no difficulty recognising him on a second look, but he looked sufficiently different from the photograph splashed across the front pages of the newspapers that he should be able to move undetected around London as long as he was careful. He pulled his collar up and lowered the hat over his brow, and walked towards the Strand.

  It took Charles 15 minutes to reach the corner of Fetter Lane and Fleet Street. He entered Oyez, the legal stationers on the corner, and while pretending to read one of the law books watched the entrance to his apartments for a few minutes. A single bored police officer stood by the door. He wore the dark blue uniform of the City of London Police, which probably meant he knew little about the case, but Charles wasn’t going to take any chances. He waited.

  After ten minutes Charles realised he’d have to move. The shop assistants had been glancing in his direction for a while and he couldn’t afford to raise suspicions. He put the book back but, as he was about to leave the shop, the front door of the apartments opened and Dennis came out. Charles turned his back slightly as Dennis crossed the road and walked past on the other side of the window. Charles called “Thank you” to the shop assistants, opened the door, and followed.

  Dennis had a small paper bag in his hand and a newspaper under his arm. He dodged the traffic on Fleet Street and went into the Temple through Sergeant’s Inn gate. Charles followed him past the Clachan pub, along Kings Bench Walk and out of the Tudor Street exit. Dennis jogged through the traffic on the Embankment, reached a bench overlooking the Thames, and sat down. He opened the newspaper on his lap and took out a sandwich from the paper bag. He took a bite, following the progress of a large launch as it cruised past him on its way downstream. Charles crossed the road behind the concierge, put his hand in his jacket pocket and walked up silently behind the bench. He placed his leather covered finger on the back of Dennis’s neck.

  ‘If you move a single inch Dennis I’m going to blow your head off. Do you recognise my voice?’

  Dennis choked on cheese and pickle and it took him a few seconds to answer.

  ‘Yes Mr Holborne, sir.’

  ‘Don’t turn round. Just carry on watching the boats and listen carefully. I have a few questions. That blonde woman who you saw coming in and going out of my flat.’

  ‘Miss Maxwell?’

  ‘Yes, her. Did you ever see her arrive?’ Dennis nodded, the sandwich clutched tight in his right hand. ‘Did you notice a car?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Yeh. A big gold Mercedes.’

  Charles raised his voice to be heard above two buses thundering past behind them. ‘Did she arrive alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you ever speak to her?’

  ‘Only the time I helped with her shopping.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘She had stuff for the flat, you know, lampshades an’ all. And that enormous teddy or whatever it was. I kept an eye on the car while she went up and down cos otherwise she’d’ve gotta ticket.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember the registration number, do you?’

  ‘I do actually. NF 777.’

  ‘Do you know anything else about her?’ demanded Charles.

  ‘No, honest, Mr Holborne, not a thing. I’d tell you if I did.’

  ‘OK Dennis. Now listen to me very carefully indeed.’ Charles waited for a lorry to go past before continuing. ‘You know they say I killed my wife, don’t you?’

  Dennis nodded.

  ‘The police reports don’t say how I’m supposed to have done it.’ Charles paused for effect. ‘My wife’s throat was cut from ear to ear. Her head was hanging by a shred of skin.’

  Charles could see the man’s hands trembling in his lap.

  ‘If you say one word, I will come back and do to you exactly what I did to her. Do you understand?’

  Dennis nodded again, vigorously.

  ‘Your Brenda lives in Westcliffe, doesn’t she? So as soon as you finish your lunch, you’re going to take a two-week holiday to visit her and the baby. If anyone asks, the stress of what’s happened has been a bit much. Don’t go back to Fetter Lane. Go home and pack a bag and get the next train to Westcliffe. Make it a nice surprise, and don’t tell her anything either. Do you completely understand what I’ve said?’

  ‘Yeh, sir, really I do!’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’m gonna finish me sandwich and go back to Poplar, pack a bag and go visit my girl in Westcliffe. I’m gonna say nothing to no one about this conversation or seein’ you. If I do, you’ll… you’ll come back and…’

  ‘…exactly. Yes. Remember, Dennis, I’m facing the rope for one murder anyway. They can’t hang me twice. So I’ve nothing to lose.’

  ‘Yeh, I geddit.’

  ‘Right. I’m going to go now. I want you to wait there without moving for five minutes. I’ll be watching. You just finish your lunch and read the football results.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Oh, and while I’m here, did the Hammers win?’

  ‘No. They lost two nil.’

  ‘Bad day all round,’ said Charles quietly, and he looked behind him and ran back across the road, leaving Dennis still talking through the match to himself.

  •

  Charles walked swiftly into the basement car park at Shoe Lane and found the Austin Healey. Other than Simon Ellison no one in the world knew that he owned it, and Ellison was out of town on a case. It would take the council at least a month to register it in his name.

  Breaking in was no difficulty – he just lifted the corner of the soft top and opened the driver’s door from the inside – but how to start it? The keys had been at Fetter Lane and were now in the custody of the police. Charles sat in the driver’s seat, took his sheaf of notes from his jacket pocket and leafed through them until he found a passage of cross-examination. One of his early clients had been charged with hot wiring six cars in twenty minutes so his mates could each have one to race along Southend seafront. Part of the Crown’s case had been to prove that it was possible and Charles had notes of his cross-examination of a police vehicle engineer.

  Charles flattened the sheets of paper on the passenger seat, took a pair of scissors borrowed from Rachel from his pocket, and put on his new leather gloves. He popped and lifted the bonnet, disconnected the battery cable and located the power wires running up the steering column through the bulkhead. He went back into the car, and lay on the seat with his head under the steering column. Taking a deep breath he started to cut the power cables. The scissors were too small, and it took some time, but eventually he got through them, and twisted the ends together to complete the circuit. There were two other brown wires going to the ignition. He cut them both and made sure they weren’t touching. He got out of the car and reconnected the battery. The radio started crackling. So far, so good. Charles got back in the car and read some more of his notes. He pulled the choke and bent down into the foot well and, using his hand, he pumped the accelerator pedal twice.

  ‘Moment of truth, Charlie,’ he said softly to himself. He twisted round and, with his torso and legs hanging over the sill and half lying on the seat, he touched the two bare wires together. The engine started first time.

  Charles leapt out and shut the bonnet. He got back into the car and manoeuvred it slowly up the exit ramp. It was a lovely day, with white clouds scudding across a blue sky, a perfect day for driving with the hood down, especially as the interior of the car smelt unpleasantly damp, but with reluctance Charles decided against it. Better not to be seen. He turned left onto Fleet Street, and headed east.

  •

  Charles slowed to 15 mph, moved the gear lever
into third, let the clutch out sharply, and allowed the car to stall. He then disengaged the clutch and coasted gently into the kerb. He was outside a shop on Leytonstone High Road. He checked the numbers of the shops and looked again at the notes. Right number, wrong place.

  ‘Bugger,’ he swore quietly. What he had expected to be a car showroom was now a kitchen and bathroom centre. He got out of the car and went through the door. The place smelt new, of freshly-sawn timber and plastic.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked a young kitchen salesman. Charles judged that he was about 22 years old, also evidently a Mod, with a face that was a mass of pink and yellow pimples. Less Brylcreem might help, Charles observed to himself.

  ‘Aye, meybe,’ he answered, adopting a Scottish accent. Ever since the days when he acted in school plays he had always found accents easy. He and David, his brother – also a good mimic – would adopt foreign personas for days, driving their parents to distraction.

  ‘What happened tae the car dealership that used tae be here?’

  The boy shrugged, uninterested. ‘Was there a car dealership? I dunno. I only started last week. Mr Wilson!’ he called.

  An older man’s head appeared above a bathroom cabinet in the process of being assembled.

  ‘What?’ he answered irritably.

  ‘This geezer wants to know what happened to the car showroom.’

  ‘Well it ain’t here, is it? He sold up, the Arab.’

  The youngster turned to Charles, and shrugged. ‘Sorry, can’t help you.’

  Charles reached into his pocket and came out with a pound note. ‘Would you look in the office and see if there’s anything that says where I might find him. His name was Kharadli.’