The Brief

by Simon Michael

  The lad looked at the pound, which represented almost half his week’s wages. He whisked it from Charles’s fingers and it disappeared into his jacket pocket. ‘Wait there,’ he said quietly, and he walked swiftly to the office at the rear of the showroom.

  He emerged a couple of minutes later with a scrap of paper.

  ‘That’s the forwarding address for ’is post. Should still be good, we only started fitting out the place last month.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charles, and he returned to his car.

  The address was only half a mile away, a breaker’s yard. Outside the yard was an old blue Rolls Royce. Charles parked just round the corner where he could watch the yard unobserved. The gates were open but there was no movement inside, and no customers Charles could see. The difficulty was that anyone might emerge from behind the piles of rusting car chassis or vans with flat tyres and collapsed axles. A large dog was tied by a rope to a hook on the wall of a prefabricated office. It gnawed at a bone between its paws and seemed unconcerned.

  After fifteen minutes Charles made a decision, and he got out of the Healey and walked across the road towards the gates. The dog looked up but made no sound or movement. Charles stepped carefully into the yard, trying to avoid oily puddles, and the dog leapt to its feet, barking and straining at the rope. A slim, handsome dark-skinned man in his 50s emerged from the office, stepping out onto a small metal landing but not descending the steps. Charles noted his expensive leather shoes and mauve silk socks, and wondered how long the shoes would last in this environment.

  Charles skirted round the dog and approached the office, his right hand held stiffly in his jacket pocket. Kharadli was no fool and had plenty of experience dealing with members of the criminal fraternity. He had been one of London’s major suppliers of ringed vehicles for both criminal enterprises and onward sale to unsuspecting punters. Charles didn’t expect for one minute to frighten him with a stiff finger in his jacket, but he held no other cards.

  ‘Mr Kharadli?’

  The Arab looked down at him suspiciously. ‘Who asks?’ He looked down at Charles’s jacket pocket, and then up again at Charles’s face, amusement in his eyes.

  ‘You don’t remember me? I’m Charles Holborne. I represented you in court some years ago now. Two cases, at the end of 1958? Remember?’

  Recognition gradually dawned, and Kharadli’s face broke into a smile.

  ‘Yes, I remember! How are you?’ He frowned suddenly. ‘Wait one minute,’ he said. ‘You’re in big trouble with police, yes? You killed your wife?’

  Charles moved closer to him. ‘Can I talk to you, just for a minute?’

  Kharadli backed off, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Mr Kharadli, when I represented you, the police were saying you’d done all sorts of things, but I didn’t believe them,’ lied Charles. ‘We both know that the police say many things which are not true.’

  Kharadli’s retreat halted while he thought about this. ‘That is true, my friend,’ he replied, brightening immediately. ‘Anyway, what do I care that you killed your wife?’ and he laughed loudly. ‘Come in!’

  Charles followed him into the office, a smell of strong coffee greeting him.

  Kharadli poured a tiny amount of coffee from a metal jug into two plastic cups and handed one to Charles. He sat behind his desk.

  ‘Take a seat. You like my new business?’ he waved his arm expansively, indicating the muddy yard and piles of rusting metal. ‘No money in ringed cars, always hassle, hassle, hassle. This is better. No one asks for money back! Now, how can I help you?’

  Charles sipped the coffee. It was good, sweet and strong. ‘You used to have a policeman friend who could look up car registration numbers. I need to know who owns a particular vehicle, very urgently. It’s to do with…well… you’ve obviously read the papers.’

  ‘Yes. This should be possible. But why should I help you? You paying me?’

  Charles shook his head. ‘I have no money to pay you.’

  Kharadli leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee, his handsome face still smiling slightly. There was a long pause.

  ‘I like this situation, Mr Brief. You’ve never been on the wrong side of the law before, yes?’

  ‘No,’ replied Charles. ‘Never.’

  ‘It is different, is it not? Maybe this does you some good; to see life on the other side.’ He paused again. ‘OK, I shall help you. Just once for… how you say… old time sake.’

  He reached for a telephone on the desk, dialled a number, and waited.

  ‘Is PC Compton on duty today? Tell him it’s Mohammed.’ There was a short pause. ‘So, it’s Sergeant now, is it?’ Kharadli gave the thumbs up sign, and continued talking. ‘Congratulations my friend! Have you time to look one up for me?’ He snapped his finger at Charles and shoved a piece of scrap paper across the desk to him. Charles quickly scribbled the number on it, and pushed it back.

  ‘NF 777.’

  Kharadli snapped his fingers again, and made writing signs, and Charles handed over his pen.

  ‘Yes,’ he said as he wrote. ‘Yes…got it. Thank you Steve, much appreciated. You must come round to the house soon…yes, it’s been too long. Bring the children too…Okay. ’Bye.’

  He hung up, and handed the paper over.

  Charles read the scribble. ‘Starline Model Agency, D’Arblay Street, W1.’ He sighed. ‘A company,’ he said. Any number of people might have been driving the vehicle.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Kharadli with a shrug. ‘That’s all I can do. Now, Mr Holborne, I must get back to work.’

  He stood and held out his hand. ‘I do sincerely hope that everything works out for you, but please do not contact me again. One cannot be too careful who one is seen with.’ He was completely serious.

  Charles shook his hand and returned to the Austin Healey. He looked at his watch. With luck, he would get to Companies House before it closed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Peter Bateman, pupil barrister, and his flatmate, a trainee doctor at Guys, were just settling down to their grilled lamb chops when they heard the landlady’s call from the foot of the stairs. Peter went down and found himself summoned by Stanley to Chambers where he was to prepare an overnight return for Middlesex Assizes. One of the other barristers had been stuck on the Western Circuit and couldn’t get back in time. Peter didn’t relish working through the night, but a brief – any brief – was a Godsend for a young man just starting at the Bar.

  When he got to Chancery Court Peter found the brief as predicted in Charles’s pigeonhole with a note from Stanley: “Court 2 Middlesex Assizes, NB 12 noon” – not to be listed before noon. That at least was good news. If Peter got finished by the early hours he might manage to snatch a few hours’ sleep.

  He opened the door to Charles’s room where he usually sat waiting for the pearls of wisdom to drop from his pupilmaster’s lips. The City of London police tape that had formerly barred entry had been removed, and Peter had been told it was safe to use the room. He sat at the desk facing Charles’s, wondering where his murderous pupil master was. Peter was convinced there must have been some mistake. Six months of sharing a room with a man – travelling on trains with him up and down the country, burning the midnight oil – and you got to know him pretty well. And Peter found it difficult to believe that Charles was guilty of the offence, whatever the newspapers said. And a cut throat razor? Not Charles’s style at all; too theatrical. Someone was making a statement.

  He turned on the desk lamp and almost immediately noticed something wrong. The day before, when he’d had to work in an adjoining room, he had distinctly seen from the threshold the shelf behind Charles’s desk lined as usual with its series of annotated blue notebooks. They had been gathering dust there from the day he’d joined chambers. Now they were gone. Perhaps the police took them? he wondered, but what on earth for? He looked at the back of the door where Charles’s robes bag usually hung. It was bare. It was not unheard of for
a barrister to borrow another’s robes – if he had an unexpected court hearing for example – but the absence of the bag and the notebooks taken together was puzzling.

  Peter picked up the telephone and dialled Stanley’s number.

  ‘Stanley, it’s Peter Bateman. I’m in Chambers now. Have the police removed any property from Mr Holborne’s room?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. An officer came yesterday with the scenes of crime man, and when they finished they simply took down the tape. Why?’

  ‘Mr Holborne’s robes bag and all his notebooks are missing.’

  There was silence at the other end of the line. Then: ‘If you go to my desk you’ll find a piece of paper on the blotter from the City of London Police. It’s got the name of the officer who came yesterday. I’d like you to give Snow Hill a call just to make sure.’ There was another pause. ‘You don’t think Mr Holborne might have broken in and taken them do you?’

  ‘The thought did cross my mind,’ replied Peter. ‘But I wouldn’t want to get him into more trouble.’

  ‘I understand your loyalty, sir, but I don’t see how he could be in any more trouble. And this has caused very bad publicity for Chambers – I’ve been fielding press calls all day – so we need to distance ourselves from it. We have to be seen to be helping in every way possible. Give Snow Hill a call, and keep me informed of developments.’

  ‘Alright. Will do.’

  Peter hung up and went through the darkened building to fetch the officer’s name and telephone number. He hesitated, but then smiled and sat in Stanley’s chair while he dialled the number. The officer was off duty, but the duty sergeant gave Peter the phone number of someone at Thames Valley, DC Sloane, who might be able to help. Peter dialled again.

  ‘DC Sloane.’

  ‘Hello Detective Constable. My name’s Peter Bateman. I’m Charles Holborne’s pupil. I’ve just come into Chambers, and there’s something odd which I think you should know.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘All his old notebooks from his criminal cases have disappeared, together with his red barrister’s bag, you know, the one he used to carry his robes. I may be making a mistake, but did one of you or the other officers remove them?’

  ‘I’ll need to make enquiries sir about the notebooks, but I think you’re mistaken about the robes bag. That was last seen at Mr Holborne’s property. And it’s blue, not red.’

  ‘No, that’s not right. He’s never had a blue one, not since I’ve known him. I’ve seen him with his red one almost every day for the last six months. And he wouldn’t be seen with a blue one anyway.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Sloane, puzzled.

  ‘The blue ones you buy yourself. The red ones are given by a leader to a junior as a gift, to mark good work done on a case. Charles was very proud of his red bag. He wouldn’t use a blue one.’

  Peter waited, listening to the scratch of Sloane’s pen at the other end of the line.

  ‘You don’t know what case it was for, do you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Peter smiled. ‘You don’t have to spend long in Charles’s company to find out. It was his first murder case. The Queen versus Sands and Plumber.’

  ‘Has anyone taken a statement from you, Mr Bateman?’

  ‘No. You’re the first.’

  ‘Well, it may be unimportant, but I’ll send an officer over in the course of the next couple of days to take down what you’ve told me, and get a signature. You’re not planning on holidays in the near future are you?’

  ‘No. You can get me through Chambers.’

  •

  At almost exactly the same time as Peter was hanging up and starting his late-night work, Charles was standing in the dark, in the back garden of the house where Rachel had her bedsit. Her room was in darkness. He was undecided. The idea of sleeping in the Austin Healey was distinctly unappealing, but he had nowhere else to go. He had had to put petrol in the car and had bought two meals. And when the car radio had refused to tune to any radio stations, he’d been forced to buy a small transistor radio so he could pick up news reports of the investigation. It was more expensive than buying newspapers, but meant that he didn’t continually risk being recognised by newsagents or paper vendors – all of whom had hundreds of copies of his photograph right in front of them. But it meant that he had less than £3 of the money she had lent him, enough for the cheapest of hotel rooms, but little else thereafter. In any case, he couldn’t risk being asked to produce a passport.

  Charles picked up a pebble from a flower bed and threw it at Rachel’s window just in case she’d gone to bed early. It was a good shot, and the clack made by the impact would certainly have disturbed her, had she been there. The room remained in darkness and there was no sound.

  Immediately beneath Rachel’s window was the sloping ceiling of the kitchen at the back of the house which Charles had glimpsed the night before. The window of the kitchen was illuminated and every now and then a middle-aged woman in a dressing gown passed to and fro. Charles could hear laughter from a radio or television inside. On the flank wall of the property, around the corner from the window, was a garden bench.

  Charles took off his fake spectacles and stowed them carefully in his breast pocket. He climbed onto the bench, reached up to the overhanging tiles, and tested their strength. They creaked dangerously and he desisted, but underneath there was a gap under the line of the roof and the soffit, and a very slight overhang of the roof beam. He got a good grip on the beam and pulled. It held firm. He reached up again and hauled himself onto the edge of the kitchen roof, making sure he didn’t stand right on the edge where his weight risked snapping the tiles. He tiptoed his way up the gradient to the top of the roof where it joined the wall. Rachel’s bedroom window was now at waist height, an old wooden sash window with no lock. He put his hands under the lower sash and heaved upwards. The window opened and Charles rolled into the room.

  It was empty and smelt enticingly of Rachel’s perfume. Charles didn’t want to move further than necessary in case his footsteps were heard from below. He slipped off his shoes, took one pace to the bed, and carefully lay down, fully dressed.

  Rachel arrived two hours later. Charles was half asleep but he heard her voice at the front door and her steps coming closer to the door. He reached to the floor and turned on the bedside lamp, and Rachel saw him the moment she opened the door. She stopped, but smiled, and immediately closed the door quietly behind her.

  ‘I wondered if I’d see you. In fact I almost left the window open for you.’ She took her coat off and hung it on the back of the door. ‘How did you get in?’

  He nodded towards the window. ‘You should have it looked at. If I can get in, anyone can.’ He stood and approached her. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he continued, ‘but I’m almost out of money, and I had nowhere else to go. I know I said I didn’t want to put you in any danger, so just say if you want me to leave.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. You can stay, although you have to be very quiet as the house is full. You’ll need to leave by, say, 6?’

  ‘No, I need to leave before then. I’ve got somewhere to be at about 4.00 am.’

  ‘Really? Well, you can explain in a moment. We need to talk about your family.’

  ‘My family? What about them?’

  ‘Charles! They’re frantic with worry!’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he replied, bitterly. ‘They said Kaddish for me years ago.’

  Rachel stepped closer to him, examining his face carefully, her eyes narrowed. She shook her head sadly. ‘And you think that means they don’t care?’

  Charles shrugged and shook his head sharply, an awkward movement, as if trying to throw something off. ‘They made their position absolutely clear,’ he said, breaking eye contact with Rachel. She reached up and gently turned his face back towards hers.

  ‘You’re wrong, Charles. They love you. Your father in particular misses you terribly. I see him in synagogue every week. You know he’s never let anyone sit in your seat?’
>
  ‘No,’ replied Charles. He sighed. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘If you saw him, Charles, you’d know. He looks so forlorn. Anyway, newspapermen have been camping on their doorstep since the news broke this morning, and they can’t even go out. Your brother thinks your parents’ line is tapped.’

  ‘They’d need a warrant, but it is possible I guess.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, will you stop being a lawyer for a moment?’

  ‘Sorry. So you’ve spoken to them?’

  ‘I thought someone should tell them you were okay. And that you’re innocent! That’s where I’ve been. I didn’t want to risk calling – so I went round.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re relieved. To know you’re okay, and that I’m … well, that I can do something to help.’

  ‘Does dad think I did it then?’ asked Charles.

  ‘How can you say that? Of course he doesn’t.’

  Charles nodded introspectively, turned, and sat on Rachel’s bed.

  ‘So,’ said Rachel, after a moment. Charles looked up. She was standing next to the open door of a tiny refrigerator that he hadn’t noticed before. ‘I have four eggs and some cheese. Your choices appear to be scrambled eggs or omelette. Any preference?’

  ‘No, either would be wonderful.’

  ‘Ok. Tell me what you’ve been doing. Oh, by the way – I like the new look.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Charles woke at 3:30 am. Rachel lay on her front, her left arm across his chest and her head snuggled into his side. He inhaled her smell and watched the creamy bumps of her vertebrae rise and fall with her breathing, and found himself becoming aroused. He slipped out of bed quickly, his feet hitting the cold unheated lino.

  He dressed hurriedly in the dark, opened the door a couple of inches, and listened for a few seconds. Satisfied that the household was asleep, he crept silently downstairs. The front door was unlocked and he stepped into the cold night, closing the door gently behind him. He had managed to sleep for almost four hours and felt refreshed and alert.