As soon as he had finished speaking to DC Sloane, Charles drove to The Boltons, Chelsea. The home of Simon and Jennie Ellison was just around the corner in Gilston Road. Charles had found Ellison’s car without difficulty, parked 100 yards further up the road, its bonnet still warm. So much for the trial in Wiltshire, he thought.
Whoever had employed Sands to kill Henrietta had had access to the photograph. Just to make sure, Charles had sneaked in through the wrought iron gate at the front of the Ellisons’ house and peered into the study window to see if the photograph was still there. It was. He then retreated round the corner to pace up and down under the dark trees in The Boltons, and to think. All his best jury speeches and cross-examination had been developed like this, pacing up and down.
It all fitted: detailed knowledge of Charles’s movements, access to his keys for Fetter Lane – even down to Ellison’s ability with cars; he had the skills to repair the Jaguar and replace it into the garage at Putt Green. But why? What was the motive? Charles had considered the possibility that Henrietta and Ellison were having an affair – in fact he remembered Michael Rhodes Thomas once saying something about Henrietta being seen at the Ellisons’ home, which had puzzled him briefly at the time – but even if that were right, it still didn’t suggest a motive. A lovers’ tiff? Possible, but unlikely.
So, with no obvious motive Charles needed incontrovertible proof – proof sufficient to convince even the sceptical Wheatley. And it was that which kept him pacing up and down The Boltons for half an hour. But the beginning of a plan was starting to take form. He jogged back to the Austin Healey and drove back to the Kings Road, stopping first at a tobacconist to get some change, and then at the next telephone box he saw. Again he dialled Thames Valley Police.
‘DC Sloane please.’
There was a delay. Then: ‘I’m afraid DC Sloane is unavailable at the moment.’
‘Is there anyone else from the Holborne murder enquiry team I could talk to?’
‘I’m afraid they’re all out of the moment, sir. Can I take a message?’
‘No,’ replied Charles, irritably. ‘Forget it.’
He hung up without waiting for an answer and was about to leave the phone box when he had another idea. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the piece of notepaper from Plumber’s kitchen. He dialled again.
‘Is that the Oak Lodge Boarding House?’
There was a catch of breath and sobbing at the other end of the line. It sounded like crying. Perhaps Oak Lodge was no longer quite as respectable as it had been before bodies starting turning up in its bedrooms, Charles thought.
‘If there’s a policeman just arrived, I need to talk to him,’ said Charles.
That promoted crying in earnest at the other end of the line but Charles heard the phone being handed to someone else.
‘Yes?’ said DC Sloane’s voice.
‘It’s me, Holborne,’ said Charles. ‘How long till you can get to the Temple?’
‘Why?’
‘I know who killed Sands, and I’m going to try to get a confession out of him that you can hear.’
‘Now, Holborne, don’t interfere. It’s all under control, and you’ll just get yourself hurt.’
‘Be at Chancery Court by quarter past midnight, OK? Not earlier and not later. Don’t use the lights, go straight to my room and keep out of sight.’
‘Holborne, don’t be so fucking stupid! You’re unarmed, and so am I!’
‘Just be there. If you can get some backup, so much the better.’
Charles broke the connection, got back in the car and drove to the Temple. As he passed Charing Cross station he saw the Wimpy on the corner and realised how tired and hungry he felt. Perhaps the whisky – on top of almost no sleep for three days – had been a poor idea, he thought. He stopped and went into the deserted burger bar to pick up another lukewarm burger and soggy chips, and bolted them down in the car. Then he completed his journey to the Temple. Rather than driving up Middle Temple Lane he parked on the Embankment. He hoped it was far enough away from the Temple that, even if Ellison saw the car, he wouldn’t be suspicious. Having immobilised the Austin Healey, he opened the boot to look for some tools, and came up with a tyre lever. Perfect. He slipped it inside his belt and strode off towards the Temple. Then, on an afterthought, he retraced his steps for 100 yards to the telephone box at the corner of Temple Place. Better to call from a payphone, rather than from Chambers. He delved into his pockets and came up with enough change to make one last call. He dialled and while the phone rang Charles checked the time: twenty-five to midnight. It took a while for the phone at the other end to be picked up.
‘Yes?’ said Jenny Ellison in a sleepy voice.
Charles pressed the button to speak and the coins dropped. ‘Simon Ellison, please,’ he said in a Scottish accent.
‘May I say who’s speaking?’
Charles effected a wheeze, and panted: ‘Say it’s Robbie Smith.’ He heard Jenny speaking to someone else. It’s a Scottish man…Robbie Smith? In a callbox.’
Ellison came on the line. ‘Who is this?’ he demanded.
‘It’s me, Sands,’ croaked Charles.
‘You…you’re…’
‘No, I’m not. You winged me, but I’ll live. I’m back at my digs. I want tae talk.’
There was no reply at first. Then, in a low whisper: ‘I can’t talk now…Sorry, darling, go back to sleep; it’s work.’
‘Not on the phone. Meet me in your room at Chancery Court…one hour.’ Charles inhaled deeply as if fighting for breath. ‘And bring money. I’ll need at least a grand if you want me tae disappear. Can you do that?’
He waited for Ellison to find a phrase which wouldn’t give him away to his wife. ‘Not quite, but close perhaps.’
‘Bring what you can, then. I’ll give you back the photo of Holborne’s missus and the plan of the house…. And if you don’t come, I’ll post them to the polis – oh, and bring Holborne’s notebook. I want it back on the shelf with the rest. It’s go’ my name all over it. Have you go’ all that?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Ellison.
‘And no tricks, Ellison. You’ll no’ catch me unawares again…. I’ve got a gun too, and it’s a lot bigger than that wee peashooter o’ yours. I’ll be watchin’ you all the way in. Just go straight to your room, and wait for me.’ Charles gave one last cough for effect, and hung up.
Charles ran up Middle Temple Lane. He reckoned he had at least half an hour’s start on Ellison, but he had to find a way in without keys. He’d need every second.
2 Chancery Court backed onto 3 Pump Buildings, another set of chambers, with a narrow light well between them. Charles had often wondered why the architect had placed a window on the first floor landing of Chancery Court when its sole function appeared not to admit light but a howling draft in the winter. He hoped that the draft meant that the window wasn’t secure.
A few lights shone from the upper storeys of some of the old buildings, but the courtyards of the Temple were completely deserted. Charles ran under the plane trees through the yellow gaslight. A thin mist was drifting up from the Thames and carpeted the courtyards in wisps of white. Charles slowed his footsteps as he realised that the sound of his running was making too much noise; he didn’t want the echoes disturbing any of the judges in their cosy flats on the top floors. He skirted round the back of Pump Buildings, trying to orientate himself and find the window that overlooked Chancery Court’s landing. There was a locked ironwork gate behind which there was a service door for the other chambers. The gate was set in a wall which extended to first floor level, where there was a ledge, and there was a bicycle chained to the gate. If Charles could make his way along the ledge without falling he would be in the light well at the same height as the window.
Charles took off his fake spectacles and put them in an inside pocket. He moved the tyre lever to the back of his belt so it wouldn’t get in his way and, gripping the top of the gate, heaved himself up by standing o
n the bicycle seat. Within seconds he was on top of the wall, hugging the side of the building. He inched his way around the ledge for ten feet, turned a corner, and found himself outside the window. Feeling behind him for the tyre lever, he pulled it out of his belt and inserted it into the base of the sash window. It slid up without any effort and he rolled in. I really would make a decent criminal, he thought. He closed the window behind him, tucked the tyre lever back in his belt and ran up to the landing above. The outer door leading to the rooms he and Ellison occupied was closed and locked. He had expected it to be locked, but he was nonetheless disappointed. His choice was to force the door, which if seen by Ellison would certainly arouse suspicions, or hide, perhaps on the stairs above. The second option was not attractive; he would be in plain view if Ellison happened to look further up the stairs. He decided on the former. Ellison might assume that Sands had already arrived and broken in. It would also clear the way for Sloane to get in and take up position.
The outer door was solid oak, seasoned over the centuries, with enormous studs and strap hinges covered in layer upon layer of paint. It also formed a very flush fit with the door frame. Charles attacked the door with the tyre lever with all his strength for 15 minutes, and was almost ready to give up when one final shove produced a loud cracking noise as the lock housing splintered. Charles opened the door fully flat against the wall, just as it would be during office hours, and picked up the larger splinters of wood from the floor. The inner door was simpler, and he forced the Yale lock at the first attempt. He stood back and surveyed his handiwork in the dark. He doubted anything would look unusual to a cursory glance.
He went into Ellison’s room. There was absolutely nowhere to hide there, and he realised that there was no chance of him surprising the other barrister. He looked into his own room briefly, but discounted that. If he showed himself to Sloane he might get himself arrested before he could put his plan into operation. He tried the door opposite. This was the room of Gwyneth Price-Hopkins. Charles was surprised to find his entrance to the room partially blocked by upended desks, a table and stacks of chairs. The party! This was the furniture cleared from Sir Geffrey’s room. Charles also saw several bouquets of flowers in assorted receptacles dotted around the room, and the desk and one of the shelves had a large display of greetings cards. Charles picked up one of the cards. It congratulated Gwyneth and her husband on the birth of their child. The baby must have arrived early, thought Charles, and in the knowledge that she would be away for the next few weeks at least, the clerks hadn’t got round to moving all the furniture back into what had been Sir Geoffrey’s room.
Charles moved one of the desks slightly so that it impeded the door opening fully, and then returned to the corridor separating this room from Ellison’s. From a position standing at the threshold of Ellison’s room it wasn’t possible to see into Gwyneth’s room even though her door remained open. On the other hand, Charles would have a view of Ellison’s desk.
It was the best that could be managed. Charles ran to the ground floor and opened both main doors to Chambers from the inside, leaving them ajar. He took the opportunity offered by the moonlight to take out his pistol and check it. Then he returned to Gwyneth’s room to wait.
As the minutes ticked away Charles’s nervousness grew. The smell of flowers, trapped for a couple of days in the closed room, was cloying, and seemed to increase his agitation. He waited twenty minutes before he heard soft footsteps on the stairs. He checked his watch, angling it toward the little light coming through the window. 00:15 a.m. exactly. The sound stopped, but no one came past his position. The silence lengthened for so long that Charles began to wonder if he’d imagined it, but eventually the footfalls continued. A shape went past Gwyneth’s door. Sloane – not tall enough to be Ellison. Then a second man, bulkier, almost bald, went past. Good – reinforcements. Charles heard the floorboards creak and the sound of his room’s door opening against carpet, and then silence.
The building settled into complete stillness again. Charles strained his ears, but he could hear only the sound of the wind in the trees from the courtyard outside and, once, a lonely ship’s horn drifting up from the Thames.
When he did next hear a noise from inside the building it was so close it made him jump. A floorboard creaked right outside Gwyneth’s room and Charles realised that Ellison had made it all the way into the building a good deal more quietly than the police. Now I know why they’re called “the Plod” he thought. Through the crack in the door Charles watched Ellison’s shape approach the half-open door of his room cautiously. Ellison held his right hand out and although Charles couldn’t see a gun he knew what the pose signified. Ellison prodded the door gently with his free hand and it swung inward silently until its brass handle bumped gently on the adjoining wall. He waited, listening intently, and then entered the room. Evidently satisfied that it was unoccupied, Ellison strode to his desk and sat at it, his gun hand pointed towards the door.
Curtain time, thought Charles.
‘Are ye there, Ellison?’ called Charles hoarsely from across the corridor. He watched Ellison start and stand up, but the man remained behind the desk.
‘Sands?’ Ellison called back.
Charles gasped for breath as if he were a drowning man, pausing between breaths for dramatic effect. If Ellison thought he was seriously injured, he’d be less suspicious about a change in voice.
‘Got ma money?’ called Charles.
‘Where are you?’ demanded Ellison. ‘Come out so I can see you.’ Ellison took a couple of steps round the desk towards the door.
‘Stay put!’ said Charles, coughing loudly. ‘I can put…a hole right though you… from where I am,’ he gasped.
Ellison came to a halt, but he was looking hard at the door to Gwyneth’s room; he knew now where Charles was hiding.
‘Throw the money intae the corridor,’ ordered Charles.
‘No. Not without the documents.’
‘They’re here…dinnae fret yoursel’. But first, explain something…. I ken you think that Jew-boy stole your practice … but why kill his wife? She was harmless.’
Ellison began inching towards the door, speaking to distract and cover his movement. ‘Harmless? The woman was a fucking landmine! It was only a matter of time before it all went public. With my name splashed all over the papers!’
‘Stay where ye are!’ croaked Charles, but Ellison had almost reached the door of his room, and he didn’t stop. Charles backed away from the door shielding him, his pistol arm raised. His bluff was being called and he knew the only way to stop Ellison was to shoot, but he needed him to carry on talking.
‘But the worst thing? She threw me over – and for Corbett! – an arrogant oaf who treated her like a whore!’
The speech had covered Ellison all the way to the threshold and as he uttered the last word he launched himself through Gwyneth’s door and fired at the same time. The bullet smashed the window behind Charles. Charles stood and pulled the trigger of his borrowed pistol at the advancing man. The trigger clicked and jammed, leaving Charles unarmed and silhouetted against the window, a sitting duck.
Ellison paused in his advance, his gun held in both hands, pointing directly at Charles’s chest. ‘Now,’ said Ellison conversationally. ‘Where are the documents?’
Only then did Ellison realise that something was wrong. ‘Just a minute…’ he said, and he reached out with his left hand to feel for the light switch behind him. For a fraction of a second his gun arm wavered, and Charles leapt at the desk standing on its end to Ellison’s right, colliding heavily with it and causing it to topple over. Ellison was a big man, and although the weight of the desk knocked him off balance, he didn’t fall. The desk rolled off his shoulder and fell with a crash, knocking the door further closed as it fell. Ellison stepped sideways and fired again, and Charles felt as if he had been struck in the left shoulder by a sprinting prop forward. Charles knew he’d been hit, but also that if he backed away the next shot would
finish him, so he rolled with the blow, allowed it to spin him round and brought his right fist in an arc up to Ellison’s head. He felt it connect with the other man’s temple and both men went down in a tangle of limbs. At the same moment the door swung violently open and smashed into Charles’s head.
He saw stars, and then nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The first of Charles’s senses to start operating again was his sense of smell: antiseptic, washed linoleum and cabbage. This doesn’t smell like the afterlife, he thought, so that’s a good start. He opened his eyes. He was in a darkened room but he appeared still to have vision. Another hopeful sign. Then he tried to sit up and pain raged all down the right side of his body from his neck to his lower ribs causing him to groan involuntarily. He closed his eyes again and tried to stay still. He reopened them after a moment or two and saw a plastic cord trailing from a bedside table on his left. Gingerly he tested the ability of his left arm to move and found that, although stiff, it didn’t hurt. He reached out, grabbed the cord, and pressed the red button at its end.
The door opened almost immediately, spilling bright light across Charles’s bed from the corridor.
‘Hi,’ croaked Charles. ‘Sorry to trouble you, nurse, but can I have some water?’
The silhouetted shape in the door came round to Charles’s bedside. ‘Charlie, it’s me,’ said Rachel’s voice. ‘Did you press the buzzer?’
‘Yes. Where am I?’
‘University College. Don’t move. You’ve had surgery on your shoulder.’
Another shape briefly obscured the light from the corridor and a nurse entered. ‘Good, Mr Holborne, you’re awake. We were beginning to get a little worried.’
The Brief Page 25