Rachel stepped back and allowed the nurse to stand beside Charles’s bed from where she took his pulse and blood pressure. ‘Fine,’ she concluded, rolling up the pressure cuff. ‘Would you like to sit up?’
‘Yes please.’
The nurse went to the head of the bed and rotated a wheel, and the top third of the bed lifted up slowly. Even that movement hurt like hell. Charles gasped.
‘Pain?’ asked the nurse.
‘Yeh.’
‘I’ll have a word with the doctors and see what we can do about that. Your friend can get you some water in the meantime. Small sips to start, please; you’ve had a general anaesthetic.’
She bustled out of the room and Rachel took her place. She poured Charles some water and held the glass while he took a few sips.
‘What happened?’ asked Charles when he had finished.
‘You were shot in the shoulder.’
‘Got that bit,’ said Charles wryly.
‘As far as I can understand from the surgeon – he was a bit vague cos I’m not a member of family – it more or less destroyed your clavicle and scapula, in and out, so they’ve had to pin you. But it missed all the important arteries and nerves, so apparently you were lucky. Oh, and you were knocked out by the police officers when they charged into the room. So the medics were a bit worried about the anaesthetic on top of a concussion.’
‘Clever chaps, those policemen.’
‘Don’t be too hard on them, Charlie. One of them took a bullet in the hand trying to disarm Ellison. He’s in the room next door.’
‘Oh,’ said Charles, feeling bad. ‘And Ellison?’
‘In custody, charged with two murders and attempting to kill you. You had a policeman on the door for a few hours, but he’s gone now you’re no longer a danger to the public.’
Charles smiled, but even that hurt. ‘What’s with my face?’ he managed.
‘You’re very swollen all down the left side, to your jaw. Maybe where the door hit you?’
‘Great. How long have you been here?’
‘Since the early hours. The police called your parents, and they called me. We came together.’
‘Where are they?’
Rachel took his left hand and held it in hers. It felt good. ‘They went home to get some sleep when you went down for surgery. Your mum’s been in a bad way since you went on the run. She’s not slept for days. I said I’d wait and call them when you woke. I’ll go and do it now.’ She made to leave, but Charles called her back.
‘Rachel.’
‘Yes.’
Charles lifted his left hand and Rachel took it again. ‘You’ve been… so kind… so …’
‘Stow it, Charlie – ’
‘No I mean it. I’d never have managed without you. My guardian angel.’
‘Oh, please! Let me go and make that call. Then I’ll push off.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to be in the way when your parents arrive. I think you should be on your own with them – at least the first time. I’ll be back at the end of visiting time.’
‘I don’t want to see them.’
‘Oh, Charlie, surely now – ’
‘No. I’m not ready. Maybe I won’t ever be.’
‘But – ’ started Rachel.
‘No. I mean it. Maybe later, on my own terms, but not now. I haven’t got the energy for it.’
Rachel stared hard at him, her eyes narrowed in the way that Charles now recognised as disappointment in him, and shook her head. ‘You took on an armed murderer and, according to the nice policeman next door, a Yardie boss,’ she said quietly. ‘Not to mention one of the Kray twins’ thugs. But you haven’t got the courage to apologise to your own parents.’
‘Courage? What are you talking about?’
‘Just think about it, Charlie. I know how much they hurt you by cutting you out of their lives. But how do you suppose they felt when you changed your name and married Henrietta without a word to them?’ She turned on her heel and left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Charles showed his cards. ‘Twenty-one,’ he announced, and with his good hand collected the pennies on the table. DC Sloane shook his head and scowled good-naturedly. ‘I played a lot as a kid,’ explained Charles.
To prove it, he placed the discards on top of the pile and, with one hand cut the deck and shuffled it.
‘So, you’re a card sharp on top of everything else,’ said Sloane. ‘Is there no end to your criminal talents?’
Charles looked across at the police officer. He and DC Sloane had taken to having their afternoon teas in Charles’s private room and would play a few hands of cards while chatting. Charles had been moved out to a general ward after a couple of days, but the press attention had made the nursing staff’s lives a misery and he had swiftly been moved back and his name removed from the board on the door.
The two men had become celebrities in the hospital, known by some of the younger staff as the “one-armed bandits.” Their photographs were still on all the front pages. Charles’s recovery was proceeding rather better than that of his saviour. Sloane had had two operations on his hand, but the blood supply to his index finger had been destroyed by the bullet, and eventually the finger had been amputated.
DC Sloane had a triangular, impish face, unruly light brown hair, intelligent blue eyes, and a small but well-shaped cleft chin. Definitely Irish, Charles thought. They got on well.
‘What time are you being collected?’ asked Charles.
Sloane checked his watch. ‘Any minute now.’
‘And then what?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Will they take you back, even missing a finger?’
Sloane laughed. ‘Sergeant Bricker seemed to think so. They can’t decorate me and fire me the same week.’
There was a knock on the door and DS Bricker appeared.
‘Really to go?’ asked Bricker. He addressed Sloane directly and didn’t look at Charles at all.
‘For Christ’s sake, Sarge, say hello to the man,’ said Sloane as he stood. ‘He’s still sore that you decked him at Fetter Lane,’ he explained to Charles.
‘Fucking sucker punch,’ muttered Bricker.
Charles held out his good hand. ‘Come on, sergeant. No hard feelings, eh?’
Bricker paused and reluctantly took Charles’s hand. ‘No, I guess not. I can’t say I’d have done any different in your circumstances. I’ve got these for you.’
Charles saw that Bricker was carrying a large clear plastic bag in which he could see his keys, his watch and some of his clothing. Bricker put it on Charles’s bed and handed Charles a pad of forms with his belongings listed on the top page. ‘Do you want to go through all of it?’ he asked.
‘No, just give me a pen. Any news of Ellison?’ asked Charles as he signed. ‘Wasn’t it his first remand this morning?’
‘Yup. And he applied for bail.’
‘He never had much judgment, in my professional opinion. And?’ asked Charles.
‘What do you think? One conspiracy to murder, one actual murder and two attempted murders in the space of a week. And an overheard confession? “Risk of further offences and of absconding.”’
‘Very right and proper too,’ said Charles.
Bricker turned to Sloane. ‘I need to be back at the station.’
‘Yes, sure.’ Sloane held out his hand. ‘Take care, Charles. See you at Ellison’s trial.’
Charles took it and the two men regarded one another silently for a moment with mutual respect. ‘Thanks again, Sean,’ said Charles. ‘Obviously, for saving my life, but also for keeping an open mind.’
Sloane nodded and smiled. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’ he asked.
‘Shoot.’
‘What’re you going to do now? You can’t go back to Chambers, can you? We all know you didn’t do it but… well, she was still the daughter of the ex-head of Chambers, wasn’t she? Isn’t it going to be…?’
‘Emb
arrassing? Yes. I’m not sure, to be honest. Neville Fylde offered me a job, you know? I think I’d make quite a good career criminal.’
‘Don’t joke about that, sir,’ said Bricker. ‘I’ve always said it. Barristers think things through, work logically; they can assess evidence; and they know how to avoid the mistakes that get their clients caught. You proved me right.’
‘Did you find my notebook, the one with the details of the Sands and Plumber trial?’ asked Charles.
‘Yes,’ answered Bricker. ‘Ellison had it. But it’s now an exhibit in the case against him, so you’ll have to wait for it. But why do you want it back? If you want my opinion, sir, you shouldn’t be allowed to keep any of them. They’re a directory of crime.’
‘That’s why I want them. They’d be useful if I pursue the other option.’
‘Other option?’ asked Sloane as he picked up his bag.
‘Private detective.’
The two policemen stared at him, unable to decide if he was serious.
‘Now, what sort of job is that for a nice Jewish boy?’ asked Sloane with a smile.
‘But as I’ve demonstrated, I’m definitely not nice. And as for Jewish, well, the jury’s out on that one.’
The two police officers left and Charles returned to sit on his bed. He realised that he was still holding Bricker’s pen. They’ll have to add theft to the list, he thought. He gazed out of the window over the grey slate rooftops of Bloomsbury. There was still an hour until visiting time. He hoped Rachel would come. Somehow she’d slipped into his life so completely that the thought of her not being there made Charles uncomfortable.
The door opened behind him and for a second, lost in thought, Charles didn’t turn.
‘Turn and face me!’ said a familiar voice.
Charles whirled round, causing the pain in his shoulder to start again. Standing with his back to the closed door was Ivor Kellett-Brown. He held a large bouquet of flowers in one hand and an old army revolver in the other. The second of these was unwelcome.
‘I want to see the look on your face as I pull the trigger,’ said Kellett-Brown.
Charles was too surprised to reply. After all he had been through – all the narrow escapes – his mind refused to accept that he was actually going to be shot by a crackpot ex-barrister wearing pinstriped trousers and a black jacket which had gone out of fashion in the 1930s.
He knew there was no chance of his getting across the room fast enough to prevent Kellett-Brown firing, so he leaned back on his pillows, put his feet up, and smiled.
‘What a lovely surprise, Ivor. Nice flowers; are they for me?’
‘I’m quite serious about this, Holborne. If Ellison’s not up to it then I certainly am. I’m going to shoot you. It’s nothing less than you deserve. Get on your knees.’
Charles laughed as if the request were a joke. ‘Fancy a cup of tea old chap?’ he asked, indicating the pot. ‘There’s plenty left. What news of the Temple?’
Kellett-Brown took a step further into the room. ‘Get on your knees!’ he demanded, his cracked voice rising by an octave.
‘Oh, come on Ivor. A joke’s a joke, but you’ll disturb the other patients.’
‘This is no joke! I swear, I’m going to kill you. But first I shall humiliate you the way you did me!’
Kellett-Brown was shouting now. Someone must have heard that, thought Charles. And they had. The door burst inwards and Kellett-Brown was sent flying. The flowers and gun fell from his grasp as he tottered over, trying to catch the end of the bed. The gun skidded half-way under the bed, and Charles hopped off and kicked it into the corner of the room. DS Bricker grabbed the falling Kellett-Brown in a rugby tackle, and Charles heard the air whoosh out of his would-be assassin’s lungs. Bricker sat on his back and pulled his arms behind him.
‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder!’ he shouted.
Sloane entered the room ahead of several members of nursing staff.
Charles went to the corner of the room and, using Bricker’s pen, picked up the revolver by its trigger guard. ‘Got a bag?’ he asked Sloane.
‘Dear God, Charles, you don’t half push your luck! If we’d left five minutes earlier we’d never have seen him coming in.’
‘How did you know who he was?’
‘We didn’t. But he was making a scene – demanding your room number – and he looked a bit odd. He kept putting his hand into his jacket pocket and you could see the outline of that – ’ he pointed at the revolver. ‘So we followed him up.’
Bricker had attached handcuffs to Kellett-Brown and was hauling him to his feet. ‘Come on, you,’ he said. He turned to Charles. ‘Does he always smell this bad?’
‘’Fraid so.’
Bricker turned to one of the nurses. ‘Anywhere we can keep this bloke until the Met arrive? He’s not really our concern.’
‘Yes. Follow me. Shall we call 999?’
‘Yes, please.’
Bricker dragged Kellett-Brown out of the room. Sloane turned to leave, his good hand on the door handle. ‘I’ll get one of the Met boys to take your statement. Any more of your former colleagues want to kill you, do you suppose?’
‘I hope not,’ replied Charles, lightly. But then, with greater gravity: ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘You might want to think about that, Charles, when considering your career options. See you.’
The door closed. Charles resumed his place on the bed. He closed his eyes and waited until his thudding heartbeat slowed to normal. He suddenly felt profoundly tired and wondered if he might be able to sleep, but he could not calm his seething mind. DC Sloane’s final comment was something he had been turning over incessantly for several days. Every part of his life seemed shattered, like the shards of a smashed mirror, and he had no idea how to put them back together again. Could he really go back to Chancery Court after two of his colleagues had tried to kill him? And then there were the tattered remnants of his private life. He was single now; where was he going to live? He’d have to go back to Putt Green and sort out Henrietta’s affairs and, he supposed, eventually get the house sold, but he wasn’t sure he could face it.
And then there was Rachel’s parting shot. He opened his eyes and gingerly reached over to the bedside table where a slip of paper protruded from underneath the fruit bowl. Written on it in Rachel’s firm angular hand was a telephone number, the number of his parents’ home somewhere in north London.
Charles turned the scrap of paper over and over in his hands, contemplating the ever-shifting grey clouds as they scudded past his bedroom window. Then he reached for the telephone. First things first.
Simon Michael was called to the Bar by the Honourable Society of the Middle Temple in 1978. In his many years of prosecuting and defending criminal cases he has dealt with a wide selection of murderers, armed robbers, con artists and other assorted villainy.
A storyteller all his life, Simon started writing short stories at school. His first novel (co-written) was published by Grafton in 1988 and was followed in 1989 by his first solo novel, The Cut Throat, the first of the Charles Holborne series, based on Simon’s own experiences at the criminal Bar. The Cut Throat was successful in the UK (WH Allen) and in the USA (St Martin’s Press) and the next in the series, The Long Lie, was published in 1992. Between the two, in 1991, Simon’s short story “Split” was shortlisted for the Cosmopolitan/Perrier Short Story Award. He was also commissioned to write two feature screenplays.
Simon then put writing aside to concentrate on his career at the Bar. After a further 25 years’ experience he now has sufficient plots based on real cases for another dozen legal thrillers.
Simon still practises law countrywide but now works only part-time. He lives with his wife and youngest child in Bedfordshire. He is a founder member of the Ampthill Literary Festival.
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