He approaches the bend in the cobbled road. Two men in flat caps stand on the pavement locked in intense conversation, their heads inclined towards one another. One sees Charles approach and stands up straight, his mouth clamped shut until Charles has passed.
‘Evening,’ says Charles, pushing open the door.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ responds the other conspirator, the one who had his back towards Charles, ‘if it ain’t Charlie Horowitz. Aintcha in the wrong place? Or you slumming it for a change?’
Charles is in the wrong place. Or perhaps it’s the right place, but it’s he who is wrong; he has trouble deciding. An East Ender, born and bred on the wrong side of town, the wrong side of the tracks and the wrong side of the law, Charles has muscled his way into the Establishment by becoming a war hero, barrister and, until Henrietta’s murder, the son-in-law of a viscount. His acquaintances include Oxbridge graduates with country seats, titles and racehorses; they also include boxers, burglars and con artists. He no longer quite fits in anywhere, and everywhere feels like the wrong place. Yet, as he is discovering, despite the fact that he’s not set foot here for some time, he is still a ‘face’ in his old manor.
Charles pauses, half over the threshold, and looks over his left shoulder. He knows the speaker, a stevedore with a face like mashed potato and a bulbous red-veined nose.
‘Wotcher, Shandy,’ replies Charles, deliberately allowing his Inns of Court accent to slip towards his childhood Cockney. ‘I ’eard you was dead.’
Shandy leans forward and stares at Charles, trying to decide if Charles’s response is confrontational or friendly. He opts for his default setting: aggression.
‘What the fuck d’you mean by that?’ he asks belligerently, narrowing his eyes and jutting his head forward at Charles like an angry tortoise.
‘I didn’t mean nothing by it,’ says Charles with a smile, ‘did I?’ He concludes the conversation by letting the door shut behind him in Shandy’s face.
Charles walks across the familiar flagstones to the curving pewter-topped bar which connects to the low ceiling by ancient tapered ships’ beams. He scans the bar quickly for any sign of trouble but it’s not long after opening time and only a few of the tables are occupied. He wonders if he’ll recognise any of the bar staff, but it’s years since he last drank here and the young woman who approaches is unknown to him.
‘Pint of mild, please,’ asks Charles.
He pays for his drink and starts taking it towards a quiet corner when he notices someone whom he does recognise, a well-dressed middle-aged man in slacks and sports jacket. His black leather shoes gleam with polish even in the dimly lit pub and he wears a light blue shirt open at the neck, revealing a yellow silk cravat that matches the handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket.
‘Well I never,’ says Charles with some surprise. ‘Johnny the Jar.’
The man looks up. His Brylcreemed hair is parted ruler-straight and he has a short, clipped moustache. His hand sweeps instantly across the table top, snatching something out of sight so fast that Charles is unable to identify it. Only then does he look up. He reminds Charles of Terry-Thomas, and when he opens his mouth to speak it is a passable Terry-Thomas imitation that emerges.
‘I say,’ he exclaims, ‘don’t creep up on a cove like that. It’s … it’s…’ his eyes narrow, and when he speaks again it is pure Plaistow. ‘It’s fuckin’ Charlie Horowitz!’
‘How’re you doing, Johnny?’ laughs Charles. ‘Mind if I join you?’ He pulls out a stool and sits before the other answers.
‘My God, Charlie, how long’s it been?’ asks the other.
Charles shrugs. ‘Got to be ten years at least; maybe twelve.’
‘You was just starting out as a solicitor, weren’t you?’
‘Barrister, but yes.’
‘And still at it, I ’ear. You’ve been all over the rags, aintcha?’
‘Ah,’ Charles says, making excuses, ‘but only the intellectual ones. Like the Sketch and the Mirror,’ he jokes.
‘Well, you can get the drinks in then.’
Charles returns to the bar and orders Johnny another drink.
Johnny the Jar acquired his nickname from his profession. When Charles last saw him, he was working as a conman, specialising in passing off “jars” or “jargoons” — well-cut zircons of modest value — as diamonds. He was good, too. The mark would be shown the real McCoy, invited to go with Johnny to any jeweller of the mark’s choice to have it valued, and be offered the diamond at a cut-price — not so low as to create suspicion, but low enough to make the sale so tempting that a greedy mark was unlikely to refuse.
The excuse was usually Johnny’s need to pay for an operation for his wife (a woman who had never existed, and never would if Johnny had any say in it) or perhaps because he needed to raise money to pay the Inland Revenue (another institution in which he did not believe). Then, as the money was handed over, Johnny’s nimble fingers would substitute jargoons for the genuine article, and he’d be gone before the switch was noticed.
Charles takes Johnny’s drink back to the table and they chat amiably for a few minutes. Johnny reports that he’s still in the same line of business and that business is still good, but Charles notices that the elbows of the jacket are much shinier than they used to be, and the cuffs, slightly frayed, appear to have been trimmed. Charles senses that the conversation is moving towards the moment when Johnny is going to touch him for a few quid, but just as the conman is making his run-up to the pitch, the bar door opens. Johnny stops speaking in mid flow, and both men look up.
‘Ah,’ says Charles, ‘I’ve been expecting —’
He looks back to where Johnny had been sitting but the seat is empty and the liquid in his pint glass is still slopping gently from side to side. Charles whirls around just in time to see the Jar’s polished heels disappear through the back door of the bar. Charles grins and stands to meet the tall man approaching his table.
‘Hi Sean,’ he says, offering his hand.
‘Charles,’ says the other. He grips Charles’s hand firmly and shakes it. ‘Who was that?’ he asks, nodding towards the back door.
Charles laughs. ‘An old acquaintance. You probably don’t know him.’
‘Looks as if I should.’
Charles smiles noncommittally. ‘Drink?’
Charles goes to the bar and while waiting to be served looks at the table where the newcomer has taken Johnny’s seat. Sean Sloane is a good-looking man with tousled light brown hair, a wide brow in a triangular face, narrow chin, and light blue eyes that always seem to be laughing, even when the rest of his face isn’t. Clever eyes, which miss nothing; the eyes of a canny policeman — thus explaining the Jar’s hasty departure.
Sloane and Charles met a couple of years earlier, after both were shot by the same murderer on the same occasion. It’s an event that has a tendency to create a bond. They also recovered together in hospital — hence the reference to one-armed bandits in the note. Finally, and most importantly, Sloane, at that time a detective constable and the most junior member of the police team, was the only investigator to keep an open mind about Charles’s guilt or innocence in the matter of his wife’s death, despite pressure from above. So, there are several reasons why Charles considers Sloane a genuine friend. Despite the fact that Sloane has moved to the Met and now lives in London, they lost touch somewhat when he returned to uniformed duties on transfer, so Charles was pleased to receive the other’s note.
Charles returns to the table with fresh drinks. Sloane takes a deep draft of ale, puts his glass down, leans forward and evaluates Charles carefully. He nods.
‘Yes. You look as if you’ve shed a few pounds since I last saw you, but I don’t remember your arms being quite that muscled,’ he says, gesturing at Charles’s rolled-up sleeves.
‘Yes?’ replies Charles neutrally.
‘Yes,’ affirms Sloane, his eyes twinkling. ‘So: training again?’
Charles shrugs. ‘Just keep
ing fit.’ He stares around the pub for a few moments, sups from his second pint, one he knows he probably shouldn’t have ordered, and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. Only then does he meet Sloane’s gaze with a bland expression.
‘Bollocks,’ concludes Sloane amiably. ‘You’re still hoping for that fight.’
Charles shrugs again. ‘You never know,’ he replies with studied nonchalance.
Sloane leans back in his seat and laughs, shaking his head ruefully. ‘Pane of glass, Holborne, pane of glass.’
Charles laughs in response. ‘You reckon you can see through me?’
The policeman picks up his pint and gestures with it at Charles. ‘You’re seven years older than me, right, born in twenty-five. Which makes you thirty-nine maybe, at a pinch, thirty-eight.’
‘Thirty-eight,’ confirms Charles, knowing that Sloane has indeed seen through him.
‘So, you’ve got a year — at best eighteen months or so — before they’ll refuse you a licence. Even amateurs can’t box competitively after forty, right?’ Charles nods in confirmation. ‘You’re bloody bonkers, Charles. What’re you trying to prove?’
Charles smiles again and deliberately changes the subject. ‘So, Sean: you called me; what’s up?’
‘Fair enough; none of my business.’ Sloane pauses, drinks some more beer, and sits back. ‘Well, partly I wanted to say how sorry I was when I read about your cousin. From what I saw in the papers, it must have been pretty awful.’ Charles nods. ‘Stuff keeps on happening to you, doesn’t it,’ comments Sloane gently. Charles meets the policeman’s eyes steadily, but says nothing. ‘Anything to do with you-know-who?’ probes Sloane.
‘You said partly,’ replies Charles, avoiding the question.
Sloane pauses and then nods slowly to himself. ‘Again, probably none of my business. I’m just worried for you, Charles.’
There’s a long pause while Charles out-stares Sloane.
‘Yes,’ says Sloane finally, changing his tone and the subject. ‘And I thought you’d like to know: I just got promoted.’
Charles raises his beer in toast, moving gratefully onto safer territory. ‘Congratulations, Sergeant Sloane.’
‘Detective Sergeant Sloane,’ corrects Sloane. ‘I’m back in CID; hence the absence of uniform.’
‘Bloody hell, Sean, that’s fast! Well done; I’m delighted for you.’ But there’s something around Sloane’s eyes that tells Charles that the promotion’s not all good news. ‘So … why do I detect that you’re not quite so delighted?’
Sloane sighs and looks swiftly over both shoulders to make sure they’re not being overheard. ‘Thing is, I’m in Vice.’
‘Ahh...’ replies Charles slowly, nodding and re-evaluating the man he has always taken for an honest copper.
Of all of the Metropolitan Police departments, 8 Area Clubs and Vice Unit, or “Vice” has the reputation as one of the most corrupt. Based at West End Central so as to be on hand for Soho, it deals with prostitution, pornography, illegal gaming, drugs — in short, all the areas of criminal activity that provide the most lucrative cash opportunities for corrupt coppers.
‘Dirty squad?’ asks Charles, referring to the Obscene Publications Unit, renowned for taking a cut of the pornographers’ proceeds in return for turning a blind eye and suppressing upstart opposition.
‘No, thank God. I couldn’t have stood that. But it’s bad enough. I’m mainly dealing with toms.’
‘Prostitutes? Well, there must be some compensations for a red-blooded single man such as yourself,’ jokes Charles.
‘Don’t, Charles, it’s not funny. And we’re encouraged to get close to the villains. My inspector’s running errands for the wife of a nasty piece of work doing three years for razoring the face of a girl who wouldn’t toe the line. But we’re looking after his family ’cos he says he’ll turn grass on his release if we make sure her indoors takes no liberties while he’s away.’
‘That’s exactly how the Krays operate; they call it the Away Society.’
Sloane nods. ‘Odd, isn’t it? I have trouble seeing where the villains end and the Met begins. But that’s not the worst of it. I think the whole of my team is on the bung from one brothel or another. Every day or two someone drops a hint or makes a joke about it and everyone looks at me to watch my reaction. They’re testing me. Yesterday I found an envelope in my locker — well, not in my locker — it’d been jammed in the gap between the door and the frame; sticking out like a flag so no one could miss it.’
‘And?’
‘I opened the door as usual, got changed, and left the envelope on the floor where it fell. I didn’t want to touch it.’
‘Jesus, Sean,’ exclaims Charles softly. ‘What’re you going to do?’
Sloane takes another few gulps of his beer and replaces the pint mug on the table with slightly more force than necessary. ‘Fuck knows. I do know one thing though: I’m not taking the money.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’
‘Of course. If they don’t trust me, if I’m not one of them. There are times when you absolutely have to have someone at your back; your life depends on it. I really don’t know what to do, Charles. I’ve wanted this for so long, and now I’ve finally got there, it tastes bitter.’
Charles nods silently, turning over his friend’s situation in his mind. Charles knows how deeply corrupt the Met is. He can count on the fingers of one hand the coppers he would trust not to take a bribe, to plant evidence, to fabricate a confession — or beat it out of a recalcitrant suspect. He knows better than to suggest that Sloane goes to his superiors.
‘Do you really want my advice?’
The young detective sergeant shrugs. ‘That’s why I’m here. I don’t know anyone else in London well enough and I can’t talk to anyone in the team. But you’re straight — you are straight aren’t you, Charles?’ Charles grins ruefully. ‘And I respect your opinion.’
Charles sits back in his chair. He doesn’t answer for a moment. He sighs deeply and shakes his head. ‘There’re no good options here, mate. But if you really want my opinion, go back to Buckinghamshire. Get your old job back if you can. The Met’s no place for an honest copper. Sooner or later someone’s going to clean this lot out, and you don’t want to be there when it happens.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Sunday, 28 June
Mo stands at the tiny Formica counter that constitutes the kitchen area of his bedsit, stirring the tea leaves in the pot, wondering if the brew’s too stewed for another cup. He glances every now and then over his shoulder at Teddy. The movement causes him to wince as a stab of pain flashes across his chest, but otherwise he feels better than he expected after his beating. His nose is tender, but it doesn’t seem broken and has stopped bleeding, and the lump on his head is invisible under his hair.
The smell of kippers and the rise and fall of the voices of the bickering couple continue to penetrate the attic room from below and he shakes his head to himself in irritation. The boy seems unconcerned. He sits on the bed they’ve shared for the last few nights, looking for a way into the polythene packaging covering his new shirt. He turns the package over once or twice, pulls unsuccessfully and, losing patience, puts it to his mouth and tears it with his teeth. He takes out a light blue shirt.
‘Ace, Mo!’ says Teddy, turning the tailored shirt over his hands and holding it up to the light. He reads the label out loud in a hushed voice, as if it were a treasure map. ‘Sixty-five per cent Dacron and thirty-five per cent cotton, Permaprest!’ He looks up at the older boy. ‘Ace!’ he repeats.
‘Go on then,’ says Mo, ‘try it on. See what it looks like with your new Callards.’
‘Callards?’
‘Callard and Bowsers. Trousers.’
Teddy beams a heart-melting smile at his new friend and stands, pulling off his T-shirt and slacks without hesitation or shyness. Mo forces his gaze from the boy’s white flanks and round buttocks, conscious of the blood pumping to his groin.
He ca
n’t work Teddy out at all. That night Mo picked him up, as they climbed the stairs to his bedsit, Mo wondered how Teddy would react when he saw there was only one bed. He half-expected the boy to bolt back down the stairs, or at least object to the sleeping arrangements. Nothing; not even a glance.
Mo was pretty sure Teddy was queer — there was no doubting that sidelong flirting glance he’d seen so many times before in bars and on buses — and the boy brushed his teeth at the sink and then stripped naked without a thought — in front of a complete stranger! — as if offering himself. But there was something wrong; something bothered Mo about the boy. So Mo changed into his nightclothes carefully, his back to the bed to hide his erection, and once under the blanket he was careful to put as much space between him and Teddy as possible.
Then, just as Mo was beginning to fall asleep, he felt Teddy turn carefully and, after a few moments’ hesitation, a hand touched him gently on the back. Mo lay still, uncertain and confused. An invitation? Gratitude? Even now Mo can’t work out what caused him to hesitate. Normally he’d have jumped the boy’s bones as soon as look at him, but something persuaded him to lie still and, after a few further moments, the hand was withdrawn and Teddy rolled slowly back onto his other side.
Over the succeeding days Mo tried and failed to work Teddy out, but the boy almost never spoke, smiled or cried. It was as if his emotions had been dialled down to zero. He implied once that his stepfather was involved in his flight from home — no surprises there, thought Mo — but having made that inadvertent confession he clammed up again completely. Mo tried conversation, direct questions and even dropped hints about the Old Bill — maybe they’d come looking? — but still nothing; the boy looked away as if Mo hadn’t spoken. He seemed perfectly happy to spend the rest of his life in the draughty bedsit, listening to Radio Caroline on Mo’s transistor radio, eating Coco Pops and staring out at the skies of East London.
Corrupted: Murder and cover-up at the heart of government (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 4