Corrupted: Murder and cover-up at the heart of government (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 4)

by Simon Michael

  ‘Former employers?’

  ‘Well, not strictly. C11.’

  ‘Who?’ asks Charles.

  Farrow grins broadly, turns from the door and sits on the wooden bench set into the wall. He pats the space beside him. ‘Got five minutes?’

  ‘Sure,’ shrugs Charles.

  ‘Then take a pew, my friend, and I’ll tell you an interesting story while we wait to be let out. Now: legal professional privilege? Or, as my lot would say, off the record?’

  Charles nods. ‘Of course.’

  Charles sits at the far end of the bench to give Farrow plenty of space. Percy Farrow is twice the girth of most men.

  Charles hesitates to think how much his friend must now weigh, but it can be no less than twenty-two stones and, in a man only five feet ten inches tall, that is huge. It was the weight that led to the knee injury that eventually got Farrow invalided out of the Met, and he is bigger now than he was then: almost completely spherical, with no discernible waist. Several chins splay over Percy’s starched collar and bow tie, a bristling curve of fat protrudes from between his hairline and the back of his jacket collar, and the gaping buttons of a tweed waistcoat strain to contain a near-horizontal chest. Charles likes to joke about the strain which Farrow’s laboured breathing places upon those buttons and the risk to the eyesight of anyone within striking range. ‘Big bones,’ Farrow would respond cheerfully while tucking into his gargantuan dinners, ‘require plenty of meat on them.’

  Farrow’s enormous size, his piggy eyes and his slow rolling gait disguise a razor-sharp mind and a rare appreciation of the human soul; he understands people and their motivations. More importantly, and unknown to his employers, he continues to cultivate several sources within the Metropolitan Police which supply him with a constant stream of gossip and interesting titbits in return for the odd pint or, for the lucky few, a meal at his favourite West End restaurants. A lifelong gourmand, Farrow is on first-name terms with most of the notable chefs in London. He is the best-fed and best-informed crime reporter in British journalism.

  ‘I’m onto a story,’ he begins, his wheezy voice bubbling with excitement, ‘the biggest scoop of my career.’

  ‘Tell.’

  ‘Do I gather you’ve not heard of C11?’ Charles shakes his head. ‘It’s a new intelligence unit set up by Scotland Yard. There’re finally trying to do something about organised crime in London. And who’s at the top of their list? Yes, you guessed: your old enemies Reggie and Ronnie.’

  ‘About fucking time!’ exclaims Charles with feeling.

  ‘Now, now; I know it’s exciting, but let’s not slip into Anglo-Saxon.’

  Charles forgot that, exclusively among the ex-coppers and Fleet Street hacks he’s ever known, Farrow is, bizarrely, uncomfortable with profanity. Charles puts it down to his upbringing in a vicarage.

  ‘Sorry, Percy,’ he replies, contrite. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been picking up little bits here and there for some months, but two weeks ago I heard something that’ll knock your socks off. You know about Cedra Court?’

  ‘Reggie’s new place, isn’t it? He took Ronnie there during his last breakdown.’

  ‘Correct. But Ronnie now has a flat there too. And since he’s recovered he’s been having little soirées with some of his younger friends. Queer blue movies, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Gay.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘“Queer” is now considered derogatory. “Gay” is the preferred term.’

  ‘Not by my editor it isn’t,’ says Farrow drily. ‘Anyway, that’s not my point. Wait for it: the guest list reads like something out of Who’s Who. Politicians, judges, men of the cloth. Even a couple of your colleagues.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ says Charles, shaking his head. ‘Are you sure?’

  Farrow ignores Charles’s question. ‘And this is going to be my headline: “Lord Robert Boothby involved in homosexual relationship with gangster.”’

  Having delivered his punchline, Farrow reclines on the bench, his back against the grubby tiled wall and a triumphant grin on his moon-shaped face. He waits for Charles’s reaction.

  Charles whistles softly. ‘You sure?’ he repeats. ‘Be careful, Percy. Boothby’s not to be trifled with. Careers are lost on this sort of thing.’

  Farrow leans forward again and whispers, ‘I’ve got everything. Dates and times of arrivals and departures, known criminals, known homosexuals and photographs. I can’t yet prove what went on inside, but I’m working on that. I’ve got a lead on a possible witness.’

  Charles shakes his head. ‘You’ll be lucky. The Establishment’ll close ranks. This is the very sort of scandal that brought Harold Macmillan down and I can’t see Douglas-Home allowing a repetition — not months from a general election. And the East End tough boys aren’t known for their suicidal streaks. Your “witness” will disappear.’

  Farrow shrugs, leaning back again. ‘Well, we’ll see. I’m putting everything I’ve got in front of Reg tonight,’ he says, referring to Reg Payne, the editor of the Sunday Mirror.

  ‘Assuming you get out, of course. What have they held you on?’ asks Charles.

  ‘You won’t believe it: loitering with intent.’

  ‘Were you?’

  Farrow smiles again. ‘I was. I was loitering on Cazenove Road, Walthamstow, with intent to speak to my source, who was just coming off duty. Unfortunately I got nicked by an ascetic ex-colleague who’s indifferent to good food and who finds me an irritant. But I’ve got bail, and someone from the paper’s on their way down. My source’ll sort out the charges, don’t you worry.’

  ‘You seem uncommonly confident, Percy.’

  ‘He’s not just in it for a beer or two. After Vassall and Profumo there’s a lot of coppers and journalists who think that organised crime’s not the only thing that needs cleaning up in London.’

  Charles nods. The papers have only recently stopped writing about the affair between John Profumo, the Secretary of State for War, and Christine Keeler, a former would-be model who, inconveniently as it turned out, was also on intimate terms with Yevgeni Ivanov, an Russian naval attaché and intelligence officer.

  ‘Did you read Paul Johnson’s New Statesman piece on Mulholland and Foster last year?’ asks Farrow. ‘No, probably not,’ he says, answering his own question.

  ‘I did actually. They were the two journalists imprisoned by the Radcliffe Enquiry for not revealing their sources.’

  ‘Very good. And Paul Johnson warned that any Tory minister or MP who gets involved in a scandal from now on must expect the full treatment. I’m telling you, Charles, there’s no way the Mirror won’t run with this one. There are scores to be settled. And Bob Boothby’s been sailing too close to the wind for years.’

  The cell door swings open and the gaoler stands on the threshold, documents in his hands. ‘You’re free to go, Mr Elrick.’

  Farrow smiles at Charles and the two friends rise. The gaoler stands back to let them pass.

  ‘Deep breath before you walk out, Percy,’ instructs Charles.

  ‘Yes, what is that? Smells like something’s died,’ comments Farrow.

  ‘British justice, sir,’ says the gaoler, drily.

  Charles waves farewell to Farrow as the latter’s taxi takes him off eastbound towards Fleet Street. He casts about for a phone box and sees one almost opposite him at the junction of Great Marlborough Street and Carnaby Street. He jogs across the road, threading his way between the evening traffic queueing to get onto Regent Street.

  As he opens the red door Charles notes a large number of young people queueing outside a shop in Carnaby Street. The shop is a few doors down from John Steven’s “His Clothes”, a shop Charles knows well and has himself used, and rock music plays from speakers hung above a new sign which proclaims ‘Lord John’. Charles remembers Carnaby Street in the Fifties when it was just an ill-regarded narrow thoroughfare behind the London Palladium, lined with dingy shopfronts. It’s really buzzi
ng now, he thinks, making a mental note to return and see what Lord John has to offer.

  Inside the telephone box the entire wall on which the telephone is supported is papered with brightly coloured cards offering “Large chest for sale” and “French lessons”, accompanied by simple line drawings of young women in various states of undress. Charles grins and dials the number of Chancery Court. When he hears Sally’s voice at the other end he pushes a coin into the slot and waits for the clicks to finish.

  ‘Hi Sal, it’s me.’

  ‘Hello. I’m glad you rang. I tried you in Chambers about an hour ago.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I got diverted via Marlborough Street Mags.’

  ‘A magistrates’ court — a man of your eminence? You really need to have a word with your clerk,’ jokes Sally. ‘Listen, I’m really sorry, Charles, but I’m going to be late. There’s been an almighty listing cock up, and one of my silks has got to be at both ends of the country tomorrow at ten thirty. It’s going to take me a while to find a replacement for one of his cases and then smooth everything over.’

  ‘Not to worry. I was going straight home because I thought you’d be waiting, but if there’s no rush I’ll drop into Chambers. I need to draft an indictment. Do you want to meet at the Witness Box at, say, sevenish? We could grab a bite on the Strand rather than cooking late.’

  ‘Seven? Yes, I should be finished.’ Charles hears voices besides Sally’s and realises she’s been distracted.

  ‘Sal?’ he asks after a moment, but the pips sound and he decides to hang up.

  Charles steps out of the telephone box and, with a final glance towards the youngsters queueing to get into Lord John, strides towards Regent Street. There’s a stationary bus right in front of him on the junction but the traffic jam is solid and nothing is moving, so he decides to walk.

  Twenty minutes later he enters the Temple via the huge wooden doors at the top of Middle Temple Lane, against the weight of traffic of barristers, solicitors and office staff departing for the evening. Charles jogs up the ancient wooden staircase, passing the board with the names of members of Chambers written in black script, and enters the clerks’ room. Barbara is putting on her coat and preparing to depart.

  ‘Everything OK?’ she asks of Charles’s last-minute court hearing.

  ‘Yes, fine. I wasn’t needed in the end.’

  ‘Legal Aid forms?’

  Charles shakes his head. ‘Never got that far. It was all over by the time I got there.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry about that, sir,’ replies Barbara, concerned that she’s wasted Charles’s time. ‘We just got a call from the Mirror asking for you specifically, so I assumed it was going to be something big.’

  ‘Somebody, not something. Well, actually, both, now I think of it,’ replies Charles cryptically, his attention on the contents of his pigeonhole and the disappointment of finding no cheques awaiting him.

  ‘Sorry?’ asks the redheaded Scotswoman, pausing in her homeward-bound preparations.

  ‘Forget it. It’s all fine,’ reassures Charles.

  Charles climbs the dusty staircase to the first floor and unlocks the main door there, a two-inch thick slab of oak overlaid by a further half-inch of multi-layered paint dating from the time of Dickens. He’s about to walk to his room at the end when he hears something odd coming from the room to his left, the one next to his. It sounds like an animal whining.

  Wondering if someone has brought their dog into Chambers, as does sometimes occur, Charles pauses and gently pushes open the door. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, completely surrounded by a jumble of thirty or forty law books, is a young man. He whirls around as he hears the door opening, a look of terror on his face, and in doing so knocks over two of the piles with a series of dusty thumps.

  Charles sees that the man has been weeping, which explains the noise. He is Frank Sullivan, the most junior pupil in Chambers. He’s about twenty-three but his small stature and permanently wide-eyed expression of surprise give the impression of a teenager. He scrambles to his feet, hastily wiping his face and looking away from Charles out of the window.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter, Frank?’ asks Charles. ‘Did you realise you’d been locked in?’

  ‘No, sir,’ the young man answers abruptly.

  ‘I’ve told you before, you don’t call other barristers “sir”. It’s surnames for those who care about such formalities and you can call me Charles. And it’s obvious that something is the matter, so cough up.’

  Sullivan is about to deny any problem but his spirit suddenly fails him and he slumps like a tyre with a sudden puncture. He gestures to the books around him.

  ‘It’s this case, tomorrow, in the Court of Appeal. We got the other side’s Skeleton Argument late and it raises a whole load of new points and weird Commonwealth cases. Gareth put together this lot since lunch, and told me to get them in order to Xerox first thing tomorrow. He’s at the library looking for the last couple. But I think I’ve lost one. I only skim-read it the first time, the headnote, and now I can’t find it anywhere. He’s going to go ballistic.’

  Quite likely, Charles thinks to himself. Gareth Davies, normally a charming and easy-going rugby fanatic in his forties, devoted to his wife and four daughters and a pillar of his Baptist community, is known to go a bit haywire when placed under serious pressure. The odd thing is that once prepared and ready for battle he is calmness personified, but in the hours leading up to a trial, particularly when caught unawares, he is a screaming banshee of nerves and anxiety.

  Charles looks at his watch. ‘OK,’ he says, removing his jacket and hanging it on the back of the nearest chair. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’ Charles settles himself on the floor, cross-legged as the young man was a moment before, and gestures for Sullivan to join him.

  ‘Thanks, sir — Holborne — sorry! Charles!’

  Charles holds out his hand. ‘Where’s the other side’s Skeleton Argument?’

  The pupil hands Charles a document consisting of eight or ten pages held by a paperclip.

  ‘OK,’ continues Charles. ‘If we go through the Skelly point by point and gather each relevant set of cases in a separate pile, we’ll soon find out if you’ve lost anything. My guess is it’s still here, buried somewhere under this lot. Get yourself a notebook. We’ll place a brief description of each legal argument on the top of each pile, and start collating.’

  Charles watches relief flood across the youngster’s face.

  It takes forty minutes of concentrated work, but the floor gradually empties as the orderly piles of books grow, each under a separate heading. With only five or six books left on the floor, Charles picks up the respondent’s Skeleton Argument again and thumbs through to the penultimate page.

  ‘It was Crown immunity, wasn’t it?’ he says.

  The pupil looks flustered again. ‘Well,’ he hesitates. ‘Something to do with the position of a consultant or a hospital. Or both. It definitely had something to do with hospitals.’

  ‘Yes, Crown immunity,’ repeats Charles patiently. ‘So it’s that old QBD authority over there,’ he says, and points to the frayed leather binding of an old book, lying half under a desk. ‘Look, there’s even a piece of paper marking the spot.’

  Sullivan crawls to the book and sits with his back against the desk as he opens it. He starts reading the headnote out loud. ‘This is it! This is it!’

  Charles smiles, getting to his feet. ‘Good. Your pupil master is a lovely man and he knows his stuff, but one thing you might want to learn from him by way of doing exactly the opposite, is: don’t panic! It’s when you’re under the most pressure that you have to remain at your most calm. Panic just makes it worse.’ Charles takes his jacket off the back of the chair. ‘Can you finish from here, do you think?’

  Sullivan also stands, gripping the lost law book as if clinging to his first-born child. ‘Yes,’ he nods. ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’ Charles starts to wave away the gratitude, but Sullivan continues anyway. ‘No
, really, thank you. I don’t know what I’d have done without your help. I really don’t know what I’m doing yet. And most people here wouldn’t have helped.’ He pauses. ‘Sorry about the … the scene. Please … forget you ever saw it?’

  Charles nods. ‘Saw what?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Charles dons his jacket and is about to leave the room when Sullivan speaks again. ‘Look, Charles, there’s something else.’

  ‘What’s that?’ replies Charles, his hand on the brass door handle.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have been listening, but there was a meeting going on over the other side. Several members of Chambers in Mr Dennison’s room. I was in the kitchen making a cup of tea, and I couldn’t help but hear. There was quite a lot of shouting, and your name came up. A lot. It sounded to me like they were plotting.’

  ‘Is that so? Any idea who?’

  ‘Mr Dennison, definitely.’

  That doesn’t surprise Charles. Murray Dennison QC has been in silk for the last couple of years but can’t get established. He is more than usually inquisitive about the practices of others in Chambers, and Charles’s new-found success, especially in respect of murder cases, has put his nose out of joint.

  ‘Anyone else?’ asks Charles.

  ‘I definitely heard the man … the one who’s the Labour MP? Sorry, I don’t know his name.’

  ‘Herbert Godfrey? A QC?’ Sullivan shrugs; he doesn’t know. ‘A little Welsh guy with a poetic turn of phrase, and a tendency to lapse into verse?’ asks Charles doing his best Cardiff accent.

  Sullivan laughs, nodding with recognition. ‘Yes, that’s him.’

  Charles considers the new information. Then he nods. ‘OK, Frank, thank you. Unfortunately, you’ll learn that this sort of thing is very common. Perhaps it’s unavoidable where everyone’s competing with everyone else. There’s probably nothing in it — nothing out of the ordinary anyway — but best keep it under your hat, yes?’

  Sullivan nods firmly. ‘Of course. Not a word to anyone.’

  The row starts with an innocuous discussion about the sink.