Charles and Sally stand shoulder to shoulder in their Hampstead kitchen, Sally washing up and Charles drying.
‘I’d quite like to get rid of this old Butler sink,’ she says.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Nothing; it’s just old-fashioned. Wouldn’t you like to get one of them new stainless steel ones?’
Charles shrugs. ‘Not bothered to be honest. This one works fine.’
Sally stops washing, her hands still holding a plate in the soapy water, and turns her head towards Charles. ‘What’s wrong with you, Charlie?’
‘Nothing,’ he protests.
Sally lowers the plate, dries her hands, and leans over to switch off the Light Programme which has been playing quietly on the old radio. As the light from the valves fades she turns to face Charles, a determined look on her pretty face.
‘That’s not true. You don’t seem interested in anything we’re doing here. It’s like you’re disconnected.’
‘Disconnected? Just because I don’t care what type of sink we have?’
‘But it’s not just that, is it? Aren’t you excited about us moving in together? About making a home together?’
Charles has finished drying up the plate he was holding and is waiting, hand outstretched, for the next item, but Sally remains stationary.
‘Yes, of course I am.’
‘Well, you can’t tell. I’m getting up in the morning full of excitement, doing as much as I can before rushing off to the Temple, racing back here to carry on, and more often than not I’m doing it alone.’
‘You how busy I’ve been recently, it’s —’
‘Not so busy you couldn’t meet Sean Sloane. Not so busy you couldn’t go training. Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad you’ve got mates outside the Bar, and I’m pleased you met him for a pint. He seems like a good bloke. But don’t kid me that you’re not here ’cos you’re so busy with work.’ Charles looks down, fiddling with the drying up cloth. ‘And what is it with you and the boxing? What are you trying to prove, Charlie?’ she demands.
‘You too, eh?’ he replies, slight bitterness evident in his voice.
‘Meaning?’
‘That was exactly what Sean asked me.’
‘Well, it’s a good question. You’re nearly thirty-nine and you haven’t fought for a decade. What’s the matter with you?’
Charles shrugs and looks away, unable to meet her gaze. He throws the dishcloth onto the table and sits down heavily.
‘I don’t know. It’s just important to me.’ He pauses. ‘I could have been a contender. I could have been somebody,’ he quotes, in a good imitation of Marlon Brando. ‘Instead of a bum, which is what I am.’
‘Yeah, very funny.’
Sally glances at him, but then looks properly with the dawning realisation that he’s not joking. She pulls out a chair and sits next to him at the kitchen table, staring intently at his profile. He doesn’t meet her gaze.
‘Really?’ she asks. She puts her hand gently on Charles’s. ‘Is that how you feel? A failure, because you gave up boxing?’
He sighs deeply. ‘I don’t know, Sal. Part of me misses it. The excitement, the strength. There were times, when I was younger … I dunno … I felt … superhuman.’ Now he does turn his face towards hers and she can see fire dancing in his dark eyes. ‘My body would do anything I demanded of it,’ he says, speaking more quickly. ‘I could take any amount of punishment and come out of it on top, still punching. You think a barrister has to think quickly in court? That’s nothing to what it’s like in the ring! You know the high we feel when the jury comes back with the right verdict? It doesn’t come close to knocking out your opponent or scoring three points — bang-bang-bang! —’ he raps the wooden table three times in smart succession with each blow — ‘with a good combination!’
Sally searches his face with her eyes, astonished and frightened. ‘But Charles, the risk! You’ve got everything you always wanted.’ He doesn’t answer. ‘Well, haven’t you?’
Charles knows that Sally’s question, at its most fundamental, has nothing do with the resurgence in his career or the respect of his peers; she’s asking about their relationship.
‘Yes, I have,’ he concedes, although even he can hear the “but” hanging at the end of his answer.
‘And you would risk all that on a boxing match? You could be in silk next year! We could … well … forget that,’ she says, backing away from her fondest hope, as yet unexpressed. ‘But without a head guard, it’s dangerous, right?’
He shrugs dismissively and shakes his head. ‘I know what I’m doing. And this guy…’ Charles’s voice tails off.
‘What guy? Has Duke found someone? Has he, Charles?’ she insists.
Charles answers reluctantly. ‘Yes. He phoned Chambers this evening. I was going to tell you.’
Sally’s concern is now replaced by anger. ‘Oh, really? When?’
‘At the right time.’
‘Well, that’ll be now, then,’ she says, standing, her anger too great to be contained while sitting at the table. ‘This is as good a fucking time as any!’ Charles looks up in surprise at the intensity of Sally’s anger. ‘So? Tell me!’
‘The guy’s called Albert French. He had a short professional career, but mostly he’s fought as an amateur. Like me, almost at the end of his career. He was a light heavyweight but he’s put on weight. So, now he’s in my division, and that gives me an edge.’
‘So he’s been fighting throughout?’ queries Sally, highlighting the issue Charles has hoped to avoid. ‘Whereas you ain’t fought in ten years.’
‘It’s not a problem. I can handle it. I’m as fit as I’ve ever been.’
Sally glares furiously at Charles for a second. ‘I need some air,’ she announces, and walks out of the kitchen. Charles hears her pull a coat off a hanger in the hall cupboard and then the front door slams.
CHAPTER SIX
Tuesday, 30 June
Mrs Murphy hadn’t wanted to let her attic room to Mr Maurice Drake. She smelt trouble the instant her eyes landed on him as he stood on her step, all flash suit and twinkling eyes. But he was obviously clean in his habits and he sure was a charmer.
After ten minutes of sweet-talking he’d shown her two months’ rent in advance together with the deposit, and her resistance crumbled. Despite the dearth of rented accommodation in London, the attic room had been empty for nearly three months. The windows rattled every time a train passed, it was two flights of stairs down to the shared bathroom, and most people were put off by the stale stink just outside the bedsit’s door; the cooking smells from the various stoves in the large house just seemed to gather there despite her constant mopping and polishing.
So she needed the money and couldn’t afford to leave the room empty much longer. And thereafter he’d been no trouble. His hours were odd, but he said he worked in the casino business, so that was to be expected. He was always polite to the other occupants when he met them on the stairs, and once he even brought her shopping in for her when the telephone caught her unawares, and she had to take the call because it was Kathleen calling from Dublin just after her hysterectomy.
But the two men now standing on her step frighten her. They too are well-dressed, pretty young men but they have none of the easy charm of Mr Drake. There’s ice in their eyes; the same ice she’s seen all too often in the eyes of her brothers and their Sinn Féin colleagues. So although they ask prettily enough for permission to look upstairs for their friend, she knows she has no choice.
‘You’d better come in then,’ she says in her thick Irish accent. ‘I’ve not seen him for a couple of days. It’s been quiet up there, so I assumed he was at work.’
She opens the door wider for them and they step into her immaculate just washed and waxed hallway. She closes the door and makes to lead them up the stairs but the smaller one lays a hand on her shoulder.
‘That’s all right missus,’ he says. He speaks with an accent; French, thinks Mrs Murphy
, or maybe Italian. ‘We know where it is.’
‘But I’ve got to let you in,’ she says.
The boy shakes his head and holds out his hand for the key. Mrs Murphy stares at him for a moment and then takes out of her apron pocket a large keyring crowded with eight or ten keys. It takes a while to work Mr Drake’s free of the others but she finally places the shiny bronze piece of metal in the boy’s open palm.
‘I’ll bring it right back,’ he assures her.
She watches the two suited men climbing the stairs quietly, pausing as they pass the bedsits on the lower landings to listen for any trouble that might suddenly emerge from behind closed doors. She waits a while in the hall but then retreats to her front parlour to make herself busy, leaving the door propped open with her walking stick so she can hear their return.
The men come down ten minutes later. Mrs Murphy hadn’t heard them approach but all of a sudden they’re in her parlour, one of them closing the door and leaning with his back on it. She looks from one to the other, now actually frightened.
‘What’s your name, love?’ asks the taller of the men, the one standing by her best sideboard and eyeing her china.
‘Mrs Murphy.’
‘Well, see, Mrs Murphy, we have a bit of a problem. Have you been up there in the last coupla days?’
‘No. I had no call to.’
‘OK. I need you to sit down now.’
‘I don’t want to sit down. I want you to leave or I’ll call the police.’
She pronounces the last word “po-liss”, which makes the man smile. ‘There ain’t no reason to be afraid, Mrs Murphy, but I think you should sit down as I’ve got a bit of a shock for you.’
He gives her a hard stare and again Mrs Murphy realises that she’s not being offered a choice. She pulls out one of the chairs from her dining room set and sits down slowly.
‘See, now, we’ve also had a bit of a shock. It looks like our friend has had an accident or he’s been taken ill. What we want to do is call for some help, and have him taken away. There ain’t no reason for you to worry.’
‘What, an ambulance?’
The man hesitates. ‘Yes, something like that. So my colleague here is going to make a call from the phone in the hall, and I need you to stay in here till we’ve all gone. It won’t take long.’
‘It’s my house,’ says Mrs Murphy firmly, standing again. She makes to walk towards the door but the man plants himself firmly in front of her and takes her by the upper arms. When he speaks, his voice is a low growl, reverberating with menace.
‘No you don’t. You’re going to stay in here. Make yourself a cuppa, listen to the wireless — it don’t matter what — but you’re not going nowhere till I say so.’
He walks her gently backwards until the back of her legs strike the chair and she’s forced to sit down again heavily.
He turns and nods to his companion, who slips out of the door. The big man stays in front of Mrs Murphy with his arms folded and they both listen as the dial of the telephone is rotated and clicks slowly back into place seven times. Money is inserted and a low conversation ensues.
‘Why dontcha make us both a nice cuppa while we wait, eh?’
Just under twenty minutes later a large American car with lots of chrome and sharp fins can be seen through the net curtains of Mrs Murphy’s parlour as it pulls up outside. Two solid-looking men in their thirties, both with wavy dark hair and expensive suits, get out. Even through the net curtains Mrs Murphy recognises the Kray twins immediately. The man who’s been guarding her, drinking his tea at the dining table in silence, stands and goes to the door. He turns.
‘Don’t leave this room. Do you understand?’
Mrs Murphy nods. Now she has no doubt as to the nature of the men with whom she is dealing, she has no intention of leaving the room. The man leaves and shuts the door behind him.
She hears the front door being opened, a muttered conversation and several heavy sets of footsteps run up the stairs towards the top of the house. There is silence for a couple of minutes. Then, through the net curtains, she sees a police car pull up outside, stopping immediately behind the American car. No bells or sirens. Two police officers get out. As they approach the front door, Mrs Murphy hears a sash window at the front of the house on the floor above thrown open.
‘Officer! Up here!’
The voice is of one of her newest tenants on the first floor, a quiet Jamaican called Mr Francis who lives there with his wife and three-year-old girl.
‘Was it you who dialled 999, sir?’ shouts up one of the officers.
‘Yes. I just found a body on de top floor.’
No. 178 Vallance Road is a narrow terraced Victorian cottage in Bethnal Green. Its occupants have long since ceased even noticing the constant rumble of the Liverpool Street-bound trains whose tracks run almost directly behind the terrace’s backyard. Voices can be heard from behind the kitchen door at the end of the narrow hallway.
Ronnie and Reggie Kray sit at the kitchen table eating pie and mash. The chef, their mother, Violet Kray, watches them with approval, smoking. She ate earlier.
Reggie scrapes the last remaining gravy and mash off his plate with his knife, licks the knife, and puts his cutlery down, satisfied.
‘Thanks, Mum.’ He turns to his brother who has already finished. ‘Look, I’m as upset over Mo as you are, but —’
‘No you ain’t! You can’t be. You don’t understand!’
‘All right,’ replies Reggie, placating softly. ‘I know I can’t feel the way you do, but he was my mate too.’
‘He was fucking garrotted. Did you see his head? It was half off his neck! We’re going to sort those fucking wops once and for all! And this time it won’t just be their club I’m gonna burn.’
‘I’ll tidy up,’ says Violet, clearing the plates from the table and disappearing into the scullery.
As far as Violet Kray is concerned her boys are misunderstood good-hearted lads who can sometimes be a bit too boisterous, and against whom the police wage a constant unjust vendetta. She wilfully closes her eyes to anything that suggests otherwise.
‘Look,’ continues Reggie, keeping his voice low, ‘so far as Old Bill’s concerned, we’re in the clear. The story stacks up: he was an employee and we was only at his digs to see where he’d got to. And the landlady backed it all up, saying we’d just arrived. Ron, there’re more important things to worry about.’
‘Such as?’
‘The Mancusos and the boy.’
‘I ain’t worried about those fucking wops. They had it coming.’
‘No argument there. But we can’t afford a war just when Old Bill’s sniffing around. Maybe we should let them do the job for us this time, while we get on with the most important thing: the boy.’
‘Boy?’
‘The one you gave to Driberg. Everyone at your party —’ Reggie doesn’t hide the distaste in his voice — ‘says Mo left with him, and he was staying at the bedsit. Pound to a penny the landlady or one of the other tenants saw him over the previous week, so the filth will know about him. They’ll know he was the last person to see Mo alive — maybe he even saw the murder! So, where is he?’
‘If one of the Mancuso gang did for Mo, and the boy was a witness, maybe they took him.’
‘Why would they take him? They’d just do for him as well. And why leave Mo’s body on the bed but take the boy’s away? Nah, it makes no sense. The way I figure it, either the Mancusos took him or he did a runner. But whichever, the murder squad’ll be looking for ’im, either as a witness or as a missing person. And there’s our problem. Whether he saw the murder or not, he’s definitely a witness to what went on at the party.’
Ronnie stares at his brother, putting the pieces together. ‘And you think he’ll talk?’
‘Course he will. He’s soft as butter.’
Ronnie nods slowly. ‘Yeah.’
‘So,’ concludes Reggie, ‘if he’s alive, we gotta find that fucking kid before they do.’
‘Have you told Bob Boothby what’s going on?’
‘Had to. And I’ve put the word out with everyone we know. Clarkie’s already on it.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wednesday, 1 July
Charles sits in shirtsleeves at his desk in Chambers. The weather forecast predicted the hottest day of the summer so far and Charles looks longingly out over the lawns, wishing he could be outside. He refocuses his attention on the task in hand, an Advice on Quantum in one of his increasingly numerous personal injury claims. Indeed his backlog of paperwork is so great that he has finally persuaded Barbara to keep him out of court for a few days to allow him time to catch up.
There is a knock on Charles’s door.
‘Come in,’ he calls.
The door opens and the junior clerk, Clive, puts his head around the door. ‘There’s a geezer ’ere says he wants to see you, sir,’ he says in his thick Plaistow accent.
This is unusual. Charles has no conferences that day and non-legal visitors to Chambers are rare. He’s not expecting anyone. Furthermore Clive appears to be having some difficulty suppressing amusement.
‘Who is it, Clive? I’m really rather busy.’
Clive grins. ‘He claims ’e’s an ex-client.’
‘Claims?’
‘Well, I sorta doubt it.’
‘Is there a solicitor with him?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well I can’t see him then, can I? Take a message from him, and if necessary I’ll call the solicitors who instructed me in his case.’
Clive hesitates. ‘He is very insistent, sir; made a bit of a scene downstairs in the clerks’ room.’
Charles sighs deeply and puts his pen down. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Well, he says it’s David Thomas.’ Charles shakes his head doubtfully, not recognising the name. Clive grins again. ‘But he also says you might remember him as “Chicken.”’
Charles remembers immediately: a half-starved, pallid rent boy, then only seventeen and a runaway from his family in Wales. He was working the Rack, the area around Eros at Piccadilly Circus where homosexuals could buy a young man for a few minutes of illegal relief. Charles met him shortly after he was severely beaten and raped by a member of HM Waterguard; a member of HM Waterguard who ended up floating face down in the Thames. Chicken has never been Charles’s client. On the other hand Charles has helped him and, what’s more, given him money to have his smashed dentition repaired. What on earth is he doing here in Chambers?
Corrupted: Murder and cover-up at the heart of government (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 8