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

by Simon Michael

  Counsel will see from Enclosure 1 that E has not yet signed his draft Proof of Evidence. The draft was compiled from notes taken at the conference counsel attended. Unfortunately, since that time E has not been prepared to give those instructing any further instructions and has refused even to sign the draft Proof. Instructing Solicitors remain on the record as acting for E, but are increasingly concerned at his uncooperativeness.

  In view of the gravity of the charge a bail application is not thought to be practicable, even if any parents could be found and would agree to house E. Accordingly E has been transferred from hospital to a remand home, details of which counsel will be given in due course. The risk of his whereabouts being discovered by persons wishing him harm increases every day, and for that reason Instructing Solicitors have been liaising with the Juvenile Court for the earliest date possible for the committal hearing. The Court has agreed to an early listing, the venue and time of which will not be stated here but communicated to counsel shortly. Counsel is asked to make arrangements in Chambers to ensure that when the date is placed in his diary it is in disguised form and that as few of the staff in Chambers are aware of the true situation as possible.

  Charles notes that Barbara has underlined and asterisked this passage with the comment: Can we discuss, please?

  Counsel is duly instructed to attend to represent the interests of E at the committal and before then to advise Instructing Solicitors on psychiatric evidence, fitness for trial and generally.

  Greengross, Wiseberg & Co.

  Charles pauses in his reading and sits back in his chair, frowning. He’s no psychiatrist, but he’s fairly certain from his meeting with Teddy that the boy has mental capacity — at least consistent with his age — but unless Teddy’s careful he’ll force the court to the conclusion that he’s unfit to stand trial. That would land him in a secure institution for juvenile mental patients at Her Majesty’s pleasure; potentially a life sentence. Charles will have to persuade him to give his lawyers further instructions but, most importantly, he has to speak to the psychiatrist.

  Charles makes some notes in his blue foolscap notebook and leafs through the papers to the report of the Home Office pathologist, Jorgen Larsson. He has had dealings with Dr Larsson on several occasions and usually finds his reports thorough and concise.

  Draft deposition of Dr Jorgen Larsson

  Occupation: Home Office Pathologist

  Address: Charing Cross Hospital, Agar Street, West Strand, WC2

  Magistrates’ Court Rules 1952: This deposition of Jorgen Larsson, approved Home Office Pathologist, of Charing Cross Hospital, Agar Street, West Strand, WC2, was sworn before me, Sir Sebastian Wilberforce, Justice of the Peace, on [ ] in the presence of the accused, E, at the Juvenile Court sitting at Tower Bridge Magistrates’ Court.

  Signed: Sir Sebastian Wilberforce

  Signature of deponent: J. Larsson

  Charles curses silently. The reference to Tower Bridge Magistrates’ Court is a mistake and should have been blanked out. Anyone reading the draft deposition and looking for Teddy will now know which court to watch. Tower Bridge is in the East End, where the Krays have eyes and ears everywhere. Indeed, some of their contacts might even be brought up for their hearings to the same court and on the same day as Teddy. Charles knows of no power that would allow him to apply for the venue to be changed. He reads on.

  Jorgen Larsson WILL SAY AS FOLLOWS:

  I am Dr Jorgen Larsson, and I am on the Home Office List of approved forensic pathologists covering the areas of East London and Essex.

  On 14 July 1964 I was asked by Detective Inspector Yates of the City of London police to conduct a post mortem examination on the body of a young man identified by Tag No. 64/M3859 bearing the name “Maurice Drake”. The examination was carried out at the pathology wing of the Charing Cross Hospital. The body was that of a well-developed and well-nourished man of the stated age of 22 years, weight 12 stones 9 lb, height 6’0”.

  Charles skims quickly through Larsson’s report, ignoring the pathologist’s negative findings regarding the external and internal examinations. There is only one obvious set of injuries, to the young man’s head, which point conclusively to the cause of death, and Charles finds it easily.

  There are multiple bilateral petechiae both peri-orbital and conjunctival, with further petechial haemorrhage on the inner surfaces of the upper eyelids and on the superior palate...

  Two paragraphs further down Charles find this:

  The ligature has severed most of the structures in the anterior neck, including the hyoepiglottic ligament and the thyrohyoid membrane, creating a gaping 2-inch external connection to the trachea. The thyroid cartilage is compressed and the hyoid bone is fractured, its left third displaced postero-laterally.

  Charles pauses again, looking up. Whoever killed this lad used incredible violence, strangling him for a period before slicing his neck like a cheese right through to his airway. Could that angelic man-child Charles last saw shyly peeping over linen sheets and sipping lemonade really have done this? This looks more like a contract killing — or, at least, a killing by an expert. In fact, thinks Charles, this form of garrotting is the method of choice of the Sicilian gangs fighting over territory in London.

  Finally, on the last page of the report, Larsson reaches his unsurprising conclusion:

  Cause of death: asphyxiation by strangulation.

  Charles reaches over and picks up the toxicology report. Larsson took blood samples for further analysis by Dr Greene. Greene’s conclusion is that Mo Drake’s blood alcohol concentration was 160 milligrams of alcohol to 100 millilitres of blood; there were also traces of amphetamines. So he was likely to be less capable of defending himself. Charles makes some further notes and reaches for the telephone on his desk.

  ‘Can I have an outside line, please, Jennie?’

  Charles dials Greengross, Wiseman & Co. and asks for Max.

  ‘Got the Instructions, Charles?’ asks the other as he is put through.

  ‘Yes, thanks. Got a moment to discuss?’

  ‘Sure. Fire away.’

  ‘Firstly,’ starts Charles carefully, ‘it’s a pity about the Court being mentioned.’

  ‘I agree. The message couldn’t have got through to the path lab. Or perhaps the police secretary who did the typing. Not sure what we can do about it now, though. The Crown has this document, so we must assume the Krays do too.’

  ‘I agree. Leave that for the moment. Any clues as to the Crown’s non-expert witnesses?’

  ‘Yes. Just got off the blower to the clerk to the justices, calling in a favour.’

  ‘Favour?’

  ‘The clerk was in 47 Commando with me.’

  ‘That’s rather convenient.’

  ‘Indeed. He was told just four witnesses, on top of the reports you’ve already got. I’ve got their names if you like.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Barry Monkton, Jerry Moscowitz, Cyril Peppiatt and Roberto de Lucca. Mean anything to you?’

  Charles pauses. ‘No, not a thing. I don’t know all the members of the Firm, but if they were the Krays’ men I’d have expected to recognise at least one. Did your chum give anything away as to who they were or what they’re going to say?’

  ‘No, nothing. I asked, but he’d no idea.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’ asks Charles, always aware of the Krays’ reach, especially in a court in the middle of their patch.

  ‘Yes. He owes me.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, I sort of … saved his life. In Normandy.’

  ‘Ah. Probably not a bum steer, then.’

  ‘Probably not. In any case, the prosecution has no obligation to forewarn, as you know. He called DI Yates, the officer in the case, at my request, on the pretext of getting an idea of the length of the hearing for listing purposes. He was told not more than half a day, assuming we’ve no questions for the experts.’

  ‘That’s presumably on the basis that we�
�re just keeping a watching brief.’

  ‘Yes. Why? Are you thinking of doing something else?’

  Charles has been pondering this. It’s most unusual for the defence to take an active part in committal proceedings. Such proceedings are usually a formality, as all the Crown has to show is a prima facie case. The defence almost always keep a watching brief, and wait for the actual trial at the Assize court to mount its attack. Questions asked of the prosecution’s proposed witnesses at the committal only alert the Crown to potential weaknesses in its case, which they then have several weeks to remedy. Never in his Charles’s career has he called a defence witness at a committal. He’s entitled to keep his powder dry for the trial, and allowing prosecuting counsel an advance chance to cross-examine his witnesses, to tie them in knots — or at least tie them down to sworn evidence — is forensic suicide.

  ‘No, almost certainly not. But having no instructions from our client makes preparation even more difficult than normal, and I want to keep all options open. I think we need to see him again.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll set up a con. Can you do, say, eleven thirty tomorrow morning? You’ll need to get to Kidlington.’

  ‘So that’s where he is. Could we make it Wednesday?’

  Charles hears Max’s hesitation; they both know that time is of the essence. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Why not tomorrow? Oh, I remember: your boxing match!’

  ‘Yes. I shouldn’t really be in Chambers now, but I thought I’d better read the papers first. Wednesday morning will be fine.’

  ‘Unless of course the other guy kills you or leaves you in hospital,’ replies Max, only half joking.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ says Charles, irritated and impatient. ‘Anyway, hasn’t he got his first session with Dr Felix tomorrow? She might have something for us by Wednesday.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s quite a good point. OK, Wednesday it is.’

  ‘Oh, and Max: take care on your way out there. One or both of us are sure to be followed. The Krays are desperate to find him, so take precautions.’

  ‘How exciting. I’d never thought I’d get to use my tradecraft again. I’ll dust off my Spy’s Manual, maybe use my old driver. He can make the North Circular look like Brands Hatch.’

  ‘You do that.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m so used to it I could almost do it my sleep. If it’s not one of the Firm it’s someone from the Met. I think I’d miss it after all this time. You’re never alone with a tail.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tuesday, 7 July

  Brittle silence still characterises the house in Hampstead. Charles packs his freshly washed boxing kit carefully and then waits in the kitchen for Sally to come downstairs. For some time he listens to her moving about above him, but eventually he quietly climbs the stairs. He finds her in the master bedroom standing before the wardrobes, selecting a suit for the day. She’s in her underwear, her hair slightly damp and her skin still pink from the shower, and Charles finds the impulse to stride up to her and gather her in his arms almost unbearable. But she reaches swiftly behind her to her bathrobe and covers herself up, as if suddenly embarrassed to be vulnerable before him.

  ‘I’m off,’ he says.

  ‘Yes.’ She stands still, her hands deep in her pockets, her eyes on her feet.

  ‘Right, then,’ says Charles briskly, and he turns to leave the bedroom.

  ‘I hope it goes all right tonight,’ she says, her voice flat and expressionless.

  Charles smiles at her, retraces his steps down the staircase and departs, his heart heavy.

  The black cab pulls up on the corner of Manor Place and Crampton Street, Walworth, and Charles steps out, looking up at the redbrick three-storey building that houses the Manor Place Baths. The street is deserted. No one appears interested in the club boxing match taking place that evening. Just as well, thinks Charles, bearing in mind the effect the publicity at the Kennington Institute had on his standing in Chambers. His complaint to the editor of the Sketch resulted in a two-line insinuating apology buried at the bottom of Page 16 of a Thursday issue: The Sketch apologises for having stated that Mr Charles Holborne was a friend of any of the other persons portrayed in the photograph showing him with Mr Reginald Kray and Mr Sonny Liston. There is no evidence that Mr Holborne is a friend of those named persons. For what it was worth, Charles cut out the apology and pinned it to the Chambers’ noticeboard, but to little effect. His workplace is still febrile with gossip, as is obvious from the silences that suddenly descend whenever he enters a room.

  The kerbside front window of the taxi drops and the driver leans across. ‘Got everything, Charlie?’

  Charles checks the rear seat. ‘Yes, thanks, Ernie,’ he replies as he hands over a one pound note and collects the change.

  ‘Best of luck, mate. Try not to get yourself killed, eh?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ smiles Charles.

  ‘You’re on last, aintcha?’

  ‘Yes,’ replies Charles, puzzled. ‘You’re not thinking of coming, are you?’

  ‘You bet!’ replies the cabbie with an enthusiastic grin.

  Charles shakes his head. ‘I really wouldn’t bother, Ernie. It’s only four short rounds.’

  ‘You kiddin’? Whitechapel’s full of it. Old Charlie Horowitz back in the ring again, and now he’s a posh barrister? Half the East End’s proud of yer and wants to see you knock six pints out of the frog, and the other ’alf wants to see you taught a lesson!’

  Charles frowns. ‘Frog? He’s not French, Ernie. His name’s French, but he’s from round here.’

  ‘Really? I ’eard he was a frog-eater. Well, never mind; there’s a group of us from the Grave Maurice and we’re coming down mob-handed to support you. I’ve got a couple of quid on you to win, so don’t let us down! See ya later.’

  The cheerful cabbie engages gear with a wave, his hire light illuminates, and the taxi rattles off towards the Walworth Road.

  The Manor Place Baths are housed in a typically solid Victorian public building that was erected at the end of the nineteenth century to supply the occupants of the surrounding dwellings with bathing and laundry facilities. Much of the East End housing stock at the time had no bathrooms and so the baths performed an essential function, and not just in respect of cleanliness and hygiene: while the East End pubs were the hub of male social life, it was the baths where the local women got together. While doing the family laundry and bathing their children, women in pinafores and headscarves would swap gossip and outgrown children’s clothes, and squabble over the queues for the machines.

  Charles has never forgotten being in a file of thirteen-year-olds escorted by club trainers to the boxing arena through the pressing room — tropically hot and steamy due to the towering wall of clothes horses sliding in and out of the drying chamber, and ringing with the din of laundry machinery, women’s shouts and ribald laughter.

  Charles passes the bathing cubicles and pushes open the doors to the main swimming baths. The space inside is huge, one hundred and twenty feet in length, a rectangular wood-panelled room with a complex of triangular steel struts supporting a roof through which pours natural light. The swimming pool itself has been boarded over for the tournament and a boxing ring has been erected in the centre of the space, surrounded by dozens of rows of empty chairs. Several seats close to the ring have coats and other belongings piled on them, but the room is deserted.

  A voice calls from above and Charles looks up at the balcony, trying through the echoes to locate the speaker.

  ‘Hey, Charles!’ repeats the voice. Charles spins round and finally spots Duke. ‘We’re all in the changing rooms,’ says the trainer. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

  The team from Lynn Athletic arrives forty minutes later. All the boxers from both teams are weighed and certified fit to fight by the doctor. To the surprise of Charles and Duke, French weighs in at less than Charles by eight pounds, only just making the minimum weight for a heavyweight. He looks as fit as a butche
r’s dog and as mean.

  Charles sits on a bench in the changing rooms watching Duke’s balding head as the trainer wraps his hands. Charles obeys Duke’s commands every now and then to open or close his fist, but his mind is elsewhere. The door bangs open once in a while as one of the other club members dashes into the changing room to collect something, a water bottle, some food or a towel, and races back to the makeshift auditorium so as not to miss anything. Otherwise they are alone. From inside the auditorium come the sounds of a large crowd cheering on their respective club fighters. A minute later the crowd roars as a boxer is knocked down, and a few seconds after that the bell signals the end of the bout.

  Duke drops his hands. ‘Gonna have to go. I’m supposed to be in Arthur’s corner for the middleweight. Do some shadow boxing, keep warm and keep your ears open. Keep drinking, and don’t forget your mouth guard,’ says Duke, indicating the bench. ‘Are you listening, Charles?’

  Charles looks up. ‘Sure. If you see Sal, can you send someone to tell me?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Charlie, focus!’ he orders. ‘You can sort out yer love life later but get your fucking ’ead straight, or that geezer’ll knock it off!’

  As Duke opens the door to the auditorium a wall of echoing noise hits him. The room is packed. A lanky youngster from Kennington, a middleweight, stands in the centre of the ring, his hands aloft. His opponent is prostrate on the floor receiving attention. Most of the audience are on their feet, those from the Kennington Institute cheering the first-round knockout. Duke has placed “Reserved” notices on a row of chairs close to the ring, but he notes that in their excitement the youngsters from both clubs have ignored them and moved forward to take the best seats.