Farrow knows that will be impossible because Cudlipp, the Mirror Group’s editorial director, is on holiday in France. A charismatic war hero and once, at age twenty-four, the youngest chief editor in Fleet Street, Hugh Cudlipp is one of the great crusading journalists of the age and wields huge political influence, particularly in the Labour movement which he steadfastly supports.
‘No. He’s repainting his fucking yacht in Honfleur. Not contactable,’ replies Payne.
‘Well, who’s he left in charge?’ asks Farrow innocently, again well aware of the answer.
‘King.’
Cecil King is the chairman of the Mirror Group’s owners, International Press Corporation. Although Cudlipp and King enjoy a successful partnership, having together turned the Mirror into the best-selling newspaper in Fleet Street, Farrow is well aware that King would give anything to have the sort of political influence enjoyed by his editorial director. Farrow calculates that this story will appeal to King as the perfect opportunity to improve his position.
‘Can we give him a ring?’ asks Taylor. ‘It’s a big call. I’d feel much safer if he approved it.’
You little beauty! thinks Farrow. Taylor has just asked the question Farrow needed to be asked. Farrow watches as Payne realises that he too would feel much safer if running the story were to be approved by the chairman of International Press Corporation first. Payne reaches for the telephone.
‘Get me Cecil King.’
‘Do you want us to wait outside?’
Payne waves away Farrow’s question. ‘Hello, Cecil, it’s Reg Payne. I’m sorry to trouble you but … yes, I know … yes…’
Farrow can hear King giving Payne an ear-bashing for disturbing his evening. The editor lets the squall subside until he has his boss’s attention and then launches into the details Farrow has given him. King does not interrupt Payne’s summary, and after a few minutes the editor stops speaking. All in the room wait for the silence at the other end of the line to be broken. When it is, King appears only to ask one short question.
‘No,’ replies Payne. ‘Just us. Yes. Very well. Thank you.’
Payne hangs up. ‘He jumped at it,’ he concludes with surprise. ‘He reckons it’ll be the next Profumo, and the timing’s perfect. Bringing Boothby down now will almost guarantee the Conservatives losing the election.’
‘And King’s stock will rise with Harold Wilson, the PM-in-waiting,’ adds Farrow.
Payne, cunning as ever, narrows his eyes with suspicion. ‘And that was your strategy, was it?’
Farrow’s round face assumes a bland and innocent expression. He shrugs. ‘You know me — I’m a crime reporter. I leave the politics to others.’
Payne’s gimlet eyes bore into Farrow’s for a moment longer but then he looks away, apparently satisfied. ‘All right. Stewart, get counsel in here. Right away. Farrow: don’t leave the building.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Friday, 10 July
Court has risen early for the day and Charles is descending the carpeted staircase of the Old Bailey to the Great Hall. The Hall is still heaving with witnesses, police officers, barristers and solicitors who gather in small groups to discuss the afternoon’s evidence, the points which have been scored and those which have been lost, and to lay their plans for the following day. Charles’s case involved an arcane point of law and in addition to his robes bag and usual briefcase he is encumbered by a large pile of fraying law books held together with a canvas strap. With difficulty Charles pushes his way through the crowds towards the doors when he hears his name called. He turns round to identify the source of the shout in the hubbub.
‘Charles Holborne!’ comes the voice again, and this time Charles immediately identifies both the direction from which it comes and the identity of the caller: Patrizia Conti.
The crowds in black and grey formal court clothing part like a monochrome Red Sea as the young film actress, looking radiant in a coral-coloured suit, which even Charles recognises as Chanel, a matching pillbox hat and dark glasses à la Jackie Kennedy, apologises her way through to where Charles stands, mouth slightly open in surprise. He’s forgotten how tall she was, or perhaps he never noticed while she sat on the barstool, but in her stiletto heels she is Charles’s height, perhaps an inch or two taller. Charles finds himself oddly pleased that he is the destination of this glamorous woman, who now has the eyes of everyone in the Great Hall upon her.
She reaches him, puts a hand on his forearm, tosses the red curls off her face, and kisses him on both cheeks as if they had been friends for years.
‘Charles. I’m so pleased I caught you,’ she says in her deep voice.
Charles looks round at all those pretending not to watch, and smiles. ‘So am I. This is becoming a pattern: you turning up unexpectedly and my asking what you’re doing here.’
‘I was watching you from the gallery. Checking out if the real thing lives up to the reputation, Mr Brief,’ she teases. She takes his arm and begins to walk with him towards the doors. It’s awkward because Charles has the strap of books dangling from one hand while the other holds both his briefcase and the drawstring of the robes bag which is slung over his shoulder.
‘And?’ he asks.
‘I don’t think you need to be any more swell-headed than you already are, do you?’ she replies.
‘The swelling all went down with the bruises.’
‘I saw that. Less multicoloured is good. Here, let me,’ she offers and takes the robes bag from Charles, slinging it over her own shoulder. ‘How’s that? Do I look like a proper Brief?’
‘Yes, but for the colour of your suit and…’ Charles indicates over his shoulder at the two large men in dark suits shadowing them. One he recognises as the bodyguard from his first meeting with Patrizia at the Prospect. ‘Expecting trouble?’
‘Company policy,’ she explains.
Which company? Charles wonders silently to himself. He pushes open one of the swing doors for her to precede him.
As they emerge onto the steps leading to the street Charles is suddenly blinded by flash photography as they are besieged by a crowd of reporters and photographers. Patrizia, her arm still linked proprietorially with Charles’s, poses professionally. For an instant Charles tries to pull free, but Patrizia tightens her grip and he realises that to disengage forcibly would make more of a scene than if he just stays put. So he adjusts his face to present his best grin and tries to make light of it. Nonetheless, this could not have been worse timing. The furore caused by the photographs taken at the boxing gym with another high-profile American is still smouldering, and this is certain to pour petrol on the flames.
‘Is it always like this?’ he asks out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Pretty much, at least since last year.’
‘Don’t you find it wearing?’
‘Not at all,’ she says as she adjusts her pose for the photographers on the other side of the group.
Charles realises that in the hubbub of questions aimed principally at Patrizia, one of the journalists has recognised him. ‘Mr Holborne! Mr Holborne! Didn’t we see you at the gym with Sonny Liston and the Kray twins?’
‘I wasn’t with them,’ calls back Charles, ‘but I was present, along with a hundred or more other people. It was an honour to have a former world champion at the gym,’ he says, realising that he is now, ironically, taking the same media line as the Krays themselves. ‘He’s a great role model for the youngsters I train there.’
Patrizia starts walking down the steps, taking Charles with her.
‘And are you walking out with Miss Conti?’ shouts the reporter.
‘No,’ calls Charles over his shoulder. ‘I’m walking away with her,’ he quips, to some laughter. He leans towards Patrizia. ‘If you’ve got a free hand,’ he says quietly, ‘wave it now in the direction of that taxi. I need to get away and I don’t want to be pursued all the way to the Temple.’
Patrizia raises her arm and a taxi that was about to move away from the kerb
stops again.
Charles leans forward. ‘Fetter Lane, please, mate.’ He opens the door, puts his briefcase and strap of books inside and turns with an outstretched arm to Patrizia to take his robes. Instead she brushes past him and gets into the cab in a wash of perfume. The two heavyset men who have followed them out into the road look from one to the other, unprepared for their charge’s escape bid.
‘I’ll be perfectly safe,’ she says from inside the cab. ‘I’ll see you back at the hotel.’
‘But ―’ begins one of the men.
Patrizia points at Charles. ‘Look at the size of him. And you saw him in the ring. He can look after me just as well as you two can. Come on, get in, Charles, or we’ll never get away.’
The pack of reporters has divided, some still on the kerb that Patrizia and Charles just left, but some following them out into the road. The interior of the cab is illuminated briefly by a further fusillade of flashes and pops. Charles gets in and pulls the door closed behind him.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Miss Conti. ’Cos this ain’t ’alf gonna muck up my afternoon,’ he says, giving her a taste of Charlie Horowitz’s vernacular.
The cab crosses Ludgate Circus heading west along Fleet Street. The sky is a radiant cloudless blue, and Charles feels excitement and unknown possibilities bubbling in his chest, as if he were bunking off school for an afternoon.
‘Where would you like to be dropped?’ he asks.
‘I’m staying at The Ritz.’
‘OK, I’ll jump out by the Temple and you can take the cab from there.’
‘Temple? Do you need to pray?’ asks Patrizia with some surprise.
Charles laughs. ‘No. It’s the area of London where the barristers have been hanging out for the last six hundred years or so. You know, the Knights Templar?’
The beautiful actress shakes her head. ‘So, another disguise, then? Boxer, trial attorney, face? Now you’re a knight as well. Is that where you park your trusty steed?’
‘Yes, if you can call a rust-bucket of an Austin Healey sports car a steed. So you’ve never heard of it?’ Patrizia shakes her head. ‘Most tourists never see the Temple,’ continues Charles. ‘It’s beautiful, like stepping back into history. If you’ve time, you should wander round the place while you’re here,’ he says.
She studies Charles for a moment, smiles to herself, leans forward and taps on the glass window behind the driver. The driver reaches behind him and slides it open.
‘Yes, miss?’
‘Can you take us to the Temple please?’
‘Which entrance?’
Patrizia looks across at Charles for clarification. ‘Do you have time to take me on a tour?’
Charles looks at his watch. ‘I have if you have.’ He leans forward. ‘Go in through the Embankment entrance, please. You can drop us at the top of Middle Temple Lane.’
The cab pulls up five minutes later on the cobbles, its engine rattling.
‘If you wait here for thirty seconds,’ Charles says to Patrizia, ‘I’ll go and dump this stuff in my room.’
‘Sure.’
As Charles bends to pick up his briefcase from the floor of the cab Patrizia grabs him by the lapels and pulls his face to hers. Her lips land on his and Charles finds himself in the middle of a prolonged kiss. At first he is so surprised he just allows it to happen, but then he tries to move his head away and finds her gripping his lapels even harder, pulling him towards her fiercely. He gives in. It’s no hardship; her lips are soft and fierce at the same time, and her mane of curly hair falls all about Charles’s face as she leans forward, dizzying him with her perfume. Eventually she lets go and sits back in the cracked leather seat.
‘What was that for?’ he asks, noting his heart thumping.
‘I’ve been wondering if I’d like it.’
‘And?’
‘You’d have to run it by me again. Promising start, though.’
Charles opens the door and steps down from the cab, helping Patrizia down after him. The cabbie flicks his “For Hire” light back on, turns in a neat circle and trundles off towards the river. ‘Wait here?’ asks Charles.
He runs up the stairs to his room two at a time, throws his belongings through the open door, and runs back down the staircase. Patrizia is waiting for him on the pavement. Lawyers, solicitors and their clerks pass her every now and then, most of them deep in tactical discussion but one or two doing a double-take when they see her. Charles joins her.
‘That’s one of the things I like about you Brits.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Since last summer, everywhere I go in the States I’m constantly mobbed. I don’t mean just the photographers and journalists — that’s their job — but pretty much everyone else too. Everyone wants to talk, everyone wants an autograph, and everyone wants to be your best friend. People do recognise me here, but they respect my privacy. I don’t get hassled the way I do back home. That English reserve; it’s cool.’
‘We’re a civilised lot.’ Charles takes her by the hand. ‘Come on. I’ll show you some history. And then, if you’ve time, I’ll take you to tea.’
Charles takes Patrizia on a leisurely walk in the sunshine around the Temple, pointing out historical landmarks: Middle Temple Hall, the ancient stained-glass venue for the first ever performance of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night in 1602; Middle Temple Gardens, used by the playwright as the venue for the brawl that kicked off the War of the Roses, with the two sides, York and Lancaster, each plucking a rose, white and red, as an emblem. Charles even stands on the steps and recites the famous lines, culminating in the prophecy that the war would send a thousand souls to death and deadly night, earning himself an ironic round of applause from some passers-by.
‘You should do my job,’ says Patrizia, also applauding gently.
‘I do, in a way,’ he says as he steps down again.
As they descend the gentle slope of Inner Temple Gardens towards the Thames she reaches for Charles’s hand again and he lets her take it, but soon releases her swiftly as a couple of barristers approach them, deep in conversation. The barristers fall silent as they walk past, looking first at Patrizia and then sharing a smile between them. She and Charles walk to the end of the path between manicured lawns and stand looking through the wrought iron railings across the road to the river. A flatiron collier steams upstream against the tide and Charles wonders what it’s carrying. Probably Polish coal, heading for the power station, he thinks.
Patrizia looks around to make sure there’s no one within earshot. ‘Got a question for you, Charles. When we spoke at that bar in the East End you said you were taken.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘I noticed a hesitation when you said it. And I noticed another when I kissed you. So, how taken are you?’
‘That might depend. How long are you over here for?’
‘A few more weeks. What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Well, in that case, I’m not sure I’d be happy with my billing. I’m an extra, right? A walk-on part; just a bit of local colour.’
‘Maybe.’
Charles spreads his hands, his point made.
‘So what? You expect a starring role?’ she challenges. ‘Without so much as an audition?’
‘I’ve never failed an audition yet,’ he grins.
‘That may be so, but I have very high standards. I don’t offer co-star status to just anybody.’
‘I’d expect nothing less. But in the circumstances I think my answer must be that I’m a bit too taken. Let’s say I’m involved in a long run, playing to full houses for years. Takings might have dropped off a bit recently, the matinees may be a little empty, but it’s still drawing a crowd.’
‘And you’re too professional to break that engagement for what might be a more challenging role, even if it’s a short run?’
‘That’s always been the case so far.’
‘That’s a shame. Will you let me know if your show closes?’
>
Charles takes her hand again, raises it to his lips as they walk, and kisses the elegant fingers. ‘You bet.’
They saunter a while longer, Charles explaining some of his history working as a lighterman on the Thames during the war and pointing out features of the river and the ships passing, but the wind gets up and he sees Patrizia shiver.
‘Come on. Time for tea.’
She hesitates. ‘I’d prefer coffee.’
‘Oh, you can have coffee. But this is afternoon tea. It’s a tradition.’
‘You guys really get off on your traditions.’
‘Not all of us. But I do. In my case it’s borrowed, but I still love it.’
‘Borrowed?’
‘Yes. I’m Jewish. Britain, the Raj, the Establishment, even the Bar, not my traditions. Borrowed clothes.’
She studies him intently as they walk back towards Fleet Street. ‘You really are a puzzle, Mr Holborne,’ she concludes.
‘Good. I wouldn’t want to be predictable.’
‘Just when I think I’ve got you pegged, you reveal something different. You’re a chameleon. Is there a real Charles Holborne in there somewhere?’
Charles smiles ruefully. ‘I’ll let you know if I find him.’
He hails a cab and gives directions. The journey takes only a few minutes, and then they are standing outside a hotel built at the turn of the century on the grand northern curve of Aldwych.
‘Oh, OK. The Waldorf,’ exclaims Patrizia. ‘I’ve heard of this place, but never been inside. Isn’t it bit stuffy?’
Charles turns from paying the cabbie. ‘That’s its charm. Have you ever been to a tea dance?’
She laughs. ‘They don’t go in for that sort of thing in Philly.’
Charles looks down at her high-heeled shoes; not ideal for dancing. ‘Hmm.’
She follows his gaze and his train of thought. ‘Yeah. But I’ll manage.’
Charles escorts her to the reception desk. He leans forward and says something to one of the women behind the counter who nods and disappears for a moment. She emerges from a door to the side of the desk, followed by another man, an enormously tall cadaverous man with skin the colour of wet cement. He looks like something out of a horror film, an impression only strengthened when he sees Charles and beams. His wide mouth opens to reveal a mouthful of discoloured gapping teeth. The man claps Charles heartily on the back and bends forward while Charles whispers in his ear. He grins horribly again and indicates that Charles should follow him. Charles beckons to Patrizia. The tall man speaks to a colleague in tails, who nods and opens to the door to the Palm Court.
Corrupted: Murder and cover-up at the heart of government (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 18