‘This way, sir, madam,’ he says, and leads them through the doors.
The last bars of a tango fade away as they enter. They face a sunken central dance floor dotted with glass-topped tables and cane chairs around the circumference, and couples returning to their tables. Above and around the periphery of the room is a raised area edged with swirly art deco railings and more tables, mainly full of spectators. A small orchestra on a dais flicks through sheet music in one corner. There are potted plants everywhere, on stands, tables and in huge pots, feathery green leaves climbing marble pillars and brushing the tops of the arched windows, reaching for the glass ceiling through which bright light streams. The room resembles a tropical garden.
‘Wow,’ exclaims Patrizia again. ‘We’re back in the Twenties!’
Charles, pleased with her excited response, indicates that she should follow the waiter to their table. Heads turn and other guests incline towards one another, whisper, and try not to point. Charles and Patrizia are seated. The orchestra starts playing again, this time a rhumba.
‘This is so weird for a Tuesday afternoon. Is this a daily thing?’ asks Patrizia.
‘I don’t think so. It was between the wars but this is a special event, this week only. I saw the advert on my way in last week.’
‘How do you know Frankenstein?’ she asks, hitching a thumb towards the door.
‘Wolfie? An old friend.’
‘Seriously? Wolfie?’
‘That’s his name. Salt of the earth.’
‘Literally, judging by his complexion.’
‘Whatever you need, the doormen at the major London hotels can supply it. They’re the eyes and ears of the city. Tickets, escorts, information, and other less lawful goods and services. And Wolfie’s the best. There’s nothing — and no one — in London he doesn’t know.’
‘And you know Wolfie because…’
‘Oh, we go way back,’ says Charles evasively, winking.
Tea arrives: three-tiered cut-glass stands bearing triangular postage-stamp-size sandwiches of green sliced cucumber and unnaturally pink potted shrimp; another with scones, jam and mouthful-sized dainties, and a pot of tea for Charles and one of coffee for Patrizia. She tucks in, eating with gusto, a trait shared with Sally, the thought of whom flashes through Charles’s consciousness, causing him a momentary pang of guilt. He pushes it away. This is afternoon tea, nothing to be guilty about. On the other hand he can’t avoid recognising, a trifle uncomfortably, that he’s never taken time off work to take Sally to tea; nor has he ever used up a favour with Wolfie to get her into the Waldorf without a reservation.
‘OK, Miss Patrizia Conti,’ he announces.
She smiles, her hand held up to halt him, her mouth full of food. She swallows and dabs her mouth on her white linen napkin, leaving ruby lipstick kiss-marks.
‘Is this it then? The State’s cross-examination of the witness? I’ve been expecting it for a while now.’
‘Well, you’ve been following me round London and asking questions. Surely it’s my turn now?’
‘Fire away. I’ve nothing to hide.’
‘We’ll see.’ Charles pours himself more tea. ‘OK. Are you from an acting family?’
She laughs, almost coughing on her coffee. ‘No. My father had a pizzeria, one of the oldest in Philadelphia, off East Somerset. It’s pretty well known.’
‘So a comfortable childhood?’
‘Far from it. Pop drank all the profits. I was ten when he died from liver failure. We’d been living above the shop, and suddenly we’re on the street, on welfare. My mom brought us up, on her own.’
‘Us?’
‘I had three brothers, all older than me. They enlisted after Pearl Harbour. Only one came back.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Guadalcanal. We’re very proud of them. The youngest, the one closest to me in age, lives in Florida. A realtor.’
‘Where did you go to school?’
‘Just a local public school. A while after Dad died I moved to a private Catholic school.’
‘Insurance money?’
She scoffs. ‘You’re joking, right? No, a family friend helped out. I’d been getting into a load of trouble, and they thought I might have some brains. But I paid my own way through college. Bar work, short order chef, some orderly work at the Jefferson Medical College.’
‘And when ―’
‘Time for an adjournment, counsellor. This witness wants to dance.’
For the second time that afternoon, she lifts Charles by the lapel and he rises reluctantly to join her.
‘I should warn you,’ he prevaricates, ‘I’m no Fred Astaire.’
‘Yeah, well, I am Ginger Rogers. I can make even you look good.’
They descend to the dance floor. As it turns out, the dance, a tango, is relatively slow, and Charles is able to hold his own. Patrizia regards him with surprise.
‘You’re not at all bad,’ she says as they dance.
‘Except the counting under my breath.’
‘I did spot that, yes. Try to stop your lips moving and no one’ll notice. Where did you learn?’
‘In the dance halls during the war. You had to have some basic steps to pull.’
‘Pull?’
‘Get a date. Here we go: reverse coming.’
Charles guides Patrizia through a neat media luna to avoid a couple cutting across their path.
‘Impressive,’ says Patrizia. ‘I might even let you lead.’
‘It’s an idea,’ he replies, looking over her shoulder.
They dance a while longer, Charles growing in confidence and Patrizia slowly trusting him to lead her.
‘Very nice. Can you manage anything other than a tango?’ she asks.
‘Wait till you see my jitterbug.’
‘I think I will wait, if it’s all the same to you,’ she teases. ‘You move well for a big guy, but somehow I can’t see you jitterbugging.’
‘Do you ever stop?’
‘What?’
‘Challenging.’
She smiles, a trifle dismissively. ‘I don’t know you well yet, Charles, but I’m guessing that one of your problems is you think too much. Lighten up. Live a little, why dontcha?’ she says, giving Charles a glimpse of her street accent.
Charles finishes the dance by sliding his right leg backwards and dipping Patrizia over his right-angled left knee, so deeply that her curls brush the dance floor. He lifts her effortlessly upright. The onlookers applaud politely. As they walk back to the table she runs her hand up the outside of Charles’s jacket sleeve and grips the hard bulk of his bicep. She says nothing.
The more time Charles spends with this woman, the more intrigued he becomes. He can see through the specious Hollywood-manufactured glamour, the studio-schooled star mannerisms and expensive couture. They have done their job well, and she certainly looks sexy, but she possesses an innate and much coarser animal sexuality. Further, Charles detects several points of contact which deepen the attraction. She too has had a hard upbringing, without money; she too has made something of herself, against the odds; she too is practised at using masks. Her repartee, studied sophistication and refined East Coast accent have been carefully applied over a much rougher original finish, and it is that which he finds fascinating; he’s curious to learn what will be revealed if he scratches deeper. In truth, he’s curious to learn what he will find, and who she will be, when stripped naked.
They dance some more, finish their tea, and Charles pays the bill. It’s early evening when they emerge onto the Aldwych. The flagstones radiate the stored heat of the day and the smell of summer. They come to a halt, facing each other in the centre of the pavement, a pensive island, late-running workers flowing around them as they bustle for buses and hail taxis.
‘Well,’ starts Charles.
‘Well, indeed. Thank you, Charles, that was delightful. Completely surprising, and novel. I’ve had a really enjoyable afternoon.’
‘Good. Welcome to L
ondon.’
‘Where are you off to now?’ she asks.
‘I should probably go back to Chambers and sort out the stuff I just threw into my room. I’m not in court tomorrow but I do have some work to do. You?’
‘I have to meet my manager for a while at the hotel. He’s been talking to the guys at Pinewood. If he hasn’t any other meetings we sometimes go out for a meal. Sometimes I just stay in my room and order in. I have a script to read, but…’ Charles waits for the invitation that he knows is coming.
‘Would you care to join me? I’ll be through by nine-thirty at the latest. We could have a late supper. That would give you some time to finish your work too.’
She lifts her face to his, revealing an expression — or lack of it — that Charles has not seen before. On this occasion her face is in repose and the knowing, cynical smile is notable by its absence. Her large eyes fix on his as she waits patiently for a decision.
Charles senses a shift in the power-balance between them, and suspects Patrizia’s in an unaccustomed position. This stunning woman will have been commanding men since she was a teenager; now she’s a well-known actress they’re probably lining up, attracted to her celebrity. He can see that she wants him, is unused to having to make the running, and that his hesitation makes her want him even more. He wonders if her earlier banter was a self-defence mechanism, to hide from him the attraction she feels.
Charles returns her steady gaze, knowing that to accept the invitation will almost inevitably mean crossing a line, with profound implications. He recites the arguments in his head. Sally and he are no longer speak and are living, essentially, separately. He finds Patrizia intriguing and intensely desirable. He’s flattered too, that a famous Hollywood actress wants him. On the other hand, she’ll return to the US in just a few weeks; so is it worth crossing that line for what will be a meaningless fling?
Before Charles has an opportunity to decide or speak, Patrizia breaks the link between their eyes and smiles sadly.
‘Too long, Charles. If it’s that difficult, the answer’s obvious. Like I said, you think too much.’ Her eyes scan the traffic and she lifts her arm. ‘Taxi!’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sunday, 12 July
Charles has had another disturbed night. At just after seven o’clock he decides to go for a long run. On his return loop he stops to pick up the Sunday newspapers, and spots the front page of the Sunday Mirror.
Back in the kitchen, as the kettle boils, he reads the headline: PEER AND A GANGSTER: YARD ENQUIRY. Under Percy’s byline, the article continues:
A top-level Scotland Yard investigation into the alleged homosexual relationship between a prominent peer and a leading thug in the London underworld has been ordered by Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Sir Joseph Simpson. The peer concerned is a household name and the Yard detectives are enquiring into allegations that he has a “relationship” with a man who has criminal convictions and is alleged to be involved in a West End protection racket… The investigation embraces … inquiries into Mayfair parties attended by the peer and the East End thug … and allegations of blackmail against people who know about these relationships… I understand that, within the next 48 hours, the Commissioner will meet the Home Secretary, Mr Henry Brooke, and give him details of the reports and of the instructions he has given to Detective Chief Superintendent Gerrard.
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ says Charles to himself softly. ‘Well done, Percy.’
No mention of either Boothby or the Krays by name, Charles notes; perhaps Percy’s evidence wasn’t quite as strong as he thought; more likely just an ultra-cautious approach by the libel boys. Charles used to read for libel for several of the London newspapers shortly after he was called to the Bar. A lot of junior barristers do it before their practices take off. It requires burning the midnight oil while poring through proposed copy for the morning to make sure no one’s been inadvertently libelled, but it’s good training for an aspiring barrister, comparing copy with the evidence supposed to support it. It had introduced Charles to the heavy-drinking world of Fleet Street journalism, and some of the contacts he had made back in the early 1950s are people he still considers friends.
Despite the failure to name names, it’s still a world-class scoop. Charles re-reads the article and begins to wonder if the investigation might actually yield some personal benefit to him. Ever since Charles defended Izzy, using methods the Bar Council and indeed the police would have considered unorthodox, the Krays have had a hold over him. Their threats of blackmail still hover over his head like a dark cloud, blighting his hopes. If the story leads to the twins’ imprisonment for blackmail, possibly even corruption, Charles would be free.
Charles hears Sally’s footsteps on the staircase and holds his breath in anticipation. He can’t bear the thought of another day at home with them avoiding each other and occupying separate rooms.
‘The kettle’s just boiled,’ he says. ‘Shall I make a pot?’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m having some toast. Would you like some?’
‘OK,’ she replies after a slight hesitation.
Charles gets up and puts some bread under the grill. He begins laying the table for the two of them to have breakfast together. Sally pours water into the teapot and while waiting for it to brew, absently flicks through the Sunday paper on the table.
It is Sally’s sudden stillness that alerts Charles to the change in atmosphere in the kitchen. He stops bustling and looks at her. She has turned from the front page headlines and is studying an inside page. Charles approaches the table from the opposite side, butter in one hand and a jar of marmalade in the other, and realises with a sudden shock which flashes up his legs into the pit of his stomach that Sally is looking at a photograph of him, grinning broadly, as he stands on the steps of the Old Bailey, Patrizia Conti clinging tightly to his arm.
‘Oh, I meant to tell you about that,’ he says, lightly. ‘You’ll never believe this but she’s an actress who came to the fight at Manor Place.’
‘I know who she is,’ replies Sally in a low and expressionless voice, not making eye contact with Charles.
‘Well, she turned up at the Old Bailey. She was helping me down the steps, as you can see — I had so much to carry — when she was intercepted by a bunch of photographers.’
‘I can see exactly what she is doing, Charles.’
She looks up at Charles for the first time that morning, her eyes searching his face. Then she shakes her head slowly to herself, turns on her heel, and retraces her steps upstairs. Charles listens, motionless, and hears wardrobe doors banging. He runs after her. He finds Sally throwing clothes and toiletries into a suitcase.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What’s it look like? I’m leaving. I’m going to stay with Mum.’
‘Why? Nothing happened between me and that actress.’
‘It doesn’t matter whether anything happened or not.’
‘But you won’t talk to me! I’ve been waiting for days to have some discussion or … explanation. Was it the boxing match? I know you didn’t want me to go through with it, but… I’ve tried to explain why it was so important to me. Was it because I was late on Friday night?’
Sally halts in her preparations and stares out of the bedroom window with a frown, as if engaged in an internal debate. She reaches a decision.
‘OK. Sit down on the bed and I’ll explain it to you.’
‘Will you stop with the packing already?’
‘For a minute, yes. But I am going.’
‘But, please, Sal ―’
‘Are you going to listen to me or not?’
Charles sits on the edge of the bed. Sally wrestles with a few opening phrases and then opts for simplicity. ‘I think this was a mistake.’
‘This? Do you mean our relationship, or do you mean moving in together?’
‘Definitely moving in together,’ she answers quickly. ‘I should’ve realised you weren’t ready for i
t.’ She pauses, considering, and then nods again. ‘Yes, and maybe even the relationship.’
‘I don’t understand. Haven’t we been happy this last year?’
‘Yes, we have. Or I have, and at first I thought you were too. But moving here seems to have brought things to a head. I know what I want for the future, and I don’t think you do.’
‘So it’s not about the boxing? Or the sink?’
‘No … well, yes! Or partly. They’re all examples. You’re emotionally … vacant. Or … no, absent. You put so much energy into your work and your clients; and then it was the training and the fight. There never seems to be anything left for us. I never knew Henrietta, but I watched all that time you were married to her. I felt so sorry for you because she seemed so distant and unconnected to you. You were so forlorn. But I think the truth is that she was just responding to your lack of commitment to her. You sort of put her in a box to be taken out when you felt like it, but the rest of the time you just got on with your own life. That’s exactly how I feel now. She tried to get your attention by having affairs, getting drunk, creating scenes. But instead of running to her and putting things right, you felt rejected and just let her get on with it. Well, I’m not going through that. Better we end it now.’
‘But I don’t want it to end. I love you.’
‘Yes, I think you do. At least, you do as far as you can. But it’s not enough. You’ve got to want to make the effort. It’s called commitment, Charles. And I don’t think you know how to do it. You don’t trust me.’
Corrupted: Murder and cover-up at the heart of government (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 19