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

by Simon Michael

  He closes the outside door to the apartment block noisily and bends, ostensibly to re-tie the laces of his running shoes. Head bowed, he looks surreptitiously left and then right. His imagination may be playing tricks, but he thinks he detects some movement within the doorway of Oyez Legal Stationers on the corner, a change in the quality of the darkness within. He stands, places his palms flat against the wall of the block and leans in to stretch his calf muscles.

  At that moment a trundling red box full of yellow light approaches from behind him, as a No. 15 Routemaster bus moves down Fetter Lane towards the traffic lights at the southern end. Let’s have some fun, thinks Charles, and he moves off suddenly, jogging down the pavement towards Fleet Street, keeping pace with the bus and hidden from the opposite side of the road. He doesn’t expect to make such an easy escape and, sure enough, a figure with a flapping raincoat detaches itself from the shadow in the doorway and runs southwards, keeping pace with Charles with the bus between them. Charles makes as if to jump onto the landing board of the Routemaster as it slows to turn into Fleet Street but instead runs past it and down the steps into Sergeant’s Inn. The sound of leather soles slapping on pavement behind Charles continues. Fair enough, thinks Charles. Not so easily fooled. Let’s see how fit you are. And I’m dressed for the occasion; you’re going to struggle in raincoat, hat and leather shoes.

  This is one of Charles’s regular runs: through the Temple, left out onto the Embankment, over the Thames at Blackfriars Bridge, and south to St George’s Circus and the gym at Elephant and Castle. It’s a mile and a half, and Charles can usually jog the distance in under fifteen minutes. When in training he would run this route every day, often twice.

  He jogs comfortably down the centre of the cobbles on Middle Temple Lane, the yellow globes of light from the gas lamps hung on the Dickensian buildings barely piercing the gloom. The gardens to his left and right are lost in darkness. He listens for the footsteps behind him; still there, but now accompanied by audible heavy breathing. Charles smiles to himself with satisfaction. As he emerges through the stone gateposts onto the Embankment, a gust of salt wind from the Thames hits his face, the sudden smell and sound of his beloved river making him almost heady with pleasure, and he laughs out loud. He turns left, putting on a spurt of speed.

  By the time Charles has run halfway across Blackfriars Bridge his pursuer is far behind. Charles risks a look over his shoulder as he reaches the end of the bridge. The man is still following, but he’s a long way back and is now walking, his coat flapping like the wings of a bedraggled crow. At that very moment the wind lifts the trilby from the man’s head and floats it out towards the centre of the road. Charles hears an inarticulate cry and the man jumps up, misses the hat, and spins round as it flies behind him and towards the far side of the bridge. Charles takes his chance and, instead of continuing along the pavement, swerves to his right and jumps two and three at a time down the damp steps by the side of the bridge towards the water. Within moments he is running westwards along the waterfront, lost in the shadows.

  Charles reckons that once the follower realises he has lost his quarry he’ll probably return to Fetter Lane to watch for Charles’s return. Had this been a simple training run, Charles would have been back at the flat by about half past eleven. He has half an hour to make his rendezvous and get back to the flat.

  Ten minutes later Charles sits in the dark on some scaffolding for the Festival Hall extension at the site of the former Shot Tower. The first drops of rain fall, heavy warm splashes. Within a few moments a taxi pulls up and a giant of a man in tails descends from it. He carries a top hat under one arm. He speaks briefly to the cabbie, who switches off his ignition but keeps his meter running. The riverside returns to almost total darkness. Charles swings off the scaffolding and approaches the giant.

  ‘Gut evenink, Charles,’ says the giant in a heavy German accent. The voice is so deep that Charles feels the vibrations in his chest as much as he hears the soundwaves.

  ‘Good evening, Herr Schmidt. Thanks for coming out while on duty.’

  Thunder sounds above them and the heavens open. Wolfgang jams his top hat on his enormous head. He now stands over seven feet tall and towers above Charles, who is quickly drenched through.

  ‘I vas due a break,’ says the doorman, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the splashing rain. ‘But I have little time. My friends tell me that the pack has not yet picked up the scent. So, safe he is, your little fox, at least for the moment.’

  ‘That’s very good news.’

  Wolfgang smiles broadly, a flash of lightning illuminating his terrifying crooked teeth. I’m in the middle of a horror film, thinks Charles, but he too smiles, enjoying the thought of the Krays’ impotent anger.

  ‘Zo, here,’ says the German, sliding a small envelope out of his jacket pocket and handing it to Charles. ‘Everything you need, Charlie, but more than you vant.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Wolfgang taps the envelope meaningfully, and backs away, heading for the taxi. The cabbie sees his approach and turns the ignition. The engine coughs into life and Charles is caught in the full glare of the headlamps. The rain is now heavy, bolts of light slanting diagonally through the beams.

  ‘Read, my friend,’ calls Wolfgang. ‘And be very, very careful.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Monday, 27 July

  Charles and Max sit on a bench in the marbled hall of Tower Bridge Magistrates’ Court, heads together. Charles would have liked a conference room to discuss tactics, but the Edwardian building, built in the baroque style — white stone to the first storey and red brick for the upper floors, with an imposing three-storey arched portico supported by massive ionic columns — although beautiful, was not designed for a modern justice system. The court, originally established in a nearby building in 1792, offers poor facilities for its users: no telephones, no catering facilities, no robing rooms for counsel and no conference rooms. Police officers, defendants, witnesses, journalists and lawyers all throng the area, laughing, chatting, smoking and in many cases looking for some corner to have a private discussion. The central staircase and the circular balcony above it are packed, and conversations echo from every angle.

  ‘It sounds like a cattle auction,’ comments Max.

  ‘Smells like it, too.’

  It’s been raining heavily and the hall smells of damp clothing, smoke and meat pies, the last bought from the stall at the corner of Tooley Street.

  ‘I thought juvenile cases were supposed to be heard separately from adult cases,’ says Max.

  ‘They are. This is the general list. We’ll be in a separate room upstairs. They try to make it less formal when a juvenile’s involved.’ Charles scans the immediate vicinity to make sure his next comment can’t be overheard. ‘Did you see him?’

  Max lowers his voice still further. ‘Yes. He’s back in hospital.’

  ‘Any trouble?’

  ‘Not really. He understood. To be honest, it didn’t take much pretence. That’s a very damaged young man.’

  ‘More than you know.’

  Max looks quizzically at Charles. ‘Has Dr Felix been in direct contact with you?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Best read this.’ He hands a document to Charles. ‘Dr Felix’s next instalment.’

  Charles flicks through the first two pages of the careful psychiatrist’s repeat warnings and disclaimers and her description of her technique of inducing hypnosis. He turns to the meat of the report. Notwithstanding his conversation with Percy Farrow, he reads with a sensation of growing horror. Teddy’s account to Dr Felix is more detailed and, because the report delivers it in such dispassionate tones, somehow all the more awful.

  Under hypnosis, Teddy revealed how he was forced by Ronnie Kray and Mo to go into a room with a middle-aged man; how, once in the room, his clothes were almost torn off him; how the man made him lie under a glass table on which the man defaecated; how he was urged to urinate on the man
, but was unable to comply; how he was then raped by that man; and finally how, when it was all over, Mo paid him for his submission. When Dr Felix tried to get Teddy to remember the events following the abuse he woke up in such distress that the psychiatrist didn’t think it wise to continue with the session.

  ‘Do you believe it? Surely he’s making this up?’ asks Max.

  ‘Making it up? To what end? This is a confession; an admission that he had a motive for murder. He’s saying it was Mo who forced this on him.’

  ‘I don’t believe people … do things … like … like that.’ Max can’t bring himself to describe the acts set out in the report.

  ‘I’ve never heard of it before, but one thing I’ve learned in the last fifteen years is that there’s no end to human depravity. So, yes, I believe it.’

  A man’s trouser-clad legs appear in front of Charles. Charles looks up at his former pupil, Peter Bateman. He slides the report into his notebook to hide it and stands.

  ‘Hello, Peter,’ he says with surprise and genuine warmth. ‘I didn’t know you were here today. Anything interesting?’

  ‘Well, yes, actually,’ replies the fair-haired young man, looking uncomfortable. ‘I’m prosecuting you.’

  Charles stares at Bateman. ‘You’re in the case of E?’

  ‘Yes. You weren’t told?’

  Charles smiles grimly. ‘No. There are games afoot.’

  ‘Not played by me. I got the papers on Friday. It’s just a simple committal so far as I’m concerned. You’ll get a straight bat from me, you know that.’

  ‘I do know that, Peter. Let me introduce you to Max Wiseberg, my instructing solicitor.’ Max rises and shakes Bateman’s hand. ‘This is counsel for the prosecution: Peter Bateman, my former pupil, colleague in chambers and one of the best criminal juniors you’ll find.’

  Bateman looks suitably modest. ‘That’s very generous of Charles. Pleased to meet you, Mr Wiseberg.’

  ‘Not generous,’ replies Charles, ‘truthful. You could do worse than instruct him, Max.’ Pause. ‘But only when I’m not available, of course.’

  ‘Would it be useful to chat about the order of witnesses?’ asks Bateman, sitting on the bench, taking his prosecution brief from his briefcase and pulling the white bow.

  ‘Yes,’ says Charles, and he and Max sit again.

  ‘I’ve got a further report from the pathologist, who was asked to examine the St Christopher medallion and compare the chain to the neck wound. I’ve a copy for you here,’ says Bateman, handing over a single sheet of paper.

  ‘Will he be here?’

  ‘Yes, until you say he can be released.’

  ‘No, I think he should stay. I’ll have a look at this —’ Charles brandishes the new evidence — ‘but I may have some questions for him. Who else?’

  ‘You’ve seen the other expert evidence. Other than that I have four lay witnesses — assuming they show.’

  ‘Is there any doubt?’ asks Charles.

  ‘Isn’t there always?’

  ‘Any draft evidence you can show me?’ asks Charles.

  ‘No, sorry,’ replies Bateman shortly. ‘I assume you’re not calling any evidence?’

  ‘You assume correctly.’

  ‘OK, that’s about it. We were told half a day. Is that right?’

  ‘That depends on your four witnesses. It might take a little longer. Are you available tomorrow if necessary?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bateman gathers his papers and stands. ‘OK. I’m going to circulate and see if I can find the officer in the case. See you later. Oh, by the way, I’m instructed to apply to have the anonymity order removed. This isn’t a case of an offence against decency or morality in the narrow sense of the statute. Just to warn you.’

  Max waits until Bateman’s out of earshot. ‘Well, we both knew that was coming. What’s the new pathology evidence say?’

  Charles skims it and reads the crucial sentence. ‘“The frayed edges of sections of the skin abrasions, in particular those found at the superior margins of the wound, suggest the use of a sawing action by a serrated object combined with the compressive force. It is therefore possible that the chain [Exhibit GCC 1] was the murder weapon. The wound is consistent with the type of skin damage that would be caused by the use of that size and weight of chain.”’

  ‘Not helpful,’ comments Max drily.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Twenty minutes later a shout is heard from the top of the stairs. ‘All parties for the juvenile court list!’

  Charles looks up to see an usher in a court gown shouting from the top of the stairs. ‘That’s us,’ he says.

  He and Max climb the beautiful staircase as a group gradually coalesces around the usher. Charles scans the group quickly and identifies one, possibly two, potential witnesses from the Cedra Court party: slender young men, neither over the age of twenty by Charles’s judgement, and both of whom could pass for Dilly rent boys.

  ‘Follow me,’ says the usher, and the group troops after her, along a corridor away from the panelled grandeur of the main court area and up some narrow stairs. She leads them along a further corridor, its walls painted an institutional green, and up another flight of stairs, these ones carpeted. A final corridor is lined with pre-war wooden chairs and ends in a door.

  ‘Witnesses should wait here, please,’ says the usher, pointing to the line of chairs. ‘Counsel and solicitors follow me.’ She throws open the door.

  The lawyers and a tall middle-aged policeman who Charles guesses must be the officer in the case — the police officer who has overseen the enquiry and gathered the evidence — file into a large room with a tall ceiling. It has some of its original features, a dado rail and a dusty chandelier, but what was once an elegant room is now largely ruined. It is ringed with new cast-iron central heating radiators, and varying shades of the green-coloured paint reveal where stud walls have been installed to carve the space into several smaller rooms. The remaining windows, covered in dusty floor-to-ceiling net curtains, overlook the yard where the prison vans collect and deliver their charges.

  The room has been set up as a court with a motley selection of used furniture: a bench for the magistrates whose backs are to the window and rows of desks for the lawyers facing them. At the back of the room is another line of mismatched chairs against the wall for journalists. The identification of the case as ‘The Queen v E’ has apparently thrown the papers off the scent; at least for the present, the line of seats is empty.

  Charles and Bateman take opposite ends of the front row of desks, and Max and the officer in the case sit behind their respective barristers.

  ‘The stipendiary has a preliminary issue to raise with counsel,’ announces the usher. ‘Are you ready, gentlemen?’

  ‘Yes,’ reply counsel in unison. ‘Who’s sitting today?’ adds Charles.

  ‘Sir Simon Worlock QC and two lay magistrates,’ replies the usher. ‘I’ll bring in the bench.’ She slips out of a side door.

  Charles turns to Max and whispers, ‘We couldn’t have asked for a better tribunal. Worlock’s scrupulously fair and no lover of the Establishment. Remember his comments after the Penguin Books trial, Lady Chatterley? This might present us with an opportunity that we shan’t have at the Old Bailey.’

  Max raises two crossed fingers.

  There’s a knock on the door, and the usher calls ‘All rise!’ All those in the court stand. Sir Simon Worlock QC, the stipendiary magistrate, files out followed by a young woman and an elderly man, the lay members of the panel. They bow to the lawyers present and take their seats. Counsel remain standing.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ says Worlock, inviting one of the barristers to address him. He is in his late sixties, with an angular face and extraordinary rust-coloured eyebrows that sprout horizontally from his brow, giving him the appearance of an ancient, wise bird of prey.

  ‘May it please you, sir,’ says Bateman, ‘I appear on behalf of the Crown and my learned friend Mr Holborne appears on behalf of the accused
. The Crown has an application to make, sir, before we start the evidence.’

  ‘Yes, thank you…’ Worlock peers at the piece of paper on his desk where the usher has noted the names of the advocates — ‘Mr Bateman. In fact we have a question for Mr Holborne before you make your application.’

  Bateman sits and Worlock addresses Charles. ‘Where is your client, Mr Holborne?’

  Inspector Yates, sitting behind Bateman, suddenly lifts his head and gives his full attention to Charles.

  ‘In hospital, sir. I don’t know if you picked it up from the case papers, but he was arrested for this offence while in hospital receiving treatment for a serious suicide attempt. A psychiatric report is awaited but I have met the young man, and while I am entirely confident he has mental capacity consistent with his age, I expect the psychiatrist to report that he is suffering from mental illness. He appears to have had a further breakdown overnight following a severe beating at the remand home, and was transferred from there to the hospital on medical grounds.’

  ‘I see. I suppose we shall have to adjourn the committal.’

  ‘No, thank you, sir.’ The prosecution team turn their heads towards Charles in surprise. ‘The defence would like to proceed.’

  ‘Without your client present?’ asks Worlock.

  ‘Yes, I see no reason why not. I have his full instructions. He will not be giving evidence, and I can conduct his defence without his attendance.’

  ‘And what of the issue regarding his fitness to plead? Isn’t that something on which my colleagues and I have to make a finding? And if so, how do we do that without your client being here?’

  ‘With respect, sir, the Crown aren’t suggesting he’s unfit to plead. They bring this charge on the basis that he is fit. Otherwise they’d not overcome the M’Naghten rules and there could be no criminal trial. I am not suggesting he’s unfit either and there’s no affirmative psychiatric evidence one way or the other.

  ‘The purpose of today’s hearing is to take the Crown’s depositions and for you and your colleagues to decide if there’s a prima facie case arising from what those witnesses say. With neither of the parties raising the point, and no affirmative evidence to suggest to the court that E lacks capacity, it’s a non-issue. If E wishes to give evidence at the actual trial some weeks or months hence, and if the issue is raised then from any quarter, well, that will be for the Assize court judge to determine.’