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

by Simon Michael

  Worlock makes notes of Charles’s submissions and, with nothing given away by his expression or tone, turns to Peter Bateman. ‘What’s the Crown’s view of this, Mr Bateman?’

  ‘We are not suggesting any lack of capacity. The Crown say that the facts will reveal a plain prima facie case of murder sufficient to commit E to stand trial, and it will be a matter for that court, perhaps, to tackle capacity when E enters a plea. As for proceeding without E here, this is an identification case. Some of the prosecution witnesses were to be asked to identify E as someone they saw on the night of the murder. E’s attendance may not be necessary for Mr Holborne to be able to do his job, but it is for me to be able to do mine.’

  ‘I am instructed that photographs of E were taken both at the hospital and when he was processed subsequently,’ intervenes Charles. ‘I’m sure my learned friend has those photographs, and can use them for identification purposes.’

  ‘Do you have photographs of E?’ asks Worlock of Bateman.

  Bateman turns and speaks quietly to the police officer sitting behind him, who shuffles his papers and comes up with large photographs of Teddy. He hands them forward.

  ‘Yes, it appears I do.’

  Worlock leans to each of his colleagues in turn, whispers briefly, and then announces the bench’s decision. ‘We’re prepared to allow you to use those when asking questions of the witnesses. We shall proceed.’

  Max leans forward. ‘Round One to us.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s the next round that worries me more,’ Charles whispers in reply.

  ‘Mr Bateman,’ says Worlock. ‘You have an application?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The court was persuaded to make an order under Section 39 of the Children and Young Persons Act 1933, but as you will have seen, the defendant has been charged with a single offence of murder, which is not specifically an offence against decency or morality in the sense intended by the legislation. Our submission is that the order was wrongly made and there is no reason why the accused’s name and details should not be published. Indeed it is in the public interest that this case does receive publicity. The public has a right to know.’

  Worlock leafs through the file, reads, and nods. ‘Yes, it is a bit of a mystery why the order was made in the first place. It wouldn’t be usual in a case of murder, even with a young defendant. What do you say, Mr Holborne?’

  Charles looks round before answering and sees that a man has slipped into court during the course of the proceedings and is sitting on one of the chairs near the door, an open notebook on his knee and a pen in his hand. Charles recognises him: a jobbing independent hack, one who trawls the court lists in the hope of finding something juicy or of local interest, and then sells it to an interested newspaper. Most would sell their souls for a story, and this one, named Watson, is no different. Charles turns back to address the bench.

  ‘I agree with my learned friend that anonymity orders are not usually made in cases of murder, even where the accused is a young person. However, you do have a general power to hear proceedings in camera, and that power is most often exercised when someone before the court would be in danger were his identity to be revealed in public.’

  ‘We certainly do have such a power, but where is the evidence that this accused would be in danger?’

  Worlock has immediately put his finger on the weakness in Charles’s position. He has no hard evidence he can put before a court that the Krays have been looking for Teddy and, as a result of the Mirror’s climb-down, he can’t even say that Teddy has been at a party full of queers, peers and gangsters. There is only one narrow point left available to him.

  ‘The bench has not yet heard the evidence. My instructions are that the victim of this crime was a member of the criminal fraternity, a close associate of the notorious Kray twins. The defence have concerns about possible reprisals against this accused. As I explained, he’s already been hospitalised following the assault at the remand home. You will not be able to judge the strength of the risk until after the evidence has been heard. So the defence invite you to maintain the anonymity order until then, and then hear full submissions.’

  ‘The flaw in your argument, Mr Holborne, is that the anonymity order has not protected your client from his recent assault. Even if that occurred by way of retribution, which seems unlikely considering no one knew his identity at the remand home, having his name revealed in open court will make no difference.’

  ‘And, if I may add,’ says Bateman, rising, ‘the suggestion of reprisals by the Krays is belied by what has already occurred. As you will hear from the officer in the case, it was Messrs Reginald and Ronald Kray who discovered this unfortunate victim’s body. The police were called and they gave the officers every assistance. The victim was, after all, their associate. There is absolutely no evidence of any sinister involvement by them in this case.’

  ‘Mr Holborne, the default position is that justice in this country is open,’ says Worlock. ‘There’s an important public benefit for the proceedings of criminal courts to be available to all: justice must be seen to be done. To deflect us from that starting position, you’ll need to put some clear evidence before the court to suggest that, were his identity to be revealed, your client would be in greater danger from the criminal underworld than already exists. Do you have such evidence?’

  ‘No, sir. But I remind you that this young man is unusually vulnerable both by reason of his age — he is still only fifteen — and by reason of his psychiatric state.’

  ‘That may very well be true, but the risk to him is unaffected by whether or not his name is given in open court.’

  Worlock again confers quietly with his colleagues. ‘We propose to lift the anonymity order. We do not think it was appropriately made in the first place. From now on the accused will be referred to by his name, Edward Smith.’

  I suppose that’s still something, thinks Charles, sitting; at least no one here knows his real surname. Charles turns and glances at the reporter at the back of the court. Watson’s face is a picture of suppressed elation. By pure chance he’s the only reporter in court and he’s stumbled across the scoop of his life.

  ‘Now, Mr Holborne. We have seen the reports served in advance of the hearing. Do you require any of those expert witnesses to give their evidence on oath, or are you content to have them swear to the truth of the contents and sign their depositions?’

  ‘I need not trouble the court with live evidence, except in the case of Dr Larsson.’

  ‘Thank you. As that’s largely a paper exercise, we shall leave it until the end and get on with the lay witnesses. Would you like to call your first witness, Mr Bateman?’

  ‘I was proposing to open the case by telling you and your colleagues about the evidence the Crown adduces.’

  ‘I don’t think we need an opening speech by the Crown, thank you. The evidence should speak for itself, should it not? Let’s have the first witness,’ insists Worlock, this time not even bothering to pretend to canvass the views of his lay colleagues.

  Bateman accepts the ruling with good grace and calls his first witness. ‘Roberto de Lucca, please.’

  The usher goes to the door and put her head outside. ‘Roberto de Lucca?’ she calls.

  One of the two young men who Charles identified as potential witnesses from the party enters the court. His eyes scan the room nervously.

  ‘This way, please,’ says the usher, and she leads him to a desk situated to one side of the court, between the magistrates’ bench and the desks for the advocates. The young man sits at the desk.

  ‘Please remain standing,’ directs the usher.

  He stands again and takes the card offered to him in one hand and the Bible in the other. As he reads the words of the oath off the card in a low voice Charles studies him: grey eyes, olive complexion and glossy black hair flopping over his forehead. On more careful scrutiny, Charles estimates the man is no more than nineteen or twenty years old. The oath finished, he hands the card and Bible back to the
usher and this time remains standing.

  ‘Please give your name and address to the court,’ requests Bateman.

  ‘Roberto de Lucca, 1E Middleton Street, Mile End.’

  ‘And your occupation?’

  ‘Trainee croupier.’

  ‘Please tell the court where you were on the night of Saturday the eleventh of July this year.’

  ‘Early in the evening I was at the Grave Maurice — that’s a pub — with some friends. Then we went to a party,’ he replies. Although his English is perfect, he speaks with a slight Italian accent.

  ‘Where was the party?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. I just went along with friends in someone else’s car. Somewhere in Walthamstow.’

  ‘Who was the host?’

  The young man shrugs in Mediterranean fashion and pulls a face.

  ‘You have to answer, Mr de Lucca,’ says Worlock kindly. ‘That lady over there —’ he points to a woman at a small desk on the far side of the court tapping keys silently — ‘is recording everything you say, and at the end you will be asked to sign your deposition. She can’t record a shrug, no matter how expressive it is to those of us in the court.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I don’t know the name of the man.’

  ‘Very well,’ continues Bateman. ‘Please look at this.’ He offers a photograph of Teddy to the usher who collects it and hands it to de Lucca. ‘Have you ever seen this person before?’

  De Lucca nods. ‘Yes. He was at the party.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘I don’t know it, but I heard other people referring to him as Teddy.’

  ‘Was he with anyone in particular?’

  Bateman’s question is designed to bring the witness to the point at which he saw Teddy leaving the party, but Charles notices an almost indiscernible beat, accompanied by a flicker in his steady gaze as de Lucca hesitates.

  One of Charles’s particular strengths as an advocate is his reading of witnesses. Some barristers focus on their notes; some on their next question; some on the judge or the jury. All have to be kept firmly in the mind of an alert advocate, but Charles always gives particular attention to the witnesses’ demeanour; often what they say is less important than how they say it. As a result, he is better than most at divining when a witness is telling the truth or lying or, more often, when he is missing something out. Charles is by no means infallible; he can be as misled by a good liar as anyone. But he can spot a “tell”, and de Lucca gave something important away by his hesitation; Charles would lay money that de Lucca knows what Teddy was forced to do.

  ‘Did you see him with anyone in particular?’ repeats Bateman.

  ‘Well … I did see him leaving the party with Mo.’

  ‘Do you know Mo’s full name?’

  ‘Maurice Drake.’

  Bateman turns to the bench. ‘That’s the deceased, sir. What time would that have been?’ he continues.

  ‘Maybe around four o’clock.’

  ‘That’s four o’clock in the morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you ever see Mr Drake again?’

  ‘Two or three days later I went with a colleague to his bedsit off Middlesex Street to find him. He hadn’t been into work for two days. He was on his bed, dead with…’ de Lucca places his hand to his own neck tapping it urgently, and Charles can see that he is suppressing genuine emotion. ‘With his neck cut open.’ De Lucca closes his eyes and shakes his head slightly as he struggles to suppress a scene still visible to him.

  ‘Would you like a glass of water?’ asks Worlock.

  ‘Yes, please,’ de Lucca replies, his voice shaking.

  The court waits for him to drink half the water and lower the glass to the desk. Then Bateman reaches behind him and takes from the police officer a clear exhibit bag tied with a cardboard tag around the mouth. He lifts it up and the usher collects it and takes it to the witness. Charles recognises it from his visit to Greenwich police station.

  ‘Do you recognise that?’ asks the barrister.

  ‘Yes. It’s Mo’s medallion and chain.’

  ‘When and in what circumstances did you last see it?’

  ‘Mo was wearing it when he left the party with Teddy. When I saw Mo after that … on the bed … he wasn’t wearing it.’

  ‘Exhibit GCC1, sir?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Let the medallion and chain be Exhibit GCC1.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr de Lucca,’ says Bateman, and he resumes his seat.

  ‘Any cross-examination?’ asks Worlock of Charles, expecting none.

  Charles turns in his seat and whispers urgently to Max, ‘It’s high risk, but I want your permission to cross-examine.’

  Max leans forward. ‘Do you really think you can damage all these witnesses so badly that the magistrates won’t even send the case to trial? The chances must be vanishingly slim, Charles. In all my years, I’ve never seen it happen. It’s your call, but my instinct is to keep our heads down. Save it for the trial.’

  ‘Do you think this boy will survive until trial?’ hisses Charles. ‘Because I don’t. Look who’s ranged against him: not just the Krays but the police and some very powerful people, and they all want his evidence suppressed. If it begins to look hopeless, I’ll shut up and leave the other witnesses alone. But just a few questions, eh?’

  Max raises his hands helplessly, and Charles turns back to face the bench and the witness. Charles knows this has to be a lightning strike. But if he can completely destroy the witness’s credibility with a few well-chosen questions…

  ‘Mr de Lucca. Do I understand your evidence to be that you saw the host at the party but you don’t know his name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But surely you recognised him? He’s very well known, isn’t he, and his face is in the papers a lot.’

  For the first time de Lucca looks uncomfortable. ‘Well, there were a lot of people there. And I had a lot to drink.’

  ‘A lot of people? Were any of them women?’

  ‘Er, no. At least I didn’t see any.’

  ‘A strange party, one with no women at all?’

  ‘No. I sometimes go to parties like that.’

  ‘A sort of stag party, then?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘And can you tell us something about the age of the guests at this party? Were they all young men like yourself?’

  ‘Mostly, I guess.’

  ‘Mostly? So there were older men there too?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘And what age would they have been?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not good at judging ages. Maybe up to age sixty?’

  ‘And am I right to believe there were pornographic films being shown?’

  ‘I didn’t see any films.’

  ‘But there might have been some?’

  De Lucca shrugs. ‘I suppose there might.’

  ‘Music?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Was there any music?’

  ‘There was a record player.’

  ‘For dancing?’ says Charles.

  De Lucca shrugs again. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, paint us the picture. All these men at a party, doing what? Sitting round and listening to the gramophone? That’s not what I’d call a party. There was dancing, wasn’t there?’

  ‘There was some dancing.’

  ‘So, at this all-male party which you tell us went on at least until four in the morning, men were dancing with other men, and there may have been some films being shown.’

  Charles hates doing this. He has no problem with homosexuality; his beloved cousin Izzy was gay and Charles is a strong supporter of the Wolfenden Report’s proposed reforms, but it plays to a prejudice he expects the bench to share. Further, while homosexual acts remain against the law, it provides a strong motive for men who attend a gay party to lie, and demonstrating that these witnesses are prepared to lie on oath is essential if Charles is to save Teddy. So he deals what few cards he has with dist
aste, and some shame.

  ‘Yes,’ replies de Lucca.

  ‘So, among the men at the party, you recognised your host.’

  ‘I can’t remember if I recognised him. I’d had a lot to drink.’

  ‘But you used to work as a croupier at Esmeralda’s Barn, didn’t you?’ Charles is taking a flier. He has no idea where the young man worked but the connection with the Krays and his work as a croupier make it a reasonable assumption.

  ‘I did a bit of work there,’ responds de Lucca evasively.

  ‘That was a casino and nightclub owned and run until a few months ago by Messrs Ronnie and Reggie Kray, wasn’t it? The Krays were your bosses, weren’t they?’

  ‘They have employed me, yes.’

  ‘So you know what they look like, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And we’re going to hear from a police officer that the address of the party to which you were taken was Cedra Court, Walthamstow, a property owned by Ronnie Kray. Your host was Ronnie Kray, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d had a lot to drink.’

  ‘But of course you know. You know what Ronnie Kray looks like because he was your boss. He’s the owner of the flat, and he was your host. So my question to you, Mr de Lucca, is why did you lie, on your oath, about not knowing who your host was?’

  Silence.

  ‘You said that you and a colleague went to Mr Drake’s flat to find him because he had not been into work for a couple of days. Your colleague is also employed by the Krays, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As was Mr Drake before his death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the first call you or your colleague made after the body was discovered was to the Krays, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’