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

by Simon Michael

  ‘If you like.’

  Watson takes Charles proprietorially by the elbow and walks him a few steps back down the corridor. When he speaks again it is with almost closed lips despite the absence of cigarette.

  ‘I guess you’d rather not have the press swarming all over this one,’ he says, his eyes sliding sideways up and down the corridor.

  ‘You heard what I said in court about the accused being in danger.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ says the journo, unconcerned. ‘See, I’m not keen to be edged out by the big boys from the nationals.’

  ‘I can imagine. Quite a bit of luck your stumbling across this story with none of your first division colleagues present.’

  Watson looks hurt for a moment, but then grins. ‘You got it. Exactly.’ The little man’s eyes continue to dart up and down the corridor. Max has returned to court and the pathologist has also disappeared; Charles and the journalist are now alone. ‘Look, I can’t speak for others, but I’ve a deal for you which might suit us both,’ says Watson.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Say I don’t file the story until after the committal’s over.’

  ‘That would be very helpful.’

  ‘On condition you give me an exclusive afterwards.’

  Charles shakes his head. ‘I can’t guarantee access to the defendant. If he’s in custody it won’t be in my control.’

  ‘Course not. But access to the mother, and the story from you or Mr Wiseberg?’

  Charles weighs up the offer. If he can keep a lid on this until after the hearing he might just be able to keep Teddy’s whereabouts secret a while longer. ‘Will you agree to keep the boy’s location out of it?’ he asks.

  The journalist shrugs. ‘Happy to do it, for all the good it’ll do. But someone’s probably speaking to the Krays right now. I’m surprised they’re not here already.’ He drops his voice further and leans towards Charles. Charles smells cigarettes and stale coffee on his breath. ‘You’re never going to be able to hide the boy, Mr Holborne, not for long. This is the dirty party where all those MPs and lords went, right? I know Percy Farrow, and it’s all round Fleet Street. You and I both know they got the Mirror to back down by twisting the arm of the Met Police Commissioner to lie about his investigation. Well, who’s got the power to do that?’

  ‘The Home Office,’ replies Charles heavily.

  ‘And what government department runs the Prison Service?’

  Charles nods. He’s already worked it out. You can rely on government inefficiency for only so long. It takes a while for the scum on the ground to wash back up the corridors of power, but sooner or later the Home Secretary will be told that the loose end for which they have been searching is already in custody at a certain remand home or in a certain hospital.

  ‘The Home Office. I know. But if you can keep the story to yourself for a short while, maybe I’ll get lucky and have the case thrown out here. Then I’d have a chance to get the lad moved again, maybe hidden.’

  ‘Well, you have my word: I won’t take the story anywhere till the committal’s over. But I want an interview with your solicitor and the mother.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Watson takes the unlit cigarette from behind his ear and is about to light it when the court door opens again and the usher leans out. ‘Mr Holborne? The magistrates are waiting to come in.’

  Watson examines his still unlit roll-up with regret, puts it back behind his ear and follows Charles into court. The magistrates enter as Charles resumes his seat. De Lucca and Peppiatt are still slouched in the seats they occupied when Charles left, looking bored. Peter Bateman rises to his feet.

  ‘Are you ready to continue, Mr Bateman?’ asks Worlock.

  ‘Well, sir, I regret to tell you that the Crown’s next two lay witnesses are not presently available.’

  Charles suddenly appreciates the import of the fact that the corridor was empty when he was conspiring with Watson. The other witnesses have disappeared!

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘We had a third witness from the party, but he appears to have disappeared during the course of the morning.’

  ‘Is he a reluctant witness?’

  ‘I had no information to suggest he was, sir. He was here this morning.’

  ‘And the other lay witness?’

  ‘I was told that he was at work and would be here by eleven o’clock this morning. He has not put in an appearance as yet. Inspector Yates, the officer in the case, has made some calls, and has been told that the witness did not show up at work today at all.’

  ‘Which suggests that he, or she, is indeed reluctant.’

  ‘Or perhaps ill, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s possible, although if any illness were genuine one might have expected a call to the court or police to explain. In any case, what’s your proposal?’

  ‘With your permission, we can deal with the uncontested evidence and I can call Dr Larsson.’

  ‘Is Dr Larsson waiting now?’

  ‘He was called downstairs to take a telephone call, but he’s still in the building.’

  ‘I’m sure he has other important duties to attend to, so let’s call him now and deal with the paperwork later.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The usher goes to the door and everyone listens as her footsteps fade away. The court sits in uncomfortable silence for three long minutes until the footsteps are heard returning. The door opens and Dr Larsson enters court. The slender doctor walks confidently and without direction to the witness desk.

  To Charles, Dr Jorgen Larsson is the archetypal Scandinavian intellectual: thinning fair hair brushed across his head, pointed beard made distinguished by two discrete areas of grey at the sides, and rimless spectacles over pale blue eyes. He selects one of the laminated cards from the desk, reads the affirmation in a clipped, almost accent-less voice, and turns to the bench.

  ‘Your worships,’ he says, and by addressing them rather than counsel he reveals his familiarity with the correct nuances of giving evidence.

  ‘Dr Larsson, would you please give your qualifications and professional address to the court?’ asks Bateman.

  ‘I am a consultant pathologist employed at the Charing Cross Hospital, London. My first degree was in biochemistry, awarded by the Karolinska Institute, Stockholm. My second degree, from the same Institute, was in medicine. I obtained my doctorate at University College, London. I have been on the Home Office list of approved pathologists for twelve years.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, Dr Larsson, your evidence is contained in two reports —’

  Charles interrupts. ‘If it helps my learned friend, I have seen both reports and I have no questions regarding the first. I have a few questions to ask about the second, but I’m content for the reports to stand as the witness’s evidence in chief. In other words, Mr Bateman doesn’t need to take the witness through them.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Bateman. ‘Is the court content with that course?’

  ‘Yes,’ replies Worlock. ‘Dr Larsson, would you turn to your second report? If you remain there Mr Holborne will have some questions for you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ says Charles, rising. ‘Dr Larsson, in your second report you were asked to compare the wound on the deceased’s neck with the chain the police recovered from Teddy Smith.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘And, in layman’s terms, parts of the wound had been roughened before being cut, which suggested to you a sawing action by the implement used?’

  ‘Also correct.’

  ‘But you’re not able to say affirmatively that the implement was the chain which we have as Exhibit GCC1?’

  ‘No. Any chain of a similar design and shape of link might have been responsible.’

  ‘Must it have been a chain?’ asks Charles. ‘What about a piece of wire, for example?’

  ‘I do not think the abrasions I saw would have been caused by a single strand of wire. If you will forgive me, sir,’ continues Larsson
, addressing Worlock, ‘the sort of wound created by a strand of wire, like a cheese-cutter going through a soft lump of meat and gristle — which is the sort of texture at the front of the neck — looks very different to the appearances in this case.’

  Charles watches the face of the female magistrate distort in revulsion at the picture created by Larsson’s explanation.

  ‘What about multi-strand cable, where the strands are twisted to form a single core?’

  Larsson thinks about this, picturing the profile of such wire. ‘Yes, it is possible that such a piece of cable could be responsible.’

  ‘And that type of cable is used very widely, isn’t it, for example in telephones and telephone installations?’

  ‘Yes, that is true.’

  ‘Would you agree with me that one way of describing the manner in which death was inflicted would be garrotting?’

  ‘Yes, that would be a reasonable description.’

  ‘That form of contract killing is particularly favoured in Sicily, one understands?’

  ‘One has read such things, your worships, but I cannot give evidence on that subject.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor. One last question please: your reports are silent about this, but I assume you examined the chain, Exhibit GCC1, for signs of any blood or skin which might have been matched to that of the deceased?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And I assume from the fact that your reports do not mention any such material that none was found? No blood, and no skin.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ says Charles, resuming his seat, satisfied.

  ‘Re-examination?’ Worlock asks Bateman.

  ‘No, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Mr Bateman, I suggest that while the deposition is being produced and Dr Larsson signs it, you go and make enquiries about your missing witnesses. We shall rise for an early lunch. If the witnesses can be located, we’ll hear them after the short adjournment at two o’clock.’

  ‘All rise!’ calls the usher.

  Charles collects his papers and turns. ‘Let’s grab a sandwich or maybe a meat pie —’ he starts, and then sees the men who have filed into the back of the court. Among the well-dressed violent young men who form the rank and file of the Firm and who now fill the seats, he sees, looking incongruously prosperous in the utilitarian courtroom, the joint chairmen of the board themselves, Ronald and Reginald Kray.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘I think you need to make your own arrangements for lunch,’ Charles says to Max under his breath.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You probably can’t see that far, but Ronnie and Reggie Kray are at the back of the court with what looks like half the members of the Firm. I’m going to have to talk to them, and the less you know, the better.’

  ‘Do you have to? They might just be here as spectators. Maurice Drake was a member of the gang, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Sorry, Max, but it’s much more complicated than that. You go. I’ll see you back here at two.’

  Max looks hard at Charles. ‘I begin to understand why your poor dad is always so worried about you,’ he says grimly, but he collects his papers and departs.

  Bateman has already scurried off in the wake of DI Yates. The usher is herding the other spectators out of the court to lock up over the adjournment. The Krays remain in their seats. Charles takes the bull by the horns and goes up to them. They both stand.

  ‘Hello Ronnie, Reggie. Fancy a spot of lunch?’

  Charles leads the way out of the court, round the corner and into a narrow side road, Three Oaks Lane. The twins follow him into a dingy pub while two other members of the Firm station themselves outside the pub doors. The interior is full of construction workers, office employees and men in British Rail uniform from the nearby station. There’s nowhere to sit, with the half-dozen small tables at the back of the wood-panelled room all occupied.

  Charles and the twins stand in the centre of the crowded bar looking for somewhere quiet. Silence gradually spreads out from the point where they stand, like the ripples from a pebble thrown in a pond, until the only noise comes from the adjoining bar, the laughing bar staff who haven’t noticed the new entrants, and the sound of trains entering and leaving the station. Two groups of drinkers down their pints in a hurry and vacate their seats. Within seconds there are three tables available.

  ‘Thanks, gents,’ says Reggie amiably to the men’s departing backs. He examines the tables, chooses the cleanest and sits, throwing his blue overcoat off his shoulders onto the bench. ‘You getting them in then, Charlie? I’ll have a small whisky if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Ronnie?’ asks Charles.

  ‘Half of mild,’ he says. ‘And get some sausage rolls, or some crisps or something.’

  ‘Coming up,’ says Charles with an attempt at cheerfulness, and he pushes his way through the rest of the lunchtime drinkers to the bar. Noise levels gradually increase as he orders, asks for a tray, and carries it carefully back to where the Krays sit.

  ‘Nice to have a little chat, eh, Charlie?’ starts Reggie.

  ‘What can I do for you, boys?’ answers Charles, biting into a cold lump of cardboard, gristle and grease masquerading as a sausage roll.

  ‘Like you don’t know, Horowitz,’ says Ronnie in a threatening tone.

  Reggie lowers his voice. ‘We don’t need to remind you, do we, Charles, that we’ve enough on you to destroy your career and send you to prison? One phone call is all, and an envelope full of evidence is on its way to the Yard. You’d be suspended from the Bar within twenty-four hours.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘Then what the fuck are you doin’ representing that little cunt what killed Mo?’ demands Ronnie angrily.

  ‘Firstly, I knew nothing about the background or the fact that Mo was in the Firm. A brief arrives in Chambers with my name on it, I take it. Barristers have no choice; we’re obliged to take whatever comes in.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ challenges Ronnie. ‘That little rent boy, Chicken, came to your offices and put you onto the case.’

  ‘Chicken came to Chambers, tried to instruct me direct, and I sent him on his way. No mention of Mo, of you or the Firm,’ lies Charles evenly. ‘Later, a murder brief came in. It said the victim’s a bloke called Maurice Drake. The name meant nothing. No mention of you or the Firm. So I took it. I have to, and I’ve no reason not to. Even when I did discover Mo was a member of the Firm, that’s still no reason for me not to take the case. There’s still no obvious conflict with your interests. Mo’s dead, and someone’s got to represent the boy one way or the other. Now, I agree, everything changed with the Mirror’s story about your party at Cedra Court. That and the fact that Mo and this lad were seen leaving there together. That’s when I made the link.’

  Reggie gives his brother a sharp look, and Charles wonders for a moment if Reggie was less than enthusiastic about Ronnie’s party, but any difference between the twins is hidden instantaneously. ‘Yes, everything has changed,’ says Reggie. ‘So you’re going to drop the case, right?’

  Charles leans forward. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. I’ll try to find an excuse to drop it if you want, but perhaps you should think it through before I do.’

  Charles feels pressure on the side of his ribs and looks down to see Ronnie’s fist. Clutched in his heavy hand, and invisible to everyone else in the bar, is a small snub-nosed revolver. ‘I could put a hole right through you in the next second,’ he threatens. ‘And I’d love to do it. You won’t be taking any cases from then on.’

  ‘Let him speak, Ron, eh?’ says Reggie. ‘I wanna hear what he’s got to say before you do ’im.’

  Charles’s heart thunders, but he continues smoothly. ‘Firstly, if I drop the case at this stage it will cause ripples. It’s against my professional rules, I’ll be doing it in open court without any reason, the press are here, and the Bar Council is bound to investigate. Chances are I’ll be suspended or ev
en disbarred. I’m no use to you then, am I? I’m the ace up your sleeves, and you can only play me once. You want to discard me? Over this? But let’s say you do. That’ll bring the committal to an end, but it won’t stop the prosecution. It’s got its own head of steam now and it doesn’t matter what strings you pull, it’ll carry on. That just means a different barrister and another committal hearing. What will you achieve by getting me to pull out? You just lose your inside man.’

  The twins look at one another. Then the pressure on Charles’s chest reduces and Reggie speaks. ‘Your suggestion, then?’

  Charles shrugs. ‘Just let me get on with my job. If I’m unsuccessful the boy’ll be committed to stand trial for murder. If he’s convicted, he’ll have been destroyed as a witness, which is really the outcome you want. No one’ll ever listen to him or believe him about the party. Especially now you’ve got everyone lined up on your side including, apparently, the Home Secretary.’ Charles notices a small twitch of Reggie’s lips as he says this, which he interprets as satisfaction. ‘On the other hand, if I’m successful, or if he’s acquitted at trial, the boy’ll be out, and I’m no longer responsible for him.’ Charles lets the implication hang in the air.

  Charles still has no clear idea what he can do to hide Teddy were he to be acquitted and back on the streets, but first things first: the immediate objective has to be to continue with the committal, make a submission of no case to answer, and get Teddy out of the prison system. If he can get to that position, he can work out the rest later. Or so he hopes.

  He looks from one twin to the other. When they were younger he had, like everyone, a lot of trouble telling them apart, and they would often take one another’s identity to confuse people or wind them up. But in the last few years Ronnie’s illness, the pills he takes and the alcohol he abuses have left him heavier and fleshy. His drugged condition, or perhaps merely the excess weight, exacerbate the half-closed droopy look about his eyelids, and his skin has acquired an unhealthy pallor. After ten interminable seconds it appears a decision is taken, as Ronnie’s hand disappears back inside his jacket pocket. Charles realises that he has, again, been holding his breath.