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

by Simon Michael

  ‘I see where you’re coming from,’ says Reggie. ‘And it makes sense. But you better understand us. That boy’s dead. Whether we get ’im in a remand home or on the streets, ’is time’s up. It’s unfortunate, but everyone needs ’im out the way, and that’s what’s going to happen. Don’t get between us and ’im, Charlie or, ace card or not, you’ll be joining him.’

  The twins stand simultaneously but Ronnie has one further contribution to make. He points at Charles threateningly, his forefinger no more than an inch from Charles’s eye. ‘And don’t think we don’t know you tried to lead us off the scent,’ he says.

  Charles watches as the occupants of the bar part to allow the two suited men to thread their way back to the door. He takes deep steady breaths, allowing his racing pulse to slow. He realises that although conversations have resumed in the bar in a semblance of normality, for the last ten minutes everyone present has been keeping a watchful eye on the events in the corner where he still sits. It’s partly self-defence — violence has a tendency to erupt in the vicinity of the Krays, in seconds and with no warning — but also a strange fascination for the two well-dressed young thugs whose control of London’s underworld is somehow becoming part of the new celebrity zeitgeist seeping through the city. Charles throws back the last of the large Scotch he bought for himself and heads back to court.

  At the head of the stairs he meets Peter Bateman.

  ‘OK. This is where we stand —’ begins the young barrister. ‘Jesus, Charles, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Do I? Hungry, I guess. Lunch was disappointing. What’s up?’

  Bateman frowns, scrutinising Charles’s face before continuing. ‘One of my two lost witnesses is apparently on his way back to court. He deals with your client’s presence at the victim’s flat for the days before the murder. I’ve also got Inspector Yates. He’ll give evidence that your client’s fingerprints were found in the victim’s flat and deals with various formalities, like the arrest…’

  Charles waves away the explanation. ‘Don’t worry about it. There’s no dispute that my client was staying in the flat. So if that’s all you’ve got left, you can lead Yates and don’t bother with the other witness. If the boy’s committed to stand trial you can serve that deposition later. And the other witness from the party?’

  Bateman shrugs. ‘Evaporated. No one knows where he is, and I’m not asking for an adjournment to find him. His evidence mirrors that of de Lucca and Peppiatt anyway.’

  ‘Between you and me, Peter, the more of those witnesses you call, the tougher you’re going to make it for yourself.’

  ‘That’s your opinion,’ asserts Bateman, thrusting his chin out bravely, but Charles knows him too well to be taken in; the young barrister’s expression gives him away. ‘I’m going to continue with Yates,’ Bateman continues. ‘If we get close to the end of the afternoon and the last witness hasn’t reappeared I’ll ask the bench to rise early and we’ll see if he’s here by the morning. If not, we can make our closing speeches and call it a day.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ agrees Charles.

  The afternoon proceeds swiftly. Bateman calls DI Yates who takes the magistrates through the arrest, the forensic examination of Mo’s bedsit and Teddy’s arrest. Charles’s cross-examination lasts less than a minute.

  ‘This party was held at Cedra Court, Walthamstow, was it not?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it was.’

  ‘The owner of that property, and the host of the party, was Mr Ronald Kray, isn’t that right?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘There’s a Sicilian gang involved in prostitution in Soho, involving two cousins called Mancuso?’

  ‘I don’t work in Vice, your worships, so I’m not sure.’

  ‘But you’re in the Met’s Murder Squad, aren’t you? Aren’t you investigating the murder of one of the cousins?’

  ‘Not me personally, but some of the team, yes.’

  ‘Thank you. And isn’t it right that Mr Drake was garrotted only one day after Mr Mancuso was stabbed?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know the details of the Mancuso investigation, sir.’

  ‘Can you confirm that an allegation has been made to the police that the man who stabbed Mr Mancuso was in fact Maurice Drake?’

  The inspector turns to the magistrates. ‘I don’t think I should comment on allegations, sir. I’m concerned with what can be proved.’

  Charles addresses Worlock. ‘Sir, I’m not asking the witness to comment on whether such an allegation might be true, only if it is been made. For our purposes, it’s unimportant whether Maurice Drake did stab Mr Mancuso. What is important is whether the Mancusos might have believed he did.’

  Worlock turns to Inspector Yates. ‘Please answer the question, inspector.’

  ‘I’m aware that such an allegation was made, yes.’

  Charles resumes his seat, satisfied.

  Shortly after three o’clock Bateman runs out of evidence and persuades Worlock to rise early to see if the remaining witness attends in the morning. The case is adjourned until then.

  ‘Are you going to the hospital?’ Charles asks Max as they pack up their papers for the afternoon.

  ‘No, I wasn’t going to go this evening. Why? Do you need anything from Teddy?’

  ‘Not at all. I just wanted to alert you. You’ll have noticed the Krays by their absence this afternoon, but we’re still being watched. It’s all out in the open now. They won’t interfere here, but they’re still looking for him. Watch your back.’

  Charles’s footsteps make no noise on the thick carpet as he climbs the staircase towards Patrizia’s suite. They have fallen into a routine over the last few torrid days. Charles races back to Chambers from court — one of the advantages of not having your client in the cells needing reassurance and handholding after court rises — empties his pigeonhole, bolts down a sandwich while dealing with any urgent paperwork and runs across the road to the flat. There he showers and brushes his teeth, changes into clean clothes, and hails a cab. Patrizia usually returns from her press engagements or other meetings in time for dinner in the restaurant or in her room. She will discuss the events planned for the following day with her manager, and he leaves by around nine o’clock. Charles times his arrival at the suite shortly thereafter. During the week neither of them has time for late-night dancing or a club, and so they spend the next several hours in a tangle of sweaty limbs. Tonight Charles is half an hour late, as planned.

  Charles arrives outside the door to the suite. On the floor in the corridor is the tray bearing the remnants of Patrizia’s evening meal awaiting collection by the hotel staff. He hesitates for a moment and then opens the door which, as usual, is left on the latch for him. Sometimes Patrizia has music playing from the wireless but tonight the suite is silent. He crosses the small lobby and steps into the bedroom-cum-living room.

  Patrizia lounges on one of the armchairs which she has moved to face the door, ensuring she’ll be the first thing Charles sees as he enters. Tonight she wears nothing but a black silk robe. Her forearms rest on the chair’s upholstered sides, a half-empty glass in one hand. Her legs are parted and although the angle of her knees and the dim lighting protect her modesty, the pose is an unmistakable invitation. She raises her eyebrows and angles her head towards the clock on the wall to her left, chiding Charles for being late. He notes the champagne bottle by the side of the armchair; almost empty, as he expected.

  Charles kicks the door shut behind him with force, shrugs off his jacket, throws it in an arc over Patrizia’s head so it lands on the bed, and strides towards her without a word.

  ‘Ooh, the Tarzan approach,’ she exclaims. ‘This is different —’ she starts, but Charles hauls her to her feet. She barely has time to drop the champagne flute onto the carpet, spilling its contents, before she is in his arms, held fast, and they are kissing. His hands travel down her back to her bottom and he rucks up the robe to grab a buttock in each hand. Thei
r lips still joined, her hands move from his shoulders and try to break into the gap between their bodies so she can begin to undo his shirt, but he thrusts her away from him, holding her tightly by her upper arms.

  ‘Oh no,’ he growls, ‘not this time. I’m in charge tonight.’

  She half laughs, and he fears for an instant that she’s about to protest, but her face is suffused with arousal and amusement and she’s happy to role-play.

  ‘OK,’ she smiles, ‘and what would you have me —’

  Before she can finish the sentence, Charles grabs the collar of her robe in both hands, one on either side of her chest, and yanks his arms apart. There is a ripping sound as a seam gives way somewhere but he continues to spread his arms wide until the robe is torn off her and flutters in two pieces to the floor.

  ‘Charles! That thing cost a fortune!’

  Charles ignores her, sweeps her off her feet into his arms and carries her to the bed, her red cascade of hair temporarily obscuring her face. He lowers her onto the sheets and she reaches out to him, but he evades her fingers.

  ‘No. Close your eyes and lie still.’

  Charles kneels by the side of the bed, her glorious body beside him, and starts stroking. His hand travels lightly from her shoulders, down her breast, grazing her nipple, to her flat stomach and her abdomen, continuing over her hip and down her thigh as far as her knee. He repeats the movement, and she arches her back to meet his touch, desperate for him to touch her where she burns hottest. Again she tries to get at Charles, and again he sways back out of her reach. His hand travels back up her soft skin, tracing her inner thighs, just skimming her pubic mound but not lingering. He continues to stroke and enflame for a couple of minutes, her breath coming in increasingly short gasps. Then he stops.

  She remains still, awaiting his next touch, a faint sheen of perspiration covering her body, but the next touch doesn’t come. When she opens her eyes, her pupils are dilated so wide that Charles can only see a thin ring of iris around each one. Charles is standing over her, still fully dressed.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, get your fucking clothes off and get inside me,’ she whispers hoarsely.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? What then?’ She frowns, unable to understand. ‘Come on, Charles, what’s going on? I’m lying here naked and ready, and you’re still fully dressed.’

  ‘Something’s come up.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, wryly, ‘and not something I was hoping for. You can tell me all about it in a few minutes.’ She reaches for his trouser belt but he bats away her hands.

  ‘Rochester,’ he says, simply.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rochester,’ he repeats.

  If the subject of Charles’s conversation, straight out of left field, disturbs her, Patrizia’s deepening frown of incomprehension is wholly convincing. But she’s a great actress, Charles reminds himself.

  ‘OK,’ she says, ‘Rochester.’ She withdraws her hands and reaches back to put them under her head with a sigh of exaggerated patience. However, she must have felt too exposed because she brings her arms down again immediately and folds them across her breasts. When she speaks again she still sounds genuinely puzzled. ‘What about it? Or is it a him?’

  ‘I mentioned to you the other day that my client was being sought by some very dangerous people.’

  ‘Yes, you did. So?’

  ‘So, I mentioned that we would have to move him from Rochester.’

  ‘Did you? If you say so.’

  ‘And then there was a disturbance at the remand home. Other young men looking for him.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’ she asks, as the amused patience drains from her face.

  ‘He was never at Rochester. No one ever thought he was at Rochester. Except you.’

  Patrizia’s face hardens completely and she stares at Charles for a moment before swinging her legs off the bed and gathering the robe off the floor. She struggles to put it on but it’s ruined and offers no protection. She clutches it to herself.

  ‘Now, let me get this straight,’ she says. ‘You’re saying that you told me where this boy was, and then someone tried to get at him. So you conclude I must’ve told someone. Is that right?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  He watches as a series of emotions crosses her face, like clouds speeding along a sunlit valley. The first is faint amusement, followed swiftly by astonishment that he could make such an accusation and, finally, gathering cold fury. Jesus, thinks Charles, she’s good! This woman will win Oscars one day.

  ‘And you say the boy was never at … where was it? Rochester? So you were testing me? You didn’t trust me?’

  ‘You didn’t tell me your manager was the head of a Mafia family. Angelo “The Gentle Don” Bruno. Isn’t that his nickname? Or that he’s in negotiations with the Krays. Casinos, I’m informed.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ she spits, ‘he’s my manager. I have nothing to do with his other business interests. He got me my first film, and he’s lining me up for the next.’

  ‘That may be the truth. But it’s not the whole truth. You didn’t think to tell me? Even when I was talking about the Krays, and in the context of this very case?’

  ‘I said nothing to anyone about your damn case.’

  ‘How can I believe that?’

  She pauses. ‘You don’t believe me?’ Charles shakes his head. ‘Then get out,’ she says.

  ‘You’ve been playing me.’ His voice is quiet and sad.

  ‘Get out!’ she screams.

  Charles stares at her for a few seconds, immobile, and then gathers his jacket off the bed. Patrizia wheels away from him and reaches for the Scotch decanter by the bed. Charles keeps his eyes on her — the decanter is heavy were she to throw it — but she pours a large drink and gulps it down. Then she puts the glass back on the bedside table with a heavy clunk and, patience evidently exhausted, strides around the bed, opens the door to the lobby and then that to the corridor. She stands by the door, furious, naked and magnificent, waiting for him.

  ‘Did it occur to you what would happen? To the boy?’ he asks from beside the bed. ‘Maybe you are a killer, after all,’ he says, reminding her of their first ever conversation at the Prospect. She doesn’t reply. ‘And he was a non-combatant. An innocent.’

  ‘Nobody’s innocent.’

  Later, Charles will return to this opaque answer and wonder at its significance; who, or what, Patrizia meant. He takes a deep breath, slips on his jacket, and walks towards the door.

  ‘I thought you loved me,’ she says softly as Charles passes her.

  Charles halts and turns to face her. For a moment he thinks this is yet more manipulation, but her face is calm and resigned. The size of the lobby forces them into close proximity and her scent — perfume, alcohol and sex — washes over him again. They are so close, he could lean forward and kiss her again, and he wants to, more than anything. Uncertainty creeps into his mind; could it be mere coincidence, and not betrayal?

  Suddenly part of him no longer cares if Patrizia did betray him and Teddy; he wants to rewind the last few seconds, withdraw the accusation and join that incredible body on the bed. Another part of him wonders if he’s casting away something precious, something that can never be restored, and that he will rue this moment for the rest of his life. But he knows he has no choice. He can’t trust her.

  He looks into her face and speaks with total sincerity. ‘I do love you. With every fibre of my being.’ As he hears himself speak, he registers the fact that he is saying these important words to Patrizia, and meaning them; something he couldn’t do with Sally.

  Patrizia inhales sharply as if about to shout at him again and raises her hand. For an instant Charles thinks he’s about to be slapped. He controls the impulse to wince and holds her stare, an odd stare he can’t decipher. Then her body sags, silk replacing steel, and her demeanour changes once more. Her hand lands softly on his cheek and she caresses him.

  ‘Why is everyth
ing always so complicated?’ she asks, expecting no reply. ‘Goodbye, Charles.’

  She steers him out into the corridor and shuts the heavy door behind him with a soft click.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tuesday, 28 July

  ‘You look tired, Charles.’

  Charles has just entered the juvenile court. Max Wiseberg has been waiting for him by the door.

  ‘You’ve looked knackered for the last few days, but not like this. You were energised. Now you just look exhausted. And unhappy.’

  Charles isn’t surprised. It was only just gone eleven when he reached the flat at Fetter Lane where he took a quick shower and went straight to bed, but he lay awake most of the night, sleep eluding him until it was already getting light and the noise of traffic was building towards the rush hour.

  ‘That’s very perceptive of you, Max,’ he replies drily. ‘Especially for someone who’s three-quarters blind. Don’t worry; it won’t affect my performance.’

  ‘Hey, easy tiger. I’m not criticising; I’m just worried for you.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Very well. Decision about the mother?’ says Max, a whiff of disgruntlement still in his voice.

  ‘Is she here?’

  ‘Downstairs, sitting with a probation officer. I’ve not said anything to the prosecution.’

  Charles shakes his head. ‘No. I’ve been turning it over and over. There’s no point calling her. If the prosecution’s witnesses are sufficiently damaged Worlock will throw the case out. On the other hand if he thinks a properly instructed jury might believe their evidence, he’ll commit for trial whatever she says. She can only confirm what’s obvious from the photographs anyway, and there’s no point exposing her to potentially damaging cross-examination.’

  ‘What do you want me to tell her? She’s been asking where Teddy is. I’ve been stalling, but I’m not comfortable doing it. She’s not seen him for weeks. Whatever was going on at home she seems worried frantic about him, and I’m sure it’s genuine.’