The Mafia boss has not paid Charles any attention thus far and is still leaning towards one of the businessmen next to him, speaking softly and pointing at the text in one of the documents on the table. Now however he turns his head towards Charles. He is a thickset good-looking man, perhaps in his mid-sixties, with a receding hairline, large brown eyes and a similar olive complexion to that possessed by Charles himself.
‘Yes?’ he replies mildly.
‘You. I know who you are,’ says Charles drunkenly, the suggestion of a challenge in his voice.
‘And I know who you are, my inebriated friend,’ replies Bruno, smiling. ‘So that makes us quits.’
‘Where is Miss Conti?’ demands Charles.
‘Miss Conti?’ asks Bruno. His question doesn’t imply he doesn’t know the actress; it expresses surprise at Charles’s question.
‘Yes, Patrizia Conti.’
‘My niece has gone to Los Angeles,’ replies Bruno, ‘if it’s any business of yours.’
‘Your niece?’
‘Yes. My sister’s daughter. My niece.’
‘Oh,’ says Charles, stupidly. ‘Of course. I get it.’
The room starts spinning and Charles feels his knees beginning to buckle. In attempting to keep himself upright he staggers into one of the men standing next to him, and finds himself being supported on both sides.
‘Was that all?’ asks Reggie.
Charles is now having trouble both focusing on the people in the room and getting his mouth to work. ‘No … no…’ he starts. ‘That boy…’
‘Teddy?’ says Ronnie, speaking for the first time, his thick lips distorted into sneer.
Charles forces his head round and frowns at Ronnie Kray.
‘Yes, Teddy. You killed him.’
Ronnie laughs, a short bark, and stands up. He advances on Charles threateningly. Charles finds his arms held fast by the men at his sides. Without warning Ronnie’s right fist swings and connects hard with Charles’s forehead. It’s a powerful blow and Charles can do nothing to mitigate its effects. The shock travels all the way down his spine and his legs; he feels it in his feet and his knees give way completely. He remains held upright by his minders long enough for another blow to hit him on the other side of his face, just below his right cheekbone. Then the minders drop him, and Charles folds up in a heap on the floor. Ronnie’s final words echo around Charles’s skull as if delivered from the bottom of a dustbin.
‘You were told not to get in the way.’
Ronnie waves at Charles’s almost unconscious form dismissively, and Charles is hauled to his feet. He feels himself being dragged out of the room, his toes skidding along polished boards, and then he is flying through the air. He doesn’t remember landing. One second he feels his hair fluttering pleasantly in the cool breeze; the next he is enveloped in warm, comfortable darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Friday, 31 July
‘Morning, sir,’ says Dennis, the concierge-cum-caretaker, cheerily from behind his desk as Charles descends the final steps from the flat to the lobby. ‘Seen this?’
Dennis is reading a newspaper which he spins round for Charles to see.
‘Didn’t know you read The Times, Dennis. I thought you were a Sketch or Mirror man.’
‘So I am normally, but I couldn’t resist the headline. Or this.’ Dennis points with a grubby fingernail at the “Letters to the Editor”. Charles leans over the desk and realises it’s Boothby’s challenge to the Mirror: publish and be damned.
‘Hmm. I guess it’ll all blow over pretty quickly,’ says Charles, unable to come up with any other platitude and anxious to get away.
‘Don’t you believe it, sir. Boothby’s all bluster. The papers’ve got that photo, ain’t they? And that’s what they’re for, innit?’
Charles, now halfway towards the front doors, isn’t paying attention. ‘What who’s for?’ he says, spinning round and shouting while walking backwards.
‘The Fourth Estate. Calling the Establishment to account.’
‘You don’t read Edmund Burke, do you, Dennis?’ replies Charles, surprised. Dennis’s conversation never usually runs further than football, the dogs, his daughter and his grandchildren.
‘By me bedside, sir, by me bedside,’ replies Dennis, cheerfulness not quite hiding sarcasm.
‘Well, we should have a pint and a chat sometime, then,’ offers Charles, realising that he’d underestimated and offended Dennis and should make amends.
‘Well, I’d enjoy that, sir,’ says Dennis, with apparent sincerity. It is only then that he notices the suitcase in Charles’s hand and the fact that Charles isn’t wearing a suit. ‘You off on holiday, sir?’ he asks.
‘Yes, Dennis. I need a break to clear my head.’
‘Do you want your post forwarded then?’
‘No, thanks. No one’s going to be writing anything to me that won’t wait a few days.’
The bored chambermaid opens what was Patrizia’s door and allows Charles to precede her into the suite. She doesn’t believe his excuse for getting in, that he lost a cufflink and thinks it might be there. The room’s been cleaned on half a dozen occasions since he was last seen at the hotel and it would have been found by now. But he’s posh, and for all she knows he’s that actress’s fiancé or something, so she’s prepared to let him poke about for a moment as long as he doesn’t hold her up.
Charles isn’t expecting to find Patrizia. He believed Bruno’s statement that she’d returned to America, and he’s not really sure why he’s here. The room is, of course, immaculate, ready for its next high net worth occupant. Everything that made it special, Patrizia’s clothes thrown over the chaise longues, the books, bottles, posters and other knick-knacks she acquired during her stay in London and which she used to decorate the suite — in short, everything that made the room hers — has gone.
Charles pretends to look under items of furniture as he remembers the highlights of the affair, Patrizia standing naked in the bathroom doorway, a glass of champagne in each hand; Patrizia dancing round the room in her underwear; Patrizia laughing helplessly at a rerun of I Love Lucy on the TV; Patrizia looking frightened but defiant by the door. He imagines he can still smell the actress’s perfume on the soft furnishings, but he realises that it’s just that: imagination.
He senses the chambermaid becoming restive by the door and he departs, collects his bag from the porter’s desk downstairs where he left it temporarily, and takes a cab straight to Waterloo for the boat train.
There he boards the Flèche d’Or; six hours later, he is checking in at a hotel in Paris.
He spends a week allowing his battered face and bruised ribs to heal, eating well, wandering round the art galleries and museums and trying to forget Patrizia Conti and her betrayal of both him and the damaged boy she never met. While he’s away he also catches sight of the Sunday Mirror edition of 9 August 1964, containing its total capitulation: a grovelling apology to Lord Boothby for having libelled him, and the statement that the newspaper has paid the lying peer the record sum of £40,000 in libel damages.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Friday, 14 August
The end of August is characterised by night frosts and gale force winds. The gardens in the Temple are deserted as gusts of rain sweep drifts of crisping leaves into the corners, and the only lawyers in sight scurry across shiny cobbles under umbrellas bent by the swirling wind.
Charles climbs the steps to Chambers, his hat brim pulled low over his eyes, and fails to notice Peter Bateman descending towards him.
‘Charles!’ exclaims Bateman. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get you for days. None of the clerks seemed to know where you were or when you were coming back. I’ve even left a letter for you at Fetter Lane.’
Charles reaches into a jacket pocket and takes out an unopened envelope. ‘That’d be this, then. I was going to open it at my desk along with the rest of the stuff in my pigeonhole.’
‘Where have you bee
n?’ repeats Bateman, slightly exasperated.
‘Paris. I needed a few days away.’
‘Aren’t you interested in the result?’
‘Result? Oh, the vote to kick me out.’
Charles has heard from Barbara that, after yet another delay, the meeting finally occurred the previous week, but she wasn’t able (or, perhaps, willing) to give him the result. Nonetheless, he expects to be given a letter containing a Notice to Quit as soon as he enters the clerks’ room. Oddly, however, he can’t seem to get very worked up about it. He has no idea what he’ll do when told to leave Chambers. He knows that the prospects of finding yet another set of chambers prepared to take him are slim, despite his burgeoning practice; he’s tainted so far as the Bar is concerned. And a barrister without Chambers is, well, no longer a barrister.
Yet over the last few days he’s been surprised to find that he is less bothered about it than he might have expected. Like Harry Robeson a year or so earlier, he has felt the weight of the Krays’ millstone around his neck for too long and wonders if life might not be much simpler were he to be free of it. So he climbs the steps towards Chambers and his fate with a degree of detachment.
Charles turns and brandishes Bateman’s letter. ‘Shall I open it or do you want to tell me?’
The young barrister shakes his head in puzzlement. ‘You really are the most bloody difficult chap I’ve ever met,’ he concludes with a half-smile.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ replies Charles with an easy smile. ‘So, am I a Wandering Jew yet again?’
Bateman smiles. ‘No, Charles, you’re not. The meeting went on until nearly midnight, but you kept your seat. By the skin of your teeth.’
Charles laughs out loud. ‘Really? How the fuck did you manage that?’
‘I didn’t. Contrary to expectation, the younger members of Chambers supported you. It was strange; an almost complete division between old guard and new. But it turns out you’re more popular than anyone imagined.’
‘I’ll be damned.’
‘Very probably. We had a hung vote the first time round so Huw invited Barbara in for her views. She said all the clerks wanted you to stay. They all like you and, more importantly, on balance, although you attract all sorts of trouble, they think you’re an asset to Chambers. You’re the future, God help us! So Huw exercised his casting vote in your favour. But you don’t seem that bothered.’
Charles shrugs. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Perhaps I’m not destined for a long career at the Bar and Bench after all.’
‘You’re not going to resign, are you? After all this?’
‘No. I don’t know what else I’d do and, like everyone else, I still have to eat. But I tell you, the shine has well and truly worn off. Let’s catch up over a pint sometime soon.’
The two men part, Bateman for court and Charles to empty his pigeonhole and prioritise the inevitable backlog. In the clerks’ room Charles senses a degree of warmth towards him he hasn’t noticed before, and after embarrassing all of them with an impromptu speech on the theme of how grateful he is for their support, he scurries up the old wooden staircase to his room and shuts the door.
He realises he has missed the comfortable room with its shabby leather furniture, threadbare rug and walls lined with law books. Charles decides against a whisky and, in a change from his usual preference for jazz, switches on his new transistor radio, bought on impulse and duty-free on the return journey from Paris. He rotates the dial back and forth until he locates 1520 kHz and the sound of Radio Caroline. He settles down to work, accompanied by the Rolling Stones and “It’s All Over Now”, which seems oddly apt.
One of the clerks has kindly cleared Charles’s pigeonhole, presumably because it was becoming too full, and there is a large pile of paperwork awaiting Charles in the centre of his desk. He weeds out and bins the circulars and other dross, and then comes to a large white envelope marked “Private and Confidential”. Inside is a letter from Dr Felix.
7 August 1964
Dear Mr Holborne,
Mr Wiseberg wrote to me to explain the events following the end of the court case. Teddy’s death came as a dreadful shock to me, although I am sure there is no comparison to the shock you and Mr Wiseberg must have felt on discovering his body. Of course we all knew he was a potential suicide risk, particularly after he had already made a serious attempt, but I cannot help but wonder if opening the vault of his memories as I did made matters worse rather than better. That is a burden I shall continue to bear, although I still believe strongly that hypnotherapy can be of immense help to young victims of sexual abuse.
After my second preliminary report was dictated, Teddy and I had two further sessions, both of which were recorded on a tape machine with Teddy’s consent. The transcripts had still to be typed by the time of his death. However in the second of those sessions Teddy was able to access memories relating to the events following the party, and although I have been told not to provide a formal report I thought you might like to see a section of the transcript. If you want a copy of the entire transcript, which records almost two hours in the consultation room, please let me know. For the present I have only enclosed the pages I think you will find of interest in your role as Teddy’s barrister.
Yours sincerely,
Dr Audrey Felix
Charles takes out of the envelope four stapled pages. He settles back in his chair and reads. The first page starts in the middle of a sentence, and is clearly part of a larger document.
help you relax even more deeply. In a moment I’m going to ask you to open your eyes and I’ll pass my hand in front of your eyes. Then I will let my hand drop and when I do I want you to let your eyes close again, and as you do, you will be ten times more relaxed than you were just now. Feel that relaxation go all the way down to your feet. Every word I say helps guides you into that deep relaxation. Very good. You’re doing very well, Teddy. And again, let your eyes open, very good, and close again with my hand. You’re going deeper and deeper into your relaxation, and every time you breathe out, the relaxation becomes deeper and more complete. You may hear noise outside in the corridor or from the kitchen, but every sound you hear takes you down further into your relaxation. My voice will be your guide as you slide down deeper and deeper. Very good. Your body is now completely relaxed. When I lift up your hand it will feel like a heavy weight, a sandbag or a wet cloth, and it will flop back down onto your leg. Yes, very good. And each time I do that your body will relax even more, deeper and deeper. Good. Once more. Excellent. Your body is now completely relaxed and we’re going to use that to enable you to relax mentally as well. I want you to count down, out loud, from twenty, a number with each breath, and each number you say will calm your mind further still. By the time you get to fifteen or maybe fourteen, you can relax those numbers completely out of your mind and you won’t need to count any further as there is nothing more to be counted. So start counting back slowly from twenty…
Twenty…
Very good, with each number you’re doubling your relaxation… Deeper down.
Nineteen…
Very good… You’re relaxing more and more, sink way down, deep down.
Eighteen…
That’s wonderful. You can now relax the numbers out of your mind. You don’t need them any more, they’ve just drifted away as you are completely and totally relaxed. All gone. Every word I say helps you deeper. In a moment I’m going to snap my fingers, and you will immediately be back in the moment after you left the party we have already spoken about. You will be completely safe and completely relaxed, but you will be back in that moment. [Snap] You are there now. What can you see?
We’re walking through the streets. It’s dark. I see shops, pubs and stalls. They’re all closed. It smells.
What of?
Fish. It smells of fish.
Who is with you?
Mo.
Is it cold?
A bit, but it’s nice. Nice to be outside in the clean air.
What are you wearing?
My new clothes, but the shirt’s ripped.
Is anything worrying you?
My bottom’s sore. I want a bath. And I haven’t got my St Christopher.
Where is your St Christopher?
Mo’s wearing it.
Where are you going?
To the tall house on Middlesex Street.
I want you to imagine you’re there at the tall house. Are you there?
Yes, going into the bedroom.
What can you see?
Not much. It’s dark, but there’s some light coming through the curtains from the street.
Does Mo turn on the light?
No. He’s drunk.
What are you doing?
I’m doing my teeth and taking my clothes off.
Where’s Mo?
He’s here. Pretending not to look at me, like always.
Has he done anything to you?
Not him.
What’s happening now?
I’m getting into bed.
What’s Mo doing?
He’s making tea. He’s trying to make it up to me, but I don’t want his tea.
What are you doing?
I’m facing the wall and pretending to go to sleep.
What’s happening now?
Mo’s just fallen onto the bed.
Is he touching you?
No. He’s already asleep.
Corrupted: Murder and cover-up at the heart of government (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 32