The Silent Ones

by William Brodrick

  Flipping shut his pad, Robert checked his watch. It was almost time to vex another troubled soul. He’d invited his mother to a Japanese restaurant.

  ‘I’m chasing down another story,’ he said to Taylor, standing up. ‘You’ll be the first to know if I get anywhere.’

  20

  The interview room was bare save for a table and two metal chairs bolted to the floor. Anselm sat down, knitting his fingers. Facing him – pallid and drawn – was Edmund Littlemore. His hands were knitted, too. Anyone peering through the reinforced glass panel in the door would have thought the two men had begun with a prayer. Dismayed by the very idea – in these circumstances and in this place, a Cambridge Police Station – Anselm quickly folded his arms. Appearances matter, even to the shamed.

  ‘You’ve removed the beard,’ he observed, managing to compress all his indignation into a trivial detail.

  ‘That was John Joe Collins.’

  ‘So this is the real you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shorn of pretensions?’

  Anselm had interviewed many men accused of serious offences. As a barrister he’d flicked through the court papers, abstracted from the human cost of the contents, wondering how to build a strong defence … sometimes with an eye on lunch. For the first time, Anselm was linked to the accused, viscerally aware of what they were both alleged to have done. On arriving, he’d been humiliated by the incomprehension engraved upon the faces of the desk sergeant and the officer in charge of the case, a hard-looking guy who’d come all the way from London. Reluctantly – and in clipped phrases – the officer had explained how things stood; he’d told Anselm how long he could have. Anselm stared at his would-be accomplice, at the white skin exposed by the removal of the beard. Unmasked, Littlemore looked ill.

  ‘You turned down the help of a solicitor?’

  ‘I don’t need one.’

  ‘You’ve refused to answer all questions?’

  ‘They asked all the wrong ones.’

  ‘And now you’ve been charged?’

  ‘It was inevitable.’

  There were no windows. Beneath the harsh tube lighting, Littlemore was barely recognisable, difficult to link with the very different man who’d split wood wondering if the boomerang of faith might come back. A distinct lack of emotion marked Anselm’s voice:

  ‘You want to speak to me?’

  ‘And no one else.’

  Anselm had thought he knew John Joe Collins. He’d understood his struggle with doubt and the regret. And when he first realised that John Joe Collins was a Lambertine who’d gone missing, he understood the use of a false name and the running away, because people in a crisis often do strange things – foolish moves that can only make matters worse. He’d struggled to make sense of Edmund Littlemore’s predicament never quite realising that it wasn’t his job to understand anything; that he should have seen things – not for the first time – a little like Bede. He glanced at a bucket in the corner, wondering if crouching to be sick might break the flow of conversation.

  ‘I’m not your confidant,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve nothing to confide.’

  ‘I’m not going to be your confessor.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to confess.’

  Something in Anselm rebelled. He leaned forward, unleashing his disgust. ‘I’m warning you, say anything about Harry Brandwell and I’ll repeat it to the officer in the case and at trial if so required.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Littlemore, with sudden violence, ‘because you can tell them I said I was innocent. And I am.’

  Suppressing his emotion, Littlemore set his jaw. He was ready to fight and, seeing that resolve, Anselm suffered a flicker of doubt. Could Harry have lied? Had Martin Brandwell pressured his grandson to blame someone else? After asking those two questions of himself, Edmund Littlemore suddenly looked vulnerable and frightened. His eyes were burning with the terror of a man who’d found himself locked up and questioned by people whose natural repugnance for what he was alleged to have done could not be concealed. Subject to the provisions of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984 and the Codes of Practice (as amended), he’d been treated like a beast. In ancient and simpler jurisdictions, Edmund Littlemore would be dead by now, stoned or burned, depending on local mores.

  ‘I can’t help you, Edmund. It’s too late for that.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Now is the time.’

  Anselm went quite rigid. ‘Time for what?’

  ‘The most important legal fight of your life.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I need someone who looks beyond the evidence … someone who won’t be tied down by the limitations of a trial.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘I want you to represent me in court.’

  After a long pause Anselm laughed. ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘There’s more to this case than you realise,’ said Littlemore, whispering. ‘There’s more at stake. It reaches beyond Harry. He’s the accidental key. Crimes have been hidden behind a wall of silence. Someone has to bring it down. That’s why I came to you. You can do it through this trial. This is our one chance.’

  ‘Our chance?’

  Dunstan and the Prior had been right: Littlemore had planned everything from his arrival to this interview. He’d prepared every step. Carrington, his associate, came vividly to mind, the CEO without the backing of his board: There are people occupying positions of considerable trust and influence who do not want this man to be found … Someone, however, must intervene, regardless of such misguided … sensitivities.

  But who were these ‘people’? Whatever the answer Edmund Littlemore was the central figure in a baroque plot to outmanoeuvre them. And he, in turn, was looking to Anselm.

  ‘If you fail,’ said Littlemore, ‘then it’s not only Harry who’ll suffer. There are many others. They are the Silent Ones. They live and die in their own private hell. You can take the first step that might help them find their voice. They’ve been lied to and cheated. Their goodwill has been exploited. They’ve said yes to a cover-up when they should have said no. You can do something to change all that.’

  Anselm was no longer inclined to laugh: ‘Edmund … have you lost your mind?’

  ‘No. This is real. I wouldn’t have come this far if I thought there was any other way. There isn’t. Every ordinary avenue has been blocked. All that’s open now is the extraordinary … which no one will expect.’

  Littlemore was either mad or duplicitous beyond anything Anselm had ever encountered. But what if he was telling the truth? Anselm had to take him seriously, if only to understand what had happened between them: ‘Why not approach me directly? All you had to do was pick up the phone.’

  ‘Because you wouldn’t have listened. You’d have refused to get involved. The only way to get your attention was to bring you into the problem.’

  ‘Compromise me?’

  ‘I’d say narrow your options. Now you have a choice.’

  He was right about the refusal. Faced with a request in like terms six months ago, Anselm would have pointed at the door. Now his attention was rapt.

  ‘Don’t you wish you could do something to change the past … how we’re seen?’ asked Littlemore. ‘Do something to make up for the abuse and the secrecy on our side of the fence? Claim back some … integrity? I know it’s easier to turn the other way and thank God it’s got nothing to do with you … but I’ve taken that option away. Now you have a chance to get involved and change things for the better.’ Littlemore’s eyes darted towards the glass panel. There were footsteps in the corridor. Voices. ‘From now on I won’t say another word, either to you or the court. I’m joining those who’ve been silenced and it’ll put the trial on the front page … but only if you represent me. All you have to do is find out why Harry is prepared to blame an innocent man. That’s the thread. Follow it. You’ll reach the Silent Ones. This is your way – our way – of making a difference.’

  Edmund
Littlemore stopped talking. The silence in the room was like a kind of darkness and Anselm was left groping for meaning and direction. Just then the interview door opened. An officer leaned inside:

  ‘Time’s up.’

  In a stupor Anselm rose. On reaching the corridor he turned.

  ‘I can’t do what you ask,’ he managed. ‘It’s simply not possible.’

  But Littlemore didn’t even move. He was like a statue on a grave.

  A second officer pointed down the corridor: ‘This way, please.’

  Once outside, Anselm felt a sudden chill. His brow was wet with anxiety. He walked aimlessly, rehearsing what he’d just been told, not daring to believe it, not daring to disbelieve it. Reaching a junction, he stopped as if he’d struck a lamppost.

  He’d forgotten to ask Littlemore why he left Boston.

  And he’d forgotten to ask about Sierra Leone.

  21

  The Scriptorium was cool. A shaft of sunlight fell upon Anselm, joining him to Dunstan’s tidy desk. The Prior, head down and seated by the panelled wall, seemed more of an observer than a participant. Having listened to Anselm’s report, he’d consulted Dunstan alone. Having listened to Dunstan, he’d convened another conference and this one promised to be as unhelpful as the first.

  ‘Do you believe him?’ asked Dunstan, one bony finger resting on the space bar of the typewriter.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I believe.’

  Anselm had taken refuge in one certainty: he’d left the Bar; he wouldn’t be going back into court. The only practical issue was the restoration of Larkwood’s name. A public statement was required to explain how the community had made an error of judgement. He’d prepared a draft text and brought it with him.

  ‘I didn’t trust him from the moment I set eyes on him,’ said Dunstan, gracelessly. Proved right so far, he wasn’t inclined to be magnanimous. He’d chosen a cherry-red cravat for the confrontation. ‘It takes years of practice and experience.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Seeing through people.’

  Anselm sighed. Dunstan seemed to reach for the Angostura bitters:

  ‘I shared an office with Blunt, you know.’

  This was a new one. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Always knew he was bent.’

  The sun had shifted onto Dunstan himself and his glasses had turned almost black. He cut a sad figure. Denied preferment in the post-war Service, he’d gone back to Cambridge to teach Middle English, tapping out monographs on the mysticism of Margery Kempe. While contemporaries – and competitors – were elected as Fellows, appointed Readers and awarded Chairs, Dunstan had remained on the lower rungs of the academic ladder. He’d discovered Larkwood – a cynic might say conveniently – at roughly the hour when the ladder itself had been taken away: enforced retirement had been the door to a late and uneasy vocation. The community had paid dearly for his dashed expectations.

  ‘Cultured man, Blunt,’ he went on, pressing the space bar. ‘But he helped Stalin. Les extrêmes se touchent, I suppose. They covered up the mess until seventy-nine. I’m told the King knew back in forty-eight.’

  Anselm sighed again. Dunstan was half smiling.

  ‘You have been seduced,’ he said, after another oily thud. ‘You’ve been lured into wondering whether you’re the only man alive who can solve this case. He’s dangled a subject of immense importance before your eyes, daring you to turn away. You’re forgetting this Arschloch was shifted around because he’s always been a problem. Carrington buried his head in the sand and now it’s time to face the consequences.’

  Anselm opened the press release and then closed it again.

  ‘Forget the Silent Ones,’ advised Dunstan. ‘They don’t exist. Littlemore’s played you like a fiddle. He set out to exploit a weakness.’

  ‘Which is?’ asked Anselm.

  ‘A readiness to trust … to the point of being—’

  ‘Credulous?’ supplied Anselm.

  Dunstan savoured the word as if Anselm had fed him medicine with a spoon. Which wasn’t entirely surprising. When Anselm had canvassed the possibility with a journalist that goodness could survive beneath any heap of moral wreckage, he’d been called naive. Dunstan had lapped up the entire paragraph.

  ‘Look,’ said Dunstan, trying to be patient, ‘if Harry Brandwell is just one among many … why hasn’t Littlemore said that to the police? Why hasn’t Carrington?’

  Anselm had asked himself the same question. ‘Because they either can’t prove it or they’re trapped in some way, unable to reveal what they know – like Fraser. Which explains why they came to me.’

  ‘All right then, Harry is one among many. Why didn’t he say so? He’s told the police everything else.’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Why blame Littlemore?’

  ‘To protect someone he daren’t accuse.’

  Dunstan groaned. ‘It’s that bang to the head. You’re not thinking clearly. Let’s take things slowly from the beginning. Littlemore runs from the police. He tells Carrington why. They’re both in serious trouble: Littlemore for what he’s done, Carrington for what he’s failed to do. How do they avoid the fallout?’ Dunstan waited, allowing Anselm to focus his mind. ‘This plan is the answer. They’ve turned to the monk who believes in Man. Littlemore told you a story that no one else would believe.’

  ‘But why me?’

  ‘He’s chasing a rogue verdict.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The allure of reputation, dear boy. He seeks to exploit yours.’

  ‘Reputation?’ Anselm shook his head. ‘I’m the corrupt lawyer who tried to silence the defendant’s victim. Who’d believe anything I say?’

  ‘You remain the man who’s solved cases the courts had left behind. You have a reputation for finding justice in dark places.’ Dunstan’s glasses glinted as he shifted forward. ‘If you stand up for Littlemore, there’s a chance the jury will listen.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘They might be prepared to look past the evidence.’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘How about trust a trustworthy man? It’s happened before.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Have you forgotten already? When you argued that a vagrant from Boston should be offered a home at Larkwood.’

  Dunstan almost smirked, knowing he’d timed the rejoinder perfectly. He looked away, drawing Anselm’s irritation to the surface.

  ‘Maybe I am naive but in this instance it doesn’t matter. I’m not going back into court. The only outstanding question is our role in the mess to date. I’ve prepared a statement for the press.’

  Anselm held it out towards Dunstan and the Prior but neither of them reacted.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Anselm, uneasily. ‘Am I missing something?’

  The Prior, until now motionless, nodded gravely.

  ‘You’re missing the obvious,’ he said, helpfully. ‘Just because you’ve left the Bar doesn’t mean you can’t go back into court. The only question is whether you ought to … in these particular circumstances.’ He let his words crackle between them like burning furniture. ‘You can’t hide behind monastic conventions or social expectations, though in the present case, I rather wish you could. Larkwood’s rules of enclosure protect a way of life but you have a role beyond the enclosure … beyond the protection of rules. We made that decision a long time ago. You can’t come running home when you find yourself in a dangerous place.’

  Anselm fidgeted with his press release. It had been well crafted. It was terse. ‘Aren’t you going to call Carrington?’

  ‘What will he say to me that Littlemore hasn’t said to you?’

  ‘I have to take this request seriously?’

  ‘We all have to. But you’re the one who has to make a decision. I can only point from the sidelines.’

  ‘Then point, because I don’t know what to do.’

  The Prior went to the window as if to get his bearings from the sky. ‘If you think tha
t Dunstan is right, then you should withdraw at once. Littlemore and Carrington can find someone else to trick and cheat. On the other hand, if you think Littlemore has told you the truth, then you’ll need a good reason to walk away from what has already happened.’

  Anselm recalled Clapham Common and how he’d longed to stay there, disengaged from the messiness of decisions, the world going round and round. When he’d tried to step off it he got knocked out. He said to the Prior: ‘If I get it wrong, then we’ll never recover as a community.’

  ‘No, we won’t.’

  ‘Neither will you,’ said Dunstan.

  The Prior was squinting at the sun. ‘Take three days. I’ll be waiting between the two pillars after Vespers.’

  22

  The Geisha Garden was tucked away down a side street off Shaftesbury Avenue. There were orange lanterns above each table. Bamboo screens created intimate compartments. A long ink painting of cypress trees with herons in flight covered one wall. Calligraphy on silk banners fluttered as the waitress swept silently over the matted floor. She was dressed in a black kimono.

  ‘The obi is tied in the taiko style,’ she replied, answering Robert and pointing to the drum of material tied on her back. ‘To me it’s just a fancy knot, like.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ Robert had to ask.

  ‘Manchester.’

  It was perfect. The geisha was a Lancashire lass. She looked like one thing but she was another. She was appropriately complex. Like Robert’s mother. Robert had been rehearsing the sight of her in Taylor’s arms; he’d been picking over their plan to bring Taylor closer to Robert, and, finally, he’d come to accept what had been obvious from the moment he peered from behind that white van: he’d lived a substantial part of his life among false appearances. And with that surrender, a strange insecurity had entered his bloodstream. Nothing was what it seemed. Even simple remembrances were under question, if only to reinstate them. There was anger, too, but not because of any betrayal or breach of trust – that just made him sad and confused – but because of the swiftness to celebrate, coupled to the idea that Taylor or anyone else might seek intimacy by stealth, exploiting Robert’s vulnerability in the aftermath of his father’s death. The move wasn’t simply crass; it failed to take his grief seriously. It reduced his dad’s passing to an opportunity.