"Rubbish. He's just worried about Kay. And I want her kept out of it too. Edgar knows that - he's trying to protect both of us-"
"Funny way of showing it."
"Suppose it all came out? What good would that do? Gives me an extra reason for being mad enough to kill Faberge, that's all."
"And you didn't kill him?"
"Lewis, I just told you. That's exactly what happened. When I blacked out Faberge was only too alive-"
"Okay, okay - I had to ask, that's all." He sat down and hitched up his trousers so not to spoil the creases. He avoided looking at me. I knew he thought I was lying. After a moment or two he scratched his head and said, "It's a tough one, Sam, but what worries me as much as anything are the rumours flying around."
"What rumours?"
"That you're a crook, a villain with your fingers in all sorts of pies, none of them legal." He shrugged, "It's bad, Sam. It's like someone's started a whispering campaign against you-"
"That's been going on for months. That Apex are going broke, that the tables are fixed at the casinos, Christ, I've had to live with that for-"
"But you're in here now and it looks even worse. Tell you what I've done. Commissioned a firm of private detectives to look into it - try to locate the source of the rumours. Naturally it's expensive but-"
"Forget the expense."
He grinned. "That's what I said. Winner Harris is in trouble. We've got to help out, no matter what it costs. Sort the money out later. So stay cool, Sam - we'll beat this yet." He looked at his watch, "I must go now, but I'll be back at the end of the week. And try not to worry - I'm working full time to get you out of this mess."
I suppose his breezy optimism buoyed me up for a while, but by nine o'clock it had evaporated. Nine o'clock is when you're locked up for the night. I felt very depressed - really at the bottom of the pit. I tried to talk myself out of it by saying that things couldn't get worse. And that was a mistake. They got worse the very next day, when a receiver was appointed at Apex Holdings. We ran a bank overdraft like most other businesses, and the bankers had a charge on the assets of Apex as their security. The bank borrowing was well covered by assets and there was nothing to worry about in normal circumstances. But these weren't normal circumstances. The bank had panicked because of the bad publicity and had appointed a receiver over our heads. It was the beginning of the end for Apex. A receiver is a law unto himself. The directors automatically lose their authority when a receiver is appointed. Board meetings cease to have any validity and the sole charge of the business rests with the receiver - and he sets about turning assets into cash with which to repay the bank in double quick time. I had never dealt with a receiver before, but the man who came to see me that afternoon left me in no doubt as to what he was planning to do.
"Mr Harris, we're worried about these book debts. Generally that's the first thing we concentrate on - recovering money from debtors with which to pay the bank. In your view - are these debts good and recoverable?"
"Sure, you've seen the list of names. Some of the richest men in the country - in the world - use our clubs."
The debts referred to related to restaurant bills, entertaining suites, car hire and a dozen other services which Apex provided for its clients.
"Some of these amounts go back a long time," he shuffled through the pages in his file, "in fact some are more than a year old."
I shrugged. I knew what he was getting at, but he had made a statement, not asked a question. I was obliged to answer questions but statements might or might not warrant a comment from me. That statement, I decided, warranted total silence.
He frowned. "Some of these debts go back over a year," he said, "and some are for very large amounts indeed."
Another statement. I concentrated on looking attentive and prepared myself for when he would get down to asking questions. Gambling on credit is strictly forbidden under the law. However, there is no law which prohibits a casino from providing credit in other ways. Some of our clients lost half a million pounds at the tables. We were never going to worry about the twenty or thirty thousand they owed for our other services. As often as not we wrote the money off - at an appropriate moment of course - when we wanted to demonstrate our goodwill after a heavy night on the tables. Gamblers came to expect they could wine and dine on credit, with the added attraction that the debt might be wiped out by a sympathetic management. The casino business is a competitive one - every operator provides perks for his regulars. Some operators even accept cheques and then forget to bank the cheques for a year. If that isn't providing credit for gambling I don't know what is. Apex never did that, but we were undeniably generous with our hospitality.
"It seems to me," the man said slowly, "you are circumventing the law. Wouldn't you say you were providing credit for gambling - indirectly of course."
At least it was a question. I said, "No, I wouldn't say that."
"But you would agree you give generous credit?"
"Not for gambling."
"But on bills for wining and dining, and-"
"It's a custom of the trade. Everyone does it. If we stopped we would lose some valuable customers."
"Because they think they can get something for nothing?"
I smiled. "That's why they are there - remember?"
His lips tightened. "Well not any more," he said firmly, "no credit will be given from now on. Even a drink at the bar will be paid for in cash."
I stopped smiling. "Look here," I protested, "the clubs make money-"
"By extending credit, Mr Harris. I am not prepared to do that. What's more I shall seek immediate settlement of all debts. I shall issue writs if necessary," he flashed me a spiteful smile. "Under the circumstances the drop at the tables may fall substantially possibly to a level which makes the clubs no longer viable. If that happens we shall have no option but to close them down."
I could hardly believe my ears. "Lunacy," I snapped, "sheer bloody lunacy. Keep the clubs open - run them as they are now - and clientele will continue to gamble and you'll get your money-"
"You are talking about an on-going business, Mr Harris," he said sharply, "I'm talking about a receivership. The bank wants its money now-"
"You stupid bastard! Everyone gets their money if you tread carefully. Bulldoze things your way and-"
"That's entirely my decision. My view is all that counts-"
"I could get those book debts back in a month if - if I wasn't in here-"
"But you are in here," he said spitefully. And shortly after that he left.
I seethed and stewed for days, but there was damn all I could do while incarcerated in Aylesbury Prison. I just hoped that Edgar and the other directors would close ranks and do what they could to save Apex. But in my heart I knew it was finished. The business I had given my life to was about to be destroyed.
When Kay emerged from her coma, Edgar kept the police at bay with a battery of physicians and lawyers. Then he moved her to a private nursing home. By the time she did make a statement it tallied with Edgar's exactly. I had already decided to keep Kay out of it, but her statement settled matters. Now I had no choice - or rather the only alternative was to call Edgar and Kay liars in open court, and I would never do that. Besides, who would believe me?
Meanwhile Lewis Collins was worrying about all sorts of things - but mainly about money. My income had ceased the moment the receiver walked into Apex, and although I was comfortably off I never kept much cash lying around. My money was tied up in Apex shares - now of dubious value - and in Ashley Grange and Rex Place (less their respective mortgages) and various possessions motorcars, antique furniture, paintings, that bloody boat, things like that. My bank statement showed a credit balance of thirty thousand pounds and I gave Collins a cheque for twenty thousand immediately - which seemed to keep him happy for the time being. But that was about all he was happy about.
"Only two people can vouch for your story," he growled. "One is your wife and we all know what she's saying. The other
is this black guy, Brooks. And he's disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
"Well my detectives can't find him. Sam, he's nowhere. Vanished from the face of the earth. Unless the police are holding him."
"You mean in prison?"
"No, I mean under wraps. Holding him for the trial. To refute your evidence."
"Can they do that?"
"Jesus, Sam - they'll do anything. I've never known them so prickly," he scratched his head. "And yet - it's not really the police. It's this guy Davis getting them all steamed up."
"Inspector Davis? The Club Squad Davis?"
Collins nodded: "Did you ever do anything to that man? Think carefully, it's important."
I scowled. "Davis is a pain in the arse. He's always on my back. I hate his guts."
"It's mutual Sam, believe me. Davis got at the local law even before we were in front of the magistrates. He fed them a tale about you being a bad influence in the West End. According to him you're an out and out villain. That's why the locals were so opposed to bail. That's why you are in maximum security. I tell you, Davis is making a career out of bad-mouthing you."
"But if we know this we can stop him surely?"
"How? What we know was told me over a few drinks by the local law. A few drinks and-" Collins rubbed his thumb and index finger together, "a half bent copper telling tales out of school is one thing. The same copper in court is a different animal. Besides the locals are convinced Davis is telling the truth. All these rumours prove his point - not ours."
It was another gloomy meeting. They mostly were, at least with Collins. But a few other friends came to see me in Aylesbury. Jack, of course, but not Maria although she always sent her love and wrote at least once a week. (Remand prisoners are allowed extra mail. It's all censored of course, but a censored letter is better than no letter at all. Later it was different. A convicted prisoner is allowed only limited mail and no single letter can be more than four pages long. Maria bought some extra large notepaper and wrote in the tiniest hand possible, putting down everything she could think of to cheer me up.) Edgar came to see me - but only twice after his first visit. Prison upset him and I can't say I blame him. But Kay never came. Nor did Charlie Weston, or old Darlington or Lew Douglas - or anyone else from Apex. Except the receiver - he came on a couple of occasions, ostensibly to discuss minor queries but mainly it seemed to gloat about the way he was ruining my business.
It took them five months to bring me to trial. Lewis Collins was as busy as a blue-arsed fly spending my money, but there was little to show for it. My detective had not discovered the source of the rumours, had not found Brooks, nor had he found out anything discrediting about Inspector Davis. About a month before the trial Collins engaged a QC for the defence and told me he was bringing them down for a conference three days later.
"Them?" I asked.
"The QC and his junior."
I shrugged and waited for Collins to deliver the rest of the bad news. It was always bad news as far as I could see, but what came next was a real shock. "Sam," he said in little more than a whisper, "this story of yours."
"It's not a story-"
"I know, I know," he raised his hands as if to fend off a blow, "it's the truth-"
"The whole truth and nothing but the truth."
He let that pass. For a while he smoked in silence. Then he said doubtfully, "It's not a bad story - but it's not brilliant. And we certainly can't sell that story to the court. You know that, don't you?"
I took one of his cigarettes but when I put a match to it I noticed my hand was trembling. Then he surprised me by saying, "Wouldn't amaze me too much if you got it wrong. What with that crack on the head and everything."
I half rose to protest but he waved me down. "Hear me out, will you? At least let me finish. It's Kay's account which screws us. Hers and her father's. On the other hand I can't help agreeing with you if they told what really happened it would work against us as well. So suppose we use their story for our own ends. Suppose it happened like this. Ashley Grange was broken into, right? You got thumped on the head. Okay, let's stick to that because the police have accepted it. Your housekeeper goes to bed, you speak to Kay on the phone at her father's place - then you get to worrying. What were the burglars really after you ask yourself? Then you remember some important papers you left on the boat - say you were working on them the previous weekend, something like that. In the end you worry so much that you get dressed and go over to fetch them. Then you run into Faberge and Martinez."
"But - but what the hell were they doing there?"
He shrugged. "Who knows - who cares? They had a grudge after that business at the club. We can bring witnesses to that. Maybe they found out where you kept your boat and were planning to scuttle it for spite. Hell, Sam, they're dead - they won't trouble us."
I was sweating, but I tried to keep up with him while I searched for faults in his story. "What about the car?" I asked. "If Kay had the mini - how in God's name was I supposed to get there?"
"In the Jag. That was still at the boat-house when the police arrived."
"But the police were at Ashley Grange earlier. They know the Jag wasn't there then."
"Who says they know? Did they look for it? You never reported it missing. It could have been in the garage all the time. Anyway, a place as big as Ashley Grange - you could have parked it anywhere."
I sat quietly thinking over what he said. I hated the thought of telling a pack of lies. On the other hand I was afraid to tell the truth.
Collins pressed on, "Sam, don't you see - it's a much better story. Without Kay to rescue what motive did you have for going to the boat-house? There's only one answer to that - you went there to fix Faberge and Martinez once and for all. On the other hand if you remember it this way - you ran into them and they attacked you. Whatever happened then was self-defence. Got it?"
I smoked most of a cigarette before answering. Even then I'm not very proud of my answer because I simply asked, "Will it work?"
"We're playing percentages, that's all," he grinned, "if you think this version gives you a better chance, my advice is give it to Malcolm Gerrard."
"Gerrard?"
"The QC. He's a good man. Expensive of course, but-" he shrugged.
I signed another promissory note before he left. It was a practice started weeks before, when my money ran out. As Collins said, I was hardly in a position to negotiate a bank overdraft, so meanwhile promissory notes would do. "We'll have a settle up when this is all over," he said confidently as he went on his way. I was too punch-drunk to give the matter much thought. Collins appeared to be very busy on my account, and it was such a relief to have someone on my side.
Gerrard was a different kettle of fish. A gross, fat man with jowls like hams and the voice of a Shakespearean actor. I told him the story which Collins had suggested but Gerrard attacked it every inch of the way. I don't think he believed a word of it - and his junior sat in sneering silence throughout which unnerved me even more. I lost my temper eventually and we had a blazing row, but at least he stopped trying to browbeat me and offered an explanation. "I'm trying to assess how you'll stand up in court," he said, "believe me what I've put you through is mild compared to what Gladwyn Hughes will do to you."
It was hardly a cheering prospect. He asked some questions about Kay which I fended off, and when he left he said: "I think you'll go down, Mr Harris. I don't think I can save you. And if I can't there's not a man at the bar who can. Good afternoon. I'll see you in court."
A week before the trial, Brooks turned up. I had been worried he might - especially after what Collins had said. In the event Collins was wrong but the manner of Brooks' re-appearance was almost as damning as far as I was concerned.
A farmer had been ploughing his fields, not far from the boathouse - and had unearthed a leg - a black human leg. Naturally he called the police and six hours later various other parts of a dismembered body were recovered from a series of shallow graves. They were t
he remains of Archie Brooks.
Of course the newspapers never actually said I was involved. In fact, with my trial less than a week away, they were careful about even mentioning my name. But they printed lots of stories about Brooks and the kind of life he had led. And photographs of Ashley Grange, where he had often stayed - "as the guest of Sam 'Winner' Harris, now awaiting trial, etc." Collins was in despair about it and I wasn't exactly over the moon.
After that we went to trial. That was another shock because it was the first I had heard of plea-bargaining. Plea-bargaining is not supposed to happen in British courts, but according to Lewis Collins it happens all the time. The first inkling I got was at eleven o'clock, in my cell below the courtroom. Battle should have commenced at ten and I was wondering what the delay was about when Collins came to see me.
"Gerrard's had a long session with Gladwyn-Hughes. There's a chance of a deal," he said excitedly. "They'll drop the charge of murder and go for manslaughter - if we agree to plead guilty." "Guilty? But you've always said we'll fight all the way-" "On a charge of murder. Listen, Sam, a murder conviction would get you life. That's about fifteen years realistically. Fifteen years, for Christ's sake! Manslaughter on the other hand-"
"But guilty! Lewis, I never killed him. I swear I didn't. Can't you get that into your head? I never killed the bastard-"
"Sam, listen a minute. Gerrard's convinced the most you'll get for manslaughter is six years. And six could mean three with remission. Sam it's a breakthrough. Until now we've been fighting the possibility of life. It's one hell of a step forward-" "Step forward? Lewis, I didn't kill him-"
"I've got to get back upstairs," he said looking at his watch, "Just thought you'd want to know what was happening. Sam - it's your first offence. The way Gerrard's dealing there's even a chance of a suspended sentence. You might not even go to jail."
He left me to stew. Dammit, I was innocent. Why the hell should I plead guilty? And I was still asking myself that half an hour later, when Collins returned. "They're in with the judge," he said, "both of them. Sam - there's a chance of a deal. A good chance-" "Look, I don't know whether you believe me or not, but-" "Be realistic, will you? If Gerrard agrees manslaughter they'll drop murder. On that deal alone Gerrard may have saved twelve years of your life!"
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 57