The Waxwork Corpse: A legal thriller with a chilling twist (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 5)

by Simon Michael

  Charles interrupts in his turn. ‘The allegation made against the accused is that he strangled his wife in a fit of jealousy, and in a most carefully planned and executed crime. He painstakingly obliterated the damning evidence, cleaning up his wife’s blood which had been sprayed all over their bedroom in her struggle for life, painting the room, rehanging the wallpaper, and scrubbing and staining the floors to hide the bloodstains. Blood was found on the walls, on the ceiling and under the floorboards. Then he loaded her trussed-up body into his car and drove half way round England with it stinking in the boot while he went to his son’s school. There he had tea with the headmaster and took part in a sports’ day presentation. Then, we say, he climbed out of the window of his accommodation, drove to Wastwater, loaded the body into a boat and dumped the body over the side tied to a kerb stone. Finally, a few days later, he coolly walked into the police house in his village and reported her missing, supposedly having run off with a lover. There, the Crown say, is your man of integrity.’

  Charles’s resort to gore and sensationalism is quite deliberate. He knows he has to take control of the presentation of the case from the outset, and it’s essential for the magistrate to focus on the crime and the evidence, not on the judge’s hitherto impeccable record. It will also do no harm in the court of public opinion to get the Crown’s version of events out as soon as possible.

  Beaverbrook is about to explode again when Sir Winston holds up his hand.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, please, this is not helping. Mr Beaverbrook, leaving aside the issue of bail do you oppose the further short adjournment?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Very well. But you wish to make a bail application, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Which is opposed, correct Mr Holborne?’ Charles nods. ‘Very well. If you’re calling any evidence, let’s hear it.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  Charles calls Superintendent Hook. The tall policeman steps into the witness box and takes the oath. With little prompting from Charles he explains the background. In clear dispassionate tones, and with no hint of sensationalism, he explains to the court the relationship between Steele and Jenny and the judge’s connections with Argentina where his brother lives. He makes an impressive witness. Beaverbrook rises to cross-examine.

  ‘Jenny Sullivan is a woman of good character, is she not?’

  ‘She is, sir,’ answers Hook.

  ‘You have been shown her building society passbook, have you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I have.’

  ‘And it shows that over the last twenty years, she has saved over twenty thousand pounds.’

  ‘It does.’

  Beaverbrook turns to the Bench. ‘Some from her wages, and some from the estates of her parents, now both deceased,’ he explains. ‘Are you aware, officer, that she has offered to deposit the entire sum in court to secure the attendance of the accused?’

  ‘I understand that she has.’

  ‘And that she will herself stand surety for his attendance.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She is a most suitable person to be a surety, is she not?’

  ‘In other cases, she would be ideal, but we believe that she and the accused have a very close relationship.’

  ‘What’s unusual about that? Parents frequently stand surety for their children, don’t they? That’s an even closer bond.’

  ‘Yes, they do, but my fear is that she might even run off with him.’

  ‘What, and leave the children?’

  ‘Well, the oldest is twenty-four, and the middle child, a girl, will soon be twenty. Only the youngest still lives at home, and he is fifteen. She has no other ties here at all. Both parents are dead and she has no other close family.’

  ‘Are those your only objections to her standing as surety?’

  It is a foolish question. Charles has not mentioned any other reason, but Beaverbrook shouldn’t have asked it when he didn’t know the answer.

  ‘No. She has herself been interviewed regarding an offence arising out of this investigation.’

  The quality of the silence in the courtroom changes subtly, as if the court is holding its collective breath. This is fresh meat.

  ‘Has she been charged?’ asks Beaverbrook.

  ‘Not as yet,’ answers Hook. ‘Legal advice is being sought on the subject.’

  Beaverbrook has no further questions and resumes his seat. Charles expects him to call the nanny to give evidence — Charles certainly would have done so and he knows she’s present, as he glimpsed her sitting in a small room guarded by a police officer, looking pale and beautiful — but for some reason Beaverbrook doesn’t do it.

  When the QC addresses Sir Winston it’s more of the same: a lifetime of public service by a devoted family man who would never dream of abandoning his children; a man so well-known that there’s nowhere in the world he could hope to hide undetected; a man who is innocent until proven guilty and who — even if the charges are true — poses no threat to the community whatsoever.

  Normally the QC would be wasting his time. Magistrates do not generally allow accused murderers out on bail; they may have the legal power but in truth it’s above their pay grade. They know that an appeal may always be made to a High Court judge, and if that judge wants to take the risk, so be it.

  In these unusual circumstances, however, the magistrate is already a High Court Judge, indeed more senior still, and a man well-used to taking the big decisions. Sir Winston announces that he will retire to consider the application.

  Fifteen minutes later he returns and, to Charles’s surprise, remands Steele in custody. As the prisoner is led back down the stairs he turns to Beaverbrook with a look of despair on his unshaven face and, for the first time, Charles feels a flicker of sympathy for the man who is to spend the next fortnight banged up in Brixton with so many of the men he himself incarcerated.

  Beaverbrook leans towards Charles. ‘I wouldn’t crow if I were you, Holborne. I’ll be before another High Court judge by this afternoon, and he’ll be out by teatime.’

  ‘I’m not crowing, believe me,’ replies Charles. ‘I know better than most what the poor man’s suffering at this moment. As for an appeal, I’d do the same in your place. I’ll be in Chambers if you’d like to tell me the judge and the time.’

  The magistrate rises to permit the court to be cleared and for the less sensational business of the day to start. Charles seeks out Superintendent Hook and beckons him over.

  ‘They say they’re going to appeal, so he could be out by this afternoon. If you have any further searches to do at his house, now’s the time.’

  ‘OK, sir.’

  He disappears through the crowd, taking two detective constables with him. Charles turns to Jones.

  ‘Is there anywhere we can chat?’ asks Jones urgently.

  Without waiting for an answer, he leads the way out of court and slips inside an empty consultation room. Charles follows him. The room smells unpleasantly of cigarette smoke, sweat and fried food. As soon as the door is closed, the solicitor turns to Charles.

  ‘I still think the nanny should be charged,’ he insists.

  This is the third time Jones and Charles have discussed this. Jones wants her charged with being an accessory after the fact or obstructing the coroner; Charles does not.

  ‘On her admissions alone, we have a cast iron case,’ presses Jones, ‘and if she’d been charged, there could’ve been no suggestion of her standing surety.’

  ‘I don’t think that matters; they’ll get him out on bail this afternoon anyway.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘They’re going to a High Court judge! One still in practice, this time. Steele is the second most senior Supreme Court judge there is; he’s their boss! What do you think the decision will be? That’s the least important consideration in my view.’

  ‘What about as an accessory? I mean, she confessed to it, for God’s sake! We have to charge her!’
>
  ‘Do we? OK, she’s an accessory; she helped him obstruct the coroner by buying wallpaper. So what? We could never prove assistance in causing the death, because we can’t prove she was there at the time and she acted purely on what the judge told her. And what will her sentence be? Probation? A suspended sentence at worst.’

  ‘That’s no reason not to charge her.’

  ‘But she’s far better as a prosecution witness,’ insists Charles.

  Jones shakes his head. He resisted instructing the burly barrister initially, having had good relationships with a number of criminal chambers whose practitioners would have been entirely adequate for the case. There was also Holborne’s baggage; his past was a little too colourful and his reputation for fierce independence too often an excuse for what Jones would call insubordination. Nonetheless Jones was persuaded and, since then, has developed a grudging respect for Charles’s sharp intellect and his gift for lateral thinking. Charles has the unusual ability to turn a piece of evidence on its head so it reveals new possibilities. But he’s unconventional, too informal and you can never predict what he’ll do next. Charles makes the solicitor uncomfortable, and on this subject Jones is convinced he’s wrong.

  ‘We’ve been over this,’ he says. ‘Whether she’s charged or not, she’s still an accomplice. So the trial judge has to warn the jury that it’d be unsafe to convict him on her evidence alone as she might have a motive for lying. So she’s worthless as a prosecution witness.’

  ‘It won’t be her evidence alone. We have lots of other, independent, evidence. But if we charge her as an accomplice,’ explains Charles, again, patiently, ‘the court has no option. It has to give the warning. Why gift that card to the Defence and weaken her evidence when we don’t have to?’

  ‘She might even prove hostile and go back on her statement!’

  ‘Yes, that’s a risk, but not a significant one. I’m convinced she’ll stick to her evidence, and that could still be the key to convicting him,’ insists Charles. ‘Her evidence demonstrates that he lied, repeatedly, to the police. She reveals his character. But there’s another reason too.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Charles hesitates before answering. ‘Well, it’s a gut feeling.’ Jones starts to interrupt but Charles holds up his hand. ‘Please, listen to me. Imagine the effect on the minds of the jury, seeing her sitting in the dock, day after day. You saw her — that beautiful woman, quietly, patiently in love with Steele. All these years, she’s carried that terrible burden of secret love and guilt, never saying a word, burying her feelings. And there she sits, in the dock, still strong, still loving him, still silent. A martyr. The jury’ll lap it up — God, it almost makes me weep! Someone will make a film of it! And it would create an atmosphere of sympathy for both of them which we need to avoid.’

  Jones pauses and considers Charles’s words. Eventually he shrugs. ‘Well, I can’t say I agree with you, but your experience before juries is much greater than mine, and I’ll abide by the decision. I’ll have to record this discussion on the file as your affirmative advice not to charge Miss Sullivan,’ he warns.

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘But it goes against the grain to have someone admitting they covered up the disposal of a body, and walk free.’

  ‘I know. But we have bigger fish to fry. Anything else we need to discuss?’

  ‘No. I’ll be in touch.’

  Pipsqueak, thinks Charles, as Jones departs. Arrogant chancer, thinks Jones.

  CHAPTER 16

  Charles is right about the appeal. By six thirty that evening he is walking down the steps of the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand, bail having been granted on three conditions: Steele mustn’t contact Miss Jenny Sullivan; he can’t go to the family home, and he must live and sleep at a London address, which is going to be his judge’s accommodation in the Temple. Charles returns to Chambers briefly, clears his desk and strolls out of the Temple to the tin of tomato soup waiting for him at the flat, wondering if Mr Justice Anthony Steele’s lonely supper will be any better.

  As he crosses Fleet Street, Charles notes a figure by the front entrance to the apartments, a short man with his back to him. As Charles gets closer he is able to see by the grey hair, the slope of the shoulders and the way in which the man’s trousers hang loosely about thin legs that he is old. He wears a heavy overcoat, far too warm for the weather, which disguises his shape and he is turned away from Charles, looking towards Holborn Circus. Nonetheless, there’s something familiar about him.

  At a point when Charles is almost within speaking distance the man turns, squints in Charles’s direction, and turns away again. In that short moment, Charles realises with an intense shock that the man is his father. It’s not only the unexpectedness of seeing Harry, alone on an empty pavement, seeming so lost in the middle of the City where his usual routine never takes him, that is so startling. Harry Horowitz looks weak and vulnerable, and Charles is suddenly conscious for the first time that his father is becoming an old man. Charles walks swiftly up to him and touches him on the shoulder. Harry turns unsteadily, his face full of uncertainty, and for a second Charles doesn’t think he’s been recognised. He takes his father by the shoulders. ‘Dad? What’re you doing here?’

  The old man stares up at his son and Charles sees that his eyes are red and watery. He’s not seen his father cry since his grandfather’s funeral twenty years before, and Charles fears the worst.

  ‘Is it Mum? What’s happened?’

  ‘Take me upstairs, Charlie,’ replies Harry, his voice weak and hoarse. ‘I’ll tell you there. She’s fine. I just need to sit down.’

  Charles pauses, wanting information immediately, but realises that his father is close to collapse. ‘Come on, then,’ he says, taking Harry’s arm.

  They enter the mirrored entrance hall and Charles sees a battered suitcase by the side of the lift. Harry tries to reach down to it and almost topples sideways.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ says Charles, stooping, and with his free hand he picks up the case.

  They get in the lift and travel to Charles’s floor. Harry leans against the wall, his eyes unfocused, as Charles fishes in his pocket for his keys and opens up. He almost has to carry his father to the settee and, leaving him there, Charles rushes straight into the kitchen and brings Harry back a brandy. Harry takes it without comment and sips.

  ‘Nice place,’ he says, even then not forgetting his manners.

  ‘You’ve seen it before,’ says Charles.

  ‘No, I haven’t. When would I have seen it?’

  Charles ignores the comment. ‘What’s going on Dad? How long have you been waiting for me? Why on earth didn’t you come down to Chambers?’

  ‘I did, but I couldn’t remember which building or which floor anymore. They all look alike.’

  ‘But my name’s on the board outside.’

  Harry shrugs helplessly. ‘I was confused.’

  Charles sits next to his father. ‘Is Mum all right?’

  ‘Yes, she’s fine,’ he replies, but Charles detects a note of qualification.

  ‘But?’

  ‘We had a row.’

  Charles shakes his head, uncomprehending. ‘And? That’s why you’re here?’

  Harry nods and takes another sip of brandy. Some of the pastiness had gone from his face, and he’s beginning to look slightly less frail. ‘Are you sure that’s all?’ asks Charles.

  ‘It’s not enough?’

  Charles has to admit: he’s never witnessed a row between his parents. Theirs is not a modern marriage, one in which communication and the right to self-expression are at a premium. Instead, it’s founded on common values, respect and Harry’s quest for a quiet life. Millie Horowitz is the absolute ruler in their household, a situation neither of them questions. Charles has always thought there’d only be one way for his father to survive: by keeping both his head down and any dissentient views to himself.

  ‘What about?’ he asks.

  ‘Everything,’ sa
ys Harry with finality.

  Charles waits for some further elucidation but is disappointed.

  ‘So, how was it left?’ he asks.

  Harry takes a gulp of air. ‘We’re separating.’

  If it wasn’t for the fact that Harry’s eyes fill with tears as he speaks, Charles would have laughed. ‘People your age don’t separate, Dad. How would you live, either of you? You’ve been together forty years.’

  ‘Forty-two.’

  ‘You can’t throw away forty-two years of marriage because of one row.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Then explain it to me, and I’ll understand.’

  Harry looks down at the glass in his hand, and shakes his head.

  Charles perseveres. ‘Have you discussed this with Mum?’ Harry shakes his head. ‘Then don’t you think you should? It’s rather an important thing to decide without speaking to her.’

  Charles can’t keep the levity out of his voice, and his father looks sharply at him, hurt.

  ‘Oh, Dad, I’m sorry!’ says Charles, cursing his insensitivity. He puts an arm round his father’s shoulders. ‘It’s just a bit difficult to take on board, you know? David and I have never seen you row in all our lives, and now you appear here and say you’re separating, but you haven’t spoken to her about it. Are you sure this isn’t just a misunderstanding?’

  ‘It’s no misunderstanding. Believe me.’

  ‘Then what’s it all about?’

  Harry shakes his head. ‘It’s private.’

  ‘Oh, Dad,’ says Charles sadly. ‘Does she know where you are?’

  Harry shakes his head again. ‘No. We had words, I said I was leaving, and she said “So, go already.” Then I left.’

  ‘You realise she’s probably worrying herself to death. Can I ring her and say you’re safe?’

  Charles stands and goes to the telephone. Harry makes no effort to stop him. Charles dials the number and stands waiting for a while. ‘She’s not there.’

  ‘Yes she is. She’s sulking.’

  Charles waits a while longer and hangs up. Before he has time to move away from the telephone, it rings.