‘Whatever. Nothing seems to be happening. They’re not moving forward and they’re not moving back.’
‘But what is there to go forward to?’ asks David. ‘Separate old-age homes? They’re both terrified of life apart, and utterly obstinate about a reconciliation. Do you know what Dad’s doing about Yom Kippur?’
‘He says he’s going to shul as usual.’
‘On his own?’
‘Well, you’ll be there, won’t you?’ points out Charles.
‘Yes. And Mum will be upstairs with Sonia and the other women.’
‘So, in fact, everything will be as usual. The fact that they’re not talking will make no difference.’
‘Except that the family will be apart in spirit, and in taking and breaking its fast, for the first time since they married. Imagine the emotional impact it’ll have on them.’
‘Maybe it’ll shake them out of this obstinacy.’
‘I doubt it. Of all the problems I anticipated for their declining years, this was not one of them. I really don’t know what to do.’
And that’s how the brothers leave it.
Over the following days, Charles starts to take fewer cases of substance to guarantee his availability for the Steele trial. He spends more time in Chambers, poring over the depositions, re-reading the interviews, making notes, chronologies, points for cross-examination and speeches, preparing himself for the biggest case of his career. Barbara is already wondering aloud about Charles taking silk on the back of the case, and the more approachable colleagues in Chambers, particularly the other juniors, take to calling him “Mr Attorney-General” at teatime. For the first time, Charles wonders aloud if the tradition of taking afternoon tea might not, after all, be dispensed with.
As he is leaving Chambers one evening in another sudden squall of rain, he is approached by a man with his raincoat collar up and a dripping trilby hat pulled low over his eyes. Charles moves to one side of the pavement to allow the man to pass but feels a hand grabbing the front of his coat. Charles leaps back into a defensive stance, his fists raised, and then peers more closely at the man.
‘Deala?’ he queries.
‘Sorry Charlie, didn’t mean to make yer jump.’
Charles pulls the man under the arch leading into Pump Court to shelter from the rain.
‘What the fuck, Deala? You’re lucky I didn’t punch your lights out!’
Wheeler Dealer, or Frederick Wheeler as he was christened, is a second-hand car dealer, so the moniker was obvious from the start. He’s been a face in the East End for longer than Charles can remember; so long in fact that Deala jokes that his earliest deals were for one horsepower vehicles, namely, old nags. Now in his late seventies, his sons have been running the business for years. It’s a good business too, comprising six forecourts and garages in the East End and Essex.
However, Deala remains solely responsible for one niche part of the enterprise, the importation of flash American cars, all chrome and fins, for select clients, principally Ronald and Reginald Kray.
‘Yeah, sorry ’bout that, Charlie. I’ve been waiting a bit, and when you rushed past I almost didn’t recognise you.’
‘Waiting for me? What for?’
‘Got a message from the twins.’
‘Which is?’
‘Word is, that someone’s been asking questions about you. In the boozers and speilers. ’Spect you’ve heard?’
‘Who’s been asking questions?’
‘Well, that’s the funny bit. I put ’im up for a few days. He just turned up on the doorstep, and I didn’t feel I could refuse. He worked for me for a bit, donkeys back.’
‘Who?’ repeats Charles.
‘Remember a bloke called Mikey McArthur?’
Charles nods, dripping water from his hat brim down his face. ‘I remember.’
‘I thought he must’ve died years ago. Disappeared completely soon after the war. After that night at the Prospect … well, you know. He only stayed a while, and then he fucked off without a word. I thought nothing of it at first, but then I ’eard his name again one night down the Royal, and I mentioned it to Reggie. The boys reckon it can’t just be a coincidence he’s suddenly resurfaced and started asking questions. They think he means to cause trouble.’
‘They’re right.’
‘But the twins say not to worry; they’ll sort it. Reggie says you’ll know why. He says to tell you they don’t want nothing interfering with their plans.’
‘Look, Deala, tell Reggie I’m very grateful but I’ve got the matter under control. I can manage this one without their support.’
‘Yeah, I thought you’d be on top of it. You always was one step ahead.’
‘Well, make sure they get that, OK? I’ve got a plan. If that goes wrong, I’ll let them know. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
‘Right then. You go back up Middle Temple Lane, and I’ll skirt round to Sergeants Inn. McArthur was hanging around a while back, and it’d be best if he doesn’t see us together.’
‘Gotcha,’ says the old man, pulling up his raincoat collar again. ‘Be lucky, Charlie.’
‘And you, mate. Thanks for the heads up.’
Charles makes his circuitous route back to the flat, lost in thought. At least he now knows who’s blackmailing him, which is a start. But despite having had the second letter for several days, and examining his options from every angle, he doesn’t have a plan.
CHAPTER 21
Charles checks his watch again: ten minutes short of seven o’clock. McArthur is now twenty minutes late. Charles guesses the time and place were chosen because, at 6:30 p.m., Essex Street would be thronging with workers heading home in the rush hour, but even in the forty minutes Charles has kept watch from his corner table in The Three Brewers the press of commuters has begun to slacken. Perhaps it’s now too late; he begins to doubt McArthur will show.
In McArthur’s telephone call to Chambers, during which the blackmailer made no attempt to disguise his voice, Charles feigned ignorance of his identity and demanded his name several times. Otherwise, however, he’d been compliant, agreeing without quarrel to the drop details prescribed by McArthur.
In return for McArthur’s silence, Charles is to leave a holdall with £10,000 in a waste bin at Essex Road Underground Station, the Canonbury Road exit. During the call, McArthur twice referred to the station as “Canonbury and Essex Road”, apparently unaware that that name hadn’t been in use since 1948. Charles hopes that McArthur’s unfamiliarity with the present name also implies ignorance of the fact that two of the old exits are no longer in use. Were he in McArthur’s place, he’d have picked a station or other public place with as many exits as possible to provide the widest choice of potential escape routes. McArthur now has only one: he can go underground via the Canonbury Road entrance, or he might move off on the pavement. In either case, Charles is confident he can follow.
Charles’s main purpose today is not to engage with the blackmailer, but identify and assess him. Charles needs to know if he’s working alone and, if he’s lucky, where he’s staying.
Another ten minutes elapse.
Finally Charles sees a heavily-built middle-aged man walking swiftly, almost jogging, along Essex Road towards the station entrance. Charles studies him from behind his newspaper. There’s a vague familiarity about him, but nothing more and Charles isn’t sure if it’s McArthur. The man is dishevelled and sweating and is looking about himself anxiously. Just someone running late? wonders Charles, but then the jogging stops abruptly at the waste bin and Charles’s doubts are resolved. The man looks inside briefly and then, with almost comical furtiveness, leans against the railings within sight of the waste bin. He takes a rolled-up newspaper from under his arm, over which he looks, his head swivelling this way and that, as he attempts surreptitiously to evaluate the passing commuters. After a further few seconds he rolls the newspaper again, looks around himself once more, approaches the bin and digs deeply into it with his left hand.
Charles swallows the dregs of his Scotch and leaves the pub in pursuit. He’s held up for a few seconds, unable to cross the road for fast-moving traffic in both directions in front of him. Diagonally across the junction he sees McArthur actually break into a run. Charles doubts the beefy man can keep it up for long, but he skips through the traffic and increases the pace of pursuit. Charles is still in good condition, having been in training for his last boxing match until only a few months earlier, and his brief observation of McArthur suggests that the sweating man is pretty unfit.
McArthur disappears into Canonbury Gardens to his left, a hundred yards or so further down the road. The Gardens are a small triangular park formed between the junction of Canonbury Road and Canonbury Villas. From here McArthur has a choice of several potential routes and Charles increases his pace still further.
He needn’t have worried. Charles almost blunders into plain view because McArthur has halted at the first park bench. Charles stops in his tracks, watching McArthur testing the zip of the holdall as he realises that Charles has closed it with a small padlock. McArthur yanks furiously at the padlock.
Shit! Charles only used the padlock to ensure the zip didn’t fall open, revealing the torn-up telephone directories within. It’s a tiny padlock, a toy really, and could be broken open in an instant with a screwdriver, perhaps even a metal nail file. Charles didn’t foresee the idiot trying to open the bag and examine £10,000 in cash in public and during the rush hour! But McArthur’s either so impatient or so anxious he keeps pulling at the padlock, merely moving the zips from one end of the holdall to the other without ever getting it open, and getting increasingly incensed. Finally, he utters an inarticulate roar of frustration and throws the holdall onto the bench beside him. Charles steps sideways swiftly, heading for the nearest tree, but not in time before McArthur turns. Charles faces the other way, presenting McArthur with his back, but it’s too late; he’s been recognised.
‘You!’ calls McArthur, and Charles hears footsteps running towards him.
For a second or two Charles maintains the pretence of being an innocent pedestrian, and he moves nonchalantly back the way he came, but McArthur’s not buying it. Charles decides not to run. He turns back towards McArthur, preparing a story, but is astonished to find McArthur literally in mid-air, feet off the ground and almost horizontal, having launched himself into a sort of rugby tackle.
Charles spent an entire day planning, anticipating every possible outcome of the drop, including those where everything went awry, and devising stratagems to deal with each, but one scenario he hadn’t predicted was a very public fist-fight with a thwarted blackmailer. A well-known aphorism amongst advocates is that You can rely on the stupidity of your opponent only so far; sooner or later they get the point, and the half-formed thought flashes through Charles’s mind that perhaps he should have applied it rather more widely. But he has no time to chide himself before McArthur’s solid bulk clatters into him. Charles is knocked off his feet and he finds himself sailing backwards, landing heavily on the scrubby grass with McArthur on top of him. Charles is assailed by unwashed body odour and beer fumes.
‘Where’s my fucking money, you cunt!’ screams McArthur, aiming a wild punch at Charles’s face.
Charles manages to get an arm up and blocks, but another punch comes in from the other side, and he realises that he is going to have to fight back or take a beating. At the same instant as McArthur lands a blow on Charles’s cheek, Charles head-butts him heavily, making good contact with his nose. As McArthur rears up, Charles swings his arm at the other’s face. He misses, but his elbow catches McArthur’s chin as it flies past. McArthur’s attempt to avoid the blow shifts his body weight and Charles heaves the man off him. The two of them are now wrestling on the floor, watched by an elderly woman with a shopping trolley and a small dog. Part of Charles’s mind floats above the fray and he would laugh if he weren’t quite so occupied — they must look like a couple of street urchins wrestling in the gutter — but McArthur now has his hands around Charles’s throat and is squeezing hard.
Although a skilful Marquis of Queensbury boxer, Charles learned his trade on the streets, and he hasn’t forgotten the tricks. He responds by clamping his hands around McArthur’s head and pressing his thumbs hard into his eye sockets. McArthur howls in pain and releases his grip on Charles’s neck, and Charles shifts his weight again and rolls on top of him.
Now he has the upper hand. He swings a punch at the left side of the man’s face, and another at the right, his knuckles coming away red with McArthur’s blood. He’s about to land another punch when McArthur speaks.
‘You gonna kill me too?’ Charles’s arm halts in mid-air. ‘Beat me to death ’n’ all? Ain’t that your MO, Jew-boy?’
Charles feels the body underneath him relax and he realises that McArthur’s offering no further resistance. Instead of landing the blow, Charles brings his knees up to straddle McArthur’s chest, pinning his wrists against the grass on either side of his head. He turns his head to address the elderly woman, who has now been joined by two or three other passers-by. They are frozen into a still tableau, watching, mouths open.
‘I’m going to call the police!’ shouts the old lady.
‘It’s OK,’ Charles shouts back. ‘He’s my brother. He escaped from St Anne’s mental wing this morning. He’ll calm down in a second, I promise. You’re OK, aren’t you Mikey?’ Charles drops his voice. ‘You want the police? Or do you want the money?’
‘You fucking —’ starts McArthur, beginning to struggle again.
‘Think about it, Mikey,’ says Charles through gritted teeth. ‘Let them call the police, and it’s over. You won’t get a penny. So, revenge or money?’
Charles’s eyes bore into the face of the man underneath him.
‘Let me go, then,’ snarls McArthur, but quietly enough that only Charles can hear him.
‘Are we good?’ asks Charles.
‘Yeah.’
Charles sits up cautiously, releasing the pressure on McArthur’s arms. He climbs off and stands, brushing the gravel and dust off his knees and shoulders. Then he offers a hand to McArthur to pull him up. McArthur hesitates, but takes the offered hand. Charles hauls him upright and starts dusting him down.
‘See?’ he calls over his shoulder at the bystanders. ‘It’s all over. No need for the police, is there, Mikey?’
McArthur’s face contorts into an unconvincing smile. ‘No,’ he calls across. ‘I’m OK. Charlie here’s just looking out for me.’
The bystanders remain stationary, still unsure.
‘We’re just going to sit on the bench together for a few minutes,’ says Charles, pointing to where McArthur had been sitting. The holdall is still there. He puts a fraternal arm around McArthur’s shoulders and steers him towards the bench. After a few further seconds of hesitation, most of the bystanders disperse.
Charles and MacArthur sit, the holdall between them.
‘You locked it so I couldn’t see inside, dincha?’ accuses McArthur. ‘What’s in there, then? Newspapers?’
Charles leans forward, brushing grass and mud off his knees. ‘Phone directories.’
‘You cunt,’ repeats McArthur. He speaks quietly, glancing at the remaining onlookers, a couple of whom are still keeping a watchful eye on the two men sitting on the bench as their dogs investigate scents around the trees. ‘You think I weren’t serious?’
‘I think you’re serious, Mikey, but I don’t think you’ve thought this through. £10,000?’ he scoffs. ‘I can’t get hold of that sort of money. So what choice did you give me?’
‘You’re a fucking brief! You lot are loaded. You�
�ll find it.’
‘I am a “fucking brief”, but if you’d bothered to do your research you’d have seen that I’m a fucking Defence brief. We work on legal aid rates. Ever heard of legal aid, Mikey? Criminal barristers are not the fat cats they’re portrayed in the press.’
This isn’t altogether accurate, as Charles has been doing well-remunerated high-profile work for the last year or two, and recently for the Crown, but there’s more than a little truth in it, and his voice is persuasively sincere. He sees doubt flicker in McArthur’s eyes.
‘How much can you get then?’ asks McArthur, and now Charles knows he has the upper hand. He doesn’t answer McArthur’s question but changes tack.
‘That’s not the only thing you haven’t thought about. Do you really think the police are going to believe you, twenty years after the event?’
‘They’ll believe me. I thought you was dead, didn’t I? Killed in the war. And then — would you believe it? — you just popped up in the Lake District and I recognised you. Oh yes, they’ll believe it!’
‘You’ve got no body, you’ve got no independent witnesses and you’ve got no credibility. I reckon you’ve seen the inside of a prison, haven’t you?’ McArthur darts a sidelong glance at him, and Charles has his confirmation. It’s not difficult for a prosecution barrister to access the Criminal Records Office, but without McArthur’s date of birth, address or other details he wasn’t sure until now that he’d identified the right man. ‘What’s more, you and Bledsoe were looting and in the middle of beating another man to death.’
‘You’re the one who beat someone to death, Horowitz. You know it, and I know it.’
‘I didn’t beat anyone to death. The poor man was crushed when that wall fell on him in the air raid,’ says Charles blithely.
‘Is that the story? I always wondered what you did with him.’
‘Look,’ says Charles. ‘We can kick this around all night, but it won’t get us anywhere. I might be able to get something together if you give me a bit of time.’
The Waxwork Corpse: A legal thriller with a chilling twist (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 5) Page 17