‘On Count 2 on the Indictment, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty on the charge of manslaughter?’
‘Not guilty.’
A sigh erupts from the court, which grows instantly in intensity and then crashes, like a wave, over the heads of everyone present. Everyone speaks at once and the clerk bangs his gavel to no effect. Some of the journalists race out of court to phone through the verdicts, and parts of the gallery erupt into applause.
Charles turns to study Steele. He remains in precisely the same position as he was before the verdict was delivered, his knuckles just as white, his face expressionless. Then gradually his knees bend and buckle, and he sinks to the seat behind him, his hands still hanging onto the rail.
‘I shall rise for a moment!’ calls the Recorder over the din. ‘Take Mr Steele down until order has been restored!’
An hour later, Anthony Steele emerges, blinking into the glare of flashbulbs and spotlights, onto the pavement of the Old Bailey. Jenny Sullivan is with him, and the children, and they pose momentarily together, a happy family group, Steele’s arm round Jenny’s waist. Questions hurtle in from all sides and Steele bats back answers as if returning tennis balls.
‘What do you think of the verdicts, sir?’
‘I have always had complete faith in the English jury system, and that has been vindicated once more.’
‘What about the sentence for obstructing the coroner? It’s a heavy fine.’
‘What I did was wrong, and I accept that. Fines are supposed to hurt, and if, like me, you’re wealthy, it’s only right that the fine is heavy.’
‘What are your plans, my Lord?’
‘I shall be handing my resignation to the Lord Chancellor tomorrow morning.’
‘What will you do then?’
‘We shall see. I’ve always wanted time to devote to writing my memoirs.’
‘Will you two marry?’ ask two reporters in unison.
Steele and Jenny look, laughing, into one another’s eyes, and everyone knows the answer. Half a dozen flashes go off simultaneously as the tabloid press gets the photograph that will adorn all the front pages the next morning.
‘Can we have one with the children, too?’ they shout, and Steele is happy to oblige.
A large car pulls up swiftly at the kerbside and its passenger door opens. A man jumps out and swiftly ushers the family in. Amid protests from the reporters, the doors slam and the car speeds off.
CHAPTER 34
Dusk is falling, it’s raining hard and there’s nowhere to shelter.
You’d think that blackmailers collecting their money would be on time, thinks Charles.
He started on the bench where he last sat with McArthur, but when the heavens opened he ran to the shelter of a large tree. Even here he’s getting soaked. The large manila envelope under his arm is almost saturated, and he begins to worry that its contents will spill out of the sodden paper.
Charles looks up and down the park again but he remains the only person visible. Everyone else, the dog walkers, the mums with prams and the homeless man who apparently lives on an adjacent bench, all have disappeared. Another peel of thunder cracks above Charles and is followed immediately by lightning so bright that it creates a fleeting chiaroscuro outline of the trees on the grass.
Charles looks again at his watch and resolves to give McArthur another ten minutes. He pulls the collar of his raincoat up further, hunches his shoulders and leans against the bole of the tree. A sudden gust of wind bends the branches towards him and he is drenched further.
He sees a figure enter the park from the main road, take a few steps down the gravel path and hesitate. Charles identifies McArthur’s solid shape and steps out from the tree to make himself visible.
McArthur stops and waves impatiently to Charles to join him. Charles starts towards the other man, and it’s as if he’s walking, fully-clothed, into a shower. Out in the open he is assailed by sheets of rain, harried this way and that by the wind. They cause McArthur’s appearance to be oddly blurred, ghost-like.
Charles calls as he nears the blackmailer. ‘Can we get out of the rain to do this?’
‘No need,’ comes McArthur’s shout in reply. ‘Just hand it over.’
‘No. I want to get a few things straight. You’re not just walking off with a grand without a word.’
Charles now stands before the man. Both have water dripping off their noses. ‘Look, there’s a café just round the corner. It’ll take two minutes. I’ll even throw in a cuppa.’
‘I ain’t drinking tea with you, Horowitz. We ain’t mates.’
‘Fine. I’ll drink the tea and you can drip. But I’m not doing it here.’
Charles takes the initiative and strides past him towards the exit. McArthur whirls round, trying to grab Charles’s arm as he goes past, but misses. He remains stationary for another moment and then reluctantly follows.
The café is in a small parade of shops a hundred yards from the station. The plate glass windows are obscured by condensation, but the lights are on and the place glows with comfort and warmth.
As Charles pushes open the door a bell jingles and the aromas of fried food, toast and cigarettes greet him. The place is only half-full, mainly with people nursing cups of tea while sheltering from the torrential rain.
Charles strides to the Formica counter behind which a West Indian woman and a white man are busy buttering toast and pouring tea from a large stainless steel pot. Charles hears the bell ring a second time and looks over his shoulder to see that McArthur has followed him in. He points to an empty corner table and calls.
‘You sure about the tea?’
McArthur nods, and navigates the narrow gaps between the tables to the corner indicated by Charles.
Charles orders a cup of tea and a slice of buttered toast, the manila envelope clamped firmly under one arm.
This is better, he thinks. McArthur has already demonstrated a tendency to impetuosity and carelessness for consequences, and that’s less likely to occur here, in close proximity to members of the public, than in a darkening and rain-swept park.
Charles pays and takes his plate to the table. He pulls off his saturated raincoat, hangs it on a hook on the wall beside him, and does the same with his hat.
He sits and places the envelope in front of him. McArthur, still in his coat and hat and dripping onto the table, reaches across immediately but Charles leans back out of reach and holds the envelope fast.
‘Just wait a minute,’ he says, smiling, and in the tone he’d use to chide a toddler for grabbing at a birthday present. ‘I’ve something to say first.’
McArthur’s eyes swivel round the small café, estimating his chances of grabbing the envelope, perhaps punching Charles and running for it. He evidently decides against. ‘What?’ he challenges.
‘There’s less in there than you wanted, but there’s also something else. And before you fly off the handle, I suggest you have a look and think. Hard. Because this is the one and only offer you’re going to get from me.’
‘How much?’ demands McArthur, managing to control his voice with difficulty.
Charles doesn’t answer but pushes the envelope across the table.
McArthur grabs it and tears the sodden paper. Inside he finds a small bundle of banknotes held together with a rubber band. There is also a thick sheaf of typed paper. He ignores the paper and flicks through the banknotes.
‘There can’t be more than £100 here!’ he hisses, leaning forward dangerously.
‘Spot on. There’s exactly £100 there. And before you say anything else, I suggest you look at what else is in that envelope.’
McArthur glares at Charles and places his palms flat on the sticky tabletop, about to stand and launch himself across it.
‘Look at it, Mikey,’ repeats Charles. ‘Before you make a major mistake.’
Charles watches the man battle with himself. The habits of a lifetime, which for forty years or more have led him in and out of fights an
d prison, vie with a slender residue of better judgement and caution. In the end, it is the unconscious fear that Charles is cleverer than he is and might possibly have something dangerous up his sleeve that prevents an explosion of anger and frustration.
McArthur relaxes slightly in his seat and pulls the bundle of papers towards him. He has seen this type of document many times before over the years, since his first arrest in his early teens for assault occasioning actual bodily harm: prosecution depositions.
‘What the fuck…?’
‘Just read, Mikey. You can read, can’t you?’
Mikey McArthur reads.
Deposition of May Carter
Occupation: Nurse
Address:
Magistrates Court Rules 1952: This deposition of May Carter, Nurse, of [insert address], was sworn before me, [ ], Justice of the Peace, on [ ] 1965 in the presence of [ ] at the [ ] Magistrates’ Court.
Signed:
Signature of deponent:
May Carter WILL SAY AS FOLLOWS:
I am a staff nurse employed at the [ ] hospital at [insert address]. I have been asked to recall an event which occurred in December 1940. I remember it very well because it was so frightening. In fact, I had nightmares about it for years afterwards and still have occasional flashbacks to it.
I do not remember the precise date, but it was about two weeks before Christmas 1940, and was during the Blitz of London. I was with a friend, Louise Silvester, on Commercial Road in the City of London when an air raid started. We found ourselves surrounded by incendiaries, and were going to run for it when a van pulled up and a young man opened the door. He threw an air warden’s hat over the nearest incendiary and grabbed us. We got in the van and it drove off. We decided to go to the Prospect of Whitby pub to shelter from the air raid. I had been there before to shelter in the cellars. The man who drove the van was named Izzy and the younger man who jumped out of the passenger seat was called Charlie.
We got safely to the Prospect and Izzy dropped the three of us off. He said he was going to park the van somewhere safe and would come back in a minute. I went down to the cellar with Louise and Charlie. After a while Izzy had not returned and Charlie went upstairs. He said he was going to look for Izzy. Only a minute or two after that the all-clear sirens sounded. We all went up the stairs into the saloon bar. The electricity went back on and we could see that a fight was in progress in the bar. Izzy was tied by his wrists to the bar and was taking a beating from two men. I recognised both. One was a Blackshirt called Bledsoe, and the other was Mikey McArthur. They both lived and worked near my family in the East End and I had known them for years. I have no doubt about their identities.
They were beating Izzy so severely that I thought they were going to kill him. Bledsoe was doing the punching when I first saw them, but McArthur was urging him on. Then I saw Charlie intervene. He hit McArthur with a bar stool and knocked him out. Bledsoe then attacked Charlie. Charlie was forced to defend himself. He finished up straddling Bledsoe’s chest and we pulled him off.
I am convinced that if Charlie hadn’t intervened, Izzy would have been killed or very seriously injured. His face was completely mashed and there was blood all over his shirt.
I am prepared to give evidence in respect of this matter.
Signed: May Carter
‘What the fuck is this?’ demands McArthur.
‘You can see for yourself. They’re depositions taken from other witnesses in the Prospect that night. The witnesses’ addresses have been blanked out so you can’t get at them. Read on.’
McArthur leafs at random to another deposition.
Deposition of Andrew Felsted
Occupation: Publican
Address: [ ]
Magistrates Court Rules 1952: This deposition of Andrew Felsted, Publican, of [insert address] was sworn before me, [ ], Justice of the Peace, on [insert date] 1965 in the presence of [ ], at the [ ] Magistrates’ Court.
Signed:
Signature of deponent: Andrew Felsted
Andrew Felsted WILL SAY AS FOLLOWS:
I am the licensee of the [ ] public house in [ ]. In December 1940 I was 18 years of age and was about to be called up to the Royal Navy. At the time I had some temporary part-time work as a barman at the Prospect of Whitby public house at Wapping Wall, London, E1. It was several hundred yards from the Prospect to the nearest air raid shelter, and we used to allow customers and other local residents to shelter in the cellars of the pub during air raids. I was on duty in the fortnight before Christmas when the bombing of London by the Luftwaffe was very intensive. I remember a night during that period when there was an air raid. The cellar was, as usual, full of people sheltering from the bombs. When the all-clear sounded we all went upstairs. The pub was in darkness because the electricity had been cut, so when we reached the bar area it was still dark. Then the power was reconnected, and all the lights went on.
We were faced with a scene I shall never forget. Two men who were known to me as local people and regulars in the pub, called Alec Bledsoe and Mikey McArthur, were in the saloon bar. They had tied another man to the bar by his wrists and were giving him a real thrashing. He was powerless to defend himself. I knew this man as well. He was a lighterman and a regular at the Prospect. His name was Izzy Conway, although he was known to me by his river nickname, which was “Merlin”. Merlin looked as if he was unconscious. His head was hanging down and he was only held upright by the ropes tying his wrists to the bar rail. His face was a complete mess with blood all over it. Bledsoe was standing in front of him repeatedly punching him in the face and body, and McArthur was right next to him, encouraging him on. We all came to a halt at the head of the stairs. Then another young man, who I didn’t know, intervened. He was very strongly built with dark curly hair, and he swung a bar stool at McArthur, who fell to the floor. Bledsoe rushed at the young man, throwing punches, and the young man defended himself. He eventually knocked Bledsoe down.
I am sure that if the young man had not stopped the fight, Bledsoe and McArthur would have killed Merlin or at least done him very serious injury. I do not know why they were attacking Merlin in the way they were.
I am prepared to give evidence in respect of this matter if I’m asked to do so. It was a very shocking scene and one that I have never forgotten.
Signed: Andrew Felsted.
‘There are sixteen statements there, Mikey, and they all say the same thing: you and Bledsoe were beating Izzy to death and that I was acting in self-defence. Every one of them will give evidence against you.’
McArthur leans forward. ‘Yeh, but they don’t say you killed Alec, do they?’ he says triumphantly.
‘No, they don’t.’
‘Well they’re all fucking liars, then.’ He almost shouts this, causing others to turn and stare at them.
‘The point is, Mikey, it’s going to be your evidence against seventeen other witnesses. You say I killed Bledsoe. They say I was defending Izzy and if I hadn’t intervened you’d have killed him. They say Bledsoe attacked me and I had no choice but defend myself.’
‘Bledsoe’s still ended up dead, with you on top of him.’
Charles waves his hand, dismissing the point. ‘Bledsoe died when a wall fell on him. Bombs were dropping everywhere. If you go to the police, it’s going to be you answering the difficult questions. Like, what were you and Bledsoe doing, beating the shit out of some young lighterman? There are sixteen witnesses there, not including me, who say you were going to kill him. Attempted murder? With your record? Who do you think the police will believe?’
‘They’re never going to turn up and actually give evidence after all this time,’ says McArthur defiantly, but Charles sees doubt in his eyes.
‘They were perfectly happy to give me statements. Not a single witness turned me down. And do you know why? ’Cos they still hate you. Yes, after all this time. You and Bledsoe made their lives a misery during the war — walking into shops and taking what you wanted; smashing shop windows; te
rrorising people — and not just Jews. East End folk have long memories. You should know that.’
McArthur’s face contorts as he tries to think his way out of the problem Charles has presented to him. He brandishes the wad of banknotes.
‘What’s this for, then?’
‘Travel money. Go back to the Lake District. Go anywhere, I don’t care. But just fuck off out of London. If I see you again, it’ll be me going to the police, with this lot,’ and he jabs his finger on the statements.
McArthur sweeps the documents off the table and into his clutches, momentary triumph in his eyes.
‘Yes, keep them, by all means,’ says Charles with a smile. ‘I have copies, of course. They’re with my solicitor. If anything ever happens to me, he has instructions to send them to the Met.’
Charles waits patiently for McArthur’s decision. He takes a sip of hot tea and a bite of warm buttery toast.
Without another word, McArthur stands and throws the draft depositions back onto the table. He shoves the £100 into his jacket pocket.
‘You’re a fucking smug, Jew-boy cunt!’ he shouts, and he reaches over and flips Charles’s saucer up, spilling tea over his jacket and into his lap. He then whirls around and storms out of the café, slamming the door behind him and leaving the little bell jangling. Charles reaches for some paper napkins and starts dabbing tea off his front.
‘Not hot enough for him,’ he explains to the spectators with an insouciant smile.
Charles grimaces as he pulls on his saturated raincoat and squelchy hat. He gathers together the draft depositions and rolls them into a tube to keep as a souvenir. Concocting them had not taken long, but he’d never learned to type, so his clunky two-fingered creation of the false statements on spare deposition sheets found lying around Chambers had taken him several evenings. Worth the effort, however, he thinks. He pops the last bite of toast in his mouth, raises his hat to the people behind the counter, and heads back out into the rain.
The Waxwork Corpse: A legal thriller with a chilling twist (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 5) Page 29