by Peter Murphy
He makes his way forward with a rather deliberate air, and sits in front of my desk.
‘Charlie, I heard that one of the defendants in your case says he has a black book with names of men who used the massage parlour. Is that right?’
I pick the book up and hold it aloft.
‘Really?’ he says slowly. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve…’
I shake my head.
‘Look, I can’t tell you who is in it,’ I say, ‘but I can tell you that there are no names associated with the court in any way. Does that help?’
He sighs and relaxes.
‘Yes, thank you. Of course, there is no reason why my name would be in the book.’
‘Of course not,’ I reply soothingly.
‘I may have been to Jordan’s for dinner. Once. Well, twice at the most. I’m not entirely sure. But I have certainly never been upstairs. Indeed, I didn’t know there was an upstairs until your trial started and I read about it in the Standard. Or if I did know, I certainly didn’t know anything of that kind was going on up there…’
‘Of course, Legless,’ I say, ‘I know that. I would never have imagined otherwise.’
‘But that doesn’t stop people using your name, does it, if they think they can gain some advantage from it?’
‘No, indeed.’
‘I mean, I could write the name of the Archbishop of Canterbury in a black book for reasons of my own. Doesn’t mean he’s been upstairs at Jordan’s, does it?’
‘Certainly not.’
He stands. ‘No. Well, in any case, thank you for letting me know. It’s put my mind at rest.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I reply. ‘How was lunch? Hubert didn’t go off to the Garrick, did he?’
‘No. He won’t go anywhere as long as the kitchen stays open. After that – well, it’s anyone’s guess. Have you come up with any ideas yet?’
‘Not yet,’ I admit.
* * *
Wednesday afternoon
Counsel troop sombrely into chambers just after two o’clock. I have Stella with me with a hand-held recording device, because this definitely has to be on the record. She inserts a tape, pushes record, and puts the date and time and the names of those present on the tape before handing it over to me.
‘Judge, I had no idea whatsoever about this book,’ Emily says. She seems to have recovered from the appearance of being tasered, but she is still looking distinctly chagrined. She is not allowed to talk to Valkov while he is giving evidence, which may be just as well in the circumstances, but I am sure she has favoured a few people with her opinion about her client over lunch. ‘Valkov never said anything to me about it, and I certainly didn’t know that he was going to say something like that.’
‘We all accept that, of course,’ Piers says at once, ‘and of course, it came out while I was cross-examining, not as a result of any question Emily asked him.’
I nod. ‘That’s true,’ I say. ‘No possible criticism of you, Emily, of course. But the jury and the press heard it, and we now have to decide how to deal with it. By my count, the book contains sixty-five names, including those of a few fairly prominent men, and of course, any publication of names would be embarrassing to somebody.’
‘Of course,’ Susan says, ‘Aubrey and I are worried about the fall-out for our clients. My man says he knew nothing about a black book at all.’
‘My girl says the same,’ Aubrey adds.
‘None of us thinks there is any basis for allowing Valkov to name names,’ Piers replies. ‘It seems to us that he is perfectly entitled to say that he was running a respectable house, and that he had the kind of clientele that would have run a mile if they thought it was anything other than respectable. But anything beyond that is irrelevant, and it would be the court’s duty to prevent any mention of the names of third parties in court if it might cause unnecessary damage.’
‘I agree,’ I say. ‘The book stays with me until further order, and I will leave Mr Valkov in no doubt about what is likely to happen to him if he tries to out anyone.’
‘No argument from me, Judge,’ Emily says.
‘What we would like to do, Judge,’ Piers says, ‘is to get together and work out a form of words we can give the jury as an agreement between the prosecution and the defence. It will be something along the lines that certain men, including men prominent in public life, may have visited Jordan’s, and the jury may consider that point when they come to ask themselves whether they are sure that these defendants were running a brothel upstairs. I will also make it clear that there is no evidence to connect Susan’s or Aubrey’s clients with the book.’
‘That sounds perfectly reasonable,’ I reply.
‘Yes,’ Piers says. ‘Of course, your Honour has seen inside the book, while we have not. So we are not sure whether our proposed statement about the names would be accurate or not. I don’t know whether your Honour would be prepared to…’
No,’ I reply immediately. ‘But I can indicate that, if you were to make the statement that men prominent in public life are mentioned in the book, that statement would be an accurate one.’
‘Much obliged, Judge,’ Piers says. ‘Could we have until tomorrow morning, please? We want to make sure we get it right, and there are some inquiries I want the officer in the case to make about the men who were found in the premises, and some other intelligence the police may have about Jordan’s.’
‘Yes, very well,’ I reply. I was actually thinking of adjourning anyway. If there is one thing we don’t need now, it is to rush things, and there is a lot to be said for allowing Valkov – and the press – to pause and take a deep breath. Piers reads my mind.
‘The only other question,’ he says, ‘is what to do about the press?’
‘There’s nothing I can do about that,’ I point out. ‘The book was mentioned in open court, and it’s a legitimate story. I’m sure they are going to be running around like chickens with their heads cut off, trying to get a lead on men who may have been spotted at Jordan’s. That’s up to them. All I can do is tell the jury to keep away from the reporting and focus on the evidence. And the defendants are not to talk to the press, about anything at all.’
Susan and Aubrey nod.
‘Understood,’ Emily says. ‘Judge, since I can’t speak to Valkov at present, and I’m not sure I would trust myself even if I could, perhaps you wouldn’t mind making that clear to him?’
‘With pleasure,’ I reply.
And when I go back into court, I do indeed spend several minutes reading the Riot Act to Dimitri Valkov, telling him exactly what is going to happen if he mentions any names, speaks to the press, or, for that matter, misbehaves in any way at all. I remind the press of their responsibilities. Finally, I tell the jury to stay away from the press coverage, and remind them that anything the press reports about the black book or its contents can be no more than speculation. I think everyone gets the idea.
It is not until I am back in chambers that I ask myself whether I actually have any power to keep a book which is not an exhibit without the consent of the owner, and to keep it without allowing anyone, including counsel, to look at it. I decide to postpone that question until someone asks me. There is also the question of how exactly I am going to take care of it. All I can do is have Stella lock it in our secure safe. That’s as much protection as I can give it, though it occurs to me that I wouldn’t fancy its chances against any determined burglar on the trail of a book for which the press might pay a considerable sum.
It is beginning to feel like a long day, and I contemplate cutting out early and making my way home. But when I come to check my email for the final time before shutting down my computer, I get a bit of a shock. There are eight emails marked urgent, asking me to contact the sender as soon as possible. Three are from High Court judges, only one of whom I remember meeting. Two are from Silks I have known for any number of years. Th
e remaining three are from people I have never heard of. None of the emails reveals what it is the sender wishes to discuss, but I have a pretty shrewd idea.
Legless knew about the black book within minutes, no doubt courtesy of the court staff. By now, solicitors, barristers and others will have been spreading the word, and it may even be that the early edition of the Standard is on the stands. The word is out, and I have the feeling that I have suddenly assumed a role of some importance in the lives of other people, of having something they very much want. In fact, I confess to my shame a certain unfamiliar feeling of power. I decide to call one of the High Court judges I have never met, who indicates that he will be working in chambers during the afternoon, and that I can call at any time.
‘Charles,’ he begins cordially. ‘How kind of you to call back.’
‘Not at all,’ I reply. I could, I suppose, put him out of his misery by letting him know without further ado that his name does not feature in the black book. Indeed, the one High Court judge who is mentioned in the book is not one of the three who have emailed. But I am curious to know how he will approach it. After all, this call may be a blueprint for any number of others. There is a silence.
‘Charles, look, I will come straight to the point. I’ve heard about this so-called black book in this case of yours. Complete nonsense, of course, I assume. Isn’t it?’
‘Well, I’m not sure at this stage, er…’
‘Giles.’
‘Giles, yes, of course. Well, I’m not sure at this stage, Giles. We only found out about it today.’
Another silence.
‘Yes. I understand that, of course. But… I take it, you have been able to look through the book?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is it right that it does in fact contain some names?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well…’
‘But you must understand, Giles, that I can’t divulge any of the names. The information in the book has to be kept confidential. If information were to leak out, it might create all kinds of problems for those concerned. I am sure you have the same problems in the High Court as we do here.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Pause. ‘The thing is, Charles, that I have never been to this place… what’s it called?’
‘Jordan’s.’
‘Jordan’s. That’s it. I’ve never set foot in the place.’
‘Of course.’
‘As a matter of fact, I can go farther than that. I’m not sure I’ve ever been to Bermondsey. I’m not sure I would even know how to get there. South of the River, isn’t it?’
‘Giles, if you’ve never been to Jordan’s, you have nothing to worry about.’
‘Ah, but that’s the problem, Charles. I shouldn’t have anything to worry about, of course, as you say. But you never know when some malicious person might take your name in vain. I’ve had two or three very high profile cases recently, had my name in the papers every day. People latch on to that, you see. The name sticks. Then, when they need someone’s name, someone in the public eye, they use any name that comes to mind for their own purposes. I’m sure you understand that, Charles. I’m sure you have had cases of that kind yourself.’
‘We have cases of identity fraud, certainly. But I can’t…’
‘Look, Charles, I tell you what. I’m not asking you to tell me who is in the book. But surely, there couldn’t be any objection if you confirmed to me that my name isn’t there. Would that be all right?’
I consider this for a moment. I can’t see any harm in it, and I’ve enjoyed having him on the hook for some time. It’s time to let him go.
‘Well, Giles, yes. I suppose there can’t be any harm in that. Let me just look through it again. I’ve only had time to skim it briefly. Give me a moment.’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’
I take my time, and eventually assure my new friend Giles that his name does not appear in the book. His gratitude is almost overwhelming, and it is some time before I can get him off the phone. I try another number, then another, and in each case I have the almost identical conversation, so that by the end of the afternoon I am also on first name terms with two important players in the City and a Member of Parliament for a northern constituency. It is quite fun in a way. But I am only too aware that the real problem is going to arise when someone contacts me who is in the book. I am not yet at all sure how I will deal with that one, and when I am ready finally to close down my computer, I see there are another seven emails awaiting my attention. It may be just a matter of time.
* * *
Wednesday evening
I know something is up. The Reverend Mrs Walden is being especially solicitous this evening. She has prepared a delicious home-made lasagne and is plying me with large glasses of Sainsbury’s Special Reserve Valpolicella. I panic for a moment, thinking that I may have overlooked some special occasion. But none comes to mind. I conclude that she is just being extra-nice to me because of the hard day I have obviously had in court, dealing with a case which could bring volcanic ash raining down on Bermondsey, come Friday. But then I see the headline in the Standard, and it dawns on me that she has an ulterior motive.
Eventually she poses the question: what’s in the black book? At first, she proceeds on the basis that she is entitled to know: because she is the local Vicar, after all; because there should be no secrets between husband and wife; and because I can trust her not to tell. I explain that I’m not being deliberately secretive; the information is just not mine to share. And indeed, it’s not that I don’t trust her. I am not worried that she’s going to read a list of names from the pulpit this coming Sunday, just to emphasise the point she made last Sunday. But as I already know from the quantity of emails on my computer, once information of this kind gets loose it spreads like wildfire.
She changes her tack.
‘Charlie, I just want to know whether there is anyone in the book I should be aware of,’ she pleads. ‘Everyone knows we are married, and that you’re doing the Jordan case. I’m worried about someone asking me questions: who’s in the book; who’s not in the book? You know how people are, Church people especially. They love a bit of gossip and scandal.’ She pauses. ‘Besides, you never know who might have ended up in a place like Jordan’s. What if I know somebody?’
‘Tell them you don’t know,’ I suggest. ‘It is the truth, after all. Blame it on me, if you want to. I’m a mean old spoilsport who won’t lift the lid on a juicy bit of scandal.’
This does not appear to satisfy her entirely.
‘Your bishop isn’t there,’ I offer eventually. ‘Does that help?’
She breathes a sigh of relief.
‘It does. Thank you.’
‘Nor are any of the vicars you have introduced me to, as far as I remember their names.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Try some more names on me,’ I suggest. ‘If I can, I will tell you they are not in the book.’
‘But what if I mention a name and you don’t say anything?’ she asks. ‘That would mean they are in the book.’
‘Not necessarily,’ I reply. ‘It may mean that I can’t remember. I’ve only skimmed through the thing once or twice. I don’t have all the names in my head.’
‘Well, couldn’t you tell me if you don’t remember?’
‘Yes.’
She mentions a handful of names, none of which rings any bells at all, and we finish the Valpolicella happily talking of other things. But I am wondering how much of this kind of soothing talk is in my future, and what the long term future of Dimitri’s black book may be. Perhaps it will become clear tomorrow.
* * *
Thursday morning
We resume Piers’s cross-examination of Valkov. After the drama of yesterday, there is a buzz of expectation in the courtroom. The jury are on the edge of their chairs, and the press are poised, p
encils in hand. Judging by the expression on his face, Piers is not in the mood to take prisoners.
‘Mr Valkov, yesterday you described the black book to his Honour as a “cliché”. What did you mean by that?’
Valkov shrugs. ‘It is common to have black book, that is what I mean. It is become almost joke. Why not have some other colour book?’
‘Yes, but why is the black book a cliché?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It was your word, Mr Valkov.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t you? Is it because a black book usually contains information that certain people would prefer not to make public?’
‘It could be, yes.’
‘Yes. There would be no need to have a black book for clients of a legitimate Swedish massage parlour, would there?’
Valkov shrugs.
‘Because Swedish massage is a legitimate therapy, isn’t it? Nothing illegal about it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Nothing for anyone to be ashamed about, going for a massage, is there?’
‘No.’
‘So there’s no reason to have your clients’ names written in a cliché like a black book, is there?’
‘No reason, no.’
‘You could keep a client list on your computer, or have Miss Trask keep it on hers, if she was taking appointments. That would be the logical way to run things, wouldn’t it?’
Volkov shrugs again.
‘The reason you kept a black book, Mr Valkov,’ Piers says, ‘is exactly because it is a cliché. It’s a cliché because like every other book of its kind, it contains the names of men who came to Jordan’s for much more than a therapeutic massage. Isn’t that right?’
‘No.’
‘It’s because these men came to Jordan’s for the purposes of prostitution. That’s why you have a black book, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Because you were running a brothel upstairs at Jordan’s, weren’t you?’
‘No.’
‘And the men whose names are in your black book would have a great deal to lose if their names were made public, wouldn’t they?’