The Richmond Diary

by Peter Rawlinson

  Jack eventually discovered that she’d taken the late-afternoon flight to London, so he rang the flat she shared in Wandsworth. There was no reply. Next morning he called the shop in Mayfair but no one could or would tell him anything. Later that day he too travelled to London. He went to the flat at Wandsworth. She was not there. Nor was she at the shop in Mayfair. They told her she had left. Disconsolate, he went back to Yorkshire.

  At home near Leeds, he saw no one and waited for the lawyer’s letter asking for money. But none came. She’d just gone. Some time afterwards he discovered she’d gone to Germany where she’d got work as a model. Still later he discreetly sought an annulment, which eventually terminated the marriage that never was.

  Over a month after his trip to Ischia he returned to practise but it was a different Jack Traynor from the one his fellow barristers remembered. The trombone stayed in its black leather case as if in mourning and was never heard again at the Grand Night dinners of the circuit. He had become morose and misanthropic, but he threw himself into his work. He became known on the circuit as a savage cross-examiner but he didn’t confine his tetchiness to witnesses in court. He lost what friends he had but prospered professionally, affecting a blunt joviality with juries – a joviality not retained in the robing room or in the Bar mess when the case was over. After a few years in silk he was appointed to the High Court Bench and developed into a rather sour, ‘stand-no-nonsense’ judge. As he now had few friends in the north and was often called to sit in the Divisional Court and the Criminal Appeal Court, he moved to London – despite his feelings about the south and southerners that had been so exacerbated by his experience with Lois. His spinster sister, Agnes, with whom he lived, found a villa in Hampstead where she joined the local Methodist Church and set about reforming it. From their bleak house he set out daily by bus to try cases at the Law Courts in London. So with his least favourite counsel appearing before him within the space of three days, Patrick Foxley on Monday and then Mordecai Ledbury, Mr Justice Traynor had not had the most agreeable of weeks in his short career on the Bench.

  The case in which Mordecai Ledbury appeared before him concerned the interpretation of a contract between a literary agent and a well-known author, and it aroused considerable public interest. Mordecai represented the agent; Hayden Welsh, the author. During the trial, Mordecai made little effort to conceal his disdain of Mr Justice Traynor’s lack of understanding of the literary life of London and with his wig perched crookedly on his enormous head, and the sweat running down the deep runnels which led from above the nostrils to beside and below the chin in the dark twisted face, he lectured the judge at length. Balanced precariously on his crippled legs, he thumped the desk of the bench in front of him on which he had laid his two sticks, one of which he would pick up from time to time when he decided to perambulate a few paces up and down counsel’s bench, inevitably dropping the other. He did not, however, permit this to interrupt the flow of his argument as he ignored the obsequious attempt of the solicitor’s clerk, who darted from his place and groped on the floor in an effort to retrieve it. Jack Traynor, remembering his friend John Williams’s advice, kept his temper and sat, outwardly impassive, listening to Ledbury’s lengthy final address. As he did so he forgave Patrick Foxley his Oxonian airs and graces in the case earlier in the week and when Mordecai at last concluded his protracted submissions it was with considerable satisfaction, which he could barely conceal, that he launched into his judgement almost before Mordecai had collapsed with a clatter into his seat. He made clear how little he had been impressed by the argument of counsel for the literary agent and how decisively he considered Mr Mordecai Ledbury wrong and Mr Hayden Welsh right. He ignored Mordecai’s snorts as he awarded costs to Hayden Welsh’s client and swept out of court, darting a look of triumph at Mordecai Ledbury as he disappeared.

  ‘Roody prima donna,’ he said in his Geordie accent when his clerk brought him a cup of tea as he sat in his room, his feet on the desk. ‘Did you see the expression on his face?’ The judge chuckled. ‘He doesn’t like losing, not before a Geordie judge. Like that young Foxley fellow last Monday.’

  ‘But Mr Foxley won on Monday, Judge,’ said his clerk.

  ‘Aye, but Foxley’s another prima donna of another kind, with a different style but he’s still another prima donna. I can’t abide either. We’d have taught them manners if we’d had them on the north-eastern circuit. They wouldn’t have got far in Leeds.’

  Mordecai had left the court, growling and thumping his stick, not stopping to talk to his disconsolate client, leaving that to his junior counsel and his resentful solicitor. As he limped down the stairs into the central hall of the Law Courts muttering to himself, his clerk at his side, Adams knew him well enough to keep silent.

  It was only when Adams was helping him into his short coat that he dared to speak. ‘Did you read in this morning’s papers, sir, that the Minister for Defence Procurement has resigned?’

  Mordecai shook his head. ‘I don’t read about the antics of those comedians.’

  ‘He is to sue News Universal for what they published about him,’ Adams went on. ‘We have a retainer on behalf of the group. From Mr Goodbody.’

  Mordecai sat heavily in the chair. ‘So we have. You should never have let me accept it.’

  Adams brushed the collar of Mordecai’s coat with a clothes-brush. ‘News Universal’, he said, ‘have insisted upon an immediate consultation and Mr Goodbody and the Managing Director are in your room waiting for you.’ He put down the brush and handed Mordecai a copy of the Sunday News. ‘Just to remind you, sir.’

  Assisted by Adams, Mordecai struggled down the steps into the forecourt of the Law Courts to the taxi waiting for him. Even though his chambers were only a stone’s throw from the Courts, a few hundred yards across the Strand, he always had a taxi to take him to the Temple after a day in court. Adams took a seat beside him and Mordecai began to read the extracts of the Richmond diary in the newspaper. To reach the Temple the cab had to make a lengthy, circular and expensive journey through heavy traffic down Fleet Street into Tudor Street and under the arch to King’s Bench Walk. They sat in the cab while Mordecai finished reading. Then, with a snort, he got out and Adams paid off the cab.

  Goodbody, Spenser and Godfrey were in Mordecai’s large room overlooking the Inner Temple garden, seated in a semicircle facing the big desk beneath the tall window. A fourth chair had been placed next to Spenser. It was, for the present, empty. Mordecai stumped in, acknowledging the presence of none except Goodbody, to whom he gave a cursory nod, before sinking into and his chair behind his desk, his back to the window.

  ‘You’ve been in court all day?’ Goodbody asked pleasantly.

  Mordecai grunted. Goodbody could tell that he was in a temper. He must have lost. It would be a difficult conference. ‘Well?’ Mordecai growled. ‘What’s all this about?’

  Goodbody introduced Spenser and Godfrey from the News Universal legal department.

  Mordecai ignored Spenser and said to Godfrey, ‘What kind of a lawyer are you?’

  ‘A barrister,’ Godfrey said.

  ‘Have you done a pupillage? In whose chambers?’

  ‘Patrick Foxley’s.’

  ‘Did he throw you out?’

  Godfrey coloured. ‘No, I decided to get a job.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Personal reasons.’

  ‘Money, I assume,’ Mordecai muttered. ‘Starving wife, children tugging at the gown, obliged to take News Universal’s shilling.’

  ‘Mordecai!’ Goodbody expostulated.

  Mordecai switched his gaze to Spenser. ‘You are the Managing Director?’ Spenser bowed. ‘Do you have any say in what is published in the newspaper?’

  ‘Not specifically, only if there is, as it were, a business element.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Spenser cleared his throat. ‘For instance, if there is a need for the authorisation of extra funds, such as to purchase a book or some
feature which—’

  ‘Did you authorise the publication about which this man threatens to sue?’

  ‘No, the Chairman, Mr Digby Price, made the decision to publish.’ Spenser pointed to the empty chair beside him. ‘We’re expecting him here at any moment. He’s coming from Paris.’

  ‘When the piece was published, didn’t you realise that you ran the risk of being sued?’

  ‘Yes.’ Spenser nodded towards Godfrey. ‘Lacey advised that there was a risk—’

  ‘And you ignored that advice?’

  ‘The Chairman’, Spenser repeated, ‘made the decision to publish.’

  The door opened. ‘Mr Digby Price,’ Adams announced.

  Price strode in: a squat, aggressive figure. He stood for a moment, looking around him. Spenser got to his feet and pushed the empty chair towards him. Price nodded briefly to Mordecai and sat down heavily. ‘What have you been talking about?’ he asked.

  ‘The trouble you’ve got yourself into,’ said Mordecai.

  ‘You mean the trouble you are going to get me out of,’ Price contradicted.

  ‘The Managing Director was telling me that you personally authorised the publication. Is that correct?’

  ‘I did. I authorised it because I thought it provocative and entertaining. I knew that some of the characters mentioned would object. I wasn’t worried if any of the so-called society people issued a writ. I reckoned none of them would dare and I had reason to believe that two of the three politicians mentioned would not sue.’

  ‘What was the reason?’

  ‘That’s my business,’ Price replied. There was a silence.

  Mordecai broke it. ‘You don’t wish to tell me?’

  ‘No.’

  Spenser knew. He knew Price had seen the Prime Minister on Sunday at Chequers.

  ‘Well, one of them has,’ said Mordecai.

  ‘I hoped he would. For a long time I’ve waited for the chance to expose him. He’s corrupt and dishonest, and I welcome his writ. I want the bastard ruined.’

  Mordecai flung himself back in his chair. ‘You’ve come all the way from Paris to tell me that?’

  ‘No. I came because I want to hear your advice about defending any claim he might make.’

  Mordecai studied Price under his bushy eyebrows; then he looked away. ‘The routine in a claim for damages in an action for defamation’, he began, ‘is to plead that what was published was not defamatory but if it was, then it was fair comment. Finally, as a last resort you plead that what was written was true. When the other side is considering that, you get out your chequebook and pay them off.’

  Price leant forward in his chair. ‘I’ll get my chequebook out to pay you, Ledbury, provided you stop being so bloody sarcastic and bloody well make sure I don’t have to get out my chequebook to pay Richard Tancred.’ He jumped to his feet and began to walk around the room, pacing to the window, then back to the door. ‘Let me make this clear. I don’t pay Tancred a penny, not now, not later and not ever. I’ve hired you, Ledbury, to make sure I don’t. I’m the one in charge and—’

  ‘You are in charge up to a point,’ Mordecai interrupted. ‘You can give your instructions, yes, but I’m in charge of the conduct of the litigation and I remain so unless and until you terminate the retainer.’ He paused. ‘If you want to reject my advice—’

  Goodbody intervened, fixing Mordecai with his eyes. ‘I think we’re at cross-purposes. The Chairman misunderstood the way you answered him, Mordecai, about the form of defence.’ He turned to Price, who was standing glowering, his hands on the back of his chair. ‘What Mordecai meant was that usually at this stage a defendant lodges a holding defence, that is a formal defence until he’s ready to file the real defence. Of course there’s no question of paying the man off. Mordecai was jesting. It is true that it is sometimes cheaper to pay off a claimant than to fight him, even if you were to win but in a case like the present, the holding defence remains on the file only until we have assembled the evidence about what Tancred was up to with Oscar Sleaven. Then we plead justification, in other words we formulate our real defence – that what the words meant was true. That Tancred and Sleaven were up to something dishonest; that Sleaven was paying Tancred in order to get lucrative contracts. If, of course, your people can’t come up with any evidence, then we can’t succeed and you would have to pay up. If they do produce the evidence, what they have discovered will form the substance of a defence of justification and we shall win. Is that not right, Mordecai?’

  Mordecai frowned, shifting in his chair.

  ‘The Tancred-Sleaven relationship as described in the diary appears to me, as I believe it would to any fair-minded reader, very sinister,’ Goodbody went on. ‘The Minister and the industrialist, secret conversations, meetings in strange places. Richmond, whose solicitor I was for years, was no fool. He was a shrewd observer and he certainly formed the impression that there was something improper going on between them. And so would anyone who witnessed what Richmond described.’ He turned to Price. ‘But I’m sure you have your people looking into all of this.’

  ‘I have an army looking into it, as you call it. They’ll go through every second that man has ever breathed until we know more about him than he knows about himself.’ He wagged a finger at Mordecai. ‘This is war, Ledbury, I want to make that plain. War to the death and you’re going to fight this war on my behalf because, despite all your offensiveness, I know you’re the right man to do it. In fact, it’s because you’re so bloody rude that I’ve gone for you. You don’t like me and I don’t like you, but this is a professional job and I’m told that, if you’re anything, you’re a professional.’ He stopped.

  No one spoke. Mordecai was staring straight ahead of him.

  Price went on, ‘You’re in charge of the battle when we get to court, I know that. One doesn’t keep a dog and bark oneself, but my instructions are to fight, fight every inch of the way, with every weapon in the book and if you can’t find one in the book, then use some that are not. It’s no surrender and no chequebook. Is that understood?’

  Again there was silence. Spenser had his head bowed, his hands together, the tips of his fingers against his lips as though in prayer.

  When no one spoke, Price said, ‘Well that’s what I’ve come here to say. This is a fight. Understand?’ He looked around the room. ‘You got the message?’

  Mordecai remained silent, still staring ahead of him. For a moment he caught Godfrey’s eye and Godfrey thought he saw the glimmer of a wink. But it might have been a trick of the light.

  Price turned to Spenser. ‘I’m returning to Paris. Keep me informed.’ He twisted on his heel and left, banging the door behind him.

  Mordecai took out a large red bandanna handkerchief and wiped his face. ‘You heard the man,’ he said. ‘Keep him informed. And you might as well keep me informed too. That also might help.’ He looked at Goodbody. ‘I don’t think it would be profitable to continue this conference. Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

  The three rose to go. Then Spenser said, ‘May I say something?’

  Mordecai nodded. ‘If you wish.’

  ‘The issue between the Chairman and the ex-Minister is personal. It originated in the past, over exactly what I don’t know. All I do know is that he has a bitter hatred for Richard Tancred and that when he read what Richmond had written he thought it presented him with an opportunity to expose a man he has always believed was corrupt. My advice as the Group Managing Director was to avoid litigation but the Chairman was determined to go ahead and he’ll go to any lengths to win. I assure you that Mr Price will never consent to any settlement.’

  ‘Is that all you can tell us?’ Mordecai enquired. Spenser nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Mordecai gestured to Goodbody to remain.

  ‘I’ll telephone later this evening,’ Goodbody said to Spenser as he and Godfrey left.

  When Mordecai and Goodbody were alone, Mordecai shook his great head. ‘What have you let me in for, Oliver Goodbody? That man Price is unbala
nced. He’s obsessed.’

  ‘Is he?’ asked Goodbody quietly. ‘I am not so sure. Perhaps he is right.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘I’m very glad we didn’t bring the editor,’ Spenser commented in the car taking him and Godfrey back to the office. ‘It was a difficult enough conference as it was. I don’t think she’s the kind of lady Ledbury would have warmed to.’

  ‘I thought that the Chairman and Ledbury were going to come to blows’ said Godfrey.

  ‘I don’t mind how fierce Ledbury is with us, so long as he’s fiercer with the enemy.’

  ‘What kind of man is Richard Tancred?’ Godfrey asked.

  ‘Very little is known about him,’ Spenser replied. ‘He went into the Foreign Service after Cambridge, but I suspect it was really MI6.’

  ‘He was a spy?’

  ‘In the Special Intelligence Service world. Then he went into business. In my twenty years with News Universal I’ve always found someone able to tell me most things about most people. But not about Tancred.’

  ‘There’s a passage in the diary where Richmond describes him as monk-like, celibate.’

  ‘If he is, that’s rarely true of those who go into politics. Political power is an aphrodisiac. In any event this case will be about his honesty, his relations with Sleaven, not what he gets up to in bed. Which is why I have added accountants and financial experts to the team investigating him and his past. And Oscar Sleaven.’ He paused. ‘And I’ve provided them with a very, very substantial budget. You are off to Manchester tonight?’

  Godfrey nodded. A contract problem with printers. He’d be back in the morning.