by John Wilson
Jones looked Adam in the eye. Adam looked away. His cigarette, hardly smoked, was sitting in the ashtray sending up blue plumes. Oblivious to it, Adam pulled out his packet and lit another. The shake was more perceptible now.
– Damn! I’m sorry, Mr Jones. I don’t have her address on me. I’m really sorry. I’ve been meaning to deal with it. I’ll try and get it to you by tomorrow.
– Don’t mind me, Mr Falling. It’s your case after all and you’re a barrister. You should know how important – or not – this is. It’s just that Mr Blytheway keeps on at me about it.
Jones watched as Falling alternated between his two cigarettes, apparently unaware of the fact that both were burning.
– I really wanted to talk to you about Novak and our chat yesterday.
It was only as that discussion was beginning that Adam realised he’d failed to ask Bateman about that cryptic comment Pemberton had made to him before Christmas. He cursed himself for his stupidity.
Chapter Forty-four
(Wednesday 29th January 1941)
– You say Bateman was in bed with your wife when his wife was knocked down by a car?
– Yes.
– How can you be sure of that?
– Well, I wasn’t there, obviously, but I did see Marjorie lying in the road. She wasn’t moving. I went over and touched her face. She was clearly dead … quite near her home … I dashed over there and started hammering on the door … but there was no answer … so I went inside only to find Bateman and Victoria coming downstairs. He was still shoving his shirt into his trousers.
– And that was the first you knew of any … goings-on?
Mr McKechnie sighed. Pemberton’s eyes were glittering behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. The divorce pleadings – and Victoria’s last diary – were arranged neatly across the desk in front of him. Bright light filled the room and a two-bar electric fire was burning against McKechnie’s right leg.
– Look. We’ve been through all this before. I told Mr Collins all about it and we talked it all through at our last meeting.
– You must understand, Mr Mckechnie. This will probably be our last meeting before the trial and I need to be sure that you have told me everything of relevance.
McKechnie looked around the room. In addition to his KC there was Mr Collins, his solicitor, and a funny nondescript chap in his thirties – Mr Perkins – who was Pemberton’s junior, sitting at a desk to the side, scribbling away and every now and again laughing at Pemberton’s (unfunny) jokes. He resented Perkins more than he resented the rest of them. He couldn’t see why he should have to pay for two briefs when one would do. Collins, however, was insistent: if he wanted to have a KC, a top barrister, then he would have to pay for a junior as well. What he resented most of all was having to pay up front. Collins not only insisted that they have this meeting (waste of time as far as he was concerned) but also insisted on being “put in funds” in advance of it. McKechnie believed in payment by results. What happened if he lost?
Then again, he knew he couldn’t lose. He knew that Bateman had been having an affair with his wife. Pain now, pleasure later; all his costs and all his damages would come out of Bateman’s pocket.
– I’m afraid you’re not listening, Mr McKechnie.
– Sorry?
– Where were you when all this was going on?
– Oh … er … I was in the pub. Having a quiet pint.
– When there was an air raid going on?
– Well, it was early days, mate … I mean, Mr Pemberton. No one was taking them seriously then.
It was only a little white lie, after all. As long as he told the truth about the main thing – about the fact that Bateman was in bed with his wife – the other bits and pieces didn’t matter really. He also held back something else. Because, to him, it didn’t seem important.
– And you are telling us that, before that night, you had no idea that your wife was conducting a relationship with someone who worked under you at the office?
– Well … I had no reason to suspect anything.
– So when did you discover all these “ABC” notes in her diary?
– Our house got hit that night. Everything was spilled out all over the street. We got moved into a shelter and I was tidying up our furniture for the move when it fell out of a drawer in her bedside table.
– I’m sorry about the loss of your home.
McKechnie gazed at his ever-so-proper barrister and imagined Mrs Pemberton taking off her clothes to sleep with someone else.
– What does “ABC” mean, Mr McKechnie?
– I’ve no idea. Something to do with Bateman’s initials perhaps?
A variation on the same little lie. But it was hardly important. Pemberton was fiddling with one of Jackson’s reports and turning it over and over in his hands.
– Collins. I’ve been reading Jackson’s latest letter. It looks as though Bateman’s been leading him a merry dance. Have you any idea what’s going on?
– How do you mean, sir?
Pemberton stared into space and tapped his figures up and down on a buff envelope.
– One minute he can follow Bateman with absolutely no trouble … and the next … the next … he’s pulling him round the city like a puppet. When did things change?
Pemberton pulled a buff envelope from the shelf behind him and started to scan the private eye’s reports.
– The 18th December last year. That’s when it all changed …
Pemberton gazed at the law books on the shelves opposite his desk. Ornate, leather-bound with gold lettering – and a deep silence pervaded the room. Only the tapping of the silk’s fingers on the leather top of his desk disturbed it.
Then Pemberton brought his fist down on the table with a crash that made everyone, even Perkins, jump.
– Blast! Falling! Damn him!
The colour rose swiftly in his cheeks. Collins bubbled like a goldfish:
– What is it, Mr Pemberton?
– I’ve been a bloody fool!
– I don’t understand.
– Falling must have alerted Bateman. That explains a lot!
McKechnie eyed his barrister – his barristers – with alarm. Falling, that so-called no-hoper, had got one over on them. Falling, who had been having it away with Pemberton’s wife without him knowing. A lizard of fear began scaling his spine and he felt the cold crawl of its toes. Only deference prevented him from shrieking:
– What’s going on?!
– It’s nothing. Nothing. Mr Falling has clearly alerted Bateman to Jackson’s presence. That explains it. Collins, we must stand Jackson down and get someone else onto the case.
Pemberton was rubbing his right temple with the stub-end of his wrist. McKechnie saw something being rearranged in his features as he puzzled things out. He wasn’t even sure that Pemberton was thinking about his case anymore. Then it came to him:
– Have you been using Jackson to trail Falling?
– What on earth are you talking about?
– I’m sorry, Mr Pemberton, sir, but I couldn’t help but hear that … well … you know … you and me have got similar problems, like.
– How dare you!
Red face, the knuckles shining whitely around his black pen. McKechnie took a deep breath.
– I’m sorry, Mr Pemberton, but after all I’m employing you – and paying good money – and, well, it’s all over that you’re going for Falling over your wife. That’s true, isn’t it?
– Yes … Yes … but I assure you, Mr McKechnie, that it does not in any way affect the way in which I am conducting your case.
– So have you been employing Jackson?
– I was, yes, he’s a very good man. One of the best. But his involvement in your case – and my own – is now ended.
– How good is Falling?
– Falling is a scoundrel! A reprobate! I would go so far as to say he is dishonest, if his dealings with my wife are anything to judge him by.
McKe
chnie looked around the room again: Pemberton sitting opposite him, the colour slowly fading from his cheeks as he put down his pen; Collins affecting a blank stare; Perkins keeping his head down and concentrating on his notebook. The light was bright and his right calf was beginning to burn with the electric fire. He rubbed it slowly and looked at the leather-bound legal books on the walls. This was not his world. He would be glad to be out of it.
– I think that we have covered everything we need to before the trial. Now, is there anything else that you think I should know?
McKechnie thought about his encounter with Victoria and Bateman in the pub, and decided against speaking of it. It wasn’t strictly relevant after all. And he didn’t want a load of questions about the inquest. He shook his head. He kept something else to himself as well. Two related things really. They didn’t really matter, after all, and were insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
Pemberton and Perkins rose to say their goodbyes and he and Collins left to head out into the darkness. The meeting had unnerved him. Were it not for the fact that he knew about Victoria’s adultery, he would be getting worried.
Had McKechnie appreciated the true significance of the things that he had withheld, he would have been a very troubled man.
Chapter Forty-five
(Wednesday 5th February 1941)
Jones emerged from Chancery Lane tube station and, briefcase in hand, set off along High Holborn. He was late and, although he did his best to run, the crowds slowed him down. A news-vendor was calling out the headlines:
“Victories in Libya! Victories in Libya!”
He didn’t stop for a paper. Sonia always bought one on her way in and left it on his desk. Mrs Jones and her blasted ration book! All she ever seemed to talk about these days was queuing up, her little successes with oranges or apples, her defeats in the line-up for meat. And last night she had gone on and on about making an early start today and then, as he was about to leave for work that morning, she announced that she had lost their ration book. And he had wasted half an hour helping to find it before she discovered it in her special hiding case at the bottom of her jewellery box!
He made his way down Fetter Lane and then up to his office. It was twenty-five to ten. Sonia stood as he entered and came towards him with an armful of post for him to open and sort.
– Not now, Sonia. Bring it in at lunch time. I’m running late.
– Mr Blytheway called again. He wants you to ring him back.
– Get him on the line for me then.
With that, he bustled into his office and closed the door behind him. Hanging up his overcoat he sat down at his desk, pushed the day’s newspaper to one side and opened his work diary. The previous seven days had been very busy, not just with Adam’s cases but with the rest of his workload. It had been seven days since the conference with Bateman at Lamb Building. Seven days since the post-conference discussion with Falling about Novak’s case, and to his embarrassment he had found time to do nothing about either in the days that followed. And here he was late for work.
He looked through his diary at what the coming weeks held. Novak’s trial had been fixed for the 3rd March – less than four weeks away. The McKechnie case was fixed for 31st March, shortly before the end of Hilary Term when the Courts would close for Easter until sometime in late April. Adam’s own case had not been fixed until Monday 28th April, so for all Pemberton’s threats of getting it on before Easter he had not succeeded in doing so. Jones had almost twelve weeks in which to get the case ready, which was just as well as Adam still hadn’t given him an address for this Betty woman.
And Blytheway. Whilst he was sure he was a good barrister he wished he would leave him be. For all his insouciance Adam’s counsel was clearly troubled about the prostitute angle to the case. The man had actually taken to telephoning him at his office, which was unheard of for a member of the Bar. Jones felt sure that it must be unprofessional of him to do so. His telephone rang.
– I have a line to Lamb Building for you, Mr Jones.
But when Jones got through to Blytheway’s clerk he was told that he had left to go to Court for the day. Jones left a message and returned to his diary. Novak’s case was closest to trial so he should start with that. Adam had told him to prepare a sub-poena to be served on Katya Hoffer: that would be his first task of the day. He felt distinctly uncomfortable about it.
Adam had discussed the case with him on two occasions: once on the 28th January, the day before the conference with Bateman, and then again in considerable detail after Bateman had left chambers on the 29th. Adam had plied him with the questions that had clearly been forming in his mind as they had travelled back from Wandsworth together:
Novak plainly didn’t know about the plans. He didn’t know what colour paper they were on. He didn’t know whether they were old or new. Novak’s fingerprints were nowhere to be seen on the documents, although other unknown fingerprints were. Novak said he didn’t know Katya Hoffer when previously he appeared to be very close to her. Katya seemed to know far more about the documents than he did. And how did Milo Hoffer fit in? Novak told him that it was Hoffer who had advised him not to report himself, whereas Hoffer, initially at least, had said that he had tried unsuccessfully to persuade Novak to report. What possible motive could Hoffer have had for dissuading him from reporting? And if he had dissuaded him, why then go out of his way to try and get him legal representation? It was Hoffer who had found him the accommodation. A flat with suspicious plans under the floorboards. A flat only a street or two away from where Milo and Katya Hoffer lived, though no one thought to advise Jones of this.
Then there was the whole issue about the ship from Gibraltar. Novak said that he was on the ship. Hoffer said that he did not meet him for the first time until after he had been through the Aliens Tribunal and was working in a bookshop when he tried to persuade him to report. Katya, similarly, denied any positive recognition of Novak on the ship. And yet Novak had been very clear about their meeting on the ship. It was Katya, he had said, who had helped him then. Katya who could help him now. And then there was Novak’s strange reverie when asked about the trip from Gibraltar. He had gone into a dream when talking about it. Jones scrabbled around for his notes of that last conference.
“I would sleep on the deck. I found myself a place under a lifeboat and wrapped myself in sheeting to keep warm … and I would look at the stars. I was very happy. I was oh, so very happy …”
It was this that had excited Adam, and when he had called Jones on the 28th January he had asked him to dig out his notes of the interview with Katya Hoffer. Jones had asked her how long the voyage from Gibraltar had taken.
“Ten days. I thought we must be going to America not England after all. It was so beautiful. I felt so free … Then we changed direction and headed north … and my heart sank. They had travelled out to sea just to avoid the mines. It was very crowded but the skies were so blue. Milo. Poor Milo. He did not travel well. He was most of the time in the sick room. So I was alone mostly. At night I would sleep on the deck. I found a private place under a lifeboat, wrapped myself in canvas and looked at the stars. There were three nights when there were German submarines around. And the engines would stop and everyone was very quiet and nobody moved. And I would look at the stars and I would listen to the sea. And I was so happy!”
Jones had asked her whether Novak had been there and she had just said again that she was so happy. It was the similarity of description that had caught Adam’s attention. Sleeping under a lifeboat and being so happy … with submarines prowling around under them and trying to sink them.
Why had Katya Hoffer screamed on her doorstep at the mention of Novak’s name? Why had she wanted to be interned rather than graded “C”? Jones thought again about that first encounter with the Hoffers. What an odd couple they made, with Katya decades younger than her husband. Why had neither Novak nor Hoffer mentioned Katya’s existence when he took statements from them? He remembered her description
of Adam Falling as gullible – did Hoffer tell Novak that she had said that? – and he cursed himself for being beguiled into telling her his version of events before she gave hers.
So Adam had concluded that Novak was telling the truth and that he – and possibly Milo Hoffer – were protecting Katya for some reason. And he advised Jones to issue a sub-poena. He would force her to give evidence at Novak’s trial. It was completely improper of course – Novak had given express instructions that it should not be done. However, despite Jones’s protests, Adam was insistent. And Jones had put it off. Until today. He could not afford to put it off any longer.
He busied himself with the necessary drafting for the remainder of the morning and broke for lunch at 1.30, removing his foil-wrapped sandwiches from his briefcase and opening the day’s paper. He buried himself in an article about the bombing of two hospitals the previous evening, and chewed absent-mindedly on his sandwich.
Sonia knocked and entered with the post. He had completely forgotten about it and, reluctantly, he put the newspaper down and, still munching, took the armful of envelopes from her. Two letters stood out from the rest of the pile. One was a letter from Pemberton’s solicitors. The other was from the Court. He opened the solicitors’ letter first and as he read, stopped eating and dropped his sandwich onto the desk. Somehow Pemberton and his legal team had succeeded in bringing forward the hearing to the 10th March, barely five weeks away. The letter from the Court confirmed the change of date. How had they managed to do that? Hadn’t Pemberton been having second thoughts about going ahead? Suddenly he had lost seven weeks of preparation time. And still they hadn’t got a statement from Betty.