Witness: No.
Mr Holborne: You murdered William Wright.
Witness: No. Plumber did it, I tell you.
[End of cross-examination]
‘If you don’t let go of my hand, Mr Plumber, it’ll fall off!’
‘I still don’t know what to say, Mr Holborne, it was terrific! I’ll never be able to thank you enough,’ says Plumber, still pumping Charles’s hand. ‘You’ve saved my life!’
‘Take it easy now; you do have six years to serve for the robbery.’
‘Yeah, but even that’s a result. I’d resigned meself to the same as Sands got, you know, nine. To get six, on top of getting off the murder, well...’
‘You don’t have anything like as bad a record as he does, don’t forget,’ says Cohen.
‘Not only that,’ adds Charles, grimly, ‘but your six will be a doddle compared to his nine. He’ll have to spend it all under rule 43 — solitary.’
‘That’s right,’ says Cohen. ‘Life inside as a grass will not be pleasant.’
When Charles returns to Chambers a new problem awaits him in the form of an envelope addressed to him in his pigeon-hole.
Holborne
You may think you have won, but I assure you, no filthy little Jew shall defeat me. The disgrace you have made me suffer will be as nothing to what I shall cause you. I shall repay you with interest. Isn’t that what your race expects?
The note is unsigned and there’s no clue from the envelope, which was delivered by hand, but Charles has a suspicion. He lifts the notepaper to his nose and sniffs. There’s no doubt: it has the same musty bird smell as Kellett-Brown’s clothing and budgerigar-infested flat. Charles reads it again, laughs, and throws it in the bin.
PART TWO: 1962
CHAPTER EIGHT
The rain stops almost as suddenly as it starts and the black clouds scud off towards the east, underlit by horizontal orange shafts of the setting sun.
‘Look at that,’ says Charles, nodding through the windscreen. ‘Amazing. If you painted those colours, people would think you were making it up.’
Again, no reply. Henrietta hasn’t spoken since they got into the car an hour earlier and she continues to stare, unseeing, out of the passenger window. Charles turns on the radio. Without a word Henrietta turns it off.
‘Don’t you like Cilla Black? You were humming that yesterday.’
Henrietta turns her head slowly and stares at Charles’s profile. ‘The music’s fine, Charles,’ she says, after a pause. ‘I’m just not pretending anymore. Our situation isn’t normal; we’re not singing pop songs; we’re not enjoying the sunset on the way to a party; we’re not pretending there’s nothing wrong.’
‘Why can’t we make an effort? Draw a line under the last few days, maybe have a nice evening?’
‘I’m too angry.’
‘Can’t you put it aside for a few hours?’
‘No. I’m not like you, Charles. If I’m unhappy, I’m unhappy. I can’t fence it off and pretend otherwise.’
They remain silent for the rest of the journey. When they arrive in the Temple, Henrietta is out of the car before the engine stops, clip-clopping in her high-heeled boots across the cobblestones. Charles’s eyes follow her lovely backside up the wooden staircase stairs, and he sighs. Yet again, he wonders what’s happened to them. There was a time, until maybe a year before, when despite Henrietta’s disdain for him, the cold fury of their rows and the nights spent apart, he was able to locate in himself the deep tenderness he felt for her from the first. It takes a lot to make Charles really angry and, once roused, the storm soon passes. Half an hour of pottering in the garden, working on some papers or watching television, and the substance of the row no longer seems important, and all he wants is to ambush her with a hug and watch the corners of her mouth crease reluctantly into a smile. And then they’d have make-up sex which, if only for half an hour, would bring oblivion and stillness.
Now, for the most part, he feels empty and exhausted. Keeping the peace has become such hard work. Once or twice, he has allowed himself to be goaded into responding to her distance and the drip-drip-drip of her bitching and, with a glorious and dangerous freedom, he has let the brakes off. Then Henrietta weeps silently and he feels mortified, as if he’s kicked a puppy. By now, however, the brake lever is useless in his hands, and their marriage is a runaway train rattling downhill at an increasingly terrifying speed towards inevitable wreck. Whatever he says or doesn’t say, whatever he does or doesn’t do — it makes no difference.
Charles hauls himself out of the car and follows Henrietta into Chambers towards the sound of animated talking and music. The door is just closing after Henrietta and for one moment he toys with the idea of simply turning on his heel and leaving. Henrietta would barely notice his absence, and an hour or two of walking along the Thames embankment at dusk appeals to him. But, as he hesitates, the door opens again and Sebastian Campbell-Smyth is looking at him.
‘I did wonder for a moment if Henrietta had come on her own,’ he says. ‘Has she?’
Charles shakes his head sadly and steps inside. ‘No, although you did catch me wondering if I could bunk off.’
Sebastian smiles grimly. ‘Still no better?’ The state of the Holbornes’ marriage is an open secret in Chambers. Charles shakes his head. The other barrister leans forward confidentially. ‘I did wonder about the wisdom of buying that flat.’
Charles shakes his head again. ‘No, that’s nothing to do with it. It’s convenient, and Henrietta agreed it makes sense. It takes me exactly three minutes from here to Fetter Lane.’
‘Sure. But what message does it send? Might she not think that you’ve given up?’
Charles nods sadly. ‘I know. If truth be told, I needed … a redoubt. Somewhere to regroup.’
Sebastian puts a friendly arm round Charles’s shoulder. He’s about to say something else when someone drops the heavy brass knocker on the outside of the door and he resumes his reception duties.
Charles walks towards the party noise. To his right the double doors into Sir Geoffrey’s room, the largest in Chambers, are wide open. The room has been cleared of office furniture and now contains two large tables laden with food and drink. In a corner are the unattended instruments of a jazz trio. Two waitresses circulate among the guests with champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Most of the members of Chambers are already there with their wives. The only female member, Gwyneth Price-Hopkins, nearly eight months pregnant, clinks champagne glasses with her husband and flicks cigarette ash onto an empty plate. The guest of honour, Sir Geoffrey Duchenne, soon to be Mr Justice Duchenne, has still to arrive.
Charles scans the room for Henrietta but can’t locate her. He wanders over to the makeshift bar and waits to be served. He finds Sally next to him.
‘Hello,’ he says, looking down at the diminutive clerk. ‘You look lovely.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she replies, blushing slightly at the compliment. She wears a strapless, and almost backless, cocktail dress in crimson. Her hair is now much shorter and Charles finds the contrast between her full figure and tomboy haircut enticing. He waits for his drink to be poured, wondering idly how the strapless dress holds itself up, and that thought leads easily to another: what would she look like without it?
‘Pardon?’ he asks.
‘I said, is Mrs Holborne here?’
‘Yes ... somewhere.’
He glances over his shoulder and sees Henrietta in the far corner, engrossed in conversation with Laurence Corbett. Their heads are close together, as if sharing some confidence, and they both laugh. She hasn’t laughed like that with me for months, thinks Charles bitterly, noting, but unable to suppress, his self-pity. As Charles watches, Henrietta pats Corbett on the cheek. The gesture is both affectionate and patronising, as if teasing a child who’s said something daft but endearing, and Corbett flushes. Then, as if suddenly aware of being observed, Henrietta turns and catches Charles’s eye. Her mouth hardens and the smile dies on her face.
Charles wonders for a moment if the scene was staged for his benefit. At a dinner party earlier in the summer, Henrietta flirted outrageously with another of the guests and became progressively more drunk and furious as Charles ignored it. That evening prompted an entire week of silence.
Corbett moves off, casting a glance in Charles’s direction. Charles turns away, anxious to find something to distract him. He wanders through the guests, greeting and chatting to a few solicitors he knows. The music starts and a few of the younger members of Chambers begin to dance. Charles sits alone. After a while, his eye is caught by the tall and handsome Simon Ellison as he approaches Peter Finch, one of the senior members of Chambers. They share a brief whispered conversation, Finch nods, and the two men slip outside. More plotting, thinks Charles; the Bar will never change.
He wonders where Sally has got to, but can’t see her anywhere. He reaches up to grab another drink from a passing tray and remains seated. Henrietta disappeared some time ago. He’s not sure whether she’s gone home or is just in one of the other rooms, but he doesn’t care enough to go looking for her. He realises that he’s beginning to feel drunk and decides that he’s had enough.
He stands, drains his glass and makes for the door, slipping behind the substantial bulk of his head of chambers. Sir Geoffrey arrived an hour late, having been celebrating his elevation with some of the Benchers, and made an impromptu and largely unintelligible speech before drinking several more glasses of champagne. So far, Charles has managed to avoid him. Geoffrey Duchenne’s bonhomie is all he needs to give the evening the coup de grace, but as that very thought enters Charles’s head, a heavy hand lands on his shoulder.
‘Ah, Charles!’ booms Duchenne, ‘I shall miss you, you and your tacky little clients.’
‘Will you, Geoffrey?’
Duchenne’s ruddy face is redder than usual and his eyes sparkle. He is now unequivocally drunk. ‘I certainly shall. You know, I was against your coming in. But you came, and I don’t mind admitting it: I was wrong.’ Duchenne’s hand, still on Charles’s shoulder, grips with every other word as if to add emphasis or punctuation to his confession. ‘Thoroughly nice chap ... and I can tell, you know, you’re going places. I admire someone who doesn’t let his background hold him back.’
‘Thank you, Geoffrey,’ says Charles, trying in vain to extricate himself. ‘That will always be a great comfort to me.’
‘You know, there’s this Indian chappie. Bought the corner shop near me a few years back.’ He frowns, trying to concentrate. ‘Worked every hour God sent. Dammit if he doesn’t own the whole bloody block now! Huge supermarket!’
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? Sorry Geoffrey, but I really ought to find Henrietta.’ Charles wrenches himself out of the other’s grip.
‘Certainly, old chap. You really must bring her round some time soon. Ages since we saw you socially.’
‘Never.’
‘What?’
‘We’ve never seen you socially, Geoffrey.’
‘Oh, of course, no one’s been to the new house, only been there a few months —’
‘Not to the new house, nor the old house, nor any bloody house! For all I know, you live above your mate’s supermarket.’
‘You know, I could have sworn...’
Charles walks off. He opens the door, letting it slam behind him, and descends to the courtyard. The clouds have cleared completely and the sky is alight with stars. He pauses. He can’t see the car and, for a second, can’t remember where he left it. Then he realises: the parking space is empty.
‘Oh, Henrietta!’ he moans softly to the night air.
Charles looks into the corner of the cobbled courtyard to another vehicle, a battered orange sports car with cobwebs bridging the gap between the wing mirrors and the door, and peers at his watch. He doesn’t fancy trying to start the damp and draughty sports car and driving all the way to Buckinghamshire. So, options? If he’s lucky with a cab he might just make the last train, but it’ll be tight, and what’s the point? By the time he arrives home, Henrietta will be asleep or, worse, still up and so drunk they’d be bound to have another row. Resigned to another night on his own, Charles pulls his collar up and sets off on foot for Fetter Lane.
Laurence Corbett watches Charles’s dejected back as he sets off up Middle Temple Lane. He sits with his feet on the desk in a panelled room on the opposite side of Chambers to the party. The lights are off. The door opens, allowing a gale of music and noise to enter briefly and Peter Finch enters, followed by Simon Ellison. Finch reaches for the light switch.
‘Leave it off, there’s a good chap,’ comes Corbett’s voice from the desk.
Finch starts as he realises that his desk is occupied. Corbett slouches in Finch’s chair at an angle, smoke curling lazily from a cigarette between his index and middle fingers.
‘Get your bloody feet off my papers!’ protests Finch.
‘Certainly Peter,’ replies Corbett, but he doesn’t move. After a few seconds he languorously folds his long legs like a crane fly and stands.
‘Well? I was summoned,’ says Finch sarcastically, ‘so what do you want, Corbett?’
Finch is in his early sixties, and sports a long grey combover, partially concealing a bald patch. When it’s windy the thin mat of hair sometimes falls forward over his face like a silver curtain, much to the merriment of his pupil. He has watery grey eyes, and he seems to blink more frequently than is normal.
Corbett perches on the edge of the older barrister’s desk, making it difficult for Finch to reach his seat. Finch casts an eye over his shoulder. Ellison leans nonchalantly against the door, lighting a cigarette and though he is not quite blocking Finch’s escape, Finch still feels trapped, and stands awkwardly in the middle of the room.
‘A few of the chaps and I have been chatting about the succession,’ explains Corbett, ‘now that Geoffrey is moving up. I’ve been asked to canvass your views.’
‘My views aren’t important,’ replies Finch irritably. ‘We all know who’s going to be head of Chambers.’
‘That’s not a safe assumption,’ comments Ellison from behind him.
Finch turns. ‘What do you mean?’
Corbett answers. ‘Well ... we wondered if you would like to stand?’
‘Me?’ says Finch, genuinely astonished. ‘I have no ambitions in that direction.’
‘Liar,’ replies Corbett quietly, without malice.
‘We’re not all as ambitious as you, Corbett. And I couldn’t afford the rent. The Inn wouldn’t have me.’
‘They might, if a number of us stood as joint guarantors.’
Finch considers this. ‘You’re saying that if I were to stand against Bob for the tenancy from the Inn, you and some others would support my application? Which others?’
‘Enough.’
‘No. I need to know exactly who. A contest would be divisive, and ... well, I may have had my differences with Bob over the years, but I’m not going to be responsible for splitting Chambers.’
‘I can’t tell you at the moment. Just believe me.’
Finch pauses. ‘What would you want from me in return?’ he asks shrewdly.
Corbett smiles in the darkness. ‘Move Holborne on.’
Finch utters a half-laugh. ‘What have you got against that poor man?’
‘Do you like his child molesters sitting in the waiting room? How do your banker clients enjoy sitting next to unshaven derelicts, smoking roll-ups and stinking of cider?’
‘Granted —’
‘And have you noticed how long Stanley’s out every afternoon checking the criminal lists? At the busiest time of the day? A hugely disproportionate time is given to one man’s practice, at the expense of everyone else’s. How many times do I have to say it? We’re not set up to do crime here. He’d be far better off somewhere else.’
Finch listens patiently, a small smile on his face. ‘All very good reasons, no doubt, but we all know the truth: you just can’t stand him.’
‘We
ll, can you? He’s a common barrow boy, like most of his clients. And a Jew. But that’s really not the point. There are plenty of perfectly valid grounds for sacking him if one needs them. The tenant of the Inn can give notice to any barrister in Chambers. Like everyone else, he’d be one of your licensees.’
‘He’ll appeal to the Inn. I would. He’s done nothing to merit sacking. He pays his rent on time, which is more than many do, and he’s never been caught with his hand in the till, or his trousers down.’
Ellison interjects from the other side of the room. ‘Not yet maybe, but have you seen the way he looks at Sally?’
‘This is all academic,’ says Corbett. ‘This isn’t a sacking, but a case of Chambers specialising in civil work. Anyone wanting to continue doing crime has to find a more suitable home. It’s the way the Bar’s going. It’s what they did at KBW and no one so much as turned a hair. Give him six months to find somewhere else, and he can’t possibly complain.’
The door suddenly opens and Ellison finds himself propelled further into the room. A couple of the junior members of Chambers enter. ‘Oh, sorry,’ the first apologises, giggling.
‘That’s all right,’ says Corbett. ‘Why don’t you both stay?’
‘Have you...?’ enquires the other, indicating Finch.
‘Just doing it,’ replies Corbett. ‘Well?’ he asks, returning to Finch. The door closes silently, and the two young men line up on the wall next to Ellison.
‘There wouldn’t be enough support. Bob’s very popular. You’d need at least twelve to vote against him, and I can’t see...’ His voice falters as Corbett raises a hand.
‘We have fourteen.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
Finch looks towards the others and receives nodded confirmation. He wavers. His pale eyes water at the prospect, but he nonetheless shakes his head. Corbett takes several steps towards him, leaning over the shorter man menacingly.
The Brief: Crime and corruption in 1960s London (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers) Page 9