He sees a bus approaching and decides to change direction again. He crosses the road, runs to the next stop, flags it down and climbs on. It’s going towards Mile End; his old hunting ground. With a flash of insight Charles realises where he needs to go, and it’s somewhere he hoped never to set foot.
The Krays’ acquisition of the Regal Billiard Club on Eric Street, Mile End, marked the beginning of their rise to becoming London’s pre-eminent gangsters. It became their HQ, meeting place, labour and information exchange and watering hole rolled into one dimly-lit, smoky venue. It was often the first stop for anyone released from prison; the safe haven of choice for villains on the run or with stolen goods to hide; and the place to recruit personnel for the next robbery or burglary. It was also a circus, of which Ronnie Kray was the undisputed ringmaster. Reggie was the twins’ businessman, with a nose for a business opportunity and an eye for profit, but Ronnie was a showman. It was Ronnie’s antics that made the Regal the place to go for a good laugh or a bit of excitement, like a Saturday night battle with a rival gang.
Charles has never been inside the hall before, but like anyone in the East End who numbers burglars and con artists amongst their acquaintances, he knows where the Krays are usually to be found.
Charles steps off the bus and looks across the road. On the corner is a forecourt of used American cars with prices in their windscreens. He threads his way through them and walks the short distance down Eric Street to the billiard hall. He hesitates, looks around to make sure he’s not being observed, and climbs the few steps to the door.
The club is in virtual darkness, with lights illuminated above only two of the billiard tables at the far end. Two men play at each, and a couple of others line the walls, watching. A man in shirtsleeves is wiping the bar. There is a huge bear of a man in shirtsleeves and waistcoat with his back to the door, in the act of hefting a beer barrel. He’s about six foot two and weighs no less than twenty stone, and his stand-up mop of dark hair makes him look bigger still. He hears the door open and turns, the barrel in his arms.
‘Hello, Chunky,’ says Charles. ‘Didn’t know you were out.’
Charles has known Chunky Morgan, a long-term associate of the Krays, since he was a teenager. Shimon Cohen, Millie Horowitz’s cousin, used to be an “uncle”, a pawn broker, in Bethnal Green, and as children Charles and David used to play in the yard at the rear of Shimon’s shop. Chunky’s family home backed onto the yard.
‘Do I know you?’ asks Chunky, eying up the well-dressed interloper suspiciously.
‘Course you do. It’s me, Charlie Horowitz.’
There’s a long pause before the other answers. ‘Fuck me, Charlie. I ain’t seen you in a lifetime. How’s yer luck?’
‘Not too good, Chunky. That’s why I’m here. Are the twins around?’
A voice comes out of the shadows. ‘I’m here, Horowitz.’
Charles peers into the gloom. At the far end of the bar, in an armchair angled so its occupant can see both the entrance and the length of the club, sits Ronnie Kray. He wears an expensive suit, the jacket slung round the back of the chair, and wide braces over a white shirt. The tie looks like silk, and the matching tiepin and cufflinks look like diamonds. The persona is calculated: Hollywood Chicago-style gangster.
An Alsatian dog lies on the floor by the side of the chair, panting, its tongue lolling. Charles approaches cautiously.
‘Can I have a word with you and Reg?’
‘Must be something important,’ sneers Ronnie, ‘to bring a big shot brief down here from up West.’ Charles wishes he were able to talk to Reggie, who is usually more amenable than his unpredictable brother. ‘Reg ain’t here. But you can talk to me if you want. Come on in. Drink?’
‘I’ve got no cash.’
‘Nah. My treat.’
‘Scotch then, if you’ve got it.’
‘We got everything. It’s a bar, ain’t it?’ Ronnie nods to the barman.
Charles walks further into the club, aware that the click of billiard balls has stopped and his progress is being observed by everyone. He stops just short of Ronnie Kray and leans on the bar. The barman slides a glass towards him and Charles knocks back the drink in a single gulp.
‘So,’ says Ronnie from his armchair, ‘a barrister without cash. That’s a new one.’ He’s smiling. Does he already know? wonders Charles. Ronnie has a disconcerting way of looking at people, as if staring past them, and a reputation with some of the more gullible East Enders as a mind-reader. Charles knows there are no supernatural powers involved: the Krays have an intuitive understanding of people and their motives; they also have numerous police officers on their payroll and word could easily have reached him.
‘I’m in a bit of trouble, Ronnie.’
‘So I hear.’
‘You know, then?’
Ronnie smiles again, and he seems genuinely amused. ‘We keep ears on the police radio. Seems like you’re on the run. Considered dangerous, too.’
‘Did they say what for?’
‘No. Just “escaped from custody”. Tut-tut, Charlie. I bet you thought you’d put that all behind you. Can’t imagine this’ll do much good for your career development.’
‘Probably not. But right now, I need a bit of time to regroup and think things through. And a loan, maybe a pony. Can you help?’
Ronnie stares at Charles for a moment and then stands. He approaches Charles until their faces are only an inch or two apart. He’s slightly shorter than Charles, and he used to box in a lower weight division, so man-to-man in a boxing ring Charles would have no reason to fear him. But the Krays’ penchant for extreme violence, their lack of restraint, both with and without weapons, makes Charles extremely nervous. He steps back half a pace, relaxing his arms by his side, readying himself for whatever might come.
‘I’m really sorry, Charlie,’ says Ronnie, leaning forward so his face is again uncomfortably close to Charles’s, ‘but my professional rules make that impossible.’ His broad smile reveals white teeth but, now, no mirth.
‘What, nothing?’ asks Charles softly. ‘Even a spot of cash?’
‘Not even for old time’s sake.’
‘Right.’
‘Best fuck off up the Temple; see if any of your posh friends’ll help you out.’ Ronnie Kray reads Charles’s expression perfectly. ‘What? Posh friends won’t come through? P’raps you shoulda thought of that before now.’
Charles turns to leave, but a thought occurs to him. ‘You’ll keep schtum?’
Ronnie’s face darkens. ‘You ain’t calling me a grass now, are you, Horowitz?’
‘Just asking.’
‘You should know better. I won’t do you no favours, but I’m no grass. Anyway, this’ll be interestin’, seein’ how far you get. I’ve got a fiver on you being arrested by the morning.’
Rachel steps out of the door of the Whitechapel Gallery, followed by another young woman. Charles watches from the shelter of a closed shop doorway on the other side of the street. The two women chat for a moment, wave and separate. Rachel heads towards the station. Charles crosses the road swiftly and approaches her from behind. He grabs her elbow.
‘Rachel.’
She turns and smiles. ‘Hello. What’re you doing here?’
Charles leans forward, speaking urgently. ‘I’m in trouble and I need your help.’
She becomes very still. Her eyes search his face for a moment, and then she nods. ‘Let’s go to my place. You can explain there.’ She scans the street. A bus is approaching from the direction of the city. ‘Quickly!’ she urges, setting off at a jog towards the bus stop.
They get on and, without asking, Rachel pays for both of them. She takes him upstairs to the front of the bus where there’s an empty seat. Charles sits on the aisle, looking at the pavements as they flash by. After a few minutes he seems to relax a little, but Rachel sees him wipe away beads of sweat trickling from his temple.
Fifteen minutes later they are walking along a quiet residential street
in Hackney as dusk falls. Entire families of Hassidic Jews pass them. Charles remembers that it’s Friday night, the start of the Sabbath; they’re all off to synagogue. He has no use for synagogue but he wishes fervently that he was doing a normal, family thing without a care in the world. He is led to a three-storey terraced house and Rachel opens the door.
‘Come in.’
Charles catches a glimpse of a lighted kitchen at the back of the house and a woman stirring something on a stove as he follows Rachel up two narrow flights to the next floor, where she unlocks another door and shows him into a large square room overlooking the back garden. It contains a double bed with a cheap plywood bedside table, a sink in the corner of the room and a heavy oak sideboard which once belonged in a Victorian dining room. A single wooden chair, once part of a different dining set, is piled with books. There’s no wardrobe, and Rachel’s clothes are hung on an open rack on hangers. The room smells damp.
‘You can sit on the bed,’ she says. She hangs her coat and bag on the back of the door, shuts it behind Charles, and starts filling a kettle which she places on a small two-burner electric hob on the sideboard. ‘I’ve only got tea.’
‘Tea’s fine.’
‘OK. What on earth is the matter? Is someone chasing you?’
‘Can you leave that alone for a minute? I need you to sit down.’
Rachel glances sharply at him, but she turns off the hob, lifts the books from the single chair onto the floor, and draws it up two feet from Charles.
‘I’ll tell you what the headlines will say tomorrow,’ starts Charles. He takes a deep breath. ‘They’ll say “Leading Barrister Murders Wife And Escapes from Police”.’ He hears her sharp intake of breath and he forges on. ‘Underneath it will explain how I viciously cut her throat; how I did it for the money; how I was having an affair with some blonde floozie; how I killed Henrietta to stop her divorcing me; how the evidence against me is overwhelming. And how I am very dangerous and any member of the public seeing me should immediately call the police.’
There’s a long silence when he finishes.
‘And will any of it be true?’ Rachel asks in a small voice.
Charles doesn’t answer immediately. He leans towards her, and Rachel flinches and shrinks back in her seat. He reaches out to hold her shoulders at arm’s length, feels her freeze with fear, and looks straight into her eyes. He measures every word carefully, pouring sincerity into each one as he speaks.
‘Henrietta is dead. I had to identify her body. That’s true. Beyond that, not a single word of it, Rachel. I swear on everything I hold dear, not a single word.’
Rachel looks deep into Charles’s eyes, and he tries not to look away.
‘Tell me,’ she demands. ‘Everything.’
Charles does: the problems with his marriage, the row at the house, his arrest, the trip back to London with the police, what they found at the flat, and his escape. Then he tells her about Wheatley and his methods, and how trying to persuade him that the evidence stacks up too neatly would be a waste of time. Rachel sits motionless on the chair, occasionally asking questions but for the most part listening intently. Her face doesn’t betray any emotion and Charles can’t tell if she believes him or not. When he finishes, she turns her head to gaze out of the black curtainless window over the gardens and rooftops, and says nothing. Charles sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for a long time.
‘Well?’ he asks finally.
‘Can I see the bump on the back of your head?’
He stands and turns his back to her. ‘There,’ he says, probing carefully and parting the hair.
She too stands and explores gently with her fingers.
‘OK. Sit down again,’ she commands.
‘Do you believe me?’
She pauses before replying. ‘I did wonder if you had concussion and were having hallucinations or something. And I’ve been reminding myself that you’re very clever, used to dealing with liars and spinning stories for juries, and you’re probably a very good liar yourself. But … yes, I do believe you. If you take my advice, you’ll hand yourself in. By running off like that you’ve confirmed your guilt in their eyes.’
Charles sits back on the bed and rubs his eyes. He’s exhausted, but there would be little chance of sleep that night. ‘I know. But someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to set me up, and all the evidence points to my guilt. The police aren’t listening to me; they have closed minds. Especially Wheatley.’
‘Are you sure you’re not mistaken, Charles? Policeman don’t do that sort of thing, do they?’
‘You have no idea, Rachel. There are departments in the Met that are institutionally corrupt. There are so many taking bribes and bending the rules, it’s difficult to find an honest copper.’
Charles tells her about a couple of cases in which he did battle with Wheatley; how the man would plant evidence here, fabricate a confession there. She listens patiently.
‘Everyone in the business knows about him,’ he concludes.
‘But was your client guilty?’ she asks.
‘Well, the jury said so. Maybe he was, despite the false confession. But I do know this: he was beaten black and blue by Wheatley before he confessed. That man’s methods stink. He sets himself up as judge and jury, makes his decision and then creates the evidence to support it. There’s no way I’ll get a fair hearing from him. If he thinks he’s got a watertight case he won’t let it unravel it by looking elsewhere. He likes things neat and simple; it’s good for his career. If anyone’s going to prove my innocence, it has to be me.’
‘I think you’ll just make things worse.’
‘How can it be worse? I’m facing the hangman! And that’s the thing so far as you’re concerned.’ Charles pauses. So far he’s banked on her not turning him in, but this is the crunch. ‘If you help me, you’ll be an accessory.’
‘Which means?’
‘I think we have tonight before you’re at risk. My escape was too late for the late editions, but it’ll be all over the papers by morning. After that, you can’t be seen to assist me. If you do, after you should’ve known not to: prison, probably, if I’m convicted.’
‘And if I help you right now?’
‘You’d have to lie. Say you knew nothing about it; you just bumped into me.’
She considers that for a long time. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Firstly, I need some money. Secondly, and this is the tricky bit, I have to get into Chambers. I need my notebooks.’ Rachel frowns, puzzled. Charles explains. ‘Barristers all use these blue notebooks. Foolscap light blue notebooks. Every case I’ve ever done is recorded in them. I date and number them. I’ve got the names, addresses, and modus operandi of hundreds of active criminals, most of whom I’ve defended. It’s a directory of crime. And most of them have cause to thank me. So I need the notebooks. I don’t know if the building’s being watched. But...’ Charles hesitates. ‘But … if you decided to go for a walk through the Temple, you could find out for me. If not, I’ll try to break in. I doubt they’ll be looking for me there; they’ll think I’d try to get as far away as possible. But I can’t take the risk of just walking in.’
Rachel and Charles enter the Temple from the Embankment entrance by the new Queen Elizabeth Buildings. It offers a more open access than the Victorian alleys off Fleet Street, and Charles should be able to detect if the entrances are being watched. The sky is overcast and the Temple even more shadowy than usual. The ancient courtyards seem deserted; the only person to pass them is the lamp lighter on his way home. Charles points Rachel in the right direction and she leaves him at the corner of Essex Court and Middle Temple Lane. Charles backs into a nearby doorway to wait. He would have been completely invisible to anyone passing, but in fact no one passes him at all. Rachel only has to walk 200 yards or so to the door of 2 Chancery Court and Charles expects her to return within a couple of minutes.
Two minutes become five and five become ten. By fifteen minutes Charles’s anxiety has r
eached breaking point and he convinces himself that Rachel must have been arrested. He’s on the point of emerging from the shadows and walking the remaining distance to Chancery Court when he hears muffled footsteps approaching. He retreats into the shadows and watches a figure emerge, almost bent double with a heavy burden. The figure approaches, passes Charles and hesitates, looking around the dimly lit square. Charles steps out and Rachel whirls round.
‘Oh, there you are. It was all clear, the lights were on and the doors were wide open. Here —’ she unslings from her shoulder a red robes bag — ‘I think I got them all.’
‘But how on earth did you —’
‘The cleaner was at the back, emptying the bins. Your room was obvious, police tape across the door, so I ducked in. Your blue notebooks were on the shelf behind your desk, right?’
‘Yes!’ responds Charles, astonished.
‘I think I got them all. They’re bloody heavy, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, let me take that. We need to get out of here.’
Charles takes the bag, pulls the cord tight and hoists it onto his shoulder. They retrace their steps to the Embankment.
‘What took so long was finding something to carry them in, but I found the bag hanging on the back of the door. It’s got your initials on it.’
‘Perfect. I think you’re amazing,’ he says. ‘But that was really dangerous. Are you sure you weren’t seen?’
‘There were definitely no police, and the cleaning lady was vacuuming in the basement when I slipped out. I don’t think anyone saw me at all.’
‘Amazing,’ repeats Charles, and he puts this free his arm round Rachel’s shoulder and pulls her towards him. It’s intended as a friendly squeeze, but she turns her face to his, puts a hand behind his head and pulls it down to her. It’s awkward because they’re still walking, but her lips touch his and they stop. The kiss is brief, but their faces remain inches from one another.
‘My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst through my ribs,’ she whispers. ‘It’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever done in my life!’
The Brief: Crime and corruption in 1960s London (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers) Page 16