The Lighterman: The Kray Twins are out for revenge... (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 3)

by Simon Michael

  Before Charles has any time to work out what’s happening the young man lunges at him again, and Charles sees a shiny flick knife covered in what he realises, with a hollow shock in the pit of his stomach, must be his own blood. The knife is coming straight towards his abdomen.

  Without conscious thought Charles rotates his right arm at the elbow, sweeping his hand down in an arc as if blocking a low blow in the boxing ring, and knocks the attacker’s hand against the wall of the telephone box. With the man’s guard down, Charles’s first instinct is to bring his left arm round in a hook to the other’s exposed right cheek, but there’s no space to move his feet or swing his arm, so instead he delivers a power jab from the back foot, the overcoat on his left arm flying up and forming a momentary curtain between the two men.

  Charles can’t see where the blow lands but hears a satisfying crack and, as the overcoat falls between them, he sees blood spurting out of both nostrils of his attacker’s nose and dripping onto a white shirt front.

  Any hope that Charles has seen off his attacker disappears as the man steps back, slightly crouched, and throws the flick knife from his right hand to his left and back again, trying to distract Charles as he seeks a target for his next lunge.

  Charles is still cornered in the telephone box. His mind is entirely calm, totally in the moment, and he waits, balanced lightly on his toes, for the attacker’s next move. With the back of his hand, the attacker wipes the blood running from his smashed nose into his mouth, pauses for a split-second and feints right.

  The knife flashes through the air from right hand to left and comes again at Charles, aiming now at the centre of his chest. Charles raises his right hand and feels the blade going through the sleeve of his suit but he has done enough to deflect it and he hears a metallic thud as the blade strikes the wig tin hidden in the bag hung around his neck. He sees the puzzlement on his attacker’s face and in that momentary hesitation Charles throws jabs, left and then right, both scoring points against the attacker’s head. The blood on the other man’s nose is now smeared across his upper cheek and Charles watches as an angry red welt appears above the attacker’s left eye.

  Charles sees hesitation on the attacker’s face and, simultaneously, hears a woman’s shout from the top of Bishop’s Court. The attacker looks sharply over his left shoulder and as he does so Charles has enough time to take two steps forward, his guard raised. The telephone box door closes slowly behind him. Now, freed of the constraints of the telephone box, he’s able to move. This, above all, is what gave him his reputation in the ring and his string of successful bouts — extremely fast footwork for so big a man, together with complete balance.

  Charles yanks the bag from around his neck and starts swinging it above his head in a fast circle to keep the attacker at more than arm’s length. The attacker sways backwards, once, twice, to avoid the swirling bag and snatches another glance behind him. There are people running towards them. He makes one last half-hearted attempt to strike Charles, a horizontal slash with the knife held at full distance from his body, but its purpose is merely to gain time as he immediately steps sideways and sprints off southwards down Bishop’s Court, away from Old Bailey and the onrushing witnesses.

  The entire attack lasts less than a minute, during which not a word is spoken. Charles lets the bag drop, feeling suddenly sick and aware that his surroundings are fading to white.

  ‘Catch him!’ he hears, but the words seemed to echo from the bottom of a well and he remembers nothing further.

  Charles draws a deep lungful of air and finds himself inhaling ammonia. He chokes and coughs, his eyes sting and he lifts his head to get away from the bottle being waved under his nose.

  ‘Lie still, Mr Holborne,’ commands an unfamiliar voice.

  Charles is lying on his stomach, his face pressed into cold cobbles. He allows his head to drop back. His back is cold and he starts shivering violently. He realises that his tunic shirt has been pulled up to his shoulders.

  ‘We’ve not met before,’ explains the voice. ‘I’m the matron.’

  ‘Matron?’ croaks Charles. ‘From the Old Bailey?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So you’re the famous Mrs Hamlin?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’ asks Charles shakily, aware that he’s burbling only to stay conscious.

  ‘It’s stitched on your bag. You’re very fortunate we were working late. There’s an ambulance on its way and the police have been called, but I want to look at this knife wound, so lie still and be quiet.’

  Cold fingers probe gently just above Charles’s belt line. ‘I think you’ve been extremely lucky. The blade’s skidded off your leather belt. You’ve got a deep three-inch flap of skin and flesh, but it’s still attached, and the blade missed both the kidney and its main vessels. Still lots of blood, but I think they can reattach the flap. I’m going to press down hard to staunch the blood loss now. This may hurt.’

  But it doesn’t hurt, because Charles loses consciousness again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Charles is escorted into Snow Hill Police Station through the beautiful central doors beneath the five-storey leaded bay windows. A young officer hovers by each elbow in case he should need assistance. He’d been loaded into the ambulance and taken to hospital before the police arrived at the scene. When officers did eventually turn up at St Thomas’s Hospital, Charles was in theatre under light anaesthetic being stitched, so they departed again.

  The hospital planned to keep Charles in overnight, but he woke to find himself on a public ward and felt vulnerable, so after a terse exchange with the registrar on duty, Charles signed the disclaimer forms and discharged himself. He was about to hail a taxi when the two coppers returned and offered to take him back to Fetter Lane via Snow Hill where he could file a report.

  Charles is shown into an interview room and given a grubby mug of lukewarm tea. He waits for fifteen minutes and then the door opens and an officer in plain clothes enters.

  ‘Mr Holborne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m DC Miller of the City of London police.’

  Charles starts to stand, offering a hand, but the anaesthetic has now worn off and every movement hurts. He wonders if he’s made a mistake by leaving hospital and sits down again gingerly. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m a bit sore.’

  ‘Not to worry, sir.’

  Miller takes the seat opposite Charles and opens a manila file containing blank statement forms. ‘Now, this shouldn’t take long. I just need some basic details of what happened.’

  Charles looks at the policeman opposite him. Miller’s in his late twenties, perhaps early thirties, tall and fair, with thinning hair and light brown eyes. ‘Please don’t think I’m being rude,’ offers Charles, ‘but I’d have expected a more senior officer to take a statement from the victim of an attempted murder.’

  Miller looks up from the blank statement which he has begun to complete, and smiles, a slight frown distorting his fair eyebrows. ‘Attempted murder? Don’t you think that’s a bit … well … exaggerated?’

  ‘Have you been told about my injuries? I’ve got thirty stitches in my back where he sliced a half-pound steak off me, and he was trying to knife me in the chest.’

  Miller pauses, weighing his words before speaking. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m minimising what happened, sir. I’m sure it must have been very frightening,’ he placates, ‘but let’s take your evidence and we’ll decide what to make of it. In all likelihood it was an attempted robbery.’

  ‘Robbery?’ repeats Charles in astonishment. ‘He didn’t try to take anything.’

  ‘Well, sir, did he have the chance? Maybe he was just trying to frighten you with the knife when you started hitting him. I understand you have boxing experience?’

  ‘Yes, I used to box, but —’

  ‘And the witness, Mrs…’ Miller pauses while he sifts through the papers to find the name, ‘yes, Mrs Hamlin, she says sh
e saw you throwing some very effective punches at the offender.’

  ‘I’m telling you, Mr Miller, this was no attempted robbery. He stabbed me in the back before I even turned round to defend myself.’

  ‘Which would be completely consistent with attempting to disable you while he stole your wallet or your coat, for example.’

  ‘Possibly,’ concedes Charles, ‘but someone’s been following me for weeks, and there was a strange event in the robing room at the Central Criminal Court a few days ago.’

  ‘Really, sir? A “strange event”? What was that, then?’

  Charles relates the event when his robes were pulled over his head, but the hint of a smile on Miller’s face tells him immediately what the police officer thinks.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but doesn’t that sound more like a prank, perhaps by one of your colleagues? Are you really saying you think that was a murder attempt?’

  Charles considers, and is forced to admit to himself that, on retelling the story, it does sound weak. ‘Taken alone, perhaps not,’ he concedes reluctantly. ‘Although if it was one of my colleagues, why would they run out of the room to avoid being seen? But there has been someone following me, and if you add that to the robing room, and now this, surely you can see there’s a pattern?’

  Miller puts down his pen with exaggerated patience. ‘Did you report being followed, sir?’

  ‘No. There didn’t seem to be enough ... enough evidence … to make it possible for you to investigate.’

  ‘No. Precisely. There was nothing to investigate when you thought you were being followed, and nothing to investigate when this joker, whoever he was, pulled up your gown.’ Miller shrugs and stares at Charles with the same slight mocking smile. ‘You’re a barrister, I understand Mr Holborne?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well, if you were to put those facts before a jury, would you expect them to be satisfied so they were sure that those events had anything to do with what happened this afternoon?’

  ‘You don’t have to be satisfied so you’re sure, officer. You just need reasonable suspicion to investigate.’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ replies Miller, irritated, but doing his best to remain polite. ‘But did anyone know you were going to be in the area of Bishop’s Court this afternoon?’

  ‘No. Well, only my ex-clerk who I was trying to meet.’

  ‘And would he have told your attacker where you were going?’

  ‘It’s a “she”, and no.’

  If, of course, Sally left the message in the first place, thinks Charles. He’d not managed to speak to her yet. He’d almost dialled her number before he left the hospital but he doesn’t like to call in the evenings, when her mother or perhaps one of her sisters might pick up the phone and ask embarrassing questions.

  ‘So, the chances are this was an entirely opportunist attack. And in any case, who might want to murder you?’

  The Kray twins, Charles almost says, but even as his mouth opens, something makes him hesitate before speaking. Telling DC Miller that his name’s on the Colonel’s “List” would stretch the policeman’s incredulity to breaking point and raise difficult questions about Charles’s relationship with the twins.

  ‘Look,’ continues Miller, picking up his pen again, ‘I do understand that people in our position — involved in the criminal justice system — make enemies. But that’s a long stretch to an attempted murder in broad daylight. Anyway, shall we take the details of what happened, get your statement down in writing, and leave it till later to decide what charges might be brought, if we ever catch the man? I’m sure you should be lying down; I gather you lost a lot of blood.’

  The “if we ever catch the man” is ominous; it’s obvious that Miller thinks an investigation will be a waste of time. Charles draws a deep breath and is aware of a sudden increase in the throbbing pain in his back. He feels in his pocket for the painkillers given to him before he left hospital, swallowing them with a sip of cold tea.

  ‘Yes, OK,’ he concedes wearily. ‘Let’s do the statement. Then you can show me some mugshots and I’ll see if I can pick the man out.’

  ‘Let’s just get the statement out of the way first, sir. My sergeant and I can then decide on the best way to investigate thereafter.’

  Charles gives a complete statement of what happened from the time he left the Old Bailey until the time of the attack. It takes a further hour and, by the end, he’s exhausted. Miller offers a patrol car to take him back to Fetter Lane, and Charles gratefully accepts.

  Back in the interview room, DC Miller finishes tidying away the papers. Another policeman enters the room, an older man with small black eyes, a sharp pointed nose and a short bristly moustache that seems only tenuously attached to his top lip.

  The newcomer takes a roll-up cigarette out of the corner his mouth and spits a flake of tobacco onto the floor. ‘Well?’ he asks.

  ‘As you predicted, Inspector. He reckons he’s been followed for some days, someone had a go at him in the robing room at the Central Criminal Court, and today they tried to top him.’

  ‘Did he mention the Krays?’

  ‘No, sir. There was a moment when I think he was going to, but he thought better of it.’

  The face of the older man, Detective Chief Inspector Wheatley, twists into a thin satisfied smile. ‘He’s only got himself to blame for the company he keeps.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve had dealings with Holborne before?’ asks Miller respectfully. ‘The Heavy Squad, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replies Wheatley. ‘He’s that Jewboy who murdered his aristo-totty wife. I was the ranking officer in that one, before I joined the Flying Squad. And don’t tell me he wriggled free, ’cos I know. As I said to your inspector, that doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.’

  ‘I remember the case, sir. So, what would you like me to do?’ asks Miller, his deference for the Flying Squad DCI plain in his voice.

  ‘I’m not your guvnor, Detective Constable, and you don’t take orders from me. Inspector Collins will have to decide. But I’ll have a word with him.’ Wheatley puts his hand on the door handle. ‘If it was me, I wouldn’t waste any time on Charles Holborne.’ He spits Charles’s name as if were bile in his mouth. ‘A bent brief’s a dangerous thing. And if the Krays are cleaning house … well … I’d be inclined to let them get on with it.’

  DC Miller nods. ‘Thank you, sir. I get the message.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Billy Hill climbs the opulent gilded staircase of the Clermont Club, Mayfair, towards the first-floor landing. As he passes the brass plaque on the wall, so highly polished that it could be solid gold, he pauses to examine his reflection. He lifts his tinted glasses, folds them and slips them into his jacket pocket.

  Beneath the interlocking capital “C’s” which form the club’s logo, slightly distorted by the embossed name of the club beneath, he sees a fit, solid man in his early fifties with dark hair receding only slightly from a tall regular forehead. The hairline hasn’t moved much in the last twenty years, for which Hill is grateful. He prides himself on looking like Humphrey Bogart and, once he mentions it, most people claim to see the resemblance.

  He makes an unnecessary minute adjustment to his silk tie, fastens the middle button of his new Pierre Cardin jacket — a bit too modern for his taste, but Gypsy insisted that his old suits make him look middle-aged and that, as she knew, was the clincher — and resumes his climb up the carpeted stairs under the chandelier.

  Two men await his orders at the head of the stairs, large intimidating men in dark suits. Both are discreetly tooled. Billy Hill doesn’t need their protection. He is the acknowledged boss of Britain’s underworld, with so many notorious criminal successes under his belt that he’s a legend. His reputation for violence, especially with a knife, is equally celebrated among the cognoscenti. He’s wont to give guidance to those favouring retribution with a blade: “Strike down the face — never across or upwards. That way, if the blade slips, you won’t
risk hitting an artery. Slicing an artery usually ends up with a body. And murder’s a mug’s game.” But Hill is as cautious as Ronnie Kray is unpredictable, and when Ronnie’s in one of his depressions, as now, he can be completely irrational.

  Hill wishes the twins hadn’t chosen The Clermont for their first outing since Ronnie’s most recent relapse, especially with The Big Edge only into its third week. Aspers and Burkie had assured Hill that this one would be a winner, but even they’d been astonished when the first fortnight raked in over £100,000. Hill, ever the prudent businessman, knows it’s too soon to be counting chickens. No suspicions had been expressed at the tables, but when dukes and earls lose fortunes, and fortunes had indeed been lost, questions usually follow.

  Hill reaches the head of the stairs, his two thugs waiting patiently with their hands clasped in front of their belts. A waiter bearing a tray full of cocktails slips past them and speeds silently downstairs.

  ‘Have they arrived?’ he asks.

  The men nod. ‘They’re in the club room,’ says one.

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘There was a coupla geezers having a chinwag by the fireplace a while back. I’ve not checked since,’ says the other.

  ‘OK,’ replies Hill, as he leads the way across the landing.

  He opens the door and enters the club room. It is a beautifully appointed, high-ceilinged room, with a large chandelier, original paintings on the walls and comfortable armchairs in small groups. The principal light is extinguished and the effect of the several table lamps is to create two or three discreetly illuminated areas.

  Hill scans the room quickly. The twins, immaculately dressed as always, are seated in the far corner with their drinks. In the opposite corner, largely hidden from the door in a high-backed armchair, is another distinguished looking man sitting forward in his armchair whispering with great intensity to another, younger, man whose expression suggests that he’s being berated and doesn’t like it.