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

by Simon Michael

  He reaches a decision and runs back upstairs to his room. He deposits the newly-acquired briefs on his desk and removes his coat and jacket, followed by his waistcoat and tie. He then re-dresses with his raincoat over his shirt sleeves. He is now free to move more easily. He looks down, but there is nothing he can do about his striped barrister’s trousers and black polished shoes. He hangs the removed clothing carefully over the back of his chair. He considers his hat, still on his desk. He wants to wear it for the purposes of disguise but it will almost certainly blow off if he runs. Undecided and under pressure of time, Charles picks it up, locks the doors again and goes back downstairs.

  He jams the hat on his head and peers out of the doors onto Crown Office Row looking for any signs of danger. It seems clear: a few barristers and clerks walking swiftly towards their trains or buses, but no one hanging about. Charles pulls up his collar and joins them, walking towards Middle Temple Lane and then turning left onto the Embankment. He crosses the road, preferring as always to get as close to the water as possible, takes off his hat again, and starts jogging eastwards towards the City.

  It is now completely dark and Charles feels the first drops of rain against his face as he runs. Leather-soled shoes are not ideal for running, particularly on damp pavements, and he slows to make sure he keeps his footing. Buses occasionally pass him travelling towards Westminster, the light from their windows creating a series of fast-moving yellow rhomboids on the pavement, each illuminating Charles briefly as if he were on a roll of film. He sees one or two passengers turn to look at the odd sight of a barrister jogging in a raincoat and clutching a hat in his hand along the Embankment in the dark.

  By the time Charles reaches London Bridge the shower has stopped, and it is seven twenty. He turns right off Lower Thames Street and runs lightly down the steps beside Adelaide House towards the river and away from the sound of traffic. Reaching the bottom, he pauses to get his breath back, wisps of steam rising from his warm, damp clothing into the cool night air.

  Charles hasn’t been down on the wharf for over twenty years and has forgotten just how large it is. Stretching westward as far as his eyes can penetrate the gloom are piles of crates, barrels and boxes, huge coils of rope thick as his arm, vans and lorries parked for the night facing out over the water and, towering above all, half a dozen travelling cranes reaching a hundred feet into the air, water dripping off their steel skeletons.

  Taking care to avoid slipping on the crane tracks set in the concrete, Charles follows the line of cranes along the waterfront, letting the sounds of the river wash over him: water lapping, steel cables clanking against superstructure, the whip of a pennant against a mast and the mournful far-off hoots of ships’ horns. A cargo ship moored at the wharf rocks gently on the high tide surrounded by its acolytes of lighters, but both it and the wharf itself are dark and deserted. As he passes the cargo ship the scent of fruit reaches Charles’s nose. Pineapple, he thinks, his stomach suddenly rumbling.

  He continues walking westwards, passing a couple of steamers, and looks for a vantage point from which he’ll be able to observe the General Grant’s approach. The wind is picking up again as another squall approaches and small waves now wash over the wharf edge. Rain starts to fall and Charles replaces his hat.

  He sees a bright red telephone box outside the new warehouse and takes shelter inside. He feels for his cigarettes only to remember with disappointment that he left them in his jacket pocket, hanging over the back of his desk chair.

  ‘Bugger,’ he curses softly to himself, and he leans his back against the wall of the cubicle to wait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  By eight-fifteen the General Grant is still nowhere to be seen, and Charles is wondering if he’s missed it. On the other hand, Merlin may simply have been delayed. A dozen or more vessels have passed, tugs both with and without barges in tow, steamers and, heading for the upper reaches of the Thames, flatirons with their hinged funnels which can be lowered to permit them to pass beneath the low bridges further upstream.

  By the time Charles has spent ten minutes inside the telephone box its windows are steamed up, and he has no choice but to abandon it if he wants to continue to keep lookout. He paces up and down the edge of the wharf to keep warm, straining his eyes downstream into what is almost complete blackness, searching for lights. His stomach grumbles with hunger.

  Finally, he sees a light approaching. At first Charles concludes that wherever the vessel is bound it’s not for the wharf where he stands, as the ship is too far out towards the north bank of the river, but it suddenly corrects its course and heads towards him. He hears the familiar chug-chug of the diesel engine of the reliable old tug inherited by Merlin from his late father. As it approaches the wharf, Charles recognises its familiar outline and he waves. The masthead light flashes off and on quickly in response.

  Charles frowns as the tug fails to slow when he expects and he wonders why Merlin’s in such a hurry. Only then does he realise that the General Grant is towing a barge, and on a line that looks too short to Charles’s eye.

  The engine pitch changes as it is slipped out of gear, but too late. The tug is still moving fast towards the wharf side and just when Charles fears a collision it is belatedly thrown into reverse gear. Although Merlin brings her round in time, her port bow strikes the wharf side with quite a thump, and the prow of the barge runs into the stern of the tug.

  ‘Throw us a line, you idiot!’ shouts Charles genially at the silhouette of the man descending from the wheelhouse. The man turns. It’s not Merlin. This is a huge man, well over six foot at Charles’s guess, and shaped like a rugby ball, wider at his waist than anywhere else. He has a shock of straight dark hair sticking up almost vertically from his forehead and a widow’s peak. He wears a heavy overcoat over a voluminous suit, and a tie which stops at the third button of a white shirt straining to cover an enormous midriff. In his hand is a revolver, which is pointing directly at Charles’s head. Charles knows who this is: “Big Pat” Connolly, eighteen stones of mean Glaswegian, and one of the Krays’ trusted enforcers.

  ‘Get on,’ orders Connolly.

  For a split-second Charles wonders if he could duck and run. He’s never met Connolly but he knows the Scotsman by reputation and at that moment Charles is struggling to remember if the reputation extends to the use of a handgun. But he’s in twenty yards of open space and he concludes that, even allowing for the poor light on the wharf, his chances are poor; even a bad marksman would have time for two or three shots before Charles made it safely behind the nearest pile of packing crates. And then there’s Merlin: Charles doesn’t believe the lighterman would have betrayed him or that he would have voluntarily handed over his beloved tug to the Krays. There’s a chance he’s aboard somewhere, and needs help.

  Another man steps from behind the wheelhouse, also in a dark overcoat. He’s almost a foot shorter than Big Pat but still solidly built. Charles knows who this is too: Ronnie Kray.

  ‘Come on, Horowitz, don’t keep us waiting,’ Ronnie calls. ‘I’d rather Pat didn’t shoot you where you stand, but if you leave me no choice, that’s what’s going to ’appen.’

  The tug has begun to drift back out into the stream. Charles reaches a decision, takes a deep breath and runs, leaping over the widening gap and landing on his hands and knees on the deck. Before he can stand up, Ronnie aims a kick at his face. The blow lands on Charles’s forehead and skids off and although he’s not badly hurt, Charles is thrown by the force onto his bottom, his back against the wheelhouse.

  ‘Stay there,’ orders Ronnie.

  Connolly moves to stand in front of Charles, the gun pointed at Charles’s chest. Ronnie looks up into the lit wheelhouse. ‘OK, let’s go,’ he calls to whoever is piloting the vessel.

  ‘What direction?’ comes a reply. Not Merlin.

  ‘How the fuck do I know?’ says Ronnie. ‘Just keep going the way we were.’

  Charles hears a series of clunks, grating noises and curses as
the pilot struggles to engage gear. The tug lurches forward, slows, and then moves off again, the wheel dragged violently to starboard. The two men standing in front of Charles each grab hold of something to keep their footing, but the gun remains pointing at Charles throughout.

  ‘I could drive this fucking thing better than this,’ shouts Ronnie to the wheelhouse.

  ‘Sorry!’ comes a call from above as the tug picks up speed.

  ‘I thought you said you knew what you were doing,’ Ronnie says furiously.

  ‘I thought I did, but it’s not the same as what I’m used to.’

  Charles hears a faint whistle carried to him on the wind. To anyone who’s never worked on the river it would have sounded just like a bird call, but Charles recognises it immediately.

  Every firm of lightermen has its own distinctive call. Such calls have been in use for centuries and, according to Union Jack, were probably modelled originally on bird calls. With up to a score of lighters, barges and tugs all bustling about to unload a cargo ship or work a specific wharf in the Port of London, and large expanses of water across which to communicate, such distinctive calls are essential for lightermen working together. To the untrained ear the whistles used by different groups of lightermen sound identical, and it took Charles some weeks of listening and practice to be able to recognise and reproduce the call employed by uncle Jonjo, Jacob and Merlin. Once learned however, they’re never forgotten.

  The call is repeated, and this time Charles can place its origin: Merlin is somewhere behind him, presumably locked on the barge towed behind the General Grant.

  A stronger gust of wind catches the brim of Charles’s hat and his arm shoots out in an attempt to catch it, but it flies overboard.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ says Ronnie. ‘You ain’t gonna need it.’

  ‘So, you’re just going to shoot me, are you?’ asks Charles, focusing on the man standing before him.

  ‘You’ve got it coming, Charlie Horowitz, or whatever you call yourself now. You’ve caused me no end of trouble.’

  As if to confirm it, at that very moment the tug dips into a wave and send an arc of water over the prow directly onto Ronnie, drenching his expensive overcoat and spreading a pool of water over the deck which he is too slow to avoid and which floods over his shoes.

  ‘Fuck!’ he exclaims, dancing and splashing out of the way too late. ‘First there was Robeson,’ he continues. ‘D’you have any idea how long it took us to set him up? Twelve years’ work thrown away! And then Terry — that cost me the best part of a monkey for quack’s fees and getting him out the country — and he’s still snorting like a rhinoceros.’

  ‘Terry?’ asks Charles.

  ‘The bloke whose nose you broke outside the Bailey.’

  ‘Oh, I broke it, did I? Good.’

  A shout comes from the wheelhouse above them. ‘Do you want me to pull in somewhere?’

  ‘Anywhere quiet.’

  ‘It’s all wharves and warehouses along here, Ronnie.’

  ‘Then keep going till you find somewhere quiet, you useless cunt!’

  ‘I always knew you were a coward,’ says Charles, shaking his head sadly.

  ‘Say that again,’ says Ronnie, unsure if he’s heard correctly over the sound of the engine, the wind and the splashing prow.

  The water is getting choppier as the wind picks up again. For the last while Big Pat Connolly has been fighting back belches, and although Charles can’t see the man’s complexion in the half-light, the way his big moon-face distorts every now and then suggests that it won’t be long before he’s vomiting.

  ‘I said I always knew you were a coward, and now you’re about to prove it,’ says Charles.

  ‘And how d’you make that out?’ challenges Ronnie, taking a step towards Charles threateningly.

  ‘You were a coward when we sparred at the Rupert Browning, and you were a coward on that Wembley card. Charlie Simms always said you had no guts. Not like your brother. Now Reg, there’s a man who commands real respect,’ says Charles with as much disdain as he can command. ‘He’s worth two of you,’ he spits.

  With a growl Ronnie takes another step forward and aims a vicious kick at Charles’s head. Charles covers up and the blow lands on his upper arm, but this time it hurts and he feels the whole arm down to his fingertips go dead. Nonetheless Charles looks up and smiles at his attacker.

  ‘It’s easy, isn’t it Ronnie, when you’ve got Big Pat standing there pointing a gun at me. But you haven’t got the balls to do it man-to-man.’ Charles shrugs. ‘Like I said: a coward.’

  ‘Shall I do ’im now, Ronnie?’ asks the huge Glaswegian, aiming carefully at Charles’s forehead, but unable to prevent his gun arm swaying with the movement of the tug.

  ‘Fucking coward, is it? Fucking coward? Stand up you cunt! Here —’ Ronnie calls up to the man in the wheelhouse — ‘put that light on over ’ere!’

  The engine note drops as the pilot looks for the for’ard searchlight. The foredeck is suddenly floodlit.

  ‘Pat, back off a bit. Keep the gun on ’im, but don’t shoot ’im till I tell you. I’m going to teach Mr Horowitz a lesson to take with ’im.’

  Ronnie takes off his black-rimmed glasses, folds them closed carefully and slips them into the top pocket of his coat. Then he takes off the coat, followed by his suit jacket, and hands them one at a time to Pat, who takes them and folds them over his free arm. He pulls off his tie and stuffs it into his trouser pocket, opens the top button of his shirt and rolls up his shirt sleeves. Still seated, Charles struggles out of his raincoat, shoes and socks. He’s going to have to move fast, and fighting in leather-soled shoes on a wet deck would be impossible.

  ‘Stand up!’ orders Ronnie, getting into his fighter’s stance, fists held close to his face and left shoulder leading.

  Charles stands slowly, assessing his surroundings. The foredeck is about three quarters of the size of a boxing ring, but it’s cluttered. To Charles’s right, at about three o’clock, is the bridge ladder and, only a yard or so behind, is a coiled line. Further round, at about ten o’clock, is the capstan and the bitt. He’s going to have to be very careful with his footwork, but he might be able to make use of the obstacles. He could find them with his eyes closed but once Ronnie is concentrating on boxing he’ll be much less aware of them.

  Charles tries to remember what he knows of Ronnie’s fighting style. Pound for pound the odds are on Charles’s side. The two men are of almost equal height but Charles is substantially heavier, and if he can get in a good punch he thinks he can knock Ronnie down. Charles is noted for fast footwork for someone of his weight, but Ronnie’s lighter build means he is probably quicker, or at least he was when he still trained regularly. Charles has no idea if that’s still the case, but he doubts it; the gangsters enjoy a lifestyle of late club nights, good eating and heavy drinking.

  On the other hand, despite Charles’s taunts, Ronnie is a game fighter, a brave, indeed, reckless slugger who’ll keep going despite heavy punishment, especially if watched by Reggie. Ronnie Kray has an obsessive fear of not being his brother’s equal, and it’s this vulnerability on which Charles gambled to provoke him into fighting. That very provocation makes Ronnie dangerous; if given the chance, once inside Charles’s guard, he’s mad enough to beat Charles to death. Charles has to keep out of range.

  Charles drops into his fighting stance. He bends his knees, absorbing the pitch and roll of the tug. He notes that Ronnie is less able to predict the ship’s movements and is having greater difficulty keeping his balance. Another advantage.

  Charles shuffles forward and backwards, keeping his head moving, his bare feet on the deck feeling secure. He launches a step jab off his lead foot but the roll of the tug takes Ronnie almost out of reach and the jab merely touches Ronnie’s cheek. Ronnie launches an immediate flurry of blows, a jab and cross double followed by an attempted left hook.

  Charles covers up, sways back to avoid the hook and moves straight back in
to land a forty-five degree jab, rolling his hips at the same time to generate more power. It’s a good shot and it connects squarely with Ronnie’s jaw. Ronnie is surprised and hurt, forced into attempting a clinch, but Charles pulls away out of reach. He keeps Ronnie at arm’s reach with flicker jabs, waiting for the next roll of the tug. When it comes, he attempts a step-through jab but he’s too straight on and makes an easy target.

  Ronnie powers an uppercut through his guard and onto Charles’s chin. Charles’s head rocks back and, before he can react, Ronnie’s inside and thundering body blows into his abdomen, taking Charles’s breath away. Charles wraps his arms round Ronnie, trying to lessen the space available to the gangster to work his arms but it barely makes a difference.

  Charles grips his fingers together behind Ronnie’s back and squeezes hard in a bear hug. He’s so close he can smell the aftershave on Ronnie’s smooth cheek and the Brylcreem on his wet hair. Charles then lifts and heaves, spinning clockwise on his right heel and forcing Ronnie into a collision with the bridge ladder. Ronnie’s left knee strikes one of the lower rungs and as he tries to keep his balance, he stops punching Charles, and Charles is able to back off, his guard raised once more.

  Charles forces himself to keep his footwork going, backwards and forwards and side to side, trying not to display any weakness, but the blows from Ronnie have hurt and sapped his strength.

  Ronnie comes forward again and Charles dances further backwards to gain himself a few seconds’ further respite. Ronnie’s next attack is a lightning power jab from the back foot followed immediately by an uppercut. The jab gets partially through Charles’s guard and strikes Charles’s forehead, but most of the power has been taken off it on the way through.

  Charles immediately sways to his left just in time to feel Ronnie’s forearm brushing his face as the uppercut misses him by quarter of an inch. Charles steps inside and with a grunt connects with a right-handed body jab, giving it as much power as he can muster. The breath whooshes out of Ronnie’s lungs and as his chin drops slightly Charles sways back and hits him with a perfect left-handed uppercut, catching the corner of his chin.