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

by Simon Michael

  ‘You OK?’ asks David, one hand holding the yarmulke on his head to prevent it being dislodged by the light breeze.

  Charles nods. ‘I didn’t think I’d get so upset. It took me by surprise.’

  ‘What do you expect, Charles?’ replies David, sympathetically. ‘You and Izzy were once very close. Then, as fate would have it, you reconnect with him in order to save his life —’

  ‘Only for him to lose it a fortnight later. I let him down.’

  ‘That’s not what the police say. Nor the way you tell it.’

  The story Charles had given to the police, the coroner and to anyone who asked was that there had been a problem with the rudder of the General Grant which Merlin had been trying to fix when both tug and lighter were blown onto the eyot. The tug had seen many years of service and had been known to develop such faults before. Furthermore, after the collision, its stern was badly damaged and the rudder destroyed, so no evidence was likely to be found to gainsay Charles’s account. He hadn’t mentioned the presence of Ronnie Kray or his associates. He assumes they must have got away, as no other bodies have been found and there’s been nothing in the press, but he’s heard nothing from that quarter in the interim.

  ‘That’s not what I mean. Forget it.’

  David’s penetrating blue eyes regard Charles carefully for a moment. Then, perceptive as ever, he asks: ‘Heard anything from Henrietta of late?’

  Charles smiles. ‘Yes, actually, just now. She sends her best.’

  ‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’ replies David.

  ‘What, her sending her regards?’

  ‘You know what I mean, Charles. Has it occurred to you that your loss of control just now might have something to do with Henrietta? There’s a lot of unresolved stuff you’re hiding from.’

  Charles shakes his head, eyes closed, while at the same time answering reluctantly, ‘Yes, of course it has.’

  ‘Well,’ smiles David, ‘that’s a start, then. Come on.’

  They turn together to walk back up the path but soon catch up with Beatrice, who is struggling, a young woman at each of her elbows. In accordance with Jewish tradition, they both wish her long life.

  ‘Davie, would you mind if I had a word with Charlie in private?’ she asks.

  ‘No, of course not. I’ll see you in a moment,’ he replies, and walks off.

  ‘Thank you for your help, girls, but Charlie can take over from here.’

  ‘Are you sure, Aunty Bea?’ asks one, glancing at Charles from under her eyelashes and finding in his dark good looks a reason to stay.

  ‘Perfectly, thank you. You run along.’

  The two young women move off, leaving Charles supporting his aunt by one elbow. She doesn’t move for a moment, allowing the others to get out of earshot. When she speaks, she stares into the distance.

  ‘He loved you, you know?’

  ‘I loved him, too,’ Charles answers, feeling his throat tighten again.

  ‘I know you did. But not in the same way.’ Charles glances sharply at his aunt; so she knew all along. He nods slowly to himself, but remains silent. ‘It took him a long time to get over it, when you lost touch,’ Beatrice continues sadly.

  ‘Don’t, Aunt Bea,’ pleads Charles. ‘You’ve no idea how bad I feel about it now.’

  ‘Don’t feel bad, Charlie, love. Seeing you again and you making up with him, even with the strain of his court case — you can’t know how happy it made him.’

  Despite Charles’s best efforts, he finds his eyes leaking again, and he sobs. ‘Really? I feel there was so much unsaid.’

  ‘No, Charlie, not at all. He knew how much you loved him, even if it couldn’t be … well … in the way he hoped. In the few weeks he was home after the trial, I’ve never seen him so contented. At ease, you know? He was lighter in spirit … a lighter man, you could say. And it wasn’t just the trial being over.’

  Charles bends and wraps his arms around his beloved aunt, the sobs coming thick and fast now.

  ‘There, there, Charlie, love. We’ll both have to make do without him.’

  Two days later, Charles stands by a different grave in an altogether different cemetery. West Ham Jewish Cemetery where Izzy was interred is populated by a century of dead East End Jewry. Jewish tradition prohibits ornate headstones, grand sepulchres, statues and flowers. To mark the fact that someone has visited a grave, a small stone is picked up from the path or from the graveside, and left balanced on top of the gravestone, which will be engraved only with the Star of David and brief lettering in Hebrew.

  This cemetery is very different. Firstly, it is private, and Charles had to seek express permission to enter. It lies behind the beautiful family chapel at Viscount Brandreth’s country seat and is the final resting place of eight generations of that illustrious family, including the Viscount’s eldest daughter, Henrietta. It backs onto open fields, and the traffic sounds in West Ham are here replaced by birdsong and the wind rustling the leaves of two enormous horse chestnut trees which hang over the well-maintained grass paths and colourful flowerbeds decorating the graveyard.

  Charles half-expected his request to be refused, as it was when Henrietta was originally buried, but perhaps something had cracked or softened the lump of granite the Viscount called his heart, because a handwritten letter had arrived in Chambers giving him permission to visit on the date sought. His erstwhile father-in-law informed him that none of the family would be present, but the gate would be left unlocked for him. So, too, would the door to the chapel, presumably in case Charles were belatedly to see the error of his ways, decide to change teams and switch allegiance to the Viscount’s God, assuming that said God would accept him, which was unlikely.

  Charles has done more crying in the last few days than he can remember in any period of his life, and he has no tears left for Henrietta or for himself this beautiful afternoon. However, he has something to say, as he stands in front of the headstone marking his wife’s grave.

  ‘About time,’ says Henrietta, still keen to get in the first blow even from the afterlife.

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry Etta; I let you down.’

  ‘Yes, Charles,’ says Henrietta by his elbow, sighing deeply, ‘you did. But, to be fair, I let you down too. So let’s call it quits.’

  ‘I won’t do it again.’

  Silence.

  ‘I said, I won’t do it again.’

  Still silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Charles and Sally sit in Charles’s Jaguar outside the suburban house of his brother and sister-in-law. Sally takes Charles’s paw in both of her delicate hands and holds it on Charles’s thigh.

  ‘Second thoughts?’

  ‘About being with you, absolutely not. About introducing you to my parents, yes. Second, third and fourth thoughts.’

  It’s a month after Merlin’s funeral and three weeks after Charles made peace with Henrietta. Or so he hopes. His late wife has not felt impelled to comment any further on Charles’s conduct of his personal life, and so he assumes she approves, or perhaps doesn’t disapprove sufficiently to continue haunting him. That hasn’t prevented him talking to her whenever the mood takes him, but the sensation that she is there, listening, is fading.

  Two Sundays before, Charles had risen, showered and shaved carefully, donned his new sports jacket and driven to Romford with the huge bouquet of flowers he bought the previous day, and which had taken up most of his bath overnight. There he laid siege to the Fisher household. He was told repeatedly, both by Mrs Fisher from the front door and by from Sally from her bedroom window, to go away, but he had steadfastly ignored them, prompting some neighbours to point at him and laugh and others to consider calling the police. He loitered outside on the pavement for over three hours, sitting on their garden wall and reading the Sunday Times. Then it started raining heavily. Charles would have remained where he was, but Mrs Fisher finally took pity on him and invited him in to dry off and have a cup of tea. Sally remained in her
room for another hour, but after Charles had told Mrs Fisher what he proposed saying to Sally, she let him go upstairs.

  Sally reluctantly opened her bedroom door and he sat on her bed for nearly two hours, trying to convince her that he wanted to be different and that, with her help, he could be. He told her about his conversations with Henrietta and David’s opinion that he had utterly failed to deal with his grief following her murder; he told her he was belatedly beginning to realise that if you love someone you need to make time for them and let them in; he also told her that he was quite sure he was in love with her.

  Finally, Charles told her the entire story involving Ronnie Kray. She’d suspected that Ronnie was behind the attack in the phone box but she’d known nothing about the events which led to Merlin’s death. Charles honestly admitted that, short of emigrating, he had no idea how he was going to get out of the fix he was in, and for some reason it was this last admission, the confession that he was vulnerable and scared, that finally persuaded Sally to give him a second chance.

  Sally insisted that Charles agree to return to Snow Hill Police Station and push for an investigation into the attack on him outside the Old Bailey. She accepted that he couldn’t tell the police how he’d manufactured the evidence to secure Merlin’s acquittal or the circumstances of the events on the river, but the knife attack had been witnessed by third parties. Charles thought it a waste of time; even if by some miracle the police were interested enough to try to identify the attacker, there was no evidence to link him with the Krays, and so the twins would still be on his back.

  Nonetheless, Charles telephoned Snow Hill Police Station on two occasions to make an appointment and left messages for DC Miller or any of his colleagues involved in the investigation, asking for a call back. He heard nothing in response. He went to the police station twice, but on neither occasion was there anyone available on the team to speak to him. The message was clear: the police weren’t interested in investigating further.

  Charles and Sally resumed their relationship and saw one another every couple of days for the following fortnight, twice going to the cinema, once with her friends and once with his, and walking, slightly ostentatiously, hand-in-hand during their lunch breaks in the Inner Temple Gardens. If any of Charles’s colleagues disapproved, none said so.

  Now Charles deemed the relationship with Sally to be more or less back on track, he accepted his parents’ standing invitation to come for Friday night dinner, on condition that he could bring a guest. That appeared to be a step too far for Millie Horowitz, but David and Sonia had resolved the difficulty by inviting everyone to their home for “proper tea” on Sunday, a neat solution to the difficulties likely to be prompted by a Friday night Sabbath meal laden with a religious significance that would only exclude Sally, who so much needed and wanted to be included.

  Charles flicks his eyes up from Sally’s hands wrapped around his to the rearview mirror. He checks around himself so frequently now that it’s become almost unconscious. The suburban street is lined with stationary vehicles but empty of both moving traffic and pedestrians.

  ‘So, how terrible can it be?’ asks Sally. ‘Even if they hate me, it’s one tea, right?’

  Charles shakes his head. ‘You don't understand,’ he explains quietly. ‘David and Sonia would never hate you. It’s not them, it’s Mum and Dad … well … to be honest, it’s Mum. Dad mostly agrees with anything she says for a quiet life.’

  ‘I haven’t been frightened of my Mum since I was twelve.’

  ‘It’s not fear of her, Sally.’ He swivels in the leather seat and turns to her. ‘I’m just exhausted by the battle. And I’m worried for my father. Look, I can’t explain all of it but in really simple terms: I’ve been fighting a war with my mother since I was born. The battleground shifts, but it’s always the same war. I’m a terrible disappointment to her, and she can’t hide it; she doesn’t want to hide it. It’s her not-very-subtle way of trying to coerce me into being something … someone, different.’

  ‘But you’re a success. You started in the East End, on the streets, and now you’re a successful barrister.’

  ‘I could be bloody Prime Minister, it’d make no difference. When I was little, it’d be because I didn’t finish my greens, or spilled some paint or something. Usually I wouldn’t even know what I’d done wrong; all of a sudden she’d no longer be my loving mother, but an iceberg. She’d act as if I was a stranger, and she could carry it on for days. Wind forward twenty years and I committed the ultimate offence, a rejection of her and everything about her: I married out. The punishment for that crime was a permanent withdrawing of love. Nothing less would do. They shut the door on me — literally shut the front door in my face — acted as if I was dead, sat shiva, said prayers for the dead, the whole thing. So I was out of it for a while. It was a relief, to be honest. I missed Davie a lot, and my Dad, but…’ Charles shakes his head sadly. ‘Then Henrietta was murdered … I went on the run, and a friend —’

  ‘Rachel? Your girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes, Rachel, though she wasn’t a girlfriend at that time. But she got us back together.’

  ‘Which is good, right?’

  ‘Yes, sort of, but Mum’s attitude hadn’t changed. Then Dad had his heart problems. Which, of course, was my fault.’

  ‘How does that work?’ asks Sally, not entirely sure how seriously she should take the comment.

  ‘It’s not as bonkers as it sounds, actually. He’s been the main casualty of this war. He’s spent the last forty years trying to separate two of the people he loves the most, at first arbitrating, then trying to shame us into behaving and, now, just watching and hurting. In the year since his operation there’s been an undeclared truce: we speak on the phone, but for the most part I stay away. According to David, Mum’s finally laid off me ’cos she’s frightened it’ll kill Dad.’

  ‘What started this all off, Charlie?’

  Charles shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. The way she was brought up, maybe? I think it was my job to make her happy, and I didn’t. I couldn’t. She’s a disappointed woman. Not just in me, but in her marriage, her life. At least she was secure in the East End. Out here in the suburbs she feels isolated. This innocuous little house of David and Sonia’s —’ Charles jerks his thumb towards the darkened semi-detached behind them — ‘and me, we’re the terrifying face of assimilation.’

  ‘Hendon? The place is crammed with Jews,’ Sally points out, looking quickly at Charles’s expression to see if he’s offended by the remark.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And is that why she won’t like me: ’cos I’m not Jewish?’

  ‘Yes. And because we’re not married.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it be worse if we were married?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘It’d be worse if we were married —’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘— or it’s worse because we’re not?’

  ‘Yes.’ Charles explains: ‘That’s my mother in a nutshell. Ever hear the story about the Jewish mother who bought her son two ties, a red one and a green one?’ Sally shakes her head. ‘Well,’ continues Charles, ‘the first time the son sees her after his birthday, he thinks: “I’d better wear one of those new ties” and he chooses the red one. Then his mother opens the door to him, looks him up and down, and says: “So, what’s wrong with the green tie?”’

  Sally laughs.

  ‘That’s my mother,’ continues Charles. ‘Logic’s not her strong suit. In fact, it’d be a positive disadvantage to her.’

  They sit in silence. Charles looks at his watch. ‘Come on,’ he says, letting go of Sally’s hand and opening the car door. He scans the street quickly before stepping out, but it’s still deserted. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  Sally follows Charles out of the car and they walk together down the garden path. David and Sonia have been married for less than a year and this is their first home together. Unlike Charles, David married a “nice Jewish girl” and now lives w
ithin a mile of his parents’ home. He’d not turned his back on his religion or his culture, nor committed the sin of anglicising his name. Having lived in Charles’s shadow for the whole of his young life, he now unexpectedly finds himself the favoured son, a position he finds uncomfortable. As a boy he worshipped his tough, clever older brother and as an adult he respects him, despite his life choices. He hates being used by his mother as a goad to taunt Charles.

  The door opens just as the visitors reach it and Sonia and David stand on the threshold. Sonia holds out both her hands and takes both of Sally’s.

  ‘You must be Sally. It’s so lovely to meet you,’ she says with a broad and sincere smile, ‘at last,’ she adds mischievously over Sally’s shoulder at Charles.

  God bless you, thinks Charles.

  Sonia is not a beautiful woman by most people’s reckoning but she’s handsome, with a full figure and thick black lustrous hair, usually tied in a scarf. What draws men to her are her dark eyes, from which shine a wonderful infectious warmth. She grew up in a strictly orthodox home, and whereas the Horowitzes lived in the melting pot of London’s East End for generations, until she met David she had encountered no one at all from outside her own Jewish community. Indeed, marrying David had caused waves of disapproval in her family.

  Sonia is acutely aware of her mother-in-law’s relationship with Charles and observed with alarm how the catalyst of her marriage to David has exacerbated his problems. She understands very well why Charles remains at a distance. Although no one in the family speaks of it, she reads the newspapers and knows what Charles has been through, and in her charmingly simple way, she thinks he’s due some happiness. For Sonia to live in sin with a non-Jew, worse, to marry one, would be totally alien; unthinkable. But if Sally makes Charles happy and is a good person, Sonia will make her as welcome as she can. From Sonia’s straightforward standpoint, everyone is a good person until they prove conclusively to her that they are not.

  She draws Sally into the hall. ‘This is David,’ she says, and David shakes Sally’s hand.