Corrupted: Murder and cover-up at the heart of government (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 4)

by Simon Michael

  Duke starts moving from the side door towards the ring, but then the doors at the far end of the auditorium swing open. A very large man enters. Duke knows him well: Big Pat Connolly, a towering Glaswegian oval of muscle, fat and violence, and the Krays’ most trusted bodyguard. As always, his dark hair springs vertically from a sharp widow’s peak, giving him a surprised expression, and due to his enormous girth — the man is widest at his waist and tapers both towards his head and his feet — he is forced to sidle sideways through the doors.

  Connolly positions himself just inside and scans the room, his hand shading his eyes from the bright lights that illuminate the ring. Satisfied, he turns and opens the doors again and the Krays enter. They wear bow ties and black dinner suits. Duke immediately changes direction and instead of going to the ring he heads down the aisle between the banks of spectators to greet his partners. As he approaches the twins, the doors behind them open again and two newcomers appear. They too are in evening dress. One is a man in his fifties with a receding hairline, a Mediterranean complexion and wearing thick-rimmed glasses. On his arm, several inches taller than he, is a slim woman in her twenties wearing a tight-waisted claret-coloured silk dress and a silk wrap over her upper arms. The dress is cut low off the shoulder and displays both the woman’s creamy back and décolletage, and a necklace of a dozen or more sparkling diamonds. She has glossy russet hair, a pale complexion and red lipstick applied to wide lips. There is a poise and confidence about her which draws the eye.

  ‘Blimey!’ mutters Duke as he approaches the group. ‘Walworth meets ’Ollywood.’

  The final members of the party, two large men wearing black suits and sporting dark glasses — Americans? — enter and stand with their backs to the doors, preventing anyone from entering or leaving.

  Reggie Kray holds out his hand for Duke to shake, something he has never done before and which momentarily confuses Duke until, from behind him, there comes a fusillade of flashes and pops as the members of the press realise who has arrived. Reggie, always expert at managing the media, is posing again.

  ‘Evening, Duke,’ he says. ‘Sorry we’re so late.’ He turns to the newcomers behind him. ‘Let me introduce you. Mr Bruno, this is our partner in the gym, Jimmy “Duke” McLagan.’

  Duke leans forward and shakes Bruno’s hand.

  ‘Mr Bruno is here doing a bit of business,’ explains Reggie.

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr McLagan,’ says Bruno in a soft American accent. ‘This here’s Patrizia Conti. I guess you’ve heard of her.’

  Patrizia Conti nods in greeting but says nothing. Duke hadn’t heard of her until a couple of days before, when photographs of her appeared in the evening newspapers. She was said to be an up-and-coming starlet who’d acted in a couple of Hollywood films. Duke has no interest in the movies, but the woman is unusually attractive and her picture — she was snapped leaving a nightclub on the arm of some British film actor — caught his eye.

  ‘Well?’ asks Reggie of Duke. ‘How’re we doing?’

  ‘S’goin’ well: won six, lost two, drawn two,’ replies Duke, unable to keep the pride out of his voice.

  ‘Brilliant,’ says Reggie. He holds his hand out, gesturing that his guests should precede him towards the ring. ‘Shall we?’

  Now there’s a short delay between bouts, the noise in the auditorium has reduced and most of the journalists and cameramen focus on the glamorous party approaching the ring. Several journalists crowd around the group as it moves towards the lights, firing questions. Some are aimed at the Krays and their business dealings, but these are ignored. Others are aimed at Patrizia Conti.

  ‘Miss Conti! Miss Conti!’ they shout, and she halts momentarily to pose for another crackle of photographs, allowing the rest of the party to move on. Duke scurries ahead to evict the excited younger boxers from the reserved seats.

  Photographers temporarily sated, Patrizia moves off again, the two American bodyguards shadowing her from behind. She banters easily with the journalists, batting back their questions with confidence and making them laugh.

  ‘Are you here for a fight, Miss Conti?’ shouts one reporter.

  ‘I never fight. I prefer what you Brits call special relationships,’ she says, fluttering her eyelashes ironically. ‘Why, are you offering me one, sonny?’

  ‘I’ll go a few rounds with you!’ shouts one wag from the back of the pack.

  ‘No you won’t, my friend,’ she replies over her shoulder. ‘You wouldn’t last a round.’

  This produces cheers and laughter.

  ‘Miss Conti, when’s your next film?’ someone shouts.

  ‘Well, soon, I hope. I’m over here with Mr Bruno to discuss that very thing.’

  ‘Is Mr Bruno now moving into film production?’ shouts the same voice.

  ‘Is he in business with the Krays?’ shouts another.

  The noise level drops and the journalists crane forward to hear the response. Patrizia laughs lightly. ‘Mr Bruno’s my manager, and I owe everything to him. If it wasn’t for him and that lovely Mr Sinatra I’d never have gotten my first break.’

  The group has reached the row of reserved seats, now cleared and straightened, and they all sit. As the ring announcer starts speaking, Charles jogs through the doors into the hall, a towel draped lightly over his head and shoulders. He passes his father and brother, sitting together on the opposite side of the ring from the Krays’ party, without even noticing them. He barely hears the announcer’s words as he climbs into the ring and continues jogging on the spot.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen! We now have a special addition to the card. This heavyweight bout will not score in the London Regional Championships as neither fighter will be eligible for the next round. In the red corner: former professional and now representing Lynn Athletic Amateur Boxing Club; weighing in at one hundred and seventy-seven pounds; twice holder of the London Regional amateur title at light heavyweight, with sixty-eight bouts, fifty-two wins, twenty-one by knockouts … Albert French!’

  There’s a roar of approval from the Lynn Athletic club members and supporters, and French lifts his hands above his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘And in the blue corner: weighing in at one hundred and eighty-five pounds; representing the Kennington Institute and returning to the ring for a competitive bout for the first time in over a decade; that well-known brief, sorry … barrister-at-law...’ the ring announcer pauses and then adds, with a grin, ‘and local face, Charles Holborne!’

  This time the noise is louder still, but shot through it are some catcalls and laughter. The announcer climbs out of the ring and the referee pulls the two boxers together by the elbows. He instructs them to protect themselves, to follow his instructions at all times, and to break cleanly. The boxers touch gloves and return to their corners.

  Duke reapplies Vaseline to Charles’s face, talking urgently, but Charles hears none of it. Charles has waited for this moment for years. He achieves this mental stillness in the moments before starting an important trial, particularly when about to stand to cross-examine the Crown’s star witness or address a difficult jury. However, that doesn’t come close to his present state of mind; he feels totally present in this moment, more alive now than at any other time in his life. His mind is completely clear and, despite Duke’s concern, untouched by any extraneous thought. The white noise in his head which so often prevents him from sleeping — his concern about his relationships with his parents and Sally; his worry about his legal practice; the class and religious prejudice he faces daily; or the cancerous gossip in the Temple that constantly undermines him — all have vanished. Charles basks in a moment of complete clarity. He’s not even thinking about the fight that’s about to start.

  He has tried to describe to others this state of mind but has never managed to unravel its contradictions. During a boxing match he thinks harder and more quickly than at any other time in his life but, at the same time, he is unaware of thinking at all. It’s as if, for the durat
ion of four short rounds, the authentic Charlie Horowitz and the counterfeit Charles Holborne, the men who have such difficulty managing the contradictions and tensions of their existence; the men who have never understood the women in their lives: those men, whoever they are, disappear. Charles’s multi-faceted identity dissolves into a sort of dream state during which he is, at one and the same time, devoid of conscious thought and more alert than ever, and he finds peace and unity in this trance. For a short period, Charles is replaced by something which moves and acts of its own accord; a machine with no personality, governed by one single ruthless programme: to dodge, weave and strike down his opponent.

  The bell sounds for the first round and Charles turns and steps into the bright lights at the centre of the ring.

  The fight is over and Albert French has been counted out while still struggling to his knees at the start of the fourth. Charles is unable to relate any part of the last few minutes and, if asked, couldn’t say how he won or how he feels. Later, he will be glad he has won because it was a vindication of his judgement of his underlying fitness and his ability to apply a strict training regime and a rigorous diet. Charles has always backed his own judgement and likes being proven right. He will also be pleased that he will forever be able to say that he won his last fight, just before his fortieth birthday, against a taller and much more experienced ex-professional. But these are paltry prizes. Charles bullied Duke into matching him because he wanted, for one last time, to experience those precious minutes of clarity. Right at this moment, as Charles slowly returns to consciousness in his own aching body, Duke on one side of him and David on the other, Harry beaming up at him with pride from the first row of seats, Charles feels only profound disappointment. This part of his life is now over, and he feels diminished.

  Charles sits at the bar of the Prospect of Whitby, his elbows on the pewter top, considering the empty glass in his hand. The barman who has just served him stands on the other side of the bar in front of the optics and hanging glasses, regarding Charles’s battered face with narrowed eyes, wondering if this customer is going to cause trouble.

  Most of the adult victors from the Kennington Institute went to a local pub to celebrate. Harry and David encouraged Charles to go too, but he declined. He needed to be alone. So he walked up to the Old Kent Road and took two buses back to his old stomping ground on the banks of the Thames. He stood for a long time on Wapping Wall, looking southbound over the dark river, soothed by the familiar smells of saltwater and effluence, the honks of distant ships’ horns and the cries of seagulls above his head. Beginning to get chilled, he entered the narrow alley along the flank of the tavern, descended the wooden steps and slipped in through the back door. He found a space at the end of the bar and ordered a large whisky, which he knocked back in two gulps.

  The bar is quiet, still mercifully free of the jukeboxes that are appearing everywhere else, and Charles begins to relax in the comfortable murmur of quiet conversation and clinking glasses.

  ‘Here,’ says Charles. He holds out his glass before the barman can move off to serve anyone else. ‘Same again, mate, please.’

  As Charles is about to hand over payment a woman’s hand enters his field of vision and rests gently on his wrist.

  ‘Can I get that for you?’ says a female voice with an American accent. Charles turns towards the speaker. ‘Ooh, you do look a mess!’ she exclaims.

  Charles has to rotate his neck fully to the right to see the woman out of his left eye, the right eye having now almost completely closed.

  ‘Why would you do that?’ he asks, surprised.

  The woman is taken aback, unused to being rebuffed, and she hesitates for a second before smiling. ‘You didn’t see me then? At the fight?’

  ‘You were at the fight?’

  ‘Sure was.’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t notice much — too focused. So, you were in Walworth, and now you just happen to be here?’ asks Charles. He winces with the effort of keeping her in his field of vision. ‘Look, if we’re going to continue this conversation, would you mind coming round the other side where I can see you?’

  The woman walks to Charles’s left and climbs onto a barstool next to his. Charles sees for the first time that she is extraordinarily beautiful. She has a mass of auburn hair that cascades in waves to tan-coloured shoulders, a wide red-painted mouth and large almond-shaped eyes almost as dark as those of Charles himself. He guesses that she too has Mediterranean heritage. She appears to be wearing a man’s overcoat.

  ‘Look, I don’t care which one of you pays,’ interjects the barman, irritated by the delay, ‘but is someone gonna cough up two and fourpence?’

  The woman hands him a pound note. ‘Can I have what he’s having?’

  ‘Whisky?’

  She nods.

  ‘Large — like his?

  ‘Sure. And get yourself one.’

  She slips off the overcoat and lets it hang down from the barstool. ‘Sorry about the coat. I borrowed it. I’m not really dressed for chasing “faces” round the rougher areas of London,’ she says, her voice surprisingly deep.

  Charles regards her bare shoulders and diamond necklace.

  ‘I see that.’ He points at the necklace. ‘May I suggest you take that off and put it in a pocket? You may be OK while you’re in here, but outside…’

  ‘I’m not alone,’ she says. ‘There’s a great lump of meat waiting for me outside on the pavement. Shivering, I expect.’ She points to the coat underneath her. ‘So what is a face, then?’ she asks.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That’s what the guy, the fight announcer, called you. A brief and a face.’ She shakes her head to herself. ‘I swear, it’s a totally different language.’

  She speaks with a definite American accent but its edges are softened by something else, something vaguely European. French? Italian maybe? It’s a nice voice, thinks Charles: intriguing. Its depth reminds him of Lauren Bacall, but her body shape is quite different; although tall like Bacall, this woman is a series of flowing curves.

  He smiles, and immediately grimaces with the pain produced. ‘First things first: who are you, and what’re you doing following me halfway across London?’

  She puts her glass down and offers her hand. ‘Reasonable questions. My name’s Patrizia Conti. I’m an actress.’ Charles takes the offered hand and grips it gently in his paw. Her fingers are long and elegant with glossy red fingernails.

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Conti.’

  ‘You don’t recognise me?’

  Charles shrugs. ‘Sorry. Should I?’

  She smiles easily. ‘I guess not.’

  ‘How did you “happen” to be at an amateur fight in a backwater of the East End of London?’ asks Charles.

  ‘I was with my manager. He’s a fight fan. So,’ she says, changing the subject, ‘what’s a “face”?’

  Charles shrugs carefully. He can feel his shoulders stiffening up. ‘It means a local personality, someone who’s well known. But it’s got overtones of something a bit more sinister: a gangster, or criminal.’

  ‘And are you?’ asks Patrizia, digging around in a red and gold clutch purse.

  ‘A gangster or criminal? No. As you heard — I’m a barrister.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You’d call me a trial attorney. The slang term is “brief”.’

  ‘Ah. Got it. Face and brief. So you’re a trial attorney who moonlights as a boxer. Or maybe you’re a masochist who likes being beaten up?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ replies Charles, stung. ‘Did you see the other guy? That would be the one who was counted out, flat on his back?’

  She finds what she was looking for, a tissue, and reaches towards Charles’s face to dab gently under his nose. ‘You’re still bleeding.’

  Charles wipes under his nose with his forefinger, coming up with a smear of blood, and holds his hand out for the tissue. She gives it to him, and Charles blows his nose and wipes his face.

&
nbsp; ‘Sorry about that. He must’ve got in some good punches.’

  ‘You can say that again. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.’

  She’s joking, but then appreciates from the look on Charles’s face that he isn’t. ‘You really didn’t notice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? Brain damage?’

  Charles laughs. ‘I hope not.’

  Charles starts to return the tissue to Patrizia, thinks better of it, and shoves it in his jacket pocket. ‘It’s very nice of you to buy me a drink, Miss Conti, but you still haven’t explained why you followed me halfway across London.’

  She takes a packet of Lucky Strikes from her purse, puts one between her red lips and offers one to Charles. He hesitates but then shrugs and takes one; he’s no longer training. She hands him a gold cigarette lighter and he lights them both. She replaces the cigarettes and the lighter in her purse and inhales deeply.

  ‘It’s hardly halfway across London,’ she finally answers. ‘It took fifteen minutes in a cab.’

  Charles smiles at her. ‘I like the delaying tactic with the cigarettes. I sometimes do that sort of thing in court. But the witness is being evasive. Let’s try again: I walked, waited at a bus stop, changed buses and ran to catch the second bus at traffic lights. I walked some more and then stopped to look at the river for a while. All of which suggests quite an effort on your part to follow me. Why?’

  She takes a sip of her drink. Charles notices how she rolls the spirit around in her mouth and sees she’s used to drinking hard liquor. He likes that about her too.

  ‘OK, Mr Trial Attorney. Firstly, I didn’t follow you. You said it yourself: you’re a face. Lots of people know you. So I asked around at the swimming baths — the boxing match — and two people suggested you might be here. One looked like he might’ve been your dad. That made it more probable than not. And I wanted to see a bit of London so I thought, why not?’