‘Of course I trust ―’
‘No, you don’t. Not deep down. I think you’re afraid.’
‘Afraid of what?’
‘Afraid to let me in. To be vulnerable. In fact, I wonder if you can trust any woman.’ She sighs. ‘Your mother has a lot to answer for.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, the Jewish mother? Please! Let’s leave her out of it.’
Sally shrugs, reaches for a dress lying on the bed and starts folding it. ‘Fine. But one day you should ask yourself if the way she’s treated you since you were a child has anything to do with how you are now.’
Bag packed, Sally walks downstairs and takes her coat from the hall cupboard. Charles follows her.
‘Please don’t go. We’ve only lived together properly for a couple of months. Can’t you give me a little time to adjust?’
Sally opens the front door, and then stops. ‘If I thought you might be able to change, maybe I would stay.’
‘I can change.’
She puts a hand on his arm. It’s a tender gesture but her face is full of sadness. ‘I’m sure you mean that, Charlie, but I don’t think you can; at least not without understanding why you act the way you do. And I think you’re completely in the dark about that.’ She opens the front door.
‘Can I drive you, then? We can talk on the way.’
‘No, thanks. I’ll be at Mum’s, but please don’t call or just turn up.’
‘So is this it? Should I sell the house?’
‘I don’t know. Sell the house if you want — or not — it’s up to you.’
The door closes and Charles listens to her footsteps receding down the path.
‘Is that you, Nell?’ slurs Charles.
‘Yes, Charles.’
‘Is she there? Can I talk to her please?’
‘I’m sorry, Charles, but she doesn’t want to talk to you. I think she told you that, didn’t she?’
‘Well, when will she?’
‘I don’t know.’
Pause. ‘Is it over?’
‘You’re going to have to talk to her about that.’
‘I really don’t know what I’ve done that can be so bad that it’s over.’
‘Well, maybe that’s your problem, right there.’
‘So, you’re saying that it is over? Sally says it’s over?’
‘I’m saying that if you want to talk to her about it, you’ll have to wait until she’s ready. She’s decided to take a couple of days off work, so there’s no point trying to see her at Chancery Court. I suggest you stop drinking and go to bed. Goodnight, Charles.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Monday, 13 July
Charles finally makes it into Chambers sometime after lunch. He feels sick, and his head is full of little men with tiny jackhammers. Every time he moves, they start up again. After trying unsuccessfully for an hour to read a new set of Instructions, he reaches for the bottle of whisky in his bottom drawer. At first he tells himself he’s only going to have one, just the hair of the dog to quieten the little men, but they just laugh at the first drink, and the second.
Charles pours two inches of Scotch into his coffee mug, knocks back the best part of it, puts his feet up on the desk and closes his eyes.
There’s a knock on the door. Charles is startled into wakefulness, his neck painfully stiff. Peter Bateman’s head appears.
‘Got a moment, Charles?’
‘A bit tied up to be honest ―’ starts Charles, but Bateman ignores him and enters anyway, closing the door deliberately behind him.
‘You need to hear this,’ he says firmly, pulling up a chair to the other side of Charles’s desk. He notes the empty bottle of whisky, on its side on the desk, and then the coffee mug with the remnants of Charles’s last drink.
‘You OK, Charles?’ asks Bateman, concerned.
Peter Bateman was Charles’s pupil at Chancery Court, and stuck by him despite all, even while his pupil master was on the run from the police. He never believed the accusations against Charles and was in fact partly responsible for uncovering the truth. When Charles was forced to move chambers, Bateman decided to go with him and is now a successful criminal barrister in his own right. The two men could not have had more different upbringings. Bateman’s was typical for the Bar: Eton, Oxford, a flat in Mayfair and pots of family money, a family, incidentally, that for two hundred years had been a stalwart pillar of the British Establishment, with forebears including Cabinet ministers and High Court judges. Charles’s forebears include a motley selection of East End Jewish tailors, furriers and grain dealers, several of whom were of doubtful integrity. Yet the two men became genuine friends during and following Bateman’s pupillage.
‘I’m fine,’ replies Charles, sitting up straight and focusing. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Chatham House Rule?’ asks Bateman, leaning forward and keeping his voice low.
‘If necessary.’
‘Believe me, Charles, it’s necessary.’ Bateman glances at his watch. ‘I’ve got tickets for Covent Garden, so it’ll have to be bullet points only. OK; executive summary: you’re in trouble. I was at Brenda’s desk and happened to see her typing the Notice of next week’s Chambers meeting. You’re to be the subject of a vote to compel Huw to give you notice.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Bringing Chambers into disrepute.’
‘Dennison’s work, no doubt,’ scoffs Charles.
‘You knew?’
‘I was aware he was trying to drum up support. It’s professional jealousy on top of class prejudice,’ says Charles. ‘And of course the usual anti-Semitism. He’ll never get anywhere with it.’
Peter shakes his head. ‘You’re wrong. This time he’s getting a lot of traction. All this press coverage you’re getting, and all for the wrong reasons. And then the way you looked after your fight? The impression throughout the Temple is that you’re somehow mixed up with the Krays and, even if you’re not, you’re a thug.’
Charles waves his hand. ‘I’m aware of that, but it’ll blow over. I won’t be fighting again, and a photo is hardly grounds for ―’
‘You’re not listening, Charles. There’s a management committee meeting going on right now in the boardroom about how to deal with you. It’s a case of impressions. It might all be explicable, innocent even, but the Temple’s awash with gossip about you again. It’s as bad as it was after Henrietta’s death, perhaps even worse. And that’s what worries people. Chambers doesn’t want that sort of publicity. But what persuaded most members that enough’s enough were the police enquiries.’
Charles looks baffled. ‘What police enquiries?’
‘You didn’t know? The police turned up a few days ago, asking questions about you. Look —’ suddenly Bateman reddens and breaks eye contact — ‘you owe me no explanations, none at all. But … well … it was something to do with a relationship with a rent boy. Colin let it out.’
‘Oh, shit,’ says Charles softly, sitting back heavily in his leather seat.
‘Exactly.’
‘It’s not what it seems ―’
Bateman holds up both hands to stop Charles going any further. ‘I’m sure it isn’t. But that’s not the point. I’ve been listening to the chatter at teatime. If there was a no-confidence vote today, I think you’d lose.’ He looks again at his watch and stands. ‘Got to go. But … Charles … if I were you, I’d be making discreet enquiries elsewhere. You might just be able to head off a vote if you take the initiative and resign.’
‘It’s really that bad?’ asks Charles, also standing.
‘That bad. A lot of the juniors like you, but even they think you’re a bad advert for Chambers. Huw’s a fair man, but he’s faced with a sizable group in Chambers who want you gone; he’s not going to risk disharmony by taking a stand to protect you.’ Bateman moves back to door, taking the chair and replacing it in its usual position. His hand rests on the brass doorknob. ‘I can’t see any other way out of it, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry.’
Charles sinks to his seat as the door closes. I’ve not done anything wrong, he tells himself; I’m trying to protect a vulnerable youngster and obtain representation for him. Surely in any sane world, that’s the right thing to do? But he knows that it’s all about appearances. The appearance of probity is essential at the Bar; once in doubt, a barrister’s career is finished. And Charles cannot explain why the police were present asking questions about him, because that would unravel everything: Chicken, rent boys, two deaths on the river and several episodes of criminality, however excusable, by Charles himself. No one else would care about the greater cause, the avoidance of injustice or the protection of people at the bottom of the pile.
Ever since Henrietta’s murder Charles has had a sense of approaching doom. He’s managed to escape disaster on several occasions but each brush with death and dishonour has left him feeling more vulnerable. He knows that the ice on which he’s been skating has become extremely thin; a plunge into freezing water from which there’d be no return feels increasingly imminent.
He allows his mind to wander into the most extreme conclusions: what if it does all come out? Disbarment certainly; too many rules broken, too many laws bent. Prison, too, probably. Oh yes; were Charles prosecuting himself he’d bet on five years, maybe more. So, the end of his career. Disgrace.
That thought brings to mind Sally’s father. Charles wonders how Harold Robeson is faring in prison and what advice that wise old rogue might have for a compromised barrister-at-law and almost-son-in-law. He too broke the rules and ended up forfeiting his hard-won reputation. In his case, personal greed came into it, and Charles acquits himself of that at least, but Robeson seems to be surviving prison surprisingly well. And by facing the inevitable he’s freed himself of the Krays’ hold over him, just as Charles might do. The thought of that upside makes Charles smile grimly.
‘He’s gone,’ says Murray Dennison QC, and he stalks on his long legs back across the Turkish rug to resume his seat at a round table. ‘He looks drunk.’
Dennison rejoins three other barristers, the diminutive Welshman Herbert Godfrey QC, deputy head of Chambers, who chairs this meeting; Marcus Bradley, representing the juniors in Chambers; and Robert Hamilton QC, head of the influential Membership Committee, which has responsibility for vetting all applicants to Chambers and whose recommendations concerning disciplinary action are invariably followed by the head of chambers, Huw Evans QC, who is answerable to the Inn.
‘Go on, Marcus; you were saying?’ invites Godfrey.
‘I was saying: it’s not a matter of evidence of law-breaking, or even breaking professional rules. There’s nothing concrete, and we can’t get anything concrete. The idea of interviewing the junior clerks is ludicrous.’ He turns to Dennison as he says this, and the older man’s grey face flushes pink. ‘They’re Cockneys like Holborne himself. They’ll close ranks and lie to protect him, and they’re certain to talk to their colleagues in other chambers about it, so we’ll be even more of a laughing stock. No. It’s the impression that matters. Not two years ago he was on the run for a capital crime; he’s an associate of thugs and gangsters; he has a habit of getting his face in the less savoury newspapers. It’s undeniable that he creates bad publicity for Chambers. He’s a licensee of the tenant — i.e. Huw — and his licence is determinable on any reasonable grounds. Bringing Chambers into disrepute certainly falls into that category.’
‘And to what extent is that analysis shared by the juniors?’ asks Godfrey.
‘I’ve canvassed most of them. They largely agree on the bad publicity. There’s less unanimity on what to do about it. Some would give him a written warning. A handful think he’s the victim of his background, and has had a rough deal because of it. One or two think we should be encouraging more applicants from under-privileged backgrounds, state schools and so on, and not booting out our only one.’
‘God help us,’ breathes Dennison. ‘Please; no more Hebraic market traders.’
The others round the table turn to Dennison.
‘I assume you don’t want me to minute that contribution?’ offers Godfrey. He returns to Marcus Bradley. ‘You’re not exactly popular yourself, Marcus. Are you sure you’re getting reliable soundings?’
Bradley’s face twists into its habitual supercilious sneer. ‘Reliable or not, and —’ he turns to Dennison with a bland smile — ‘regardless of their attitude towards the Semitic races, that’s how they’ll vote if you give them the chance.’
Godfrey turns to the one Queen’s Counsel who has not yet spoken. ‘Anything to add, Robert?’
Robert Hamilton QC made silk late in his career, on the eve of the war. Before he could build a leader’s practice he was invited by Sir David Petrie to rejoin the security services, his former employers, to help turn some of the identified German agents working for the SS in England. Exactly what skills he brought to bear in this task is unknown to his current professional colleagues. Coincidentally, he and Max Wiseberg often worked together and knew one another well. When he resumed practice in 1949, Hamilton was in his late sixties, but he knew everyone worth knowing in the British Establishment and was considered such an asset that he was offered a tenancy in a dozen of the foremost sets in the country. Why he joined a respectable but relatively unknown set of criminal practitioners remains something of a mystery.
Hamilton places his fountain pen precisely in the fold of his notebook, and steeples his fingers. ‘Have any of you looked at the figures for this quarter?’ he asks in his quiet voice. The other barristers round the table shake their heads. ‘Well, I have. Since Holborne won that Thames Murder case, there have been sixteen new murder briefs delivered to Chambers, eleven for the Crown and five for the defence. Of the sixteen, eight are from sources with no prior connection with Chambers.’
‘Well, I’ve not seen any of them,’ says Dennison vehemently.
Hamilton turns his head slowly towards his colleague. ‘No, Dennison, we all know they’re not going to you, which is perhaps why you’re here.’ Dennison starts to splutter a protest, but Hamilton continues. ‘That’s a fifty per cent increase, slightly more actually, on the same quarter last year. And it’s not just capital crimes. Barbara reports that he’s been instructed in twenty serious cases by new firms of solicitors. And here’s the point: he’s so damned busy he’s had to return over half of them. And while you mayn’t have been lucky, Dennison, half a dozen of the juniors have been beneficiaries. I think that includes you, Marcus, doesn’t it?’ Bradley nods in confirmation. ‘And you got one of the murders, didn’t you, Herbert?’
‘It was a plea in the end, for the Crown but, yes, that’s right.’
‘So, what we may consider to be bad publicity on our side of the profession doesn’t seem to be affecting the other side; the solicitors love him.’
‘As do their criminal clients,’ adds Herbert.
‘Precisely. And, after all, most of us are trying to make a living, aren’t we?’
‘Your point?’ asks Bradley.
‘Simple: if we kick him out we risk losing all that work. It’ll follow Holborne wherever he goes.’ He turns back to Dennison. ‘And for your information, Dennison, my grandmother was Jewish. I was very fond of her.’
Silence descends on the small group.
After a while Godfrey rises. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I think I’m going to leave the motion on the agenda for the present. I’ll talk it through with Huw before making a final recommendation.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wednesday, 15 July
Charles returns from court late and slips past the clerks’ room to his desk on the first floor. He spends an hour working on a difficult Advice on Evidence, occasionally looking at this watch, with Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue playing quietly on his record player, a fresh bottle of Scotch — unopened — and a glass at his elbow. He only rarely plays music while in Chambers, but it’s late, there’s no one else still working and Davis’s mournful trumpet suits his melancholic mood. Fi
nishing the Advice, he takes his notes down to the clerks’ room and leaves them on the desk for Brenda with short instructions and thanks. He locks both inner and outer doors and descends to street level.
Charles emerges onto the pavement and pauses, listening to the soft purr of the traffic to his north, the wind blowing in the plane trees lining King’s Bench Walk and the siren call of the ships’ horns on the Thames a hundred yards to his south. It’s now twilight, the Temple’s finest hour and the one Charles loves the most. The last rays of the sun paint the tops of the waves in gold leaf and just catch the uppermost leaves of the plane trees, throwing a band of light green across the purple; the courtyards have hushed as they settle for the night, guarding their legal secrets in the shadows. The chatter of clerks, the incessantly ringing telephones, the urgent clip-clop of heels on cobbles and the rushing of black-gowned barristers hither and thither with arm-loads of books, all have melted away. The silent courtyards now look and sound no different than they would have four centuries earlier. It would hardly have surprised Charles to round the corner and bump into Sir Walter Raleigh hurrying with that evening’s carousers to Middle Temple Hall before the doors close.
Charles takes a deep breath and starts the short walk to Chancery Court, Sally’s chambers. He knows she often works late when the offices are otherwise deserted, and he hopes to catch her there when there are no witnesses to give her an excuse not to talk. Since he last spoke to her on Sunday he has been to Chancery Court twice, once earlier that afternoon, and telephoned on two further occasions. Sally was certainly there, but each time he tried to speak to her he was informed she was too busy; she’d call him back when possible. Charles can’t bring himself to continue chasing Sally during office hours. It’s becoming humiliating, and he imagines the other clerks raising eyebrows and looking at one another meaningfully each time he phones.
He climbs the steps to Chancery Court but knows instantly from the fact that the outer doors are locked that the place is deserted. He’s misjudged it; left it too late. He turns on his heel and heads for Temple station, through the darkening courtyards, across Middle Temple Lane and past the steps to Middle Temple Hall. As he approaches the fountain in Fountain Court he sees the outlines of two people sitting on a bench in the shadows, heads together, talking quietly. They are facing away from him towards Devereux Court but Charles recognises Sally instantly. His footsteps falter and he’s about to call her name when he sees the man sitting next to her lift his arm and stroke the back of her head. It is a gentle, kind gesture. Charles suddenly finds his heart pounding in his chest. It could have been sympathy or affection; it might not have been intimate or sexual but…
Corrupted: Murder and cover-up at the heart of government (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 20
