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

by Simon Michael

  She smiles. ‘Juicy, eh? Well, you got that right. Let’s not waste it.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Saturday, 18 July

  Charles knocks on the door and waits. He hears muffled voices suddenly silenced and footsteps approaching. The door is opened by a short tubby man in a check shirt and tweed trousers. He has thinning hair atop a large head: Herbert Godfrey QC, the deputy head of Chambers.

  ‘Ah, come in, come in, dear chap,’ Godfrey says in his singsong Welsh accent. ‘Glad you got my note. Good of you to make the time at such short notice.’

  ‘Not at all, Herbert. I was coming in to do some papers anyway.’

  ‘Oh, I think we can be informal at the weekend, can’t we? Call me Bert.’

  This is one of Godfrey’s affectations. He likes to remind people that he comes from a family of miners, and it’s true in a sense: his father was the owner of a mine and an associated estate of two hundred homes — pretty much the entire village — until nationalisation in 1947. Since then Godfrey senior has simply been very rich. He spends his time as Master of the Hunt and a devoted golfer, and the family trust paid for his three sons and now four grandchildren to be educated privately. Two years ago, Bert’s miner father was made a life peer.

  ‘Right,’ says Godfrey, closing the door behind him carefully and returning to the centre of the room where Charles stands facing two other men. ‘Let me introduce you to Mr Arnold Goodman.’

  The man on the left rises from the table where he has been sitting and offers his hand to Charles.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Charles, shaking the hand.

  He knows Goodman by reputation. A brilliant lawyer with an astonishing memory for facts and an impressively sharp mind, he is a close associate of the Labour Party in general and its leader, Harold Wilson, in particular. There is no echelon of the government or the Establishment where he is unwelcome, and his brain and his connections have combined to build him a reputation as a clever and subtle troubleshooter. His successes in that role earned him the nickname “The Blessed Arnold”. Like Charles, he grew up in a modest London Jewish home. He is ten years older and several inches taller than Charles, a huge man in intellect and girth, with a rather sweaty appearance to an enormous face haloed by black frizzy hair. Once seen, never forgotten. But what is he doing here?

  ‘And you,’ replies Goodman.

  Charles turns to the third man in the room, a thin stick insect of a man with a domed head, and, alone of the four men, wearing formal attire, a grey pinstriped suit and dark tie. The man rises and offers a hand for Charles to shake. No introduction is forthcoming.

  ‘Charles Holborne,’ offers Charles by way of prompt.

  ‘This gentleman will remain nameless,’ says Godfrey. ‘He’s just an observer.’

  Stick Insect smiles thinly and resumes his seat.

  ‘Pull up a seat, my dear fellow. Coffee? It was made a while ago but it should still be warm.’

  ‘No thanks, Bert.’ Charles draws up a chair and joins the others at the table. ‘What’s this all about?’

  Godfrey and Goodman share a glance, and The Blessed Arnold takes control of the meeting.

  ‘I’ve been hearing a great deal about you, Charles. You don’t mind my calling you “Charles” do you?’ Charles shrugs, indifferent. ‘Good. I hope you’ll forgive my saying that I admire you. You’ve pulled yourself up by your bootstraps from a difficult start in life, and now you’re flying, and that’s despite a couple of setbacks which would have knocked a lesser man down for good. I admire that. I recognise that, because your story’s not that different to mine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Charles noncommittally, waiting for the end of the soft soap and the real purpose of the meeting.

  ‘Seems to me, to us,’ and Goodman waves his hand airily, rendering it unclear if he means the occupants of the room or a more wider fan club, ‘that you’d be a shoo-in for silk next year.’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet whether to apply to be QC.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ exclaims Godfrey. ‘You’ll never have a better chance, boyo! A string of successful murder cases, regularly instructed by the AG? You’d be mad not to apply.’

  Charles turns to Goodman. ‘You used the conditional tense. I would be a shoo-in.’ Charles speaks with a smile but there’s steel in his voice. He can guess what’s coming, and it makes him angry. ‘What’s the condition? And why is my taking silk of any interest to you? I can understand Chambers’ interest, but what are you doing here? And this —’ Charles points to the silent grey man — ‘gentleman?’

  ‘Now, now, Charles; don’t bridle so,’ replies Goodman. ‘There’s nothing dishonourable going on here.’

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘I think the condition is just that you don’t muck it up. It’s all up to you.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  The Blessed Arnold looks quickly across at Herbert Godfrey. Godfrey speaks. ‘We understand you’re instructed on behalf of a boy charged with the murder of a young homosexual with, let us say, very unsavoury associates.’

  Charles looks at each of the three men in turn. Stick Insect is watching him intently.

  ‘I am not able to confirm or deny that,’ answers Charles.

  ‘Well, let’s assume for the moment that you were going to represent such a person,’ continues The Blessed Arnold smoothly. ‘You’ve made the transition from low-paid and low-grade defence work. You’re now receiving good quality work from the Crown. And you’re winning the cases. Securing references from the relevant judges when you apply for silk will be easy.’

  Charles thinks he detects the slightest eye movement from Godfrey towards Stick Insect. So: he’s presumably a civil servant from the Lord Chancellor’s Department, the department which makes the recommendations for elevation to Queen’s Counsel to the Lord Chancellor and the Queen.

  ‘Don’t you see, Charles,’ continues Godfrey, ‘you’re a made man? All those years of hard work have paid off.’

  ‘Most people would say,’ says The Blessed Arnold smoothly, ‘that, at this stage, it would be a retrograde step in your career aspirations to defend a homosexual murderer linked with the Krays. They’ve dogged you for years, haven’t they? This case’ll make all the newspapers, and the rumour mill will start up all over again.’

  ‘And cause yet more damaging publicity for Chambers,’ adds Godfrey, ‘Chambers, let’s not forget, Charles, that took you in when no one else’d look at you.’

  These are not unreasonable points, Charles concedes privately. He does owe Chambers a debt of gratitude and loyalty and, despite the attitude of some of its members towards him he wouldn’t want to cause his colleagues any harm.

  ‘Don’t you want to put all that behind you?’ asks The Blessed Arnold. ‘Why take this case when you have a perfect opportunity to rise above it?’

  But if only it were that simple, thinks Charles. The Krays have evidence against him which, if revealed, would bring his career to an end. He knows that by representing Teddy he is acting in direct opposition to their interests; he knows that, more than ever, he’s playing with fire by persisting; he knows too that the line of least resistance would be to let someone else take Teddy’s case. That would get the Krays off his back, at least for the present, and might indeed leave him free to apply for silk, with all the financial and reputational rewards that would bring. Charles imagines his father’s face were he to announce that he was being appointed one of Her Majesty’s Queen’s Counsel, Learned in the Law; the little tailor would burst with pride. But what of Teddy?

  ‘It’s called the Cab Rank Rule, as you both well know,’ says Charles, his voice clipped as he suppresses anger. ‘Any barrister instructed in a field in which he professes to practise has no choice but to take the case, whoever the client, whatever he thinks of the crime. I’ve always believed it one of our most important constitutional safeguards.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s a bit disingenuous, isn’t it, Charles?’ smiles The Blessed Arno
ld benevolently. ‘That only applies if the client’s in funds and offers you the appropriate fee. Teddy Smith, or whatever his real name is, has no money, has he? You’re acting pro bono. The Cab Rank Rule doesn’t apply.’

  That was also true. The hundred pounds or so in grubby cash that Charles paid to Max Wiseberg covered but a small fraction of the solicitor’s work on the case; Charles, and now Max too, were indeed both working for Teddy pro bono. How did Arnold Goodman know that?

  ‘I don’t see how you can possibly know the funding arrangements of this young man, whoever is representing him,’ replies Charles.

  The Blessed Arnold waves away the objection. ‘That’s not really important, is it? If I know it, you can assume the rest of the profession will, now or … eventually.’ Charles detects the threat, like an unexploded bomb staring up at him from a crater. ‘The point is: representing this lad sends the wrong message.’

  ‘What message is that?’ spits Charles.

  The big sweaty man leans forward and drops his voice. When he speaks his words are loaded with import.

  ‘What do you want, Charles? What do you really want? You’ve battled all your life, against your family’s poverty, your background, your religion, the prejudice. I know something of that, as you might imagine. You’ve fought to rise above it; to become someone of consequence … someone of … importance. And you’ve had more than your share of knockbacks: the trouble over Henrietta’s death, the persisting perception you’re in the Krays’ pockets, that you’re bent. Yet here you are — still standing, and thriving! And that door you’ve been trying to batter down all your life … well … it stands open before you. Use your head: walk through to the Promised Land.’

  He leans back and raises his large hands as if the answer were obvious.

  ‘Once counsel has accepted instructions from a client he can’t just drop a case,’ protests Charles. ‘Who’d represent this vulnerable lad?’

  ‘Oh, that’s not a problem, Charles,’ replies Herbert Godfrey airily. ‘I’m sure we’d find someone. You’d have to return the case if you were double-booked. Such diary conflicts happen all the time. Perhaps that’s what’s going to happen here.’

  ‘And you can guarantee that someone else would be prepared to take this case pro bono? And I don’t mean a pupil; someone with the appropriate level of experience and ability?’

  Godfrey hesitates. ‘Well, I can’t possibly say who’d be available without knowing the dates and speaking to Barbara. But I’m sure something could be arranged.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bert, but I don’t share your optimism,’ says Charles, standing. ‘I don’t know any other barristers in these chambers who’d take a murder case pro bono. In fact I can’t remember the last time anyone here did any work without charging a fee for it! I hear everything you’ve said, both of you, and don’t think it hasn’t all occurred to me. But the bottom line is that, guilty or not, that lad needs someone to fight his corner. Someone good at the job who’ll give it his all and not charge for it. And until that person steps forward, I’m in the frame. Good morning to you all.’

  Charles rises, strides to the door and leaves, shutting the door behind him. He emerges into bright afternoon sunshine and shields his eyes while scanning Inner Temple Gardens for Patrizia. He identifies her by her Audrey Hepburn-style wide-brimmed white hat, sitting on a bench at the far side of the gardens, looking out over the River Thames. She is so beautiful, and her surroundings so perfect, the scene might have been a carefully staged shot from one of her films. Charles is about to call out, but the distance is too great to be sure he’ll be heard without disturbing the precious benchers enjoying their weekends in their river-view flats. I’ve pissed off enough of my senior colleagues for one morning, he thinks ruefully, so he strides across the grass.

  As he reaches the bench he realises that the script Patrizia was reading has fallen from her hands and she is in fact asleep, still sitting upright, her head on her chest. He smiles at her beautiful face in repose. They slept little the night before, and both were irritated when Charles was summoned to Chambers on a Saturday morning when they could otherwise have spent the day in bed. He picks up the script from the gravel path and she opens her eyes.

  ‘That was quick. It only feels like ten minutes,’ she says, yawning.

  ‘It was only ten minutes,’ he says, shortly.

  She looks up abruptly, detecting something in his tone. ‘Everything OK, Charles?’

  ‘No. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Sure,’ she says, standing. She takes his arm and they walk towards Middle Temple Lane. ‘Was it the meeting?’

  ‘Partly.’

  She squeezes his arm. ‘Come on: give.’

  He sighs deeply. ‘Remember that article in the paper I told you about? My friend’s scoop?’

  ‘Sure. Corruption in high places.’

  ‘Turns out, it’s not just high places. I’ve just been offered a bribe.’

  ‘I hope it was a fat one. To do what?’

  ‘They want me to give up a case. A young lad charged with murdering a member of the Firm.’

  ‘The Firm? That’s the gangsters, right? The Kray brothers? Sorry, but I’m not really familiar with the dramatis personae over here.’

  ‘Yes. The gangsters.’

  ‘And they’re putting you under pressure to give up the boy’s case?’

  ‘Yes. Which is odd, because that’s exactly what the Krays would want. In their case it’s just revenge; the boy’s supposed to have murdered one of their own. And I can see why Chambers might want me to drop it, for different reasons, but…’ He shakes his head. They walk past the door to Chambers and Charles looks up at the window of the first floor room he has just left. ‘But all this pressure … it’s a hell of a coincidence,’ muses Charles. ‘And I can’t work out Goodman’s role in it.’

  ‘Goodman?’

  ‘A big-shot lawyer; he works for the Labour Party,’ explains Charles briefly. ‘That’s some unholy alliance. And all ranged against one vulnerable, abused kid.’ Charles’s gait slows as he thinks. ‘There’s an angle I’m missing here.’

  ‘Isn’t the kid under police protection?’ asks Patrizia. ‘In the States, he’d be guarded in a secret location till he gave evidence and then kitted out with a brand-new identity.’

  ‘But he’s not a witness, he’s the accused. He’s in a secure place, but the Krays have eyes and ears everywhere, especially in prisons and remand homes. I’m trying to get the case on as soon as possible, but he’s more at risk as every day passes.’ Charles pauses. ‘I didn’t want to do it, but I think we’ll have to get him moved again. It’s too dangerous at Rochester.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sunday, 19 July

  Charles and Patrizia are sweaty, their faces flushed. His black curls are plastered to his forehead and her auburn cascade is wildly out of place. Her silk dress, a tight blue silk thing that makes a noise when she moves, like a snake moving over sand, has damp semi-circles under her arms. Charles is utterly bewitched by her dishevelled state; she has never seemed so sexual, so wild. They fall into one another’s arms as the music stops. Everyone on the dance floor applauds and Charles grabs her hand, pulling her after him as he weaves through the noisy crowd back to their seats.

  The Kentucky Club is housed on the first floor of a property on Mile End Road, the heart of the East End, and Charles’s old stomping ground. As he has told Patrizia, his family have lived within a mile radius of this spot for over 450 years, a statistic she finds astonishing. He was born, schooled and spent his childhood within walking distance of the Club, and during the war he worked less than a mile away.

  This is where Charles feels most at home. It is also where he is, usually, most alert for trouble. He remains a face locally — perversely, more so since he supposedly shed his former life — and he’s still noticed and remarked upon everywhere he goes. That’s why he chose to take Patrizia to The Kentucky, a club owned by Ronnie and Reggie Kray. He let it
be known at the gym that he wanted to have a night out there with a lady friend, and wondered out loud if that would be acceptable. The diplomatic back-channels worked. Within a day a message was relayed back to him; the word would go out: Charles and his friend were not to be troubled. So, whatever the customary state of hostilities between Charles and the twins, for that night there’d be an unofficial truce, and Charles would be able to let his guard down for the evening.

  As it turned out, Reggie’s courtesy extended beyond mere forbearance; when Charles and Patrizia arrived, having dined earlier at her hotel, there awaited them a reserved table and a bottle of iced champagne.

  It is now approaching 4.30 on Sunday morning, and the band and its singer are packing up for the night, giving way to a DJ, who starts his set with Dionne Warwick’s “You’ll Never Get to Heaven”, currently rising in the charts. Charles feels resistance on his outstretched arm and turns to find Patrizia trying to haul him back to the dance floor.

  ‘I need a drink,’ he shouts over the music.

  ‘But I love this one!’ she complains.

  She releases his hand and does a little shimmy, all curves and moving parts, her hair falling over her face. Charles’s resistance crumbles. He turns and follows her back to the dance floor.

  Apparently everyone else in the club also ‘loves this one’ as the floor is instantly packed, and Charles and Patrizia find themselves pressed close to each other, unable to do more than sway together in time to the music. Charles is acutely aware of her breath in his ear as she sings along with Miss Warwick as she warns her lover not to break her heart. Charles leans back to look into Patrizia’s eyes, expecting irony or teasing, but finding frank intensity. Her body still moving with his, she takes his sweating head in her hands, and pulls his face back to hers. She kisses him on the mouth, her eyes open and fixed fiercely on his. When she releases him they remain locked on his face, evaluating him. Apparently satisfied, she moves back in, slipping her hands round his shoulders and snuggling her head back into his neck.