‘Don’t hurt me, Charles,’ she breathes. ‘I’ve allowed myself to feel more vulnerable with you than I have with any other man.’
‘I’m not the one putting an ocean between us in a few days’ time,’ he reminds her gently, speaking into her hair. ‘Isn’t this the short run you wanted?’
She looks up at him again. ‘How could I have predicted such rave notices?’
An hour and several dances later they stand on the pavement of Mile End Road. She’s put on a short jacket that matches her dress, but she nonetheless shivers in the sharp morning air and Charles slips off his dinner jacket and drapes it round her shoulders.
‘Thank you, kind sir. You may escort me to my chariot.’ There is a very slight slur in her diction.
Charles takes her hand, kisses the back of it gently, uses it to steer her round, and sets them on a westward course. She leans into him, intoxicated with champagne and excitement.
‘What a wonderful evening,’ she sighs, pausing to hang onto Charles’s shoulder while she kicks off one heel and then the other. She hands him the shoes.
‘Not sure that’s a great idea,’ he cautions. ‘The sidewalks here can be pretty disgusting.’
‘You try dancing in those things. My feet are sore.’
They set off again, Patrizia barefoot, Charles holding the straps by the crook of his forefinger over his shoulder.
‘Sidewalks?’ she asks. ‘Pavements, surely?’
‘One has to make allowances for foreigners.’
‘How considerate. Where are we going?’
‘Well … we could call it a night?’ suggests Charles, without enthusiasm.
‘Or?’
‘You hungry?
‘Famished,’ she replies, enthusiastically.
‘Then you shall be introduced to another London institution. Taxi!’
A few minutes later the cabbie stops at the northern end of Brick Lane and they descend. Charles pays the man while Patrizia looks in amazement at a queue formed on the pavement outside a shop with brightly lit windows running with condensation.
‘Where are we?’
‘In what, for generations, has been the heart of the Jewish East End: Brick Lane,’ he says, guiding her to the back of the queue. ‘And this is the Bagel Bakery. It’s been here forever. Open twenty-four hours a day for the best fresh bread London has to offer.’
Patrizia nods at the people in the queue ahead of them and opens her hands wide in query. Charles looks: two police officers in uniform, laughing, just coming off duty; a group of students wearing university scarves, some of whom seem half asleep; another cabbie, his licence hanging from his neck; what looks like a homeless man, with all his worldly belongings in two shopping bags; and two couples who appear to have come from the opera or the theatre: the women in furs and long evening dresses, hair piled high, and the men in dinner suits like Charles, unloosed ties dangling.
‘Like I said, a London institution,’ explains Charles, ‘and at these prices, very democratic. Everyone loves a salt beef bagel with everything.’
Minutes later they sit on a wall at the junction of Brick Lane and Bethnal Green Road, mouths full, trying to prevent pieces of salt beef, gherkin and mustard dropping onto their clothes. It is almost 6 a.m., and the buildings opposite are silhouetted against a white-blue sky.
After licking all his fingers carefully, Charles balls his brown paper bag and throws it neatly into a bin.
‘Now what?’ he asks. ‘Fancy a walk along the river? Or we could drive out to the country in my little heap of a sports car.’
‘I’m sorry, Charles, but I’m done in. I need to get back to the hotel. I don’t know how you can look so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed after being been awake for forty-eight hours, but I need my bed.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he replies. ‘Is that taxi driver still in the bakery?’
‘I think so,’ she replies. ‘No!’ she points. ‘He’s coming out now.’
‘Cabbie!’ calls Charles.
Patrizia stands. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Well…’ he says, wondering if he’ll have the energy for another bout of sexual sparring and realising just how tired he is too.
Patrizia follows his train of thought. She grins. ‘Sorry, nice idea, but I should have been clearer. I need my bed, but just to sleep. But you’ve seen it; it’s huge, and the room’s a lot quieter than your little apartment. Why don’t we both get a bit of shut-eye?’
‘Yes. Yes, please. If we can pop by the flat and pick up some things; toothbrush and so on. It’s en route.’
‘Sure. And can we spend tomorrow —’
‘Today.’
‘Today together? The studio got some tickets for the theatre tonight, but Angelo’s busy.’
‘Let’s see when we wake up.’
It is a glorious sunny Sunday morning in July and the railed garden in the centre of Eaton Square is an oasis of tranquillity. No vehicle engines can be heard, the leaves of the trees flutter in the light breeze, casting shifting pools of dark green, and the emerald lawns sparkle with dew. A few residents stroll the gravelled paths, their dogs exploring scents and relieving themselves where fancy takes them. The private garden has an unmistakably relaxed, Sunday morning feel; a promise of a leisurely breakfast, a late lunch at some country inn, perhaps a spot of tennis and, later, a rubber of bridge lubricated with gin and tonic.
Inside the kitchen of No. 1 Eaton Square sits Baron Boothby of Buchan and Rattray Head, former private secretary to Winston Churchill, former Rector of the University of St Andrews and Chairman of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra — known to his friends as Bobby Boothby and to the Kray twins as the Queen Mother.
Bobby Boothby is not tranquil.
He is still in his pyjamas and silk dressing gown.
He is extremely drunk and weeping.
He is so distressed that he’s barely able to speak into the black Bakelite telephone handset gripped in his sweaty hand.
The reason for both the distress and the half-empty decanter by his side lies on the table behind him: that morning’s edition of the Sunday Mirror.
The newspaper’s front page is emblazoned with a six-column headline saying THE PICTURE WE MUST NOT PRINT. Underneath the headline the newspaper claims to have in its possession a photograph supporting its previous Sunday exclusive showing a well-known member of the House of Lords seated on a sofa ‘with a gangster who leads the biggest protection racket London has ever known’. It is claimed that the photograph cannot be published because to do so would infringe copyright; the picture, they say, is the subject of legal proceedings.
‘I tell you, Tom, they’ve just gone!’ Boothby shouts down the receiver.
‘Who’s just gone, Bob? You’re not making any sense,’ replies Tom Driberg, columnist, Labour MP for Barking and former Labour Party chairman who, despite having been woken by the phone, is trying to be patient with his friend from across the benches.
‘I’ve told you: the Home Fucking Secretary and the Chief Fucking Whip, that’s who! They’ve been here for nearly an hour, cross-examining me on the orders of the PM. I denied everything, but it’s no good. They didn’t believe me. My career’s over. That fucking photograph … I’m finished, Tom, ruined.’
‘Calm down, Bob, for God’s sake. The paper doesn’t name you, does it?’
‘No, but who else could it be? Do you know of any other peers who’ve had their photo taken with a gangster? All they have to do is publish the photo for God’s sake!’
The line falls silent while Driberg calculates. ‘Not while the lawyers are haggling over it.’
‘The continental papers won’t give a fig for lawyers, or the English courts. It’s only a matter of time. I’m finished,’ he slurs, talking as much to himself as to Driberg. ‘What’s the point anymore? I can’t see it’s worth going on.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that, Bob? Stop being an idiot and listen to me.’
‘Maybe it would be best…’ The phone slips o
ut of Boothby’s hand and strikes the carpet, but he seems unaware of it. ‘Honestly, Tom, I just can’t face the scandal…’
Driberg’s voice comes from the region of Boothby’s toes, frightened and tinny. ‘Bob! Bob! Don’t do anything stupid! Can you hear me? Bob?’
At that moment the front doorbell rings. Boothby looks round, puzzled, unsure what’s causing the noise. He looks down stupidly at the telephone, the handset swinging by its black cable just above the floor. The doorbell rings again and, after a pause, a third time, this time a prolonged ring that lasts three, four, five seconds. Finally, Boothby realises what the sound is. He turns unsteadily on his heel and heads towards the lounge door, leaving the handset from which still emanates Driberg’s voice. He negotiates the doorway into the hall, his shoulders colliding with the left doorpost and then the right, a silver-grey ball in a pinball machine. He finally makes it to the front door and opens it inwards.
On the doorstep is a short swarthy man in a trilby hat and an unsuitably warm overcoat.
‘Yes, what is it?’ demands Boothby irritably.
‘Lord Boothby. You don’t recognise me?’ says the man in an Eastern European accent.
‘No, why should I? Look, it’s really not convenient—’
‘Kissin.’
‘What on earth do you mean by that?’ demands Boothby angrily.
‘Harold Kissin. We have met before.’
Boothby peers at the man, faint recognition dawning and British good manners resurfacing despite all. ‘Yes … sorry, Mr Kissin, but I really can’t spare any time now. You have to go.’
Boothby starts to shut the door but the other man places the flat of a hairy hand on it and prevents it from moving further.
‘I know what is happening, my dear fellow,’ he assures. ‘I have come to help.’
‘You? How can you help? Just go away.’
‘I have a suggestion from the Little Man.’
Boothby looks blankly at him, his head shaking. ‘The little man? What on earth do you mean?’ In his befuddled state, Boothby can make no sense of the conversation and just wants it to end.
‘The Little Man, yes. Our mutual friend, Harold Wilson.’
‘Wilson?’
‘The leader of the Labour Party?’ explains the foreigner patiently.
‘I know who Harold Wilson is! D’you think I’m an imbecile? What’s he got to do with it?’ shouts Boothby.
‘He has a solution. Now may I come in?’
A long shiny American car pulls up outside No. 1 Eaton Square.
It is now a warm and cloudless evening but the Square has been in shadows for some time, the low sun blocked by the tall buildings. The rear doors of the car open and one Kray twin emerges from each. Ronnie ducks his head back into the car to tell the driver to wait, and both men ascend the steps to the front door. They are in evening dress; black suits with silk collars and a silk band running down the outside of each trouser leg, white shirts and bow ties. They are spending the evening in the company of one of their heroes, the Hollywood legend, George Raft, who now fronts the Colony Sporting Club in Berkeley Square for the Mafia.
As Reggie is about to press the doorbell the door opens and a very large man with a sweating forehead and a halo of frizzy hair steps outside. He nods to the Krays and steps nimbly down to the pavement in the manner often possessed by very large men. Reggie turns to his brother, a frown on his face.
‘The Blessed Arnold.’
Reggie nods quickly, recognising the face. Leslie Holt holds the door open patiently, waiting for the twins to enter.
‘All right, Les?’ asks Ronnie as he steps over the threshold.
‘Better than he was. I swear, Ron, I’ve never seen him like it before. I really thought he was unhinged.’
‘Well, we can’t ’ave that, can we? Where is ’e?’
Holt points towards the back of the house and the Twins walk down the hallway to the kitchen door. Reggie pushes open the door to find Boothby sitting at a long kitchen table strewn with balled sheets of papers, evidently drafts of a document. Boothby holds the final version, a sheet of expensive notepaper covered in blue ink, in his hand.
‘Hello, boys,’ he says, looking up. His voice is steady and although the deep panda rings under his eyes look even darker than normal and the whites of his eyes are bloodshot, he appears sober. ‘This is what they’ve come up with.’
‘They?’ asks Reggie.
‘Didn’t you see Goodman leaving? He’s been here most of the day with Gerald Gardiner QC. This is what Goodman thinks I should write. In fact he dictated most of it.’
Reggie reaches for the notepaper but Ronnie puts his hand on his brother’s arm. ‘No dabs,’ he says.
‘Put it down on the table, Bob, so we can both read it?’ asks Reggie.
Boothby does as he is told and the twins lean on the table. It makes a startling tableau to Leslie Holt who is watching: a peer of the realm bookended by gangster twins, all with heads bowed, reading.
The letter is addressed to The Times. It denies all the charges made by the Mirror, states firmly that Boothby is not a homosexual, and that he met the man ‘who is alleged to be king of the underworld only three times on business matters and then by appointment in my flat, at his request and in the company of other people.’ The letter concludes by asserting that ‘in short, the whole affair is a tissue of atrocious lies’ and challenges the Mirror to print any evidence ‘and take the consequences’.
‘It’s being hand-delivered to The Times and the Mirror,’ says Boothby.
‘Will it work?’ asks Ronnie.
Boothby shrugs. ‘We’ll soon find out. The lawyers seem to think so.’
‘The Labour Party lawyers,’ points out Ronnie. ‘You’re no friend of theirs.’
‘Normally, no,’ sighs Boothby. ‘But dear old Tom Driberg is a Labour MP, and he was up to no good with that angelic little boy at Cedra Court. So Harold Wilson’s even more desperate to shut down the story than my lot. The last thing he needs now is for one of his MPs to be involved in a Profumo-type scandal just before an election. It’ll damage his chances.’
Reggie chuckles. ‘Got to be a first, eh, Bob? Both sides of the Establishment joining forces to keep a coupla bum boys safe?’
‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that.’
‘I bet you wouldn’t.’
‘But there remains a problem,’ says Boothby.
‘Which is?’ asks Reggie.
‘Wasn’t your grubby photographer friend at the party as well? He was flashing his little camera like there was no tomorrow. We can explain away the one the papers have — you, me and Leslie here — but I’m prepared to bet there are others, ones much less easy to explain. Of proceedings in that bedroom, for example. And I’m sure that Mirror hack, Farrow, has them too. I know him, and he won’t give up. If Reg Payne hasn’t the balls to publish, he’ll take the photos elsewhere.’
There’s an uncomfortable silence as the twins look at each other and Boothby sees again that uncanny silent communication of which they seem capable.
‘Well,’ concludes Reg, looking down on Boothby’s grey head, ‘the answer’s in the room with us.’ He and Ronnie turn simultaneously to look at Leslie Holt who has been standing silently listening to the conversation, his back to the closed kitchen door.
‘If we get the hack’s address —’ says Ronnie.
‘Do you think you might get in and have a shufti?’ completes Reggie.
‘No problem at all,’ replies Holt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Wednesday, 22 July
A bell rings loudly in Percy Farrow’s first floor mansion flat in Dollis Hill. Always a heavy sleeper — his late wife accused him of being able to sleep through a bombing raid, an accurate statement as Farrow proved on several occasions during the war — he persuaded one of his studio friends at the BBC to rig up the loudest bell he could find, one filched from a bombed-out fire station, and screw it to Farrow’s bedroom wall just a
bove the bedhead from whence it connects to the telephone. Even thus equipped, it takes half a minute of ringing before the noise percolates into Farrow’s dreams.
Eventually he groans, turns over and reaches blindly in the dark for the handset.
‘Yeah?’ he manages.
‘Farrow?’
The voice is cultured. It is also angry. Farrow recognises it immediately: Hugh Cudlipp, Editorial Director of the Mirror Group, finally back from France. Farrow is now completely awake.
‘Yes, Hugh.’
Farrow looks at his alarm clock: just gone half past three. It is still completely dark outside.
‘Get that fat carcass in here, pronto. I’ll be waiting.’
The line goes dead.
‘Have a good holiday, Hugh?’ says Farrow to himself as he replaces the receiver.
He slips out of bed, pulls on his tent of a dressing gown and, unable for the moment to locate his slippers, pads barefoot down the corridor to Dorothy’s room. He listens at the door: silence. He hesitates, unwilling to wake her if the bell has not, but also aware that if she gets up to find him absent, she’ll worry.
His sister has lived with him since his wife of only six months, Anabelle, died of influenza in 1951. She came for a few weeks and stayed thirteen years and, having by now rubbed the sharp corners off each other, they both find the arrangement comfortable. Dorothy, as tall and angular as Farrow is round and fat, is not the marrying kind — eagle-eyed ex-copper Farrow has more than once wondered if she might be keener on girls than on men anyway — and Farrow likes having company in the evenings and someone to keep the flat running smoothly. Dorothy, unemployed except as her brother’s housekeeper, has her bridge club, her amateur dramatics and the church. Both siblings are contented.
Farrow returns to his room, dresses in the clothes he took off less than four hours earlier, leaves a scribbled note for Dorothy on the kitchen table and departs, closing the door gently behind him.
The Tube isn’t running at this time of the night and although there may in theory be a night bus service, the roads are utterly silent and deserted and Farrow has no idea whether the bus is running or, if so, how frequently. He sets off along the empty pavements towards the black cab hut in Willesden Lane in the hope that someone is working late or, perhaps, early. When the editorial director of the Mirror Group wakes one to require one’s fat carcass in the office immediately, it’s a reasonable assumption that he won’t quibble over the cab fare.
Corrupted: Murder and cover-up at the heart of government (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 23
