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

by Simon Michael

‘Who else was at this party?’

  De Lucca pauses before answering and Charles can almost see the cogs whirring inside the beautiful profile. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You don’t remember anyone? Not one of the other guests?’

  ‘No. Like I said, I’d had a lot to drink.’

  ‘Do you remember who was in the car with you on the way to the party?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you remember the name of the friend who invited you when you were at the pub beforehand, the Grave Maurice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you remember the names of any of the friends who were at the pub with you?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘You have a very poor memory, don’t you, Mr de Lucca?’

  The man shrugs his charming Mediterranean shrug again. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Especially when you’ve had a lot to drink, as on that night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But the one exception to this alcohol-driven failure of memory is, for some reason, Edward Smith. He’s the only person, other than the deceased, who you claim to remember.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You claim even to have forgotten what your employer looked like.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  De Lucca shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ says Charles sitting down, satisfied.

  ‘Any re-examination, Mr Bateman?’ asks Worlock.

  Bateman shakes his head, looking a bit stunned by the damage Charles has done to his first witness. ‘No, thank you, sir.’

  There is a pause in the proceedings while a draft deposition is produced, and de Lucca is invited to read through it and sign. Then Worlock countersigns it.

  ‘May Mr de Lucca be released?’ asks Bateman.

  Charles jumps up. ‘In view of the questions I shall be putting to the other witnesses, I ask that Mr de Lucca remains in court until the others have given evidence. Bearing in mind their mutual employers and the nature of this party, there’s a risk of collusion.’

  Worlock confers with his colleagues and Charles notes a muted expression of quite firm views, with vigorous nodding and some gesticulation. Worlock turns to de Lucca, who has paused halfway to the door. ‘Please remain seated at the back of the court for the present.’

  A good sign, thinks Charles. Maybe, just maybe, he’s created the first seeds of doubt in the minds of the magistrates. Time to water those seeds.

  ‘Cyril Peppiatt, please,’ says Bateman.

  The usher disappears and returns with the new witness. Peppiatt is a similar type of man to de Lucca, pretty, young and slender, but he looks harder and more street-wise. His blond hair is cropped short and there is a raw pinkness to the sharp cheekbones and pointed chin. He’s a Cockney, and one without much of an education, guesses Charles, as he trips and stumbles repeatedly while trying to read the oath printed on the card. Charles turns in his seat to watch de Lucca as the oath is administered: his eyes are boring into Peppiatt, as if willing him to say, or not say, something.

  Having established Peppiatt’s name and address, Bateman asks: ‘What is your occupation, please?’

  ‘I work in security.’

  ‘Please tell the court where you were on the night of Saturday the eleventh of July this year.’

  ‘I was at a party.’

  ‘Can you tell us the address?’

  ‘Cedra Court, Walthamstow.’

  Charles can see Bateman winding up to ask the same question as he did of de Lucca, namely, the identity of the party’s host, but the hot water into which de Lucca got himself during cross-examination dissuades him. He wisely leaves well alone.

  ‘Please look at this photograph.’ Peppiatt is handed the photograph of Teddy. ‘Do you know this person?’

  ‘I met him for the first time that night. He was at the party.’

  ‘Were you introduced?’

  ‘Probably, but I don’t remember ’is name.’

  ‘Were you still at the party when this young man left?’

  ‘Yes. He left with Mo, that’s Maurice Drake. He was kipping at Maurice’s gaff.’

  ‘So he was staying with Maurice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see Mr Drake alive again, after that night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever seen this before?’ asks Bateman, holding up the bagged St Christopher medallion.

  ‘Yes. It was Mo’s.’

  ‘When did you last see it?’

  ‘Mo was wearing it when he left the party with the boy in that picture.’

  ‘Thank you. Wait there, please.’

  Charles rises. This time Worlock doesn’t ask him if he has any questions.

  ‘Did you know most, some or none of the people at this party?’ starts Charles.

  ‘I knew some of them,’ replies Peppiatt with studied carelessness.

  ‘How many people do you think were there?’

  ‘I dunno, maybe fifty or so.’

  ‘Any women?’

  ‘There might have been.’

  ‘Please give us the names of the women whom you saw.’

  Peppiatt thinks for a while. ‘I can’t. I think there were some birds there but I don’t remember none specifically.’

  Charles points across the room to de Lucca sitting at the back. ‘Was that man at the party?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He told the court there were no women present. Is he mistaken, or are you?’

  ‘He might be right. Maybe they weren’t no women.’

  ‘Can you remember the names of any of the other men who were there? Other than Mr de Lucca?’

  ‘No. I can’t. I’d had a lot to drink.’

  Peppiatt’s delivery of this last comment is so similar to the way that de Lucca used the same phrase that Charles looks up at the bench to see if they noticed it. Apparently not.

  ‘So you knew most of the people there but you just can’t remember their names now?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘Did you dance?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not? It was a party.’

  ‘Did you watch any of the pornographic films?’

  ‘I can’t remember if there were any films.’

  ‘So there might have been some pornographic films, then?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Like I said —’ as Peppiatt uses the very same words and intonation as before, Charles repeats them with the witness, so they both say in unison — ‘I’d had a lot to drink.’ This time the magistrates can’t fail to notice and all three look up at Peppiatt, whose impudent grin slips slightly.

  ‘Do you know who owned the flat where the party was being held?’ continues Charles.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you don’t know the name of your host either?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you also employed by the Krays?’

  ‘I’m self-employed. I install alarms and other security systems.’

  ‘Are you telling us you’ve never done any work for the Krays?’ asks Charles, swinging round to stare at de Lucca, thereby giving the impression that the earlier witness gave contrary evidence on the subject.

  Peppiatt pauses. ‘No, I’m not saying that. I probably did do some work for them at some time.’

  ‘So you know what Ronnie Kray looks like, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘So how is it you can’t identify Mr Kray as your host?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘This chain that you say you saw Mr Drake wearing. Is it your usual practice to notice the jewellery that other men wear?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Did you notice what jewellery was being worn by Mr de Lucca, for example?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you notice what jewellery was being worn by any other man at the party?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why then did you notice the neck chain worn by Mr Drake?’


  ‘I … er … well, I recognised it.’

  ‘Why would you have recognised it?’

  Peppiatt thinks quickly, casting about for a reason he’d know that particular piece of jewellery and comes up with: ‘Because he’s always wearing it.’

  Charles feels his heartbeat quicken. This is his opening for the trap he hopes to lay. ‘Always?’ he asks.

  ‘He really liked it. He’d worn it for years.’

  Charles looks down, deliberately breaking eye contact with the witness so as not to reveal his excitement; Peppiatt is standing right on the edge of a man-trap, unaware of his danger.

  ‘How long did you know Mr Drake before his death?’ asks Charles casually.

  This answer comes back quickly and has the ring of truth. ‘All me life. We was at infants school together.’

  ‘So, for how long do you think you were aware of Mr Drake’s favourite piece of jewellery?’

  ‘Years.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Five maybe? Maybe even ten.’

  ‘Maybe ten years,’ repeats Charles, still not looking at the witness.

  Charles turns to Max, who is ready with a large envelope which he hands to Charles. Charles opens it and takes out five black and white photographs blown up to A4 size.

  ‘Usher, would you please give one of these to my learned friend, three to the magistrates, and put one in the hand of this witness?’

  The usher does she is bid.

  ‘Now, Mr Peppiatt,’ continues Charles, so softly that the elderly magistrate has to lean forward to hear. ‘Do you see the boy in that photograph? The one standing holding the hand of the older woman, who is, in fact, his mother?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘You see that he is the same boy as in the photograph you were shown a while ago by prosecuting counsel. Although the photograph was taken three years ago. Do you agree?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  ‘Please take this.’ Charles holds out a magnifying glass which is passed to Peppiatt. ‘Using that magnifying glass would you examine the photograph and tell me what the boy is wearing round his neck?’

  Peppiatt squints through the magnifying glass, moving it backwards and forwards until he gets it to focus. ‘It’s a chain and a medallion of some sort. But it ain’t the same as Mo’s medallion which had St Christopher on the front. This one’s got some sorta writing on it. Yeah… It says “Singer” or something.’

  ‘It says “To my little Singer, 1955”. Can you read that?’

  ‘Yeah, I can,’ Peppiatt replies, looking up.

  Charles already has the exhibit bag in his hand. Now he speaks with crisp clarity; he wants no one in the court to miss the next exchange. ‘Please have a look at the St Christopher medallion in this bag.’ Peppiatt does so. ‘Now turn it over…’ Peppiatt complies. ‘And read what is engraved on the back of the medallion.’

  ‘“To my little Singer, 1955”,’ responds Peppiatt, his voice suddenly quieter.

  Charles allows the silence to fill the courtroom for several seconds before the coup de grâce.

  ‘That St Christopher medallion was given to the accused by his father, a year before his death in 1956. St Christopher was the patron saint of Barden in Germany, where the accused’s father was born. He had it inscribed “To my little Singer, 1955” to commemorate the first season father and son stood together on the terraces to support their home club, Coventry City Football Club, formerly known as the Singers.’

  ‘Thank you for that evidence, Mr Holborne,’ chides Worlock drily. ‘Is there a question to go with it?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. In those circumstances, Mr Peppiatt, how could you possibly have seen this medallion being worn by Maurice Drake for many years?’

  Peppiatt’s rough pink skin is now almost violet in colour and a glistening sheen of sweat covers his forehead. He shrugs, a failed attempt to recapture his earlier insouciance, and says, ‘Must be a different medallion, then.’

  Charles shakes his head sadly. ‘It can’t be, can it, Mr Peppiatt? The unusual inscription is the same, and the person in the photographs is the same. It’s obviously the same medallion. The truth is, you lied on oath about seeing it around Mr Drake’s neck over many years. That medallion never belonged to Maurice Drake. It belongs to Teddy Smith.’

  Peppiatt doesn’t answer. Charles looks from one magistrate to the other. All three are staring at the witness, the two lay members flanking Worlock with expressions of open disbelief.

  ‘Will you be calling evidence to support the assertions made by you just now, Mr Holborne?’ asks Worlock quietly.

  ‘If necessary, yes, sir. I have a signed and witnessed statement from the accused’s mother setting out the facts I have just put to this witness. Unfortunately she is not able to attend today, but could be here tomorrow. But I submit that’s unnecessary: you can see the point I’m making for yourself, by using the magnifying glass.’

  Charles points, indicating that he would like the usher to hand the magnifying glass to the bench, and she complies. He waits patiently while each of the magistrates in turn takes the magnifying glass and peers at the photograph of the twelve-year-old Teddy, still in short trousers, squinting into the sunshine, his late father’s medallion hanging proudly around his neck.

  Worlock waits for his colleague, the elderly gentleman to his right, to look up, before speaking again.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Holborne. Would you like to re-examine, Mr Bateman?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Again there is a delay while the formal deposition is produced and the signatures appended. Without being directed, Peppiatt takes a seat next to de Lucca at the back of the courtroom.

  ‘I think we’ll have a short break,’ says Worlock. ‘The witnesses who’ve given evidence shall wait in court. We’ll resume at quarter past twelve.’

  ‘All rise!’

  The magistrates rise and file out as conversations break out around the court.

  ‘Well done, Charles,’ whispers Max. ‘I have never seen anything quite like it.’

  ‘It was remarkable. It’s always difficult to tell in the heat of the fray, but I thought both were extremely shifty on the issue of not recognising their host or anyone else at the party. What was your impression?’

  ‘I agree. And Peppiatt’s evidence about the medallion? Hopeless.’

  ‘Good. And congratulations to you too. Finding Teddy’s mother in the time available was little short of miraculous.’

  The two men walk out of court and wait at the top of the stairs for everyone else to disperse.

  ‘In fact it was easy,’ continues Max, ‘Your sweetshop idea was a non-starter as it’s the school holidays, but almost the first newsagent we tried remembered Teddy’s picture in the local newspaper. The mother had reported him missing within twenty-four hours and there was an appeal a couple of days later. The local library gave us the rest.’

  ‘Will the mother give evidence if we need her to?’

  ‘She says she will. I have to call her before three this afternoon if she’s to get time off work.’

  ‘You realise that if she gives evidence she’ll give her full name and address, and Teddy will no longer be Edward Smith?’ points out Charles. ‘That’s a powerful reason to keep her away if we can manage it.’

  ‘Her married name’s Whitehouse. Teddy’s name, Behr, might still not come out. It’s odd, isn’t it?’ muses Max. ‘An innocent like him…’

  ‘Named Teddy Behr? Yes, the same thought has occurred to me. In any case, Peter Bateman’s no fool. He’ll realise she’s remarried and that Teddy’s surname might be different. If he asks her in the witness box, she’s going to give Teddy’s real identity away. Does Teddy know we’ve located her?’

  ‘I’m not told him, and she doesn’t know where he is, so I think not.’

  ‘Good. Let’s leave it that way. Now, Max, I need to make a phone call. Will you excuse me for a moment?’

  Charles pushes his way through the crowds, runs down
the staircase out of court onto the street. On the opposite corner is a telephone box. He dodges the traffic and pulls open the door to be assailed by a smell of urine and chips, plentiful evidence of both lying on the damp floor. Gritting his teeth he squelches to the phone, fishes in his pockets for some coppers, and dials a central London number.

  ‘Waldorf Hotel. How may I help you?’ answers a telephonist, and Charles inserts his change.

  ‘Is Wolfgang Schmidt on duty this morning?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes he is. I’ll put you through to the porters’ desk.’

  A pause, several clicks, and Wolfie’s deep bass reverberates in Charles’s ear. ‘Head porter.’

  ‘Hi, Wolfie, it’s Charles.’

  ‘Charles. I tried you at ze flat first thing.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. I didn’t start the day from there.’

  ‘So Paul tells me.’

  ‘Paul?’

  ‘Deputy at the Ritz. You one dirty dog, Horowitz. Where’s your moral fibres?’

  Charles laughs. ‘Lost them years ago. I lie awake worrying about them. Listen, I haven’t got long. Any news?’

  ‘That’s why I ring.’ Pause. ‘Trouble at Rochester.’

  Charles doesn’t reply for a moment. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ he says finally. He lapses into silent thought again. ‘OK, Wolfie. Thanks again. I owe you one.’

  ‘You owe me many, my friend. Stay safe, ya?’ replies the booming voice, and the line is cut.

  Charles steps back into fresh air and fully inflates his lungs, realising that he’s been unconsciously trying to hold his breath for the duration of the call. He re-crosses the road and climbs the staircases to the makeshift juvenile court. He recognises Dr Larsson sitting in the corridor outside the court, a leather attaché case on his knee as he reads a newspaper. Max is waiting for Charles by the door.

  ‘I was getting worried,’ he says. ‘All OK?’

  Before Charles can answer, the court door is pushed open against Max and the journalist, Watson, emerges. He’s a short wiry man in his mid-forties in a grey raincoat and flat cap, his tie knot two inches below a grubby collar. He has a book of matches in his hand and an unlit half-smoked roll-up hanging from the corner of his mouth. He’s about to light up when he sees Charles.

  ‘Aah! Mr Holborne. Hoping to catch you. Seeing’s you’re here now, can I have a word?’ he says. His roll-up bobs up and down as he speaks. He removes it and tucks it behind an ear.