I first knew of Rumpole’s decision when Leonard Bullingham, after we had bid and won a satisfying four Hearts, pulled a crumpled letter from out of his pocket. ‘A letter from your old man,’ Leonard told me. ‘Hardly the most tactful way of asking for a favour, is it?’
He gave me the letter in question for inclusion in these very memoirs, so I am able to quote it in its entirety. It began, as I thought, in a way that hovered between the overly familiar and the downright rude.
My dear Old Bull
My wife may have told you, during the course of one of those tedious card games you both appear to enjoy, that I’m thinking of putting on a silk gown and joining those QCs (Queer Customers is what I call them) who loll around the front row in various courtrooms relying on their underpaid ‘juniors’ to do all the hard work. In support of my application I need to call a client and a judge who can speak well of me.
As a client I can call any member of the Timson family whom I may have rescued, by my skill as an advocate, from the shades of the prison house. Finding a decent criminal is easy. It’s harder to find a judge who would be equally helpful. Looking back on the cases I did before you at the Old Bailey, I feel sure that you would be pleased to admit that my arguments were, on the whole, arguments based on the interests of justice, so I feel sure I can rely on your support for my present application.
Your old sparring partner,
Horace Rumpole
PS I’m sure my wife would welcome your support for the Rumpole case. She has wondered why my undoubted talent as an advocate has not yet elevated me to the same rank as her late father. It’s for her sake that I have had to plead this most difficult of all cases – my own.
‘What are you going to do about Rumpole’s letter?’ I asked Leonard after I had read it.
‘Put it in the bin for recycling. It might emerge as a decent bit of toilet paper.’ Rumpole’s letter seemed to have brought out the cruder side of Leonard.
‘He does say you had legal arguments…’
‘Nonsense. They weren’t legal arguments. They were… ploys drummed up by your husband with the purpose of getting the jury to dislike me.’
Leonard looked pained as he said this, so I felt I had to cheer him up. I said, ‘I’m sure he never succeeded in doing that.’
‘Sometimes he did. I think sometimes he made the jury think I was a direct descendant of Judge Jeffreys, dead set on a conviction.’ I was quite touched by Leonard when he said that. He was looking at me in the way of a small boy left out of the football team, pleading for reassurance.
‘No jury would ever think that when they got to know you, Leonard.’
‘Dear Hilda.’ Here he put his hand on mine across the bridge table, where we sat alone for a while after Mash and her partner had gone off to see about the tea. ‘You are such a wonderful consolation to a man.’
‘I try to be,’ I said.
‘I can’t ask a whole jury to meet me for tea and bridge. So Rumpole’s perverse view of my character is never challenged.’
‘It does seem terribly unfair.’
‘But I have one great consolation.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I can tell you about my troubles.’
‘Any time.’ His hand seemed particularly weighty at that moment, so I took mine away. ‘You told me that when you become a QC you rule yourself out from all the smaller, less important cases.’
‘Let’s say you’re no longer offered the bread and butter. You’re kept for the caviar and roast goose.’
‘So Rumpole wouldn’t be able to deal with all the petty crimes the Timson family get up to?’
‘Certainly not. Such minor offences by the south London riff-raff wouldn’t be considered worth the expensive employment of a leading QC.’
It was when he said this that I became thoughtful. ‘But people like the Timsons and so on – they will still need defending?’
‘Of course. They’d be on the lookout for another junior.’
‘It might be someone who’d only recently been called to the Bar?’
It was then that Leonard looked at me in some surprise. ‘Hilda,’ he said, ‘can I guess what you are thinking?’
‘I’m thinking,’ I told him, ‘that you should do all you can to help Rumpole to become a QC.’
10
‘A woman came to see me about young Peter.’ Bertie Timson spoke with some amazement.
We had met in Pommeroy’s, my favourite wine bar. I had organized a meeting there with Dennis, at that time the head and undisputed leader of the Timson clan and with whom, after an unhappy difference of opinion when I was defending Dr Khan on a charge of terrorism, I was back again on friendly terms. He had turned up in the company of Bertie, who delayed the matter of business by describing the joys of parenthood during the dying years of the now deeply caring government. I passed a glass of Château Thames Embankment to silence him but he had a strange story which clearly had to be told.
‘She said she was a “state nanny” and she had been selected to advise me on parenting, seeing that young Peter had an ASBO.’
‘I’m sorry about that. It hurts me to remember our unsuccessful defence.’
‘No. Peter’s very grateful for what you’ve done for him, Mr Rumpole. He really is. He’s ever so proud of the ASBO.’
‘He’s got to be careful now,’ I warned his father. ‘The present government’s dead keen on putting children behind bars.’
‘Perhaps that’s why she wanted me to do “parenting”.’
‘Did you get to understand what she was talking about?’ Dennis seemed mystified.
‘Well, she asked if I read to him in bed. And I told her I didn’t. So she left me a book. Something about a bear that kept taking honey. Not very exciting reading, I didn’t think. But she said if I read to Peter in bed regular, it’d keep him from going into the nick.’
‘Did you try it?’ Dennis seemed unable to get enough of this story.
‘When he was in bed. Yes. I sat down and started to read out about this bear liking honey. Oh, and there was a boy in it with a picture of him wearing shorts.’
‘How did your Peter take it?’
‘He said, “Shut up, Dad. I’m listening to my iPod.” It was the iPod you gave him at Christmas time.’
‘That’s all we find in houses nowadays. IPods and sound systems. No one keeps money any more.’ Dennis was nostalgic for the good old days. ‘What else did she tell you to do?’
‘She asked if I had ever sung to him. She never said what sort of songs. Ones we sung down the pub – I didn’t think she’d like them. So I said no, I didn’t go in for singing.’
‘Bertie sang down the pub,’ Dennis confided in me. ‘It was horrible.’
‘She asked about “Ring a ring o’ roses”… that sort of thing. I did try that after tea once. My Leonie said she’d leave me if ever I did that again. So the state nanny wasn’t all that help as it turned out. You were the only one that tried to help, Mr Rumpole. For which we are very grateful.’
‘Any time!’ I had lit a small cigar and now waved it casually in the air. ‘Call on me at any time. I’m always as ready to help young Peter as I am to help any member of the Timson family.’
After I had refilled their glasses Dennis said, ‘I thought we’d come here so the Timson family could help you?’
‘Well, that’s right,’ I had to admit. ‘You see, I decided that it was high time I put on a silk gown and got promoted to the front row in court.’
‘You mean you want Queen’s Counsel?’ A long life in and out of the Old Bailey had given Dennis Timson a sound working knowledge of the law.
‘You’re right,’ I told him. ‘And I need a judge and a satisfied client to speak up for me.’
Dennis thought this over for a moment, gave himself another swig and came up with, ‘You’ll be hard put to find a judge, won’t you, Mr Rumpole? They’re not too keen on the way you keep winning cases.’
‘Surprisingly enough,’
I told him, ‘Mr Justice Leonard Bullingham has offered his services.’
‘Him you used to call the Mad Bull?’
‘Exactly. He seems to have come to his senses. So could I rely on you to say… well, that I’ve always done my best for my clients? I suppose that’s what they want to hear.’
‘QC.’ Dennis repeated the magical letters thoughtfully. ‘We don’t get a QC doing most of our family’s cases.’
‘Petty thefts, minor break-ins, selling stolen fish and all that sort of thing. You’re quite right,’ I admitted to Dennis. ‘I shouldn’t be able to do them. But I’m sure you’ll find a satisfactory junior. And when it comes to the bigger stuff…’
‘What bigger stuff is that, Mr Rumpole?’
‘Bank robberies. Serious frauds. Or let’s say “a murder”. Not that I’m encouraging you to commit any such crimes, of course.’
‘No, of course not, Mr Rumpole. That is clearly understood.’ There was something entirely judicial about the silence that followed. Dennis was clearly having some trouble making up his mind. At last he came out with, ‘All right, Mr Rumpole. Taking all that into consideration, I am prepared to speak up for you.’
‘Thank you, Dennis.’ I was genuinely grateful. ‘It’s very good of you and exactly what I would expect from a senior member of the Timson family. All you need to tell them is that I always did my best for you – even in difficult cases.’
‘Rely on me, Mr Rumpole. And I’ll keep quiet about the cases when your best wasn’t quite good enough.’
‘You mean the cases when the prosecution had you bang to rights? Well, I suppose that’s fair enough. Now, I think the tide’s gone down in our glasses.’
When I had arranged matters with Jack Pommeroy and added the cost of another round to my hope for the arrival of another legal aid cheque, I noticed Bertie Timson smiling, apparently at the memory of some private joke.
‘What’s so funny about Mr Rumpole going after a QC?’ Dennis asked him.
‘It’s not that. But when you said “cases”, it reminded me about the trouble old Scottie Thompson got into. Only it’s crates with him, not cases. I reckon Scottie’ll be coming to you for advice, Mr Rumpole.’
‘Then I’ll do my best for him. What’s his trouble exactly?’
‘Illegal immigration. Scottie’s got his own long-distance lorry. Runs it as a freelancer. He got a call from this firm that was apparently in trouble with its transport and had some crates needed picking up in some crazy place. Eastern Europe, I think that’s where it was.’
‘So what was the trouble?’ I was curious to know.
‘Well, you won’t believe this. He picked up the crates, three big ones like new. He got as far as Dover with them, when there was some sort of inspection of the cargo. It seems there was a noise from one of the crates.’
‘What sort of noise?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps a girl crying, because what happened when they opened the crates up – he’d brought girls hid in crates, Scottie said. Course, he told them he knew nothing about it, but would they believe him? Course not! You’ll have a job getting him off, I reckon.’
‘If your friend Scottie asks for me, tell him I’ll do my best.’
Dennis was laughing at Bertie’s story but I couldn’t see the joke. All I could think of was a journey across Europe, nailed up in a packing case. Human beings exported like so many jars of mango chutney.
11
Briefs are, I have always thought, very like the number 11 bus. You wait an age to get one and then a whole platoon of them turn up at the same time. Not too long ago I had been facing unemployment, enforced retirement and the prospect of long days without wig or gown in the sole company of She Who Must Be Obeyed in Froxbury Mansions. Now I had not only young Peter’s ASBO and Graham Wetherby’s murder but also, thanks again to the industrious Bonny Bernard, Scottie Thompson’s importation of illegal female immigrants by way of the port of Dover.
I was brooding over the defence in the last-named case when there was a sharp rap on the door and there entered Claude Erskine-Brown. I heard the voice but didn’t turn my head to it.
‘I’ve come to serve you, Rumpole,’ was what he said.
‘That’s extremely kind of you, Erskine-Brown. I’d like a large cup of black coffee, no milk or sugar, and a couple of Chambers shortbread biscuits.’
‘I don’t mean I’ve come to serve you, Rumpole. Rather I’m here to serve on you.’
‘Please, Erskine-Brown. I’m sure there was a laugh in there somewhere, but as you can see I’m extremely busy. An important immigration case has come my way. It will probably hit the headlines. So if you can give me the coffee without delay…’
‘I am not serving you coffee, Rumpole. And I understand shortbread biscuits are no longer available. I am serving this on you now, and I’d like you to sign on the form that you’ve received it.’
For the first time I turned to look at the chap. He was holding out a piece of paper which seemed to quiver in his shaking hand. Erskine-Brown was, I thought, in a state of high excitement. I took the paper from him and spread it out on my desk. ‘What’s this, Claude?’ I tried to be civil. ‘Another slice of criminal law the government’s produced which no one can understand?’
‘Read it, Rumpole. I think you’ll find it perfectly understandable.’
I glanced at the document. It seemed to bear my name and I read a heading: ‘Application for an Anti-social Behaviour Order’. I thought it must have something to do with the case of young Peter Timson until I read the particulars of the conduct complained of. They came in a column headed ‘Behaviour of Horace Rumpole’, which I will quote in full for accuracy.
1. Bringing various articles of food into Chambers such as portions of cold steak and kidney pie, various cheeses, cooked sausages and chipped potatoes. On several occasions a shepherd’s pie would be imported from a public house and gradually consumed over a period of days. On several occasions uneaten portions of this pie were discovered left in a filing cabinet in the said Rumpole’s room expressly provided for the storage of legal documents.
2. Bringing intoxicating drinks into the said Chambers such as bottles of wine and consuming them on the premises.
3. On several occasions singing in his room in the said Chambers, thereby causing embarrassment to the members and the clerical staff.
4. Smoking small cigars causing a health hazard in Chambers and further polluting the atmosphere and thereby increasing the risk of global warming.
‘Who thought up this ridiculous document?’ I asked Claude after I had read it through.
‘We have formed a sub-committee to deal with your behaviour, Rumpole.’
‘Oh, have you indeed? And is Soapy Sam in any way connected with this rubbish?’
‘Samuel Ballard, QC, has given us his blessing.’
‘Oh, has he indeed? What ingratitude!’
‘It’s not just our leader, Rumpole. The staff of the chambers have told us that firm steps must be taken to see that you become more environmentally friendly. Now, if you’ll consent to sign along the dotted lines…’
‘Consent? I’m not consenting to anything. I may eat steak and kidney pie, I may seek comfort in Pommeroy’s Very Ordinary, I may need a small cigar. You may feed on nut cutlets and drink carrot juice enlivened with a few bubbles. But I know which of us a client would rather have on his side when the dark shadows of the law begin to close in against him. So that’s what I think of your ridiculous bit of paper.’ At this I tore the so-called legal document Claude had attempted to serve on me into small fragments, which I tipped into my wastepaper basket.
‘That was very foolish of you, Rumpole.’ Claude spoke more in sorrow than in anger. ‘I can prove service of the notice and the law will have to take its course.’
Claude withdrew and I sat back in my chair. I thought I could understand how young Peter Timson felt when he was hauled up in court for kicking a football down a street. He must have experienced a strong desire
to go on kicking it. I went over to the cabinet to unearth the bottle of Château Thames Embankment I kept filed under the XYZs for emergencies. I drew the cork and, having filled a glass, drank a silent toast to antisocial behaviour. Then I came to my senses. I had something far more serious to concentrate on. A new brief had arrived in the case I had learned of in Pommeroy’s a few weeks before from my client, the ASBO boy’s father. It was the affair of Scottie Thompson and his unintentional importation of Russian beauties.
12
So many cases have started in the interview room in Brixton Prison that the place has become a sort of home from home. It was there that I met Scottie Thompson. He was a short, high-shouldered, perpetually smiling man who seemed very anxious to please. When I asked him where he came from north of the border, it turned out that he was not really a Scot, but had so much enjoyed a holiday tour of the Highlands, and had talked about it so much, that his friends had named him Scottie. He had set up a business named, of course, Highlands Transport.
Scottie had known Fred Atkins since they were at school together. He knew that Fred drove a lot over in Europe for what he said was an ‘import and export company’. Fred had a pick-up job in Europe on the day of his daughter’s wedding, and Scottie was not particularly surprised when his friend asked him to do it for him.
‘He gave me the paperwork and all that. I couldn’t see no problem and it was good pay. Fred gave me the lot.’
I asked him where he picked up the crates.
‘Romanian border. I had a meet there. The man said he’d brought the load over from Russia. Said he couldn’t drive the load to Dover “because they knew him too well”. I didn’t quite know what he meant by that.’
‘Did you know then where you were supposed to be taking them?’
‘Fred had told me to deliver at a warehouse in the Canary Wharf area. I was to ring him when I’d got through Customs.’
‘And did you ring him?’
‘Yes. I could hear the sounds of the wedding party. I was talking to him when Customs were opening the crates. I told him what was happening and he slammed the phone down on me. Never heard a word from him since. It was then that I saw what I’d brought over. Girls, good-lookers too. They must have had a terrible journey. I wanted to find out more, but I got arrested.’
The Anti-Social Behaviour of Horace Rumpole Page 4
