The Waxwork Corpse: A legal thriller with a chilling twist (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 5)

by Simon Michael

  ‘How much?’

  Charles hesitates, calculating. ‘A monkey, perhaps.’

  ‘Five hundred nicker?! You gotta be joking. It’s got to be worth a grand, minimum.’

  Charles pretends to chew it over. ‘I might be able to get a grand together, but I’ll need time.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A fortnight, minimum. Gotta call in some debts.’

  ‘I’ll give you till Friday week,’ says McArthur, standing. He turns to look down on Charles’s head.

  ‘The rozzers don’t have to believe me. From what I hear, you’re on fuckin’ thin ice as it is. It’d only take one more accusation, and you’ll be finished as a brief anyway.’ Perhaps not quite as stupid as he appears, then, thinks Charles. ‘Be here, Friday week, at 6 p.m. OK? If you don’t show with the money, I’ll walk into the nearest nick and tell ’em what I saw. No skin off my nose.’ Something else occurs to McArthur and he puts out his hand. ‘And I want a tenner now. I’m boracic.’

  Charles look up at McArthur and stares at him for a moment before opening his wallet and handing the man two five-pound notes.

  ‘A grand, Horowitz,’ repeats McArthur. ‘No less.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Charles watches McArthur disappear into the gloom under the trees. Well, that went well, he thinks. Now what?

  CHAPTER 22

  The Crown v Steele is finally listed to start the last week in September, on the day immediately before Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year. For some reason, the coincidence in timing seems ominous to Charles. He hasn’t celebrated any Jewish festival since he left for university, more than twenty years ago, and he’d been drifting away from his family’s religious beliefs and observances for years before then, since even before his bar mitzvah. He’s usually completely unaware of the Jewish calendar unless, perhaps, he stumbles over something in the newspaper or overhears some rabbi intoning meaningfully on the Home Service as he eats breakfast.

  This year however, with his father sharing his cramped living quarters, it’s impossible to avoid it. His religion nudges and whispers to him, calling for his attention. Charles tries out the justifications: I gave that up years ago … I don’t believe in God … this is the biggest case of my career and no one could expect me to return it … it would be professionally improper anyway, so close to trial … but he can picture Harry’s face as he departs for synagogue, suppressing his disappointment, leaving Charles to go to work as usual.

  In truth, the excuses taste dry and dusty even to him. For the first time since he was a child, his family’s religious celebrations seem rich and inviting, a sparkling river passing him by within earshot. He catches himself humming a tune from the Rosh Hashana evening service, a haunting melody in a minor key, one that always brought a constriction to his throat as a child, and instantly turns on Radio Caroline. Thus, he deploys twentieth century pop to drown out the siren calls of the millennia before Christ, and forges on with his preparation.

  The morning before the trial is to start Charles orders a minicab from a reliable company used by Chambers and arranges to transport his father from the City to his synagogue in the suburbs for each day of the forthcoming festival. Harry has never before used transport to travel to or from his shul — in God’s eyes that is work, and work is forbidden — but even he accepts that he’d be unable to walk the eight miles each way. God will have to understand or turn a blind eye, he concedes. For the rest of the day Charles is fully occupied with last-minute conferences, deciding the order of witnesses, agreeing a chronology with his Defence opponents and bundling the legal precedents Xeroxed by the clerks on which he expects the Defence to rely.

  The following day he wakes at 7.27 a.m., three minutes before the alarm. He calls the cab company to make sure the driver arrives at the flat in time to collect Harry by half past five that afternoon for the evening service. Satisfied that he’s done all he can, he bathes and dresses, shouts a goodbye to his father who is still in the bathroom, hefts his robes and a suitcase full of case papers, and leaves the flat. On the landing he experiences that feeling of having forgotten something important and he stops, his finger on the lift button holding the doors open, trying to pin down whatever it was but, if there was something, it eludes him. He shakes his head and enters the lift.

  ‘Best of luck, sir,’ calls Dennis as Charles emerges onto the ground floor.

  Dennis has kept abreast of the case by chatting to Harry and reading the newspaper reports, occasionally asking Charles which parts of them are accurate.

  ‘Thanks, Dennis.’

  He walks across Fleet Street to Chambers, potters about there for half an hour, only really killing time, and heads down Fleet Street to Ludgate Circus. As he crosses the junction onto Ludgate Hill he sees, ahead of him, two barristers he knows, deep in a discussion of their case in progress. Behind him is another, louder, group of young barristers none of whom he recognises. The route to the Old Bailey, particularly at 9.30 a.m., is the place to meet members of the criminal Bar.

  Charles turns left up Old Bailey. He hoped that by arriving early he’d avoid the cameramen and reporters, but the pavement is already crowded with them. He has to push his way through the group to reach the doors, but before he reaches the safety of the building someone has recognised him.

  ‘Mr Holborne! Mr Holborne, sir! Any comment on today’s case?’

  Charles ignores the question and continues into the relative quiet of the court building. He gives himself over to the searching and security checking, his mind on the prospect of bacon and eggs upstairs in the Bar Mess. One of the best breakfasts in London is to be obtained on the top floor, with a view over most of the City to accompany it. He rides in the lift to the fourth floor, dumps his robes and briefcase in his locker and walks up the final staircase.

  ‘Hello, Charles,’ says a familiar voice.

  Charles turns. It’s James Day, smiling and looking a great deal friendlier than at the Magistrates’ Court.

  ‘Hello, Jimmy. Been let off the leash, or is this a change of tactic?’ replies Charles, not breaking his stride towards food.

  Day, at five and a half feet tall, has to skip every now and then to keep up, and the fact that he does so confirms to Charles that the Defence wants something, or perhaps have something to offer.

  ‘All ready?’ he asks, joining the short queue behind Charles.

  ‘I expect so. I haven’t seen my solicitor yet, but as of yesterday all our witnesses were ready. How about you? Any last-minute offers?’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ replies Day with heavy sarcasm. ‘You don’t expect one of Her Majesty’s top judges to cave in just before trial, do you? It’s a fair cop, guv, I done it. Sorry to have wasted the time of the court”?’

  ‘You never know. That might depend on whether he’s guilty.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Charles.’

  ‘Then what can I do for you?’

  ‘Nothing. Just being sociable, old chap.’

  ‘Balls.’ Charles turns to Day with a grin. ‘Come on, Jimmy, I know you too well. What’s up?’

  ‘Well, we just wondered what your attitude would be to a plea to the second indictment alone.’

  ‘What, obstructing the coroner? Come off it.’

  ‘Aren’t you being a little over-confident? It’s really all you’ve got. And if the nanny doesn’t come up to proof, you might not even get that.’

  ‘She’ll come up to proof, I’ve no doubt on that score.’

  Charles takes his tray, thanks the waitress serving him and moves to a table by the window. Day follows and sits down. When he speaks again, it’s with a lowered voice.

  ‘Have you asked yourself what you’re trying to achieve? Even a plea to obstructing the coroner will finish his career for good. He’s no risk to society, even you must see that, especially if you’ve read all the depositions from the neighbours and friends. He’ll be sent to an open prison, serve his time and go into retirement. Think what a conviction for manslaughter o
r, even worse, murder, will do to the profession. Who the hell’s going to believe in anything we do anymore?’

  ‘Are you representing him or standing for Parliament?’ replies Charles, with a grin. ‘No, I’m sorry for the levity. For your information Jimmy, I have thought about it, but I’ve come to exactly the opposite conclusion. What’ll the public think if the Crown accepts obstructing the coroner, and doesn’t even try him on the other counts? “One law for the rich…” etcetera? A profession closing ranks yet again? I would personally like nothing more than to see him tried and acquitted to loud fanfares and joyous flag waving. That’d prove that no one, absolutely no one, is above the law; that we have the nerve to use the system even against one of our own; and that it works. If we trust it, so will the public. But if we circumvent it, there’ll be no respect left for it at all. It’s bad enough that the Met’s institutionally corrupt and that London’s ruled by the likes of the Krays and the Richardsons. But the judiciary, and the Bar, well, surely we’ve got to be beyond reproach?’

  Charles looks around, suddenly conscious of the depth of quiet near their table, and finds several of the lawyers looking their way and eavesdropping unashamedly. A sprinkling of applause, only half in jest, makes him grin again. He bows from his sitting position, and turns back to Day.

  ‘Sorry, old chap. I think we’re just going to have to go through with it.’

  Day looks at him hard, and then nods. ‘I expect you’re right. I was told to ask, and I have.’ He rises, leaving his coffee untouched. ‘By the way, have you seen who our judge is?’

  ‘Someone with no career ambition, I hope. Poor sod’s in a no-win position.’

  ‘It’s the Recorder.’

  ‘Well, at least we’re sure of a fair trial. That’s something. It would have been just like the Lord Chancellor’s office to have wheeled in some old duffer who’d have summed up for an acquittal — and got just the opposite.’

  ‘My views exactly. See you in court.’

  There’s an eerie hush in the packed Number 1 Court as Charles enters just before eleven o’clock. The Defence team, both barristers, a solicitor and a clerk, huddle with their heads bowed in quiet consultation at the barristers’ bench. Jones sits one row behind in the solicitors’ bench with a member of his staff, his back to Charles. The public gallery and the reporters’ seats have been full for over an hour, no one daring to leave their places for fear of losing them. Charles noted the long line formed of members of the public queuing around the corner of the Old Bailey, hoping for a front-row vantage point to watch the trial of the decade. Two of the dailies have identical headlines that morning: “British Justice on Trial” which, Charles thinks, is both a clever pun and entirely accurate.

  The Judge, the Recorder of London, has dealt with a short matter and risen for the parties to ready themselves. As Charles walks to his seat, his arms laden with files, bundles of precedents and law books, and his wig perched on top of the uppermost, he looks at the accused who, having already surrendered to custody, sits in the dock.

  Anthony Steele is the very caricature of a judge out of his court robes: a kindly, handsome, patrician face, surmounted by well-cut grey hair, silver at the temples; a quietly expensive charcoal-grey suit of conservative cut; a blue silk tie with a thin gold stripe in it, a matching folded handkerchief protruding from the breast pocket; a white creaseless cotton shirt, fastened at the wrists by simple gold cufflinks. He sits with his manicured hands clasped gently in his lap, his head erect and slightly to one side, his eyes unfocussed, as if concentrating on some interesting but rather baffling point of law that requires all his attention.

  ‘Morning,’ says Charles to the solicitors as he takes his seat.

  ‘Morning, Charles,’ replies Jones. ‘Anything you need?’

  ‘No, thank you. Oh, there is one thing: I appreciate why you wanted absolute confidentiality at the outset, but now the press of the entire western world knows that a senior British Judge is to be tried for murdering his wife, do you think I might know your real name now?’

  ‘It’s Jones,’ replies the solicitor with a slight blush. ‘That’s why I haven’t bothered to correct you.’

  ‘Fine. Somehow, I guessed. Are the witnesses here?’

  ‘I’ve had a call from the pathologist’s office. He was doing a post-mortem in Leeds first thing this morning and he’s been caught in traffic. He’ll be here by lunchtime. Apart from that, they’re all outside.’

  ‘We may not reach him at all today in any event.’

  Charles is about to tell Jones about his conversation in the Bar Mess when the usher calls ‘All rise!’ and the Recorder enters.

  Charles leaps up and grabs his wig, just getting it into position on his head as the judge turns to the barristers and bows. The barristers all bow in unison and then they and the judge take their seats.

  Charles sizes up the man on the bench before him. His Honour Judge Mackey QC was appointed to the office of Recorder of London only six months before. Although the senior judge sitting at the Old Bailey, he’s of the new generation, scarcely ten years older than Charles. Charles has not appeared in his court before but has heard that he’s a fair man, not, as many of his predecessors were, overtly prosecution-biased. The Recorder addresses the barristers’ bench.

  ‘Good morning gentlemen.’ The three barristers rise. ‘Interesting reversal of roles,’ he says with a smile. ‘Trying our hand at gamekeeping, Mr Holborne?’

  ‘Not for the first time, my Lord.’

  ‘Well, are we ready? Mr Holborne?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Mr Beaverbrook?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Let us proceed to arraignment, then.’ He nods to the court clerk, who rises, the indictment in his hand. ‘Please stand,’ he asks the accused. ‘Are you Anthony Michael Steele?’

  ‘I am,’ replies Steele. His voice sounds tired but calm and measured.

  ‘On count one of this indictment you are charged with murder, in that in or about April 1953 you did murder one Lise Helene Steele, contrary to common law. How do you plead?’

  ‘Not guilty.’

  The clerk moves to the second count, manslaughter. Charles decided to add this as an alternative. He doubts he’d have accepted a manslaughter plea even if offered, but he wanted to keep his options open. The question proves academic, as Steele pleads not guilty to that charge too.

  The clerk continues to put a second indictment, this one containing only one count, that of obstruction of the coroner in the execution of his duty. This is Charles’s fall-back position. More importantly however, its inclusion is dictated by tactical considerations. Until his conversation with Jimmy Day, Charles had no indication whatsoever from the Defence whether they were going to accept any part of the nanny’s account. The plea to this count will give him an early indication: if the plea to obstructing the coroner — in short, disposing of the body — is “Not Guilty”, Charles will know that the Defence intend to deny Steele’s admission to Jenny Sullivan that he killed Lise in self-defence; they have no alternative.

  If that’s their position, it sets Steele’s evidence against hers and, in that contest, Charles expects Jenny Sullivan’s evidence to prevail and Steele to be shown to be a liar. On the other hand, if Steele pleads “Guilty” to this count, it means that Jenny told the truth about at least part of the story, and that helps the Crown too.

  The clerk finishes reading the particulars of the offence and, in contrast to his response to the other charges, there is a fractional pause before Steele answers.

  ‘Guilty,’ he responds, and lowers his head.

  There’s a collective intake of breath in the courtroom. With that one word, uttered in less than half a second, Lord Justice Steele’s glittering career comes to an end. It all vanishes: his profession, his way of life, his ambition for the one remaining judicial elevation before him, to the House of Lords, his good name — even his pension. Whatever he might now say; whatever defence he plac
es before the jury; however much they might believe him, even sympathise, with him; and however lenient the trial judge might be; he has admitted to disposing of his wife’s bloody body, to tipping her with a weight attached into a lake at the dead of night. Now it is revealed to the whole world that his feet are, contrary to all expectation, made of clay like everyone else’s.

  Whispering begins as the realisation of what the plea means gathers pace in the court. The expected defence of “It wasn’t me; this is all a terrible mistake” can no longer be run. Steele has no alternative: he is going to have to tell everyone how his wife met her death.

  Ever since he was charged, the story has made headlines, in England and abroad. It has been the subject of two questions in the House, several leading articles and innumerable documentaries, chat show discussions, and jokes by comedians and newspaper cartoonists. Battle lines have been drawn. Some refused to believe that one of the country’s top judges could possibly be guilty of murder; in their opinion, this was a conspiracy to undermine justice, the government and the jury system. Others, the cynics who always knew there was corruption and evil at the top of the system, merely expressed surprise that no one had been caught with red hands before. The ground has now been cut away from under that debate. It’s no longer a question of “Is he guilty?” but “How guilty is he?”

  The clerk of the court calls twice for silence but to little effect. Then the Recorder intervenes.

  ‘Unless there is silence immediately, I shall clear the court and conduct the entire trial in camera,’ he says with quiet authority.

  The conversations gradually cease and silence resumes. The clerk addresses Steele. ‘You may sit.’

  ‘Jury, Mr Holborne?’ says the Recorder. By his question he asks Charles if the Crown is satisfied with the pleas tendered, or if it wants a trial.

  ‘Yes please, my Lord.’

  Charles listens with only part of his attention as the jury in waiting is brought in. Neither prosecution nor defence challenge any of the first twelve whose names are called, and the jury members, six men and six women, are all sworn in. While the clerk directs the unused jurors to follow the jury bailiff, Charles leans across to Beaverbrook.