Jones leans forward and tugs at Charles’s gown. Charles half-turns in his seat. ‘What the hell is he saying?’ whispers the solicitor.
‘I’m not sure. I think he’s saying that he’s in professional difficulties.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, he has good reasons, but he can’t explain them because that might entail revealing that his client is guilty of something. Or something more.’
‘Wow!’
Charles turns back to the Recorder, who is pondering Beaverbrook’s response, doodling on his notebook.
‘Very well,’ he says, looking up. ‘I would however like you to speak to Mr Holborne before tomorrow and decide whose evidence may be read as agreed, and whose evidence may be led in chief for you to cross-examine. That way, poor Mr Holborne won’t run out of witnesses.’ Beaverbrook bows and resumes his seat. ‘Have I covered what you were about to say?’ asked the Recorder of Charles, with a smile.
‘Perfectly,’ replies Charles.
‘Good. Then we’ll rise for the day. Members of the jury, you have heard little evidence as yet, and none that is disputed, but all the same I must ask you not to discuss this case with anyone outside your number. Your family and friends will all no doubt be very excited and will want to know what’s been happening, and it will be a great temptation to tell them. The risk is that they’ll say something which, even unconsciously, affects your mind, and then the decisions made by you are not just made by you twelve, but by everyone you’ve spoken to who’s expressed an opinion. The safest thing is to say nothing, at least until the case has ended.’
He addresses the barristers’ bench. ‘There are no problems over bail, are there?’ Counsel shake their heads. ‘Very well.’
‘All rise!’
As if a door to a boisterous party has suddenly opened, loud talking begins the moment the Recorder disappears through the panelled door. The events of the day, the failure of the Defence to ask a single question and the enigmatic answers of Robert Beaverbrook QC all tighten the ratchet of tension and speculation. It’s the possibility of “professional difficulties” that particularly interests those who understand the code. Is there to be a surprise change of plea? Or has Steele’s story already changed, as explained by his late plea of guilty to obstructing the coroner?
‘What do you think?’ asks Jones of Charles.
Charles shrugs. ‘I don’t know. We’d better assume it’s a fight ’til they tell us otherwise. Beaverbrook?’ he asks, turning to the Defence silk.
‘Yes?’
‘What about witnesses for tomorrow?’
‘Are you still following the order you gave to Day?’ asks Beaverbrook, peering down his extremely long and very fine nose at Charles.
Charles knows he can’t help it; at six foot three, Beaverbrook is forced to look down that nose at almost everyone, but Charles thinks he detects an extra scintilla of superciliousness when the silk is addressing him. The two men could not look more different: Beaverbrook, tall, thin, blue-eyed and Aryan; Charles, five inches shorter, dark, broad, and the olive skin of a Mediterranean. “Jew”, Beaverbrook’s look says, at least to Charles, which is perfectly unfair, as the thought hasn’t entered Beaverbrook’s head.
‘Yes.’
‘Very well. For the present, please assume that I’ll want to cross examine all of them except the police officers. I’ll make a decision about them by close of play tomorrow.’
‘Thank you. See you tomorrow.’
Beaverbrook turns away from Charles to talk to his solicitor, but remembers something. ‘By the way, Holborne, you know that one of the defendant’s conditions of bail was that he didn’t contact prosecution witnesses?’
‘Yes.’
‘In view of the fact that Miss Sullivan has stayed with the family to look after the children, the bail condition has entailed the defendant living elsewhere for the last two months. There’s a problem with the younger son I understand, and the defendant wants to go to the house tonight to resolve it. Would the Crown have any objections?’
‘Will that entail the defendant speaking to Miss Sullivan?’ asks Charles.
‘I expect so.’
Charles considers this. In reality, had the two decided to speak they’d already have done so. If Steele wanted to get her to change her evidence or not give evidence at all, he wouldn’t risk leaving it until the night before she step into the witness box. On the other hand, they can’t have spoken about that day’s events, and that’s not a card Charles wants to give away.
‘In view of the fact that she’s about to give evidence, it would be better for them not to speak tonight, don’t you think?’ he says. ‘I’m afraid that if you want the bail conditions relaxed, you’d better call the Recorder back and make a formal application.’
‘I understand. No, I shall make no application.’
‘Fine.’
Charles raises his eyebrows to Jones for confirmation of his views, and Jones nods back vigorously.
‘See you tomorrow then?’ says Charles to the solicitor.
‘I’d proposed to leave you in Shane’s hands here,’ replies Jones, indicating the young solicitor next to him, ‘but I think the way things are going, I’d better be here.’
‘I agree. I think we could be in for some surprises.’
CHAPTER 24
Charles returns to an empty flat echoing with Harry’s absence. He feels in need of company and considers going into Chambers, but it’s five-thirty and most of his colleagues will soon be on their way home. Those that aren’t will be settling down for the nightshift and won’t have time for gossip.
He pours himself a scotch and wanders about the tiny place, six paces to the kitchen, six paces back to the lounge, turns the television on and off, goes to the bedroom, throws his clothes on the bed and has a wash. He feels irritable with nothing to do, no work for the next day, no preparation required for the case.
He returns to the lounge with a towel tied about his waist and pours another drink. His eye lands on the black Bakelite telephone and he pauses, wondering if he might call Sally, and decides against. After a few more seconds of random pacing, he resolves to get dressed again and go into Chambers anyway. He reaches for some slacks, hesitates, looks at the clock and changes his mind again. He pulls out instead a clean shirt and freshly laundered suit. Dressed as if for court, he picks up his car keys at a run and closes the flat door behind him. Five minutes later, he sits in his battered orange MG Sprite sportscar, manoeuvring it out of the Temple car park and into rush-hour traffic, heading for north London.
Traffic is lighter than he imagined it would be, probably explained, he conjectures, by the fact that the Jewish workers in the City, of whom there had to be many thousands, had all left early to arrive in synagogue before sunset. He weaves his way northwards, in and out of the familiar back streets to avoid the worst of the jams, and by twenty past six he’s at the back of Hampstead; by six-thirty, Temple Fortune; and six forty-five, Hendon. Here there is very little traffic on the road, almost Bank Holiday-like, but the pavements are crowded with families in their best clothes, all making their way purposefully towards their annual audit with their God.
Charles parks a short distance past his parents’ synagogue to avoid drawing attention to the fact that he’s driven there.
He joins the stream of people walking towards the building and only then realises, as he sees the stewards checking tickets, that he’s wasted his time; he won’t be allowed in. The short-lived annual return to religion of hundreds of congregants never seen in prayer for the other fifty-one weeks of the year means that most synagogues have to issue tickets for the High Holydays. No ticket, no entry.
Charles stands, helpless and frustrated, as people move round and past him, display their permissions to pray and enter the building. He’s about to give up when a hand lands on his shoulder. He turns. It’s David, Sonia next to him.
‘Hello, stranger,’ says his brother, a huge smile on his face. ‘Good Yomtov.’
&n
bsp; ‘Good Yomtov,’ replies Charles, the greeting tasting unfamiliar in his mouth.
‘Good Yomtov, Charles,’ says Sonia gently, kissing him softly on the cheek. ‘It’s lovely to see you here.’
‘Make the best of it,’ replied Charles wryly. ‘I’ve no ticket, so I can’t get in.’
David’s smile flags momentarily, but he taps the side of his nose conspiratorially.
‘Look after Charles for a sec,’ he instructs Sonia, and he moves past the queue of people waiting to enter. The two men checking entrants greet David warmly as he reaches the front, shake his hand and incline their heads as he explains something confidentially. They both glance over at Charles as David speaks. The queue behind David grows and congregants lean forward to learn the cause of the delay, some looking back inquisitively at Charles standing with Sonia. Finally, the officials both nod and resume their job. David excuses himself back through the crowd.
‘No problem,’ he announces. ‘You can sit with Dad and me.’
‘How did you do it?’ asks Charles.
‘I reminded them of their duty,’ replies David with a smile. ‘I asked, who were they, on this day more than any other, to impede the return of an errant sinner to his God? They regard it as a mitzvah, a holy obligation to assist you to repent.’
‘They’re saving my soul, eh?’
‘You never know.’
Charles enters synagogue with his brother and sister-in-law. He recognises no faces, this being the Horowitz’s new synagogue since their move to the suburbs, but the babble of greetings, kisses, children pushing in and out of the adults, all is so familiar.
The women separate from the men in the entrance hall and climb the long curving staircase to what the Horowitzes had always impiously referred to as “the Circle”, an upper tier of seats looking down on the men. Women are still not citizens with full rights in orthodox Jewry, a fact which Charles finds uncomfortable. Sonia waves goodbye to them and falls in with a group of other young married women whom she obviously knows well.
‘Do you have a head covering?’ asks David.
‘Yes,’ answers Charles, hands delving into jacket pockets and coming up with a skullcap in one and a prayer shawl in the other.
‘Good. And a book?’
‘No, that you’ll have to get for me.’
David takes a book from a pile on a nearby table and rejoins Charles.
‘Where’s Mum?’ asks Charles.
‘She went back home today.’
‘What, permanently?’
‘She wouldn’t tell us. She left mid-afternoon, saying she needed some other clothes. I offered to drive her, but she said she’d enjoy the walk and come to shul under her own steam. She’s probably upstairs now.’
‘Does this mean…?’
David shrugs. ‘Who knows?’
‘Have the two of them been in touch?’ asks Charles.
‘I think so, but I know better than to ask.’
The two brothers walk from the entrance hall into the synagogue itself. Charles pauses as he catches sight of the decorated ark containing the ancient handwritten scrolls, the glittering silver decorations and the arched stained-glass windows, and he struggles to identify how it all makes him feel.
David is greeted by half a dozen other men, some with the traditional New Year greeting, some with a handshake and a pat on the back, one or two putting their heads close to his to talk business for a moment or two.
Charles has always found orthodox synagogues a distasteful, even hypocritical, amalgam of spirituality and marketplace, but to his surprise he finds it less annoying than he remembered. He leaves David in one of the aisles and scans the rows of skull-capped men for his father, just spotting him as the choir stands and starts to sing.
The congregation quietens swiftly, rising to its feet as the rabbi enters, the cantor a few paces behind him. David slips into the row where Harry stands from one end, just as Charles arrives at Harry’s side from the other. As the rabbi starts to pray, Harry realises who is next to him. He looks from one son to the other and then back again. The beam of pleasure he radiates is alone enough to make Charles glad he came. Harry leans towards him, his eyes moist for the second time that day, and whispers.
‘It’s good to see you. What changed your mind?’
‘I’m not really sure. Maybe I’m looking for the truth too.’
‘You’ll find more in this court than at the Old Bailey. How did you get in?’
‘You’re not the only one with family connections, you know.’
Harry pats each of his sons on the back. He twists to look up at the gallery to see if Millie is there, but his failing eyesight is not up to the task. At that distance he identifies people by the colours of their clothes, but not knowing if she’s there at all or, if so, what she’s wearing, makes it impossible on this occasion. He opens his prayer book, his face still ceased by a smile from ear to ear. Charles and David share a look behind Harry’s back and David winks.
The service takes a little over an hour. Charles finds himself prey to exactly the same emotions that left him disaffected years before. The proceedings are conducted in Hebrew and at such a frantic, breakneck, pace that most of it’s incomprehensible. Even where he can follow the prayers and psalms in the prayer book, neither Charles nor most of the congregation can understand the Hebrew, let alone, in some cases, ancient Aramaic. Furthermore, and to his irritation, conversations periodically break out in pockets of congregants. At the same time, some of the prayers touch him and made him look deeply into himself if only for a moment or two, and some of the songs are hauntingly beautiful.
After it is over he, David and Harry wish one another Happy New Year and together walk outside, Harry and David shaking hands with the many congregants they know. When they reach the foot of the staircase, all three hesitate as if by an unspoken accord. David sees Sonia coming down with the crowd and points her out to Charles with a nod. Millie is with her. They descend the staircase without speaking and stop when they reach the bottom. Sonia kisses David and would have greeted Charles and Harry too had her husband not restrained her gently by the elbow. Millie and Harry look at each other for a moment, standing an arm’s length apart, a rock in a moving tide of congregants which opens briefly round them and closes again once past the obstruction. Several cast glances at the Horowitzes, knowing the situation.
‘Good Yomtov,’ says Millie politely to her husband.
‘Good Yomtov.’
‘Are you all right?’ she asks stiffly.
‘Fine. You?’
‘I’m OK.’
She turns to Charles. ‘Good to see you, Charles. It’s been a long time since I saw the three of you praying together. Come, Sonia, walk with me.’
And that’s it. She takes Sonia’s arm and, without a backward glance, merges into the crowd, allowing herself to be carried along with it. Sonia spins round briefly and gesticulates to David, and he apparently understands, for he nods and waves in reply.
‘Are you taking Dad back to your flat?’ he asks Charles.
‘Unless things have changed. Dad?’
‘No,’ he says softly.
Charles can’t decipher the layers of meaning or emotion in his father’s response. Then, rousing himself, Harry says more firmly, ‘We need to pay the cabbie, but I’ll go back with Charlie.’
‘OK. I’ll catch Sonia up,’ replies David.
He moves off, but shouts back to Charlie over the heads of the people between them. ‘Call me!’
‘Will do!’
Harry remains stationary for a moment longer, takes Charles’s arm, and they move into the now thinning tide of congregants. Charles spots the taxi, pays the cabbie, and rejoins Harry. They walk slowly, at the pace of the remaining crowd, towards Charles’s car.
Charles opens the passenger door for Harry, helps him sit in the unsuitably low sportscar and fastens his seatbelt for him.
‘The Days of Awe,’ says Harry as they move off.
‘What�
�s that?’
‘You don’t remember? That’s what these ten days are called, the Days of Awe. Ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur in which to look afresh at our lives, to re-evaluate, to recognise our sins. “On Rosh Hashanah we consider how judgment is formed; on Yom Kippur we consider how judgment is sealed”.’
‘A very legal concept, that.’
‘Yes indeed. It means we’re given ten days to repent and seek forgiveness.’
‘Not long enough,’ says Charles flippantly. ‘I’m not sure I could list all my sins in ten days. And as for repenting them all…’
‘Long enough if you’re sincere. God will forgive you if you forget a few.’
Charles hears something disquieting in his father’s tone and turns to him. Harry is staring out of the passenger window at the houses flashing by. Compared to his happiness in the synagogue, he now seems deflated and depressed. Then, in a flash of unaccustomed insight, Charles realises that the sins to which Harry was referring were not those of his errant son; they were his own.
CHAPTER 25
‘Call Commander Ferguson!’ shouts the usher.
The door at the back of the court opens immediately and in walks a slender man. Charles, standing in counsels’ benches, follows his progress down the aisle and into the witness box. Turned out in the full uniform of a commander, one rank below ship’s captain, Ferguson looks impressive. He wears a double-breasted, navy blue jacket with four rows of brass buttons, gold braid on his cuffs and multicoloured medal ribbons on his chest; matching trousers; white shirt, black tie and black leather shoes. He carries his peaked hat under one arm. He makes a Technicolor splash amid the monochrome ranks of lawyers. His gait is halfway between a walk and a march and when he reaches the witness box, Charles fancies that he almost salutes the judge.
In trawling through Steele’s life, the police turned up dozens of witnesses who spoke of the state of his marriage. Their statements all gave examples of Lise Steele’s appalling behaviour — helpful in establishing motive for murder — but equally demonstrated Steele’s saint-like patience and gentleness. Almost unanimously, the witnesses stated that the man they knew would never be capable of murder.
The Waxwork Corpse: A legal thriller with a chilling twist (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 5) Page 20
