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

by Simon Michael

  Steele remains facing the jury box, his face a picture of mixed astonishment and horror. They are all examining him closely. Charles knows he’s hit a nerve. He’s right; the jury did hear it.

  ‘I’m not proud of it,’ beseeches the accused man. ‘Not at all. It was a nightmare. I didn’t know what to do. I was in a blind panic. I was so tired at the end of it I couldn’t think at all.’

  ‘The truth is that you planned the entire thing from start to finish. You knew precisely how you would dispose of your wife’s body long before she was dead.’

  ‘No. No! I had to think it through after it happened. I have a logical mind, and I’m methodical, that’s all; it’s been my training for thirty years!’

  ‘You’d have the jury believe that you acted in “a blind panic”, when you’ve admitted to a cold methodical clean-up and redecoration of the home; careful manhandling of your wife’s body, a kerbstone and a dinghy into the boot of your car; the fabrication of a detailed false alibi involving handing out prizes at your son’s sports day; even the purchase of a set of spare bulbs for the car! All that was done in “a blind panic”?’

  ‘No, not all of it. I was in a blind panic, but once I had decided on a course of action…’

  ‘I see. Well, I have no further questions, my Lord,’ says Charles, and he begins to sit down.

  ‘May I say something further?’ asks Steele of the Recorder.

  ‘Yes?’

  Steele turns back to the jury and appeals directly to them. ‘You have to understand that from the second I realised that Lise was dead, my overriding concern was for the children. Everything I did, I did for them, to spare them. I can’t explain it well in words, but if you have children maybe you’ll understand. They’d been so unhappy when Lise was alive, and I hadn’t been able to protect them properly. Now they were at even greater risk, and that was my fault too, even if it was an accident. I have no near family, a brother who lives abroad, that’s all, and the thought of them going into care or even being split up among distant relatives was unbearable. For hours and hours I couldn’t make up my mind what was right, but then, at the end of it, the one thing I had left, the one thing that kept coming back, was the knowledge that they’d trusted me to look after them, and I’d failed them. I’d failed them up ’til then, and I wouldn’t… I couldn’t fail them again. They needed me.’

  There is a painful catch in his voice now as he speaks.

  ‘Had they been grown up, I would’ve gone to the police, they could’ve managed perhaps … but … Bobby was just a baby. And Stephen was so unhappy … so unhappy…’

  Charles doesn’t need to look at the jury to know what effect this is having. He can hear the love and desperation in the man’s voice, and he tries to understand it.

  Fathers and sons, he thinks again. Would I have gambled everything for my children? he asks himself. He can’t say; he’s never felt this sort of love, this unreasoning selflessness of a parent for a child, but he can see that most of the members of the jury have. There are tears in the eyes of more than one, and the faces of the rest tell the same story. Charles suddenly feels deprived, excluded from an understanding that he realises, belatedly, is important.

  Steele’s voice has now dropped and he speaks with great control. ‘You see, it had to be planned and carried out meticulously: everything, everything depended on it. That’s what I’m trained to do, to think calmly under pressure and to carry out a carefully-constructed plan. And if my voice showed pride or something like that, I’m sorry, really I am, because I am not proud of anything I’ve done.’ He pauses, and then adds: ‘Except one thing: I did manage to protect my children until now, when they are grown up, and able to cope alone. I have that of which to be proud.’

  A heavy charged silence descends on the courtroom. Steele sinks down slowly onto the seat behind him.

  ‘Re-examination?’ asks the Recorder of Beaverbrook. Beaverbrook shakes his head, remaining in his seat. He wants no noise to break in upon the emotions now running through each and every one of the twelve jury members.

  CHAPTER 33

  The following morning, Charles rises to deliver his closing speech. It’s short. He relies heavily on the planning and execution of the disposal of the body, the lies to the police in interview, and the inherent unlikelihood of an innocent Court of Appeal judge panicking and deciding to commit a serious criminal offence by disposing of a body. He is fair, reminding them of the burden and standard of proof, making it clear that if the jury thinks Steele is telling the truth, or even that he might be, it would be their duty to acquit. It’s a powerful speech and Charles delivers it with his usual passion and humour, but his heart’s not in it. He already knows the result of the trial and that, no matter what he says, he doesn’t think he can influence it.

  He feels that sense of deflation and disappointment on losing a case, that sensation all barristers experience even after decades at the Bar. It’s a professional risk; in every contested trial there’s always one losing barrister, and there are none who haven’t experienced that sinking feeling in the pit of their stomachs when the jury returns with the “wrong” verdict, confirming that a winnable trial has slipped away.

  Somehow this feels worse. It’s not even the fact that this is such a high-profile case or that its loss might affect his chances of promotion to silk. Plenty of barristers get silk on the back of losing big cases; it’s the prominence that counts and having done a good job despite all. On top of the deflation there’s a sense of … sadness.

  As he sits, Charles’s attention is drawn to a movement at the back of the court. He sees the door closing, but he’s convinced the person slipping out of the courtroom was Sally. Part of him is pleased that she’d want to be there, to see him in action again; it might mean she still has feelings for him. On the other hand, another part of him is sorry; she’ll have witnessed his failure.

  Beaverbrook’s speech takes longer. He reminds Charles of a bulldozer: not fast or pretty, but strong, and he just keeps coming. He runs through most of the evidence, returning time and again to the standard of proof: how could the jury be sure the defendant killed premeditatedly, or even intended serious harm? Although it wasn’t possible to group it, some of that blood in the bedroom could have been, almost certainly was, that of the accused. The Crown cannot prove otherwise. And if so, the Crown cannot disprove self-defence or accident. Either way, how can anyone say they’re sure it didn’t happen as Steele claims?

  Finally, the QC moves to Steele’s evidence. This is what the jury’s been waiting for. Charles has seen it many times before: the jury reach their own conclusions on the evidence but they, the most important of all the actors in court, have no voice until the verdict. So they wait for a champion to put into words, in public, what they’ve been saying to one another in their private discussions in the jury room. Then they will nod and smile their agreement, almost with relief. Charles terms it “jury catharsis.” Beaverbrook doesn’t disappoint.

  ‘Lastly, I want to say a few words about the accused’s evidence. You heard it; it is for you to judge it, but did it not resound with the truth? Can anyone in this court not have heard the love, the desperation in his voice? Can’t you feel just what he felt in those crucial hours as he paced that bedroom, torn between doing what was right in the eyes of the law, and what he believed was right by his young children? Those of us who have children, especially very young ones, we know this feeling. We know that sometimes … sometimes, there is no risk too great, no sacrifice too much.’

  Again Charles feels excluded from a club whose rules he doesn’t understand.

  ‘Mr Holborne says that from the careful, well-executed disposal of the deceased’s body, you may infer that the accused killed his wife in cold blood. He says that all that care and attention to detail point only to cold, calculating evil. I say that it was just the opposite: it was love, love for those children, a love which shone so clearly from every word of his evidence.’

  He pauses, and wh
en he continues, his voice is slow and deliberate.

  ‘There is only one possible verdict in this case, and we all know what it is: not guilty.’

  He resumes his seat, staring hard at the jury, challenging, defying them, to disagree. The silence in the courtroom crackles like static electricity. Then, his voice low, as if not wanting to disturb the atmosphere, the Recorder of London starts his summing up.

  The judge begins with an explanation of the law of murder. It is skilful and scrupulously fair. He explains in a clear, sensible way that no jury could misunderstand and he summarises the evidence simply, drawing together the threads of the Crown’s case and then doing the same for the Defence. Had the jury been hoping for some hint of how he viewed the evidence, they’d have been disappointed. The entire summing up takes less than two hours. Then he asks the barristers if either of them has any points they believe he should have addressed but omitted, and on being informed that there are none, he has the jury bailiffs sworn in and the six men and six women file out to start considering their verdicts.

  The Recorder rises to allow the court to clear. He is to hear a guilty plea while he waits for the jury. Charles turns to Jones.

  ‘What do you think?’ asks the solicitor.

  ‘I think I need a coffee,’ replies Charles, so they go to the public restaurant.

  The room is full of solicitors, barristers, witnesses, defendants and their families. The air is heavy with cigarette smoke, talk of evidence and chances and tension. Jones finds an empty table by the door while Charles collects two cups of coffee. He puts them on the table and takes off his wig, rubbing his hands vigorously through his dark curls.

  ‘He’ll be acquitted,’ he says simply as he sits. ‘I don’t know if I believe him, but I’m bloody certain the jury does.’

  ‘It looked better before the trial.’

  ‘As I said then, we had powerful evidence of disposing of the body, but only just enough for trial on murder or manslaughter.’

  ‘Well, it hasn’t been a waste of time. Judges shouldn’t go around dumping their wives in lakes, even if they didn’t mean to kill them.’

  ‘I agree. It sets a bad example.’

  ‘How long do you think the jury’ll be?’ asks Jones.

  ‘God knows. Ever read A. A. Milne?’ Jones shakes his head. ‘You should. Anyway, juries are like Heffalumps, and as Pooh says of Heffalumps, “You never can tell.” I gave up predicting what juries would do years ago.’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll be long. It’s pretty straightforward, one way or the other.’

  ‘Yes, but what if there’s six one way and six the other? Or even eleven one way and one the other?’

  ‘They should allow for majority verdicts. Having one single juror disagree and cause a retrial is crazy.’

  ‘I agree. It’s also an invitation to corruption. It’s very easy to bribe one or two jurors. There’s talk of a change in the law soon. But not soon enough for us, today.’

  At a quarter to one, the lawyers drift towards No. 1 Court again. The guilty plea has finished and the Recorder has retired to his chambers. An usher approaches Charles and shakes her head.

  ‘They’ve asked for sandwiches. The Judge says he’ll not take a verdict until after two-thirty at the earliest.’

  ‘Thanks,’ says Charles. He turns to Jones who heard the conversation. ‘I think I’ll pop back to Chambers for a while. I’ve done no other work for the last two weeks, and I’ll try to return a few phone calls.’

  ‘Fine. See you later.’

  Charles changes and walks back down Fleet Street to the Temple. Two or three members of Chambers are in, and they stop Charles to ask about the case. He answers shortly, takes the pile of telephone messages waiting for him, and goes to his room to starts working through them. The last surprises him; it’s from his mother. He can’t remember the last time she rang him at work. On the very rare occasion when she does call Charles, she usually rings the flat where she can leave a message with Dennis if necessary. The message is dated from three days before. Charles dials David’s number and his mother answers.

  ‘Hello, Mum, it’s me.’

  ‘Charles. Good of you to call,’ the subtext of which six words say: “I’ve waited three days for you to return my call, but there was no hurry. I’m only your mother, after all.”

  Despite himself, Charles feels impelled to give excuses. ‘I’ve only just got your message. Why didn’t you phone the flat? Is anything wrong?’

  ‘No.’

  Charles senses her struggling with herself. She wants to continue to criticise him — that’s what their relationship is about — but she evidently wants something else too. Immoveable object meets irresistible force, and irresistible force wins. ‘I need your help.’

  My God, thinks Charles, what those words must have cost her!

  ‘How can I help you, Mum?’

  ‘Are you going to shul on Yom Kippur?’

  Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the holiest of all holy days.

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it. I doubt it. I went last week on impulse.’

  ‘Well, if you could have another such impulse, I’d be grateful.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’d be doing me a favour, that’s all.’

  ‘No, I mean: why do you want me to go?’

  ‘I need a reason? I can’t ask my eldest son to do something for me without explaining the whys and wherefores?’

  Charles draws a deep breath. ‘I’ll do what I can Mum. No promises, but if I can get there, I will.’

  ‘Fine, so don’t do me any favours, OK?’

  ‘Got to go, Mum. I’m due back in court.’

  ‘So, go already,’ she says, as if he has been detaining her, and she hangs up.

  Charles makes a further call before leaving Chambers. He picks up a bacon sandwich from Mick’s on Fleet Street and eats it while walking back to the Old Bailey.

  He replays the conversation with his mother in his head. The last time she called with such urgency in her voice was when Harry had a suspected heart attack, a couple of years before. She never does anything without a motive, reasons Charles. And the motive here? Charles isn’t sure, but maybe an olive branch?

  At the Old Bailey, before going upstairs to change, he puts his head into the courtroom. There’s another case in progress. The usher spots Charles at the door and shakes her head. Charles waves in acknowledgment and heads to the fourth floor.

  The robing room is almost deserted, most barristers having returned to their courts by two o’clock. He walks up the staircase to the fifth floor to get himself a coffee, but the pot is still empty after the lunchtime rush. He asks for a fresh pot and installs himself in his favourite seat by the window.

  He picks up a discarded newspaper and opens it, but only pretends to read. He hates this part of the case. Some barristers bring other papers with them and work away industriously while waiting for their juries. Charles can’t do it; he’s unable to concentrate. Particularly on important cases, his mind is invariably drawn back to the trial: to the points in his speech that he might have made just a little more powerfully; to the one question in cross-examination that he could have pursued a bit further; or, more often, to the one question he shouldn’t have asked at all. When he started in practice over twenty years ago, he used to wonder if more experience would end these mental inquests, but it hasn’t. No matter how skilled he becomes, he can always find something he wishes he’d done even slightly differently.

  So he sits there, cursing, because he said something in his speech that hadn’t received its customary nod of approval from a single jury member and he couldn’t work out why. As the waiter brings out a fresh pot of coffee and calls his name, so the tannoy announces that all parties in the case of the Queen versus Steele should return to No. 1 Court.

  Sod’s law again, he thinks. Often, when juries are taking an inordinate time to return with a verdict, he tells all the barristers waiting to order a drink; it invar
iably prompts an announcement requiring them to return immediately to court.

  He thanks the man for the coffee and starts the descent to the ground floor. Verdict or question? he wonders.

  ‘We’ve a verdict,’ says Jones as Charles enters court.

  Charles looks at the clock. Only four and a quarter hours. He is one of the last to arrive. The gallery and the journalist’s bench are already packed and there’s a hushed intensity about their whispers. The barrister’s bench is full of members of the Bar who’d suddenly found a few minutes to spare from their other duties. Charles squeezes along the bench. A couple of barristers he knows, and on whose toes he is treading, pat him on the back or wish him luck as he goes past. He reaches a space and pulls his papers towards him. He glances over his shoulder at the man in the dock. Steele looks thin, and every one of his sixty-one years sits heavily on his shoulders. The usher calls everyone to rise, and the Recorder of London enters court. He sits immediately, as does everyone else in court except the accused. He stands at the rail of the dock, gripping it with both hands, his knuckles showing white.

  The clerk stands, indictment in hand. Charles’s heart pounds, as it always does in the seconds before a verdict is delivered. Despite his predictions, one never knows…

  ‘Would the foreman of the jury please rise?’ asks the clerk.

  A woman from the back row has been transplanted to the front, nearest to the clerk, and she stands. She’s in her thirties, with a sharp intelligent face. She took notes in shorthand throughout the trial, and Charles had guessed she’d vote to convict. The clerk addresses her.

  ‘Please answer my next question either “Yes” or “No”. Has the jury reached a verdict or verdicts on this indictment upon which they are all agreed?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replies in a firm voice.

  ‘On Count 1 on the Indictment, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of the charge of murder?’

  She pauses for a second. ‘Not guilty.’

  There’s a sharp intake of breath round the court, but no one speaks.