Walden of Bermondsey

by Peter Murphy

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know what they think. That’s up to them.’

  ‘Is it, Mr Valkov? Or is it that this black book was your insurance policy?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You understand perfectly. You were prepared to threaten to expose these men if you were prosecuted, which was what you attempted to do yesterday.’

  ‘No. I only say, look who these men are. Such men would not come to Jordan’s if there is brothel. These men have legitimate massage only.’

  ‘Legitimate massages using feather dusters and vibrators, Mr Valkov?’

  No reply.

  ‘Done by two naked young women?’

  Emily begins to stand, halfheartedly, to object, but Piers has already sat down.

  Robert Jordan gives evidence next. Predictably, he tells the jury exactly what he told the police in interview. He agreed to allow Valkov to open a massage business in the upstairs rooms, partly to avoid having them lying empty, and partly to make some money to convert them into private dining rooms. He insisted that the massage business should be kept entirely separate from the restaurant, and that there should be no advertising on or near the premises. As far as he knew, Valkov was running the business exactly as agreed. He had no idea that sexual services were being provided, though he now accepts that they were, and when he found out he was devastated. If he had known, he would have put a stop to it immediately.

  He has to admit to being, at least, grossly incompetent on the matter of massage and alcohol licensing. He seems anxious to assume the mantle Valkov has created for him – the somewhat unworldly culinary genius, leading a lonely life in the kitchen and somewhat out of touch with the realities of life outside the kitchen. Despite Susan’s expert use of questions, it doesn’t come across as entirely convincing. His history, including his stint on ‘Britain’s Got the Best Chefs!’ doesn’t suggest a lack of worldliness, and neither does the money flowing into his bank account.

  Wisely, rather than try to dismantle the defence of his enforced isolation in the kitchen, Piers takes him on about the money, and within a short time, Jordan is having some trouble reconciling the amounts he was actually receiving with the amounts he might reasonably have expected from a business offering no more than legitimate Swedish massage. The protestations about his preoccupation with his culinary creations begin to wear a bit thin.

  Piers takes exactly the same tack with Lucy Trask, and after some probing, she is also hard pressed to justify her sudden boost in income in terms of conventional massage therapy. As a final touch Piers gently raises the question of the fifty pound bungs to the taxi drivers, and the precautions taken to enforce a dress code for the girls. All of this takes us until one o’clock.

  When I check my computer on arriving back in chambers, the number of emails has risen to twenty-six. I do a quick check: still no one actually named in the book. How all these people have got my judicial email address is something of a mystery, but there they are. Fun as it was the first time, I have a summing-up to prepare and other work to do, and I simply don’t have time to call all these people one by one, just to reassure them that Dimitri Valkov hasn’t entered their names in his black book.

  An idea comes to me. On impulse, I reply to the first email – from the Chief Executive Officer of a City investment bank – with an email of my own, which consists simply of the word ‘no’. That should be clear enough, I think, but if anyone doesn’t get the message he can write again and say so. It is, of course, possible that one or more of these correspondents wants to discuss some other subject entirely, but in that unlikely event they will let me know. Emboldened by the first experiment, I deal with all the other emails in the same way.

  And so to lunch, an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos.

  Legless is rather subdued today, despite the relief I was able to provide to him yesterday. But Hubert is in fine form.

  ‘Charlie, I do hope you don’t have any members of the Garrick in that black book of yours,’ he says. ‘That wouldn’t do at all. The Secretary would have something to say about that.’

  ‘First of all, Hubert,’ I reply, ‘it’s not my black book. And secondly, I’m afraid Valkov seems to have omitted to record his clients’ club memberships in his list. Rather careless of him, I would agree, as it’s such an essential detail, but as a result I have no idea whether any of them are members of the Garrick or not.’

  ‘Oh, I could tell you,’ Hubert says. ‘If I run my eye down the list, I could tell you straight away.’

  ‘I daresay you could, Hubert,’ I reply, ‘but that would get us both into a lot of trouble.’

  ‘What are you going to do with the book?’ Legless asks.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I admit. ‘I think it may rather depend on what verdict the jury returns in Valkov’s case.’

  ‘I think you should order it to be forfeited and destroyed,’ Legless says.

  ‘I’m not sure I have power to do that unless he is convicted,’ I say.

  ‘I would assume the power, if I were you,’ Legless suggests, ‘and ask questions afterwards.’

  ‘I’m not sure that would look very good,’ I reply. ‘What do you think, Marjorie? You’ve been awfully quiet about it all.’

  Marjorie looks up from her lunch for the first time.

  ‘If it were up to me, Charlie,’ she replies with a certain suggestion of venom, ‘I would leak the whole bloody list to the Sun and have done with it.’

  ‘Marjorie doesn’t approve of Jordan’s,’ Legless grins.

  * * *

  Thursday afternoon

  Checking my computer before going back into court, I see that I have a number of emails which say ‘thank you’ in response to my ‘no’, from which I conclude, to my relief, that I have made my point without having long and awkward telephone conversations with them all.

  After a short discussion of the law, we are ready for closing speeches. By now, the issues the jury has to decide are clear, and Piers lays them out for the jury. There is no doubt, he tells them, that a brothel was in operation in the upstairs rooms at Jordan’s; there is no doubt that it was a very profitable concern; and there is no doubt that all three defendants shared in the profits. The question is who knew what. The offences of managing a brothel and assisting in the management of a brothel require proof of knowledge on the part of a defendant that the premises were in fact being used as a brothel.

  While there is no direct evidence that the defendants were spending time upstairs to witness the goings-on themselves, the circumstantial evidence is compelling. In Valkov’s case, Piers says, it is particularly compelling. It is clear from his own evidence, as well as his bank account, that upstairs was his project. He decorated and furnished the rooms. He hired the masseuses. He paid them and regulated their conditions of work. The notice in six languages, Piers suggests, is a deliberate smoke screen to make it appear that he was alive to the dangers, and did everything in his power to keep it all above board. The evidence, Piers insists, contradicts that. It is not to be believed that, when the police show up with a warrant at a random time, they find each of the four rooms being used for the provision of sexual services at the same time, the doors unlocked, and yet none of those downstairs has a clue what is going on. The mere presence of condoms and vibrators in the rooms speaks for itself.

  If there were any doubt, Piers concludes, it is removed by the black book, which Valkov himself describes as a cliché – a feeble attempt at humour, which has backfired on him. You don’t keep a black book, in the cliché sense, to keep records of the clients of a legitimate massage parlour. You keep a black book to record names of men who are compromised, men who would be damaged if their names were to be revealed. That points inescapably to a brothel.

  As to Robert Jordan and Lucy Trask, Piers takes a more restrained approach. Jordan’s management, he concedes, is limited to providing the space, al
lowing clients to access upstairs from the restaurant with some discretion, allowing Valkov to operate the brothel upstairs without proper licensing, and allowing alcohol to be supplied from the bar as required. The most telling point, Piers says, is the money. No one with Jordan’s sophistication could have imagined for a moment that the money he was receiving on a regular basis was the profit from a legitimate massage enterprise. At the very least, he knew enough to make him ask questions, and if he had asked questions he would undoubtedly have found out the truth about upstairs.

  The case against Lucy Trask is very similar. But in her case, she also had direct dealings with the clients and with the taxi drivers who brought them, to whom she paid a fee for that service on behalf of the house. It is a nicely judged speech, and at the end of it, it is difficult to see an obvious way out for the defendants.

  Emily Phipson has a difficult task. Not only must she try to create an aura of doubt around the prosecution’s case against Valkov; she also has to overcome what must be her natural desire to drag Valkov personally to the nearest lake and hold his head under water for as long as it takes. Valkov ambushed Emily, as he did everyone else, by his deus ex machina stunt with the black book, and in the barrister’s list of offences by clients, there are few, if any, as grievous as that. Clients may lie to you and make life difficult with their instructions, but to pull a stunt like that in the witness box during his evidence may be unforgivable. Forget that it does the client nothing but harm, as is the case here; it also puts counsel in an impossible position, because unless and until it clearly appears otherwise, counsel is deemed to know and approve of the evidence given by her client and the manner in which it is given. It is bad enough that the evidence is fairly strong against Valkov. But Emily also has to find some semblance of an enthusiasm which she almost certainly does not feel.

  She does, I must admit, a pretty good job. She doesn’t pretend that the evidence is not at least very suspicious. It shows that, if not actually aware of what was going on, Valkov must have been the most incompetent, negligent manager in the long annals of that profession. But is it not possible, she asks, that he was cruelly deceived by those he trusted? Is it not possible that his limited exposure to them at Benny G’s led him to be too trusting, and that they shamelessly took advantage? Would Valkov have risked doing such damage to a man whom he regards as a creative genius, and for whom he has such obvious respect? Is it not more likely that it was a venture which started out innocently and with perfectly good motives, but which got out of hand because of Valkov’s failure to discharge his responsibilities? There is a difference, Emily concludes, between active wrongdoing and incompetence, and the jury cannot be sure that it is not a simple question of incompetence. Not once does she mention the black book.

  Susan and Aubrey are competing to see who can distance their client the most from Valkov. If it were not for the money, one suspects that it might not be too difficult to do. Susan’s depiction of Robert Jordan as the obsessed and distracted chef who rarely emerges from his artistic studio in the kitchen is actually very believable. One can imagine that, having employed someone like Valkov – and, for that matter, Lucy Trask – he would feel free to do what he does best, and leave the day-to-day running of the restaurant to those he is paying to do it. But the money will just not go away. Nor will the fact of two obvious and gross licensing violations for which Jordan is personally responsible, and which would very likely have resulted in his restaurant being closed down, even if there were no brothel upstairs.

  Aubrey paints Lucy Trask as an innocent abroad, out of her depth in the murky world of late night restaurants and bars, a young woman who was given responsibilities beyond her maturity and experience; who naïvely believed that booking clients in for massages and making cash payments of fifty pounds to taxi drivers was all in a day’s work for a restaurant receptionist. The trouble is that Lucy didn’t come across as particularly naïve when she gave evidence; in fact, she seemed distinctly wise in the ways of the world.

  They are both valiant efforts, but one feels that the defence ship has been holed below the water line.

  I will sum up tomorrow morning. I return to chambers to find that I have some further words of undying gratitude in reply to my monosyllabic messages of relief. I also have several new emails to deal with. Having now got the hang of it, I begin to work my way through them, one by one, with my cheery ‘no’, when I suddenly come face to face with the case I had dreaded. In my in-box is an email from a man whose name is recorded prominently in the black book. Not only that, it is the name particularly well known to me, the name that rang the loudest bell.

  I swivel my chair around and stare at the wall for some time. I had been dreading this situation in the abstract because I had been unable to see any palatable way of dealing with it. But now that I am actually confronted with it, I see all too clearly that there is in fact only one course of action open to me. I call the number he has left, and invite him to visit me in chambers tomorrow at lunchtime, by which time I shall have sent the jury out. He accepts immediately.

  * * *

  Friday lunchtime

  The summing-up is not one of the most difficult of its kind. I sail through it and get the jury out just before eleven-thirty. Returning to chambers, I answer ‘no’ to the remaining inquirers whose names do not appear in the black book. There are no new emails in my in-box, and I suspect that the initial panic caused by the revelation of the black book may have subsided. I then sit back and meditate at length about how to conduct the meeting which is about to take place. It will require delicate handling, but I feel strangely optimistic about it.

  My visitor arrives on time. Stella has escorted him to chambers, and has brought her hand-held recording device with her. I understand why, but at the door, I tell her that neither she nor the device will be required. She looks puzzled and is poised to protest. But I insist gently, and she retreats. I escort Mr Jeremy Bagnall CBE to his seat in front of my desk. His grey suit is immaculately pressed, but he seems tense and subdued.

  ‘Charles,’ he begins tentatively, ‘thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’

  ‘Not at all, Jeremy. What can I do for you?’

  Silence, then a deep breath.

  ‘It’s about this black book that’s come to light during your trial.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Pause.

  ‘Well, it’s obvious that this Valkov fellow is a bit of a villain, and you never know what they can get up to…’

  ‘Very true, Jeremy,’ I concede, ‘though as a matter of fact, the jury is out on Valkov just now – literally, I mean, not just figuratively.’

  I rather enjoy that one. The jury being out on something is classic Grey Smoothie-speak.

  ‘Yes, of course. But even so… well, anyway, one can’t exclude the possibility that one’s name might be used by someone who’s up to no good. I may be a mere civil servant, but one’s name does get bandied about here and there sometimes. Especially with getting the CBE and everything, you know… one is something of a public figure, inevitably. When I heard about the black book, I thought back and tried my best to remember, and I do seem to remember having dinner at Jordan’s once or twice, you see. I can’t be absolutely sure, but I think so. No more than once or twice, certainly. Probably with my wife, though I can’t remember exactly. We had heard that the food was good, and… but I had no idea of what was going on upstairs, naturally.’

  I nod. ‘Naturally.’

  He is showing no sign of adding to what he has said.

  ‘Jeremy, are you asking me whether your name is in Valkov’s black book?’

  Pause.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am. If you are allowed to tell me.’

  I consider for a few moments.

  ‘Jeremy, there’s no easy way to say this. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but I’m afraid your name is in the book.’

  He more or
less collapses back down into the chair and loosens his tie. He is breathing heavily, and for a moment I am afraid he may be having a heart attack. Not, I think, the reaction of a man who has been caught out having a Swedish massage. But as the minutes go by, his breathing returns to normal and all I see is a man who has had the stuffing knocked out of him, and doesn’t know where to turn.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he whispers, finally. He repeats it several times.

  I pour him a glass of water from the carafe on my desk, which he acknowledges with a nod of the head. He drinks, just a sip at first, then the whole glass. I refill it.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ he asks. I’m not entirely sure whether he is speaking to me or himself, so I do not reply immediately.

  ‘Think of my job, my career,’ he continues in a similar vein. ‘If this becomes known to the Minister, the Lord Chief Justice… I may be ruined…’

  Again, I wait.

  ‘And then, there’s my wife. We have our thirtieth wedding anniversary coming up in two months. What am I going to tell her? There are our children to consider…’

  He seems to be losing himself in his thoughts now. I decide to bring him back to earth.

  ‘Jeremy, let’s think about this for a minute or two,’ I say. ‘At the moment, no one has any idea whose names are in the book except for myself and Dimitri Valkov. I don’t imagine he has shown it to anyone else. No one else has looked at it during the trial, and no names have been mentioned during the trial. So at the moment, there is no reason for anyone to find out.’

  ‘But what about after the trial?’

  I sit back in my chair. That’s a good question. I have been searching my mind for an answer to it ever since Legless made his suggestion about destroying the book, and I’m not sure I am much further forward.

  ‘To be honest, I’m not entirely sure,’ I admit. ‘In certain circumstances, I may have the power to order it to be forfeited and destroyed.’

  For a moment, I see hope reborn in his eyes.