by Peter Murphy
‘Really?’
‘Well, if Valkov is convicted, it could be argued that it is an article used in connection with the crime. I’m not sure of that. He might oppose it, and I would have to consider whatever he has to say, and in any case, I might not be able to make the order until any appeal has been heard. On the other hand, if he is found not guilty, it would be very tricky. I suppose I could hold him in contempt of court for producing it in court, if I took the view that he was trying to blackmail his way out of the prosecution, and then I suppose the book could be seen as an article used in a contempt of court. But it’s a bit of a stretch, to be honest.’
I see the hope begin to recede again.
‘Is there nothing you could do beyond that?’
I turn my chair away for several seconds. The crucial moment has arrived.
‘Judges have a certain amount of discretion in such matters,’ I reply eventually. This is a slightly optimistic representation of the law, but you do tend to get a lot of latitude from the higher courts when you make an order so obviously in the public interest as the destruction of the black book would be. My instinct is that I could get away with it if I want to.
‘There is so much at stake,’ he reminds me. ‘Family, career, everything really. And not only for me, but for other innocent men as well.’
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘I do understand that.’
There is a long silence.
‘If there were anything you could do,’ he says eventually, ‘I would be eternally grateful, very much in your debt.’
I nod. I thought it would come to this in some form or other. And now I have to make a moral choice. Fate has offered me a rare opportunity. It’s not an opportunity for personal advantage. Obviously, I am not going to ask for a hundred grand in used unmarked notes, or to be proposed for membership of the Travellers Club. But if I could achieve something for the general good…?
‘All right, Jeremy, give me some time. Let me take a closer look at the problem, and see if I can’t come up with a solution. Perhaps I can find some way within the law of ensuring that the book is destroyed.’
He sighs loudly.
‘Thank you, Charles.’
‘Not at all.’
Pause.
‘Jeremy, while you are here, may I mention another matter?’
‘Of course, Charles.’
‘Well, as you know, we had a meeting with Meredith and Jack recently on the subject of the catering facilities here in Bermondsey.’
He looks at me rather strangely, before sitting back in his chair and folding his arms in front of him.
‘Yes, I was discussing that with Meredith again just yesterday,’ he replies slowly.
‘It’s just that I’m not sure that I was able to make my argument to Meredith as clearly as I had hoped. I hold no brief for court kitchens in general. I am talking about Bermondsey Crown Court in particular. I was trying to explain to Meredith that we rely on it to make sure that our jurors and witnesses have somewhere safe to spend their limited lunchtime.’
He nods.
‘No, actually, Meredith understood the point perfectly, Charles. Very bright girl, Meredith…’
‘Oh, yes,’ I reply. ‘First rate. It shows. No doubt about it.’
He is thinking very carefully now, weighing every word.
‘Yes. It may be my fault, Charles, really. I may not have given what she told me quite the weight it deserved. What you are saying is this, isn’t it? Bermondsey has specific problems which may not be shared by all courts. For example, the difficulty of getting a quick lunch without stumbling into some den of crime, and the fact that you are a bit far away from areas which have a decent choice of eating establishments, which could result in chance meetings between jurors and defendants, and could result in delays in the courts sitting in the afternoons.’
‘Exactly,’ I confirm. ‘You have put it perfectly, Jeremy.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Well, that’s exactly what Meredith told me. What probably distracted me is the problem we always have in such matters. Of course, we do have to make sure we get value for money for the taxpayer, and we have to make sure that there is a business case for each of the services provided in our courts. The Minister expects that of us.’
‘Of course,’ I agree. ‘Quite rightly.’
‘Yes, but on the other hand, we have to look at each situation separately. There can sometimes be false economies. And perhaps I didn’t give that as much consideration as I should have.’
He stares up at the ceiling for some time, in contemplation.
‘Looking at it again, Charles, I think you may have made your case. I think I have come round to the view that the kitchen at Bermondsey needs to be kept open. Whatever we are paying by way of subsidy might easily be overshadowed by the consequences of taking the facility away.’
‘I am very glad to hear that, Jeremy,’ I say. ‘I must say, I would be very grateful if that were the case. In fact, I would be eternally in your debt.’
He pauses.
‘Indeed?’
‘Certainly.’
He pauses again.
‘Just so that there is no misunderstanding, Charles,’ he says, ‘are we now in the position that we are mutually in each other’s eternal debt?’
‘I believe we are,’ I reply.
‘In that case,’ he says, ‘I believe we have an understanding.’
He stands and offers his hand. I stand and take it. I escort him to the door.
‘Would you like to stay for lunch?’ I ask. ‘The kitchen should still be open. I am sure we can still place an order. You could sample the kind of fare we can offer our jurors, with your kind support.’
He raises a hand. ‘Oh, no, thank you. Very kind, but I have to get back to the office for a meeting. Another time, perhaps.’
‘I do hope so, Jeremy,’ I reply. ‘You are always welcome.’
Stella is still lurking just down the corridor with the hand-held, incredulous that I have entertained a senior Grey Smoothie without making a record of the meeting. I understand completely. It would usually be a recipe for disaster not to record such a meeting, but what I know, and Stella does not, is that not even the Grey Smoothies want a record of this meeting. I ask her to escort Mr Bagnall to the staff entrance, from which he can make his escape without being seen.
‘I’ll explain later,’ I whisper in her ear while his back is turned, though of course it will have to be a somewhat general explanation.
I arrive in the mess with Elsie’s sandwich at one fifty-five, just as the others are about to leave to get ready for court. But I detain them for a minute or two, just long enough to impart the glad news that the Grey Smoothies have had a sudden change of heart, and our beloved kitchen is safe, at least for now. To my pleasure, though tinged with some feeling of guilt, I am hailed as a hero, and glowing tributes are paid to my skill as a negotiator and diplomat. I am pressed for the details of this notable victory. I fob them off with talk of specific cases, false economies, business plans, and value for money. The only one who seems less than wholly enthusiastic is Hubert.
‘Pity,’ he comments. ‘I was looking forward to having a couple of hours off for lunch at the Garrick.’
* * *
Friday afternoon
At three-thirty, the jury send a note to let us know that they have reached verdicts, and court is duly assembled. Carol orders the defendants and the foreman to stand. The foreman is a woman in her fifties wearing a quite loud red blouse and scarf. Disconcertingly, she conjures up an image of an older version of Meredith.
‘Members of the jury, please answer my first question either yes or no. Has the jury reached verdicts as to each defendant on which you are all agreed?’
‘Yes, we have.’
‘Do you find the defendant Dimitri Valkov guilty or not guilty of being con
cerned in the management of a brothel?’
‘We find the defendant guilty.’
‘You find the defendant Dimitri Valkov guilty, and is that the verdict of you all?’
‘It is.’
‘Do you find the defendant Robert Jordan guilty or not guilty of being concerned in the management of a brothel?’
‘We find the defendant guilty.’
‘You find the defendant Robert Jordan guilty, and is that the verdict of you all?’
‘It is.’
‘Do you find the defendant Lucy Trask guilty or not guilty of assisting in the management of a brothel?’
‘We find the defendant guilty.’
‘You find the defendant Lucy Trask guilty, and is that the verdict of you all?’
‘It is.’
‘Thank you, madam foreman. You may sit down.’
I thank the jury for their service, and order pre-sentence reports in the case of each defendant. I am not asked to make any orders for forfeiture and destruction of the items seized today, as the prosecution will now begin confiscation proceedings to recover as much of the ill-gotten gains as they can. This means that I can defer action on the black book until a later time, when interest in it will, with any luck, have died away and I can have it finally disposed of without attracting attention. In the meanwhile, it will remain in the secure safe, far from the prying eyes of the press.
I am thinking an immediate custodial sentence for Valkov, perhaps just long enough to interest the Home Office in the idea of deporting him back to Russia. For Robert Jordan and Lucy Trask, a suspended sentence or a community order, probably. Given that none of the girls were harmed, and given that the prosecution will seize what assets they have, it seems enough. I find myself hoping that Jordan will find a way to resume his career in the kitchen before too long, hopefully with a little more wisdom about choosing his friends and employees.
* * *
Friday evening
The news of the verdicts is well received at the vicarage of the parish church of St Aethelburg and All Angels in the Diocese of Southwark. Not only do they apparently avert the immediate threat of the disappearance of Bermondsey under a deluge of volcanic ash, but discreet inquiries by the trial judge have established that neither the bishop of our diocese nor any of the priests of our acquaintance are suspected of participation in the corruption and degradation at Jordan’s. I also sense that the verdicts and impending sentences have provided the priest-in-charge with a fitting beginning to her sermon for the coming Sunday, as a kind of update from the world of brothels – hopefully before moving on to a more cheerful subject.
The Reverend Mrs Walden proposes to take me for dinner at La Bella Napoli to celebrate, to which proposal I offer no resistance. We enjoy a fine dinner, starting with spaghetti aglio e olio, going on to an excellent escalope Milanese, and ending with a tiramisu, all accompanied by quantities of a rather good reserve Chianti. She has a lot of questions about the trial, which I answer as best I can, given that some of what I say may be given in evidence from the pulpit on Sunday.
‘What about the girls they found in those rooms?’ she asks. ‘What happens to them?’
‘Some of them may be sent home to wherever they came from,’ I reply. ‘But at least they will be looked after properly as long as they are here. Most will probably just move on to the next place of work. I hate to say it, but the bad part of closing down Jordan’s is that they may not find such a good employer next time.’
‘That’s hardly an excuse for not closing down a brothel, Charlie.’
‘I’m not saying it is. All I’m saying is that if prostitution has to go on, it’s better that the women shouldn’t be abused.’
‘Prostitution is an abuse in itself,’ she insists.
‘That doesn’t mean it’s wrong to hope that further abuse can be avoided.’
‘If you follow that logic,’ she says, ‘you would do what they did in Hamburg and Amsterdam and license prostitution in the hope of keeping the women out of the clutches of criminals.’
‘There are worse ideas, Clara,’ I reply.
She looks at me, and I see the wheels turning in the mind of the creator of sermons. I know her well enough to know that part of her is tempted to agree with me. This is, after all, a woman who would legalise cannabis tomorrow for all purposes, and who believes passionately in women’s rights, and even if she is a vicar, those qualities always shine through. But there is the bishop to think of, even if he is not in the book, and I still doubt that Hamburg or Amsterdam will be praised openly from the pulpit on Sunday. I am momentarily tempted to up the ante by pointing out that neither of those cities has been deluged with volcanic ash thus far, but I think better of it.
She smiles. ‘And what about the men they caught there? What happens to them?’
‘They could be prosecuted,’ I reply.
‘Do you think they will be?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
I shrug. ‘Because, in the greater scheme of things, the police and the CPS have bigger fish to fry. But if it’s any consolation, just being caught in a place like that should be enough to deter most men. They will have had months to lie awake at night waiting for the Old Bill to come knocking at the door when the wife and kids are home, or for some villain to turn up at the office demanding money in return for not sending the black book to the Sun or the Mirror.’
She smiles again. ‘Would that deter you, Charlie?’ she asks.
‘Me? I’m a judge, and I have a wife who is a vicar. I don’t need any more than that to deter me, believe me.’
She nods.
‘So, is that the only reason?’ she asks, ‘just the fear of the consequences?’
‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘Well, perhaps. I was expecting to hear something along the lines of, “I don’t need to go to places like Jordan’s.” But you know, I’m rather glad you didn’t say that.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Because – and don’t quote me on this – even if you would never actually do it, I wouldn’t be offended by the idea that you might fancy a massage with a happy ending.’
I feign outrage.
‘My dear Reverend Mrs Walden,’ I protest, ‘I can’t believe that you would even suspect such a thing. One is a judge of the Crown Court.’
She laughs.
‘So what? Are you so different from other men? ‘
She picks up a bread stick wrapped in paper and waves it at me.
‘Remember John Donne?’
‘John Donne?’
‘“No man is an island.”’
‘“Ah, yes,” I reply. “Any man getting nicked in an upstairs room at Jordan’s diminishes me.”’
She reaches over and pokes me playfully in the chest with the breadstick.
‘“And therefore, never send to know for whom the Belles troll.”’
Another poke with the bread stick.
‘“They troll for thee.”’
Copyright
First published in 2017
by No Exit Press
an imprint of Oldcastle Books
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© Peter Murphy 2017
Editor: Irene Goodacre
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