‘God bless you, Cyril.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
When Anselm came to London he usually stayed with the Augustinians in Hoxton. Sometimes, however, as on this occasion, he booked a guest room at Gray’s Inn, his former legal home. The practice kept fresh his associations with the Bar; and it afforded an opportunity to see Roddy his old head of chambers. Having studied the Riley papers on the train, Anselm trudged up the narrow wooden stairs to his former place of work. It was evening.
Roddy had just purchased what he called a long blue smoking jacket. He sat with his legs extended, looking like a waterbed in a sari. After some chat about hypnotism as a means of trouncing addictions, Anselm said, ‘Do you remember the Riley trial?’
‘It was the only case you ever did with Elizabeth.’
‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘She remarked upon it recently’ He reached for a large carved pipe. Austrian,’ he said proudly ‘Made of bone.’
Anselm hesitated, letting his mind whirr and clank. When it stopped he perceived that Roddy already knew of the trial and its significance for Elizabeth. With this in mind, Anselm explained about the key, the red valise and the letter to be read after he’d met Mrs Bradshaw Throughout Roddy packed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, prodding it occasionally with his thumb or a knife. Gradually creases gathered across his forehead, revealing agitation and surprise, as if he’d missed something he ought to have foreseen. Anselm’s conclusion snapped into place: Elizabeth’s confidence had not been given to Roddy beyond the trial. It was staggering – for Anselm and for Roddy: she’d held something back from the man who’d nursed her career like a father.
‘It’s been a very long time, Anselm, I’ve forgotten what happened.’ Roddy lit a match as if it were the opening of a ceremony ‘Tell me about Riley… that ruined instrument.’
‘Frank Wyecliffe sent the papers down to chambers for a conference,’ said Anselm. ‘Three teenagers said they’d met Riley at Liverpool Street Station. He’d offered them somewhere to stay free of charge. His story was that when he’d come to London, no one had been there to help him, that he’d spent months in a burnt-out bank near Paddington, that he wouldn’t wish that on anyone else, that people needed a break. They could think about rent once they were earning, and not before. So they moved into this house at Quilling Road in the East End. All he wanted was the contact details of someone they trusted with their lives – in case they did a runner. Then he gave them a key and he left them alone.’
While Anselm spoke Roddy struck matches, stroking them over the bowl.
‘Every now and then he’d come round and ask them how they were getting on, whether they’d found work yet,’ said Anselm. ‘Then, gradually things changed. They’d see him at the end of the street, milling around. Same thing at night. He’d just be standing there, rubbing his hands to keep warm. Then he’d be gone. And later, when he came to the house, asking how the search for work was going, he never said anything about having been in the area the week before. That was how it went on: they’d see him outside, near a street lamp, but then he’d be gone, turning up a few days later, and always at the same spot, as if he was waiting – sometimes in the morning, sometimes at night. Eventually they went out to ask him what was going on.’
On the train to London, Anselm had read several times the witness statement of a girl called Anji. She had recounted the confrontation with Riley:
‘Why do you keep hanging around?’
‘Because I’m frightened.’
‘What of?’
‘Not for myself.., for you lot.’
‘Us?’
‘Yes. Each of you.’
‘Why?’
‘The owner of the house is tired of waiting, and he wants his rent.’
‘You said this house was yours.’
‘No I didn’t, I said I had a house. It’s not mine. I’m just the rent collector… for him.’
‘Who?’
‘The Pieman.’
‘What?’
‘The Pieman… that’s what he calls himself He has lots of houses and he likes his rent. I let you use this one because I felt sorry for you. I thought that once you got settled in you’d have the money and we could smooth things over. But you’ve been slow and he’s found out. The Pieman’s not happy. That’s why I’m worried.’
‘How much does he want?’
‘What he’s owed.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Three thousand three hundred.’
The girls were stunned and angry. They swore and shouted. Riley said, ‘I’m here whenever I can to hold him back if he turns up, but this can’t go on. The best thing is to start making a contribution.’
They said they were off, that they were paying nothing to no one. Riley told them, ‘I wouldn’t do anything silly if I were you. The Pieman begins with those you trust. First of all he takes it out on them. Then he comes for you. And he’s a way of finding those who owe him. And I wouldn’t be standing out here, night and day, if I wasn’t worried what he might do. The best thing is to get some quick money, and in the meantime, I’ll calm him down.’
Anselm gave the gist of Anji’s evidence to Roddy At its conclusion, Roddy asked, ‘Who, pray was the Pieman?’
‘I said it was a load of nonsense, but Elizabeth thought I was wrong. She said this figure was very real for Riley, which was why he could make an abstraction so terrifying.’
Roddy opened his mouth as if to say ‘Ah,’ but nothing came out. Anselm continued with his narrative.
‘One of the girls ran off and turned up at the night shelter where George Bradshaw worked. They got talking. She left but came back a week later with the others. They told Bradshaw about Riley and the Pieman and he urged them to make a complaint. If we are to believe Bradshaw, he appreciated that these girls would have difficulty persuading a jury to believe them. They’d all committed offences of dishonesty. Their credibility would be an issue. So Bradshaw persuaded them to go back to Quilling Road. Only this time, he joined them when Riley was due to collect the rent. It was a sort of sting: in the event, they said they were leaving and that provoked Riley to make threats within Bradshaw’s hearing.’
‘Where was he?’
‘In one of the bedrooms. Apparently Riley refused to go up the stairs… he wouldn’t even go near the bottom step. He always made them come down to the hall.’
Roddy chewed his pipe. ‘How peculiar.’
‘So Riley was in deep trouble,’ continued Anselm. A witness of impeccable character would corroborate the girls’ evidence. There was no reason to doubt him except for one significant consideration: Riley, too, had no previous convictions. Bradshaw was therefore of central importance.’
Another match flared in Roddy’s hand.
‘When I arrived for the conference, Elizabeth was already there with Riley She listened while I went through the statements with him.’
Riley came to Anselm with a flash: wiry limbs, the jaw chewing minutely ‘He was calm, even though his defence was based on conjecture: that the girls had framed him when he’d kicked them out for rent arrears; that Bradshaw had been the pimp who’d lost out, which explained his involvement in the scam.
Roddy examined the bowl of his pipe. ‘What did Elizabeth make of that?’
Anselm had found a summary of Elizabeth’s words scribbled on the back of a witness statement – made by himself at the time. ‘Words to the effect, “Mr Riley, I am very familiar with people who pretend to be one thing when in fact they are another; and with people who lie, and they rarely do it without very good reason. If these witnesses did not know you, if by some marvel you received remuneration arising from their work without them realising it, then perhaps we might find a technical route off these charges. But since that does not apply, in order to promote your defence we are going to need far more than ingenuity”’ Anselm paused, as if he were in the room again, stunned by her contempt. ‘It was terrific.’
‘What was hi
s response?’
‘He was smiling.’
‘Smiling?’
‘Yes, and Elizabeth said, “If I may respectfully say so, you do not appear to appreciate the gravity of the situation in which you find yourself” The smile had gone from Riley’s face but he was simmering. He said, “You’re wrong there. I know exactly what position I’m in.” If Elizabeth had thought he’d buckle and plead, she was wrong. There was going to be a trial.’
Roddy tapped his pipe upon an ashtray ‘He sounds like many of the gentlemen I’ve had the honour to represent.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’ll have to leave it there. I must commandeer a few words to explain away a point-blank shooting. Tell me the rest tomorrow.’
3
‘The case started all right but then went badly, although it seems that the decline itself was a strategic decision – because your mother was responsible.’ Mr Wyecliffe was lodged on one side of a table in a public house near Saint Paul’s. His small head was sunk into the collar of his overcoat. Nick leaned away from the encroaching confidence. ‘The first witness was the youngest, a kid under sixteen. I saw her in the corridor tattooes above each ear. But she ran off.’
‘Where?’
‘No idea. But that meant that the first charge was in the bin: encouraging a minor or something into the profession, if I might use that word.’ He sipped at his pint. ‘That was bad news for the Crown and good news for us.
‘I don’t follow’
‘It was the easiest allegation to make out because they didn’t have to prove procurement or intimidation. Encouragement is enough. The Crown was on the back foot, so to speak, and it was then that your mother seemed – I stress “seemed” – to help their case. The witness in question had, shall we say, a complicated past: not one that would promote trust in her word. But if I wasn’t familiar with forensic technique, I’d have thought that your mother reviewed it to evoke sympathy Take a look yourself. These are my notes of her cross-examination.’ He opened his notebook and passed it over. Nick read the surprisingly neat transcription, almost hearing his mother’s voice, her reluctance and her understanding.
‘Anji, you’re seventeen?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve been very brave this morning, telling the court how you came to work on the street – I hope you don’t mind if I use that phrase.’
‘You can call it what you like.’
‘Thank you. I’d like to ask you a little about what happened before you came to London.’
‘Eh?’
About Leeds.’
‘Whatever.’
‘You ran away?’
‘So what?’
‘You ran away from Lambert House, a care home?’
A prison.’
Anji, I’m not going to rake over what happened. This court understands that the places which ought to protect children sometimes fail. Your honour, let me make it plain that__’
Mr Wyecliffe coughed. ‘Do you see that bit about Lambert House?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, the place was eventually closed down because of its moral failings. Now, the prosecution would have been saving that information about the witness for after the defence cross-examination. That way the jury’s last memory of the girl would be sympathetic – because it gave a handle on the running, the lying and the thieving that was to come. But your mother spiked that by getting it in first. It showed she was being fair even as she was stealing the prosecution’s only card. Do you see?’
Nick drew his chair away from the table and continued reading.
Afterwards you ran away from the Amberly Unit?’
‘Yeh?’
‘And then Elstham Place?’
‘And?’
‘Anji, there are nine other projects from which you absconded, aren’t there?’
‘I never counted.’
Nick let the notebook fall. Mr Wyecliffe was examining his beer glass. ‘Tastes mild this stuff but the specific gravity is 5.6. You have to be careful.’
‘Why would my mother… seem to evoke sympathy?’
‘Because she didn’t want to alienate the jury.’ He wiped froth off his moustache. ‘The bedside manner would draw them on side.’
‘How do you know it wasn’t genuine?’
‘As a woman, as a human being, of course she felt for the kid,’ said Mr Wyecliffe, with mock impatience, ‘but as a lawyer that sort of thing becomes part of how you handle a trial. She could make it serve another purpose – to help the client.’
Nick hadn’t quite appreciated that this was the sort of manoeuvring his mother had been obliged to perform if she was to win a case. He turned over the page and his attention latched on to an exchange that Mr Wyecliffe had marked with an asterisk:
‘Anji, you told the court that Mr Riley said, “The one to fear is the Pieman. I’m just the rent collector.” What does the Pieman look like?’
‘I’ve never seen him.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘Nah.’
‘Well, is he in London, or far off?’
‘He’s just round the corner, like, keeping an eye on us all the time.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Mr Riley says so.
‘Have you heard his voice?’
‘Nah.’
‘Why are you frightened of someone you’ve neither seen nor heard?’
‘Cos of what he’ll do if he catches us.
‘What’s that?’
‘He says that when you’re asleep, lying there, with your head all still, the Pieman comes up with a poker.’
‘A poker?’
‘Yeah, and he’ll bash you, just once.’
‘He’s after you, is he?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re in the care of social services at the moment, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re safe, aren’t you?’
‘Nah, cos he knows how to find you, no matter where you are, and he always comes at night, after you’ve closed your eyes. You can’t be looked after all the time, you know. He just watches, like, waiting for your eyes to drop, and when no one’s looking and it’s really dark, that’s when he comes.’
‘Through a window?’
‘Maybes. Wherever there’s an opening. He doesn’t need no keys or nothing.’
‘Anji, from what you’ve said, it’s as though the Pieman is like a bad dream. Is that right?’
‘Yeah, but it’s real.’
‘Thank you, Anji, you’ve been very helpful.’
Nick closed the notebook and handed it back to Mr Wyecliffe. His mother’s work had always been a remote activity: the facts were usually interesting, but it remained on a neutral platform where she’d ‘represented’ someone in ‘a trial’ with ‘evidential difficulties’. Reading the actual questions and answers within their context removed the staging. Each move was determined by one objective: to win. Nothing was sacred, save the rules of the contest. Even compassion was a tool. Nick said, ‘Do you know what happened to George Bradshaw?’
‘I do not.’
‘Do you know what happened to his son?’
‘I do.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘The matter was reported in several newspapers.
‘Who showed you?’
Mr Wyecliffe eyed his beer, admiring the question. ‘Can’t say much,’ he said. ‘Client confidentiality.’
They were back to where they’d started from when Nick had first taken a seat in that dim, stifling office.
On the pavement Mr Wyecliffe whistled at the cold. It came funnelling down Newgate Street from the direction of the Old Bailey. The office blocks were slabs of grey with occasional squares of dim light. ‘I suppose you know Mr Kemble?’
‘Yes.’
‘In a class of his own.
‘Yes.’ Nick, however, thought of his mother and father holding hands upon Skomer. The sea was often wild and the wind could make you shake. It was a wor
ld away.
‘Seen him recently?’ Mr Wyecliffe’s breath turned to fog.
‘At the funeral.’
‘Of course.’ He sniffed. ‘I suppose you mentioned your mother’s triumphant performance on Mr Riley’s behalf’
‘I did not.’
Ah.’ That seemed to be the answer he expected. ‘Do you mind if I ask am odd question?’
‘No.’
Mr Wyecliffe’s head sank into his collar until it seemed he had no neck. ‘Did your mother ever mention the Pieman after the trial?’
‘No.’
‘Thought not.’
‘Why do you ask?’
He thrust his little hands into capacious pockets. ‘Silly question, that’s…’
‘-why you keep out of court?’
Mr Wyecliffe voiced his surprise. ‘Exactly’
4
George switched on his torch and counted the scratches on the wall. While he’d been waiting for the monk, his mind had kept returning to Lawton’s Wharf, for it was there, to the sound of the river, that he and Elizabeth had planned their campaign.
‘You are avenging those girls, George.’
That’s what Elizabeth had said the first time she’d stood on the landing stage.
‘When you walked out of court you left them behind.’
She could be harsh, if she wanted.
The day before, a Friday, she’d said, ‘I’d like to see where John fell.’
They’d walked from Trespass Place to the Isle of Dogs. Side by side, they followed a dark, angular lane that ran between tall, silent warehouses, and beneath hoists like old gibbets. Presently, they reached an immense open space fronting the river: the premises of H amp; R Lawton and Co (London) Ltd. All that remained was a brass nameplate fixed to the perimeter fence with a coat hanger. The railings were loose, held upright by sheets of mesh wiring. George and Elizabeth passed through a large gap, as John had probably done. They picked their way over the remnants of a flattened warehouse into a chill off the Thames. Moving ahead of George onto the landing stage, Elizabeth said, ‘You are avenging those girls, George.’ The waves slapped against the timbers. ‘When you walked out of court you left them behind.’
The Gardens of the Dead fa-2 Page 7
