At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

– Oh.

  – So. To put it bluntly, Adam has a defence against the allegations about Julia; but that still leaves him in the hotel with a prostitute.

  – That’s utter nonsense!

  Catherine spat the words out so vehemently that the lunch-time chatter from surrounding tables died away. Storman was embarrassed and looked down at his now empty plate. When he looked up again Catherine was staring at him defiantly. He reached over and took her hand, then whispered:

  – Look. Catherine. I know that you want to see the best in Adam but the evidence is all pointing one way.

  She allowed his hand to stay on hers. Her eyes were smouldering.

  – It’s complete rot! Adam’s a bloody fool. But he’s not such a fool as to take a prostitute to a hotel, provide his identification and sign himself in. That’s putting a bulls-eye on his chest or on his … on his … nether regions.

  – But what other explanation could there be, Catherine?

  – I know my husband, Jack. There’s only one person this benefits. And that’s Julia.

  Storman saw the point without the need to argue it further. Once the provision of ID became compulsory, why did Adam persist in going to an expensive hotel and checking himself in?

  – Anyway. There’s no guarantee that Jenny will actually give evidence. I think that’s what Pemberton is counting on.

  – Why shouldn’t she? If she’s gone this far?

  – She still hasn’t provided Julia’s lawyers with a statement. Without that the whole alibi is likely to fall away.

  – Either way I’ll be entitled to a divorce.

  Catherine, still looking into his eyes, was breathing heavily now. She withdrew her hand from his and, with her forefinger, traced figures of eight across the cover of her book. Storman listened to the diminishing hum of fellow diners and the sound of plates and cutlery being collected and stacked, and motioned for two cups of tea and the bill.

  – How’s Deborah?

  She came back from her trance.

  – All right. Well, not really.

  – Why not?

  – I miss her, Jack … and the bombing has eased off in the last month or so.

  – It’s still not safe to bring her back.

  – It’s not just that.

  – What then?

  – That man I mentioned to you. I have a bad feeling about him.

  – Is that all it is?

  – Something in Deborah’s letters doesn’t sound right. I need to go and see her. Talk to her. But it’s impossible to get away before Easter.

  – Can it wait until Easter? We’ll be a bit clearer about the bombing by then. And at least we know she’s safe from that out there.

  – I suppose it can wait until Easter.

  – And it should all be over by Easter.

  He bit his lip a third time. He hadn’t been talking about the war or the Blitz.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  (Thursday 27th February 1941)

  Julia emerged from the church and headed down through Cloisters. From his window in Lamb Building Adam watched her as she went. He picked up his cigarette by the pin speared through the filter and sucked hard until he felt his lips burning, then pulled it away and inhaled deeply before blowing a long trail of smoke out of the open window. The last edge of it caught in his throat and set off a spasm of coughing. He eased the butt off the pin and added it to an overflowing ashtray. Stubs and ash. No wasted tobacco. He opened a desk draw and pulled out a paper bag, then carefully tipped the contents of the ashtray into it before depositing it in his litter bin.

  Cigarettes were a luxury and his intake was increasing. He had started buying Turkish brands. He pulled out a Pasha, put the pin in place, and lit up again. Acrid smoke soon surrounded him before being caught on a slip of wind and slithering out of the window. It was cold outside but even he could not bear the noxious smell. He looked at his watch. Time for the next part of the day’s timetable. Blytheway was striding past the church and up Inner Temple lane, a notebook in hand as he headed over to Court. A clerk would follow with his papers. Once the Court began sitting he would probably go and check for a note from Julia, more out of habit than any expectation.

  He had begun to fit into an almost comfortable routine in his new chambers, and the first time he had recognised this he had felt a shudder as he realised how easy it must have been for Blytheway to watch him each day as he went into the church. He had seen very little of Blytheway since the evening of their dinner. He had been woken the following morning at about 8 a.m. by Caldwell, who brought him a cup of tea.

  – Thank you Caldwell. Is Mr Blytheway still here?

  – I’m afraid he’s left for the morning, sir. He asked me to draw him a hot bath at 6.30.

  – He was up very early!

  – I don’t believe he went to bed, sir. I have taken the liberty of pressing your suit for you.

  Blytheway was striding off to Court by the time Adam made it into chambers that morning. He gave his usual cheery greeting and then was on his way. And that had been the pattern for the following two weeks. Blytheway would come in early, head off to Court most days, and then in the evening a conference would be waiting for him in another case. He had had little time for small talk.

  Adam brushed some cat hairs off his lapels and looked over at the chair in the corner where Delia was sleeping. He had taken to bringing her into chambers when he wasn’t particularly busy. No one seemed to mind. He would only ever do so, however, when wearing one of his old suits. The Jermyn Street one Blytheway had persuaded him to buy was kept for the days when he had clients. He didn’t want to get cat hairs on it. He was going to need it more than ever in the three weeks that lay ahead and so he had taken it to the dry cleaners.

  Novak’s trial was due to start on Monday; the case had been assigned to Mr Justice Sherdley. His own case was to begin the following Monday; no judge had yet been assigned, and the week after, the case of McKechnie versus McKechnie and Bateman was listed for hearing. He had instructed his clerks to put in no new work. He had much to prepare. But in three weeks’ time, one way or another, it would be over.

  It would be over. He felt a pang of sadness at the finality of those words. It was already over. He was fooling himself. It was over between him and Julia. The pain he felt at the thought of her had dimmed to a constant throb. He thought of her walking away from the church that morning, of that vision he had of her rising from her pew and then disappearing into air, and a host of other memories crowded in on him without warning. That first kiss in Middle Temple Gardens; the romantic (he shuddered slightly at the word) way they found to communicate; those days in Green Park before Agnes could speak, and all the afternoons in the Stafford. Times spent in a private universe. But now he could hardly remember the sound of her laughter or the way her voice tinkled when she was happy. It was as though all those memories belonged to someone else. And, in a sense, they did. They were no longer his. And he was going to tell a court that there were no such times, no such memories.

  It was already over for him. His marriage would surely end and he would be ruined financially. Blytheway, who had carefully avoided endorsing Adam’s protestations of innocence, had told him that these things would pass and be forgotten, that his career and his life would carry on. But it did not feel that way to him. He looked around his room. The cat still slept, the remains of some fish-paste in a bowl on the floor. Blytheway had lent him some ornaments, pictures and peacock feathers, and this had imported an elegance to his surroundings which he was unused to. The crystal paperweight was in its usual place on his desk. His collection of paperbacks took up several of his shelves but now, on the bottom shelf, there was a small row of briefs for the weeks ahead, suggesting that life would indeed continue after the end of Pemberton’s claim against him.

  He shook himself. He had to get on with his work. But first he would go down to the Clerks’ Room to check that there was nothing in his tray that needed to be dealt with.

  His t
ray was empty save for a plain white envelope with familiar handwriting across the front. It was from Deborah. He slit the envelope open with a paper-knife and headed back to his room, unfolding the Basildon Bond as he went. It was, for his daughter, a lengthy letter. She wrote at length about her lessons, her day-to-day activities and the friends that she had made. She told him how much she missed him and how she hoped that he and Catherine would get back together soon. And how she missed London and their home in Dulwich. Her writing became increasingly scrawled as the letter continued and Adam realised that she must have been setting her thoughts down late into the night.

  … And Daddy. When I do come back can we get a new kitten? I know that you were sorry about Socks and that Mummy was angry with you about it. But I don’t blame you for it. Really I don’t.

  Oh Daddy, I really want to come home. Mummy says that the bombing has got a lot less bad in the past few weeks and I’m sure I’ll be safe. I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t like it here. My room is really cold and dark and I get scared here at night. I don’t like all the people here either.

  I’m really tired, Daddy, so I better finish now. Please write to me soon. I miss you.

  All my love,

  Deborah xxxx

  Adam stared at the final pages of the letter for a long time. He felt his shoulders sagging and he sat down heavily behind his desk. Then he read the whole letter again. He didn’t know what to do. He would write a long letter back that evening.

  He put the letter into his middle drawer and opened his notebook. On the first blank page he wrote the word “Novak”. He wrote himself an inventory of the case. He had all the evidence that the prosecution was going to rely upon. He had his notes, taken in his old room, on the cardboard cylinder containing the plans of the waterworks, and the bomb-making instructions. He had the statements of Novak and Milo Hoffer and the unsigned statement of Katya Hoffer. Jones had been able to arrange a further meeting at which he, Jones, alone attended with Novak and showed him these documents, but that meeting had yielded nothing of value. Novak was still angry about Adam’s determination to call Katya, and stated again that he forbade it.

  Adam drew a line under these notes and in large bold letters he wrote out the words “KATYA HOFFER”. How did she fit in? Why wasn’t she telling the truth? What had she done? And if she hadn’t done anything, who was she protecting? And why were Novak and her husband protecting her? Adam was convinced that they were. And so, regardless of Novak’s protestations, he had instructed Jones to go ahead and have a witness summons served on her. Jones, with considerable misgivings, had done so, and had taken it upon himself to go out again to Leytonstone. For good measure he had taken a sub-poena addressed to her husband as well. By Jones’s (very detailed) account it had not been a pleasant task.

  The day after his final visit to Novak, Jones had taken the train out to Leytonstone again. It was still light and he detoured into the street where Novak had been arrested. It was part of a non-descript red brick terrace. Looking at the façade shed no light for him on the situation. After staring up at the building for several minutes he proceeded on to Old Kings Road, counting his steps as he went. The two addresses were no more than four hundred paces apart.

  Jones had knocked on the door and stood back a few yards from the front door. It had been opened cautiously by Milo Hoffer, peering timidly from behind the latch stile. Seeing Jones, he had let out a deep breath and opened the door more fully. Jones saw Katya in silhouette behind him, her hair thick and loose.

  – Come in. Come in. Have some tea. What news? What news?

  – Thank you. But no tea for me. I can’t stay long.

  Jones had allowed himself to be shown into the room where some weeks earlier he had interviewed Katya Hoffer. It was unchanged. Katya had not followed them into the room and had moved instead towards the kitchen.

  – Mrs Hoffer. I’m afraid I need to speak to you again. But I will be very brief, I promise you.

  – Come on, Katya. Mr Jones says he won’t be long.

  Katya Hoffer had sidled into the room and, when the light from the window caught her face, Jones was taken aback again by her delicate beauty. She hovered by the door. Jones, who had not taken a seat, went over to her and, with his arm behind her shoulders, ushered her further into the room before closing the door behind him. At the sound of it clicking shut, Katya had started and spun round, a look of panic and fear across her features.

  Jones had taken the summons from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it, bewildered, looking first at the heavy paper and then at Jones before looking back again at the document lying unopened in her hands, cradling it as though it were a wounded bird. Milo Hoffer came across the room to have a look at it, and at that point Jones handed him the second sub-poena. He, as confused as his wife, was the first to speak.

  – What is this?

  – I’m afraid I’ve just served you and Mrs Hoffer with witness summonses.

  He felt himself reddening.

  – It was on the express instructions of Mr Falling, Mr Novak’s barrister.

  – I’m sorry. But I am not understanding you. What does this mean?

  – These documents require you and Mrs Hoffer to come to the Central Criminal Court – the Old Bailey – between Monday 3rd March and Wednesday 5th March to give evidence on behalf of the defence. For Mr Novak.

  Katya screamed and dropped the summons, as though it carried a plague.

  – No! No! I cannot go. I will not go. You cannot make me go!

  Her hands went up to her hair and she began pulling and twisting it. Her shoulders hunched and she bent almost double, letting out a long moan which ended in a sob.

  – I’m afraid you must. If you do not come, you will be forced to attend. The tipstaff will be sent to collect you and you can be put in prison if you do not obey the summons.

  – Prison?

  The word emerged like the pipe of a flute from the hunched-up body. And then

  – Prison!!!

  This time like the bellow of a horn. She straightened up and looked straight into Jones’s eyes. Her face had drained of colour and was contorted with hatred.

  – Prison!!!

  And she ran at Jones and started clawing at his face, trying to get at his eyes. Jones brought his hands up to protect himself and she started pulling at what remained of his hair, screaming and swearing. She had lapsed into Czech and he did not understand what she was saying. Meanwhile, Milo Hoffer was pulling at her, trying to get him off him and saying “Katya” “Katya” again and again.

  Finally, he was free of her. He looked up. Milo had pinned her arms against her sides and she was breathing heavily, her whole body lifting with every breath. Her eyes, red in that white mask, were full of tears.

  – I’d better leave.

  Jones went out into the hall and then left the house. He felt his heart pounding and his body began to shake. He stood for a while to see whether either of them would emerge but the door remained open and neither Milo nor Katya came to say goodbye or even to close the door. Then, after a few minutes, he turned around and headed back to the station. He would have to prepare two affidavits of service. He would keep the details as prosaic as possible and save the full story for Adam Falling. He felt a deep sense of unease at what had just happened. He would tell Falling that as well.

  Jones’s unhappiness had been so palpable that, as he related the story, Adam was seized by uncertainty. He remembered Blytheway’s tutting disapproval of that course of action. But a decision had to be made and he was the one who had to make it. Milo and Katya Hoffer would be at court on Monday. He needn’t call them to give evidence. That final decision could wait. And if he hadn’t sub-poenaed them and Novak were to change his mind on the day of the trial, there would have been no way that Adam could have ensured their attendance at such late notice. On balance, despite the disapproval of Jones and Blytheway, he felt he had done the right thing. He would have one last conversation with Novak in t
he cells under the Central Criminal Court and try, then, to make him change his mind.

  He looked at the page of the notebook on which he had written and circled the words “Katya Hoffer” and realised that he had made no notes but had simply been doodling. He’d sketched out the matchstick outline of a scaffold and noose. His heart lurched and he reached for another Pasha, pinned it and lit it. Then drawing deeply on the offensive cylinder of tobacco, he hurriedly crossed through his scribblings. It looked hopeless for Novak. His defence was that he was innocent. But he had no answer to the body of circumstantial evidence that would, no doubt, be deployed with great skill by Peter Preston KC as he sought to extend his hundred per cent conviction record.

  He turned to a fresh page in his notebook and wrote down the words “Arnold Bateman”. Adam was convinced that Bateman had been having an affair with Mrs McKechnie. If Pemberton persuaded the judge that this was indeed the case, Bateman would have to pay all the costs of an extremely expensive legal battle. The damages could also be astronomical. Only three weeks earlier, in a case called Penny v Penny & Spackman, a doctor had been ordered to pay £1,000 in damages after a twelve-day trial. And ordered to pay the costs of three KCs and four junior barristers. That case had lasted twelve days. Bateman’s costs would not be so high; there was only one KC and three junior barristers. And Falling was doing it for free. But the damages could easily be as high, if not higher. Bateman had £10,000 at his disposal. The fruits of the insurance policy on his wife’s life.

  Roly’s instinct had been to follow the money. But he freely admitted that he knew far less about the case than Adam did. Follow the money? Why not “Cherchez la femme”? In this case “la femme” was Victoria McKechnie. She was McKechnie’s wife and Bateman had been sleeping with her. End of story. So why did Blytheway favour the former analysis? Adam thought back to the night of his dinner. It was at the story of the inquest notes that Blythway’s attention picked up. It wasn’t the lie. It was the reason for the lie. Which was the lie and which was the truth? Was it in the timing of when Marjorie Bateman was run over? Was it in the fact that the Batemans and the McKechnies had been out together that night? Arnold Bateman and the McKechnies had told precisely the same story to the coroner. Had they told the truth? Or were they conspiring together to tell a false story about the timing, or even the cause of her death? Suddenly Pemberton’s throwaway words came back to him: