Charles scoops up his papers and other burdens and brushes past her. ‘Where’s —’ he starts, but Fiona has closed the door and disappeared towards the rear of the house.
Charles drops his things onto the Italian tiled floor and climbs the stairs to Henrietta’s dressing room — another innovation he doesn’t like. When they moved in, to a house he thought too large and ostentatious for the two of them, it at least had the advantage of two spare bedrooms. Then Henrietta decided that she required a “dressing room”, which had metamorphosed into “her” bedroom, now with an en suite bathroom, where she sleeps half the week on account of her “bad heads” and the demands of his late-night working.
‘Oh, there you are. You’re late.’ Henrietta stands at her dressing table, trying to fasten a necklace. ‘Here, do this for me, will you?’ she says.
She’s in evening dress, her long chestnut hair piled in a complicated style on top of her head. The dress is cut very low at the back and Charles sees that she’s not wearing a bra. As she approaches Charles and hands him the necklace, he smells the perfume he bought her for Christmas with the proceeds of the indecency plea at Bedford Assizes. Almost everything they own, with the exception of gifts from her family, are the indirect proceeds of crime, and it amuses him, and irritates Henrietta, to identify their belongings by reference to the crime that paid for them. Thus, last year’s holiday was courtesy of the fraud at the Old Bailey; Henrietta’s dress, the one she is wearing, came from the armed robbery at Canterbury. Who said crime didn’t pay?
‘You smell good,’ he says.
‘Thank you.’
He finishes fastening the necklace and kisses the nape of her neck. She moves away without response.
‘You, on the other hand, look dreadful,’ she comments, looking at him through the mirror of her dressing table while inserting her earrings. ‘Late con?’
‘Yes. That buggery I told you about.’
Henrietta shakes her head. ‘I bet half the Temple covets your practice, Charles.’ She disappears into the bathroom.
‘Look,’ he replies, calling after her and flopping onto her bed. ‘I’ve had a hard day. Can we save the shabbiness of my practice for the next row? We’ve the whole weekend free, if it’s important to you.’
‘I still don’t understand why you won’t move completely into civil,’ she replies from the bathroom. ‘You’d earn more and keep up with the paperwork without working every night. Daddy says you’ve the mind for it.’
‘How nice of Daddy,’ says Charles, under his breath. Then, more audibly, ‘I’ve explained this hundreds of times. Criminal work is important. Everyone’s entitled to a proper defence, especially those at the bottom of the pile who can’t afford to pay for it. You forget: I was there once.’
He stands and follows her into the bathroom. She’s straightening her stocking seams before a full-length mirror.
‘Fine words,’ she says, ‘but I’m not convinced you really believe them. I think if you really examined your motives, you’d find you just love the grubby excitement of it.’
Charles slides his arms round her from behind and cups her breasts. “‘Grubby excitement”? But you used to like a bit of rough.’
She sighs. ‘Once, maybe; not now. Take your hands away please. You’ll mark the silk.’
‘“Had a hard day, dear? Have a drink and I’ll massage your shoulders. Dinner’ll only be a few minutes”,’ says Charles with heavy irony, but he removes his hands as requested.
‘Fuck off, Charles,’ she says, walking past him out of the bathroom and beginning to search through her wardrobe. The words somehow carry added venom when spoken so beautifully, and by such a beautiful woman. Charles trails after her and sits on the bed again, watching her bare back and slim hips, hating her and wanting her. She finds what she’s looking for: a fur coat, a gift from her father for her last birthday.
‘Etta,’ he says more softly, using what had once been his pet name for her. ‘Please can we stop fighting long enough for you to tell me where we’re supposed to be going?’
She turns to him, her face a picture of scorn. ‘We aren’t going anywhere. I’m going to Peter Ripley’s do with Daddy. It’s been in the diary for weeks.’
‘What?’
‘Charles, for God’s sake, don’t pretend you didn’t know about it. I asked you over a month ago if you wanted to come, and you made it plain in your usual charming way that you wouldn’t — and I quote — “voluntarily spend an evening with that bunch of pompous farts”. Close quote. So I made an excuse to Daddy as usual and agreed to go with him. Mummy’s away till next week. Ring any bells?’
Charles nods. He doesn’t remember the exact words he used to decline the invitation, but he’d have to plead guilty to the gist. This particular “do” is the dinner to mark the end of Mr Justice Ripley’s last tour on the Western Circuit before retirement. All the judges and barristers practising on the circuit are invited and, of course, Charles’s father-in-law, the erstwhile head of his Chambers and now also a judge on the same circuit, will be present. In the absence of Martha, Henrietta’s mother, who is visiting her sick sister in Derbyshire, Charles and Henrietta rather unexpectedly received an invitation.
Charles often attempts to explain to Henrietta why he hates these dinners. It’s not that he doesn’t know which fork to use or how to address a waiter. It’s just that the Judges, the Benchers, their wives, the High Sheriff and so on all share a common background; they went to the same schools and the same universities; they play cricket in the same teams, attend the same balls, know the same people. Charles can “busk it”, be convivial, pretend to show interest in what, or who, they are talking about, but it’s an act. The sons of Jewish furriers from Minsk by way of Mile End just don’t mix well with the sons and grandsons of the British Empire. Charles may have cast off his Jewishness while at university but he knows he’ll never be one of them. And when he is persuaded to attend, he often returns home from the event hating everyone there and, for some reason he can’t explain, himself as well.
Henrietta has read his mind. ‘Tell me something, Charles: what made you choose a profession where you’d feel such an outsider? And why, if you wanted to do criminal work, did you accept Daddy’s invitation to join a mainly civil set of chambers? You talk about “tribes”, which you know I think is complete rubbish, but then you deliberately join those which are guaranteed to make you uncomfortable. And then you complain!’
‘You don’t understand. If you’d grown up —’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she interrupts. ‘If you mention the Jewish thing once more, I’ll puke. Your father may have grown up in Bow or wherever it was, but it’s hardly the Warsaw ghetto. And not everybody’s an anti-Semite. I’m not Jewish, remember, and I married you. The only person who’s conscious of your religion is you.’
‘You can’t possibly be serious. Do you suppose for one minute I’d have got into Chambers had you not committed the dreadful faux pas of marrying me? Half the members of Chambers can’t stand me.’
‘I doubt that, but if it’s true, it’s nothing to do with your religion. Every time you upset someone, it’s never your fault; it’s theirs because they’re anti-Semitic. It’s the perfect self-defence mechanism.’
Charles stands wearily, pulling off his tie. ‘Can we please leave this one for now, Henrietta? I’ve had a particularly difficult day.’
‘Yes, we can leave it for now, Charles, because I’m off. I believe Fiona has made something for you to eat but, if not, I suggest you walk to the pub in the village.’
She sweeps past him, checks, and returns to plant a kiss on his cheek. She’s about to move off again, but Charles grabs her forearms. He looks hard at her, shaking his head slightly, a puzzled and pained expression on his face. Henrietta looks reluctantly up into his eyes and holds his gaze for a second. Then the armour of her anger cracks; she bites her lip and looks away, no longer resisting his hold on her.
‘I don’t know, Charlie,’ s
he says softly, in answer to his unspoken question. ‘I wish I did.’ He pulls her gently towards him, wanting to put his arms round her, but she pushes him away and runs from the room. Charles listens to the rustle of her dress and the sound of her feet flying down the stairs, and then the slam of the front door. He doesn’t hear her crying as she drives away.
CHAPTER TWO
Bow Street Magistrates Court is a beautiful Victorian building, almost directly opposite the Royal Opera House and a stone’s throw from Covent Garden, but it’s shabby and it smells. The corners of the entrance hall are littered with rubbish and cigarette ends, and it stinks of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies. It’s been raining hard since dawn and the lobby is packed with defendants, witnesses, lawyers, policemen and reporters sheltering from the rain, and, as Charles enters the lobby, he is suddenly struck by a smell reminiscent of a damp sheep pen — wet wool.
The lobby heaves with people, far more than is usual for even a busy Friday. Charles recognises a colleague from chambers in Kings Bench Walk and pushes his way through to him.
‘Morning, Matt. What’s this circus all about?’
‘Oh, hello, Charles. I’ve no idea, but I’m trying to get my plea on before it kicks off. What’re you here for?’
‘Nothing much,’ replies Charles vaguely, but his colleague is not listening.
‘Oh, there’s my instructing solicitor! See you.’
Charles elbows his way to the door leading down to the cells, presses the bell, once only, as the grubby notice pinned to the door requires, and waits. There’s a long pause. In the distance, from the other side of the door, he hears the jangling of heavy keys. The wicket in the door slides open and a face appears.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have a couple of prisoners named...’ Charles pauses and scans his notebook for his potential new clients’ names, ‘Plumber and Sands?’
The officer checks a list of names on a clipboard in his hand. ‘Yes. They arrived a few minutes ago. And you are?’
‘Counsel.’
The wicket closes and Charles hears fumbling with keys. The door swings inwards.
‘Come in, sir,’ says the officer. He closes the door behind Charles, and leads him to another constructed of heavy steel vertical bars. ‘I’m afraid both interview rooms are occupied, so you’ll have to speak to them in the cell.’
‘That’s all right, I shan’t be long.’
‘Down on the left,’ points the officer, ‘last door.’
Charles leads the way down the narrow corridor. As he passes the penultimate cell he looks through the open wicket. Sitting on the wooden bench facing the door is a good-looking well-built man of around thirty wearing prison uniform and the cropped haircut of a convicted prisoner. As Charles goes past, the man leaps to his feet.
‘Charlie!’ he shouts. ‘Charlie Horowitz!’
Charles stops in his tracks and backs up a couple of paces. ‘Reggie? What are you doing here?’
Reginald Kray had been convicted nine months earlier of involvement in what the newspapers called a “Chicago-style protection racket”. It was ironic; he and his twin ran the most violent and successful protection racket in London, but on this particular occasion Reggie was almost certainly innocent, a fact which hadn’t prevented his conviction. He is now halfway through an eighteen-month prison sentence.
Reggie Kray approaches the door and leans towards the wicket to speak confidentially. Charles can only see the bottom half of his face. ‘Applying for bail, pending appeal,’ he says in a fast, low voice. ‘Look, Charlie, do us a favour, would you? It looks as though they’re taking me up first, but my brief’s not arrived. Can you do the application on my behalf? It’s all settled; Old Bill ain’t objecting.’
Charles has known the Kray twins for almost twenty years. He was a teenager when he first laid eyes on the two identical boys, all knobbly knees and grubby defiance, when they were first brought to the Rupert Browning Institute, the boxing gym at Elephant and Castle where Charles and his brother David had been training and fighting in junior championships for a couple of years. The twins matured into good boxers — Reggie could have had a professional career had he wanted — and for a while he and Charles shared the same trainer, an ex-pro named Charlie Simms. Charles hasn’t seen either of the Krays in person for over a decade. The break with his family was the last straw, and he closed the door on his former life in the East End. He has no wish for that door to be re-opened.
Charles leans into the wicket to reply. ‘I’m sorry, Reggie, but I’ve got my own clients here today. And I’m not allowed to take over the case when you’ve already got a barrister instructed. But —’
‘Fucking hell, Charlie —’
‘But … but, I’m happy to see what’s happened to him, maybe even get the case put back till he arrives.’
Reggie pauses, swallows, and nods. ‘Thanks. But it ain’t a “him”; it’s a her.’
‘Really?’ says Charles, surprised. There are only a handful of women at the Bar and very few indeed who practise in crime.
‘Look, Ronnie’s upstairs somewhere. He’s got her details. Go have a word with him, would you? For old times’ sake? I’d really appreciate it.’
Charles doesn’t want Reginald Kray’s appreciation. Like many in the East End, the Krays have a strong sense of obligation. If you do them a disservice — or “take a liberty”, as Ronnie Kray preferred to express it — they won’t rest until they’ve exacted revenge. On the other hand, if you do them a favour they’ll feel equally obligated to repay it. Favours from the Kray twins are the last thing Charles needs. He has enough trouble facing down the daily snobbery and prejudice evinced by most of his colleagues without creating the impression he’s friends with major-league criminals. So he hesitates. On the other hand, he tells himself, what harm can be done by having a word with the court clerk about the listing? Every barrister does it, jockeying to get their cases on first, or last, depending on whether they’re in a hurry or need more time with their client.
‘OK. No promises, but I’ll see what I can do after I spoken to my clients.’
‘You’re a diamond, Charlie.’
‘No promises, Reggie,’ repeats Charles.
The officer, waiting patiently by Charles’s side, continues down the corridor and opens the next cell door.
‘Counsel to see you,’ he says to the occupants.
One, a short, stocky man with short hair and a long pink scar slanting from his eye to the corner of his mouth, looks up from the bench opposite the door. The second paces back and forth nervously. He’s taller than the first and might once have been powerful, but what muscle he possesses has turned to slack, grey flab.
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to lock you in, sir,’ says the officer. ‘You know where the bell is, if you need me?’
‘Yes,’ replies Charles.
The door clangs shut behind Charles and the key turns in the lock. Charles draws a deep breath to introduce himself and immediately wishes he hadn’t. As his practice becomes more established, he finds himself less frequently in the Magistrates’ Court and he’s forgotten the appalling stench of these cells. There’s nothing like it on earth. There are the usual odours of sweat, stale food and faeces, but here there’s another component, something bitter, sharp and completely unmistakable: fear. By the time a prisoner reaches trial at the Assizes, he’s seen the Crown’s case, met his barrister and worked out his defence; he’s calm, ready for battle. On the other hand, arrested men in the Magistrates’ Courts often come directly from being interrogated; sometimes they’ve been lifted straight off the streets after a fight or a chase. They’re often drunk or high, their adrenaline’s pumping and they’re frightened and angry, sometimes raging. They still smell of the chase, and they’re the animals at bay. Charles’s theory is that, over the centuries, that smell of fear has saturated the pink porous bricks of these Victorian cells.
Charles peers into the lavatory bowl set into the floor next to the bench.
It’s full.
‘We’ve asked them twice tae flush it,’ says the seated man in a strong Glaswegian accent, seeing Charles’s expression. ‘They’re too busy.’
Inmates are provided with no method of emptying the bowl for fear they may hang themselves with the lavatory chain. It’s evident that this one’s not been emptied for some time.
Charles presses the button on the wall and shouts through the door. ‘Gaoler!’
There’s a pause and a voice calls: ‘Are you finished, sir?’
‘No, but would you please flush this toilet?’ There’s no reply, but a few seconds later the toilet flushes.
‘Thank you,’ calls Charles.
He turns to the two men. ‘OK. My name’s Charles Holborne of counsel. Mr Ralph Cohen was at the police station last night, and was lined up to hold your hands while you were interviewed.’
‘We ain’t been interviewed yet,’ says the taller man in a deep Cockney rumble.
‘And yet you’ve already been charged, and here you are,’ comments Charles. ‘Doesn’t that strike you as unusual?’
‘Not if they’ve already made up the interviews,’ says the Scotsman simply.
‘The officer in the case is a bloke called DI Wheatley,’ explains the other. ‘He’s a verbals specialist.’
Charles nods. The willingness of Detective Inspector Wheatley of the Metropolitan Police to fabricate false confessions, “verbals”, has made him notorious within the criminal fraternity. A cunning and arrogant policeman with an upright bearing and a military manner, he is marked out for promotion due to a sparkling clear-up rate, courtesy of his preparedness to make up shortcomings in the prosecution case by concocting or planting evidence. His suspects have a tendency to suffer accidental falls down the cells steps before they reach the safety of the Magistrates’ Court; one actually died while “assisting the police with their enquiries”.
The Brief: Crime and corruption in 1960s London (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers) Page 2
