The Brief: Crime and corruption in 1960s London (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers)

by Simon Michael

  ‘Why don’t you face facts, Peter? Your practice is going nowhere.’ Finch splutters a half-protest but Corbett holds up a finger to silence him. ‘I’ve looked in the diary: you’ve only had two decent court appearances in the last six weeks, and your desk’s almost empty. Don’t tell me you’re doing paperwork, because I know you aren’t. You’re, what, sixty-two, sixty-three? Your practice is winding down and you know it. If you’re going to keep the twins at university for the next two years, you need to get on the Bench. And the cachet of being head of Chambers … well, that would certainly help, wouldn’t it? Principles are fine, but not enough to support kids at university. You’re going to be our next head of Chambers, in a purely civil set, and Holborne will be out. Congratulations.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Charles?’ calls a voice across Essex Court. ‘What on earth are you doing with that old jalopy?’

  Charles withdraws his pounding head from under the rusty bonnet with some effort and squints into the bright morning sunshine. It’s the morning after the party. Back at the flat on Fetter Lane he’d opened a bottle of Scotch, intending just to have a nightcap, but he’d put on the TV for company and by 2 a.m., and the end of a film he’d seen several times before, he’d finished half the bottle. It then seemed like a good plan to phone Henrietta at home to make sure she got in safely. There was no answer. With impeccable drunken logic, Charles concluded not that Henrietta was asleep, but that she was deliberately not answering his calls, so he continued ringing every ten minutes until, at last, he fell asleep in the armchair. Having failed to close the curtains he woke at daybreak and managed to stumble to the bed for another hour’s fitful dozing. Now he is awash with coffee and aspirin, feeling awful.

  The voice is that of Simon Ellison. He’s on the far side of the courtyard, a large bundle of papers tied with ribbon under his arm.

  ‘Oh, hello, Simon,’ replies Charles. ‘Frankly, I begin to wonder. It’s been sitting here for a few weeks and now I can’t get the bloody thing to start.’

  Ellison saunters over. ‘Yes, I spotted it last week,’ he says, arriving at Charles’s side, ‘and wondered whose it was. I didn’t know you tinkered with cars. They take a bit of looking after, these Austin Healeys. And it doesn’t look as though this one’s had much love and attention.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ confesses Charles. ‘It was a bit of an impulse buy. You know, a run-around for when I’m in town? The Inn said I could leave it here for a while till I organised permanent parking.’

  ‘Here, let me have a look.’

  ‘Do you know anything about these things?’ asks Charles hopefully.

  ‘Well, not about Sprites in particular, but a bit about cars,’ answers Ellison. He leans into the car, drops his papers onto the leather passenger seat and returns to look under the bonnet. ‘Have fun last night?’ he asks.

  ‘Not much. Henrietta took the Jag and stranded me.’

  ‘You poor sod,’ replies Ellison sympathetically. ‘’Fraid I’ve no advice to offer there, old chap.’

  ‘You and Jenny seem very happy. How do you manage it?’

  ‘No idea. Probably just good luck. Let’s have a look at this…’

  Charles watches as Ellison inspects the rusting metal to which the distributor is fixed. Ellison grunts with effort and finally shifts the distributor cap. He emerges from under the bonnet and holds it up to Charles.

  ‘I’m not surprised she won’t start. This thing hasn’t been serviced in years. The points are worn so badly they’re almost useless. Look.’ He shows them to Charles.

  ‘Now I know why it was such a bargain.’

  ‘If you want my advice, get yourself a nice new Mini. I’m not sure you’re the sort of chap to be driving a neglected sports car.’

  ‘Here, use this,’ says Charles, handing Ellison a screwdriver. ‘You’ll never turn it with your fingernail.’

  Ellison fiddles with the points for a minute. ‘There,’ he says, ‘let’s try again. It may not get you as far as Buckinghamshire, though.’

  ‘I’ve only got to get it to the flat for the moment. 150 yards.’

  ‘I heard about your little London pad. Very convenient,’ says Ellison, nudging Charles in the ribs.

  ‘Nothing like that,’ replies Charles with a tired laugh. ‘It’s just for those nights when I finish too late to get back. Or can’t get home for any reason. If I work till ten or later there’s no point waiting half an hour for a train just to get home by midnight, by which time Henrietta’s already asleep, just to get up again at six.’

  ‘Why move out so far then?’

  ‘Force majeure. Henrietta wanted to be nearer her pals, and her parents.’

  ‘You’re near Thame, aren’t you? I ride near there quite often.’

  ‘You must pop in some time, then. We’d like to see you and Jenny.’

  ‘Just give us a date, tell us how to get there, and we’ll come.’

  Ellison replaces the points in the distributor and, without closing the cap, sits in the car to turn the engine over. Charles watches the distributor as he does so.

  ‘It’s opening,’ calls Charles. ‘Let’s try starting her.’

  Ellison gets out again and joins Charles at the front of the car.

  ‘Been busy?’ asks Charles.

  ‘No. Far too quiet in fact. Keep it under your hat, but I may be leaving Chambers soon. I’ve applied for an appointment.’

  ‘What, you too?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Well, best of luck, your Honour.’

  ‘I’m not counting my chickens, but it’s looking promising. I got great support from McDowell J.’

  ‘How long before you know?’

  ‘Shortly. Right,’ concludes Ellison, ‘do you want to get in and turn over the engine?’

  Charles climbs in and turns the key. The engine coughs into life. He revs a few times and leans out, the engine ragged, but running.

  ‘Well done!’ he shouts. ‘I owe you a pint! I’ll be off, before she stalls again,’ he says, and closes the door. He hands Ellison his papers through the open window and moves off.

  Five minutes later Charles drops the car keys on the shelf in the hall of his tiny apartment, reaches immediately for the telephone and dials.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Henrietta? It’s me.’

  ‘Yes, Charles.’

  Charles pauses to see if she mentions her premature departure from the party. She doesn’t.

  ‘I’m just calling to see how you are.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, dear. I’m very well, thank you. Are you still in London? I half expected you to call from the station last night.’

  ‘No. I … I had hoped we might spend the day together, here.’

  ‘No, sorry, Charles, but I have plans. I’m not coming back to town.’

  Charles peers down at the sparse traffic on Fetter Lane. The city is wonderfully quiet at weekends and he’s disappointed. Before the events of the night before, he’d planned everything: a lazy morning in bed with coffee and newspapers; Brick Lane for fresh bagels; the National Portrait Gallery and, if the weather was good enough, a walk by the river and a romantic meal at a new restaurant in Soho.

  ‘I did mention spending the day in London,’ he reminds her gently.

  ‘You did mention it, yes. But I didn’t agree.’

  ‘But if you didn’t want to do it, why didn’t you say? We could’ve done something else.’

  Charles hears her sigh. ‘I just didn’t want another fight,’ she says.

  ‘Fine. So there’s no point my coming back to Thame, as you won’t be there anyway.’

  ‘Well, on and off, but basically, no. I’ve a tennis match this morning, and I said I’d pop in to see Mummy afterwards. You go and do whatever it is you wanted to do, and I’ll see you Monday night. Call and tell me which train you’re on if you want collecting from the station.’

  ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘And, by the way, I’v
e been meaning to tell you: I’ll be away next weekend. I’ve been invited to Shropshire.’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘With friends, Charles. I have some, you know? I’m not cross-examining you about your plans for this weekend, am I?’

  ‘How’s that the same?’ demands Charles, his voice rising in frustration. ‘I want us to spend the weekend together, so why on earth would you cross-examine me about it? You, on the other hand, are proposing to go away on your own — or at least without me — and you won’t tell me with whom.’ He hears, and hates, the whine in his own voice.

  ‘Please don’t shout, Charles. I’m enjoying a tranquil Sunday morning, and I don’t want any of that.’

  Charles draws a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm. There’s silence from the other end of the line. ‘Are you still there, Henrietta?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Do you have nothing else to say?’

  ‘Not really, no. If there’s nothing else —’

  ‘Oh, Etta —’

  ‘Bye Charles.’

  The line goes dead.

  Charles replaces the receiver. He stares out of the window for a while and then looks round at the papers on the small dining table, a two-day fraud listed for the following week. He makes a decision, picks up his jacket and keys again, and leaves the flat.

  The day is fresh and sparkling and a warm breeze off the river speaks of summer around the corner but, as Charles walks along Lower Thames Street towards the Tower of London, he is lost in contemplation and barely aware of his surroundings. For the first time he wonders if his marriage is unsalvageable. The thought appals him. There has never been a divorce in the Horowitz family; indeed, Charles can think of no Jewish family among his parents’ circle which had ever suffered the shame of a divorce. He imagines his parents’ reaction were they ever to hear that he and Henrietta had parted. Well, that’d certainly end any prospect of a family reconciliation, he thinks grimly; after all the pain their union had caused, he didn’t think he could tolerate a lifetime of “I told you so”s.

  He pauses at the railings in front of the Tower and watches for a few moments as a squabbling unkindness of ravens hops about the battlements. He is asked to take a photograph of an American tourist family and obliges distractedly before walking on towards Whitechapel.

  Blooms, the kosher restaurant at Aldgate, is doing brisk trade. A group of black-hatted Hasidic men emerge onto the pavement as Charles passes, talking volubly in Yiddish and gesticulating, reminding Charles of the ravens, and he smiles sadly to himself. Blooms, an East End institution, used to be a special Sunday morning treat for the Horowitz family. Millie and Harry took the boys, usually with another family or two from their synagogue, and they’d push together three tables at the rear of the restaurant. The rudeness of the harassed waiters and the size of the enormous portions were legendary, and the group would dally for up to three hours over chicken soup (“with everything”), cholent or Vienna sausages and chips for the children, lokshen pudding and tall glasses of sweet lemon tea. No one cared if the group of children at the far end of the table made a noise or got in the way of the waiters. It was often dusk by the time they emerged, their throats sore from cigar smoke and shouting over the din.

  Charles resists the impulse to go in and assuage his woes with nostalgia food. Instead, he continues past Aldgate East station and turns north up Osborn Street into Brick Lane. For a century this was the hub of East End Jewish life, as successive waves of immigrants arrived from the Levant and North Africa, Russia and Eastern Europe, but over the last couple of years Charles has noticed an increasing number of Pakistanis moving into the area, initially single men but now, three or four years later, entire families. The first curry house opened recently and both the clothing of the people on the street and the produce in the shop windows are now more multi-coloured and varied. Intriguing cooking smells assail Charles as he walks north and he is suddenly hungry. He quickens his pace.

  Halfway up Brick Lane he enters a kosher bakery and joins the queue. The place, famous throughout London, serves fresh-baked bread and bagels twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, to an ever-changing population that includes local residents, builders, taxi drivers, nurses and policemen coming off duty, students and, late at night, opera-loving refugees from Covent Garden in top hats and tails.

  Charles orders two plain bagels and is about to leave the shop when someone speaks.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Charles turns to see a slender dark-haired woman in her late twenties with pale skin and very large almond-shaped eyes. She carries a grey duffel coat over her left arm, a plastic cup of coffee in her left hand and a large bag of fresh bread clutched in the crook of her right arm. She wears a slightly embarrassed smile.

  ‘Yes?’ answers Charles.

  The woman’s smile broadens and she nods. ‘Charlie Horowitz. I’ll be dammed. I thought it was you. And you don’t recognise me, do you?’

  Charles frowns and studies her face more closely. It’s a pretty face, and there is indeed something familiar about her wide mouth and her large eyes, but Charles cannot place her.

  ‘I forgive you,’ she says. ‘I expect I’ve changed in the last sixteen years. I was eleven when we last met. You were eighteen, and just off to join the RAF.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, but I can’t remember…’

  ‘Rachel,’ she says, managing to extricate her right hand and offer it to Charles. ‘Rachel Golding.’

  Charles searches his memory. A very faint bell of recognition rings about the name — friends of his parents? — but not about its owner. She’s very striking and he thinks he’d have remembered her had they met before.

  ‘We went to the same school, and chaider,’ she explains, referring to Jewish Sunday school.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rachel, I remember the name but … how on earth did you recognise me after all this time?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s something to do with the dreadful crush I had on you,’ she says with disarming candour. ‘To you,’ she continues, ‘I was a plump little girl, if you noticed me at all, which you obviously didn’t. But you were the success of the school — flying ace, and then Cambridge, yes? — and then a barrister. Everyone was very proud of you. And our parents still meet at shul so your name comes up every now and then. “Holborne” now, is that right?’

  Charles smiles apologetically. ‘It is.’ They leave the shop together. ‘Which way are you…?’ asks Charles.

  Rachel looks at her watch. ‘I’ve only got another fifteen minutes. So, back towards Whitechapel. You?’

  ‘I’m just wandering. Mind if I walk with you?’

  ‘That’d be nice.’

  They set off southwards, back the way Charles came. ‘Only fifteen minutes?’ asks Charles. ‘Do you have an appointment?’ He hopes not; Rachel intrigues him.

  ‘I have to get back to work. This is my lunch hour.’

  The bag of bread in Rachel’s hand tips over suddenly but Charles catches it as it falls.

  ‘Thank you! It’d be a lot easier if I put this on —’ she indicates the coat on her other arm — ‘but I didn’t expect it to be this warm.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll carry it. So, what do you do?’

  ‘Well, I’m working in the Whitechapel Gallery for the moment.’

  ‘Oh, I read about that,’ replies Charles. ‘Haven’t you got that bloke…?’

  ‘David Hockney? Yes, the exhibition opened last week. You should come.’

  ‘Only if you explain it to me. What do they say? I don’t know anything about art, but I know what I like. But I’m not even sure I know what I like.’

  ‘You’re asking the wrong girl, Charlie. I doubt I know more than you. It’s not my day job. I’m just filling in for a friend.’

  ‘Oh, OK. What is the day job?’

  ‘I dance. Well, I danced. I went to the Royal Ballet School.’

  Charles hears deep disappointment in her voice. ‘But?’

 
‘I was the corps at London Festival Ballet.’

  ‘And...’ prompts Charles.

  ‘Sorry, I assume everyone knows. Well, basically, they’re going bust, so most of us are out of a job. A friend offered me some hours at the gallery, but it’s only part-time, and only temporary. Unless something comes up soon, I’ll be back at my mum and dad’s. I don’t have next month’s rent.’

  They walk in silence for a while, Rachel taking careful sips of her coffee every few steps. ‘Anyway,’ she says, forcing a smile, ‘now I have before me the famous Charles Holborne, DFC, Barrister at Law: so how are you? Rich? Famous? Happy? Rich? Did I mention rich?’

  Charles laughs. ‘You remind me of a joke my dad used to tell, about a Jewish tailor knocked down crossing the road. A policeman runs over and puts a jacket under his head and asks him “Are you comfortable?” The tailor replies: “Well… I make a living.”’ Rachel laughs. ‘And, well,’ he shrugs, ‘I make a living.’

  ‘I like your dad,’ comments Rachel.

  Charles nods. ‘Yes, most people do.’

  They turn left onto the main road. ‘But not you?’

  ‘It’s … complicated.’

  Rachel stops. ‘I heard. In fact my parents went to the shiva. I’m so sorry, Charlie. That must have been really hard.’

  Charles looks down at her thin, almost waif-like face and her enormous brown eyes full of concern. He’s about to make a glib comment, but as he inhales to speak he feels a sob catch in his throat. ‘God, sorry, I really...’ he says, confused and embarrassed, ‘that took me by surprise. It’s been a difficult few weeks. Few months actually.’

  Rachel puts a sympathetic hand on Charles’s arm. ‘I noted you didn’t say anything about happy.’

  ‘No. Maybe that’s it. Things are … like I said, difficult. At home.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. Look … I know this is a terrible way to leave things, but I’ve got to go.’ She points and Charles realises they’ve arrived outside the gallery.

  ‘No, of course…’

  ‘I feel so rude. I haven’t seen you in half a lifetime and I’ve managed to make you cry!’