‘I’m not crying,’ answers Charles, flushing.
‘Now you’re embarrassed too and I feel really terrible! Look … I know this is going to sound very forward but I’d really like to carry on talking — only if you want to…?’
She darts over to a rubbish bin, throws her coffee cup in it, and returns to Charles’s side. She reaches into her duffel coat pocket and pulls out a pen. ‘I haven’t got any paper…’
Charles puts out a hand. ‘I’d like to. Put your number there.’
Rachel stares hard at Charles’s face, takes his hand and scribbles a telephone number on his palm.
‘I’ll never wash again.’
‘Then don’t bother calling. On the other hand, if you do wash again you have my permission to call,’ she said. ‘If you’d like to.’
Charles returns her steady gaze. ‘I would like to.’
‘Good.’
Rachel grabs the bag of bread out of Charles’s arm, waves, skips across the pavement and pushes open the door to the gallery. Charles turns to leave but feels a hand on his arm. Rachel spins him round and plants a kiss on his cheek. This time she blushes.
‘Waited sixteen years to do that,’ she confesses. ‘Bye.’
CHAPTER TEN
The “Mafia”, otherwise known as The Barristers’ Clerks Association, doesn’t need many formal meetings. There are several watering holes in and around the Temple where most nights (and quite a few lunchtimes) groups of criminal clerks congregate to share gossip, discuss lists and list officers and report on the rising young stars, the grand old men and the fading lights of the Bar. The “Guvnors”. The operation of this bush telegraph is informal and extremely effective. Most clerks know long before any official announcement who is about to “be made up” — become a Judge — and who is having an affair with whom.
The term “Mafia” is not altogether inappropriate either. Barristers’ clerks are powerful enough to dictate the course of the careers of their guvnors. Everyone knows at least one story in which the clerk ruins the practice of a good barrister on the grounds of offence taken at a chambers party, a perceived slight to the clerk’s wife or simply a personality clash.
One of the most popular watering holes is the “City Squash and Tennis Club”. Stanley has never played squash in his life and last held a tennis racket at the age of fifteen but then, despite its name, strenuous sports do not figure large in the Club’s activities. Its principal attraction, at least as far as Stanley is concerned, is its selection of twenty-five whiskies.
On this particular evening, Stanley only popped into the Club for a quick one before catching his train home. Rita, his beloved, has extricated a promise from him that he will, finally, repaint the bathroom, and woe betide him if he returns late. He chats for a few minutes to a number of clerks he knows quite well, and downs the rest of his drink. As he’s about to leave, he recognises a familiar face. Peter McPhee clerks a set of common law chambers in Essex Court. He and Stanley are old mates, having come into the Temple as juniors together thirty years before. McPhee waves at Stanley as he bustles up to the bar.
‘Have another, Stan,’ he suggests, somewhat out of breath. ‘I’ve some interesting gossip.’
Stanley regards his watch. ‘I can’t stay, Peter. I’ve got to get the six-fifty.’
McPhee leans over and looks at Stanley’s watch. ‘Plenty of time,’ he concludes. ‘This won’t take long. It involves one of your ex-guvnors,’ he adds tantalisingly.
Stanley is hooked. ‘OK,’ he concedes. ‘Just a single. Highland Park.’
Peter obtains the drinks and the two men move away from the bar to a side table.
McPhee lights a cigarette, exhales a lungful of smoke, and leans forward confidentially. ‘I’ve just bumped into your favourite barrister,’ he says. His words are almost lost in the chatter of the drinkers and the click of snooker balls from the tables behind them. Stanley looks puzzled.
‘Ivor Kellett-Brown,’ announces McPhee with a flourish.
‘My God, I thought he was dead. Wasn’t he dossing in Temple Gardens?’
‘He was. I saw him myself only ... what? Eighteen months back? He was evicted by the Inn when he couldn’t pay his rent. Nutty as a fruitcake, always talking to himself, shouting at thin air, you know. One of my juniors once saw him addressing one of the statues on the Embankment as “My Lord”.’
Stanley grins and takes another a sip of whisky. He looks again at his watch.
‘Anyway,’ continues McPhee, ‘the point is, he’s come into some money. Quite a lot of money from what I could tell. He’s driving a brand-new MG Princess — almost ran me over actually — and dressed up like Fred Astaire, tails, spats and all.’
‘Good heavens,’ replies Stanley. ‘You sure it was him?’
‘I spoke to him. He was parking in the Temple and I had to jump out the way. When he got out, I recognised him and said hello. He remembered I was your mate and asked how you were.’
‘Is he back in practice?’ enquires Stanley, suddenly fearful that Kellett-Brown might reapply to Chambers. ‘I thought he’d packed up originally because of poor health.’
‘That’s what I’d heard, but he reckons he was never ill at all. I tell you, Stan,’ and here McPhee leans over even further and drops his voice almost to a whisper, ‘he’s barmy. He said, straight out, that he was being blackmailed.’ McPhee leans back in satisfaction, his punchline delivered.
‘Blackmailed? Who by? And for what?’
McPhee shrugs and throws back his drink. ‘He said it was someone in your chambers, and that they had a nasty shock coming to them. He was ranting on and on; it was like lighting a firework. I’d just asked if he was recovered enough to go back into practice, and he was off like a greyhound,’ says McPhee excitedly, mixing his metaphors. ‘“There was never anything wrong with me!” he stormed. “I was forced out by that blackguard!”’
‘“Blackguard?” Who says “blackguard” these days?’
‘Ivor Kellett-Brown does. And he was shouting, weird stuff, like “Retribution shall be mine!” I was reminded of me old vicar. He had the same wicked look in his eyes, too. Then, without another word, he storms off, still ranting to himself.’
‘And you’ve no idea who was supposed to have been behind all this?’
‘Well, there’s the thing. How many “Jew-boys” have you got in Chambers?’
Stanley stares at his colleague, mouth open. ‘Holborne?’
McPhee shrugs, hands outstretched and open in a passable imitation of Fagin.
‘That’s enough of that, Peter,’ says Stanley, sternly. ‘Even in jest.’
‘No, you’re right. Sorry. I’m not, you know, anti-Semitic. And from what I hear, your Mr Holborne’s a decent bloke.’
‘He is, Peter. Which is what makes this so odd. I’d never have him down as a blackmailer. And what on earth could he possibly be blackmailing old K-B about?’
‘No idea,’ replies McPhee. ‘I ’spect it’s all in his head. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know. Gotta run.’ McPhee replaces his glass on the counter and pats his friend on the back. ‘See you,’ he says, and he disappears into the crowd.
Stanley remains where he is for a moment, idly examining his empty glass. Then he remembers the time, picks up his briefcase and runs for the door.
A tall man with a hat pulled low over his eyes watches Stanley’s departing back from a nearby table. He also knocks back the last of his drink, picks up a robes bag and slips out of the bar.
Henrietta weaves her way unsteadily through the hubbub and the guests to the far side of the room, oblivious to the contents of her champagne glass slopping over the edge and down her forearm. Her face is flushed and her eyes sparkle. She wears her hair up, accentuating her lovely neck and shoulders, but a few strands have escaped and fallen over her eyes. She reaches her destination but stops suddenly, unable to see the person she’s been seeking. She frowns and squints around, sweeping her wayward hair back over her forehead with an im
patient gesture of her free hand. She eyes a group of men standing in a tight circle to her left. Most of the male guests are in dinner suits and are difficult to distinguish from the rear, particularly to someone who’s drunk almost two bottles of champagne. Henrietta appears to recognise a member of the group and turns rather unsteadily towards him. She giggles to herself. She creeps up behind a tall man with a broad back and fair hair, slips her hand up the back of his jacket and pinches his bottom.
The man whirls round, jogging Henrietta’s arm in the process and causing her to lose the final drops of liquid in her glass.
‘Henrietta!’ he hisses severely, but with a smile on his lean face. ‘Behave yourself!’
She shrugs and laughs. ‘I want to dance,’ she pouts, taking hold of his arm and tugging at him. ‘Oh, come on, Laurence, you’ve been talking for ages.’
Henrietta beams an unfocused smile round the group of men she has interrupted. One or two of them smile back politely.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ replies Laurence Corbett, turning away from the group slightly, ‘can’t you be even a little discreet?’
‘No one minds,’ she protests. ‘Why do you think Polly invited us both?’
Corbett lowers his head to speak confidentially. ‘That’s no reason to make a spectacle of yourself! Some people here know Marjorie,’ he hisses. ‘We’ve still got to be careful.’
She’s not listening. She watches his lips as he speaks, noting his even, white teeth, and the pinkness of his tongue, and is reminded of what they’d been doing to her nipples a few hours before while they changed for the party.
She leans towards him and whispers wetly in his ear. ‘Take me upstairs and fuck me,’ she says, just loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the group. One or two smirk; others pretend not to have heard.
‘For God’s sake, Henrietta, stop acting like a whore!’ This time Corbett makes no attempt to keep his voice low and a number of people outside of the immediate group turn and stare. ‘Just go away, and please: stop drinking!’
Corbett turns his back on her and resumes talking. Henrietta looks peeved for a moment, but then shrugs. She walks away, an aisle of silence opening for her.
‘You’re boring, Corbett, just boring,’ she announces, with that curious distinctness that often characterises the speech of habitual drunks. ‘Would someone please tell me where I can get a drink?’ she asks plaintively as she makes her exit.
Simon Ellison moves from the far side of the room where he was talking to his wife, and joins the group of men.
‘Hello, Simon,’ says Corbett amiably. ‘Do you know everyone?’
‘Yes, I think so. Sorry, gents, but could I borrow Laurence for a moment?’
Ellison moves off and Corbett follows. They reach a quiet corner by the French windows.
‘Chambers business?’ enquires Corbett.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ replies Ellison. ‘Look, Laurence, I know it’s none of my business, but don’t you think you should ditch Henrietta Holborne? She’s pretty much out of control, and it’s only a matter of time before she spills the beans to Charles.’
Corbett smiles. ‘That’s half the fun.’
‘My God, you really hate him. But then … you don’t actually care for her either, do you?’
‘Not much. She’s a bit of a shrew to be honest, ’specially when she’s had a few. But my God, Simon, she’s hot stuff in the sack.’ He pauses. ‘As I think you know,’ he adds meaningfully.
Ellison’s eyes narrow dangerously. ‘Just exactly what do you mean by that?’
Corbett raises his eyebrows insouciantly. ‘Sorry, Simon. Perhaps you misunderstood me. I thought Henrietta’s reputation was well known.’
Ellison continues to glare at Corbett, although no longer sure he understood the other’s meaning. His face relaxes slowly. ‘The point I’m making,’ he continues, ‘is she’s a loose cannon. You may not care if she tells Charles, but it won’t stop there, will it? Your Marjorie’s bound to hear of it. And she won’t forgive you like she did with that nanny…’
‘Gretchen,’ says Corbett with a wide grin.
‘Yes, Gretchen. She was a bit of fun; over for a few months and now safe back in Sweden.’
‘Switzerland.’
‘Wherever. But Henrietta Holborne’s a different kettle of fish altogether. Like I said, none of my business, but wouldn’t life be simpler if you just found yourself another nanny?’
‘You’re quite right, Simon, it is none of your business,’ Corbett says with cold intensity. His tone softens. ‘Look, I realise you’re just trying to be a pal but, honestly, there’s nothing to worry about. Now,’ he continues, looking about the room, ‘where’s that lovely hostess of ours? Ah, there she is. Excuse me, but I’m owed a dance or two.’
Simon Ellison’s brow furrows in thought as he watches his colleague’s back threading its way through the guests.
Henrietta wraps her fur more tightly round her and paces slowly around the car again. The country road is pitch dark and little used. She waited in the car for twenty-five minutes listening to music on the radio but then her legs began to get stiff, so she got out and has since been standing outside. Shortly after her “thing” with Laurence Corbett started — she can’t call it an “affair” as that implies romance, and while this might be dangerous and sexy, it’s anything but romantic — she began to realise that the greatest part of it was not, as she’d expected, snatched hours of passion. It was waiting; waiting for him to call, waiting in hotels and waiting in restaurants. All too often he’d not turn up at all. Now she’s waiting in a layby where they agreed to meet on the way back.
This is the first time she and Laurence have ever spent an entire weekend together, and it’s been a complete disaster. She looked forward to it for weeks: two whole days without looking over their shoulders, giving false names or pretending to be strangers; days of planning and lying to provide credible cover should Charles ask questions which, of course, he hadn’t. He never does, and she finds it infuriating. She can’t work out if his determination to look the other way is because he doesn’t care or because he’s too squeamish. He once told her that there’d never been a divorce in his family, so perhaps that was it; they all just looked the other way.
And, of course, Laurence was two hours late, by which time other guests were arriving, so they managed only a snatched half-hour before going downstairs. And then, on top of everything else, it turned out that Simon and Jenny Ellison had been invited too. Of course, Simon would never say anything, but Jenny was an unknown quantity and could easily say something inconvenient to Marjorie, Laurence’s wife. So, after all the planning and sneaking, once she and Laurence joined the others they had to pretend they weren’t a couple after all; at least until she’d drunk so much she no longer cared. And throughout she was aware of Simon’s eyes burning into her back, which at first made her uncomfortable, then angry and, finally, reckless.
And then there was Laurence’s excuse; he’d been held up on a case! The very same excuse Charles had given her hundreds of times over the years. She vowed to herself that the next time she committed adultery it’d be with a bus conductor; at least his sex life wouldn’t be governed by the vagaries of the administration of justice.
So they’d rowed, and then made up, which was lovely, but the atmosphere had remained. She’d drunk too much and he’d been rude, although quite how rude she can’t now recall. She remembers being very upset, but the precise events before she left the party are a bit fuzzy in her head. What she does remember quite clearly, however, is that Laurence and some other chap, an ex-member of Chambers she thought, were planning to do something horrid to Charles, and Laurence took great delight in gloating over it with a number of the people there. So she’d had enough. She packed and departed, telling Laurence she’d wait an hour for him and then go home, but it’s now well over an hour later and for some reason, here she is, still waiting in a deserted layby.
Not for the first time, Henriet
ta wonders if it’s all worth it. So much effort for so little return. If I put half as much effort into pleasing Charles as I do Laurence, she thinks, I’d probably have a successful marriage. The thought amuses her at first. Then she considers it seriously and is no longer amused. She returns to the car, miserable. ‘I’ll give you five more minutes, Laurence Corbett,’ she says out loud.
She turns on the heater, but by now the engine has cooled completely and it blows freezing air onto her bare legs. She’d taken off her stocking and panties in preparation. Henrietta hates hotel rooms — seedy and unspontaneous — and experiences a particular excitement making love only feet from complete strangers as they race past, the black interior of the car suddenly ablaze as headlights sweep across her, straddling Corbett’s thighs on the back seat.
On top of the prolonged wait and an emerging headache, the blast of cold air is the final straw.
‘Fuck you, Corbett!’ she cries, and turns the key. She revs the engine and is in the process of moving off when she sees headlights in her mirror. She waits for them to pass, and then realises they’re slowing. Corbett pulls alongside, still on the carriageway, his engine idling. He winds down his window.
‘I was just leaving,’ says Henrietta.
‘Sorry. I got held up. Your place or mine?’ he asks with a grin, referring to their two cars.
‘Neither. I’m cold and tired, and getting a hangover. So I’m going home.’
‘Just hang on a sec,’ he says, engaging gear to pull in in front of her.
‘No, really, don’t bother,’ she insists, ‘I want to go home.’
‘Can’t we even talk?’
‘I don’t want to talk to you, Laurence. We can speak later in the week. I want to have a think first.’
‘What about?’
‘Everything.’
‘What are you talking about, Henrietta?’
‘I don’t know. I just want time to think. This is all so...’ she searches for the right word, ‘unsatisfactory. I mean ... I don’t know. Maybe I need a break for a while, just to think things through.’
The Brief: Crime and corruption in 1960s London (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers) Page 11
