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

by Simon Michael

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Although it wasn’t violent other than in the sense that she screamed and shouted at me.’

  ‘You were then seen to drive off, in such a hurry as to smash the side of your Jaguar on the garage doorpost. You wife was found dead half an hour later.’

  So someone could have entered via the garden doors without doing damage, thinks Charles. ‘Drive off? I didn’t drive off. I walked back to the station.’

  ‘You did not, Mr Holborne.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Why should you do that? You had the car.’

  ‘I didn’t have the car. It had broken down and I had to use the train.’

  ‘Where’s the ticket?’

  Charles sighs. ‘I threw it away at Marylebone. And before you ask, I paid cash.’

  ‘How unfortunate. So you say the car isn’t working? Your Jaguar motor car?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Your Jaguar, registration plate BHA 402, was found this morning by police officers from Snow Hill Police Station outside the Temple. It drove perfectly. It is now sitting in the yard of this police station.’

  Charles stares at his interrogator in open-mouthed disbelief.

  ‘Do you wish to make any comment?’ asks Wheatley, an unpleasant triumphant smile on his thin lips.

  ‘I ... don’t understand... That can’t be right. You must have made a mistake.’

  ‘Why don’t you start telling us the truth, Holborne? Surely, a man with your training can see how hopeless it is? What did you do with the knife?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything with any knife. I never had a knife. We argued, I was told to get out. I walked up the lane and cut across the fields to the station. I didn’t kill her!’

  ‘You were still wearing the muddy shoes when you were brought to the house. I suggest you wore them when throwing the knife away in the fields behind your house before driving off.’

  ‘No! I wore them across the fields, yes, but I never had any knife.’

  The Superintendent looks at DC Sloane, who shakes his head. He continues: ‘I propose ending this interview now pending further enquiries. You will have to remain here. One last matter: we have been unable to find a copy of your wife’s will. It’s supposed to be in safekeeping with a solicitor, but we don’t know who. Do you know where we can find a copy?’

  Charles frowns. ‘Yes. There’s one in a safety deposit box at Midland Bank in Fleet Street. I have a key and a combination number.’

  ‘Thank you. Where are they?’

  ‘At the flat in Fetter Lane.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the bachelor pad. We’ll have a chat about that in due course.’

  ‘It’s not a “bachelor pad”. It’s somewhere I can sleep when working late, that’s all.’

  ‘Come on, Holborne, this is the swinging sixties, right?’

  ‘No one else has ever slept there except me.’

  ‘Who said anything about sleeping?’ interjects Sloane with a smirk.

  Wheatley glances sharply at him and returns to his earlier theme. ‘Where can we find the key to the safety deposit box?’

  ‘I think it’s in a little Chinese jar on the windowsill. I’m not sure though, as I haven’t used it in a while.’

  ‘And the combination?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. I only use the box once in a blue moon, so I have the number written down.’

  ‘Where?’

  Charles thinks quickly. ‘In the flat somewhere. I’d have to look for it.’

  ‘We’re proposing to search your flat this evening. Whereabouts shall we look?’

  Charles shrugs. ‘I wrote it down somewhere disguised as a telephone number.’

  Wheatley studies Charles’s face, weighing him up. ‘They tell me that people in your profession value integrity more than anything else.’

  ‘What of it?’ asks Charles.

  Wheatley pauses before answering, still searching Charles’s face. ‘All right,’ he concludes. ‘There’s no time like the present. We’ll go now, and you can come with us. Sloane, get him something to eat. We don’t want him saying the interrogation was unfair, or he was so hungry he’d admit to anything.’

  Superintendent Wheatley leaves the room and Charles is taken back to the cell. Once there, for the first time since the day began, Charles permits himself a small, weary, smile.

  Charles climbs out of the police car onto Fetter Lane, hampered by the handcuffs on his wrist which attach him to a young uniformed officer. The road throngs with people, cars parked on the pavement, vans double-parked — the usual late afternoon clamour.

  A cold hamburger and soggy chips arrived in Charles’s cell within a half an hour of the interview ending and Charles bolted them down as fast as he could, but then nothing happened for over an hour and he returned to pacing his cell. Once on the road his impatience was almost intolerable. It was essential they reached London while it was still busy. Finally, after fifteen minutes of crawling traffic, Wheatley directed DS Bricker to put on the siren, and they completed the rest of the journey in half an hour.

  Charles and the young officer wait while Wheatley and Bricker get out of the front of the vehicle.

  ‘Well?’ asks Wheatley.

  Charles indicates the entrance and the group crosses the road. As they sidle between stationary taxis, Charles sizes up the two men ahead of him. Wheatley is quite tall, but Charles doubts he’s a fighter, more cerebral, and probably past it anyway. Bricker, on the other hand, is a different prospect. Although slightly shorter, the sergeant’s in his thirties and probably weighs in at fifteen stone. His thick neck, the jacket that pulls taught over his shoulders and his gait — he walks lightly, on the balls of his feet —suggest a sportsman. He can probably handle himself, concludes Charles. He finally evaluates the young copper to whom he’s attached: probably only a couple of years out of Hendon, and thin as a wisp. So, Bricker first. Charles is fairly confident. Although his last amateur fight was several years ago, he’s kept himself fit, trains regularly and spars at least a couple of times a month. Another aspect of his life which finds — found, Charles corrects himself — disfavour with Henrietta.

  Dennis, the concierge of Charles’s building, recognises Charles immediately and is halfway into a salute when he sees the handcuffs. His hand freezes in mid-movement, leaving him looking like an uncertain signpost pointing right.

  ‘Mr Holborne?’ he asks.

  ‘Not to worry, Dennis. Parking fines,’ Charles replies. Dennis nods and smiles, and then does a double-take as he reconsiders Charles’s response, leaving him looking puzzled. The group enters the lobby.

  ‘It’s the fourth floor,’ says Charles. ‘The lift’ll take two.’ He pauses, awaiting a decision from his guards.

  ‘You go in the lift with Holborne,’ decides Wheatley, speaking to the young copper to whom Charles is attached. ‘We’ll take the stairs. Wait at the top.’

  The lift is a tight fit even with only two in it, and Charles and his escort have to shuffle round before they can arrange themselves for the button to be pressed. They arrive on the fourth floor only just ahead of the others.

  ‘Keys,’ demands Wheatley. Bricker fishes in his pocket for the plastic bag in which Charles’s keys had been sealed earlier, and hands the bunch to Wheatley.

  ‘Which one?’ asks Wheatley.

  ‘The small gold one, and the long Chubb,’ replies Charles.

  The door is opened and they file into the small living area. Charles gasps. He barely recognises the place. There are flowers in a pot that he doesn’t own on the table. A huge pink fluffy duck sits in the corner of the couch, an inane grin on its face. The lampshade has been replaced with something frilly, and there are doilies on the arms of the armchair.

  ‘Charming,’ comments Wheatley, with heavy sarcasm. ‘You were telling the truth; this is definitely not a bachelor pad.’

  ‘Looks very feminine to me, sir,’ says Bricker.

  ‘Maybe the handiwork of this young lady, sir?’ adds the escort, picki
ng up a photograph from the mantle. It’s of a blonde, lots of bright teeth, lots of cleavage.

  ‘“To my Charlie, with love, Melissa”,’ reads Wheatley from the bottom of the photograph. ‘I see we’ve just found another motive. Or maybe even an accomplice, eh, Holborne?’ says Wheatley.

  Charles shakes his head. ‘I don’t suppose for one minute it’d do any good to say that all this stuff’s been planted, would it?’

  ‘I’m sure you can do better than that.’ He calls to Bricker who has disappeared into the bedroom. ‘Bricker: go downstairs and have a word with the porter; see if Melissa’s a figment of someone’s imagination.’

  ‘Certainly sir. But look at this!’ calls back the sergeant. He returns with a very skimpy nightie held aloft in one hand and a pile of women’s clothes over his other arm. ‘The wardrobe’s full of women’s clothes. This lot was on a chair by the bed.’

  ‘I suppose now you’ll say you’re into women’s clothes, eh, Charlie?’ Charles notes how the respect has ebbed away as the evidence had stacked up against him. At first he had been “Mr Holborne”, then “Holborne”, now “Charlie”. As far as Wheatley’s concerned, he is now definitely dealing with a murderer, and murderers don’t require courtesy.

  The final piece of evidence comes to light as Wheatley goes through a kitchen drawer: a paying-in book for a Midland Bank account. It’s in the names of “C. Holborne and Miss M. Maxwell”. Wheatley turns to Charles, wags his finger at him and tuts slowly, shaking his head.

  ‘Very careless, Charlie. I’m surprised at you. You should have known better than to do something official like this. Now, you see, I can go to the bank, and ask for the correspondence setting up the account. You’ll hardly be able to deny an affair then.’

  He smiles and shakes his head in mock sadness with an odd expression, seeming to convey something like: “I’d hoped for a worthier opponent”.

  ‘Sir!’ calls a breathless Bricker, having just climbed the stairs. ‘The porter’s seen her come and go quite often. Got her own key.’

  ‘That’s enough for me,’ says Wheatley with satisfaction. ‘Get someone over and have this place fingerprinted. Now,’ he says, addressing Charles. ‘Where’s this combination?’

  Charles pulls his escort to the table and begins, with obvious difficulty, to go through the papers stacked on it. The other policemen watch him as he drops a sheaf of papers and bends down to collect them, dragging his guard with him. He painstakingly tries to reorder the papers. Then he drags the young constable into the bedroom, climbs on the bed, and starts going through a small bookcase fixed to the wall above it, flicking through books and dropping several in the process. The poor young copper is hauled this way and that, even falling off the bed once, dragging Charles with him. Charles makes the most of the pantomime.

  ‘How long is this going to take?’ asks Wheatley after several minutes.

  ‘A while, I guess. It’s very difficult to move,’ replies Charles, continuing his search.

  ‘Unlock him,’ says Wheatley wearily. ‘He won’t get past three of us in this small space.’

  The young escort reaches into his pocket and extricates the keys to the handcuffs. Wheatley is standing with his back to the bedroom window, watching intently, and Bricker is directly behind Charles in the doorway. The escort releases the cuff on Charles’s wrist and is about to unlock himself when Charles spins round and with all his strength catches Bricker with a perfect right-handed uppercut on the underside of the sergeant’s chin. The blow snaps his lower jaw closed with such force, the sound is like a ceramic tile breaking. The policeman’s eyes roll up, his knees buckle and he drops in the doorway. Charles instantly recognises the look from many a boxing match; Bricker’s out of it. He continues in his spin and grabs the trailing end of the handcuffs still attached to his escort. He yanks hard, twirls the man around forcibly, and pulls the officer’s own arm round his throat. He heaves with all his might and the young man chokes, his face suddenly red.

  ‘Don’t come anywhere near me,’ Charles threatens Wheatley, ‘or I’ll break his neck!’

  The superintendent hesitates for a second.

  ‘You’d better believe I can do it,’ assures Charles, calmly.

  ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ challenges Wheatley. ‘You won’t even get out the building. Even if you do, where then? You’re no criminal, Charlie. You’re just making a fool of yourself.’

  Charles backs out of the living room and onto the landing, keeping his grip as tight as he can. The escort’s face is turning purple. The lift is still there. Charles backs further away to the stairs, Wheatley inching after him cautiously.

  ‘Superintendent,’ orders Charles. ‘Get in that lift, if you’d be so kind.’ Wheatley pauses but does as he’s told. ‘Close the gates and press the alarm button.’

  As the button is pressed, a bell sounds in the lower reaches of the building. The lift is now immobilised until the alarm is shut off from below, and Charles knows from previous experience that even if Dennis is in the building, the task will take him close to five minutes.

  Charles backs onto the top step of the staircase, takes a deep breath and shoves the escort forward. He then turns and races down the stairs.

  He takes them two at a time, hearing footsteps almost immediately behind him. He stumbles, regains his balance, stumbles again, but keeps going, his hands on the rails to each side. As he reaches the first-floor landing, he runs headlong into Dennis, on his way up to investigate the alarm bell. He bundles the porter over, leaving him gasping on the landing, hoping that his body will slow up any pursuers for another second.

  Charles bursts into the street and turns immediately left. He sprints across Fleet Street, oblivious to the screech of tyres and blaring of horns, and into Sergeant’s Inn. He jumps down the steps and through the arch into the Temple proper. Footsteps thump behind him, but not as close. He turns sharp right, runs across the open courtyard and turns right again by Temple Church.

  Charles races the twenty yards across Hare Court, barges through a group of startled barristers just returning from Inner Temple Hall, and bounds up the steps into number 2. He chances a look over his shoulder and sees the young copper about sixty yards back, half way across the courtyard. Charles was a pupil here and knows the steps lead to a landing which also serves chambers in Middle Temple. On the far side of the landing is another short staircase, leading back down into Middle Temple Lane. This is his one advantage; he knows the Temple like the back of his hand whereas Buckinghamshire officers do not. He leaps the flight of steps down into Middle Temple Lane and turns left, effectively going back on himself. He feels the beginning of a stitch in his chest but presses on, his breath coming in short ragged gasps. He reckons he has about ten seconds to round the next corner. If he makes the corner without pursuers emerging from Hare Court, they’ll have three potential routes to choose from. He counts down as he sprints: 6 ... 5 ... 4 ... 3 ... made it! Hugging the wall, he runs through Fountain Court and out of the night gate, leaving the Temple and passing the Devereux Public House where he has spent so many Friday evenings standing in the sun, chatting to other barristers with a beer in his hand. That last turn, he thinks, will give them three further options.

  He emerges, sweat streaming down his forehead, onto Essex Street and runs straight into a taxi pointing towards the Embankment and pulling away from the kerb. He leaps in.

  ‘Waterloo East!’ he shouts. ‘I’ve got four minutes to make a train!’

  ‘Right you are, guv,’ replies the cabbie, and away they sail.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘What time d’yer make it, mate?’ asks Charles through the screen. He deliberately softens his accent, slipping into the Cockney he worked so hard to eradicate, in case the cabbie is asked about a posh fare.

  ‘4.58,’ replies the cabbie over his shoulder. They are going over Waterloo Bridge. ‘When’s the train?’

  ‘Five,’ replies Charles.

  ‘Then you’ve had it,
aintcha? It’s gonna take more than that from ’ere. There’s always a jam at the other end of the bridge.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. Tell you what: turn left at the end of the bridge and try London Bridge Station. I might just catch it there.’

  ‘Righto.’

  Charles hopes that even if anyone had been near enough to hear him ask for Waterloo, which he doubts, the change of direction will finally throw them off the scent.

  They make good time to London Bridge.

  ‘Don’t bovver wiv goin’ inter the station,’ says Charles to the back of the cabbie’s head. ‘Go right inter Tooley Street. If I’ve missed it, we can go on to New Cross, the next stop.’

  The cabbie regards him with narrowed eyes through the rear-view mirror. Charles holds his breath for the answer.

  ‘Fair enough,’ answers the cabbie eventually. ‘At this rate, I might as well take yer all the way ’ome!’

  The cab turns right and pulls up by the steps running up to the station.

  ‘Won’t be a sec. I can see the board from the top of the steps,’ calls Charles, and he runs up the stairs. For a man who prides himself on his honesty and integrity he realises with a shock that he’s lying and cheating as well as any of his clients; probably better than most. He doesn’t like to bilk the innocent cabbie out of his fare but he’s penniless and has no choice.

  He walks swiftly onto the station concourse, crosses the front of the platforms and exits the station by the far door that takes him out onto St Thomas Street. He walks off down the road and onto the High Street.

  His first problem is money, or the total lack of it. He stops in a doorway and goes carefully through his suit pockets. He always used to lose tickets in this jacket because there are so many little hidden pockets. Maybe ... just maybe... Yes! He feels a coin in a tiny pocket inside one of the others. He takes it out: half a crown; enough for a bus fare and a sandwich, maybe a cup of tea.