He sits in the driver’s seat, takes his sheaf of notes from his jacket pocket and leafs through them until he finds a passage of cross-examination. One of his early clients was charged with hot-wiring six cars in twenty minutes so his mates could each have one to race along Southend seafront. Part of the Crown’s case had been to prove that it was possible, and Charles still has notes of his cross-examination of the police vehicle engineer.
Charles flattens the sheets of paper on the passenger seat, takes a pair of scissors borrowed from Rachel from his pocket, and dons his new leather gloves. He pops and lifts the bonnet, disconnects the battery cable and locates the power wires running up the steering column through the bulkhead. He returns to the car and lies on the seat with his head under the steering column. Taking a deep breath, he starts cutting through the power cables. The scissors are too small and it takes some time, but eventually he gets through them and twists the ends together to complete the circuit. He refers again to the notes and locates two other brown wires going to the ignition. He cuts them both and makes sure they’re not touching. He exits the car again and reconnects the battery. Immediately, the radio starts crackling; a good sign. He returns to the car to check that he’s followed the notes correctly. Then he pulls the choke out, bends into the foot well and, using his hand, pumps the accelerator pedal twice.
‘Moment of truth, Charlie,’ he says softly to himself. He twists round and, with his torso and legs hanging over the sill and half-lying on the seat, touches the two bare wires together. The engine starts first time.
‘Thank you, Simon!’ he exclaims. Without Ellison’s tinkering with the points, he knows she’d never have started.
Charles jumps out and slams the bonnet. He returns to the car and manoeuvres it slowly up the exit ramp. It’s a lovely day, with white clouds scudding across a blue sky, a perfect day for driving with the hood down, especially as the interior of the car smells unpleasantly of damp, but with reluctance Charles decides against it. Better not to be seen. He turns left onto Fleet Street and heads east.
Charles slows to 15 mph, moves the gear lever into third, lets the clutch out sharply and allows the car to stall. He then disengages the clutch and coasts gently into the kerb. He is outside a shop on Leytonstone High Road. He checks the numbers of the shops and looks again at the notes. Right number, wrong place.
‘Bugger,’ he swears quietly. What he expected to be a car showroom is now a kitchen and bathroom centre. He climbs out of the car and enters. The place smells new, of freshly-sawn timber and plastic.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ asks a young salesman. Charles judges that he’s about twenty-two years old, also evidently a Mod, with a mass of pink and yellow pimples from forehead to chin. Less Brylcreem might help, Charles observes to himself.
‘Aye, mebbe,’ he answers, adopting a Scottish accent. ‘What happened tae the car dealership that used tae be here?’
The boy shrugs, uninterested. ‘Was there a car dealership? I dunno. I only started last week. Mr Wilson!’ he calls.
An older man’s head appears above a half-assembled bathroom cabinet, a screwdriver in his hand.
‘What?’ he answers irritably.
‘This geezer wants to know what happened to the car showroom.’
‘Well, it ain’t here, is it? He sold up, the Arab.’
The youngster turns to Charles, and shrugs again. ‘Sorry, mate, can’t help you.’
Charles reaches into his pocket and comes up with a pound note. ‘Would you look in the office and see if there’s anything that says where I might find him? His name was Kharadli.’
The lad regards the note, which represents a day’s wages, looks sharply over his shoulder at his boss, and whisks it from Charles’s fingers. It disappears into his jacket pocket. ‘Wait there,’ he says quietly, and he walks swiftly to the office at the rear of the showroom.
He emerges a couple of minutes later with a scrap of paper.
‘That’s the forwarding address for ’is post. Should still be good, we only started fitting out the place last month.’
‘Thank you.’
The address is in Leyton, a mile away, and is a breaker’s yard. Outside the yard stands an old blue Rolls Royce. Charles parks just round the corner where he can watch the yard unobserved. The gates are open but there’s no movement inside, and no customers Charles can see. The difficulty is that anyone might emerge from behind the piles of rusting car chassis or vans with flat tyres and collapsed axles. A large dog is tied by a rope to a hook on the wall of a prefabricated office. It gnaws at a bone between its paws and seems unconcerned.
After fifteen minutes, Charles reaches a decision. He gets out of the Healey and crosses the road towards the gates. The dog pauses in its chewing and watches Charles’s approach, but makes no sound or movement. Charles steps carefully into the yard, trying to avoid oily puddles, and the dog leaps to its feet, barking and straining at the rope. A slim, handsome, dark-skinned man in his fifties emerges from the office, stepping out onto a small metal landing but not descending the steps. Charles notes his expensive leather shoes and mauve silk socks, and wonders how long the shoes will last in this environment.
Charles skirts the dog and approaches the office, his right hand held stiffly in his jacket pocket. Kharadli is no fool and has plenty of experience dealing with members of the criminal fraternity. When Charles represented him, he was one of London’s major suppliers of ringed vehicles for both criminal enterprises and onward sale to unsuspecting punters. Charles doesn’t expect for one minute to frighten him with a stiff finger in his jacket, but he holds no other cards.
‘Mr Kharadli?’
The Arab looks down at him suspiciously. ‘Who asks?’ His eyes move to Charles’s jacket pocket and then up to Charles’s face, amusement in his eyes.
‘You don’t remember me? I’m Charles Holborne. I represented you in court some years ago now. Two cases, at the end of 1958? Remember?’
Recognition gradually dawns and Kharadli’s face breaks into a smile.
‘Yes, I remember! How are you?’ He frowns suddenly. ‘Wait one minute,’ he says. ‘You’re in big trouble with police, yes? You killed your wife?’
Charles moves closer to him. ‘Can I talk to you, just for a minute?’
Kharadli backs off, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know...’
‘Mr Kharadli, when I represented you, the police were saying you’d done all sorts of things, but I didn’t believe them,’ lies Charles. ‘We both know that the police say many things which are not true.’
Kharadli’s retreat halts while he considers this. ‘This is true, my friend,’ he replies, brightening immediately. ‘Anyway, what do I care that you killed your wife? Maybe she deserved it.’ He laughs loudly. ‘Come in!’
Charles follows him into the office, a smell of strong coffee greeting him.
Kharadli pours a tiny amount of coffee from a metal jug into two plastic cups and hands one to Charles.
‘Take a seat. You like my new business?’ he waves his arm expansively, indicating the muddy yard and piles of rusting metal. ‘No money in ringed cars, always hassle, hassle, hassle. This is better. No one asks for money back! Now, how can I help you?’
Charles sips the coffee; it’s good, sweet and strong.
‘You used to have a policeman friend who could look up car registration numbers. I need to know who owns a particular vehicle, very urgently. It’s to do with ... well ... you’ve obviously read the papers.’
‘Yes. This should be possible. But why should I help you? Are you going to pay me?’
Charles shakes his head. ‘I have no money to pay you.’
Kharadli leans back in his chair and sips his coffee, his handsome face still smiling lightly. There’s a long pause. ‘I like this situation, Mr Brief. You’ve never been on the wrong side of the law before, yes?’
‘No,’ replies Charles, untruthfully. ‘Never.’
‘It is different, is it not? Maybe this does you some g
ood; to see life on the other side.’ He pauses again. ‘OK, I shall help you. Just once for … how you say … old time sake.’
He reaches for a telephone on the desk, dials a number, and waits.
‘Is PC Compton on duty today? Tell him it’s Mohammed.’ There’s a short pause. ‘So, it’s Sergeant now, is it?’ says Kharadli cheerfully, giving Charles a thumbs up. ‘Congratulations, my friend! Have you time to look one up for me?’ He snaps his finger at Charles and shoves a piece of scrap paper across the desk to him. Charles quickly scribbles the number on it, and slides it back. ‘NF 777.’
Kharadli snaps his fingers again and mimes writing, and Charles hands him the pen.
‘Yes,’ he says as he writes. ‘Yes ... got it. Thank you, Steve, much appreciated. You must come round to the house soon ... yes, it’s been too long. Bring the children, too ... OK. Bye.’
He replaces the receiver and hands the paper to Charles, who reads the scribble. ‘Starline Model Agency, D’Arblay Street, W1.’ Charles sighs, disappointed. A company car. Any number of people might have been driving it.
‘That’s all I can do,’ says Kharadli. ‘Now, Mr Holborne, I must get back to work.’ He stands and holds out his hand. ‘I do sincerely hope that everything works out for you, my friend, but please do not contact me again. One cannot be too careful who one is seen with.’ He is completely serious.
Charles returns to the Austin Healey. He looks at his watch. With luck, he can get to Companies House before it closes.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Peter Bateman, pupil barrister, and his flatmate, a trainee doctor at Guys, are just settling down to their grilled lamb chops when they hear the landlady’s call from the foot of the stairs. Peter grimaces, but descends to find that Stanley has left a message, summoning him to Chambers where he is to prepare an overnight return for Middlesex Assizes. One of the other barristers has got himself part-heard on the Western Circuit and can’t get back in time. Peter doesn’t relish working through the night, but a brief, any brief, is a Godsend for a young man just starting at the Bar.
When he arrives, with indigestion, at Chancery Court, Peter finds the brief as predicted in Charles’s pigeonhole with a note from Stanley: “Court 2 Middlesex Assizes, NB 12 noon” — not to be listed before noon. That at least is good news. If Peter finishes by the early hours, he might still manage a few snatched hours’ sleep.
He opens the door to Charles’s room where he usually sits, waiting for the pearls of wisdom to drop from his pupilmaster’s lips. The City of London police tape that formerly barred entry has been removed, and Peter’s been told it’s safe to use the room. He sits at the desk facing Charles’s, wondering where his murderous pupilmaster is. Peter is convinced there must have been some mistake. Six months of sharing a room with a man, travelling on trains with him up and down the country, burning the midnight oil, and you get to know him pretty well. Peter finds it difficult to believe Charles is guilty, whatever the newspapers say. And a cut throat razor? Not Charles’s style at all; far too crude and theatrical and, evidentially, suicidal.
He switches on the desk lamp and almost immediately notices something is wrong. The day before, when he was told to work in an adjoining room, he distinctly saw from the threshold the shelf behind Charles’s desk, lined as usual with its series of annotated blue notebooks. They’ve been gathering dust there from the day he joined chambers. Now the shelves are bare. Perhaps the police took them? he wonders, but what on earth for? He looks at the back of the door where Charles’s robes bag usually hangs. It too is bare. It’s not unheard of for a barrister to borrow another’s robes, if he has an unexpected court hearing for example, but the absence of the bag and the notebooks taken together is puzzling.
Peter picks up the telephone and dials Stanley’s home number.
‘Stanley, it’s Peter Bateman. Sorry to trouble you. I’m in Chambers now. Do you know if the police removed any property from Mr Holborne’s room?’
‘Not as far as I know. An officer came yesterday with the fingerprint man, and when they finished they simply took down the tape. Why?’
‘Mr Holborne’s robes bag and all his notebooks are missing.’
There’s silence at the other end of the line. Then: ‘If you go to my desk you’ll find a piece of paper on the blotter from the City of London Police. It’s got the name of the officer who came yesterday. I’d like you to give Snow Hill a call just to make sure.’ There’s another pause. ‘You don’t think Mr Holborne might have broken in and taken them, do you?’
‘The thought did cross my mind,’ replies Peter. ‘But I wouldn’t want to get him into more trouble.’
‘I respect your loyalty, sir, but I don’t see how he could be in any more trouble. And this has caused very bad publicity for Chambers — I’ve been fielding press calls all day — so we need to distance ourselves from it. We have to be seen to be helping in every way possible. Give Snow Hill a call, and keep me informed of developments.’
‘All right. Will do.’
Peter hangs up and goes to fetch the officer’s name and telephone number. He hesitates, but then smiles as he takes Stanley’s chair while he dials the number. The officer’s off duty, but the duty sergeant gives Peter the phone number of someone at Buckinghamshire Constabulary, a DC Sloane, who might be able to help. Peter dials again.
‘DC Sloane.’
‘Hello, Detective Constable. My name’s Peter Bateman. I’m Charles Holborne’s pupil. I’m very sorry to trouble you, but I’ve just come into Chambers, and there’s something odd which I think you should know.’
‘What’s that?’
‘All his old notebooks from his criminal cases have disappeared, together with his red barrister’s bag, you know, the one he used to carry his robes. Did you or one of the other officers remove them?’
‘I’ll need to make enquiries, sir, about the notebooks, but we’ve definitely not got his robes bag. That was last seen at Holborne’s property in Buckinghamshire on the day of the murder. And it’s blue, not red.’
‘No, that’s not right. He’s never had a blue one, not since I’ve known him. I’ve seen him with his red one almost every day for the last six months. It was on the back of his door the day before yesterday. And he wouldn’t be seen dead with a blue one, anyway.’
‘Why not?’ asks Sloane, puzzled.
‘The blue ones you buy yourself. The red ones are given by a leader to a junior as a gift, to mark good work done on a case. Charles is very proud of his red bag. He’d never use a blue one.’
Peter waits, listening to the scratch of Sloane’s pen at the other end of the line.
‘You don’t know what case it was for, do you?’
‘Yes.’ Peter smiles. ‘You don’t have to spend long in Charles’s company to find out. It was his first murder. The Queen versus Sands and Plumber.’
‘Has anyone taken a statement from you, Mr Bateman?’
‘No. You’re the first.’
‘Well, it may be unimportant, but I’ll send an officer over in the course of the next couple of days to take down what you’ve told me and get a signature. You’re not planning on holidays in the near future, are you?’
‘No. You can get me through Chambers.’
At almost exactly the same time as Peter is hanging up and starting his late-night work, Charles is standing in the dark, in the back garden of the Hackney house where Rachel has her bedsit. Her room is in darkness. He’s undecided. The idea of sleeping in the Healey is distinctly unappealing but he has nowhere else to go. He’s had to put petrol in the car and buy some food. And then the car radio died, and he was forced to buy a small transistor radio so he could pick up news reports of the investigation. It was more expensive than buying newspapers, but meant that he didn’t continually risk being recognised by newsagents or paper vendors, all of whom had hundreds of copies of his photograph right in front of them. He now has less than £3 of the money Rachel lent him, enough for the cheapest of hotel rooms, but lit
tle else thereafter. In any case, he can’t risk being asked to produce a passport.
Charles picks up a pebble from a flowerbed and throws it at Rachel’s window just in case she’s gone to bed early. It’s a good shot, and the clack made by the impact would certainly have disturbed her, had she been there. The room remains in darkness and silence.
Immediately beneath Rachel’s window is the sloping roof of the kitchen at the back of the house which Charles glimpsed the night before. The window of the kitchen is again illuminated and every now and then a middle-aged woman in hair-curlers and a dressing gown passes to and fro. Charles hears laughter from a radio or television. On the flank wall of the property, around the corner from the window, is a garden bench. Charles removes his fake spectacles and stows them carefully in his breast pocket. He climbs onto the bench, reaches up to the overhanging tiles and tests their strength. They creak dangerously and he desists, but there’s a gap under the line of the roof and the soffit, and a very slight overhang of the roof beam. He gets a good grip on the beam and pulls; it holds firm. He reaches up again and hauls himself onto the kitchen roof, taking care to avoid standing on the edge, where his weight risks snapping the tiles. He tiptoes his way up the gradient to the top of the roof where it joins the wall. Rachel’s bedroom window is now at waist height, an old wooden sash with no lock. He puts his hands under the lower sash and heaves upwards. The window slides up easily and Charles rolls into the room.
It is empty and smells of damp and Rachel’s perfume. Charles doesn’t want to move further than necessary in case his footsteps are heard from below. He slips off his shoes, takes one pace to the bed, and lies down carefully, fully dressed.
Rachel arrives two hours later. Charles is half asleep but hears her voice at the front door and her steps coming up the stairs. He reaches to the floor and turns on the bedside lamp, and Rachel sees him the moment she opens the door. She stops, but smiles, and immediately closes the door quietly behind her.
The Brief: Crime and corruption in 1960s London (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers) Page 18
