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

by Simon Michael

  ‘I wondered if I’d see you,’ she says. She removes her coat and hangs it on the back of the door. ‘How did you get in?’

  He indicates the window. ‘You should have it looked at. It’s decades since I did any burglaring, and if I can get in, anyone can.’

  ‘You’ve been a burglar?’ she asks, her voice shocked.

  Charles hangs his head. ‘And worse. It was during the war, and I was just a kid. I know a lot of people who did a lot of things they’d rather forget now.’

  ‘I wonder if I’d have believed you about … Henrietta … if I’d known a bit more about you,’ she says cautiously.

  He stands and approaches her. ‘I’ve told you nothing but the truth.’

  She nods. ‘I’m probably an idiot, but I do believe you. But you’re a more complex man than I realised, Charlie Horowitz.’

  ‘Yes, possibly. And I’m really sorry to turn up again, like this, but I’m almost out of money, and I’ve nowhere else to go. I said I didn’t want to put you in any danger, and I meant it, so just say if you want me to leave.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. You can stay, although you’ll have to be very quiet, as the house is full. You’ll need to leave by, say, six?’

  ‘No, I need to leave before then. I’ve got somewhere to be, but I could do with a bit of shut-eye beforehand.’

  ‘Well, you can explain all that in a moment. We need to talk about your family,’ she says, putting on the kettle to boil.

  ‘My family? What about them?’

  ‘Charles! They’re frantic with worry!’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he replies, bitterly. ‘They said Kaddish for me years ago.’

  Rachel steps closer to him, examining his face carefully, her eyes narrowed. She shakes her head sadly. ‘And you think that means they don’t care?’

  Charles shrugs and shakes his head sharply, an awkward movement, as if trying to throw something off. ‘They made their position abundantly clear,’ he says, breaking eye contact with her. She reaches up and gently turns his face back towards hers.

  ‘You’re wrong, Charles. They love you. Your father in particular misses you terribly. I see him in synagogue every week. You know he’s never let anyone sit in your seat?’

  ‘No,’ replies Charles. He sighs. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘If you saw him, Charles, you’d know. He looks so forlorn. Anyway, newspapermen have been camping on their doorstep since the news broke and they can’t even go out. Your brother thinks your parents’ line is tapped.’

  ‘They’d need a warrant, but it is possible I guess.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, will you stop being a lawyer for a moment?’

  ‘Sorry. So, you’ve spoken to them?’

  ‘I thought someone should tell them you’re OK. And that you’re innocent! That’s where I’ve been. I didn’t want to risk calling, so I went round.’

  ‘You did?’ he exclaims. ‘And?’

  ‘They’re relieved. To know you’re OK, and that I’m … well, that I can do something to help.’

  ‘Does Dad think I did it then?’ asks Charles.

  ‘How can you ask that? Of course he doesn’t.’

  Charles nods introspectively, turns and sits heavily on Rachel’s bed.

  ‘So,’ she says, after a moment. Charles looks up. She’s standing next to the open door of a tiny refrigerator he hadn’t noticed before. ‘I have four eggs and some cheese. Your choices appear to be scrambled eggs or omelette. Any preference?’

  ‘No, either would be wonderful.’

  ‘OK. Tell me what you’ve been doing. By the way, I like the new look.’

  Charles wakes at 3:30 a.m. Rachel lies on her front, her left arm across his chest and her head snuggled into his side. He inhales her smell and watches the creamy bumps of her vertebrae rise and fall with her breathing. He slips out of bed quickly, his feet hitting the unheated lino.

  He dresses hurriedly in the dark, opens the door a couple of inches and listens for a few seconds. Satisfied that the household is asleep, he creeps silently downstairs. The front door is unlocked and he steps into the cold night, closing the door gently behind him. He’s managed almost four hours’ sleep and feels refreshed and alert.

  The street is deserted. He gets into the Austin Healey, shivers from the cold and damp, starts her up by touching the ignition wires together again and heads towards the City of Westminster.

  The streets of Hackney are silent and almost devoid of traffic, but as he heads west it becomes slightly busier. There’s still a fair bit of action in Soho. The less successful, or perhaps more desperate, toms still prowl the pavements looking for clientele, competing for the few late kerb-crawlers. Several of the clubs are closing and Charles has to swerve as a drunk ejected by two bouncers almost falls under his wheels. The men laugh and Charles watches in his rear-view mirror as one takes a half-hearted kick at the punter crawling out of the gutter.

  Charles finds a space to park off Wardour Street and returns to D’Arblay Street on foot. Fitting snugly in the palm of his right hand is the final purchase he made the previous day, a shilling’s worth of pennies in a cardboard tube, fresh from Lloyds Bank on Chancery Lane.

  Two young women in costume and tall golden headdresses emerge in a gale of laughter, cigarette smoke and cheap perfume from the back door of a club, and step straight into a waiting taxi. The bouncer on the door watches Charles carefully as he passes, and then shuts the steel door with a clang. Charles hears shoot bolts being fastened behind him.

  Charles rounds the corner and turns into D’Arblay Street, looking for the Starline Model Agency. Parked right in front of him, outside a strip club, is the gold Mercedes, NF 777. A flashing pink neon sign over the club’s facade informs Charles that inside he will find “Live Naked Acts”. A big yellow poster over the blacked-out windows further confides that, although this is a private members club, as a special offer he may purchase membership in the foyer for only ten shillings. Photographs of scantily-clad women in improbable poses are displayed on a board on the pavement.

  Two large men stand by the front entrance. Charles notices that they’re unusually alert for this time of the morning, when Soho is normally heading for bed. They constantly check up and down the street and their hands move nervously.

  Charles continues slowly past the club, feigning interest in the photographs of the strippers. As he passes the door he sees, to the right of the foyer, a staircase leading to the first floor and a sign for the Starline Model Agency, with an arrow pointing upwards.

  Charles’s presence seems to make the two men on the door even more uneasy. One, a giant of a black man with a gold ring on each of his ten fingers, takes a step towards Charles. Charles assesses him. At over six feet four and eighteen stone he is almost six inches taller and three stones heavier than Charles. Charles wonders what would happen if he had to force his way in. Just bounce off him, he concludes.

  ‘We’re closing,’ the giant says in a Jamaican accent, looking down on Charles. He leans even closer to Charles’s face, and Charles smells aftershave, lots of it. ‘Move on, man.’

  ‘I’m not going to the club,’ replies Charles, stepping back slightly, and smiling. ‘I need to speak to Mr Fylde.’

  ‘Who’s asking?’ asks the other man from behind, an extremely fat white man with an improbable blond quiff and an earring in each ear.

  Charles turns. ‘Tell him it’s Charles Holborne.’

  The two men look at one another.

  ‘Put your hands against the window,’ orders the white man. Charles complies and allows himself to be frisked expertly. ‘He’s clean,’ concludes the man, stepping back. The roll of pennies remains undetected.

  ‘You sure pick your time,’ comments the Jamaican, but he goes inside. Through the door Charles watches him lift a telephone in the ticket booth and press a button. A second later, ringing can be heard from the office above the club and Charles looks up at the window which casts a rhomboid of yellow light on the pavement.


  Charles watches the conversation and after a moment the Jamaican hangs up and returns to the pavement. He nods at Charles strangely, his head going up rather than down. ‘You can go up.’

  The two bouncers watch Charles carefully as he enters the small lobby. It smells of cigarette smoke and stale beer. At the far end is a black curtain from which emanates muffled bump and grind music. A bored hat check girl wearing tight golden shorts, a bustier and goosebumps watches from behind the counter as Charles climbs the stairs opposite.

  Charles finds his eyes travelling up the shapely legs of a female descending the stairs towards him. Good legs, he thinks, though not as toned and muscular as Rachel’s. His eyes travel further up the girl as the gap between them narrows and is greeted by a pair of bouncing brown nipples. The bare-breasted dancer pauses in her attempt to pull on a gold lamé waistcoat and stops a couple of steps above Charles. Charles eyes move further north to be met by a sarcastic grimace which might, earlier in the evening, have been a reasonable facsimile of a smile.

  ‘Piss off, pervert,’ she says in a weary voice, and pushes past him, tucking a heavy breast into place through an armhole.

  At the top of the flight is a wooden door with a brass plaque on it proclaiming the premises of the “Starline Model Agency” and, underneath that in smaller writing, “Mr N Fylde, Managing Director”; the name Charles found listed at Companies House, and presumably the usual driver of the gold Mercedes, NF 777.

  Charles knocks on the door. Another Jamaican accented voice from inside answers: ‘It’s open.’

  Charles enters. He is surprised to find the office well appointed. Light grey carpet covers the floor and the walls are hung with classy black-and-white photographs showing scenes from the race track. In front of him stands a large mahogany desk behind which sits a short but powerful black man with a shaved head. He wears a light brown three-piece suit, the jacket of which is hung behind him on a hanger. A gold watchchain pulls taut across his waistcoated belly, and he sports a gold-coloured silk tie which Charles rather covets. A heavy gold chain hangs from his neck and his fingers flash and sparkle with rings. He’s evidently counting the night’s takings because, as Charles enters, he snaps a rubber band around a thick wad of notes, turns, and throws the wad into an open safe on the floor behind him.

  ‘I thought you said we’d never meet,’ says Fylde, rising from his chair and studying Charles. ‘Anytin’ wrong?’

  ‘No,’ says Charles. ‘But there’s a loose end or two, and I need a word with Melissa.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ replies Fylde, kneeling to the safe. Charles thinks he’s locking it, but a second later Fylde stands and there’s a pistol in his hand, and it’s pointing at Charles’s chest.

  ‘OK. Who da fuck are you, man?’

  ‘Charles Holborne,’ replies Charles.

  ‘No, you ain’t. De man I deal with talk different.’

  Charles nods. ‘That’s because I’m the real Charles Holborne. Look at your newspaper.’ Charles indicates the Evening Standard at the end of Fylde’s desk. His photo takes up the top half of the front page. ‘Whoever you dealt with set me up. And used you and Melissa to do it.’

  Fylde’s eyes flick to the newspaper and back at Charles, who has taken off his glasses and put them in his pocket. Fylde shrugs. ‘That ain’t —’

  There’s a sudden explosion from downstairs, a woman’s scream and the sound of glass shattering. Footsteps thunder up the staircase and Charles backs behind the office door at the same instant as it crashes open. From behind the door, through the narrow gap afforded by the hinged edge, he sees on the threshold a short man in a black suit, dark overcoat and a trilby hat, pointing a sawn-off shotgun at Fylde.

  ‘Put that peashooter down,’ he orders Fylde, ‘or I’ll put daylight through you.’

  Fylde hesitates for a moment and slowly lowers his right hand, placing his pistol on the desk.

  ‘Now move to the side.’

  Fylde does as instructed. A second crash echoes up the staircase from the foyer. The man in the black suit calls over his shoulder, his eyes not wavering from Fylde.

  ‘You OK, Jackie?’

  There’s no response.

  The man in the suit takes half a step into the office. Charles nods at Fylde, who raises his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. Charles launches his considerable weight with all his force into the door and, at the same instant, Fylde ducks. The shotgun explodes, bringing a shower of plaster and dust from the ceiling, but the force of Charles’s unexpected charge knocks the intruder to one side. Charles rams the door again with his shoulder, hearing a whoosh of air from the chest on the other side of the door as it’s compressed between the door and the door jamb. Charles pivots around the leading edge of the door but he isn’t fast enough and the other, balance regained, steps back half a pace to give himself room to fire again. Charles has no time. He throws a left jab and a straight right with the roll of pennies, using all the weight he can muster. The right lands just under the intruder’s left eye, the blow snapping his head sideways. His eyes roll up, his knees sag and he folds onto the grey carpet like a marionette with its strings cut. Charles neatly catches the shotgun before it hits the ground.

  The fat doorman appears at the head of the steps, wheezing, blood trickling from his scalp. He holds a pistol in his hand. Fylde has regained his feet and his pistol.

  ‘You OK, boss?’ asks the doorman, eying Charles suspiciously.

  Fylde crosses the room with surprisingly light steps and rolls the unconscious man onto his back. He turns slowly to look at Charles with surprise.

  ‘I am now. How many were dere?’

  ‘Three. Kimani got one outside, but got hisself hurt, a knife wound in his side. The third did a runner when he ’eard the gunshots.’

  ‘OK. Drag dis one out, and search dem both. Then tie dem up in the van. After dat get a cab and take Kimani to hospital,’ orders Fylde.

  ‘What about this geezer?’ asks the other, pointing at Charles, who is brushing dust and ceiling plaster off his new jacket and trousers.

  Fylde looks Charles up and down. ‘I tink we OK, yes, Mr Holborne?’ He holds out his hand for the shotgun. Charles turns the weapon over once, shrugs, and hands it over.

  ‘Too noisy for my taste,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Fylde to the doorman. ‘We OK.’

  The doorman starts dragging the unconscious man feet first towards the stairs.

  ‘Hold on a second, please,’ says Charles. Charles pats the man’s inside pockets and from one breast pocket takes out a pistol. He searches again and from the other pocket he withdraws a black leather wallet. Inside are ten brand-new £10 notes. He pockets five, replacing the others. ‘Cleaning expenses,’ he explains, and he tosses the wallet onto Fylde’s desk. ‘No objections?’

  Fylde shrugs and shakes his head. He nods at his employee and the unconscious man’s head disappears out of the door and can be heard thumping on each step as he is dragged by his feet to the ground floor.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asks Charles. ‘It looked as if you were expecting it.’

  ‘The Krays,’ replies Fylde shortly. ‘I won’t pay for their protection.’

  Charles laughs grimly. ‘My credit with Ronnie is getting worse by the day.’ Fylde looks questioningly at Charles, but he waves away the query. ‘Not important,’ he says.

  Fylde brushes dust off the edge of his desk and leans against it, assessing Charles. ‘You really dat steppa? The one all over de papers?’

  ‘Steppa?’

  ‘Escapee.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Fylde regards Charles carefully. He shakes his head slowly and sniffs. ‘OK. I’s very busy, as you can see. So, here’s the story.’ He speaks swiftly as he busies himself with clearing his desk and locking the safe. ‘A geezer phone. He say he want a girl to fake adultery, you know? So de wife can get a divorce?’

  Charles nods. There’s a thriving market in providing the evidence necessary for d
ivorce grounds: hired co-respondents, photographers and hotels that look the other way.

  ‘If me agree, a motorcycle courier will come in twenty minutes with a monkey. All me have to do is supply one classy tom to pose as de mistress a few time. Got to be white, drive a flash car, speak well, and dat. Just go in and out dis flat a few time, you know, be noticed? And another monkey tomorrow, if it all go well.’

  ‘And access to the flat?’

  ‘Same courier, next day, brings a key and a timetable, when to go, when not to go.’

  ‘Who was the man?’

  ‘Me never see him, but he was white, spoke like you. But not your voice. I can leave a message at an answering service if I need to … for Mr Holborne.’

  ‘And the girl’s real name?’

  Fylde focusses all his attention on Charles again. ‘I ain’t lettin’ you hurt her. Girl just doing a job.’

  ‘I’m not going to hurt her. Not my style.’

  Fylde considers. ‘Shirley Lovesay.’

  ‘Is she here?’ demands Charles, suddenly hopeful.

  Fylde shakes his head. ‘On de Costa. Geezer pays her to lie low. I ’spect her back in de club on Monday.’

  ‘Did she ever meet him?’

  ‘I don’t know man, maybe. He give her a few tings to take to your place. Now, I got to attend to business.’

  ‘Last question: where does she live?’

  ‘Las’ house on Grafton Road, Kentish Town. Next to de pub.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll leave you to clear up.’

  Charles turns to leave, but Fylde calls after him, ‘Maybe you need a change of career, Mr Brief Man! I can use someone like you.’

  Charles turn and smiles. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Charles sits in the Austin Healey, checking out his newly acquired pistol and considering his next move. The pistol is American, a stainless-steel AMT Backup made in California. The serial number has been filed off but it’s been well maintained. Charles checks the magazine: full — six gold-coloured rounds of 0.38 calibre. It’s small and Charles finds it fits snugly in the breast pocket of his jacket without any obvious bulge. He takes it out again, turning it over. Not much use at a distance, but as a concealed backup, it’s perfect. He wishes he had time to find somewhere to test fire it.