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

by Simon Michael

  ‘Mr Reeves is a fingerprint specialist,’ explains Wheatley.

  ‘Who should have been off duty four hours ago,’ adds Reeves, pointedly.

  ‘Now, Mr Wigglesworth,’ says Wheatley, ignoring him, ‘can you let us in, please?’

  Stanley leads the men up to the first floor and opens the main door.

  ‘We need to see the rooms of Mr Beardsley and Mr Ellison.’

  ‘They’re both on the other side of the landing,’ explains Stanley. ‘I’ll show you.’

  Stanley unlocks the other door on the landing and leads the way to the far room. It’s on the opposite side of the corridor to that of Charles and Peter, and has a view of a brick wall. He points to the desk facing the door. ‘That’s Mr Ellison’s desk, Superintendent,’ he says.

  ‘And which is Mr Holborne’s?’

  Stanley points to the room opposite, and Wheatley and Bricker share a glance. ‘Does anyone else use Mr Ellison’s room?’

  ‘Not usually, no.’

  ‘OK, Reeves,’ orders Wheatley. ‘Off you go.’

  ‘Nobody touch the light switch, please,’ requests Reeves.

  Reeves takes a torch from his pocket and enters Ellison’s room. He goes to the desk, prowling round it, bending close to the surface, looking closely without touching anything.

  ‘Hmm,’ he says, turning on the desk lamp with a pencil and extinguishing his torch. ‘The phone might be the best place to start.’ He stands upright again and returns to the men watching him. He examines the door frame and then the light switch. ‘And then the light switch,’ he concludes.

  Back at the desk, he opens his briefcase and takes out a small pot. He unscrews the lid to reveal a brush inserted into it, similar to those used by photographers to blow dust from their camera lenses. He lifts the telephone handset off its cradle by the cable and places it carefully on the desk blotter. The others standing at the threshold watch him silently. Reeves dusts a tiny amount of silver dust over the inside of the handset and examines the result.

  ‘Lovely,’ he says. ‘We’ve a couple of quite decent ones.’

  He reaches into his case and extricates a roll of tape. He cuts a small piece off with a pair of scissors and presses it firmly over the handset, repeating the procedure twice more and then gently lifting the prints off. He immediately attaches them to pieces of plastic card obtained from his case, and initials the cards with a pen. He then moves to the light switch, and starts again.

  Wheatley’s foot taps impatiently. ‘Well?’ he asks.

  ‘What do you want me to compare them with?’ asks Reeves. Bricker opens his briefcase and hands Reeves an envelope from which Reeves takes a further set of plastic cards. ‘Is there another room I can use?’ Reeves asks Stanley.

  ‘Next door?’ suggests the clerk.

  ‘Fine.’

  Reeves goes to the adjoining room, taking the plastic cards with him, sits at the desk, and turns on the desk lamp. Using a magnifying glass taken from his breast pocket, he inspects the fingerprints Bricker provided. Then he addresses his attention to the lifts he has just taken. Wheatley hovers over his shoulder like a vulture.

  ‘You realise this is not supposed to be my job, don’t you?’ asks Reeves.

  ‘I know. But didn’t you used to be —’

  ‘Used to be, yes. But that was almost eight years ago. Would you mind, Superintendent? You’re distracting me, lurking behind me like that.’

  Wheatley moves away and Reeves continues his perusal. Every now and then he jots something on the pad next to him. After about ten minutes, he switches off the lamp and sits back.

  ‘I’m not a fingerprint expert anymore, you understand, and these are hardly the best conditions to work under ... but...’

  ‘But?’ demands Wheatley.

  Reeves is not to be hurried. ‘This wouldn’t stand up in court, sir. You have to have a minimum number of identical features, and the prints marked “bonnet” aren’t complete and they’re not of the best quality —’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes! I know all that!’ shouts Wheatley. ‘But this is extremely urgent! What’s your opinion?’

  ‘OK. There are no clearly inconsistent features between the prints here and those lifted from the car. As to common features, I can see six or seven in the thumbprint on the phone, and ten on the forefinger by the door. Yes. If you have to have an answer, I’d say that in all probability –– no higher than that, understand? — they were made by the same man. Not enough to convict, though.’

  ‘It’s enough for me, especially if a rather high-profile barrister is about to be murdered!’

  ‘What?’ demands Stanley, shocked. ‘Is Mr Ellison about be murdered?’

  Wheatley turns to Stanley. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I shouldn’t have said that in your presence. No, he’s not. But I need to know where he lives, right now.’

  ‘Er ... er ... Chelsea somewhere... I’ve got the address in my room...’

  ‘Bricker, go with Mr Wigglesworth and get the address. Then make him a cuppa and sit with him till you hear from me. He’s not to contact anyone.’

  ‘But —’ protests Stanley.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but I’m not taking any chances.’

  Almost as soon as he leaves the boarding house in Shepherd’s Bush, Charles remembers when that summer photograph was taken, and by whom. Simon Ellison had been the captain of the Chambers cricket team, and every year Chancery Court barristers used to play a motley group of clerks and ringers gathered together by Stanley. Two years earlier, Charles was persuaded to play and, to his surprise, Henrietta asked to watch and help with the tea. The photograph of all the wives and girlfriends was taken by Jenny Ellison during the tea interval. Charles has seen the original on several occasions on the wall of Ellison’s study.

  As soon as he finishes speaking to DC Sloane, Charles drives to The Boltons, Chelsea. The home of Simon and Jennie Ellison is just around the corner in Gilston Road. Charles now stands in the tree-lined road, by Ellison’s car. The bonnet is still warm. So much for the trial in Wiltshire.

  Whoever employed Sands to kill Henrietta had to have access to Charles’s room in Chambers, and to the photograph. Just to make sure, Charles sneaks past the wrought-iron gate at the front of the Ellisons’ house and peers through the study window. The room is in darkness but Charles can see well enough to identify the photograph still in its accustomed place on the wall. He retreats round the corner to pace up and down under the dark trees in The Boltons, and to think. All his best jury speeches and cross-examination are developed like this, pacing up and down.

  It all fits: detailed knowledge of Charles’s movements and access to his keys for Fetter Lane, and Ellison’s ability with cars — he had the skills to repair the Jaguar and replace it in the garage at Putt Green. But why? What was the motive? Charles has considered the possibility that Henrietta’s affair was with Ellison — in fact, he remembers Michael Rhodes Thomas once saying something about Henrietta being seen at the Ellisons’ home, which had puzzled him briefly at the time — but even if that were right, it still doesn’t suggest a motive. A lovers’ tiff? Possible, but unlikely.

  So, with no obvious motive, Charles decides he needs incontrovertible proof; proof sufficient to convince the sceptical Wheatley and, probably, a jury. It’s this which keeps him pacing up and down The Boltons for half an hour. Finally, the first glimmerings of a plan begin to take shape. He jogs back to the Austin Healey and drives to the Kings Road, stopping first at a tobacconist to get some change, and then at the next telephone box he sees. Again he dials Buckinghamshire Constabulary.

  ‘DC Sloane, please.’

  There’s a delay. Then: ‘I’m afraid DC Sloane is unavailable at the moment.’

  ‘Is there anyone else from the Holborne murder enquiry team I could talk to?’

  ‘I’m afraid they’re all out of the moment, sir. Can I take a message?’

  ‘No,’ replies Charles, irritably. ‘Forget it.’

  He replaces the receiver without wai
ting for an answer and is about to leave the phone box when he has another idea. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the piece of notepaper from Plumber’s kitchen. He dials again.

  ‘Is that the Oak Lodge Boarding House?’

  All Charles can hear is wailing at the other end of the line. A woman is crying, loudly. Perhaps Oak Lodge is no longer quite as respectable as it was, before bodies starting turning up in its bedrooms.

  ‘If there’s a policeman just arrived, I need to talk to him,’ shouts Charles over the din.

  That promotes a fresh wave of howls from the other end of the line, but Charles hears the phone being handed to someone else.

  ‘Yes?’ says DC Sloane’s voice.

  ‘It’s me, Holborne,’ says Charles. ‘How long would it take you to get to the Temple?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I know who the murderer is, and I’m going to try to get a confession out of him in your hearing.’

  ‘Now, Holborne, don’t interfere. It’s all under control, and you’ll just get yourself hurt.’

  ‘Be at Chancery Court by quarter past midnight, OK? Not earlier and not later. Don’t use the lights, go straight to my room and once there, keep out of sight.’

  ‘Holborne, don’t be so bloody stupid! You’re unarmed, and so am I!’

  ‘Just be there. If you can get some backup, so much the better.’

  Charles breaks the connection, returns to the Healey and drives to the Temple. As he passes Charing Cross station he sees the Wimpy on the corner and is suddenly awash with fatigue and hunger. Perhaps the whisky, on top of almost no sleep for three days, had been a poor idea. He stops long enough to enter the deserted shop and pick up a lukewarm burger and soggy chips, and bolts them down in the car. Then he completes his journey to the Temple. Rather than driving up Middle Temple Lane he parks on the Embankment as far from a streetlamp as he can manage. He doesn’t want Ellison seeing the car. Having immobilised it, he opens the boot. Under the spare wheel is a rusty tyre lever. Perfect. He slips it inside his belt and strides off towards the Temple. Then, on an afterthought, he retraces his steps to the telephone box at the corner of Temple Place. Better to call from a payphone, rather than from Chambers. He delves into his pockets and comes up with just enough change to make one last call. He dials and while the phone rings, he checks the time: twenty-five to midnight. It takes a while for the phone at the other end to be picked up.

  ‘Yes?’ says Jenny Ellison’s sleepy voice.

  Charles presses the button to speak and the coins drop. ‘Simon Ellison, please,’ he says in a Scottish accent.

  ‘At this hour? Who’s speaking?’

  Charles effects a wheeze and pants: ‘Say it’s Robbie Smith.’ He hears Jenny speaking to someone else. ‘It’s a Scottish man … Robbie Smith? In a callbox.’

  Ellison comes on the line. ‘Who is this?’ he demands angrily.

  ‘It’s me, Sands,’ croaks Charles.

  ‘You … you’re…’

  ‘No, I’m not. You winged me, but I’ll live. I’m back at my digs. I want tae talk.’

  There’s no reply at first. Then, in a low whisper: ‘I can’t talk now. Sorry, darling, go back to sleep; it’s work.’

  ‘Meet me in your room at Chancery Court … one hour.’ Charles inhales deeply as if fighting for breath. ‘And bring money. I’ll need at least a grand if you want me tae disappear. Can you do that?’

  He waits for Ellison to find a phrase which won’t give him away to his wife. ‘Not quite, but close perhaps.’

  ‘Bring what you can, then. I’ll give you back the photo of Holborne’s missus and the plan of the house … and if you dinna come, I’ll post them to the polis. Oh, and bring Holborne’s notebooks. I want them back on the shelf wi’ the rest. They’ve go’ my name all over ’em. Have you go’ all that?’

  ‘Yes,’ whispers Ellison.

  ‘And no tricks, Ellison. You’ll no’ catch me unawares again. I’ve got a gun, too, and it’s a lot bigger than that wee peashooter o’ yours. I’ll be watchin’ you all the way in. Just go straight to your room, and wait for me.’ Charles gives one last cough for effect and, pleased with his performance, hangs up.

  He runs up Middle Temple Lane. He reckons he has at least half an hour’s start on Ellison, but he has to find a way in without keys; he’ll need every second.

  2 Chancery Court backs onto 3 Pump Buildings, another set of chambers, with a narrow light well between them. Charles has often wondered why the architect placed a window on the first floor landing of Chancery Court when its sole function appeared to be not to admit light, but a howling draught in the winter. His hope is that the draught means the window isn’t secure.

  A few lights shine from the upper storeys of some of the old buildings, but the courtyards of the Temple are completely deserted. Charles runs under the plane trees through the yellow gaslight. A thin mist drifts up from the Thames and carpets the courtyards in wisps of grimy white. Charles feels as if he’s in a ghost story. He slows his footsteps as he realises that the sound of his running is making too much noise; he doesn’t want the echoes disturbing any of the judges in their cosy flats on the top floors.

  He skirts round the back of Pump Buildings, trying to orientate himself and find the window that overlooks Chancery Court’s landing. There’s a locked ironwork gate and, behind that, a service door for the other chambers. The gate is set in a tall wall reaching first floor level, where there’s a ledge. If Charles can make his way along the ledge without falling, he’ll be in the light well at the same height as the window. He just needs a way of getting to the top of the wall, but it’s much too high to jump and haul himself up, and the gates have no cross bars to assist a climb.

  He looks up and down the deserted courtyard; nothing. Then, on the far side of the car park, he spots a bicycle resting against some railings. He runs over to it. As long as it’s not chained to the railings… No! It’s an old bike, and the owner presumably took the view that the Temple is usually safe. Charles wheels the bike back to the gates.

  He takes off his fake spectacles and stows them in an inside pocket. He moves the tyre lever to the back of his belt so it won’t get in his way and, gripping the top of the gate, heaves himself up by standing on the bicycle seat. Within seconds, he’s on top of the wall, hugging the side of the building. He inches his way around the ledge for ten feet, turns a corner, and finds himself outside the window. Feeling behind him for the tyre lever, he pulls it out of his belt and inserts it into the base of the sash window. The window slides up without any effort. Charles steps in. Easy. I really would make a decent criminal, he thinks.

  Charles closes the window behind him and tucks the tyre lever back in his belt. The outer door leading to the rooms he and Ellison occupy is closed and locked. He expected this, but is nonetheless disappointed. His choice now is to force the door, which if seen by Ellison will certainly alert him to something being wrong, or hide, perhaps on the stairs above. The second option is not attractive; he’ll be in plain view if Ellison happens to look further up the stairs. He decides on the former. With luck, Ellison won’t notice any damage. If he does, he might still assume Sands got there first and broke in. It will also clear the way for Sloane to enter and take up position.

  The outer door is solid oak, seasoned over centuries, with enormous studs and strap hinges covered in layer upon layer of paint. It also forms a very flush fit with the door frame. Charles attacks the door with the tyre lever with all his strength for fifteen minutes, with no discernible result. He is almost ready to give up when one final shove produces a loud Crack! as the lock housing splinters. Charles opens the door fully flat against the wall, just as it would be during office hours, and hides the larger splinters of wood behind it. The inner door is simpler, and he forces the Yale lock at the first attempt. He stands back and surveys his handiwork. He doubts anything will look unusual to a cursory glance in the dark.

  He goes to Ellison’s room. There is nowhere to hide
here, and he realises there’s absolutely no chance of him surprising the other barrister. He looks into his own room briefly, but discounts that. If he shows himself to Sloane, he might get himself arrested before he can put his plan into operation. He tries the door opposite. This is the room of Gwyneth Price-Hopkins. Charles is surprised to find his entrance to the room partially blocked by upended desks, a table and stacks of chairs. The party! This is the furniture cleared from Sir Geoffrey’s room. Charles also sees several bouquets of wilted and crisping flowers in assorted receptacles dotted around the room. The desk and one of the shelves bear a large display of greetings cards. Charles picks one up. It congratulates Gwyneth and her husband on the birth of their child. The baby must have arrived early and, in the knowledge that she’d be away for the next few weeks at least, the clerks haven’t got round to moving the furniture back into what had been Sir Geoffrey’s room.

  Charles moves one of the desks slightly so that it impedes the door opening fully, and then returns to the corridor separating this room from Ellison’s to evaluate the sight-lines. From a position standing at the threshold of Ellison’s room it’s impossible to see past the furniture into Gwyneth’s room, even with her door open. On the other hand, properly positioned, Charles has a view of Ellison’s desk.

  It’s the best that can be managed. Charles runs to the ground floor and opens the street door to Chambers from the inside, leaving it ajar. He takes the opportunity offered by the moonlight to check his pistol. Then he returns to Gwyneth’s room to hide, and to wait.

  As the minutes tick away, Charles’s nervousness grows. The smell of dead flowers, trapped for too long in the closed room, is cloying, and somehow increases his agitation. He waits twenty minutes before he hears soft footsteps on the stairs. He checks his watch, angling it toward the little light coming through the window. Quarter past midnight exactly. The sound stops, but no one passes his position. The silence lengthens for so long that Charles begins to wonder if he imagined it, but eventually the footfalls continue. A shape passes Gwyneth’s door. Sloane; not tall enough to be Ellison. Then a second man, bulkier, almost bald, goes past. Good; reinforcements. Charles hears the floorboards creak and the sound of his room’s door opening against carpet, and then silence.