The building settles into complete stillness again. Charles strains his ears, but he can hear only the wind in the trees from the courtyard outside and, once, a lonely ship’s horn drifting up the Thames.
When he does next hear a noise from inside the building, it’s so close that he jumps. A floorboard creaks right outside Gwyneth’s room and Charles realises that Ellison has made it all the way into the building a good deal more quietly than the police. Now I know why they’re called “the Plod”, he thinks. Through the crack in the door Charles watches Ellison’s shape approach the half-open door to his own room. He moves with extreme caution, his right hand in front of him, and although Charles can’t see a gun, he recognises the pose. Ellison prods the door gently with his free hand and it swings inward silently until its brass handle bumps gently on the adjoining wall. He waits, listening intently, and then enters the room. Evidently satisfied that it’s unoccupied, Ellison strides to his desk and sits at it, his gun hand pointing towards the door.
Showtime.
‘Are ye there, Ellison?’ calls Charles hoarsely from diagonally across the corridor. He watches Ellison start and stand, but he remains behind the desk.
‘Sands?’ Ellison calls back.
Charles gasps for breath as if he were a drowning man, pausing between breaths for dramatic effect. If Ellison thinks he’s seriously injured, he’ll be less suspicious about a change in voice.
‘Aye. Got ma money?’
‘Where are you?’ demands Ellison. ‘Come out so I can see you.’ Ellison takes a couple of steps round the desk towards the door.
‘Stay put!’ shouts Charles, coughing loudly. ‘I can put … a hole right though you … from where I am,’ he gasps.
Ellison comes to a halt, but he’s looking hard at the door to Gwyneth’s room; he knows now where Charles is hiding.
‘Throw the money intae the corridor,’ orders Charles.
‘No. Not without the documents.’
‘Documents?’
‘Don’t play silly buggers with me, Sands! I want Henrietta’s photo and the sketch back.’
That should surely be enough, thinks Charles; he’s admitted that he provided the murderer with Henrietta’s details so as to carry out the killing. But it’s still not as watertight as he wants…
‘I’ve got them here ... dinnae fret yoursel’. But first, explain something ... I ken you think that Jew-boy stole your practice … but why kill his wife? She was harmless.’
Ellison begins inching towards the door, speaking to distract and cover his movement. ‘Harmless? The woman was a fucking landmine! It was only a matter of time before she went off, and it all went public. With my name splashed all over the papers!’
‘Stay where ye are!’ croaks Charles, but Ellison has almost reached the door of his room, and he doesn’t stop. Charles backs away from the door shielding him, his pistol arm raised. His bluff is being called and he knows the only way to stop Ellison is to shoot, but he needs him to carry on talking.
‘But the worst thing? She threw me over, and for Corbett! An arrogant oaf who treated her like a whore!’
The speech has covered Ellison all the way to the threshold and, as he utters the last word, he launches himself through Gwyneth’s door and fires at the same time. The bullet smashes the window behind Charles. Charles stands, aims and pulls the trigger of his borrowed pistol at the advancing man. The trigger clicks and jams, leaving Charles unarmed and silhouetted against the window, a sitting duck.
Ellison pauses in his advance, his gun held in both hands, pointing directly at Charles’s chest. ‘Now,’ he says conversationally. ‘Where are the documents?’ Only then does Ellison realise that something is wrong. ‘Just a minute…’ he says, and he reaches out with his left hand to feel for the light switch behind him. For a fraction of a second his gun arm wavers, and Charles launches himself at the desk standing on its end to Ellison’s left, colliding heavily with it and causing it to topple over. Ellison’s a big man, and although the weight of the desk knocks him off balance, he doesn’t fall. The desk rolls off his shoulder and falls with a crash, knocking the door further closed. Ellison steps sideways and fires again, and Charles feels as if he’s been struck in the left shoulder by a sprinting prop forward. He knows he’s been hit, but also that if he backs away the next shot will finish him, so he rolls with the blow, allows it to spin him round and brings his right fist in an arc up to Ellison’s head. He feels it connect with the other man’s temple and both men go down in a tangle of limbs. At the same moment, the door swings violently open and connects with Charles’s head. He sees stars, and then nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The first of Charles’s senses to start operating again is his sense of smell, which registers antiseptic, washed linoleum and cabbage. This doesn’t smell like the afterlife, he concludes, so that’s a good start. He opens his eyes. He’s in a darkened room but he appears still to have vision. Another hopeful sign. Then he tries to sit up and pain rages all down the right side of his body from his neck to his lower ribs, causing him to cry out involuntarily. He closes his eyes again and tries to stay still. He reopens them after a moment or two and sees an electrical cord trailing from a bedside table on his left. Gingerly, he tests the ability of his left arm to move and finds that, if he moves slowly enough, he can reach it without agony. His fingers inch towards it and, finally, he is able to press the red button at its end.
The door opens almost immediately, spilling bright light across Charles’s bed from the corridor.
‘Hi,’ croaks Charles. ‘Sorry to trouble you nurse, but can I have some water?’
The silhouetted shape at the door comes round to Charles’s bedside. ‘Charlie, it’s me,’ says Rachel’s voice. ‘I heard you cry out. Shall I call the nurse? There’s a buzzer.’
‘Where am I?’
‘University College. Don’t move. You’ve had surgery on your shoulder.’
Another shape briefly obscures the light from the corridor and a nurse enters. ‘Good, Mr Holborne, you’re awake. We were beginning to get a little worried.’
Rachel steps back and allows the nurse to stand beside Charles’s bed from where she takes his pulse and blood pressure. ‘Fine,’ she concludes, rolling up the pressure cuff. ‘Would you like to sit up?’
‘Yes please.’
The nurse goes to the head of the bed and rotates a wheel, and the top third of the bed lifts up slowly. Even that movement hurts like hell, and Charles gasps.
‘Pain?’ asks the nurse.
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll have a word with doctor and see what we can do about that. Your friend can get you some water in the meantime. Small sips to start, please; you’ve had a general anaesthetic.’
She bustles out of the room and Rachel takes her place. Rachel pours Charles some water and holds the glass while he takes a few sips.
‘Update, please?’ says Charles when he finishes.
‘You were shot in the shoulder.’
‘Got that bit,’ says Charles, wryly.
‘As far as I can understand from the surgeon — he was a bit vague because I’m not a member of family — it more or less destroyed your clavicle and a bit of your scapula, in and out, so they’ve had to pin you. But it missed all the important arteries and nerves, so apparently you were lucky. Oh, and you were knocked out by the police officers when they charged into the room. So the medics were a bit worried about the anaesthetic on top of a concussion.’
‘Clever chaps, those policemen.’
‘Don’t be too hard on them, Charlie. One of them took a bullet in the hand trying to disarm Ellison. He’s in the room next door.’
‘Oh,’ says Charles, feeling bad. ‘And Ellison?’
‘In custody, charged with two murders and attempting to kill you. You had a policeman on the door for a few hours, but he’s gone now, as you’re apparently no longer a danger to the public.’
Charles smiles, but even that hurts. ‘What’s with
my face?’ he manages.
‘You’re very swollen all down the left side, as far as your jaw. Maybe where the door hit you?’
‘Great. How long have you been here?’
‘Since the early hours. The police called your parents, and they called me. We came together.’
‘Where are they?’
Rachel takes his left hand gently and holds it in hers. It feels good. ‘They went home to get some sleep when you went down for surgery. Your mum’s been in a bad way since you went on the run. She’s not slept for days. I said I’d wait and call them when you woke. I’ll go and do it now.’ She makes to leave, but Charles calls her back.
‘Rachel.’
‘Yes.’
Charles lifts his left hand and Rachel takes it again. ‘You’ve been … so kind ... so...’
‘Stow it, Charlie —’
‘No, I mean it. I’d never have managed without you. My guardian angel.’
‘Oh, please! Let me go and make that call. Then I’ll push off.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to be in the way when your parents arrive. I think you should be on your own with them, at least the first time. I’ll be back at the end of visiting time.’
‘I don’t want to see them.’
‘Oh, Charlie, surely now —’
‘No. I’m not ready. Maybe I won’t ever be.’
‘But —’ starts Rachel.
‘No. I mean it. Maybe later, on my own terms, but not now. I haven’t got the energy for it.’
Rachel stares hard at him, her eyes narrowed in the way that Charles now recognises as disappointment in him, and shakes her head. ‘You took on an armed murderer and, according to the nice policeman next door, a Yardie boss,’ she says quietly. ‘Not to mention one of the Kray twins’ gunmen. But you haven’t got the courage to apologise to your own parents?’
‘Courage? What are you talking about?’
‘Just think about it, Charlie. I know how much they hurt you by cutting you out of their lives. But how do you suppose they felt when you changed your name and married Henrietta without a word to them?’
She turns on her heel and leaves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Charles shows his cards. ‘Twenty-one,’ he announces, and with his good hand collects the pennies on the table. DC Sean Sloane shakes his head and scowls good-naturedly. ‘I played a lot as a kid,’ explains Charles.
To prove it he places the discards on top of the pile and, with one hand, cuts the deck and shuffles it.
‘So, you’re a card sharp on top of everything else,’ says Sloane good-humouredly. ‘Is there no end to your criminal talents?’
Charles looks up at the police officer. He and Sloane have taken to having their afternoon teas in Charles’s private room, and they while away the time by playing a few hands of cards as they chat. Charles was moved to a general ward after a couple of days, but the press attention had made the nursing staff’s lives a misery and he’d been moved back, but with his name removed from the board on the door. The two men have become celebrities in the hospital, known by some of the younger staff as the “one-armed bandits.” Their photographs are still on all the front pages.
Charles’s recovery is proceeding rather better than that of his saviour. The policeman’s had two operations on his right hand, but the blood supply to his index finger was destroyed by the bullet and, eventually, the finger was amputated.
‘What time are you being collected?’ asks Charles.
Sloane checks his watch. ‘Any minute now.’
‘And then what?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Will they take you back, even missing a finger?’
Sloane laughs. ‘Bricker seems to think so. They can’t decorate me and fire me in the same week.’
There’s a knock on the door and DS Bricker’s head appears.
‘Ready to go?’ he asks. He addresses Sloane directly and doesn’t make eye contact with Charles at all.
‘For Christ’s sake, Sarg, say hello to the man,’ says Sloane as he stands. ‘He’s still sore you decked him at Fetter Lane,’ he explains to Charles.
‘Sucker punch,’ mutters Bricker.
Charles holds out his good hand. ‘Come on, Sergeant. No hard feelings, eh?’
Bricker pauses and takes Charles’s hand with a reluctant grin. ‘No, I guess not. I can’t say I’d have done any different in your circumstances. I’ve got these for you.’
Bricker is carrying a large clear plastic bag in which are Charles’s keys, his watch and some of his clothing. He puts it on the bed and hands Charles a pad of forms with the belongings listed on the top page. ‘Do you want to go through all of it?’ he asks.
‘No, just give me a pen. Any news of Ellison?’ asks Charles as he signs, with difficulty. ‘Wasn’t it his first remand this morning?’
‘Yup. And he applied for bail.’
‘He never had much judgment, in my professional opinion. And?’
‘What do you think? One conspiracy to murder, one actual murder and two attempted murders in the space of a week. And an overheard confession? “Risk of further offences and of absconding.”’
‘Very right and proper, too,’ says Charles.
Bricker turns to Sloane. ‘I need to be back at the station.’
‘Yes, sure.’ Sloane holds out his left hand. ‘Take care, Charles. See you at Ellison’s trial.’
Charles takes Sloane’s hand, grips it and locks eyes with the young officer. The two men regard one another silently for a moment with mutual respect. ‘Thanks again, Sean,’ says Charles. ‘Obviously, for saving my life, but also for keeping an open mind.’
Sloane nods and smiles. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’
‘Shoot.’
‘What’re you going to do now? You can’t go back to those chambers, can you? We all know you didn’t do it but … well, she was still the daughter of the ex-head of Chambers, wasn’t she? Isn’t it going to be…?’
‘Embarrassing? Yes. I’m not sure, to be honest. Neville Fylde offered me a job, you know? He seems to think I’d make a decent career criminal.’
‘Don’t joke about that, sir,’ says Bricker. ‘I’ve always said it. Barristers think things through, work logically. They know how to assess evidence, and how to avoid the mistakes that get their clients caught. You proved me right.’
‘Did you find my notebooks, with the details of the Sands and Plumber trial?’ asks Charles.
‘Yes,’ answers Bricker. ‘Ellison had them. But they’re now an exhibit in the case against him, so you’ll have to wait for them. But why do you want them back? If you want my opinion, sir, you shouldn’t be allowed to keep those notebooks after a trial’s over. They’re an encyclopaedia of crime and criminals.’
‘That’s why I want them. They’d be useful if I pursue the other option.’
‘Other option?’ asks Sloane as he picks up his bag.
‘Private detective.’
The two policemen stare at him, unable to decide if he’s serious.
‘Now, what sort of job is that for a nice Jewish boy?’ asks Sloane with a smile.
‘But as I’ve demonstrated, I’m definitely not nice. And as for Jewish, well, the jury’s out on that one.’
The two police officers depart and Charles returns to sit on his bed. He realises that he’s still holding Bricker’s pen. They’ll have to add theft to the indictment, he thinks. He gazes out of the window over the grey slate rooftops of Bloomsbury. There’s still an hour until visiting time. He hopes Rachel will come. Somehow she’s slipped into his life so completely that the thought of her not being there makes Charles uncomfortable.
The door opens behind him and for a second, lost in thought, Charles doesn’t turn.
‘Turn and face me!’ says a familiar voice.
Charles whirls round, causing the pain in his shoulder to start again. Standing with his back to the closed door is Ivor Kellett-Brown. He holds a lar
ge bouquet of flowers in one hand and an old army revolver in the other. The second of these is unwelcome.
‘I want to see the look on your face as I pull the trigger,’ he says.
Charles is too surprised to reply. After all he’s been through, all the narrow escapes, his mind refuses to accept that he is actually going to be killed by a crackpot ex-barrister wearing clothes that were out of fashion even in the 1930s.
He knows there’s no chance of getting across the room fast enough to prevent Kellett-Brown from firing, so he leans back on his pillows, puts his feet up and smiles.
‘What a lovely surprise, Ivor. Nice flowers; are they for me?’
‘I’m quite serious about this, Holborne. If Ellison’s not up to it then I certainly am. I’m going to shoot you. It’s nothing less than you deserve. Get on your knees.’
Charles laughs heartily, as if the request were a joke. ‘Fancy a cup of tea, old chap?’ he offers, indicating the pot. ‘There’s plenty left. And biscuits. What news of the Temple?’
Kellett-Brown takes a step further into the room. ‘Get on your knees!’ he bellows, his cracked voice rising.
‘Oh, come on Ivor. A joke’s a joke, but you’ll disturb the other patients.’
‘This is no joke! I swear, I’m going to kill you. But first I shall humiliate you the way you did me!’
Kellett-Brown is shouting loudly now. Someone must have heard that, thinks Charles. And they have. The door bursts inwards and Kellett-Brown is sent flying. The flowers and gun fall from his grasp as he totters over, trying to catch the end of the bed. The gun skids halfway under the bed, and Charles hops off and kicks it into the corner of the room. DS Bricker grabs the falling Kellett-Brown in a rugby tackle, and Charles hears the air whoosh out of his would-be assassin’s lungs. Bricker sits on his back and pulls his arms behind him.
‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder!’ he shouts.
The Brief: Crime and corruption in 1960s London (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers) Page 23
