False Witness Page 13

  Now that speeches had begun, it was Livingstone’s solemn task to guard the oak-paneled doors and prevent the entry of “strangers.” For this dangerous mission, he had been armed with a jeroboam of vintage claret.

  Hilary Hardcastle was reaching the heart of her speech. “In my day, the Junior Bar was seen and not heard.” There were a few port-induced guffaws from the constellation of silks. “We knew our place in those days. Maybe, gentlemen“—she ignored the scattering of “lady” barristers—“Maybe, gentlemen, it is a sign of the times. Everyone wants his say. I am led to believe this is what they call democracy.”

  At this, laughter. I did not really see why.

  Hardcastle took a sip of port; her lips became momentarily ruby. “I see barristers in court talking about the truth. About justice. They’ll be talking about the American way next.”

  Livingstone was sitting behind me. He leant forward and whispered, “She’s a tartar, don’t you think?”

  “I can think of other words for it,” I replied. Then I remembered those strange words that Kingsley had called after me in the prison. I turned to Livingstone. “Rupert, old chap,” I said, speaking the only language he understood. “You appear to be a chap who knows everything about everything.”

  “Well, yes,” he said smugly. “There is that.”

  “Does riding the Stang mean anything to you?”

  “Don’t be an ignorant pleb all your life, Fawley,” he said.

  “So what is it?”

  “It’s a form of punishment.”

  “What sort?”

  “Oh, do shut up, Fawley. Hilary’s reaching her climax.”

  This was a phenomenon that even I had a vague interest in seeing. The diminutive judge looked hard at my corner of the room. “You see, gentlemen, cases are taking too long. Every Tom, Dick and Harry is asking questions.” I could have sworn she stressed the “Tom.” “Too many of you are fighting hopeless cases, running dishonest defenses.”

  Her little eyes didn’t move from my end of the table. Hardcastle was becoming more and more fervent as if she were an evangelical preacher. Only that with one heretical exception called Fawley, she was preaching to the converted.

  “The code of conduct permits you to give strong advice about pleading guilty. My strong advice to you is don’t shirk from that duty.”

  Hardcastle’s voice rose. It cracked, spat, and pestered. “Gentlemen, you are not concerned with real guilt and innocence. That is the province of the Church—and of God.”

  Justine stared up at Hardcastle, her delicate chin cupped in the same delicate hands that had moved so expertly through my shirt.

  “The system of criminal justice is a huge…” Hardcastle frantically searched for the words and after looking down at her plate she said, “The system is a huge slaughter-house. A right ruddy meat factory. And more meat is being fed in every day. Most of it fouled, some of it rotting, all sorts of muck.” She took a final sip of port; her tongue, as red as a rhododendron, lapped the corners of her mouth. “So don’t clog up the system, gentlemen. It will create an awful stink.”

  Then there was a cacophony of applause and cheers from around the room; mirth and merriment lubricated by old tawny and a feeling that we were all in on the secret.

  I could stomach no more. I couldn’t wait for Justine—this was her world, not mine.

  As I reached the door, Livingstone barred my way. “Can’t leave, Fawley. Against the rules.” He preened his flaxen locks.

  “Let me out,” I said.

  Around me I heard barristers thumping the table and crying out, “Forfeit, forfeit,” The penalty was supposed to be half a pint of claret.

  “You’ve got to pay a forfeit,” said Livingstone, lapping up the attention and inspecting his manicured nails.

  I took the chance to push him aside and slip through the door. He staggered down the dimly lit corridor after me.

  “You’re not one of us, Fawley,” he shouted. “You never will be.”

  As I was about to leave the hotel, I noticed a pay phone in the foyer and decided to ring home for messages. When I put in the first coin, I heard Penny’s voice. It was the answer-phone. She had recorded our message.

  “We can’t answer your call right now. Please leave us your name and number and we’ll get right back to you.”

  I felt strange. For the first time in my marriage, it sounded odd to hear Penny say we. How long, I wondered, would it remain so? I triggered the messages. The first was from some anonymous bureaucrat from the Bar Council about Hard-castle’s complaint. It was official.

  Emma’s voice was next, bright as ever. “Hi, Tom. I know this sounds crazy, but I need you to meet me at a rave tonight. I’ve got some info about the case. The club’s called Stairway to Heaven. Sounds awful, doesn’t it? It’s on Old Camberwell Road. There’s someone you should meet.” Then her voice changed slightly. “Hi, Penny. Hope you don’t mind me borrowing your husband for a while. Don’t worry. I’ll get him home soon.”

  Before I had a proper opportunity to digest Emma’s bizarre request, one of my clerks, Steve, spoke.

  “Good evening, Mr. Fawley. Just to tell you you’re doing paperwork tomorrow.” This was a clerk’s euphemism for: You’re unemployed. No one wants you to work for them. “You’ve got two urgent messages, Mr. Fawley. Mr. Goldman wants to speak to you about the Kingsley murder. And you’ve got a message from—who wrote this?—sorry, can’t read the writing, must be the temp.”

  I could hear Steve conferring with Rose, the other clerk. There was a rustling of paper. Steve finally said, “I think it says ‘Real Lives.’ Isn’t that some television programme, Mr. Fawley? You could be famous. Real Lives. Personal… personality? Tomorrow.” Sheer gobbledegook. I don’t know.”

  It made sense of a sort to me. Perhaps I wanted it to. Who were they profiling? Kingsley, Davenport, Manly? A conceited little voice somewhere behind my left ear whispered, Tom, wouldn’t it be nice if…

  “It’s signed, ‘Love Milly.’ That’s it,” said Steve.

  The money ran out again. What was Rose saying? I knew no one called Milly. We sometimes get journalists and reporters ringing us up for a story. But why me? Who was Milly?

  I had one coin left and used it to replay the message. I put a finger to my other ear to eliminate the bustle from the increasingly crowded foyer. This time I tried to concentrate on Rose.

  As Steve said, “Real Lives,” I could faintly hear Rose say, “Read Times. I think it says The Times, Steve.” And then she said quite banally, “No, Steve. It’s signed… doesn’t it say… Love Molly?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  BY THE TIME MY TAXI REACHED CAMBERWELL, I realized how tired I was. I found the nightclub in an alley strewn with litter and unseen fighting cats screaming at each other in the fog.

  There was no one on the door. In fact, there was no door, just a bleak void with well-worn stone steps disappearing quickly underground. I could already hear the thud-thud of the bass.

  I felt ridiculous. There I was, almost forty, dressed in a double-breasted suit going to an illicit rave in south London. No doubt I looked like a pimp. I certainly felt like one.

  It was black inside. The music was so loud that you imagined you would never hear again. Drips of hot sweat flew off young bodies gyrating in the darkness. And suddenly a little light. A stroboscope and a glimpse of a hundred grotesquely moving silhouettes, heavy limbs swimming through treacle. I took off my jacket and loosened my tie.

  “What do you look like.” Even through the infernal din, I recognized Emma’s voice. She was wearing a very baggy tee-shirt, button-up jeans and what my daughter would call a “kicking” pair of trainers. “You could have changed, Tom,” she said.

  “Came straight from the Bar Mess.”

  “You never went to—never mind.” The strobe stopped and a brilliant yellow light filled the area, revealing that we were in a fecund cellar crisscrossed with arches. Emma surveyed my face and said, “What has happened to y
ou? My God, you look like you’ve seen a—”

  “Don’t joke,” I said.

  “Whatever is the matter?”

  Did I tell her? If Steve had got it right, how foolish I would have looked babbling on about a message from a dead girl.

  “I’ll tell you about it sometime,” I shouted.

  Emma nodded her head rapidly, but I wasn’t sure she heard what I said. She grabbed my arm and started to lead me toward the throbbing mass. All at once the room was filled with a spectral mist which billowed from strategically placed ducts in the wall.

  I dug my heels in and said, “Who do you want me to meet?”

  “Can’t see him now. He’s… sort of busy.”

  “Emma, I’ve come all this way—”

  “See them?” She pointed to two rather clumsy women standing by the next arch. Each held a full bottle of pilsner.

  “Friends of yours?” I asked.

  Emma shook her head and waited for an especially jarring synthetic sound to ebb back into the general din. “They’re plod,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” They didn’t look like the WPCs I’d cross-examined.

  “Definitely.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “White shoes, handbags. Look like they’re going to a disco in Dagenham.”

  On closer inspection they did look unnecessarily “tarted up,” as they used to say in pre-feminist days. Each had an elaborate hair-do and wore thick red lipstick. In contrast, it was difficult to distinguish the male tee-shirt and jeans on the dance-floor from the female of the species.

  Emma chuckled, clearly enjoying her detective work. “And,” she added, “they’ve been nursing those drinks all night.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “Drugs,” is all she said. “That’s why you can’t meet Danny.”

  “Who the hell is—”

  “You’ll see.”

  “You’ve not dragged me all the way here to meet a pusher. I thought it was a friend of yours.”

  “It is a friend of mine.” Emma jigged around unconsciously to the infectious rhythm to which, it appeared, only I was immune. “I met him during Bar finals. Cambridge man.”

  “Well…” I said. I was about to say, That’s all right then. What had the Bar done to me?

  “Failed the exams. Became a New Age traveler.”

  “A Stonehenge hippie, you mean.”

  “A New Age traveler,” Emma insisted. “Now he organizes raves and—”

  “And?” I looked straight into her dilating pupils.

  “So he deals a little. Nothing heavy.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Oh, chill out, Tom. Don’t be such an insufferable prude.”

  “Hadn’t you better warn your friend?”

  “He’s street, Tom. He can handle the busys.”

  It was clear to me that this New Age traveler had some decidedly Old Age vices, but I didn’t say that to Emma. The strobe came on again and her jigging seemed almost comical.

  “I’ll be back in a sec,” she said.

  I didn’t want to be left alone, the darkness of the cellar, the noise, even the dancers left me unaccountably helpless. “Where are you going?”

  “Got to see a man about a dog.” She undid my tie and disappeared into the lavatory.

  I retreated into a deserted corner garnished with trampled cans of Lucozade and chewing-gum wrappers. Very soon I was approached by a man wearing a psychedelic track-suit and a string vest. His muscular black torso glistened with oil.

  “You Mr. Thomas,” he said.

  It was not a question.

  “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

  “Nah,” he said, still chewing something. He had perfect teeth and hundreds of them, unblemished save for two golden caps over the middle top. “But I know you.”

  “Well, that’s all right then.” I knew it was a dumb thing to say.

  He smiled and put his arms against the wall, placing me between them. I had an oiled bicep in each ear, which was a novel experience.

  “I’m a friend of Whitey. Sees you in court.” The bright yellow light flashed on him, igniting the glitter in his short dreadlocks. “See, me need some help and Whitey say how’s you a good man.”

  “What sort of help?”

  “Me in trouble. Them blood-clot magistrates say if I don’t pay them fines, I go’s inside.”

  “Have they ordered a means enquiry?” I felt slightly ludicrous discussing the finer points of sentencing procedure while sandwiched between a set of rippling muscles in a Camberwell cavern.

  He told me that the court had not ordered a means enquiry and I said that he was “laughing” then.

  But he did not laugh.

  “Whitey say how’s you a good man,” he repeated, still chewing.

  And yet again I remembered that in the criminal law there was no such thing as a free lunch. Life was cheap, freedom even cheaper, and many of our constitutional rights practically worthless. But nothing was free. There was always a price. Had Whitey tried to set me up with his coded warnings? Did he think I was such a soft touch? This, presumably, was the payoff.

  I was furious. “You tell Whitey Innocent… you can tell him to stick his good-for-nothing backside—”

  Before my tirade had reached its crescendo the arms had disappeared and I was no longer trapped. The man had gone. I looked around me somewhat bemused and noticed in front of me, balanced precariously on their stilettos, the policewomen.

  “Has he got any gear?” asked the first. Then she remembered the briefing. “Only I’m looking for a fix… like.”

  It was hardly the most subtle piece of covert policing.

  “Yeah,” said the other, playing with her perm. “Me, too. Looking to score… like.”

  I tried to look ignorant and stupid, which was not too much of an effort that night. Behind the officers, I could see Emma furtively beckoning me toward her. She stood in the men’s lavatory.

  “Do step into my office, Mr. Fawley.” The lank man next to Emma was dangerously thin. He stood outside a row of cubicles and in an inch of suspicious water on the toilet floor.

  There was a row of sinks filled with a soap solution, all of them dripping onto the tiles. A soggy roll of toilet paper covered a pile of something or other. Syringes everywhere but very few needles.

  “Emma told me about your problem,” he said. His right arm was heavily scarred, the veins almost black.

  I looked swiftly at Emma and wondered how much she knew. I said, “What problem might that be?”

  “Stonebury,” he said.

  “Is that a problem?”

  Emma tiptoed through a pool of stagnant water. “Come on, Tom. Danny’s only trying to help. He thinks he’s solved the puzzle.”

  “What puzzle?”

  “The note in your brief,” she said.

  I turned to the youth. “Who put it there then?”

  “Dunno,” he said.

  “Brilliant,” I snapped. “How could I ever have doubted you.” I began to walk out of the lavatory.

  “But I do know what it’s about,” said the man.

  “Danny read Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic studies at Cambridge,” said Emma.

  “I’m very pleased for him,” I said.

  A shadow appeared in the doorway.

  “Hey, I’m a busy man.” Danny’s accent dropped a couple of income groups, “I’ll check you later, star.”

  “Sweet,” said the vanishing shadow.

  The bass started up again and this time the very tiles seemed to rattle.

  “Magistri sapientiae,” said Danny, picking up a syringe and examining its contents. “The most just of men. Elders who oversaw the sacrifice. Find out who they were.”

  “You see,” said Emma, doe-eyed. “I told Danny about the weird language in the note, about the murder and about the stones and… well, Danny thinks it all fits together.”

  “Yeah. Falce aurea, the golden sickle. A sacrificial knife. Was there straw,
too?”

  That struck a chord. I seemed to remember something about straw. Then I remembered the dream I had had on the first night of the trial. How did he know?”

  “A river of many streams?” He swaggered as arrogantly as his emaciated frame would allow, splashing toward the urinals. “Blake’s Jerusalem.”

  “Rubbish.” I scowled, glad to contradict him.

  I knew the poem tolerably well: some chariots of fire, a land that was green and pretty pleasant, even the odd satanic mill, but definitely no rivers.

  The shadow again appeared at the doorway. “You better chip, spar.”

  In confusion, I looked to Emma.

  She translated. “I think we ought to leave.”

  Danny tossed the syringe expertly out of the window, removed three silver-foil balls from his mouth and tried to flush them.

  “So what’s this about?” I asked.

  He had waded his way to the door. “The real clue is from the Greek.”

  “What is?”

  “The real clue, Drus.”

  “Did you say Bruce? Who the hell is—”

  “No, drus,” he said, spelling it out. “D-R-U-S. Drus. From the Greek.”

  I grabbed his baggy white tee-shirt and could have sworn that the pattern on it was little different from the pattern shaved into the witness’s head at the Old Bailey. Then Danny’s tee-shirt was tugged from the other side of the doorway.

  “I’m Woman Detective Constable Leslie Roach. I am arresting you on suspicion of allowing these premises to be used for the supply of controlled drugs.”

  Danny tried to look amazed, but failed.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” she began to caution him. I was quite excited, never having seen a live arrest. “But anything you say—”

  “I know that crap,” said Danny.

  The two women escorted him through a funnel of jeering ravers toward the staircase.

  As he reached the second step, he turned and shouted, “Children.” The jeering subsided. The ravers did appear young to me but this seemed rather patronizing. “Children,” he shouted with a broken voice. “Children of Albion.”