There was a long pause. The pay-tone on the phone beeped insistently. Charles crammed in his last 10p. By the time the line was clear, Gerald had reached his decision.
‘Okay, buster. We give it a whirl, huh?’
It was going to be all right. When Gerald started talking like a fifties thriller, he was getting interested in a case.
‘But one thing, Charles…’
‘Yes.’
‘People’ who work in my office tend to look extremely smart and well-groomed. So will you see to it, that you are wearing a suit, that you’ve shaved and that you’ve brushed your hair? I don’t want you rolling up in your usual guise of an out-of-work gamekeeper who’s just spent a long night with Lady Chatterley.’
‘Don’t worry, Gerald. I’ll look as smooth as you do.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gerald was grudging. ‘Well, I suppose it’ll do.’
‘What do you mean — do?’ Charles was aggrieved. He had spent the journey down to Breckton in vivid fantasies of Charles Paris, the legal whiz-kid. As an actor, he could never escape being dictated to by his costumes.
‘Never mind. I suppose there are scruffy solicitors,’ Gerald conceded.
‘Scruffy? I’ll have you know, in 1965, this suit was considered daringly trendy.’
‘Yes, maybe, but one or two things have changed since 1965. In fact, most things have.’
‘Except the British legal system, which hasn’t changed since 1865.’
Gerald ignored the gibe. He looked preoccupied. ‘Charles, I’ve been thinking about this business. As a solicitor, I will be taking a risk which is really unjustifiable. In the sense — ’
‘It’s decided. I’ve got to see Hugo.’
‘You’ll have to give your name when we enter the court. If there ever is any follow-up — ’
‘Let’s assume there isn’t. Come on, Gerald, where’s your spirit of adventure?’
‘Currently hiding behind my fear of being struck off for professional misconduct.’
They entered the Magistrates’ Court building. Mr. Venables and his colleague from the office, Mr. Paris, checked in and were directed to the relevant court. They sidled on to a solicitors’ bench on which the profession was represented by every level of sartorial elegance,
‘That suit on the end’s a darned sight older than mine,’ Charles hissed. ‘Looks like it escaped from a Chicago gangster movie.’
Gerald switched hips off with a look. Charles scanned the courtroom. It all seemed a bit lethargic, like a rehearsal where some of the principal actors were missing and their lines were being read in. The court was as empty as a summer matinee. And as in a theatre, where the audience is scattered in little groups, he was more conscious of the comings and goings in his immediate vicinity than of the main action taking place between the magistrates’ dais and the dock. Solicitors shuffled in and out, reading long sheets of paper to themselves in states of bored abstraction.
One disturbing feature of the proceedings, for which his ignorance of the British legal system had not prepared him, was the large number of policemen around. That in itself was not worrying, but it soon became apparent that for each case the arresting officer had to be present. He wasn’t sure who the arresting officer would be in Hugo’s case, but if it were one of the policemen he had met on the Tuesday night, Charles’s imposture could have serious consequences. He decided not to mention this new anxiety to Gerald. It would only upset him.
It was after twelve, and after some dreary cases of drunkeness, thefts and a taking and driving away, that Hugo was called. He came up into the dock accompanied by a policeman whom, thank God, Charles had never seen before. The prisoner was not handcuffed; in spite of the seriousness of the charge, he was not regarded as a public danger.
Charles turned round with some trepidation and discovered to his relief that there were no familiar faces among the policemen who had just entered the court.
He transferred his attention to his friend. Hugo looked lifeless. There was a greyish sheen to his face and bald dome; his eyes were dead like pumice-stone. Charles recognized that extinguished expression. He’d seen it in Oxford tutorials, in recording studios, at the various ports of call during their Monday drinking session. Hugo had retreated into his mind, closing the door behind him. Nobody could share what he found there, no friend, no wife.
This time the deadness seemed total, as if Hugo had withdrawn completely from the body. His movements when brought to the dock had been those of an automaton. Presumably he must still be suffering from a brain- crushing hangover — it would take a week or so to get over the sort of bender he had been on — but that wasn’t sufficient to explain the absolute impassivity of his expression. It was as if he had opted out of life completely.
The proceedings were short. The charge was read by the magistrate, the police said that they were not yet ready to proceed and the accused was remanded in custody for a week.
Suddenly Hugo was being led off down to the cells again. Gerald shook Charles by the shoulder. ‘Come on. We go down now.
The jailer was in a lenient mood and gave the two solicitors permission to go into the accused’s cell rather than leaving them to conduct their interview through the covered slot in the metal door.
The door was unlocked with caution, but as it swung open, it was apparent that no one need fear violence from the inmate.
Hugo sat on the bed, looking straight at the wall ahead of him. He did not stir as the genuine and false solicitors were ushered in or as the door clanged shut and was locked behind them.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Gerald with professional jovialty.
‘All right,’ came the toneless reply.
‘Headache better?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Charles took the moment for his revelation. Perhaps it would be the necessary shock to shake Hugo out of his lethargy. ‘Look, it’s me — Charles.’
‘Hello.’ The response was again without animation. Without even surprise.
Unwilling to lose his coup, Charles continued, ‘I came in under cover of Gerald’s outfit.’
The solicitor winced predictably at the final word. To gain another predictable wince and maybe to shift Hugo’s mood by humour, Charles added, ‘There’s no substitute for knowing a bent lawyer.’
Gerald’s reaction was as expected; Hugo still gave none. Charles changed tack. ‘Look, Hugo, I know this is one hell of a situation and I feel partly responsible for it, because I’m sure if I hadn’t said certain things in my statement, you wouldn’t be here and — ’
Hugo cut him off, which at least demonstrated that he was taking in what was being said. But the voice in which he spoke remained lifeless. ‘Charles, if it hadn’t been you it would have been someone else. You only told them the truth and that was all they needed.’
‘Yes, but — ’
So there’s no need for you to feel guilty about me or feel you have to make quixotic gestures and come down here to save me from a terrible miscarriage of justice. I don’t blame you. I’m the only person to blame, if blame is the right word.’
‘What, you mean you think you killed her?’
‘That’s what I told the police.’
‘You’ve confessed?’
‘Yes.’
Charles looked at the solicitor. Gerald shrugged. ‘I didn’t tell you because you didn’t ask. You swept me along with some wild scheme of your own and — ’
‘But, Hugo, is it true?’
‘Oh, Charles.’ The voice was infinitely weary. ‘I’ve spent some days going through this, both on my own and
