When the phone rang shortly after six, Laurence Sculby had already been up for an hour. From his chair at the desk the double-bed was visible through the half open bedroom door, and in it the sleeping form of Judy, his current. Some men would have found that a distraction. Not Sculby.
At ten o’clock he was due to attend the West London Coroner’s Court for the start of what promised to be a very long inquest. Most of Sculby’s time over the past few months had been spent preparing for this case. He was deeply committed to it. A naked girl in his bed did not even begin to compete.
David Sanson had been a card-carrying member of the Communist Party and fully paid-up member of the TGWU. He was employed as a driver by a medium-sized firm of hauliers. Shortly before Christmas the drivers at the firm’s Acton depot went on strike over threatened redundancies. Sanson did not work at the Acton depot but that did not prevent him from joining the picket line. At 7.30 a.m. on the first day of the strike there was trouble. Sanson died, his head staved in by a violent blow which a number of witnesses might (or might not) have seen delivered by the baton of a mounted policeman. The baton could not now be found. The dead man’s fiancée had retained Sculby to attend the inquest.
It was right up his street, but even by his standards it was a plum. At 28 Sculby already had a reputation for being a ‘difficult’ lawyer with an impeccable pedigree of left-wing activism going back to his years as an undergraduate at the London School of Economics. On two occasions the police had lodged formal complaints with the Law Society’s Professional Purposes Committee in connection with his conduct of criminal litigation. Neither complaint had been upheld, but relations between Sculby and the police were strained to breaking-point. No one on the inside was surprised when Sculby’s name began to be mentioned in the same breath as Sanson’s. No one doubted that Sculby would do the case as vitriolically as if his own brother lay buried in the cemetery, and several times more efficiently.
So when the phone rang shortly after six and Sculby lifted the receiver to hear Royston say, ‘I’m having the Sanson case adjourned’, he knew a moment of black, uncontrolled rage so powerful that he couldn’t speak. The sheer bloody-minded effrontery of it struck him dumb.
‘Oh you have to be joking’ was all he could say, at first.
‘I’m sorry, Laurie. I know how much it means to you.’
Judy, roused by the sound of Sculby’s voice, was getting up. She stood naked in front of the dressing-table, combing the long blonde hair which cascaded almost to the cleft of her buttocks, and Sculby didn’t even notice.
‘Meant to me. That’s a laugh. You said when I told you I’d got the Sanson papers, you said it was the best fucking thing that we’d had in years. Run it for all it’s worth, you said. Do it so as they’ll never forget you, in Fleet Street or anywhere else, and now all of a sudden it’s a pious bleat about what it meant to me. Jesus Christ, Michael, who the hell do you think I am?’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry…’
‘Well fuck that for a laugh. What about that woman out there who thought she was going to a wedding and ended up going to a bloody funeral? She’s paying me, do you realise that?’
‘We pay you…’
‘That’s different. That is totally different. That is so totally irrelevant…’
Judy came out of the bedroom, fully clothed, and picked up her handbag from the floor. She tried to catch Sculby’s eye, failed, shrugged and went out to the kitchen.
‘I’m adjourning it,’ Royston was saying. ‘I’m not sacking you, am I, for Christ’s sake? I’m not taking you off the case.’
‘Well I won’t adjourn it.’
‘But the police have already said they’ll ask for an adjournment anyway.’
‘And I’ll oppose it.’
‘Coroner won’t, though.’
And Royston sniggered, a loathsome sound which echoed in Sculby’s ears long after the call was over. The lawyer was aware of the coffee grinder going and Terry Wogan in the background. The snigger made him feel suddenly futile.
‘I see,’ he said dully. ‘Well, if that’s how it is.’
In his anger he had stood up. Now he sat at the desk and tried to think productively. Judy put her head round the door, saw him slumped over his papers, shrugged again and disappeared. A moment later the front door slammed loudly. Sculby, a connoisseur of early-morning door slams, was not unduly worried.
‘That’s how it is,’ confirmed Royston. ‘So ring up the office and get somebody sent down to agree an adjournment, all right? And believe me, I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.’
‘Sanson was important,’ said Sculby. He was no longer using the harsh, hectoring tone employed by trades union leaders to state the terms on which ‘the lads’ would settle. ‘His fiancée was important. To themselves. And me.’
There was a short silence. When Royston spoke again his voice, too, had changed.
‘But that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it, Laurie? Giving up when it matters most…’
Sculby swallowed. ‘You promise this is only a delay.’
‘Yes. But something’s come up and I need you. Now do I have you, Laurie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. It may come to nothing, I can’t tell. All I want you to do for the moment is be available. Just that. You may get a phone-call about a character called Loshkevoi. I’ll spell that…’
Sculby picked up the pencil he had dropped on the floor in his earlier rage and wrote down the name.
‘He’s being done for handling stolen cars. I’ve arranged for your name to be fed to him. He may bite, he may not. If he does, stick with him. Do your level best for him, no holds barred. I want that man to love you, Laurie. I want him to see in you the dead father, long-lost brother and innocent child he never had, all rolled up in one. Okay?’
‘And if there’s no phone-call?’
‘Then forget it. You don’t try to contact him. I’ll be in touch.’
Royston hung up. Sculby replaced the receiver on its cradle. He realised he was hungry.
Judy had left a note for him propped against the coffee-grinder: something about the Albert Hall and two tickets. He screwed it up and threw it in the trash without trying to decipher it further, then made himself some toast and black coffee, which he carried back to the living-room and proceeded to bolt. While he was still chewing the last mouthful of toast he dialled the home number of one of his partners and tersely explained that on account of an overnight development he wouldn’t be in a position to fight the Sanson case after all, and he wasn’t going to be in before lunchtime. The partner promised to arrange for an adjournment by consent.
No sooner had Sculby replaced the receiver than the phone rang.
‘Is that Mr Sculby?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Mr Laurence Sculby, the solicitor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Detective-Sergeant Fitzgerald, Lavender Hill police station here. I am telephoning on behalf of one Victor Gregory Loshkevoi. He has been charged with handling stolen property, contrary to section 22 subsection…’
‘Yes, I’m familiar with it, Sergeant. Go on.’
‘He wishes to retain you as his solicitor to act for him in preparing his defence.’
It amused Sculby to hear the undisguised hostility in Fitzgerald’s voice. ‘When’s he coming up?’
‘Ten o’clock this morning at Lavender Hill Magistrates’ Court.’
‘I’ll be there. You’re not going to try to attach any stupid conditions to bail, I suppose?’
‘We shall oppose bail.’
‘You’ll do what?’ scoffed Sculby, but the line was dead. He stared at the receiver as if seeking confirmation that he had heard correctly, and shook his head. The filth never ceased to amaze him.
He took a cab all the way from Kilburn to Clapham, knowing that Royston would pay. He spent the journey sunk in depression, staring vacantly out of the window. This was his daily grind. Most of his time-sheets recorded visits to obscure magistrates’ courts on the outer fringes of London in buildings never designed for the purpose, where he would trade cigarettes and sometimes larger favours with bored policemen while together they engaged in the most common of legal practices – waiting for something to happen. Today should have been different.
He was at Clapham by half-past nine. For Sculby, the worst moment always came on entering the cell. Each one looked alike: brick walls painted dark green to chest height and pale green thereafter; a dark stripe round the room at the level where a man’s head would leave a grease-mark if he sat long enough; a table and a chair. Through the narrow doorway Sculby saw these familiar things and unconsciously squared his shoulders.
Loshkevoi was sitting at the table, head in hands. At the sound of Sculby’s entry he rose to his feet and retreated until he was standing with his back to the far wall.
‘Mr Loshkevoi?’ breezed Sculby. ‘I’m a solicitor, my name’s Sculby, and I’m here to see what I can do for you. As an arrested person charged with an indictable offence you have certain rights, one of which is to apply for bail…’
Sculby continued with his easy-going, reassuring speech, reminding Loshkevoi of his rights, outlining the cash limits for Legal Aid, inquiring about his client’s means. But underneath he was troubled. Loshkevoi had a bad smell to him. He was tall and thick-set and fit-looking, obviously a man to have on your side in a fight if at all possible, and his neatly trimmed black beard gave him the appearance of one who has secrets to hide. Fatigue would account partly for his haggard look, but there was more to it than that. Someone had got to Loshkevoi. He was running scared.
Sculby paused, so as to give his latest client a chance to speak. Loshkevoi muttered something incomprehensible. He seemed dazed.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said I’m… I have committed no offence. I do not…’ Loshkevoi shook his head from side to side. ‘I do not know what is happening to me. I am in your hands, Mr Sculby.’
The deep bass voice was hoarse with strain.
‘Let’s take it a step at a time, shall we? Bail, that’s the first thing. Let me explain about court procedure…’
Loshkevoi’s case was called on first. A detective-sergeant outlined the charges and asked for an adjournment pending further enquiries. Sculby formally stated that his client would plead not guilty and reserve his defence; he had no objection to a remand, provided it was on bail.
‘Sergeant?’
‘I oppose bail, Sir. We have reason to believe that further offences may be committed and evidence destroyed if bail is granted.’
‘I protest!’
Sculby was on his feet. The stipendary magistrate raised his hand. ‘All in good time. Anything else from the police?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Now, Mr Sculby…’
‘Sir, I would respectfully remind you of the provisions of the Bail Act. My client has no previous convictions. He is prima facie entitled…’
The magistrate listened stony-faced for five minutes while Sculby said everything he could think of on Loshkevoi’s behalf. Then:
‘The prisoner is remanded in custody for seven days.’
Behind Sculby there was a sudden commotion. Loshkevoi was standing in the dock, his hands grasping the rail in front of him, while two policemen struggled to restrain him. He had hurled himself forward with such violence that his body was bent almost double over the bar of the dock. The subdued man whom Sculby had interviewed in the cells was gone; in his place was a frenzied, white-faced maniac.
‘Get me out!’
Sculby’s jaw dropped. He looked helplessly from the bench to the dock, and back again. ‘Be quiet,’ he hissed. ‘You’ll do yourself no good.’
‘Sculby, I’m telling you…’ Loshkevoi’s voice was a bare croak. ‘Get me out.’
‘Take him down,’ said the magistrate.