Once a year, say? Sort of paying one’s dues, good for the image?”
“Once a year is a good average. No need to over-egg the pudding, Mr. Vee.”
Vansittart laughed. Creedy was in charge of the finances and though this was a very wealthy set of chambers, he hated to see ‘his’ barristers taking peanuts for a legal aid brief. Still, whims are whims and have to be indulged. But not too often.
“You have something in mind?”
“I’m told there is a case at Highbury Corner. Two young men accused of mugging and killing a pedestrian. They claim they didn’t do it. Could even be true. The names are Price and Cornish. Could you find out who their solicitor is and ask him to take my call?”
An hour later Lou Slade sat and stared at the telephone as if it had suddenly turned into gold studded with diamonds.
“Vansittart?” he whispered. “James bloody Vansittart?”
Then he collected himself and re-addressed the phone, at the other end of which was Mike Creedy.
“Yes, indeed. Well, I am most honoured. And surprised, I admit. Yes, I’ll hold on.”
Seconds later the call was transferred and the QC came on.
“Mr. Slade, how good of you to take my call.”
The voice was easy, confident, courteous and beautifully modulated. Eton, maybe Harrow, oh and Guards, thought Slade.
It was a brief talk, but covered all that needed to be. Slade would be delighted to instruct Mr. Vansittart in the matter of Regina versus Price and Cornish. Yes, he had the prosecution file, it had arrived that very morning and he would be happy to come to the Temple for a first tactical discussion with his clients’ new barrister. The meeting was fixed for two p.m.
Vansittart turned out to be all Slade had expected: urbane, charming and courteous, plying his guest with tea in bone china and, spotting a slight yellow stain on the two first fingers of the right hand, offering a silver box of Balkan Sobranie. Slade lit up gratefully. A good East End lad, these bastards made him nervous. Vansittart looked at the file, but did not open it.
“Tell me, Mr. Slade, how do you see this case? Just run over it for me.”
Not unnaturally, Slade was flattered. It had already been quite a day. He ran over the events of the past eight days, since he had been called to the Dover Street nick while eating his supper.
“So, it would seem that Mr. Patel is the key and yet only witness,” said Vansittart when he had finished. “The rest is forensic or circumstantial. And it’s all in here?”
“Yes, it’s all there.”
Slade had had one hour in his office and a further hour in the taxi to flick through the GPS file, but it had just been enough.
“But I think it is pretty strong. And the clients have no alibi except each other. They claim they were either in bed at their squat or mooching around the streets together.”
Vansittart rose, forcing Slade to put down his half-drunk cup and stub out his butt before doing the same.
“It’s been more than kind of you to come personally,” said Vansittart as he ushered Slade to the door, “but I always feel that if we are going to work together an early personal meeting is best. And I am grateful for your advice.”
He said that he intended to read the entire file that evening and would call Slade in his office the next day. Slade explained that he had court work all morning, so the call was fixed for three p.m.
DAY ELEVEN
FRIDAY
The call was precisely at three.
“An interesting case, Mr. Slade, wouldn’t you say? Strong, but not, perhaps, impregnable.”
“Strong enough, if the witness statement of Mr. Patel holds up, Mr. Vansittart.”
“Precisely my conclusion. Tell me, have our clients offered any explanation for either the prints on the wallet or the treating of the broken nose just three hours after the mugging?”
“No. They just keep repeating ‘Dunno’ and ‘Can’t remember’. They are not all that bright.”
“Ah well, can’t be helped. But I think we do need a couple of
“Once a year is a good average. No need to over-egg the pudding, Mr. Vee.”
Vansittart laughed. Creedy was in charge of the finances and though this was a very wealthy set of chambers, he hated to see ‘his’ barristers taking peanuts for a legal aid brief. Still, whims are whims and have to be indulged. But not too often.
“You have something in mind?”
“I’m told there is a case at Highbury Corner. Two young men accused of mugging and killing a pedestrian. They claim they didn’t do it. Could even be true. The names are Price and Cornish. Could you find out who their solicitor is and ask him to take my call?”
An hour later Lou Slade sat and stared at the telephone as if it had suddenly turned into gold studded with diamonds.
“Vansittart?” he whispered. “James bloody Vansittart?”
Then he collected himself and re-addressed the phone, at the other end of which was Mike Creedy.
“Yes, indeed. Well, I am most honoured. And surprised, I admit. Yes, I’ll hold on.”
Seconds later the call was transferred and the QC came on.
“Mr. Slade, how good of you to take my call.”
The voice was easy, confident, courteous and beautifully modulated. Eton, maybe Harrow, oh and Guards, thought Slade.
It was a brief talk, but covered all that needed to be. Slade would be delighted to instruct Mr. Vansittart in the matter of Regina versus Price and Cornish. Yes, he had the prosecution file, it had arrived that very morning and he would be happy to come to the Temple for a first tactical discussion with his clients’ new barrister. The meeting was fixed for two p.m.
Vansittart turned out to be all Slade had expected: urbane, charming and courteous, plying his guest with tea in bone china and, spotting a slight yellow stain on the two first fingers of the right hand, offering a silver box of Balkan Sobranie. Slade lit up gratefully. A good East End lad, these bastards made him nervous. Vansittart looked at the file, but did not open it.
“Tell me, Mr. Slade, how do you see this case? Just run over it for me.”
Not unnaturally, Slade was flattered. It had already been quite a day. He ran over the events of the past eight days, since he had been called to the Dover Street nick while eating his supper.
“So, it would seem that Mr. Patel is the key and yet only witness,” said Vansittart when he had finished. “The rest is forensic or circumstantial. And it’s all in here?”
“Yes, it’s all there.”
Slade had had one hour in his office and a further hour in the taxi to flick through the GPS file, but it had just been enough.
“But I think it is pretty strong. And the clients have no alibi except each other. They claim they were either in bed at their squat or mooching around the streets together.”
Vansittart rose, forcing Slade to put down his half-drunk cup and stub out his butt before doing the same.
“It’s been more than kind of you to come personally,” said Vansittart as he ushered Slade to the door, “but I always feel that if we are going to work together an early personal meeting is best. And I am grateful for your advice.”
He said that he intended to read the entire file that evening and would call Slade in his office the next day. Slade explained that he had court work all morning, so the call was fixed for three p.m.
DAY ELEVEN
FRIDAY
The call was precisely at three.
“An interesting case, Mr. Slade, wouldn’t you say? Strong, but not, perhaps, impregnable.”
“Strong enough, if the witness statement of Mr. Patel holds up, Mr. Vansittart.”
“Precisely my conclusion. Tell me, have our clients offered any explanation for either the prints on the wallet or the treating of the broken nose just three hours after the mugging?”
“No. They just keep repeating ‘Dunno’ and ‘Can’t remember’. They are not all that bright.”
“Ah well, can’t be helped. But I think we do need a couple of
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