Rumpole and the Reign of Terror Read online

  'I was reading law,' Ian Antrim told me. 'I was going into a solicitor's office. All that had to go because of my conviction. I was lucky I had an uncle in the paint business, so I went into that on the merchandising side, selling paint. It's been a pointless sort of a life really, apart from meeting Myra. She thinks the world of me, Mr Rumpole. She's got no idea I was ever in prison. None of my family told her. Of course I'm happy with Myra, but I can't help looking back on those days with the band. At least we believed in something.'

  'I remember my mitigation speech,' I told him. 'I said you were a hopeless bunch of foolish youths who would never have hurt anyone.'

  'I know you said that. It made us very angry.'

  'If I hadn't said it you might have got three years or four.'

  'Perhaps you're right.'

  'All those threats of bombing,' I went on, 'did you really mean them?'

  'I'm afraid our leader did. One of us had even found a book on how to make explosives in your own backyard.'

  'One of you?' I asked him. 'Which one? Was that you?'

  'Not me, no. I mean the one who stayed out of it. The one who never came with us to the American reading room. And I'm sure he was the one who tipped off the police. I suppose he thought it was a better bet to be on their side. We despised him for that, but we didn't give him away. We never referred to him in any of our statements. Well, you may remember that, Mr Rumpole. We never implicated him or anyone else.'

  'Who was he then – the one who grassed?'

  There was a considerable silence, no sound but the ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece. Then Ian Antrim took a long swig of brandy and soda and gave me the name.

  And the empty lounge echoed to the quite unexpected sound of Rumpole's laughter.

  I was still chuckling after I'd promised, yet again, not to tell Mrs Antrim or anyone else about my new friend's criminal past. And I was smiling and even uttering an occasional laugh when I turned up in our bedroom and Hilda switched on her bedside lamp.

  'What on earth's the matter, Rumpole?' she said. 'I didn't think any of the jokes tonight were particularly funny.'

  'One of them was,' I told her. 'One of them was very funny indeed.'

  •

  After that evening at the summer show I was anxious to get back to my chambers in the Temple in order to make the best possible use of the information I had received from Ian Antrim, but She Who Must would have none of it. 'You've got no work to get back to, Rumpole,' she told me, 'so don't pretend you have. You're not going to spoil Brighton. What you want is a good blow on the Downs and let's hope to send you back in a better state of health than if you were in that stuffy old room in those chambers of yours.'

  The Antrims had left the day after our visit to the summer show and my late-night conversation with Ian. When they had gone I was, I'm afraid, a poor companion to Hilda. Too often, on our walks or during pub lunches and evenings in the hotel, she had come out with, 'Rumpole! You're not listening to a word I'm saying,' and too often this was true. All I could think of was a dark cupboard in the corner of my room in chambers, and wonder whether or not I might find something of great importance there.

  At last, it seemed at long last, I was released from holiday and we returned to Froxbury Mansions. Early next morning, after a snatched breakfast in the Tastee-Bite in Fleet Street, I opened the cupboard in which I kept pile after pile of photographs, copies of letters and odd exhibits from the more memorable cases I'd been engaged in over the years.

  The Scarlet Band's plea of guilty was not remarkable, and it was a long time ago, but I had a vague recollection of a photograph which I had kept, for some reason, perhaps as a record of the fervent political years of the late sixties. I'd been searching for an hour or two and had covered the floor with dusty documents when at last I found it. I took it to my desk, switched on a light and examined it carefully and then, I have to admit, I laughed again.

  It was a photograph, taken for some underground publication which never used it, but which had, for some reason, been included in my brief at that time. It was captioned 'The Scarlet Band, the group waging war against the enemies of Vietnam'. I could recognize the three youths I had mitigated for when they pleaded guilty, including the young and intense Ian Antrim. But with them was a fourth, another undergraduate, the one who didn't join in the attack on the American reading room, he who thought it a better career move to call the police. Of course, he was younger then, but the square body and naturally pugnacious features were unmistakable. It was the young Frederick Sugden.

  22

  HAVING COME BY SUCH a precious nugget of information about the Home Secretary I was, for a while, at a loss to know what to do with it. I had to confront the elusive Sugden, in some more or less private place, and win his support for the fair and legal trial of Dr Khan. But how to do so? My telephone calls went unanswered. I could hardly shout down at him from the public gallery of the House of Commons or yell after his government limousine in the street.

  The answer came with the unlikely presence of Claude Erskine-Brown, who called in to my room for an idle chat which began with a discussion of our recent holidays.

  'So you went to Brighton, did you, Rumpole? Lucky you.'

  'I think so. And where did you go, Erskine-Brown?'

  'St Tropez.' Claude said it dolefully, as though his holiday had consisted of a wet weekend in Wigan.

  'That sounds exciting.'

  'Exciting!' Claude gave what can only be described as a bitter laugh. 'It was a disaster so far as I was concerned. Peter Plaistow had taken a house there and he invited Philly, so of course she took me and the children.'

  'Of course.'

  'I thought it would be a good time for all of us. But the other guest …'

  'What other guest?'

  'The Home Secretary. Your friend Fred Sugden.'

  'Who said he was my friend?'

  'You were on television with him, weren't you? Come to think of it, he stitched you up properly on that occasion.'

  'I don't think you'll find that he stitched me up,' I said. 'But go on. What was wrong with him on holiday.'

  'Philly took a shine to him. I'm afraid …' Here Claude shook his head gloomily. 'It was a distinct shine. You didn't find him attractive, did you, Rumpole?'

  'Not my type.'

  'She says it's the power. The feeling that he's got power. That's what makes him so attractive.'

  'She's not going to leave you for this Sugden, is she?' I had to ask.

  'Oh, not that. But she's always having dinner with him. In the Myrtle and such-like places. She went to watch him in a debate in Parliament. I don't think he's at all attractive, but he's got power. We haven't got power, I suppose, have we, Rumpole?'

  'I don't know. I might have a bit of it. Does Sugden come to your house occasionally?'

  'Our summer party.' Claude nodded unhappily. 'She's asked him and he's coming. She'll flatter him, of course, and he'll ignore me entirely. That's what he did in France.'

  'Your wife, Phillida,' I told him, 'in spite of her elevation to the bench, is a very attractive woman.'

  'I know that. Of course I know it.'

  'Why don't you invite me to your summer party?'

  'Well, yes. Yes, of course.' Claude seemed somewhat taken aback. What do you have in mind?'

  'I might be able to reduce the Sugden power a little. Anyway, Hilda enjoys a party.'

  'Reduce his power? How on earth can you do that?'

  'I'm not at liberty to tell you how. Not for the moment. But invite us and let's see what I can do.'

  •

  The Erskine-Brown house in Islington has a small garden which, for the night of their summer party, was decorated with coloured lights hanging from the trees. House and garden were filled to near-overflowing by judges, barristers, occasional Lords of Appeal – the friends Phillida had made since her elevation to the bench – and the journalists and broadcasters plus the occasional MP who inhabit that part of London. I had glimpsed the
Home Secretary often in this throng, usually in close proximity to our hostess, but I had never got near enough to him for a private conversation on a delicate subject.

  Then the time came when I saw that Phillida had walked up to the sitting room alone to greet the Lord Chancellor and, looking out of a window, I could see Sugden temporarily on his own, sitting next to an ornate Victorian birdbath, balancing a plate of food on his lap. I hurried down the stairs to join him.

  'Good evening, Rumpole. I see you've kept yourself off the television lately.' Sugden was smiling broadly as I sat down beside him. Then he looked distinctly put out. 'You'd better not sit there. I think our hostess will be back in a minute or two.'

  'I know she will. That's why we haven't got much time to talk about something rather important.'

  'Oh yes? And what might that be?' Sugden was in the act of carrying a forkful of asparagus risotto, with shavings of cheese, to his lips. He returned the forkful uneaten when I said, 'The Scarlet Band.'

  'I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'I rather think you do. I happen to have a photograph of you in your student days. Taken for an underground magazine. You were clearly in the band.'

  'Keep your voice down.' Sugden looked around at the risotto-eating guests, who were clearly taking no interest in him at all.

  'You'll remember I appeared for the rest of the band when you grassed on them.'

  He looked pleadingly at me and almost whispered, 'Quiet! For God's sake!'

  'Oh, it wasn't a serious organization. I mean, you were only amateur terrorists, weren't you? You only trashed a few American and South African properties. I know you talked about bombs. Big bomb talk – and you had the bomber's handbook. I'm not saying you once had a talent for being a terrorist, and you were probably right to adopt the profession of a police informer.'

  'Rumpole!' His voice was now hardly a croak. 'What're you going to do with that photograph?'

  'Sell it to the papers, of course.' I did my best to sound cheerful. 'I thought I'd start with the Sunday Fortress. It's not a sex scandal, but they'd probably come up with a good headline. "Home Secretary was Big Bomber", something along those lines.'

  There was a silence between us, and then he asked, 'What do you want?'

  'Something quite simple. A fair trial in front of a jury for Dr Mahmood Khan, at present under house arrest. You'll remember the name, won't you? Mahmood Khan, late of Belmarsh Prison. Just a fair trial. That's all he wants.'

  'This is blackmail!'

  'Exactly. We've all got criminal tendencies, haven't we? I'll give you three weeks – that should be quite enough time to charge him with some offence. If nothing's happened by then – well, read the Fortress.'

  Before Sugden could reply, Phillida came back and I surrendered her seat to her.

  'So glad you came, Rumpole,' she said. 'I hope you and Hilda are enjoying the party.'

  'Of course,' I said. 'And congratulations! The party's an enormous success.'

  23

  'HOW DID YOU MANAGE IT?'

  'I made a private application to the Home Secretary. I put it to him in a way he couldn't refuse.'

  'An application?' Bonny Bernard had looked puzzled. 'I don't believe I instructed you to do any such thing?'

  'No, Bernard, you didn't instruct me. On this occasion I had to act quite informally.'

  'I must ask you what you mean by that.'

  'I think it's much better if you don't know.'

  My application had, in spite of Bonny Bernard's unspoken criticism, had the desired result. Dr Khan had been formally charged under the Terrorism Act with conspiring with others to commit acts of terrorism and failing to inform the police when he knew that such acts were planned.

  After these charges had been brought, we had a conference at Dr Khan's then place of arrest, his desirable residence on the sunny side of Kilburn of which everyone spoke so highly. I could see their point: it was a substantial mid-Victorian house with balustraded steps leading to a front door between pillars. The rooms were high and spacious, with long windows giving a view, from the sitting room, of a small, neat garden ending in tall trees. Tiffany, who fluttered nervously round the room, told us that she was the gardener. Her husband sat motionless in an armchair, no longer the neat figure I had seen in prison and when we appeared before SIAC. He looked as though he hadn't shaved that morning, his hair was unbrushed and his feet were half in a pair of bedroom slippers with their backs trodden down.

  'Do you think we'll win the case now?' Tiffany asked me as she fluttered. 'Please say we're going to win.'

  'I can't guarantee it.' I had to tell the truth. 'Forecasting the result of a case is as dangerous as forecasting the winner of the four-thirty at Cheltenham.'

  'If we don't win,' Tiffany came to a halt in front of the marble fireplace, 'quite apart from what'll happen to Mahmood, well, we'd have to sell the house. The hospital's stopped Mahmood's money. We'd have to sell the house to keep me and the children.'

  'It was my father's house.' Dr Khan spoke quietly without looking at us. It was as though he was talking to himself. 'He lost so much of his business. All his shops. But he kept the house. For the family. For me and my children. We can't lose it, Mr Rumpole. We can't lose this case.'

  I didn't bother to argue, or ask why losing the house would be worse than a four-year stretch as a guest of Her Majesty. I merely said, 'Don't let's talk about losing. We haven't seen the prosecution evidence yet.' And with that I left Dr Khan safe in his house, at least for the time being.

  •

  My successful application to the Home Secretary in the case of Khan led to a distinct improvement in the Rumpole practice. Briefs began to reappear on my mantelpiece and Henry, thank goodness, gave me fewer days off. None of the cases that Bonny Bernard and others sent me were as sensational as that of Dr Khan, but they included Will Timson's bit of trouble. Apparently he had taken unkindly to Claude's often-repeated advice to him to plead guilty and he had decided to break the family embargo and send for Rumpole.

  So I found myself conducting my business as usual in the interview room at Brixton Prison, discussing the breaking and entering of premises at numbers 33 and 35 Heckling Street, off the Edgware Road, not a general grocery but a shop selling computers, iPods, DVD players, television sets and other such valuable items. Will's story was, like other Timson stories, not an exactly easy one to put across to a jury; but unlike the rest of the Timsons, he'd become friendly with one of their traditional enemies, a Molloy. Will and Jim Molloy had, he said, 'hit it off', which meant they enjoyed more expensive cars and 'better types of girlfriends' than was usual among the Timson family.

  Will said that Jim asked him to join in the robbery, but having inspected the premises by daylight, Will decided against it and he took no part, he said, in breaking and entering the shop by night. However, having taken a number of cheques and loose cash, Jim deposited the rest of the stolen property in Will's garage. When, 'acting on information received', the police questioned Jim Molloy, he told them that Will Timson was the sole thief, an accusation borne out by his possession of the stolen property.

  'And you're going to say you didn't know it was stolen property?'

  'Of course I didn't.'

  'It'll be hard to get a jury to believe you.'

  'But you'll do your best for me, won't you, Mr Rumpole?'

  'Yes, of course.' I couldn't resist a small sigh at another thankless and probably hopeless task. 'I'll do my best.'

  'It was a Paki ran that shop, wasn't it? Another Paki.'

  'What's that got to do with it?'

  'I'm thinking about that Paki you're defending. The one that took Tiffany away from me. He's guilty as hell, isn't he?'

  'Not yet. He's innocent until somebody proves otherwise.'

  'I hope they lock him up in that Belmarsh and throw away the key. Traitorous bastard.'

  'You know I'm going to do my best for him too,' I told Will Timson.

  I thought of Dr Khan,
unkempt and untidy, sitting in his carpet slippers, a prisoner in his own home. He had some good friends, hadn't he? And at least one deadly enemy.

  24

  Extract from Hilda Rumpole's Memoirs

  WELL, OF COURSE Rumpole is cock-a-hoop because his terrorist doctor is going to be tried by a jury and not just kept locked up at home and out of harm's way. Rumpole says it's all due to a 'little chat' he had with the Home Secretary at the Erskine-Browns' very successful summer party. This is hardly likely, as Rumpole was only sitting with Fred Sugden for about ten minutes, so that could scarcely have made a difference. Obviously these things are decided long before and it only goes to show how fair our government is (perhaps far too fair), even to terrorists.

  The Erskine-Browns' summer party was a huge success, with so many important legal figures there. I got into a really interesting conversation with the Lord Chancellor, nothing dry and legal, but he was so interesting about the plans he had for building an ornamental bridge over the stream at the bottom of his garden in Surrey. Then he took my plate and stood in the pudding queue for me (delicious lemon tart and crème brûlée). I thought of writing to Dodo to tell her the Lord Chancellor stood in the pudding queue for me, but there is a limit to the amount one should show off, even to Dodo Mackintosh. He said it was an honour to get my pudding because my husband was a legend within the bar. I felt like saying, 'What's the use of being a legend if you can't afford a house in Surrey with an ornamental bridge over the stream?'

  But what I need to record is my evening out with Leonard. After our lunch at the Sheridan Club, he invited me to an evening at the 'flicks'. He said there was a flick he wanted to see at his local cinema so what about an evening show and an Indian meal afterwards? Well, it was a tempting offer and Rumpole has been in such a gloom lately, that is before he got cock-a-hoop, that I immediately said yes to Leonard's plan. I told Rumpole I was going out with an old schoolfriend, Patsy O'Neil. In fact I hadn't seen Patsy for yonks but, as usual, I didn't want to stir up trouble by mentioning Leonard's plan.