"Mortimer, John - Rumpole on Trial" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

'I'm sure they did.' The social worker made a note, gave the camera, no doubt installed in the corner of the room the benefit of her smile and then returned to the work in hand.

'Did you see who was leading those children?' 'In the end I did.' 'Who was it?' 'Trace.' 'Tracy Timson?' 'Yes.' 'Your mum said you went round to Tracy Timson's a few times. After school, was that?' 'Yes. After school like.' 'And then you said you went somewhere else. Where else, exactly?' 'Where they put people.' 'A churchyard. Was it a churchyard?' Mirabelle gave us a classic example of a leading question. Dominic nodded approval and she made a note. 'The one in Crockthorpe Road, the church past the roundabout. St Elphick's?' Mirabelle suggested and Dominic nodded again. 'It was the churchyard.

Was it dark?' Dominic nodded so eagerly that his whole body seemed to rock backwards and forwards and he was in danger of falling off his chair.

'After school and late. A month ago? So it was dark. Did a grown-up come with you? A man, perhaps. Did a man come with you?' 'He said we was to play a game.' Now Dominic had resorted to a kind of throaty whisper, guaranteed to make the flesh creep.

'What sort of game?' 'He put something on his face.' mask?' 'Red and horns on it.' 'A devil's mask.' Mirabelle was scribbling enthusiastically.

Is that right, Dominic? He wanted you to play at devils?

This man did?' 'He said he was the Devil. Yes.' 'He was to be the Devil. And what were you supposed to be?' Dominic didn't answer that, but sat as if afraid to move.

'Perhaps you were the Devil's children?' At this point Dominic's silence was more effective than any answer.

'What was the game you had to play?' Mirabelle tried another approach.

'Dance around.' The answer came in a whisper.

'Dance around. Now I want you to tell me, Dominic, when did you meet this man? At Tracy Timson's house? Is that where you met him?' More silence from Dominic, so Mirabelle tried again. 'Do you know who he was, Dominic?' At which Dominic nodded and looked round fearfully.

'Who was he, Dominic? You've been such a help to me so far. Can't you tell me who he was?' 'Tracy's dad.' Everything changes and with ever-increasing rapidity. Human beings no longer sell tickets at the Temple tube station.

Machines and not disillusioned waitresses dispense the socalled coffee in the Old Bailey canteen and, when I became aware that Dianne, our long-time typist and close personal friend to Henry, our clerk, had left the service, I feared and expected that she might be replaced by a robot. However, what I found behind the typewriter, when I blew into the clerk's room after a hard day's work on an actual bodily harm in Acton a few weeks after my conference with Tracy's parents, was nothing more mechanical than an unusually pretty and very young woman, wearing a skirt as short as a suspended sentence and a smile so ready that it seemed never to leave her features entirely but to be waiting around for the next opportunity to beam. Henry introduced her as Miss Clapton.

'Taken over from Dianne, Mr Rumpole, who has just got herself married. I don't know if you've heard the news.' 'Married? Henry, I'm sorry.' 'To a junior clerk in a bankruptcy set.' He spoke with considerable disgust. 'I told her she'd live to regret it.' 'Welcome to Equity Court, Miss Clapton,' I said. 'If you behave really well, you might get parole in about ten years.' She gave me the smile at full strength, but my attention was diverted by the sight of Mizz Liz Probert who had just picked up a brief from the mantelpiece and was looking at it with every sign of rapture. Liz, the daughter of Red Ron Probert, Labour leader on the Crockthorpe Council, is the most radical member of our Chambers. I greeted her with, 'Soft you now! The fair Mizz Probert! What are you fondling there, old thing?' Or words to that effect.

'What does it look like, Rumpole?' 'It looks suspiciously like a brief.' 'Got it in one!' Mizz Liz was in a perky mood that morning.

'Time marches on! My ex-pupil has begun to acquire briefs.

What is it? Bad case of non-renewed dog licence?' 'A bit more serious than that. I'm for the Crockthorpe Local Authority, Rumpole.' 'I am suitably overawed.' I didn't ask whether the presence of Red Ron on the Council had anything to do with this manna from heaven, and Mizz Liz went on to tell a familiar story. 'A little girl had to be taken into care. She's in terrible danger in the home. You know what it is, the father's got a criminal record. As a matter of fact, it's a name that might be familiar to you. Timson.' 'So they took away a Timson child because the father's got form?' I asked innocently, hoping for further information.

'Not just that. Something rather awful was going on. Devil worship! The family were deeply into it. Quite seriously. It's a shocking case.' 'Is it really? Tell me, do you believe in the Devil?' 'Of course I don't, Rumpole. Don't be so ridiculous!

Anyway, that's hardly the point.' 'Isn't it? It interests me, though. You see, I'm likely to be against you in the Juvenile Court.' 'You, Rumpole! On the side of the Devil?' Mizz Probert seemed genuinely shocked.

'Why not? They tell me he has the best lines.' 'Defending devil-worshippers, in a children's case! That's really not on, is it, Rumpole?' 'I really can't think of anyone I wouldn't defend. That's what I believe in. I was just on my way to Pommeroy's. Mizz Liz, old thing, will you join me in a stiffener?' 'I don't really think we should be seen drinking together, not now I'm appearing for the Local Authority.' 'For the Local Authority, of course!' I gave her a respectful bow on leaving. 'A great power in the land! Even if they do rather interfere with the joy of living.' No sooner had I got to Pommeroy's Wine Bar and chalked up the first glass of Jack Pommeroy's Very Ordinary when Claude Erskine-Brown of our Chambers came into view in a state of considerable excitement about the new typist. 'An enormous asset, don't you think? Dot will bring a flood of spring sunshine into our clerk's room.' 'Dot?' I was puzzled. 'What are you babbling about?' 'Her name's Dot, Rumpole. She told me that. I said it was a beautiful name.' I didn't need to tell the fellow he was making a complete ass of himself; this was a fact too obvious to mention.

'I've told her she must come to me if she has any problems workwise.' Claude is, of course, married to Phillida ErskineBrown, Q.c., the attractive and highly competent Portia of our Chambers. Perhaps it's because he has to play second fiddle to this powerful advocate that Claude is for ever on the lookout for alternative company, a pursuit which brings little but embarrassment to himself and those around him. I saw nothing but trouble arising from the appearance of this Dot upon the Erskine-Brown horizon, but now the fellow completely changed the subject and said, 'You know Charlie Wisbeach?' ' I've never heard of him.' 'Wisbeach, Bottomley, Perkins & Harris.' Erskine-Brown spoke in an awe-struck whisper as though repeating a magic formula.

'Good God! Are they all here?' 'I rather think Claude's talking about my dad's firm.' This came from a plumpish but fairly personable young man who was in the offing, holding a bottle of champagne and a glass, which he now refilled and also gave a shower of bubbles to Erskine-Brown.

'Just the best firm in the City, Rumpole. Quality work. And Charlie here's come to the Bar. He wants a seat in Chambers.' Erskine-Brown sounded remarkably keen on the idea, no doubt hoping for work from the firm of Wisbeach, Bottomley, Perkins & Harris.

'Oh, yes?' I sniffed danger. 'And where would he like it?

There might be an inch or two available in the downstairs loo.