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

'Your pupilling days are over. Now, Miss Mirabelle Jones' I returned to my real opponent, 'let's come down, if we may, from the world of legend and hearsay and gossip and fantasy, to what we call, down at the Old Bailey, hard facts. You know that my client, Mr Cary Timson, is a small-time thief and a minor villain?' 'I have given the Bench the list of Dad's criminal convictions, yes.' Mirabelle looked obligingly into her file.

'It's not the sort of record, is it, Mr Rumpole, that you might expect a good father to have?' The Chair smiled as she invited me to agree but I declined to do so. 'Oh, I don't know,' I said. 'Are only the most law-abiding citizens meant to have children? Are we about to remove their offspring from share-pushers, insider dealers and politicians who don't tell the truth? If we did, even this tireless Local Authority would run out of Children's Homes to bang them up in.' 'Speeches come later, Mr Rumpole.' The loquacious clerk could keep silent no longer.

'They will,' I promised him. 'Cary Timson is a humble member of the Clan Timson, that vast family of South 29 London villains. Now, remind us of the name of that imaginative little boy you interviewed on prime-time television.' 'Dominic Molloy.' Mirabelle knew it by heart.

'Molloy, yes. And, as we've been told so often, you are an extremely experienced social worker.' 'I think so.' 'With a vast knowledge of the social life in this part of South London?' 'I get to know a good deal. Yes, of course I do.' 'Of course. So it will come as no surprise to you if I suggest a that the Molloys are a large family of villains of a slightly more dangerous nature than the Timsons.' 'I didn't know that. But if you say so...' 'Oh, I do say so. Did you meet Dominic's mother, Mrs Peggy Molloy?' 'Oh, yes. I had a good old chat with Mum. Over a cuppa.' The Bench and Mirabelle exchanged smiles. I 'And over a cuppa did she tell you that her husband, Gareth, Dominic's dad, was in Wandsworth as a result of the Tobler Road supermarket affair?' 'Mr Rumpole. My Bench is wondering if this is entirely relevant.' The clerk had been whispering to the Chair and handed the words down from on high.

'Then let your Bench keep quiet and listen,' I told him.

'It'll soon find out. So what's the answer. Miss Jones? Did you know that?' 'I didn't know that Dominic's dad was in prison.' Miss Jones adopted something of a light, insouciant tone.

'And that he suspected Tracy's dad, as you would call him, Cary Timson, of having been the police informer who put him there?' 'Did he?' The witness seemed to find all this talk of adult crime somewhat tedious.

'Oh, yes. And I shall be calling hearsay evidence to prove it. Miss Jones, are you telling this Bench that you, an experienced social worker, didn't bother to find out about the deep hatred that exists between the Molloys and the Timsons, stretching back over generations of villainy to the dark days when Crockthorpe was a village and the local villains swung at the crossroads?' 'I have nothing about that in my file,' Mirabelle told us, as though that made all such evidence completely unimportant.

'Nothing in your file. And your file hasn't considered the possibility that young Dominic Molloy might have been encouraged to put an innocent little girl of a rival family "in the frame", as we're inclined to call it down the Old Bailey?' 'It seems rather far-fetched to me.' Mirabelle gave me her most superior smile.

'Far-fetched, Miss Jones, to you who believe in devilworship?' 'I believe in evil influences on children.' Mirabelle chose her words carefully. 'Yes.' 'Then let us just examine that. Your superstitions were first excited by the fact that a number of children appeared in the playground of Crockthorpe Junior wearing masks?' 'Devil's masks. Yes.' 'Yet the only one you took into so-called care was Tracy Timson?' 'She was the ring-leader. I discovered that Tracy had brought the masks to school in the kit-bag with her lunch and her reading books.' 'Did you ask her where she got them from?' 'I did. Of course, she wouldn't tell me.' Mirabelle smiled and I knew a possible reason for Tracy's silence. Even if Cary had been indulging in satanic rituals his daughter would never have grassed on him.

'I assumed it was from her father.' Mirabelle inserted her elegant boot once more.

'Miss Mirabelle Jones. Let's hope that at some point we'll get to a little reliable evidence, and that this case doesn't rely entirely on your assumptions.' The lunchbreak came none too soon and Mr Bernard and I went in search of a convenient watering-hole. The Jolly Grocer was to Pommeroy's Wine Bar what the Crockthorpe Court was to the Old Bailey. It was a large, bleak pub and the lounge bar was resonant with the bleeping of computer games and the sound of muzak. Pommeroy's claret may be at the bottom end of the market, but I suspected that The Jolly Grocer's red would be pure paint stripper. I refreshed myself on a couple of bottles of Guinness and a pork pie, which was only a little better than minced rubber encased in cardboard, and then we started the short walk back to the Crockthorpe Palais de Justice.

On the way I let Bernard know my view of the proceedings so far. 'It's all very well to accuse the deeply caring Miss Mirabelle Jones of guessing,' I told him, 'but we've got to tell the old darlings on the bench, bonny Bernard, where the hell the masks came from.' 'Our client, Mr Cary Timson...' 'You mean "Dad"?' 'Yes. He denies all knowledge.' 'Does he?' And then, quite suddenly, I came to a halt. I found myself outside a shop called Wedges Carnival and Novelty Stores. The window was full of games, fancy-dress, hats, crackers, Hallowe'en costumes. Father Christmas costumes, masks and other equipment for parties and general merrymaking. It was while I was gazing with a wild surmise at these goods on display that I said to Mr Bernard, in the somewhat awestruck tone of a watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken, 'Well, he would, wouldn't he?

The honour of the Timsons.' 'What do you mean, Mr Rumpole?' 'What's the name of this street? Is it by any chance...?' It was. My instructing solicitor, looking up at a street sign, said, 'Gunston Avenue.' 'Who robbed Wedges?' We had arrived back at the courthouse with ten minutes in hand and I found Cary Timson smoking a last fag on the gravel outside the main entrance. His wife was with him and I lost no time in asking the vital question.

''Mr Rumpole', Tracy's dad looked round and lowered his voice, "you know I can't ' 'Grass? It's the code of the Timsons, isn't it? Well, let me tell you, Cary. There's something even more important than your precious code.' 'I don't know it, then.' 'Oh, yes, you do. You know it perfectly well. Get that wallet out, why don't you? Look at the photographs you were so pleased to show me. Look at them, Cary!' Cary took out his wallet and looked obediently at the pictures of the much-loved Tracy.

'Is she less important than honour among thieves?' I asked them both. Roz looked at her husband, her jaw set and her eyes full of determination. I knew then what the answer to my question would have to be.

The afternoon's proceedings dragged on without any new drama, and although Cary had told me what I needed to know I hadn't yet got his leave to use the information. The extended Timson family would have to be consulted. When the day's work was done I took the tube back to the Temple and, with my alcohol content having sunk to a dangerous low, I went at once to Pommeroy's for First Aid.

Then I was unfortunate enough to meet my proposed cuckoo, the old Etonian Charlie Wisbeach, who, being not entirely responsible for his actions, was administering champagne to a toothy and Sloaney girl solicitor called, if I can bring myself to remember the occasion when she instructed me in a robbery and forgot to summon the vital witness, Miss Arabella Munday. Wisbeach greeted me with a raucous cry of 'Rumpole, old man! Glass of Bolly?' 'Why? What are you celebrating?' I did my best to sound icy; all the same I possessed myself of a glass, which he filled unsteadily.

'Ballard asked me in for a chat. It seems there may be a vacancy in your Chambers, Rumpole.' 'Wherever Ballard is there's always a vacancy. What do you mean exactly?' 'Pity you blotted your copybook.' 'My what?' 'Not very clever of you, was it? Defending devil-worshippers with such a remarkably devout Head of Chambers. It seems I may soon be occupying your room, old man, looking down on the Temple Church and Oliver Goldsmith's tomb.' I looked at the slightly swaying Wisbeach for a long time and then, as I sized up the enemy, a kind of plot began to form itself in my mind. 'Dr Johnson's,' I corrected the man again.

'You told me it was Oliver Goldsmith's.' 'No, I told you it was Dr Johnson's.' 'Goldsmith's.' 'Johnson's.' 'You want to bet?' Charlie Wisbeach's face moved uncomfortably close to mine. 'Does old roly-poly Rumpole want to put his money where his mouth is, does he?' 'Ten quid says it's Johnson.' 'I'm going to give you odds.' Charlie was clearly an experienced gambler. 'Three to one against Johnson. Oily Goldsmith evens. Twenty to one the field. Since I'm taking over the room we'll check on it tomorrow.' 'Why not now?' I challenged him.

'What?' 'Why not check on it now?' I repeated. 'Thirty quid in my pocket and I can take a taxi home.' 'Ten quid down and you'll walk. All right, then. Come on, Arabella. Bring the bottle, old girl.' As they left Pommeroy's, I hung behind and then went to the telephone on the wall by the Gents. I had seen the light in Ballard's window when I came up from Temple station. He usually worked late, partly because he was a slow study so far as even the simplest brief was concerned and partly, I believe, because of a natural reluctance to go home to his wife, Marguerite, a trained nurse, who had once been the Old Bailey's merciless Matron. I put in a quick telephone call to Soapy Sam and advised him to look out of his window in about five minutes' time and pay particular attention to any goings on in the Temple churchyard. Then I went to view the proceedings from a safe distance.

What I saw, and what Sam Ballard saw from his grandstand view, was Charlie Wisbeach holding a bottle and a blonde. He gave a triumphant cry of 'Oliver Goldsmith!' and then mounted the tomb as though it were a hunter and, alternately swigging from the bottle and kissing Miss Arabella Munday, he laughed loudly at his triumph over Rumpole. It was a satanic sound so far as our Head of Chambers was concerned, and this appalling graveyard ritual convinced him that Charlie Wisbeach, who no doubt spent his spare moments reciting the Lord's Prayer backwards, was a quite unsuitable candidate for a place in a Christian Chambers such as Equity Court.

That night important events were also taking place in my client's home in Morrison Close, Crockthorpe. Numerous Timsons were assembled in the front room, assisted by minor villains and their wives. Gary's Uncle Fred, the undisputed head of the family, was there, as was Uncle Dennis, who should long ago have retired from a life of crime to his holiday home on the Costa del Sol. I have done my best to reconstruct the debate from the account given to me by Roz. After a general family discussion and exchange of news. Uncle Fred gave his opinion of the Wedges job. 'Bloody joke shop. I always said it was a bad idea, robbing a joke shop.' 'There was always money left in the till overnight. Our info told us that. And the security was hopeless. Through the back door, like.' Uncle Dennis explained the thinking behind the enterprise.

'What you want to leave the stuff round my place for?' Cary was naturally aggrieved because the booty had, it transpired, included a box of satanic masks to which, as they were left in her father's garage, young Tracy had easy access.

'You should have known how dangerous them things were, what with young kids and social workers about.' 'Well, Fred's was under constant surveillance,' Uncle Dennis explained. 'As was mine. And seeing as you and Roz was away on Monday.. 'Oh, thank you very much!' Cary was sarcastic.