The Brothers of Baker Street Page 4

  The cab driver gave Reggie an appalled look.

  “They make you eat together?”

  “At the beginning, yes. And not just eat, but converse, as well.”

  “Doesn’t sound easy,” said Walters.

  “It isn’t,” said Reggie.

  “But then, you get paid very well.”

  “Sometimes,” said Reggie.

  Now Walters looked worried. “I have limited…”

  “Your solicitor told me,” said Reggie.

  “I’ll be paying for my cab for the next ten years,” added Walters. “And there was the tuition at the Taxi Knowledge School. And then the moped.”

  “The moped?”

  “You can never hope to learn all the routes on foot; it would take a lifetime. And doing it by car would cost too much just for the petrol.”

  “So you bought a moped.”

  “Yes. Everyone does.”

  “You owe significant money on the cab and the moped?”

  “Yes. And some on the Knowledge School, too.”

  “I see.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “The prosecution thinks it’s motive.”

  “Well, that would be a lousy reason to kill someone, for a few dollars, wouldn’t it?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Anyway, I’ve paid some of it already. My dad gave me my start. He had some savings. I got it when he died. It wasn’t much, but he always made sure he gave me everything he had. He worked even harder than I do for it.”

  “He was a cab driver, too?”

  “No. He was a housepainter.”

  “Really?” Reggie sat back in his chair.

  “Yes. All his life. He had strength in his forearms you would not have guessed. He could hold a full gallon of paint steady in one hand, from the bottom of the can, as if it were nothing, while he used a brush with the other.”

  For a moment, Reggie said nothing and just studied the client. He liked it that Walters’s father was a housepainter. But he didn’t like coincidences.

  Still, it was not an uncommon occupation for East Enders—so perhaps not so surprising that Walters’s father had the same line of work as Reggie’s.

  The silence seemed to make Walters think that Reggie was unimpressed.

  “Do you know how much a full gallon of paint weighs when you have to hold it like this for hours?” said Walters, extending his left arm out from the elbow, palm up.

  “Yes,” said Reggie. “I know exactly.”

  “My dad told me it was no kind of life. He said the fumes would kill me if the ladders didn’t. He told me to make a better life for myself.”

  Reggie nodded, intending nothing more than acknowledgment. But Walters seemed to take it as something more.

  “Did yours tell you that, too?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Reggie, too surprised at the question not to answer.

  “And so you did, didn’t you?”

  Now Reggie did not answer, and it wasn’t just because he wasn’t the one who was supposed to be revealing his background. It was because he wasn’t sure of the answer.

  It was absolutely true, his father had done everything in his power to be sure that Reggie and Nigel would have better livelihoods than his own. And Reggie had, in fact, grown up with that expectation. The next generation would always do better.

  But there is more to life than livelihood, and in recent weeks Reggie had found himself comparing his own life to his father’s. At this same age, Reggie’s father had a wife whom he loved, two sons full of potential if not common sense, and a hope that everything could only get better in the future. These days, Reggie only hoped he would be able to equal that, and of late, he felt some of that hope slipping away.

  Now the potential client, getting no answer from Reggie, continued speaking, and Reggie refocused.

  “I know I’m not educated like you, Mr. Heath, but I’m smart in some ways. I know how to get from this place to that one, and if I don’t already know, I only have to do it once and then I remember forever. I knew I could be a Black Cab driver, if I applied myself. And my dad told me I could, too. It’s all I ever wanted to do, and I wouldn’t give it up for the world.”

  The guard rapped on the conference-room window now, and pointed at his watch.

  Reggie nodded back at the guard. “It’s all right. I’ve heard enough.”

  Walters looked up, at once both hopeful and alarmed.

  “I’ll call your solicitor tomorrow with my decision,” said Reggie.

  “My life is in your hands, Mr. Heath.”

  “We’ll hope it’s not as dire as all that,” said Reggie.

  Reggie left the jail and took a Black Cab back toward Baker Street.

  He had not yet made his decision. He knew this case could not be the financial salvation of his chambers. Payment would come from the public-defense program and would be minimal.

  But that wasn’t the real issue. The real issue was whether he believed Walters.

  Reggie’s instinct from the interview was that Walters had not done it. But he wanted his decision to be based on more than just that instinct—even though this was a form of introspection that he knew a practicing criminal lawyer should not engage in.

  Everyone understood how the system worked: the barrister is not the judge and jury, and it is not necessary or expected that he believe in his heart that the client is innocent. It is only necessary that he not know for a fact otherwise. Any lawyer who could not accept that as the operating premise should not be practicing criminal law.

  But that was exactly why Reggie had stopped practicing it years ago.

  He needed this client to be innocent. In some ways, the idea of defending Walters felt like the idea of defending Reggie’s own family honor. The only real question was whether he believed the man.

  The cab was headed up the Embankment now. It would be a few minutes before he reached chambers. He could make his decision at that time.

  At the moment he still had other issues.

  He took out his mobile and rang Laura.

  She picked up. Her voice sounded vaguely sleepy. But it was not her woken-out-of-a-deep-sleep voice. It was relaxed and lazy, like an afternoon nap in the shade.

  “Reggie,” she said. “What a nice surprise.”

  In almost every memory he had of this voice, she was wearing either nothing or something very near to it.

  “Where are you?” he said.

  “In Phuket, of course. You know that.”

  Reggie knew that. And he knew he shouldn’t be wondering about where she was or what she had just been doing more precisely than that.

  “Yes,” he said. “How are things going? Are you enjoying the satay? Is the peanut sauce all that it is supposed to be? Everything on schedule?

  “A bit salty, but I like it. We shoot all day until four, and then I put on fifty-weight sun block, my widest hat, sunglasses the size of grapefruits, and I sit under an umbrella and pretend I’m getting sun. It’s great fun, and I’m paler than ever. You know how I hate sunburn.”

  “You certainly don’t want to get overexposed.”

  “No, of course I don’t…” Then she paused. “Ohhh,” she said, and then she laughed. “That’s what this is about.”

  “What is?”

  “You saw the Daily Sun.”

  “Never read it. Something of interest this week?”

  “You saw it, Reggie. Don’t lie. I know that miffed tone.”

  “I could hardly avoid it,” said Reggie, unable to stop himself from taking on just exactly that tone. “Everyone in London is going out of their way to tell me about it.”

  “Really?” she said lightly. “I never knew we were that much of an item.”

  Reggie hoped the “we” she referred to was herself and Reggie—even though she had used past tense—but he wasn’t certain.

  “For him to publish that photo in his own paper—”

  “It’s harmless, Reggie, really. I don’t mind it.”


  “Laura, it’s his hand and your breast in his own bloody tabloid!”

  Reggie had not intended to say that out loud, and the silence now from Laura confirmed the mistake. In the three long seconds that followed, he took the precaution of checking that the lever that activated the intercom between the cab driver and passenger was off.

  “Reggie…” began Laura.

  Then she paused. Gathering herself, probably. He knew he was in trouble.

  And now she said: “Yes, it is his newspaper, and it is my breast, and you don’t own either of them, so why is it a problem for you if one does some lighthearted coverage on the other?”

  “Quite right,” said Reggie, retreating. He wanted to say it was the lack of coverage that was the problem, but he managed to hold that remark in check.

  Reggie noticed now that the cab driver, for some reason, was shaking his head.

  “Reggie,” said Laura now. “Please don’t go defending my honor or doing anything similarly rash.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Promise.”

  It took Reggie a moment. “I promise,” he said finally.

  There was another long pause. Reggie was trying desperately to think of a way to start the conversation over, but nothing came to mind.

  They said their mobile-phone good-byes, awkwardly.

  And now the cab driver, who before had contented himself with just an occasional glance in the mirror, actually turned his head.

  “Mind a bit of advice, mate?”

  “What?” Reggie looked over at the small red lever just above the right passenger door. “Is the intercom off, or not?”

  “Broken,” said the driver, matter-of-factly. “In the on position.” Then he held up a copy of the Daily Sun. “This the one, is she?”

  There was no way for Reggie to reach through and grab it from him; the glass partition had only a small aperture at the bottom.

  “Don’t miss the turn,” said Reggie irritably. “Dorset House on Baker Street.”

  “I’ve never missed a turn,” said the driver. “I know these streets better than any of the fancy GPS stuff that the lot are talking about now.”

  “Sorry to have doubted you,” said Reggie, not interested in what lot the driver was referring to. He just wanted to get out of the cab without any further conversation related to Laura’s breasts.

  “You don’t need all that futuristic crap if you’ve got a head on your shoulders.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Reggie.

  “Now about your lady friend. Know what I look for in a woman?”

  Reggie looked out the window and saw that they were still one turn away from Baker Street, the light was red, the traffic was heavy, and he would probably have to endure another two minutes of conversation.

  “No,” he said.

  “A woman who will let me take my shoes off. My last missus got upset over that. We went on holiday to the summerhouse in Spain, and she wouldn’t let me take my shoes off in the front room. So that’s a trade-off right there. There is value in being able to take off your shoes.”

  “You have a summerhouse in Spain?” said Reggie.

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  “I used to,” said Reggie. He thought about that for a moment, and then asked, “How long have you been a Black Cab driver?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Ever want to do something else?”

  “Sport fishing in Bermuda, when I retire.”

  “I mean, some other work for a living?”

  “Not a chance. Took me too long to get where I am. Five years just learning the street Knowledge, supporting myself at my day job with the Royal Mail, then putting my skinny arse around the City at night on a moped. Could never do that now, there’s no scooter big enough. Anyway, why would I want to do something else after all that?”

  “And you gave up a perfectly stable government job for this?”

  “Of course I did. Easy choice, mate.”

  They were slowing now.

  “Here’s your Dorset House,” said the driver.

  Reggie paused before opening the door.

  “Wouldn’t give it up then, driving a cab?” said Reggie.

  “Not for anything,” said the driver.

  Reggie got out of the cab and gave the driver a better tip than he had originally intended. He had made up his mind. He went directly to chambers and rang the solicitor from that morning.

  It was late in the workday, but she picked up almost at once. Her voice was bright.

  “I will represent your client,” said Reggie.

  “Brilliant,” said Darla. “I couldn’t be more pleased.”

  “Who is prosecuting?” said Reggie.

  “Geoffrey Langdon, over at Stiles Court. Is he any good?”

  “Deceptively so,” said Reggie. “He wants you to underestimate both him and his case. Bludgeons you with self-effacement. He’ll stand up before the judge, hesitating like a schoolboy, and next thing you know, you’re flat on the floor. When is the preliminary hearing?”

  “Two days.”

  Bloody hell, that was soon. Reggie said nothing for a moment.

  “Is that a problem?” said Darla.

  “It’s not much time to poke holes in the prosecution’s case.”

  “But it is just the committal hearing. There will be sufficient time before trial to create a defense, surely.”

  “If it comes to that,” said Reggie. “But better to get it tossed at the outset, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Why, of course,” she said. “I’m such a dunce, I don’t know what I was thinking—except that I thought that they surely had a prima facie case in any event. Do you see major flaws?”

  “We at least need to test the prosecution facts a bit. They might have got it wrong, you know.”

  “Oh,” she said, as if it had just occurred to her. “Of course. Tell me what we can do,” she continued, sounding eager to make amends.

  “Did you get anything at all from your private investigator?”

  “I had him interview the witnesses who said they saw the cab. He’s sending his report, but he said he didn’t turn up a useful thing. Used up all his paid legal-aid hours on it, too. Sorry, did I botch that as well? It seems we’re on our own for the rest of it.”

  “No,” said Reggie, feeling a bit more friendly toward her now. “No, it was worth a shot. But we need a look at the crime scene. Will you set that up?”

  “Surely,” she said.

  An hour later the phone rang. Reggie picked up.

  At the other end of the line was Geoffrey Langdon.

  “Heath—hear you’re taking the Black Cab case.”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t realize you were doing criminal again. But I do always have the devil of a time keeping up.”

  “It’s an exception,” said Reggie.

  “Well, it would be a wonderful opportunity, I think, for me to learn from you, Heath. No doubt about it. I mean, if it were to go to trial. But you’re going to plead it out though, aren’t you?”

  “Thank you for bringing that up,” said Reggie. “I was just about to ring and see if you want to drop the charges now or wait until I contest the committal hearing.”

  “Drop them? Oh, dear. No, I’m afraid I can’t do that. No. Considerate of you to suggest it, I suppose. But no, we can’t do that. The case is quite … well, rock solid, really. You’re sure you won’t plead?”

  “I can’t ask an innocent man to plead to homicide.”

  “Well, of course, if he were innocent, but—”

  “And if I didn’t believe him, I wouldn’t have taken the case.”

  “Yes, understood. Quite scrupulous of you, of course. Well, see you in two days, then. Say, have you seen the Daily Sun this morning?”

  “No,” said Reggie, and then he hung up the phone. He didn’t need to hear another question about Laura in Phuket.

  In any case, it struck him that Langdon had been just a litt
le too anxious to get a plea.

  Reggie picked up the phone and rang Detective Inspector Wembley.

  “I’d like to buy you a pint,” said Reggie.

  “Why, Heath? You’re not doing criminal again, are you?”

  “A one-time thing, I expect.”

  “What’s the case?”

  “The Black Cab driver accused of homicide.”

  “You can buy me the pint,” said the inspector. “But, of course, I’ll tell you nothing you shouldn’t already know.”

  Reggie regarded that as a fair bargain. Wembley sometimes overestimated what everyone else should know.

  Reggie exited Baker Street Chambers and took a cab to the Stick and Whistle pub on Tothill Street, just one block over from New Scotland Yard.

  A small crowd of police officers boisterously watched a match between Chelsea and Arsenal on the big-screen telly. Reggie went to the bar and bought two pints, paying no attention to the match. He had been a great fan of football as a child, but not in the years since.

  Inspector Wembley was already seated at the bar. The inspector was middle-aged, with white hair and the stubbornly declining build of a man who had once wanted to be a prize-fighter. He was leaning intently toward the wide screen as Reggie approached, his shoulders moving in a subconscious punching motion, as if he were about to jump into the match himself and flatten a defenseman who was giving Arsenal trouble.

  Reggie sat down and put a beer in front of Wembley.

  “Damn, that was blatant! Red card him!” shouted Wembley.

  “Been a while since I’ve taken a criminal brief,” said Reggie, as Wembley turned his attention from the screen just long enough to seize the pint. “Anything I should know about this one?”

  “Don’t really have much choice, do you?” said Wembley. “From what I hear, your calendar is pretty much open.”

  “True,” said Reggie.

  “The prosecution’s case is solid, Heath. If you want my advice, plead your client and be done with it.”

  Reggie nodded. “You always think that. And so does Langdon when he’s working for the Crown. But is there anything I should know?”

  “I’m sure Langdon will send you his file,” said Wembley, casually turning his attention back to the sports screen.