Flashpoint (13 page)

Mrs Warburton smiled kindly on him, regretted that Mr Killey was up North on business, and wondered whether he would like to have a word with Mr Willoughby. Mr Stukely said that he would indeed like to do so, and was ushered into Jonas’ room. It was three minutes before Willoughby appeared, and in that short time Mr Stukely, who knew a good deal about lawyers’ offices, had absorbed a quantity of useful information from the letters and papers which had been left lying about on Jonas’ desk. One communication from a firm of builders he found particularly interesting.

When Willoughby arrived, Mr Stukely explained his business.

He had been recommended to them, he said, by Edward Lambard of Sexton and Lambard, Solicitors of High Holborn. Mr Lambard was a personal friend, and would himself have handled his business had he not been engaged in the Restrictive Practices Court. He had mentioned Mr Pilley as an expert in trust work, and since he, Mr Stukely, had other business to transact in Wimbledon, this had fitted in very well. Meanwhile perhaps Mr Willoughby could take his instructions. Willoughby, impressed by the appearance and manner of his new client, selected a clean sheet of paper, and prepared to make notes.

Mr Stukely desired to set up a trust for his three children. The eldest, a boy, lived in America. Would that complicate matters? Willoughby was not sure, but said he would find out. The other two lived with his wife – not their mother, his second wife – in Buckinghamshire. Willoughby’s pen scoured the paper.

At the end of a busy and enjoyable half-hour, he said, “There’s only one thing, Mr Stukely. You haven’t told me how much you wish to settle.”

“I had it in mind,” said Mr Stukely, “to make an immediate settlement – there will be more to add to it later, you understand – but an immediate settlement of £20,000. And since you really know nothing about me I thought it prudent to bring a bank draft for that amount. I obtained it this morning from the local branch of the London and Home Counties Bank.”

“Oh, we keep our client account there.”

“Your
client
account?”

“The Law Society encourages solicitors to keep their office account – that is their own private money – and their client account, which handles their client’s money, in separate banks. It is not laid down as an absolute rule, but it is very much favoured. An additional precaution, you understand, against the two becoming mixed. So our office account is at the Investors and Suburban.”

Mr Stukely nodded his head approvingly. He thought it was a very sensible precaution. He said, “I suppose you handle a lot of clients’ money.”

“Quite a lot,” said Willoughby modestly. Most of their clients were tradesmen who wanted debts collected, and young couples who bought houses with building society mortgages. Even so there was a reasonable balance in the client account as a whole, and Willoughby could not help feeling thankful that it was the London and Home Counties Bank which this important new client had visited and not the Investors and Suburban, where the unpleasant Mr Grimwade kept a jaundiced eye on their overdrawn office balance.

Mr Stukely said, “I mustn’t take up any more of your time. There’s no great hurry about the paperwork. I am flying over to America tomorrow to visit my son and I shall be away for about ten days. Perhaps we could fix up a second conference when I return. I should like to have a word with Mr Killey. Not that I haven’t every confidence in your expertise, Mr Willoughby. Wednesday or Thursday week. I can’t be more definite until I know about flight times. Suppose I give you a ring when I get back. Excellent.”

Mrs Warburton showed Mr Stukely out. She actually quit her sanctum to open the door for him, and was rewarded with a smile.

“Now that’s what I call a client,” she said to Deborah, the sixteen-year-old girl who did all the jobs in the office that Mrs Warburton was too busy or too dignified to put her hand to. Deborah agreed that Mr Stukely was a perfect gentleman. Distinguished, too. “Something in the City, I expect,” she said. It was encounters of this sort which added lustre to the job of working in a solicitor’s office and enabled her to upstage her friends who had much better paid jobs in supermarkets and sweet shops.

That same afternoon, Patrick Mauger asked for a few minutes of his Editor’s time.

John Charles was halfway through the long span of his editorship which changed the
Watchman
from a provincial daily into a national newspaper. He was a man of deceptively casual habits. The amount of leisure which he enjoyed derived from his ability to delegate; but everyone, from the latest joined messenger to the senior news editor, recognized that, in the last analysis, the integrity and repute of the paper depended on decisions that he alone had to make.

He listened carefully to what Patrick had to say. He had a good opinion of his ability, enjoyed his enthusiasm and mistrusted his judgement.

“Do you think there’s anything in it?” he said.

“The story about Will Dylan, you mean. I’ve no idea. And I don’t think it’s the real point.”

“All right,” said Charles patiently. “What is the point?”

“I was in Court on Friday. My shorthand’s a bit rusty, but I managed to get down almost every word that was said. Particularly that last bit, where Lyon gave him an unnecessary kick in the crutch. And I was watching Pilley’s face. He’s not going to let this matter drop.”

“What can he do?”

“There must be some sort of appeal.”

“I’ll ask our legal eagles about that. Suppose he does appeal, do you think he’s any chance of getting – whatever it is he wants?”

“I shouldn’t think so. But I’m perfectly certain of one thing. He’s building up for some sort of showdown. Either he’s going to say something quite outrageous about Dylan, who’ll be forced to sue him for libel. Or else he’ll get the order he wants, and the thing will have to be thrashed out in a criminal court. Even then I don’t see him getting a conviction, but think of the publicity.”

“What you’re saying is, that there’s a bandwagon going to roll. Do we want to book an early seat on it?”

“I didn’t mean to put it quite as crudely as that.”

“But that’s what you think?”

“More or less.”

“Your ears are twitching. You’ve got some plan in your head. What do you want to do?”

“Almost every other paper has taken the obvious line. Killey’s a publicity seeker. Throwing dirt to see if any of it will stick. Got a black eye from the magistrate. Serve him right.”

“So?”

“So I’d like to write something a bit different. Not exactly suggesting that there might be something in it. That’d be going too far. But putting both sides of the case.”

Charles thought about it. He was far too experienced to believe in the old tag about any publicity being good publicity. Newspapers had been run on such lines, had blossomed for a lush summer and been blown away by the cold winds of autumn. He had no intention of allowing the
Watchman
to go down that street. What this infatuated young man of his was suggesting was a
ballon d’essai.
A thing which a meteorologist looses into the air to find which way the wind is blowing. A child’s toy. He had himself launched many such balloons. Sometimes they had been helpful, often they had drifted away unobserved into the stratosphere. Once or twice they had burst in his face.

He said, “You can write it, but I don’t promise we’ll publish it. I’ll make my mind up about that when I’ve read it myself.”

As Patrick was going, he added, “Have your shorthand notes of the hearing typed out. I want to see those too.”

Jonas caught an early train from Sheffield, breakfasted on it and got to Wimbledon by ten. The left-hand side of his face was bruised and swollen and a strip of pink sticking plaster covered a long cut running from under his left ear to the point of his chin.

Mrs Warburton said, “Good gracious, Mr Killey, what
have
you been doing?”

“Slight accident,” said Jonas. “Nothing serious. Have you got the Law List?”

“I believe Mr Willoughby has it.”

“Ask him to bring it in, would you? And do you think you could manage me a cup of coffee?”

Mrs Warburton plugged in the electric kettle and went along to Willoughby’s room. She said, “He’s back, and he’s in a shocking state. Looks as if he’s been in a fight. And he wants the Law List.”

“Maybe he wants to consult a good solicitor.”

“You’d better hurry. I don’t think he’s in a mood for jokes.”

Willoughby refrained from comment when he saw Jonas’ face although it was sufficiently startling. He said, “One or two things have been happening while you’ve been away. We’ve got a new client. Rather promising sort of business.”

He told him about Mr Stukely. Jonas listened with half an ear and said, “Good. Good.” He had found the number he wanted, and said into the extension, “Get me 405 3666, Mrs Warburton, would you.”

“Twenty thousand pounds down. A bank draft. I put it on deposit for the time being.”

“Quite right.”

“We’ve been having a bit of trouble with Poynters.”

“Who?”

“The people who did the conversion here.”

“Oh yes. I believe they wrote to me. What do they want now?”

“Money. Just under four hundred pounds. They’re getting a bit shirty about it.”

“Pay them something on account.”

“That’s the trouble. I don’t think old Grimwade is going to carry us much further.”

“Nonsense,” said Jonas. “He’s got plenty of security. If he won’t accommodate us, we’ll move the account to a bank that will. Yes?”

“It’s your number, Mr Killey.”

“Thank you. I’d like to speak to Mr Lambard. The name is Killey.”

There was a fairly long pause, and then Edward Lambard’s voice, neutral and unsurprised. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to come along and consult you. Professionally.”

“Does dog eat dog? When would you like to come?”

“I’d be happy to leave it to you to suggest a time. I imagine you’re busier than I am.”

“I very much doubt it. Should we say tomorrow afternoon, at three o’clock?”

“That will do very well.” Jonas added, with an effort, “It’s good of you.”

On Wednesday afternoon Patrick produced a first draft of his article, and had it torn to pieces by John Charles’ own hands. “It leans far too heavily on Killey’s side,” he said. “Also it’s too long, and it’s got too many adverbs in it.” Adverbs were John Charles’ particular
bête noire.
Patrick spent Wednesday evening rewriting it and had it thrown back again. “Now you’ve made it sound like a pro-Establishment pamphlet.” The red-ink note concluded, “Also you have used the word ‘basic’ three times. On the first occasion you meant ‘real’, on the second ‘essential’ and on the third nothing in particular.”

On Thursday Patrick sat down to write the article again. He was not disheartened. He realized that he was being paid a rare compliment.

Jonas arrived at the offices of Sexton and Lambard in good time. He was not kept waiting. Edward Lambard rose from his chair when he was shown in, advanced the three steps to meet him which he accorded to every client, great or small, said, “Sit where you’ll be most comfortable,” and sat down himself.

Jonas said, “You heard what happened when I made my application in the Magistrates’ Court. I’ve decided to apply to the High Court for an order of mandamus. It seems to be the only way of forcing him to treat my application properly. I can’t handle it myself. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

Mongoose was right, thought Lambard. If you miss with your first bite, go after the snake again.

He said, “You’ll need Counsel. Leading Counsel, for an application of that sort, I should think.”

Jonas nodded.

“And that will cost money.”

“How much?”

It was a question solicitors are always being asked, and can never answer.

“Leave my fees out of it for the moment,” said Lambard. “It’ll be a short hearing. Say a single morning. Leading Counsel, a junior, a certain number of papers. A verbatim report of the hearing at West London would be useful. Did you have a shorthand writer in Court?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I’m only guessing. But you might be able to do it for five hundred pounds.”

“I see,” said Jonas bleakly. “If I can raise five hundred pounds, you’ll handle it for me?”

“I didn’t say so. All I was doing was telling you what I thought it would cost you. I very much doubt if I can undertake it.”

“Why not?”

“A fair question. Before I answer it, I’ll put one to you. You seem willing to lay out five hundred pounds of your own money. There’ll be no question of recovering costs even if you succeed. You won’t get a penny of it back. What are you doing it for?”

It was the second time in three days that he had been asked the question. Since he disliked Edward Lambard he had that much less hesitation in answering it. He said, “I think that certain members of the Anglo-Scottish Independent Aluminium Company were defrauded of a portion of their hard-earned savings. They are in no position to take action for themselves. I happen to be in a position to help them. I propose to do so.”

“How much would you say was involved?”

“Involved?”

“Let me put it more crudely. How much do you think Dylan stole?”

“It’s difficult to say. Somewhere between four hundred and eight hundred pounds.”

“Let’s take the higher figure.” Lambard jotted it down. “I believe there are about four thousand men working in the smelter now. So each of them lost – let me see – twenty new pence.”

“You can’t look at it mathematically.”

“I always look at mathematical problems mathematically,” said Lambard. “Now what you’re telling me is that you feel so strongly about a workman who lost twenty pence that you’re prepared to spend five hundred pounds trying to get it back for him. Even though those same workmen kicked you in the face on Monday.”

Jonas said, “How–?”

“Perhaps you haven’t had time to read the papers today. The incident was reported in the
Sheffield Courier
on Wednesday and the London papers picked it up this morning. Just at this moment, you’re news.”