dead bracken. ‘They did get a few injuries in their line of business.’
‘What do you mean by that, exactly?’
‘Knife wounds. Bullet holes. Some of them I went around with used to attract those sort of complaints. You needed a doctor who wasn’t going to get inquisitive.’
‘And that was Doctor Petrus Wakefield?’
‘He always gave you the first name, didn’t he? Like he was proud of it. You got any further questions, Mr Rumpole? Don’t they say that in Court?’
‘Sometimes. Yes, I have. About Len Luxford. He used to come in here, didn’t he?’
‘The old Silencer? He certainly did. He’s long gone, though. Got a window-cleaning business somewhere outside London.’
‘Do you see him occasionally?’
‘We keep in touch. Quite regular.’
‘And he was a patient of Doctor Petrus?’
‘We all were.’
‘Anything else you can tell me about the Doctor?’
‘Nothing much. Except that he was always on about acting.
He wanted to get the boys in the nick into acting plays. I had it when I was in the Scrubs. He’d visit the place and start drama groups. I used to steer clear of them. Lot of dodgy blokes dressing up like females.’
‘Did he ever try to teach Len Luxford acting?’
My source grinned, coughed, covered his mouth with a huge hand, gulped Diet Coke and said with a meaningful grin, ‘Not till recently, I reckon.’
‘You mean since they both lived at Chivering?’
‘Something like that, yes. Last time I had a drink with Len he told me a bit about it.’
‘What sort of acting are you talking about?’ I tried not to show my feeling that my visit to the deafening Luger and Lime Bar was about to become a huge success, but Knuckles had a sudden attack of shyness.
‘I can’t tell you that, Mr Rumpole. I honestly can’t remember.’
‘Might you remember if we called you as a witness down the Old Bailey?’
My source was smiling as he answered, but for the first time since I’d known him his smile was seriously alarming. ‘You try and get me as a witness down the Old Bailey and you’ll never live to see me again. Not in this world you won’t.’
After that I bought him another Diet Coke and then I left him. I’d got something out of Knuckles. Not very much, but something.
‘This is one of those unhappy cases, Members of the Jury. One of those very rare cases when a member of the Police Force, in this case a very senior member of the Police Force, seems to have lost all his respect for the law and sets about to plot and plan an inexcusable and indeed a cruel crime.’
This was Marston Dawlish QC, a large, beefy man, much given to false smiles and unconvincing bonhomie, opening the case for the prosecution to an attentive Jury. On the Bench we had drawn the short straw in the person of the aptly named Mr Justice Graves. A pale, unsmiling figure with hollow cheeks and bony fingers, he sat with his eyes closed as though to shut out the painful vision of a dishonest senior copper.
‘As I say, it is, happily, rare indeed to see a high-ranking police officer occupying that particular seat in an Old Bailey courtroom.’ Here Marston Dawlish raised one of his ham-like hands and waved it in the general direction of the dock.
‘A rotten apple.’ The words came in a solemn, doom-laden voice from the Gravestone on the Bench.
‘Indeed, your Lordship.’ Marston Dawlish was only too ready to agree.
‘We used to say that of police officers who might be less than honest, Members of the Jury.’ The Judge started to explain his doom-laden pronouncement. ‘We used to call them “rotten apples” who might infect the whole barrel if they weren’t rooted out.’
‘Ballard!’ This came out as a stentorian whisper at my leader’s back. ‘Aren’t you going to point out that was an appalling thing for the Judge to say?’
‘Quiet, Rumpole!’ The Soapy Sam whisper was more controlled. ‘I want to listen to the evidence.’
‘We haven’t got to the evidence yet. We
‘What do you mean by that, exactly?’
‘Knife wounds. Bullet holes. Some of them I went around with used to attract those sort of complaints. You needed a doctor who wasn’t going to get inquisitive.’
‘And that was Doctor Petrus Wakefield?’
‘He always gave you the first name, didn’t he? Like he was proud of it. You got any further questions, Mr Rumpole? Don’t they say that in Court?’
‘Sometimes. Yes, I have. About Len Luxford. He used to come in here, didn’t he?’
‘The old Silencer? He certainly did. He’s long gone, though. Got a window-cleaning business somewhere outside London.’
‘Do you see him occasionally?’
‘We keep in touch. Quite regular.’
‘And he was a patient of Doctor Petrus?’
‘We all were.’
‘Anything else you can tell me about the Doctor?’
‘Nothing much. Except that he was always on about acting.
He wanted to get the boys in the nick into acting plays. I had it when I was in the Scrubs. He’d visit the place and start drama groups. I used to steer clear of them. Lot of dodgy blokes dressing up like females.’
‘Did he ever try to teach Len Luxford acting?’
My source grinned, coughed, covered his mouth with a huge hand, gulped Diet Coke and said with a meaningful grin, ‘Not till recently, I reckon.’
‘You mean since they both lived at Chivering?’
‘Something like that, yes. Last time I had a drink with Len he told me a bit about it.’
‘What sort of acting are you talking about?’ I tried not to show my feeling that my visit to the deafening Luger and Lime Bar was about to become a huge success, but Knuckles had a sudden attack of shyness.
‘I can’t tell you that, Mr Rumpole. I honestly can’t remember.’
‘Might you remember if we called you as a witness down the Old Bailey?’
My source was smiling as he answered, but for the first time since I’d known him his smile was seriously alarming. ‘You try and get me as a witness down the Old Bailey and you’ll never live to see me again. Not in this world you won’t.’
After that I bought him another Diet Coke and then I left him. I’d got something out of Knuckles. Not very much, but something.
‘This is one of those unhappy cases, Members of the Jury. One of those very rare cases when a member of the Police Force, in this case a very senior member of the Police Force, seems to have lost all his respect for the law and sets about to plot and plan an inexcusable and indeed a cruel crime.’
This was Marston Dawlish QC, a large, beefy man, much given to false smiles and unconvincing bonhomie, opening the case for the prosecution to an attentive Jury. On the Bench we had drawn the short straw in the person of the aptly named Mr Justice Graves. A pale, unsmiling figure with hollow cheeks and bony fingers, he sat with his eyes closed as though to shut out the painful vision of a dishonest senior copper.
‘As I say, it is, happily, rare indeed to see a high-ranking police officer occupying that particular seat in an Old Bailey courtroom.’ Here Marston Dawlish raised one of his ham-like hands and waved it in the general direction of the dock.
‘A rotten apple.’ The words came in a solemn, doom-laden voice from the Gravestone on the Bench.
‘Indeed, your Lordship.’ Marston Dawlish was only too ready to agree.
‘We used to say that of police officers who might be less than honest, Members of the Jury.’ The Judge started to explain his doom-laden pronouncement. ‘We used to call them “rotten apples” who might infect the whole barrel if they weren’t rooted out.’
‘Ballard!’ This came out as a stentorian whisper at my leader’s back. ‘Aren’t you going to point out that was an appalling thing for the Judge to say?’
‘Quiet, Rumpole!’ The Soapy Sam whisper was more controlled. ‘I want to listen to the evidence.’
‘We haven’t got to the evidence yet. We
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