After walking down two flights of stairs, Emma asked a clerk behind the counter if she could see the records for the case of the State of New York v. Bradshaw. The clerk handed her a form to fill in, which included the question, Are you a student? to which she answered yes. A few minutes later Emma was handed three large box files.
‘We close in a couple hours,’ she was warned. ‘When the bell goes, you must return the records to this desk immediately.’
Once Emma had read a few pages of documents, she couldn’t understand why the State hadn’t proceeded with Tom Bradshaw’s trial for murder, when they seemed to have such a strong case against him. The brothers had been sharing a hotel room; the whiskey decanter had Tom’s bloody fingerprints all over it, and there was no suggestion anyone else had entered the room before Adam’s body had been found lying in a pool of blood. But, worse, why had Tom fled the scene of the crime, and why had the state attorney settled for a guilty plea on the lesser charge of desertion? Even more puzzling was how Harry had ever become involved in the first place. Might the letter on Maisie’s mantelpiece contain the answers to all these questions, or was it simply that Jelks knew something he didn’t want her to find out?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a clanging bell, demanding that she return the files to the desk. Some questions had been answered, but far more remained unanswered. Emma made a note of two names she hoped could supply most of those answers, but would they also claim a conflict of interest?
She emerged from the courthouse just after five, clutching several more sheets of paper covered in her neat long-hand. She grabbed something called a Hershey Bar and a Coke from a street vendor, before she hailed another cab and asked the driver to take her to the 24th precinct police station. She ate and drank on the move, something her mother would never have approved of.
On arrival at the police station, Emma asked to speak to either Detective Kolowski or Detective Ryan.
‘They’re both on nights this week,’ she was told by the desk sergeant, ‘so won’t be back on duty until ten.’
Emma thanked him and decided to return to the hotel and have supper before going back to the 24th precinct at ten.
After a Caesar salad and her first knickerbocker glory, Emma returned to her room on the fourth floor. She lay down on the bed and thought about what she needed to ask Kolowski or Ryan, assuming either of them agreed to see her. Did Lieutenant Bradshaw have an American accent . . . ?
Emma fell into a deep sleep, to be jolted back to consciousness by the unfamiliar sound of a police siren blaring from the street below. Now she understood why the rooms on the upper floors were more expensive. She checked her watch. It was 1.15.
‘Damn,’ she cursed as she leapt off the bed, ran to the bathroom, soaked a flannel under the cold tap and covered her face. She quickly left the room and took the lift to the ground floor. When she stepped out of the hotel, she was surprised to find the street was just as busy, and the pavement every bit as crowded, as it had been at midday.
She hailed another cab and asked the driver to take her back to the 24th precinct. The New York cabbies were beginning to understand her, or was she beginning to understand them?
She climbed the steps to the police station a few minutes before two. Another desk sergeant asked her to take a seat, and promised to let Kolowski or Ryan know she was waiting in reception.
Emma settled down for a long wait, but to her surprise, a couple of minutes later she heard the desk sergeant say, ‘Hey, Karl, there’s some lady sitting over there who says she wants to see you.’ He gestured in Emma’s direction.
Detective Kolowski, a coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other, walked across and gave Emma a half smile. She wondered how quickly that smile would disappear when he discovered why she wanted to see him.
‘How can I help you, ma’am?’ he asked.
‘My name is Emma Barrington,’ she said, exaggerating her English accent, ‘and I need to seek your advice on a private matter.’
‘Then let’s go to my office, Miss Barrington,’ Kolowski said, and began to walk down a corridor until he came to a door which he kicked open with the heel of his shoe. ‘Have a seat,’ he said pointing to the only other chair in the room. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ he asked as Emma sat down.
‘No, thank you.’
‘A wise decision, ma’am,’ he said as he placed his mug on the table, lit his cigarette and sat down. ‘So, how can I help?’
‘I understand that you were one of the detectives who arrested my fiancé.’
‘What’s his name?
‘Thomas Bradshaw.’
She was right. The look, the voice, the demeanour, everything about him changed. ‘Yes, I was. And I can tell you, ma’am, it was an open and shut case until Sefton Jelks became involved.’
‘But the case never came to trial,’ Emma reminded him.
‘Only because Bradshaw had Jelks as his lawyer. If that guy had defended Pontius Pilate, he would have convinced the jury that he was simply assisting a young carpenter who wanted to buy some nails for a cross he was working on.’
‘Are you suggesting that Jelks—’
‘No,’ said Kolowski sarcastically before Emma could finish her sentence. ‘I always thought it was a coincidence that the DA was coming up for re-election that year, and some of Jelks’s clients were among his biggest campaign contributors. Anyway,’ he continued after exhaling a long cloud of smoke, ‘Bradshaw ended up getting six years for desertion, when the precinct’s sweepstakes had him down for eighteen months – two years tops.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Emma.
‘That the judge accepted Bradshaw was guilty –’ Kolowski paused and blew out another cloud of smoke before adding – ‘of murder.’
‘I agree with you and the judge,’ said Emma. ‘Tom Bradshaw probably was guilty of murder.’ Kolowski looked surprised. ‘But did the man you arrested ever tell you that you’d made a mistake, and that he wasn’t Tom Bradshaw, but Harry Clifton?’
The detective gave Emma a closer look, and thought for a moment. ‘He did say something like that early on, but Jelks must have told him that it wouldn’t fly, because he never mentioned it again.’
‘Would you be interested, Mr Kolowski, if I was able to prove that it would fly?’
‘No, ma’am,’ said Kolowski firmly. ‘That case was closed a long time ago. Your fiancé is doin’ six years for a crime he pleaded guilty to, and I’ve got too much work on my desk – ’ he placed a hand on a stack of files – ‘to be reopening old wounds. Now, unless you got anything else I can help you with . . .’
‘Will they allow me to visit Tom at Lavenham?’
‘I can’t see why not,’ said Kolowski. ‘Write to the warden. He’ll send you a visiting order. After you’ve filled it in and sent it back, they’ll give you a date. It shouldn’t take more than six to eight weeks.’
‘But I haven’t got six weeks,’ protested Emma. ‘I need to return to England in a couple of weeks’ time. Isn’t there anything I can do to speed up the process?’
‘That’s only possible on compassionate grounds,’ said the detective, ‘and that’s limited to wives and parents.’
‘What about the mother of the prisoner’s child?’ countered Emma.
‘In New York, ma’am, that gives you the same rights as a wife, as long as you can prove it.’
Emma produced two photos from her handbag, one of Sebastian and one of Harry standing on the deck of the Kansas Star.
‘That’s good enough for me,’ said Kolowski handing back the picture of Harry without commenting. ‘If you promise to leave me in peace I’ll speak to the warden and see if anything can be done.’
‘Thank you,’ said Emma.
‘How do I reach you?’
‘I’m staying at the Mayflower Hotel.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Kolowski, making a note. ‘But I don’t want you to be in any doubt, ma’am, that Tom Bradshaw killed his brother. I’m sure of it
.’
‘And I don’t want you to be in any doubt, officer, that the man locked up in Lavenham is not Tom Bradshaw. I’m sure of that.’ Emma placed the photographs back in her bag and rose to leave.
A frown appeared on the detective’s face as she walked out of the room.
Emma returned to her hotel, undressed and went straight back to bed. She lay awake wondering if Kolowski might be having second thoughts about whether he’d arrested the right man. She still couldn’t work out why Jelks had allowed Harry to be sentenced to six years, when it would have been so easy for him to prove that Harry wasn’t Tom Bradshaw.
She finally fell asleep, grateful not to be woken by any nocturnal visitors.
The phone rang when she was in the bathroom, but by the time she’d picked it up, there was only a dial tone.
The second call came just as she was closing the door of her room on her way down to breakfast. She dashed back inside and grabbed the phone, to hear a voice she recognized on the other end of the line.
‘Good morning, Officer Kolowski,’ she replied.
‘The news isn’t good,’ said the detective, who didn’t deal in small talk. She collapsed on to the bed, fearing the worst. ‘I spoke to the warden of Lavenham just before I came off duty, and he told me that Bradshaw has made it clear he doesn’t want any visitors, no exceptions. It seems that Mr Jelks has issued an order that he’s not even to be informed when someone asks to see him.’
‘Couldn’t you try to get a message to him somehow?’ begged Emma. ‘I’m sure that if he knew it was me—’
‘Not a hope, lady,’ said Kolowski. ‘You have no idea how far Jelks’s tentacles reach.’
‘He can overrule a prison warden?’
‘A prison warden is small fry. The DA and half the judges in New York are under his thumb. Just don’t tell anyone I said so.’
The line went dead.
Emma didn’t know how much time had passed before she heard a knock on the door. Who could it possibly be? The door opened and a friendly face peered in.
‘Can I clean the room, miss?’ asked a woman pushing a trolley.
‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes,’ said Emma. She checked her watch and was surprised to find it was ten past ten. She needed to clear her head before she could consider her next move, and decided to take a long walk in Central Park.
She strolled around the park before making a decision. The time had come to visit her great-aunt and seek her advice about what she should do next.
Emma headed off in the direction of 64th and Park, and was so deep in thought about how she was going to explain to Great-aunt Phyllis why she hadn’t visited her earlier, that what she saw didn’t fully register. She stopped, turned and retraced her steps, checking every window until she reached Doubleday’s. A pyramid of books dominated the centre window, alongside a photograph of a man with slicked-back black hair and a pencil moustache. He was smiling out at her.
THE DIARY OF A CONVICT:
My time at Lavenham maximum security prison
by
Max Lloyd
The author of the runaway bestseller
will be signing books in this store
at 5.00 p.m. on Thursday
Don’t miss this opportunity to meet the author
GILES BARRINGTON
1941
16
GILES HAD NO IDEA where the regiment was going. For days he seemed to be perpetually on the move, never able to sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time. First he boarded a train, followed by a truck, before he climbed up the gangway of a troop carrier that ploughed through the ocean waves at its own pace, until it finally disgorged 1,000 soldiers from the Wessex at the Egyptian port of Alexandria on the North African coast.
During the voyage, Giles had been reunited with his chums from Ypres camp on Dartmoor, who he had to accept were now under his command. One or two of them, Bates in particular, didn’t find it easy to call him sir, and found it even more difficult to salute him every time they bumped into each other.
A convoy of army vehicles awaited the Wessex Regiment as they disembarked from the ship. Giles had never experienced such intense heat and his fresh khaki shirt was soaked in sweat within moments of him stepping on foreign soil. He quickly organized his men into three groups before they climbed on board the waiting trucks. The convoy progressed slowly along a narrow, dusty coastal road, not stopping for several hours until they finally reached the outskirts of a badly bombed town that Bates announced in a loud voice, ‘Tobruk! Told you so,’ and money began to change hands.
Once they’d entered the town, the convoy dropped the men at various points. Giles and the other officers jumped off outside the Majestic Hotel, which had been requisitioned by the Wessex as their company HQ. Giles pushed his way through the revolving doors and quickly discovered there wasn’t much majestic about the hotel. Makeshift offices had been crammed into every available space. Charts and maps were pinned on walls where paintings had once hung, and the plush red carpet that welcomed VIPs from all over the world had worn thin with the continual tramping of studded boots.
The reception area was the only feature to remind them this might once have been a hotel. A duty corporal checked off Second Lieutenant Barrington’s name on a long list of new arrivals.
‘Room two-one-nine,’ he said, handing him an envelope. ‘You’ll find everything you need in there, sir.’
Giles strode up the wide staircase to the second floor and let himself into the room. He sat on the bed, opened the envelope and read his orders. At seven o’clock he was to report to the ballroom, when the colonel of the regiment would address all officers. Giles unpacked his suitcase, took a shower, put on a clean shirt and went back downstairs. He grabbed a sandwich and a cup of tea from the officers’ mess and made his way to the ballroom just before seven.
The large room, with its high imperial ceiling and magnificent chandeliers, was already filled with boisterous officers, who were being reunited with old friends and introduced to new ones as they waited to find out which square on the chessboard they would be moved to. Giles caught a glimpse of a young lieutenant on the far side of the room whom he thought he recognized, but then lost sight of him.
At one minute to seven, Lieutenant Colonel Robertson marched up on to the stage, and everyone else in the room quickly fell silent and sprang to attention. He stopped in the centre of the stage and waved the men down. Feet apart, hands on hips, he began to address them.
‘Gentlemen, it must seem strange to you to have travelled from all parts of the empire to do battle with the Germans in North Africa. However, Field Marshal Rommel and his Afrika Korps are also here, with the purpose of maintaining a supply of oil for their troops in Europe. It is our responsibility to send him back to Berlin with a bloody nose, long before their last tank has run out of petrol.’
Cheers erupted around the hall, accompanied by the stamping of feet.
‘General Wavell has granted the Wessex the privilege of defending Tobruk, and I have told him that we will all sacrifice our lives before Rommel books a suite at the Majestic Hotel.’
This was greeted with even louder cheers and more stamping of feet.
‘Now I want you all to report to your company commanders, who will brief you on our overall plan to defend the town, and the responsibilities each of you will be expected to carry out. Gentlemen, we haven’t a moment to waste. Good luck, and happy hunting.’
The officers all sprang to attention again as the colonel left the stage. Giles checked his orders once more. He’d been allocated to 7 Platoon, C company, which was to meet in the hotel library following the colonel’s address for a briefing by Major Richards.
‘You must be Barrington,’ said the major when Giles walked into the library a few minutes later. Giles saluted. ‘It was good of you to join us so soon after being commissioned. I’ve put you in charge of seven platoon as understudy to your old friend. You will have three sections of twelve men, and your responsi
bility will be to patrol the west perimeter of the city. You will have a sergeant and three corporals to assist you. The lieutenant will brief you on the finer details. As you were at school together, you won’t have to spend too much time getting to know each other.’
Giles wondered who it could be. And then he recalled the familiar lone figure on the other side of the ballroom.
Second Lieutentant Giles Barrington would have liked to give Lieutenant Fisher the benefit of the doubt, although he would never be able to erase the memory of him as a prefect at St Bede’s, when he thrashed Harry every night during his first week for no reason other than that he was a docker’s son.
‘It’s good to catch up with you, Barrington, after such a long time,’ said Fisher. ‘I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t work well together, can you?’ He obviously also recalled his treatment of Harry Clifton. Giles managed a weak smile.
‘We’ve got over thirty men under our command, along with three corporals and a sergeant. Some of them you’ll remember from your days at training camp. In fact, I’ve already put Corporal Bates in charge of number one section.’
‘Terry Bates?’
‘Corporal Bates,’ repeated Fisher. ‘Never use a Christian name when you’re referring to the other ranks. In the mess, and when we’re on our own, Giles, you can call me Alex, but never in front of the men. I’m sure you understand.’
You always were an arrogant little shit, and clearly nothing has changed, thought Giles. This time he didn’t smile.
‘Now, it’s our responsibility to patrol the western perimeter of the town in four-hour watches. Don’t underestimate the importance of our task, because if Rommel does attack Tobruk, intelligence is that he’ll try and enter the city from the west. So we have to remain vigilant at all times. I’ll leave it to you to fix the rotas. I usually manage a couple of shifts a day, but I can’t do a lot more because of my other responsibilities.’
Like what, Giles wanted to ask him.