15
EMMA SWITCHED ON the bedside light and once again studied the photographs of Harry standing on the deck of the Kansas Star. He looked so happy, so relaxed, and clearly unaware what awaited him when he stepped ashore.
She drifted in and out of sleep as she tried to work out why Harry would be willing to face a murder trial, and would plead guilty to desertion from a navy he’d never signed up for. She concluded that only Sefton Jelks could provide the answers. The first thing she needed to do was make an appointment to see him.
She glanced again at the bedside clock: 3.21. She got out of bed, put on a dressing gown, sat down at the little table and filled several sheets of hotel stationery with notes in preparation for her meeting with Sefton Jelks. It felt like prepping for an exam.
At six, she showered and dressed, then went downstairs to breakfast. A copy of the New York Times had been left on her table and she quickly turned the pages, only stopping to read one article. The Americans were becoming pessimistic about Britain being able to survive a German invasion, which was looking increasingly likely. Above a photograph of Winston Churchill standing on the white cliffs of Dover staring defiantly out across the Channel, his trademark cigar in place, was the headline, ‘We will fight them on the beaches’.
Emma felt guilty about being away from her homeland. She must find Harry, get him released from prison and together they would return to Bristol.
The hotel receptionist looked up Jelks, Myers & Abernathy in the Manhattan telephone directory, wrote out an address on Wall Street and handed it to Emma.
The cab dropped her outside a vast steel and glass building that stretched high into the sky. She pushed through the revolving doors and checked a large board on the wall that listed the names of every firm on the forty-eight floors. Jelks, Myers & Abernathy was located on floors 20, 21 and 22; all enquiries at reception on the twentieth floor.
Emma joined a horde of grey-flannel-suited men who filled the first available elevator. When she stepped out on the twentieth floor, she was greeted by the sight of three smart women dressed in open-neck white blouses and black skirts, who sat behind a reception desk, something else she hadn’t seen in Bristol. She marched confidently up to the desk. ‘I’d like to see Mr Jelks.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’ the receptionist asked politely.
‘No,’ admitted Emma, who’d only ever dealt with a local solicitor, who was always available whenever a member of the Barrington family dropped in.
The receptionist looked surprised. Clients didn’t just turn up at the front desk hoping to see the senior partner; they either wrote, or their secretary phoned to make an appointment in Mr Jelks’s crowded diary. ‘If I could take your name, I’ll have a word with his assistant.’
‘Emma Barrington.’
‘Please have a seat, Miss Barrington. Someone will be with you shortly.’
Emma sat alone in a little alcove. ‘Shortly’ turned out to be more than half an hour, when another grey-suited man appeared carrying a yellow pad.
‘My name is Samuel Anscott,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘I understand that you wish to see the senior partner.’
‘That is correct.’
‘I’m his legal assistant,’ said Anscott as he took the seat opposite her. ‘Mr Jelks has asked me to find out why you want to see him.’
‘It’s a private matter,’ said Emma.
‘I’m afraid he won’t agree to see you unless I’m able to tell him what it’s about.’
Emma pursed her lips. ‘I’m a friend of Harry Clifton.’
She watched Anscott closely, but it was obvious that the name meant nothing to him, although he did make a note of it on his yellow pad.
‘I have reason to believe that Harry Clifton was arrested for the murder of Adam Bradshaw, and that Mr Jelks represented him.’
This time the name did register, and the pen moved more swiftly across the pad.
‘I wish to see Mr Jelks, in order to find out how a lawyer of his standing could have allowed my fiancé to take Thomas Bradshaw’s place.’
A deep frown appeared on the young man’s face. He clearly wasn’t used to anyone referring to his boss in this way. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Barrington,’ he said, which Emma suspected was true. ‘But I will brief Mr Jelks, and come back to you. Perhaps you could give me a contact address.’
‘I’m staying at the Mayflower Hotel,’ said Emma, ‘and I’m available to see Mr Jelks at any time.’
Anscott made another note on his pad, stood up, gave a curt nod, but this time didn’t offer to shake hands. Emma felt confident that she wouldn’t have to wait long before the senior partner agreed to see her.
She took a taxi back to the Mayflower Hotel, and could hear the phone ringing in her room even before she’d opened the door. She ran across the room, but by the time she picked up the receiver, the line had gone dead.
She sat down at the desk and began to write to her mother to say she’d arrived safely although she didn’t mention the fact that she was now convinced Harry was alive. Emma would only do that when she’d seen him in the flesh. She was on the third page of the letter when the phone rang again. She picked it up.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Barrington.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Anscott,’ she said, not needing to be told who it was.
‘I’ve spoken to Mr Jelks concerning your request for a meeting, but I’m afraid he’s unable to see you, because it would create a conflict of interest with another client he represents. He is sorry not to be more helpful.’
The line went dead.
Emma remained at the desk, stunned, still clutching the phone, the words ‘conflict of interest’ ringing in her ears. Was there really another client and, if so, who could it be? Or was that just an excuse not to see her? She placed the receiver back in its cradle and sat still for some time, wondering what her grandfather would have done in these circumstances. She recalled one of his favourite maxims: there’s more than one way to skin a cat.
Emma opened the desk drawer, thankful to find a fresh supply of stationery, and made a list of people who might be able to fill in some of the gaps created by Mr Jelks’s supposed conflict of interest. She then went downstairs to reception, knowing that she was going to be fully occupied for the next few days. The receptionist tried to hide her surprise when the softly spoken young lady from England asked for the address of a courthouse, a police station and a prison.
Before she left the Mayflower, Emma dropped into the hotel’s shop and purchased a yellow pad of her own. She walked out on to the pavement and hailed another cab.
It dropped her in a very different part of town to the one Mr Jelks inhabited. As she climbed the courthouse steps, Emma thought about Harry, and how he must have felt when he’d entered that same building, in very different circumstances. She asked the guard on the door where the reference library was, in the hope of finding out what those circumstances were.
‘If you mean the records room, miss, it’s in the basement,’ the guard said.
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.