Breaths of Suspicion Read Free Page B

this instance, but concluded that the situation might be too tricky for that, if it were to be a matter of police corruption. Slowly, I shook my head. ‘Even so, I will be able to proceed only on the basis of evidence available to the court. To suggest police corruption—’
    ‘Not to
suggest
it, Mr James. You will prove it.’
    ‘In what manner?’ I demanded.
    There was an element of wolfishness in Goodman’s smile as he regarded me. ‘I will provide sufficient evidence, through the medium of the attorney Fryer. All you have to do is present it, and use it to tear the chief witness against Mr Agar to shreds.’
    ‘Redwood?’ I doubted.
    Goodman shook his head. ‘Not Redwood. The arresting officer reporting to him. Police Constable McCarthy.’
    And a few days later, when Mr Fryer came to my chambers and presented me with the brief I realized why Goodman wanted me to use the evidence provided. Any other barrister would have been reluctant to use it. It averred that Constable McCarthy was an inveterate gambler, a frequenter of whore houses where he failed to pay the relevant fees, a formerly indigent Irishman corrupted by his environment, all backed by suggestion, innuendo and some witnesses who were prepared to swear to the most unlikely events taking place in the dark streets of the metropolis.
    I recall stating to the attorney Fryer in my chambers that if these witnesses were to present their evidence they themselves, by their own admissions, would be open thereafter to criminal charges, as conspirators, pimps and fraudsters. His only reply was that these individuals well understood the consequences. Which meant that Goodman had them in thrall, and they deemed it more discreet to accept such dangers than to deny Goodman the requests hehad made of them. Worse could happen to them on the streets of London.
    Of course, at the time I was not aware, indeed could not possibly know just how important Edward Agar, the man in the dock, was to Lewis Goodman. I found out later, as I’ll explain to you in due course, but for the moment suffice to say that I finally agreed to take the brief, use my best forensic skills to thrash the unfortunate Constable McCarthy, and leave the witnesses, false as they were, to their own individual fates. And that was what happened. At the hearing at the Central Criminal Court I persuaded the jury that the charges against Agar had been trumped up by the unreliable and corrupt Constable McCarthy, and I received prompt payment of a generous fee by way of the attorney Fryer. And two hefty bills of exchange held by Goodman in my name were cancelled.
    But I also incurred the enmity of my old acquaintance, Inspector Redwood.
    However, it would be a mistake on your part to assume that I was in complete thrall to Lewis Goodman, or that my practice grew only on the backs of such unsavoury clients. Once briefed, a barrister must hold and certainly not express any personal views as to the guilt of his client. He is the mouthpiece of the man he represents, his duty is to do his best to obtain an acquittal, and take the best interests of his client to heart. Of course, I suspected that the evidence dredged up by Goodman against the policeman was of doubtful provenance, and that the witnesses against him were lying through their teeth. And the fact that the proofs given by those witnesses were self-incriminatory was none of my business.
    I was performing my duty fearlessly and effectively like any upright member of the Bar.
    Inspector Redwood was not of that opinion: he met me after the hearing, as I crossed the wood-blocked street outside the Old Bailey. He raised one hand to his black-varnished top hat, greeting me. His lean, saturnine features were sober, and there was a hardlook in his eyes. He fiddled with the shiny buttons on his blue frock coat as he barred my way, standing on the edge of the pavement. That was a habit of the police, you know—they always walked on the pavement edge to avoid the