it was obvious that I had disturbed him. ‘Between sittings, so make it quick,’ he said, holding up his lunch. ‘What can I do for you? A quote you didn’t get?’
As he sat down, he took a bite from his sandwich. Mayonnaise collected at the corners of his mouth.
‘Do you remember Susie Bingham?’ I asked. He looked quizzically at me as he searched his memory, skimming through all the thieves and prostitutes he had helped over the years. ‘She used to work for Maybury and Sharpe, about twenty years ago,’ I added, to help him out.
I saw the beginnings of a smile.
‘You remember her?’ I asked.
He nodded, grinning now. ‘Very attractive woman,’ he said, and he chuckled. ‘Great figure. It was hard to stop the eyes from following her legs upwards, if you know what I mean. Why do you ask?’
‘She came to me with a story, and I’m checking her out first, just to see whether I can believe her.’
Danny put his sandwich down and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. ‘Is it about this firm?’ he asked, his smile fading.
I shook my head. ‘No. You don’t even need to be mentioned.’
He relaxed and took another bite of the sandwich. ‘She was a real good-time girl,’ he said, chuckling again, exposing the food in his mouth. ‘Big fan of the chambers parties, so I remember, and the police ones. Always guaranteed to end up with someone.’ He leant forward, as if he was worried someone might overhear. ‘She was familiar with most of the young bar, if you get my drift,’ he said, and gave his nose a theatrical tap. ‘She was pretty generous with the police, just for the rough and ready thrill, but she liked the rich boys best, particularly the younger ones. It was the accents, I think.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘There was a Christmas party once at the court, and some rumour went round that she’d fucked one young barrister in a judge’s chair. It got plenty of giggles around the court, and she didn’t mind at first, but the judges weren’t happy. When it looked like the young man was in trouble, she stuck up for him, told everyone it had never happened.’
‘Maybe it didn’t.’
‘It happened, no worries there,’ he said, but his jokey smile came across as sleazy.
I made some notes. It might fit into the story, if there ever was one. ‘Did you trust her?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, totally,’ Danny said. ‘A good clerk, so I remember. Left to work in a bigger firm, although I think she regretted it because they only used her for prison visits, just a flash of a leg, and she was better than that. The clients liked her and she took decent trial notes.’ Then he drifted away for a moment, enjoying some distant memory, before he said, ‘I think we almost, you know, just once, at an office party, but I was married, and so I backed off.’ He sighed at the memory. ‘She left not long after, but let me tell you something: I regretted it at times—saying no, I mean. She was an attractive woman, and the memory would be nice.’ When I raised my eyebrows, he said, ‘I don’t mean to put the woman down. She was no kid, but she was enjoying herself. What’s wrong with that?’
‘What about Claude Gilbert?’ I asked. ‘Do you know if she ever had a relationship with him?’
Danny Platt’s eyes widened at the mention of Gilbert’s name. ‘Why are you asking about Claude Gilbert?’
‘I just remembered that he was around at the same time,’ I said, trying to hide the reason for my visit. ‘He was a good-time boy. It’s not inconceivable that they got it together.’
‘So it’s a Claude Gilbert story,’ he grinned, revealing the bread squashed into his teeth. ‘I was wondering what story there was in Susie.’
I decided not to deny it as he thought about his answer.
‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘He did a lot of work for us, and so will have known Susie well. Claude lived in Blackley, and so he would come here for conferences, to save us the journey to his chambers. The clients liked that, and he had a way with the clients.’
‘I’ve been told he was arrogant.’
‘It depends who you ask,’ Danny said. ‘There are different types of barristers. There are the diligent ones, those who prepare everything; but most of those wouldn’t interest even their wives, let alone a jury. Then there are the charmers, those with the smile, the swagger, can play the jury, get them on their side. Claude had a bit of that but, most of all, he just got on with the punters.’
‘So what was his secret?’
Danny laughed. ‘The first secret most criminal lawyers learn: cigarettes. He didn’t have to read his papers. As long as he threw his fag packet onto the desk, left open, facing the clients, they loved him, made them feel like he was on their side. And he gave the police a hard time. That’s why he didn’t do prosecution work, just to keep up the illusion. Clients don’t expect to get off, not really. All they want is to see someone put up a fight, so that they know they gave it their best shot. Claude did that, and he gave it to them straight. What their chances were, the jail term they would get. Lawyers like Gilbert are well liked.’
‘By criminals,’ I said.
Danny shook his head slowly. ‘By clients,’ he responded. ‘We all make mistakes from time to time, remember that. It’s just that some of us do it more often. My clients are maybe not people you would want as neighbours, but they are human beings, and Claude Gilbert respected that.’
‘So Gilbert was a good guy?’ I queried.
‘There are plenty worse.’
‘But not everyone kills their wife.’
‘He’s not been convicted of that.’
‘Do you think that makes a difference?’
‘To me, it does,’ Danny said. ‘Innocent until proven guilty. It’s what makes us civilised. Sometimes letting a few bad ones get away is a price worth paying.’
‘Do you really believe that?’ I said.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, smiling, ‘but if you’ll print it, trade might just pick up.’
I closed my notebook and thanked him for his time. It seemed like the interview was over.
As I went to leave, Danny put his hand on my arm. ‘If you see Susie again, pass on my regards. Maybe there’s still time for unfinished business.’ He raised his eyebrows and grinned at me.
I looked down and saw the glimmer of his wedding ring, and then I noticed the drip of coleslaw on his shirt, and the chewed bread between his teeth.
‘Maybe some dreams are worth letting go,’ I said, and then as I left the room I muttered, ‘for her sake’.
Frankie grunted as he pulled his Vespa onto its stand outside the Blackley Telegraph offices, the sister paper to The Valley Post. The building was all seventies glass and steel frames, with
