Free The Queen v. Karl Mullen by Michael Gilbert

records in a safe and put any loose papers through a shredder.’ He might have added that they were one of the few firms that retained the pre-war practice of opening on Saturday mornings since some of the people who visited them preferred to do so when the streets were empty.
    “Nice to see you again, Captain,” said Roland Auchstraw. He was a short, tubby, guileless-looking man who had deliberately cultivated a resemblance to Phiz’s Mr. Pickwick. He had even taken to wearing a pair of small steel-rimmed glasses modelled on the ones shown in these illustrations, though since they were of plain glass it is difficult to see how they assisted his eyesight, which was, in fact, remarkably keen. His opponents in court had learnt to keep their own papers covered after he had won a case by reading the first paragraph in one of their documents that had certainly not been intended for his eyes.
    “Nice to see you, too,” said the Captain. “How’s business?”
    “Slack, very slack. Hard to turn an honest penny these days. I hope you’ve brought me an interesting job. I take it you’re still with your Orange boys.”
    “Certainly. And you can regard them, for these purposes, as your client.”
    Mr. Auchstraw said, “Splendid. Splendid.” It was agreeable when clients came to him well provided with money. This was not always the case, for many of them were legal-aided, but he had acted for the Orange Consortium before and knew something of the ways in which it was fina”I have two immediate jobs for you. May be more to come, as the situation develops.”
    “The situation?” said Mr. Auchstraw thoughtfully.
    Hartshorn knew that it was no use running an ally like Roland Auchstraw in blinkers. He told him the whole story, not even omitting the part played by his daughter and the information he had had from her. Auchstraw listened carefully. The possibilities were clear enough to his observant eye.
    “You’ll appreciate,” said Hartshorn, “that it’s no use having this information unless we can pass it onto the prosecution to help them knock down the plea of diplomatic privilege.”
    “I understand that. But it’s going to need devilish careful handling. If we pass it to some white-wigged junior who’s still wet behind the ears, he won’t have thought out the angles. He’ll just blurt it out and when he’s asked how he got the information he’ll fluff and no one will believe a word he says.”
    “It’s an important case. Do you think they’ll risk giving it to a new boy?”
    “Not probable. But possible. Between you and me, the Crown Prosecutions Service is in a mess. It’s overworked and understaffed. When you think that one Branch Crown Prosecutor has to look after the cases in three busy courts, it’s not surprising that he hardly knows whether it’s Wednesday or Christmas. He’s got a couple of assistant B.C.P.s to help him, but they’re really only office boys. And if,” he added handsomely, “they were half as clever as my office boy, they might be some use to him.”
    “But he can ask for help.”
    “Yes. If he’s modest enough to admit that he’s out of his depth. There’s a stable of barristers available. They class them as Category 1 to 4. Category 4 can be quite hot. Might even be Treasury Counsel.”
    “And since you don’t yet know who’s going to take the case, you can’t prime him.”
    “True. But as soon as I do know I’ll get it to him, I can promise you that. The Crown Prosecutions Service is what you might call a rambling edifice. Thirty-five area branches and all their underlings. And being a rambling edifice it’s got a lot of side doors and back doors. You understand me?”
    “I understand you perfectly,” said Hartshorn. “And I’ve every confidence in you. Now for the second point. I want the headquarters of the South African Security Branch kept under observation until further notice.”
    “Fischer Yule’s outfit.”
    “Right. And I’d guess that he’s