‘I’ll never wash again.’
‘Then don’t bother calling. On the other hand if you do wash again, you have my permission to call,’ she said. ‘If you’d like to.’
Charles returned her steady gaze. ‘I would like to.’
‘Good.’
Rachel grabbed the bag of bread out of Charles’s arm, waved, skipped across the pavement and pushed open the door to the gallery. Charles turned to go, and felt a hand on his arm. Rachel turned him round, and planted a kiss on his cheek. This time she blushed.
‘Waited to do that for 16 years,’ she confessed. ‘’Bye.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Barristers’ Clerks Association did not need to meet formally all that often. The “Mafia,” as the criminal clerks were sometimes affectionately known, had a number of watering holes where most nights, and many lunchtimes, groups of clerks would congregate to share gossip, discuss lists and list officers, and report on the rising young stars, the grand old men, and the fading lights of the Bar – their “Guvnors”. The operation of this bush telegraph was informal and extremely effective. Most clerks knew long before any official announcement who was about to “be made up” – become a Judge – or who was having an affair with whom.
The term “Mafia” was not altogether inappropriate either. Barristers’ clerks were powerful enough to dictate the course of the careers of their guvnors. Everyone knew of at least one story in which the clerk had ruined the practice of a barrister on the grounds of offence taken at a Chambers party, a perceived slight to the clerk’s wife or simply a personality clash.
One of the most popular watering holes was the “City Squash and Tennis Club”. Stanley had never played squash in his life and had last held a tennis racket at the age of fifteen, but then, despite its name, strenuous sports did not figure large in the City Squash and Tennis Club’s activities. Its principal attraction, at least as far as Stanley was concerned, was its selection of 25 whiskies.
On this particular evening, Stanley had only popped into the Club for a quick one before catching his train home. Rita, his beloved, wanted to do some late-night shopping, and woe betide him if he were to return late. He chatted for a few minutes to a number of clerks he knew quite well, and downed the rest of his drink. As he was about to leave, he saw a familiar face. Peter McPhee was the clerk at a set of common law chambers in Essex Court. He and Stanley were old mates, having come into the Temple as juniors together thirty years before. McPhee waved at Stanley as he bustled up to the bar.
‘Have another, Stan,’ he said, somewhat out of breath. ‘I’ve some interesting gossip.’
Stanley looked at his watch. ‘I can’t stay, Peter. I’ve got to get the 6.50.’
McPhee leaned over and peered at Stanley’s wrist. ‘Plenty of time,’ he said. ‘This won’t take long. It involves one of your ex-guvnors,’ he said tantalisingly. Stanley was hooked.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Just a single. Highland Park.’
Peter obtained the drinks and the two of them moved away from the bar to a side table.
McPhee lit a cigarette and leaned forward confidentially. ‘I’ve just bumped into your old favourite,’ he said. His words were almost lost in the chatter of the drinkers and the click of snooker balls from the tables behind him. Stanley looked puzzled.
‘Ivor Kellett-Brown,’ announced McPhee with a flourish.
‘My God,’ said Stanley, ‘I thought he was dead. Wasn’t he dossing in Temple Gardens?’
‘He was. I saw him myself. He was evicted by the Inn when he couldn’t pay his rent. Nutty as a fruitcake, always talking to himself, shouting at thin air. One of my juniors once saw him addressing one of the statues on the Embankment as “My Lord”.’
Stanley grinned and took a sip of whisky. He looked at his watch.
‘Anyway,’ continued McPhee, ‘the point is he’s come into some money. Quite a lot of money from what I could tell. He’s driving a brand new MG Princess – almost ran me over actually – and dressed up like Fred Astaire, tails and all. I’ve never seen him look so…what’s the word… opulent?
‘Good heavens,’ said Stanley. ‘You sure it was him?’
‘Certain. I spoke to him. He was parking in the Temple, and I had to jump out the way. When he got out I recognised him and said hello. He remembered I was your mate, and asked how you were.’
‘Is he back in practice?’ asked Stanley. ‘I thought he’d packed up originally because of poor health.’
‘That’s what I’d heard – I think it was you who told me – but he reckons he was never ill at all. I tell you, Stan,’ and here McPhee leaned over even further and dropped his voice almost to a whisper, ‘he’s barmy. He said, straight out, that he was being blackmailed.’ McPhee leaned back in satisfaction, his punchline delivered.
‘Blackmailed? Who by? And for what?’
McPhee shrugged and threw back his drink. ‘He said it was someone in your chambers, and that they had a nasty shock coming to them. He was ranting on and on – it was like lighting a firework. I’d just asked if he was recovered enough to go back into practice, and he was off like a greyhound,’ said McPhee, mixing his metaphors. ‘“There’s nothing wrong with me!” He stormed. “There never was! I was forced out by that blackguard!”’
‘“Blackguard?” Who says “blackguard” these days?’
‘Ivor Kellett-Brown does. And he was shouting, weird stuff, like “Retribution shall be mine!” I was reminded of me old vicar. He had the same wicked look in his eyes, too. Then, without another word, he storms off, still ranting to himself.’
‘And you’ve no idea who was supposed to have been behind all this?’
‘Well, there’s the thing. How many “Jew-boys” have you got in Chambers?’
Stanley looked at his colleague, mouth open. ‘Holborne?’
McPhee shrugged, hands outstretched and open in a passable imitation of Fagin.
‘That’s enough of that, Peter,’ said Stanley, sternly. ‘Even in jest.’
‘No you’re right. Sorry. I’m not, you know, anti-Semitic. And from what I hear, your Mr Holborne’s a decent bloke.’
‘He is, Peter. Which is what makes this so odd. I’d never have him down as a blackmailer. And what could he possibly be blackmailing old K-B about?’
‘No idea,’ replied McPhee. ‘I spect it’s all in his head. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know. Gotta run.’ McPhee replaced his glass on the counter, patted his friend on the back, said ‘See you,’ and disappeared into the crowd.
Stanley remained where he was for a moment, idly examining his empty glass. Then he remembered the time, picked up his briefcase, and ran for the door.
A tall angular man with a hat pulled low over his eyes watched Stanley’s departing back from a nearby table. He also knocked back the last of his drink, picked up his robes bag, and slipped out of the pub.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Henrietta wove her way unsteadily through the hubbub and the guests to the far side of the room, oblivious to the contents of her champagne glass slopping over the edge and down her forearm. Her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled. She wore her hair up, accentuating her lovely neck and shoulders; but a few strands had escaped and fell over her eyes. She reached her destination but then stopped suddenly, unable to see the person she had been seeking. She frowned and squinted around, sweeping her wayward hair back over her forehead with an impatient gesture of her free hand. She eyed a group of men standing in a tight circle to her left. Most of the men at the party were in dinner suits and hard to distinguish from the rear, particularly to someone who had drunk almost two bottles of champagne. Henrietta appeared to recognise a member of the group and turned rather unsteadily towards him. She giggled to herself. She crept up behind a tall man with a broad back and flowing blond hair, slipped her hand up the back of his jacket and pinched his bottom.
The man whirled round, jogging Henrietta’s arm in the process, and causing her to lose the final drops of liquid in
her glass.
‘Henrietta!’ he hissed severely, but with a smile on his handsome face. ‘Behave yourself!’
She shrugged and laughed. ‘I want to dance,’ she pouted, taking hold of his arm, and tugging at him. ‘Oh, come on Laurence, you’ve been talking for ages.’
Henrietta beamed an unfocused smile round the group of men she had interrupted. One or two of them smiled back politely.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ replied Laurence Corbett, turning away from the group slightly, ‘can’t you be even a little discreet?’
‘No one minds,’ she protested. ‘Why do you think Polly invited us both?’
Corbett lowered his head to speak confidentially. ‘That’s no reason to make a spectacle of yourself! Some people here know Marjorie. We’ve still got to be careful.’
Henrietta wasn’t listening. She watched his lips as he spoke, noting his even, white teeth, and the pinkness of his tongue, and thought of what they had been doing to her nipples a few hours before while they were changing for the party.
She leaned towards him. ‘Take me upstairs and fuck me,’ she whispered wetly in his ear, just loudly enough to be heard by the others in the group. One or two smirked; others pretended not to have heard.
‘For God’s sake, Henrietta, stop acting like a whore!’ replied Corbett. This time he made no attempt to keep his voice low and a number of people outside of the immediate group turned and looked at them. ‘Just go away, and please: stop drinking!’
Corbett turned his back on her and resumed talking. Henrietta looked peeved for a moment, and then shrugged. She turned and walked towards the door. An aisle of silence opened before her.
‘You’re boring Corbett, just boring,’ she said with that curious distinctness that often characterises the speech of habitual drunks. ‘Would someone please tell me where I can get a drink?’ she asked plaintively as she made her exit.
Simon Ellison moved from the far side of the room where he had been talking to his wife, and joined the group of men.
‘Hello, Simon,’ said Corbett amiably. ‘Do you know everyone?’
‘Yes, I think so. Sorry, gents, but could I borrow Laurence for a moment?’
Ellison moved off and Corbett followed. They reached a quiet corner by the French windows.
‘Chambers business?’ asked Corbett.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ replied Ellison. ‘Look, Laurence, I know it’s none of my business, but don’t you think you should ditch Henrietta Holborne? She’s pretty much out of control, and it’s only a matter of time before she spills the beans to Charles.’
Corbett smiled. ‘That’s half the fun.’
‘My God, you really do hate him. But then…you don’t actually care for her either, do you?’
‘Not much. She’s a bit of a shrew to be honest, ’specially when she’s had a few. But my God, Simon, she’s hot stuff in the sack.’ He paused. ‘As I think you know,’ he added meaningfully.
Ellison’s eyes suddenly narrowed dangerously. ‘Just exactly what do you mean by that comment?’
Corbett raised his eyebrows insouciantly. ‘I’m sorry, Simon. Perhaps you misunderstood me. I thought Henrietta’s reputation was well known.’
Ellison continued to stare threateningly at Corbett. Then he nodded slowly, and relaxed. ‘The point I’m making is,’ he continued, ‘she’s a loose cannon. You may not care if she tells Charles, but it won’t stop there will it? Your Marjorie’s bound to hear of it. And would she be as forgiving as she was last time, with the nanny, what was her name?’
‘Gretchen’ answered Corbett, with a wide grin.
‘Gretchen. She was a bit of fun; over for a few months, and now safe back in Sweden – ’
‘Switzerland.’
‘Wherever. But Henrietta Holborne is a different kettle of fish altogether. Like I said, none of my business, but wouldn’t life be simpler if you just found yourself another nanny?’
‘You’re quite right, Simon, it is none of your business,’ Corbett hissed, with cold intensity. His tone softened. ‘Look, I realise you’re just trying to be a pal. But honestly, there’s nothing to worry about. Now,’ continued Corbett, looking about the room, ‘where’s that lovely hostess of ours? Ah, there she is. Excuse me, but I’m owed a dance or two.’
Simon Ellison watched his colleague’s back as Corbett threaded his way through the guests. Ellison’s handsome brow furrowed in thought.
•
Henrietta wrapped her fur more tightly round her, and paced slowly around her car again. The country road was pitch dark and little used. She had waited in the car for twenty-five minutes listening to music on the radio, but then her legs began to get stiff, and so she got out, and had since been standing outside. Shortly after her “thing” with Laurence Corbett had started – it wasn’t an “affair”, which implied romance, and while this was dangerous and sexy, it was anything but romantic – she had begun to realise that the greatest part of it was not, as she had thought, snatched moments of passion, but waiting. She was always waiting for him to call, waiting at a hotel or waiting in restaurants – where all too often he never showed. And now she was waiting in the layby where they had agreed to meet on the way back.
The entire weekend had been a disaster. It had been the first time she and Laurence had ever planned a whole weekend together and she had been looking forward to it for weeks. Two whole days together without having to look over their shoulders, give false names or pretend they were strangers. Days of planning and lying had provided her with credible cover in case Charles had started asking questions. He never did. She found it infuriating. She couldn’t work out if his determination to look the other way was because he didn’t care or because he was too squeamish. He’d once told her that there had never been a divorce in his family, so perhaps that was it; they all just looked the other way.
Then Laurence had arrived two hours late. By the time he turned up, other guests were beginning to arrive and they had managed only a snatched half-hour together before going downstairs. And then, on top of everything else, it turned out that Simon and Jenny Ellison had been invited. Of course, Simon would never say anything, but she’d never met Jenny before and she had no idea if Jenny might say something inconvenient to Laurence’s wife, Marjorie. So after all the planning and sneaking, once she and Laurence went down they had to pretend they weren’t a couple – at least until she’d drunk so much she didn’t care any longer. And every now and then she was aware of Simon Ellison’s eyes burning into her back, which at first made her uncomfortable, then angry and, finally, reckless.
And then there was Laurence’s lateness. His excuse? He had been held up on a case! The very same excuse Charles had given her 100 times over the years. She vowed to herself that the next time she committed adultery she’d pick a bus conductor; at least his sex life wouldn’t be governed by the vagaries of the civil court process.
So they’d rowed, and then made up, which had been lovely, but the atmosphere had remained. She had drunk too much, and he had been rude, although quite how rude she couldn’t remember. She knew that she’d been upset, but the precise events from the end of the evening were a bit fuzzy in her head. However she did remember quite clearly that Laurence and some other chap, an ex-member of Chambers she thought, were planning to do something horrid to Charles, and Laurence took great delight in gloating over it with a number of the people there. So she’d had enough. Henrietta had packed and departed. As she left she’d told Laurence she’d wait an hour for him, and then go home.
Not for the first time, Henrietta wondered if it was all worth it. So much effort for so little return. If I put half as much effort into pleasing Charles as I do Laurence, she thought, I’d probably have a successful marriage. The thought amused her at first. Then she considered it seriously, and was no longer amused. She got back into the car, feeling miserable. ‘I’ll give you five more minutes, Laurence Corbett,’ she said out loud.
She turned the heater on but by then the e
ngine had cooled completely and it blew freezing air onto her bare legs. She’d taken off her stocking and panties in preparation and usually the anticipation – sitting in the car, naked beneath her skirt – was so intense that she’d come almost the second he entered her. This had been “their” layby since they had fucked there for the first time in the back of his car. They had subsequently returned time and again to this lonely country road. Henrietta hated going to hotel rooms – seedy and unspontaneous – and she experienced a particular excitement making love only feet from complete strangers as they swept past, the black interior of the car suddenly ablaze as headlights swept across her while she straddled Corbett’s thighs on the back seat.
But now on top of the prolonged wait and an emerging headache the blast of cold air was the final straw. ‘Fuck you, Corbett!’ she cried, and turned on the ignition. She revved the engine and was in the process of moving off when she saw headlights in her mirror. She waited for them to pass, and then realised that they were slowing down. Corbett pulled alongside. He wound down his window.
‘I was just leaving,’ said Henrietta.
‘Sorry. I got held up. Your place or mine?’ asked Corbett with a grin, referring to their two cars.
‘Neither. I’m cold and tired, and getting a hangover,’ she said. ‘I’m going home.’
‘Just hang on a sec – ’ he said, putting his car into gear to pull in in front of her.
‘No, really, don’t bother,’ she insisted, ‘I want to go home.’
‘Can’t we even talk?’ he asked.
‘I don’t want to talk to you, Laurence. I’ll speak to you later in the week. I want to have a think first.’
‘What about?’
‘Everything.’
‘What are you talking about, Henrietta?’
‘I don’t know. I just want time to think. This is all so…’ she searched for the right word, ‘…unsatisfactory. I mean…I don’t know. Maybe I need a break for a while, just to think things through…’
The Brief Page 14
