Take My Breath Away

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Shocking news about Dylan Rees,’ Will said in sombre I feel your pain mode. ‘I read in the papers you were an old friend of his, going back to law school days.’

  ‘You knew him, I gather.’

  ‘Will knows everyone who is anyone,’ Fergus said quickly.

  ‘Dylan did business with us,’ Will said. ‘He and I bumped into each other now and then but I can’t claim to have known him well. A dreadful tragedy. Such a pointless waste of two lives. I hear you were quite a hero, by the way. You did your best to save your friend.’

  Nic shook his head. He couldn’t forget that if he had moved a little quicker, Dylan would still be alive. ‘I don’t understand why the girl kept biding her time for so long.’

  ‘The hate must have been there all those years,’ Will said. ‘Lurking beneath the surface. Ready to flare into vengeance at any time.’

  ‘But what lit the spark?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Fergus said with a shrug meaning who cares? ‘Ah well, life goes on. Another drink?’

  Nic said, ‘Dylan once told me Creed was one of his best clients.’

  ‘We certainly paid him enough in fees,’ Will said. Affable to a fault.

  ‘Your firm’s had its share of bad luck,’ Nic said dreamily. ‘Dylan was talking about it, last time we spoke. The car crash which killed Bradley Hurst. Poor Matthew Creed.’

  ‘A lot of firms would have crumbled, losing people of that calibre,’ Fergus said, unfazed. ‘Not Creed. Stuff happens, but you have to move on. Look to the future, not the past.’

  Nic said, ‘Of course, you’re right. I was looking at your website. So much progress in so little time. Even since Matthew Creed died.’

  Fergus jerked a thumb at Will. ‘Here is the man who’s done it all.’

  Will laughed and made a few modest remarks about the joys of team-working. Fergus stood with his hands in his pockets; he might have been waiting for a wind-up toy to come to a halt.

  ‘As Amy Vinton cut Dylan’s throat,’ Nic said carefully, ‘he muttered a few words.’

  Fergus took a step forward. Their bodies were almost touching. He radiated physicality, a sense of power.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘It meant nothing to me.’ Nic paused. ‘Why not jazz?’

  The others stared at him.

  ‘Any idea what he meant?’ Will asked.

  Nic shook his head. ‘There was another odd thing Dylan said, last time we spoke. About Matthew Creed. I wondered what he meant.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Will asked casually.

  ‘He spoke of Matthew burning in Paradise. Strange, don’t you think?’

  Perhaps he had a playful streak. Certainly, he relished the reaction of his audience as he allowed his voice to trail away. It was worth dropping a stone in the pool and counting the ripples. Fergus was studying him, as if trying to see into his mind. There was a nervousness about Will’s eternal grin, as if he couldn’t decide whether it was wise to humour this flight of fancy.

  ‘Dylan never dealt with Matthew,’ Will said.

  ‘How did Matthew die, as a matter of interest?’

  ‘In his sleep,’ Fergus snapped.

  Brief Encounters had segued to ‘The Look of Love.’ A couple of eminent child care barristers who’d consumed too much buck’s fizz had started slow-dancing to the music, egged on by a group of braying friends.

  Nic said, ‘Matthew Creed was scarcely an old fogey. Fifty-seven and a pretty active fifty seven, by all accounts. Remember that time he cycled from Land’s End to Hadrian’s Wall in aid of trade union charities? Pink Lycra shorts and all. In the photographs he looked as fit as a flea.’

  Will tutted. ‘You’re so right, yet what Fergus says is perfectly true. Poor Matthew died in his sleep.’

  He was so assured, he just had to be right. Impossible that the great man could lie over something like this. What would be the point? Nic guessed that Will was telling the truth but not quite the whole truth. That was what lawyers did all the time.

  ‘Heart condition, then?’

  ‘I’m not an expert on the medical details. To be honest, I’m a tad squeamish at the best of times.’ Will smiled, ever self-deprecating. ‘Don’t forget, Matthew’s death came as a great shock to us. We were all pretty numb.’

  But not so numb, Nic thought, that he hadn’t contrived to be anointed as senior partner within a couple of days. Ben Yarrow, his rival and at one time Matt Creed’s heir apparent, had never stood a chance.

  Fergus said, ‘You sound as though you’re checking us out, Nic. Don’t tell me you’re planning to write about Creed for your next book?’

  ‘That would be telling, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘We’d love it if you did,’ Fergus said unexpectedly. Nic caught the bafflement in Will’s eyes, and Fergus’s swift nod of reassurance. ‘I’m not talking about an authorised history, a piece of sanitised puffery masquerading as research. No, you’re a serious writer, tell our story as you see it. Warts and all. Have a look round the office, talk to people, make up your own mind as to how we’ve coped with the loss of Matthew and Bradley.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Watch my lips,’ Fergus said. ‘We’d be thrilled to see you. Our shoulders are broad, our skin is pretty thick. We all read Crippen, we know you thrive on challenging received wisdom. Tilting at the establishment.’

  ‘And Creed has become the establishment?’

  Fergus’s satisfied smile reminded Nic of a conjurer who has carried off an illusion before the audience’s very eyes. ‘Remember our marketing. Lawyers who are different, a new kind of law firm, blah, blah. Look at us with an open mind, that’s all we ask. You can have the run of Avalon Buildings.’

  ‘Including freedom of information?’ Nic asked, teasing.

  ‘On a need-to-know basis, sure.’

  Fergus grinned. With a few words, he had twisted the conversation around. As if by magic, he was back in control. Will was keeping quiet, content to let Fergus have his head. Their expressions were inscrutable. But then, they all worked in the law, were past masters at hiding what they believed in their hearts. Assuming they believed in anything.

  Nic glanced up at the sky. It had turned purple, like the choleric face of a gouty old colonel. On the bandstand, Brief Encounters were still giving it their all. As a chill settled on the North Lawns, they were playing ‘(They Long To Be) Close To You.’ They changed their tune so smoothly, you could tell that they were lawyers.

  It had been like this with Crippen. He’d become possessed by the idea that the man might not have killed his wife. A sort of literary Stockholm syndrome. Taken captive by the little doctor, he had almost fallen in love with him – or rather with the dream of proving him innocent of the crime for which he had been hanged. He’d picked up fragments of information here and then, collected bits of memorabilia whenever they came along. Later, when the book was in the bestseller lists, he’d bought Crippen’s turnip watch at auction, paying a huge price, not daring to tell Phil.

  His theory was irresistible, if only because of its absurdity. Crippen had gone to his grave protesting innocence. What if he hadn’t killed her? If the corpse in the cellar at Hilldrop Crescent did belong to Belle Elmore and her husband had told a tissue of lies before his desperate flight across the Atlantic, must that mean that he was guilty of murder? He obsessed about sex with Ethel le Neve, but hated meeting his wife’s demands. Suppose he’d decided to give Belle an anti-aphrodisiac. He was so inept, he might easily have given her an inadvertent overdose of hyoscine. His lawyers had rejected it as a line of defence, but suppose they were wrong? How would he have felt, what thoughts would have jostled in his mind as his world fell apart until at last he found himself walking out to the gallows?

  Crippen was history. No one cared if Nic turned up ninety-year-old stones. Dylan had talked wildly of murder for pleasure, and less than twenty-four hours later he too had been killed. It suddenly came to Nic that in his heart he didn’t believe Dylan’s death was
a coincidence. The answer lay buried in Creed, it must do. Lawyers who are different – no argument, Fergus was right. Nic wanted to find out just how different they were.

  Creed were holding a breakfast seminar at the Cafe Royal, the theme Dignity at Work, and Fergus had invited him along. While a girl at the welcome desk ticked off his name, he cast his eye down the guest list. Government departments, local authorities, private and public companies galore were represented by senior officers. Will Janus had transformed his firm into a market leader, crammed with high-calibre specialists versed in acting on behalf of captains of industry.

  Once it would have been unthinkable for Creed to attract such a blue chip crowd. Bosses were seen as the bad guys by their traditional clients: the shop floor workers, the whistleblowers, the victims of workplace bullying. It was as if Robin Hood had opted to move with the times and focus on advising the rich about how to improve their ethical investment strategies.

  Ten minutes after the last Full English had been served, Will marched on to the stage and started talking about trust and confidence. This time he had on a Donna Karan navy shirt and taupe pashmina socks. His little Italian boots were of such soft leather that you could almost see his toes moving inside them. On the screen behind him, his enlarged image surveyed the scene, like a revivalist preacher surveying his flock. The law’s gain had been the Church’s loss. His parents were missionaries and during his teens he’d planned to follow in their footsteps before discovering there was more than one way of achieving an ambition to evangelise. He was multi-faceted, and the facets were as carefully co-ordinated as matching furnishings at an ideal home show.

  Nic, standing at the back of the room, turned and found himself gazing into the cold eyes of Fergus McHugh. ‘Glad I never had to fight a case against Will,’ he whispered. ‘It would have felt like blasphemy to suggest his client might be in the wrong.’

  Fergus smiled. ‘It’s all about knowing the right buttons to press. So important in life, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Thanks again for your help.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ Fergus said. ‘I’m sure anything you write about us will be fair. And relevant, too. This old stuff you were talking about, poor Matthew and Bradley. I can’t really see how digging over old ground will help. Frankly, we’ve done our mourning. It wasn’t easy, but now it’s time to move on.’

  ‘I want to understand what Dylan was talking about.’

  Fergus put his hands in his pockets and leaned back on his heels. ‘What’s to understand? You’re reading too much into a few stray words. Dylan was always a line-shooter, you know that better than anyone. The deaths were so tragic. They were private tragedies too, if I may say so. They involved real people, Nic, people like the poor woman who was injured in the accident that killed Bradley. Raking up the past can cause a lot of unhappiness. You had a good line in The Innocence of Doctor Crippen, simple but bang-on. “It’s not right that the innocent should suffer.” That came from the heart, I guess.’

  He’d chosen the best way to sting Nic, hinting at the way in which the Press had treated Bryn Gabriel’s guilt of murder as a foregone conclusion. He scanned Nic’s face, checking for signs of damage, like a heavyweight boxing contestant admiring his bloody handiwork.

  Nic felt himself colouring. ‘Yes, it did.’

  ‘Incidentally, you are sleeping better these days, I hope?’

  Nic rarely spoke about his insomnia. He had no idea how Fergus had heard of it, but knowledge was power, and Fergus exuded power. He would have made a formidable advocate.

  ‘You know the old line. I may have insomnia, but I don’t lose any sleep over it.’

  Fergus sniggered as the applause thundered. ‘So, another triumph for Will power.’ There was affection in his tone, and something else. Nic thought he heard amusement and contempt. Like a ventriloquist singing the praises of his dummy. ‘Ah well, now the serious networking begins. I’ll have to circulate. Hey, say hello to Joel Anthony here. Joel, this is Nic Gabriel, the writer. I told you, he’s thinking of writing about Creed. Nic, meet Joel. Super advocate. A rising star.’

  ‘He’s so sweet to me,’ the young man said, offering Nic his hand as Fergus slipped away into the crowd. ‘Actually, I recognised you from the photograph on the jacket of your book. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Well, I hear you’ve been asking questions about Matthew Creed and Bradley Hurst.’

  ‘News travels fast.’

  ‘Will and Fergus were talking about you before breakfast. I was intrigued. I suppose I’m a bit of a nosy parker. You know what lawyers are like. The worst gossips in the world.’

  There was an eagerness, a naivete almost, about Joel that Nic found appealing. He said, ‘Dylan mentioned something strange. About Matt Creed burning in Paradise.’

  Joel stared at him. ‘What – what do you know about that?’

  ‘Not as much as I’d like to.’

  Joel took a breath, as if taking a decision. He hesitated, looked around. The room was emptying, no one could overhear.

  ‘I shouldn’t say this.’

  An irresistible line, if ever there was one. ‘Go on,’ Nic said.

  ‘It’s true,’ Joel whispered.

  Nic stared. ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘This – this is off the record?’

  ‘Non-attributable. Even if I use it. That’s all I can promise.’

  Joel swallowed. ‘You’ll find out sooner or later. If we don’t come clean, you might think the firm had something to hide. Which we don’t.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘It’s like this. Matthew was very good to me, gave me a lot of help when I was a young solicitor, just starting out. He had a rough time with his wife’s illness. For all his success, for all his wealth, he was a lonely man. He needed – outlets for all that energy.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘There was this sauna off Chancery Lane. He used to head off there after a day’s work. Maybe after having a few drinks at El Vino’s or somewhere.’

  ‘When you say sauna…?’

  ‘Massage parlour, brothel, whatever you like to call it. The ultimate pleasure palace, that’s how they advertised it in the Evening Standard. Its name was Paradise. The girls would make you believe there is a God, after all.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘One night, Matthew followed a tough day in the High Court with a few too many beers. He turned up and went into a cubicle on his own. Then he fell asleep.’ Joel paused, his voice barely audible. ‘An hour later they broke down the door and found him lying on the bench. Scalded to death.’

  Nic felt his gorge rising. He couldn’t help picturing the scene in the pleasure parlour. Matthew Creed, pissed and ageing, closing his eyes for a while as he acclimatised to the heat. Nic imagined the temperature rising, the smoky smell of burning flesh.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘So you see,’ Joel whispered, ‘it is possible to burn in Paradise.’

  ‘None of this hit the Press. There was a cover-up.’

  ‘That’s harsh. Unfair. No one wanted Matthew’s widow to suffer. She was a nice lady. Think of the hurt that publicity would have caused.’

  ‘To her? Or the firm?’

  Joel coloured. ‘I wasn’t a partner at the time, but I can understand why they wanted to keep things tight. Like I said, it was a tragedy. No one’s fault.’

  ‘Same as Bradley Hurst?’

  ‘We didn’t have much in common except for Creed. Even so, the accident came as a terrible shock. Bradley dead and Alice left in a wheelchair.’

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘Alice Wythenshawe. Equal Rights officer for one of our major clients and someone very definitely going places. At the party on the night when the accident happened, they spent most of the time in a corner, canoodling. We were all happy, we’d all put a lot of drink away, it was fun to see them getting it together.’

  ‘Why did Bradley drive if he was drunk? Wouldn’t it have been eas
ier to catch a cab?’

  ‘Of course. That was the crazy thing. Half an hour before the pair of them disappeared, he said he might run Alice home. I told him not to be so silly. He’d already had a skinful. I thought I’d extracted a promise from him that he’d be sensible. Ben talked to him as well.’ Joel shook his head. ‘Something must have made him change his mind.’

  As a flunkey shooed them from the room, Nic asked, ‘Any idea what that something might have been?’

  ‘None at all. I simply remember looking round later and noticing that they had gone. They must have slipped out of the party while the rest of us weren’t looking. I’m not sure that they said goodbye. Mind you, I’d had a few myself by then and I’m not used to drinking heavily. Especially not champagne.’

  ‘So what happened to Alice?’

  ‘She had to sue, of course. I visited her in hospital. I felt a bit guilty – we all did. Somehow we should have stopped Bradley taking the wheel. I don’t know how it happened, but I wanted to do anything I could to make up. I put her in touch with a good personal injury firm and a deal was done. By that time she’d moved back up north.’

  They were standing alone on the landing, waiting for the lift. Nic said, ‘So why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s better to be upfront about these things. Others might disagree, nobody likes washing dirty linen in public. But I’d rather you knew everything.’ Joel paused. ‘Here’s the lift. You go down, I’ll take the stairs. I don’t want the other partners to think I’ve been talking out of turn. Fergus would go apeshit. But I suppose – it’s about time someone like you asked a few questions. For all our sakes.’