by Caro Fraser
‘Viktor? It’s Dudley. Look, my solicitor’s just been on to me. A Landline invoice has turned up in the papers they’ve got. What do you mean – how? Some dozy bloody fool at your end must have let it slip through! The point is, they’re asking questions. They want to know why two invoices exist for the same work.’ He listened for a moment as Viktor spoke. ‘No, Viktor, trust me – I have every reason in the world to worry. My barrister, Leo Davies, found this invoice, and he’s not the kind of man to shrug his shoulders and forget about it. I know him. He’s good, he’s very clever – that’s why I hired him in the first place. What? No, he’s not suspicious now, necessarily, but when he starts digging around and trying to work out who Landline are and how they’re involved – that’s when he’s going to get suspicious. No, Viktor, I can’t pay him off. Why? Because he’s not that kind of man! What do you mean, lawyers are the easiest? He’s an English barrister, for God’s sake – they have integrity … It means you can’t get at them, you can’t bribe them. No, I’m not even going to try. It would blow the whole thing. This is your people’s mess, so it’s up to you to sort it out … No, I don’t know how! Just do it!’
Sir Dudley switched off his phone. He never enjoyed an irate conversation with Viktor. From the very beginning of his dealings with him, he’d had to work at maintaining a position of dominance without getting on the wrong side of the man. At least he felt easier now that he’d spoken to him. Whatever else he was, Viktor was someone who could be trusted to take care of things. In his own way, of course. Sir Dudley didn’t think he’d have to worry about that Landline invoice. Viktor would probably find a way of stealing it, or destroying it, and then no one would be any the wiser.
Viktor Kroitor, an enterprising thirty-eight-year-old Ukrainian whose business interests included illegal arms trading, drug dealing, and the trafficking of prostitutes, and who had for the past year been laundering his profits through one of Sir Dudley Humble’s London companies, switched off his mobile phone and slipped it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He disliked Sir Dudley when he panicked and started squealing like a pig. He disliked him anyway. Viktor turned his attention back to the pretty girl, Irina, who sat opposite him in the coffee shop in Odessa.
He nodded intently at her, focusing his attention away from Sir Dudley’s problems. ‘Yes, like I say – it’s a good club, a really nice club. They always need dancers for the cabaret.’ He swung a neat finger at her, pointing it like a gun, and smiled his attractive smile. He had dark, slicked-back hair, a heavy face with big, friendly eyes, and designer-stubble beard and moustache. ‘I’ve seen you in the gym. You’re a nice mover. Have you had dance lessons? No? You move like you have.’
The girl smiled, flattered. A job in the West would be fantastic – if she could just find work for two years or so, she could earn enough to come back and carry on her studies. At the moment she didn’t have enough to buy books or pay her fees.
All she needed was the right opportunity – and Viktor Kroitor seemed to be offering it. Irina had heard stories of girls getting into bad trouble when they tried to move to the West, but Viktor Kroitor knew her brother, and her brother said he was a good guy. Looking at his face, and his smiling eyes, she felt that too. She trusted Viktor Kroitor.
‘How much would it cost? I haven’t got a lot of money.’
Viktor shrugged. ‘I don’t mind helping you with the air fare. I could even help you pay for dance lessons when you get there.’ He tapped a cigarette from a packet and lit it. ‘Don’t worry. You can pay me back when you’re earning enough. It’s not a problem. I like helping people.’ He offered her a cigarette and she took one. Viktor lit it for her. He sat staring at her, his dark eyes apparently studying her face. In fact, Viktor was thinking about Sir Dudley’s problem, and trying to decide whether he should send one of his men to deal with it or attend to it himself. He smoked and considered. The girl Irina wondered why he was gazing at her so intently. It was nice, but not nice. Perhaps she should make conversation, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. No, thought Viktor, best to handle it himself. Besides, there was this girl here. She was so beautiful, and very possibly a virgin – it would be a real pleasure to make sure she got properly settled into her new job in the West, and to do it personally. He stubbed out his cigarette and spoke. ‘That phone call just now – I may have to go to London on business very soon. We can travel together, if you like.’
‘Yes, I’d like that.’ Irina nodded. The idea of going to another country was scary enough, but if she had a companion, someone who knew what he was doing, and whom she trusted, it would be much better. Viktor was a businessman – he dressed well, he had money and knew people. She would feel more confident in a strange country if he was there to introduce her. ‘I’ve got a part-time job, but I don’t think finishing will be a problem.’
‘Fine.’ Viktor nodded in a businesslike way. ‘I’ll need your passport so that I can fix the flight. Bring it with you tomorrow and I’ll arrange everything.’
‘And the job at the club?’
Viktor smiled. ‘I’ll talk to my friend this evening.’
When the girl had gone, Viktor sat and thought about what Dudley had told him. A nuisance, yeah, but one that was easily dealt with. He had never in his life heard of a lawyer who couldn’t be bribed, but if Sir Dudley thought that was a bad idea – fine. There were plenty of other ways of persuasion. Or dissuasion. He took out his mobile phone and tapped in the number of a contact in London.
‘Miron? Hi, this is Viktor. I need some information on a man. His name is Leo Davies.’ A pause. ‘That’s about all I know. He is a barrister, a lawyer of some kind. I need you to find out all you can about him – where he lives, where he goes, what he does, family, friends. You know the kind of thing.’ Viktor laughed. ‘That’s right. He’s someone we need to bring into line.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The weekend was so glorious that Leo decided to drive down with Oliver to his country house near Oxford. The heat of the previous week had given way to softer, moister weather, slaking the dry fields and turning the woods dense and lush again. The Oxfordshire house, set back from the road in a large garden fringed with trees, was very different from the smart house in Chelsea, with its white-walled rooms and clean, minimalist furnishings. Here an atmosphere of haphazard, cosy charm prevailed. The dark, polished floorboards were scattered with rugs, and the armchairs and sofas were high-backed and piled with cushions. There was an air of restfulness and comfort which was missing from the Chelsea house, as though both places represented two irreconcilable facets of Leo’s own personality.
A log basket filled with toys and old books stood by the fireplace in the living room, and while Oliver emptied the contents of this onto the floor, Leo rang some old friends who lived in the neighbourhood and invited them to supper that evening. Then, after a brisk lunch of scrambled eggs on toast, he and Oliver went out to comb the lanes of Oxfordshire for blackberries. Before they left, Leo cut a few apples and potatoes into chunks, so that Oliver could feed the horses in the farmer’s field at the end of the lane. He hoisted Oliver up so that he could perch on the gate, and the horses came ambling over the grass with friendly curiosity. As he held him, Leo could feel his son’s small body tensing with excited pleasure. He handed Oliver some pieces of apple and potato, and Oliver held them out, giggling and shivering at the soft, whiskery touch of the horses’ lips as they snaffled the food from his outstretched palm. The feeling of his son’s small, robust body beneath his grasp filled Leo with a deep sense of pleasure. When the food was all gone he kissed the top of Oliver’s dark, glossy head and lifted him down.
They spent a couple of hours wading around the bramble bushes at the edge of the woods, picking fruit, while Oliver chattered to his father about all the preoccupations of his four-year-old life, including his new school. Leo detected, beneath Oliver’s excited prattle about his new blazer and school bag, a trace of apprehension, so he told Oliver about his own fi
rst day at school, and how quickly you got used to things and made new friends. For a moment Leo found himself recalling, as if it were yesterday, the tarmac playground of the village school, surrounded by black railings that had seemed so high once, filled with roistering children. Himself and thirty-eight mixed infants in one class, most of them wearing hand-me-downs, with one pair of shoes to last a year, and a box of coloured pencils that you daren’t lose, because your mam couldn’t afford another one. How different it would be for Oliver, in his fine new uniform, at his expensive school where the children were doubtless twelve to a class at most – children who would expect, and receive, yearly ski trips and outrageously expensive birthday parties and the latest electronic toys and computer games. Would he have wanted anything different for Oliver? Probably not, but he wished Rachel had given him a say. As it was, Kingswood House, with its privileged pupils from well-off, middle-class, West London families was a fait accompli.
He glanced down at Oliver. His fingers and mouth were purple with berry juice, he had bramble stains on his sweatshirt and trousers, and a handful of rather mushy berries in his bag.
Oliver, aware of his father’s gaze, looked up at him and saw the full bag of blackberries which Leo had picked.
‘Daddy, you’ve got loads more than me!’ He held up his own pathetic pickings.
‘That’s because I didn’t eat most of mine.’ Leo took the plastic bag from Oliver’s damp grasp. ‘Here.’ He tipped some of his own haul into Oliver’s bag and they set off down the lane for home, Oliver bumping his bag of blackberries happily against his thigh, depositing yet more stains for Rachel to fuss over.
Back at the house, Leo gave Oliver a quick wipe-over and put the blackberries in a bowl in the fridge, then they got into the car and went shopping for food for the evening. Leo’s plan was to give Oliver tea at around half six, then put him to bed shortly after Alasdair and Jenny arrived for dinner. After they’d got back and unloaded the shopping, Leo cooked pasta with tomato sauce for Oliver, and then Oliver helped Leo to make an apple and blackberry crumble with the fruit they had picked that afternoon. Oliver stood on a chair to stir the crumble mix and Leo helped him to tip it onto the apples and blackcurrant mixture in the dish, and put it in the oven.
‘You can have some before you go to bed,’ Leo told him, ‘but first you need to have a bath and scrub all those berry stains off properly. Mummy wouldn’t like you with purple fingers.’
‘Mummy likes everything clean,’ said Oliver. ‘Clean as clean.’
How true, thought Leo. Hers was an antiseptic world. It was up to Leo to add a dash of friendly grubbiness to Oliver’s starched little life.
By half seven Leo was sitting in an armchair with a glass of whisky, watching the evening news while Oliver, freshly bathed and in his pyjamas, played on the rug with his toys. Leo heard the crunch of car wheels on the gravel outside, and went to greet his guests. Alasdair was in his mid-fifties, and had given up life at the Bar to become a journalist, contributing articles and commentaries to one of the broadsheets. His wife, Jenny, who ten years ago had been solicitor at the firm where Rachel worked, now ran a small, local picture-framing business.
Jenny made a fuss of Oliver while Leo dispensed drinks. Alasdair stood sipping his drink and watching Jenny and Oliver playing with a plastic tipper truck.
‘He’s a lovely boy,’ said Alasdair, ‘but I can’t help feeling grateful that our two are off our hands. Ruinously expensive things, kids.’
‘I just wish I had more time with Oliver,’ said Leo. ‘I only see him every other weekend.’
‘I know the feeling – fifteen years ago, when I was working all the hours God sent, I hardly ever saw Toby and Ed. Now I get all my work done at home, rarely have to go up to London, thank God.’
‘Don’t you miss the Bar?’
‘Now and then. Miss the conviviality. But if I had a young family, I’d jump ship straight away. Having said that’ – Alasdair sipped his beer – ‘communications being what they are now, there’s probably no need. Who needs to be in an office, when you’ve got the phone and the Internet?’
‘True.’
‘I’m surprised you stay up in London, when you have this place. Couldn’t you get a good deal of your work done here?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Leo, ‘but I have to go to court. Besides, I like London.’
‘So do I,’ said Jenny, getting up a little stiffly from the floor. ‘Whatever Al says, I need my bimonthly fix of shopping and people. Thank God we have the little place in Pimlico.’
‘Ah,’ said Leo, ‘so you haven’t cut your ties altogether?’ He put down his drink and began to clear away Oliver’s toys.
‘No,’ admitted Alasdair, ‘but I still think anyone who lives in that hellhole on a permanent basis is stark-staring mad.’
‘Or has a living to earn.’
‘That’s my point. Barristers are self-employed creatures. Historically they’ve banded together in sets of chambers through physical necessity and financial convenience. But with technology improving every year, in theory most of them are already able to work wherever they want – apart from court appearances, of course. I think the physical point of having sets of chambers will become redundant in time.’
‘I think perhaps you’re taking a somewhat utilitarian view of the Bar. There’s more to it than work, you know.’ Leo stooped to pick up Oliver. ‘Come on, young man – time for bed.’
‘You said I could have some pudding!’ said Oliver, clasping his hands around his father’s neck and gazing at him with challenging blue eyes.
‘So I did,’ said Leo. ‘Come and show Jenny and Al what a clever cook you are.’
When Oliver had had his crumble and some milk, and was tucked safely in bed, Leo cooked steaks and made a salad, and the three of them ate at the big wooden table in the kitchen. After a few glasses of wine Jenny, as usual, began to quiz Leo solicitously about his love life. She was convinced that it was just a question of finding Leo the right woman. Leo, to satisfy her curiosity, told them about Anthea.
Later, when they were leaving, Jenny said, ‘Next time you come down, bring your girlfriend – we could do with a bit of glamour around here!’
Leo went back into the quiet house and began to clear up the dishes and coffee cups. Then he poured the remains of the wine into a glass and took it through to an armchair in the living room. Perhaps he should bring Anthea down some weekend. Maybe when he next had Oliver – Oliver was such a sucker for a pretty face. And Anthea, for all her frivolity, wasn’t as shallow as she pretended. Leo had found himself growing rather fond of her. She was amusing, she was affectionate, her attitude towards her own appetites was robust and uncomplicated, yet for all the intimacy they shared, she kept a part of herself at a charming distance. Leo found that intriguing and attractive. He liked her friends better than he had thought he would, too. Those he had met at the handful of dinner parties they’d been to were interesting, sensible people, of a variety of ages. Although he had met her just once, Lola was his favourite. While she certainly didn’t fall into the sensible category, Leo was naturally attracted by her funny and feckless nature, and by the fact that she was utterly unashamed of the idle, acquisitive life she led. She had an irresistible charm, much like Anthea. So perhaps he and Anthea had the potential to take their relationship further than he had thought. He dreaded another entanglement of the intense emotionality he had experienced with Rachel, but maybe if he and Anthea could maintain the equilibrium they had created so far—
Then he stopped himself. No – he had travelled a little way down this road before, and it didn’t lead anywhere he wanted to go. Lovers were enough. He didn’t want anyone permanent in his life, except Oliver. He had all the permanence he needed in chambers – that place, and the people in it, were all he needed to keep him grounded. His mind began to drift to what Alasdair had said about the joys of working from home. Perhaps there was something in it. If he didn’t have to go into chambers every day, he’d b
e able to take Oliver to school some mornings, perhaps even pick him up mid-afternoon. A bit of flexibility in his life would mean he could see much more of his son, instead of every other weekend.
Leo yawned, too tired to think any more. Tomorrow he and Oliver would go to a friend of Jenny and Alasdair’s for a lunchtime barbecue, and Oliver would be able to play with other kids. Then in the evening they would pack up and trek back to London in time for Oliver’s big first day at school.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Leo dropped Oliver off at Rachel’s house early on Sunday evening, together with his new pencil case and a couple of books which Leo had given him.
‘I’m afraid his clothes got a bit stained when we were out blackberrying,’ said Leo, handing over Oliver’s overnight bag and teddy bear.
Rachel didn’t seem concerned. ‘Don’t worry about that. Have you time for a coffee? I need to ask you something.’ Leo followed her through to the kitchen, while Oliver went upstairs to his room.
‘I won’t have any coffee, thanks,’ said Leo, wary of any extended conversation with Rachel. ‘I’ve got some work to catch up on at home. What was it you wanted to ask?’
‘I wondered if you’d mind having Ollie next weekend as well. I know you don’t usually have him two weekends in a row—’ She smoothed back her dark hair with pale, hesitant hands.
‘Of course I don’t mind. I’d love to. Why? Some emergency?’
Rachel looked faintly embarrassed. ‘Not quite. You’ll probably think it’s pretty frivolous, but Kate has arranged a weekend at Champneys. Just the two of us – a girlie thing. I gather it’s a surprise for my birthday.’ Leo felt a flash of guilt. He had forgotten it was Rachel’s birthday soon. ‘I mean, just say if it’s a problem—’
