Breath of Corruption

by Caro Fraser

  He meant it, Lucy realised. Oh God, he meant it. She’d thought it was going to be so easy, so perfect. And he sounded just like – just like one of her teachers, the way he was speaking to her. Why did everyone have to treat her like a child? Why didn’t he believe her when she said she loved him? She hated him for not believing her, and for not wanting her. She couldn’t believe he didn’t. She so couldn’t believe it!

  Lucy burst into tears. Leo regarded her sadly. Nothing would have given him greater pleasure, truly, than to remove every inadequate piece of clothing from her glorious young body and have her right here on the sofa. But there were limits, even for him. When she had quietened down a bit, he said, ‘Come on. I’ll show you where you can wash your face. Then you need to get to bed. You’re a bit overwrought. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

  Sniffling, Lucy picked up her shoes and allowed herself to be escorted upstairs. Leo showed her into a bedroom with a connecting bathroom, said goodnight, and left her alone.

  He went downstairs and cleared up the coffee cups, then locked up. He stood for a moment in the middle of the room, where the faintest trace of her teenage perfume still hung in the air. He drew his hands wearily across his face, then switched the lights off and went to bed, locking the door of his room – whether for her protection or his, he wasn’t sure.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was only at three in the morning, when the after-effects of the brandy had jerked him into heart-racing wakefulness, that it occurred to Leo that Lucy, of course, hadn’t lost her keys, and that he could have taken her home after all. Too late. He lay there in the darkness, wondering quite how this whole episode would play with Anthea when he saw her next. Unable to get back to sleep, he got up and went downstairs for a glass of water. Then he went back to bed, forgetting to lock his door. Four hours later, as early light pearled the room, he woke to find Lucy, entirely naked, slipping beneath the duvet.

  She laid her head on the neighbouring pillow and gazed at him. Her eye make-up from the night before had left panda smudges beneath her eyes, but apart from that, she looked fresh as a daisy, and ridiculously adorable. Leo, on the other hand, felt old and groggy and unshaven, and already very tired of this game.

  He yawned, then said wearily, ‘Lucy, I meant what I said last night.’ She said nothing. ‘Anyway, this early-morning encounter is probably a good thing. It should put you off me for life. Now, go on – get out of my bed and get dressed. I’m taking you home.’

  ‘Leo, why don’t you want me?’ She put out a hand to his face, and Leo was swept with a wave of hungover irritation. He sat up and gripped her fingers before they could touch him; all he wanted was this tiresome, clinging girl out of his bed and his life. The situation was enough to make him momentarily lose his temper. ‘Why?’ he snapped. ‘Because you’re a destructive, tedious child who has no idea what she’s doing, and who likes playing stupid games without any thought of the consequences for other people! And I want rid of you!’

  Lucy’s eyes darkened. ‘You’re a bastard. You know that? And you’ve got morning breath.’

  ‘Good – a touch of real life at last.’ Leo sighed and lay back on the pillow. ‘Perhaps it’ll make you realise how daft this all is. You silly kid – what on earth are you doing, going around offering yourself to middle-aged men? Haven’t you got any self-respect?’ The ache in his head was becoming worse.

  ‘You’re so horrible!’ Lucy flounced from beneath the duvet like an angry nymph, and grabbed Leo’s shirt from the chair where he had thrown it last night. She put it on. ‘I don’t know why I went to all this trouble!’

  ‘Nor do I. Now, you can repay my hospitality by going downstairs and making me some coffee. Go on.’

  She left the room, banging the door and thumping downstairs. Children, thought Leo. He supposed he should be flattered, but he wasn’t. The last thing he wanted was to be the object of some teenage fixation. After a few moments he got up, pulled on a pair of boxers, and went to the bathroom to find some paracetamol.

  It was then that he heard the doorbell. It took him some seconds to think who it could be. Then he remembered – Rachel. She was going to Champneys, and bringing Oliver over. Recent events had put it completely out of his mind.

  ‘Oh, my Christ,’ muttered Leo, and hurried out to the landing to call to Lucy not to answer the door.

  Too late. He reached the top of the stairs to see Lucy, fetchingly clad in one of his Valentino shirts with only two of the buttons done up, opening the front door to Rachel, who was standing on the doorstep holding Oliver’s hand. They stared at Lucy, and then up at him.

  It was a hellish moment. He was reminded forcibly of the time when Oliver was a baby, and Rachel had come back from a business trip abroad to find him in bed with the nanny. That had been bad, but at least then he’d been completely bang to rights. This time he was guilty of absolutely nothing whatsoever – even if he had been, there would be room for arguing that it was none of Rachel’s business. However, in view of the fact that she was convinced he led a private life of squalor and depravity, and given the circumstantial evidence of a teenage girl answering his door in one of his shirts at eight-thirty in the morning, things were not looking good.

  To save his dignity, he went back to the bathroom, grabbed a towelling robe and put it on, and hurried downstairs. Lucy, having divined the potential of this situation for embarrassing Leo, was introducing herself to Rachel with a mixture of elan and impudence.

  ‘Get into the kitchen!’ Leo told Lucy, his voice like thunder.

  ‘No need,’ said Rachel, stony-faced. ‘We’re going.’ She turned and led Oliver back to the car. Leo followed, pulling the front door behind him.

  ‘Rachel, hold on – this isn’t what you think,’ he said, marvelling at how sometimes only clichés would do. Rachel opened the rear door of the car and hustled Oliver in. Rachel closed the door, and Oliver’s small face gazed at Leo through the window.

  ‘Look,’ said Leo, ‘she’s a friend’s sister, a silly kid who got herself into a spot of bother in Soho last night. I had to go and rescue her – there wasn’t anyone else to do it. She stayed the night at mine, and that’s all. OK?’

  ‘Leo,’ said Rachel coldly, ‘you think you’re such a great lawyer that you can talk your way out of everything. Well, you’re not in the Court of Appeal now. The fact is, you’ve been telling me lately that you’ve cleaned up your act, that I can rely on you to look after Oliver responsibly. And what happens? I bring him round as planned, and some girl who looks no older than fourteen answers the door – someone you’ve evidently spent the night with. At least, I’m assuming she’s the only one. Knowing you, there’s probably half a dozen more in there, plus a couple of rent boys thrown in for good measure.’ He tried to speak, but she carried on. ‘And don’t tell me it’s none of my business, because what happens in a house where my son is to spend his weekend is my business!’ She went round to the driver’s side. ‘I’ll call Kate and tell her our trip is off.’

  There’s no need,’ said Leo, angry and exasperated. ‘Everything I just told you is true, and the girl is leaving in ten minutes. It’s perfectly fine for Oliver to stay. Why do you always have to jump to whatever conclusion suits your biased view of me?’

  ‘Because it’s invariably the right one!’ She got into the car, slammed the door, and drove off.

  Leo stood on the pavement for a moment, then, seeing a woman with a small dog on a lead approaching, went back to the house. He found the front door closed. He was locked out. He rang the bell and banged on the door. Eventually Lucy’s voice came through the letter box. ‘What?’

  ‘What do you mean – WHAT? Open the bloody door! You are in so much trouble, kid.’ He was aware of being stared at by the woman going past the gate with her dog.

  Reluctantly Lucy opened the door. ‘Get your clothes on!’ ordered Leo. Lucy could tell he was really angry. She presumed the woman had been his ex-wife. What was the big deal, anyway?

&nbs
p; Leo got dressed, and five minutes later he and Lucy were in the car.

  ‘You do in fact have your house keys, I take it?’ he demanded as he started the engine.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Lucy sulkily. She decided she was going off Leo in a big way.

  ‘I trust you realise,’ said Leo, as they made their way to South Ken, ‘that by your irresponsible behaviour you have caused huge problems for me and for others?’

  ‘Oh, be quiet,’ mumbled Lucy. He sounded exactly like the head of sixth-form studies the time that someone let off the fire extinguisher outside the common room. He’d be threatening her with detention next.

  ‘What do you suppose Anthea’s going to say when she finds out about your little escapade?’

  ‘I don’t give a bugger.’ She was tired of being told off like some naughty kid. What kind of a bad idea had this been, anyway? She glanced at his hands on the steering wheel, then at the grim set of his jaw, and thought yeah, lovely though he was, he was getting on a bit.

  Five minutes later they drew up outside her house. ‘OK,’ said Leo, leaning over and opening the door for her. ‘Off you go.’ She looked at him with dark, baleful eyes. Despite the damage she’d unwittingly done, he suddenly felt mildly sorry for her, and her wounded teenage pride. Relenting, he said, ‘Look, about last night – I didn’t say no because I don’t like you. Believe me. You’re a sweet girl. Don’t take it personally.’

  Lucy got out of the car, slamming the door.

  Her mother was sitting at breakfast in her pyjamas, reading the newspaper. She looked up over her glasses as Lucy came in.

  ‘Hello, darling. You’re back early from Georgia’s. I hope you girls got a decent night’s sleep?’

  ‘Yeah,’ sighed Lucy. She went to the fridge and poured herself a glass of orange juice, thinking darkly about what Leo had said. She fully intended to take it personally. What other way was there to take it?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Leo drove home, trying to work out what, if anything, to tell Anthea about this bizarre episode. He showered and had breakfast, and decided in the end to tell her nothing. Presumably Lucy’s damaged pride would prevent her from saying anything either.

  Of more importance was the question of whether Rachel was going to try to use this morning’s incident as an excuse to stop him seeing Oliver. He rang Rachel’s mobile three times, but each time it went to voicemail. In the end he left a terse message to the effect that she had been utterly wrong about the situation at his house, and that he would ring her tomorrow to clear it up. Some hope, he thought, as he clicked his phone off. Whether she believed him or not, she really wanted an excuse to keep Oliver away from him. Why? He couldn’t fathom the woman.

  He did a few chores, then towards lunchtime sat down at the kitchen table and began to make a list of things he needed to buy. The sliding glass door at the end of the kitchen was open to the September air, and after a few moments, his list neglected, he found himself gazing at the playhouse and swing at the end of the garden, thinking of Oliver. The sense he had of missing him, combined with apprehension that Oliver might not come here again for some time after the events of this morning, weighed depressingly. He sat for a while, conjuring the sound of the little boy’s voice in his head, and the sight of him playing in the garden on his last visit.

  After lunch he did some desultory shopping, and later in the afternoon Anthony rang. He and Leo had been instructed together in a case which was due to be heard in the middle of next week, and he wanted to go over certain points with Leo.

  ‘Look,’ said Leo, ‘if you’re not busy tomorrow, why don’t you come over for a late lunch, and we can spend the afternoon going through everything. Come around half two.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll bring the papers and a bottle of wine. By the way,’ added Anthony, ‘I know you’re probably busy, but Chay’s making a flying visit from the States and has booked some restaurant in Smithfield for a load of people this evening. He asked me to mention it to you in case you’d like to come along.’ Chay Cross, Anthony’s father, was a well-known postmodern artist, and Leo was a trustee of the board of a museum of modern art which Chay had established a few years ago in Shoreditch. Leo hesitated – with Oliver due to stay for the weekend, he had cleared Saturday evening. Perhaps he could do with something to take his mind off the problem of Rachel and Oliver, but somehow he didn’t feel up to socialising with Tracey Emin and her ilk.

  ‘I don’t think so – but thank him. Tell him I’m looking forward to the Diebenkorn retrospective in November and that I hope to see him then.’

  ‘OK, but if you change your mind, just give me a call.’

  Leo went through to his study to do a little work to take his mind off things. There were yet more papers in the Humble Construction case to read through, and as he did so he found himself wondering if Brian Bennett had got to the bottom of that double invoice yet.

  Outside, as early dusk began to fall, a dark red BMW swung round the corner and slowly cruised the street. Viktor Kroitor peered out of the darkened windows at the house numbers, then told the driver to stop. He stepped out onto the pavement. ‘Go round the block until I come out,’ he told the driver. As the car pulled away, Viktor stood for a moment surveying Leo’s house. Very handsome, he thought, and in a nice part of town. This lawyer must earn a lot of money. Perhaps that was why Sir Dudley thought he couldn’t be bribed. In any event, Viktor didn’t care for throwing good money away when he had cheaper, often more persuasive means at his disposal. He had learnt enough about Leo Davies to know that there were quite a few buttons available to be pushed. He approached the house.

  Leo was pouring himself an early-evening drink and wondering whether he shouldn’t go over to Smithfield after all, when the doorbell rang. He went to answer it. The man who stood on the doorstep was tall, well-built, with dark hair and a stubbly beard and moustache. He was dressed in a black crew-neck sweater and trousers beneath a three-quarters-length tan leather coat, with shoes that matched. The coat and shoes, in Leo’s mind, marked him out as Eastern European, and his immediate thought was that this was some tradesman, rather smarter than usual, plying for work in the neighbourhood. But when the man smiled and said, ‘Mr Davies?’ Leo knew it was something else altogether. Suddenly the big man moved forward, taking Leo entirely off guard, and thrust him back into the hallway. Then he stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you up to?’ demanded Leo. He checked his immediate instinct to respond physically to this intrusion – the man was young, powerfully built, and looked extremely unpleasant – and tried to make sense of the situation. The man knew his name. How? Whatever he was after, he evidently wasn’t here to burgle the place – or if he was, he was going about it in an unorthodox manner. He was offering no further violence – on the contrary, he was now simply standing in the hallway, smiling and relaxed, in the manner of someone in complete control. When he spoke, it was in a thick accent, but his English was excellent, grammatical.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Davies. I have come to see you on a matter of business.’

  ‘Was it entirely necessary to force your way in here, in that case?’ asked Leo.

  Viktor shrugged. ‘A small precaution to make sure of no unpleasant scene on the doorstep. Also to show you how it will be if you are obstructive in this business.’ He suddenly frowned.

  ‘Go on, go on!’ he said, motioning Leo into the living room.

  Once in the room, Viktor glanced round appreciatively, then caught sight of the tumbler of Scotch which Leo had poured for himself. ‘Pour me some whisky, too, then we will sit down and talk.’

  Leo did as he was told. ‘OK,’ said Viktor, taking the glass from Leo. ‘Sit. We can be civilised.’

  Leo sat down in an armchair, his heart thudding, while Viktor made himself comfortable on the sofa, and took a long pull at his Scotch.

  ‘Would you mind telling me what business it is that has you forcing your way into my home? Are you working for
someone I know?’ Leo knew that his work, involving as it did a number of multi-million-dollar cases and any number of possibly fraudulent businessmen and crooked shipowners, had the potential to stretch into areas of criminality, but never in his career had anyone confronted him in this way. He had no idea what the man could possibly want.

  Viktor set his glass down and wiped his mouth. ‘You are working on a case to do with Humble Construction – yes?’ Leo nodded, putting certain pieces together, and realising the man must be Ukrainian. ‘And you have started asking questions about a company called Landline.’

  Landline – that was the name of the company which had submitted the duplicate invoice for some work to do with furnaces. Leo tried to appear unconcerned, but it was the last thing he felt. ‘In a peripheral fashion, I’ve raised some queries – yes.’

  Viktor frowned. ‘What is peripheral?’

  ‘Associated. Unimportant, if you like.’

  Viktor nodded, and drained his glass. He was silent for a moment, then said conversationally, ‘You have a little boy – yes? A very nice little boy. I have seen him coming out of his school. His mother is pretty, too. But she doesn’t live here?’

  Leo’s stomach felt as though it was suddenly twisting in a vicious knot. ‘No,’ he replied evenly, ‘she doesn’t live here.’ He wanted to kill this man, but he knew that belligerence was the last thing needed here. His job was to listen, like a good lawyer.

  ‘No,’ said Viktor, and smiled. ‘Actually, I know that. I know where she lives. I know where she works, and I know where your little boy goes to school.’ He set his glass down. ‘I know everything about you, Mr Davies. Everything I need to know. Strictly personal.’