by Jo Kessel
Scott Richardson had me in a neck-lock, holding a blade to my throat. “Make the most of today because it will be your last,” he whispered menacingly. Then I woke up, in the midst of sheets clammy with the sweat of fear. From the angle of restraint, his chin had appeared longer, the bulbous tip to his nose more bloated. Prior to the death threat, he’d been spitting and swearing from the confines of his claustrophobic cell, a grim square of concrete, with only a heavy-duty steel door with barred hatch to break the monotony. I was being accused of incompetence, of not being able to procure bail for an innocent man who’d clearly been framed.
Thankfully dreams aren’t always our reality. I’d got Scott bail, but he’d had to spend the night in custody first. He hadn’t been amused. “You expect me to crap in that?” He’d pointed at the skid marks staining the ceramic bowl for a toilet. I’d said I understood his distress, but there was nothing we could do. It would hopefully only be until morning, when he’d be in court first thing. As a man of good character, with no previous convictions, bail was a possibility. “I’m a celebrity. Can’t you get me out of here?” he’d pleaded.
Bail had been set for 250k, on condition he surrender his passport, report to a police station once a week and not go within a mile of Elizabeth Simons or Cameron Matthews. The bail hearing was a couple of weeks ago now though. I think what unsettled last night’s sleep was the anonymous letter I received yesterday. Bashed out on an old-fashioned typewriter, it was all of two lines:
“Be aware this isn’t the first time the partner of someone Scott Richardson’s dated has died. See William Nichols, deceased husband of Verity.”
First I’d checked for a frank on the envelope, but it was hand delivered. Then I’d gone online, punching the name William Nichols into Google’s search engine. A small Obituary from The Times came up straight away. Mr. Nichols, aged 43, was an extremely wealthy entrepreneurial property magnate who dropped dead at his desk three years ago, from a massive heart attack, leaving behind a wife called Verity. When I switched my search to her, a few gossip column snippets popped up. A while back, Verity Nichols had been one to watch on the Brit Art scene, up for the Turner prize. She had indeed stepped out with Scott Richardson, as a couple of photos indicated. When I’d mentioned my concern at these findings to Anthony, he told me to let it go. Even if it was more than a coincidence, I shouldn’t want to know. My job wasn’t to find out my client WAS guilty, it was to defend him when he said he wasn’t. Scott had never been charged with the death of William Nichols. This could never be used as evidence and I should dismiss this anonymous tip-off as an interfering prank.
All this I’ve clearly found disturbing, although I’ve never been a reliable sleeper at the best of times. There’s more rubbish in my head than pigswill. I’ve tried to counteract insomnia with a tranquil colour scheme, rich lilac and white. The bed’s an iron-frame monster from Selfridges. It cost an arm and a leg, but when you consider a third of our lives are spent in it, it’s worth every cent. The mattress is impossibly deep, a real princess and the pea affair.
This morning, I blamed Adam, not Scott Richardson, for my crap night. I said that he’d kept me awake making funny little popping noises with his mouth and that he’d stolen my air, stubbornly refusing to roll over (I’d shoved many times), leaving his head too close to mine. He refused to take responsibility.
“Why didn’t YOU turn over?” he asked.
“You know I can only sleep on my right side,” I snapped.
I’ve been doing a lot of snapping of late. Storing up a long list of misdeeds to bombard him with. Much of which is legitimate, but all the sort of stuff that didn’t used to get to me. Like forgetting to take tissues out of his pockets before loading clothes into the washing machine. Like not washing up the dishes properly so I only have to go and do them again. Like just shaking out the duvet when he makes the bed, leaving the under-sheet all mussed up. Like trailing mud into the house. I’ve been getting so irritated and irritable that fleeting, niggling doubts have started flashing into my psyche. They’re quickly dismissed, but force me to question our relationship, where it’s going and how I really feel, which is in turn irritating. Adam and I are meant to be. I love him. Anyway, the thing that’s pissed me off, more than anything, was his announcement a couple of days ago. That he’s off filming a whole load of quacks in the States for ten days, the day after tomorrow, for some primetime paranormal series he’s producing. Him being away isn’t what’s upset me. He often goes away for work and that’s just fine. It’s nice, from time to time, to be alone. What’s annoyed me is that he’s going to be away when I’m ovulating. It’s no big deal really. I can see that, logically, it’s just another month.
***
“So,” says Anthony, in the flickering candlelight, much, much later on. “What’s the most stupid question you’ve asked in court?”
He hadn’t been at the law centre the other evening. He is here now though and I’m not certain I should be. After spending the afternoon spooling through grainy CCTV footage, he said I looked in need of a pick-me-up. I’d argued it was sleep that I needed, only I obviously didn’t argue hard enough. We’re in Blacks, a funky private members club in the heart of Soho. This (and I’m against the whole private members club scene on principle) is the most fantastic, bohemian, moody place, with light from candles and log fires the only illumination. Set on three floors in a beautifully restored Georgian townhouse, it’s like stepping into a Dickens’ novel. Low ceilings, rickety wooden floors, sumptuous old armchairs. The food was great too. We had a delicious three-course gourmet meal for twenty-five quid and we’ve downed a bottle of extremely reasonably priced wine each.
“The most stupid question I’ve asked in court?” I repeat out loud, thinking, then laugh as I remember. “Well, I once asked a Prosecution witness how many times he’d committed suicide.”
“Nice one!”
“He said he’d committed suicide four times! You?”
“Well, I once asked a witness if they were sexually active. They said no, I just lie there!”
We laugh. Anthony makes me feel light.
“So,” I say, emptying the dregs of my large wineglass. “How come you’re a member here?”
“I’m friends with one of the people who set it up. Got my membership at a cut price rate.”
“You don’t strike me as a private members club kind of guy.”
“This isn’t a regular private members kind of club.”
Our table is right by the window on the first floor. It might not be Big Ben or the Houses of Parliament outside, but for me, the hustle and bustle of late-night Dean Street is what the essence of London’s all about. Bursting with people of every age, sex, cross-sex and creed, everyone in a rush to get somewhere, the pace slowed down by the sheer volume of human traffic.
“Christ I’m woozy.”
I put down my glass and am somehow, inadvertently, locked magnetically onto his huge dark brown eyes. Something in me stirs.
“So,” he says. “How long have you been with Adam?”
He knows Adam’s name because I’ve mentioned it in passing, but it’s the first time I’ve heard him say it. It sounds strange.
“A long time.”
“What’s a long time?”
“Eleven years.”
“That is a long time. And you’ve never wanted to marry?”
When Anthony says it, it doesn’t sound like the big deal my head’s been starting to hint that it is. Eleven years and not hitched. Perhaps something’s not quite right. Perhaps I’m in denial.
“Adam’s not very into the idea.”
“More fool him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“A man should know when he’s onto a good thing.”
I smile tipsily.
“Are you flirting with me, Mr de Klerk?”
“Not yet.”
My eyes lower from his huge jet-black irises to his sensuously full lips and my heartbeat quickens.
&nb
sp; “You look lovely in this light,” he says matter-of-factly.
“What are you trying to say?” I pretend to be offended. “There IS no light!”
“Alison Kirk, my learned friend, you’ve got to learn to take a compliment better.”
“Anthony de Klerk, my learned friend, you’ve got to learn not to dish out compliments after I’ve drunk so much or I might end up believing you!”
The waitress delivers our bill on a small silver saucer. We both reach out for it, our fingers lightly brushing, skin on skin. A tingle, a bolt of energy, shoots up my arm as he pulls away, clutching onto the thin piece of paper. Our eyes meet. Slightly embarrassed for my part. I don’t know him well enough to know if this was my moment or a shared moment. I DO know that it’s time to go.
“Let’s split it,” I say, reaching for my purse.
Chapter 10
It’s Friday afternoon at the Old Bailey, the grand dame of criminal courts. This is where Oscar Wilde was found guilty of sodomy. This is where Reggie Kray and Peter Sullivan (aka the Yorkshire Ripper) were convicted of murder. There’s a reverential hush as the judge puts the charge to my client.
“Scott Arthur Conrad Richardson, on the count of murder do you plead guilty or not guilty?”
If my heart’s beating faster than an orchestra Conductor on speed, Christ only knows how my client feels. The Dock is about twenty feet behind me. I turn to look at Scott, flanked by a couple of prison officers. He’s a man used to acting under pressure, so if he’s a mess on the inside, he doesn’t let it show. He loves an audience and by God has he got one. Nobody’s usually interested in pleas and directions hearings. They’re hardly high drama, but that hasn’t deterred the fans. They’ve turned up in their droves. It didn’t take long to fill the spectator’s gallery, forcing many to wait outside, disappointed.
The silence goes on so long that I get neck crick from looking round in my client’s direction. The spectators are at the edge of their seats. If there’s any truth in the anonymous letter, then perhaps my client’s conscience is getting the better of him. The longer he says nothing, the more I’m worried he might grandstand, or worse still, do a runner. Neeta had a client once who bolted. Despite the two prison officers who were sitting next to him grabbing his arms, he struggled free, shot off down the road and wasn’t picked up for a couple of hours.
Scott clears his throat.
His voice is loud and clear.
“Not guilty.”
“Right then,” says the Judge. He leans forward in his seat, peers over the bench and consults with the court officer in front of him. They back and forth with a few possible dates, then he turns his attention to us. “It’s going to be a while, but if both counsel could tell me how November 12th looks?”
Counsel for the Prosecution accepts the date straight away. I know full well that I’ve nothing booked that far ahead, but pretend to busy myself, thumbing methodically through my diary.
“Yes, my Lord,” I look up. “That would be fine.”
“Good, good,” he says. “November the 12th it is.”
The Judge pushes back his chair and we all rise. I’ve still not worked out my client. He yo-yo’s from charmer to creep more frequently than a rabbit on laxatives pops a pellet. Were he a less unsettling schizophrenic, I’d have suggested we hang around for a cup of coffee in the canteen to allow the loitering fans to dissipate. Instead I sequester some court heavies to help us negotiate the crowd of hangers-on. The press has also shown up. They fire question after question as we pass, but the heavies bark ‘no comment’ as I lead my client round the corner where we hop into a waiting black cab, the same car that brought us here. Scott settles in for the ride, a comfortable space between us in the back of the taxi.
“Only six months of certain freedom,” says Scott, staring contemplatively out the window.
“The timing’s good,” I tell him. “Christmas will be round the corner, everyone’s spirits will be high.”
He makes no comment. In fact, he doesn’t say another word till I hop out at Fleet Street. There’s no mention of pink panties. The dream where he threatened to kill me, which had felt so real I could practically feel the cold steel of his blade prick my skin, feels like a distant memory. He shakes my hand goodbye with polite indifference and not so much of a thumb stroke.
***
By evening, the Old Bailey’s long forgotten. It’s become a family affair, by default. Kayla was coming round anyway. She’s recently returned from what became an extended trip to Canada. This is the first chance we've had to catch up. Paul, Adam’s older brother, is here too because he’s just been dumped.
“Here’s to a safe trip,” Paul toasts.
Flying anywhere in the world has changed since 9/11, but the transatlantic haul is particularly worrisome. Adam doesn’t feel it. He’s far too gung-ho, which is just as well, because it’s him that’s off to the States tomorrow. My parents live in Toronto, but out of choice, I wouldn’t travel to North America.
Whilst Kayla and Paul aren’t the best of friends, they tolerate each other well enough. Any hopes Adam and I might have had of Kayla and Paul getting together have long been put paid to. Kayla isn’t attracted to him. She says if Adam’s a Rolls Royce then Paul’s a bashed up Vauxhall Astra. His nose is more squashed than Adam’s, his eyes more close-set, his chin weaker and he’s a touch stockier. Whatever, he’s never had trouble finding women.
There are things about him Kayla does like. He’s not conventional, he likes to travel, he drives a motorbike and he’s a mean photographer. He’s taken loads of arty black and white shots of Kayla and I, a couple of which we’ve blown-up, framed and hung in the lounge. In one, we’re sitting back to back on a park bench, knees hugged into chest, trees heavy with leaves in the background. The other’s a close-up of our faces, framed by hats and goggles in blizzard conditions, on a group skiing holiday to France years ago. Paul loves photographing us. It’s the symmetry, he says, which makes for good photo fodder.
Kayla sees Paul’s job as a personality defect. He’s a teacher and even though, impressively, he chose a job in an under-performing inner-city school over a top-notch, private one, she’s got a bee in her bonnet about ‘those who can do and those who can’t teach’.
“But he teaches geography,” I’d said, the first time the subject was discussed, way back when. “What do you want him to ‘do’?”
“Isn’t to geograph a verb?” she’d asked, hopeful.
We’d both laughed.
“Well, ok then, shouldn’t he be a Geologist, or make maps or something?”
“So,” I say to Paul, handing him a plate of Thai fish curry. It might sound complicated, but it’s a cinch to make. Chuck an onion, sieved tomatoes, a carton of creamed coconut into a saucepan and when it’s cooked, add white fish marinated in garlic, pepper, herbs and freshly squeezed lemon to it for ten minutes et voila! The hard bit’s the rice. Mine’s always stodgier than treacle sponge. “Is this really the end of you and Anna?”
Paul’s been with Anna for almost a year. She, too, is a teacher. They met at the school he works in. It was fantastic for the first six months, then it transpired she had ‘issues’ to deal with. Like she’s suffered from bulimia for more than a decade, like her last three relationships all split up because she couldn’t commit. Paul, when she’d come clean, told her not to worry, that they’d work through it together, but the strain had obviously got to her and she’d opted out.
“Well, she got me to give the key to her flat back.”
“That sounds pretty definitive to me,” says Adam.
“Perhaps she was pleading for help,” I suggest. “Is she going to see a counsellor or something?” I ask.
“Well, she’s seeing this Psychotherapist who seems to think it’s better if she works through this alone.”
“What’s it got to do with the Psychotherapist?” I ask.
“Well, the Psychotherapist said that this is about sorting out Anna, not our relationship. So wh
en Anna’s sorted, she should be strong enough to sort us out too.”
“How long is it going to take to sort out Anna then?”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Nothing,” says Paul.
“Kayla, you haven’t said a word,” I say. “What do you think Paul should do?”
“What does Paul want?” she asks him.
“I don’t know,” he says. “The thought of having to meet someone new, find them, get to know them, oh God. I was about to propose. I wanted her to have my kids.”
Kayla looks surprisingly introspective.
“Well, as kids and a family are probably the most important thing in life,” she says quietly. “I think you should go for it.”
