‘Except in so far as it affects your boys, who are in her charge.’ Trish wasn’t prepared to soften her message, even in the interests of finding out more about Toby Fullwell. She was too worried by the little she’d heard about poor, frightened Mer.
When she and Margaret were perched on a couple of high chairs in the window of Pret à Manger, with cups of cappuccino in front of them, Margaret apologized for snapping.
‘The stupid thing is,’ she added, ‘that I have wanted to talk to someone about what Toby did to me, so I should have jumped at the chance. But it’s humiliating to think of your children’s teacher talking to a complete stranger about the black eye your husband gave you.’
‘I’m sure. How did it happen?’
Trish listened to a halting account of an argument that didn’t sound too bad, followed by a blow, unfortunately witnessed by Mer (who had always acted as a kind of lightning conductor whenever anyone shouted in anger), followed by Margaret’s exasperated walkout.
‘Could he have been drunk?’ Trish asked, understanding more about poor Mer. ‘A lot of otherwise calm men do become violent with alcohol.’
‘Not Toby. We share a bottle of wine every so often, but that’s as far as it goes.’
‘Then what about drugs? Some are notorious for making people aggressive. Cocaine derivatives, in particular.’
‘Toby?’ Margaret burst into peals of laughter, which reassured Trish. ‘I really can’t see him in a crack den, you know. I shouldn’t laugh because you have no idea what he’s like, but he’s far too frightened of authority to do anything illegal. And he’s far too clean.’
‘Are you sure? A lot of men – and women, come to that – have secret habits, which—’
‘Not Toby. Take it from me. I would know if he were on anything.’
‘OK,’ Trish said. ‘In that case, do you have any idea what did make him hit you?’
‘I think maybe he was trying to tell me something. He’d been morose for weeks. I’d done the usual “what’s the matter darling?” stuff at the beginning. All he did in return was snap at me. So I ignored his bad temper and hoped he’d recover eventually. Now I’m wondering whether he wanted me to go on asking questions. That could have done it, don’t you think? Because I wasn’t showing enough interest in whatever was tormenting him?’
‘Possibly. Have you any idea what it could have been?’
‘There’s never been a shortage of things that worry Toby.’ Margaret’s lips hardened. ‘You know what I really resent is all those years I spent telling him he was OK, that his mother had been wrong all his life, that he was good enough, that he could hack it, that he ought to go for the kind of job he really wanted. And then after all that support, when he’d got the right kind of job at last and I’d put my life on hold to help him do it properly, all he could do was turn on me and give me a black eye.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The obvious question almost forced itself out of Trish’s mouth: ‘Are you sure he didn’t misinterpret what you intended as support? Maybe some of your reassurance came across as contempt. Or nagging.’
She worked hard to keep her face blank, but Margaret was already on to another track and paid no attention to anything Trish said.
‘No. I think he felt guilty and wanted me to guess why and tell him it was OK and didn’t matter.’
‘Guilty about what?’
‘The obvious.’ Margaret shrugged. ‘An affair. If it hadn’t been so out of character, I’d probably have seen it earlier.’
‘D’you know who—?’
‘At first I thought it must be his secretary; now I’ve realized it has to be an outsider. There had been some weird phone calls. If I answered, the phone would go dead, which is a giveaway in itself. And it came to the point when I had only to walk into a room for Toby to break off his call, blushing and mumbling excuses about wrong numbers. It’s so obvious now I look back that I can’t think how I missed it for so long.’
‘Maybe,’ Trish said, thinking that it was a pity Margaret and Henry were both so sure Toby couldn’t be on drugs.
Calls like that could easily have come from a dealer, phoning to demand payment or to arrange the next pick-up. Or, of course, to use the addict’s need for the next fix to force him to do anything the dealer wanted.
‘I must go,’ Margaret said, putting down her cup. ‘We’ll meet again at the Christmas play, won’t we? I know David has a big part.’
‘Yes. I’ll definitely be there. I’m sorry I haven’t been more help.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been able to talk about Toby and you’ve given me some good advice. Thank you for that.’
Trish wondered if that comment had been sarcastic. As far as she could remember she hadn’t given any advice at all. The half-drunk cappuccino was cool now, and the foam clung unattractively to the inside of the cup in beige festoons. She abandoned it, unobtrusively walking behind Margaret back through the Temple and out on to the Embankment. There she ignored the rough sleepers in their sad, urine-smelling heaps and turned straight into Temple tube station.
Trish decided to stay with her a little longer. She felt a bit of a fool, and hoped Margaret would not look back and catch her out.
There was only one dangerous moment, as they emerged from the tube at Sloane Square and Margaret paused by the flower stand to buy a bunch of well-berried holly. Trish turned her back and pretended to study the tube map just inside the station. Later, walking at a more discreet distance along the King’s Road, she followed Margaret to a house in Radnor Walk and watched her unlock the door.
So, Trish thought, she must be staying there. It shouldn’t be too hard to find out who owns the house.
What would be hard, though, would be forgiving herself for the waste of so much time. She’d learned nothing useful and now she had to get back to chambers fast. There would be Steve’s irritation to face, as well as all the work she hoped would be piling up for her.
Forty minutes later, she found not only the work but also Sam Makins, sitting in the sagging visitor’s chair opposite her desk and frowning over some papers.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’
He smiled, with his chin tucked into his neck like a shy girl. ‘Sorry to hang about like this, Trish, but I wanted your advice.’
‘Sure. What’s the problem?’
‘It’s this Tamara O’Connor case. You remember she’s in Cookham Wood on remand?’
‘Yes. Probably a good thing if she’s given the police names of the Jamaican dealers she told me about. She’ll be much safer there than out on the street.’
‘I know. But I wanted to ask if you think I’m going nuts to assume there must be more to the story than she’s told us. I mean why would anyone pick such an obvious addict to be a mule?’
Trish smiled at him. Steve had told her Sam had the right mixture of brains and kindness to deal with Tamara, but this was the first direct evidence she’d had.
‘I don’t know. But I have been thinking about it ever since the bail application,’ she admitted. ‘All I’ve come up with is that this Jason character she was talking about could have set her up to be arrested, having primed her with the names of his rivals over here. It would be a neat and original way of winning a London turf war, wouldn’t it?’
‘But why would he bother? It’s easy enough to shoot someone on the street these days and get away with it.’
Trish thought of the body in the river and shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s decided that turf wars turn into blood feuds and he doesn’t want to risk his family. Or maybe there’s just been a change in the way the drug world is operating now. If so, it’s long overdue.’
The phone rang. It was her catering company’s solicitor, wanting to check that everything was in place for next week’s hearing. Sam waited until she’d finished the call, then said:
‘D’you think it’s worth mentioning in my plea for mitigation, Trish? That’s really what I came to ask.’
‘Tricky. You could
always try, I suppose. “M’lord, my client deeply regrets that she was stupid and starry-eyed enough to let herself be sucked into a double-dealing plot—” I’m not sure it would work, Sam, even if you didn’t put it quite like that.’
‘Then I don’t know what I am going to be able to do for her.’
‘Very little, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Tamara is a walking disaster show. The one consolation is that she really is unlikely to be worse off in prison than on the streets. She’s not going to get her kids back in any case.’
‘That’s a counsel of despair.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘You know how Antony and Robert are acting for this solicitor who’s being done for money-laundering?’
‘Is that as much a non sequitur as it sounds, Sam?’ Trish asked, as she forced herself to keep smiling. She couldn’t believe he would say something like that to needle her. Needling took Robert’s kind of self-satisfaction. And Sam was far too young to see himself as her rival.
‘No, it isn’t. Her crime – alleged crime – is barely different from Tamara’s. They were both working for men involved in major drug-smuggling operations. But the rich solicitor gets the head of chambers, the most senior junior, and a good chance of getting off, while Tamara gets only me, on Legal Aid, and a foregone conclusion. It’s class all over again, Trish, and it stinks.’
‘A lot of what we do stinks,’ she said, realizing that she must have taken on a little of Antony’s self-protective cynicism after all. She felt sorry for Sam and all the years of angst he faced before he gave in to it too. ‘You have to put up with that if you’re not to go mad.’
The door was flung open, making Sam jump and revealing Antony, still talking to someone else over his shoulder. Sam pulled himself out of the only spare chair, grimacing. Trish nodded to him and watched him wait uneasily until their head of chambers turned at last, saw him, and gave him room to get out.
‘So, Trish, how are you getting on with Henry Buxford’s problem?’ Antony said as he took Sam’s place in the sagging leather armchair.
‘Not well. It’s trickier than I’d expected, and has very little to do with any kind of research. If I’d known what I was in for at the beginning I don’t think I’d ever have agreed to see him, let alone taken it on.’
‘Don’t make excuses. And don’t forget that Henry’s not a patient man. He has a very low tolerance of both failure and shoddy work.’
‘I don’t do shoddy work,’ Trish said, biting back her fury at the allegation. ‘And I don’t do failure. I talked to him yesterday. He seemed perfectly happy with what I’d given him then.’
‘Good. I told him you’d be able to sort it out, so I’ll be in deep shit if you let me down.’
Oh, don’t, she thought, even as she kept the confident expression on her face, I’ve got more than enough pressure as it is. The phone on her desk rang. Antony waved at it, giving her permission to answer.
‘Trish? That you? It’s Henry Buxford here. I’m calling from New York.’
‘Hello. Antony’s here. He and I were just talking about you.’ This was Antony’s cue to leave her to have the conversation in private, but he didn’t take it.
The way he leaned back and crossed his legs showed he was determined to listen to every word. Was he monitoring her performance or checking that she showed his grand friend due deference?
‘Are you in court on Thursday morning?’ Henry asked.
‘No, although I’ve got a hell of a lot of paperwork to do.’
‘Good. There’s to be a big sale at Goode & Floore’s, and I’d like you to be there.’ The line crackled. ‘Sorry. I’m not getting a very good signal.’
‘Why d’you want me there?’ Trish asked, raising her voice above the crackle. She thought of her practice and the importance of satisfying all her instructing solicitors, as well as keeping Steve happy. She couldn’t go frolicking off like this without a very good reason. Antony was looking boot-faced, presumably at her even daring to question Henry Buxford.
‘To observe. Toby has told me he’s proposing to buy a painting.’
And get rid of the five million pounds perhaps, Trish thought. In which case my first idea of what he’s up to is right, whatever you want to believe. But this didn’t seem a good moment to say so.
‘Don’t make me beg, Trish.’
‘What time d’you want me there?’
‘I told Toby I’d be there round about eleven o’clock. It would probably be better if you and I didn’t acknowledge each other in front of him.’
‘Fine.’
‘Were you being deliberately difficult?’ Antony asked when she put down the phone.
‘No. I have a lot of real work to do and I can’t go rushing out of here on frivolous errands every time anyone asks me to, even Henry Buxford. I had to be sure it was important.’
‘I hope you’re taking this seriously enough, Trish. It may not be part of your practice, but it matters.’
To you maybe, she thought, reminding herself of George’s point that she was an independent self-employed professional and not some kind of skivvy, slaving away in Antony’s basement. She clicked on to the diary in her laptop to enter the appointment at Goode & Floore’s.
‘Of course I’m taking it seriously,’ she said when she was satisfied. ‘Now, what did you want me for, Antony?’
‘Only this.’ He paused by the door. ‘Oh, and if you see Robert, would you ask him to drop into my room? I want to check a few things in his excellent notes before our conference this afternoon.’
Trish looked resentfully at his departing back. That last crack had to be deliberate. It was not her job to run errands for either Robert or Antony.
Helen woke out of a nightmare, pouring sweat and gasping. Jean-Pierre had been carrying his priceless paintings to safety across no man’s land and was now lying on the ground, with his intestines bulging out of an appalling stomach wound. She had been crawling towards him, dragging a medical bag after her, and the harder she’d dragged and the further she’d crawled, the greater the distance between them. She had never even reached him.
She got out of bed to pour herself some water from the chipped carafe on the table between her bed and Myrtle’s.
‘It’s only a dream,’ she whispered. ‘He isn’t wounded. He will be back.’
Under her thick nightgown, she could feel the miniature hard against her skin. One hand crept up to hold it through the flannel. Somehow she must hold on to her faith that he was still alive, too. Otherwise, what point would there be in doing any of it?
Chapter 13
‘Morning, Felicity,’ Toby said on Thursday morning, as he passed the front desk at Goode & Floore’s, with its familiar bunch of beautiful trainees of both sexes.
For the first time he wondered if it could have been his lack of good looks that had made the directors refuse him a gap-year job here all those years ago. At the time he’d taken it as yet more evidence of the world’s hostility and hated them for it.
‘Good morning, Mr Fullwell.’ Felicity offered him her customary radiant smile, so he must have achieved a reasonable version of his old jauntiness.
It didn’t help him force himself up the stairs to the principal saleroom. Every step was such an effort that he thought he might have to haul himself up by the banisters. He’d often seen elderly collectors do that, with their sticks bunched in their free hand and their faces contorted to hold in the pain. Just now he felt weaker even than they had seemed.
‘Hi, Toby!’ He didn’t recognize the speaker for a moment, but raised a hand and a smile for him. ‘You buying or selling today?’
‘There are one or two things I like the look of. You?’
‘Of course not,’ said the man, looking at him as though he was mad.
Oh, yes, of course, Toby thought, wondering how he could have forgotten. Was he losing his memory now, along with everything else? This was Mark Sapton, in search of dirt for his column in the unspeakable Daily Mercury.
<
br /> ‘There’s plenty of money around today by all accounts,’ Sapton went on. ‘So you may have stiff competition if you do decide to bid. Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’ Toby passed the desk where customers without his reputation and backing had to register, provide details of how they would pay for anything they might buy, and be given a number with which to bid.
He walked on through the anteroom, where the less important lots were still hanging. The Hieronymus Bosch he had to buy would already have been taken down, ready to be carried in by the porters and put on the great easel in front of the auctioneer when he reached its lot number.
Toby wished it could have been the first lot, so that he could get it over with quickly, but important paintings were never put on so early. The auctioneer would want to warm up his audience first. They’d have to feel money flowing before they would spend with the kind of freedom he’d want for a serious piece like the Bosch.
Here was the saleroom door. Toby hesitated on the threshold, feeling like a boy on his first day at boarding school. He wanted to turn and run, but he knew he had to stick it out. Several faces turned towards him. Most were smiling. A lot were familiar. He couldn’t see Ben and wondered if he’d sent someone else to spy for him.
There was no sign of Henry Buxford either. Maybe he’d been held up in the States. That would be a relief. It was bad enough having to pretend in front of everyone else.
Familiar icy needles began to prickle and he knew Ben must be somewhere in the building. Then he saw the tall, thin, dark woman again. She was pretending not to look in his direction.
How many more of Ben’s people were there in the room, ready to cut him off if he tried to escape?
‘Are you all right, old boy?’ said another acquaintance, whose name Toby couldn’t remember. ‘You ought to sit down.’
‘Thanks. A bad oyster last night,’ he said, grabbing the first excuse that occurred to him.
‘You ought to be in hospital then. I was once poisoned by a dodgy oyster and was on a drip for days. It could have gone either way, you know.’
A Place of Safety Page 13
