by Abi Silver
‘Yep. It’s the one the daughter described. Yep. As big as the Taj Mahal. And the other one too. In the bedroom. Yep. We’ll take him in.’
Constance’s mouth opened. The officer was holding a gaudy ring in his gloved hand between thumb and forefinger. It contained an enormous green stone. He dropped it into an exhibit bag and handed it to the female officer.
‘No, you don’t need to do that. She’s here. I think so.’ And to Constance. ‘Are you Lamb?’
Constance nodded slowly. ‘Yes, that’s her. Yes, I’ll tell her.’ He returned his radio to his top pocket.
‘They always stash ’em in the kids’ rooms,’ he advised her, knowledgeably. ‘Inspector Dawson says good job you were passing by for a cuppa,’ he continued. ‘We’d better go downstairs I think. Your client’s nicked.’
17
‘It’s been a bit busy today.’ Shaza stood on the threshold of her decimated room, the door half open, talking quietly.
‘First the lady with the black hair came. Did you see her?
‘Well you should’ve been. Then two policemen came, well, a policeman and a police lady, and they made such a mess. Just look! And they didn’t even wipe their feet.
‘Suzy said “power goes to their head”.
‘No. I’m not sure what it means either. They still made a mess!’ she lamented, hands on hips.
‘l can see lots of things I thought were missing, though.
‘That pink t-shirt I got for my birthday last year. And the lego car – yuch.
‘No. I’m not sure who she was either. Said her name was Contents and her second name was an animal but I’m not sure which now. She tried to be nice, all friendly, but she couldn’t help Daddy.
‘Yes I asked. She said just to the police station like that’s somewhere we go all the time, like just to the shops or just to school.
‘I don’t know. Mama doesn’t know either. Contents said she would visit him later and tell us what was happening. She asked if we had a phone and Mama wrote down the number, although I don’t know why, as no one will answer if Baba’s not here.
‘No. I know. Baba could have explained but he was already in the police car.
‘I thought the policeman was nice at first, even though he had dirty shoes, because he sort of smiled. But I don’t think it was real smiling ’cos when Contents said Baba didn’t need the handcuffs he carried on smiling and put them on Baba anyway. Then Baba told Mama to take me into the kitchen.
‘Yes lots of them did, I know. I suppose because they were all home from work and “had nothing better to do”.
‘Then Contents got in a taxi and I heard her say “Hampstead”, and that’s where Daddy works.
‘I think I’ll start to fold up my clothes again. I don’t want to ask Mama. She’s crying too hard anyway, although she thinks I don’t know. Will you help me? Let’s do the t-shirts first. You can borrow any you really like. Except for the pink one from my birthday.
‘No. I don’t know what they found.
‘I told you, I don’t know. I don’t want to talk any more.
‘Mrs Crane says you get a lot more work done when you stop chatting, that’s why.
‘I’m not cross. I just think we should do the tidying now and talk later.’
PART TWO
18
Constance sat outside the Starbucks on Paternoster Square sipping a latte, the sun warming her back.
‘Ah. You’ve found a table already. Well done. More coffee?’
Constance marvelled at how Judith Burton swept past her and into the café, without waiting for her response, accidentally pushed to the front of the queue, apologised profusely in convincing style and was then served first anyway. She was back with her coffee almost by return.
‘Well, what was so urgent you had to see me today?’ Judith enquired, sitting down and unbuttoning her jacket, her red silk shirt peeping through to accentuate the pallor of her skin.
‘This isn’t your usual haunt,’ Constance remarked, deliberately avoiding the direct question.
‘No? Well, that shows that you’re not up to date, Connie. But that’s my fault I suppose. I’ve been a bit cloak-and-dagger recently.’ She leaned in close and whispered. ‘I’m on a mediators’ course; don’t tell anyone.’
Constance covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Mediator. You?’
‘Well it’s not so surprising, is it? Many lawyers do it.’ Judith appeared mildly hurt.
‘Yes, they do but they’re not all you. You spend your time scaring people half to death with ferocious cross-examination. Isn’t mediation all about reconciliation?’
‘I’m telling you, I’m a natural. Jeremy, the course leader, has already praised my “ability to combine persuasiveness with subtlety” or some such nonsense.’
‘Are you sure he doesn’t fancy you?’
Judith ignored the jibe and continued to sip at her coffee.
‘Anyway, it’s just a hobby, to stop me from being bored. Greg suggested it, actually. I think it was because I offered to iron one of his shirts. He knew then something drastic had to be done. You haven’t sent me anything in a while so you can hardly complain.’
Constance noticed, but decided to file away, Judith’s reference to Greg. She had heard a rumour that Judith was seeing Dr Gregory Winter, their expert witness from their first case together but, during their sporadic conversations over the past year, Judith had not confirmed this to her. Perhaps this was her preferred way of telling Constance she and Greg were an item.
‘That’s not true. You’re too fussy,’ she replied. ‘But I have something for you now, and you’re going to be very interested.’
‘OK. Spill the beans. Not another fifteen-year-old boy?’
‘No. Did you see the story at the weekend about the woman who fell out of the eleventh floor of St Mark’s Hospital?’
Judith’s eyes widened.
‘Yes. But that’s Hampstead. More upmarket than your regular stamping ground?’
‘Dawson is spending six months over there. Helping out. He called me when he needed someone.’
‘And what’s our involvement?’
Constance grinned. Judith already wanted a piece of the action.
‘I’m representing the hospital cleaner, Ahmad Qabbani. They’re holding him pending further enquiries, but I think they’ll be charging him later today.’
‘Hmm. What did he do to court all this interest, Mr Qabbani? Other than the obvious.’
‘He was on duty around the time of death.’
‘But presumably so were a thousand other hospital employees.’
‘Yes. Although he was near her room and he’d been in there, to clean.’
‘Go on.’
‘There’s DNA linking him to the deceased, and he had some of her expensive jewellery at his house.’
‘Hmm. Not great but not insurmountable. Background?’
Constance was used to Judith’s quick-fire questions and replied without drawing breath, although she reflected on how clients requiring a swift but amicable resolution of their dispute through mediation might feel differently when faced with Judith’s lashing tongue.
‘The family are refugees from Syria. Him, his wife and daughter.’
‘The deceased?’
‘Barbara Hennessy. English woman, early seventies, two children, used to be an artist, bit flighty, went in to have her bunions treated, privately, stayed in for a few days and then, as you know, fell, or was pushed, out of the window.’
‘Yes, I didn’t quite understand the description of where she fell from?’
‘They can’t be certain but there’s this staff room at the end of the corridor and it has a sort of balcony above a fire escape. They go outside and get a breath of fresh air.’
‘You mean have a cigarette – or perhaps I sho
uld say “vape” these days.’
‘That too, yes.’
‘And it’s not locked?’
‘No. Has to remain open because of fire regulations.’
‘So the deceased walked down the corridor, into this staff room, opened the door to the balcony and fell over or was pushed to the ground below. Or jumped. Hmm. What injuries did she sustain?’
‘Well her skull was completely shattered. It’s woodland out the back and her head hit a tree-stump. But there were not many other injuries, I don’t think. I haven’t seen the final pathology report, just some provisional conclusions.’
‘And no one saw or heard anything?’
‘No. Or they’re not saying.’
Judith sat back and folded her arms, then unfolded them and stood up. She marched to the centre of the square, oblivious to the fact that she was obscuring a screen which had been erected for passers-by to watch international athletics with their lunch. After some pacing backwards and forwards, she returned and sat down.
‘What’s our client, Ahmad, say about all this?’
‘Well, if I believe him, and I think I do, he’s as confused as we are. He says he did his job and went home.’
‘You mentioned jewellery? At his house?’
‘The police found it upstairs.’
‘Could they have planted it?’
‘I suppose so. But, well, I was there when they did the search. Seemed genuine to me.’
Judith raised her eyebrows high but kept silent. Constance’s devotion to duty knew no bounds.
‘I’ve suggested to Ahmad that he admit the theft at least.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He was really angry, said he wasn’t a thief.’
‘So how did he explain the rings being in his house?’
‘He said he didn’t know how they got there.’
‘Hmm. We’ll need to work on that one. Any other suspects?’
‘The children, a son and daughter. Dawson hasn’t given much else away yet but I’ll work on him. The newspapers say her ex-husband was wealthy, could be an inheritance issue.’
‘Could be. OK. Send me everything you’ve got straight away, but we should probably start at the “scene of the crime”. I finish this ghastly course tomorrow and I’m dying for something really meaty to get my teeth into. And to stop having to be nice to people. Agh! If I smile any more times my face will remain stuck with that vile expression for ever more. Now I remember why I abandoned commercial law and turned to a life of crime. Ha!’ Judith laughed at her own joke. Then she took a swig of coffee and grimaced.
‘God I hate decaf. It’s like drinking mud.’
19
‘When did you last see your mother?’ The man asking the question was attempting small talk, biding his time until his other appointed visitor arrived.
Brian Bateman applied pressure to his hexagonal tortoise-shell glasses, to ensure they didn’t roll off the end of his nose. He had worn a suit for this auspicious occasion, but most of the time nowadays his clients were happy with a shirt and a pair of chinos. Marks & Spencer made a great range in different lengths in a variety of colours, and they emerged crease-free from the washing machine too. He had lived the past thirty-five years alone, apart from a short dalliance with a hamster; he hadn’t been sorry when this was short-lived, its nocturnal rustlings had disturbed his sleep patterns.
‘A few months ago?’ Joe replied, running a finger around the inside of his collar. Joe, too, was used to wearing a shirt for work but Janice had suggested a tie this time and, struggling to fasten the top button earlier, he had managed to burst it off. He had then dispensed with the tie, with a few choice words which, fortunately, had been directed at the mirror in the bathroom rather than at Janice, but the collar was still troubling him.
‘So, in March then?’
Joe shrugged. ‘It might have been a bit longer. You know how quickly time goes when you’re busy.’
Brian had no children of his own but he felt sure that, if he had, he would have expected more regular visits. He kept his voice even, apart from the slight elevation in pitch of the penultimate word which could not be avoided when formulating his question.
‘Yes. It does. I make lists to help keep track of things,’ he said. ‘Do you ever make lists, Joseph?’
‘No.’ Joe shook his head. ‘I keep it all up here.’ He tapped the side of his head and sniggered. When would Tracy arrive? The sooner they could hear what the old guy had to say and get out of here the better.
Joe resembled his mother, if you took the time to scrutinise his face closely, as Brian was now doing. He had inherited her features, all of them individually, but his colouring was quite different; his skin was dark and his hair almost black. Barbara had been fair-skinned with a few stray freckles adorning her nose and hair, which had run the gauntlet from orange to yellow and back to orange again. If Barbara had been reproduced in an Andy Warhol Pop Art print, her face appearing in myriad different shades, then the resemblance between mother and son would have been more apparent.
‘We had an argument about something – something stupid. I was planning to go. But now…’ Joe was speaking.
‘Now it’s too late.’ Brian completed his sentence for him.
Joe tugged at his collar again. God he wished Janice hadn’t gone on about the tie.
When Barbara had first visited Brian, she had been distracted, not desperate, but clearly anxious at how she would manage with two young children and an erratic income. Brian had brought the divorce papers over to her house, to save her travelling back to his office. He remembered the generous welcome she had given him, thanking him for taking the trouble, and how she had offered him a glass of wine and a tour of her studio.
‘Well, we’ll just wait for your sister to arrive and then I can read the will,’ he said.
Tracy had also dressed up for the occasion. She wore a navy suit and bright red lipstick, although it was pasted so thickly across her mouth that a layer had rubbed off on her front teeth, giving her a ghoulish expression. Her hair was tidied up into a neat ponytail but the taupe face make-up she had applied, to cover the grey shadows which had overtaken her face since her mother’s death, lent her an unnatural hue.
‘Hello Joe, Mr Bateman. Sorry I’m a few minutes late.’
‘Pete not coming?’ Joe coughed out the question, with a pointedness heightened by his own discomfort.
‘I didn’t think it right. Janice not coming then?’
‘No.’
Brian rustled some papers on his desk and waited. Then, when he had their attention, he reached into his drawer and removed a large white envelope.
‘So, Tracy, Joseph, let’s begin. Your mother made a will five years ago. Your father had suggested it many times.’
‘Have you been in touch with Miles?’ Tracy asked, still catching her breath from the stairs.
Joe shot her a look of pure disdain.
‘I’ve tried to contact him this week but without success. But on the basis of the contents of the will and my instructions from your mother, there is no need for him to be here today.’
Tracy glared back at Joe. She would not let him dominate her today. But Joe was pleased with Brian’s reply. It didn’t sound like his crazy mother had left anything to Miles, and quite right too. Brian extracted some A4 paper, unfolded it with a dramatic flourish and began to read.
‘Here we are then. The reason you are both here today. This is the last will and testament of Barbara Hennessy, née Tennyson, made this… I don’t need to read you all this preamble,’ he said. ‘I’ll stick to the important stuff or we’ll be here all day. And I will send you each a copy by email so you can read it yourselves afterwards, in case anything is not clear.’
Tracy shuffled in her seat; Joe folded his arms.
‘The bequests provided in this
will are subject to some caveats which can be found at the end at paragraph 6. So starting with paragraph 1. Bequests,’ Brian continued.
‘To each of my grandchildren, currently Luke Jones and Taylor Jones, the sum of £300.’
Joe’s mind wandered to his mother’s face. It wasn’t a recent memory. It was the only time she had come to see him participate in anything at school. He had won the sprint at sports day, when he was eight years old. Barbara had been late – timekeeping was not one of her best attributes – and then, as he had been lining up, he had spotted her, sauntering towards the crowd of parents in a see-through, floaty dress with dangly earrings and sandals, caught up in her own thoughts. A couple of the other mums had noticed Barbara’s arrival too, but returned to their conversations. She wasn’t part of their crowd; they feared her bare legs and Bohemian tendencies.
But as Joe ran, he had kept his mother in his sights, his body pulsing forward, his breath coming thick and fast, and just as he broke through the tape, and maybe because in addition to running he had been screaming ‘look at me, look at me’ inside his head the whole time, Barbara had turned at the last possible moment and seen him crossing the line, first by a mile. Her expression? Recognition, followed by surprise which quickly became pride, unadulterated pride, without any of the usual qualifications or admonishments she often attached to her interactions with him.
‘To each of my children, Tracy Jones née Hennessy and Joseph Hennessy, half my remaining estate in equal shares.’
Now Joe shifted noisily in his seat. Tracy remained still, her eyes fixed on Brian.
‘Sorry, Brian. Can you say that again please?’ Joe asked.
‘Yes. Certainly. To each of my children, Tracy Jones née Hennessy and Joseph Hennessy, half my remaining estate in equal shares.’
‘How much is that then, her estate?’ he asked, swallowing his surprise.
Brian glanced up from the text and Tracy rolled her eyes, although she had wanted to ask the same question herself.
