Forgive Me

by Susan Lewis

  The screen changed and a reporter began talking to the camera.

  “So, as widely predicted, financier Marcus Huxley-Browne, son of the former trade minister Sir Robert Huxley-Browne, has been found guilty on multiple counts of fraud and insider trading. Sir Robert, who’s believed to be suffering with dementia, was not in court to hear the verdict, but we’re expecting a statement from the family lawyer in the next few minutes.”

  As the reporter continued to speak, a still shot of Marcus filled the screen, and Claudia felt so sickened and afraid that it was almost as if he was right there in the room with them. He was a strikingly handsome man, she’d never deny that, with his unruly fair hair, flirtatious smile, and smooth features, but even in this shot where he was supposed to appear nothing but friendly she could see the arrogance, the underlying cruelty that governed him.

  “. . . although other arrests have been expected since Huxley-Browne was first taken from his home in West London,” the reporter was saying, as they cut back to him, “none have so far materialized. However, a spokesperson for the Serious Fraud Office has made it clear that their investigation does not end here. As we know, all sorts of rumors have dogged Huxley-Browne and many of his colleagues in the City for several years, but perhaps the most sinister are those concerning gangland connections. If—I stress if—any of these are true, it’s not likely Huxley-Browne will be helping police with their inquiries anytime soon.”

  “They’re true,” Claudia muttered.

  “Was his wife in court today?” a voice from the studio asked.

  Claudia’s heart turned over and she’d have stopped the video there if she hadn’t felt masochistically compelled to know what was said.

  “No, she wasn’t,” the reporter replied. “She hasn’t been seen since the start of the trial, and all attempts to reach her today have so far failed.”

  Up came a shot of the Kensington house surrounded by media, and Claudia could only feel thankful that she and Jasmine had managed to get out when they had. Please don’t let them mention anything else about me, she prayed inwardly. Please, please.

  To her relief they didn’t, so for this report at least there were no shots of her.

  A rangy, stooped man with sharp features and thinning gray hair was now ready to give a statement: the family lawyer.

  “Today has shown us what a travesty of justice looks like,” he declared, raising his lawyerly voice to be heard. It was hard to tell how many cameras and microphones were trained on him, but his piercing eyes found Sky News as though he somehow knew it was the channel she’d be watching. “We will not rest,” he said, looking straight at her, “until this verdict is overturned and my client is once again free to resume his family life.”

  The threat was thinly veiled and sent a shiver through Claudia that felt as sharp and cold as ice. She’d never met this man, but she knew instinctively that he was as untrustworthy and dangerous as Marcus. He had probably even benefited from the crimes his client had committed. However, he surely wouldn’t have known when making his statement that the house in West London had already been abandoned, or that the shop on Kensington High Street had been sold. But he’d find out soon enough, perhaps as early as today, and then there was every chance that the hunt for his client’s wife and stepdaughter would begin.

  Chapter Three

  “Dan! How are you? Come in, come in.”

  Andee Lawrence stood aside for her very welcome visitor to enter the stylish Georgian house she shared with her partner Graeme Ogilvy at the heart of Kesterly’s exclusive Garden District. She was a tall, dark-haired woman in her mid-forties, with such arresting aquamarine eyes that some, when meeting her for the first time, became momentarily dazzled.

  This didn’t happen to Dan Collier as he embraced her warmly, for several months had passed since he’d first been introduced to her, when he had actually momentarily lost his words. His old uni friend Graeme had clearly been as amused by the double take as Dan had been embarrassed, while Andee had politely pretended not to notice. Now Dan paid little more attention to her looks than he did to his own, which he considered far less remarkable than his late wife, Ellen, had. Although she’d been biased because, as she’d put it, she’d been clever enough to see in him what others hadn’t.

  “I never thought I’d end up with a ginger,” she used to tease, “but that’s because I didn’t know they came with sleepy eyes trying to hide behind sexy specs, and serious muscles.”

  “They also come with broken noses, oafish hands, and loads of brains,” he’d inform her, and while saucily admiring the first two she’d usually scoff at the third.

  He wished Andee had met Ellen, for he knew they’d have gotten along like the proverbial house on fire, but two years before he’d moved his legal practice to Kesterly Ellen had been killed in a car crash. Sadness was his companion now, and although he never gave it a public airing, when he was at home he spent much of his time grieving her loss and wishing they’d had children. At least then she would continue to exist in other human beings whom he’d love perhaps even more than he’d loved her, although that was hard to imagine.

  “Graeme’s cooking,” Andee informed him, pointing him across the hall toward the kitchen, “and don’t worry, we haven’t fixed you up with a blind date.”

  “Thank God for that,” he responded with feeling. “I’m too much of a gentleman to tell you about some of the potentials that have been thrust my way since I got here. Just suffice it to say I wasn’t so much put off by their charms as scared to death of them.”

  Andee had to laugh. “Well, hopefully Graeme has told you that we’re not into matchmaking unless it’s specifically requested.”

  “That was her decision,” Graeme informed him as Dan entered the large kitchen, where his host was concocting something that smelled so delicious it made Dan’s stomach growl with unseemly impatience.

  “Don’t worry, we have canapés to be going on with,” Andee chuckled. “I’ve set them up outside in the garden, but let me get you a drink first. Wine? Gin? Vodka?”

  “A white wine would be great,” Dan responded, dropping his battered leather briefcase on one of the sofas that flanked a magnificent fireplace before going to shake hands with Graeme. “You’re looking good,” he told his old friend, who indeed always did, and always had, although there was plenty of silver in the thick dark hair these days, and the increasing intensity of his expression might have intimidated those who didn’t know him. It only took a smile to transform his features completely; the trick was getting the smile.

  It wasn’t slow in coming among friends. “You’re not looking too bad yourself,” Graeme responded, “and we’re one short for the cricket team this summer, so I’ve signed you up.”

  “Another attempt to get me to go out more?” Dan replied, pleased to be asked.

  “Unless you’ve lost that unerring eye for the boundary,” Graeme replied, “we need you,” and reaching for the TV remote he was about to turn off the news when Andee said, “Hang on. Let’s just listen to this.”

  The large screen over the fireplace was showing a five-story house on a well-heeled London street that had featured in several bulletins over the past week, so it was generally known to be the home of the recently convicted financier Marcus Huxley-Browne. However, during the past few days the focus had switched from the man himself to his wife, Rebecca, and stepdaughter Cara, who apparently hadn’t been seen since the end of the trial.

  At that moment a smartly dressed detective captioned as DI Carl Phillips was ending a statement to the press.

  “. . . I’m afraid there’s no more we can tell you at this stage, but if anyone has information regarding Mrs. Huxley-Browne’s whereabouts, or that of her daughter, we’d ask them to please get in touch.”

  “Do you suspect foul play?” a female voice called out.

  The detective didn’t answer; he was already merging into a small group of officers standing in front of the house.

  “Have you
asked Huxley-Browne where they are?” someone shouted after him. “Is it true their personal devices have been found inside the house?”

  The police team walked away and a dark-haired young man appeared on the screen, fiddling with his earpiece as he said, “So, the mystery of Mrs. Huxley-Browne and her daughter’s disappearance continues to grow. As you know, Paula, it was thought at first that they’d probably gone to stay with friends or relatives to escape the press. Then came suggestions that Mrs. Huxley-Browne had cooperated with investigators to secure her husband’s conviction, so was that the reason for going into hiding? Now that the police are asking for information on their whereabouts, we can more or less rule out the possibility that she’s been working with them.”

  “What about the rumors concerning further arrests?” he was asked. “Can you tell us anything about them?”

  “Not at this stage, I’m afraid. The police are playing this very close to the chest. So, a lot of questions, and as yet no answers. Back to you in the studio.”

  “Thanks, Damon, and if anyone does have any information regarding Mrs. Huxley-Browne and her daughter you can call the number at the bottom of the screen.”

  As a shot of the missing pair flashed up, Andee said, reflectively, “That picture is so blurred the police have to know they won’t get much of a response to it. I wonder if they chose it deliberately, or is it all they could find?”

  To Dan, Graeme remarked dryly, “It doesn’t take much to get the ex-detective mind up and running. Me, I’m guessing the missing pair have taken off to deposit a tidy sum into an offshore bank somewhere. A nice little nest egg for when he comes out?”

  “I could go for that,” Dan agreed. “They’re in it together and he’s decided a stretch at Her Majesty’s pleasure is a price worth paying for the millions they’ve managed to stash in some tax haven.”

  Andee wrinkled her nose. “Maybe,” she conceded. “I suppose we’ll find out at some point—or not. But what I do know, my darling, is that smoke is billowing out of the oven behind you.”

  Graeme swung around quickly, before remembering gazpacho didn’t even go in the oven, much less burn. Andee laughed and led Dan out of the wide-open French doors to the small, lavishly planted walled garden where a table had already been set for dinner.

  “I’m embarrassed,” Dan confessed as she offered him a plate of freshly made canapés. “When I said I wanted to pop round for a chat I wasn’t expecting anything like this. I’d have at least brought some wine if I’d known.”

  “We have plenty,” she assured him, “and Graeme loves to show off his culinary skills.”

  “I heard that,” he shouted from inside.

  “And you know it’s true. Anyway,” she said to Dan, “we don’t see enough of you, so I was glad when you called. I’ve been wondering how the new junior partner’s working out.”

  “Maxim? He’s great. Sleep deprived—his girlfriend’s just given birth to their first—but he knows his stuff and he’s keen. Actually, I’m pretty impressed with all five of my staff.”

  “So, taking over Henry Matthews’s practice is turning out to be a good move?”

  “Given how much existing business it came with, I’d have to be a pretty poor sort not to say yes.”

  His smile showed a dimple in one cheek that she always found endearing. “I’m reliably informed,” he added, helping himself to another canapé, “that you haven’t exactly broken with the law yourself.”

  Her eyes showed surprise, but he could see that she’d picked up the segue and was intrigued by it. “Why? Do you need help with something?” she asked carefully.

  “Not in the sense you’re meaning it,” he replied, and pulling out a chair, he sat down at the table. “I’ve been thinking about something you told me the last time I was here, and it prompted me to go and have a chat with an old friend, ex-colleague, of yours.”

  Regarding him knowingly, she said, “Are we talking about Detective Chief Inspector Terence Gould, by any chance?”

  “We are. I met with him last week to discuss something I’d like to set up here in Kesterly, and I wasn’t surprised when he suggested I should talk to you.”

  “This is sounding interesting,” Graeme commented, coming to set a tureen of perfectly chilled gazpacho on the table.

  “Isn’t it?” Andee commented dryly. “No disrespect, Dan, but Gould usually sends people to me when he wants to get them out of his office.”

  Dan laughed. “He told me you’d say something like that, but yours wasn’t the only name he mentioned—we’ll come on to the others, most of whom you’ll know. For now, Gould confirmed my own thoughts that there are few better placed than you to help get the project launched.”

  Andee’s eyes widened. “Okaaay,” she responded, glancing at Graeme and clocking his clear amusement. “Are you in on this?” she asked suspiciously.

  He held up his hands. “I’m as in the dark as you are,” he assured her.

  She turned back to Dan.

  Coming to the point, he said, “You know about restorative justice, right?”

  She nodded slowly. “Weren’t you running a team in your previous life?”

  Graeme said, “You might have to enlighten me.”

  Dan explained, “Restorative justice is basically about putting victims of crimes together with offenders to try and come to a resolution that will help both parties to move on.”

  Graeme arched an eyebrow. “So, someone vandalizes my car, is charged with the crime, then I get to meet him so he can say he’s sorry? Do I get to thump him?”

  Dan laughed. “Yes, apart from the thumping bit, but it can be about much more serious offenses.”

  Graeme waved for everyone to help themselves to soup, and began refreshing the wine.

  Turning back to Andee, Dan warmed to his theme as he said, “I’m sure you’d agree that this community is crying out for an RJ service, but in order to get funding we have to impress the Ministry of Justice with a cracking business plan and a board of experts. These need to be police and probation officers, local authority officials, magistrates, councillors . . . we can draw up a list of who we think would be interested and influential, and as you’re so well connected in the area I’m hoping you’ll come on board to approach them with me.”

  Andee was so taken aback that she wasn’t sure what to say.

  “You’d also make a brilliant practitioner,” Dan continued, “someone who deals with victims—or offenders—on a personal level.”

  Andee blinked.

  “You’d be perfect for it,” Graeme chipped in. “Whatever the qualifications are for practitioners, people skills have to come into it and I don’t know anyone who’s better at people than you.”

  “Exactly,” Dan agreed. “Empathy is what’s needed for the task, patience as well, obviously, in fact a whole slew of good qualities, but empathy is the most important. You have that; you also have a good knowledge of the community and unless you tell me differently you have a stronger belief in rehabilitation than you do in punishment.”

  Andee couldn’t deny it, although she did say, “Some crimes have to be punished. Murder, rape, assault . . .”

  Dan’s hand went up. “No one will argue with that, although there are cases where even murderers and rapists have met their victims or the victim’s family and, believe it or not, there have been some positive results.”

  Graeme regarded him skeptically. “Why the heck would anyone want to meet their rapist?”

  “Or their son’s or daughter’s killer?” Dan added. “Most certainly don’t—and don’t have to. But there are some victims who find themselves wanting to ask why. Why me? Why my mother, son, grandfather? If it’s a burglary, they ask, What did you do with the photos or the jewelry? Are you coming back to take more of what’s mine? And sometimes it helps to have answers.”

  “But the perpetrators still go to prison?” Graeme prompted.

  “If someone is found guilty of a serious crime, then yes, they do, and ofte
n the restorative process can begin during the sentence. In fact, I’d say more than seventy percent of the cases I’ve worked on have happened in the run-up to parole, when victims are approached to find out how they feel about an offender returning to society. The RJ program can work well at that time, if we can get them together. Or it can happen while someone is awaiting trial. It basically depends on when they’re referred to us.”

  Graeme’s eyes returned to Andee as she began to ladle gazpacho into her bowl.

  “In principle,” she said as she set the ladle down again, “of course I’m interested, but before we start drawing up a list of potential board members—I’ve got about half a dozen names already in mind—I’d like to read some case histories, if you have any.”

  Clearly delighted, Dan said, “No problem. I’ve a mountain of stuff you can look at, so I’ll email you the links and passwords as soon as I get home. Oh, and I don’t want you to worry about your interior design business, I know you’re busy with it. This is something that can be made to work around it.”

  “Unless there are prison visits involved?”

  “Yes, we’d have no say on timings there, but I’m happy to take on those cases as we get started—and further down the line I hope we’ll have a number of practitioners to call on.”

  “And who’ll be running your legal practice while you’re doing all this?” Graeme wanted to know.

  “I will, for the most part, but having Maxim on board will free up some time for me to start pulling together an impressive board, appointing a chief exec, applying for Ministry of Justice accreditation and funding . . .”

  “Wouldn’t you be the chief exec?” Graeme asked.

  “Probably, unless we felt someone else might be more suitable.”

  “Unlikely,” Andee retorted, “given we have no experience of the service in this area. I’m assuming case referrals will come from the police, lawyers, prison staff, victim support groups . . . ?”

  “All of the above, and of course we’ll need to be out there talking to them too, making sure they fully understand the program by the time we’re ready to launch it.”