Subpoena Colada

by Mark Dawson

  I come to a decision. Either I confront him tomorrow or I go to the police.

  One or the other.

  AN EXTRACT FROM SCOTT DOLAN’S GUEST LIST

  Vincent Haines, Jake Cocozzo in raunchy soap Skin Trade, was in hospital this morning after suffering a broken leg at the hands of Daniel Tate, 27, the lawyer representing Brian Fey. Violent Tate then punched ME after I tried to ask him a question about the incident.

  I understand that Vincent and Tate were arguing about Hannah Wilde, who plays Ella in the hit show. My sources tell me Tate was seeing Hannah before she got involved with handsome Vincent.

  MONDAY

  MEDIA CIRCUS

  I’m looking down from the bedroom window onto the street below. The road is blocked with cars, some resting half on the pavement and others crammed up together under the bridges and on the bus depot car park. The owners of these vehicles, a scrum of reporters and photographers, are clustered around my front door. They are strung out in loose formation at the moment; talking, drinking take-out coffees and eating rolls and confectionery from the bakery. As I watch them, a TV reporter takes up position in front of the house and starts talking to camera, a fluffy boom mike dangling above his head and temporary lights ameliorating the morning gloom.

  The neighbours over the road are also staring down at this commotion, and I don’t even want to contemplate what Hodgson must be thinking. A shout goes up as I’m noticed standing at the window, followed by a loud chorus repeating my name and the sound of flashbulbs going off. The cameraman tilts his lens in my direction. I recoil sharply and twitch the curtains closed.

  The flat is empty save for me. There is no sign of either Brian or Lisa, so they must have left. I check out the spare room to be sure. It’s as spotless as the rest of the flat, and I nose around. The bin is full; I tip it over and rummage through the displaced rubbish: copies of Hello! and OK!, an empty bottle of Prozac, dead beer cans. The curtains have been pulled closed.

  As I turn to leave, I notice two suitcases resting against the wall. I open one of them: newly bought clothes, some still labeled, two pairs of shoes, toiletries, other personal belongings. I have a vivid picture of Brian walking into shops on Regent Street and buying the things he’s going to need wherever it is he’s going to set up his new life. The other case is packed with feminine things. So, one case for Brian and one for Lisa. There are only two conclusions that can be drawn from the fact that the suitcases are still here: either Brian is still making the final arrangements for his departure, or he has decided he’s been compromised and has already left, taking Lisa with him and leaving these behind in his haste. Maybe he bailed me first to make sure I hadn’t told the police anything to imperil him. I remember his questions last night, trying to work out whether I’d dropped him in it. Maybe yesterday was too close a shave to stick around. I re-pack the suitcases carefully and leave them where I found them.

  I’m still feeling on edge, even in the daylight, and with forty gentlemen of the press outside.

  And, cravenly, I can’t help thinking about my own neck; the fact that I let him hole up with me for three days; the fact that I haven’t told the police about him when I should have done, when I have incontrovertible proof to place him at the scene of the crime and clear evidence of his motive - the evidence to have had him arrested. I think of Dolan; he only had half of the information. I was - I am - in possession of the full picture but I’ve sat on my hands and done nothing with it. The thought rattles around my head until it echoes relentlessly.

  I’m going to go to prison.

  If it isn’t for GBH it’ll be for withholding evidence or perverting the course of justice.

  One way or another - one crime or another - that fate seems inevitable.

  I’d rather avoid running the gauntlet outside if I can, so I briefly entertain the idea of calling in sick. I dismiss that. I still have an iota of pride in my work and I’m hardly in a position to afford the time off; anyway, I’m already hanging on to my job by my fingernails. Maybe I can appeal to Tanner to intercede on my behalf with the rest of the partners. And I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to. Rather than have the press follow me all the way to the tube station, I make alternative plans to get to work, and call a minicab.

  I’m still not ready to face the music as I watch the cab and its bemused driver pull up fifty yards away.

  I collect my coat and a briefcase with which to shield my face and leave the flat.

  Hodgson is waiting for me in the communal hallway.

  He’s pacing fretfully.

  ‘What’s going on out there?’ he hisses, as if worried that the sound of his voice will attract the horde of pressmen.

  He twitches back the net curtain screening the window a fraction. I glance outside; the scrum looks to be denser and more agitated than earlier. Feeding time.

  ‘You really don’t want to know,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve got to get to work through this,’ he complains bitterly. His inconvenience is the least of my concerns at the moment but my overwhelming sense of torpor, of inevitability, chokes back my instinctive snapped response.

  ‘I really am sorry,’ I say instead, ‘but it’s not like I asked for it.’

  All I seem to be doing at the moment is apologizing. ‘Are you going out now?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you can go out first. I’ll follow behind.’

  ‘Ready?’ I say.

  He nods.

  I open the door.

  The flashes start popping as soon as I step outside. The crowd surges up from the pavement and I have to force my way through the crush. Dictaphones are thrust into my face and photographers hoist their cameras into the air and start shooting in the hope that they might get a picture of me fleeing my flat. I can see Dolan’s ginger ponytail bobbing after me.

  ‘Danny, why’d you attack Vincent Haines?’

  ‘Danny, look over here.’

  ‘Is Hannah Wilde cheating on Vincent Haines with you?’

  ‘Is Brian Fey seeing Hannah Wilde?’

  ‘Come on, Danny, give us a picture.’

  I answer everything with the same ‘No comment.’ When this has no effect I put my head down, raise my briefcase and plough a path through to the minicab that is, miraculously, still waiting. Two paparazzi crouch down in the garden of the house at the end of the terrace and shoot away at me, like snipers. The flashbulbs bleach out my vision.

  I have the sense of Hodgson’s lumpish presence behind me but the surge quickly separates us. I don’t risk a glance back to confirm this but I catch questions from reporters left in my wake redirected at him, a subsidiary target.

  What kind of neighbour am I?

  Does he know anything about the visitors to my flat?

  Does he know Hannah?

  Does he know Brian?

  Should I feel exhilarated with this new-found attention? I’ll admit to a shudder of excitement as the pack surges after me, and the faces of my neighbours stare out from curtained windows. I try to put myself into Brian’s shoes and imagine what it would be like to suddenly lose this spotlight. And then I think of Hannah, and the transitory limelight she’s getting as the consort of the handsome American film star. For me, this feels like fraud. I’m not the person these men of the press would like me to be, but, right now, I doubt they’d believe me if I told them that.

  The minicab is a battered old Nissan with a coat hanger for an aerial and a jagged crack down the windshield. I dive inside, give the wide-eyed driver the address of the office, and raise my case so it obscures my face. The flashbulbs keep popping.

  ‘This is fantastic,’ the driver says, elated, ‘like in the movies. I’ve always dreamed of doing this. Are you famous?’

  ‘Only for the moment,’ I say as I let him drive on. The press are ready and give pursuit. A black Jeep pulls away from the kerb and tails us along the Mile End Road and into town. As we wait for the lights to change at a major junction, it slides alongsi
de us in the adjacent lane. The snapper in the back seat winds down his window and pokes his camera through. I cover my face as the flash starts popping. Another guy in the front seat of the Jeep leans out and calls out something to my driver, who has identified himself as Samad.

  ‘He’s offered me £100 to pull over,’ Samad reports with a wide grin.

  ‘£200 to keep going,’ I counter with no idea how I’ll manage to find the cash.

  ‘Hey, chill, don’t worry about it,’ Samad beams. ‘I’m having too much fun to charge you, man. This one’s on the house.’

  The lights change and, with a whoop, Samad buries the accelerator and lifts off on the clutch. The Nissan’s back wheels smoke, and leaving rubber, we jolt forward. At the last moment, and to an accompaniment of irate horns from the onrushing traffic, Samad slaloms across the junction and ducks into a narrow side-street between two warehouses. Behind us, the Jeep’s progress is blocked off by a bus stuck at the lights.

  ‘Short cut,’ Samad explains.

  ‘Wonderful,’ I breathe. The Jeep is now completely out of sight.

  ‘Wait ‘til I tell the missus about this one,’ he chuckles.

  SUCCESS

  Elizabeth guiltily folds a newspaper and stows it in her desk drawer as I approach her bay. She smiles at me but I can tell whatever it is that she’s been reading has aroused her maternal concern. Before she can say anything I smile back, trying to look airily unconcerned, and duck into my office. I shut the door.

  Cohen isn’t here. At least this means I won’t have to put up with him spying on me all morning.

  I need to speak to Hannah. I call her agent again.

  This time the phone is not answered with the same acerbity. It is a new, younger voice.

  I decide to play the writer-seeking-interview card again with a slight modification. I introduce myself as a semi-famous feature writer for a reputed arts and style magazine.

  ‘I was wondering,’ I say, ‘whether you might have a telephone number or an address for Hannah Wilde. The magazine’s arranged an interview, I’d like to confirm it with her but I’ve misplaced her details.’

  ‘Just a moment, please,’ she says, placing the phone on the desk. I’m breathless with anticipation. She returns, saying, ‘Sorry - just had to look it up.’ She gives me a South London address. Just as she finishes I can hear someone else asking her to whom it is she is speaking. Hannah’s agent, Suzy Pugh, comes onto the line.

  ‘Who is this?’ she says irately. ‘Hello?’

  It is with a measure of some satisfaction that I put the phone down on her and check over the address I’ve written on the notepad in front of me.

  AN INAUSPICIOUS SUMMONS

  Jean Templeman, Hunter’s secretary, calls me. I am to report to the boardroom on the fifth floor immediately. When I ask what this summons is for, she tells me that Mr Hunter wants to see me - at once. Her tone is grim. I finish off a weekend-old bagel - the condemned prisoner’s last meal - and head upstairs to face the music.

  AN AWKWARD MOMENT

  As I’m nervously waiting in the lobby for a lift going up, Rachel walks out from a corridor. She is clutching an armful of folders to her chest.

  ‘Hi,’ she says uncomfortably. She seems surprised to see me, and presses the button to summon a lift going down.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replies. ‘James has got me really busy - big surprise - but OK, thanks.’

  We both look at each other, smiling and raising our eyebrows, neither really sure what to say. I’m scrabbling for inspiration but there’s nothing there. And my smile is as false as hers. I can’t see past my certainty that she is involved with Dawkins and Cohen. We both watch the displays monitoring the progress of the lifts.

  She finds something to say: ‘Going tonight?’ she asks.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘The Christmas party.’

  ‘Oh, maybe. I think so.’

  Her lift arrives. She looks relieved.

  ‘I’ll see you later, then,’ she says, smiling bashfully, walking off before the lift can leave her alone with me again.

  CAUGHT IN THE ACT

  Compared to the fourth floor, where the assistants live, the fifth is deluxe. The lift opens onto a marble lobby filled with sculpture and real, non-plastic greenery. Leather sofas that probably cost more than the aggregate worth of my own shabby furniture back at the flat are positioned around the room. Jean Templeman guards Hunter’s lair warily from behind her desk.

  ‘You’ll have to wait a moment,’ she says briskly. ‘They’re busy in the boardroom finishing up with someone else.’

  ‘They?’ I swallow nervously.

  ‘The partnership council,’ she says with affected sympathy.

  As I sit on the edge of the sofa I wonder if the decision to cut me loose has already been made. It doesn’t worry me at all.

  After fifteen minutes Cohen comes out of the boardroom. He looks uncomfortable to see me. It doesn’t take a genius to work out why that is.

  ‘Had your fun?’ I accuse, blocking his way to the lift. ‘I bet they were really interested in what you had to say.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Told them all about my quote "drink problem" unquote, did you? Tell them what a "state" I’ve been . ?’

  ‘You’re not making sense, Daniel.’

  ‘Or did you tell them about me being arrested?’

  ‘I didn’t have to. It’s in all the papers this morning.’

  ‘I know what you and Dawkins have been up to.’

  He does a pretty decent impression of total bewilderment, then takes me by the elbow and guides me around the corner, out of Jean’s earshot.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m not going to tell them.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, very convincing,’ I sneer.

  ‘They were asking me about you,’ he hisses.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I don’t understand you. You’re not making any sense. Look - listen to me - it doesn’t look good in there. The papers, everything. There have been complaints. They -’ he gestures at the boardroom - ‘are not happy about it.’

  ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘The partnership council. They’re all in there. Wilson wants your blood - she’s completely rabid - and I’ve never seen Fulton so red in the face. He’s really lost his cool.’

  ‘But you’ve sorted everything out for me, right?’ I really lay on the sarcasm. ‘You’ve explained everything.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation I did my best. They were asking if you’ve been under pressure lately and so I told them about Hannah.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, Daniel,’ he says. ‘I’m not blind and I’m not stupid. I figured out what happened ages ago. You’ve been moping around with a face like a monthful of wet Sundays for ages. And she emailed me last week to ask how you were. She said she’s worried about you, So I know everything. I was going to bring it up at dinner last week, before you walked out.’

  I’m furious - I can’t believe Cohen would betray me so completely. I start to move away but he puts a hand on my shoulder. I push him hard in the sternum and he staggers back.

  ‘Daniel…’

  ‘Don’t talk to me,’ I spit.

  ‘What’s going on, Daniel? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me,’ I repeat, disgusted, and turn away.

  He stops me again with a hand on my shoulder. I turn around; the evil look on my face freezes whatever it was he was going to say. He points his eyes at the ground, guiltily, and I spin about, stride away.

  DANIEL IN THE LIONS’ DEN

  Cohen wasn’t exaggerating. The entire partnership council is waiting for me in the boardroom. They are gathered along one side of the long table. A huge picture of Charles Hunter with Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr is on a facing wall. No one invites me to sit, so I sit.

  I’m put in mind o
f an interrogation. The partners are seated with their backs to the open window, winter sun streaming through. All I can see now are their shapes, framed in silhouette. I’m breathing deeply and regularly, trying to impose a measure of composure on my riotous thoughts and to stop the sweat leaking into the small of my back. It’s not working. I can’t help thinking how much easier it would be to sprint at the window and launch myself straight through it.

  Richard Tanner looks at me. He smiles sadly.

  In front of each partner is a bundle of photocopied newsprint. Fulton is looking at the front page of Extravaganza, and although it’s upside-down I can still make out my startled face. The photo editor hasn’t bothered to correct my red eye. I look like one of the undead.

  ‘I’m sure you can guess why we want to see you,’ starts Hunter without preamble. His congenial exterior has been stowed away. He’s all business today.

  I nod.

  ‘You’ve put us in a delicate situation.’

  I nod again. I try and imagine myself somewhere else. Somewhere hot, sunny and without any cares or responsibilities.

  ‘What the hell’ve you been playing at?’ Fulton interjects. ‘You can’t even imagine how embarrassing this is been for the firm.’

  I draw a deep breath. ‘Could I take a look at that?’ I point at the bunch of clippings. Fulton slides it across the table at me. I flip to the front page of The Times and read:

  City Solicitor Charged with Assault on Soap Star

  Daniel Tate, a solicitor working for media law firm White Hunter, has been charged by the Metropolitan Police for an attack on soap star Vincent Haines. Mr Tate, 27, pushed Mr Haines beneath a moving car, breaking his leg, and then attacked a reporter who took Tate’s picture outside his East End flat last night. The police were not prepared to be drawn on possible motives for this attack. Unsubstantiated rumours last night suggested that Brian Fey, the ex-singer of the Black Dahlias, and Hannah Wilde, who appears in the same series as Mr Haines, may also have been involved in the argument that led to Mr Haines’s injury.