by Gill Mather
TABLE OF CONTENTS
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright
PROLOGUE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
About the Book
Internment is the first of a series of five novels involving members of the Colchester law firm PWT. As the novels progress over ten years, the themes become a little more serious and the central characters of course grow a little older.
Internment however is an unashamedly girly story about Ali, a beautiful, fun-loving post-graduate law intern, who is excited to be taking her first steps in the legal profession. It’s always been Ali’s ambition to become a solicitor and fight worthy causes, work on high-profile cases, protect the weak and defend the innocent.
Professionalism however doesn't rule out romance. Indeed within a legal practice, cloistered and thrown into situations with colleagues and others, relationships can become intense. A fertile ground for gossip, a legal practice can also foster deep attractions and strong attachments. The law of attraction is all the more compelling in a restrained environment, pumping up the anticipation.
Romantic in the old tradition, Internment is a slow burner. Like everyone, Ali hopes that true love will last forever. As the title suggests, she becomes captive to her obsession with the object of her affections.
Along the way Ali has a number of entanglements, some romantic, some less so and it’s hard to tell with whom her fate lies. For a start, her apparently less than enthusiastic boyfriend still back at University might eventually decide to pull his socks up and begin taking more interest in her. On the other hand, will she fall for the firm’s handsome rich separated celebrity entrepreneur client involved in a serious criminal case? Or might she become attracted to the firm’s junior partner, a brilliant advocate and somewhat D’Arcyesque figure, who appears restrained and cool in public? Yet again a young aspiring surveyor who turns out to be a member of the local aristocracy and soon asks her on a date may steal her heart. Also in the fray is a trainee Solicitor whom Ali meets who becomes besotted with her.
In the words of the Bard, the course of true love never did run smooth and this is certainly Ali’s experience. There are crossed wires and false leads that even a major attraction followed by a steamy love affair can't overcome. There’s heart-break and anguish and who knows what the outcome will be.
IF YOU ENJOY READING the book, why not try the immediate sequel to it entitled “Threshold” and get to know other characters better, two in particular, and learn more about Ali and the man she ends up with.
INTERNMENT
GILL MATHER
To Donald Coleman
For helping a teenager take her first steps in the law with kindness, consideration and circumspection
All rights reserved
© Gill Mather 2016
The right of Gill Mather to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact and actual place names, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or to locations or places mentioned in the book is purely coincidental
PROLOGUE
THE TWO SMALL BOYS, one fair-haired, one dark-haired, played in the snow together, laughing and gambolling about, eyes shining with excitement, cheeks flushed. They both had strong cockney accents and were big boys for their ages, six and nearly six.
One of them had been given a sledge for Christmas and they were taking it in turns to ride and be pulled along the snowy pavement. They’d been told to stay close to home but they forgot those instructions in the fun of their games together and strayed further and further away. Without realising it, they ended up several streets from their homes.
It was a rough estate where they lived and this was the worst end of it. You wouldn't go out after dark unless you had to. There was a burnt out car in the road and litter everywhere. The windows of several houses were boarded up, the bins hadn’t been collected and rubbish had spewed out onto the road and pavements. A dog was sorting through a pile of it. Further up the road, other children were hanging about in a group. Boys. Bigger boys.
The two boys looked at each other.
“We’d better go back,” said one and they turned around.
“Oi,” shouted a voice unpleasantly, not yet quite broken. “Not so fast. Stay where you are or I’ll come and cut your bollocks off.”
The two small boys froze on the spot.
The youth and his mates swaggered over. The dark-haired boy started to cry.
“What you got there?” shouted the youth, “A nice shiny new sledge.” He wasn’t the biggest of the group of boys, but he easily looked the meanest. He had sharp ferrety features and his smile didn't reach his eyes. The overall impression was menacing. “You get that for Christmas, snotpants? Come on. You can speak can’t you? I fancy one of these,” he said conversationally to his mates who laughed and egged him on.
“Tell you what snotty. You give me the sledge and I won’t cut your balls off. Fair deal? That’s if you stop snivelling.”
The dark-haired boy’s bottom lip quivered but he stopped crying. The youth took the sledge, laughed a cruel laugh and strode off with his mates all hooting and jeering. One of them aimed a kick at the foraging dog as they passed it. Another dribbled a tin can along the road.
Luckily for the small boys, knives and guns hadn't become so prevalent in those days.
“Which way is it home? I can’t remember how we got here now,” said the fair boy.
“I can’t go home,” said the other. “My new step-dad’ll kill me for losing the sledge.”
“`Course he won’t. It’s not your fault.”
“He will.”
“I’ll come with you and tell him. Then he won’t do anything.”
The dark-haired boy looked doubtful. “I think it’s that way,” he pointed.
The fair boy went in before his friend when they got back and walked into the lounge where the step-dad was sitting watching the football.
“I’m sorry Mr. Harris. But some big boys came and stole the sledge. It wasn’t our fault. They said they’d hurt us if we didn’t hand it over.”
“You what? Where is `e? Come over here you miserable brat. I’ll give you what for. You can’t be trusted with anything without busting it or losing it. Your mum and me work our fingers to the bone to provide you with a decent home and what do you bloody go and do?”
The dark-haired boy walked slowly over to the man, trembling. He squealed as the man caught him by the ear and started to take off his belt with the other hand.
“Stop it. You’re hurting him,” shouted the other boy.
“And you can bugger off or you’ll get the same,” the step-father said to the fair boy who stood his ground torn between getting away and helping his friend. But when the man snarled at him like a lion he ran for his life, so he thought, to the front door and out of the house where he crouched under the window
and sobbed for his friend whose screams he could hear each time the heavy belt bit into his backside.
After a time, the door opened and the dark-haired boy was thrown out bodily out into the snow. The other went over and comforted him, pulled him to his feet and they both hurried off to the bus shelter down the road. They often went there although it smelled of pee and had pale coloured balloon like things strewn across the concrete floor surface.
The dark-haired boy could hardly sit down. The fair one didn’t know what to say or do for the best so he offered his friend a pinky swear, something they’d seen on American TV and had done before. The two of them linked little fingers. The fair one said:
“Best friends forever?”
The other one sniffed back his tears. “Best friends forever.”
CHAPTER 1
Mid- January Approximately Twenty Three Years Later
THE AGEING ROCK star lounged in the stand. He was beginning to fidget and look twitchy. The young solicitor defending the rock star’s accountant and manager, who’d been charged with swindling twenty five million pounds out of him, had been waiting for this knowing the rock star to be a sixty a day man and that nicotine patches were no substitute. Presumably the prosecution wouldn't have put him on the stand if they hadn't had to. Far too unreliable.
But the solicitor had earlier broken down the forensic accountancy witnesses and thrown doubt on the carefully laid out evidence tracing the money in a number of tranches several times round the world via different banks and investments some of it ending up in the accountant’s coffers. Enough doubt to hopefully result in the jury being unwilling to find the accountant guilty.
He had also induced the rock star to admit to spending small fortunes on drugs and high living and to having failed to keep any records at all of his expenditure or outgoings.
“So Mr. Anston,” the solicitor was saying with a faint smile, “which of your several young girlfriends did you say was staying with you in your Cannes villa on 3rd April 2014 when you allege that Mr. Seaford got you drunk and used undue influence to obtain your signature to the management agreement of that date?”
“I think it was Patsy. Patsy Taylor.”
“But in your evidence earlier, I thought you said that it was….” He looked down at his notes.” “Sophie Naughton. Which was it?”
“I can't be sure but does it matter? The fact is I signed the agreement without knowing what I was signing.”
“Well yes it does matter. You apparently had relationships with each of these girls for several years. They were fairly long-standing relationships. If you expect the court to believe that you were defrauded into signing an agreement substantially increasing Mr. Seaford’s management fee retrospectively in April 2014, then it isn't unreasonable to expect you to recall something as significant in your life as which girl you were having a relationship with at that particular time. The girl who was there with you in your villa when Mr. Seaford came to stay with you for one of his regular consultations with you.”
“Well I don't know.”
“There was a girl staying with you at the time wasn't there?”
“I think so.”
“So, is the girl, whoever she was, being called as a witness to support your account of events?”
“Er….no.”
“Why is that?”
“I don't know.”
“Mr. Anston, if the Agreement dated 3rd April 2014 was genuine and wasn't entered into using undue influence, then that accounts for at least half of the money Mr. Seaford is accused of stealing from you. Doesn’t it?”
“I don't know. I’m no good at the maths. That’s why I have someone to manage my financial affairs.”
“Well that’s what the expert witness Mr. Thompson conceded in his evidence didn't he.”
“Maybe. I’m having trouble taking it all in.”
“Mr. Anston, what is your current worth in total?”
“I’m told about two hundred and twenty million. Pounds.”
“And what was it when Mr. Seaford became your financial manager fifteen years ago?”
“I can't remember.”
“Well the records show that it was about twenty five million pounds. Mr. Anston, have you released any new records or gone on tour in the last fifteen years?”
“No.”
“Have you produced any records or other material for other artists in that time?”
“No.”
“Have you actually done any form of work in that time?”
“Not really. I’ve made the odd TV appearance. And I’ve received royalties.”
The Solicitor looked at his papers.
“The royalties are said to come to about three hundred thousand pounds a year. A huge income by most people’s standards but hardly enough after your substantial living expenses to have amassed a fortune of two hundred and twenty million pounds. So. You’re no good at maths yourself. Where do you think your money has come from?”
“The investments I suppose.”
“Who made those investments for you?”
“Mr. Seaford.”
“So do you agree that Mr. Seaford built your wealth up from twenty five million pounds to two hundred and twenty million pounds in fifteen years, that’s nearly two hundred million pounds, without you having to do anything?”
“Well yes.”
“And he did it partly by moving your money and investments around to the best advantage including to minimise your tax liability. Isn't that right?”
“I suppose so yes.”
“Do you think it’s possible Mr. Anston that there hasn’t actually been any theft here at all, just a very complicated investment structure which made you a very rich man and for which Mr. Seaford was paid a relatively modest amount of remuneration?”
“I just….I don't know.”
“Thank you Mr. Anston.”
IT WAS THE FOLLOWING DAY. The judge and jury were out, the accountant Seaford having given his evidence calmly and clearly and the jury having been addressed. Hugh had turned round and was facing the back of the courtroom, leaning back against the bench. “I’m going to get a coffee. Want one?” he asked Ali and she followed him out to the machine.
After chatting briefly they took the polystyrene cups back into the court room and Hugh looked at his notes.
Hugh was just about the coolest person Ali had ever come across. She thought her dad was pretty laid back but he could afford to be. It was her opinion that his generation had had it rather easy. Economic growth, plentiful jobs, high pension expectations, not much regulatory stuff to worry about. Her dad was due to retire soon and was in the “winding down” phase and he wasn't yet sixty-five, whereas it looked like Ali’s generation were going to have to work until they dropped.
Compared to her dad, Hugh was positively glacial. Despite the strains of the job, he never got flustered or in a temper. He never got in a flap. Nothing seemed to faze him. He just single-mindedly and usually successfully dealt with criminal cases. When Ali said something stupid which, she thought, wasn't an especially rare event, he’d make some mild, dry remark but he never made her feel a complete fool. When the other partners had tantrums, as they fairly often did particularly the men, Hugh either walked off or he’d point out the realities with a sabre-like logic or come out with a veiled put-down and they’d bluster and harrumph and have to calm down.
And he was now having to grapple with the SRA’s Quality Assurance Scheme for Advocates (Crime) and Ali was trying to help with it.
If Ali ended up being only half as good a solicitor and advocate as Hugh, she’d consider she’d done extremely well.
The somewhat portly older QC representing the prosecution was chatting up the junior, a pretty young female barrister. It was a fairly big money complicated high profile case that the prosecution obviously thought merited a QC. The defence just had Hugh and Ali, and she was only there to take notes and try to pick up anything important Hugh might have missed.
Ali’s
musings were cut short as the judge and the jury returned. Ali and Hugh hurriedly put their cups on the floor under their desks.
“On the charge of theft of twenty five million pounds or thereabouts from Rick Anston, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty.”
“On the first charge of false accounting, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty.”
“On the second charge of false accounting, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty.”
The false accounting charges were sample charges but it was unlikely any further charges would be brought in the circumstances.
There was a small cheer from Seaford’s entourage in the gallery, the jury were dismissed, the judge left the courtroom and Seaford, Hugh and Ali went out to face the press.
ON THE WAY BACK to Colchester, Hugh and Ali chatted in a desultory fashion mainly about the case. Ali knew very little about Hugh despite having been with the firm three months now so subjects for conversation were quite hin on the ground. She knew he was best friends with a business man whom the tabloid press took an interest in and who was facing an unpleasant charge at the moment, but there was very little left to say about that case.
Hugh never asked about her personal or private life outside the office. Presumably because he was too polite. And she certainly didn't want to bore him by bombarding him with unsolicited details or risk a rebuff by asking him about himself.
So after a time Ali turned and looked out of the window at the mostly uninspiring mid-January landscape adjoining the A12 flashing past, and wondered what to wear for Baz Trimble’s forthcoming Burns Night do.
