Hot Lawyers: The Lee Christine Collection

by Lee Christine

  Laila clicked off the recorder, eyes sliding to her iPad. Last night she’d been too angry to bother searching for Evan online. But all morning, a rising curiosity had disrupted her concentration like an attention-seeking child.

  Sliding her iPad towards her, she rolled her eyes at her own weakness. Hopefully, once she’d satisfied her interest, she’d be ready to close Evan Barclay’s metaphorical file and store it away in the archives.

  Typing ‘Evan Barclay Sydney lawyer’, she waited for the results. Almost immediately, the screen filled with newspaper articles about his shift to Poole Greenwood.

  Laila scrolled through the searches. She remembered reading all these after seeing the article in the Law Review. There were a number of short reports from the business sections of the newspapers. The articles mostly referred to his close association with his school friend, Duncan Peyton, and his family.

  Laila closed the articles and scrolled further down. Towards the bottom of the screen, a heading caught her eye.

  John Barclay recalled to Wallabies squad following knee surgery.

  John Barclay? So that’s why she hadn’t looked.

  Laila clicked on the heading, breath catching in her throat as an image appeared on screen. The photograph showed Evan clad in the representative green shorts and gold jersey, running for the line, ball tucked securely under one arm, the other outstretched as he fended off an opposing player.

  He was younger, and more bulked up than now, his hair longer and a shade lighter beneath the headgear. But it was the familiar expression that sent Laila’s mouth dry and her heart racing — the concentration, the drive, the single-minded determination to win what was in his sight. It was all there, along with the massive biceps, the straining ligaments, the pumping thighs as he charged towards the try line.

  Laila closed the article and opened another. This one claimed he was among the best Australian centres ever. Another said he’d reverted to his first name when he’d been sworn in as a lawyer. A more recent one lamented that, while Evan John Barclay was still in demand as an after-dinner speaker, he rarely accepted invitations.

  Little was known of his earlier life, before his time at St Ignatius College, Riverview, where he was credited with being the architect of the school’s two premiership wins during the time he was a student. According to another article, there was a much-anticipated biography in the works, but when asked for his thoughts on the subject, he’d refused to comment.

  Laila sighed. So much for closing her metaphorical file on him. The man was an enigma, and he intrigued her — more so now than in the beginning.

  She moved her finger across the screen and pressed on ‘Images of John Barclay’. Immediately, the screen filled with pictures of him playing, celebrating, being sprayed with sparkling wine, a look of pure delight on his face. And then there were the awards nights, the red carpets, the tuxedoes, the medals, the procession of beautiful women on his arm.

  Laila switched off the iPad, her curiosity replaced with a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  He’d assumed she’d known.

  And he liked it that she hadn’t.

  Laila leaned back in her chair and thought back over the last six weeks. Okay, so they hadn’t gone out, but he’d been generous. He’d brought over Indian and Asian food, not that he’d eaten any. He’d stacked it in her freezer so she wouldn’t need to cook during the week. And one morning, she’d woken to find a beautiful carry bag on her kitchen table. Inside were scented candles, massage oil and a luxurious bathrobe, which she loved.

  Still, Evan would have known there’d come a time when she’d question him, so there could only be one possible explanation as to why he hadn’t told her.

  He hadn’t expected it to last.

  Laila swallowed hard and set the coffee pot on the gas stove to boil. She’d been right to sever the relationship last Friday. She wasn’t the kind of woman who could hold onto a man like Evan Barclay. Judging by those photographs, he was used to dating flashy models with a high-octane lifestyle. One girl’s gown had a sheer mesh bodice that left nothing to the imagination, her nipples covered only with exotic embroidered flowers. Another was accessorized with fake tattoos and gold bracelets to both elbows.

  Laila rinsed her mug in the sink while she waited for the water to boil. By comparison, she was a former army wife with a serious job — boring and conservative, with a troublesome family to boot.

  He’d even said as much in the foyer the other night.

  And that conservative little suit. It’s so proper. I can’t wait to get it off you.

  Maybe that was her appeal. She was still sowing her sexual oats, the ones she hadn’t sown before marrying her high school sweetheart.

  She was pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee when the doorbell rang.

  It was Grind, standing on the veranda, baggy jeans slung so low they exposed half his bright red Mr Men underpants.

  ‘Hey.’ He gave her a goofy smile when she opened the door, eyes peering from behind square, black-rimmed glasses.

  ‘You change your hairstyle more than I do.’ Laila stepped back so he could come inside, grateful for the distraction. His hair was now shoulder length on one side and shaved on the other. The shaved side was dyed a bright punk pink.

  He shifted his weight, hands shoved in the pockets of his tracksuit jacket. ‘I get bored if it’s always the same. And dad’s friends keep telling me to make the most of it while I can.’

  Laila gave the new style a dubious look. ‘The most of what?’

  ‘Having hair. All them are bald.’

  ‘Oh.’ Laila laughed and tried to imagine her parents’ reaction should they ever meet Grind. She was pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to see past the spacers in his ears.

  ‘You want coffee?’

  ‘You’re an addict,’ he said by way of an answer, but he trailed after her into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

  ‘Probably why I can’t sleep.’ Laila gathered the Peyton file together and shifted it onto the bench.

  ‘Sorry it’s taken me an age to come by. We’ve been on a mini tour up the coast for a few days.’

  ‘Really?’ Laila handed him a cup of steaming coffee. ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘The pub at Woolgoolga went off. One chick got me to autograph her boobs.’

  ‘Livin’ the dream.’ Laila grinned over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘She’ll probably never wash them again.’

  ‘Hope not.’ He shot her a quick look from behind his glasses, a gentle pink staining his cheeks. ‘You should come to one of our shows at Scruffy Murphys. You’d like it.’

  Laila lowered her mug and thought of the Irish pub down by the Haymarket. The place looked like a bit of a dive, the polar opposite of The Bowery, with its pretentious clientele.

  Suddenly, she wanted to go, wanted to dance and let her hair down, forget everything from the past few days. She glanced at the Peyton file. A week ago she’d been so thrilled to win Scarlett as a client. Strange how things had gone from bad to worse since then.

  ‘Maybe I’ll swing by this weekend,’ she said, embarrassed she hadn’t made the effort sooner. It wasn’t the first time Grind had asked. ‘I went online and liked your band page though.’

  ‘Oh cool.’ He pointed his thumb and index finger like a gun. ‘I added you too. Took a look at your profile.’

  Laila wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not exactly big on social media. I rarely post anything.’

  ‘You work too hard.’

  All at once, he seemed to remember the reason for his visit. ‘Oh, and I didn’t get up in the ceiling, or ring a workman or anything. I did suffer a blackout though — too much booze.’

  While Grind laughed at his own joke, Laila pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘Not exactly an active member of neighbourhood watch, are you?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Never mind. Come with me.’

  She led the way into the bathroom and pointed to a dustpan she’d left on the floor.
‘See that?’

  Grind leaned over, exposing more of his red underpants as he peered at the loose bits of ceiling insulation she’d swept up. ‘That stuff’s from inside the roof.’

  ‘So what’s it doing on my bathroom floor?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Grind straightened up. ‘Maybe you’ve got a ghost.’

  ‘A ghost?’ Exasperated, Laila turned to face him. ‘What are you on?’

  ‘Well, I dunno. Is anything missing?’

  ‘Only the settings on my landline.’

  He turned away and headed for the phone. ‘What’s the problem with that?’

  ‘Don’t touch it.’ Laila pushed past him and stood between him and the telephone. ‘I’m only using my mobile.’

  ‘Okay. Jeez, don’t freak out, I was just gonna take a look.’ Grind was staring at her as if she were neurotic.

  Was she? Last night she’d lain awake, fearing she might be, then a little while later she’d changed her mind, certain it was all connected. Someone had been in her house and wiped the phone settings. A day later, they’d entered her office, gone through the filing cabinets, copied files from Mike’s computer and, again, wiped the phone settings.

  ‘Do you want me to try and get them back?’ Grind asked.

  ‘No. Leave it to the police.’

  This time Grind looked at her as though she’d grown two heads. ‘You’re calling the police because your phone settings have disappeared? What if the telephone company had linesmen in the area?’

  She hadn’t thought of that. It was possible, but it didn’t explain the problems at work, and Grind didn’t know about those. When she’d spoken to Mike this morning, he’d confirmed he hadn’t turned the computer on last Saturday, and he definitely hadn’t copied anything onto an external drive.

  And then there was the fire.

  Her mobile rang, fracturing the silence.

  Laila slid her phone from her jeans pocket and read the text message.

  ‘Do you like Archie for a boy’s name?’

  Laila’s heart squeezed, the ache radiating through her chest wall until she could feel it between her shoulder blades. ‘Sorry, I have to go out.’

  He turned away and headed for the door. ‘No worries.’

  ‘Grind.’ Suddenly she felt bad for hustling him out. ‘I did a big cook-up this morning. Wait there and I’ll get you some. I can’t fit it all in the freezer.’

  ‘Oh cool. Thanks.’

  ‘Do one thing for me, will you?’ Laila said minutes later as she loaded him up and opened the screen door for him. ‘Tell me if you see anyone hanging around. Anything out of the ordinary — even if you don’t think it’s important.’

  Grind stared at her through the wire, eyes magnified behind his glasses. ‘You got a crackpot client or something?’

  Laila nodded once. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Will do.’ He left, raising a hand in farewell. ‘Thanks again.’

  Laila locked the door and pulled up the text again. ‘Do you like Archie for a boy’s name?’

  She typed in the answer, fingers trembling. ‘Yes. I love the name Archie.’

  Chapter Eleven

  3:20 p.m. Tuesday

  An hour later, Laila stood inside the New South Wales Art Gallery.

  Hands clammy, stomach pitching and rolling, she stared at a portrait of a former prime minister, a contestant in this year’s Archibald art prize.

  Across the room, a tall, lanky guy with salt-and-pepper hair was studying each painting, while a harassed mother tried to coax her three young children into showing some enthusiasm for the portraits. Down the end of the long, white room, two older ladies wearing sunhats were discussing something in earnest.

  Laila walked towards another artwork, this one a portrait of a famous actor. Not a particularly good one, in her opinion.

  ‘Can you believe that’s the favourite?’

  Laila stilled and glanced sideways. The man stood beside her, well disguised as an ‘arty’ type in cream trousers and a floral shirt printed with tiny flowers. A panama hat covered his short, military haircut.

  ‘It’s a mystery how they judge these things.’ She drew in a breath and kept her eyes fixed on the painting. This was their third meeting, always in the gallery. Each time she grew progressively more nervous.

  The man made a show of reading the vinyl lettering on the wall beside the artwork. ‘There’s been another incident.’

  A ring of dread tightened around Laila’s throat as she moved onto the next painting and waited for the man to join her. Hopefully, to anyone watching, they looked like a couple of strangers, sharing a few comments about the paintings exhibited.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Chopper too low. The paratroopers had good visibility though. If they’d jumped at that altitude, it would have been lights out.’

  Laila closed her eyes, stomach churning at the thought of another horror accident. As the man recounted the incident, she stared at the angry strokes of oil paint, the black and grey tones giving the female subject a look of total despair.

  ‘Many are scared. Numerous night-time mishaps have been reported. Understandably, the men are frightened of the reprimands that come with being a whistle-blower.’

  Laila nodded. The entry criteria for the SAS was gruelling. No-one wanted to leave once they’d made it in. The sad fact was that more SAS soldiers were killed and injured in training situations than in actual combat.

  ‘Thank you. I know you’re taking a huge risk. Do you have a name?’

  The man spoke in a low voice.

  Laila repeated the name, then committed it to memory.

  ‘I’ll move on. Take care.’ He moved away, strolling through a wide doorway and into an adjoining room, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his cream pants.

  Laila didn’t leave immediately either. She wandered through to a different part of the gallery where some Brett Whiteley works were housed. She had enough information to get the class action underway now. She had plaintiffs, the names of men she could subpoena, and costs coming in from the Peyton case.

  She stared at the vivid oranges in Brett Whiteley’s The Night Cafe. There was no denying it, she needed Scarlett Peyton as a client more than ever now. Time was of the essence if they were to stop more soldiers dying.

  Her mobile phone vibrated against her hip.

  Had her contact forgotten something?

  Laila swiped her thumb across the screen. The message was from the New South Wales Police Department.

  Special arrangements have been made for emergency access only, for tenants of 402 College Street, Sydney. Any tenant wishing to access the building can do so, via a restricted entryway, for one hour between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m. today. It is expected that normal operation of the building will resume from 7 a.m. tomorrow.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, still puffing from the climb up to the fourth floor, Laila stepped inside her office and cast an anxious look around.

  Late-afternoon sun filtered through the windows, highlighting the smoky haze lingering throughout the room. Small puddles of water pooled on the coffee table, the filing cabinets, the reception desk and bookcases.

  Laila sent a silent thank you to Mike. Despite the risk he’d taken, he’d covered the computer and photocopier with their plastic dust jackets. When she slipped her hand beneath the covers, the machines themselves were quite dry.

  Buoyed by the fact that it appeared to be sprinkler damage only, Laila pressed her toe into the carpet. While her boot left a damp imprint, the floor coverings hardly squelched beneath her feet.

  Blowing out a relieved breath, she walked through to her private office, smoke particles irritating her nostrils. There were benefits to being a neat freak, she thought, gazing at the puddles of water on her cleared desk. Again, the computer was protected, and while the vinyl chairs were wet, it was nothing a quick wipe over wouldn’t fix.

  She crossed to the filing cabinet and pulled open the top drawer. A little wate
r had seeped inside, but only the corners of the manila folders appeared to be wet.

  Laila checked her watch. She had roughly forty minutes. If she mopped up now, the office would dry out even more overnight.

  She took two garbage bags and half a dozen dry handtowels from the drawer in the kitchen and spent the next half hour soaking up the water. In her office, she wiped over the desk and chairs, noting with relief that the wall prints and practising certificate were hung too high to have been affected.

  Back in reception, she dropped sodden magazines from the coffee table into one garbage bag, followed by the stack of business cards from the holder on Mike’s desk, and anything else unsalvageable. The steel cupboard housing the stationery was closed, and from Laila’s observations, the printer was the only piece of electronic equipment that had really copped a drenching. Mike had managed to clear every other surface.

  She was wiping over the waiting-room chairs when she spotted Evan’s discarded suit coat and sunglasses. Dumping the garbage bags and towels on the carpet, she picked up the jacket and held it open for inspection. The fine wool material had mostly dried in the thirty or so hours since the fire, but when she held it next to her cheek, the familiar, sexy aroma she associated with him was missing, replaced with the strong smell of acrid smoke.

  Wrinkling her nose, she put the garment inside the clean garbage bag and popped the Ray Bans into her handbag. Back in the kitchen, she dumped the garbage bag containing the rubbish into the bin, and threw out the milk in the silent fridge. According to the detective she’d spoken to downstairs, the electricity would be switched on at 6 a.m. tomorrow, an hour before the tenants were given access. All except the businesses conducted on level three, which would remain inaccessible until the cause of the fire was determined.

  Hitching her bag higher on her shoulder, Laila picked up the garbage bag containing Evan’s jacket. She’d drop it into the drycleaners on her way to the train. The mediation was the day after tomorrow; not that she could give it to him there. Maybe she’d ask him out for coffee on the weekend. She wanted to thank him properly for what he’d done for Mike, and she wanted to ask about his hand.