Gagged & Bound (24 page)

Trish swung round to face him and said through her teeth, ‘Don’t even think about it.’

‘Have you started any of them?’

‘I’m working on them all. I’ll have the first one on your desk
by tomorrow morning.’ Even if I’m here all night, she added in silence to herself.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He moved back into the clerks’ room without another word.

Not even a mauled Churchillian quotation to soften it, Trish thought, trying to hang on to the old certainty that she’d been right to involve herself with both Bee Bowman and Caro’s dilemma about John Crayley. It was some compensation that Antony had introduced her into Bee’s life. If necessary she could ask for his support in any battle with Steve.

Even as she thought that, she knew she was wrong. Antony would never support anyone taking risks with important solicitors’ good opinion. Chambers’ reputation was affected by the behaviour of each individual tenant. If one screwed up once, the others would be lenient, but a series of mistakes or bad losses would mean ostracisation and no new briefs, and a catastrophic drop in income.

‘Are you all right?’ Nessa asked as Trish dropped into her chair. ‘You look ghastly.’

‘I had a bad night. Look, I’ve got to get stuck in to these opinions now, but could you do me a favour?’

‘Sure. Coffee?’

‘Later. I need to get hold of a legal exec called Brian Walker. Here’s his card. Can you get him on the phone for me?’

‘OK.’ Nessa looked puzzled. Trish had never addressed her with such curt orders before, or failed to give her an explanation of the background to whatever she might be doing.

‘Great.’ Trish’s head was aching and the tendons at the back of her neck creaked like taut ropes every time she moved. George’s voice cut through her memory, winding itself about Steve’s, and keeping all useful thoughts out of her mind. She had to silence the voices and all her own doubts and get stuck in to work.

Psychotic, she thought. How
could
he call me psychotic?

Antony put his head round the door.

‘Not now,’ Trish said, before he could speak. ‘Whatever it is, I can’t deal with it now.’

She heard the incipient hysteria in her voice and saw him register it with a quick frown. To her relief he nodded and backed away. She pulled forward the pile of papers for the first dispute on which she was to write her professional opinion, blinking to clear her eyes.

 

Only Nessa’s enthusiasm kept Trish going. She’d already read all the relevant papers and had ideas of her own, but she held on to them until Trish asked questions, gradually slipping back into her proper role of pupil master. Trish sent Nessa off to the library or delving into the internet every time they needed to check a point of law or a precedent and managed to keep her mind off David and the two extra-curricular investigations as well.

By nine in the evening, long after she’d sent Nessa home, she had worked out what her opinion would be. All that was left was to draft it.

‘All,’ she said aloud, then laughed grimly. At least her mind was working again. The facts were marshalled in her brain and in the notes she’d made, along with the relevant precedents. She squared her shoulders and settled down to work.

As she reached the end of the fifteenth page of measured legal English, she felt the phone in her pocket vibrate. It was legitimate to take a break, she thought, so she clicked the ‘save’ icon on the screen, lay back against the padded leather of her chair and answered the phone.

‘Trish Maguire? It’s Brian Walker. Your pupil left me a message. I’ve only just had a minute to phone you back. What do you want?’

‘A bit of frankness. I think it must be you who’s been keeping something for Stephanie. I assume she asked you to put it in
your firm’s strong room. I’m not asking you to give it to me, or even to confirm that you have got it.’

There was a pause. ‘So what are you asking?’

‘I’ve worked out a way in which – if you did have it – you could use it to achieve what she wanted, without any of the downsides she feared.’

‘Don’t tell me any more on the phone. We need to meet.’

She looked at the dark squares of glass in the window. There was no way she was going to behave like the idiotic women in thrillers, putting themselves at stupid risk by walking out to meet strangers in dark lonely places. Whatever Brian Walker was like, that would be madder than anything else she’d done so far. Besides, there was the opinion to finish. And she had to talk to her mother, to make sure all was well with David. And to George, as soon as she could face the prospect of more cold fury.

‘OK,’ she said into the phone. ‘But I have work to finish, which will take hours yet. Can we meet in the morning, on your way to the office?’

‘All right. But I start early. Meet me at the Embankment entrance to the Temple at seven tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be there.’

She quickly dialled her mother’s number.

‘Trish, love,’ Meg said at once, clearly reading the number off the screen of her phone. ‘All’s well. I promised to let you know of any problems, and there haven’t been any, which is why I haven’t phoned. No strange men hanging around, no weird phone calls. And I haven’t let David out of my sight.’

Trish stretched her neck to ease it. ‘Thank you. How does he seem? D’you think he understands what’s been going on?’

There was a pause while Meg gave the question proper consideration. Then she said, ‘No, I don’t. But he’s worried about
you.
As I am. Were you and George having a row yesterday?’

‘Sort of. I can’t explain now. It’ll work itself out.’ At least I hope it will, she added silently to herself. ‘You are a saint to have David for me.’

‘Don’t dramatise, Trish. You know how much I like him. Take care, and don’t tear yourselves apart over this row. Nothing is worth the destruction of what you and George have built up between you. Nothing. Good night.’

Trish laid her head on her desk, trying to stiffen her sinews enough to sit straight again and summon up the blood she needed to get her brain working.

 

It was half past one in the morning by the time she had finished drafting the opinion, cleaned up the presentation on screen and then printed it off. She would have to read it through first thing tomorrow – or as soon as she’d finished with Brian Walker. Then she could hand it over to Steve and regain a little face.

The last one to leave Chambers, she had to reset the alarm and double lock the doors, before wrapping her long coat tightly around her and trudging back towards the bridge. It was such a familiar walk she couldn’t understand why it felt so threatening tonight. Maybe it was just that she was so tired.

Pushing herself on, she felt an unseasonably cold wind biting at her cheeks, and a grinding ache in every joint. There weren’t many other people around, which made each figure seem more scary than the last. She told herself to brace up: most of them were hurrying on like her, heads down against the wind. Then she saw one, standing in the shadows between two street lights, staring at her. She moved to the outer edge of the pavement and forced herself to speed up towards the grey pub at the far end of the bridge.

When she got there, she saw an old man huddled by the wall. A good Samaritan would have stopped and made sure he wasn’t hurt, she thought. But she had nothing left for anyone else right now. The only time she had tried to help someone like this he’d
shouted at her for disturbing him, and reached two filthy hands out of his sleeping bag as though to grab her. She crossed the three lanes of the empty street without even looking for traffic.

Not much longer now, she thought, as she turned into her own road. The lack of lights in the flat confirmed her isolation. So much for everything that had seemed so secure only a few days ago. Would she ever get it back?

Brian Walker was waiting as he’d promised, sipping something from a cardboard cup and eating a croissant, which left flaking crumbs down the front of his overcoat. Trish sat beside him on the bench. The traffic roared behind them, and pedestrians streamed across the bridge.

‘I’ve thought of a way you could use the evidence Stephanie left with you,’ she said, without even greeting him. ‘There’d be little or no risk of its getting lost; it would get into the system; and it could lead to uncovering the copper she believed was bent.’

‘How?’ he asked before tearing off another chunk of croissant. A fat pigeon hovered on the pavement in front of him.

‘Take it to the Sam Lock incident room and demand to see the SIO. Tell him Stephanie asked you to look after it, whatever it is, and that you’ve only just realised it could have a bearing on the murder. Tell him Stephanie told you it had something to do with the Slabbs and you believe Sam Lock gave it to her. Then leave the rest to him.’

‘Why d’you think Stephanie had anything to do with Sam Lock?’

The air hissed through Trish’s teeth as she breathed in sharply. She forced herself to relax. Bullying him wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

‘There isn’t time to go into it, Brian.’ Trish wondered whether this was another bit of ludicrous irresponsibility. She had only gut feelings and a good impression of Brian Walker to make her believe he had been a true friend to Stephanie Taft. For all she knew, he could have been in the pay of the Slabbs himself. But he was her only hope, so she was going to push this as far as it would go. ‘And I’m very carefully not asking you to tell me anything she told you. If you do as I’ve suggested, the investigating team will have the note tested and, with luck, find fingerprints and DNA on it.’

‘And?’

‘There should be Stephanie’s DNA and that of at least one of the Slabbs, as well as the man she suspected of being in their pay. If there is, that will be enough to make them look into the Slabbs’ responsibility for Stephanie’s death as well as Sam Lock’s. It’ll also start them asking a lot more questions about what Stephanie had been doing, and that could lead all the way to unmasking the bent copper. Even if it doesn’t at this stage, the fingerprints and/or DNA from the note will be in the records against the day we can find another way to make them look for it.’

He said nothing, merely staring at his well-polished black shoes as they rested on the dusty pavement.

‘Brian? Isn’t that better than doing nothing? Wasting everything Stephanie worked for and letting her killers get away without even trying to help track them down?’

‘I don’t know.’ When he looked at her, Trish saw a kind of yearning in his expression, as though he longed to be relieved of his responsibility. Her spirits rose a little.

‘She wouldn’t have wanted me to take any risks with it,’ he added. ‘It cost her too much to get it for me to throw it away now.’

‘Hanging on to it cost her more, Brian,’ Trish said, hoping she sounded as implacable as she felt. ‘If she’d handed it over to the authorities, she’d probably still be alive.’

‘You can’t know that.’

She wished he weren’t so wary. It would have been good to find out exactly what the evidence consisted of, but she knew he’d never tell her. It was amazing that he’d even admitted he had it.

‘This is the only way to get it into the system without risking a Slabb supporter taking and destroying it. Once it reaches the incident room as evidence, it’ll be tagged, bagged – shit, sorry – numbered and logged in.’

He brushed the croissant crumbs off his coat. The pigeon pounced and was joined by four others. ‘I’ll think about it. Goodbye.’

Trish watched him go. Would he do it?

 

Two hours later, she heard Caro’s voice and looked up to see her standing in the doorway of her room in chambers.

‘Trish, I’m sorry I’ve been elusive, but life’s been hell these last few days. On top of everything else, we’ve had an exceptionally brutal rape.’

Nessa got to her feet with a murmured excuse.

‘What?’ Caro said as soon as she’d gone. She was staring at Trish. ‘What have I done? I’ve never seen you look so angry. Or so dishevelled. Is it work?’

Trish shook her head and waved towards the visitor’s chair. ‘No. I’ve got far too much to do, which I should have finished weeks ago. But that’s not it. It’s David.’

Trying to sound coolly in control, she told the story of the stolen mobile and the escalating threats, pulling photographs of the damaged bicycle with its cut brake cables out of her handbag. She didn’t say a word about George.

‘I should’ve realised at once what was going on, but I didn’t. It all seemed like small-boy carelessness until the bike crash, which happened a few days after I started to get the text messages. That’s when I realised I needed help and tried to phone you.’

‘I’ve even more sorry I didn’t answer,’ Caro’s voice was distantly official, in the way it always was when she had to fight for self-control, ‘but there’s no point going in to that now. Where is he at the moment?’

Trish explained.

‘Fine. Beaconsfield is probably the best place for him while I find out where the mobile is now. Is it registered or have you been buying top-up vouchers over the counter?’

‘Top-up vouchers. That’s why I didn’t report the theft at the time. Don’t you remember? We talked about it and agreed there was no point.’

‘So we did. Then there’s nothing I can do to trace it. How’s George taking this?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘OK. May I borrow these photographs? I won’t lose them.’

‘Sure. What are you going to do?’

‘First, I want to talk to some phone-technology people to see if there’s anything we can do about the mobile. Then I’ll get on to your local police to find out if they can pursue the question of who damaged the bike. Did you report it?’

‘Only to the head teacher, on the basis that it must have happened while the bike was in the school caretaker’s charge. She said she’d look into it and get back to me, carefully explaining that, while the caretaker is indeed nominally in charge, he has other duties and can’t be overseeing the bikes all the time.’

‘Reasonable enough,’ Caro said. ‘I’ll let you know of any progress. Make sure your mother stays with David all the time. I know he likes frolicking off on solo bike rides while he’s there, but it would better to get that stopped for the moment.’

That frightened Trish more even than the text messages.

 

Jack Slabb stood in the middle of the lounge, taking up far too much space. It wasn’t just that he’d grown stouter in the last
thirty-five years. It was the old power. All of it was there, colder maybe, but still feeling as if he could knock you over just by looking at you.

Gillian thought of Sid and his quietness, the way you could come into a room where he was and not notice him till you’d nearly stepped on his toes. Jack could never be like that.

He was greyer, though. There were lines running from the sides of his nose right down to his chin, but he was easily recognisable as the once-adored elder brother who’d made her life a misery of longing and punishment.

‘Christ, Gillie, couldn’t you do better for yourself than this? It feels like a hamster’s cage. I have a ten-bedroom house on the river at Marlow, a two-hundred-grand boat and a garage full of cars.’

‘This suits me.’ She did feel as if she was in a cage now, but it wasn’t because of the room.

‘Don’t be funny. If you hadn’t been so stupid, you could’ve—’

‘I took my way and you yours and we’re both the better for it.’

‘So why do you want to see me now?’

Why had he answered her summons? Was it just curiosity to see what had happened to her and a need to rub in how much less she still was than him? He asked his question again.

‘Because the authorities are positively vetting your son before they offer him a really important job,’ she said. ‘They’ve found out you’re his father. They’ll be trying to talk to you soon, if they haven’t already, and I want to make sure you don’t …’

‘Screw it up for him?’ He looked behind him, raising an eyebrow at the sight of the carefully cleaned velvet sofa. ‘Can I sit down?’

Gillian nodded, but she stayed standing and brushed her hands down the pleats of her skirt. She’d always been much taller than him.

‘Why would I do that?’ he asked, leaning back and crossing
one leg over the other, to show off his fine long grey socks and the beautifully polished leather loafers he was wearing.

‘I just want to be sure.’

‘You can be. Tell me about him.’

‘He’s a good man, Jack. Kind and honest and decent. He’s married, too, and …’

‘You don’t like his wife? That face of yours!’ The familiar harsh crack of laughter triggered horrible memories. ‘It takes me right back. You never could hide what you thought, Gillie. You’d have been no use to me even if you hadn’t run away.’

Gillian flinched. She’d never wanted to be used by him, but the old contempt hurt in the way it always had – even after all these years.

‘What’s this job he wants?’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ She looked closely at Jack, but could see nothing to tell her whether he was really as ignorant as he was pretending. Unlike her, he’d always been able to hide everything.

‘You know, Gillie, I never thought I’d see you again. It’s good we’re meeting up like this. Why don’t we have a drink on it? You got any beer?’

‘Sid and I don’t drink. But I could make some coffee. Or tea.’

‘Filthy stuff. I could take you out. There must be somewhere in God-forsaken Catford – Catford! – where a man can get a decent pint.’

‘I’d rather stay here. I want your word, Jack, that you won’t say anything to spoil John’s chances of this new job.’

He said nothing, gently swinging his right foot and watching her over his steepled fingers.

‘What?’ she said at last. ‘What are you looking at me like that for?’

‘I’m wondering what you said to the positive-vetting people. And hoping you haven’t screwed things up yourself.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Our John has worked very hard to get to this point,’ Jack said. ‘I wasn’t sure at the start that he’d have it in him, but he has. And he’s done bloody well. I hope you haven’t given them any reason to doubt his story of who he is.’

It took a moment for the significance to hit her; then it did. Her mouth filled with saliva. Swallowing was hard, and there was pain in her belly. She crossed her arms over it and felt her head swim.

‘Sit down, for Christ’s sake,’ Jack said, ‘or you’ll be on the floor.’

Half dazed, she fumbled her way round the back of the armchair and leaned against it.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she whispered.

‘You don’t believe what?’

‘That you … that you …’ She put a hand over her mouth and rushed for the toilet.

Later, running the cold tap at the basin, she washed her face and hands. On her way back to the lounge, she flicked a glance towards Sid’s old music centre. It had once been his pride and joy and he’d tinkered with it all through his free weekends. He didn’t often listen to anything now, but the recording function still worked. Gillian had tested it only this morning and had it ready. To cover the glance, in case Jack had noticed, she walked over to the shelves and took down one of the albums that recorded John’s childhood.

‘How long have you known where he worked?’ She opened the album and stroked the big studio portrait she’d had taken when he first went to big school.

Jack swung his foot even more freely so that the loafer slipped off, to hang precariously from his toes.

‘I’ve watched his progress all through, from nursery to the day he made chief inspector. If he was going to be a loser then I didn’t want to know. But when I saw he was a chip off the old block, I could’ve kissed his ugly mug.’

‘He’s not ugly.’ The protest was forced out of Gillian. It made Jack smile.

‘Manner of speaking, Gillie. You’re right, he gets his looks from Sally, doesn’t he? I see her in him all the time.’

‘Does he know you’re his father?’

‘Of course he does! Oh, come on, Sis. You’re not telling me you’ve been taken in, are you? He’s been a fully paid-up member of the Slabb family since he was first in uniform.’

She put a hand over her mouth, terrified she might throw up again. All she wanted to do was crawl upstairs to her bed and bury her face in her pillow. With the tape turning, she knew she mustn’t be such a coward. Whatever John’s betrayal was doing to her, she had to get a full admission out of his father.

‘Is that why he was such a good thief-taker so young?’ she said. ‘Were you feeding him information?’

‘Of course.’ A familiar smile, creased his face and brought goose bumps up all over her arms. ‘It was a way of killing two birds with one stone: pushed my lad up the rankings
and
got rid of people who were giving me grief.’

‘People like Samantha Lock, you mean?’

The smile disappeared. His eyes looked at her as they’d done the time he lined up her dolls and set fire to them, one after the other, forcing her to watch until the last one was incinerated. She could still remember the foul smell of burning plastic and the feel of his hands on her arms as he gripped them, pushing her face forwards to the fire.

‘Coward,’ he’d whispered first into her right ear, then into her left, with his breath hot on her skin and his hands biting into her flesh. ‘I know you’ve got your eyes shut. Coward. You can’t face anything. Coward. Filthy little coward. Open your piggy little eyes and watch. You’re never going to get any more dolls, so you’d better look at these while you can.’

He’d smeared ash over her hands and clothes, and rubbed it into her hair, then he’d told their parents how she’d burned the
dolls herself. Their father had believed the story on no evidence at all. When she’d protested and told him the truth about what had happened, he’d beaten her for being what he called ‘a nasty little liar’. She’d gone straight from being his favourite to no more than a piece of contemptible muck on the sole of his shoe. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him smile at her again.