Gagged & Bound (9 page)

‘There are so many fantastic ones,’ Trish said, thinking of her own favourite sight of the Thames and its buildings from Blackfriars Bridge. ‘But I admit this is pretty good.’

‘And about as far as you could get from the areas where I used to work. All we could aim for was seeing that as many families as possible were housed in weatherproof buildings. That alone was a huge undertaking, and I’m proud of what we achieved.’

This wasn’t getting Trish any useful insights. She knew she’d have to needle him to see what lay beneath the pleasant, well-presented exterior. There had to be something. No man as reasonable and warm as Lord Tick was showing himself to be – and as unlike Trish’s imagined picture – would have launched a libel claim on grounds as flimsy as his.

‘Even if it was in bed-and-breakfast accommodation?’ she said, bringing a derisive edge to her voice.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ His voice had sharpened too. ‘It’s a lot better than the streets, or an illegal caravan site with no sanitation, no facilities and no available schooling.’

‘Possibly, but of all the public housing arrangements available, it’s the one with the worst effect on children.’

He shrugged, showing a carelessness that at last gave Trish a reason to mistrust him. She’d seen what living in bed-and-breakfast hotels could do to families. Even if Tick and his staff had had no option but to use such places, he ought to regret it.

‘Some councils pride themselves on their quick turnaround of properties, so they keep the use of that kind of temporary accommodation to an absolute minimum,’ she said, letting her feelings show. ‘It doesn’t sound as though that ever worried you.’

He didn’t answer, only speeding up until she had to stride to keep up with him.

‘Why didn’t you care?’ she went on, still hoping she could make him angry enough to reveal more of his true self.

‘I thought you had a genuine, scholarly interest in child development,’ he said at last, staring straight ahead. ‘It never occurred to me that a woman of your reputation could be a muckraker.’

‘I am
not
a muckraker,’ Trish said with the kind of passion usually driven by guilt.

‘No?’ There was no pleasantness or even courtesy left in his expression. He looked at her as though she was a maggot. ‘Why don’t I believe that?’

‘I can’t imagine.’

‘You’re not the first person to think she can use old gossip to bring me down. And I won’t have it. Who are you working for? The Opposition? A newspaper?’

‘Myself.’

How interesting, she thought, looking closely at him and wondering why he was so jumpy. There was more to this than the coincidence of sharing his nickname with Jeremy’s terrorist. Neither of them had anything to do with homelessness. Was the chip on his shoulder so big he assumed everyone was out to get him?

‘I don’t believe you,’ he said, glaring at her.

This couldn’t be paranoia. It was too aggressive. Was he trying to hide something really important? Was his claim against Bee part of a campaign to get himself a reputation for litigiousness in order to scare everyone off publishing some other, more likely, allegation against him?

‘Let me tell you this, Ms Maguire, and you can pass it on to your paymasters, whoever they may be, I am not afraid of using the law to control malicious tittle-tattle.’

So that is it, she thought. Poor Bee: put through all this agony just to stop people criticising you in print.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said aloud, with a faint smile. ‘Are you suggesting that my questions amount to defamation?’

‘Don’t play dumb. I know who you are. “Mind like a razor” is one of the clichés I heard when I asked about you. So, whatever it is you’re doing, you’d better stop it right now. And if I hear – or read – anything that has your fingerprints on it about my career in housing, I’ll be on to the
Bar Council right away. I could have you disbarred. Got that?’

‘I still don’t understand why you should think I’m working for a newspaper, but if you don’t want to answer any more questions, I’ll leave you to have your walk in peace. There is absolutely no need to threaten me.’

He left her without another word, pounding along the south side of the lake towards Buckingham Palace. Trish watched him for a while, then walked back towards Duke of York Steps, running through everything he’d said.

‘Muckraker indeed!’ she muttered, disliking him all over again. ‘Report me to the Bar Council! No, you won’t.’

 

Simon didn’t glance back for a good ten minutes. Then, standing on the bridge again, he looked over his shoulder towards the steps. There was no sign of her. He felt the biggest fool of all time for putting himself and his new status at such risk.

When would he learn not to be flattered into talking to the wrong people? He should have known at once that there was something weird about Maguire’s approach. He’d better find out who was behind her so if there ever were a threat of nasty revelations to come, he’d know how to fend it off.

Why could no one forget? It wasn’t his fault there’d been rotten apples on his staff. Was their dishonesty going to be thrown in his face for ever?

Bee was driving and pulled up in a lay-by. ‘Come on, Trish. I want to show you something.’

This was Bee’s expedition, so Trish obediently undid her seatbelt and got out of the car. Last night she hadn’t been able to sleep. Eventually, soon after one, she’d taken a pill, which had left her feeling dopey. It wasn’t Lord Tick and his motives that had kept her thoughts churning, or even her outrage at his threats, but Bill Femur’s earlier warning. Every time she’d been on the edge of sliding into sleep, her mind had jerked awake again, bringing back the smell of fire.

In spite of the bad night, her sense of proportion had returned with breakfast. Natural caution warned her to say nothing to Bee about the meeting with Tick. Bee already had enough to worry her. There was no point adding to her fears until Trish knew more about what his aggression meant and how they could use – or defuse – it.

Twenty yards down the road Bee was climbing the steep verge. Trish joined her to lean against the fence and look out over the plump green countryside. Following Bee’s pointing finger, she saw a perfect Queen Anne box in the distance. It looked like an old-fashioned dolls’ house, with its red brick and white paint and steeply pitched slate roof. Even from this distance she could make out the formal garden, which was
divided into a series of room-like spaces, with dark-green hedges. Yew or box, probably. Nothing could have been further from the bed-and-breakfast hotels where Tick had been happy to put his council’s homeless families or the Slabb-fired ruins of Trish’s nightmares.

‘That was where the Martons lived,’ Bee said.

No wonder Dick resented their wealth, Trish thought, as she noted its perfect proportions and countrified elegance.

‘I wanted you to see it before we get to Jane’s cottage. It’ll help you understand why I can’t bear to have her put through anything else. She’s paid more than enough already, in every conceivable currency.’

‘Still not as much as the children Jeremy blew up,’ Trish muttered, in spite of her sympathy.

‘I know. But Jane’s misery won’t help them, and
she
didn’t have anything to do with the bomb. You will be careful about the way you ask your questions, won’t you? I really don’t want her knowing anything about the libel claim, and she’s sharp as a tack so she’ll guess if you give her any clues.’

‘I’ll be careful. Don’t worry.’ Trish could see from the way Bee’s lips were dragged down at the corners and her eyes twitched from one side to the other that no words could soften any of her fears.

It took them another twelve minutes to reach the cottage. That, too, was built of red brick, but it consisted of a single storey with a small paved yard outside. Blackening cushions of moss stuck to the roof, and there were slimy green trails left on the brickwork by leaking pipes and gutters.

Indoors the rooms all opened out of each other, with the bathroom at the furthest end, then the single bedroom, living room and small kitchen. Everything was as clean as it could be, but there was a smell of damp, as well as new paint. The steady beat of traffic was as intrusive as the chatter of pedestrians
walking about a foot away from the windows and yelling into their phones.

Mrs Marton came forwards, smiling politely. She was a surprising sight, as far as possible from the fragile-looking woman Trish had expected. The same height as Trish herself, Jeremy’s mother held herself very straight. Her face was tanned and her voice deep, without the slightest tremor. They shook hands. Trish murmured her thanks for the invitation.

‘Beatrice told me you wanted to talk to me about Jeremy,’ she said, gesturing towards the small, upright sofa. It was plain and modern, which suggested the antiques that must have furnished the Queen Anne house had all been sold. ‘Do sit down. Beatrice, I think it would be pleasant to have some tea. Would you be able to make it while I talk to Miss Maguire? There are some ginger biscuits in the tin.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Is this really all right?’ Trish said as Bee disappeared into the tiny kitchen. ‘I mean, the last thing I want to do is distress you by asking difficult questions about your son’s work and the men he helped. You’ve had more than enough to cope with—’

‘I can deal with most things, Miss Maguire, except pity. Ask your questions.’

‘Thank you. My interest is in the drug dealing at his shelter. I’ve heard there are only a handful of large dealers in London, who supply all the smaller outlets, and I’m interested in one particular group. Did Jeremy ever mention anyone called Slabb to you?’

This isn’t stupid, Trish told herself. Definitely not the kind of thing Femur was warning me against. This woman could not possibly be in touch with anyone involved in organised crime. And it’s the only way of disguising my questions.

Mrs Marton closed her eyes, as though only by blocking out everything else could she concentrate on her memories. Two women, standing right outside the open window, were
shrieking their news to each other. Inside the house, you could hear every word they said. When Mrs Marton opened her eyes again, Trish saw they were steady.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember hearing the name Slabb at any time. But, please don’t forget that Jeremy knew nothing about the drugs, and so he would not have had any encounters that might identify them for you. Who is Slabb?’

‘It’s the name of someone who might have been supplying the dealers at the shelter. By the way, how did the police find out about the drugs there in the first place?’

‘They were watching a particular man. He wasn’t a resident, but he used to drop in for hot soup in the middle of the day. At least that was what Jeremy believed. It turned out that he was a kind of Fagin figure, using the genuinely homeless men to sell his drugs on to regular passers-by. Every day, he would dole out the little packets and collect the previous day’s takings.’

‘That sounds unbelievably trusting.’ Trish was more accustomed to dealers having to buy each consignment from their own supplier with cash in advance.

Mrs Marton looked straight at her and said, as calmly as though she dealt with such things all the time, ‘They all knew that if they handed over less than the expected payment they would pay with a terrible beating.’

Trish frowned. It seemed odd that such an elderly woman should have such detailed information about the drugs underworld.

‘You look surprised,’ said Mrs Marton.

‘I was just wondering how you knew about the threats.’

‘Jeremy told me the last time I saw him. He came to warn me of what was happening. At that moment he still believed his innocence would protect him, and he wanted me to know everything he had managed to find out from one of his residents so I wouldn’t be troubled by any publicity that might arise.’ She pulled a plain linen handkerchief from the sleeve of her grey
jacket and blew her nose. Trish saw there were no rings on her fingers. Had they been sold too?

‘He told me he hated himself for his naivety,’ his mother went on. ‘I can still hear the pain in his voice, and the humiliation. After everything he had learned in prison, he said, he should have known better than to be taken in.’

‘His second great disillusion,’ Trish murmured, without thinking.

‘Second?’ said Mrs Marton.

Trish glanced up, surprising a look of calculation in the elder woman’s expression. Was her hardness the result of having to protect herself against ever more appalling news? Or had she developed it as a defence against the prurient curiosity of her neighbours?

‘I was thinking of that passage in the diary when he faced the fact that Baiborn wasn’t the hero he’d always imagined,’ Trish said, ‘but a self-protective, selfish, threatening coward.’

A faint tinge of colour seeped into the sallow skin over Mrs Marton’s sharp cheekbones, and her thin lips curled at the edges.

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, Miss Maguire. Thank you for hating him too.’

‘It’s impossible not to, having read the diary. You must have wondered so often who he was – is.’

Bee came in with the tea tray. Trish could have thrown something at her for interrupting at precisely the wrong moment. Fussing with the teapot and milk jug distracted Mrs Marton, but she was determined enough to come back to the unfinished conversation when all three of them were settled with tea and ginger biscuits.

‘Miss Maguire, believe me, if I’d had some way of identifying the man who hid behind that stupid codename I would have exposed him long ago, and everyone else in his appalling group. I’d have used every newspaper and influential person I have ever
known to ensure that the whole lot of them were arrested, charged, and convicted.’

Bee leaned forwards and offered Trish the plate of biscuits again, even though she hadn’t yet eaten her first one.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Trish said to Mrs Marton when she’d shaken her head at Bee’s offer. ‘What he did to those children was—’

‘Terrible,’ Mrs Marton said, sitting even more rigidly upright. ‘But their fate is not the only reason why I hate him. He is loathsome to me because he took an idealistic boy and made him a criminal, and because, understanding how that boy was devoted to his parents and would protect them against everything, he bought his own safety by threatening to kill them.’

Trish recognised the formal sound of a long-prepared speech. She imagined Mrs Marton lying sleepless night after night, honing her anger and choosing the words that would best express it.

‘Because of that, Jeremy spent at least twice as long in prison as he need have done.’

‘I …’

‘There is no comfort you can offer me, Miss Maguire. As a lawyer, you must know something of what British prisons are like, and of what a long stretch does to a man. My son suffered that for twenty years, in order to protect my husband and me. Twenty years in which we were eaten up by anger over what he’d done to those children.’

She paused to take a breath, leaving Trish to wonder why she had sold her house in order to fund Jeremy’s charity if she was so angry with him. Was it some kind of instinctive maternal protectiveness, or had she softened towards him when she began to see how hard he was trying to atone?

‘Only after he’d killed himself and left me the diaries did I understand. By then it was too late for me to tell him so. Too
late for my husband to know how much we had misjudged him. And too late for both of us to know there had been a kind of heroism in our son, after all.’

Trish wanted to say something helpful, even though Mrs Marton didn’t look as though she would relish any comment. There were times when even an honest attempt to comfort only made the recipient feel as though you were belittling her pain. Trish thought this was one of those times.

‘Presumably Baiborn’s threat still stands,’ she said. ‘Weren’t you afraid of it when you asked Bee to write the true story?’

‘No. From everything I’d read, I believed Baiborn to be too much of a coward to try anything now. Besides, what do I have to live for, except to see him exposed?’

‘You say Jeremy left you the diaries,’ Trish said, knowing she wasn’t supposed to answer the question. ‘Did you ever find out where he hid them from the police after the bomb?’

Mrs Marton shook her head. ‘Miss Maguire, I had no spare energy for questions like that. It took everything I had to deal with the fact of my son’s suicide and the revelations I found when I began to read his diaries. Now, would you like some more tea?’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ said Trish. ‘I’m sorry to have raised such hard memories. Getting back to the present, did Jeremy ever mention anyone called Tick? Simon Tick?’

Mrs Marton shook her head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard the name before. Is he a drug dealer too?’

‘Not that I know of. All I—’

‘Trish,’ Bee said, in a warning tone of voice, ‘time’s getting on if you’re to be back in London by five.’

‘So it is. Mrs Marton, you’ve been very kind. And I’m grateful for everything you’ve told me.’

‘I am afraid none of it can have been remotely useful to you. But it is good to know that one more person is aware of Jeremy’s real character.’ She stood and held out her hand again.
Her expression was softer. ‘Thank you for letting me talk about him. And, please, if you ever have the opportunity to mention his name, do pass on the real story. It’s all any of us can do now. I’d hoped the press would pick it up when Beatrice’s book was published, but they didn’t. Perhaps it’s no surprise when there are all these new atrocities to report.’

She gestured towards the windowsill, where a copy of the newspaper lay, showing the front-page photograph of Stephanie Taft in uniform, under a headline that read:

‘Sorry to have butted in,’ Bee said later, as her car swept into the drive up to her own house, where Trish had left her Audi. ‘But she’s more than intelligent enough to see your motive for asking about Simon Tick. I had to stop you before you gave her any clues about what’s happening.’

‘Aren’t you exaggerating the need to protect her?’

‘No,’ Bee said. ‘But you were brilliantly convincing with your decoy questions about the Slabbs. What on earth made you come up with them?’

‘Chance,’ Trish said quickly. ‘I heard about them the other day and I suppose it was the story of how they go about silencing people that made me think of them now Tick is using his own methods to try to silence you. Why d’you ask? You’re not going to tell me
you
know about the Slabbs, are you?’

‘Not really. I just remember hearing they figured in a book about organised crime that my editor commissioned a few years ago.’

Maybe Femur was right. Maybe Slabb tentacles curled everywhere through lives that had no apparent connection with them, South London, or any kind of crime.