No Escape (20 page)

‘You must know—’ Christopher interrupted with passionate distress ‘—you must surely
know
I never meant you to be hurt. I would never, deliberately, have done
such a thing, and dear Christ, if I could take back what I did that night, I would.’

‘Rape is what you did. Hitting me and raping me. Brutally enough to injure me. And you can’t ever take it back.’ Lizzie made sure her tone was practical. ‘But at least
getting over the operation gave me some time to think. I’ve decided a number of things, Christopher.’

‘Don’t,’ he said.

‘I’m still prepared to stay with you, for Jack’s sake. Not Edward’s or Sophie’s, I don’t think, not any more, because I think they’d both get over it in
time. But I’m really not sure that Jack would.’ She took a breath. ‘Even so, I’ll only be staying if you agree to certain conditions.’

‘Anything.’

‘You say that so easily,’ Lizzie said dryly. ‘But we’ve been here before, remember? Before we found out I was expecting Sophie. You said “anything” then
too.’

‘Yes.’ He removed his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, shut his eyes, then opened them again and looked at her. ‘Your conditions.’

‘You will never come near me again in any way more intimate than a kiss on the cheek or a hug, and those only in the presence of others.’

Christopher was silent now, grim-faced.

‘I have written a letter detailing your various assaults and my injuries, minor and otherwise, as well as your recent gross abuse of your profession—’

‘God, Lizzie.’

‘I’ve sealed it and given it to a solicitor – not David Lerman or anyone there.’ Lerman was a partner at Allbeury, Lerman, Wren, who’d acted for Christopher and
HANDS for years. ‘But you can relax in the knowledge that it will remain sealed unless I personally direct it to be opened, or if something happens to prevent me from speaking for
myself.’

‘That’s not just melodramatic,’ Christopher cut in angrily, slamming his glasses back onto his nose, ‘it’s outrageous to imply that I’d
think
of
stopping you telling anyone in such a way.’

‘After what you’ve done to me—’ Lizzie was trembling, but still in control ‘—after the sheer atrocity of that whole charade in the clinic, let alone what went
before,
nothing
seems impossible to me any more.’

‘Lizzie, please—’

‘I’m aware I might not be instantly believed, but the contents of that letter would certainly be more than enough to encourage my solicitor and my mother to make every effort to have
the children taken away from you.’

‘I don’t believe you’d do that to Jack.’

‘It’s the last thing in the world I’d ever want to do,’ Lizzie agreed. ‘But if you don’t go along with these conditions now, Christopher, I will have no
choices left, so I suggest you do believe me.’

‘What else?’ he asked quietly.

‘Same as before, more or less. You seek psychiatric help.’ She had an urge to stand up, walk around, but she was still in some pain, and the last thing she wanted to show right now
was weakness.

‘And?’

‘Are you on drugs, Christopher?’

He blinked, twice, said nothing.

‘I strongly suspect that you were on something the night you raped me, and I want you to know that I’ve included that suspicion in my letter.’

‘Don’t do things by halves, do you, Lizzie?’ The anger was back.

‘If I’m right,’ she went on, ‘and if by any chance you’ve ever treated any other patient, let alone operated on them, while under the influence of anything like
that, then unless you swear to stop immediately and seek treatment for drug dependency too, I will report you without delay.’

‘I’m not an addict,’ Christopher said.

‘Did you take in what I just said?’ she asked sharply.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with it.’

‘Swear it,’ she said.

‘If you believe I’m an addict,’ he said, ‘then you know better than to take my word for anything.’ She said nothing, just waited. ‘Very well. I swear it. On
our children’s lives.’

‘Don’t,’ she said, violently. ‘Don’t ever say that.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Christopher took off his glasses again. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so bloody sorry for everything.’ His eyes were suddenly full of
tears. ‘What I did to you that night, what I’ve done before –
everything
.’ He buried his face in his hands for a moment, then lifted it again. ‘Just please,
please don’t tell the children – don’t destroy their belief in me, please don’t do that, Lizzie.’

‘I’ve already told you I’m staying,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’ It was a whisper.

‘One last thing,’ she said.

‘Anything,’ he said again.

‘Separate rooms. Here and in the flat, and anywhere we stay. Don’t worry, I’ll come up with reasons, tell the children and Gilly I’m having trouble sleeping and keeping
you awake. Sophie will like having two rooms to invade.’

Christopher took a moment, letting it all sink in.

‘Do you think,’ he asked at last, ‘that you’ll ever be able to trust me again?’

‘No,’ Lizzie answered. ‘I don’t think I can imagine that.’

Clare was in the office alone at nine forty-five on Thursday morning – manning the phones, updating records on the computer, tidying Mike’s chaos and generally
taking advantage of his being out for the day on a dull, but profitable corporate job in Dagenham – when Joanne Patston telephoned.

‘Oh, no,’ she said, hearing that Novak was out of the office.

‘It’s okay, Joanne,’ Clare said, gently. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Joanne?’

‘Of course not.’

‘And I’m Clare, okay?’ She didn’t wait for a response, was aware that in the other woman’s precariously balanced world every second might count. ‘Listen,
Joanne, I know you probably don’t want Mike to call you, so which would you prefer? You can call him now on his mobile – but he might not be alone – or I can arrange for him to be
on his own somewhere private in, say, half an hour?’

There was a pause.

‘The second, please. Half an hour.’

Joanne washed up the breakfast things, dropped a cup on the floor, burst into tears, then quickly stopped when Irina started to cry too, and then, once every last fragment had
been safely disposed of, she sat down with Irina on the living room sofa and read to her from
Mole and the Baby Bird
, her eyes misting every few minutes, absurdly touched by the tale, though
infinitely more so by her daughter’s rapt expression.

At ten minutes past ten, Joanne stopped reading.

‘Mummy, read more.’

‘In a little while, darling,’ Joanne said.

‘Now, Mummy,’ Irina said.

Joanne eased herself up from the sofa, laid the book on the little girl’s lap. ‘You look at the pictures, sweetheart. Mummy won’t be long.’

In a Dagenham car park, Novak was checking the signal on his mobile when it rang.

‘Mike Novak,’ he answered.

‘It’s Joanne Patston.’

‘Yes, Joanne.’ He could almost feel her tension transmitting over the line. ‘Clare told me you’d be phoning. What can I do for you?’

‘Mr Allbeury said I should give you my answer,’ she said.

‘That’s right.’ He paused. ‘Or ask me any questions.’

‘It’s yes,’ she said.

Novak felt a kick of excitement. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘That’s great.’

‘Is it?’ Joanne asked.

‘I think so, yes.’ He paused. ‘Are you sure?’

‘As Mr Allbeury said, I don’t really have much choice.’

‘And is this just for you and Irina?’ Novak asked. ‘Or your mum too?’

‘Just us.’ Her voice was very quiet now. ‘I know if I tell her, she’ll try and talk me out of it, and she doesn’t know about . . .’

‘Irina,’ Novak finished for her. ‘I understand.’

‘But she won’t,’ Joanne said.

The sorrow in her voice made him want to cry. Sad women often set him off. Clare called him her big softie, but he knew she loved that side of him. It worked both ways.

‘What happens next?’ Joanne asked.

‘Nothing for a while,’ he said, ‘which is going to be tough on you, I’m afraid, having to sit tight and act normally while Robin makes the arrangements. He’ll be
moving as quickly as possible, but these things take time.’

‘How much time?’

‘Could be as long as a fortnight,’ Novak told her. ‘Maybe less.’

‘Oh, God,’ Joanne said.

‘How are things at home?’

‘Not so bad.’ She hesitated. ‘He’s been in a better mood.’

It was true that Tony had been easier to live with since Allbeury had created his promised ‘diversion’. More work on Eddie Black’s BMWs, more cash, less time to booze. Except
it wouldn’t last, Joanne knew that without any real shadow of doubt. On the contrary, if and when the work dried up which, given its source, it would, Tony would be fed up, angry, maybe worse
than before.

‘It’s really vital,’ Novak told her, ‘that you act just the way you always do till you hear from me. Above all, you mustn’t, repeat, you really must
not
talk
to anyone about the plan.’

‘Since I don’t know what the plan is,’ Joanne said, ‘that’s about the only thing that shouldn’t be too hard.’

The run-up to Christmas aside, October was one of the most active months for Christopher with regard to the charity. First, the winding-up of the financial end-of-year, closely
followed by HANDS’ largest fundraising dinner at the Savoy, a period during which, as a matter of course, Christopher tended to spend almost as much time in meetings with Dalia Weinberg and
the charity’s accountants and lawyers, as he did in operating theatres or consulting rooms.

Presenting the united front that Lizzie had tacitly agreed to was proving a strain on them both. Around the children, whom they both loved with equal passion, it was less hard, and in a way, of
course, Lizzie had already had years of practice at pretending – as much to herself as others – that all in her marital garden was well. But her declaration of intent had shifted the
seat of power in the marriage, and as humble as Christopher was trying to be in private with Lizzie, real humility sat uneasily on his shoulders.

‘Will you be coming to the Savoy this year?’ he asked her in the kitchen at the house eight days after their confrontation.

‘Have you seen a psychiatrist yet?’ It was late evening, but she was in the midst of baking, rolling out dough for a pie.

‘Appointment next week.’ He glanced towards the door.

‘Who with?’ Lizzie sprinkled a little flour onto her rolling pin. ‘It’s all right, the children are all in bed and Gilly’s taking a bath.’

‘It’s just for a preliminary chat and referral.’

‘Even so,’ she said quietly, ‘I’d like a name.’

‘Going to check up on me?’ His cheeks flushed.

‘I don’t expect so.’

‘Duncan Campbell,’ Christopher said. ‘Tuesday at eight pm.’ He paused. ‘He’s seeing me out of hours as a professional courtesy.’

‘Good,’ Lizzie said. ‘That’s nice of him.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Christopher said, ‘for making you drag it out of me. I know it’s part of our deal.’

‘It’s okay.’ Lizzie stopped rolling dough. ‘I have no wish to embarrass you.’

‘You’d be entitled,’ he said.

‘I will come,’ she said, abruptly, ‘to the HANDS dinner.’

‘Thank you.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid I’ve another favour to ask you.’

‘What’s that?’ She fetched a pie tin from one of the cupboards, took some softened butter from a large pat, and began to grease the tin.

‘You know David Lerman’s just had a hip replacement?’

‘Of course I know. We sent flowers.’

‘I’ve been dealing with the senior partner, Robin Allbeury.’

‘Problems?’ Lizzie transferred dough from the board to the tin, pressed it evenly down, then deftly snipped around the edge.

‘On the contrary. He’s actually a matrimonial expert, but he’s doing this as a special favour, and he’s extremely able. He’s also, as it turns out, something of a
fan of yours.’

‘That’s nice.’ She looked at him. ‘So what’s the favour?’

‘I’d like to give him dinner one evening, if you don’t mind too much.’

‘You want me to come?’ she asked.

‘What I was really hoping,’ Christopher said, ‘was that you’d cook.’

‘Depends when,’ Lizzie said.

‘But in principle you’re willing?’ he asked.

‘In principle,’ she answered.

‘Thank you,’ he said again.

A week had already passed, and the waiting was pure agony.

Already filled with doubts, guilt and a vast fear of the unknown that she was about to carry her child into, Joanne was now further tormented by the fact that Tony was still behaving like a
normal father to Irina. No model, but no monster either.

We could stay.

If she could only know what lay ahead, know just a little more about how her and her daughter’s disappearance was going to be arranged, perhaps she might have been less terrified.

Or more
?

She had entrusted her own and, far more important, Irina’s future, to strangers, to a private detective with a nice face, and to a rich and presumably powerful man who knew –
said
he knew – how to make things happen.

But how did he do that? How could anyone whisk a woman and child out of one world and into another, allegedly happier, safer one? With huge sums of money, obviously, and – surely in some
respect – by breaking the law.

And why on earth – this above all the questions going round and round in Joanne’s mind as she waited and tried to be normal – should Robin Allbeury, this high-powered solicitor
to whom she was nobody,
want
to do all that for her and Irina, to spend all that money on them? Presumably part of the reason had to be that he had so much he wouldn’t miss it. Yet
that still didn’t explain why, not really.

Why? And
when
?

Because if took too much longer, she was going to lose her nerve.

‘Michael Novak called for you,’ Ally King told Shipley when she returned from having lunch with her sister, Laura, down from Manchester (where she lived with
husband Gary and their children) for one day. ‘I’ve just stuck a Post-it on your desk.’