Patchwork Man (22 page)

‘Something unrelated.’

‘Something unrelated or something Margaret-related?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because I’m starting to wonder what her role was in Chambers, apart from being your wife.’ I stared at her.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said carefully at length.

‘Neither do I!’ she admitted ruefully. ‘But I sure as hell mean something. I need to figure it out – and find those bloody papers. Was that her on the phone?’

‘Who, Margaret?’ My face must have been a picture, because Heather burst out laughing.

‘Oh my God, Lawrence, when did you develop the comedy act?’

I didn’t understand. ‘It was just – oh, never mind.’ I might be quick-witted in court, but at times life eluded me. We’d been talking about Margaret, my mind was full of Margaret, and Margaret seemed to be the inception of all my problems currently. I’d naturally assumed we were still talking about her. The humour reached me about the same time as her response. I laughed too – a belly laugh, and that was a new development as well.

‘I meant your little social worker.’

‘She’s not my little social worker.’

‘Oh no?’

‘So what else have you seen me supposedly doing then?’

‘I don’t need to see you doing anything, darling, it’s written all over your face when you merely mention her name.’

‘Jesus!’

‘It’s OK. I’m a woman. I notice these things. Your secret is safe with me – and I think it’ll do you the world of good, if you keep it to yourself. I don’t know how much Margaret’s manipulation extended to home, but if it was anything like the extent she used it on me, you’re a poor bastard. Be careful though. You
do
still have a reputation to uphold, now Margaret’s not here to do it for you – not to mention a wife to actually bury still.’

‘My God, that was unnecessary, Heather – and our relationship wasn’t that bad,’ but that was another lie to add all the rest. Looking back, now I could see it had been that bad – or worse; non-existent. And not all of her doing. I’d been shepherded into appropriate situations, primed to respond to selected choices, groomed for the role Margaret wanted me to assume and I’d allowed it. I didn’t know precisely what that role was to have entailed in its entirety but I had gone along with it all willingly enough. It had been easy and I’d been lazy. Perhaps trying too hard for too long had worn away my edge before Margaret even arrived on the scene. She’d been the cement between the cracks I hadn’t even known were there – until she was gone. Now everything was cracking – unravelling. I toyed with the dummy folder I’d made up for Danny’s case to cover for the fact that it now resided permanently in my desk drawer at home, away from the prying eyes of Gregory or any of his minions.

‘I’m going to have a look behind the scenes at one of the charities she was involved with later on today, so I’m not going to be much help right away but let me know if anything turns up.’ It was intended as a get-out, but even that backfired on me.

‘Which charity?’

‘FFF – Finding Futures for Families. It seems to keep popping up in what Margaret was doing – and in relation to my client.’

‘It’s one of the Wemmicks’.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s one of the charities the Wemmicks set up – or rather one the trust fund set up after
he
died.’

‘Lord Justice Wemmick again?’

‘The one and same.’ Not just twice – bloody regular monotony now!

‘Why didn’t I know that?’

‘I don’t know, Lawrence. You seem to have been walking around with your eyes closed these days.’ She got up and walked elegantly to the door before I could reply. ‘Let me know what you find out, eh? I’ve a feeling there’s more Margaret manipulation here, and I don’t like it. Talk about power extending beyond the grave – this is becoming like a bloody strangle-hold and I don’t like being strangled. I spent far too much on getting my neck done.’ She stroked it lovingly and I had to admit the surgery was exceptional. Heather Trinder was at least my age, going on thirty-five. ‘Don’t forget that.’ I wasn’t being let off the hook – just dangled a little.

Kat rang me back less than five minutes after Heather went. This time I positioned myself in front of the window and tried to see what was written all over my face in the reflection. I couldn’t see anything but irritation.

‘Do you want company?’

‘I’m in Chambers.’

‘I meant when you go and have a poke around FFF.’

‘Ah, I see.’ I knew she’d bite. That much at least I was getting right about human nature. The trouble was the urge to produce a reaction in her hadn’t resolved what I wanted to do about it. There was something sweetly addictive about her that I couldn’t pass up, even though too much addiction can be dangerous. No, I didn’t particularly want her company under these specific circumstances, but how could I say that without offending? It would be less tricky than interviewing Kimberley Hewson, though. I still had a brief to work through and the ice had to be broken between us again somehow, not that I was entirely sure ice had formed, and if it had – why. I went for the safest option. ‘If you’re free, a not so independent witness is always useful.’ It was done. God help the addict needing his fix.

She met me outside an hour later but I had at least done a bit of homework by then. Heather’s revelation about the link to the old judge had shown me exactly how far I’d sunk into myself and my problems. Normally I’d be on top of every twist and turn in the evidence. I’d have been telling Heather what the FFF trustees had for breakfast under other circumstances. Instead I hadn’t even known who they were until she’d prompted me with her sharp little stiletto kick. My edge was not merely blunted, it was virtually non-existent. It was time to smarten up.

The charity had been set up with monies allocated for ‘charitable works’ from Wemmick’s estate and via a convoluted will trust – the one I’d also benefitted from. I made a mental note to obtain a full copy of it and see what else he was connected to at some point. A number of charities had popped up this way over the last five or six years; FFF, MADU, Children without Boundaries and Casualties of War being amongst them. The trustees varied overall, but had an identical core: John Arthur Wemmick, Molly Anne Wemmick and George Edward Wemmick Snr – younger brother, it seemed, to my old judge. National Archives helpfully provided me with a list of them and their trustees. So the judge’s family had control.

George Edward Wemmick was in banking, and mainly abroad – Dubai it seemed. Elderly but still active. John Arthur Wemmick seemed to have multiple financial and property interests, but to the seasoned eye, it was clear that ‘diverse financial interests’ implied some that one couldn’t delve too deeply into without meeting resistance. Probably nightclubs and the like. There the trail went cold though, apart from the fact that his was the name on the post-it note in the case folder Win wanted to get his hands on. There was nothing more about him or Molly in public records, which was odd. In fact the Wemmick family tree seemed to end there in its entirety, like a door slammed shut. These charitable trustee types usually liked their name in lights for all their good works. In fact a little digging around Molly seemed to arrive at more than a complete dead end – as if she didn’t even exist. I set Louise the task of locating a birth certificate whilst I was out, suggesting a birth year range somewhere between mine and Margaret’s initially. It was unlikely she’d be much younger than Margaret if she were a trustee.

The cat had taken up residence under her desk. As soon as it saw me it greeted me like a long-lost friend.

‘Oh, it likes you Mr Juste. Are you a cat-lover?’

‘Hmm,’ I said nothing and tried to surreptitiously shoo it away from my legs. ‘I didn’t know we were developing Chambers into an animal sanctuary – did I miss something at the last staff meeting?’

‘Oh, no. It was Mr Gregory’s idea. To combat the mice. It’s only temporary.’

‘Where will it go when it’s completed its brief then?’

‘Home with me, I hope,’ she grinned infectiously. ‘I like waifs and strays and it came from the RSPCA originally. It’s not all that good at its job though, so that may be sooner than I anticipated originally. Mr Gregory says it’s disturbed some of the archives and he’s had to sort out the mess himself. Right old state in the old filing racks.’

‘Oh, really? Which ones?’ My gut twisted uncomfortably.

‘Last year and the year before.’ I almost sighed aloud with relief. Nowhere near the 1988 archives I’d raided then. She waved the slip of paper with Molly Wemmick’s name and possible dates of birth on it. ‘I’ll see what I can get hold of for you, but you might have to go there yourself if they don’t find anything specific.’

‘Thanks.’ The thought of Gregory on his hands and knees refiling his minion’s dismembered work because of his own mistake amused me sufficiently to arrive in Hammersmith at the offices of FFF still smiling. Kat was waiting by the main entrance.

‘You look very happy – something nice happened?’ There didn’t seem to be any ice at all. Maybe it had just been her phone manner. I relaxed and allowed her calm to invade me too.

‘Just Gregory on his knees in front of the god of the filing cabinet,’ I grinned with satisfaction. She shook her head, not getting the joke. ‘Never mind, it’s not important.’ Steering her through the outsized double plate glass doors, I caught a waft of her perfume and my head spun with giddy thoughts of her lying supine and golden brown against the stark white sheet, warm and sleepily curled into me. I didn’t need Heather to remind me of the stupid expression probably spread all over my face. I sternly banished the thoughts and concentrated on FFF and its triumvirate of power.

I outlined what I’d found out so far to Kat. ‘So where did Margaret and her patronage fit into that?’

‘I never met any of the trustees – or not any male ones, anyway. All the events and meetings I went to were headed up by women.’

‘Well there would appear to be two pretty powerful men and a woman somewhere in the background. Let’s find out a bit more about how this set-up works.’

My appointment was with a non-specific ‘manager’. The Trustees weren’t available – indeed rarely ever there according to the receptionist.

‘I guess they have busy lives to lead in industry and the like, sir. We were very lucky your wife had time on her hands to help us. She was such a natural leader and a power for change. And so unassuming.’ I wondered if we were talking about the same woman, but said nothing. Kat threw me an amused glance which I tried to ignore. If she knew what I did, she wouldn’t have thought it funny either.

We sat in the sleek office; wall to wall glass, minimalistic furniture, chic bespoke artwork on the walls and a claustrophobically stuffy atmosphere despite the air conditioning. The amount of glass magnified the heat, turning the room into a mini hot-house. Kat and the office manager seemed to be unaffected by it. I felt light-headed and weak. My diet of alcohol and fresh air for the last few days didn’t help.

The manager was noncommittal and uninformative. The soft fuzziness Kat had wrought in me started to give way to irritation and then the jitters. I didn’t want to be confined to this stuffy little glass oven, bandying pleasantries when the meat was obviously elsewhere. With the excuse of my recent stomach upset back in play, I left Kat to the social niceties whilst I went into the central courtyard off the atrium for some fresh air. There was nothing much to see on the way there – other than the fact that the offices were far too impressive for a charity. Surely all the money they had coming in would go straight out on expenses, and for all its grandeur, it seemed to be working on a skeleton staff. The admin office was made up of two desks, and the filing was piled up by the door without having been touched in what looked like days. I nodded at the solitary clerk as I peered round the door and spotted her water cooler. I introduced myself and was met with more enthusiastic praise for Margaret and over-done expressions of sympathy for me. I asked for a glass of water and she bustled off to find a glass.

It had been a genuine request. I did want water – cool, clear – in fact a whole blue lagoon of it to wallow in and sink under to dispel this fug of heat shrivelling my brain, but her absence was too good an opportunity to miss. I flipped the cover of the top folder open. It was a set of adoption papers, identical to the ones Margaret had gleaned, but this set had an official looking seal stamped across them, ‘completed’. The next folder was the same, and the one below that. There were close to fifty folders in the pile – all similar. Christ, how many children were there in this world to farm out? They were like a commodity here, not a person in need of help. And then it all became clear. The fug, the light-headedness, the bewilderment, the swanky offices – it all merged into a mêlée of understanding. It was a business, not a charity. A baby business. The girl came back with a glass of crystal cool water and I downed it in one, thanking her profusely before leaving. As I exited, I popped my head back in briefly as she settled behind her pile of paperwork again.

‘Oh by the way – sorry – I’ve rather lost my bearings. I was meant to be heading back to Mr Wemmick’s office but I’ve lost my way!’ I shrugged and tried to look as helpless as possible. I thought of Kat and hoped the resulting expression would be suitably moon-faced. Whether it was or not, I’ll never know, but the girl seemed convinced. Armed with detailed directions, I set off for the third floor. Walking around with my eyes closed, am I, Heather? We’ll see.

Unsure of what to expect of the third floor, I was relieved to find it virtually in darkness apart from some intermittent mood lighting – enough to find my way along the corridor and read the names on the door plates. My three targets lived at the far end, next to the Boardroom. All three doors opened when pushed gently so I slipped inside the larger of them. George Edward Wemmick wasn’t at home, but a portrait of him was. Hung imposingly on the back wall so as soon as you entered the room, the man pierced his visitor with a steely eye. The blinds were drawn and the room was cool and dark – a blessing compared to the airless oppression downstairs – nevertheless the power of the man was obvious. He was well into his seventies in the portrait, but commanding – an ex-soldier perhaps? He had the bearing for it – and something else. I moved closer and was transfixed. I probably stood there for several minutes, just staring. I knew exactly where I’d seen that face before, but it wasn’t possible. The age was wrong.