Patchwork Man (34 page)

‘The money from the will was only to be repayable if the terms were breached.’

‘And surely they are just about to be? Very publically – in court, no less.’

‘There’s no reason to say anything about it – or him.’

‘Oh, but there will be when there is a claim that you are only defending the boy because he is your son; your incestuously begotten son – and you’ve done it before, ten years ago, on behalf of your brother.’

‘You bastard! You know you set up the Johns case, and you’d have to be able to prove that – incest.’

‘True, but to defend the accusation your very private past will have to become very public. You’d have to prove who the father
is
as counter-claim, and therefore also lay claim to the rest of your family whilst doing it together with your rather less than
honest
past. And then we get to your
mentor
– shall we call him that for nicety’s sake? And that brings us full circle, back to your investment in Wemmick enterprises. The papers will have a field day! What did that appointment say? Something about
hold office during good behaviour?
’ He shook his head and tutted. ‘Dear me, Lawrence; dear, dear me.’

‘And what about FFF and Molly?’

‘What about them?’

‘Well if all of my past has to come out, then so will Molly’s – and her connection to you and FFF, and what FFF actually does.’

‘I think, old bean, you’re forgetting something. FFF is a wonderful charity that makes a great deal of unhappy people deliriously happy by uniting a hitherto disadvantaged child with advantaged prospective parents. Seems like you and Margaret would have been two of the beneficiaries in due course, wouldn’t you? Fulfilling your long-desired dream of fatherhood, at a price.’ He threw his head back and roared uncontrollably as I battled the inclination to thrust my fist into his open mouth and rip out his tongue. Only the muscle-bound bully-boy in the corner of the room and his twin by the bar stopped me. My chances would be nil.

‘I could prove otherwise.’ His laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started.

‘No you couldn’t. I would say that you married Margaret knowing full well who she is and joyfully availed yourself of FFF’s services. Perjury is merely a matter of perception, and you have no proof otherwise.’ He was right. There wasn’t really anywhere else to go but to perdition. Nevertheless, I wanted to make a stand somehow. He’d got me. He’d got everything on me but I had one last thing to throw at him. I played out my hand, not anticipating much success. It was a very long shot, but it no longer really mattered by then. It was the only one I had.

‘So before I get nailed to the floor, who really killed the girl if it wasn’t Willy Johns – Jonno? And was it the same person who helped Margaret – Molly – along the path to eternity?’

He was cool, but he was also rattled. ‘It’s irrelevant.’ Personally I was shit at character assessment, but professionally I was shit hot. I knew when I’d unexpectedly hit jackpot with my long shot. I staked everything else on it.

‘Not if I dispute that too – in court. The Johns case would have to be re-opened, then, wouldn’t it? Examined in detail – all those little oddities in it we passed over last time, especially if I admitted we wilfully ignored evidence to the contrary.’

He regarded me coldly for a moment and then snorted deprecatingly. ‘But you won’t,’ he replied smoothly. ‘Otherwise an innocent child and a woman you’re rather attached to will suffer too because that other miscarriage of justice would have to be looked into as well, wouldn’t it? I’ve already raised the issue with one of your partners. I couldn’t be the great judge’s nephew and let such inequality rule over law. Alfie Roumelia – the cat with nine lives. Oh no – wait. That’s the sister’s name, isn’t it?’ He paused and studied my expression. I blanked him.
Do better than that, you bastard. I can fight in court – it’s what I’m trained to do.
‘And even if you stomach that, there’s always the unexpected to consider. Crime is so prevalent these days – and so uncontrollable – rape, beatings, muggings that end in stabbings. Such terrible things we live with daily nowadays ... I’m sure you wouldn’t want anyone else on your conscience even if you
had
cleared Willy Johns from it.’

I stared at him open-mouthed. He mimicked my expression back at me. ‘Oh yes, dear Lawrence, I would – but who would believe you? By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll have a credibility rating like your credit score if you don’t let this go down the way I want. Do good business with me and I’ll let you carry on where you left off – apart from the bank balance, and maybe a bit of bonus goodwill with the odd client or two I’ll send your way.’

I’d lost. There were no options left. I couldn’t throw Kat or Danny to the wolves. I couldn’t have done it even if I’d not been attached to them, and I had to finally acknowledge that my feelings for both were rather more than attachment.

The deal: all that I had in stocks, securities, property and overseas investments – courtesy of success assisted by old Justice Wemmick’s will and Jaggers’ manipulations – was to be liquidated and deposited in FFF’s account as a ‘donation’. No tax on donations, you see. What I then did, career-wise was up to me, but it would be bloody difficult to keep up appearances sufficiently to maintain acceptance if I was a pauper. For a start, my investment in the business would also be gone – or handed over to Jaggers. No stake, no partnership.

Kat and Danny? He had no interest in either other than to use Danny as a scapegoat for the mugging, but with character witnesses, he should only get a minimum sentence and good behaviour would shorten that further. Aggravating factors were the woman’s age and vulnerability. Mitigating factors were lack of intent to kill, the age of the offender and the boys’ parentage which could be used to imply diminished responsibility even if it wasn’t proven. It could muddy the waters sufficiently to cause dissent between the jurors and maybe get a split vote, occasioning public focus on the boy’s sad background, and thus drumming up public support. Jaggers outlined the possibilities neatly for me even though I could figure them all out for myself and the sour taste in my mouth made me want to vomit. He should end up with twelve years mitigated down to perhaps five or six. He’d be out by the time he was about sixteen.

‘No worse than us,’ he concluded.

‘We weren’t wrongly convicted of manslaughter,’ I replied angrily, but it was immaterial. He chalked his cue and lined up another shot.

‘So what?’

‘But why do you have to use the boy at all.’

He swung round, pointing the cue at me like a spear, face dark and threatening. ‘I don’t like being played for a fool, Lawrence – do you? Have you enjoyed realising how your Margaret pulled your tail? No, I can see not. Well, neither have I. She tried something like that on me once. She got away with it then, but I’m not having it thrown at me again now – by her, or your family. This is a little reminder of what happens if you pull a tiger by his tail and pull too hard. The tiger gobbles you, or yours, up. You can tell them that when you next see them.’

‘Kimmy and I aren’t exactly close. Anyway – this is about the boy, not us.’ He stared at me, and then started to laugh softly.

‘Really? Poor Lawrence; poor, poor Lawrence. Still so much to learn. I’m not talking about your sister, but I should keep it that way – for your good health’s sake.’ He paused, ‘or for your other little tigress; miaow ...’

I had no choice but to walk away. The alternative was far, far worse. I thought of Margaret and despite her cynical manipulation of me, regretted a life cut short because of deceit.

‘Who
was
responsible for Margaret’s death?’ I asked before I left. He eyed me warily.

‘Unimportant.’

‘Don’t you even want to find out?’

He shrugged. ‘I already know, my dear chap.’

‘So who was it?’

He smiled sadly. ‘My other bit of advice. We all have our uses – until we don’t.’

I knew then it had been him. I felt sick inside – sick to my soul.

I drove home slowly, barely noticing how I got there. The grimy streets of London that I usually found so pulsing with life and possibility seemed now only grey and depressing. The sun still shone, the birds still sang, the underground still rumbled far beneath me and the taxi drivers still ignored you unless you looked like you could pay, but it was all completely, inexorably and permanently different for me. I wanted to bury myself in my trappings of security whilst I still could but even that was denied me. The phone was ringing off the hook in my study as I put the key on the door. I ignored it but after the fifth assault, I gave up and answered. It was Louise from reception. The persistent purring sound in the background caused me to stop her mid-flow.

‘Is there something wrong with the phone?’ In my highly-strung state I imagined bugging devices as well as look-outs and stalkers at every corner.

‘Oh, sorry. That’s Mr Tibbs.’

‘Who?’

‘The cat we got to get rid of the mice, remember?’

Of course. ‘I thought you said the cat’s female?’ But who was I to argue. I hadn’t seen beyond the end of my nose for years, and I hadn’t really been listening to Louise’s cat carryings-on.

‘She is, but I like the name.’

‘OK, so what did you need me for?’

‘Oh, yes – Mr Juste,’ her voice took on an agitated burr. ‘Mr Gregory asked me to call you and tell you we have a date for the Hewson trial – you know, the little boy.’ I was dumbfounded.

‘I didn’t know it had even been passed on to the Crown Court yet.’

‘Oh yes, it went straight away – on Mrs Juste’s instruction.’

‘Christ! When?’

‘Next week. It went when it first came to us.’ I sat down at my desk and picked up Margaret’s down-turned photo as Louise burbled on. The purring softened the message but not the facts. I focused on the red splotches on Margaret’s dress and tried to get my head round what Louise was saying. ‘The really awful thing is that it’s scheduled for the day before Mrs Juste’s funeral.’ The red splotches blurred and overlapped, encompassing my future as surely if I’d looked down the barrel of a gun and the bullet had entered straight between my eyes. The streaming blood coloured my vision.
We all have our uses – until we don’t.

The blood vision turned to anger. Why hadn’t my junior told me about this? And why the hell wasn’t it in the file? And how could you kill your own sister, and think of her merely in terms of use, or lack of it?

‘Have we entered a plea yet?’

‘Mr Gregory said to enter not guilty just in case.’ Just in case. I’d thought of my own siblings as people to extract information from. They’d had their uses too. I disgusted myself. ‘What shall I do?’ Louise sounded worried.

‘There’s not a lot you can do, Louise. We have a date. Let the party commence.’

And the funeral.

I
didn’t know what else to do. The messenger I’d avoided I now sought. I didn’t expect any kind of acceptable advice from him, yet he was my older brother. I called the number on the card and he answered almost immediately.

‘I been waiting to hear from you. What’s happening?’

‘I said I’d be in touch when I was ready. Well, now I’m ready.’

‘So you spoken to them all, then?’

‘Yes, and I know the truth, Win. Not what you would have had me believe.’

‘I wouldn’t have you believe anything but the truth – but I knew you wouldn’t believe it from me so you had to find it out for yourself.’

‘So you haven’t been Jaggers go-between all the time, then?’

‘Jaggers. Blimey.’ He started laughing. ‘Nah, I ain’t been his go-between, but like I said – I get what I want.’

‘Well, that still makes two of you making the same claim. So which of you gets what he wants first?’

‘So you seen him as well? OK, you
are
ready then. Meet me at The Tavern on Warberry Street in about an hour.’ The phone clicked down and there was obviously no discussion to be had. I debated whether to ring Kat and tell her what was happening, but what could I say? I’m about to lose everything so you and Danny don’t get annihilated? Yeah, really. That was exactly my style. At least I had that smallest element of integrity still in me.

Win was lounging at the bar when I arrived. It was one of those places that had been modernised to olde worlde without taste or credibility. I could see his bulk leaning on the dark wood even from outside the door, stomach spilling untidily over his waistband and sweat patches making dark rings under his arms. A sudden memory of Pop in the same position after a small gain at the bookies – for once –dragged me unwillingly back to childhood. They looked so similar, and yet Pop wasn’t Win’s father. Perhaps it was the type rather than the people I was seeing in them. What about me? Was I that type of man too? I’d been trying to be someone else for so long, but I wasn’t even sure who I was now. My type – another Atticus, I’d once hoped – wouldn’t have used his kin for protection, or denied them when they were an encumbrance. Or taken the easy way out to personal success by damning someone else, for that matter, even if that person might deserve justice of some sort. I had to face it. I’d become a variant of Jaggers.

The sour smell of old smoke and rancid ash trays floated through the doorway. Despite the hoot of traffic and the stink of exhaust outside, it still smelt cleaner than the anticipated proximity to Win, but I was no longer entitled to draw a distinction between him and me. My stomach churned and my instincts told me to go – anywhere but in – yet I had to. He presented the only possibility there was of extracting myself from the cesspit Jaggers had tossed me back into. To escape it I had to join it first, and what better sponsor than my brother?

I slid onto the bar stool alongside him. He didn’t even move, just studied me.

‘You reckon you know all of it then?’ he remarked, as if starting an idle conversation about football or the dogs.

‘I
do
know all of it – or can surmise the rest.’

‘What you gonna do with it?’

‘That depends on you. Do you still want your pound of flesh from Jaggers or were you hand in glove all the time?’