by Ros Carne
It was mild for the time of year, rain spitting from an overcast sky, as she walked out of the cul de sac, heading for Herne Hill Station. When she reached the park, some impulse drew her over the busy road to the wave of green unrolling up the gentle hill.
She had once seen an imaginary map of the city after the collapse of the Thames Barrier. Much of north London stood high above the flood. Most of south London was submerged. She was heading up one of its few islands.
A message pinged. She glanced at her phone, wondering if it might be Sami. But it was from Natasha’s phone.
Ned Thomas Baker Gearing 3.4 kilos. Mother and baby doing well. Luke.
She was surprised they had thought to inform her. But perhaps Natasha didn’t know about the message. Perhaps Luke didn’t believe Natasha. Perhaps, as had happened with the jury, it was Mel who had convinced him. It was hard to imagine Natasha as a mother, though she was glad the baby was doing well.
She walked on. The rain had stopped, and a weak sun glimmered beyond the thin cloud. Winter had been short, and the branches of the huge trees already rippled with the yellowy tinge of new growth. A couple of runners streamed past her. Dogs scuffled under shrubs or chased random scents across the grass. A group of young women with pushchairs were heading for the cafe. A single optimistic kite flyer stood near the top of the slope, waiting for the wind to rise. It was many years since Mel had come here. As a small child she and her mother had visited this park for dull, dutiful Sunday walks. The two of them. She remembered staring longingly at the large rowdy families. She had never flown a kite, never been allowed to keep a dog. As soon as she was old enough to come to the park alone, she had stopped coming. Her school was on the other side of the borough.
As she walked on towards the top of the hill she thought of her tears of joy at the window in chambers, the cheery chaos of the clerks’ room, the deep ties that bound her to her colleagues. However little she knew of their private lives, they could share in the lives of others, treading a fine line on the brink of client confidentiality to compare and compete in love and loss, rape, ruin, even murder. Jacob came first, but he would leave her soon. Lovers would assuage her hunger for intimacy. She hoped there would always be lovers. But Bridge Court was her family and she had been given a second chance.
At the top of the hill she turned back to look down over the city. The sun was breaking through the cloud now, enough to touch the urban landscape with a pale gold shimmer. Colours were sharper, lines more distinct. Beyond and below her she could make out the glittering towers of the City. If she twisted her head to the right, she could see the Surrey hills.
She ought to turn back. There were papers she needed to study for Monday. She was due to represent the father of an eight-year-old boy who had been starved and tortured by his mother. It had happened in Haringey, in a street not far from her own. The child had been beaten, tied to a bed. When he was found, his belly was swollen from malnutrition. The mother was in prison and the father was asking for the child to live with him, though he had never cared for him nor protected him from his dangerous mother. At their worst, families were brutal, tore each other apart. Yet each of them needed good representation. She would be well prepared.
Acknowledgements
My profound thanks to my dear friend Chris Peachment who read all my early drafts. Without you I would never have become a publishable writer. Thanks to my other readers, Susie Graham-Jones, who believed in my characters, and Sue Gwilliam, who took endless trouble to instruct me in the complications of type 1 diabetes.
Thanks also to Diane Nixon and James Wood QC for taking the time to discuss aspects of criminal procedure.
Above all I owe a huge debt to my wonderful agent, Anne Marie Doulton, who saw potential in my baggy monster of a first draft and to my editor at Canelo, Louise Cullen, whose brilliant ideas and sensitive responses led to the finished book.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
31 Helen Road
Oxford OX2 0DF
United Kingdom
Copyright © Ros Carne, 2020
The moral right of Ros Carne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788639675
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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