by Linda Coles
“Now that’s what I like to hear. There is most definitely something you can do for me. Shame your partner doesn’t feel the same way. I gather you know about our conversation yesterday?”
Philip debated whether to act dumb or not but it seemed pointless. “Alistair filled me in. Yes, I’m aware of your particular. . .” He searched for the correct word. “. . .needs. And I think my partner mentioned that’s not something we specialise in. We tend to stick to divorce law, with the emphasis on law.” Philip didn’t mean for his comment to sound snarky, but it came out that way and he heard Jamieson’s sharp intake of breath. Philip said nothing and waited.
“Well, that is a shame, though I think it would be worth your while if perhaps we met, the two of us, to see if we can’t come to some agreement. I think you’ll find my terms very reasonable. And you do need the business, from what I have gleaned.”
Philip didn’t like the sound of where this was going, and he took a deep breath and held it in his chest for a moment before releasing it. He hoped Jamieson couldn’t hear it down the telephone line. He’d never met the man, though he knew a lot about him, and he wasn’t sure if it was gory interest or sheer stupidity. Even though LA was vast, at times it was a village, a village that was fuelled by gossip. Philip found himself relenting, although he hated bullies. He gathered energy and prized it into his voice like one too many pairs of jeans into an overstuffed suitcase.
“Even though it’s a waste of my time, I will agree to meet. When and where?” He heard the man chortle lightly at the other end of the phone and Philip wondered if Jamieson was chalking one up on his imaginary scoreboard with his forefinger. Philip had another suggestion for that same finger.
“That’s more like it. I’ll come your way, shall I? I’ll come to your offices, say at three PM?”
Did Philip really want him at his office? Did he want people seeing Jamieson enter? Although maybe, on the other hand, a sizeable chunk of change walking in the door might not do them and their reputation any harm. He didn’t need to check his schedule; Philip already knew it was empty.
“That will be fine. I assume you know where to find us. I’ll see you at three.” Philip didn’t wait for the man to say anything further and ended the call. He kept his hand on the handset for a long moment, staring at his own flesh still in situ. It was beginning to look wrinkly, probably from too much sun. He should use more sunscreen.
Carmel knocked and opened the door straight away; her beautiful head of hair looked stunning as always. She had one hand resting on the door frame above her head and the other on her hip. If anyone could be a model, Carmel could. She’d look right at home in a Marie Claire magazine shoot.
“Was that THE Frank Jamieson? Don’t tell me he’s looking for a divorce lawyer and we’re it? I saw he was splitting up from his wife—it’s been in all the magazines.” She said it almost proudly, though Philip couldn’t see Carmel being interested in local gossip. Maybe he didn’t know her as well as he thought he did. Somewhat irritated at Jamieson getting his way, he snapped back at her unintentionally.
“You must have something better to do than gossip, Carmel.” His fiery eyes locked with hers, though hers were full of confusion at his outburst. But he wasn’t about to apologise, not yet. She took the hint and left, closing the door rather noisily in her wake. Philip leant forward and put his head in his hands. His shoulders ached from a sleepless night, worrying whether someone was watching or listening to his every move. He’d even cut his morning bathroom routine short for that same reason.
His office suddenly felt claustrophobic; he needed air, so he stood and headed out into the hot street, not really knowing where he was going. It was stifling. He longed to be wearing only his shorts and T-shirt, and he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt as he paced forward amongst shoppers and tourists alike. The searing sun scorched down on his head and stung his eyes, and he squinted. He wished he had his sunglasses, but they were back at his desk.
He ducked inside a small café and took a seat at the back, relaxing slightly as he readjusted to the dim interior. He picked up the menu for something to do, not because he was hungry, and found himself gazing at the selection of ice creams, of all things. An ever-present smiling waitress hovered by his elbow and he ordered a triple scoop of chocolate with fresh cream and sprinkles on top.
“Sure thing, hon,” she said. He looked up as he recognised the same words he’d heard spoken recently. She was the same waitress from the bar last night. She must work two jobs, he deduced. If she remembered him, she never let on; she was gone as quickly as she’d arrived. Had Alistair been there with him, he’d have been excited at the prospect of being waited on by her a second time. He enjoyed probability, and two instances would mean an omen. To Philip, however, it simply meant she worked two jobs.
He picked up a sachet of sugar and fiddled with it to give his fingers something to do while he waited, and began searching the other faces inside the café. He’d never bothered taking an interest before, but with recent events, and the notion that he was being observed, he thought it prudent. Apart from the waitress, there was no one else he had seen before, not recently anyway. He sat back and awaited his ice cream.
Philip had decided he wouldn’t phone Alistair and let him know that Jamieson would be descending on their offices at 3 PM. Alistair was out for the rest of the day, but more to the point, if anyone was listening, Philip didn’t want them being privy to the conversation.
It was almost 3 PM and the only person excited for Jamieson’s arrival was Carmel. He heard the laughter coming through his door. She sounded delighted, if not a little fan-struck. Philip expected a knock at the door any second and wasn’t disappointed. He called for him to come on in. He thought it best if he received his unwanted guest, for want of a better word, while standing. It was an alpha male thing, like who had the strongest handshake or managed to put their other hand on the opposite fellow’s arm first.
As Jamieson strode into his office, Philip forced himself to make eye contact with him, but couldn’t get past his rather bulbous nose. He tried harder to meet the man’s eyes but found he was drawn, once again, back down to the incredible nose. He knew he was being rude and wondered if his opponent had noticed. He offered Jamieson a seat and sat down opposite him in the other of the two client armchairs.
“What can I get you to drink? Something cold, perhaps?”
“Nothing, thank you. I won’t take up much of your time. I wanted to meet you, to meet the other half of Banks & Crowley, and hope that you can help me out with my. . . situation.” He gave Philip a cloying smile.
Philip was desperate to keep control of this meeting, and not let Jamieson run roughshod over his ethics. He was a divorce lawyer, nothing more. “We can certainly help with your divorce, Mr. Jamieson, as I’m sure Alistair will have mentioned to you, and we would be delighted to take on your business. But that is where our expertise finishes. We only specialise in divorce law.”
Philip watched Jamieson uncross his legs in his seat and re-cross them in the opposite way, leaving his right foot resting on his left knee. The cuff of the man’s trousers rode up a few inches, exposing grey socks and a swatch of hairy white leg. And an ankle holster for a concealed weapon.
It was empty, but the message was there, all right. Jamieson smiled as Philip’s eyes widened.
“Think on it some more, Mr. Banks. I know you’ll find my terms worth your while in the long run. I’ll see myself out.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The words echoed around Philip’s head: “Think on it some more, Mr. Banks. I know you’ll find my terms worth your while in the long run.”
Philip had thought of little else since Jamieson had closed the door behind him a few hours ago. He needed to find out what they had on him, or what they thought they had on him, because he was getting more scared by the hour. It was one thing knowing someone has been through your belongings, but coming to your office and making veiled threats was somethin
g else. Empty holster or not, Jamieson would find another way to intimidate him into doing what he wanted.
Philip had done what he usually did when something was on his mind, and that was go for a run. But he didn’t want to be crowded in; he felt like he needed to stretch his legs where there weren’t so many people milling about to get in his way. So, he headed north again, towards Santa Monica Pier, and figured he’d go on from there— though where exactly that might be, he wasn’t sure. It was a hell of a long way to Malibu, not the ideal place to run to, but since he was heading in that direction, he figured he’d run as far as he could go. He made his way off the boardwalk just before the pier and down to the water’s edge, where the sand was a little firmer and there were fewer people to dodge.
He did his best thinking when he was running, and even though sometimes it hurt like hell, the feeling he got when he’d finished the run always made it worthwhile. As he picked up pace along the water’s edge, Philip could feel his sweat running down his temples, liquid that would ultimately run to his chest and soak into his running vest. The more he sweated, the more motivated he was to carry on, which made running in LA all the easier. It was hard not to get soaked when the sun shone most days of the year. He liked to run with music in his ears, but right now he needed a clear head and time to think, so he’d left his music at home, though his phone was tucked safely in the pouch wrapped around his bicep, just in case. The further away from Santa Monica he got, the more the crowds thinned out, and the more alone he started to feel. If anyone was watching him now, he’d be vulnerable, but he didn’t think the situation was that serious. He wasn’t a defecting spy, after all; he was a simple divorce lawyer caught up in a misunderstanding. Jamieson was just trying to scare him because he wanted Philip to do a job for him, a job that he wasn’t going to do.
Because Philip wasn’t the killer.
Well, not intentionally, anyway.
Yes, Philip had gone to Gerald Baker’s house that day, with the intention of first talking to him, getting him to see sense after both he and Alistair had realised what the man was up to, and then killing him. He’d done his research and had figured out a way to make things look like a heart attack, even had a doctor friend confirm it would work for him. But the day’s events had turned a little odd, and before Philip could administer the drug he’d crushed up in preparation, the old man had keeled over all by himself.
Obviously, Jamieson now thought Philip had been responsible somehow, and Philip had debated whether to tell him the truth. But telling the truth would be admitting that he had been there, that he’d been in Gerald’s house and that they’d argued.
Philip was the last person to see him alive.
And he hadn’t helped save him.
He’d let him die.
The old man was a fraud. He’d developed a financial scheme that they’d fallen prey to, but more importantly, Gerald Baker had caused the deaths of at least three other individuals that they knew about. And maybe more outside their circle. And since the three victims been friends of both Philip and Alistair, they’d sought to get their revenge. Teach the man a lesson. But it’s funny how life’s events turn out: Mother Nature had intervened and got the job done herself. And while Philip had been witness to the episode, he certainly hadn’t helped the guy.
Did that make him a killer?
Regardless, somehow Jamieson had known that he was there, that Gerald Baker was now dead, and had assumed that Philip had been instrumental in this.
And now he wanted Philip to do the same to his wife.
No doubt there would be a fee involved, and while the money was tempting and they sure could use it, it would mean Philip would have to officially cross a line. Was money worth it? Or was a clean conscience a better price? He’d had a lucky escape with Gerald Baker; he hadn’t got his death on his hands, though he’d come close. But what if Jamieson wouldn’t take no for an answer? How would Philip explain away that he had been at Baker’s house, and then that he’d been at the funeral? That last idea had been a giant mistake, but it had been a double check, just to make sure that the old bugger had been put in the ground and hadn’t suddenly come back to life in a morgue refrigerator. No, he’d seen him go, all right; Gerald Baker was good and gone.
Philip decided he’d had enough running; he’d still got the return journey to do. He jogged to a halt at a rocky outcrop, turned to face the ocean and was tempted to get in for a dip, cool himself, and wash some of the sweat off his body. He looked like he’d already been in the sea; he was saturated, and tiny rivers of salty sweat ran down his head and arms.
The water was tranquil and calm, small waves breaking easily at the shoreline just a couple of feet away from where he stood. There was nobody else around; he had the beach to himself. He bent to undo his laces, kicked off his trainers and removed his armband, leaving them all in a tidy pile out of the water’s reach. Barefoot, he waded out until he was waist high in seawater, the salt from his sweat mixing with the salt from the ocean. He dipped down and stuck his head and shoulders under the water to rinse, holding his breath while he stayed in place, quite still, feeling the water move around his body, swirling around his head until he was almost out of breath. He popped back up and took a gulp of air to refill his lungs, then dipped back down under the water.
The cooler water did wonders to lower his body temperature, and when his lungs were almost empty again, he broke back through the surface to breathe but kept his tanned shoulders tucked under. It was wonderfully refreshing, and he lifted his legs beneath him and trod the water like a dog paddling. He rested his head back in the water and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the sun warm his face, doing its best to dry the salty sea water. He stayed there, eyes closed, just floating in the water, letting the stress loosen from his shoulders while he could. It was the escape he needed.
But he couldn’t stay there all night. With a sigh, he made his way back to the shore and his trainers. As he sloshed back up onto the shore, his running shorts hung loosely around his hips, water cascading in long tapering rivers down his legs. He picked up his phone and trainers and started to walk back towards home, water still dripping down his tanned body. The run had done him good, the soak even more so, and he felt a little clearer in his own mind. He wasn’t interested in Jamieson’s offer; he wasn’t interested in the man’s money. No, he was interested in his own moral compass—and being on the right side of it. If that meant telling Jamieson the truth about what had happened that day, then so be it; he’d suffer the consequences. But he wasn’t going to put himself in that position again. Something had intervened that day. Philip had never been meant to kill the man—that deed had been taken out of his hands.
It was best he should leave things that way.
Chapter Forty
Tuesday 4th August 1987
I’m finding this so hard to deal with and, cliché or not, I simply have no clue what to do for the best. My life as I know it would turn upside down if anyone knew what I’m doing, and I couldn’t bear to hurt them. But how can you love more than one woman at the same time? My feelings for Sylvia won’t go away and I’m addicted to her presence; I can’t keep away from her. I miss everything about her—her smile, her perfume, her easy-going ways. She makes me feel so alive again. Yes, I know, another cliché, but she does. She puts a smile on my face. And I know I must stop before someone suspects something. The question is, how can I keep away from the woman I’m so drawn to, so addicted to, so in love with?
Chapter Forty-One
Chrissy couldn’t work out if she was disappointed or not. She’d started out with the 2014 diary, looking for some clue, into what she yet had no idea. And the year was the wrong one; she needed 1987. But it was all she had to go on, all she had of her father’s private life, which she knew nothing about. Alas, all the diary contained was a few entries about his feelings and a few business and social events that he’d attended—birthdays or christenings or similar events. There were, as expected, a few finan
cial notes that made no sense to her at all, with what appeared to be some sort of code written next to them. Weird, but certainly not interesting.
She sipped on her wine while she read and when the glass was empty for the second time, she got up to refill it again. Swaying a little as she stood, she caught herself with the arm of her chair. She was beginning to feel little woozy; she needed food in her empty stomach before the boys got home.
They’re not coming home for dinner, silly.
Healthy sushi at Gary’s place, remember?
I’m a terrible mother.
It was perhaps a good job they were being fed elsewhere; she couldn’t have driven them for burgers or sushi. Even if she didn’t drink any more wine, she needed to soak up what was already sloshing around in her empty stomach. She opened the fridge again and took out items to make a sandwich; it would do, although her creation would not have garnered points on Britain’s Best Home Cook. Mayonnaise oozed precariously down the side of the bread. Cooking was not one of her stronger points; no wonder Adam had chosen to stay out for dinner. She took her hastily made sandwich back to her corner chair and put her feet up on the small side table rather than tucking them underneath her. It was easier to eat that way.
“What was going on, Dad?” she asked the otherwise empty room as she picked up his diary again. “And why is the diary from 1987 missing? And the years either side of it? Who’s got them?”
Even with the three books missing, there was no way she was going to let this puzzle go now; it was getting more mysterious as the days clicked over. Maybe she would fare better with the information she’d gleaned from the old headmaster, she thought. At least he’d managed to give her parts of names; maybe she could Google the rest of them now. With nothing left to learn from the 2014 diary, she took the remains of her sandwich and glass of wine up to her attic office and her computer.