by Peter Murphy
He worried about other things, too. Not, so much, about Greta: she still excited him, and she still seemed to enjoy him. Under her tutelage he had become a better lover, more precise and competent, and that increased his confidence. He no longer felt any need to feign resistance to the spankings, which he now accepted as part of his desire for her. On the surface, that was all going well. Still, he did worry about how important a part of his life she had become, and what would happen if one day she tired of him. He knew Greta well enough by now to know that the day she tired of him was the day she would throw him out of her life, like last season’s cocktail dress, without remorse or ceremony. He was addicted to her now, and he worried about the coming of that day.
He worried about Deborah, too. Now that the fraud case was over, logically enough, she was expecting him to come home to Guildford at night. Every night away now required a plausible story. There were always chambers meetings, and parties, and other cases to work on; moreover, he had to justify the Barbican flat to the tax man and he couldn’t do that without using it regularly. But he had to be careful about repeating the same story too often. He worried about making a mistake, and he worried about what would happen if she tried to call him during the night and he wasn’t there. She suffered from bouts of insomnia, and there were times when, in her misery, she woke him to ask why God had punished her by making her barren, or why the people she most looked up to at church never seemed to warm to her, despite everything she did for them. And what if there were an emergency at home, and she needed him, and he wasn’t on the other end of the phone? Those were dangerous thoughts to have running through your head when you were at the table trying to read the energy.
And then he worried about money. When he first joined the Clermont Club, his luck had been good. There were nights when he won and nights when he lost, but once he had learned to see the energy, he learned to control his play well. He knew when to stop, and even if the punishment for stopping was sometimes severe later, in Knightsbridge, he knew how to walk away. But then – at some time he could never quite pinpoint – his luck started to change: imperceptibly at first, the sequence of losing nights becoming longer, the winning nights becoming fewer and farther between.
He had a successful practice in Silk and he was earning high fees. But as a barrister, he was self-employed, and being self-employed, he depended for his income on the cheques written by solicitors. The arrival of a cheque for a barrister’s fee was a notoriously unpredictable event. The solicitors often kept barristers’ fees for a year or more to boost the interest on their client trust accounts before sending a cheque to chambers. The practice was grossly unethical, but if chambers wanted the solicitor’s work, nothing would be done except for the occasional gentle reminder by the senior clerk. Often, the clerk was fobbed off with the disclaimer that their client had not put them in funds, which was usually untrue. Conrad had heard that in Hong Kong the Bar had dealt with the problem by boycotting solicitors who treated them in that way, but in England, the prospect of the profession coming together with such a show of solidarity on a subject as infra dig as money was remote.
He had to budget for the many expenses in his life: the house in Guildford, the Barbican flat, his chambers rent, and his clerk’s fees – which, alone, accounted for ten per cent of his gross income – not to mention putting something by for when the tax man came calling. His professional and personal survival depended on his ability to meet those expenses as and when they came due. And then, he needed enough money to go to the Clermont Club at least once a week, and keep Greta happy by being prepared to lose. He had tried once or twice to explain all this to Greta, but she seemed indifferent, and if she reacted at all, it was to punish him, for what she called his weakness, even more firmly than usual.
It was within his power, of course, to walk away; to resume the life he had led with some success before John Aspinall had made him a member of the Clermont Club; before he had met Greta. But he had to admit to himself that it was not only Greta he was addicted to. He had been a gambler before he met her. All she had done was raise the stakes. He was just as addicted to the thrill of the table as he was to Greta herself. He didn’t want to walk away. He no longer saw a way back to his former life; and in any case, it had been a life to endure rather than to live. He was living now, and he was determined that nothing should get in his way.
The problem facing him tonight, as he sat amid the chaos and violence of that turbulent table, was that his adverse run of luck had taken him beyond the point where he could provide for his losses out of his income. He had a Post Office savings account in his sole name, which contained £10,000. It was an account he had opened as a student, and had paid into as and when he could, and which, as a prosperous QC, he had kept intact largely for nostalgic reasons. Tonight that money was with Vicente at the cash desk. Some £2,000 had already gone.
27
Lord Lucan was seated to his immediate right, and Lucan was harder to predict than anyone at the table. Conrad could read Ian Maxwell-Scott like a book now, and when he had won over the last few months, it had increasingly been at Ian’s expense. Susie had been watching, and had deliberately distanced herself from him. It seemed to be as much as she could manage to say a polite hello when he came in now. Dominick, he could read, too: Dominick losing within reason for the house, taking one for the team. Conrad felt safe enough with him. Even James Goldsmith, with his relentless manic aggression, was usually predictable, up to a point. But tonight, Goldsmith seemed to have been caught up in the waves of the anger fuelled by Derby and Lucan. Their betting was more in the nature of terrifying emotional outbursts than rational calculation.
Having Lucan on his right at a chemmy table on a night like this was like sitting next to an unexploded shell. He knew it would be wiser to play respectably down until he lost something manageable, and passed the bank to Lucan, and could react to the explosion instead of being caught up in it. But she had been standing behind him, with her hands on his shoulders; her hair touching his head and her scent filling his nostrils; and now he had lit the fuse.
‘Banco prime,’ Lucan said, his tone harsh.
‘Rien ne va plus,’ Jean-Pascal announced.
As the cards were dealt, John Aspinall stood and came closer.
Lucan turned his two cards over: a six and a jack.
Conrad inhaled deeply before turning his cards over: an ace and a king. In another card game it would have been a perfect hand, but it was of no value in chemin de fer. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly.
‘The players win, six to one,’ Jean-Pascal announced. ‘Lord Lucan has the bank.’
Aspinall called a break to allow time for the atmosphere to calm down, and a waiter took orders for drinks.
‘All right, are we, Conrad?’ he asked, while Greta was out of the room for a few minutes.
‘Yes, John, of course. Why do you ask?’
Aspinall shrugged.
‘Oh, I don’t know. It just seems to be a bit competitive on this table tonight. I don’t know what’s got into everyone. Lucky seems wound up tight, and Jimmy looks as if he’s ready to kill somebody. It does get like this sometimes for no apparent reason, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen it this lively. It’s a bit quieter in the Holland, if you fancy something rather more sedate?’
Conrad smiled, anticipating what Greta would have to say about a quieter table in the Holland and something more sedate.
‘I’m fine, John, thank you. It’s getting late in any case. I don’t suppose I’ll last much longer; work tomorrow, that kind of thing.’
‘That might be very wise, Conrad, I think,’ Aspinall replied, walking away as Greta returned.
The break did nothing to dissipate the violent atmosphere at the table, and try as he might, Conrad could not track the energy. Twice he suggested to Greta that it was time to call it a night, but her reaction was so strong that he was actually afraid
she might cause a scene. Lucan seemed to have lost his grip on reality, and at one point Aspinall had to remind him discreetly of the house maximum of £10,000. With ill grace, Lucan reduced an absurd wager of £20,000 to the house maximum. Even for this out-of-control table, it was too rich. The highest response to his bet was £500, but he won and sulkily reduced his next wager to £5,000. Goldsmith pounced, covered the bank, and won for the players; and to general relief, the bank passed to Ian Maxwell-Scott.
By this time, Conrad was down more than £5,000. The sensible course was to leave now, while he still had some of his savings left. But she was there behind him, with her wild rose scent, and besides, he had the measure of Ian Maxwell-Scott. Susie was pacing up and down, desperate to take him home, but Ian was not about to give up now, not with the energetic anarchy around the table. Conrad decided to chase his losses.
‘The bank wagers £1,000,’ Ian said, with a strange calm.
Conrad looked around. The energy was still eluding him, but Ian sounded as though he had sight of it and believed it might be with him. Dominick Elwes had the right of banco prime, but Dominick was concerned that he had already lost more than John Aspinall was likely to write off to expenses, and he showed no inclination to intervene. Even Derby and Lucan seemed uncertain. These were important cautionary signs, and on a normal night he would have paid attention to them; but he chose to ignore them. He called banco, but Ian had a seven and a two. As lost as if he were in a fog, Conrad allowed himself to repeat the scenario twice, and in both hands, the result was the same except for the arithmetic of the bank’s victory. After another hand or two, his savings were gone, and Susie was all over Ian, telling him how brilliant he was and cajoling him out of his chair to go home.
There was to be no punishment. On the contrary, Greta plied him with whisky, undressed him, and took him to bed, praising him to the skies for his courage. She laid him down on his back, and started to undress.
‘You were magnificent,’ she said. ‘I want you to play like that every time.’
‘I can’t,’ he replied. ‘I don’t have any more money.’
She laughed.
‘There’s always more money,’ she said.
He was about to protest, but she was already naked and was beginning to kiss her way down his body from his chest. He swallowed his protests and, as she worked her magic on him, started to think about what she had said. Was there always more money? There were two assets left: the house and Deborah’s trust fund. There would be certain – well, complications – involved in accessing funds from either source, but it could be done; as a temporary measure, obviously, just until his luck changed back again. Tonight he had been the victim of a freak table – even John Aspinall had said so. That shouldn’t put him off. He would soon be back on track.
28
‘Mr Rainer to see you, Mr Sawyer,’ Annette said, smiling, and ushering him in.
‘Ah, Conrad,’ Jeremy Sawyer said, getting to his feet, ‘I’m so glad you could come. Would you like some tea?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘How do you like it, Mr Rainer?’ Annette asked.
‘Just a little milk, please, no sugar.’
‘Won’t be a jiffy,’ she said, breezing back out through the door.
‘Come and sit down here so that we can enjoy the view,’ Sawyer said, pointing to a sofa and two armchairs in front of the huge window at the front of his office. ‘Much nicer than sitting around a desk, I always think.’
Conrad took one of the armchairs. The view over the river was magnificent. He was still in something of a daze after losing his savings the previous night. Greta had cheered him up considerably at Knightsbridge, but when he arrived back at his flat, desperately tired and in the usual rush to shower and change in time to take himself into chambers, the exhilaration was quickly replaced by the reality of a new day, for which he felt unprepared. To make matters worse, just as he was leaving, Deborah had called about some domestic matter. As far as he could tell, she had not tried to call the flat the previous evening; at least, she didn’t say that she had. But then again, she didn’t say that she hadn’t, and the anxiety was still there. With such an unpromising start to the day, Conrad was taken completely by surprise when his clerk told him that Jeremy Sawyer wanted to see him at the House of Lords just after lunch.
He had heard about Jeremy Sawyer’s office from others in chambers – others who had gone on to a judicial appointment. Jeremy Sawyer was known as the Lord Chancellor’s right-hand man when it came to the appointment of judges, and his huge office with its commanding view of the Thames was something they all remembered. Conrad was astonished when he received the news. He had always considered himself judicial material, his practice in Silk more than justified an appointment, and he had hoped that one might eventually come his way; but with all the distractions in his life, in addition to his practice, it had been the last thing on his mind lately.
Annette served tea and retired discreetly.
‘Conrad, I asked you to come this afternoon so that we can have a chat,’ Sawyer said. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. The Lord Chancellor has taken soundings from the judges who know you well, and he is considering you for an appointment to the High Court bench – the Queen’s Bench Division. Of course, the appointment is actually made by the Queen, not the Lord Chancellor. But once the Lord Chancellor decides to recommend someone, the Queen always agrees, so as a matter of protocol the Lord Chancellor never makes an offer of appointment without first making sure that it will be accepted.’
He paused and drank from his cup.
‘So, I must ask you: if he were to make such an offer, would you be minded to accept?’
Conrad felt his whole body relax. He came alive again. The day had changed instantly from one of exhaustion to one of joy.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Yes, I certainly would.’
Sawyer smiled.
‘Excellent. The Lord Chancellor will be very pleased. We’ll be in touch about the paperwork in due course; no need to worry about that today. But there are a couple of other questions I need to ask you; all perfectly routine, nothing to be concerned about.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Firstly, as you know, all High Court judges are knighted on appointment, and the Lord Chancellor must make sure that the person appointed will accept the knighthood.’
Conrad’s first thought was for Deborah. She would become Lady Rainer. Perhaps that would be some compensation for all the nights he had spent away, and for all the sacrifices they had made over the years, and perhaps even for the absence of children. He found himself happy for her.
‘Why would someone refuse a knighthood?’ he asked.
Sawyer laughed. ‘It’s very rare. You occasionally have a chap who’s a bit left wing and fancies himself as a republican, or something like that, who turns his nose up at it; betrayal of his principles and so forth.’
‘What do you say to people like that?’
‘It’s only happened once on my watch. I told him that he couldn’t have the job without the K, and that I had any number of good chaps waiting in the queue who would be only too happy to step up if he really couldn’t reconcile it with his conscience.’
‘And what happened?’
‘It did the trick. He’s still on the bench, and doing a jolly good job, too.’
Conrad laughed.
‘Well, you won’t have any problem like that with me, I assure you.’
‘I didn’t think so. But I had to ask.’
He paused. ‘There’s another thing I need to ask, too.’
‘Please,’ Conrad said.
‘The Lord Chancellor must know if there’s any reason why it may be inappropriate for him to recommend you to the Queen.’
Conrad paused.
‘Inappropriate? In what way?’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘Well,
I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that the Lord Chancellor expects the highest standard of conduct from judges. It’s particularly important at the High Court level. At the lower levels, the Lord Chancellor can dismiss a judicial office holder for misconduct. But High Court judges can only be removed by an address of both Houses of Parliament, which is something that has never happened to an English judge. That’s a record we’re rather proud of, and one the Lord Chancellor wouldn’t want to lose.’
‘Yes, I see that…’
‘There was a case a few years ago,’ Sawyer continued, ‘which was on my watch, I regret to say. It’s all in the public domain, and the man in question has retired, so it’s quite proper for me to tell you about it – and indeed, the Lord Chancellor has asked me to tell everyone in your position.
‘There was a man called Martin Hardcastle. I don’t know whether the name rings a bell?’
‘Yes, it does,’ Conrad replied. The story had made the rounds at the Bar at the time; it was hard to imagine that anyone had not heard it. But Sawyer was going to tell him, regardless, and he would not interrupt him.
‘Hardcastle was in Silk, and the Lord Chancellor offered him an appointment to the County Court bench, which he accepted. There had been rumours about the amount he was drinking, but neither I, nor the Lord Chancellor, had any reason to think that it would be a problem. I interviewed him in this very office, and the Lord Chancellor offered him an appointment.
‘But when his chambers gave him a farewell dinner, he got very drunk – so much so, that on his way home he was arrested for being drunk and disorderly, and obstructing a police officer in the execution of his duty. A member of his chambers managed to get the obstruction charge dropped, but he was fined by the magistrates for being drunk and disorderly. Of course, yours truly then had to write to Hardcastle to tell him that the Lord Chancellor had withdrawn the offer. Not the kind of situation we like to be in.’