‘Yeah, you’re right, but I’m still not doing it. Too much like dancing on his grave.’
‘Think of it as therapy.’
‘Even if I did, the piece would never see the light of day.’
Mel never wasted time banging his head against brick walls. ‘Okay, okay, so what about Son of Crippen? Plenty of scope for serialisation with true crime, that’s the way to make a few bucks.’
‘Don’t you start.’
‘You’re afraid, aren’t you?’ Mel demanded. ‘Afraid you’re just a one-trick pony. Afraid the next book won’t be as good as the last. So you’d rather not risk writing it.’
Nic said lazily, ‘When I want to be psychoanalysed, I’ll let you know. It’s not fear, Mel. You know that. It’s just – I need a story to seduce me. Take over my life. If I’m not obsessed, it won’t work.’
‘Okay, okay. So what’s bugging you right now? Apart from the fact that your royalty cheques ain’t been so handsome for a while?’
‘When something comes along, I’ll tell you, all right?’
He put the phone down, aware that he hadn’t told Mel the whole truth. Something had begun to obsess him. It was more, even more, than the need to understand how Ella had come back from the dead. He wanted to learn about the dead lawyers and find if the answer to Dylan’s final question meant anything at all.
Without thinking, he put on a CD. Noel Gallagher, being contemptuous about something.
‘For God’s sake,’ Phil called down. ‘Are you doing this deliberately? You know I need quiet if I’m going to concentrate.’
He cut off Noel in mid-sneer. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’
He sprawled across the red and yellow sofa, an artistically brilliant contrast to the plain birch plywood wall cupboards and as comfortable as a ledge of rock. Thinking about Dylan, not Phil. Later, after she’d finished work, she was in a better humour and came to sit on his knee.
‘I had an idea,’ she said, as he stroked her thighs. ‘How about writing up what happened to your family all those years ago?’
He stopped stroking. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Sure I am, why not? You could do it.’ She paused. ‘Maybe it would help.’
‘Help who?’
‘You.’
‘So I need help?’
‘You became a lawyer, so you could discover how to weigh up evidence. You wrote about how a man under suspicion deals with his wife’s death so that you could make sense of crimes of passion. Maybe prove that black is white.’
‘He didn’t kill her, Phil.’
‘You’re talking about Crippen?’
‘You know I’m not.’
She pulled a face. ‘Everyone else thinks he did it.’
‘I can’t write about it – the whole thing’s too close. But there’s no way he could have killed her.’
‘It’s the truth. Must be. Why can’t you get used to it?’
He bundled her off his knee. ‘Because I don’t believe it. I knew him. He would never do a thing like that, you hear? I’ll never accept he was guilty, understand? One day I’ll prove it to you.’
‘Prove what, exactly?’
‘That my father was no murderer.’
Bryn Gabriel had been a Welshman and a teller of tales. Nic’s first memories were of his father recounting legends of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table. One story that always stuck in his mind was that of King Pellinore’s pursuit of the Questing Beast. The Beast was part lion, part serpent, part goat and made a sound as though thirty couples of hounds were in its belly. It existed for no other reason than to be sought after, and Pellinore hunted after it until he died. As a boy, Nic had asked his father why someone would ever feel impelled to devote his life to an endless and impossible task.
‘It happens, Dominic.’ His father always used his full name, never the shortened version his mother preferred. After her death, Nic never called himself Dominic. ‘If we want something badly enough, we may have to sacrifice everything else in trying to achieve it, even if in our heart of hearts we know it’s hopeless and we’re fated not to make it. I don’t suppose it’s a matter of choice. If something matters so much, it takes over completely and consumes our whole lives. As it did with Pellinore and his pursuit of the Questing Beast.’
In those days, he hadn’t been able to make sense of what his father said. He loved the magic and mystery of the ancient narratives, but kept hankering after rhyme and reason. His hunger for rational explanations was what had drawn him to the study of law. If so, he’d been disappointed. The logic of the law was only skin deep. He’d come to realise that murder fascinated him more than anything. Was it possible to understand what went on in a killer’s mind, as well as in the mind of those presumed guilty, who turned out in truth to be innocent?
At half two, he went upstairs. Phil groaned as he climbed into bed, but did not open her eyes. He touched the back of her neck with his lips. Her skin was soft and the whiff of alcohol still clung to her. He stared out across the spiky moonlit skyline. The electronic system which closed the curtains had developed a malfunction so that a gap was always left through which he could survey the city at night. Shadows danced on the ceiling. He dared not close his eyes in case he saw Ella Vinton, her eyes devoid of pity, plunging the knife into Dylan’s throat. Phil stirred beside him.
‘Still thinking about the headhunter?’ she said in a muffled voice. Her eyes had not opened.
She was not a fool. ‘Yes.’
‘You can’t bring him back.’
She might have been talking about his father, as well as Dylan. ‘I know.’
‘Well, then,’ she muttered. ‘Go to sleep.’
She was barely awake, but he felt his chest tightening. It wasn’t smart to be hurt by a few drowsy well-meant words, but surely if she loved him, she would have remembered that he was an insomniac.
The noise of the city, there was no escape from it. Beery voices booming out of airless bars, the crashing of builders hauling bricks over scaffolding, the constant bellow of the traffic. The racket of London echoed in his ears. Even as he lay awake in bed in the middle of the night, there was no respite. In the distance a car engine rumbled, a drunk yelled, a group of roaming young people shrieked with laughter.
Lying in the dark, he thought, as so often, about murder. Dylan had known how to touch his nerve, how to seize his attention by talking of an addiction to murder. Nic derided most of the true crime buffs he’d met, people like the Ripperologists, the puzzle freaks who kept coming up with barmily improbable suspects for the Whitechapel killings or the sickos who salivated over the details of each evisceration. But on one thing everyone who dabbled in criminology agreed. It was possible for a man to be innocent of a crime when all the evidence pointed to his culpability. The case against Crippen was crushing. Nic had read the notes made by Richard Muir, counsel for the prosecution. Terse jottings so beautifully composed that they’d even made it into a compilation of classic legal literature – as well as playing their part in hanging a man.
A line from Raymond Chandler stuck in his mind. Nobody ever writes a book about a famous case to prove that the jury brought in the right verdict. But having an imagination wasn’t a must for serving on a jury, and even Chandler had speculated that Crippen might not have meant to murder his wife. While he was at work on his book, Nic had not simply wanted to dream up a way of exonerating Crippen. He’d believed in the doctor’s innocence. Believed in it with the same fierce passion that insisted his father was innocent, when all the evidence damned him.
When daybreak came, his heart stopped thudding and as he stretched out and calmed down, he told himself not to give up, that one day he would feel at ease in London. Self-deception, of course. No matter how long he lived here, even if he stayed until his dying day, in his bones he would never belong.
A few minutes after half seven, the phone rang. Lea Valentine, Dylan’s partner.
She didn’t bother with preambles or solicitous enqu
iries after his health. ‘Heard the news?’
‘What news?’
‘It was on breakfast telly. The woman who killed Dylan. She’s dead. Without regaining consciousness. Guess who she was?’
Chapter Six
‘You’ve been wonderful,’ Roxanne said after Chloe Beck bookmarked the internet labour law reports on her personal computer the next morning. ‘I don’t think I could have survived even this long without you.’
‘It’s nothing. Anyone would have been glad to show you what’s what,’ Chloe said. ‘Anyway, I’ve enjoyed it, showing you the ropes. Making friends.’
Roxanne gave a cool smile. Grateful for Chloe’s help, but not wanting the other woman to befriend her. It was safer to keep a distance from people at work. She must guard her privacy. Even if Hilary kept her word and did not betray her, it would be so easy to let something slip in casual conversation.
Chloe was a chatterbox, someone who regaled the slightest acquaintance with highlights from her life story. Roxanne had already heard far more of the gory details about Chloe’s implants op than she would have wished. Worse, Ms Silicone didn’t just like talking about herself. She was fascinated by people, endlessly inquisitive. A dangerous companion for a person with something to hide, but avoiding her was easier said than done. Their rooms adjoined each other and Roxanne had to pass Chloe’s in order to reach hers. The only alternative was to hike all the way around the floor in the opposite direction so as to avoid the chance that Chloe might look up from her desk and wave her in for a chat. But that would be both ridiculous and cowardly, and whatever her faults, no one had ever accused her of being stupid or lacking in courage. Usually she just shook her head if Chloe spotted her as she passed, mouthing ‘sorry’ through the glass panel in the door.
Yet it would have been impossible, even if she never asked her for help with an unfamiliar computer system or to do any secretarial work, to escape Chloe’s company altogether. Thanks to speech recognition software and the regular absences on business of Ben and Joel, Chloe often seemed to have time on her hands. She liked to pop in for a chat whenever she was at a loose end. Any excuse was good enough. Later that same day, Roxanne even found herself participating, for the first time in her life, in a conversation about lipstick.
‘I’d feel naked without it,’ Chloe confessed. ‘If my house was burning down, the first thing I’d want to rescue would be my lipstick. You may laugh, but it’s true!’
Roxanne had grown up regarding lipstick as something that mattered to people of her mother’s age. She thought of it as a generation thing, but Chloe was her own age. At least she guessed so. In superbitch mood, she might have said that the other woman wore so much make-up, it was hard to tell. But who was she to criticise someone else for wearing a disguise?
‘I’m sure you’d look just as good without it,’ she said.
Chloe feigned self-consciousness. ‘Oh, do you really think so?’
‘Honestly.’
They bantered like this for a while. Chloe said, ‘You know, I’m so glad you’ve come here. It’s fun to talk to you. Makes a change from the girls in the typing pool. And the solicitors. You’re – well, it’s a funny thing to say, but somehow you’re different.’
You don’t know how right you are. ‘I suppose I’d better take that as a compliment.’
‘Of course,’ Chloe said. And, beaming from ear to ear, she sauntered back to her room.
Roxanne couldn’t help liking her. That was the problem. Chloe was warm and straightforward and possessed a love of life that Roxanne found intensely appealing. Perhaps she was jealous, because Chloe didn’t seem to carry any baggage. There was no secret which she had to keep for ever.
Roxanne was seeing a good deal of Joel Anthony. Somehow she felt safer in his company than when she was with any of the other partners. So far he had neither asked her about her past nor showed any curiosity about her private life. Like Chloe, he was always willing to spare a few minutes to answer her questions, however mundane or naive they might be. Often he spiced his explanations with anecdotes about cases the firm had fought. Triumphs over bureaucracy, officialdom, hallowed legal precedent. Every story cast Will Janus in a flattering light.
‘It’s like Fergus says. Without Will, this firm would be just another bog-standard law practice. Will’s broadened our client base out of all recognition. We don’t just serve a narrow interest sector these days. We don’t just focus on employers, or on employees. He’s found a third way. These days, the great and the good beat a path to our door. Number Ten begged him to talk Ali Khan into sponsoring the Media Zone at the poor old Dome. He was close to Diana, in the months before she died. They shared an interest in campaigning against landmines and raising funds for children’s hospices. Salman Rushdie’s a friend, Bob Geldof, the list goes on. Only yesterday he was asked to call in at Lambeth Palace.’
‘I suppose I assumed our work would be mostly on behalf of workers and trade unions,’ she said. As the words left her lips, she wanted to bite her tongue. It sounded like blasphemy, although she hadn’t meant to criticise Will Janus or the firm. The trouble with Joel was that he made you feel relaxed, so that you were tempted to drop your guard. She added hastily, ‘I mean, almost all the stuff I’ve seen so far consists of files opened for multi-nationals and favours for the glitterati. It’s fascinating, but…’
‘We’ll represent anyone,’ Joel said, interrupting her with every appearance of good humour. ‘As long as they pay our bills. As for the pro bono work we do…’
Her only reservation about Joel, she thought as he launched into a recapitulation of Fergus McHugh’s press release about the firm’s free advice clinic for needy residents of the Isle of Dogs, was that he was so on-message. But he was a brilliant lawyer. She was learning so much from working with him on the Thrust Media sexual harassment case.
The victim, Gina Mandel, was a sales rep for Thrust Media’s magazine division. She’d complained about her marketing director’s conduct at a bonding weekend at a hotel in Brighton. He’d taken the bonding concept too far. She accused him of propositioning her at the bar in the evening and then following her up to her bedroom and pestering her to allow him to come in. When she said no, he’d tried to kiss her, then put his hand up her skirt before she’d managed to slam the door in his face. Roxanne had handled a dozen similar cases at Hengist Street, but this was the first time she’d acted for an employer in such a squalid little story. Howard Haycraft, the director, had given Gina Mandel a poor performance appraisal a week earlier. He claimed she was taking revenge, although she had been off work with stress ever since and her doctor confirmed that she couldn’t face returning to confront the boss who had bullied her. According to Haycraft, she was simply seeking to make easy money and destroy his career in the process.
‘Preparation,’ Joel said, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. ‘That’s the secret of success in advocacy. Never mind the rhetorical flourishes, they’re fun, but they’re only icing on the cake. You need to know your case inside out. So you can be ready for anything.’
‘You wrote to the clients about rehearsing the witnesses’ evidence.’
‘I want to put Haycraft under pressure, the sort of pressure he’ll be under in the witness box if this case goes all the way. You come too. See how he reacts to cross-examination.’
‘You want to play devil’s advocate?’
He grinned. ‘Something like that.’
They took a taxi up Tottenham Court Road, heading for Thrust Media’s headquarters, a glass building with a cupola which looked like a millennial palace designed by Richard Rogers on an off day. Thrust sold everything from bestselling vegan cookbooks to interactive pornographic software and was a hot tip to win the lottery franchise next time around. Meanwhile Ali Khan climbed closer to the top of the British rich list every year. The bitter litigation over his battle for a British passport was long forgotten. These days, he was a pillar of the establishment. He and Will Janus were ver
y close. Chat magazines often pictured the pair of them and their pretty wives together, attending first nights, celebrity weddings and parties given by pals from the corridors of power.
They stopped at a red light. Newspaper placards on the pavement screamed Anarchist Protest Fears. Joel shook his head, said that the Mayor ought to crack down on the trouble before things got out of hand.
Roxanne wasn’t interested in the threatened riots. Politics meant nothing to her. ‘What do you make of the case?’
Joel drew a slender finger across his throat. ‘Haycraft will soon be history. The company’s Dignity at Work policy is explicit. Harassment is gross misconduct.’
‘He’s admitted nothing.’
‘We’ll see. Ali Khan can’t afford to have his reputation tarnished by managers who indulge in macho posturing. Thrust are determined to root out bullying.’
‘Perhaps Howard Haycraft should have asked Gina Mandel to sign a love contract.’
‘Believe me,’ Joel said, ‘It would take more than that to save his neck. Listen, Roxanne, once I’ve finished testing his evidence, you take him for a coffee and a chat. See what shape he’s in. Go somewhere in public, so there’s no way he’ll try anything on with you. Are you okay with that?’
‘Don’t worry, I can handle a creep like Howard Haycraft.’
‘I’m sure you can. When you talk to him, he’ll be in denial. Doesn’t matter. Whatever you do, don’t let him forget he’s the one in trouble, not Gina Mandel.’ Joel gazed hard at her before adding with uncharacteristic harshness, ‘Deep, deep trouble.’
They were greeted at reception with the news that Ali Khan wanted a quick word.
‘This is quite an honour,’ Joel said. Roxanne would have sworn that his voice was trembling with excitement. She was reminded of Chang in Lost Horizon, breaking the news to Conway that the High Lama of Shangri-La had summoned him for an audience.
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