‘Even though the affairs didn’t mean anything to him?’
‘Not much consolation when it dawned that she didn’t mean much to him either. So off to the railway line she went. Pity she didn’t choose my route home – the eternity you have to wait for a train, she’d have had a chance to change her mind.’ Then, as if for once regretting a brutal turn of phrase, she added in a softer voice, ‘But fuck me, you’d have to be pretty tired of life to want to finish it like that, eh?’
‘Dylan kept her photograph on his mantelpiece. He told me at the time he’d sworn to change his ways.’
‘Sure.’ Lea grimaced. ‘And so he did, till the next blue-eyed blonde with big tits signed up with us. The photo became part of his seduction technique, or so I heard. He could tell each latest conquest about the tragedy of a girlfriend who died young. Re-write a bit of history – the suicide became an accident – then play for sympathy. He could be a manipulative bastard, could Dylan. For him, life always moved on. He was a survivor. Until the other night.’
Nic bit his lip. ‘If only I hadn’t been pissed. If only I’d…’
Lea leaned across the desk and seized his wrist. ‘Stop that, Nic. You’ve no cause to blame yourself, do you hear? You were nearly a fucking hero.’
‘People keep saying that. And you know something? It really doesn’t make me feel better.’
‘Come on, Amy was determined to kill him. Look at how she conned her way past the flunkeys and into the party. If she hadn’t made it that night, there would have been another chance, another day.’
‘Simple as that?’
‘Yeah, simple as that. Hey, that’s something Dylan used to say about you. That you can’t ever bear to take the easy way out. You always love to make things complicated.’ She snorted with laughter. ‘You should never have given up being a lawyer. When it comes to making something out of nothing, you were a natural.’
‘I’ve been wondering. Why did Amy wait five years before murdering Dylan?’
‘Who knows what the fuck was going through her mind all that time?’ Lea shrugged, a seismic movement. She never bothered to conceal her contempt for excessive introspection. Animals appealed to her more than human beings. They concentrated on living rather than wasting their time worrying about things they could never change. ‘The hatred must have festered. Suddenly something blew inside her head and she decided to kill him. Spur of the moment thing.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Going to make a mystery out of it?’
‘I’m curious. You see, there’s something else.’
‘Namely?’
‘Did Dylan talk to you about the dead lawyers?’
She blinked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s why I showed up at the party. After it was over, he was going to tell me the story.’
The rich man who burned in Paradise. A giant who chopped himself in half. To say nothing of the boy who died of shock.
Lea heard him out, but as soon as he’d finished she said, ‘Load of crap, frankly. Mysterious deaths and some old flame he thought was living on borrowed time? He was winding you up, Nic. If not, then for fuck’s sake, what was he talking about?’
‘He never mentioned any of this to you?’
‘Not a word.’ Lea pursed her lips. ‘Though maybe it’s not so strange. He’d have known I’d send him off with a flea in his ear, told him he was letting his imagination run riot.’
‘Whereas I’m a credulous air-head?’
‘Well.’ Lea rubbed her chin. ‘You do have this thing about unexplained deaths. Or deaths that don’t have the right explanation, according to you. Like Crippen’s missus. If I wanted to grab your attention, guess what line I’d spin?’
‘Dylan was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t have wasted my time for no reason.’
‘He was getting carried away, as per usual. You should have seen his expenses claims. I never met a man with such a talent for make-believe.’
‘This woman he had the fling with at Oxford. Any idea who she might be?’
‘Do me a favour. Even if I wanted to keep track of Dylan’s love life, it wasn’t possible. There simply weren’t enough hours in the day.’
‘So he told you nothing about her?’
‘We didn’t waste time discussing his affairs. I worked on the premise it was better not to know what he was up to. That way, everything was deniable if the shit hit the fan. Although I knew something was going on. He’d been seeing an Australian girl who worked in radio. She found out he’d been two-timing her and the balloon went up. I don’t know the details. Now he’s dead, of course I wish we’d talked more. Too bloody late.’
By the look of her, Lea was not far from tears. Nic stroked her large, blotchy hand.
‘The last thing Dylan said was, “Why not jazz?” He whispered it. I’m not sure anyone but me heard. Any idea what he could have meant?’
‘You’re the one with the vivid imagination, you tell me. Maybe he was confused. He used to go to Ronnie Scott’s, but why would that inspire famous last words?’ She snorted with disgust. ‘You’re trying to make a mystery out of nothing. Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?’
‘I owe it to him to figure out what he was talking about.’
‘You don’t owe him anything. All right, take that look off your face. Go on, what did the police have to say?’
‘I’m a writer, okay? So by definition I have an overheated imagination. The sergeant took a few notes and gave me rather more dirty looks. He obviously thought I was trying to work up a story.’
‘They showed no interest, then?’
He thought about his mother’s death. ‘They never do. Not if it’s something that contradicts their preconceived ideas. Anyway, I’ve disturbed you for long enough. Perhaps Dylan talked to someone else. Anyone I could speak to? This Australian woman, maybe?’
Lea shook her head. ‘Caron? You’re wasting your time there.’
Nic thrust his hands deep in his pockets. He wanted to make his request sound casual, an afterthought. ‘You mentioned Dylan’s laptop. He used to call it his life support, didn’t he? If he’d been squirrelling information about these dead lawyers, he’d have kept it in there for sure. He didn’t take it with him to the House of Lords, so I presume he left it here. Any chance I can borrow it?’
Lea sighed and shook her head. ‘Sorry, can’t help. He took it home.’
Nic swore inwardly. He was aching from the weariness of nights with no sleep and wasn’t in the mood to be denied. ‘Maybe I can take a look at his place. You have a key?’
‘I do, as a matter of fact. But you’re wasting your time.’
‘Look, I realise the laptop will be full of confidential stuff. But all I’m interested in is this stuff about the solicitors who died. Promise.’
‘God, I trust you not to download all our trade secrets. To say nothing about the dirt we gather on our candidates’ private lives. That isn’t the problem. Something else happened the day Dylan died. Caron took her revenge on him. He’d given her a key to the house and she went over there that evening.’
Nic stared at her. ‘She trashed the place?’
‘No, she’s not a vandal. She simply wanted to get her own back. When she heard that he’d been killed, she rang me up and confessed. She was distraught, full of guilt. I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone, okay? She wasn’t to know what would happen to him that very night, was she?’
‘So what did she do?’
Lea exhaled. ‘Just cut the arms off Dylan’s favourite leather jacket and chucked his laptop into the river.’
Chapter Eight
As she walked down the Strand, Roxanne felt guilt smothering her, like a blanket pressed against her face. She blamed herself for Haycraft’s accident. If it was an accident. Maybe he’d meant to walk under the wheels of the wagon. She could not be sure. More likely, he had ceased to care whether he lived or died. He’d realised that he was ruined. If he had not been run over
in Chancery Lane, there would have been a tragedy somewhere else on some other day. Even so, she felt guilty. Haycraft was obviously at his wits’ end. Joel Anthony had said the man was in deep, deep trouble and she had taken a dislike to him, so she had allowed him to stare disaster in the face.
Five minutes after she arrived back in Avalon Buildings, Joel paused on passing her room to ask if she was okay.
‘Of course.’ She didn’t want anyone to know that she had seen what had happened. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘It’s just that – you looked a bit flustered, that’s all.’ In the background, Roxanne could hear the ubiquitous piped music. Another lush ballad, ‘Make It Easy On Yourself’. ‘Haycraft didn’t try anything with you, I hope?’
‘He was too far gone for that.’ The stud in Joel’s ear gleamed under the fluorescent light. ‘You did a very good job on him.’
As the door closed behind him, she swore to herself. Joel was sensitive to mood and atmosphere, more interested in what people were thinking than the other lawyers she had met. She was still afraid that he might start reading her mind.
Ben marched in a couple of minutes later. ‘Well, then, young Roxanne, how’s it going?’
‘One thing’s for sure. I never expected to spend my first week at Creed trying to defend Ali Khan’s empire from being punished for the sexism of some middle-aged manager.’
‘I’ll let you into a little secret, Roxanne,’ Ben said, lowering his voice. ‘Just between you and me, all right?’
She could not imagine what was coming, but when he paused, she muttered, ‘All right.’
‘You’ve seen how much Haycraft is paid. His package costs Thrust a small fortune, yet he’s a dinosaur. Snag is, it would take an age to sack him for poor performance without running the risk of a pricey unfair dismissal claim. So the main board had already given an executive search consultancy a tip-off about him.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s how companies offload their over-paid under-achievers. An old trick. Management tips off a headhunter that one of their top executives may be on the look-out for a fresh challenge. The headhunter contacts him and, ego massaged, he’s kick-started into considering a move. A prospective employer is then supplied with a reference trumpeting his achievements and – hey presto! – the problem is solved.’ Ben laughed. ‘Some third-rate managers spend their careers shifting jobs at regular intervals, accompanied each time by a testimonial which makes them sound like a cross between Bill Gates and Richard Branson.’
‘And?’
‘Unfortunately, Haycraft interviews so badly that two of Thrust’s main competitors have already turned him down. Then along comes Gina Mandel. A lucky break, her claim could save our clients a small fortune. As a bonus, their equal opportunities enforcement record gets a boost. It’s not every day a senior executive is sacrificed at the altar of anti-sexism crusade.’
Roxanne said, ‘So they can sack him, throw money at the girl to settle the claim and then go back to making profits for shareholders. For Haycraft, end of story.’
‘Don’t sound so shocked,’ Ben said. His tone was suddenly cold. ‘The law isn’t a game, you know. This is the real world we’re working in. Litigation is like warfare. You can’t hope to avoid collateral damage.’ The screensaver on her computer blinked at her. The legend read Roxanne Wake. It helped if she constantly reminded herself of who she had become. A couple of right-on caseworkers at Hengist Street had made it clear that by joining Creed she’d sold her soul. The salary was amazing and she wasn’t embarrassed to take it. As soon as her first month’s pay was transferred into her account, she would buy the leather coat she’d coveted in Selfridges. But the money mattered much less to her than it did to most. As for selling her soul – if only those other girls knew.
Her father had worked as a printer before competing technology bankrupted the company which had employed him for twenty-five years. He’d never worked again and she’d watched him age before her eyes, spending money that the family could not afford in the Buxton pubs, rotting his life as well as his liver. Her mother was a nurse who supplemented her work at the local hospital with shifts at a private care home which brought in a few extra pounds each week. The home owner took a fancy to her and when she rebuffed his advances, she soon found herself made redundant in the interest of economy. Her husband urged her to take up a claim in the tribunal, but she’d refused through a combination of pride, ignorance and fear of the unknown. Cassandra said nothing, but resolved that one day she would help people like her parents to regain the pride that a worthwhile job could bring.
Of course, things didn’t turn out as expected. Her parents’ marriage broke down and Cassandra’s father finished up in a council flat in Whaley Bridge. On her fourteenth birthday, he fell down a flight of steps in a drunken stupor and broke his neck. Cassandra’s mother struggled to bring up a teenage daughter on her own and tempers were often frayed. As Cassandra’s interest in boys developed, her childish enthusiasm for wielding the sword of justice waned. And then she met Grant Dennis.
Later, Roxanne had time enough to reflect upon Cassandra’s mistakes. Doors had closed during her lost years. She needed to make a complete break and strive to become someone else, so far as the rest of the world was concerned. Even if deep down she would always be Cassandra Lee.
One evening while flicking through the Evening Standard she’d seen a box advertisement in the Situations Vacant. An advice centre in Hengist Street had an urgent need for paralegals. She’d fixed up an interview under the name of Roxanne Wake and walked straight into the job. Ibrahim was so desperate for staff that he’d probably have taken her on even if her CV had contained the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He’d never shown the slightest interest in getting to know her better; nor had any of the other colleagues she worked with. In Creed, it was proving harder to guard her privacy.
Just how difficult became plain that afternoon. Will Janus rang and asked if she’d like to come up to his room in ten minutes. She prayed he wouldn’t mention Buxton again.
His room was on the top floor, next to the boardroom where the partners met. He insisted on taking her in to see the vast round table and the Kandinskys on the wall.
‘Very fine, don’t you think?’ Will said, as she remembered to express her admiration. ‘Kandinsky saw himself as having a mission. Messianic, almost.’
Roxanne smiled cautiously. Before coming upstairs she’d prepared herself by checking Kandinsky out on the web. All that she’d had time to discover was that he loved mumbo-jumbo. Typecast as a lawyer to the end of his days and beyond, that was poor Wassily.
He ushered her back to his own room, humming to the background music. ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’.
Roxanne said, ‘You wanted me?’
‘A bit of devilling, if you don’t mind. I’m preparing a paper for the Council of Ministers and I’d like you to let me have a precis of the latest judgments. My topic is surveillance at work. You’re familiar with the current law?’
‘In my last job I acted for someone who wanted to take a case to the Court of Human Rights. She discovered her boss had been taping all her phone calls in the office. She also had a claim under Clause Four of the European Convention.’
‘Clause Four, yes.’ He gave a satisfied nod and she remembered that a celebrated lecture of his had influenced a radical overhaul of the legislation. ‘Did you win the case?’
‘We couldn’t get the funding. Our client was refused Legal Aid.’
‘Perhaps it’s as well,’ Will said. ‘Your client would have lost if the employer had warned her he was monitoring her calls. As we do, for instance.’
She stared at him. ‘I didn’t know that.’
Will Janus said pleasantly, ‘Haven’t you read your office manual? It’s all there on the intranet. Don’t look so alarmed. We introduced monitoring as a routine precaution. For everyone’s comfort. And security.’
Back in her room, Roxanne took a d
eep breath. What if they listen to the call Hilary made to me? She called me Cassandra. I’m finished.
Heart thudding, she checked the intranet. Sure enough, the monitoring policy was there, in print rather smaller than the office dress code. But the message was clear. Big Brother is listening to you.
So what? Thousands of reputable employers monitored calls and the partners were simply covering themselves. Of course, it was good practice to put something in black and white. No organisation she knew of systematically checked all calls made and received. The cost would be prohibitive. The tapes were kept for a few days and then recorded over. Why would they want to snoop on a newly recruited paralegal? All she needed to do was to keep her nerve and the threat would disappear.
On Friday morning, Ben called her in to his room. It boasted an ego wall covered from floor to ceiling with framed cuttings recording his famous victories. Most included a photograph of Ben outside a tribunal building or the steps of a courtroom, punching the air in triumph or pumping the hand of a celebrity client. A recurring motif was the sheer awfulness of his taste in ties; an offence against human rights if ever there was one. One picture showed him looking on as a jubilant Ali Khan sprayed a bottle of champagne over a group of reporters outside the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand.
‘I have news for you,’ he said. ‘Howard Haycraft has been seriously injured in a road accident, he’s still in intensive care. A broken pelvis is the least of his problems, he still hasn’t regained consciousness. I gather it’s touch and go whether he will survive. Even if he does, there’s a likelihood of brain damage.’
She didn’t know what to say.
‘It must have happened shortly after you left him,’ Ben murmured. ‘He was run over in Chancery Lane.’
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