Unforgotten

by Clare Francis

  ‘Water?’ Hugh interrupted, holding up the bottle to Isabel.

  ‘Please,’ she said.

  ‘So what is it, Ray?’ Hugh demanded as he filled the glasses.

  Reading his mood at last, Ray said in a steadier tone, ‘Um . . . well, with everything that’s happening I wasn’t sure if you’d had time to think about the press. Because the moment they get to hear about the police investigation they’ll be down here in droves. I wondered if you wanted me to fend them off – so far as possible anyway.’

  ‘The police have sealed the house off.’

  ‘That won’t stop them coming here, though, will it?’

  ‘They’re not going to bother with us.’

  Ray’s expression suggested he wasn’t so sure. ‘What about keeping the gate shut?’

  ‘Then we’d have to get out of the car to open it. I tell you, it won’t be a big media thing. Why on earth should it be?’ Hugh was beginning to regret his impulsive decision to ask Ray to stand by on the legal side; it was a request Ray was always going to interpret liberally.

  ‘Well, let me know if you’re getting any hassle, won’t you?’ said Ray.

  Hugh tore the wrapping off his sandwich. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Um . . . yeah. One thing . . .’ Ray was nervous, he was having trouble looking Hugh in the eye. ‘It was just that – in view of what you told me – I thought I’d better check the position vis-à-vis the police and the second post-mortem—’

  ‘The second post-mortem’s got nothing to do with the police.’

  ‘Well . . . yes and no,’ Ray offered gingerly, as if negotiating a minefield. ‘You see, it occurred to me that . . . well, in view of the fact the police are mounting a criminal investigation . . . they might order their own second post-mortem. In which case we could be in danger of, well . . . getting our wires crossed. So . . .’ Ray gave a terrible smile. ‘I spoke to the coroner’s office and they confirmed what I thought, that now it’s a criminal investigation the police could well order a second post-mortem . . . using a forensic pathologist of their own. In which case their request would . . . well, take precedence . . .’

  Hugh argued, ‘But it’s all arranged with – what’s his name, Isabel?’

  ‘Professor Alan Ritchie.’

  ‘Professor Ritchie.’ To Isabel again: ‘And he’s doing it when?’

  Isabel hesitated because he’d specifically asked her not to tell him when it was going to take place. ‘Um . . . tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow when?’

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ Hugh declared. ‘So what are you saying, for Christ’s sake? That they’re going to withdraw permission at the last minute?’

  Ray raised a calming hand. ‘No. I mean . . . Apparently the normal practice in such circumstances is for the family’s pathologist to attend as an observer. You know – sort of sit in. So—’

  ‘You’re saying they’re going to stop it going ahead?’

  ‘Well, um . . . like I said . . . the coroner’s office are going to find out from the police if they might want a second PM, and they’ll let us know either way by the end of the day. It would only be a question of postponing for a day or so at the most . . .’

  The anger came over Hugh in a red-hot wave. He shot to his feet, sending his chair juddering back over the floor. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he said. ‘Why couldn’t you just for once in your life have left well alone? Why did you have to interfere? If you hadn’t bloody well interfered—’ He flung out a hand in exasperation and, frightened of what he might say next, marched out into the dining room where he stood blindly at the window until the worst of his anger had passed. Then, reaching for a chair, he sat at the table and dropped his head into his hands, assailed by the terrifying thought that he was going the way of Tom Deacon, into the realms of victimhood, ungovernable anger and violent mood swings.

  Lizzie, what’s happening to me? Tell me how to get through this.

  But his vision of her was fragmented, reduced to a series of snapshots which drifted through his mind at random. He tried to recall what she used to say to him when he was stressed. But that was it of course – she’d said almost nothing, just the occasional ‘Did he?’ or ‘Really?’, listening solicitously, patiently, until his anger burnt itself out. That had been her skill, to know how to handle him in such a mood, just as she’d known how to handle so many other people. Except perhaps Charlie. They had both failed with Charlie, and there was a dubious sort of consolation in that.

  There was a sound at the door and Ray appeared. He stood abjectly, arms hanging loosely at his sides. ‘I’m sorry, old friend . . . Didn’t intend to . . . The last thing I meant . . . Thought I was being useful . . .’

  Hugh made an indeterminate gesture, a spreading of one hand.

  ‘I just admired Lizzie so much . . . Everything a woman should be,’ Ray said mawkishly, adding hastily, ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. Never had designs . . . As if she’d have looked at me . . .’ He gave a self-deprecating grimace. ‘No, just admired her from afar . . .’

  Not sure he was ready for an outpouring of this sort, Hugh started to get up, but it was too late, Ray was already dropping heavily into a chair.

  ‘Always so bloody kind to me . . .’ Ray went on. ‘Wonderful when Milly and I were breaking up . . . Used to prop me up, you know . . . Well, maybe you didn’t. But I used to phone her sometimes . . . when I was desperate. Didn’t think you’d mind. Needed a sympathetic ear, and she always found time to listen, you see. Didn’t take sides. Made me think I wasn’t quite such a bastard as Milly made out. Gave me hope for the future. Began to think there might be more women like Lizzie out there somewhere. Haven’t found one yet . . . but I live in hope . . .’ He made a contrite face. ‘God, this is sounding awful. All I meant to say was that I thought she was simply bloody wonderful and I’d like to kill the bastard that did it.’ His eyes filled suddenly. ‘Sorry . . .’ He pushed a knuckle against an eye. ‘Didn’t mean to blub.’

  ‘Glad you told me,’ Hugh murmured, terribly embarrassed.

  Ray shook his head. ‘It’s my own bloody stupid fault, overstepping the mark.’ And for a moment Hugh thought he was talking about his feelings for Lizzie. ‘Shouldn’t have rushed into action like the bloody cavalry,’ he went on. ‘Should have kept to your brief and stayed on standby. Won’t happen again, I swear.’

  Desperate to get away, Hugh made for the door. ‘The coroner would probably have delayed the post-mortem anyway.’

  ‘You really think so?’ Ray said inconsolably.

  Hugh left him staring morosely at the table and went back to the kitchen, where for a brief moment the tangled affairs of Tom Deacon seemed to offer a welcome respite.

  Isabel was searching a cupboard. ‘I was trying to find ground coffee,’ she explained.

  Hugh dug it out of the fridge. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Coffee will be fine.’

  ‘Thought you didn’t drink it.’

  Her eyes rounded. ‘Oh, sometimes I do. Oh yes . . . definitely.’

  ‘There’s herb tea somewhere. Lou buys it. Rosehip, peppermint . . .’

  ‘No, coffee will be fine, really. But I don’t know how strong to make it.’

  Hugh upended the half-used packet into the cafetière and thought of Lou, wondering if she’d managed to find Charlie, and what sort of state he’d be in, glassy-eyed with dope, bright-eyed with something harder, comatose with drink, or a combination of all three. He held up the cafetière to find he’d overfilled it. Shaking a random quantity of grounds into the sink, he poured in the boiling water. He was staring blankly at the wall tiles when Isabel said, ‘Do you want me to do anything about Professor Ritchie, Hugh? Warn him the post-mortem might have to be postponed?’

  ‘What? Um, yes . . . No. No . . . The coroner’s going to let us know by the end of the day . . . isn’t that what Ray said? They’re going to let us know the . . . the . . .’ He struggled for the thought, but his mind had stalled, he was
beset by darkness and a constricting panic halfway between dream and memory.

  ‘The police’s decision?’

  ‘Yes . . . So, wait until . . . until . . .’ His chest was so tight he could hardly breathe, the room was swimming, he felt in danger of passing out.

  ‘Hugh? Are you all right?’ Isabel’s words seemed to come to him slowly, from a long way away.

  ‘Uhh?’

  ‘Come and sit down.’

  She was tugging at his sleeve. He let her lead him to the table, where she brought him a glass of water, followed by a cup of coffee.

  ‘Have something to eat,’ she urged him. ‘You haven’t touched your sandwich.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You’ve got to eat,’ Isabel insisted, pushing the sandwich closer.

  Dutifully he took a mouthful and chewed on it halfheartedly.

  ‘Shall we leave this till another time?’ Isabel asked, gazing at him anxiously.

  ‘No . . . No, let’s get on . . .’ He took a gulp of coffee to wash the food down and scalded his tongue. ‘No . . . tell me about Tom. Tell me how it all came out, the business with . . . with the . . .’ His brain was still thick, he felt as if he were drugged. ‘The alternative psychiatric report . . .’

  ‘Sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Well, the first I heard was from Emma Deeds in Exeter, to say the family court had been in touch with her, wanting to know what if any High Court proceedings had taken place.’

  ‘Another letter . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Must have been another anonymous letter. It was bound to happen sooner or later.’

  ‘Emma Deeds didn’t know what it was. Or she didn’t say. Anyway, I put her off till I could speak to you. Meantime our judge’s clerk called, saying something had come to the judge’s attention regarding certain family proceedings involving Tom, and could we come and see him in chambers as soon as possible.’

  ‘No surprise there, either. The family judge would have phoned him direct. Almost the first thing she’d have done.’ The coffee was beginning to kick in, and Hugh downed the rest in one. There was something else that would help clear his head, he realised, and that was a quick drink. He got up to pour himself a Scotch and heard the murmur of Raymond’s voice next door.

  ‘That’s when I thought I’d better speak to Desmond Riley,’ Isabel was saying.

  ‘Absolutely right.’

  ‘I filled him in as best I could, but he only had a minute before going into court. And when he called back, that’s when he got put through to Raymond. I don’t know why.’

  Hugh took a sip of his drink and brought it to the table.‘Because Ray told the switchboard, that’s why,’ he said, his exasperation coming to the surface again.

  ‘Oh,’ said Isabel, not quite sure what to make of this. ‘Anyway, when I managed to get back to Desmond and we had more of a chance to talk, he seemed to think the judge would be understanding. Up to a point anyway – that’s how he put it: “up to a point”. But he thought the judge would want to see the psychiatric report from the family proceedings, perhaps ask for the psychiatrist to give evidence in person.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s the very least he’ll want,’ said Hugh, feeling the Scotch work its magic. ‘Can you manage all that?’

  She nodded keenly. ‘I’ve already asked Emma Deeds to send a copy of the psychiatric report.’

  ‘You should have backup for a meeting in chambers, Isabel. It’s not fair to send you on your own.’

  ‘But Desmond’ll be there.’

  ‘You should still have backup in case the judge has some questions.’ Thinking aloud, he murmured, ‘Perhaps I should ask Martin Sachs . . .’

  Isabel looked alarmed. ‘Not so sure that’d be a good idea.’

  Picturing Martin Sachs at his most insufferable and patronising, Hugh gave a sigh of agreement. ‘Raymond then?’

  ‘It would still mean a briefing,’ Isabel said unhappily.

  Finally Hugh understood what she was trying to tell him, that a briefing could put her on the spot, force her to admit that she’d known all about Tom’s stunt while the hearing was still in progress. ‘Christ, what a bloody mess.’

  ‘No . . . No . . . You did the right thing, giving Tom a chance.’

  ‘I let him think he could get away with it.’

  Isabel shook her head. ‘He’d already made up his mind to get away with it, which is something totally different.’

  ‘He screamed down the phone at me last night.’

  ‘That’s the other thing,’ Isabel said. ‘I got a call from Dr Ainsley on the way here. He said he was worried about Tom’s mental state. Wanted to know if we knew where he was. If there was anything we could do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Get him some help, I suppose.’

  ‘When did Ainsley speak to Tom?’

  ‘A couple of hours ago, I think. Said he’d never known him in such a bad way. Talking about grabbing the boys and going into hiding—’

  ‘Just the sort of stupid thing he would do.’

  ‘But what worried him most was what Tom might do if he lost the boys altogether.’

  Hugh tried to shut out the images that raced through his mind. ‘Can’t Ainsley do something about it himself?’

  ‘He’s in Canada.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘I could go to his place, see if he’s there,’ Isabel volunteered without enthusiasm.

  ‘Wouldn’t do any good.’ Knocking back the last of his drink, Hugh pulled up Tom’s number on his phone and tried to think of what message to leave. It would be a mistake to offer false hopes and wild promises. The only chance was an assurance that everything possible was being done. ‘What’s the precise situation on the care proceedings?’

  ‘Care proceedings?’ Isabel said, puzzled. ‘Emma Deeds didn’t say anything about care proceedings.’

  ‘That’s what Tom told me last night, that they were threatening to take the children into care.’

  ‘God, no wonder he’s lost it.’

  ‘Check it out with Emma Deeds, will you?’

  While Isabel made the call, Hugh poured a cup of coffee and took it into the dining room, where Ray was slumped in his chair, staring into space, though Hugh had the feeling he’d only just come off the phone. Ray jerked round and, seeing the proffered coffee, declared profusely, ‘Hey, just what I needed! Thanks!’ Then, apropos of nothing, added warmly, ‘My old friend . . . I’ve been sitting here going down memory lane, thinking about the old days. Don’t really appreciate them at the time, do you? Not till after the event.’ Again, Hugh thought he must be talking about Lizzie. ‘Wasn’t such a bad set-up, was it, the old firm? Never would’ve made us a fortune, but we did all right, didn’t we?’ Ray gave a nostalgic sniff. ‘Those partners’ meetings in the pub. Home by six. Taking the odd Friday off. Not sure how long we’d have survived, of course. But they were good times while they lasted, eh?’

  ‘I’m going to resign,’ Hugh said.

  Ray made a face of almost clownish incredulity. ‘What? Don’t be crazy, Hugh. What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m not made for a big firm. Never was.’

  ‘Listen, listen, my old friend – this isn’t the time to be thinking about things like that! Not while you’ve got this terrible, terrible business hanging over you.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘But why? Why? It’s not the Deacon case, is it?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘No, I’m serious.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Ray helplessly.

  Hugh shrugged, incapable of explanations.

  ‘Are you worried about the case making a loss? Is that it?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Hugh – no one’s going to judge you on one case, not when you’ve been such a – such a – player! And not when you’ve just lost your beloved Lizzie.
Jesus, the partners aren’t made of stone. They’re right behind you. Believe me – one hundred per cent. Anyway, it’s not as if the Deacon claim’s about to be thrown out altogether, is it? Just knocked back a bit. Who knows, it may not show a loss after all!’ He gripped Hugh’s upper arm encouragingly. ‘That’s why I wanted to sit in – see if I could take at least one worry off your shoulders.’

  Hearing a phone ringing in the kitchen, Hugh made an abrupt gesture and swung rapidly away.

  Ray called after him, but Hugh was already in the hall where he almost collided with Isabel emerging from the kitchen. She was holding up his mobile phone. ‘It’s Charlie,’ she breathed.

  The road was short, with just six terraced houses crammed along each side and a tall weed-clad chain-link fence blocking off the end. The houses were two-storey red brick, each with a small front area filled with dustbins and assorted rubbish behind a dilapidated wall. Hugh knew the district only from the arterial roads that encircled it and its reputation for ethnic restaurants and evangelical churches. It was here the respectable West Indian community had moved when they were pushed out of St Paul’s by the motorway and the drug dealers, though from the look of the place now the drug dealers couldn’t have been very far behind.

  Number six was the last house on the left and, either for lack of an outside neighbour or from subsidence, was noticeably crooked, not a windowsill straight and the front door remade to fit. Hugh parked almost opposite, between a white van and a Ford Escort painted scarlet with a broad white stripe down the bonnet. As he got out, the hum of vibrating metal and the approaching howl of a diesel engine announced a railway line behind the chain-link fence.

  There was a mouldering mattress wedged behind the dustbins of number six and a pile of dead leaves blown up against the door. There were two doorbells, neither labelled, so he pressed both. Hearing no ring, he pressed again, then rapped a knuckle on the door. After a while a door sounded deep in the house, then creaking boards, then the latch clicked and the door swung open to reveal Charlie.

  ‘Dad!’ He was wearing ragged jeans and a thin T-shirt and no shoes, and seemed overcome, almost as if he hadn’t expected Hugh to turn up.