by Helen Black
Helen Black grew up in Pontefract, West Yorkshire. At eighteen she went to Hull University and left three years later with a tattoo on her shoulder and a law degree. She became a lawyer in Peckham and soon had a loyal following of teenagers needing legal advice and bus fares. She ended up working in Luton, working predominantly for children going through the care system.
Helen is married to a long-suffering lawyer and is the mother of twins who take up 90 per cent of her waking hours.
Also by Helen Black
(published by HarperCollins)
Damaged Goods
A Place of Safety
Dishonour
(published by Constable)
Blood Rush
Twenty Twelve
Dark Spaces
Friendless Lane
Taking Liberties
Helen Black
Constable • London
CONSTABLE
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Constable
Copyright © Helen Black, 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those
clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any
resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-47212-419-7
Constable
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK Company
www.hachette.co.uk
www.littlebrown.co.uk
If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.
George Bernard Shaw
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
August 1984, West Yorkshire
I hover outside the front room, wondering if now’s a good time to ask Dad if I can have some money for new school shoes. I’ve got my eye on some lace-ups from the indoor market. I usually avoid asking him for owt. We all do. I’d rather wait till he’s passed out and rifle his pockets, but for some reason he’s taking it steady tonight. Typical. I’ll have to brave it. I’m starting at the high school in a couple of weeks and I can’t go in my pumps, can I?
I stick my head in and find him in his usual spot, legged out on the settee, a brown saucer acting as an ashtray balanced on his belly, a can of Heineken on the floor by his side. He’s watching the Olympics, shaking his head. ‘Have you seen this, Elizabeth?’ He points at the telly. ‘Silly cow’s not wearing any shoes. I mean, how’s she supposed to run without any shoes on?’
I shrug. The girl on the screen seems to be doing all right so far.
‘Zola fucking Budd,’ Dad spits. ‘She’s not even English. Born and raised in South Africa. She can’t just change because it suits her.’
I watch her careering round the track in her bare feet. You’d think it’d hurt, wouldn’t you? That she’d cut her toes and that. When I look back at Dad, he’s draining his can.
‘Get us another, Lib.’ He crushes it in his fist and lets it drop to the carpet. ‘And a box of matches while you’re up. My lighter’s had it.’
I scuttle out of the room. In the hallway Jay and Crystal are playing Operation. The batteries are dead so if they touch the side with the metal tweezers they have to shout, ‘Buzz.’ Jay hasn’t worked out that Crystal cheats. Frankie watches them from the bottom step, sucking at a baby bottle full of pop. I can smell his shitty nappy from here.
In the kitchen, Mam’s sat on the high stool doing her makeup in a mirror. She puts on some really pale lipstick, which does her no favours, to be honest, but I’m not going to tell her. Frankie Goes To Hollywood is playing on the radio and she sings along. ‘Dad wants another can and some matches,’ I say.
She opens a drawer, pulls out a box of matches, shakes it, then tosses it to me.
‘Where are the cans?’ I ask.
‘There’s none left,’ she says.
My face must drop, because she tuts. ‘Do you think I can magic them out of thin air?’ She turns the music up. ‘Maybe if he got off his arse and earned some money once in a while.’
I feel a little tickle of panic in my chest. ‘Can’t I run round to the shop?’
‘And use what?’ Mam’s scowling now. ‘Brass fucking buttons?’
I flap my hands, trying to get her to keep her voice down, but it’s too late. Dad’s already in the doorway. ‘What’s going on here?’ he shouts above the music.
Mam doesn’t answer. Sometimes that’s a good thing. Sometimes it’s better to keep quiet. But not tonight.
‘Turn that down,’ he yells.
When Mam doesn’t move, he slaps at her makeup bag. Eyeshadows and pencils hit the radiator.
‘What did you do that for?’ Mam asks.
Dad’s eyes are flashing, his jaw flexing. ‘A man needs some peace in his own house at the end of a day. Is that too much to fucking ask?’ He leans across the counter so he’s right up in Mam’s face. ‘Well, is it?’
She shakes her head.
‘Right, then.’ His fists are clenched, knuckles white, like the bones are going to pop through the skin. ‘Give me a drink and let me get back to the telly.’
Mam stares at him for a moment, then she looks away, the anger drained out of her. She flicks her head to the ceiling, letting me know to get out of there.
I don’t need telling twice and bolt from the kitchen, stopping at the foot of the stairs to scoop up Frankie. ‘Bedroom,’ I hiss at Jay and Crystal. ‘Now.’
They take the stairs two at a time and don’t slow down until they’re in my room, skinny bodies pressed against the far wall. I stick Frankie on the bed, shut my door and push the dressing-table against it for good measure.
Through the floorboards we can hear the music playing. ‘When Two Tribes Go To War’ . . .
Then we hear the screaming.
Present day
Liberty fiddled with the dials on the dashboard, trying to turn on the air-conditioning. She’d had the Porsche six months and had been waiting for the weather to turn so she could razz into work with the roof down. But as soon as the sun had got his hat on, so had every protester in London, congregating outside the banks, insurance companies and law firms in the Square Mile. If she didn’t want a face full of abuse, spit or worse, she needed to keep the car vacuum-sealed.
She’d made the mistake of trying to reason with them during the week between Christmas an
d New Year. Most of her partners were spending time with their families. Most of the protesters too. Each morning, as she pulled into her firm’s underground car park, the same guy had half-heartedly waved a banner at her from the quiet street. He looked miserable in his combat jacket and beanie, shivering in the splintering cold. On the third day she wound down her window and handed him the coffee she’d bought on the way.
‘Is it free trade?’ he asked, a drop of rain shivering at the end of his nose ring.
‘Absolutely,’ Liberty lied.
He’d taken the offering, wrapping his fingerless gloves around the cup, his nails black half-moons against the white polystyrene.
The next morning she’d arrived with another coffee and a blueberry muffin, but as she offered them to him, with a small smile, a girl had sprung from the shadows, knocking the cup out of Liberty’s hands. ‘Capitalist scum.’
From the girl’s accent and straight white teeth, Liberty had her pegged. Student. Middle class. Home counties. She’d met kids like that by the lorry-load at university. Their rooms all slogans and scented candles. ‘Back from skiing, are we?’ Liberty asked.
The girl’s face contorted. ‘People like you have sucked this country dry, raking in millions, evading tax, while ordinary decent families are forced out onto the street.’
Liberty couldn’t contain a laugh. Kids like her wouldn’t know an ordinary person if one bit them on the arse. The only contact they had with the working classes was Mummy’s cleaner and the terribly nice man who came to service the Aga at the beginning of December.
‘You should be made to pay for what you’ve done,’ the girl shouted.
‘Oh, grow up,’ Liberty said.
Then it hit her. Warm and slimy. Running from her temple to her cheekbone.
Dog shit.
Since then she’d ignored them all. Kept her windows and doors locked. Today, despite the welcome sunshine, she did the same.
* * *
‘Boss wants to see you,’ said Tina.
Liberty hid her irritation. She couldn’t remember the number of times she’d explained to her secretary that she was a partner at Howell and May. She was her own bloody boss.
Tina hovered over Liberty’s desk. Stout and immovable as a tree. ‘He says it’s urgent.’
‘Don’t you have some filing to do?’
Tina put her hands on her hips, a ring on every finger. ‘I’ll tell him you’re too busy, then, shall I?’
Liberty put down her pen. They both knew that wasn’t going to happen. In theory, all partners were equal but in reality some were more equal than others. And nobody told Ronald Tate they were too busy to see him. ‘I think your Facebook status needs updating,’ she said. ‘I’d suggest Pain In The Arse.’
‘Ain’t you the funny one,’ said Tina.
Liberty spun round in her chair, using her palm to propel her from the desk. It wasn’t just that she loathed being summoned, like a minion, though she did loathe it, with a passion she usually reserved for articles in the Daily Mail about asylum seekers. Or reality television. Or farmers’ markets. Farmers’ markets in particular made her froth. All middle-class self-righteousness and hand-crafted venison pasties. But what she really hated about meetings with Ronald was her own reaction. Two seconds in his company, and she felt a fraud. As if she had no business working there.
‘There’s no point putting it off,’ said Tina.
‘Are you still here?’ Liberty pushed off for another 360-degree turn, but Tina grabbed the back of the chair and brought her to a halt. ‘They made you up because you’re bleedin’ good at what you do,’ she said. ‘Don’t ever forget that.’
Liberty felt exposed. A wound without a plaster.
‘Get going, then,’ snapped Tina. ‘I ain’t going to bleedin’ well carry you.’
* * *
Ronald Tate gave Liberty one of his best cappuccino smiles. ‘Come on in, darling.’ He gestured to the seat on the opposite side of his desk. ‘Do sit.’
Ronald had the corner office with views over the Thames, Tower Bridge and Canary Wharf to his left, the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament to his right. He often joked that he could sell tickets.
Liberty sat.
‘I need you to do me a favour, darling,’ said Ronald.
‘I need you to stop calling me “darling”,’ Liberty replied. In her head.
Ronald splayed his hands on the empty expanse of his desk, his nails buffed and shiny. ‘Have you heard of callme.com?’
Liberty nodded. The website was the biggest dating chat room in the world, its owner a perma-tanned seventy-year-old, standing at tit height to the glamour model who often accompanied him.
‘They want to merge with their biggest competitor,’ said Ronald.
‘Will the Monopolies Commission let them?’ Liberty asked.
‘Depends who they instruct as their lawyer.’
Ronald held her gaze, and Liberty felt the fizz of excitement shimmy down her spine. A multi-million-pound transaction like that was big-league stuff.
‘I don’t need to tell you that a deal such as this would put Howell and May on the map,’ said Ronald. ‘Taking any lawyers associated with it along for the ride.’ He leaned forward. ‘Can I count on your support, darling?’
Hell, yes. ‘I’ll do whatever I can to help,’ said Liberty. ‘Other casework allowing.’
‘I’m glad to hear that because we need to do the owner a small favour before the job is officially ours,’ said Ronald.
‘Go on,’ said Liberty.
‘He has a problem with his son.’
Liberty recalled a photo of him in the paper, spliff in one hand, Big Brother contestant in the other. ‘What sort of problem?’
‘He’s been arrested.’ Ronald opened his palms. ‘He’s being held up in your neck of the woods.’
‘Hampstead?’ Liberty asked.
‘No, darling.’ Ronald gave three small, tight laughs. Ha. Ha. Ha. ‘Yorkshire.’
Liberty blinked. It was a lifetime since she’d been back to Yorkshire. ‘I can’t really recommend anyone, Ronald. I don’t know the firms up there,’ she said.
‘That’s not what’s needed,’ said Ronald. ‘This has to be kept strictly under wraps, strictly entre nous.’
‘I don’t follow,’ said Liberty.
‘We need you to go up there and sort out this mess.’
The speedometer read seventy-four and she yawned.
London had been deserted at the start of Liberty’s journey and the Porsche had flown down Hampstead High Street. It had been like a disaster movie when the hero wakes up to find everyone dead, steals the nearest super-car and heads off like a mad man. As a kid, Liberty had read a book like that. The main character had been all on his own, hot-wiring a TVR and helping himself to chocolate from the shelves of deserted supermarkets, then setting off to find other survivors. How had that book ended? Did the boy find anyone else?
The traffic slowed to sixty-eight. Wasn’t this supposed to be a bloody motorway?
Her mobile rang and caller ID flashed up on the dashboard. ‘Hello, Ronald.’
‘Good morning, darling,’ he said. ‘Just checking you’re still set for the old trip up north.’
She caught sight of a sign saying ten miles to Wakefield. ‘I’ll be at the prison in less than half an hour,’ she said.
‘Good grief.’ Ronald let out a chuckle. ‘Did you set off at five?’
‘Something like that.’ In fact, it had been ten past. Knowing she’d have trouble sleeping, Liberty had drunk half a bottle of Rioja before bed. Then she’d finished it around midnight. At half past four, accepting sleep wasn’t on the cards, she’d swallowed three Anadin Extra and taken a hot shower.
‘Glad to hear you’re so eager,’ said Ronald. ‘The sooner you sort everything out, the sooner you can come back to the office.’
Liberty pressed the heel of her hand into her eye socket. How could she explain herself without sounding negative? ‘The thing is, Ron
ald, I’m not sure what I’m meant to do when I arrive.’
‘Oh, I’m certain someone will guide you through Security, darling,’ he replied.
Liberty released her hand, leaving her vision Vaselined. ‘I was thinking more of the legal stuff,’ she said. ‘You do know I have absolutely no experience of criminal law?’
There was a slight pause, which Liberty’s headache felt compelled to fill.
‘What about Dirty Deptford Days?’ Ronald asked.
The trainee solicitors and young assistants at Howell and May were encouraged to offer their services to a law centre in south-east London. A three-line whip to atone for the supposedly morally dubious day-to-day job of making rich people richer. Liberty had always wondered what the law-centre staff had made of them, streaming from their black cabs in their cashmere overcoats.
‘Didn’t you represent a guy on Death Row in Jamaica?’ Ronald asked.
Liberty sniffed. Her twenty-five-year-old self had grabbed the case, hoping for a free trip to the Caribbean, with little thought for Leroy Reid sweating it out in his bare jail cell, literally waiting to be hanged. ‘I don’t think I could class that as relevant experience,’ she said. ‘The whole thing was over before it started.’
‘You got him off?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘He topped himself.’ She opened the window a crack and a rush of cold air kissed her cheek. She lifted her chin to let it cool her throat.
‘What other cases did you do at the law centre?’ Ronald asked.
‘A couple of eviction notices,’ she answered. ‘A speeding fine, if I remember correctly.’
What she did remember correctly was how she had found any excuse not to go, loathing the rubbish-filled gutters of Deptford High Road, where the office was, and the smell of the halal butcher’s next door. Most of all she remembered the clients and their sad, bewildered faces.
‘Oh, well, not to worry, darling,’ said Ronald. ‘How hard can it be?’
Liberty wasn’t sure. That was the point.
‘You’ll pick it up,’ he continued. ‘I have every faith in you.’