A Poisoned Mind

by Natasha Cooper

  ‘And a child’s been hurt up on the west coast of Scotland,’ Greg went on, drilling at her like a torturer. ‘CWWM again, of course. They’re losing so much money, they’re having to cut corners as they dump their muck all over the world. They don’t care who they hurt. Just as they didn’t care when they killed John with their lethal tanks, Ange. We’ve got to stop them. And you’ve got to help us.’

  She hardly heard him. Chemistry, she was thinking. Adam moved from English literature to chemistry. He’d know as much about toxic sludge as about explosions. Is he afraid I’ve guessed what he did at the farm and might tell the police? Has he hurt these new people, too, to throw off my suspicion? A woman and a child … What the hell do I do now?

  ‘And there are likely to be lots more CWWM disasters coming to light.’ Greg was looking revoltingly happy. She felt ill again.

  ‘Now we’ve started to look for them, I mean,’ he added hastily.

  She turned away. All she could think of was Adam’s face. Greg’s voice buzzed on and on, until she had to pay attention. He was repeating her name urgently.

  She looked at him, licking her dry lips, trying to get the pictures of Adam out of her head. Fishing for the right words out of the stew of her mind, she decided honesty was her only hope, partial honesty anyway:

  ‘I owe you both more than I can ever repay. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you with any campaign once my case is over. But I must get back home now. I need time out.’

  Her hair needed cutting. Long as it was, it made her whole face itch; she pushed it away, tucking some behind her ears. The strands felt very coarse, quite unlike Fran’s gleaming tresses.

  ‘I’m losing touch with who I am and why I ever started this legal action. I need … I need to get home and be there again, and remember John, and—’

  ‘Breathe contaminated air and drink contaminated water?’ Fran’s big hand was stroking Angie’s back as so often before. But that made Angie itch too. Fran’s kindness was coming to feel almost as threatening as Greg’s demands. ‘It’s dangerous, Angie.’

  ‘I know.’ Angie was just managing to hold in her temper. ‘But I have to do it.’

  ‘Where will you live? At the farm? Isn’t that a bit—?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not immediately. I’ve arranged—’ Breaking off to send a rueful glance she hoped they’d take as an apology, she coughed, then added: ‘I’ve arranged to stay with Polly Green, who lives about six miles away. She’s my oldest friend – oldest, in both senses of the word – and needs help, even this late in the season, so it’ll suit us both.’

  ‘Until the case starts up again,’ Greg said. ‘You will be back in good time for that.’

  It was not a question.

  ‘Ange?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ Her reluctance was so powerful she found it hard to get the words out. ‘How could I not after everything the two of you’ve done for me?’

  Robert was almost swaggering as he invaded Trish’s room at half past four that afternoon and dumped two batches of computer printout on her desk.

  ‘What are these?’

  ‘Contact details for your supposed saboteurs.’

  ‘What?’ She grabbed them.

  The first was a prospectus for a climbing school in Swanage called the Fleming-Stuart Academy; the second a blurb for some ’Victorian walks’ in London. She looked up at him.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘One of my climbing mates did recognise your so-called Bowles woman with the chalk bag. Her real name’s Maryan Fleming and the headless man with her is probably her boyfriend Barry Stuart.’

  ‘My God! You’ve really found them.’

  ‘They used to run this climbing business but it collapsed under a wall of debt, and now they’ve split up,’ Robert went on, not acknowledging her comment. ‘Barry Stuart is climbing in New Zealand and the girl is dragging tourists around Victoria and Albert’s landmarks in Kensington.’

  ‘That’s great. Thank you, Robert.’

  ‘But I don’t believe they’re saboteurs, and I’m not taking any responsibility for anything you do with this information. You do understand that, don’t you, Trish?’

  She got up and walked round her desk so that she could reach up to pat his cheek.

  ‘Absolutely, you old hand-washer. On my head be it. I’m still grateful.’

  Her phone was ringing. Robert pointed to it in a lordly way and left the room. She picked up the receiver.

  ‘Trish?’ Fred Hoffman here. ‘I’ve got some info on your Bianchini bloke.’

  ‘This is turning out to be a much better day than I’d expected,’ she said, tucking the receiver between her ear and her shoulder so that she could pick up a pen to take notes while he talked. ‘Why did he leave GlobWasMan just when he could have made a fortune in the IPO?’

  ‘The general consensus is that he must have had a kind of road-to-Damascus moment and done it out of conscience.’

  Like the story about Givens himself, Trish thought. I don’t believe it of either of them.

  ‘What my main source says is … Hang on a minute,’ Fred said. ‘I wrote it down so you could have it verbatim. Good. Here we are. Ready?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘“Not nearly as exotic as his name, Bianchini has always been an earnest, nerdy, do-gooding sort of bloke. Outsider. Didn’t join in at Law College. No drinking. Used to lecture us about eating the wrong food, drinking, taking drugs, that sort of thing. Spent time charity volunteering. We all thought he was sad.”’

  There was a short pause, before Fred added: ‘Got all that, Trish? In the slang of those times, I believe “sad” means weedy and pathetic rather than unhappy.’

  ‘I think you’re right. Thanks, Fred. That’s helpful.’

  ‘He’s now working for a charity called Start Again, set up by a couple of doctors to help young offenders – like their own recidivist patients – go straight when they come out of prison.’

  Trish thanked him again before she cut the connection, silently cheering. Bianchini’s choice of good works could have been tailor-made to give her cover for the questions she had to ask.

  Her call to the charity’s switchboard was quickly answered by a human being instead of a recorded voice offering multiple choices at the press of a button. Trish was so surprised she nearly dropped the receiver. She asked for Carl Bianchini and was put straight through.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she said. ‘You don’t know me, but I’m at the Bar. My name’s Trish Maguire. I was hoping to ask your advice about an adolescent at risk of reoffending. Is there any chance we could meet?’

  ‘Goodness. Hello. I know your name, of course,’ he said in an unexpectedly quiet voice, which sound jittery with nerves. ‘But I’m not really your man, you know. I’ve only just started here full time and I have nothing to do with the clients or their families. I could put you through to one of the others, who might be able to help. How old is the boy?’

  ‘I really would prefer to talk to you,’ Trish said. ‘As fellow lawyers we’ll use the same language. If I could only explain my dilemma face to face, I think you’ll see why I need you.’

  Her overactive conscience was already beating her up for using Jay like this, but it wasn’t pure exploitation: she really did want to know what kind of professional help might be available for him beyond Shelby’s well-meaning but compromised efforts.

  ‘Maybe I could buy you a drink one evening,’ she said.

  ‘I wish I could accept.’ His voice did sound wistful. ‘But my wife’s not been well and I always have to go straight home at five-thirty.’

  ‘Lunch, then?’ she said. ‘Something simple that won’t take up too much of your time. Where are your offices?’

  ‘King’s Cross.’

  ‘OK. There are pubs up there, aren’t there? But they can be noisy. What about the café at the British Library?’

  There was a pause. ‘Why not? Tomorrow? I always lunch at twelve-forty to avoid the queues.’
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  ‘I’ll meet you there. I’ll be wearing a dark brownish-red jacket.’

  ‘And I’ll be in brown cords and a black V-neck sweater because I’ve no meetings tomorrow.’

  ‘Great.’

  She grabbed the Pathfinder again, looking for his photograph. The small rectangle couldn’t tell her much except that he had a plumpish face and dark eyes. His hair was receding, he was probably in his late thirties, and he wore heavy-rimmed glasses. For the photograph he’d been dressed in a formal dark suit, plain shirt and discreetly patterned tie. He looked honest, but that, like the kindness of anyone’s voice, meant nothing.

  Hal’s peculiarly heavy tread sounded in the passage outside her room, which made her check her watch, then reach for her bag and coat. This was the day she’d been going to take back the domestic responsibility from George, yet here she was still at her desk well after five. She ran down the stone stairs, almost tripping at one moment, and was home in a record fifteen minutes, wondering what she’d find and begging the Fates to keep Jay calm and happy for once.

  The boys had beaten her back, but they were already hard at work and absolutely quiet when she pushed open the front door. Her banging heart slowed. David looked up and smiled, but Jay didn’t acknowledge her in any way. She tapped her chest then pointed towards the kitchen. David nodded.

  Opening the fridge door and flinching in the blast of cold air, she wondered what to cook for them. It had to be something substantial enough to satisfy their ever-growing appetite, and be reheatable if George did make it to the flat later on. Nothing in the fridge appealed to her. There wasn’t time to roast the leg of lamb and they’d had too many omelettes recently. But there were plenty of potatoes, and a good big chunk of Parmesan, as well as nearly half a small truckle of Cheddar from some special cheesemonger found by George. She shot a look at the vegetable basket to see a pile of onions.

  Cheese, onion, and potato pie, she thought as she turned on the oven, filled the kettle, and then reached for the peeler. It wasn’t too unhealthy, and it should make even the hungriest of boys feel full.

  Her eyes grew as wet and painful as usual while she sliced six large onions. Sniffing in a way that would have shocked Selina, she turned her face to wipe her eyes on her shoulder.

  Almost at once she felt George’s hands around her waist and leaned back against him, grateful for the sense of solid safety he could always give her.

  ‘What a good thing I made it out of the office sooner than I expected,’ he said into her ear, brushing the skin with his lips. ‘D’you want me to take over?’

  ‘I’m nearly there. But you could make the cheese sauce if you wanted.’ She waved her knife at the vegetables. ‘For our old standby pie.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, not moving. ‘In a minute. This feels great.’ He kissed her hair.

  ‘I loved your text.’

  ‘Good. You did a fantastic job. My mother phoned and is nearly as besotted with you as I am.’ He tightened his arms and kissed her again. ‘I ought to be taking you out for the grandest possible dinner tonight, not making you cook.’

  She finished chopping with the warmth of him pressed against her back. She wanted to say something about the pleasure of it, how this simplicity did more for her than any multi-rosetted restaurant. But putting her feelings into words might make them sound fake, and she trusted him enough now to be pretty sure he would know what she wasn’t saying.

  At last he unplastered himself from her back and set about making the sauce with his usual economy of movement and effort. Although the kitchen was tiny compared with the rest of the flat, a galley only six feet wide, they managed to work around each other, only touching on purpose.

  When the pie was safely in the oven, George filled a couple of wine glasses from a newly opened bottle of Californian Pinot Noir and suggested they take them upstairs so their chat wouldn’t disturb the boys’ work.

  In Trish’s bedroom, propped up on piles of the softest pillows, they sipped the light fruity wine and swapped news.

  ‘Have you ever come across Carl Bianchini?’ Trish asked, putting down her glass. ‘A solicitor in his thirties.’

  ‘Can’t say I have. Why? Or can’t you say?’

  ‘Better not. For the moment anyway.’ She squeezed his hand. He used his free one to smooth the hair away from her forehead, letting one large finger rest on the space between her eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t frown. It can’t be that bad, whatever it is.’

  She laughed. ‘It isn’t. I still forget sometimes and crunch up my forehead without meaning anything by it.’

  He kissed her, then pulled back so sharply she was worried.

  ‘My mama thinks you’re too thin, although she approves of the way you do your hair now, and …’

  Trish laughed.

  ‘ … and she’s afraid I can’t be treating you right. I think she was a bit embarrassed that I made you go all that way for something so trivial.’

  ‘She doesn’t ask for much, and it was easy today.’ Was this the moment to embark on a conversation about Henry? ‘George—’

  A shout from downstairs interrupted them.

  ‘Trish? When’s supper? We’re starving.’

  ‘So what’s new?’ she murmured, before raising her voice to suggest that the boys should lay the table. Swinging her long legs off the bed, she added more quietly: ‘I suppose we’d better go down. Are you staying tonight, or is Fulham calling? You’ve hardly had any time there at all since Jay first came here.’

  He grabbed her hand, holding her back. She looked down at his face and read the answer in his expression.

  ‘Good,’ she said, wondering as so often before when they’d rationalise their eccentric arrangement and actually live together in the way ordinary people did.

  Chapter 15

  When Angie’s train eventually limped into the station 300 miles from London, it was twenty-five minutes late. Polly, like the good friend she’d always been, was waiting patiently under the wooden canopy that provided the only shelter on the small wind-blown platform. She was wearing her habitual uniform of brown corduroy trousers, washed into softness over many years, gum boots and ancient green Barbour.

  Angie hauled her suitcase down on to the platform, balanced it then turned to kiss Polly. After all Fran’s habitual stroking and hugging, she’d forgotten that up here you didn’t fling yourself into an old friend’s arms just because you were pleased to see them.

  ‘It’s been bad, hasn’t it?’ Polly said, which came to much the same as a passionate embrace.

  ‘Fairly awful, yes. It’s good to be back. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long.’

  ‘Come on.’

  Even the rattling, battered old Land Rover was a welcome change. Polly drove as she always did, as though both the machine and the road were hostile, to be tamed only by those prepared to ignore their challenges and fight to the last drop of blood. Angie was amazed the engine and gears had lasted this long. She felt her teeth banging against each other and was glad they had only eight miles to go.

  After the wild ride, the silence of the ancient stone farmhouse was a relief. Bill greeted her with a barely noticeable nod, then a gesture that offered to carry her case upstairs. Angie, twenty years younger if less fit these days, couldn’t have let him. In any case, she wanted a moment or two to herself. Polly told her which room had been made ready and said supper would be on the table in ten minutes.

  ‘Mutton stew,’ she said as Angie returned to the kitchen, carrying the two bottles of wine she’d brought from London. ‘That’s kind. Put them on the dresser, will you? They’ll be good at Christmas, won’t they, Bill?’

  Her husband grunted amiably enough and rubbed both knarled hands through his sparse white hair.

  Angie, who’d hoped for a decent drink tonight, reluctantly did as she was told. The stew was good and they ate in companionable silence. Bill’s eyelids were already looking heavy as he finished his plateful and they closed completely a moment a
fter he’d put down his cutlery.

  ‘See,’ Polly said quietly.

  Her own round red face showed all the marks of exhaustion in deep brown crescents under her eyes, dragged lips and deep lines across her forehead and around her mouth.

  ‘It’s all too much for him now. So if you really can look after the house and the food and the visitors, I can help a bit outside.’

  ‘Of course. Will I wake him if I clear now?’

  ‘Nothing will wake him now, but you don’t have to work on your first night.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Angie looked straight at her. ‘I’d like to tell you how much this means, Polly, but if I do I’ll cry, so I’d better leave it to your imagination. Is that all right?’

  A softening in Polly’s weathered face told Angie she’d done the right thing, and without another word, she carried the dirty dishes to the sink and turned on the taps.

  ‘Did you see Adam while you were in the south?’ Polly asked from behind her nearly ten minutes later.

  Angie stilled, with her hands in the sudsy water. ‘I did. But how did you know?’

  ‘He lives down there, doesn’t he? Near Brighton?’

  ‘Yes, but … How d’you know? When did you last see him?’

  There was a pause, then Polly said in an unconvincingly casual tone: ‘It must have been eighteen months ago. Not long before the explosion, anyway. He came wanting to make peace.’

  ‘Peace with you?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. With you and John. I would have told you except he begged me not to say anything on the night he came back here and said he hadn’t been able to make himself knock on your door.’

  ‘Came back here?’ Angie repeated, feeling like a witless parrot. ‘D’you mean he stayed with you?’

  ‘Yes. He booked himself in by phone and arrived like any other walker.’

  Angie leaned against the hard cold edge of the ceramic sink, knowing she had to ask the next question and terrified of the answer.