Out of the Dark

by Natasha Cooper

  They were not going to eat in the directors’ dining room, which probably meant that some of the other members of the board disapproved of Gunschwig’s decision to underwrite his legal costs. Still, Sir Henry Buxford had all the power needed to keep them quiet.

  Nick had always known that if he lost the case he’d be out of a job. That was bad enough, but the nightmare panic he hoped he was still managing to hide was that, if he lost, the civil proceedings might be followed by a criminal charge.

  It wasn’t likely to happen. He thought criminal trials were usually followed by civil actions, not the other way round. But that didn’t stop the nightmares. When they were at their worst, he’d try to distract himself with memories of a story he’d heard once of a bloke arriving at Ford. Reeling from his experiences in the first tough dispersal prison he’d been sent to, this chap had got to Ford and been greeted by an old schoolfriend, delighted to have a replacement for his recently released bridge partner.

  But that was just whistling in the dark. The idea of prison – even an open prison – was terrifying. Three times now Nick had woken in the night, screaming. Luckily his girlfriend was away, so there was no one to know how scared he was.

  The summons came at last in the form of a phone call from the Chairman’s secretary. Nick was to meet him in the lobby.

  They didn’t say much until they were sitting either side of a table in Brooks’s, well away from the City and any eavesdropping journalists. In his own club, with the familiar menu and wine list in front of him, the Chairman looked perfectly at home.

  ‘Well, Nick, how are you feeling?’

  ‘Pretty good, actually, sir.’

  ‘That’s the stuff. Case preparation going all right?’

  ‘Yes, I think it is.’

  ‘How d’you get on with Antony’s junior, this girl, Trish Maguire? I wasn’t at all sure about his choice there, but he thinks the world of her.’

  Nick took a gulp of the claret in his glass, wondering whether the old man was trying to loosen him up to make him feel better or get him drunk enough to let out anything he might have wanted to keep secret. Neither of them drank at lunchtime in normal circumstances. Very few bankers did.

  ‘I find her quite aggressive.’

  ‘How, exactly?’

  Nick had another go at the claret. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t first growth, which he’d have liked and thought he deserved. ‘It’s partly how she looks, of course, rather like an eagle: short tufty black hair, ferocious black eyes and a huge great nose jutting out below them. She’ll look magnificent as a judge, but it’s a bit intimidating on a thirty-something girl. And she’s bloody offensive in some of her questions.’

  ‘That’s her job. She’s giving you a chance to rehearse before the other side get at you. The DOB directors’ counsel will be trying to show that any blame lies with you, so you’ll be put through the wringer.’

  ‘I know, but it’s not just that. I get the feeling that she disapproves of all of us – you know, the whole financial-services industry.’

  ‘That’s probably true. She’s a pretty left-wing, angsty kind of girl, I gather. Antony and I discussed it right at the start and I know he thinks it could be a positive advantage. She’ll be able to draw a lot of fire. What’s more, her great speciality is the passion with which she acts for anyone she sees as a victim of bullying.’

  Nick achieved a laugh. ‘I’m not sure I want to look like a wimpish victim in court.’

  ‘Vanity can be useful, Nick, but it can also make you do damn silly things. Listen to Antony on this one. I’ve more respect for him than for any man alive. I trust his judgment, as you should. But, apart from Maguire’s aggression, how else do you see her?’

  ‘I thought you knew her, sir.’

  The Chairman shook his immaculate grey head. ‘I shall be meeting her at the Shelleys’ next week. That’ll give me a chance to find out what she’s made of.’ He looked friendly suddenly. ‘I thought you could give me some pointers, help me ask the right questions.’

  ‘She’s clever, no doubt about that. Not attractive really, though she’s quite slim and not badly dressed in fact. Too intense for me, though, and doesn’t bother much with jewellery or make-up.’

  ‘Gay?’

  ‘Not according to the gossip. I’ve asked around about her and I hear that she’s in the middle of a longstanding affair with the senior partner at Henton, Maltravers. He’s said to be pining to marry her. God knows why she won’t. He must be worth a good bit by now. On the other hand, she doesn’t flirt and that always bothers me.’

  ‘Why?’

  Nick laughed. ‘Oh, you know, I always mistrust a woman who don’t respond when I …’

  ‘Chat her up?’ The Chairman laughed with him and refilled his glass, just as the white-jacketed waiter brought their pate. Nick noticed that Sir Henry had barely touched his own wine.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know what you mean, but you were dealing with her in her professional guise, so maybe she was just being grown up. Tuck in. Anything else I ought to know? Anything you’ve thought of that we didn’t discuss originally?’

  So that is what this lunch is all about, thought Nick. He’s wondering whether to go on backing me. What’s he heard?

  ‘There’s nothing I didn’t tell you and Antony Shelley at that first conference we had.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’ The Chairman did drink then, but it was the merest sip. He rolled the wine around his mouth. ‘Not bad, but not something one would want to risk losing self-control over. How’s the pate?’

  ‘Very good. Thank you.’

  ‘We’ll support you all the way, you know, but if the case goes pear-shaped, it will be hard to keep you on at Grunschwig’s without upsetting the clients.’

  That’s a nice, helpful, confidence-boosting thing to tell me now, thought Nick. But he’d known it all along and said so.

  ‘Good man. Eat up. Sleeping all right? You don’t want to start getting twitchy and neurotic between now and the opening of the case.’

  ‘Good lord, no. I’ve never slept better in my life.’

  The Chairman raised his glass in a silent toast. ‘I knew you’d hack it. You’ve handled yourself well. Stick with it, Nick, and we’ll all be all right.’

  Nick knew now what he was being told: it’s not only your job on the line, and your whole future in the City. It’s also my reputation, so don’t screw up by drinking, insomnia, or saying anything careless in court. And if you do screw up, don’t expect any mercy from me.

  On the surface the man was all charm and kindly support, but beneath it he was as ruthless as any Mafia don. He might not have traitors and enemies killed, but he’d obliterate them professionally without a qualm. Nick knew he’d need his sleeping pills tonight. And he wasn’t sure he could face the tournedos he’d ordered now. All that blood.

  Trish picked up the phone to ring Caro Lyalt soon after seven, as instructed in the message she’d left on the machine. But then it seemed unfair to interrupt her and her partner, Jess, until they’d at least had a chance to eat together. To take up the time, Trish grilled herself a piece of salmon and ate it with pre-washed baby spinach from a supermarket bag and a slice of olive bread.

  She hated the way the spinach dried out her mouth, and squeaked between her teeth, but the hospital had told her she needed iron. George had always thought so. Nothing she’d ever said could convince him that her natural colour was so pale. She shivered as she thought of David’s white face and dark eyes and black hair.

  It wasn’t only those things that linked them. The more she saw of him, the more she recognised the slant of his eyebrows, and the shape of the cheekbones, as well as the way his face tapered around the obstinate mouth to the same pointed chin.

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ she said aloud, through a mouthful of half-chewed spinach leaves. ‘You’re probably trying to turn him into your half-brother to compensate for the miscarriage.’

  She opened a bottle of
red wine – more iron, lots of flavenoids and all sorts of health-giving properties, and a lot more palatable than raw spinach – and poured herself a glassful. George would have recommended white with fish, but she preferred red and what did it matter anyway? She bit back that thought at once, aware how close she was to the place where nothing mattered at all.

  She’d been there before and was determined never to go back. It was a place of permanently sleety winter, inhabited only by large black birds that flapped around her aching head, reeling off lists of her faults and the damage she’d done to other people ever since the day she was born.

  Ignoring their shadows, she made herself finish her ration of healthy food, washed up, poured herself another glass of wine and sat down at the laptop to send another email to George.

  When she’d finished writing a perky account of nothing much and clicked on ‘send’, it was nearly half past nine. She decided to give Caro and Jess a few more minutes together, and opened George’s latest email, to read that he’d been dreaming about her.

  I must have been nearly awake because it felt so real. I could smell your skin, Trish, and feel your bones. Your breath brushed my cheek … And then I woke up and you weren’t there. I felt cheated – and deflated. God! I can’t wait to get home.

  Trish felt her skin prickle at the scene he’d set for her. She knew she’d been right to urge him to fulfil his widowed mother’s dream of seeing San Francisco while she was still fit enough to enjoy it, but Trish wanted him back now. At last she reached for the phone.

  ‘Hi, Caro, it’s Trish,’ she said, recognising her friend’s voice. It sounded strained. ‘Am I interrupting?’

  ‘No. I’m on my own tonight and there’s sod all on TV. Ironic, isn’t it? The one night I get to slump and there’s nothing to watch. What can I do for you, Trish?’

  ‘It’s quite a long story. If you’re at a loose end, why not come round? Have a drink and we can talk.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Is it too late?’

  ‘Of course not. And I’d love it, Trish. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be with you.’

  Trish flung open two of the windows to get rid of the heavy smell of the fish. She couldn’t help noticing the rotting window sills again and felt her head tighten at the prospect of the effort it would take to make the freeholder have them repaired. She ground coffee, fetched a bottle of brandy and glasses and a box of Belgian chocolates someone must have brought when they came to dinner. She hadn’t opened the box and turned it over to check the sell-by date. There were two months to go. She pulled off the gold string and parted the waxed paper inside the lid. The chocolates looked perfectly edible; there were none of the white spots she’d seen on the contents of other long-forgotten boxes.

  A few of the red and purple cushions needed plumping up, and she switched on some of the lamps to make the light softer. It felt strange then to sit quietly on one of the big black sofas and have time to stare around the flat as though with a stranger’s eyes. Looking at the Nina Murdoch painting of a road rushing away into the vanishing point under a starkly rendered angular bridge, Trish let herself admit that she was lonely.

  Odd that it had taken her so long to understand how much of a space George filled in her life. Odd, too, that she’d insisted on keeping parts of it free of him, especially now that she knew he was not the invulnerable threat he’d occasionally seemed. But even as she contemplated moving into his Fulham house with its valuable antiques, or maybe a bigger version they might buy together, she knew she couldn’t do it. Whatever the reason, she needed these lonely, echoing spaces for protection.

  Footsteps on the iron staircase outside stopped her worrying about her own selfishness. She resisted the temptation to rush over and open the door, waiting until Caro knocked. But she soon saw that she wasn’t the only one in need. Caro, who was never demonstrative, flung her arms round Trish.

  Her body felt suprisingly soft for someone who looked so muscular, but her arms were hard as they clung for a second. Trish wondered what Jess was up to, but she knew better than to ask.

  ‘It’s great to see you, Trish.’ Caro advanced into the room with a jaunty stride that only made her depression more obvious. ‘You do have a terrific flat. I couldn’t believe it, you know, when you first told me you lived here, a rich brief like you! All I knew about Southwark then was the crime figures. Silly me.’

  It wasn’t like Caro to chatter either. Maybe it was the streets outside, with their weird loitering figures that had spooked her. Trish patted her on the back and asked if she’d like tea, coffee, wine, brandy or a mixture.

  ‘Wine, please,’ she said, sounding more normal. ‘You don’t look so good either. What’s up?’

  ‘Apart from suddenly being made aware that everyone else thinks I live in the middle of some kind of war zone, you mean?’ Trish tried to make a joke of it, but the humour didn’t come through.

  Caro looked surprised. ‘Is that why you’re so jittery?’

  ‘Not entirely. I …’

  ‘Come on, Trish. Are you ill?’

  Caro sounded so affectionate and so sensible that Trish found herself talking about the miscarriage and how difficult it was going to be to tell George. Caro’s arm was round her shoulders again by the end of the story, but this time it felt like the kindness of a strong friend, not the clinging of a needy supplicant.

  ‘You’ve got to tell him. And you’re right that you can’t do it in an email. Wait till he’s back.’ Caro let her arm drop to her side and swivelled on the sofa so she could examine Trish’s face. ‘And quite frankly, I don’t think he’ll be surprised. He’ll see that something’s wrong the minute he gets here. You look like a ghost.’

  ‘That’s encouraging! Now it’s your turn. How are you?’ Trish hadn’t touched her wine. She felt as though she’d had more than enough already.

  ‘I’m fine. It’s just that there isn’t enough time for both life and work, and I’ve got far too much work anyway, but then that’s nothing new. I can’t stay long, so tell me what else is bothering you. I can’t believe it was the miscarriage that made you ring me.’

  ‘No.’ Trish walked towards the window overlooking the street. Staring down at the spot where David had been almost killed, she told Caro what had happened there on Sunday night.

  ‘So what’s worrying you? That the driver should’ve been prosecuted? I can’t do anything about that.’ Hints of the kind of impatience that must have made Caro’s junior officers shiver had a different effect on Trish. She controlled her own irritation and spoke as reasonably as she always did when reminding judges of the aspects of the law they seemed to have forgotten.

  ‘No, of course not. I hope they’re not going to prosecute her. She wasn’t speeding and the child ran out of the dark in front of her. Neither of them had a chance. No, it’s the child I’m worried about. Look, Caro, I’ve probably invented the whole thing because of the state of my post-pregnancy hormones, but listen.’ She explained that David had had her name and address sewn into his clothes. ‘And that night, the police in Casualty and the medical staff obviously thought he was something to do with me. Since then I’ve not been able to ignore the likeness, either.’

  ‘Have you ever … ?’

  ‘No. I’ve never been pregnant until this time. I’ve been lucky.’

  ‘Or careful,’ said Caro with a smile. ‘You’re one of the most sensible women I know. Have you any idea who this boy could be?’

  Trish stared down at the street, where she could just see faint black outlines of the old skidmarks.

  ‘My father’s always been erratic,’ she said at last. ‘And although he was in a relationship with a woman who couldn’t have had a child at the time David must have been conceived, he was also seeing a prostitute. She lived on an estate not far from here. It occurred to me that David might be her son – and his.’

  ‘It sounds feasible. What have you done about it?’

  Trish noticed the warmth of Caro’s smile and vo
ice and wondered whether she was being interrogated. She’d once heard Caro explain her favourite technique: ‘Make friends with them. Make them like you and feel safe with you. Be patient and kind. You get much more out of people by making them think you like them than by terrifying them or using aggressive body language to suggest you’re going to beat them up.’

  ‘I asked the boy if the woman who sent him to me was called Jeannie Nest, but it was clear he’d never heard the name before.’

  Caro’s face didn’t change, but there was something about her that set Trish’s antennae quivering.

  ‘What do you know about Jeannie Nest, Caro? Have you ever arrested her?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She crossed her legs. ‘Honestly, Trish. I can’t remember if I’ve ever had anything to do with her myself, but her name has cropped up recently. Are you sure she knew your father?’

  ‘Yes, he … used her services nine – ten – years ago. But Caro, how did her name crop up again?’

  ‘Oh, just in a report on something else. Don’t worry about it.’ Caro’s casual voice was not convincing. Trish was about to press her when she hurriedly added, ‘Does your father still see her?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Good. And you say you think the boy in hospital could be hers?’

  ‘Caro, what is this? You’ve got your official face on. And voice. What is going on? Where did you see her name?’

  ‘You’re talking about a lost, unclaimed, eight- or nine-year-old boy who was nearly killed in a road accident, refusing to say who he is and with some connection with a woman who—’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who you say worked as a prostitute. Is it any surprise that I’m thinking like a police officer?’ Caro’s expression gave no clues, but its hardness made it clear she wasn’t going to reveal anything else she might know. ‘Tell me more about the boy.’