The chambers were besieged the following morning and one by one the forgotten luncheon invitations from Proudfoot’s celebration party were pressed upon him during the morning. Experimentally he accepted Sir Richard’s. They had to force their way out of the building and led a pursuing road race to Pall Mall. He was asked three times for his autograph in the Reform Club, which Proudfoot insisted he’d never known before and promised to complain to the membership committee. When he returned to chambers, Hall had his home telephone number changed and made ex-directory.
He took all three briefs Bert Feltham had offered at the clinic. A police line had to be formed to get him into court to defend the earl’s son on the heroin charge, which he won in a single day’s sitting which ended with the case being dismissed and the magistrate referring the evidence of a drug squad officer to the Metropolitan Police Commissioner with a suggested internal enquiry. The hospital insurers had doubled their original out-of-court settlement offer, which Hall considered satisfactory, but the parents of the child urged him to take it to court. ‘It’s not as if you can lose, is it, Mr Hall?’ said the father, who wouldn’t be persuaded otherwise.
His rowing club had been discovered in his absence and he was followed there the first Saturday anyway. He was hopelessly out of condition and the pursuing press launches created waves and wash that engulfed him. He watched himself on television that night paddling waist deep and water-logged back to the pontoon, glad the cameras unmistakably caught him calling the photographers bastards and telling them to fuck off.
And he missed Jennifer. He told himself in the beginning that it was unavoidable, his having been thrust into such close proximity with her for so long and for such a reason. But gradually he changed his mind. It wasn’t the situation he missed it was Jennifer herself. He felt responsible for her, worried about her. He appreciated the guidance he got during his daily calls to Mason and Cox and even the priest – calls he always routed through them, so there would apparently be a reason for his later speaking to her – but he wasn’t entirely satisfied Jennifer was yet ready to leave the safety of the clinic.
Which today they’d insisted she was. So the final moment had come and he’d consciously – intentionally – intruded himself into it. Right that he should. Seeing a case through to its proper conclusion: earning the exorbitant fee demanded by Bert Feltham.
He had Geoffrey Johnson alert the security company greatly to increase the manpower at the mansion and ordered the helicopter to fly her from the clinic directly into the grounds of her home. He telephoned Annabelle several times after she got back from Paris with Emily, initially disappointed but then accepting the nanny’s subdued reaction.
‘She’s been medically and psychiatrically declared totally recovered,’ he insisted.
‘It can’t be a moment too soon for Emily.’
‘Have you told her?’
‘Of course I have! She needs as much preparation as Mrs Lomax. More maybe.’
Hall wasn’t interested in debating the greater need. ‘How’s she reacting to all the security?’
‘I’ve tried to make it into a game. Told her they are her soldiers and a lot of them are nice enough to go along with it. It’s not brilliant but it’s the best I could think of… I’m running out of things to think of.’
‘Is she excited?’
There was a pause before Annabelle responded. ‘She says she doesn’t want her mummy to be nasty again.’
Hall briefly considered driving to Hertfordshire to fly down with Jennifer but decided against it for the sake of the clinic: it would have been poor recompense for the way they’d protected Jennifer’s anonymity to lead the media of the world to whoever else was seeking privacy.
It was a wise decision. By the time he came off the M3 towards Alton – ironically following, he realized, the same route Gerald Lomax had taken on the night he’d murdered Jane – he headed a line of at least fifteen identifiable press and television vehicles. Most, during the journey, pulled out of the convoy to draw level to photograph and attempt to talk to him through their open window. Worryingly, by the time he did turn off, there were two helicopters fluttering overhead.
He was glad he’d had the forethought personally to speak to Inspector Hughes before setting out that morning. The scene outside the mansion was reminiscent of the road-blocked approach to St Thomas’s Hospital. It required a police Range Rover front and back and walking policemen either side for him to cover the last hundred yards to the mansion entrance and a squad of security men had to come out to complete the wedge in the middle of which he was finally able to get inside.
Annabelle was waiting for him, at the entrance. Emily was beside her, curly hair loose, in jeans and Mickey Mouse sweater, a forlorn attempt by Annabelle to make it seem an ordinary day. The child held Annabelle’s hand and stood with one foot awkwardly on top of the other, twisting precariously.
‘Listen!’ demanded Annabelle, as he got out of the car.
There was an audible roaring hum from the road, like bees or maybe even the distant sound of approaching hooves. It was worsened by the hovering helicopters.
‘And the road’s more than a mile away,’ completed the girl.
‘Like the zoo,’ suggested Emily, with childlike prescience. ‘You were at the hospital with my mummy!’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s coming home! She’s better!’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t know about Daddy, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe he’ll come, too.’
‘Maybe.’ He looked helplessly at Annabelle who looked expressionlessly back, offering no help.
‘There’s another one!’ said the child, pointing up. ‘I’ve been in a helicopter.’ She pronounced it ‘elcopter’.
It fluttered down, far enough away for them not to be buffeted by the downdraught, but it didn’t save its passengers from that of the pursuing media machine. They came in low and their cameramen had ample time to picture Jennifer, who was hurried towards the house by Colin Dawson. By the time they reached it Annabelle had already carried the suddenly frightened Emily inside, away from the noise and the artificial gale.
Every effort Jennifer had made for the homecoming was totally wrecked. Her dress and jacket were in disarray, her hair churned into a bird’s-nest and her nose as well as her eye was running from the dust that had blown in, streaking her make-up: before she could even speak the priest had to pick out a piece of grit with a handkerchief tip. It did mean, though, that Jennifer had the perfect excuse for the real tears that started the moment she was able properly to look at Emily.
‘Hello darling,’ Jennifer said. ‘Mummy’s home.’
‘But not Daddy?’ said Emily.
‘No,’ said Jennifer. ‘Not Daddy.’
***
It was the unexpected presence of the wealthy priest, perfectly accustomed to such opulence and sincerely believing himself chosen to be God’s vehicle for miracle, who saved the situation.
No-one else knew what to do or say. Emily had instinctively started back when Jennifer moved as if to kiss and hug her – so she’d stopped – and Annabelle ran out of words after saying it was nice to see Jennifer back. Hall couldn’t think of any contribution at all. So Dawson sipped the Earl Grey and ate the triangle sandwiches served by Alice Jenkins as if afternoon tea there was a regular ritual and talked to Emily, who seemed to welcome the relief as much as the rest of them, playing up to it even.
‘Does your collar hurt like that?’
‘No.’
‘Daddy doesn’t have a shirt like that.’
‘This is because I am a priest.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘I work for God.’
‘Not for my daddy?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know God?’ she demanded, seemingly genuinely curious.
‘Yes.’
‘Does he really have a beard? He’s got a beard in the picture on Miss Singleton’s wa
ll: she’s my teacher. G stands for God.’
‘The picture’s of his son.’
‘Do you know him, too?’
‘I know of him.’
‘But you haven’t met him?’
‘Not like I’m meeting you now.’
‘You’re very clever to know what G stands for,’ ventured Jennifer, as the tension eased.
‘I know all my letters now. Annabelle taught me while we were away. We’ve been away, while you’ve been ill. I saw Mickey Mouse…’ She plucked at her sweater. To Dawson she said, seriously, ‘He’s real, you know?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said the priest.
‘He is. I met him. And Goofy and Pluto and Minnie. I met them all.’ She looked back to Jennifer. ‘But I’m glad I’m home now.’
‘I’m glad, too,’ said Jennifer, hopefully. ‘And I’m glad most of all to be home with you. Are you glad that I’m home?’
Hall saw the fleeting frown cross Annabelle’s face.
Emily remained serious for what seemed a very long time. Finally she said, ‘I think so. But I wish Daddy was here too.’
Jennifer’s face began to crumple more but she managed to stop it. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she blurted.
Emily didn’t say anything.
‘It’s getting late, darling,’ said Jennifer. ‘While everyone else is having their tea here why don’t we go and have ours in the kitchen? And after that I can give you your bath and then read you a story and you can show me all the letters you know, on the page?’
Emily looked between her mother and the nanny. ‘I want Annabelle to give me my tea and bath. And read to me.’
‘But with Mummy as well,’ said Annabelle.
‘All right,’ agreed the child, uncertainly.
The excuse of grit in her eye had almost gone by the time Jennifer asked Hall and the priest to stay as she followed Annabelle and Emily out of the room.
Hall said, ‘Not at all what she expected, I wouldn’t think.’
‘She said she’d tried not to imagine anything.’
‘It’ll take some getting over,’ suggested Hall.
‘Hardly, with her resilience,’ said the priest. ‘It could have been better, but only just. They’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’
‘Are you here to help?’ queried Hall.
Dawson’s shoulders lifted and fell. ‘She asked me to come with her at the last minute. Said she wanted moral support…’ He smiled. ‘I’ve never been in a helicopter before.’
‘Easier than getting here by road.’
‘We saw what it was like when we came in. Incredible.’
‘I think I might get a lift back with you. Come back and get the car later.’ Purely for the immediate convenience, he told himself. It was ridiculous even to think of trying to drive through that melee again.
Dawson made another vague gesture through the lounge window in the direction of the distant road: inside it wasn’t possible to hear the animal roar. ‘They’re not going to be able to live like this. No-one could. Not for long.’
Hall was still trying to think of a reply when Jennifer came back into the room. She didn’t try to hide the fresh tears. ‘She was frightened of me being too close to her in the bathroom so I came away.’ She paused. ‘I saw what I looked like in the bathroom mirrors. A mad woman.’
None of them wanted to eat. Hall and the priest drank whisky. Jennifer didn’t drink anything and neither did Annabelle when she came down to say Emily had gone to sleep. They were all too anxious to reassure Jennifer it was always going to be difficult at the very beginning: each insisted, again too eagerly, that it had in fact gone far better than they’d anticipated. None of it helped.
Jennifer agreed at once to Hall leaving in the clinic’s helicopter and said, There’s something we could discuss in detail when you come back for your car, although I might as well tell you now.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve decided to write the book. And I want you to negotiate the contracts for me.’
‘I’m not a literary agent,’ Hall protested, weakly.
‘Literary agents arrange deals. We’re having deals shovelled at us. I need a lawyer to pick the best and negotiate the best…’ She smiled through the sadness. ‘And you, Jeremy Hall, are the very best lawyer I’ve ever met in my life.’ And by acting for me, she thought, you’re staying in my life.
Jeremy Hall was thinking the same. ‘I’d be pleased to,’ he said.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Jeremy Hall didn’t collect the car on his first return, nor on the second and when he tried on the third the battery was flat and it had to be jump-started from the gardener’s Land-Rover. He learned to enjoy helicopter travel and tolerate the unremitting curiosity and media hounding. Unthinkingly on his part the routine became his spending the week in London before coming down to Hampshire on a Friday, although there were telephone calls in between. It was Emily who said it was what her father did, briefly creating an awkwardness that Jennifer handled better than Hall did.
By then the relationship between Jennifer and Emily had almost completely reverted to what it had been before. Emily stopped bed-wetting the second week and by the fourth she had practically lost any attention-seeking precocity. It was during the fourth week – the week when Hall finally persuaded the parents of the brain-damaged boy to accept the hospital insurer’s newly increased out-of-court offer – that Jennifer suggested he stay for the weekend instead of flying back the same day, which was what he’d always done until then.
‘I might need support,’ she said. ‘And I’ve started to write it. I’d like you to see what I’ve done so far.’
Jennifer recognized the risk on several levels and was nervous of each – nervous one would collapse and destroy the still secret hope of the others – and still wasn’t sure if she would positively force the issue, although she wanted to. Wasn’t sure, even, if she was correctly reading the signs because there’d scarcely been any. He always came laden with papers and faxes and letters from publishers and newspapers and they always spent part of his visit, sometimes the majority, comparing the advantages of one contract against another but she didn’t think he’d needed personally to come so often. Unless he’d wanted to. Her satisfaction that he did went beyond the unspoken hopes. She had figures and percentages and subsidiary profits to think about and calculate and it was like a door opening on to a dusty room in her mind, although the dust quickly blew away. She was far better at the financial assessments than Hall, who said so openly when they’d pared the approaches down to a final three.
‘You don’t really need me,’ he complained.
‘We’re not negotiating yet: we’re necessary together as a team,’ said Jennifer, intentionally ambiguous.
‘Let’s see,’ said Hall, which didn’t help her.
It was the fourth, full weekend visit. As usual he came heavy with briefcases, although by then they both knew the figures from the three favoured publishers, all American.
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ she announced, consciously boasting her financial acumen because she wanted him to be impressed. ‘These three are all for world rights. One upfront payment, the highest at the moment $8,000,000. Each contract gives them the right to sell individually to other countries. But we’ve got offers of ?1,500,000 from England and $5,000,000 from Japan and approaches from all those other countries in Europe. Which the Americans will pick up if we sell outright. They’re not spending anything: they’re into profit before they start. Why don’t we sell just the American rights to the Americans and negotiate ourselves and separately with each of the other countries? That way we make the profit.’
Emily had long since been put to bed and Annabelle was in her separate annexe. They’d eaten dinner – duck – in the kitchen and carried the remainder of the wine through into the lounge. He’d shaken his head against brandy, uncomfortably aware of the similarity with the night of Jane Lomax’s death. Jennifer didn’t appear aware of it. He smiled at her and
said, ‘I didn’t think you needed the money.’
‘I don’t!’ she said, coming forward in her facing chair. ‘It’s never the money! It’s the deal: shaving a point, gaining a percentage.’
‘Like the old days?’ he suggested, seriously.
‘Close enough.’
‘It’ll involve our having to discuss a lot more, after we close the American contract,’ he said, looking directly at her.
‘I know,’ said Jennifer, holding his eyes. Meet me halfway, she thought.
‘I’d like that.’
Far enough! Still room to retreat. ‘I hoped you would. I would, too.’
He was as relieved as she was, almost too eager. ‘We could create a lot of new problems for ourselves.’
There was no misunderstanding that! ‘You want to see my CV? There’s a whole page listed under problems.’
‘Your terms. If you decide…’
‘… I don’t want ground rules!’ she stopped. ‘Just for once, for the first time since I can’t remember when, I want something to happen as it happens. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘But there are things to get out of the way.’ It wasn’t an immediate contradiction. She had to tell him. It would be her barrier if she didn’t: she had to risk it becoming his.
‘I don’t think you do,’ he said, cautiously.
‘It’s for me,’ she admitted.
‘OK,’ he said again, although more doubtfully this time.
Jennifer had tried to rehearse it, to take away the vileness, but there were no words that could. She talked staring intently at him, seeking the twitch of revulsion that would tell her she’d lost before it began. His face remained blank. She almost wished it hadn’t: for there to have been something, whatever it was. ‘Doctor Lloyd made the tests, at the hospital. I’m not… it’s all right. I’m all right.’
A Mind to Kill Page 42