Quentin Smith is a medical doctor and practising anaesthetist with a background of writing magazine articles of topical or historical interest, usually with a discernible medical flavour. He served as the editor of a national anaesthesia publication for several years before devoting more free time to the enjoyment and pursuit of writing fiction. He lives in Durham with his wife and son.
The Secret Anatomy
of Candles
QUENTIN SMITH
Copyright © 2012 Quentin Smith
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This book and the characters within are a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to individuals either living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Typeset in 11pt Minion Pro by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK
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I dedicate this book to my family,
both near and far, for always believing.
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY ONE
TWENTY TWO
TWENTY THREE
TWENTY FOUR
TWENTY FIVE
TWENTY SIX
TWENTY SEVEN
TWENTY EIGHT
TWENTY NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY ONE
THIRTY TWO
THIRTY THREE
THIRTY FOUR
THIRTY FIVE
THIRTY SIX
THIRTY SEVEN
THIRTY EIGHT
THIRTY NINE
FORTY
FORTY ONE
FORTY TWO
FORTY THREE
FORTY FOUR
FORTY FIVE
FORTY SIX
FORTY SEVEN
FORTY EIGHT
FORTY NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY ONE
FIFTY TWO
FIFTY THREE
FIFTY FOUR
FIFTY FIVE
FIFTY SIX
FIFTY SEVEN
FIFTY EIGHT
FIFTY NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY ONE
SIXTY TWO
SIXTY THREE
SIXTY FOUR
SIXTY FIVE
SIXTY SIX
SIXTY SEVEN
SIXTY EIGHT
SIXTY NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY ONE
SEVENTY TWO
SEVENTY THREE
GLOSSARY OF COCKNEY RHYMING SLANG
Revenge is a kind of wild justice, which the more man’s nature
runs to it, the more ought law to weed it out.
Francis Bacon
ONE
Jasper did not yet know that his wife was already dead as he paced back and forth on the light brown, Purbeck marble floor of Durham Magistrates’ Court. The iPhone he was holding to his ear clicked in to Jennifer’s recorded message.
“The Candles are out. Please leave a message after the beep.”
He loathed that message, but he had to concede that Jennifer was right in taunting him that he was never at home long enough to change it. One reason for this was that the conduct of every court case was always the same – consuming, demanding, exhausting – and this case was no different. Jasper was an enthusiastic slave to the process and could literally disappear for days at a time without returning home.
With a grimace, he stabbed a finger at the iPhone and slipped it back inside his broad, pinstriped, charcoal suit. He stopped pacing, hands on hips, and stared at the large round clock on the wall above the entrance to court one. It was ten to four. Jasper was annoyed that he had made the call, annoyed that he had succumbed to sentimental distraction just moments before his crucial closing argument.
But his concern that he had not managed to raise Jennifer at all over the past four days was growing. She wasn’t even returning his voicemail. Where on earth could she be? With a resigned sigh he realised that there was no time to dwell on this, as he had to concentrate on the cunningly contrived plan he had devised to save his client’s case.
As Jasper glanced about the cavernous foyer, echoing with murmurs of gossip from scattered clumps of people dotted around like weeds in a fallow field, his eyes were drawn to the unmistakeable purple dress of his client, who resembled a plump, ripe cranberry. She was standing beside her mother and, quite unbelievably, cradling the disfigured baby in her arms.
“Damn it,” Jasper hissed through clenched teeth. “I told you, don’t hold the baby – give it to your mother.”
There she was, in full view of the public just minutes before closing remarks and final jury deliberations, doing exactly what they had agreed she must not reveal to the world. She caught his eye and smiled, waving excitedly. He stared back, gesturing animatedly with his arms for her to pass the baby to its grandmother. Had they taken in a word of his careful instructions that would need to be carried out to the letter in just a few moments? Did she not realise how critical every nuance of his finely crafted performance was, especially in such cases where the evidence was so weak?
Shaking his head in despair, he took a deep breath and then sat down beside a worn, tan leather briefcase on the wooden bench straddled between court one’s two entrances. Rubbing his greying temples with his left thumb and middle finger, he ran through his rehearsed speech silently, lips moving wordlessly and eyes staring blankly ahead.
Just then the increasingly familiar tic began to tug at the corner of his left eye, causing him to blink repeatedly as though he had a speck of dust in it. Quickly, the spasm began to spread to his cheek, distorting the contours of his clean-shaven face with warm and uncontrollable contractions.
Not now, he cursed, not moments before he needed to face the members of the jury, establishing close eye contact, connecting with them, and winning them over. He held out his left hand and stared at it, willing the noticeable tremor, which now also controlled his hand, to cease. But even spreading his fingers apart and tensing the muscles until his knuckles blanched was futile.
He closed the errant fingers into a clenched fist and with his head bowed forwards Jasper suppressed a scream of anguished frustration. What was happening to him? Why were these tics and spasms invading the autonomy of his body, mocking him? His moment of silent torment was interrupted by approaching footsteps clipping the shiny
marble floor.
“Well, if it isn’t Jasper Candle?” said a man’s voice.
Jasper looked up, surprised, and annoyed to be disturbed. It was that awful man with sweaty palms whose name he could never recall. He too wore a charcoal pinstripe suit, the solicitor’s badge, and worn but polished black brogues. Today he exuded an odour of garlic, no doubt from his lunch.
“I thought I’d catch you here. If you’ve got a moment, I must talk to you about the Edward Burns case. You really have gone too far this time, Jasper. How do you sleep at night, man, have you no conscience?”
Jasper took a deep breath as the spasms continued to corrupt his calm demeanour. He was accustomed to the vitriol and immune to the animosity, bordering on repugnance, that his colleagues directed at him. He accepted that his choice of clientele was not one that cultivated popularity amongst fellow solicitors.
Without responding to the inflammatory outburst he gesticulated with his thumb in the direction of court one and the wall clock.
“I haven’t got the lager and lime right now,” Jasper said in a gentle accent that betrayed his east of London childhood.
“What?”
“Closing argument’s in five minutes. No time to chat,” Jasper said, avoiding eye contact.
“Typical,” the man said, wrinkling his upturned nose and sniffing loudly.
Jasper produced a black business card from within his immaculate suit and held it out between index and middle fingers.
“Call my office.”
Printed on the card in silver italics were the words: ‘Jasper Candle, Compensation and Personal Injury Solicitor, Court Lane, Old Elvet, Durham.’
The man stared at the card, seemingly transfixed by its unusual design, his mouth slightly open as if he was not yet done. Suddenly Jasper recalled his name, and wondered how he could ever have forgotten it.
Life imitates art, he thought to himself.
“I need to focus, Mr Ferret, excuse me,” Jasper said dismissively, turning his body such that his displayed language of withdrawal was unambiguous.
He did not want any further distraction at this crucial time. It had been bad enough trying unsuccessfully to contact his wife and wondering where she was, and why for days he had not been able to reach her. But the last thing he needed at that moment was to become embroiled in a debate with his opposite counsel over the complexities of the death of Edward Burns. The next hour was crucial in wrapping up the present case, winning it against all odds for his client, and maintaining his unblemished reputation.
The iPhone vibrated against his chest and Jasper pulled it out immediately, poking at the screen with impatient fingers. But it was not his wife. It was from Stacey, his secretary.
“Hi Mr C. Can you talk?” Stacey said in a diminutive voice.
“Quickly.”
“That American woman, Mrs Debra Kowalski, has an appointment to see you at 6pm. Her child has died, poor thing, and all she does is cry.”
Jasper’s eyes tightened almost imperceptibly, wrinkling the skin of his lower eyelids.
“Died from what?”
“Measles, I think.”
Jasper’s face registered surprise as he straightened up.
“I didn’t know you could die from measles.”
A brief silence ensued, before Stacey spoke again.
“Well, that’s what she said.”
Jasper rubbed his twitching face.
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” he said, glancing at his wristwatch.
“She’s called several times. I tried, but she won’t wait.”
Jasper clenched his teeth and pulled a face, as a sudden spasm jerked his arm violently and almost flung the iPhone from his grasp.
“Brad Pitt!” Jasper cursed.
He had taken to swearing at these involuntary movements, chastising them, as though they had assumed a personality that would respond to abuse and reprimand. Jasper cupped the iPhone in his palm to steady the tremor.
“What was that, Mr C?” Stacey said.
“Stacey, has my wife left any messages today?” Jasper looked down as he spoke, scuffing the polished tiles with the toe of his brogues.
“No, Mr C.”
He paused.
“When last did she call… looking for me?”
“Ummmm… I don’t remember, Mr C, not for a few days. I’ll have to check the voicemail.”
Jasper pocketed the phone and, taking a deep breath, glanced up at the wall clock. It was time to go in and execute his cunning plan. He had warned his opposite counsel repeatedly about the danger of not accepting his settlement offer, and now they were about to learn to their cost never to call Jasper Candle’s bluff.
He picked up the leather briefcase, massaged the incessant tics around his left eye, adjusted his collar and cuffs, and marched into court one as though he owned it.
TWO
Jennifer retreated in shock to the safety of the pavement as the black London cab almost ran into her. Staring at her incredulously, the driver shook his head and hooted.
“I’m sorry,” she heard herself say.
Jennifer turned around briefly and looked back up Harley Street with a dazed expression ironed onto her narrow face and sharp features. Even her eyes blinked slowly, indicative of the paralytic state of her brain. As she stared up towards the distinctive pinkish sandstone of number sixty seven, she could still hear his words echoing in her head, still smell the powerful sweet musk of his aftershave.
“I am so sorry to have to be the bearer of such bad news, Mrs Candle,” he had carefully enunciated, his exotic middle eastern face exuding empathy beneath small letterbox spectacles.
In her hand Jennifer clutched the letter that he had given to her: the letter that had shattered her life.
“Take this as a summary of what we have discussed.”
Jennifer recalled speaking to him as if from the depths of a bad dream, her voice echoing and alien to her own ears.
“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of terrible mistake, Doctor?”
“I am so sorry,” he had said, standing up in his impeccably tailored Armani suit and offering her his hand.
Pulling the collar of her thick blood red coat tightly around her neck, she turned into New Cavendish Street and began to walk in the direction of Hyde Park. Soon she was away from the traffic in the vast expanse of the park, entering at Cumberland Gate and walking aimlessly along the many intersecting pathways. A group of students were playing football to one side, but she did not even notice them as they whistled their approval at her.
She walked further before stumbling into something that squealed.
“Watch it!” an old man cursed as she almost trampled his spaniel that had stopped to sniff a mole hill.
The dog yelped and sprang away to safety, before the leash tautened and terminated its escape. Rising up from the hem of Jennifer’s red coat was a smear of mud from its frightened paw.
“I am so… I didn’t see… please excuse me,” she stammered, looking up at the wrinkled face of the old man.
He looked back into her vacant, swollen eyes, saw the tears streaking her cheeks and creased his eyebrows.
“You all right, love?” he asked, pulling the circumspect spaniel towards him on the leash.
“Yes… sorry.”
Jennifer nodded absently, not even feeling the sting of the wintry chill on her face, and moved on.
She did not know how long she had walked, but eventually found herself standing on the stone bridge, staring into the brooding waters of the Serpentine. Ducks paddled about gracefully in the icy water, occasionally speeding up to chase down a crust of bread lobbed in by a samaritan on the bank. Stiffened fingers tinged with blue lifted and meticulously unfolded the letter on the stone parapet. Jennifer began to read it again, perhaps doubting her recollection of its contents, or hoping that it would convey a more benign message now than it had earlier.
Living with the shadow of this prophecy hovering relentlessly over her lif
e had been difficult enough, but to discover now that her worst fears had materialised was heartbreaking. She felt crushed as a tear rolled down each blanched cheek, past pale, pursed lips and dropped on to the letter.
Jennifer stared into the depths of the dark water, drawn to its tranquil ripples, pacified by its calming expanse, leaning into its allure. In her mind she tried to imagine the despair that Jasper’s father must have felt when he had received his letter and whether the water below Westminster Bridge had called to him that fateful day, just as it was calling to her now on West Carriage Drive.
A woman unhurriedly pushing a regal Silver Cross pram stopped beside her.
“Are you all right?” she enquired, touching Jennifer lightly on the shoulder.
Jennifer was startled and shrank back from the cold parapet and the sucking abyss beyond it, absently mumbling and nodding her head as she stared at the woman with wide eyes.
“I’m fine, thank you, just fine,” she heard herself say softly and without conviction.
Walking away towards Albert Hall, Jennifer pushed the letter deep into her coat pocket, hoping to banish its contents from her thoughts.
THREE
Debra Kowalski cradled the toddler on her lap, resting her chin on his profusion of curly, blonde hair as he played with a gold locket hanging around her neck. Debra kept dabbing at her moist staring eyes with a balled up tissue in her hand. She was frightened and anxious, and clearly had no intention of letting the nurse, seated directly in front of her, anywhere near her child.
“I don’t know what to do,” Debra said through teary gasps.
They were sitting in a small austere clinic room: examination couch covered in starched white sheets to one side; desk with computer centrally placed to the other; walls adorned with charts and posters of various parts of the human body. The air was rank with the overpowering odour of Savlon, a smell Debra had never forgotten since her brief spell as a dental nurse.
Dressed in a navy blue uniform, the nurse leaned across to her desk and pulled a clean, crisp tissue from a box and offered it to Debra. Her plump, round face fringed by black bob-styled hair smiled sympathetically above a rectangular white identity badge which read ‘Yvonne, Practice Nurse.’
The Secret Anatomy of Candles Page 1