A rash of goose pimples erupted at the tops of her arms. She wanted to scream. She didn’t need this. She stood up and turned to face him.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Ben, I don’t want to be late for court.’
He gripped her wrist. ‘For God’s sake, Julia. Sit down. You’re in no state to go to court. Look at you. Caroline or Mark will fill in for you. I’ll drive you home.’
She threw the files into her briefcase, switched her phone through to Linda and marched past him, her lips tightly closed, her eyes blurred with the tears she was determined would not fall.
As she slammed through the reception office Linda shouted after her. ‘There’s a call for you, Julia. It’s ─ ’
But the crash of the banging door drowned the rest of Linda’s words.
- 67 -
With little space between the magistrates’ bench, the court clerk and the solicitors’ bench, Julia felt more than ever before as though the two rows of seats for the public were right on top of her. As usual she pretended they did not exist. The yellow walls, the dull brown and beige of the carpet, and the spider web of lights hidden in the latticed ceiling did nothing to alleviate her sensation of entombment.
She opened her file. Signalling discreetly to her client, she scribbled him a note, something she’d just thought of that she wanted him to emphasise in the witness box. She tore the page from her pad, folded it, stood up and began walking towards the glassed-in dock, when a movement in the public gallery caught her eye.
A man was looking at her, his eyes . . . .
She held on to the side of the dock. Without showing a flicker of recognition, she handed the note to the dock officer, returned to her seat and made sure her face was still in repose.
The one thing she didn’t want was to give him the impression that she knew he was there. In a courtroom she’d become over the years rather like a poker player. Even when someone said something of major significance, which nobody else picked up on, she would never immediately jump on it or show that she’d been given a little gold coin. She would quietly store it away. She would then start to develop an argument, which appeared on the face of it to have no relevance to that little gem she’d just been given. And because she’d developed an instinct for not giving herself away, she’d become like a millpond: nobody could read her emotions or the way she was thinking, and she would not release herself from that state until her final speech, letting go the passion as she brought out one point after another, everything that had been lying quietly under the surface.
Those years of practice were paying off now.
The bastard: he wanted her to see him.
Don’t react, Julia. He’s deliberately trying to wind you up. Do nothing. Don’t look at him and he’ll think, well Christ, did she even see me? Or, did she see me and is she so clever that she’s playing me at my own game?
She could tell the police right now that he was here in this court. They would catch him. Word would get out to his spies like wildfire. Nicky would be in danger and he would tell the whole world . . .
But like a snake creeping into a warm basket, curiosity overcame. And she couldn’t stop herself looking up again.
He was gone.
She leapt to her feet. Saw the magistrate’s pursed lips.
‘Do you have a problem, Mrs Grant?’
‘I’m sorry, Sir. I thought I just ─ ’
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Anyway, it couldn’t have been him. In spite of having shaved off his beard, the man was hardly going to walk into a public courtroom, knowing the whole of the Manchester police force was out looking for him. Not unless he was demented or intent on suicide, and she knew he was neither of those. If she went blabbing to the court that she’d just seen Sam Smith.
‘Yes, Mrs Grant?’ the magistrate said patiently.
‘Sir, I would like to ask for a short stand down. It’s entirely my fault, Sir. It looks as though I’ve left half the contents of my file somewhere, either in the advocate's room or the canteen, I imagine. Very silly of me, but I really will need them.’
‘We’re wasting time, Mrs Grant, but we’ll retire for a few minutes until you’re back.’
She careered up the steps, through the swing doors into the main corridor, quickly scanned the rows of black vinyl seats, glanced through the plate glass windows overlooking Crown Square, and skidded round the corner to the lifts. Not one lift even on its way so she started down the stairs. Stopping on Level 2 she looked down over the balcony at the open-plan ground floor. No sign of him.
Down one more flight and the cream walls with matching cream floors seemed to suck her into their blandness. It was like trying to run in a dream.
He couldn’t have got far. He must be somewhere in Crown Square, so get moving, she told herself. This could be your only chance.
Nodding at Security she almost collided with the bank of potted palms, pushed through the swing doors then yanked open the heavy glass door and stopped at the top of the long flight of stone steps that swept down to Crown Square.
He was nowhere in sight.
It was strange that no one else had seen him. With his face all over the media every person in Manchester must know what he looked like. Or had nobody recognised him without the beard?
She ran around the square, peering at everyone. She would have to get back. Maybe she had superimposed his face on some innocent onlooker. She’d done that before. It was something she was rather good at.
If the person she’d seen was Smith then the hatpin could not have done much damage. But if it was not him . . .
She began the long walk back up the steps. Embarrassed. Frustrated. Disgusted. More isolated and more alone than ever before. She re-entered the court room, suddenly realising she had no papers with her that could be flourished to justify her earlier departure. ‘Sorry about that,’ she muttered breathlessly to the clerk, ‘I’ll have to make do without the documents - can’t find them’
- 68 -
Julia finally got to the office at five-thirty. With a mug of coffee in front of her, she dialled the Hillside House number. Wendy had agreed to baby-sit while she went to the concert with Paul tonight. She’d said Alan was out of town on a big job and she hadn’t even wanted to go for her usual Friday evening hairdo.
Nicky answered. ‘Hiya, Mummy. Paul was here. Are you coming home now?’
Julia smiled to herself. He was full of surprises. It was some time since he’d just popped in to say hello to Nicky on a Friday evening. ‘I told you I’d be late tonight, darling, but I’m glad Paul came. What did you two do?’
‘He brought me Smarties. And a pink frilly scrunchie for my ballet bun. And a book about horses. And another book about a little girl who goes to London to dance in the ballet.’
‘You lucky girl.’
Lucky? Julia suddenly had a painful twinge in her chest. Even though Hillside House was being guarded as though it were Fort Knox, should she be going out yet again, when Nicky was theoretically in potential danger? Out all day, every day, at work, in court, visiting prisons and police stations. Shouldn't she grasp this one opportunity to be at home with Nicky?
‘And Mummy, he said he had a surprise for us tomorrow. What d’you think it’ll be?’
‘I don’t know, darling. But if we knew, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Now be a good girl and go to bed early. Don’t forget it’s ballet tomorrow, and The Wizard of Oz in the afternoon. Tell Wendy I won’t be very late. I love you.’ She put down the phone. Wasn’t that just like Paul. An extra effort to make a quick visit to Nicky and still be at the College of Music by seven fifteen. Amazing.
Something stirred in Julia as she resumed her work. I have this strange feeling. I’m not certain what it is, but in spite of what happened today, in spite of my feeling of isolation and disorientation, for the first time in a very long while I feel . . . what? A warm glow. A pleasurable anticipation of the hour and a half of Mozart?
Hell, no. It’s much more t
han that. It’s a feeling churning inside me that makes me want to run and do cartwheels and laugh, and forget all about Sam Smith. Is that possible, she asked herself. Surely not.
At six-thirty she put the files she needed for the weekend into her already bulging brief case. After a quick wash she changed her plain white shirt for a yellow silk blouse and put a thick gold chain inherited from Natalie round her neck.
Still managing to keep the image of cartwheels and blue skies in front of the gathering clouds, she stood at the mirror in the office cloakroom. Ben was right. I do look terrible. A touch of dark grey eye shadow, matching smudgy eyeliner, a flick of mascara and an extra coat of coral lipstick made a slight difference.
At the last minute she unlocked the top drawer, checked the safety catch and put the gun in her handbag. With her black suit jacket slung over her shoulders, she locked the office doors, then drove to the College of Music, the warm glow almost blotting out the blackness of her fear.
- 69 -
Paul was waiting just inside the doors. Wearing a yellow silk scarf tucked into the neck of a cream shirt under a sleek navy blazer, he stood out amongst the motley crowd of eager Mozart lovers.
‘Good timing,’ he said as they walked across the foyer to the bar. ‘What’ll you drink?’
Julia smiled at him, and the glow seemed to spread right to her toes.
‘Dry white with ice?’
He carried the drinks to a table where they could watch the entrance to the concert hall.
‘Same taste in colours,’ he said, staring unashamedly at Julia’s flimsy blouse.
She sipped her wine. ‘Yes. It’s a happy colour, don’t you think?’
‘You always look good, no matter what you wear.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘There’s a sort of classicism in your choice of clothes. It never seems to follow the trends of fashion, yet you always look just right.’
He was so serious. It wouldn’t do to laugh. Yet what he said made Julia’s glow intensify. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But I can assure you it’s quite unconscious on my part.’
‘Just one of your many natural talents, eh?’
* * *
At the interval Paul hurried out to join the coffee queue. With the music still in her ears and the same feeling of euphoria that was keeping the dark clouds at bay, Julia watched him standing there, tall and straight against the wide, high expanse of the foyer.
He put the coffees on the table.
‘Penny for them,’ he said.
‘That was fantastic. How can music be so beautiful and yet so sad?’
With his arm touching hers throughout the first half, the magic of the music had made her curiously aware of a oneness of soul and body. She had a vision of the music flowing not into two bodies but into one. She became conscious of this as being part of the experience of listening to the music and it took her by surprise.
Paul smiled and sipped his coffee. ‘The passion comes from the heart of the composer, as you’ve so often told me, but I’d say that tonight it was the clarinettist who gets the Oscar for making this concerto set one’s heart on fire.’
‘Well, well, well,’ she said, shaking her head in amazement, ‘I think I really have succeeded in converting you.’
‘Mmm, up to a point, yes,’ he admitted. ‘And I’ll always think of you when I hear the clarinet concerto. But I still go for a bit of old Glenn Miller, Whitney Houston, or Carly Simon,’ he added dreamily.
Under his breath he began to sing softly. ‘I get along without you very well . . .’
She saw pain in his eyes and wondered why. These were very old-fashioned tastes in popular music. ‘I’d like to hear it some time,’ she said. ‘I like most music. And I’ll tell you a secret. I get a kick out of pop concerts too.’
Paul’s eyes opened wide. ‘You do? So do I!’
‘That’s amazing. Don’t you love the way it makes everyone into one big happy family - for a few make-believe hours?’
He stared at her, nodding. ‘We’ll have to go together some time.’
Strange how she’d always thought there was little to warrant their friendship becoming any deeper than it was. That it was the things they did not have in common that were the stumbling block to their friendship. A feeling of weakness mixed with enchantment swept over her, banishing all thought of the very real differences they both knew existed.
Last night he’d said he wanted her to go to his flat for a coffee. But that was last night. She could not presume that the invitation would stretch to tonight as well, but she desperately hoped it would.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘There’s the gong. Let’s go back in. It’s the 21st piano concerto now. What a treat!’
They took their seats. Julia closed her eyes and felt the swirling darkness closing in. Frantically she opened them again, and let her arm drift closer to Paul’s.
- 70 -
Apart from the impressive row of shooting trophies on the mantelpiece, just looking around Paul’s neat, compact flat told Julia very little about the man. In the entrance hall a mirror, a small black table, a potted palm. A stark white Formica kitchen. Habitat furniture with black varnished wood, straight lines, cream cushions. A rambling plant whose huge perforated leaves were advancing on an enormous TV, CD and DVD player, and what she suspected was a powerful and sophisticated two-way radio.
‘My furniture’s all in storage,’ Paul said. ‘I bought this place fully furnished. The house in Hale was too big after Jane and Tandy left.’
Julia sat down in the easy chair he had indicated. ‘Who’s Tandy?’
‘My daughter.’ He paused. ‘She’s eleven now.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘You never asked.’
‘And Jane?’
‘We were divorced five years ago. She lives in Australia. Married again.’
‘I’m sorry.’ To hide her confusion she looked around the walls.
A Van Gogh print, a couple of Lowry’s industrial landscapes, a small oil painting of Old Trafford cricket ground. No photographs of Jane, though. Or of Tandy.
Paul shrugged. ‘No need to be sorry. It was over.’
‘I mean Tandy.’ She’d have been about Nicky’s age when she left, Julia thought. ‘You must miss her.’
‘Very much.’ He flicked a switch on the CD player, filling the room with Carly Simon’s rich deep voice. It was the song he’d mentioned in the interval ─ I get along without you very well . . .
He looked down at Julia as though uncertain of what to do next, his arms limp at his sides. Then he knelt down beside her, took her hand in his and remained absolutely still and silent, staring into space, his eyes glistening with what looked suspiciously like tears.
When the song ended he moved away and sat on the sofa facing her.
‘Julia. Has Smith tried to contact you again about the money?’
‘No.’ She hadn’t expected this. She sensed the effort he’d made to break free from the spell the music had woven around him.
‘Frankly, I’m surprised. And I’m worried.’
‘About me?’
‘I wish you’d agree to more protection. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘I have to carry on with my life.’
‘Of course. But just remember, he’s still out there.’
‘Has nobody seen him?’ she asked, wishing she knew for certain whether her sighting of him in court this morning had been reality or hallucination. Reality, she hoped. For if she had injured him badly enough to lead to a serious medical condition, then by law she should be telling Paul what she’d done.
Paul shook his head. ‘I was so certain Sagoe would lead us to him.’
‘Must you spoil a beautiful evening,’ Julia said, desperate to avoid any pressure from Paul, and suddenly fearful that the gun would suddenly burn its way out of her handbag and reveal itself.
‘The doctor said that even with medical treatment he’d have died. A massive heart attack just wait
ing to happen.’ He looked straight into Julia’s eyes. ‘There was in fact a mix-up with his medication. By the time the omission was discovered it was too late.’
Julia was amazed that Paul was volunteering this news. ‘Jesus, all along I knew you didn’t really have a good reason for bringing him in . . . but why are we talking about this now?’
She wondered what on earth had possessed her to come here to Paul’s flat. He was a cop, she was a defence lawyer; nothing could change that. They’d never agree in a hundred years on the big issues that confronted them daily in their jobs.
Grabbing a small black stool he put it right in front of Julia and sat astride it, his eyes level with hers. ‘I didn’t get you here tonight to talk shop, please believe me. My intentions were far more dishonourable, or hadn’t you noticed that despite the fact we’re on opposite sides, I’m very . . very, fond of you?’ His voice had an unfamiliar tremble. ‘And I suppose it’s because I am that I’ve been going almost insane with the thought that you are the main target of the most wanted man in Manchester. That makes you my responsibility, and you’re snubbing my attempts to protect you.’ He put a hand on her thigh and looked into her eyes. ‘And that, Mrs Grant, really pisses me off.’
Julia knew without a doubt that any further legal discussion was over for tonight. She watched his hands move, tentatively. Inching further along her thigh. Oh God. She had long wondered what it would feel like when he finally touched her. Would she be afraid?
She stood up suddenly, and so did Paul. He pulled her towards him, not roughly, but like an upset child in need of comfort. For a few moments she held herself stiffly, feeling waves of dizziness as his cheek pressed against hers.
No, I’m not afraid, she told herself, but it’s not anything like I thought it was going to be. I can smell his after-shave. Feel the stubble on his chin. I can even hear his heart beating. It’s strange, being close to him like this. Unbearably exciting, but at the same time so comfortable.
Pinpoint Page 24