No One Will Hear (Sam Williams Book 2)

by Joel Hames

  There was one more call to make.

  “Hello David,” I said, when he answered, and back he shot.

  “Hi Sam. How’s the head?”

  It was like we were friends, all of a sudden. We’d had a good time last night, but friends? I couldn’t see it.

  I filled him in on the trip to Shapiro’s, and what I’d learned about Akadi since. He let out a long, low whistle.

  “So what are you thinking, Sam? More to your chum Trawden than meets the eye?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’m inches away from a big fat dead end, but I’d quite like to keep driving until I hit it. Any chance you can get hold of the old Mauriers files on Trawden? There might be something there I can chew on.”

  “No can do, I’m afraid. You’ll have to ask them yourself. I’m not exactly flavour of the month there these days.”

  I had to head out shortly, so I didn’t have long, but Brooks-Powell was right. He had no more chance of getting the files than I did. But when I called Mauriers two minutes later I was in for a surprise. There was a lawyer there, even though it was Saturday, but that wasn’t the surprise, because from what I’d heard Mauriers had turned into the kind of firm that worked its lawyers till they dropped, like every other firm in London. The woman I was talking to – a junior associate I’d never heard of and who’d probably been knocking back her first illicit vodka and coke when I’d been at the firm – knew who I was, but that wasn’t the surprise either, because it was only a year since I’d sued her firm. And she wasn’t prepared to give me the files, and that also wasn’t the surprise, because those files were confidential and I had no right to them whatsoever. But she was prepared to tell me that she couldn’t give me the files even if she’d wanted to, because they’d been handed to Trawden’s new firm four months ago.

  That was a surprise.

  “Which firm?” I asked, and she paused and wondered whether she should say anything.

  “Hancocks,” she muttered, finally, and hung up.

  I tried Hancocks as soon as the dial tone returned, anxious to get things moving, and eventually managed to speak to an intellectual property partner named Julian who blustered and threatened to report me to the Law Society if I made any more outrageous demands to see private client paperwork. I glanced at my watch, or where my watch would have been if I hadn’t lost it, and checked the laptop in front of me instead. Still a few minutes. I called Brooks-Powell again.

  He wasn’t surprised when I told him what had happened – it was all David and Sam now, and for all the effort I thought it was going to take, I found myself drifting into it easily enough. He wasn’t surprised I hadn’t been able to get the files. But Trawden taking on new lawyers was news to him.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said, for the fourth time in as many minutes. “I mean, yes, I know he was tight with Elizabeth, or had been, and she’s dead now, so that link’s gone, but from what you’re saying he moved when she was still alive. That’s, what, thirteen years with Mauriers and then he’s off? And what does he need a lawyer for now anyway? Why bother going to the effort?”

  I had some thoughts on that front, but they were wild thoughts and it made sense to keep them to myself. Brooks-Powell was still talking, to himself as much as to me.

  “It doesn’t seem like a rational thing to do. Mauriers had looked after him for years. Elizabeth knew him better than anyone. Do you think maybe that was the problem?”

  A pause, during which I realised that he had been addressing me after all, and that the question he’d asked was close enough to the ones I’d been asking myself. But still. Wild thoughts. Crazy ideas.

  “Maybe, David. I don’t know. I’m not very comfortable with Trawden, but he didn’t kill Maxine Grimshaw and really that’s the only thing about him that should matter.”

  “Hmm,” he replied, slowly, the second Hmm I’d received in the last few hours, but far less challenging than the one that had preceded it. “Well, whatever the answer is, it’s in those files. Let’s get them.”

  “I just tried, David. Haven’t you been listening?”

  “You went direct. Got to have a bit of cunning, Sam. I’d have thought you were all about the cunning.”

  I laughed. I was all about the cunning and Brooks-Powell was all about the diamonds and yachts. That was what we thought of one another. And yet here we were having a civilised, almost friendly conversation, the day after a reasonably civilised and ultimately friendly dinner.

  “Got something in mind?” I asked.

  “Not yet. But I will have by the time you get here.”

  For a moment I was about to object, and then I thought why the hell not? I needed to be out in a minute anyway, a quick there and back again. No harm in making something more of it. Claire was out and there was no way of knowing when she’d be home. If I sat here by myself waiting for her I’d just end up going through those same three files again and hitting Google for the millionth time. I didn’t think we’d be getting anything out of Hancocks, however confident Brooks-Powell sounded, but I was interested to see what he had in mind.

  “OK. I have to stop off on the way, but I shouldn’t be long,” I said. “Shall I tell Lizzy?”

  “Why?” he asked, and I filled him in on my conversations with her, or at least those bits of those conversations that concerned Trawden and her mother rather than her and me.

  “No,” he said, when I’d finished. “The girl’s a mess. I’m sorry for her, but she can’t help us and she can get in our way, so I’d rather she wasn’t there.”

  I liked his bluntness. It helped that he was right, and it helped that I’d had enough awkward conversations with Lizzy Maurier for one day. It also helped that it was his decision and his house.

  I still had one awkward conversation to go, though. As I was packing away my meagre paperwork and laptop into a case and slinging a coat on, the door opened and Claire walked in.

  If it had happened an hour earlier, I might have been prepared, but I’d given up on Claire coming back any time soon. Even unprepared, I had a whole list of lines, a whole series of Where have you been and Why didn’t you call me and Why didn’t you leave a note and more of the same, and I stood up and took a breath to launch into them. And then I got a proper look at her face.

  She looked tired.

  That was all. Not sad or afraid or stressed, not anything to talk about really. Just tired. And tired was enough.

  “Are you OK?” I asked. I put the case down and let the coat drop to the floor, and walked over to put my arms around her. She shrugged, and let me, but all she was doing was standing there.

  “Look, Claire, I’m not going to ask where you’ve been. Unless you want me to. But you have to know that I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t know where the words were coming from. They certainly bore no resemblance to the script I’d been writing in my head the whole time I’d been looking up Akadi. She turned her head to look up at me, and there it was there, that tiredness, and nothing besides.

  “I’m sorry I was so horrible about your mum coming to stay,” I continued. “That was wrong. I know it was wrong. And I’m sorry the story’s gone cold. And I’m sorry if I’ve been a dick for weeks. You were right. I’m stuck in my own head, and I’ve got better places to be than there.”

  I tried a sheepish grin. Claire didn’t say a word. On I went, all pretence or subtlety gone. I’d tried every approach I knew. It was time to plead.

  “Please, Claire. We’ve got to talk about this. If there’s something you want to tell me, if there’s something you want to accuse me of, whatever it is, however bad, please, we’ve got to talk. Isn’t that what Adrian would say?”

  I regretted the words as soon as they were out. Claire lifted my arms from her shoulders, walked to the sofa and sat. I stood there, staring at her, my arms still stuck in the air where she’d left them. I didn’t know where she been, but more important than that, I didn’t know what she was feeling. She sighed, finally, and turned to look at me.r />
  “It’s fine, Sam. You’re right. We needed to talk. Now we’ve talked. We’ve done it. You’re forgiven.”

  I shook my head, picked up my coat and my case, and headed out into the cold London night.

  17: Not a Murder Investigation

  THERE WAS NO sign of Hanover or his bike outside the flat, and I hadn’t expected to see him, either, but I still found myself looking over my shoulder as I walked and starting every time I heard a loud noise. I walked to the Three Bells, which was busy enough to render me inconspicuous as I passed through the main bar to the back bar to the beer garden, which was empty bar a handful of quiet, sullen smokers, and from there through the gate onto a completely different street from the one I’d entered by. If Hanover had been following me, he wasn’t now.

  Marco’s was a brisk two-minute stroll from here, through light drizzle and the occasional distant shout. Marco’s wasn’t the kind of place you’d expect to find anyone unless they knew it – it was away from the main streets, it served nothing but kebabs, and it was filthy on the outside and dirty enough in the dining area, all of which was enough to put off the casual diner. I’d been in the kitchen, though – Marco liked company when it was quiet, and I’d spent enough time in his place for him to trust me – and back there, it was spotless. As I ducked in out of the rain and let the door slam shut behind me, I saw the place was empty apart from Marco, behind the counter, and one man sitting at a table facing away from me.

  I ordered a kebab and took a seat at the table behind his, and then I waited. The kebab took fifteen minutes. I wasn’t in a hurry. It wasn’t my time I was wasting. When it arrived I ate it slowly, savouring every bite, and when I’d finished I called out to tell Marco it was as good as ever. The whole time, the man behind me hardly stirred. I waited another minute, and then I leaned back and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Got Colman’s message, then?” I asked.

  He turned, a blank face with confusion hastily painted on as he registered my grin and realised what I’d said.

  “I don’t – who’s Colman? What do you mean?”

  I shook my head, stood and walked over to his table, where I sat down opposite him. I couldn’t deny it: I was enjoying this.

  “Come on, Rich. It’s game over. And you must realise she’s not coming.”

  “Who’s not coming, Williams?”

  Williams, he’d said. Not mate. Not Sam. He might be playing dumb, but I’d got him, and he knew it. I turned and called over to the counter.

  “Marco! How long’s this journalist been sitting here staring at his hands?”

  “’Bou half hour, Sam. Least that.”

  I let out a whistle. “Half an hour, Rich? That’s a lot of time for nothing.”

  “I was hungry. I fancied a kebab.”

  “Just in the area, right? Marco,” I turned, again. “Has Rich here actually eaten anything?”

  Marco shook his head, and I heard Hanover’s breath start to quicken.

  “I was just deciding what to order.”

  I shook my head, again. I wasn’t angry. Not now. Hanover had turned out to be as predictable as the rest of them, and I was determined to have some fun. “I didn’t think you lot did that any more, Rich. After all the trouble. Newspapers have gone down for less. I mean, hacking voicemails? In this day and age? I thought better of you. I really did. Although is it really hacking if you just sit there and watch me key in my PIN? Does it count?”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Williams.”

  I was still having fun, but I had somewhere to be. “Look, first there was Lizzy’s flat, then there was Brooks-Powell’s place. They both left messages telling me where to go and what time to be there. Now I’ve got the fact you were here before me. I’ve got a message on my phone from Colman telling me to meet her here, round about now, or twenty minutes ago, anyway. You didn’t follow me and you’re not a regular – he’s not a regular, is he, Marco?”

  Marco shook his head.

  “And,” I continued, “Colman’s CID. I mean, hacking a lawyer, that’s bad enough, but listening to confidential messages from a detective? You’ve got balls, Hanover. I’ll give you that.”

  “It’s – ”

  “Are you really still trying to dig your way out of this? Listen. Listen to me. I’m not a vindictive man. All this,” I gestured around, at the restaurant, at my phone, out on the table between us, “we can forget all this. You fuck off, and get out of my life, and Colman’s, and Lizzy’s, and Brooks-Powell’s, and my girlfriend’s, and everyone else I know. I don’t want to hear from you again. I don’t want to hear about you again. There’s ten million other people in London, Hanover. Go and hassle one of them. And this, this’ll all disappear. Put it down to bad luck and move on.”

  “Really, Williams – ”

  “But if you fuck with me, Hanover. If I catch even the faintest sniff of you. Your editor will not be happy. Not when he’s got an angry lawyer and Press Standards on his back. Are you regulated by them, Real World News? I think you are, aren’t you? You’ve got to have someone keeping an eye on you.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said, and stood. He walked to the door, turned and looked at me. “This is coincidence, me being here when you were supposed to be meeting someone. You’ve got nothing on me, Williams.”

  The door slammed shut behind me. Marco was grinning at me, bemused but entertained. I grinned back. For all his bluster, Hanover was rattled. He was out of the picture. He knew it, and I knew it too. I gave it five minutes, thanked Marco, and headed back out to the street.

  The headquarters of the Brooks-Powell Legal Consultancy was a mid-sized room on the second floor of the Brooks-Powell residence. Back when Samuel Williams & Co. had catered to clientele more impressive than a single dubious asylum-seeker, I’d at least managed an office outside my home. But then, my home was of a different order to Brooks-Powell’s.

  “Come in, come in, get out of the cold,” he said, even though it had dried up and turned mild, and the coat he took from me had been resting on my arm most of the way there.

  “Melanie about?” I asked, and he shook his head.

  “No. Away with friends for a few days. Glamorous life of the financial wizards,” he added, with a grin I wasn’t buying for a minute. She hadn’t mentioned anything about going away when we’d been here less than twenty-four hours ago. Melanie Golding, I suspected, spent much of the year away with friends.

  There was only one chair in the “office”, one chair and one desk with a sleek-looking screen on it. Brooks-Powell disappeared to fetch something for me to sit on, and I spent thirty seconds looking around the room while he was gone. Thirty seconds was enough. Chair, desk, screen, filing cabinet (locked), white paint on the walls, one window looking onto the road and a large Holbein reproduction – The Ambassadors, the one with the odd-shaped skull across the bottom – opposite the window. He returned carrying a bean bag, which seemed a little out of place, but I wasn’t complaining.

  “Funny choice of artwork,” I said, pointing at it, and he grinned at me.

  “I like it. Gives perspective.” He shrugged. “No matter who you’re dealing with, who’s paying you or getting in your way, they’ll be dead some day. And so will you.”

  I got the sentiment, but I still wouldn’t have wanted that skull and those two miserable-looking diplomats staring at me while I tried to work. I slumped into the bean bag and tested the painting from this new angle. The skull looked bigger. Clearer. More unsettling.

  “It’s gone six,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Still a chance we can catch someone there today.” I must have looked confused, because he went on. “Hancocks. The woman I reckon we need spends most of her life in the office.”

  As he reached for the phone – I hadn’t noticed the phone, a tiny black thing sitting almost behind the screen – it started ringing. He put it to his ear, answered, waited a moment, then hit a button and put the phone back on the desk.

&n
bsp; “Hello Charlie,” he said. “Long time no see. How are you?”

  “Excellent, David. Excellent.” Charlie Blennard’s voice boomed out from a set of invisible speakers. “I was wondering how you were getting on with Elizabeth’s memoirs.”

  “Oh, fine, fine,” said Brooks-Powell. I opened my mouth to say something myself, but he saw me, put a finger to his lips and pointed to the screen. A hidden microphone in there, no doubt. “I was surprised not to see you at the funeral,” he added, smiling at me.

  “Yes, I’d have liked to have been there, but I had to be away, unfortunately. Morocco. Important business. But as long as things are progressing well with the memoirs, that’s the important thing. I’d like to see them in print before I die.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.”

  “And – David, I hope you don’t consider this too much of an imposition, but given how close she and I were – well, it would really set my mind at rest if I could see a draft before it gets published.”

  Brooks-Powell was nodding. Evidently he’d expected something like this. Perhaps those suspicions I’d entertained about Blennard and Elizabeth Maurier weren’t so wide of the mark.

  “Of course, of course,” he said. And waited. I’d heard it, too: there was something about Blennard’s tone, about the way he’d said those last few words, that suggested there was more to come.

  We didn’t have to wait long. Blennard cleared his throat, and lowered his voice a little, as if he were concerned someone might overhear him.

  “And one more thing, David. I’ve been hearing – well, I’ve been hearing things. About your friend Sam Williams.”

  Brooks-Powell snorted. “No friend of mine,” he said, and winked at me.

  “What I’ve been hearing, David, is that he’s taking things in directions they shouldn’t be taken. Stepping on toes. Confusing matters. Now, I must stress these are nothing more than rumours, but I strongly advise you to play a straight bat here. Don’t let him persuade you to do things you shouldn’t do. And if you have any influence on him whatsoever, try to remind him what he’s supposed to be doing here. The legacy. It’s a memoir. Not a murder investigation.”