She dictated letters, vaguely hoping that none of the stuffy partners downstairs would ever have cause to read them.
‘Dear Mr Jones . . . Sorry about the size of this bill, but I did warn you Mr Justice Harvey is a mean old demon, and you were likely to lose . . . Better luck next time . . . Please pay us soon, we know you can afford it . . .’
The door thumped against the visitor’s chair, adding another chip to the mahogany veneer. Behind was a vision in fake fur with the bright blonde wisps of dyed hair half-tucked into an orange toque. It was eleven-forty-five. ‘Just off to lunch,’ said Joan, defying her to look at the clock. Sarah did not look. ‘That time already? Thank heaven. See you later.’ No rebuke, not even a mild one. Both knew better than to specify how much later.
Freedom for at least an hour, secured by striding across the foyer as if en route to yet another meeting. Charles Tysall sat waiting for Ernest Matthewson, who was delaying upstairs, dreading the encounter. Charles was hidden behind one of the huge ferns Ernest so loathed, following Sarah’s exit with puzzled eyes, half-rising from his seat in the desire to run after the mane of red hair, sitting back instead, with alarm and relief moving across his closed face. He would have Sarah Fortune. He was determined to let her refuse as much as she liked, but for now he needed to talk.
Plodding downstairs, Ernest felt his head begin to throb. Charles Tysall had him by the balls, and there was no one to tell. Although the firm did not handle more than half of Tysall’s monetary affairs (luckily, they were spared the shadiest), they still needed him. As Ernest put it to himself, they needed the loss of Tysall as a client like they needed a hole in the head, and if they lost work generated by him, they would lose half the income of the practice.
Therefore, he had to be pleased, and he knew he had to be favoured, which meant long lunches with Charles, and even longer confessions. Halfway downstairs, Ernest looked at the pale walls, saw the same tasteful colours he had seen in Tysall’s house, somehow spattered with blood. He had tried to make Charles seek help, in the bumbling way Ernest did everything: ‘Really, old man, it’s a bit much, shouldn’t you . . .’ ‘Shouldn’t I what?’ Charles would say, looking at him over the rim of a glass, smiling at his helplessness. ‘Shouldn’t I what? What do you mean?’ Ernest had failed, conspicuously; he had known the man, and had never once liked him. Ernest had never before found a client he could not like for something, even if it were nothing more than the imagination of his dishonesty, but he had never anticipated one quite so brutal. But he knew equally well, from the oldest school of solicitors, from practices taught him by his father and grandfather, that he should never reveal what he was told, should be utterly bound by his client’s confidence. Whatever the value of the belief, he could not relinquish it now, and Tysall was fully aware of that reliability. Ernest could only hope the mere act of talking might curtail some of the excesses.
Damn him. Damn him. How long since, oh, more than a year or two, when Ernest had asked that standard question, ‘How’s the wife, Charles?’ Receiving the cold reply, ‘Dead, I think.’ Ernest had choked, and in the midst of the choking, listened.
‘I tried to kill her. No, not really, but she was so very unfaithful, you see . . .’
Ernest did not see. He envisaged his wife, who had always been unfaithful to her own son in her way, he could see that, but never, ever to him. He listened to Charles proceeding, matter-of-fact, unhurried, the calm, handsome face not even flustered.
‘She was not in any kind of order. Unfaithful, according to the evidence. So I had to cut her face, to teach her a lesson.’
‘Had to?’ murmured Ernest, remembering the wonderful Titian beauty of the woman, a bit like Sarah Fortune when he came to think of it.
‘Had to? Surely not?’
‘Yes, it was necessary. Women have to be punished.’
‘I see,’ said Ernest, and continued eating with his soul disturbed, each mouthful like cardboard. ‘I see.’ What a mistake, he sometimes reflected, to even pretend you understand, especially when you do not comprehend at all.
In the face of his silence, there had followed an account of the first attempt by Charles to strangle his wife, recited while delicate food expanded in Ernest’s mouth, sticking in his throat. Then there had been more, the history of all the episodes since, the memory of all those cool anecdotes of horror. I cannot tell, Ernest told himself in a daily litany. I cannot ever tell. What is told to me in confidence, I cannot ever tell. So his father had said, God knows what he had heard: trust is a sacred privilege, as well as a curse. Beware of it. Ernest had armed himself, but he did not know what to do. Without a God to whom he should pray, he simply did nothing.
But he worried about the women. Whoever they were, escaping with their lives, they never complained. Charles Tysall was too powerful for that. Ernest knew it all, understood not a jot. Hoped against hope Tysall would never find a passion so grand it could merit the ultimate finale, some final, insane revenge from an insane mind. Even Ernest knew he was dealing with a madman of enormous civility. It made him fear him more.
Secrecy. All in the lawyers’ code, a kind of vow, till death do us part. Ernest missed his son, for the jokes and the games and the telling of secrets, and, thinking of Malcolm as a kind of talisman, reached the foyer as Sarah Fortune left it, smiled at Charles, and gritted his teeth. To listen without forgiveness, to hear without an element of understanding, to endure his confidences in an endless, sickening silence, full of fear.
CHAPTER THREE
Malcolm did not understand his own persistence. Forgetting the occasional triumphs, at this single moment in time he shared Ernest’s incomprehension as to why any man should take his considerable legal talents to the grubby back-streets of prosecuting crime. A life of litigation for the rich seemed infinitely preferable.
With one accord, he and Detective Sergeant Ryan had stopped by the railings and looked down. Neither wanted to move, both of them were utterly depressed. They might have parted at the door of Counsel’s chambers, each to nurture, or drown, his own disappointment, but they had not parted, they stuck together in grim silence until they reached Temple Lawns, rounded the corner into a colourful sun. After nine years of it, Malcolm had tutored himself beyond the kind of impotent fury he used to feel when the guilty celebrated acquittal. Having resolved that these travesties would not be the result of poor prosecutions, shoddy paperwork and indifferent investigation, he tried to shrug his shoulders. Even so, trudging away from the chambers of Simeon Churcher QC, he had felt the weight of frustration like a sack on his shoulders, heavier than the papers in the bag. Not even an acquittal; more a question of horse falls at first gate due to sabotage. It was inevitable, he was accustomed to it, but never in a hundred years would Ryan relinquish the bitter disappointment, and Malcolm felt all the worse for that.
They had walked from King’s Bench Walk, adapting their steps to one another as if handcuffed, Ryan had thought, but reluctant to part. Through Pump Court, silent still at four-thirty, early yet for the rush of after-court footsteps. Through the archway across Middle Temple Lane and into Fountain Court with pretty summer shadows and elegant fountain. Of all the facts of his professional life which Malcolm was able to absorb with such ease, the sheer prettiness of the Temple, its clubbish discretion, cobble stones and gracious buildings, filled him with wonder. Inside these well-proportioned windows, premium space was broken down into small rooms where disrobed barristers of various means and abilities sat with murderers, fraudsmen, uncomfortable policemen and defrocked bankers, distressed wives and violent husbands, giving unacceptable advice in calm tones. ‘You must plead guilty, Mr X. Don’t worry, you’ll only get five years,’ and yet no one ranted and screamed in this place, or even broke a window. Above, or below it all, the ladies and gentlemen of the Bar sailed out to play, leaving mayhem behind them.
Down on the brilliant green of Inner Temple Lawns, waitresses with black dresses and white pinafores were loading snowy tables. Glistening cana
pés appeared on plates, ice buckets stood to attention filled with unpopped bottles. Ryan licked his lips, and turned to Malcolm.
‘What these buggers celebrating, then?’
‘Being alive, I suppose. It’s an annual event. One of several. Middle Temple Garden Party. Most of the Inns of Court have something like this. Then there’s the Inner Temple May Ball, the Christmas cocktails, indoors, of course; Gray’s Inn Ball, grandest of the lot. They like to enjoy themselves.’
‘So I see.’ The Detective Sergeant sighed, watching the activity, curious rather than envious. He preferred pubs, champagne made him sick. No, it wasn’t champagne, it was weddings, the only time he encountered fizzy drinks, which made him sick.
‘So that’s why old Churcher made it a short conference. He had to rush off and polish his tie. Dry old stick, isn’t he?’ Malcolm sighed, hearing the sharp edge of Ryan’s resentment.
‘We wouldn’t have liked him whether he was dry, wet or middling.’ Ryan made a sound between a sigh and a snore. ‘Bailey told me this would happen.’
From behind them came puffing and rattling. A red-faced boy stepped inside the gate to the gardens, deposited a crate of champagne and a box of glasses with a dangerous thump, then ran across the lawns for instructions. Ryan looked at the crate, and Malcolm looked away. Ryan opened his huge briefcase, and reaching deftly for one bottle of the champagne and two flute glasses, placed them neatly inside the case with a wodge of papers between them. Without a word, the two men moved down the steps towards the Embankment.
‘I reckon,’ Ryan sighed again, ‘since I hate barristers and this little lot gets paid out of Legal Aid and such, while I just pay my taxes, they owe me, not the other way round, and they didn’t ask us to their party. How about a seat by the river, Mr Cook?’
In the end, they leant on the pigeon-stained wall, watching the movement of the sluggish low-tide river. ‘You do the honours, Mr Cook. Makes you an aider and abettor to theft, you know, and all you lot ought to try it once or twice. Besides, you’ll be more used to champagne corks than me. I don’t go to many garden parties if you see what I mean. Only weddings.’
The first glass had its reviving effect. Ryan noticed how Malcolm preserved the posture of the fat man, distanced himself even as he smiled, giving himself space even as he slumped. Ryan took out a cigarette, passed the packet to Malcolm, lit his own and inhaled with the deep satisfaction of an addict.
‘Can’t even bloody smoke in Churcher’s chambers. What a pillock. What the hell does he do down the cells with a client on Monday morning?’
‘He doesn’t go down the cells with prisoners on Monday mornings. He’s not that kind of barrister, doesn’t do much crime, if any. Company and Commercial, all that stuff; that’s what he does. Real money. That’s why I used him. We needed a Silk with the know-how to sift through a mile of documents. To tell the truth, I never thought we’d have much joy on the theft side, but I hoped we might find something in Tysall’s bloody records which would give us a clue where to go next. Some other way to get a crack at him.’
‘Clever bastard.’ The Detective Sergeant drained the glass, looked round him with a grin, pulled the bottle from behind the briefcase.
‘Same again, sir?’
‘Don’t mind if I do . . .’
‘This would be nicer with cheese and onion crisps,’ said Ryan.
Both sipped, temporarily content.
‘Mind you,’ Ryan continued, replacing the bottle, ‘old Churcher has a way with words. At least he’d read the papers. Good of him.’
‘And let us know he’d done his homework. Good customer relations, only he won’t want many customers like us. Not on what the Crown Prosecution Service pays him. He’d rehearsed it. This is the case, as I see it, Mr Cook. Mr Ryan . . . Pay attention, boys . . .’ Malcolm mimicked Churcher’s clipped tones. ‘We have Mr Tysall, our putative co-defendant, who owns several companies. One of these is dealing in er . . . new technology. Produces not very exciting er . . . packages, needs new ideas. He spots a smaller company consisting of a little team of brilliant graduates who’ve formulated a revolutionary new piece of software which, when harnessed, will put this struggling outfit on the billion-dollar map. They’ve devoted three years and all their capital to research. However, not all of them are otherworldly boffins. By dint of seduction of one young graduate, female, you’ll be glad to know at least, and another young man in Company A’s team, our Tysall persuades them to come and work for him, at exorbitant salaries. Provided of course they bring the er . . . package with them.’
‘Giftwrapped for preference.’
‘Which it was. The defectors do not tell Company A, of course. Who do not know until market rumours tell them that Tysall’s lot are launching a revolution sooner and better marketed than their own could ever be. Altered, of course, for cosmetic reasons, but still the same. Only we have to prove it’s the same. Prove that the defectors have not created something out of their egg-shaped heads, but have actually stolen er . . . data, discs, whole programmes and ideas, solicited by our Mr Tysall. So, Mr Cook, Mr Ryan, you find a computer expert who says, for several hundred pounds a day, he will make a detailed comparison to show how this must be the case. There are few experts in this field, they are vastly expensive and all as incomprehensible as one another. The jury will not understand, Mr Cook, Mr Ryan. What is more, they will listen to three weeks’ gobbledy-gook, and they will not care. It is not theft as they know it, it is employees squabbling, it is only money and computers. Even if a small firm faces bankruptcy and a rich one stands to gain revenue of ten million. Meantime, our expert and myself have bored them to death at vast public expense for a result we cannot guarantee. This is not, Mr Cook, Mr Ryan, a gamble I advise. Send Company A to the High Court to pursue his civil remedies . . .’
‘. . . And you told him the complainant Company couldn’t afford to do that, that’s why he’s come to the police. He don’t want damages, he wants his programme, and is now on the brink of shooting himself. Remember what Churcher said?’
‘Yes, I do. He took his glasses off, and said, “That is very sad, Mr Cook. I hope you advise him against it. Not a course I recommend.” I mean, how would he know?’
Both men collapsed against the wall, snuffling with unexplained giggles. Again Ryan caught himself in surprise. Even in the midst of uncontrolled laughter, he expected Malcolm to be fat. It was odd to see the thinner man chuckle and explode as the fat one had done. Thank God some things don’t change, thought Ryan, wiping his eyes, reaching for the bottle. ‘He’s not a bad old stick, Churcher,’ he said, gasping. ‘He just doesn’t appreciate what it’s going to be like telling this Young Turk we aren’t going to prosecute and his company is going down the pan. But he did understand the difficulties, some of them. What was it he said? I know. “These days, Mr Ryan, we rarely have the means to prosecute fraud, or even complicated theft. You have my sympathy. Being in the Fraud Squad must be similar to riding a horse and cart in pursuit of a Porsche.”’
‘He’s right, of course,’ said Malcolm. ‘He was right about everything. What sticks in my gullet is the fact that if it were a man on the factory floor, stealing bits from cars, or computers for that matter, only computer bits aren’t useful, he’d be charged and put inside. Just because it’s complicated ideas being pinched for a loss and profit worth millions, Tysall gets away scot-free. For the third bloody time, the third stolen company, on almost identical facts. All those ruined lives.’
‘To them that hath it shall be given. The water always flows into the valley. Didn’t know I went to church, did you, Mr Cook?’
‘No,’ said Malcolm. ‘I didn’t, and I wouldn’t have guessed.’ Both immediately dissolved again. Malcolm fell against the wall, stood upright, braced himself. ‘Right. Shame. There’s a good pub in Fleet Street; should be open by now. Time for a swift half? Between wives?’
‘Not like you, Mr Cook, not these days.’ Ryan shook his head. ‘Can’t get used to you being so careful, Mr
Cook, I really can’t. I’m pleased you still drink. I been worried about you. Still a big man, though. Room for a pint.’
‘Sometimes. In good company I return to my old habits. Not often.’
They ambled past the Inner Temple Lawns. ‘Shall I put back the glasses, do you think?’ Ryan asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Malcolm. ‘Don’t tempt fate.’
‘But I’m an officer of the law.’
‘And I, a solicitor of the Supreme Court. A serving member of the Crown Prosecution Service, aiding and abetting a police officer to steal champagne. The average judge would have a lot of sympathy, but what would you do if you were drummed out, Ryan?’
Ryan grinned. ‘Become a pimp, or a private detective. Like Ted Plumb. Did you ever know him? Rochester Row?’
‘No.’
‘Lately of the Drugs Squad. Good copper once. Drummed out. Now all the things I’ve just mentioned, pimp, detective, bouncer. Works for Charles Tysall, I hear, but wouldn’t talk to me. I did try.’
‘Well, if you got the sack, Charles Tysall would give you a job.’
‘Would he hell. Don’t put me in the same bracket as Ted Plumb. I have my pride. I’d rather be a publican. That would suit me better.’
Shadows on the Mirror Page 4