A European man, several years older, got to his feet to take a seat right at the opposite end of the carriage. Two teenage boys exchanged glances and crashed open the door connecting theirs to the next. Several of the women, looking steadfastly at the floor, collected their bags together and sat on the edge of their seats, clearly not sure whether to follow the teenagers’ example.
‘Sorry, folks.’ The same disembodied voice made Trish jump. ‘The signalling problem seems more serious than we thought. But it shouldn’t be too much longer. Just relax and we’ll be away as soon as we can.’
The heating seemed to have been turned up. There wasn’t enough air. Trish pulled at the polo neck of her sweater, swallowing with difficulty.
It’s ludicrous to think he’s got a bomb, she told herself. Ludicrous, racist and disgusting.
She caught sight of a poster opposite, informing her that cameras had been installed on the train for the greater safety of passengers. Had they picked up the face of a wanted terrorist? Was the voice lying about the signals?
It was impossible not to look at the bearded man. He stared back, apparently terrified, then down at his watch. Was the bomb on a timer? Had he planned to leave his bag and get out at the next station? Or was he a suicidal martyr to his cause, ordered to wait with it until it killed everyone within reach?
Either way, Trish did not want to be caught in a tunnel with an explosion. It wouldn’t do much good to get further down the train, but the possibility of being out of this particular carriage was becoming so attractive she was twitching in her seat like most of the others.
The lights went out. Darkness sharpened the menace. Further down the train people were moving. Someone sobbed, probably a child. Someone else swore sharply.
The engine began to whirr and the lights flickered back on. Another crash of the door at the far end made them all turn to look. Two uniformed police officers came through from the next carriage with a man in plain clothes and a ticket inspector.
‘No need to panic,’ said one of the police officers, with the kind of cheerfulness that was more worrying than any severity. ‘We won’t be long.’
They walked steadily along the carriage, looking carefully at all the male passengers. Trish waited for them to reach the Middle Eastern man and was amazed when they passed him without comment. She saw a woman pull at the sleeve of the plain-clothes man and point to him. The official shook his head.
A tall brown-haired man in jeans got up from the seat next to Trish’s and moved casually to the doors, heaving his rucksack with him and leaning against one of the glass panels, as though he could barely stand. Sitting at right angles to him, she could see he was pale, and his fleshy face was damp. In a way she wasn’t surprised – the airlessness and tension were enough to make anyone feel faint – but he was a big man, and his loose, scuffed, black leather jacket did nothing to conceal his powerful shoulders. He looked too tough to be overcome like this.
The uniformed officers closed in on him. The plain-clothes man said something too quiet for Trish to hear. He struggled. One dirty trainer connected with the shins of one of the officers, who grunted and bit back an insult. Handcuffs snapped and the tall man was still again.
‘Okay, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the plain-clothes officer, relief making his voice breathless. ‘Sorry for the delay. Would you now like to make your way along the train. You’ll find the front coach is already in Russell Square station and you can make your exit there. No need to panic now, but move on as fast as you can.’
Trish didn’t wait. She had no luggage and was on her way before most of the others had even stood up. Conscience-stricken, she looked back from the doorway to make sure there was no one old or frail enough to need help, then she hurried along the train, eventually reaching the end of the queue to get out.
On the platform, she found a phalanx of officers, instructing all the passengers to move straight up to street level.
‘What’s the problem?’ she asked. ‘What did that man have in his rucksack?’
‘Don’t you worry about that, madam,’ said a woman officer, not meeting her eyes. ‘Just make your way up to street level. We’re evacuating the station. Please keep moving. Fast as you can.’
Oh shit! she thought. If it’s not a bomb, it’s chemicals of some kind.
The robed man had caught up with her, still hugging his canvas bag to his chest. ‘What did they tell you?’ he asked in a clear British accent.
‘Nothing,’ she said, meeting his eyes. ‘Except that they’re evacuating the place.’
Together they waited for the lift, both longing for escalators that would have got them out quicker. Eventually they were up, breathing in the sweet petrol-scented air.
‘Goodbye,’ he said to her. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks. Same to you.’ She wanted to apologize for her suspicions, but that would have made the injustice worse. She compromised: ‘That was horrible, wasn’t it?’
He nodded and hurried away. A taxi passed with its light on. Four separate people claimed it and started to argue. There were no other taxis in sight. Trish could have caught a bus, or even walked back to chambers from here. It wasn’t far. But she needed time to get rid of the taste of fear, and the shame that she’d made such a misjudgement of a wholly innocent man. It wasn’t his fault he shared his appearance with a few genuinely violent terrorists.
Over the heads of the agitated, curious crowd, she saw the trees of the Brunswick Square garden and thought she might sit there for a few minutes and recover her common sense. Even chilly drizzle was welcome after the stultifying fifteen minutes in the Tube.
Sitting on the damp bench, she let her head fall back and her eyes close. She felt light-headed, quite unlike her usual efficient self. After a while, she sat up straight again and looked around. There were few people here, but she could still see the crowds on the pavement outside the Tube station. There were police vans too and a couple of ambulances standing by.
Had it been a bomb in the rucksack? Or poison gas?
You’ll know soon enough, she told herself, looking round for distraction. A big double-fronted building stood at the far end of the square. She’d never spent any time here before and had no idea what it could be. A few people walked up the steps and disappeared inside. Curious, she followed them and found a sign announcing the Foundling Museum.
Intrigued by yet another coincidence, she decided to go in. When she’d paid her entry fee and bought a guidebook, she discovered the museum was devoted to Thomas Coram’s eighteenth-century hospital for abandoned children. The place was so quiet she felt as though a shutter had fallen between her and the quarrels of the modern world.
Starting at the top, she found a lot of the museum taken up with the artists and rich men involved with the charity. The attic belonged entirely to Handel, one of the earliest benefactors. But on the ground floor were exhibits that brought home to Trish the reality of life for some of the foundlings.
Her own reaction to a few minutes of alarm on the halted Tube this afternoon felt ridiculously exaggerated as she listened to the recorded voices of men who’d been sent to the hospital as children nearly a hundred years ago. Awed by the stoicism with which they described their frightening, comfortless lives, she moved on until she came to a long, narrow glass case. This held tokens left by some of the mothers who’d handed over their babies in the earliest years of the hospital’s existence.
A small notice described how its policy of giving anonymity to the women meant none of their children ever knew they had arrived with a brooch, a lock of hair, a seal, or a scrap of paper that might one day identify them to their birth mothers. After the loneliness she’d heard in the recordings, she could hardly bear the thought of how much it would have helped the foundlings to know their mothers had cared enough to leave these pathetic objects with them.
Raising her eyes, Trish saw a row of letters written by or for desperate women, begging for their children to be admitted to the hospital. Clearly
, whatever its privations, it had offered a better life than any other available to them. One letter in particular made her stop breathing for a second. Signed by Margaret Larney, it had many crossings-out and read:
I am the unfortunate woman that now lies under sentens of death at Newgatt. I had a child put in here before when I was sent here his name is James Larney and this his name is John Larney and he was born the King Coronation Day 1758 and Dear Sir I beg for the tender mercy of God to let them know one and other.
Human nature doesn’t change, Trish thought, whatever else happens. I wonder what she’d done to earn her death sentence, poor Margaret Larney. How bad could she have been if her overriding thought as she faced the hangman was that her two fatherless boys should be allowed to know each other after she was dead?
Trish stared at the letter, trying to decide what to say to Sam about the woman she had just met in Holloway; how to advise him now.
Chapter Nine
On Wednesday Trish was sitting in the Temple Church beside David, listening to the first line of ‘Three Kings from Persian Lands Afar’. In spite of the stone vaulting and the muffling effect of the huge crowd, the sound of the solo voice was pure and literally thrilling. She shivered and could feel hairs on the back of her neck stiffening. The other voices of the choir joined in and the effect became a lot more ordinary.
She looked away from the singers, around the rich crowd, and thought how odd it was that they were only a twenty-minute Tube journey from the miserable, impoverished world contained within Holloway’s red walls. To her left she could see the life-sized effigies of supporters of the order of Knights Templar, which lay only inches above floor level under the dome. Long legged and dignified in their chain mail and surcoats, they were images of stoicism in suffering.
They reminded her of the voices of the foundlings she’d heard in the museum, which in turn reminded her of how she still hadn’t decided what to tell Sam about Maria-Teresa. Would it help him to meet her and see that, even if she had been the woman who’d abandoned him, she was no monster? Or would it stir him up even more? After all, this must be just about the worst time to take any risks with his fragile stability.
Thinking of him, and what he would face if Caro went ahead and charged him with his wife’s murder, Trish lost all sense of the music around her and was back in the original court, telling the judge what had been done to Sam and why he had to be rescued from his foster parents. Could you ever get past something like that? He’d done so well, achieved so much. If he had to go back to court now, to stand in the dock and wait to hear whether the jury thought him guilty of killing Cecilia, he’d lose it all. No more than justice if he had done it, but Trish still believed – still fought to believe – he hadn’t.
David was tugging at her shoulder. She looked round to see the whole congregation standing to sing the last carol. There weren’t many other children here, packed as the church was with the grandest members of legal London, but she’d wanted him to see it now that he was old enough to appreciate it – and to join in the carols. Unlike her and George, David could sing in tune and she tried to give him every opportunity to exercise a skill that still seemed unearthly to her. As usual, she kept her mouth shut, not wanting to embarrass him or herself.
She could see Antony Shelley, her head of chambers, a few pews ahead with his beautifully dressed wife at his side. Another thing Trish still hadn’t decided was what to do about their Twelfth Night party. Always one of the most glamorous evenings of the year, this time it clashed with George’s office party. Normally she’d have cut that short without compunction, but now he wanted her support, to show Malcolm Jensen and the other partners there was nothing to be ashamed of in their relationship and no genuine conflict of interest for anyone at QPXQ Holdings to fear.
The congregation subsided for the final prayer and she leaned over her knees and shaded her eyes.
‘Amen,’ bellowed the congregation a few moments later, and it was all over for another year.
As Trish and David waited their turn to move away from the pew and join the shuffling queue to get out into the cold, she heard someone say her name and looked back to see Mrs Justice Mayford smiling at her.
The judge looked older than she should have, but there was a little more colour in her cheeks than there’d been the day they met at Somerset House and her smile no longer made Trish want to burst into tears of sympathy.
‘It’s lovely to find you here, Trish,’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying to telephone to say that I won’t be able to accept your really kind invitation to join you for Christmas lunch. I couldn’t just leave a message because I wanted you to know how much it means that you asked me.’
‘I’m glad. But it’s a pity – for us – that we won’t be seeing you. How’s the baby? Is there any news?’
‘She is doing better. She’s off the ventilator now, which is definitely something. But …’
‘I’m glad,’ Trish said again, wishing she’d thought of another phrase. She was like an old-fashioned vinyl record that had got stuck.
‘They’re keeping her in over Christmas. Which is just as well. The thought of Sam learning to look after such a tiny creature on his own is … tricky.’
Trish would have given a lot to know whether Gina had actually asked the doctors to pretend the baby needed a longer stay in hospital than necessary. She looked up to assess the other woman’s sincerity and saw an expression of such penetrating intelligence, she felt herself blush.
‘Happy Christmas, Trish,’ Gina said with a kind smile. She turned towards David. ‘Is this your son?’
‘We’re brother and sister; we live together. David, this is Mrs Justice Mayford.’
‘How do you do?’ she said.
To Trish’s relief David shook hands with aplomb. She wished the judge a happy Christmas, then moved away. It took five minutes to get from their pew to the outside world. Too many of the congregation had too much to say to each other for any faster progress.
‘I liked that,’ David said, tipping his head back to look up at the sky. Here in the Temple garden, it was just possible to see one or two stars.
‘Good.’ Trish knew better now than to hug him to share her pleasure with him. They walked side by side, with two feet of safe space between them, down towards the river and so home. ‘I’ve never asked if you’d like to do some extra music at school, learn the piano or something. Listening to you sing just now, it struck me that I should have.’
‘I’ve got enough to do as it is. Are we going to be able to go to Heathrow tomorrow to collect the cousins?’
Trish smiled inwardly at the connection between the two remarks. Luckily, for once, she had enough time to give him what he wanted.
‘Yes. The courts have closed for Christmas. Chambers is already emptying, and I’ve told Steve I’m not available till after New Year. So I’m all yours and the cousins’ now.’
‘And George’s.’
‘Yes. George’s too.’ And Sam’s, she added to herself. But this was David’s time, so she made an effort to forget Sam and added aloud: ‘What I thought we’d do tomorrow is take the car out to Heathrow, pick them up and drive them to their hotel so they can get some sleep, while you and I go on to buy the food. George has given me a shopping list that’s about two metres long. D’you want to help?’
He looked round, his face bright in the lamplight. ‘Yeah. I need to make sure you get a big enough turkey. Is that bloke you told me about, the one whose studio’s round the corner, going to come on Christmas Day?’
‘I still don’t know. But I’ve got a present for him in case he does. When we’re back with the shopping, if we’re not too knackered, I thought we could start to wrap. How would that be?’
‘Great.’
They were knee-deep in boxes, torn-off price labels, clumps of useless but viciously sticky tape, and heaps of wrapping paper offcuts the next day. The phone rang for the fifth time since they’d unloaded what looked like enough food to keep thr
ee armies supplied for weeks. Trish sighed.
‘I’ll get it,’ David said, leaping to his feet.
Trish’s knees were aching so much she couldn’t work out whether it was better to go on kneeling on the rug to wrap her share of the parcels or to perch on the edge of the sofa, bending to the task.
The huge dining table was out of operation at the moment, covered with wire trays of mince pies George had baked before work and the marzipan-covered cake he was planning to ice as soon as he got in. He seemed determined to recreate in Southwark the kind of elaborate ritual with which he’d grown up in the English countryside.
Trish’s very different childhood had entailed far less ceremony, and the Christmas food had been restricted to a roast turkey breast and bought plum-pudding with brandy butter. In George’s world there seemed to be special menus and recipes for every meal from breakfast on Christmas Eve until supper on Boxing Day. He was contributing the skill and effort, and a ludicrous array of wines, spirits and liqueurs, while she was supplying the ingredients he’d specified. She still couldn’t get over the sight of the trolley she’d filled at his instruction. Even with David’s appetite and the presumably similar hunger of his cousins, it had to be far too much.
Still, the scents of spice and pastry, combined with the pine needles, made an intriguing change from the usual furniture polish and flowers.
‘Trish,’ David called. ‘Sam Foundling on the phone.’
She heaved herself up from the floor, grimacing at the pain in her knees, and walked to take the receiver from him.
‘Sam. How are you?’
‘Okay. Trish, I’ve just heard from the hospital.’ His voice was buoyant enough to tell her the news was good. ‘She’s now off all the tubes and things and as soon as they’re sure she can manage, she’ll be out of the SCBU and on an ordinary ward. They say I should be able to have her out and home by the New Year.’
A Greater Evil Page 10