Trish thought of all the people she knew, both men and women, who’d divorced their first spouses, only to choose replacements so like the first they could have been clones. Even their affairs had been with men or women of the same physical and emotional type as the ones who’d proved so unsatisfactory.
‘I thought we might get a full-length picture of him, which could explain why the witness in Sam’s studio believed she saw Sam coming back at least half an hour before he did,’ she said.
‘That’s more like it. Who is he? Or they, if there really are two of them.’
Trish sketched in what she knew about Dennis and Guy and why both of them could have been in pursuit of Cecilia on the day she was murdered.
‘It’s all supposition,’ Trish said at the end. ‘But supposition based on fact and reasonable logic.’
‘I’ll see what Jake Kensal thinks he can do with it,’ Frankie said. She looked more friendly now. ‘And whether he thinks it worth getting an investigator to dig for evidence of misidentification. Thank you.’
‘Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.’ Trish was aware that she stood on delicate ground. Anything she did or said to help Sam now could be taken as trespassing on Jake Kensal’s territory.
‘I will. Thanks again.’
Walking back from Lincoln’s Inn to chambers, passing plenty of people she knew and stopping to talk to a few, Trish knew her only permissible role was to support Sam emotionally as he spent the best part of the next year worrying about what would happen at his trial.
She should have been feeling triumphant now her own work was going well and she and Jenny Clay had uncovered a possible reason for the Arrow’s cracks. But all she could think of was Sam.
Plenty of adults had felt unwanted in childhood, yet managed to deal with most crises in later life. Sam was different. For him, there could be no question of distant feelings or vague memories. He knew the facts. He’d been thrown away as a baby, then spent twelve years with foster parents who had systematically tortured him.
Trish had no difficulty calling up the feelings he must have fought all his life: the anger, the guilt, and the inability to believe he would ever be acceptable to anyone. It would undo any of the healing he’d achieved for such a man to stand in the dock at the Old Bailey and hear witnesses testifying to his violence and lack of control, his inevitable moments of mistreating his wife, his identification as the man who had smashed her head in with a hammer and killed her. And if he were convicted …
She shuddered. It mustn’t happen. If he hadn’t done it, the injustice would be terrible.
Meg’s gentle warning echoed in her head. ‘Don’t let him break your heart.’
I have to know, Trish thought. Either way, I have to know.
Chapter Eighteen
Trish shoved a pound coin into the slot to release her trolley. It seemed no time at all since she’d last been here, at the biggest supermarket in the area, and stocked up with enough food for the inhabitants of a small country. She had George’s list for the welcome-home supper he’d planned for David in her pocket. Her own list was in her head.
‘Trish!’ A familiar, beautifully modulated voice made her whirl round to see Caro’s partner with a trolley half full of food.
Jess was a slight woman, several inches shorter than Trish and about five years younger, with a charming face fringed with feathery blonde hair. She looked and often sounded fragile, but Trish had come to realize she had her own strength and an obstinacy of astonishing power. You probably couldn’t bear the uncertainty of life as an actor without it, she thought. Today Jess was wearing blue jeans so tight they looked painted on and a short soft cardigan of a slightly darker blue, which showed the lacy top of her white bra at the point of the V-neck.
‘Jess,’ Trish said, leaning over the trolleys to kiss her cheek. ‘How are you? Is Caro here?’
‘No. Which is lucky. She’d probably throw a wobbly at the sight of you. I’ve never heard her so angry with anyone.’
‘Why?’ Trish gripped the plastic pushbar of her trolley. ‘What have I done now?’
‘Betrayed her,’ Jess said, wide-eyed with surprise at Trish’s stupidity but matter of fact in her speech.
Trish reminded herself that Jess’s profession sometimes spilled out over into her private life.
‘How, precisely?’
‘By coaching a suspect in the best way to resist her questions.’
‘That’s rubbish, Jess. As Caro must know.’
‘I don’t think she does. She’s never talked about what goes on at work before. But this time she was so hurt she couldn’t hold it in. I heard the whole story last night: all about how she’d told you everything about our life together and how we nearly broke up last year, and how you’ve passed it all on to this wife-killing psychopath she has in the cells.’
‘I didn’t,’ Trish said, but Jess wasn’t listening.
‘After hearing you bang on about loyalty and law for years, I could hardly believe it. How can you live with yourself?’
‘You can’t believe I’d do anything like that.’ Trish was grateful she had the trolley to lean on. ‘And if Caro does, she must have gone mad. Jess, you’ve got to make her see I’m not capable of it. Will you tell her?’
‘She can’t bear the sound of your name right now.’ Jess looked like someone delivering the diagnosis of a terminal illness.
Trish opened her mouth to protest, but Jess wouldn’t wait.
‘All that’s happened,’ George said later that evening, with a gritty edge to his voice, ‘is that I’ve been given a present of six well-paid months of freedom. They’ll mean that I can take over responsibility for David and let you give your all to the Arrow case. It has to be a good thing.’
Trish pushed all her feelings about the three-way row with Jess and Caro to the back of her mind. She laid her face against George’s shoulder, feeling the smoothness of his sweater against her cold cheek, as he cooked David’s welcome-home supper. He wasn’t here yet, but it couldn’t be much longer. She had to use this time to shore up George’s sense of himself, without behaving like a soppy adorer who’d say anything to please. He’d loathe that as much as she would.
They knew several couples whose relationships had foundered on the mismatch of power that came with a career blip for one or other. It shouldn’t be more difficult for men to play the less powerful role, but it nearly always was.
One good thing was that she and George weren’t going to have any financial worries. Some women’s much greater earnings sent a message to their husbands that said: ‘My time is worth more than yours; therefore I am worth more than you; therefore you should not have the cheek to contradict me or demand of me anything I don’t already give. How am I supposed to defer to you when I’m responsible for paying the bills?’ However much those women would hate the message if it had been spelled out to them, it was the one they often transmitted.
Trish tried to think of something to say that might help. She was fairly sure the only guaranteed way of bolstering George’s mood would be to persuade him to tackle something he found seriously difficult.
‘You’ve always talked about learning to sing,’ she said, remembering the rumbling bass monotone that occasionally issued from the bathroom. ‘Why not use this bonus time for that?’
She felt his tension all through her own body and hurried to take away any sense of criticism. ‘Or something else. Anything. Kayaking, playing poker, macramé. Whatever. But don’t turn yourself into David’s nanny. He doesn’t need one these days, and you’d end up hating him and me and probably yourself, as well as Malcolm Jensen and the rest of the stinking crew at Henton, Maltravers, who deserve to be hated.’
‘Anger management would probably be the most useful lesson. And I could pass some on to you.’ George managed to laugh, which helped, even though there wasn’t a lot of humour in the sound. ‘You’ll have to move. I need to start beating this sauce.’
Trish stepped back. ‘I’l
l go and make sure my mother didn’t leave any of her stuff in David’s room when she was here looking after Felicity.’
Not surprisingly Meg had tidied away all evidence of her presence. The television with its integral DVD player, which was David’s second favourite possession, was neatly squared up on the desk beside his computer. The wide bed, almost a double, which was his all-time best thing, was shrouded in a handwoven blanket with broad stripes of scarlet and kingfisher blue. Over the head of the bed was a poster of his swimming hero, rearing up in mid-stroke, looking like an insect with a gigantic wingspan, his eyes covered in narrow black-edged goggles, his hair in a smooth white cap, and fountains of water drops falling either side of him.
In spite of the insect-look, it was a picture of masculine youth and strength and power: everything in fact that George felt had been taken away from him by Malcolm Jensen’s malice and the spinelessness of all the other Henton, Maltravers partners.
Trish straightened the blanket over David’s pillows so the stripes ran evenly. There was no doubt her family would survive the next six months, and George would probably be fine once he went back to work. But she didn’t want him just to survive. She wanted him strong again and happy, powering his way through life, shaking off malice like these water droplets.
With one more look at the poster, she left David’s room and was halfway back across the acres of bare wooden floor in the living room when she heard him on the iron staircase outside. Longing to fling open the door and grab him, she made herself wait and heard him thank Susie for the holiday and for driving him home.
Go on, she thought. Invite her in.
‘Come in and have a drink,’ he said, as though he’d picked up Trish’s cue. ‘Trish and George will want to see you.’
‘They’ll be busy. Tell Trish I’ll phone her in the morning.’ There was the sound of a smacking kiss. ‘Thanks for coming with us, Davy. It wouldn’t have been half as much fun without you.’
He waited until the sound of her steps had dwindled and a car door banged; then he let himself in.
Trish watched him close the door behind him with a casual kick, then stand looking around his home, pausing occasionally as though to check off particular items. Satisfied, he let his parachute bag drop to the floor. She watched his eyelids close. She had to hold her hands tightly together behind her back to stop herself reaching out to him.
‘Hi,’ she said when the silence had gone on too long. ‘You okay?’
He opened his eyes and sighed. ‘Yeah. It’s best here. I liked the trip, but it’s best here.’
‘Good. George is cooking spaghetti carbonara and caramel pancakes with toffee ice cream and butterscotch sauce to celebrate. It’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes. D’you want a shower?’
‘Why?’ he said, trying to sound cocky and untouchable. ‘Do I smell?’
‘I always like a shower when I get back after something difficult, as you know.’
He stumbled forward, tripping over his trainers, so Trish had to hold out her arms. He seized her and rammed his face into her shoulder. His voice was so muffled she couldn’t make out what he was saying, only feeling his hot breath through her clothes and the vibration of his voice in her bones.
‘What, David?’
He moved his head a few inches from her shoulder. ‘How did you know it was difficult?’
She put one hand on his head and pulled his face back against herself. ‘That kind of trip always is. I’ve missed you.’
He moved further away this time, tilting up his face to look into hers. ‘Really?’
‘Every day.’
‘Great.’ His face lost its intensity and his arms relaxed, soon dropping away from her. ‘Really really?’
She laughed. ‘I really did, and judging by his bad temper so did George. Hence the carb, sugar and fat-fest tonight. He knows the menu’s your all-time fave.’
David left her to fling himself down on one of the black sofas. He levered off his trainers, without bothering to untie the laces. One lay where it fell; the other he kicked out of his way. He swung his huge feet up on the sofa to lie full-length, with his hands behind his head. He looked as though he’d grown another inch at least.
‘I’m home,’ he said.
‘You are.’
His eyes closed again, so she could gaze down at him without fear of showing too much.
There was a curious atmosphere in chambers when she arrived at a leisurely half past nine next morning, having taken time to walk to school with David on his first day of the new term. The usual buzz in the clerks’ room stopped as she walked past. Looking down the corridor, she saw one of the other junior barristers scowling before shutting his door on her.
Take your time, she thought, running through every possible disaster as she walked to her own room. Bettina was hanging over a file on her desk, fingers in her ears as though to cut out every noisy distraction. Unnoticed, Trish hung up her coat and went back to the clerks, straightening her jacket as she went.
‘Hit me with it, Steve,’ she said. He looked up to reveal a face like a well-fed wolf’s. But he didn’t speak. ‘What?’
‘There’s a note in your pigeonhole.’
Her gaze flicked across the room to the row of wooden racks, where briefs and letters were left for all the tenants. Hers had the usual mass of paper, as well as a pink-tied brief.
‘What’s that? You know I don’t want to take on more until I’ve got Leviathan under control.’
‘Have a look.’
‘Stop this, Steve. Just tell me.’
‘QPXQ have withdrawn the action against Leviathan, offering to pay all their costs to date. There’s a note for you from Leviathan.’
Trish understood David’s stillness and closed eyes last night. Relief was better savoured like this than with any kind of sigh or cheering. After a moment, she collected the papers from her pigeonhole and said: ‘Tell me about the new brief.’
‘Just a little one to bridge the gap. It’s right up your street. And a really good fee. I know you can do it in no time. There’ll be lots more big stuff once word gets out about how you cracked the Arrow case.’
His phone rang. Without looking away from Trish, he reached for the receiver.
‘Two Plough Court. Yes. Yes. She’s right here. Hold on a moment while I see if she can take the call.’ Eyes popping, he pressed the mute button on the phone. ‘It’s Giles Somers. Wants to pass on the personal thanks of the managing director of QPXQ Holdings. Can you take it?’
‘In my room,’ she said and saw disappointment washing away some of his pleasure. ‘Sorry, Steve.’
In the old days clerks had been able to listen in to their principal’s conversation. Modern technology had, as far as Trish knew, stopped all that. Although now she’d learned a little about what someone might have done to files held in the supposedly secure extranet set up for the Arrow, she’d never trust any kind of privacy again.
‘Bettina,’ she said as she pushed open her door. Her pupil wrenched the fingers from her ears.
‘Yeah?’
‘Could you nip out and get me a large latte? And whatever you’d like for yourself.’
Looking cross, Bettina accepted the heavy handful of two-pound coins Trish held out and stomped out of the door. Only then did Trish pick up her receiver and tell Steve he could put Giles through.
‘Hi. Sorry about the delay.’
‘Too busy receiving accolades and envy, eh, Trish?’
‘Wanting to engineer a bit of privacy. Was Steve right? Are you really phoning to pass on compliments from QPXQ?’
‘Absolutely. With your discovery of the attempt to hide the cock-up in the cable specifications, they know they’ll get a settlement from the engineers and their professional-indemnity insurers and won’t waste any more time or money pursuing Leviathan. I don’t think I’ve ever had a call from the opposition solicitors in a case like this before. It sounded as though their clients’ admiration for what you’ve done will resu
lt in something tangible like a good fat brief for you in due course.’
‘The only thing I want is the removal of suspicion that George Henton and I were trafficking in confidential information.’
‘What?’ The word exploded down the phone in a mixture of surprise and irritation.
Trish reminded him of the supposed conflict of interest and added a little about the mess George had been stuck in at Henton, Maltravers, apparently driven by someone at QPXQ, adding: ‘It’s not only that it was so insulting; it was silly too. He wasn’t working on anything to do with the Arrow, and we never talk about our clients anyway. Even if we’d both been on the same case, we’d manage to keep ourselves honest.’
‘Leave it with me.’
‘Thanks, Giles. Of course, George may decide not to break off his sabbatical now, but he should be given the option.’
‘Right. Bye.’
‘Before you go, Giles.’
‘Yes?’
‘Has your computer whizz found out how the data were altered in the locked files of the extranet?’
‘It was done at the ASP.’
‘The what?’
Bettina arrived with the coffee. Trish pulled off the lid of her cup and took a swig.
‘Application Service Provider,’ Giles said down the phone. ‘The company that hosts the extranet on its server. We’ve been on to them. At first they were highly resistant to the idea that anything nefarious could have been done. But eventually we managed to persuade them to have a proper look. They’ve found evidence of alterations made on the Arrow extranet just under two years ago. They think it must have been done by a member of staff who left around that time, claiming to have had a big lottery win.’
‘Bribed, you mean?’
‘That’s the inference they’re making now. Since he left they’ve lost all trace of him.’
‘How convenient – for someone.’
‘Precisely, Trish. Obviously the ASP company would like to keep it quiet – the last thing they need is publicity about such a serious security breach – but QPXQ Holdings will be pushing for more. There may well be a criminal investigation in the end.’
A Greater Evil Page 25