Mine

by J. L. Butler

I felt a little hit of self-righteousness. I’d been right about Dom all along. I had never really liked Clare’s husband; at first I had him down as a charming bum, but over the years had been frustrated at the way he had played the handsome dilettante, the restaurant being one of the many glamorous projects that had taken his fancy but had never been fully realized.

  First had been the novel that had never hit the bookshelves, indeed it hadn’t got beyond a series of long lunches with minor agents, then came the pop-up art space, that seemed designed to allow Dominic to spend his evenings ‘networking’ at swish Mayfair parties, all of it bankrolled by Clare who worked every hour in order to pay for his endeavours.

  But this time I was grateful for his pleasure seeking. He had a television up here and it was exactly what I had come looking for.

  I picked up the remote control and clicked it on, scrolling to the news channels, perched on the arm of the sofa. Some unimportant news items first. A scandal involving a politician, some Chinese investment into a steel plant.

  ‘Come on,’ I muttered as I followed the red ticker-tape newsfeed across the bottom of the screen.

  And then it happened. My heart sped up as the newsreader said the name ‘Donna Joy’. A close-up of Martin’s wife filled the screen – some beautiful, smiling holiday snap that made my thoughts drift to where she might have been, who she would have been with. Had Martin himself taken that photograph in happier times? At their house in Ibiza perhaps, or on one of their many glamorous holidays in the sun. I didn’t want to dwell on it.

  The newsreader’s voice was more sombre now as she summarized Donna’s disappearance over a montage of images: a ‘Find Donna Joy’ Facebook page, the facade of her Chelsea home and a display of her artwork at the studio which was annoyingly good.

  A new face appeared on the screen, one that looked like Donna, but an inferior copy. A woman with the same long hair, but a mousy shade of brown, her skin lacking the expensively tanned radiance of a banker’s wife.

  A caption explained her identity: Jemma Banks – Sister.

  ‘Donna is a beautiful, creative and kind sister,’ said Jemma Banks in hard estuary vowels a world away from Donna’s honeyed tones. Her voice told me so much more about Donna Joy than any of my internet searches ever could. It told me about her background, where she was from, and confirmed my suspicions that Donna was a social adventurer, a sharp-elbowed climber, a Becky Sharp, like many other trophy wives I’d met in the past.

  By contrast, Donna’s sister was an everywoman from an unremarkable suburb, a world away from the prestigious postcodes of her sibling’s life. But Jemma’s words were real and it was impossible not to be moved by the woman’s plea.

  ‘I love her and we all just want her to come home.’

  Even though I hated Donna for seducing Martin, for the way she had so casually, so selfishly caused all this trouble, I felt tears well in my eyes as I watched the appeal. Sophie Cole had been right. If Donna had disappeared to a spa or a yoga retreat, she was an absolute minx. But the alternative, that something had happened to her, was too unbearable to think about.

  But if I struggled to fill my lungs with air, I almost stopped breathing entirely when a tired and drained-looking Martin Joy came into view.

  ‘. . . so if anyone has seen Donna, please get in touch with the police. Donna, we miss you. If you hear this, let us know as soon as possible.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said out loud.

  I’d suggested he speak to a lawyer but I wasn’t sure that they would recommend saying anything at the appeal. It was obvious that he shouldn’t say anything. He was the husband of a missing woman, and partners were always the first in line if foul play was suspected, especially when they were in the middle of a messy divorce involving a lot of money.

  Yet here he was, tired-looking and unshaven – not the sexy, manly stubble I had stroked when he returned from the Swiss Alps, but a five o’clock shadow that made him look furtive, suspicious. Guilty. And as for we miss you – it sounded so . . . weak. Not that I wanted him weeping and clutching his chest, but he needed to at least look sincere and committed in his desire to see Donna safe and well.

  I felt sick, and it wasn’t because I’d been drinking on an empty stomach. Of course I knew the potential for trial by the masses. I’d seen it before: the McCanns, Christopher Jefferies. If the public made up their mind you were guilty – or at least ‘suspicious’ – it could destroy you. If I had watched that broadcast without knowing Martin, what would I have thought of him?

  ‘Just tell us where you are,’ he said to camera. ‘Let us know that you’re safe.’

  ‘Don’t say anything else,’ I pleaded, clenching my hand into a fist, imagining the hacks watching this performance, knowing that Martin and Donna were separated and sharpening their nibs for innuendoes of foul play, if not outright accusation. I wanted to climb inside the television and protect him. Hold him. Stop them.

  ‘Don’t say anything . . .’ I whispered out loud.

  I whirled around as I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Jesus, Fran, what are you doing?’

  Dominic was standing behind me, his eyes wide, a deep crease between his brows.

  ‘I needed to check the news,’ I stammered.

  ‘The news?’ he repeated, looking down at the remote as if I had stolen something from him.

  ‘One of our clients is involved in a story.’

  ‘What have they done?’ said Dom, trying to look past me to the screen. ‘Killed someone?’

  I turned and clicked the off button.

  ‘Nothing so interesting,’ I said, carefully placing the remote back where I found it.

  ‘I didn’t mean to intrude, I was looking for Clare. Fantastic launch, by the way. The canapés are amazing and the champagne cocktails . . .’

  ‘Well, keep telling Clare that,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘It’s wiped out our savings, so it had better work.’

  ‘Of course it’s going to work,’ I said, still embarrassed about being caught up here.

  Dominic looked at me, his eyes watery, his cheeks flushed and I realized he was drunk.

  ‘I wish you would have said that to Clare six months ago.’

  ‘Said what?’ I asked, trying to concentrate on what he was saying.

  ‘You thought a restaurant was just another one of my time-wasting schemes.’

  He snorted a playful laugh, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Thanks a lot, Clare, I thought, amazed that she had obviously repeated my misgivings to her husband.

  ‘I never said that,’ I said, trying to keep my tone jovial and light.

  He raised a questioning brow and I knew I had to pre-empt the direction of our conversation.

  ‘If I ever did say anything, I was just worried you were taking a risk. When Clare said you were about to sign a lease on this place, I thought about that statistic which says two out of every three restaurants close within the first year.’

  It was the truth. It felt like the first honest thing I’d said to Clare or Dom in weeks. I had warned her that they could lose tens, hundreds, thousands of pounds on a gourmet vanity project. Clare was successful, but she didn’t have that sort of cash to lose. When I told her to be cautious, it was with the best intentions.

  ‘Just try not to cause trouble in the future,’ he said, taking a casual swig of his wine. He gave me a look, arrogant, belligerent.

  ‘I wasn’t causing trouble, Dom. I care about you both.’

  I could hear a tremor in my voice. The appeal had already unsettled me and the last thing I needed was a confrontation with Clare’s husband.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Restaurants are high-risk, Dom. I wouldn’t be a good friend if I didn’t point it out.’

  ‘You didn’t want me to open this business, Fran. You did everything you could to put Clare off the idea.’

  ‘When did she say that?’

  I was genuinely confused. I had no idea she had actually listened to the
caution I had offered.

  ‘She listens to you, Fran. Too much. She listens to you more than she listens to me. But please, just butt out of our marriage, because sometimes I think there are three of us in it. Things never end well, when there are three people in a marriage.’

  I thought of me and Martin and Donna Joy and nodded in agreement.

  Chapter 21

  It was Monday, early. My office was tidy, a cup of strong coffee already halfway gone, when our head clerk Paul knocked and entered carrying a file under his arm. Usually he’d throw it on my desk, like a knight delivering a head on a plate, but today he waited, holding it close to his chest.

  ‘So have you spoken to Martin Joy this weekend?’ he said, putting both hands on my desk.

  ‘Briefly,’ I replied, feeling a spidery flush of guilt creep up my neck.

  ‘And?’ said Paul, unsatisfied with my answer.

  ‘He told me about the police appeal. I suppose his divorce is the last thing on his mind right now.’

  Paul raised his eyebrows; an expression of disapproval. Disapproval of Martin and presumably disapproval of me for being Martin’s brief. I very much doubted Paul harboured any concern for the whereabouts or indeed safety of Donna Joy; he was thinking about the firm. Suspicion on Martin put the spotlight on us too and messy tabloid stories were most certainly bad for business, especially when your business was quick, discreet divorces. From Paul’s point of view, the Joy case was like the iceberg to his Titanic.

  ‘So what’s the latest?’ he said, his eyebrows still up.

  ‘Mrs Joy is still missing,’ I said, aware that I was not quite meeting his eye.

  ‘I am aware of that, I do listen to Radio 4.’

  I smiled, but this clearly wasn’t a time for levity.

  ‘So what do you think?’ I asked. ‘Did you see the TV appeal?’

  ‘You mean, do I think he’s involved in her disappearance?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said more boldly.

  I watched him carefully. Paul hesitated and shifted his position, knitting his brows. In the usual run of events, his loyalty to the clients almost surpassed his devotion to the barristers in chambers, but Martin Joy had brought the firm into disrepute, so Paul was conflicted. Tell me about it, I thought as I watched him struggle.

  ‘In all my time working in family law, I’m surprised we haven’t come across this before,’ he said finally.

  ‘Come across what?’

  ‘The conveniently missing wife.’

  ‘Conveniently missing?’

  ‘Well, it is very convenient, isn’t it? What’s at stake in this divorce? A hundred million, give or take? Maths is not my strongest point, but I’d guess that a fifty per cent split of a hundred million is a lot of money.’

  I made sure that my face didn’t give anything away.

  ‘The reason we don’t come across it more, Paul, is that, however hard it is for the husband to give up half their net worth, they find the idea of twenty years in Belmarsh even less appealing. Otherwise, we’d be knee-deep in bodies.’

  Paul nodded in agreement. ‘Still, the police are taking this seriously. They don’t do a telly appeal for any Tom, Dick or Harry.’

  He glanced at his watch and shifted back into efficiency mode. ‘I spoke to Vivienne and Charles last night,’ he said, name-checking our two most senior members. ‘Vivienne suggested we talk to John Cook at the Beresford Group – a PR outfit. They do reputational management work. I’ve just called him and he can do a conference call in twenty minutes. I suggest you sit in on the meeting.’

  He stood up, still clutching the file, and as I collected my things to go to the conference room, I saw him disappear in the direction of Tom Briscoe’s office, no doubt off to give him the work that a few weeks earlier he would have given me.

  ‘There are two ways you can jump,’ said the voice of John Cook from the speakerphone in the middle of the table. So far, I had kept absolutely silent throughout the conference call, merely grateful that Vivienne’s choice of reputation management expert was not Robert Kelly, whose details I had given Martin. ‘You can keep your distance from the police investigation, and close down any enquiries from the media with a short, polite press release that you are simply representing Mr Joy in a family law matter. Or, you could use Mr Joy’s unexpected profile to promote your chambers. Donna Joy’s disappearance makes this a high-profile case and if she doesn’t turn up it could run and run.’

  ‘You mean any publicity is good publicity?’ said Paul drinking his coffee.

  Charles Napier, our head of chambers, peered at Paul over the top of his glasses with a look of undisguised disapproval.

  ‘Obviously we want to be as supportive as possible to our client,’ said Charles Napier, directing his attention back towards the phone sitting in the middle of the table.

  ‘By the same token, we also need to minimize any potential scandal. That is an absolute imperative.’

  ‘Is there anything I should know about, beyond the usual reputational issues?’ asked Cook.

  Vivienne shot a look at Charles, who was removing his glasses as if he were emphasizing a particularly delicate point of law.

  ‘We have two barristers up for silk this year, Mr Cook. One of them, Francine here, is representing Martin Joy in his divorce. Whilst one would expect the judicial appointments system to be scrupulously impartial, we can’t afford to let any potential criminal investigation into Martin Joy affect the chances of our barristers being appointed Queen’s Counsel.’

  ‘In which case we will distance ourselves as much as possible from Donna and Martin Joy,’ confirmed Cook. ‘Shut down social media references to Burgess Court, draft a press release. I’ll get my team on it and call you back this afternoon.’

  When Paul and Charles had left the boardroom, I hung back, hoping to talk to Vivienne McKenzie alone.

  ‘What’s this really about?’ I asked her when she had closed the door behind her.

  ‘“Really about”?’ She put her notebook on the table and looked at me quizzically.

  ‘The Beresford Group charge about £500 an hour. Are chambers really prepared to risk that to help me and Tom make silk?’

  Vivienne gave me a maternal smile.

  ‘You don’t miss anything, do you?’

  ‘Call me a cynic,’ I said, realizing my hunch was correct.

  Vivienne didn’t speak for a few moments.

  ‘You should know that we have been approached by Sussex Court chambers about a possible merger.’

  ‘A merger? Surely this should have been discussed with the tenants.’

  ‘There’s nothing concrete to discuss. Yet,’ she added pointedly. ‘And if such a merger were to go ahead, it could be incredibly beneficial for all of us. Sussex Court are a big, powerful – and, truthfully, more prestigious set than we are. However, we all agree that there are benefits from economies of scale. It’s a particularly important step for Burgess Court, as we all know that, moving forward, smaller sets are going to struggle to survive.’

  The shock of learning that Burgess Court might be in financial trouble stunned me to silence for a moment.

  ‘What has this got to do with Martin Joy?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘If anything has happened to Donna Joy, and if her husband had anything to do with it, it will attract a lot of unwelcome attention. Sussex Court are conservative. Their head of chambers is positively reactionary. A whiff of scandal might scare them off.’

  ‘But you’re talking as if the police have arrested and charged Martin,’ I said, hearing my words speed up. ‘We have no reason to even believe he is a suspect, no reason to believe that anything awful has happened to Donna Joy.’

  ‘Charles even wondered if you could, if you should drop Martin as a client.’

  ‘Drop him?’

  She waved a hand. ‘He was just being hot-headed. But . . . divorce proceedings obviously can’t continue. Even if Mrs Joy turns up overnight, we should encourage Martin Joy to step back from an
ything litigious. For now, at least.’

  ‘I can’t say that to him.’

  Vivienne gave the faintest of smiles.

  ‘Yes you can,’ she replied, her eyes peering through the thin grey slats of the blinds that covered the picture window to the conference room. ‘Because, unless I am very much mistaken, Martin Joy has just turned up in reception.’

  Chapter 22

  We were back to where we started. The same room, the same pool of nerves in my belly. It was a different type of anxiety this time though. My heart was thumping, thumping hard with anger and frustration and longing. I hated that Martin had left me hanging for so long, I hated that he had made me seem a liar.

  I hadn’t missed Paul’s look of surprise when he saw me go and meet my controversial client in reception. A look that said, That’s funny. You hardly know Martin Joy. You said you’d hardly even spoken to him. I thought you’d said the last thing on his mind was his divorce.

  Unnerved by his arrival, I hesitated by the blinds, wondering whether to open them completely or close them.

  ‘Leave it,’ ordered Martin, as if he had read my thoughts. ‘Don’t do anything you wouldn’t do with any other client.’

  ‘You said we shouldn’t see each other,’ I said finally.

  My voice was almost a whisper. The room was fairly soundproof, so I knew no one else could hear us, but I could barely breathe, let alone speak.

  ‘I’m on my way to the police station,’ said Martin, sitting down at the table. ‘We need to talk properly before I go.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Paul still watching us from the other side of the window. I took a seat opposite Martin, opened my notebook and took my pen from my pocket, grateful for the chance to sit down.

  ‘So how was the appeal? I saw it on television,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘Were you advised to speak?’

  ‘I’ve instructed Matthew Clarkson, as you suggested. We met before filming and he suggested I go alone, without legal representation.’

  ‘Were Donna’s family there?’

  I had only seen Jemma Banks and Martin speak at the appeal, but I knew others could have been edited out.