She dozed and waited, but it was an hour before she heard a stair creak and watched Ben steal into view. Seeing that she was awake, his body sagged into a stance of disapproval, he came into the room with a shake of his head. “Thought you’d be asleep, Moggy. You must get your sleep, you know! Look, I’m going to work for a while, make a few calls to Singapore. Bound to finish late, so I’ll crash downstairs. Don’t want to disturb you.” When she didn’t reply, he busied himself pulling the curtains more closely together and fetching water she didn’t need. “Now are you all right? Got everything you want?” He cast a critical eye over the room before turning the bedside light off. “Night, Moggy.”
His kiss was dry and firm.
“Don’t sleep downstairs,” she said, hating the note of entreaty in her voice. “I don’t care how late it is.”
A minute hesitation, like death. “Of course,” he said lightly. “If that’s what you want, Moggy.”
It was three when he crept into the room and slid into the far side of the bed. When she shifted herself close to his back and reached an arm around his waist he squeezed her hand briefly and murmured good night. A few minutes later his breathing had settled into the slow steady rhythm of sleep.
She was woken at seven by a dull pain in her kidneys and the scorch of fever on her skin. She was alone in the bed and when she called out there was no reply. It was eight before she heard him moving around downstairs and managed to make him hear her. When the doctor came he measured her fever at over thirty-nine and, after dosing her with antibiotics, recommended she go straight back to the unit for specialised treatment.
Chapter Nine
SIMON ORDERED the cab to stop a prudent fifty yards from the magistrates’ court and walked the rest of the way at a pace that was neither so leisurely nor so hurried that it would attract attention. He observed the people loitering outside the entrance in the skirring wind: a slick youth with a loosened tie, shouting into a mobile phone; a group of slovenly women with rounded shoulders and sour mouths, sucking on cigarettes. From the opposite direction a couple of lawyers appeared, striding along in the rapid ostentatious manner of the professional, briefcases clutched like proof of office.
Beyond the metal detector and security check, in the halls and passageways, were more families and defendants in various postures of anxiety or hostility. Again, Simon’s quick glance took them in; again, no face was familiar. The daily list showed that Pavlik was fourth in Court 2. Simon slipped into the public gallery and sat in the back of the two rows.
The building was solid Edwardian but the courtroom had been refurbished in pale wood and day-bright lighting. The public gallery was not as he had imagined, on a higher level and set well back, but down on the floor of the court, separated from it by a tall screen of wood and glass. The bench was just to the left, giving the public a close and unexpurgated view of the law, personified this morning at one minute past ten thirty by a rotund stipendiary magistrate with a dyspeptic frown. To the right was the dock, with, at the rear, steps leading up from the basement cells. Finding his. first choice of seat rather exposed, Simon moved back to a seat hidden by the corner of the screen.
The first case was a remand for assault and took a bare five minutes. The second was a drug-dealing offence that had been held over for pre-sentence reports. Reams of paper had been produced by probation officers, social workers and psychiatrists. The magistrate asked questions and the probation officer spoke. Simon counted the professionals involved, calculated their time and costs and thought savagely: No wonder the system’s in a state of collapse. All this to administer justice to a hopeless youth who will take the first opportunity to reoffend because it wasn’t his fault he was addicted to heroin and cocaine and had to undertake the arduous chore of dealing to pay for his habit. Nothing was anyone’s fault any more, not by the time the social workers and pseudo-psychologists had pleaded their liberal rubbish. It made him furious just to listen to it.
The drug dealer was given six months and the third case called, a bag-snatcher seeking bail. Some noisy relatives lumbered into the gallery. A woman with a heavy cold and a filthy handkerchief sneezed her way out. Simon paid no attention when the door sounded again. It was only when an expanse of cream trouser suit appeared at his side and a hand touched his arm that he jerked his head up. Even then, it was a full second before he comprehended that the lips ticked smile, the short hair, the polished make-up belonged to Alice.
He gasped an unintelligible greeting.
Before he could think of anything to say, she squeezed past him into the row and sat down. “I haven’t missed anything, have I?”
He tried unsuccessfully to push the astonishment out of his face. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Wanted to see what he looked like,” she whispered. “Wanted to be able to report to Cath.” She seemed chatty, even friendly, but, deciding not to take any chances, Simon gave the smallest of nods before turning his attention back to the proceedings.
Alice put her mouth to his ear. “She’s been ill, did you know?”
“Yes, I heard.”
“A kidney infection. But they caught it in time. She’s better now.”
He made an expression of relief and felt her gaze linger on his face long after he had looked away again.
In his shock at her arrival, he realised that he had forgotten a simple and terrifying fact. It came to him now with a spring of cold sweat that her presence could ruin everything. Usually his mind was a clear one, he could see his way through most problems, but sometimes when he met a situation he had failed to foresee a strange panic would overtake him. He felt it now, a sort of mental gridlock in which his only lucid thought was that he was unable to think.
“What’s going to happen today, then?” Her mouth was so close to his ear that he could feel her breath.
“He’ll be remanded again, probably for a month.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.
“And he’s likely to apply for bail.”
“But he won’t get it, will he?”
“It’s more than possible.”
“What? And let him go and terrorise other women? How can they allow that?”
“They get more rights than their victims, I’m afraid.” The panic had eased a little, his mind was beginning to clear. He needed to explain his presence. Steeling himself to meet her gaze, he whispered, This charge was a surprise they thought he was just handling stolen property, didn’t they? So I thought I’d better come and see what was happening. Let Ben know, keep the family in the picture. I didn’t realise you were coming, otherwise I’d have left it to you In danger of gabbling, he broke off abruptly.
If she thought his argument less than convincing, she made no sign. “Oh, it’s good of you to come,” she declared without hesitation. “And good of you to be such a support to Catherine. She won’t let anyone else visit her, you know. Apart from Emma, of course. It really worries us.”
“Oh, it’s a pleasure to see her. An honour.” Immediately, he wished this rephrased. It had sounded too abject.
Again, mystifyingly, Alice seemed entirely pleased with him. Dropping her head a little, she cast him an upward glance and said, with a brief bite of her lower lip, “I’m sorry I was so defensive before.”
Her soft voice, her smile, flustered him. He couldn’t make out if this friendliness was a trick or a game, if she would suddenly turn on him. Her face seemed very close. He could see every detail of the make-up around her eyes, so cleverly applied, of her glossy pink lips, her hair, which had been cut in a short bouncy style. He felt the tension come into his cheek. That’s all right.”
“I was just overreacting. You know shock.”
He made an ambiguous gesture, he smiled blandly: nothing that could be taken as a judgement. Seizing the opportunity to forestall difficulties later, he said quickly, “In case you think I’m rude, I’m going to have to dash immediately after the case.”
“Oh?” Her quick eyes appraised h
im openly. “Perhaps we could meet later? After work?”
He couldn’t make out why she was suggesting this. Did she want to compare notes? Discuss Pavlik?
The puzzlement must have shown in his face because she whispered, “Just a drink.”
His cheek gave a jerk that almost caused his left eye to close, like some ghastly wink, and he lowered his head furiously. “I might be late at the office. I’m not sure when I’ll finish.”
“Why don’t we make contact later?” She reached into her bag and gave him a card, then, producing pen and paper, waited for him to scribble his mobile phone number down. “I’m free from about seven,” she smiled.
There was sudden movement in the court and his panic resurfaced, he felt the heat rise into his face. The bag-snatcher, having got bail, was strutting out of the court with a smirk on his face, followed by a lawyer with an armful of papers. The usher called Pavlik’s name and the warder disappeared down the steps to the cells. There was a pause in which there was no movement save for the clerk’s pen as she wrote up her notes. Simon shrank back a little as the warder reappeared, followed at last by Pavlik.
It seemed to Simon that everything in his mind and body tautened as he watched Pavlik saunter up the last few steps and take his place in the dock. He appeared relaxed to the point of unconcern; he didn’t look around the court, didn’t look towards the gallery, but kept his eyes on the bench. Simon tried to read his expression, to guess at his state of mind, but his face was devoid of emotion. He might have been up for a parking offence.
“Is that him?” hissed Alice.
Without removing his eyes from Pavlik Simon gave a sharp peremptory nod. Pavlik was short, something like five four or five, but, standing next to a warder who must have been well over six foot, he looked positively stunted. However, his broad, well-shaped shoulders, his thick neck, revealed the body of a man who kept in shape. He was wearing a light blue shirt, well-pressed, no tie, and dark blue chinos. His black hair was newly washed and very shiny. Simon thought: So much for the deprivations of jail.
Alice leant close again. “He’s not what I expected!”
But Simon had transferred his gaze to the lawyers’ tables, where a new face had appeared, a short rather moth-eaten man with an unhealthy pallor, collar-length white hair and pebble glasses, wearing an ancient pinstriped suit purchased in slimmer days. When the usher announced, “Number four on your list, sir, represented by Mr. Gresham,” he stood up and nodded to the bench and made an application for bail. The woman from the CPS objected on the grounds that the charge was a serious one, that the police had not had time to make full inquiries as to suitability for bail and, last but not least, the accused was an illegal immigrant who would have every possible reason to abscond. The pinstriped suit lumbered to his feet again and stated that, though Pavlik had entered the country illegally, he had in fact applied for political asylum. Since the members of his family who remained in the Czech Republic were suffering considerable persecution as gypsies, he had every reason to believe his application would be successful. He had been in this country for five years during which time he had never been in trouble with the law in any shape or form, had held down a steady job as a waiter for four years, had been resident in the same area for two years. Given bail, he had every intention of resuming his normal life, residing in his home and, if his job was still open, returning to his work. Furthermore, surety could be provided if necessary.
The magistrate commented crossly, “It would have to be a substantial surety.”
“Yes, sir, that would be no problem.”
“Who’s offering surety?”
“A friend of my client who has every faith in him.”
“And who is this friend?”
“Mr. David Frankel, a retired solicitor.”
The magistrate looked over his spectacles. “Mr. Frankel is offering this surety in a personal capacity?”
“He is indeed, sir.”
“Is he here today?”
“No, sir, but I have authorisation.”
“How long has he known your client?”
The pinstriped suit referred to his notes. “Two years.”
“Is he fully aware of all the circumstances? Not least that your client is an illegal immigrant?”
“He is, sir.”
Behind the magistrate’s perpetual scowl, it was clear he was soft. “Docs Mr. Frankel live close to your client? Will he keep in regular contact?”
“Mr. Frankel lives in Hendon, sir. My client lives in West Kilburn, not so far away. And yes, Mr. Frankel will be in regular contact.”
“And where would your client live while on bail?”
The pinstripe read out an address. “It’s the room he’s been renting for the past six months.”
The magistrate considered. “This is a serious charge. The accused is an illegal immigrant. I must ask for surety of fifteen thousand pounds. Is Mr. Frankel prepared to stand surety for that amount?”
“He is, sir.”
The magistrate gave a small sigh. “In that case .. . unless the CPS has other grounds for refusing bail?” The woman from the CPS bobbed up and shook her head. “Bail is granted on a recognisance of fifteen thousand pounds and on condition that the accused reports to his local police station once a day and lives and sleeps at his address. Does he have a passport to surrender?”
“Sir, his only passport is a Czech passport, which is out of date.”
“And they’re letting him out?” hissed Alice. “I don’t believe it!”
Simon cupped a hand to his ear, so as not to miss anything.
“Do you fully understand the conditions, Mr. Pavlik?” the magistrate asked.
“I understand.” The words were strongly spoken.
“And you must report back to this court on the date that will be notified to you. Any failure to follow the conditions of the bail or to appear when notified and you will find yourself charged with a separate offence and go straight to prison. Is that clear?”
“It is, sir.”
The pinstriped suit ambled ‘>-3,’ across to the clerk to lodge the surety while a warder directed Pavlik back towards the cells. Pavlik appeared to argue, or at least to question this, and the warder paused to explain something to him before Pavlik acquiesced with a nod and made his way down the stairs.
Retrieving his bag from the floor, Simon got hastily to his feet.
“That’s it,” he said.”
Alice exclaimed, “You mean, he’s out? He’s free?”
Simon was already on his way to the door. “He will be shortly.”
“That’s outrageous!” She hurried after him into the hall.
Halting, Simon held out a hand to make it clear that he had to hurry away.
Tilting her head to one side, she said, “But where are you going? Why don’t we share a cab?”
“I’ve got an appointment out in the sticks.” In a moment of inspiration, he added something approaching the truth. “But I thought I’d try and find out one or two things about Pavlik first.”
Before she had the chance to say anything else he lifted a hand in farewell and walked briskly over to the gaolers’ window to confirm that Pavlik was being returned to Brixton for release. Looking back, he saw the pinstriped suit emerge from court and shamble arthritically across the hall in the direction of the main doors.
Back on plan, Simon thought exultantly. Nothing amiss, nothing to give him away. Only his own stilted movements and the sweat like rain inside his shirt.
He thought of Catherine, as he often did in times of stress or rapture, and this steadied him.
It’ll be fine, he spoke to her. Leave it all to me.
An hour later he sat in the back of a parked minicab in a quiet road in Brixton.
“How long we wait?” The driver was Turkish or Lebanese. His eyes in the mirror were black as treacle.
“As long as we have to.”
“One hour? Two hour?”
“I’m paying, aren’t
I? I told you, I don’t know.”
They were parked in a small residential road with a view back across Brixton Hill to Jebb Avenue and the barriers to the prison.
Simon had already slipped off his suit jacket and tie and,
folding them carefully, had lodged them in his bag with his shoes. Over his shirt he had put on a casual zip-up jacket and on his feet a pair of trainers. Ready on the seat beside him was a baseball cap and in his pocket some dark glasses, a weekly travel card, and cash in varying denominations should he need to take another cab and pay it off hurriedly. Finally, he had attached a strap to his bag so that he’d be able to carry it over his shoulder, just like a tourist, a student, or a waiter on his way to the evening shift. If nothing else, he owed himself the satisfaction of having prepared fully. He ran through the details again in his mind, but could think of nothing he’d forgotten.
While he watched the comings and goings from the prison, he made calls on his mobile, marking each one off on the card that he had prepared the previous night. After an hour he was able to tick off the last call a deal he was setting up in Argentina and to place the card in the inner pocket of his jacket, where it lodged with such gratifying exactitude.
As two o’clock came and the time dragged on, he allowed himself to daydream gently of Catherine. In so far as such a thing was possible, he tried to ration his thoughts of her. When he’d discovered she was ill and not seeing visitors, he’d sent her a card and some Belgian chocolates from Fortnum & Mason because he thought she would appreciate something a little frivolous for a change. He imagined her face on receiving them, he saw her smiling a little as she read the card. He was amazingly sure of this smile, just as he was sure that she spoke warmly of him to other people. She was a steadfast person, Catherine, she would never speak unkindly behind his back. When he thought of the way their friendship had grown over the months, the warmth and devotion she had shown him, he felt a piercing sense of pride. If they could continue as they were, he would be more than happy, though when he allowed his daydreams full rein he couldn’t help imagining the two of them living in a beautiful flat together, an airy modern place, high up with lots of natural light and a large terrace with a roof garden and a view, so that when he was away Catherine could look out over the city and tend her plants. At other times this vision was transposed to the country, to an eighteenth-century house, possibly a barn conversion, with an abundant garden and wonderful antiques. In both of these homes he could see each room, the decor, the colours, the china they ate off, the food they served, the lunch parties, the quiet dinners a deux. These images were so perfect, so richly formed that the contemplation of them caused him an exquisite suffering. He didn’t need to be told that he was feeling the terrible joy of the unattainable.
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