by Caro Land
‘That won’t happen, Natalie. Eddie, or DeMille, as you like to call him, is a good man. He’s offering generous wages to those women, money they need for their families, a salary they wouldn’t get otherwise. That isn’t his only business…’
Nat sat back, astonished. Was he saying what she thought he was? That Eddie was employing illegal workers in several of his businesses, and that Jack was ‘overlooking’ it? She opened her mouth to speak, but he lifted his hand. ‘You and I have something in common, Natalie. We’re both children of immigrants.’ He lifted his glass and stared with those incongruous blue eyes. ‘We’ve been lucky, very lucky. Always remember that.’
He was absolutely right, but the surprise left her winded. She took a breath to say something, but he’d already changed the subject, nodding to the other end of the table. ‘Verity seems charmed with young Max. I could do with getting her off my payroll. What do you think? Good husband material?’
She peered again at Max, but her gaze slipped to Wes, sitting next to him. Despite the facial hair, his tight jaw revealed his struggle with the boyfriend/partner divide. She smiled inwardly at the BF word. And he’d been right; she loved his beard now, couldn’t imagine him without it.
‘Max? Yeah, I think so,’ she replied, bringing herself back to Jack. Sure, that phone call had shocked her, but Max had been stressed, it was clearly out of character. ‘Nice-looking, private school, wealthy background. Partner-to-be. The sort you’d want your daughter to marry, I imagine.’
‘And what about you when you have your daughter?’ he asked. ‘Is that what you’d want? Marrying her off to a rich kid, or have her standing on her own two feet, helping people, having convictions and making a stand?’ He smiled. ‘Even if it is in her own peculiar way?’
Feeling that poignant ache when Jack said something complimentary, Nat shook her head and snorted. ‘What makes you think it’s a girl?’
‘Intuition,’ he replied, adjusting his glasses. ‘Talking of rich kids, Lewis Foster had a visit from the police this week.’
‘Really?’ Nat replied, staring steadily at her plate. ‘What for?’
‘Danielle was vague when she called. A misunderstanding with one of his businesses, apparently. A rogue employee not doing the paperwork properly, by the sound of it. Of course she’s distancing herself from it, just in case. Much as she loves her son, business is business. She runs a clean ship, as you know. It wouldn’t do to get “tarred”, as she put it.’
Nat swallowed. It was disappointing, but expected. She hadn’t for a moment thought Danielle Foster would allow herself to be associated by any impropriety, let alone be caught. She was a very clever woman; she’d never be found out. Nat didn’t like her one jot, but had to admire her sheer determination and resilience.
A change of subject was in order. ‘Anna sends her love,’ she said to Jack. ‘Did I tell you about her friend Borys?’
Trying to anticipate sharp bends and stray sheep, Nat negotiated the dark country roads with great care. Spring was supposed to be around the corner in March, but the trees were still starkly naked, the evenings winter black.
They were almost back at the cottage, at least she hoped so. She looked across to Wes, slumped in his seat. ‘How was your end of the table?’ she asked.
He opened an eye. ‘Verity drinks at the same rate as her mother. She topped me up every time she helped herself to another glass of the Chablis. Think it made her feel better. It was hard to keep up.’
‘Sweet of you to try,’ Nat replied with a snort. ‘I suppose you’re planning to take advantage of this free taxi service for the next five months or so?’
He clenched his fist in a victory sign. ‘I knew there was something I liked about you.’
She peered through the windscreen. ‘Is it this turn or the next one?’
‘Next, thank God; I need water.’
‘What’s Verity like these days? Apart from being a lush. Jack was asking if Max was husband material.’ She pulled the car up at the barrier. ‘You’re going to have to work on being civil to him, Wes. He’ll be a Goldman Law partner in less than a month.’
Wes grinned. ‘I am civil.’
‘Friendly, then. You know, moving on a little further than just yes and no.’ She squeezed his thigh. ‘Max is okay, really. He just lost his rag that once and we’re forgetting about it, aren’t we?’
‘For you, I’ll do anything, my love.’
Nat nodded ahead. ‘How about starting with the gate? It needs opening.’
After rounding up an escapee hen, Wes held out his hand to guide Nat down the path to the stable door. Once he’d overcome the key’s refusal to slide into the lock, he pulled her into his arms.
‘Gate done and dusted, chicken caught, door open and we’re finally in! What next? Anything your heart desires. What does it desire? We have an empty house. Mr Hirsch says…’
She laughed. ‘Maybe a sit down and that water first.’ The obstetrician had indeed said that there was no reason to avoid intercourse, but Wes was swaying; she doubted he’d get up the stairs let alone anything else.
He collapsed onto the sofa, hitching to one side to make room for her. He slung an arm over her shoulders. ‘It was good today, wasn’t it? Was I right to just… tear off the embarrassment plaster?’
‘Yes, Wes, you were right.’
He was; she’d been thinking the same as him. The brunch, which had somehow merged into supper, had been fun; Max and Verity seemed a perfect match; Jack and Catherine were solid, doting over their pudgy-faced grandson. Julian had been friendly and even Aisha had eventually given her half a smile. Life in general was hunky-dory too. Andrea appeared to have taken Wes’s firm ‘no’ to any contact on the chin. And anyway, who would she tell about Wes and Catherine’s fling? Everyone knew she was crackers, Jack included.
‘Say again?’ Wes was putting a hand behind his ear. ‘Say again? I’m not sure I heard you properly.’
She smiled. ‘Wesley Hughes was right, just this once.’
When his breathing slowed, Nat lifted his arm to slip away, but he tightened it again. ‘Not so easily,’ he muttered. Then after a moment. ‘Oh, yeah, I forgot to say. I placed your two o’clock appointment.’
Appointment where? At the clinic? Or…? It took a moment to twig. ‘At the café last week? My date with Cassandra Woodcock?’
‘Think he called her Caz. Girlfriend in the attic. Seemed nice to me, but like you said…’
As Wes drifted off, Nat stared at the fireplace as the information soaked in. Bloody hell, Cassandra Woodcock was Max’s crazy ‘ammo’ woman. No, that couldn’t be right. Cassandra had seemed so grounded and nice. And Max had said his girlfriend was a doctor.
She gently raised Wes’s hand and padded to her coat. Reaching into the pocket, she pulled out the business card Cassandra had given her. She stared at the handwritten mobile number, then turned it over.
A name and a business address: Dr C J Woodcock and the surgery in Worsley.
Completely winded, Nat flopped into the armchair. Bloody hell, Natalie; this was really, really bad form. The very same ‘error’ had driven her bonkers over the years: people assuming the man was in charge. Time after time she’d met a new client or taken a witness statement or gone to a different court with a junior male colleague, and he would be addressed as the boss. Yet she’d done it herself with Cassandra. When the surgery receptionist had said, ‘Dr Woodcock is waiting for you’, she’d assumed it was Dr Woodcock senior, a man, not an attractive and friendly young female.
But that wasn’t what bothered her the most right now. It was Cassandra that day, in particular her face. Her teeth clenched, Nat pictured it. Dr Woodcock junior had a black eye and a cut lip. She didn’t need to do the maths to know that ‘Caz’ was still Max’s girlfriend then.
34
Shouting
The journey to Heald Green was only a short one, but Nat got stuck in the Kingsway traffic. Why she’d gone that route, she didn’t know. Autopilot, s
he suspected, distracted by her musing about Cassandra or Caz. No wonder the poor woman had looked so world-weary at their brief meeting. But it wasn’t just the humiliation Max and his father’s solicitor must have put her through – all but threatening to report her to the General Medical Council for being a liar – it was the traumatic assault itself.
Thoughts of aggressors happened to be topical today. Nat was now at Savage Solicitors, and though her visit would be brief, the apprehension about Jed was looming large. That tingle of icy fear was still at her fingertips, and the hopelessness that had gone with it. Of course she didn’t know if Cassandra’s bruised face was the result of a blow, or whether it was Max who had administered it, but the sense of violation was there.
The office door was locked, but Chantelle buzzed her in and sashayed over with open arms. ‘Let’s see your bump, then?’ she said.
Nat unbuttoned her jacket. She had been wearing her uniform of jogging bottoms or leggings over the past couple of weeks, but seeing as it was an office day, she’d tried on a work skirt this morning. It hadn’t fitted, so now she was wearing an elasticated monstrosity loaned by her mum.
Chantelle wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s it?’ she said dismissively. ‘Typical. Bet I’ll be huge when it’s my turn.’
Nat looked at her bump. It was neat, but definitely there. ‘I’m only four months, Chantelle. I’m told it’ll grow if I water it. Is Robbie in yet?’
‘Yeah, but he keeps disappearing to the loo.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Nerves.’
Too much information. ‘Okey-dokey. Is Gavin free?’
Chantelle lifted her shoulders and pulled the face which suggested she wasn’t best pleased with her boss. Poor girl; he’d probably been winding her up again. He should really be careful; behind the painted face, this woman was smart, a bloody good secretary; he’d be disappointed to lose her.
‘I’ll just go in then, shall I?’ Nat asked.
Another shrug, so she made her way to the boss’s office, tapped on his door and entered.
His shirt sleeves rolled up, Gavin was on the phone, so she sat down quietly and looked around the shabby room. Taking in the familiar smell of – figs? – and Gavin’s aftershave, she felt a little sad that an episode of her life had come and gone. It had been replaced by another amazing challenge, but she’d felt at home here. Although a few things had gone pear-shaped and the majority of Gavin’s clients were indeed ‘Neds’, there had been a feeling of… What was it? Yes, love. Love, care and concern, a desire to help and support, which one didn’t often find in a lawyer’s office.
Coming back from her reflections, she focused on her friend. His face was a deep rusty colour, his chatter had become heated. She casually glanced at the folder on his desk, then sat up and paid attention. The Brian Selby file. The Scot was indeed ‘rabid’ today; he was giving the person on the other end of the telephone a rollicking. She listened to his side of the conversation.
‘Tell me, what is the point of the “golden rule” of disclosure if you and the police don’t abide by it?’
‘I don’t accept that. They knew damn well the report was detrimental to their case so they deliberately held it back.’
‘No, my client did not admit murder. He admitted to holding a pillow over his daughter’s face, that was all. If you’re in any doubt, I suggest you do your homework and listen to your client’s own taped interviews.’
‘We both know a charge of wasting police time is the best you can do. Be my guest and try it. I’m sure the press will have a field day after what appears to be a wilful refusal to come clean in the spirit of equity and fair play…’
Ending the call, Gavin made notes for several minutes before speaking. He eventually lifted his head. ‘That’s shouting,’ he said.
‘And very impressive too.’ The colour had ebbed from his face. ‘What was that all about?’ she asked.
Gavin sat back and swung his chair. ‘We finally got the police’s toxicology report this morning. They’ve been sitting on it. Strictly speaking they’re entitled to until the case management conference, but that isn’t the spirit of the law when someone’s liberty is at stake.’ He tapped his scrawl with his pencil. ‘Their expert can’t say for sure what caused Melanie’s death, whether it was the morphine overdose or suffocation. My expert is on to it, but I’ll bet my granny’s false teeth that his “fence” position means Melanie was already dead from the morphine before Brian – or Shirley – did the belt and braces pillow part. My guy says it’s looking good.’ He finally grinned. ‘You can’t murder a dead person, can you, Nat? Then any charge of attempted murder or assisted suicide isn’t going to look pretty.’
Thinking back to what both Larry and Joshim had said about causation, Nat nodded. Not who done it, but what done it, or as Larry had eloquently put it: ‘Did those hands cause her death?’
‘So, what happens now?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. Murder is definitely off the cards, but they may stick to their guns with attempted murder and let the jury decide. But is that in the public interest? No, and especially not if our expert comes firmly down on the side of the defence, which he will.’
‘Good news, then?’ she asked hesitantly; Gavin was tapping his fingers and frowning.
‘I’m hoping so. Brian and Shirley both made voluntary false confessions. The police might try to save face by charging them with wasting police time or perverting the course of justice, but that’s not a major problem considering the time they’ve already served on remand.’ He picked up the expert’s report and wafted it. ‘My only niggle is the huge amount of morphine in Melanie’s body. Good for Brian and Shirley that it was enough to end her life before they intervened, but–’
‘Brian told me she’d been saving it. Going without pain relief to accumulate enough for that final day. Dreadful, isn’t it? Suffering to end her suffering. We don’t know we’re born, do we?’
Gavin gazed for a few seconds without replying. ‘Her routine dosage was pretty high, Nat. Going without it would have been far, far from easy… The local doctor, Woodcock. Close friend of the Selby’s. What did you make of him?’
‘Like I already said, I thought he was a good sort.’ Nat stared back, feeling hot. ‘Not just that. I believed him, Gavin. He’s of the old-school Hippocratic Oath type; everything strictly by the book. I don’t think for a moment he did anything he shouldn’t have done. Please tell me you’re not going to upset the apple cart?’
Gavin threw down his pencil and smiled. ‘And ruin my chances of one of your mum’s szarlotka pies? Nope. Case almost closed.’ He shrugged. ‘And as you say, Selby’s evidence is that Melanie stockpiled the drug.’ He stood and plucked his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘I hear you and Robbie are going on a road trip. Got time for a pint first?’
Nat was still smiling when Robbie passed her a scrap of paper in the car.
‘The postcode,’ he said, his first words all day.
‘Right, cheers.’
She absently programmed it in and followed the satnav’s directions. God, she loved the Rabid Scot. The drink with him had been such a hoot. He was back to his old non-PC ways, teasing her about her growing ‘sproglet’, noticing a ‘definite waddle’ already, and hoping Wes fancied fat women.
Though Nat had visited Ruthie at the weekend and had bumped into Gavin then, he reiterated the amazing progress she’d made at the unit, clearly thrilled her return home was on the horizon. Nat wondered whether Heather was still sleeping in Ruthie’s bedroom and what would happen when her daughter needed it, but she hadn’t wanted to pry. He hadn’t mentioned his ex, forgiveness and faith, so neither had she.
It had been interesting to get updates on the cases she’d handled. Larry’s hope that George, the mother murderer, would get off lightly wasn’t looking good. Even his own psychiatric expert had pronounced him of sound mind, and it turned out he was more of a weasel than he’d first appeared. Larry had hoped for a loss-of-control, spur-of-the-moment type of defence
, but days before strangling his mum, George had researched the internet, a ‘how to murder your mother and get away with it’ type of search. Poor old Larry had taken it badly; he’d decided retirement was overdue.
‘So he’ll just be sticking to his Christmas job,’ Gavin had said, straight-faced. ‘Which means I’ll still need a freelancer if you fancy?’
Nat came back to the busy traffic and Robbie by her side. He’d taken to scraping his fringe back in a quiff. It suited him. ‘I think I might have some sweets in the glove compartment if you fancy?’ she said, breaking the silence.
On the basis of sugar being the SS cure to every malady, she’d bought a selection from the newsagents, ranging from Starburst to Smarties for her young companion. She felt stupidly nervous about today’s outing; God knows what was going on in his head. Or indeed, in his bowels.
Robbie rummaged, took a packet and said thanks, but returned to his gaze through the passenger window.
Nat reverted to her thoughts. What did she fancy workwise? She was in pregnancy limbo and stupefied with boredom, but who knew how she’d feel when the sproglet arrived? What she definitely wanted was a home for her and Wes. Their current options were limited, namely squeezing in with her mouse-like mum, or having more room with Saint Bernard Sidney. Neither proposition was good. As much as Wes liked Anna, he’d hardly want to live with her, especially if he was banished to the tiny box room which was shorter than him. The idea of living full time in the dream-home-cottage was appealing, but it belonged to Sidney. Though he spent periods of time away, his messiness and jabber were exhausting when he wasn’t.
Ideally she and Wes wanted to buy, but the problem was ready cash. Hers was still tied up in a Mallorcan bar. Or perhaps spent, or lost, or scattered in the Mediterranean Sea – another unknown. As for Wes, his petition for divorce on the grounds of his wife’s unreasonable behaviour had been served, followed by the application to sort out their finances. Andrea had gone worryingly quiet. Her silence was helpful for the former. Wes had instructed a court bailiff to serve the papers, so she couldn’t say she hadn’t received them. Doing nothing would allow the decree nisi to go through by default. But the finances, including the sale of the house in Cheadle Hulme, downsizing, or at least the release of some equity, needed the Cling-on’s co-operation. Nat couldn’t see that happening anytime soon.