The Maggie Bainbridge Box Set

by Rob Wyllie

  'Ok Jimmy, so you think it's mad, and I'm sorry, but I'm going round there to have it out with him. The damn injunction only applies to Ollie, not to him, doesn't it?'

  He gave a wry smile. 'I don't suppose anything I can say will make you change your mind?'

  'No.'

  He sighed. 'Ok then Maggie, if we must.'

  'We? What's this we?'

  'Aye well, there's no way I'm letting you do this on your own. Goodness knows what you might do. I seem to remember you punched him last time you met, if I'm not mistaken. In bloody McDonalds of all places.'

  She smiled broadly. 'Pushed, not punched I think you'll find. I might smash his face in this time though.'

  He shook his head. 'Yeah exactly, that's why I'm coming with you. But I still don't know what you are hoping to achieve.'

  The offices of Philip Brooks LLP were located halfway up Gray's Inn Road, just ten minutes' walk from Starbucks' Fleet Street branch. Until the breakdown of her marriage she was a frequent visitor to the chambers, and she was pleased if a little surprised to see that Samantha Foster was still on reception duties. Philip was not the easiest man to work with and so his admin staff rarely stayed long, but Samantha was the exception. Maybe that was because until two years ago Samantha had been Samuel, and it wouldn't be a good look for the human rights champions to be on the end of a trans discrimination suit.

  'Mrs Brooks, it's nice to see you again.' The greeting was spontaneous and genuine, although Maggie couldn't help notice the hint of surprise in her voice.

  'Nice to see you too Samantha. This is my colleague Mr Stewart. We're here to see Philip. Is he in?'

  'Yes, he is in, but you don't seem to have an appointment.' She narrowed her eyes as she scrutinising her computer screen, her manner suddenly guarded and suspicious, the initial bonhomie evaporating.

  'We don't need one, we're family,' Jimmy said bluntly. 'C'mon Maggie.' He walked over to the glass-panelled double doors that led through to the main office, and pushed. They were locked.

  'You need a pass for our access control system.' The tone was officious. 'You won't be able to get in without one.'

  Jimmy walked slowly back to the reception area, placing his hands on the desk and leaning forwarded until his face was just six inches from Samantha's. It was meant to be intimidating and it succeeded in being so. 'So you'd better give us one then, hadn't you, my love?'

  'I don't know, I'll need to check...'

  'Give us one.' Now his voice was gangster-movie menacing, causing Maggie to let out an involuntary giggle.

  Samantha's voice dropped an octave, betraying her provenance. 'All right, just give me a second.' She took a credit-card sized pass from a drawer and slotted it into the reader on her desk. 'There you go. All set.'

  Maggie smiled sweetly. 'Thank you ever so much Samantha.' She touched the card against the proximity sensor mounted on the door frame, triggering a loud click as the lock was released and then a quiet whirring as the automatic doors slowly opened inwards. 'Follow me Jimmy, I know where I'm going.' Behind them, the receptionist was already on the phone, ringing ahead a warning.

  'His office is just here on the left.' They entered a generously-proportioned wood-panelled office furnished somewhat incongruously with upscale chrome and glass furniture. It was empty, but only temporarily vacated if the piles of papers and half-empty coffee-cups, two of them, were any guide.

  'Looking for me darling?' Philip's voice was cold and menacing as he stood in the doorway, 'and I see you've brought your trained gorilla with you. How quaint.'

  Jimmy smirked and stared him straight in the eyes. 'Aye, and you best not forget that either. Gorillas can be dangerous.'

  He gave a dismissive look. 'My god, you are the complete neanderthal, aren't you? Anyway, what do you want Maggie? I'm a busy man.'

  'Philip, is that us finished...' Brooks had been joined at the door by a smartly dressed man of about his own age.

  Maggie's eyes widened with surprise. 'Well well, if it's not Adam Cameron. Now fancy meeting you here.'

  'Hello Maggie.' His expression was cold and suspicious.

  'You look well Adam.' He didn't actually, but it was the kind of thing you said to someone you hadn't met in a while. His hair was greasy and unkempt and his nose red and bulbous from over-indulgence on the fine Merlot she knew was his penchant. 'Everything ok with you?'

  'As if you would care, after what you did to me.' Evidently it was still irking him after nearly two years.

  'What I did to you? I didn't do anything. And to be honest, I think you got off rather lightly. No deliberate attempt to mislead? Don't make me laugh.' She couldn't contain her bitterness.

  'Look, can we cut the psychodrama,' Philip said coldly. 'What is it you want Maggie, I haven't got time for all of this.'

  Cameron interrupted before she could reply, struggling to conceal his obvious anger. But it wasn't with her he was angry. It was with Philip.

  'I'm going now, and you heard what I said. I need you to fix this, do you understand? It's frigging important. Fix it.' He picked up his coat and swept out without another word.

  'Shitting himself about the photograph is he?' Jimmy said. 'I would be if I was in his position right enough.'

  Brooks shook his head slowly, disdain written all over his face. 'Really, you are so out of your depth. Both of you.'

  'Aye, you've said that before. Quaking in my boots mate.'

  Brooks ignored him. 'Come on Maggie, I'm waiting. What is it you want?'

  It was a perfectly reasonable question. But as she stood here in front of this man, her nemesis, the truth was plain to see. Because she didn't know what she wanted other than for some stupid fairy godmother to suddenly appear and wipe away the last two years with a swish of her magic wand. And that wasn't going to happen, was it? But she had to say something.

  'Did you set me up for the Alzahrani trial? You did, didn't you?'

  'I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'The government. They wanted to make sure Alzahrani was convicted, so they thought they would get a rubbish barrister to defend her. It was all your idea, wasn't it? Push the brief out to Drake Chambers and let Nigel Redmond do the rest. That's what you meant that time in McDonald's.'

  He gave a withering look. 'I've said it before, but you really are a stupid bitch, aren't you? I mean, what makes you think I've got that sort of influence? It was perfectly natural that the case should go to Drake. They have an excellent reputation, which makes it all the more puzzling that they would give it to a second-rate barrister like you. Why the hell that weasel Redmond did that is simply inexplicable. I assumed you must have been sleeping with him.'

  Maggie struggled to keep her cool. 'I don't believe you for one minute. I know you were involved and I'm going to find out how. And then I'm going to make you pay for it. I don't know how and I don't know when, but I will.' It sounded like a bad line from a bad movie, she knew that, but it was all she could think of. Pitiable.

  'Heard all of that before Maggie.' She could almost reach out and touch the malevolence in his voice. 'You really are so pathetic. Now if you're quite finished, I suggest you both leave.'

  With a sudden lunge, Jimmy grabbed Brooks by the lapels and pushed him against the wall, his voice spitting anger. 'Oh no pal, we're not finished, far from it.' Brooks staggered back, stunned, before steadying himself against the tall book case. The look of fear on his face was unmistakeable, any thought of retaliation rapidly extinguished by the realisation that he stood no chance against the six-foot-two former soldier.

  'What are you doing Jimmy?' Maggie's voice betrayed alarm.

  'I came here to stop you doing anything stupid to this bastard. I didn't say I wasn't going to do something myself.'

  Now he turned his attention to her cowering ex-husband. 'You think you are so bloody smart, don't you mate, but you don't frighten us, not one bit. We're on your case, and it's you that had better feel the fear. We're going to make sure all of this comes cras
hing down around you. And don't you bloody forget it. Come on Maggie, we're done with this arse.'

  ◆◆◆

  'That was bloody amazing, but bloody stupid too. You realise you could get me struck off.'

  They were making their way back down Gray's Inn Road towards the office, Maggie a few paces behind, straining to keep up with Jimmy's adrenalin-fuelled stride.

  'I thought you were already struck off?'

  'Black-balled, actually, it's not quite the same thing.'

  'Got it. But anyway, do you really think he's going to report us to the police? I don't think so. I looked him right in the eye in there, and behind all that bravado he looks scared out of his wits. No, he's not going to call the police.'

  Maggie reached out and grabbed his arm, struggling to catch her breath. 'Will you slow down please? I've got something to show you.'

  She began rummaging in her handbag. 'Here we go, take a look at this.'

  He looked at her with an amused expression.

  'You stole Philip's phone?'

  'Just borrowed. It fell out of his pocket when you and him were having that little heated discussion. Anyway, what's so funny?'

  Jimmy plunged his hand into his jacket pocket. 'Great minds think alike. Sneaked Cameron's out his coat when he was having that wee conversation with you.'

  Chapter 20

  The delegation had landed at Stanstead just after midnight aboard an elderly British Airways 757, generously paid for by the British taxpayer, although whether they would have approved of this use of their hard-earned money had they been asked was open to question. The Essex airport had been chosen because it was felt to be marginally easier to secure compared with Heathrow or Gatwick, but it still required a huge operation from the army and the police, involving more than three hundred personnel. The terminal had been cleared of all passengers at 6pm, operations being diverted to Luton, not exactly convenient for the thousands of travellers affected. The flight itself had been escorted all the way from Beirut-Rafic Hariri International Airport by a brace of RAF Typhoons, causing further outrage in the press about the considerable expense of the operation.

  Now the fleet of armoured limousines was speeding through the deserted early morning streets, the flashing blue lights of the police escorts reflecting back from darkened bedroom windows, their occupants' sleep disturbed by the howls of the sirens as the motorcade raced past. Fadwa Ziadeh shared an affectionate smile with her teenage son who sat opposite, momentarily distracted from his game of Call of Duty. After all was said and done, it was all about family, and at last her family, her poor oppressed Palestinian people, ignored and marginalised for seventy years or more, despised even in the Arab world, were to be given a voice. A new era dawned, more outward-looking, more conciliatory, more civilised. What did she care about the hard-liners in her party who were trying their best to undermine her every move? They had tried it their way for the last seventy years, and where had it got them? Nowhere. Now it was time for a new approach. Not before time.

  In two days' time, the peace conference would begin. Sure, Israel had declined to officially attend, but they too were under pressure in their own country from a new younger generation, tired of the old conflicts and eager for a different future. So they had sent an observer instead, unofficial maybe, but an important step in the long and winding road to reconciliation. The peace conference. The British Prime Minister Julian Priest, her old dear darling friend Julian, had made all of this possible and she meant to take every advantage of the opportunity in front of the world's press. This was the new Hamas under her dynamic leadership, terrorism and violence to be replaced by diplomacy, exploiting the glamour and sexual power she knew she still possessed, captivating the dull grey men who still by and large held the power in western democracies. Fools, all of them.

  In the car behind travelled her personal security detail, shadowy assassins armed to the teeth and trained by her Iranian allies. Hopefully they wouldn't be needed, especially since it seemed the team on the ground were already doing a good job, but it was always wise to have insurance just in case the diplomacy failed. Now it would be like an old eighties band getting back together. Julian and Philip and herself, the classic line-up. No Hugo of course, but he was always the crazy hothead, didn't every band need one? All these sweet entitled upper middle-class boys, Oxbridge-educated and safely wrapped in the comfort blanket of mummy and daddy's money, furiously trying to deny their privileged upbringing through their devotion to the cause. The smart ones grew out of it, becoming barristers or something big in the city, embracing their privilege, every one of them. Luckily, there were enough like Julian and Hugo and Philip, useful idiots keeping the conflict in the public eye, recruiting febrile support from young left-leaning idealists. And most importantly, keeping the cash rolling in. It had been her life for nearly thirty years now and it had been a good life. Excitement, international travel, lovers - everybody in the band had been her lover at some time - recognition, she had it all and she wanted it to continue forever. She feared that Julian's well-meaning conference was doomed before it started, that was a pity, but it was a significant step in the process, and it did give her another chance to get on CNN and deliver her message of conciliation to America and Israel and the West.

  But more importantly, there was the other matter to be dealt with. Julian had said he would fix it, and so far he had been true to his word. She had never liked Gerrard Saddleworth, a pathetic little man with an inflated opinion of himself, but the British Prime Minister could hardly have come to Moscow himself, and to be fair, it looked like for once Julian's poodle had actually delivered. Now there was just a few minor details to be sorted out, that's what he had said, and then her living nightmare would finally be over.

  They were on the last leg of their journey, the sirens and lights switched off as they glided silently down Pall Mall. Had she chanced to look out the window of the Mercedes, Fadwa might have caught a glance of the elegantly dressed middle-aged man slumped in the doorway of the Oxford & Cambridge club, his expensive navy wool overcoat already stained with blood seeping through from the deep stab wound which was draining the life from him.

  Eight miles away in Hounslow, Olga Svoboda rubbed her eyes then stretched out an arm to put her phone alarm on snooze. Four forty-five, too damn early for most people, but she was used to it now. Thank god her sex-mad boyfriend was still asleep, and she had a chance of getting out the door on time. Not that she minded too much of course, it was rather lovely and it was nice to be desired, but work was work and the agency had made it plain that they would sack her if she turned up late at a client's again. Five more minutes and she would need to be up and about and then just ten more to get showered and dressed then hurry down to the station for the journey to St Katherine's Dock. As she prepared to leave, she double-checked that she had Miss White's key, slung the back-pack containing her cleaning materials over her shoulder and closed the door behind her.

  Chapter 21

  Journalist Penelope White murdered at home.

  The news was of course all over the papers, not least the Chronicle, where she had been the undoubted star attraction. She wouldn't have liked that headline, so dull and unimaginative, but she had been much too young to have already written her own obituary. Alongside the rather too-fulsome eulogies, the paper was furiously speculating on the motive. The police had already admitted to being puzzled, given the obvious professional nature of the killing. Campaigning journalists like White made plenty of enemies, but they didn't usually get murdered, not in this country at least. So who could have wanted her dead?

  The same thought was occupying Maggie's mind as she hurried along Clapham High Street towards what she now was forced to call home, her collar turned up against the biting April wind. But unlike the police, she knew that White had been at that Cathedral Close dinner.

  Flat 4A, number 98 was beautifully situated above Kalib's Kebabs, a bargain at fourteen hundred and fifty pounds a month. The takeaway was dest
ined never to receive a Michelin star, but was popular with its loyal and frequently inebriated client base and this evening was no exception, with ten or more customers packed into the tiny shop and one or two more waiting outside, puffing cigarettes and slurping from cans of strong lager. She wasn't a food snob, but the smell from Kalib's turned her stomach, and so she was glad she had managed to grab a Pret A Manger at Waterloo.

  Access to the flat was through a narrow passageway on the left side of the takeaway and then up a rickety staircase. She pushed open the rot-infested wooden gate and made her way down the unlit path.

  'Maggie.' The man's voice came out of the darkness, literally making her jump. She recognised it immediately.

  'Christ Adam, you scared the shit out of me. What the hell are you doing here?'

  'I need to speak to you. About everything. Everything that's going on.' He sounded frightened.

  'Sure, come on up. And watch these steps, they're lethal in the wet.' As she fumbled in her handbag for her key, she remembered the mobile phones. Two days since she and Jimmy had stupidly stolen them, but yet they had heard nothing from either of them about it. Neither Philip nor Adam. Not a word.

  'Would you like a drink? I've got tea and coffee, just instant I'm afraid, and I might have some Chardonnay in the fridge if you would prefer.' No might about it, she always had some Chardonnay in the fridge.

  'A glass of wine would be nice. Thank you.'

  They sat at either ends of the cheap but comfortable flat-pack-store sofa, glasses resting on the cheap flat-pack coffee table. They weren't stylish by any means, but Maggie was inordinately proud of her achievement in assembling them single-handedly. For nearly two months after moving in, she had sat on an uncarpeted floor in the echoey room, paralysed by the trauma of her breakdown. Buying and building the sofa and table had been a critical step in her slow rehabilitation into something like a normal life, and now she would not part with them for anything.