The Maggie Bainbridge Box Set

by Rob Wyllie

  Frank gave a look of mock disgust. 'Hey guys, I thought we're meeting up for a wee social drink. If you're going to talk shop all night, at least clue me in, eh?'

  Maggie laughed. 'Yes you're right Frank. Sorry. So come on, tell us what you're working on. Although I know everything in your dodgy department is probably top secret.'

  'Far from it,' he said. 'This one's a wee bit sad actually, what I'm working on. I was just saying to my brother before you came in. Look at this.'

  He passed his phone over to them, pointing to the photograph. 'That's a wee girl called Chardonnay Clarke. Just twenty-three. Swipe left and the other one's Luke Brown.'

  'God, they're good-looking, aren't they?' Maggie said, examining the pictures. 'Oh what it is to be young.'

  'Hence Aphrodite,' Jimmy said, nodding. 'I get it now.'

  'Aye, they're were both very good-looking and now they're both very dead.'

  'Murdered?' Maggie said. 'How awful.'

  'Aye it is awful,' Frank said. 'Except the inquests said suicide, not murder.'

  'Chardonnay looks a little bit like Lotti, don't you think Jimmy?' Maggie said, screwing up her eyes. 'She's pretty enough to be a member of your Aphrodite club, that's for sure.'

  'And this Lotti is?' Frank enquired.

  Maggie smiled. 'Hugo Morgan's new girlfriend. I should have said, that's what we're doing. Checking her out before he proposes to her.'

  Important work. That's what he was about to say, but just in the nick of time he managed to check himself. Mocking the line of work of the woman you were about to ask to dinner, however gently, probably wasn't the smartest move, even he could see that.

  'Aye, well marriage is for life isn't it, so it's as well to be sure I suppose.' He said it without thinking then immediately regretted it. Out of the frying pan into the fire. It wasn't meant to be directed at Jimmy of course but that's how it came out. Why couldn't he just keep his big mouth shut? It was something he often asked himself. He looked at his brother, and knew he was thinking about Flora.

  'Look I'm sorry mate, I didn't mean anything by it.' He took a crumpled twenty-pound note from his pocket. ‘Same again folks?'

  Jimmy gave him an encouraging smile. 'I'll go. Still on the Doom Bar?' And then he gave a wink. 'Looks busy up there mate, this might take a while.'

  And now Frank knew what he meant. It was now or never. Tomorrow was Friday, the start of the weekend and for many if not most people, the best part of the week. But not for him. For him, the weekend was an interminable desert of loneliness, of cold takeaway curries and warm beer and too many whiskies and boring football on the television. But he had more than enough of that and now, as he approached his forty-third birthday, it was time to finally do something about it. Yes, it was now or never. And here he was with Maggie Bainbridge. Alone with her at last.

  Chapter 8

  It would have been better if they could have gone into the grounds of the house itself, but with an eight-foot wall surrounding the place, a pair of massive cast-iron gates guarding the entrance to his driveway and that damn dog, that would have to wait for another time. Besides which, the message would be just as clear to Morgan whether it was daubed on the outside wall or on the walls of the house itself. It was three o'clock in the morning, so the chances of them being observed were slight, but just to be sure they checked one more time before removing the aerosols from the back-pack. The wall was clearly illuminated by the bright LED streetlight, making it a straightforward task. A minute later it was done, the message spelt out in foot-high silver-grey letters.

  Justice for Greenway

  Chapter 9

  She had only ever seen Miss Harriet Ibbotson in a work setting, so had no idea what that lady might wear to a first date. Something stunning, no doubt, but classy too, alluring but not too in-your-face. Not an easy look to pull off, especially for a forty-two-year-old who hadn't been on a first date for more than nine years. Maggie remembered the previous occasion as if it was yesterday. Of course she had hardly known her to-be husband at that point, but looking back, she could see his choice of restaurant, a long-since-bust and ferociously over-priced fake bistro, should have been a warning sign. The place had been briefly popular with the gossip-pages set, a place to see and be seen. The fact that it served food was purely incidental. In short, Phillip Brooks' kind of place.

  So this evening she had played it safe. A little navy dress, a little shorter than she would have worn to work, but not too short. A glittery throw, but not too glittery, not Xmas-party glittery. And heels, a little higher than everyday, but not such that she would fall over with every step. She wondered what Miss Ibbotson would make of it. She was of course about twenty years younger than Maggie, and in her opinion, rather more attractive, so would probably look sensational no matter what she threw on. But putting comparisons aside, all in all she was quietly pleased with the effect.

  The restaurant was exactly as Robert Trelawney had described it, dark and cosy and unprepossessing, decorated in a quaintly old-fashioned style with lit candles on every table in raffia-wrapped Chianti bottles, and crisp white linen tablecloths. There was only around a dozen tables but every place was taken, even at this early hour. He was already there, waiting in the tiny reception area.

  'Hi Magdalene, I'm so glad you could make it,' he said, shooting her a smile. 'Sorry if it's a little early, but unless you're in at seven then you won't get a table. But the food is wonderful, I'm sure you'll just love it.'

  She looked at him and chuckled to herself, imagining he had faced the same dilemma as her over what to wear. She didn't see him as a jeans-and T-shirt sort of a guy, and this evening he, like her, had evidently decided to play it safe. Dark navy corduroy trousers with a light-grey woollen sports jacket over a light-blue shirt, formally cut but worn without a tie. What her dad might have called smart-casual, but with a touch of class. She liked it very much.

  A young waiter led them through to their table which was already provisioned, with breadsticks in paper packets, a tiny bowl of mixed olives and a bottle of sparkling mineral water. He pulled back Maggie's chair and waited deferentially until she was seated before handing each of them a leather-bound menu. This wasn't one of these places with the chalked special boards, where you had to make a special trip half way across the room then try to memorise it all before an impatient waitress came to take your order. All their dishes were on the menu, and from the faded print she guessed it hadn't changed for many years, and was probably all the better for that.

  'They've got a very nice wine list here Magdalene,' Robert said, 'but I'd recommend you try the house first, because they pride themselves on always picking excellent ones. Especially the red.'

  Magdalene. God, she'd better remember. Remember she wasn't Maggie Bainbridge, hopeless ex-barrister and once the Most Hated Woman in Britain, but Mrs Magdalene Slattery, rich Hampstead widow and embryonic collector of modern art. She'd better remember, because the question was bound to come up on a first date, and she'd need to be ready with the answers. Tell me all about yourself. She'd worked up a story, she just hoped it would be convincing.

  She giggled. 'I like the sound of first Robert. It sounds as if we're in for a good night. Yes, the house will be great, and red's my favourite. Although I like white too. And rosé, if I'm being honest. And champagne.'

  The wine arrived, and then there was small-talk whilst they perused the menu and settled on their choices, but it was easy small-talk, light and natural, not at all stilted as it so often can be.

  'Are you bothering with a starter?' he asked. 'Perhaps go straight to mains?'

  She wasn't really focussed on the food at all and the question took her slightly by surprise.

  'What? No.. no, mains are good for me.' Now she had a moment to think about it, she was actually starving and wouldn't have minded starting with one of the delicious-looking cannelloni dishes she had seen served to an adjacent table. Out of the blue, a hint of suspicion crept into her mind. Was he having second thoug
hts and trying to get this over with as possible? No, surely that wasn't the case, he seemed perfectly relaxed. And then another thought struck her, causing her to give an involuntary giggle. Maybe he was careful with money. The house wine, served informally by the carafe, was nice, she couldn't deny the fact, but it was also less than half the price of the cheapest bottle on the list.

  'You know, I felt awful afterwards,' Robert said, shooting her a curious look. 'After I asked you out I mean. It was just so forward, and believe me, that's not like me at all. I just don't know what came over me. In fact, I almost got Lotti to call you and cancel it.'

  'I'm glad you didn't,' Maggie said, quite truthfully. 'Then I wouldn't have got to sample this lovely house red. I'm not a wine expert, but it does taste deliciously warm and fruity.'

  'Yes, with a good nose too and a hint of blackberry, don't you think?' He held his glass up to his nose, swilled it around and sniffed, his face taking on a serious expression for a second or two. And then he laughed. 'Actually, that's all bollocks. I don't know the first thing about wine really. I either like it or I don't, simple as that.'

  'Snap,' she said, amused. 'And here was me imagining you would be a real wine buff. It sort of goes with the art dealer image somehow.'

  He shrugged. 'Well, yes, and some of us do collect wine that's true. But as I said before, with collectable wine, you can't tell whether you like it or not until you drink it, and then you don't have it any more. No, I'll stick to paintings, thank you very much.'

  And then, as the waiter was clearing away the plates and smoothing down the tablecloths in preparation for the arrival of their mains, he asked it. Tell me all there is to know about Mrs Magdalene Slattery.

  It wasn't difficult to sketch out a childhood story for Magdalene Hardwick. That last bit, the maiden name, she had almost forgotten about but managed somehow to pull it out of thin air. Brought up in Yorkshire of course, because there was no disguising her accent, and then onto the University of Manchester to study -what? It couldn't be law, obviously, because then there would be questions as to why she hadn't become a lawyer. English, that would be better. An MA in English, and then a move to London and a succession of dead-end jobs in publishing. She just hoped he didn't ask for details.

  'I hadn't really done anything with my life,' she heard herself saying, 'and then I met...' Christ, had she mentioned her fictional husband's name to him before, she couldn't remember. '...David.' Now she remembered. It was Lotti that she had talked to about him, not Robert. And at least for this next part it wouldn't be difficult to merge the real and the fictional.

  'Looking back, I don't think I ever really loved him. A terrible thing to say I know, but it was just... well, my biological clock was well and truly ticking and I wanted a baby and I thought it would be a nice comfortable life. It was all right at first, but he was much older than me, and he turned out not to be very nice.'

  'But he did give you a son,' Robert said in a kindly tone, 'who I know you love very much.'

  She could feel herself reddening. 'I do. Very much. Ollie's everything to me.' It was true. He was more than everything, more than could ever be put into words, and somehow she felt she was betraying her love for her son by dragging him into this silly subterfuge, but she had no choice. Magdalene Slattery's son had to be Ollie, he could never be a Jack or a Kieran or any other name.

  At least with that out of the way, it would be his turn. Initially, just after he had asked her out, she had entertained a vague suspicion that he might be married. It was just something about the way he looked, she couldn't exactly put a finger on it. But if he was, he wouldn't have brought her here, to this lovely little place where he was obviously a regular. No, Robert Trelawney wasn't married.

  'So Robert,' she said, toying with her glass, 'what about you? Any dark secrets to reveal?'

  'Afraid not,' he said, grinning. 'Bit of a posh boy upbringing, I must confess. My family's been farming in Cornwall for centuries, own half of Bodmin Moor. But I was the third son. My oldest brother inherited the estate a couple of years ago when father died and is making rather a good fist of running the place I think. In the old days of course I would have been marked out for the church, but we're a bit more enlightened nowadays. They still packed me off to a succession of ghastly boarding schools though. The English upper classes have always liked to subcontract the bringing up of their children.'

  Maggie nodded. 'But you seem relatively unscathed by the experience, if I'm any judge.'

  'What? Yes, it was all I knew, and I was good at sport you see, so that made a difference with fitting in and all that. Played cricket and rugger. Too much of both probably.'

  'Did you go to Uni?'

  'Afraid not. Flunked my A levels big time. Father wasn't exactly pleased. He wanted me to be a doctor or a vet or something respectable like that.'

  She smiled. 'So what did you do then?'

  'Bummed around, I guess that's how you would describe it. Took a bit of a gap year that somehow seemed to last until I was about thirty. Australia, Far East, the US. It was fun whilst it lasted, but eventually you have to grow up, don't you?'

  With no little envy, she contrasted that with how she had spent her twenties. The training contract at Addisons, and then the move to Drake Chambers where she slogged for years in the hope of making silk. The long hours sweating over tedious low-rent briefs whilst the toxic class snobbery and misogyny of the profession created a glass ceiling that no working class girl could ever hope to break through. That's how she portrayed it, but deep down, she knew that wasn't wholly true. The fact was, she hadn't been much of a barrister, although, briefly she had been the most famous one in the country. But one thing was certain. All work and no play had made Maggie a dull girl, she could see that now.

  'So how did you get into the art world then?' she asked. 'It's quite a jump isn't it?'

  'Friend of a friend of father's I'm afraid,' he said, the tone apologetic. 'I'd just got back from schlepping around India and was a bit hard up, and he was looking for someone to help him out on the sales front, so with nothing else on the cards, I thought I might as well give it a try. That was ten years ago, and I've been here ever since. Found something tolerably interesting that I also was quite good at. Learned the ropes under his tutelage and then bought the place off him a while back. That's when I renamed it the Polperro.'

  So far, so interesting, but he hadn't yet mentioned anything about the subject she was most interested in. Relationships, and in particular was there an ex or even several ex Mrs Robert Trelawneys. Seemingly, he had read her mind, as his face broke into a grin.

  'But I guess what you really want to know is how a guy as good-looking as me gets to forty-five years of age unmarried. I sometimes ask myself the same thing.'

  She laughed. 'It must be because you're too modest. Seriously, it never entered my mind.' At least that was one advantage of pretending to be someone else. It wasn't really you who was lying.

  'I know it sounds like a cliché, but I just haven't met the right woman yet.' He was right, it did sound like a cliché. All it needed was for him to add 'until now' and they would be square bang in Mills & Boon territory. But he didn't, causing her to experience a slight but perceptible frisson of disappointment.

  'I didn't meet the right man either, but it didn't stop me marrying him. Big mistake.'

  'But we mustn't look back, don't you think?' he said. 'Nothing you can do about the past.' Smiling, he raised his glass. 'Here's to bright futures. For both of us.'

  'Bright futures.' That was something she never thought she would hear herself say, but somehow, it felt right. For eight years, she had lived a kind of half-life, married to a man she knew she didn't love, but clinging on out of fear. Until a teenage terrorist took the matter out of her hands. Bright futures. After all she had been through, it was no less than she deserved, but whether or not it involved Robert Trelawney, she could not say. Yet.

  But then suddenly she remembered that, technically speaking, this
was supposed to be work.

  'I was very impressed with Lotti. She's a really lovely girl and she seems very knowledgeable.'

  'Yes, she is. I was very lucky to secure her services.' He gave her a conspiratorial look. 'Especially since I don't have to pay her.'

  'Excuse me?' She hated that phrase, but like so many other imported from the outposts of the English-speaking world, annoyingly she found herself saying it all the time. And she couldn't hide her surprise. 'You don't pay her?'

  'Well no, not exactly.' Was it her imagination, or was he sounding embarrassed? 'She earns commission of course, on any sales. You see, I was looking for an intern. Someone at the start of their career, looking for a foot in the door.'

  Interns. She knew all about them. Nowadays, it was the only way to get a start in a legal career, treated like a slave for twelve hours a day and expected to like it.

  'Isn't she a bit old to be an intern?' Damn, that was a mistake. How would Magdalene Slattery have any idea how old a woman she had barely met was? 'I mean, she seems so incredibly experienced from the little time that I have spent with her.'

  If he noticed the slip, he didn't mention it. 'No you're right. It's her family you see. Been in the trade for generations. A friend of a friend recommended her to me. One of the skiing set. The St Moritz crowd. Her family runs a little gallery out there.'

  Yes, she could imagine the type. Back at Drakes Chambers, the partners spoke of little else during the winter, of the upmarket chalet that they took for three weeks each year straddling the February half-term, of the perfect powder and the simply divine chalet-maid who cooked for them. Each year she had been invited, but the invitation was decidedly half- hearted, and she was glad because she wouldn't have wanted to spend any of her precious holiday allowance with a single one of them. And she couldn't have afforded it anyway, not unless she asked Phillip to pay, which she would never have done. Which got her wondering about Robert.