She found the street where Thorne’s lawyer had her office; had misremembered the number but nonetheless found a little pennant with Clayford written on it in thick copperplate. She rang the bell and a voice answered.
“Yes?” It was a female voice, guarded.
“Hello. I’m a friend of one of your clients. I’m hoping to—”
“Name?”
“I’d prefer not to say.”
A pause, to convey irritation, then: “First floor.” The door buzzed.
Stephanie Clayford’s office was up a flight of creaking, uneven stairs, the walls lined with murky brown watercolors. Hopper knocked. After thirty seconds she knocked again, and a pretty young woman answered the door.
“Yes?” The woman looked startled before mastering herself; she even made a little involuntary movement to close the door. Hopper had forgotten her appearance.
“I’m here to see Ms. Clayford.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Will she know what it’s about?”
“I’d rather talk to her directly.”
“Wait here, please.”
She closed the door. Within a second, she had reopened it. “She won’t see you without a name.”
“Tell her it’s about Edward Thorne.”
Back she went. After another little wait she opened the door again. “Ms. Clayford will see you in a minute. Please wait here.” She gestured to a small, hard sofa.
No matter how dingy the stairwell, the office spoke of affluence. In one corner of the high-ceilinged room was a small desk, scrupulously neat; in another was a large floor-to-ceiling cupboard holding hundreds of files, spines delicately penciled with names. Two sofas for clients; a long, low coffee table. Near the secretary’s desk, a tall, dark door led to what was presumably Clayford’s private office.
She was clearly affluent, this woman, one of the last survivors of an endangered species, the wealthy lawyer. Most lawyers these days made their money in property. After the Stop, the mess of forced requisitions, reallocations, inheritances, and entailments had provided fertile soil for anyone willing to toe the government’s line as necessary.
One of the prime minister’s boasts was that the law of England had survived unscathed; and if you looked at it from the right angle, that was almost true. Most lawyers dealt with property and death; working out how to parcel out the goods of the dead and preserve the land of the living.
Hopper tried to make conversation. “Busy morning?”
Clayford’s secretary was polite and uninterested. “It will be. Ms. Clayford will be free in a minute.”
And sure enough, a little buzzer on her desk crackled shortly, and the secretary took Hopper through. Another high ceiling, another ornate desk.
Edward Thorne’s lawyer was a tall woman, perhaps fifty years old, dressed in a pale-gray suit. She moved around the desk as Hopper entered, shook her hand, and gestured to two chairs in the corner.
“Have you been offered a drink?”
“Thank you, I’m fine.”
She nodded. “A coffee for me, please, Natalie.” The secretary bobbed and left; Clayford surveyed her blandly as she went, then turned her attention back to Hopper.
“So. You need a lawyer.”
“Not exactly.”
She smiled. “A leading question. Forgive me. Why don’t I let you start?”
“Thank you. A friend of mine”—Hopper hated using the word, but it was the easiest way of putting it—“has just died. I think you represented him.” Clayford had been smiling slightly; now the smile faded into a smooth mask of polite, blank attention. “Edward Thorne.”
The mask remained still. “I see.”
“Did you represent him?”
Another pause. “I did. How did you know him?”
“He taught me at university. We lost touch. And yesterday . . .” She gave the basics only: the hospital, the house. She didn’t mention the photograph, or Thorne’s dying words—in fact, she said nothing Warwick didn’t know already, in case Clayford repeated their conversation at a later date. As she spoke, Natalie moved in, placed a coffee at Clayford’s elbow, and left wordlessly. As she reached the door, she turned and gave the lawyer a look; Clayford shook her head a fraction.
Eventually Hopper finished her truncated version of events, and added, nervously, “I’m just trying to find out anything more I can about him. I hope you understand.”
Clayford pulled over a pad, slowly drawing her fountain pen across the cream of the paper, and spoke as she did so.
“Dr. Hopper. I remain Edward Thorne’s lawyer until the final execution of his will. As such, the estate of Edward Thorne is my only interest, and my sole duty is to carry out his wishes in accordance with that will. I cannot tell you anything else about him. He is my client; you are not. I hope you understand.”
She slid the pad across the desk. On it she had written, in a looping cursive hand, Wait on the stairs. Hopper looked up and Clayford held a finger to her lips, before adding: “You seem disappointed, but please remember: I am simply doing my job. If you ever have a lawyer, you will be grateful if they are as discreet with your affairs as I have been with those of my own client. Is there anything else?”
She shook her head at Hopper, who replied in a voice quite unlike her own: “No. I see. Sorry to have troubled you today, Ms. Clayford.”
“I’ll ask Natalie to show you to the door. Goodbye.” Clayford pressed the buzzer, then walked to the mantelpiece and opened a cigarette case. As Hopper rose, the lawyer pulled out a cigarette and gestured to her once more, mouthing: One minute.
Hopper waited on the stairs, staring at a dingy painting of an underfed horse. After a minute, Clayford joined her there, and nodded at the picture.
“Miserable, isn’t it? These all belong to the landlord. I’d cheerfully chop them up for kindling.” She dragged on the cigarette and offered Hopper one.
Hopper could only stare at her.
“Sorry about that. All I can say is that I assure you, Thorne’s house is not the only place they have been looking.”
“Here?”
Clayford nodded. “I come in at about seven each morning. When I arrived yesterday, the lock was damaged. So Natalie and I have been conducting a little survey.”
“How do you know it was Thorne they were interested in?”
“The little that did go—it was on my desk—related to him. They made a silly effort to conceal it, took some other files, but it was pretty obvious. Anyway, the good news is that they didn’t find his personal file.”
“Why not?”
She smiled. “I happen to have taken it home to read the night before. I was informed of his death by the hospital and wanted to familiarize myself with his will. I admired him.”
“Why did they want it?”
Clayford shrugged. “I work with clients who require delicacy. They may have unknown second families, trusts for children their new wives never learned about . . . Most importantly, I help people with their assets—sometimes undeclared ones. It’s helpful to have a parcel of land for one’s old age.”
“Did Thorne have anything like that?”
Clayford looked up at the ceiling. “How do I know you’re not from Internal Security?”
“If I am, then this is the most pleasant way I’d get it out of you.”
“And if you’re not, I’m jeopardizing my practice and my liberty when they catch up with you. From the look of you, they already have.”
She blew smoke out above their heads, then looked back at Hopper. “Why tell you anything?”
“I just want to know what they’re looking for, and it occurred to me that Thorne might have entrusted you with something for safekeeping. Was there anything?”
Clayford shook her head. “He was almost
unique among my clients in that whatever he had to hide, he was happier not telling me about it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hired me simply as a front, so his records appeared in perfect order.”
“What are you going to do about his will?”
“I’m going to leave it on my desk, and if the police call, fully aid them with any enquiries they may have.” Clayford looked back at the painting. “And then, after a week or so vocally establishing my innocence in that office, I’ll get an electrician in to tell me if I’ve had any undeclared attendees at my meetings.”
Hopper decided to take a risk. “Thorne had something he wanted me to have. If he did—if I’m right—is there anything else you can think of?”
“He once asked about our security arrangements for storing small objects. But when I told him, he didn’t take up our offer.”
“When was that?”
“Fifteen years ago.”
Hopper had already known what the answer would be. That was around the time of his sacking. She thought about the box again. Maybe he’d considered leaving it here. “Thank you for your help with all this.”
Clayford made to go, then turned back. “I won’t give you my card. I’m sure you understand. Good luck.”
And with that she loped off upstairs, two at a time, her long legs moving like pistons.
* * *
Hopper was back on the street. Leaving the office building was like hitting a wall of warmth; the external door handle was almost uncomfortably hot to touch. It was busy too; the streets were thronged.
She made her way back to the café she had sat in earlier, a cheerful place of orange walls and an elegant curved glass counter, and sat with a coffee. She couldn’t concentrate.
She offered money to the café manager: again was permitted the use of a phone, and rang the Times.
“David?”
“Yes?” He was terse.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Yes. But we’ve just finished conference. I have a lot to do.”
“Sorry to bother you. Is the line safe?”
“Nothing’s perfect. But it’s pretty reliable.”
“I need you to search for one other person.”
“Go on.”
“His name’s Thomas Gethin. He was in Home Affairs, Thorne’s old department. Then he moved to Security. But that was fifteen years ago.”
“Anything else?”
“He must be about forty-five now. He was one of Thorne’s assistants. Everyone else was sacked with Thorne; he’s the only one who wasn’t. I think he might be able to help.”
“They take rather a dim view of us ringing up and asking for the employment history of senior government officials. I’ll start with general population records. Then I guess I can start hunting elsewhere.”
“Thank you. Anything you can find. Why are you so busy anyway?”
“Oh, everything. There’s a big push happening in the Midlands. And there’s all sorts going on with the Americans. Davenport’s visited three times in the last month. And Harry’s missing.”
Her stomach lurched. “Missing?” She had had Harry’s notes for Thorne’s obituary in her bag when they searched it. He must have been arrested because of that. Oh Christ. Christ.
David continued. “He’s not at work, and his wife hasn’t seen him. He’s never done anything like this before. So we’re fucked for obituaries.” He sounded worried.
“Will he be all right?”
He must have heard the distress in her voice. “What do you mean?”
She couldn’t say it over the phone. It had been stupid even mentioning Gethin.
“Can we meet?”
“There’s so much to do here.”
“Please, David. This is important.”
A pause.
“All right. Meet me in Regent’s Park.” He gave her a time, a little gruffly, and rang off.
After a tussle with the operator over making a call outside the country, she managed to get through to the rig. Schwimmer answered. She asked for Harv, embarrassed at having to make the request to the senior officer. Coolly amused, he sent someone to fetch Harv from the deck.
“Hello, Hop. What’s new?”
She told him about the burglary at Thorne’s house and her arrest, glossing over the beating. Harv whistled.
“Jesus. Get back here, won’t you?”
“No, I’m staying.”
“Why?”
“I just am. For a few more days.” She didn’t want to tell him yet that she’d lost her job. She didn’t really want to believe it herself. “But I have a question. Are you alone in the office?”
“Yeah. Schwimmer’s wandered off somewhere.”
“Can you see the duty logs from where you are?”
“Let’s see . . .” She pictured him reaching up to the high shelf where Schwimmer kept the logs. “Yes. They’re here.”
“Can you check a date? Tell me who was on duty then?”
“Sure.” She told him the time and day Thorne had phoned the rig. “On duty that morning was . . . let’s see . . . it was Schwimmer himself.”
“Then he’s the one who stopped Thorne getting through to me when he phoned.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t know why this woman Warwick would let me see Thorne if they’d previously stopped him contacting me. It doesn’t make sense.” She leaned her head against the wall.
“In the nicest way, Hop, just come home. Keep doing your work. Whatever this is, it’s not worth the risk to you.” She heard the strain in his voice and felt touched. If she ever made it back to the rig, after this was all over, she would take him—take their relationship—more seriously.
“I can’t explain, Harv. I just have to stay here.”
“What are you going to do next?”
She paused. “I don’t know.” She didn’t say what she thought: that she couldn’t tell him, even though she wanted to, in case they had intercepted the rig’s incoming line.
“Sure.” She heard a scuff on the receiver. “Hey, Schwimmer’s coming back. I’d better go.”
“Thanks, Harv. For everything.”
“Look after yourself.” The phone clicked.
There was a lump in her throat. She pictured some listener along the line taking note of her weakness: Seemed emotional. Outside, London’s rush hour was dying down. She felt tired suddenly. She had no home, no job, nowhere to retreat to. She was dominated by powers far superior to her own, and with only one small clue to what Thorne had wanted her to see.
Unless she could track down Thorne’s old colleague, Thomas Gethin.
It was only ten thirty. Time to visit the bookshop Thorne had phoned on his last day of freedom, before he went into hospital. There was a chance the owner, Fisher, could help her somehow. She left the café and moved cautiously back into the street, looking around for familiar faces.
TWENTY-TWO
Her route to Fisher’s bookshop was erratic; she went too far west along the Strand, and had reached Trafalgar Square before she knew where she was. She looked over it again, just as she had on her first day here. The top of the square was lined with stalls selling all manner of plastic junk from the last century: the detritus of another world, now missold as useful in this one. Above the stalls, the amputated column met no reflection in the fountains below. They were left unfilled except on state days, when a few inches of water were pumped in. The fourth plinth with its statue of Britannia looked far too new; jokers said it resembled Davenport.
Hopper rather liked the column. She had never known the original, which had been cut off—some bomb or something—in the year of her birth. Davenport had made noises about restoring it, just as he had claimed the old Ferris wheel would be dismantled from its current spot, grotesquely folded and trailing into the Thames. Nothing h
ad been done about either. Part of her suspected he liked these vistas of decay, that the thought of presiding over the last nation on Earth held a romantic appeal for him just as strong as the idea of reconstruction.
The area north of the old hotel at Charing Cross had hardly changed. The streets were narrow and tall; the stones were bleached on the sunny side and dark on the other, mosses and algae petering out as they approached the light. Here, behind the old theaters, a thriving little world had built up that shrank just as emphatically from the sunlight. She had heard that under these streets there lived men and women so averse to the sun they remained pale even now. They grew mushrooms in the basements of abandoned buildings, and slept in a subterranean maze of tunnels and old utility shafts.
Hopper found the entrance to Cecil Court and walked past it, nonchalant. It looked abandoned. She stepped into the quiet street. Halfway along, she glanced back. Nobody was standing on the main road looking in: no Blake slipping a brass ring over his fingers, no tweed-clad Warwick smiling artificially. And there was the shop she was looking for—Fisher’s Books. It had a dim-painted wooden frontage, and a sign carved in the shape of a fish—the ichthus symbol.
She paused a moment, taking a breath. Stephanie Clayford had told her that Thorne had not entrusted her with an object or a secret to keep safe. Maybe Fisher’s Books would yield more. Maybe the box in Thorne’s photograph was somewhere in the building. She remembered Thorne’s words—you always wanted the truth—and pushed the door.
Her entrance rang a bell above her. The shop’s interior was dark, and full, the air heavy with unfamiliar scents. The books ran from floor to ceiling, three deep on the shelves, crammed between cases in whatever gaps could be found. Even the plate-glass windows were blockaded above her height with more piles.
The few small areas of free floor space were hemmed by stacks of volumes; some climbing the cases that supported them like muscular ivy, some teetering and precarious. At the back, an open doorway led to a passageway disappearing into murk. The ceiling had sallowed until it was almost the same color as the stalagmites of yellow paper rising from the floor.
The Last Day Page 17