A Greater Evil (18 page)

For this woman to try to peel back the skin now was vicious. A continuation of the old cruelty. Like Cecilia’s in the days when she’d tried to scrape away at everything he’d fought to build around himself for safety. She’d wanted to make him remember and talk about it, when all he’d needed was to forget.

He hated the thought of her probing. So why were his eyes damp all over again? He sagged as though someone else had punched him.

The sensation of more and more blows to come had him shrinking against the wall in a way he hadn’t for years. The knowledge flayed away his rage to lay bare the whimpering boy he’d fought for so long, even harder than he’d fought his enemies. This time the boy was winning. His knees gave way and he cowered in the angle of wall and floor, pulling his knees up under his chin and lowering his head until he could hide his eyes against his knees.

Trish picked up the phone. She had to know whether Caro had sent the press. The only answer was the automatic voice of her message service.

‘It’s Trish. I need to talk about what happened at Christmas. Ring me when you can.’

She didn’t have long to wait. There’d been time only to reread the original brief given to the Arrow’s architects before her phone chimed out its familiar jingle.

‘What did he tell you?’ said Caro, sounding almost gleeful.

Trish kept the frown at bay with pure will power and tried to be as effective in controlling her voice.

‘He didn’t tell me anything. I wanted to ask you how the press knew he’d be with us.’

‘Are you accusing me of selling you to the papers, Trish?’

Was the outrage in Caro’s voice genuine? It was hard to tell. Trish needed more.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m asking. I don’t know how they got on to me, and I don’t know why they wanted to. They distorted what I said, and I don’t understand the agenda behind it. I’m of no interest to them. I thought you might be able to help.’

‘Sorry. Nothing to do with me. If that’s all, I’ve got to go.’ There was no more outrage in Caro’s voice; only coldness. ‘I thought you were going to pass on some information I could use.’

‘I haven’t got any. Caro—’

‘Pity. See you.’

Sam had picked himself up, aware of pains in every joint. He staggered over to the sink to hold his face under the cold tap. He let the water run until it felt icy, making his skin contract and, with luck, removing all the evidence of his snivelling collapse.

It had been mad to let himself look back to the dead years. Nothing good could come of that – just as he’d said to one of the shrinks years ago – only more anger. The one way to make any kind of decent life, especially now he had the baby, was to go forward. Draw a line and go on. With enough grit, he could do it.

Water had splashed all over the sink and draining board, as well as down the front of his jersey. He stripped it off and found a spare in the dwindling pile of clothes he kept here. He’d have to get more from Islington soon, even though he hated the prospect of facing Cecilia’s space, the house she’d bought and decorated long before she knew him, where he’d always felt like an interloper.

Pushing away the thought, he made a mug of strong tea to help force himself to reread Maria-Teresa’s letter.

Go forward, he thought. Trish is right: there’s no obligation here, even if this woman is who she says she is.

But memories of longing and isolation told him he had to answer the letter. He couldn’t leave her waiting for an answer she would never get. He grabbed the big sketching pad and tore off a sheet. Trying to think how to say what had to be said, he made a start, then swore and ripped up the paper. Maybe he’d have to do it face to face. He tore off another sheet and quickly wrote to ask if he could visit her. He would go and explain why he wouldn’t take a DNA test. That way, surely he would have done enough and it would be over. There were stamps in a little brass box somewhere on his drawing table. He found it, stuck one on and went to post the letter before he changed his mind. He could go on to the hospital after that.

Trish felt her steps dragging as she took her favourite walk across the bridge. George should be waiting in her flat, both of them released from family obligations. She’d looked forward to these two weeks for so long it seemed cruel to have had them spoiled before they’d even begun. The views up and down the river didn’t give her the usual lift, so there was no reason to hang about in the cold.

From the top of the iron staircase that led from the street to her front door, she could smell the familiar scent of onions stewing in olive oil. George must already be home.

Be cheerful, she ordered herself as she brought a wide smile to her lips and squared her shoulders. The key turned easily in the oiled lock and she pushed open the door, calling his name. He emerged from the kitchen, familiar in the butcher’s apron tied around his waist. Such was the transformation of his figure that the tapes now went twice round and could be tied in the front, like a professional chef’s.

He held out an arm without speaking. She leaned against him and felt the arm come round her shoulders. His lips brushed her hair.

‘We’ll get through it,’ he said. ‘And Antony’s right. You need to show yourself as untouchable in the right circles.’

She pulled back to look into his face. He was only a few inches taller so she didn’t have to lean far back. There was no tooth-gritting determination in his expression or suppressed rage. He really meant it. They had become a unit, facing the world and each other’s enemies together. Recognizing the security made for a strange sensation. Trish was trying to find words to say why it meant so much when his arm was hastily withdrawn.

‘Shit,’ he said with uncharacteristic fervour. ‘The sodding onions!’

Now she could smell it too, the bitterness of burned sugar. She followed him into the kitchen to see her most cherished pan, one he himself had given her, with a thick charcoal coating. He wrapped a cloth around his hand and picked up the pan to hold it under the running cold tap.

‘That makes it smell even worse,’ she said. ‘Shall we eat out?’

‘I think we’d better. What would you like?’

She ran through the mental list of their favourite restaurants and didn’t find any one that seemed right for tonight. Besides, there might be other people there, people who would recognize her and George and might have read the papers.

‘Or shall we make toasted sandwiches like David’s and eat them in bed?’ she said at last.

He took her face between his oniony hands and kissed her. ‘Sounds perfect to me. Except for the bed bit.’

She stiffened.

‘Let’s keep that crumb-free,’ he said, stroking her cheek with one finger. ‘I’ll do the sandwiches while you open the bottle and tell me about your day.’

With the conflict of interest over the Leviathan case, she could not talk about her work, only about Sam and the journalists’ malicious interpretation of her interest in him.

‘Am I
so
neurotic?’ she asked.

George put back his head and produced the biggest gale of laughter she’d heard for a long time.

‘Of course you are, my only love. But you know that.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Come on, Trish: don’t sound so tragic. We’re all bonkers in one way or another. You know that too. It’s just that some people’s oddities are nearer the surface than others’. For what it’s worth, I don’t think any of the suggestions in the shrink’s piece apply to you.’

‘You read it.’ She didn’t know whether she was more relieved or revolted.

‘I read it. As you know, I loathe the
Mercury
, but once I knew our mini-ratpack had it in for you I wanted to know everything they were saying. I tried to think of a way you could sue, but there isn’t one. It was a neatly judged operation.’

He poured some claret into a large glass and handed it to her.

‘I thought so too. D’you suppose that’s the last of it, or should I get an injunction to stop them printing anything more specific about David?’

‘I doubt if they’d risk it, and taking any legal action, even just getting an injunction, would intrigue them and could make them look more closely at us. Have you talked to him today?’

‘I phoned just before I left chambers. He sounded fine, much better than when he went off this morning. He didn’t mention anything about the papers to me.’

‘Nor to me, which suggests he hasn’t seen anything. Let’s wait and see. Better than wading in with things we may regret. Now, am I going to be allowed to come to Antony’s Twelfth Night party with you?’

‘Could you? I mean, don’t you have to stay at your own?’

‘Don’t see why. I’m not senior partner any more. So long as I’m seen to be there it ought to be enough.’

He’d started slicing bread and cheese so she couldn’t see his face, but he sounded as though he meant it. She moved sideways until they were in contact again. He shot a quick glance in her direction. ‘What?’

‘I just wondered where you’d got to in your fight with Malcolm Jensen. I know I shouldn’t ask, but I need to know. I’d like …’ What she wanted was to do for him what he’d just done for her.

Putting down the bread knife, he held her for a second. ‘I followed counsel’s advice by telling the bastards I was going to fight,’ he said, making her smile, ‘but that wanker Jensen has been fighting back. There’s to be a final decision at the partners’ meeting on January the eleventh. Then we’ll know.’

‘Only five days after the party,’ Trish said. ‘I’m really sorry this mess in the
Mercury
has come out just when you need me to look faultless and incorruptible.’

He finished laying the last slice of cheese on the bottom slices of bread, added the top ones and slid the sandwiches into the toaster.

‘I’m sure there’s a comforting comment I could make, but let’s not bother. We both know what we’re facing. No point saying any more about it until after the partners’ meeting. Let’s take our comfort from unhealthy food and concentrate on getting through this with the least possible fallout for both of us.’

‘You have got guts,’ she said, fighting her own urge to produce the kind of verbal solace that wouldn’t change anything.

Later, when they were eating the last drips of molten cheese and making New Year’s resolutions to avoid anything so delicious and artery-clogging for the next twelve months, he said: ‘What was Cecilia Mayford like? I know you had a lot of time for her, but I can’t picture her married to Sam Foundling now I’ve seen him at close quarters. What made the relationship work?’

‘If it did,’ Trish said, sobering. ‘I keep trying to picture it myself. I mean, I like him …’

‘So do I. An interesting chap in lots of ways, but spiky I’d have thought, and not just because of what he’s had to handle these last few weeks. Difficult to deal with. Rough trade, too, for the likes of Cecilia Mayford.’

Trish opened her mouth to answer, then saw the psychiatrist’s column once more and kept quiet.

‘What?’

‘I was about to pontificate about the way people who grow up feeling unwanted latch on to lame ducks to give themselves a reason to exist – which is about as impertinent as this morning’s piece of press garbage.’

‘Perhaps. But it could be true. D’you know anything about Sam’s predecessors in her life?’

‘Not a lot,’ Trish said. ‘But there’s a suggestion she was having to fight off a senior colleague she may or may not have had an affair with before she married. Although,’ Trish said, thinking of the few times she’d met Dennis Flack, ‘I can’t say
he
comes over as a lame duck.’

‘Her mother might know more.’

‘She might, but I doubt if she’d pass it on to me. She did tell me she’d been appalled that Cecilia chose Sam, but that’s as far as it went. And I can’t exactly ask her—’ She broke off, remembering the scared face of the assistant Dennis Flack had brought to the consultation in chambers. Maybe
she
would be able to fill in a few of the gaps.

Chapter Twelve

For form’s sake Trish asked the switchboard to put her through to Dennis Flack’s office. She was pretty sure a man of his seniority wouldn’t be working between Christmas and the New Year, but she didn’t want to look as though she was going behind his back if he was there.

‘He’s on holiday at the moment. Can anyone else help?’

‘I think so. Is Jenny Clay in?’

Trish waited for only a few seconds before a tentative, slightly squelchy voice said: ‘Is that Trish Maguire?’

‘Yes. Jenny?’

‘Yes. How did you …? I mean, I’m glad you phoned. I … I need to ask you something.’

‘Sure,’ Trish said, putting confidence-boosting warmth into her voice. ‘D’you want to go first or shall I?’

‘I … Could I come and see you? There are things I need to show you. It would be easier face to face.’

‘OK. Come to chambers. Most of the clerks are away so the door may be locked, but if you bang on it, I’ll come down and let you in.’

‘I’ll be about twenty minutes. Bye.’

Surprised by the haste, Trish fired up her laptop so she could check through her latest notes on the Leviathan case, hoping to fire up her brain too. If she had only twenty minutes she’d better get a move on.

In fact Jenny didn’t arrive for nearer half an hour, by which time Trish was reasonably confident of being able to understand whatever information was coming her way. She ran downstairs as soon as she heard a knock on the door and pulled it open. Jenny stood there, dark hair sticking up all round her head, as though she’d been gunning her hands through it. She was dressed in jeans almost as saggy as David’s and a very old CalTech sweatshirt, and she carried a slim dark-green folder.

Hi. Sorry I’m not dressed for work. I’m supposed to be on holiday. It’s just that I was working at home when I realized I’ve … Oh, God! Somehow I seem to have cocked up the calculations. And I don’t know what … I’ve been over and over them and I can’t work out what’s wrong. I daren’t tell Dennis until I can find out how it could have happened. And I—’

‘Hey, Jenny. Calm down.’ Trish gestured to her own loose grey trousers and ancient raspberry-coloured sweater. ‘No one in the Temple is dressed up at the moment. Come on in and tell me what’s happened.’