A Greater Evil (22 page)

The stress he’d put on the last word was enough to make anyone laugh, so Trish had no difficulty joining in. He offered her an urchin’s smile in return. It went well with the absurd hair, but it had none of the gravitas most senior partners tried to show.

‘It’s true,’ he said, pinning a more serious expression on his big face. ‘Until I was the target, I’d never realized what the effect of one person’s perfectly legitimate complaint is when it’s multiplied by fifty or more. You start to feel as miscreants in the stocks must have felt in the Middle Ages, stuck with your head and hands stuffed through a board while the populace threw rotten veg at you.’

Which explains why George was often so tetchy during those years, Trish thought, as she sipped her champagne. She let her eyes gleam as she looked up at his successor.

‘He says you’re doing a wonderful job, James. Look, with all the formal hostly stuff you’ve got tonight, I’m sure I shouldn’t monopolize you, but do tell me: which one is Katey Wilkins?’

‘Why?’

Trish put the flirtatious smile back in place. ‘Because last year she kept phoning up, wanting George at weekends and in the late evenings. I’m curious to know what she looks like.’

‘Jealous, dear?’

‘I’ll tell you when I’ve seen her. Just point her out.’

James jerked his ample chin in the direction of a stocky, freckled redhead, standing beside a man of such pristine smoothness that Trish automatically mistrusted him. ‘She’s that one. Talking to Malcolm Jensen. Shall I introduce you?’

‘That would be really kind.’ Trish was intrigued to see that Jensen showed every physical aspect she most disliked, from the sleekness of his dark hair to the width of the pinstripes in his suit and the ostentatiously heavy gold cufflinks. She’d prefer George’s wild hair and crumples every time. Or even James’s mixture of schoolboy and baby elephant.

Don’t prejudge, she told herself as she stood demurely at his side. As soon as James had performed the introductions, he tramped off in the direction of the boardroom table, which had been pushed to one end of the room to serve as the bar.

‘So, you’re the famous Trish Maguire,’ said Jensen.

‘Famous? For what?’ Trish looked away from his smugness to smile at Katey and was surprised to see a blank expression on her plump face.

‘What do you mean?’ Jensen asked, looking disconcerted.

‘Never having thought of myself as famous, I merely wondered what had led you to pick that adjective.’

‘We all know you live with George,’ Katey said, rushing in to save Jensen’s possible embarrassment. ‘I think that’s all Malcolm meant.’

‘Really?’ Trish looked from one to the other, like a spectator at a tennis match. ‘I like to know what people say about me, however difficult it may be to take. Honesty all round makes life so much easier than whisperings and plottings in the corridors, don’t you think, Malcolm?’

For a second, he looked positively murderous. Trish wondered if she’d gone too far. George had wanted her at the party to smooth his way and show all his clients and colleagues that her presence in his life was no danger to anyone. The last thing he’d expected was to have her throwing down a challenge to his biggest enemy. Still, she didn’t think it would do Jensen any harm to know she wouldn’t be a walkover.

‘Very well,’ he said, his jaw so tight she could see the muscles quivering beneath his skin, ‘you’re as famous in certain circles for your emotionalism as for the way you allow personal likes and dislikes to distract you from the work you’re paid to do.’

‘Wow!’ Trish said, reeling at the insult and determined not to show it. ‘Emotionalism? How interesting. Who could have given you that idea? Specifically?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You wanted to hear what I knew of your reputation. I have told you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must talk to a client I see arriving.’

Trish inclined her head like a Victorian dowager and resisted the temptation to watch his progress across the room – or trip him up as he went. She felt as though he’d stripped her of not only her clothes but also most of her skin. It would be typical of all the coincidences piling up since she’d first met Cecilia if Malcolm Jensen were the man invited to assess her skills for the next directory of British barristers.

‘How are you enjoying partnership, Katey?’ she said, making an effort to concentrate on the plain, inexpressive face in front of her. ‘You’ve done well to achieve it so young.’

‘Thank you. Like everything, it has its ups and downs.’

‘D’you get much help from the oldies? Or do they fight to guard their territory?’

‘Some are better at helping us up the ladder than others,’ she said, taking a step backwards.

Trish didn’t understand until Katey made a forty-five-degree turn, which took her into the shade of a large ficus growing in a huge coiled pot, which had been incongruously decorated with swags of tinsel. Trish followed her and waited, out of sight and earshot of the rest of the crowd.

‘George was sweet to me last year. Please don’t think I’m not grateful – or let him think it. I couldn’t have managed without him. But I’m only thirty-two. I should have fifteen, twenty years ahead of me here. I need to look to my own future. I can’t afford to let gratitude blind me to the alliances I have to make. Sorry. I’ve got to go.’

‘Hold on.’ Trish managed not to grab her arm, but only just. Luckily Katey paused and looked back. ‘Why does Malcolm hate him?’

Katey shrugged. ‘Maybe because George is so much more successful, more … what’s the word? Secure in himself, I suppose. Maybe he humiliated Malcolm in a meeting once, or with a client. I don’t know. I can’t …’

‘Okay. Just one more thing: is Malcolm’s wife here?’

‘I doubt it. She usually has to work at the paper later than this. I
have
to go.’

This time Trish did swing round to watch her cross the room. Jensen was laughing sycophantically at something a tough-faced woman in a black Armani suit had said and Katey was threading her way through the crowd in the direction of the bar. When she’d refilled her glass, she took a sip, before surveying the room. A moment or two later and she was heading for a knot of men by the door. She had to hover on the edge of the group for a while and Trish was impressed to see she neither pushed her way in nor cringed, watching and waiting until there was a gap in the talk she could fill. She obviously knew exactly what she was doing.

Poor George, Trish thought, remembering the efforts he’d put into saving Katey’s career last year.

All his partners were deep in conversation and looked unlikely to welcome interruptions. He too was concentrating hard as he talked to someone who had his back to her.

She moved towards them and brushed past George, murmuring: ‘I ought to be on my way to Holland Park. I’ll see you there later, if you can make it, but don’t worry if you can’t. Okay?’

He nodded, but his expression was worried. Trish looked more carefully at the man opposite him and recognized the finance Director of QPXQ Holdings. She made herself smile, wondering how to deal with the situation. If QPXQ were as angry as George believed that she was acting for their worst enemies on the Arrow case, this man could be hard to placate.

‘I—’ she began, but was interrupted as he leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

‘How
are
you?’ he said far more cheerfully than she could have expected. ‘George was just telling me how much he enjoyed spending Christmas in Southwark. You must be some kind of genius to have got him to like anywhere as edgy as the Borough.’

Reassured, but puzzled, Trish laughed and stayed for a few minutes of polite chat about how he’d spent Christmas and what he thought the new year would bring the economy. George looked a lot happier by the end, so she was able to leave without feeling she’d abandoned him. Either his partners had exaggerated QPXQ’s reaction to the conflict of interest, or the Finance Director had unparalleled diplomatic skills.

A taxi was depositing a couple on the pavement as she emerged from the building and she took it over, giving the address of Antony’s big white house. As the cabbie set off, she repaired her make-up and combed her hair, hating Malcolm Jensen even more than she’d expected.

Emotionalism, she thought, forgetting QPXQ completely. Letting my likes and dislikes distract me from the work I’m paid to do. How dare he? And where did he get it? Or did he make it up there and then to rile me?

Checking her face in the flapjack mirror, she saw how memories of the small battle had added a glitter to her dark eyes. No bad thing for the next campaign.

Antony’s double-fronted house was set back from the road, protected by austere black railings and fronted with a deep terrace of black-and-white hexagonal tiles. The great bay windows on both sides of the door were lit. No curtains or shutters hid the party from curious onlookers in the street. Both rooms were still decorated with Christmas swags of fir and dark-green ivy leaves studded with gold and crystal baubles, and white-jacketed waiters carried silver trays of filled champagne flutes through the crowd. The lavish picture was as far as possible from the standard neighbourhood Christmas party. From out here the Shelleys’ collection of devastating paintings was barely visible, but Trish knew them to be of the same museum quality as the furniture and the antique carpets that filled the great rooms.

These days there were few houses she visited that could still make her feel like the clumsy law student from the wrong kind of university, but this one did. She breathed carefully, reminded herself she was happy in her life and adequately successful in her profession and stalked up the five steps to ring the front-door bell.

As soon as she was launched into a conversation, she knew she’d be fine. Even so, hovering on the edge of the room was hard. She inhaled the heady scents of fir, spice and wine and wished this were a dinner party, where at least she would have a chance to build up a conversation with her neighbours as they ate, instead of having to make a witty pitch in the first few minutes of each encounter.

She recognized Antony’s wife and headed towards her across the room. Liz Shelley had never been one of her greatest fans and was distinctly withdrawn tonight, but their polite questions about each other’s families bridged the gap and soon Trish moved on.

A glass of champagne was thrust into her hand and she caught the familiar smell of Antony’s eau-de-cologne soap.

‘Glad to see you look like a world beater,’ he whispered into her ear.

She turned, kissed him, and said, ‘Do
you
think I’m overemotional?’

He laughed. ‘You know I do. You care far too much about who wins your cases. I keep saying you need to be more cynical to protect yourself.’ His lively face softened. ‘But I’m glad you’re not. Now, come on and talk to Gina. She’s looking very shaken and she could definitely do with some of your TLC, overemotional or not.’

Feeling better at the prospect of doing something for someone else, Trish followed him to the fireplace, where Gina Mayford stood chatting to the most entertaining of the Lords of Appeal. At first sight, Trish couldn’t understand what Antony had been talking about. Gina was better dressed than usual, and since they’d last met her short straight hair had been cut and coloured by the best of the best into a mixture of honey and caramel. Her make-up was as unobtrusive as it was perfect. She was somewhere in her mid fifties, Trish knew, but tonight she could have passed for much younger.

‘Ah, Trish,’ Gina said, leaning forwards to kiss her. ‘How lovely to see you. Do you know Benjamin Malton? Benjie, this is Trish Maguire. I don’t know whether she ever appeared before you in your days in the High Court.’

‘Probably not,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘But I know of you, of course.’

My overemotional style, no doubt, Trish thought as she smiled up at him with what she hoped would look like eager pleasure.

‘I particularly remember your work on the MegaPerformance Bond Fund case,’ he said. ‘Most impressive.’

‘Thank you,’ Trish said, now feeling everything she had faked in her smile. His approval reminded her that this was her world and she had a legitimate place in it. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever worked as hard in my life as I did mugging up everything about junk bonds and the European money markets for that case.’

‘All of which, presumably, you’ve now forgotten. It’s Leviathan now, isn’t it, and the Arrow?’

‘It is. How amazing that you should know.’

‘Gina was telling me. I must go and have a word with Sniffer over there. See you, Gina.’

‘Absolutely, Benjie. Lunch on Friday. I look forward to it.’

He patted her shoulder and eased his way between the noisy groups of revellers until he reached the Lord Chancellor’s side.

‘Coo,’ Trish said, forgetting herself. ‘Sniffer? I’ve never heard him called that before. Where does it come from?’

Gina’s face broke into a smile. ‘An old joke from his early days at the Bar when he was known for nosing his way through documents looking for suspicious gaps, like a sniffer dog in search of hidden drugs.’

‘I don’t suppose many people dare use the nickname these days.’ Trish caught sight of the Prime Minister’s wife and added: ‘This is probably the grandest party I ever come to. I’m very grateful for what you’re doing here.’

‘Don’t be, Trish. It’s my fault you got involved with Sam. I know that. If I hadn’t dumped my dilemma on you that day in Somerset House, you’d never have felt obliged to invite him for Christmas, and you wouldn’t be in this mess now.’

Trish was so surprised it took a while to remember that Gina knew nothing of her much deeper involvement in Sam’s life and problems.

‘As I said before, I am really grateful you’re giving him the support I still can’t bring myself to offer.’ She sighed and looked down into the illicit log fire. ‘I wish to God that nice Chief Inspector Lyalt would get a move on and find enough evidence either to charge him or to arrest someone else.’

‘So do I,’ Trish said with feeling. Gina looked up and Trish saw there were tears in her eyes, swelling up over the lower lids. She really couldn’t cry in here, however awful the circumstances of her daughter’s death. ‘Let me get you a drink.’