Breath of Corruption

A silky blue haze of summer smog lay over London. Along New Bond Street slow herds of taxis and delivery vans grunted and roared from one set of lights to another, sending diesel fumes and CO2 emissions and invisible clouds of human exasperation drifting heavenwards to add to the noxious ether. Dispassionately, the drivers watched the muscled arrogance of the cycle couriers as they wove and sped through the stationary traffic, and eyed the expensively clad women clicking along the pavements in tiny heels and summer dresses, faces disdainful and preoccupied behind designer sunglasses. All human traffic seemed to move faster than the lines of vehicles.

The time was ten to one, and office workers were beginning to spill onto the street and into Pret A Manger and Costa Coffee. Down in the cool, chic basement restaurant of Nicole Farhi, at a peaceful remove from the street clamour of crashing gears and hissing hydraulic brakes up above, tranquillity reigned. Here the only sounds were those of tinkling cutlery and murmuring female voices. Stylish young
waitresses moved about, sliding plates of salads onto tables and uncapping chilled bottles of mineral water, while the lunching ladies paused their conversation to watch as the water burbled into their glasses, its discreet fizz heralding the delicious thrill of shared gossip and exchanged confidences.

At one table, and one table alone, was wine being consumed. A bottle of Gavi, light and luscious, and with its own hint of fizz, was already two-thirds empty, and the salads had yet to arrive. Anthea Grieves-Brown lifted the bottle from the wine chiller and glugged the remains into her own glass and that of her friend, Lola Canning. She tucked strands of blonde hair, straightened and smoothed to the sheen of satin, behind one ear as she leant forward to murmur by way of addition to her previous observation, ‘Four times in one night.’ She articulated the sentiment with slow wonder, and a catlike, satisfied smile widened her beautiful features as she waited for her friend’s reaction.

Lola made an unimpressed face. Man-less herself at the moment, feigning boredom was the only way she knew to counter the envy and irritation she felt as Anthea recounted the charms of her latest man and his amazing prowess in bed. ‘But isn’t that rather showing off? Reminds me of the dreadful Tony Blair bragging about being a five-times-
a-night
man. Ghastly.’ She took a swig of her wine. ‘Suggests he has something to prove.’

Anthea deflected this attempted put-down. ‘Obviously, darling, if it’s the same man you’ve been with for ages and ages, the last thing you want is to have him jump all over you at three o’clock in the morning. But you could never put Leo Davies in that category. Not in a million years.’

Lola swallowed a sigh and gave a tight, bright smile. The unwritten code of female friendship stated that one was obliged to indulge with forbearance, if not enthusiasm, the raptures of friends newly in love, and so remarks of encouragement and gestures expressive of interest were the order of the day. Little murmurs of envy were generally acceptable, too, but since Lola didn’t feel moved to articulate a sentiment which she was in danger of feeling all too sincerely, she merely said, ‘Tell me more about this wonderful man. What does he do, apart from make the earth move four times a night?’

‘He’s a QC – you know, one of those important barrister people.’

‘I do know what a QC is – my father used to be one.’

‘So he was … Anyway, Leo told me the kind of work he does, but I wasn’t really paying much attention. We were in bed at the time.’ Another greedy smile lit up Anthea’s face. ‘God, I can’t tell you, Lola – it’s so absolutely the best sex I’ve ever had.’

‘That’s saying something, certainly, given the numbers.’

‘I mean,
just
amazing … Anyway, whatever he does is to do with ships and stuff, and other people’s money. Sounds very dull, but it must earn him a complete fortune, because he drives an Aston Martin and has a house near Cheyne Walk. There’s regularly stuff in the papers about QCs who earn squillions, so I assume he’s one of them.’

At that moment lunch arrived. Anthea inspected her salad and then glanced at the little jug of dressing on the side. ‘God, I absolutely don’t want that. Take it away,’ she said to the waitress.

Lola added, ‘And bring us another bottle of this.’ The waitress took the empty bottle and disappeared. A bottle was far more than anyone should drink at lunchtime, Lola knew, but sod it – Anthea, who was meant to be living on a model’s diet of egg whites and mineral water, didn’t care, so neither did she. There wasn’t anything else to do with the day anyway. Maybe they’d wobble along to the Curzon afterwards and slip into a late-afternoon film. Then home for a nap, up at nine to shower and beautify, and out on the town for such pleasures as the rest of the night might yield. A wealthy family and a trust fund did give one a charmed life, but even Lola found it boring occasionally – though alcohol and the odd recreational drug helped take the edge off the tedium. In the long years since leaving her Swiss finishing school, Lola had often thought she should get herself some not-too-demanding job – something involving flexible hours and long lunches, and a stylish office with a PA – but that meant working, and genuine work didn’t really appeal. And to be honest, at thirty-one, she was a bit scared that whatever skills she’d once possessed might be a bit rusty by now. Some of her friends ran fashion shops and glam little businesses, but that took effort, too. And ideas. If she’d had Anthea’s long legs and amazingly slim figure, not to mention her looks, she’d have been able to do a little casual modelling, too. Anthea needed the money, of course, but the job had a certain cachet, and gave her something else to talk about.

‘What does he look like?’

Anthea reflected, fork paused above her salad. ‘He’s sort of moderately tall, I suppose – about five eleven? And rather unusual looking. I mean, he has the most divine face – lovely
square jaw and beautiful cheekbones, and the most
utterly
, piercingly sexy blue eyes – but his hair is completely grey. Well, more silver actually. Rather strange, given his age, but really quite cool.’

‘How old is he?’

Anthea shrugged. ‘Mid-forties.’

‘Wife?’

‘Ex.’

‘Kids?’

‘One, little boy of four, lives with Mummy.’

‘Psychological flaws?’

‘None I can detect. Unless you count the fact that he’s Welsh.’

‘He shags sheep.’

Anthea tilted her lovely head to one side, and smiled. ‘It’s just the faintest accent. Rather sexy, actually. Gives his voice a hint of menace. Like Anthony Hopkins.’

‘You’re mad. Or in love.’

Anthea lifted her glass and arched her brow. ‘You know me, Lolly. I’m not into love. The original material girl.’

‘So this Leo isn’t a long-term proposition?’

‘I didn’t say that. One can make a mid-to-long-term investment without being in love.’ She shrugged. ‘In my experience, love just screws things up. People getting all needy and insecure.’

‘So where did you meet him?’

‘You remember Muriel, who used to live with Jeremy?’

‘The sculptress?’

‘Right. Well, she had an exhibition at the White Cube and invited loads of us to the opening, and I met him there. Lust
at first sight. He was seriously into the art – I was seriously into the champagne. We went back to his afterwards, and that was it.’

‘Ant, you’re the most terrible old tart, you know – jumping into bed with men as soon as you clap eyes on them.’

‘Believe me, if you’d been there, you would have too. Anyway, I’m not. I’ve been out with him four times since, and each time
he’s
called
me
.’

‘Been out with, or been to bed with?’

‘Out first, bed after. Twice to the theatre—’

‘You? At the theatre?’

‘I know. It was just incredibly dull. He’s a bit of an intellectual. I think he thinks I am too.’

‘He can’t possibly!’

‘Love you too, Lolly.’ Anthea poured more wine. ‘It’s because we met at an exhibition, and despite what you may think, I can say all the right things without necessarily knowing a great deal.’

‘One of your many talents.’

‘Indeed. Anyway, it’s worth sitting through Proust or whatever for a meal at Petrus and the sex afterwards.’

‘He sounds too good to be true. Enjoy it while it lasts.’

‘Don’t worry, darling. I know how to keep his attention. In bed and out of it. My latest tactic is playing hard-to-get.’

‘Isn’t it a bit late for that?’

Anthea smiled. ‘Trust me – everything I do is timed to perfection. By the time the weekend’s over he’ll be aching to see me.’

A mile or so away from the restaurant where Anthea and Lola were lunching, wedged between the clamour of Fleet Street and the grey meander of the Thames, another oasis of tranquillity basked in the heat of late August – the Temple. This venerable sprawl of ancient buildings, sombre alleyways, shadowed courtyards, echoing staircases and sunlit gardens, has for centuries been home to those who toil in the service of the law. Theirs is a task of dedication, for the machinery of English justice is complex and ponderous, and constant vigilance is required to ensure that it does not buckle or break beneath the weight of its own responsibility. Its little cogs and flywheels are oiled daily, and its component parts kept running smoothly by the clerks who make and take phone calls, scurry between courts and chambers, and negotiate business on behalf of the barristers; the barristers in turn see to it that the pistons pump healthily and the valves open and close with polished regularity by perusing briefs, consulting authorities, delivering learned opinions
and appearing in court; Her Majesty’s judges of The Senior Courts of England and Wales preside with admirable sedulity over the machine’s churning output of judgments, awards and practice directions; and voluminous by-products of hot air and ashy waste are generated by City solicitors overfeeding the furnace with mounds of files, letters and papers.

The very names appended to the buildings, courtyards and alleyways – Serjeants’ Inn, King’s Bench Walk, Crown Office Row, Dr Johnson’s Buildings – are evocative of its ancient history, and through its dappled courtyards,
stone-flagged
lanes and dreaming gardens the shadows of
long-dead
inhabitants seem still to flit – those eminent jurists, Coke, Halsbury and Littleton, and the great men of letters, Thackeray, Lamb and Goldsmith. Yet the barristers’ chambers situated in the Temple are not mired in ancient practices; they operate in the present day with the streamlined, globalised efficiency of any multinational organisation, and though clad for their work within the courts in horsehair wigs and flowing gowns, the barristers themselves are generally sophisticated, worldly metropolitan beings.

One such being was Leo Davies, a forty-six-year-old commercial barrister who, besides being possessed of all the personal attractions adverted to by Anthea Grieves-Brown over lunch, held a high reputation amongst his fellow lawyers for his forensic skills and powers of rhetoric, not to mention his charm, wit and charismatic personality. Leo had only a year ago been made head of chambers at number 5 Caper Court, and now presided over some thirty tenants, ranging from eminent QCs at the top end, ambitious senior juniors in the middle, and junior barristers and raw recruits, known as pupils, at the bottom.

Caper Court itself, originally laid out by Sir Christopher Wren in the years following the Great Fire of London, was a quaint courtyard with archways leading to Middle Temple Lane at one end and Pump Court at the other, and its buildings housed five different sets of chambers. On the top floor of number 9 Caper Court, which stood on the other side of the courtyard facing number 5, a beautiful old sundial was set in the brickwork, inscribed with the melancholy sentiment, ‘Shadows we are and like shadows depart’, and on this summer day Leo was standing at his window and gazing across at the inscription, familiar to him for over twenty-five years, with particular pensiveness.

He had fallen into one of those occasional moods in which the routine of his work took on an uncharacteristic dreariness, and the point of existence seemed to escape him. Behind him on his desk, next to his computer screen, lay papers relating to a case involving a contract for the carriage CIF of soya-bean pellets to Montoir. Normally the minutiae of the contractual details and exacting issues as to jurisdiction would have exerted their familiar fascination, but today, as he watched the sunshine creep across the gilded Roman numerals of the sundial, such considerations seemed petty and irrelevant. It occurred to him that perhaps he felt this way because his inner man was in need of nourishment. Maybe he should go and get a sandwich or a cup of coffee. Or, better still, rustle up Michael Gibbon to share a glass of wine and the latest gossip at El Vino’s. Not that many people drank at lunchtime any more. The departure of the journalists to Canary Wharf and the arrival of the New Labour puritan ethic had seen to that.

His ruminations were interrupted by a light knock on
the door and the arrival of one of the clerks. Felicity, a bright, bosomy, bustling young woman with a tendency to disorganisation which she managed to keep in check only by ferocious concentration and reminders muttered below her breath, had brought yet another pile of papers to add to those which stood stacked on Leo’s floor next to his desk. Leo crossed the room to unburden her.

‘Why didn’t you tell Paul to bring these up?’ he asked.

‘He’s at lunch, and you said you wanted them soon as they came in from Fishers.’ She watched as Leo flicked through the first few pages and shook her pretty, curly head in disdain. ‘You oughtn’t to be working through lunch on a day like this, Mr Davies. It’s lovely outside. You want to get something to eat and have a walk. Do you good. You’re looking peaky.’ She paused, seeming to scrutinise him more closely. ‘How’s your love life?’

The enquiry was one which Leo and Felicity regularly made of one another. This offhand intimacy was one of the facets of his relationship with his clerk which Leo particularly enjoyed.

‘Not bad, thanks.’

‘Boy or girl?’

‘Girl, as it happens. A model, rather lovely.’

‘Mmm. You like them skinny. Me, I like something I can grab hold of. Not that there’s been much grabbing lately.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Don’t worry – it’s a lifestyle choice. Thought I’d give men a rest for a few months. Bit of celibacy’s good for you now and then – like a detox.’

‘I think you mean chastity.’

‘Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I’m right off relationships –
especially with people round here,’ she added meaningfully, referring to an unwise liaison some months previously with a fellow clerk, which had ended badly.

‘A very wise decision, Felicity. I came to the same conclusion myself not so long ago.’ For Leo, too, against his better judgment, had been known to conduct discreet affairs within chambers, with unfortunate results. ‘We have more than a little in common, you and I.’

Felicity looked at her watch. ‘Too true. I’m off to get some lunch – you should and all. Don’t forget Brian Bennett from Freshfields is coming in at three with Sir Dudley Humble.’

‘Bugger – so he is. Thanks for reminding me.’ Leo glanced up and winked at her. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get some lunch.’

Felicity left, reflecting on what a real sweetie Mr Davies was. She passed Jeremy Vane puffing up the staircase – the QC, on his way back from court, looked hot and pink in his bands and courtroom attire, a bundle of papers under his arm. ‘’Lo, Mr Vane,’ said Felicity brightly. ‘Lovely day!’

Jeremy muttered some ill-tempered acknowledgement of her greeting and carried on up to his room. Fat tosser, thought Felicity. Like a few others in chambers whose names she could mention – patronising, toffee-nosed, public-school-and-Oxbridge-educated gits – he treated the clerks with the utmost condescension, as though his living didn’t depend on them. Not like Leo, who didn’t share the illusion that a privileged upbringing somehow conferred social and intellectual superiority. He understood and got on with people like Felicity, and the other clerks, because he didn’t think himself any better than they were – just luckier.

A grammar-school boy from Wales, Leo Davies had worked
his way to the top of his profession through a combination of brilliance and grinding application. Such tastes as he had acquired along the way – a penchant for expensive cars and clothing, and a passion for collecting pieces of modern art – were real and unaffected, and perhaps because of his lack of pretension he was entirely fearless, in court and out of it. The one weakness in his otherwise robust character – and Leo himself, having no regard for moral conventions, considered it a susceptibility rather than a weakness – was his sexual ambivalence, for he found men just as attractive as women. His past was littered with casual affairs with both sexes, and although he had always endeavoured to be as discreet as possible, the consequences had occasionally proved dire. He had often promised himself that he would mend his ways – for the sake of his infant son, Oliver, if for no one else – but temptation invariably proved irresistible. As a philanderer, Leo was far from heartless. He could be ruthless in his manipulation of lovers for his own ends, as testified by his short-lived marriage, but he found emotional entanglements exhausting, and had this past year vowed to indulge only in the most meaningless and light-hearted relationships. Hence his recent dalliance with Anthea Grieves-Brown, whose vacuity and beauty he found both refreshing and undemanding. He thought of her as he slipped on his jacket and left his room to go in search of lunch. It was a Friday, and although they had made no arrangement to meet, he decided he would call her later and suggest dinner.