Gagged & Bound (25 page)

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Jack said, shocking her back into the present. Now she found it easy to see the cruel boy he’d been behind the mask of age and money.

‘I think you do,’ she said, tasting hate again as sharply as she ever had. ‘But so what? I never met Samantha Lock. I don’t care much about her. Stephanie Taft’s a different matter.’

He raised his well-kept grey eyebrows.

‘You know. The woman John loved. Still loves. They lived together till something went wrong eighteen months ago. If you know him as well as you claim, you’d know all about it. Was their break-up your doing?’

The grin was coming back, creasing his cheeks and lifting the edges of his mouth.

‘In a way. She was a lot brighter than this Lulu he’s got now. I didn’t think it was a good idea having a clever, pushy bird in his nest.’ He swung his foot so vigorously that the shoe came right off. The sight of his slim foot in the sleek sock, feeling around on the floor like a long-tongued sea creature, made her shiver. He found the shoe and stuffed his foot into it, stamping down on the heel. ‘So I told him to get rid of her. It was the only time he made a fuss about anything. Took a while till he saw sense.’

‘And her death? He suspects you of being behind it, you know.’

‘How would you know that? You don’t know anything about him.’

Gillian stood with the album in one hand and rearranged the
pleats over her thighs with the other. ‘He’s been like someone standing on the lip of hell ever since the news of Stephanie’s death broke. I could see it wasn’t just unhappiness over an old girlfriend dying. That doesn’t make you feel as if the flames are licking your feet. He did. Now I know why. He must think you ordered the shooting.’

She paused to give him a chance to admit it, but he smiled up at her, as bland as a banana smoothie.

‘Just like he must be wondering how much more he can take, Jack. And how to get away from you and back into the decent life he was raised for.’

‘In your dreams. He’s mine to the marrow of his bones, Sis.’

‘I’d like you to go,’ she said, fury swelling inside her, banishing the sickness and the acid saliva.

That was how it had always felt in the old days, as if she was pregnant with a monstrous anger and about to give birth to it. When the doctor had eventually told her she’d never have a child, she’d been sure it had been because of this: the hate and rage that had grown in her all her life so there was no space for a baby.

He had his hand on the front door when he said casually, ‘Don’t go doing anything stupid now, Gillie. No going to the cops. Or …’

‘Or what? I’ll end up on the nearest common with a stick in my mouth and a bag over my head?’

‘I’ll tell John we had this little chat and give him your love, shall I?’ he said with the same bland smile, having made his threat clear enough.

‘You can do anything you want.’ She fought the pain exploding all over her body like miniature landmines. ‘But I should warn you that I’ve left a letter and a lot of information with someone you’ll never be able to get to. If anything happens to me, they’ll use it.’

She barely saw him move, but she felt the flat of his hand cracking against her cheekbone. The force of it made her head snap right over, banging into the wall.

‘You stupid, stupid cow. Not that I believe you. That’s the kind of idea you’d get out of one of your everlasting books. But if you ever – ever – write down anything about John or me, that slap’ll feel like a kiss. Now fuck off out of our lives and keep your fucking mouth shut.’

The door slammed so hard that one of the stained glass panels fell out of its lead casing. Gillian looked at the small smashed pane of ruby-coloured glass and let the pent-up tears burst out of her eyes. It was as if all her life had been broken with the glass, lying like bits of hard dried blood all over the beige carpet.

 

Later, with a throat that felt as if a roll of carpet had been pulled up and down it for hours and eyes swollen and burning, Gillian dragged herself to rescue the tape. She ought to listen to it, to make sure it had caught everything, including the blow and the threats, but she couldn’t bear to go through it all again so soon.

She wished she had someone to send it to, in case Jack did try something. Or John. Tears welled again, making her eyes sting even more. She’d spent the last hour trying not to believe everything she’d heard.

Sometimes she’d nearly managed it, teetering on the edge of safety, but each time she’d stumbled over Jack’s announcement that his son had protested about pushing Stephanie out of his life. Why that should have been so much more convincing than everything she knew about John, everything she’d taught him and believed that he was, she couldn’t understand. But it made the whole story as inescapable as the sight of those burning dolls had been.

John had loved Stephanie. She’d always known that. But Jack
couldn’t have had any idea. Even if John had told him, he was too cynical and cruel to believe something so benign, which meant he’d never have made up John’s protests. It wouldn’t have been in Jack to imagine such a thing.

She thought of the photographs she’d taken of her son and stuck so carefully in the albums. The small boy in his white shorts and shirt, with hair still fair and smooth, standing on the front step on his way to a birthday party. The even smaller boy with no clothes on at all, playing with an old enamel jug and a bowlful of water on the grass in the back garden. The beautifully upright, handsome young police constable in his first uniform. The happy man, with one arm around Stephanie and the other holding a kebab, that some friend of theirs had taken at a bar on holiday.

She could feel his lips on her left cheek too. As a little boy he’d always held her with his bony arms while he planted a wet kiss just below the cheekbone. When he’d grown up the arms had softened and loosened and the kiss had become warmer and drier, until now, each time she saw him, he merely brushed her skin with his lips.

A sudden impulse made her grab the tape and run upstairs to the top right-hand drawer in the chest between the windows, where she still kept all his old school reports. In her memory, they’d been good – all of them. Had there been anything in any of them, any insignificant clue that he might not have been the child she thought she’d known?

Thank God Sid was away, crossing Europe with a pantechnicon of Welsh lamb destined for Spain. She wouldn’t have to explain the still-spreading bruise on her face or her swollen eyes, and she had time to go through everything, testing her history with John for the moment he’d turned against her and everything she’d tried to teach him.

She had time, too, to decide what to do with the tape. One thing she knew for certain: she had to get it out of the house and
safely into the hands of someone she could trust to use it. But who?

 

Simon was flying. The speech was going brilliantly; there were approving nods from all round the chamber, even from the opposition benches. Camilla was in the gallery, listening to every word. No one had picked up on either the reference to Baiborn in Beatrice Bowman’s book or the old housing-finance scandal in his department. All the press comment so far had been favourable. He knew his lines so well that he barely had to think as they emerged, beautifully modulated, from his mouth. Only the climax now. He geared himself up for it, measuring the pace and tone of his voice so the emphasis fell on exactly the right syllables. There. It was done. He bowed and sat down, waiting a dignified amount of time before glancing up towards the gallery. Camilla beamed down at him.

At intervals throughout the debate, he looked up again, amazed to see her still there, still watching and listening. When he eventually left the chamber, he found her waiting for him outside. She hugged him tightly, as she’d done in childhood.

‘That was brilliant, Daddy. I’m so proud of you.’

‘Good.’ He kissed her. ‘Walk back to the flat with me?’

‘Sure.’

The policeman on the door saluted him. They crossed the noisy bustle of Parliament Square and made their way through Victoria to his building. Upstairs, he flung open the windows to let the sweet early evening air into the room.

‘Thank you for staying for the whole debate, sweetheart. I’m really touched. Was it hard to get Dan Stamford to give you time off?’

She looked a little self-conscious. ‘Right now, I think he’d give me a lot more than that. In fact, he asked if he could come with me today, but I wanted this to be just you and me.’

‘So you’re definitely in love with him now, are you?’ He tried
to sound pleased, but he knew he hadn’t done a very good job.

‘You’ll like him, Daddy, when you get to know him properly. Honestly. And he’s longing to meet you.’

Simon kissed the top of her head. ‘We’ll fix something. Now my speech is out of the way, I’ve got a bit of spare energy for things like chatting to your latest lover.’

‘Good. So you’ll be able to make your lawyers get a move on too. What’s happening with the case?’

‘Lay off, Camilla. I’ve told you. We’re waiting to see what they offer.’

‘They’re taking their time about it, aren’t they? Don’t you care? I can’t understand why you’re not angry.’

‘Because the whole thing’s absurd,’ he said. ‘And because no one except you and Dan has even noticed the wretched little book, let alone decided there’s some connection with me. You can forget it, sweetheart. I have.’

By Friday, Trish was exhausted, but she had completed four of the six opinions. She had also leaned on Nessa, asking her to field all phone calls and send holding responses to most of the emails that flooded in every day. Antony had stopped putting his head round her door, and even Robert backed away when he saw her coming. George had accepted her announcement that she’d be working late all week to get her opinions done before she took David to Center Parcs. Neither of them had mentioned the row again. From the way he talked, she couldn’t believe it loomed as large and threatening in George’s mind as it did in hers.

The only phone call she had not missed was the daily one to her mother. Each day the response to her question had been the same: ‘David’s fine. He’s terrific company, and we’re both happy as larks. Stop worrying, Trish, love.’

‘You’re making yourself ill.’

The familiar voice broke into her concentration and she looked up, feeling a spike of fury drive the ache deeper into her head.

‘Antony, I’m too busy to—’

‘Stop it, Trish. This is absurd. I know Steve was leaning on you, but if you work at this rate, you’ll start making mistakes. I’m taking you out to lunch now. You’ve no option but to do as you’re told.’

‘You are
not
my boss,’ she said through her teeth. ‘It’s not your business to tell me how to organise my work.’

He came closer and put both hands on her desk, leaning forwards so their faces were only a foot apart and she couldn’t look away.

‘I may not be your boss, but I
am
your friend. You need help.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Come on, Trish. I haven’t seen you this bad for years. You must stop, eat and breathe properly, or you’ll crack up. Come on.’ He turned and added over his shoulder, ‘Have you got enough to do for a couple of hours, Nessa?’

‘Sure,’ she said, without telling him what.

‘Good. I’ll bring her back by three thirty.’

‘Why aren’t you in court, Antony?’

‘The other side caved in. Now, come on, Trish. Don’t ask stupid questions, and get your coat.’

 

Trish watched the waiter pour three inches of garnet-coloured wine into an enormous glass.

‘I can’t drink all that. It’s hard enough to keep my brain clear as it is.’

‘You’ll drink it and – with luck – sleep it off. What time did you leave chambers last night?’

‘God knows. Half past one? Two?’

‘And the night before?’

‘The same.’

‘Why?’

‘I had six opinions to write, a nagging clerk, and …’ She picked up the glass and used it stop herself blurting out the rest. He was right: she had to slow down if she was this strongly tempted to pour out the contents of her nightmares to him.

He was too clever to ask what she’d been going to say. Instead, he opened the enormous menu and said, ‘You’re in
such a turmoil you probably won’t be able to choose anything. Shall I decide what we’re eating?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Only as she said it and noticed an old familiar gleam in his eyes did she realise he’d done it on purpose to jerk her back into her customary self. She opened her own menu, dreading the sight of a vast list of different dishes and found only four listed for each course. ‘I’ll have fillet steak, please, medium rare, and some spinach.’

‘When did you last eat a proper meal?’

‘Can’t remember. But it doesn’t matter. I had a tin of sardines last night.’

‘Cold and eaten straight out of the tin?’

‘I was too tired to do anything else.’

‘You’re mad. Is George abroad?’

She shook her head, horrified to feel a dampness in her eyes. She didn’t do tears and particularly not in front of a man like Antony Shelley. Another good swig of wine helped to control them.

‘And David?’

‘He’s staying with my mother. Oh, shit!’ she added as the phone in her bag bleeped to announce a text message. ‘Sorry. I forgot to turn it off.’

Antony watched her without speaking for a couple of minutes, then said irritably, ‘You’d better look at it. You can’t think of anything else.’

David’s name and the old number sat blackly on the small square screen. She didn’t realise she was digging her teeth into her lower lip until she tasted salt and realised she’d cut through the skin. Clicking on, she read: ‘Mor nws soon.’

The world tilted and she grabbed the edge of the table with her free hand.

‘What is it, Trish? You look as if you’re going to faint.’

His voice came from miles away, just audible through the
roaring that filled her ears. Fighting it, fighting the panic and the nausea, she dragged herself back.

‘I’ve got to make a call. I’ll be back before you’ve even given the order.’

She left her jacket and bag on the chair and rushed out into the street, jabbing in the code for her mother’s number. It rang and rang. She was terrified the answering machine would cut in, but she held on.

‘Hello?’ Meg’s breathing was fast and heavy. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Trish.’

‘What’s happened? You sound awful.’

‘Where’s David?’

‘In the kitchen.’ Meg’s voice was calming down. ‘Why?’

‘What’s happened to him?’

‘Nothing. He’s teaching me how to make George’s all-in-one fruit cake. We were at a crucial stage when the phone rang. Trish, whatever’s the matter?’

Through the dizziness, she heard herself say: ‘Nothing. A nightmare. Can you actually see David?’

‘Yes. He’s just stirring in the last of the dried fruit.’

‘Don’t let him out of your sight.’

‘Trish, stop this. I haven’t let him go anywhere without me, except the loo, since you brought him here. Don’t get so worked up. I’ll phone you a bit later when David and I are not so busy. Shall I use your mobile or chambers’ number?’

In that moment Trish didn’t think she could bear to hear the tones of her mobile ever again, but she knew she’d have to get over it.

‘The mobile. I don’t know exactly where I’ll be.’

‘Good. You sound a bit better, too. Be careful.’

‘Oh, don’t.’ The words were forced out of her. ‘Sorry. Of course I will. Take care.’

When she lowered herself into her chair her joints ached as though she’d just run ten miles.

‘Now, Trish,’ Antony said, ‘you are going to tell me what has been going on so that I can give you some helpful advice and stop you driving yourself into an early grave.’

She shook her head. ‘Not now. It’s all too raw. But I will eat.’ She grabbed a brown roll from a silver basket on the table, split it and slapped on a thick pat of butter. Antony raised his eyebrows. She stuffed a torn-off piece of bread into her mouth and began to chew. He waited until she’d managed to swallow it, which took some time.

‘Is this a complication of the Bee Bowman business, Trish? If so, I won’t forgive myself for palming her off on you just because I was busy and she looked like trouble.’

‘You didn’t, and it isn’t. But I’ve been ignoring her all week. The calls and emails have been stacking up. I must get back to her, too.’ She wanted to let her head fall on the table and howl.

‘Here’s the steak. Eat.’

He had ordered lobster for himself, which meant he would be fully occupied for ages, picking the flesh out of the claws and scraping it from the narrowest of feelers. A formidable range of surgical tools had been laid beside his plate, along with a fingerbowl with a piece of lemon floating in the water. Relieved of his scrutiny, Trish began to eat her steak.

Gradually she remembered the pleasure she’d learned to take in hot food that tasted good. She chewed carefully, feeling the contrast between the meat and the richly bitter spinach leaves. She knew she wasn’t going to cry, and that she was an intelligent adult who had learned to manage pressure years ago. Antony was right: she needed sleep and nourishment to keep her brain from dreaming up fantasies of horror, and she’d exaggerated all the dangers in a quite ludicrous manner.

Antony had never been a tidy eater, and the sight of him wrestling with his lobster made her smile. The wine tasted better this time, rich and yet with its own bitter edge. She didn’t know enough to do more than guess at an Italian origin. She
wondered why he’d chosen it when he’d been planning to eat lobster. That wasn’t like him. He did know about wine.

One piece of coral-coloured shell snapped off the rest and went flying across the hard polished floor. He looked up and grinned.

‘You look better.’

‘I ought to apologise. And thank you for the rescue. God knows what I’d have done if I’d gone trampling on through the current opinion. Did someone summon you?’

He only smiled.

‘Bloody hell!’ she said, half seriously. ‘Who?’

‘Your pupil. She’s a bright woman and for some unknown reason of her own seems to care for you. You’ve worried her this week. She showed a lot of sense in coming to me rather than Steve.’

Trish swallowed her humiliation with some more wine and waited for another demand to explain herself. She owed him something for her rescue, but she couldn’t tell him about Caro or the Slabbs, and George’s
démarche
was too painful to share with anyone.

‘Where have you got to with Bee Bowman?’ he asked gently.

‘Not far enough,’ Trish said, watching him refill her wineglass. ‘But before I started on the opinions, I’d been asking questions of all sorts of people, trying to find out why Simon Tick should have launched the claim at all when his solicitors must have warned him he had a pretty hopeless case.’

Had the threatening messages come from him?

She discarded the idea. If it had been only the texts, she’d have been more inclined to believe he was their author, but she couldn’t accept that he would have tried to have David drowned or run over on his bike. Oh, God! Who
had
it been? And what were they going to do next?

‘What is it, Trish?’

‘Nothing. What d’you mean?’

‘You looked as though you were hearing voices,’ he said drily. ‘Answering them too. Your lips were moving. I know you’re knackered, but I hope you’re not sinking into some kind of psychosis.’

Antony watched Trish flinch. What little colour there was in her thin cheeks disappeared, leaving the skin looking like the pages of an old brief that had lain forgotten on a shelf for years. What had he said? Oh, shit, he thought, remembering the sabbatical she’d taken to deal with a severe depressive episode. How could he have been so crass? She’d been looking so much better, too, with half a bottle of Antinori’s best inside her, as well as London’s tenderest fillet steak.

Last year she’d saved him from making the biggest possible fool of himself over her, so he owed her big time. This wasn’t going to do much to right the balance. A great believer in the twin maxims of ‘never apologise, never explain’ and ‘if you’re in a hole stop digging’, he produced his wickedest grin and said, ‘I’d better get the bill or that over-bright pupil of yours will start thinking I’ve whisked you off to Valparaiso.’

‘Where?’ she said, sounding as dazed as she looked.

He laughed, or tried to. ‘I’m always forgetting how young you are. Valparaiso was where white slavers were reputed to take drugged virgins to put them to work in the sex trade.’

 

Walking back to chambers, Trish became aware of how much she’d drunk. She didn’t think she’d be able to do any work, even if she absorbed the strongest double espresso Nessa could find. If she hadn’t needed to show Antony that his crack about lunacy hadn’t touched her, she’d have jacked in the rest of the day and gone home to hide under the duvet. But she couldn’t do that; she might be tempted to stay for ever. She knew what that felt like, and she wasn’t going there. Not ever again.

They had reached the top of King’s Bench Walk before Antony touched her bare hand and said; ‘Don’t take it so hard,
Trish. It was only a joke. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who showed fewer signs of psychosis. Or even neurosis.’

She opened her mouth to respond and couldn’t. Mercifully, he’d gone on ahead of her and merely waved. She waited until he’d turned into the door of 1 Plough Court and had time to get in, chat to Steve, and move on to his own room; then she made herself pick up her aching feet and follow him.

Nessa greeted her with a cheery smile and an excited question about the restaurant Antony had chosen. That was an easy one to answer, and Trish described the meal she’d just eaten, watching Nessa’s eyes widen in envy.

‘I’ll take you there as a celebration when this burst of work is done,’ Trish promised and saw Nessa’s eyes stretch even wider.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’ve been meaning to give you this, but it’s never seemed the right moment.’

As Nessa bent down to get something out of the bottom drawer of her desk, Trish faced up to the way she must have been behaving for the past week. Desperate to get all the opinions finished, fighting her own misery and fear, she could see she must have been an intolerable room-mate. Imagined echoes of her own snapping irritation made her blush.

‘Here.’ Nessa held out a small padded brown envelope, with a handwritten name and address.

‘It didn’t come by DX,’ she said, referring to the document exchange system the whole of legal London used, ‘or I’d have put it on your desk. A woman asked to see you and gave it to me when I told her how long you were likely to be. She said it didn’t matter when you saw it, so long as no one else got a chance to open it. I hope it wasn’t more urgent than it sounded.’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t. Look, Nessa, I’m sorry about this week. I realise I must have behaved abominably, and you’ve—’

‘Don’t, Trish. It’ll only embarrass me. You were stressed out.’

‘But—’

‘It’s fine. I could cope.’

What a woman! Trish thought. I hope she makes it through the end-of-year selection process. She deserves to be a prince of the Bar herself.