Out of the Dark (15 page)

You could really rest in a place like this, she thought, as her jaw relaxed for the first time in days.

‘Come on in, Trish.’ Antony’s familiar voice, with its edge of slightly malicious amusement, woke her to reality and she moved forwards. He was holding a bottle of champagne. ‘You look a lot better for the sleep. Will you have some of this, or something else?’

‘That looks great,’ she said, looking round for his wife. ‘Thank you.’

‘Liz has gone to oversee the kitchen. Come in.’

She followed him into the back half of the drawing room, which overlooked a large garden. There were yet more astonishing paintings, and a blur of cream warmed with dull gold and apricot colours. Later she would notice the patterns of old brocade and faded tapestry beside the admirable simplicity of plain card lampshades and coarse linen covers. Now all she saw was ease and warmth and comfort, and a small crowd of other people, some of whom looked nearly as familiar as the paintings. Antony poured her a glass of champagne and introduced her to Sir Henry Buxford, the Chairman of Grunschwig’s.

Surprised to see him there, Trish reminded herself that he was not their client, even though he was underwriting their
fees. She wondered whether he was going to grill her about her plans for Nick Gurles or lean on her to collude in the suppression of the disastrous manuscript note, but he was far too sophisticated to do either. He behaved as though he’d never heard of her, but was interested in everything she had to say, offering stories of his own past at the Bar to amuse her.

Watching his bright brown eyes, which she suspected saw far more than he ever let on, and his sensual mouth, she decided she liked him but would have difficulty trusting him without a lot more evidence. She began to let bits of herself show through the careful politeness she’d assumed. By the time they’d both finished their champagne, she thought she knew him well enough to ask whether he ever missed the Bar.

‘Why?’ he asked, the light in his eyes dimming a little. ‘D’you think you would?’

‘I know I would. I love what I do, even the painful cases. And all the stories everyone tells suggest you did, too. It must have been a real sacrifice to go on the bench.’

‘It certainly wasn’t a life that suited me. Unfortunately the one thing you can’t do if you stop being a judge is revert to the profession in which you excelled. But I’m interested in your enthusiasm. I’d understood from Antony that you were becoming disillusioned.’

‘Not disillusioned exactly,’ she said, hardly noticing that Antony was refilling her glass. ‘Just keen to work with commercial cases that might let my sore heart mend a little. Sorry, that sounds disgustingly sentimental.’

‘Yes. But as expressive a misquotation as I’ve ever heard.’

She enjoyed the momentary eye-meeting of shared amusement. How interesting that a man like Henry Buxford should know such schmaltzy songs.

‘You must beware of caring too much, Trish. I …’

‘You?’ she prompted.

‘I was once, long ago, a junior in a big matrimonial-finance case. We were for the wife and it was my big chance to show how sharply I could cross-examine. I really went for the husband, wanting to show my leader – and my clerk – that I could be a man-eating shark, too.’ He looked down at his glass, drank, then looked back at Trish. His eyes reminded her of David’s for a micro-second. ‘The husband hanged himself that night.’

‘God, how awful,’ she said, putting a hand on his forearm. ‘You must have … It must have taken you ages to get over that.’

‘A while. I …’

‘Dinner, everyone,’ Liz Shelley called from the double doors at the far end of the big room. She opened them, revealing a mass of candles in glass sticks and more flowers, this time scentless, Trish noticed. No wonder, if they took their wine as seriously as George’s email had suggested.

‘I’m glad to have had this chance to talk to you,’ Buxford said. ‘I know now that Antony was right all along. My boy Nick is in good hands.’

Oh shit, Trish thought, but she kept a polite smile on her face as they all went into dinner.

 

She didn’t get home until nearly one and knew she was lucky to have got a cab so easily. All the way back to Southwark she’d been mentally drafting a mouth watering account of the food and wine to send to George. He’d have appreciated the foie gras in Sauternes much more than she did, but she’d liked the simple, beautifully cooked partridge that came next and the astonishingly fresh-tasting Burgundy. She could happily have stopped there, but the cheeses looked and smelled so amazing that even she couldn’t resist, and after that there was a hot apricot tart with crème fraiche.

As she was paying off the black cab, wondering whether
she would ever need to eat again, rain started to fall. She shivered as the drops trickled down her bare arms and the cabbie fumbled for her change. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man getting out of a beige car that had been parked just ahead of the taxi. The man looked very small. In the glow of the streetlight, his hair looked very fair.

Trish gripped the pound coins she was about to give back to the cabbie, afraid they might slip out of her wet hand.

‘Look,’ she said, hating her own breathlessness, ‘my flat’s at the top of those iron stairs there. Could you wait until you’ve seen me inside the door? Here.’ She handed him not only the coins, but also a ten-pound note.

‘Sure,’ he said, sounding puzzled. He looked around and saw the other man. Hauling on the handbrake, he turned off his ignition then got out of the cab. ‘I’ll come up with you. Who is he? Boyfriend?’

‘Certainly not,’ Trish said, glad of the cabbie’s broad shoulders and powerful muscles. ‘He’s probably nothing to do with me, but in a lonely street like this …’

‘And an area like this. Come on, love.’

Prepared to trust any man who was licensed to drive a black cab around London, Trish let him put a burly arm around her back and usher her up the iron staircase towards her own front door. He waited patiently while she found her keys and unlocked her door. Then he handed her back the ten-pound note.

‘Why? I meant you to have it.’

‘It’s fine. You were right about him. Look.’

Trish looked after his pointing finger and saw the taillights of the beige car moving towards the end of the street. There was no bulb over the numberplate. Even so, she could see that there was mud all over the plate, hiding the figures. She shivered.

‘Yeah,’ said the cabbie. ‘Whatever he wanted, he was up to no good. Lock your doors tonight, love.’

‘I will. Thank you very much. But look, do take this.’ She gave him back the tenner. He raised a finger to his forehead, then pocketed the money, clumping down the iron stairs in the rain.

Late as it was, Trish went round the flat, checking all the window locks even before she did anything about her wet arms and shivering body. But when she was sure there was no way anyone could get in, she stood under a boiling shower for ten minutes. Warm at last, she hoped she’d sleep.

 

Itching with tiredness next morning, she knew she must have big black bruises under her eyes, but she didn’t waste time looking at them. Having burned her mouth on a mug of instant coffee, she soothed it with an overripe banana that had been nestling in a bowl of gently rotting apples, then ran to get the car for her trip to Maidstone.

The case was even more painful than she’d expected, but at least it kept her mind from her own troubles. The hopeless mother was a fat, white-faced lump with sparse, greasy hair and ugly clothes, who gave her evidence in a voice that combined a whining edge with blankly obstinate incomprehension. Trish could see her counsel’s despair and sympathised. But almost anyone would have been a safer custodian of a child than this woman and so Trish couldn’t let sympathy get in her way.

The other barrister was a lot younger than Trish and patently nervous. Going up against her, Trish felt like a fully armed paratrooper exchanging fire with a toddler holding an airgun. But she had a job to do and a child to protect, so she gave the case all the disciplined passion at her disposal. She couldn’t bear to watch either the young barrister or the woman she was representing, so she looked alternately at the judge and at Sally, the social worker, who was providing most of the evidence.

When it was all over, and Trish had predictably won,
she glanced at her opposing counsel. She was biting her lip and sniffing to hold in tears, while trying to explain to her barely literate client what it was the judge had just told them. Trish wondered whether there was anything she might say in the robing room to console her defeated colleague without sounding as patronising as Robert Anstey.

‘Thanks, Trish, you were great,’ the social worker said.

‘I’m glad you’re pleased, Sally. I must say there didn’t seem any doubt at all. She couldn’t look after one child safely, let alone four.’

‘I know. But it doesn’t stop it being hard on her. Poor thing. And you know what’ll happen?’

‘Yup,’ Trish said. ‘She’ll go and have another baby with the next abusive man she finds and, after this, you’ll probably have to take it from her the minute they’ve cut the cord.’

‘Probably. It breaks your heart – or it would if there was anything left to break.’

The phone was ringing as Trish was making herself yet another mug of coffee the following day. Dumping the coffee jar on the worktop, she grabbed the receiver and recited her number.

‘Ah. This is Caroline Lyalt.’

Not ‘Caro’, Trish noticed, but her name in full. This must be official. So who else was with her?

‘Oh, good. You got the message. I need to ask why David was—’

‘They said in chambers that you were working at home today,’ Caro said, as smooth and obliterating as a steamroller. ‘I’d like to bring someone round to talk to you.’

‘About what?’

‘We’ll explain when we see you. Would twenty minutes’ time be OK?’

Trish heard the muffled sound of another voice in the background. Caro must have put her hand over the phone while someone else talked to her.

‘Twenty minutes’ time would be fine,’ Trish said crisply.
‘Is
this about David?’

‘We’ll see you then.’

The phone buzzed in Trish’s hand until a recorded voice reminded her to hang up. She tidied up all the papers she’d brought home from chambers, once more pushing Nick Gurles to the back of her mind. By the time she heard a knock on the front door, she was ready.

Caro stood at the top of the iron staircase beside a grim-faced man, whom she introduced as DCI Simon Lakeshaw. Trish nodded to him, then stood aside to let them in. Caro led the way straight to the black sofas and sat down on the one nearest the empty fireplace. Her colleague stood beside her until Trish had taken the other sofa. Then he, too, subsided on to the low, squashy cushions.

Probably about forty, she thought, he had bleak grey eyes, badly pitted skin and a thatch of mousey hair falling into his eyes. He also had a very short neck and an expression that suggested smiling came hard to him. For once Caro wasn’t looking much better, quite different from the vulnerable, affectionate friend who had clung to Trish on the doorstep only last Thursday.

‘You’ve spoken to Sergeant Lyalt about a woman called Jeannie Nest,’ said DCI Lakeshaw abruptly. ‘I understand you’ve been looking for her. Why?’

‘May I know what your interest is?’ Trish hoped that Caro still had some boundaries between work and friendship. The thought of everything Trish had told her about Paddy being passed on to this aggressive stranger was awful.

‘Don’t play games, Ms Maguire. This is important.’

‘I’m sure it is, but I want to know what I’m dealing with, and why you’re asking me.’

‘I understand you believe that the child who was run over outside this building might be her son. I want to know what led you to that idea, and I want the names of everyone to whom you made the suggestion or from whom you have sought information.’

‘Where is he now? I tried to visit him yesterday and they told me he’s been moved. But no one will tell me where.’

‘I must ask again: who did you talk to about Jeannie Nest?’

‘Is
she connected with the boy in hospital?’

‘Ms Maguire, this is a very serious matter. I shall answer
your questions – if I can – when you have given me the information I need.’

Trish could recognise an obstinacy even greater than her own. Battling with her instinct to avoid answering any police questions blind, she decided that cooperation was probably the only way of getting what she wanted. She told Lakeshaw about her visit to the Mull Estate, the young man who’d denied all knowledge of Jeannie Nest and the scary children; she described her calls to all the local schools, and her discovery of Jeannie’s part in the six-year-old murder case, adding that she assumed the case had led to a new name under the witness-protection scheme. She talked slowly and very clearly, as though dictating, which she’d learned long ago soothed the angry police soul.

Lakeshaw didn’t react, but Caro leaned forwards as though the five-foot space between the two sofas was too wide to cross with words alone.

‘Trish, did any of the people you talked to – and I mean
any
of them – give you any idea of her new name or where she might be living now?’

‘Sergeant Lyalt,’ Lakeshaw said sharply, as Trish tried to decode the weird stress Caro had put on ‘any’, ‘will you please leave this to me? Now, Ms Maguire, you haven’t answered the question of why you believed David might be Jeannie Nest’s son.’

Trish wasn’t going to drop Paddy in it until she knew more. ‘I neither know nor care what name Jeannie Nest took or where she lived. My only concern is the boy. Someone sent him to me, which makes me feel responsible for him. You’ve moved him from the hospital, which suggests you think he’s under threat. Things have been happening round here that suggest that I too may be at risk. So, it’s time for you to be frank. What exactly do you know?’

‘Jeannie Nest was found murdered last week,’ Caro said before Lakeshaw could stop her.

Trish swallowed, the saliva burningly bitter in her throat. She thought of last night’s watcher with the blanked-out numberplate. Remembering the lack of reaction from any of her neighbours on the night David had been almost killed in the street, Trish felt the sensation of icy water down her spine again. If it hadn’t been for the friendly cabbie last night, she too might have been left for dead in the road. She could have screamed her head off, but no one would have come to help. She gripped her left wrist with her right hand, trying to will calm into her mind.

‘Ms Maguire?’ Lakeshaw was still looking furious and Caro wary. Trish shook her head, not even having heard what he’d just said.

‘
Did
Jeannie Nest have a son aged about eight, called David?’ she asked, surprised to hear that her voice sounded steadily confident.

‘Yes. He’ll be eight next month.’

‘Has he been identified positively as the boy in hospital?’ If she could keep on asking questions, she might be able to forget the man – or men – who seemed to be watching her.

‘I haven’t heard. But it seems more than likely that he will be. Now, what I need to know is …’

‘When will they be telling him his mother’s dead?’ Trish heard her own voice whipping through the space, effectively shutting Lakeshaw up.

‘That’ll be taken care of, Trish,’ Caro said kindly. ‘As soon as he’s considered well enough to deal with the news. You don’t have to worry about that.’

‘I want to be there when he’s told.’ Do you? asked a small voice in her mind. Wouldn’t you rather keep right away now to show the watchers that David’s nothing to do with you and that you know nothing about him or his mother?

‘Out of the question,’ Lakeshaw snapped. ‘In any case it may be too late.’

‘Sir …’ Caro Lyalt began, but Trish didn’t need an advocate. She knew what to say. She just hoped she’d have the courage to see this thing through.

‘That boy was sent to me by his mother. She had sewn my address into his clothes; she had taught him for as long as he can remember how to find this place. She trusted me to look after him, even though we’d never met. I have to be there when he’s told that she’s dead. I have to.’

‘Sir, he seems to trust Trish. It really might help to have her there.’

‘Possibly. But first I need to know who else you’ve spoken to, Ms Maguire.’

Trish thought she could see a plea for forgiveness in Caro’s hesitant smile. She didn’t respond to it. ‘I talked to a variety of barristers and clerks in my search for the person who prosecuted Ron Handsome when Jeannie Nest testified against him. I can give you their names if necessary. And also my father, who knew her years ago. Now, if there’s anything else you need to ask, couldn’t we deal with it on the way to wherever David is now? I’m more than willing to tell you anything, but I have to see him.’

It took a bit more persuasion, but eventually Lakeshaw agreed. Trish only just remembered that she was supposed to be meeting Anna Grayling at the National Film Theatre later in the evening. She made the others wait while she phoned and had to leave an uninformative message on Anna’s voicemail. The last thing she wanted was Anna getting involved in all this.

‘Sorry about that,’ she said to Caro, ushering her out of the flat in order to double lock the door.

Caro drove to a hospital in Whitechapel, where David was being cared for in a single room on the fourth floor. There were two uniformed women police officers outside the room, talking to a man in plain clothes. Trish realised that the threat, whatever it was, was considered serious.
No hard-pressed police force was going to expend manpower like this without good reason.

One of the officers stepped forward to say, ‘He won’t talk, sir.’

‘Does he know about his mother’s death?’

‘Yes. Not in detail, of course. He didn’t seem surprised and he’s hardly cried since. But he still won’t say anything.’

‘Let me try,’ Trish said, surprising the plain-clothes officer, who started to ask a question. They all ignored him as Caro took Lakeshaw on one side and began talking urgently. Trish couldn’t hear what they were saying.

‘OK, Trish,’ Caro said, coming back ahead of Lakeshaw. ‘The DCI is prepared to allow you to have a go, on condition that you introduce him to David and try to persuade him to answer questions. OK?’

‘So long as Lakeshaw says absolutely nothing until I’ve had a chance to talk to David myself,’ Trish said, hoping she’d made it clear the condition was non-negotiable. Eventually she got Lakeshaw’s agreement.

David nearly smiled as he saw Trish walking towards him, then his eyes dilated and his face whitened.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Trish said. ‘He’s a police officer, and he’s going to make sure you’re safe.’

She sat down beside the bed and tried to take David’s hand. He balled it into a fist, and not only shut his eyes but creased up his whole face. Maybe he thought if Lakeshaw was invisible, he wouldn’t exist.

‘David?’

He didn’t say anything, clamping his lips together as though she was about to force food into him.

‘You’re safe now, David. I know that everything that’s happened has been very frightening, but the police are here to protect you. You’re safe now.’

The boy shuddered.

‘This is a chief inspector. He needs to ask you some
questions about your mother. I know how hard it is, but we can only help if you talk to us.’

At last David’s lips parted. Returning blood warmed the greyish flesh back into its usual plum red.

‘She’s dead.’ His eyes filled, but the tears didn’t fall and he didn’t sniff.

‘I know. He’s just told me. I’m more sorry than I can say, and I know how awful it must be to talk about it. But they have to find out who … how it happened. Can I ask you some questions?’ Trish hoped she was doing the right thing. ‘Please, David. It’s the only way to make sure that the people who did this to your mother are arrested.’

He looked up at the ceiling. The familiar lengthening of his nostrils and quivering of his lips told her how hard he was fighting not to cry. But he couldn’t win.

His hand was still hard and round, but Trish kept hers over it, waiting for the moment when he let himself need something from her.

‘David,’ said the man behind her.

‘Not yet,’ she commanded, without looking away from the boy’s face.

‘I have to. David, can you tell me what happened to make you want to run away from home? Was someone unkind to you?’

‘I didn’t run away.’ He didn’t relax completely, but he uncurled his fingers and turned his hand so that he could cling to Trish.

‘OK. So, what made you leave home then?’

His mouth shut again and he stared up at the ceiling. His palm was pumping out sweat.

‘Chief Inspector, I think you should show him your warrant card.’

He looked surprised, but after a while shrugged and held it out. David peered at it, then looked at Trish for just long enough to show her he had no idea what to do or say.

‘David, you must try to tell this man what he needs to know.’

‘I can’t. She told me never to say,’ he whispered. Trish bent forward to hear better. ‘She said I mustn’t say anything to anyone. Not even you. Whatever happened. I was to come to you and you’d look after me. But I wasn’t to answer questions, not from anyone. That’s what she said.’

‘I know. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in a minute.’ But he clung to her, adding his other hand to hold her back. ‘OK, David. I won’t go for a while.’ She twisted her head so that she could look at Lakeshaw, and was relieved to see some pity softening his bullet-like eyes. ‘You must understand.’

‘Oh, I do. But we won’t be able to leave it like this for long. He’s a witness.’

‘Only to fear. She made him leave before he saw anything, didn’t she, David?’ He nodded, tears beginning to slip out from under his lashes. ‘I thought so.’

‘David?’ said Lakeshaw, sounding almost gentle. ‘Why did she make you leave?’

He glanced at Trish, who tried to look encouragingly confident.

‘She c’llected me from Joe’s house and we were walking home,’ he said in a voice that was hoarse with effort. ‘And she kept looking behind her and hurrying on. We went a different way home, but she didn’t stop looking back. Then when we were at home the phone went. I answered it, but when I gave it to her they’d gone. Then later on she opened the back door to let Mrs Tiggywinkle in and she screamed.’

‘What did she see?’

‘She said it was just another cat, like Mrs Tiggywinkle, and that it’d given her a shock. She said she was sorry. But she put on my fleece and told me to go straight away now to Trish Maguire. So I did. She’d always said that if she ever had to tell me to go, I mustn’t ask questions, and
I mustn’t say anything. I must go straight off, and she’d c’llect me as soon as she could.’

‘That’s very clear,’ Trish said, but Lakeshaw wanted to know whether David had any idea what his mother had seen when she kept looking back in the street.