A Greater Evil (34 page)
‘Frankie, are you busy or could I drop in for a minute or two?’
That was embarrassing, Trish thought as she made her precarious way down the spiral staircase that led to the Cork & Bottle.
She was only just early enough to secure the least favoured table, beside the entrance to the loos, but it had room for no more than two, which meant no one could try to join them. And with the noise of the Australian cricket tour coming from the television above the bar, they were unlikely to be overheard. Another blonde, East European waitress appeared to take her order. Knowing she had to spend in order to keep her moral right to the table in a place as popular as this, Trish ordered a glass of one of the recommended red wines of the month. Its name meant little to her, but the description of complex fruitiness was enticing.
By now she had bought herself a newspaper and was happy to wait as long as James Rusham kept her dangling. It was hard to concentrate, though, with memories of the short sharp meeting in Frankie’s office tweaking at her.
Trish had laid out everything she had, explaining the connections between Guy Bait and Cecilia, his responsibility for the catastrophic mistake at the heart of the case she was fighting for Leviathan, his encounter with her after the session with her father at the Somerset House ice rink, and the possibility that she – upset by her argument with Guy – had taken a taxi across the river to her husband’s studio.
‘So,’ Trish had finished, ‘if Guy Bait followed her, wanting to have one more go at trying to make her suppress what she’d worked out about the Arrow’s cables, he could have got into the studio because the door hadn’t clicked properly. If they quarrelled then he could’ve grabbed one of Sam’s sculpting hammers and … well, we know what happened.’
‘It’s a very interesting little drama you’ve scripted here,’ said Frankie, ‘but I don’t understand why you’re telling me. I know I asked why you’re so sure my client is innocent, and it’s good to know you’re still convinced, but none of this is going to prove it.’
‘Except by throwing reasonable doubt on the prosecution’s claims,’ Trish said, clicking open her briefcase to take out the prints. She found the ones she’d taken from behind the bench. ‘Look at Bait’s tight, round, short-haired head. Remember what Sam Foundling looks like. Don’t you think the witness in the studios might have mistaken this for Sam, in a place where she expected to see him? I mean, if she saw him unlocking the front door, she must have been behind him. She could have mistaken this man’s back view for Sam’s. Most people see what they’re expecting, even when it’s not actually there.’
‘Possibly. But, as you know, we’ve briefed Jake Kensal. Don’t you think he’s capable of protecting our client?’ Frankie laughed. ‘He’s the hottest criminal silk right now. None of his defendants has gone down for murder in the last five years. You’ve never done much crime, have you?’
Trish felt her cheeks flush again at the memory. She’d rarely been so ruthlessly told to mind her own business and let the experts get on with it.
That made her think of Jess and so of Caro. Were they ever going to be on the old, easy, affectionate terms again?
‘Trish! Thought I’d never find you.’ James Rusham swung his thick navy overcoat off his shoulders and hung it on the pegs just above her. She felt it hit the back of her head as it swung down to rest against the wall. ‘This is such an unlikely place for you.’
‘I love it. No fuss, and a fantastic wine list.’
‘I seem to remember Gordon’s used to be your choice of basement drinking hole, troglodyte that you are.’
‘I still quite like it, but slightly higher ceilings and more light have their attraction, even to troglodytes. What would you like to drink, James?’
‘I’d better buy it,’ he said with a mocking laugh. ‘That way you can’t be thought to be touting for business.’ He leaned round to catch the eye of the waitress, while flicking through the long wine list. ‘What’s that you’re drinking, Trish?’
She told him and he ordered a couple more glasses, adding: ‘And bring us something to eat. D’you still have that cheese and ham pie?’
The waitress smiled. ‘For two?’
Trish was about to protest when James said one portion would be fine, but he’d like two sets of cutlery.
‘Now, Trish. Explain the mystery.’
‘I want to talk to you about Malcolm Jensen and his conspiracy against George.’
‘Conspiracy? What on earth do you mean?’ For once all the easy humour had gone out of James’s voice and his back had stiffened.
‘I think Malcolm manufactured the whole conflict-of-interest thing.’ Seeing him frown, Trish added: ‘Did anyone at QPXQ Holdings actually talk to
you
about their fear of a conflict of interest? Or did it all come to you via Malcolm?’
James shifted in his chair as though it had suddenly grown bumps under him.
‘Without wanting to be rude, Trish, that’s none of your business. And in any case, why are you agitating now? It’s all over. QPXQ want you briefed on their case against the consulting engineers, so whatever they may have thought in the past, they know you’re on the level now.’
‘I need to know exactly what happened, when and why. Listen …’
The waitress put two brimming glasses of wine on the table. James took a gulp and swallowed without even tasting it. He wouldn’t look at Trish.
‘Look, did you know that Malcolm is close friends with one of the consulting engineers who was probably involved in what went wrong with the Arrow? One of the men against whom you – and possibly I – will now be acting on behalf of QPXQ?’
James looked a little less cocksure. ‘Are you the reason I got a call from the managing director of QPXQ today, Trish?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘It happened this morning. She wanted to know who gave me the impression QPXQ wanted George out of the office for the duration of the case.’ James paused and drank some more, this time with less drama. He stuffed one hand through his bleached hair, making it stand on end and look even more bizarre than usual. ‘She was positively stuttering with rage. Have you been stirring her up?’
‘I have never spoken to her.’
‘Really?’ Now James was openly sneering. ‘I was beginning to think she must be a fellow member of this knitting-circle thing you legal women have.’
Trish stared him down as she decided what to say next. He had to be referring to SWAB, the Society of Women at the Bar, which had been set up twenty-odd years ago by a group of senior women lawyers, for a mixture of pleasure and networking, a kind of counterbalance to the Old Boys like him, who’d had everything their own way for so long. Not exactly secret, membership of SWAB was still a matter for discretion. The few women who added it to the list of their attainments in
Who’s Who
were frowned on by the rest.
‘As I said, James, I know nothing about her. But I have come to know rather more about Malcolm Jensen, and—’
‘Then I hope you’ve got some evidence. I’m not going to listen to unsubstantiated garbage about one of my partners.’
‘You listened to Malcolm’s unsubstantiated garbage about George.’
‘So that’s what this is really about, is it? You’re being the good little woman defending her bloke.’ James’s sneer had been taken over by the more familiar laughter. ‘How sweet!’
Trish smiled back and reached in her bag. She put the photographs on the table in front of him, explained who Guy Bait was, then flicked open the digital camera, which showed the date and time of each photograph.
‘I took these at lunchtime today. It’s evidence of collusion, if not actual corruption. QPXQ ought to see them if you’re planning to keep Malcolm as one of your partners. They may want to dig into the relationship and find out whether it had anything to do with Malcolm’s attempt to get me off the Arrow case.’
James looked sick.
‘Why do you women have to be so bloody aggressive?’ he said at last, pushing away his empty wine glass. When he stood up, his powerful thighs knocked against the small table and threatened to push it over.
Trish laughed. ‘In my early days at the Bar, the cry was always that women would never hack it in the big grown-up male world because we were too gentle and lacking in killer instinct. Sort it out, James.’
He left with insulting speed, forgetting his determination to pay for their wine or the cheese and ham pie that hadn’t yet been delivered. Trish gave him time to force his way through the heaving crowd, then finished her first glass of wine, left the one he’d ordered for her and went to pay for everything.
She was halfway home on foot, glad the wind had dropped, when she pulled out her phone. Leaning against the parapet of Waterloo Bridge, gazing at the dome of St Paul’s, which looked even more comforting than usual, she rang Frankie Amiss’s office number and was automatically invited to leave a message.
‘Hi. It’s Trish Maguire. I should have said while I was with you that the last thing I wanted to do was tread on Jake Kensal’s toes. I know he’ll get a not-guilty verdict in the end. All I’m concerned with is saving Sam from the anguish of a year on bail. Thank you for seeing me.’
Sam’s studio was on her way home by this route. She called him to ask if she could drop in and was greeted with real warmth.
Felicity was lying in her carrycot near the stove, sucking her thumb and wrapped in what looked like a pile of white cobwebs.
‘She looks lovely,’ Trish said. ‘And much happier than she ever did with me.’
Sam grinned. Something had loosened in him. Had it come with relief at having been charged so that at least something was clear? Or because he’d been given bail so he knew he’d have several months with his daughter, whatever happened at the trial?
‘I like her blanket-thing,’ she said when the silence had gone on too long and he’d begun to stare at her.
‘Gina gave it to her. It was Cecilia’s.’ His cheerfulness faded, but not the air of freedom.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing your work?’
‘I’ve done enough today and was beginning to make mischief.’
Trish frowned, but before she could ask a question, he’d rushed into explanation.
‘Sometimes you go on hacking at a piece, taking away what’s actually good. It’s better to stop as soon as the warmth goes. D’you understand?’
‘Not really. What are you working on?’
‘A head. It’s for the Prix Narcisse.’
‘I’ve never heard of it; is it for self-portraits? That’s what it sounds like.’
The grin came back, charmingly impudent again. Trish thought she could see the gleeful small boy – a kind of
Just William
boy – Sam had never been allowed to be.
‘Quite right. I started on me as I am now and produced a gargoyle. It’s a good example of what I meant. I went on and on, only making it worse. Cloddy and horrible. But starting again – with Felicity here …’ He pointed to the carrycot. ‘Something clicked and …’
He turned away. Clearly this was the end of the conversation. Trish longed to ask whether she could see the work in progress, but dared not. She could see only the lump under a pile of old-fashioned checked tea towels. Maybe it was the head’s progress that had given him his new cheerfulness.
‘What can I do for you, Trish? It’s great to see you, but you’re not a natural dropper-in so you must have an ulterior motive.’
‘I just wondered whether I could take a photograph of your back view.’
He didn’t have to put his question into words. His expression said everything. She tried to forget Frankie’s dislike of interference.
‘I have a theory, you see, that the witness who says she saw you here could’ve mistaken someone else’s back view for yours. Would you mind?’
‘Whose back view?’
Discretion, Trish reminded herself. Don’t give Sam a target for all the fury that’s subsided now.
‘The killer’s. I had this theory – although it’s none of my business – that if the police could be shown a whole gallery of photographs of men of your build and colouring, taken from behind, they could see how their witness couldn’t possibly have identified you securely.’
‘Good idea.’ His eyes sparkled again. ‘Do we do it in here or shall I pose outside the door?’
‘Outside sounds best. Let’s go.’
Delicious scents of mushrooms and something citrus greeted her as she opened the door of her flat. Inside she saw a perfect tableau. None of the main lights was on, so the four lamps around the big black sofas made a golden pool in the darkness. George and David were in the centre of it, hanging over the Scrabble board. Paul Robeson sang ‘The Volga Boatmen’s Song’ in the great, warm, rolling bass George had so signally failed to match in his bath. Something had gone right today. Maybe he’d found a way to see his time off as a bonus not a humiliation.
She heard the urgent thumping beat of his mobile phone and watched him reach for it with a lazy ease he’d never shown in the past. Had her determination to get him back to work been the biggest mistake of their lives together? Was Caro right, and was her tendency to interfere only the cause of unnecessary trouble to everyone?
‘James?’ he said, with an exhilaratingly teasing edge in his voice. ‘What’re you calling
me
for? You haven’t gone and got yourself into a mess already, have you?’
Trish quietly closed the door behind her and watched his face in the low light. David looked up, caught her eye and winked. Maybe she hadn’t screwed up. Maybe George would refuse James Rusham’s inevitable invitation to make peace; maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, she’d given him back his power.
Now all she had to do was find a way to make Caro start listening to her again. That was likely to be a lot harder.
‘Oh, Miss Maguire.’ The trainee clerk’s voice stopped Trish on her way into chambers after a cheerful weekend, filled with all David’s favourite activities. She paused. Sally came out into the corridor, as though she wanted to say something out of earshot of Steve and the other clerks. Amused all over again by the formality of her black suit after the post-Christmas pink mini-skirt, Trish walked a few steps with her, then asked what she wanted.
‘It was just that a while ago you were asking about that woman, Maria-Teresa Jackson, on remand in Holloway. D’you remember?’