Creeping Ivy (26 page)

‘Yes. But I don’t know her phone number.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Sergeant Lacie from behind Nicky’s shoulder. She sounded surprised, too, but interested as well, and almost scared in a way. ‘I know it.’

‘That’s OK then. Come along now, Nicky, and we’ll call her for you.’

Beginning to shake, Nicky followed him, looking back at Sergeant Lacie, who suddenly seemed almost friendly.

The custody sergeant took Nicky to a long corridor of yellowish-painted iron-looking doors with small gratings in them. She knew what they were from hundreds of television shows. He unlocked one and held the door open for her.

It ought to have been less frightening to have seen it so often on the telly, but it wasn’t. Nothing she had ever seen had prepared Nicky for the feeling of walking past the sergeant into that small room with the bed in it so low it was nearly on the floor and a toilet in the corner. He did not say anything else, but he looked at her quite kindly as he pulled the door shut. She heard it bang as it hit the door frame and then the click of the lock.

She didn’t know what to do next. She hadn’t thought to bring a book with her and there wasn’t a television nor even a radio. After a moment she went to sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the locked door. Somehow the thickness of it she’d seen as she walked past it into the cell made it worse. She was locked in and there wasn’t anything to do but wait until they came for her to start the questioning. She was in prison. She could hear the shrill voice of one of her early foster mothers when she’d been found eating a biscuit from the kitchen cupboard between meals.

‘Prison, that’s where you’ll end up, a little thief like you. Dirty, you are. Horrible little slut. Little thief.’

Her eyes closing as though that might shut off the memories, Nicky lay back and let her legs swing up on the bed.

Chapter Twenty

‘Ms Maguire?’

‘Yes?’

‘This is Sergeant John Hinksey from the Church Street police station in Kensington.’

‘What now?’ Trish demanded. The previous day’s confrontation with Kath Lacie and DCI Blake ought to have stopped any of them ever bothering her again.

‘I’m the custody officer. Nicolette Bagshot has been arrested,’ he said, sounding only mildly surprised at her tone, ‘and she has asked us to let you know.’

‘Me? Why?’

‘We’re required to offer all detainees the chance to nominate one person to be informed of their arrest.’

‘Yes, yes, I’m well aware of that,’ said Trish. ‘But why me? I hardly know her.’

‘I have no idea. It took her some while to come up with your name and she was quite distressed,’ he said, sounding a little less like an automaton.

‘What’s the charge?’

‘She hasn’t been charged yet.’

‘OK, Sergeant, then what are the grounds for the arrest?’

‘Suspicion of the murder of Charlotte Weblock.’

‘Oh, no!’ Trish felt her throat closing. She coughed to clear the airways. ‘You’ve found her, then? Charlotte, I mean.’

‘I understand that no body has been found as yet.’

Think like a lawyer, Trish told herself. Don’t think about Charlotte; not now. There’ll be time for that later. Concentrate. Don’t feel.

‘And yet you’ve arrested Ms Bagshot,’ she said, sounding quite as detached as she wanted. ‘On what evidence?’

‘I’m not at liberty to give you any more information, Ms Maguire. She asked us to inform you and that’s what I’ve done.’

‘Has she got legal representation?’

‘The duty solicitor has been sent for.’

‘Has she been questioned yet?’

‘No. Since she has asked for legal representation, the officers are waiting to start the interview until the duty solicitor gets here.’

‘Right,’ said Trish. Once they started to question Nicky they could hold her for only twenty-four hours without charge unless the station superintendent sanctioned a further twelve. If they had not managed to get anywhere by the end of thirty-six hours, they could apply to a magistrate to keep her for another twelve hours. Once that was up, they would either have to charge her or let her go.

Trish had seen enough clients so bewildered and scared by their first experience of custody and police questioning that they would have agreed to whatever crime the police suggested they might have committed. And she had also heard of plenty of young solicitors and clerks who did not have the experience or the drive to offer enough protection.

‘Look, I’d like you to cancel the duty solicitor. I’ll get someone to her as soon as I can. Will you let her know that you’ve told me where she is and that I am sending her a lawyer?’

‘Very well,’ said the officer, tightly enough to convince Trish that he’d been told who she was and what a fool she had made of Lacie and Blake the previous day.

‘But make it quick,’ he added officiously.

‘I’ll do my best. And please call me at this number if Ms Bagshot needs anything.’

‘Very well. Goodbye.’

Trish put down the telephone receiver, at the same time turning her Rolodex clumsily with her left hand. There was no doubt about the solicitor who would best protect Nicky’s interests, and Trish only hoped that he would be available. It did not occur to her then that Antonia might think her guilty of disloyalty by wheeling him in to help Nicky. Later it struck her with some force, but by then it was much too late.

She found the number and was soon answered by the usual crisply efficient secretary.

‘Good morning. It’s Trish Maguire here – could I speak to George Henton, please?’

‘May I tell him what it’s in connection with?’

‘A client of mine urgently needs a solicitor. I’m a barrister. George has briefed me in the past and I should like to ask his advice.’

‘Oh, I see. Of course. I’ll see if he’s in, Ms Maguire.’

While Trish waited for George, she thought about their last bruising run-in over one of his clients, and about some of their happier dealings in the past.

An unusually tall man and built like a megalith, he was known among the younger barristers in Trish’s chambers as ‘The Great Bear’ for his size and the superficial cuddliness that masked formidable speed and ferocity in attack. He was almost universally admired, but also feared for the sarcasm with which he greeted any sloppiness or mistakes.

What Trish valued most was the passion with which he protected his clients and the way he never tried to protect himself from anything. He did not take on much criminal work, but she knew Nicky would be safer in his hands than in most.

‘So Trish Maguire, is it really you?’ came his voice down the telephone into her ear.

It was a voice that could not have belonged to anyone else, she thought, deep but extraordinarily invigorating, as though the anger that propelled him through every day was matched by the warmth of sympathy he could give to those who needed it.

‘It’s really me, George. How are you?’

‘Fine. More to the point, how are you? I gather you’ve been ill.’

‘Is that what they’re saying?’ She was suddenly seized with a rage almost as powerful as his and was surprised she could still see clearly.

‘Yes. I tried to brief you for an important case a couple of weeks ago, but your clerk said you were ill and taking some months to convalesce. It sounded serious. What was it – an op?’

It took a moment or two for Trish to control herself. When she did speak, she was glad to hear that her voice sounded almost normal.

‘In fact I’ve taken a sabbatical to write a book on children and the law for Millen Books.’

‘Ah. That sounds much more like it. And more like you. Now, what can I do for you? This is a tough morning.’

‘It’s a bit of a cheek, but I wondered whether you could go – or send someone you trust – to Church Street police station for a sort-of client of mine, who’s been arrested on suspicion of murdering a child. I’m afraid it’ll be legal aid, but she’ll definitely get that. She has nothing except her wages. She’s called Nicky Bagshot.’

‘The nanny in the Weblock case?’

‘That’s right. Have you been following it?’

‘Hard not to when it’s been on the front of every newspaper. That was another reason I believed your clerk’s illness story: the pictures of you were hardly flattering. Have they found the body?’

‘No. But they’ve obviously got something that’s justified an arrest. I don’t know what.’

‘OK, I’ll check it out. But, Trish, why are you doing this? I thought you were Antonia Weblock’s cousin. I’m sure that’s what the caption to the photo said.’

‘Yes, we’re second cousins.’

‘And you’re trying to get help for the nanny who at the very least allowed the child to be snatched and at worst caused her serious harm? Is that right?’

‘Yes,’ said Trish, not wanting to go into a long explanation and yet knowing that she would have to give him one if she wanted him to take on Nicky’s case. ‘For lots of reasons. One, I don’t think Nicky’s guilty; two, she’s so alone in the world that she asked to have me, of all people, informed of her arrest. I couldn’t
not
help after that. Look, I know it’s not exactly your line, George, but will you help?’

‘I’ll have a go,’ he said again but more lightly. ‘She can’t have a record, or she’d never have got a job like that.’

‘No,’ said Trish, dragging out the vowel as she remembered that Willow Worth had volunteered to pump her source at Holland Park Helpers for anything they had on Nicky’s background. ‘But I am trying to get more information on her past. I’ll chase it up this morning and let you know what I get later, if you’ll take charge down at the nick. Is that possible? I know it’s asking a lot.’

‘Why don’t I get down there and see what’s what and draft in one of the troops if it looks like being too time-consuming. As you say, she’s bound to get legal aid. OK?’

‘Wonderful. George, you are good to do this.’

He laughed, sounding friendlier and much less caustic than usual. ‘Not at all. I’m glad you came to me, if a touch surprised. We didn’t exactly part on good terms.’

‘No,’ said Trish, remembering how angry she had been when he criticised the way she had handled the summing up of his client’s case. ‘But you are the best. And you, after all, were trying to get me again a couple of weeks ago.’

She rang off without waiting to hear what he had to say to that, and dialled Willow’s number.

Mrs Rusham, the housekeeper, answered and told Trish that Willow was out for most of the day. She offered to take any message, but Trish did not feel inclined to leave anything more than her name. She put her finger on the telephone cradle and then tried to think what else she could do. It was only later that she realised that if anyone knew about the evidence that had justified Nicky’s arrest, it would be Antonia. Trish picked up the phone again and punched in the number.

‘Robert Hithe.’

She was so surprised to hear his voice that she almost dropped the telephone. She realised that his work crisis – whatever it had been – must be well and truly over.

‘Hi, Robert. It’s Trish here, Trish Maguire. How are you?’

‘You’re not usually that stupid. How the fucking hell d’you think I am? Have you got Antonia there?’

‘Here? No – why?’ Trish was accustomed to ignoring his hostility. ‘I assumed she’d be at home. That’s why I rang.’

‘No. It’s like the
Marie Celeste
here, and I need to get hold of her. Lottie’s dead.’

Trish felt as though a hand had closed about her throat and started to squeeze. She’d always suspected him, but that didn’t make it any easier to take.

‘Trish? Are you there, Trish?’

‘Yes.’ She coughed twice. ‘Yes, I’m here, Robert. Why did you say Charlotte’s dead?’

‘They’ve arrested Nicky Bagshot for her murder. She left me a note and that’s all she said in it. I’ve rung the bloody plods, but they won’t tell me anything else, not where they’ve found the body nor what was done to Lottie. Nothing. It’s a shambles.’

‘There isn’t a body. They haven’t found it yet.’

‘And just how do you know that, Trish?’ The suspicion in his voice did not sound convincing.

‘Because Nicky got them to inform me about her arrest and I asked when they rang me,’ said Trish, trying to keep her own voice free of everything she felt. ‘I’ve fixed for a solicitor to go down and make sure she knows her rights and has all the protection she needs.’

‘
You’ve
got her a solicitor? But why? What’s it got to do with you?’

‘Nicky asked to have me told.’ Why couldn’t Robert grasp the simplest thing that was said to him? ‘I did what I could for her.’

I’m gobsmacked, Trish,’ he said, sounding warmer and more human than usual. ‘And grateful. I wouldn’t have believed it.’

She decided to take advantage of his new softness. ‘Look, Robert, could I come round? There are things I need to know, and it’d be a lot easier to ask you than Antonia. Can we talk?’

‘Fine. But not here. There’s no point my kicking my heels round here if Antonia isn’t coming back for lunch. I hate this fucking house anyway these days. Let’s meet near my office. What about The Iced Pear? D’you know it?’

‘Just off Charlotte Street? Yes, I know it. I can meet you there in about half an hour.’

‘Make it three-quarters. I’ll leave Antonia a note in case she does deign to roll up. See you, Trish.’

Amazed that it was going to be so easy to talk to him, Trish ran up the spiral stairs to change. The Iced Pear was a newish, amazingly chic bar and restaurant mainly used by people in television and advertising. She did not want to risk distracting Robert by looking obviously out of place.

Ten minutes later, dressed in a cream lycra body, short black skirt and very long jacket, with much more mascara on her eyelashes than usual, she hurried out of the flat, pinning a long silver brooch to her left lapel as she went.

Robert was sitting on a high stool at the bar, gloomily drinking the latest ultra-fashionable beer from the bottle, when she got there, only ten minutes late.

‘Hi,’ said Trish.

Robert nodded. ‘Drink?’ he said by way of greeting.

‘Thanks. Um,’ She could not think of anything she wanted to drink with all the questions buzzing around her head. ‘Oh, a spritzer please.’