In Safe Keeping (9 page)

And that statistic was higher for wealthy people like the Peytons. They usually found a way to live with it.

‘You still haven’t told me what their problem is.’

And he wouldn’t, even if he knew. This was Duncan’s personal matter, and he’d only speak about it with his father in general terms, or discuss how the situation affected the development.

‘I’m not aware of the problem, sir. Duncan’s my client, and my best friend, but I’m no third wheel in their marriage.’

George snorted. ‘He’s got bad taste in women, his mother always said so. He gives them business advice, that’s how he gets them. The first one wanted her own fashion label, and this one wants her own range of skincare cosmetics. Business advice — from someone without a business brain.’

Evan said nothing. He’d heard it all before. Despite what George said, he loved his son.

‘I wish he was more like you.’ George said.

Evan winced and raised the glass to his lips. The Cognac went down smooth as silk and he closed his eyes in appreciation. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘You know what I mean. He’ll never be you. Those first nine years before I took you in, they made you who you are — hell of a time though it was. You lived off your wits, learned how to survive. That’s something you can’t teach.’

‘I was lucky I could play football.’ Evan swallowed another mouthful of Cognac and thought of Laila’s reaction to what she’d learned today.

How would she react if she knew he’d played a part in Scarlett choosing her as a lawyer? Somehow, he didn’t think she’d be grateful for the endorsement.

‘You could really play football.’ George’s nostalgic statement brought Evan back to the present.

‘You only brought me down here to help Riverview win the premiership,’ Evan said, pleased the conversation had taken a lighter turn.

‘You’re right. I didn’t like you at all.’

They laughed. This is how it was between them. George thought of him as a second son, and Evan loved the tough old coot who’d given him an opportunity to make something of himself. The Peytons were the only family he’d known since his mother walked out and never came back.

‘You were the best, as fast as the Aboriginal kids,’ George said between puffs as he attempted to re-light his cigar. ‘Christ, when I first saw you, you were so brown I thought you were one of them.’

Evan smiled at the memory. Old George had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and thrown him in the bath. Then he’d given him his first hot meal in about six months and asked where he lived.

It was the start of a relationship that had lasted to this day.

They were quiet for a while, and once again Evan’s mind drifted back to Laila. She’d accused him of not telling her he was ‘mildly famous’. Well, he wasn’t the only one keeping things close to his chest. She’d never mentioned her foundation, the most important thing in her life, according to Mike. He’d managed to find out a bit about that this afternoon.

‘What is it with Scarlett?’ George inhaled, holding the thick Cuban between shaky fingers. ‘You go somewhere, and she doesn’t mix. She sits alone on a chair likes she’s special and expects everyone to come to her.’

There was a pause, then. ‘Do you think she’s met someone else?’

Evan turned to look at him. ‘I’ve no idea. I had a long talk to Duncan on Saturday. He doesn’t know what the problem is. She won’t talk.’

‘Yeah, that’s what he told me.’ George blew out a puff of smoke, the pungent aroma wafting towards Evan and turning his stomach.

Shit! As if he hadn’t inhaled enough smoke today.

‘I’m worried about the Chinese,’ George said after a while.

Evan swirled the Cognac in his glass. He’d expected George to say he was worried about Duncan.

‘I am too. We have the construction firm ready to go, and then there are the subcontractors.’

‘Little people?’

Evan nodded. ‘With families.’

‘Christ! What’s the chance of it all going down the shitter?’

‘There’s every chance if we don’t get a quick property settlement.’

George turned, bushy eyebrows pulled into a frown over the top of his wireless glasses. ‘Who’s this lady lawyer?’

Evan’s heart seemed to stand still.

He cleared his throat. ‘Laila Richards. She’s a single practitioner.’

‘Any good?’

‘Very competent.’

‘That’s bad news.’ George turned away and stared at the view. ‘Do we have anything on her?’

For a second or two, Evan wondered if he’d heard correctly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean, son. Everyone has a secret. Find out hers. Sometimes, a little pressure can be brought to bear, a little inducement offered.’

Evan’s heart pumped fear through his veins, and his fingers tightened around the glass. Surely George wasn’t thinking of putting pressure on Laila, or offering her a bribe, for god’s sake!

His mind rocketed backwards. He knew the Peytons had used people once or twice in the past to recover large amounts of money owed to them by those who refused to pay. Standover merchants, who operated outside the law, and were very effective. Not that he’d been privy to any direct knowledge. But he’d never forgotten his shock when Duncan had let it slip once.

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ he said, realising George was expecting some kind of response. ‘She’s reasonable enough. We spoke after court, and she’s agreed to an urgent mediation. Throwing our weight around could do more harm than good.’

‘Hmmm.’ George raised the lighter and re-lit his cigar. ‘Well, keep me informed on that, will you?’

Evan stayed quiet, a cold weight settling like a stone in his gut.

‘What happened to your hand?’ George asked suddenly.

Evan spread out his fingers and turned his hand over. ‘I touched something hot.’

‘A woman, I hope?’ George put down the lighter and laughed at his own joke.

‘A stove.’

Evan lifted his glass and drained the last of his Cognac.

It was the first time he’d ever lied to George Peyton.

1:30 p.m. Tuesday

Laila worked on the Peyton case from home, documents spread over the kitchen table, coffee pot at arm’s reach. Having the file in her briefcase had proved to be the one bright spot in a dark twenty-four hours.

Now she pressed on, determined to get as much work completed while she waited to hear from the building manager and the police.

Bringing the dictation handset close to her mouth, she finished the letter to Evan. ‘We confirm we have spoken to our client, who is agreeable to an early mediation of the proceedings. New paragraph. Accordingly, we look forward to hearing from you further, regarding a suitable date and time. Yours faithfully. Now Mike, if you could let me know immediately we hear back from Poole Greenwood. I’ll need to advise Scarlett of that date as soon as possible. That’s all for now.’

Laila clicked off the recorder, eyes sliding to her iPad. Last night she’d been too angry to bother searching for Evan online. But all morning, a rising curiosity had disrupted her concentration like an attention-seeking child.

Sliding her iPad towards her, she rolled her eyes at her own weakness. Hopefully, once she’d satisfied her interest, she’d be ready to close Evan Barclay’s metaphorical file and store it away in the archives.

Typing ‘Evan Barclay Sydney lawyer’, she waited for the results. Almost immediately, the screen filled with newspaper articles about his shift to Poole Greenwood.

Laila scrolled through the searches. She remembered reading all these after seeing the article in the
Law Review
. There were a number of short reports from the business sections of the newspapers. The articles mostly referred to his close association with his school friend, Duncan Peyton, and his family.

Laila closed the articles and scrolled further down. Towards the bottom of the screen, a heading caught her eye.

John Barclay recalled to Wallabies squad following knee surgery.

John
Barclay? So that’s why she hadn’t looked.

Laila clicked on the heading, breath catching in her throat as an image appeared on screen. The photograph showed Evan clad in the representative green shorts and gold jersey, running for the line, ball tucked securely under one arm, the other outstretched as he fended off an opposing player.

He was younger, and more bulked up than now, his hair longer and a shade lighter beneath the headgear. But it was the familiar expression that sent Laila’s mouth dry and her heart racing — the concentration, the drive, the single-minded determination to win what was in his sight. It was all there, along with the massive biceps, the straining ligaments, the pumping thighs as he charged towards the try line.

Laila closed the article and opened another. This one claimed he was among the best Australian centres ever. Another said he’d reverted to his first name when he’d been sworn in as a lawyer. A more recent one lamented that, while Evan John Barclay was still in demand as an after-dinner speaker, he rarely accepted invitations.

Little was known of his earlier life, before his time at St Ignatius College, Riverview, where he was credited with being the architect of the school’s two premiership wins during the time he was a student. According to another article, there was a much-anticipated biography in the works, but when asked for his thoughts on the subject, he’d refused to comment.

Laila sighed. So much for closing her metaphorical file on him. The man was an enigma, and he intrigued her — more so now than in the beginning.

She moved her finger across the screen and pressed on ‘Images of John Barclay’. Immediately, the screen filled with pictures of him playing, celebrating, being sprayed with sparkling wine, a look of pure delight on his face. And then there were the awards nights, the red carpets, the tuxedoes, the medals, the procession of beautiful women on his arm.

Laila switched off the iPad, her curiosity replaced with a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

He’d assumed she’d known.

And he liked it that she hadn’t.

Laila leaned back in her chair and thought back over the last six weeks. Okay, so they hadn’t gone out, but he’d been generous. He’d brought over Indian and Asian food, not that he’d eaten any. He’d stacked it in her freezer so she wouldn’t need to cook during the week. And one morning, she’d woken to find a beautiful carry bag on her kitchen table. Inside were scented candles, massage oil and a luxurious bathrobe, which she loved.

Still, Evan would have known there’d come a time when she’d question him, so there could only be one possible explanation as to why he hadn’t told her.

He hadn’t expected it to last.

Laila swallowed hard and set the coffee pot on the gas stove to boil. She’d been right to sever the relationship last Friday. She wasn’t the kind of woman who could hold onto a man like Evan Barclay. Judging by those photographs, he was used to dating flashy models with a high-octane lifestyle. One girl’s gown had a sheer mesh bodice that left nothing to the imagination, her nipples covered only with exotic embroidered flowers. Another was accessorized with fake tattoos and gold bracelets to both elbows.

Laila rinsed her mug in the sink while she waited for the water to boil. By comparison, she was a former army wife with a serious job — boring and conservative, with a troublesome family to boot.

He’d even said as much in the foyer the other night.

And that conservative little suit. It’s so proper. I can’t wait to get it off you
.

Maybe that was her appeal. She was still sowing her sexual oats, the ones she hadn’t sown before marrying her high school sweetheart.

She was pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee when the doorbell rang.

It was Grind, standing on the veranda, baggy jeans slung so low they exposed half his bright red Mr Men underpants.

‘Hey.’ He gave her a goofy smile when she opened the door, eyes peering from behind square, black-rimmed glasses.

‘You change your hairstyle more than I do.’ Laila stepped back so he could come inside, grateful for the distraction. His hair was now shoulder length on one side and shaved on the other. The shaved side was dyed a bright punk pink.

He shifted his weight, hands shoved in the pockets of his tracksuit jacket. ‘I get bored if it’s always the same. And dad’s friends keep telling me to make the most of it while I can.’

Laila gave the new style a dubious look. ‘The most of what?’

‘Having hair. All them are bald.’

‘Oh.’ Laila laughed and tried to imagine her parents’ reaction should they ever meet Grind. She was pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to see past the spacers in his ears.

‘You want coffee?’

‘You’re an addict,’ he said by way of an answer, but he trailed after her into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

‘Probably why I can’t sleep.’ Laila gathered the Peyton file together and shifted it onto the bench.

‘Sorry it’s taken me an age to come by. We’ve been on a mini tour up the coast for a few days.’

‘Really?’ Laila handed him a cup of steaming coffee. ‘How’d it go?’

‘The pub at Woolgoolga went off. One chick got me to autograph her boobs.’

‘Livin’ the dream.’ Laila grinned over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘She’ll probably never wash them again.’

‘Hope not.’ He shot her a quick look from behind his glasses, a gentle pink staining his cheeks. ‘You should come to one of our shows at Scruffy Murphys. You’d like it.’

Laila lowered her mug and thought of the Irish pub down by the Haymarket. The place looked like a bit of a dive, the polar opposite of The Bowery, with its pretentious clientele.

Suddenly, she wanted to go, wanted to dance and let her hair down, forget everything from the past few days. She glanced at the Peyton file. A week ago she’d been so thrilled to win Scarlett as a client. Strange how things had gone from bad to worse since then.

‘Maybe I’ll swing by this weekend,’ she said, embarrassed she hadn’t made the effort sooner. It wasn’t the first time Grind had asked. ‘I went online and liked your band page though.’

‘Oh cool.’ He pointed his thumb and index finger like a gun. ‘I added you too. Took a look at your profile.’