Читать книгу Mine: The hot new thriller of 2018 - sinister, gripping and dark with a breathtaking twist - J.L. Butler, J.L. Butler - Страница 11

There was no getting away from the fact that I needed a new bag. Over the past week, the rip in the seam of my trusty Samsonite case had been getting longer and longer. Work had never been busier, with new instructions and cases springing to life after weeks of dormancy, and the numerous files that needed transporting between court, home and chambers, meant that my bag was one vigorous pull of the zip away from fatal damage.

I was brought up to be thrifty and part of me thought that I just needed to fix it. But I had no idea who repaired bags these days – cobblers? Tailors? In our consumerist society it seemed our only option was to buy a new one.

Glancing at my watch, I noted that it was not yet seven o’clock. Burgess Court was well placed for pubs but less convenient for retail therapy. But I calculated that if I took a taxi, I could be on Oxford Street by quarter past, out of there by seven thirty, and home in time for a ScandiCrime drama that was starting that week on cable.

‘You off home?’

Paul was standing at the door to my office with a bundle of files.

‘In a minute,’ I replied, fishing around in my desk drawer.

‘I’ve got something for you tomorrow, if you fancy it.’

I knew I should have turned it down but saying no to work had never been one of my strong points.

‘What is it?’

‘Freezing application tomorrow. Listed for nine thirty.’

I hesitated; the only reason I had earmarked a night in front of the TV was because my workload for the following day was relatively quiet.

‘I can get it biked round to Marie or Tim,’ he offered.

‘Give it here,’ I sighed. ‘It’ll save you hanging around for the courier.’

Paul looked at me, a smile playing on his lips. ‘You know, it’s fine to have the night off sometimes.’

‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead,’ I replied. Not finding what I was searching for in my desk drawer, I glanced up at him. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare carrier bag? My case is fit to burst and I’m worried it’s not going to make it home.’

‘I’m sure we can do better than a carrier bag for a sophisticate like yourself,’ he laughed, disappearing downstairs. He returned a couple of minutes later with a cloth tote bag branded with the Burgess Court insignia.

‘What’s this?’

‘Marketing. By the way, I popped the QC application forms in there for you.’

‘A master of subtlety, as usual.’

I left the office and hurried across Middle Temple, past our grand Elizabethan hall and the fountain firing a silver flume of water into the night sky. It was eerie after sunset, when the gas lamps had flickered on; the cloisters threw shadows around the square and the sound of your shoes against the cobbles tricked you into thinking you were not alone. Increasing my pace, I threaded my way down the thin, dark alley of Devereux Court, one of the artery routes on to the Strand, just as the rain began to fall. A cab responded to my outstretched hand and I jumped in before it really began to pour. The driver asked me where I wanted to go and I said the first department store name that came into my head: Selfridges.

I am not a great shopper. That gene escaped me and I don’t think it’s because I was once on free school dinners. I remember one client, a Russian model, who in one breath told me how she used to pick up rotten fruit from the markets to take home to feed her family, and in the next breath told me that she needed at least a million pounds in maintenance per anum from the property magnate husband she was divorcing. Growing up poor sent you one way or the other.

The taxi dropped me off on Cumberland Street. The rain was pelting down now and the pavements looked black and oily. Cursing the weather, I ran into the store.

I knew within minutes that I was in the wrong place. I hardly ever came to Selfridges and I had forgotten how expensive it was. Boutiques lined the outer perimeter wall: Chanel, Gucci, Dior, each one like a jewellery box, glitzy and polished. I preferred the shops in the City, where everything seemed more ordered and less dazzling for time-pressed people like me. But in the West End, in Knightsbridge, shops were caves of temptation for tourists and trophy wives, retail labyrinths designed to make you get lost and spend, whereas I just wanted to find a bag and go home.

Taking a breath, I told myself that it wouldn’t hurt to look, that my bag, my image, was my calling card. I browsed the central handbag area and a beautiful bag displayed on a plinth caught my eye. It was smaller than the pilot bag I had been carrying around the past five years, its black leather soft and buttery to the touch. It was a QC’s bag, I realized, as I picked it up and hunted around for the price tag.

‘I thought it was you,’ said a voice behind me.

I turned round and for a second I didn’t recognize him. His hair was damp from the rain, and he was wearing glasses with smart, tortoiseshell frames.

‘Mr Joy.’

‘Martin,’ he smiled.

‘Sorry, Martin,’ I replied.

‘Retail therapy?’

I started to laugh. ‘You make it sound pleasurable. I’m actually on a mercy mission to replace my briefcase.’

‘A woman who doesn’t like shopping,’ he said, his eyes playing with mine.

‘There are some of us.’

‘Nice bag.’ He nodded towards my hands and I shrugged.

‘Well, I can’t find the price tag, which is never a good sign. If you have to ask, you can’t afford it and all that,’ I said, feeling suddenly self-conscious to be talking about money with a client.

‘You’ve just had a birthday. Treat yourself.’

‘Yes, my birthday,’ I said, surprised that he had remembered. ‘That seems a long time ago now.’

He held my gaze and I could count the spots of rain on his forehead.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘My office is round the corner. I wanted to pop into the wine shop downstairs on the way home.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘It had better be.’

There was a brief silence. I didn’t know whether to make my excuses and leave, although I didn’t want to.

‘So I’m seeing you on Friday …’

I nodded. ‘The First Directions hearing. It’s all pretty harmless.’

‘Harmless? Donna has a lawyer whose nickname is “the Piranha”.’

‘Well, you don’t want to know what they call me …’

‘Are you going to buy that?’ His voice was soft and low, with a rasp that hinted of late nights and cigarettes.

I looked down and saw that I was still clutching the bag. My hands had made two long sweat marks across the leather.

‘Sorry, no. They probably think I’m about to steal it,’ I said, setting it back on its plinth. ‘I should let you go and buy your wine.’

He still hadn’t taken his eyes off me.

‘Any last-minute tips for Friday? In fact, while you’re thinking, come with me. Come and help me choose a good red.’

Before I could even think about refusing him, I was following him down the escalator into the basement, conscious of the thrill heightening as the escalator descended.

‘Just over here,’ he said as I followed him into the wine room.

I was impressed. It was large, well stocked and came complete with a bar that looked as if it belonged on the set of some glamorous Manhattan-based movie. There were racks of wine glasses hanging from the ceiling. The light was rich and low.

‘Drink?’ asked Martin. ‘Or do you have to rush off?’

‘I think I can stay for one,’ I replied without even thinking.

We walked towards the bar and he motioned towards a stool. The bartender handed me the menu. I wasn’t supposed to drink but I chose the 1909 Smash, a delicious-sounding concoction of gin, peach and mint. After all, that’s what you were supposed to do in the movies.

I perched awkwardly on the stool and wished my cocktail would hurry up.

‘So … Friday’s court hearing.’

I glanced over to him and realized that he was probably trying to get free information. There were no time sheets here at Selfridges’ wine shop, and suddenly I felt disappointed and duped.

‘Tips for Friday?’ I said, as coolly as I could. ‘Just stay calm.’

‘Why, what are you expecting?’ he said with a slow, cynical smile.

‘It can get quite heated and that generally doesn’t solve anything.’

The bartender returned with our cocktails. I took a sip and it was cold, sweet and refreshing on my tongue.

Martin swilled a stirrer around his drink so the ice cubes clinked against the glass.

‘David speaks very highly of you.’

I tried to brush off the compliment with a modest shrug.

‘David’s good. Really good. And I don’t just mean because he recommended me as counsel. Why did you choose him?’ I asked, always interested in the process.

‘I googled “top divorce lawyer” and his name came up.’

‘That’s how it works, is it? Like picking a plumber.’

‘Something like that,’ he said, looking at me over the rim of his glass.

‘And thank you for instructing me. Most men prefer male lawyers. I suppose they think they’ll be more macho in a fight. So hats off for not thinking like an alpha male.’

‘Actually, I did have my doubts about you,’ he said, putting his glass on the marble counter.

His candour caught me off guard.

‘Ouch,’ I said into my drink.

‘I’m just being honest. I know divorce isn’t about winning, but I wanted a QC. And I was worried that you’re not.’

‘The word “junior” is a bit of a misnomer,’ I said, looking back at him. ‘There are some barristers I know who were called to the Bar thirty years ago and who aren’t silks, not because they’re not brilliant but because it wasn’t the right decision for them.’

‘Is that the case with you?’

‘I’m probably going to apply this year.’

‘So if my case drags on, I won’t be able to afford you.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘To Francine Day QC,’ he said, clinking his glass against mine. ‘I’m glad you’re representing me. Although you’re going to have to explain what’s the bloody point of having both a solicitor and a barrister.’

I laughed. It was a question I got asked a lot and I gave the standard answer.

‘It used to be the right of audience in court,’ I shrugged. ‘That’s changed now, but I would say barristers are generally more comfortable with the advocacy side of things. Solicitors come to us with the more complex issues too.’

‘So you’re saying you’re cleverer than solicitors.’

‘We have different skill sets, that’s all.’

‘They say that, don’t they?’ he replied. ‘That politicians and barristers are just frustrated actors.’

‘Is that so?’

I caught the playful tone in my voice and I was aware that I was flirting with him.

There was a long complicit silence.

Martin observed me carefully, as if he was assessing me. It made me feel interesting.

‘I can imagine you treading the boards at Oxford.’

‘That’s such a long way from the truth it’s not even funny.’

‘Oh yes. LLB Birmingham. First class.’

I glanced at him in surprise.

‘Your CV is on the website.’

‘My dad is a bus driver. I went to a comp. I was the first person in my family to go to university.’

‘Then we’re not so different, you and I.’

I smiled cynically. Every ounce of him had the polish of a public school and Oxbridge. He caught my eye and knew what I was thinking.

‘Let’s get some food,’ he said, signalling the waiter. I have never been particularly good at reading men’s signals, but I could tell he was showing off.

We ate and danced around one another, easy conversation between mouthfuls of food, small plates of tapas that we shared. Only occasionally did I feel fleeting moments of panic that I shouldn’t be here, with a client, in a low-lit bar three days before the First Directions for his divorce proceedings.

‘Another drink?’

I noticed that the bar had emptied out.

‘I’d better not.’

He pushed his shirtsleeves up and I noticed what good forearms he had: strong and tanned with a light trail of hair across the top.

‘You probably think I’m a wanker.’

‘Why would I think that?’

‘The husband with money. Out to screw his wife.’

‘I’m here to help, not judge.’

‘Still, you’ve probably met a lot of men like me.’

‘I like acting for men. I think they get screwed a lot of the time, especially when there are kids involved.’

‘Your job – it must put you off marriage.’

‘How do you know I’m not married?’

‘I don’t.’

‘I’m not,’ I said holding his gaze a moment too long as the mood shifted instantly between us.

‘I think we’re about to get thrown out,’ said Martin, looking around. The place was empty. The waiter looked as if he was tidying up for the night. It couldn’t have been later than nine o’clock, but it felt late and intimate like the dregs of the day.

The bartender put our bill on a small silver tray. Martin picked it up and had it settled before I even had a chance to reach for my purse.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, putting his right hand on the small of my back.

We were ushered out of the store by a security guard and exited on to Duke Street. It was raining more fiercely than it had been when I came into the store, so hard that the rain bounced off the flooded pavements. My heels sliced through a puddle, splashing cold, dirty water on to my stockings.

‘Where’s a taxi when you need one?’ I shouted across the West End noise. My canvas Burgess Court tote was already sodden and I feared that the QC application form wouldn’t survive the downpour.

‘There,’ he said, as we lifted our coats over our heads, laughing, and groaning as we splashed through puddles.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

‘Islington.’

‘Then we can share,’ he said as he opened the door, and before I knew it I had jumped in.