Читать книгу Mine: The hot new thriller of 2018 - sinister, gripping and dark with a breathtaking twist - J.L. Butler, J.L. Butler - Страница 18

‘Have a good night on Friday?’

I was filling the kettle in the small chambers kitchen when I turned and saw Tom standing in the doorframe.

‘Yes, thanks. It was fun,’ I replied, busying myself with lids and plugs so I wouldn’t have to look at him. Please leave, I said in my head, hoping it would work like a spell, but my magic was weak because Tom leant against the counter. Clearly he was in the mood to chat.

‘Hannah wanted to know where your dress was from.’

I froze, wondering if this was his way of saying that I was very dressed up at the gallery. Men didn’t usually notice those sorts of things, but then Tom Briscoe was the kind of man who didn’t generally miss anything, especially if he could use it to his advantage.

‘Hannah seemed nice,’ I said, dropping a teabag into my cup. ‘I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.’

‘I don’t,’ he shrugged.

‘Does Hannah know that?’ I asked, sliding the box of Twinings English Breakfast Tea towards him.

He stood in silence as we listened to the kettle bubble and finally click off.

‘So why were you there on Friday?’ he said. ‘Was it a date?’

So it wasn’t just a casual chat, Tom had smelt something in the air at the gallery.

I shook my head.

‘You really can’t believe I have anything resembling a glittering social life, can you?’

‘I’m sure you do on the quiet,’ he said. ‘All I meant was, that was a bloody hot ticket. Hugh Grant turned up after you’d gone.’

‘Should have stuck around then, shouldn’t I? Shame I’m so dedicated to my job.’

‘That’s why you left?’ he said with disbelief. ‘To go home and work?’

‘If you had my dedication, Tom,’ I said, filling my mug with hot water, ‘you might get on in your career. Instead, you’re hobnobbing with film stars and not having a girlfriend.’

‘Hannah? Well, Hannah’s … she’s a friend,’ said Tom defensively. I waggled a spoon at him.

‘Exactly what every woman wants to hear.’

‘It’s a complicated relationship.’

I nodded. ‘Yeah, well, aren’t they all?’

‘Ah, so it was a date,’ he said with a teasing smile.

‘Nope. But it’s nice you’re spending so much time thinking about my love life. Hannah will be pleased.’

I took my mug and backed out of the kitchen, waving. He gave me a sarcastic smile, but there was still something in his face. A curiosity, a hint that he knew – or at the very least suspected – something. It scared me more than it should have.

Brooding on what Tom might or might not know put me in a terrible mood. Outside, the sky echoed my mindset: dark clouds that looked like they could burst at any moment. Even so, I decided to go the long way round to get to my next appointment. The route took me past the river and the view of the silvery Thames always soothed me.

It was an unremarkable café. A chalkboard sign outside advertised tea and bacon sandwiches, there was an unappetizing selection of factory-made cakes in the display cabinet, the smell of old cooking fat was so strong it seemed to have soaked into the walls. Few barristers came here – and that was precisely why Phil Robertson liked it.

He was waiting for me at the back of the room when I arrived.

‘You’re late.’

‘So sue me,’ I grinned, glad to see him.

I’d known Phil for years. He was smart and funny, a former men’s magazine journalist who had been made redundant and used his research skills to reposition his career. These days he called himself an enquiry consultant, but really he was a snoop, a private investigator who did our dirty work. It wasn’t something our profession talked about much, especially after the press got into all sorts of trouble for doing it, although they went too far and broke the rules. But the truth was, the law needed people like Phil Robertson. Barristers are wordsmiths and nit-pickers, but to win, we need information, ammunition. We need missiles to throw at the other side. And it’s all done in the client’s best interest.

I ordered a black coffee and watched Phil tuck into a muffin.

‘So what have you got for me?’

‘She has a nice life, this one, doesn’t she,’ he said, wiping brown crumbs from his chin. ‘Posh lunches, nights out, shopping sprees … Remind me to marry well in my next life,’ he said, as I leaned forward, eager to know more about Donna Joy.

The waitress put a mug in front of me and I took a sip of the thick, black liquid.

‘It’s the nights out we want to know about.’

‘You mean, is she seeing anyone?’

I curled my fingers around the mug and looked at him expectantly.

‘I think she is,’ said Phil finally.

A shot of energy surged through me and I knew it wasn’t the coffee.

‘Donna’s seeing someone?’ I asked, feeling the euphoria build.

Phil nodded.

‘Who?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Phil, come on. What am I paying you for?’

He peered down his nose at me. ‘Here’s the rub. I think it might be the husband.’

Although I was sitting, it was as if I was suddenly falling, down, down through a trapdoor that had opened and sucked me into a dark and bottomless void.

‘Look, I know it’s not what you want to hear …’

The truth of his words almost made me laugh.

I tried to compose myself but I felt weak and dazed.

‘Are you sure? Martin Joy left his wife. He’s the one who wants a divorce. From my reading of the situation, he has a pretty low opinion of her …’

The words were coming out of my mouth as quickly as I could think them.

Phil finished his muffin and rolled the paper case up into a ball.

‘Look, I’ve asked around and tracked her – which, believe me, wasn’t easy.’

‘Why not?’ I asked, as coolly as I could.

‘Lots of parties I couldn’t get into. Trips overseas – one via Heathrow on March twelfth and a Eurostar journey last weekend. I couldn’t get through the gates on both occasions to see where she went. I did text David Gilbert for authorization for overseas expenses but he said not to bother.’

‘And you think these were mini-breaks? With her husband.’

‘I don’t know who she was with. All I can be certain of is that she travelled to the airport and King’s Cross on her own. And there were three or four other occasions when she didn’t return home. That made me think she was seeing someone. Then I saw her meet a man for dinner and they went back to the house in Chelsea.’ He opened a document wallet that was on the table and took out a photo.

‘There they are, Donna and Martin Joy.’

I forced myself to look. It was a black-and-white image that reminded me of a Robert Doisneau photograph. Donna was laughing, her long hair whipping around her face in the wind; Martin’s profile was handsome and strong. There was no denying that they looked beautiful together.

‘When was it?’ I could feel my lips in a thin, tight line. My throat was dry, a white-hot hatred for Donna Joy had muted me.

Phil indicated the photo. ‘Date’s on the back.’

I turned it over and saw that it was the Tuesday night when Martin had told me they had gone to talk.

‘This doesn’t mean much,’ I said, trying to reassure myself.

‘I know what you want here,’ said Phil, holding up his hands. ‘Proof that she’s seeing another man, that she’s got a new, serious relationship that could affect any maintenance payments your client will have to pay. But this isn’t it.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry, but if you ask me, these two look as if they’re still in love. I bet they don’t even want to get divorced.’

He smiled and put the photograph back in the document wallet. And my tepid, black coffee began to make me feel sick.