A Dead Man Out of Mind (14 page)

Nicola interrupted her in a flood of emotion. ‘Say that you'll marry us, as soon as we're both eighteen. Ben will be eighteen next month, and my birthday is in May. Then we can be married, whether my parents like it or not. Promise me that you'll marry us. Father Julian said that he would, and my mum wasn't half furious at him, but he's dead now so he can't. Father Keble Smythe says that he won't, because he doesn't want to upset my parents, but Mum couldn't hate you any more than she does already, so it won't matter. Please say yes, Miss . . . Rachel. Please?'

CHAPTER 10

    
Nevertheless, when he saw their adversity: he heard their complaint.

    
He thought upon his covenant, and pitied them, according unto the multitude of his mercies: yea, he made all those that led them away captive to pity them.

Psalm 106.43–44

Pamela Hartman rolled off Huw Meredith with a satisfied sigh. ‘Brilliant,' she said, when she was ready for talking.

‘Brilliant,' he echoed, meaning it.

Pamela Hartman, employed by Her Majesty as an immigration officer, had met PC Meredith about a year earlier, in the course of duty: a young man arrested by PC Meredith for being drunk and disorderly had subsequently been discovered to be an illegal immigrant. The two had hit it off immediately, and had been meeting once or twice a week since for a bit of extracurricular fun.

He was a tall, black-bearded Welshman, just one generation removed from the coal mines. She was a sophisticated blonde, a few years older than he, and from a solidly middle-class background. Both were married, but that was irrelevant. Neither was interested in anything permanent or long-term. Their couplings were sometimes playful, sometimes rough, occasionally tender, but always enjoyable. It was an arrangement which suited them both admirably.

Usually, as now, they met on a Friday evening after work, in the flat of one of Pamela's colleagues who spent weekends in the country, thoughtfully leaving her keys behind for Pamela's use.

Pamela sat up in bed and reached for a cigarette on the bedside table with sinuous grace. She had a loose-limbed body, casually sensual in its movements, reinforcing the message of her heavy-lidded eyes, her full mouth, and her tumbled mane of honey-blonde hair.

‘One for me too, love.' Huw Meredith's bass voice retained the sing-song cadence of the Welsh hills.

‘Mm.' She lit two cigarettes, blew the match out with a sensuous puff, and settled back down beside him in the rumpled bed.

He took a long drag and exhaled slowly. ‘Had a busy week?'

‘So-so. I've got a fairly heavy caseload at the moment. How about you?'

‘Just the usual sort of thing for February. A few cars pinched, and the odd burglary. Still a bit chilly for much hanky-panky on Hampstead Heath.' He grinned, displaying strong white teeth.

With her free hand she stroked the thick, curly black hair on his chest. ‘Poor buggers, with no nice comfortable bed to do it in.'

His grin widened. ‘Some people prefer it that way – adds to the thrill, you know.'

‘I suppose.' She sucked on her cigarette thoughtfully. ‘I can't see it, myself. I prefer all the comfort I can get.'

‘Don't I know it. It's just a shame that our hosts aren't thoughtful enough to provide silk sheets for our Pam.' She tweaked his beard playfully in retribution. ‘Ow,' he said, more for effect than from conviction, then gave her bare thigh a pinch that turned into a fondle.

Pamela, seeing in what direction things were moving, and regretfully conscious of the clock, searched her memory for some suitably entertaining anecdote to distract him. ‘Your mum collects funny names, doesn't she? Well, I came across a good one for her this week. Justin Thymme.' She spelled it for him. ‘Get it?'

‘Justin Thymme.' He suddenly looked alert. ‘What's he done, then?'

‘Done? He hasn't done anything. Nothing except get married, that is. I had an application come across my desk this week for his wife to be granted residency status as a spouse.' She smiled, remembering. ‘In fact, her name is a good one as well. May Thymme. Get it?'

Huw Meredith sat up straight. ‘Justin Thymme has just got married? You're sure?'

Pamela was puzzled. ‘Of course I'm sure. Why – do you know him, or something?'

‘We've met.' He watched her face as he went on, ‘On Hampstead Heath, as a matter of fact. A month or so ago. He had his trousers round his ankles at the time. Damn chilly, but there you are.'

Her brow furrowed. ‘You mean . . . ?'

‘Exactly. A fourteen-carat poofter.'

In spite of herself she laughed at the mental picture. ‘But he can't be! It must be someone else.'

‘Another Justin Thymme? Come on, Pam. Get real. It's him, all right. But it doesn't have to mean anything. You're a woman of the world – surely you must realise that even married men go cottaging.'

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘When did you say this happened?'

‘Round the middle of January, I reckon.'

‘But that's just about the time he was getting married, if I remember the application! I've heard of stag nights, but this is the first time I've ever heard of a man celebrating his marriage by having it off on Hampstead Heath! And in the dead of winter!'

He laughed. ‘What are you going to do about it?'

In one fluid movement she stubbed out her cigarette in the bedside ashtray and got out of bed. ‘I'm going to have Mr and Mrs Justin Thymme in my office first thing next week, or know the reason why,' she said crisply. ‘You just can't imagine the lengths some people will go to for the right to remain in this country – including paying poofters to marry them – and I have the strangest feeling that Mrs Thymme might be one of those people.'

‘Come back here. You can't do anything about it now, love.' He arranged himself to display his charms to their full advantage. ‘The main course was lovely, but now I'm ready for pud.'

‘Not now.' She was already beginning to get dressed, but avoided looking at him in case her resolution should fail her. ‘We're going out for a meal tonight – I've got to get home.' In a few moments the transformation was complete: in prim navy-blue suit and pristine white blouse, and with her hair tied back in a modest ponytail, Pamela Hartman was once again the image of an efficient female civil servant, on her way home to her husband.

The call came through to David on the following Tuesday. It was Henry Thymme who rang him, on behalf of his son Justin. ‘I'm afraid the boy needs you again,' he announced, with more amusement than chagrin.

‘But the charges were dropped,' David said, confused. ‘He hasn't done it again, has he?'

Thymme laughed immoderately. ‘Oh, no. Not that. At least if he has, he hasn't got caught. But it seems that the immigration authorities want a word with him.'

David was more confused than ever. ‘Immigration?'

‘They want to see him with his wife, actually.'

‘Wife?'

‘Didn't I mention that the boy had a new wife?'

Unseen by the caller on the other end of the phone, David put his head in his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘No, you did not.'

His tone must have communicated itself to the other man; for just a moment the persona of the amiable buffoon slipped to reveal the shrewd lawyer beneath. ‘I'm sure that the immigration people must be thinking exactly what you are,' he said frankly. ‘Though how they found out about it is beyond me.'

‘Tell me about the wife.' David's voice was flat.

‘She's Hong Kong Chinese. They married last month. A lovely girl,' Thymme added with his usual bluffness.

David sighed. ‘I don't know that much about immigration law. If you can't deal with it yourself, can't you find someone who's an expert in the field?'

‘The boy wants you,' Thymme said. ‘He was impressed with the way you got him off over that other business. He's your client now,' he added by way of a reminder. ‘You can't abandon him.'

David could think of a few things of a more violent nature that he'd like to do to Justin Thymme, but he refrained from telling his father so. ‘You'd better give me the details, then,' he said with ill-concealed resignation.

Thymme's chuckle reflected his satisfaction. ‘Justin will fill you in.'

Hoping to discover just what the immigration officer knew, and how he knew it, David arranged to have a short meeting with him before his client arrived. He needed all the help he could get, he admitted to himself as he entered the Immigration Office, located at Waterloo Station: his client, Mr Justin Thymme, had been as unhelpful as he'd expected during their initial conference on the previous afternoon, insisting that theirs was a love match and indignant that anyone could think otherwise. Mrs Thymme he had not yet had the pleasure of meeting.

In the event, the immigration officer turned out to be a woman, and an attractive one at that, though her manner was businesslike to the point of being intimidating. With a firm handshake she introduced herself as Mrs Hartman and escorted David to her office.

Ensconced behind her desk, she studied a file for a moment without speaking, before raising her head to meet David's eyes. ‘Well, Mr Middleton-Brown. What can I do for you?' Her voice was as crisp and as self-possessed as her appearance.

David's manner showed more assurance than he felt in the presence of this rather formidable woman. ‘As you know, my client's wife has applied for a change in her residency status due to her recent marriage,' he said in what he hoped was a firm voice. ‘It is my understanding that in most cases this is granted routinely, upon proof of marriage.'

Pamela Hartman nodded. ‘In general, that's true.'

‘Can I take it, then, that there is some problem in this particular case? Or is there some other reason that you've asked for this interview with my client and his wife?'

She assessed him for a moment. She had met her share of belligerent and demanding solicitors, but this one seemed different: there was a gentleness and a sense of integrity about him, in spite of his assured manner, and though she was determined not to show it, she warmed to him. ‘Let me be honest with you, Mr Middleton-Brown,' Pamela Hartman said; it was something she said often, but this time she meant it. ‘In this case there may very well be a problem.' She hesitated just a second before continuing, ‘I happen to be in possession of some information that has left me in some doubt as to the validity of this marriage.'

‘But I can show you the certificate,' he asserted. ‘They were married last month.'

‘Oh, I don't doubt that the marriage took place.' She looked down at the file, afraid that her amusement would show in her eyes. ‘But I do have my doubts about the . . . well, let's say the motivation behind this marriage.'

David's heart misgave him, but he kept his voice steady. ‘I don't understand what you mean, Mrs Hartman.'

She answered him in a roundabout way. ‘Do you have any idea what some people will do to get a British passport, Mr Middleton-Brown? Entering into a marriage of convenience is one of the easier ways to do it. I've seen people in this very office whose desperation has led them to do much worse things. Lie, certainly, and steal – there is a thriving trade in stolen marriage certificates at the moment – and practically anything else short of murder. Even that wouldn't surprise me, quite frankly.'

‘Are you suggesting that my client and his wife have contracted a marriage of convenience?'

‘That's exactly what I'm suggesting.' Pamela Hartman's eyes met his. ‘As I said, I'll be honest with you. I can't reveal my sources, but I happen to know that getting married wasn't the only thing Mr Justin Thymme did last month.' She smiled, a cool and almost mocking smile, and was unable to resist adding, ‘But as you're his solicitor, you probably know that already, don't you, Mr Middleton-Brown? Hampstead Heath, remember?'

‘Bloody hell!' In his shock, David was sure – almost sure – that he hadn't actually said it aloud, but given the glint of amusement in Pamela Hartman's eyes, he couldn't be positive. It was true: she was enjoying his discomposure, and even if he hadn't spoken, his thoughts were all too evident on his face. How on earth had she found out? And why had she chosen to reveal her knowledge? At least, thought David, he now knew where he – and his client – stood.

Justin Thymme and his new wife arrived a short time later. Even if he had not known what he knew about young Mr Thymme, David would have found them an oddly matched couple. He had a preconceived notion that all Chinese women were tiny; Mrs Thymme confounded that expectation by being several inches taller than her short husband, even in flat shoes. But she was slender and graceful, with a sweet, ingenuous smile and a manner that was eager to please.

And for once David could find nothing to criticise in Justin's demeanour: he was civil to David, courteous to Pamela Hartman, and showed every sign of loving devotion to his new wife, clinging to her hand and looking up at her adoringly. It was most disconcerting.

After the introductions they all sat down, the newlyweds inching their chairs closer together so they could continue to hold hands. Pamela Hartman caught David's eye and smiled in what he took to be a cynical way.

‘There is something wrong?' May Thymme spoke first. Her English was good – she had entered the country on a student visa and was studying English at University College London – but heavily accented. ‘Justin and I are married, since last month. We have papers. We can show you.' She seemed tense, and her dark eyes were large with worry.

Pamela Hartman studied her carefully before replying. Her instincts were usually good, but this was a difficult one to size up. Often in these cases it was all too apparent what had motivated the marriage, with the husband and wife treating each other as the virtual strangers that they were. But in spite of what she knew about Justin Thymme's sexual escapades, she wasn't so sure about this set-up. Either these two were better actors than most, or there was some genuine affection between them. It wasn't impossible, and she decided to give them the benefit of the doubt for the time being. There would be plenty of time later for getting tough, for interviewing them separately and asking them which side of the bed each slept on and how they squeezed the toothpaste tube. After all, this process of discovering the truth usually took months. If they were hiding something – and in spite of the appearances she was prepared to lay money that they were – it didn't hurt to be reassuring at this point, to lull them into a false sense of security in which they might betray themselves. ‘This is only a preliminary hearing,' she said in a soothing voice. ‘I'd like to see your papers, and then I'll ask you a few questions. With Mr Middleton-Brown's permission, of course,' she added with a nod of exaggerated deference in David's direction.