A Dead Man Out of Mind (21 page)

Restlessly he left his desk in the late morning and wandered downstairs to the firm's library. From the shelves he pulled a few volumes of cases and precedents; based on the date of the accident, he could judge with a fair degree of accuracy when the legal aftermath was likely to have occurred. He settled down at a table with the weighty books and began flipping through them.

It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for. He read through it twice, just to make sure that he hadn't misunderstood; his eyebrows went up and his mouth rounded in a soundless whistle.

Lucy had been right about one thing: there was a great deal of money involved. Although the settlement that Rachel had been given in compensation for her own rather minor injuries was not large, nor was the amount awarded for the death of her daughter, that was only the beginning. She had also been awarded a generous settlement – much more generous than was usual – in compensation for the loss of companionship and financial support of her husband. That was in addition to the even larger sum bestowed on Colin, based on the curtailment of his brilliant future as a scientist and the likely cost of his medical care over his expected lifetime. All told it added up to an astronomical sum, in excess of a million pounds.

It sounded like a lot of money, but David realised that it was not over-generous: private medical care for brain-damaged people was cripplingly expensive, and over a number of years the money would be eaten away, even if the capital was carefully invested. But the settlement had been made less than a year ago, so little of the money would have been spent. That meant, thought David, that at the time of her death Rachel Nightingale had been in possession of a tidy fortune. On her death it would have gone to Colin, but now Colin was dead as well. Someone, he thought, has done very well indeed out of the two deaths, occurring as they had in that particular order and with such convenient proximity in time.

It was nearly time for lunch. During the past week, David had been encumbered with Ruth at lunchtime; in spite of his contention that the girl was perfectly capable of going round the corner for a sandwich on her own, Lucy had been firm. It was a part of her overcautious reaction to her position
in loco parentis
that had led Lucy to insist that Ruth was not to travel anywhere in London on her own, a restriction that Ruth resented every bit as much as David did. And so David had been reduced to eating his lunch in Ruth's company at a sandwich bar in High Holborn, thus missing out on the legal gossip on offer at the various pubs and wine bars clustered around the Inns of Court which catered to members of the bar, solicitors, and assorted hangers-on in the profession. Indulging in a bit of professional gossip over a drink at lunch was one of the things he most enjoyed about working in London, and after a week of bland sandwiches and even blander conversation – if you could call Ruth's peevish and non-communicative noises that – he felt out of touch; today, without her, he could catch up. He headed for El Vino's, perhaps the most venerable of the establishments frequented by lawyers, vowing to treat himself to a smoked salmon sandwich and a half-bottle of the house champagne in celebration of his unexpected freedom from the
enfant terrible.

In the five or so months that he'd been in London, David had made quite a few contacts over lunchtime drinks. Entering El Vino's, he scanned the crowd for a likely source of gossip; to his disappointment, the only familiar face he saw belonged to none other than Henry Thymme. That was one person he definitely
didn't
want to talk to, he decided. He found a seat at a table with a view of the bar, ordered the champagne and sandwich, and retreated behind his newspaper, noting with interest an item about a forthcoming sale at Christie's, featuring ecclesiastical silver and other bits and pieces. It would be worth stopping by one day when he was in that area and picking up a catalogue – not because he was likely to buy anything, but just from general interest.

When his lunch arrived he put his paper down and glanced in the direction of Henry Thymme, curious to see what he was up to. Thymme seemed to be enjoying an uproarious drinking session with another man at the bar; his face was even redder than usual, and his voice boomed out across the room. ‘Time for another, dear chap?'

His companion nodded, turning to the bar. He didn't look familiar to David; in fact, there was something about him – about the cut of his suit, perhaps, or the cut of his hair – that seemed to indicate that he wasn't a lawyer. Not that there weren't impeccably dressed and coiffured barristers and even solicitors, especially in this part of Fleet Street, but somehow David didn't think that this man was one of them. He was tall and thin, sharp-featured, with an artistic swoop of grey hair and a trim grey moustache to match, though he didn't look much over forty.

His curiosity satisfied, David returned to his newspaper as he sipped his champagne and ate his sandwich, becoming engrossed in an article about a church treasurer who had managed to embezzle a mind-boggling sum of money over a period of some twenty-three years before being found out when the new incumbent decided to have a look at the books. ‘Ah, the good old C of E,' he muttered, shaking his head. But his cynical ruminations were interrupted by a cry of delighted recognition at his elbow.

‘Middleton-Brown, my good man!' Henry Thymme hailed him. ‘Why are you hiding behind your newspaper? Come and join me for a drink!'

‘But . . .' David protested feebly.

‘No buts, my friend. You're all alone, and that's not a good thing to be. In fact, it's not allowed at El Vino's, is it?' he insisted, addressing the last query to the waitress, who shook her head obligingly, mindful of a good customer. ‘What are you drinking, my boy?' he went on, pulling up a chair across from David.

David swiftly calculated his intake. He'd finished off a half-bottle of champagne; he could safely have another glass or two and still be able to function in the afternoon. Realising that there was no escape, he capitulated. ‘Well, I was having champagne.'

Thymme snapped his fingers at the waitress; he seemed to have trouble making them work properly. ‘A bottle of your best champagne,' he ordered.

It arrived promptly, on ice, and was poured out with ceremony. David, whose budget didn't usually run to that particular brand, took an appreciative sip. ‘Lovely stuff. Thanks.'

‘I like a man who knows his champagne.' Leaning across the table, Thymme confided loudly, ‘That's one of my disappointments with the lad. Young Justin. Never has developed a taste for good wine. Says he prefers lager, like some football lout. Or sweet sherry – even worse. A great disappointment.'

The subject of Justin Thymme was one to be avoided at all costs. Casting about wildly for a neutral topic of conversation, David observed, ‘Are you alone? I thought you were with someone else.'

‘
Was
, dear boy. He's gone now. Client of mine, just had some good news. Wanted to buy me a drink.'

‘Yes?' David wasn't particularly interested, but any alternative subject was to be encouraged.

Thymme shook his head ruminatively. ‘Just goes to show you how quickly things can change. You know what I mean?' David nodded his encouragement, and Thymme lowered his voice to a volume more appropriate for the delivery of confidential information. ‘When I saw him a week ago, he was ready to cut his throat. Not literally, of course, but the man was pretty damn low. Lost a packet with Lloyd's. Not the only one, of course – hell, plenty have. But that wasn't all, poor sod. Rich wife. American. She's just left him. Left him or chucked him out, I'm not sure which. Found out he's been screwing his secretary. Found out how much money he'd lost. Can't really blame him about Lloyd's, of course. But between you and me, my friend, he's got a weakness for the ponies, as well. He's in rather deep to a few unsavoury types. When his wife left him, he didn't know how he was going to raise the cash.' He shook his head again. ‘Life's funny, isn't it?'

David was fascinated in spite of himself. ‘What happened?'

‘Oh, didn't I tell you?' Thymme's voice dropped to a whisper. ‘He's come into an absolute fortune. A million at least. His brother died, and he'll get everything. Even after death duties, it's a hell of a lot of money. Now it's up to me to get the divorce settlement pushed through before the will is settled, so his bitch of a wife can't get her filthy little hands on any of the dosh.'

‘Francis Nightingale?' whispered Lucy in amazement; they had to keep their voices low so that Ruth, languishing in the sitting room, wouldn't hear them. ‘But how clever of you, darling!'

‘Not clever at all,' David replied with a self-deprecating but pleased smile. ‘You might say that it was handed to me on a plate – or more accurately, in a glass. Thymme was so legless by that point that he didn't care how indiscreet he was being. He told me everything I ever wanted to know about Francis Nightingale, including the fact that he's due to get all of his brother's money. And that he needed it pretty badly.'

They were in the kitchen, preparing supper. David related the gist of Thymme's revelations under the cover of running water as he washed the lettuce.

Lucy's verdict was swift and succinct. ‘He sounds like a complete sod.'

‘Absolutely,' he agreed. ‘Just like his solicitor. But the point is, Lucy love, that I should have trusted your instincts. Francis Nightingale had a hell of a motive to run his sister-in-law down and make it look like a random hit-and-run. Rachel dying when she did, before Colin, saved his bacon – if Colin had died first, Francis would presumably not have seen a penny of all that money.'

‘But how could he have known that Colin was going to die? If, like Emily said, he'd had these infections before, why should anyone think that this one would kill him?'

David turned the water off and shook the lettuce vigorously. ‘You're forgetting the other thing that Emily said. That after Rachel was dead, it was up to Francis whether he pulled the plug or not – whether Colin received treatment for the infection.'

‘And you think . . . ?'

‘I think,' said David, ‘that if the police aren't going to take a closer look at Francis Nightingale, someone else is going to have to do it.'

CHAPTER 18

    
Plead thou my cause, O Lord, with them that strive with me: and fight thou against them that fight against me.

Psalm 35.1

The next morning, David sat unproductively at his desk, trying to think through the puzzle of Rachel Nightingale's death. He was by no means convinced, even yet, that it had been anything but accidental, but he admitted to himself that there were some circumstantial grounds for suspicion. It certainly would have been possible, in any case, for her brother-in-law to have been involved. Rachel went to see her husband every night, presumably at a regular time. From that supposition it took only a small leap for David to arrive at the conclusion that anyone who knew of her routine, and that surely included her brother-in-law, would have been able to lie in wait for her to cycle past. It really had nothing to do with him, he acknowledged, though he was curious nonetheless. Would it be possible to make some discreet enquiries, just to satisfy himself? If so, how might he go about it? Before he'd had time to formulate a plan, a call came through from Henry Thymme. It was an occurrence that David had come to dread, heralding as it always did some further problem with ‘young Justin', so he picked up the phone with trepidation.

Thymme sounded unusually subdued; perhaps, thought David, he was just hung over. He certainly deserved to be, given the quantity of alcohol he'd consumed in the early part of the previous day, let alone what he'd probably drunk later. ‘I've realised, my dear boy, that I might have been just a touch . . . ah . . . indiscreet in our conversation yesterday. From what I can remember, anyway,' he added with a more characteristic chuckle.

‘Think nothing of it,' David assured him.

‘The thing is, old chap, I could use your help.'

‘Oh?' He tried to keep his voice noncommittal, but he was afraid that it sounded as dismayed as he felt. Here it comes, he thought. The latest escapade of Justin Thymme. The immigration office's investigation into the validity of the younger Thymme's marriage was still in progress; had the fool done something idiotic to jeopardise that? Surely he hadn't been back to Hampstead Heath . . .

‘I think I mentioned that I was handling my client's divorce, and that I wanted to expedite it as much as possible.'

‘Yes, you did mention that.'

Thymme cleared his throat thoughtfully. ‘Well, I've remembered that the wife's solicitor is a partner at your firm – Russell Galloway.'

‘One of the senior partners,' David amplified.

‘Yes, of course. The thing is, I was rather hoping that you might do me a great favour and have a word with him.'

‘Oh, yes? About what, exactly?'

Thymme's voice took on a wheedling tone. ‘About this divorce settlement. Try to get him to speed it up at his end. Without telling him what I mentioned to you yesterday about the money, needless to say.'

David was astonished at the man's effrontery. ‘And why should I do that? Why should I want to do something against the best interests of a client of one of the partners in my firm?'

There was a pause on the other end of the phone as Thymme chose his words carefully. ‘I like you, my boy. You've done well by me and the lad so far, and I think you're a damned good solicitor. And with all due respect to Sir Crispin and Fosdyke, Fosdyke and Galloway, I also think that you could do better for yourself. I could use a smart chap like you in my firm. I could offer you a partnership straightaway, with a substantial financial incentive, and unlimited potential for advancement. What do you say, Middleton-Brown?'