‘Hello, Nan. Sorry I’ve been out such a lot. One of my girls is playing up. I’ve done the collection and it’s all here.’
‘Thanks, Mikey.’ Her breathing eased. Even the kidney felt better. If it was one of his working girls making him so angry, that wasn’t too bad. They asked for it, those girls, after all. ‘I was writing you a note.’
‘So I see. Anything important?’
‘A little girl’s just been in to tell you that she’s seen the lady who came round here asking questions.’ His hands were suddenly so tight on her shoulders that she was frightened, but he took them off after a minute and she heard him laugh.
‘That must be Kelly. She’s a good little thing.’
‘She’s a nasty, greedy piece of work,’ Lil said sharply before telling him about the demand for money and the spitting. Mikey laughed again, a bit more natural-sounding this time.
‘She’s a bright kid, Nan. Don’t you worry about her. I’ll find her and pay her off.’
‘She only went a minute or two before you got here. I’m surprised you missed her.’
‘I’ll go and find her now.’
‘But …’
‘It’s important, Nan.’ He was halfway out of the door when he glanced back at her.
Lil saw the tight white look on his face and pressed herself back into her chair. Now she thought she knew just why Gal was scared of him.
‘We need to be sure who was asking questions about Jeannie Nest – and why, Nan. Don’t look so worried. I can sort it out.’
‘Mikey, what … ?’ Lil said, but he’d already gone. She reminded herself that he was a good boy, and not quite twenty-one, but the words seemed to have lost some of their power. She cut herself another slice of Battenburg, but the crumbs caught in her throat and sent her choking to the sink.
Trish was halfway across the bridge, planning to ring Anna as soon as she got home to make a new date to meet, when the rain came down like a cavalry charge, thundering and drumming as it hit anything solid. She was soaked through before she’d reached the end of the bridge, which seemed appropriate enough after the day she’d had. She’d flogged over to Whitechapel to see David on her way into chambers, only to find he’d been moved again. Neither Lakeshaw nor Caro would return her calls, so she had no idea what was happening. Robert Anstey had been peculiarly vile at the monthly chambers meeting this evening and Antony had watched her defend herself without showing the slightest support for her or dislike of what the bastard was doing. The one comfort in the whole miserable day was that Antony had come up to her afterwards and told her lightly that he’d always known she’d be able to wipe the floor with Robert if it came to a fight. She’d tried to talk to Antony about Nick Gurles, but he wouldn’t, telling her they’d talk after the deadline he’d already given her.
Now she could see water spurting back up from the handrails at the edge of the bridge and her shoes were squelching at every step. The smell of warm damp dust
was wonderful, but it couldn’t make up for the discomfort of the abrasively wet denim of her jeans, rubbing against her legs. And of course every taxi in sight was occupied. She put her head down against the deluge and walked as quickly as she could under the railway bridges towards her flat.
She was concentrating so hard on her feet that she didn’t see George’s Volvo until she was almost past it. Then she risked a quick glance upwards. Lights shimmered through the rain that filled her eyes and blocked her vision. Rushing up the iron stairs, barking her shin on the top step as she misjudged the distance, she fumbled in her pocket for her keys.
Two minutes later, she was plastered to George’s front, feeling the water trickling down her face and his lips clinging to hers.
The spiral staircase was too narrow to take them both side by side, so she went up first, feeling his hands on her hips. He slid his fingers down so that he could run them along the extra-sensitive strip at the back of her thighs. She wished she wasn’t wearing jeans. The thick wet denim got in the way. At the top of the staircase she turned. Five steps below her, George’s head was level with her breasts. He leaned forwards. His lips were very warm against her chilled skin above the T-shirt. She bent down to kiss him, and felt his hands on her zip.
By the time she’d got rid of all her clinging wet clothes, George was lying back against the white sheets in her huge bed. The San Francisco sun had turned his usual London pallor pale gold, which made his eyes even bluer than usual. She wanted to tell him how fantastic he looked, how much she’d missed him. But as he pulled her down beside him, she lost the urge to talk.
Sharing the shower later, half-drowning again as they kissed under the pounding jets, then swallowing even more
water when the effort to soap each other without falling over had made them laugh too much to breathe sensibly. Trish got water in her ears and soap in her eyes and she leaned against George’s hot, slippery body as he held them both up against the cold ceramic tiles. He said something, but she couldn’t hear with the water roaring in her ears. He turned the water off. In the steamy silence, he rubbed the soapy water from her face and told her he loved her.
‘Me, too.’ She backed against the door of the shower, pushing it open. Colder air played over her back. Shuddering in the contrast, she reached for three hot red towels and handed him one. She wrapped a small one around her hair so that it wouldn’t drip any more and tucked a big bathsheet around her breasts. ‘What about a cup of tea in bed? Or a drink?’
‘In a minute,’ he said, more serious than he’d yet been. ‘Trish, what’s been happening? Now I can see you properly, you look … worn to the bone.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said, rubbing a clear space in the condensation on the nearest mirror. She made a face at her reflection. ‘I look sleek and plumply loved. Now.’
‘Liar. Tell me, Trish.’
So she told him the easy bits, about Nick Gurles and the case, about David being nearly killed outside the flat, and about her probably neurotic fear of the man or men who might or might not have been trying to get at her or the flat.
‘You see, it’s nothing more than an idea in my mind. They were probably three quite different small young men with fair hair, and I’m not at any kind of risk.’
George grabbed her again, clinging as tightly as she’d clung to him downstairs. ‘Trish, if something had happened to you while I was away, I’d …’
She tipped back her head so that she could see his face. The surprising vulnerability he’d revealed in his emails was written all over it.
‘But it didn’t, George. I’m fine.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re scared.’ He rubbed a finger over each of her eyebrows in turn, then frowned and scooped a little water from under her eyes. ‘And there’s more, isn’t there? Something else you haven’t told me.’
Trish didn’t want him to hear about the miscarriage now, when he was so peeled, so unprotected.
‘What is it, my love? Are you ill? Have you found a lump?’
‘No. Nothing like that,’ she said as quickly as she could.
She didn’t want him worrying about cancer or worse. But she didn’t know how to lead into the enormous subject of their child in a way that wouldn’t hurt, and she couldn’t bear him to be hurt now.
‘Trish, this kind of suspense is worse than any bad news. What’s happened?’
In the end she just told him about the miscarriage directly, forcing herself to keep looking at him as she explained everything that had happened.
‘You look even more scared now than when you were telling me about Jeannie Nest’s killer and the man who might have been coming after you. You didn’t really think I’d shout and rage at you because of this, did you?’
‘No, of course not. But I thought you’d be hurt, distressed, upset. I mean, it was
our
child.’ Frustration made her tongue feel twice its usual size. ‘None of those words is quite right. But … don’t you know what I mean?’
‘Yes, I do. And if I sat down and started to think about dead children, I’d be all those things. More. But this isn’t about a dead child, Trish. This was only a potential human being, only a short stage further on from an egg unfertilised or a wasted sperm. It didn’t work out this time, but there’s no reason to suspect it never will. And if it won’t, it won’t. There’s more to life than reproducing; there really is.’
She felt as though someone had lifted a great heavy slab
off her body, noticing its weight only as it left her. But as the blood rushed back, it set up new pain.
‘Oh, George.’
‘What?’
‘You’re so … I don’t deserve you.’
‘I know,’ he said, laughing. ‘I’m perfect.’ She squinted at him, trying to think up some suitable retaliation, but she was too grateful to tease him now.
She put on some loose cotton trousers and a clean coral T-shirt and went down the spiral staircase to find something they could eat. There she saw that the table was already laid with candles waiting to be lit in the glass candlesticks. She hadn’t noticed either in the excitement of finding him here. Now, she became aware of spices in the air and garlic.
‘You’d been cooking. You must have been back for ages,’ she called over her shoulder.
‘I wanted you to have a celebration,’ he said, rolling up the sleeves of his oldest, softest blue shirt. ‘But there’s nothing that won’t keep if you’d rather go out.’
‘No. I’d love to have this.’
As they ate a lamb tagine with couscous, she told him that his email about her management of Nick Gurles’s case had been prophetic. Knowing that George was absolutely trustworthy, she also told him in detail about the incriminating document she’d found and the choice Antony had given her.
‘Tricky,’ George said, and from the heaviness in his voice she knew he’d seen all the implications at once. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’
Trish put her elbows on the table and started to peel an orange. The smell of spurting zest mixed with the hot wax from the candles made her feel like a child at Christmas.
‘Almost, but not quite. Every time I think of going along with the non-disclosure, I remember Jeannie Nest and what she risked in order to stand up for what was right. And then
I start thinking that Nick Gurles and everyone else involved at the DOB are no better than the loan sharks she testified against.’
‘Aren’t you exaggerating a bit, Trish?’
‘They’re all taking money from the needy – or greedy – for their own profit.’
‘There is one fairly big difference,’ he said with a laugh somewhere in his voice, ‘in that the Handsomes’ operation was illegal.’
‘Oh, I know. And once you add in the physical violence, there’s no real comparison, but still …’
‘Don’t look so worried, darling,’ he said as she put down her fork. ‘You’ll come to the right answer if you don’t scrape away at yourself like this. Antony’s right: give it time. Now, would you like coffee? Or some miraculous, truly sublime home-made vanilla ice cream?’
‘What?’
‘Come on, do have some. I spent hours picking the seeds out of vanilla pods, and then even more hours stirring the custard just so that you could have your favourite pudding. They also serve who only stand and stir, you know.’
He was so clearly trying to keep her from worrying that she said yes, please, she’d love some ice cream and meekly ate it with a crisp almond biscuit. He’d made those too.
When they’d done the washing up, she asked if he’d mind very much if she made one call to Caro Lyalt. He kissed her and said he ought to read his own office emails anyway, and if she wouldn’t mind his using her laptop and the second line, he’d be happy as a sandboy, whoever she wanted to phone.
Several of her friends had to cajole and negotiate for time alone when they were at home with their partners, but George had always been able to leave her free to work whenever she wanted. He would listen and do anything he could to help when she needed support, and he could even disagree in silence if she was in one of the moods when
overt critcism roused her to fury. She hoped she did as much for him.
She checked the number of Caro’s mobile and punched it in. The phone rang for a long time, but it didn’t divert to the message service. Trish didn’t count the rings, but they went on and on before she heard Caro’s voice.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me, Trish. Is this a good time to talk?’
There was a pause. Then Trish heard a sigh. ‘There aren’t any good times. But I’m not in a meeting, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Caro, what’s happening? I need to know.’
‘What do you need to know?’
‘First, where David is. I tried to see him in Whitechapel this morning on my way into chambers, only to find he’s been moved again. Second, why you’ve gone cold on me. Third, why Lakeshaw won’t return my calls either. Fourth, what progress he’s making with the murder.’
‘You know I can’t answer any of those. I’ve no information about his work or his ability to return calls. My own work is completely separate from his. Similarly I have no idea of your protégé’s whereabouts. All I do know is that there was good reason to think he might be in danger, and so he was moved. Social services were fully involved and quite happy with everything that was done. There’s no scandal here, no police brutality.’
‘Then why won’t you talk to me?’
‘Trish, don’t push me on this. You have your professional etiquette, I have mine. You know I can’t discuss cases that are under investigation. Oh, except that I can tell you the driver has been completely cleared of all suspicion that she deliberately drove over David. And that neither she nor anyone else heard the running footsteps you reported; nor did anyone see any evidence of another person at the scene.’
‘I’m not asking you to betray official secrets, Caro,’ Trish
said, mentally filing the news about Sarah Middlewich and the crash. ‘I’m asking you, as a friend, to explain what you think I’ve done – or might do – that’s causing you such a problem.’