Take My Breath Away (13 page)

He stretched out on a sun lounger, sipping from a can of Stella Artois as the sun sank over the spiky skyline.
Why not Jazz?
Well, Jazz was no stranger to violent death. She had killed a lover years ago, but the guilt had crucified her and she’d confided in Dylan. Later, she’d made him swear not to tell another soul about her crime – or how it was connected with the rich man who burned in Paradise, the giant chopped in half, and the boy who died of shock.

He wiped his mouth and started leafing through his battered contacts book, punching numbers into his mobile. Time to acquaint himself with the dead. Thanks to Joel Anthony, he had a little more to go on. He hadn’t expected such startling frankness, but maybe it made sense. Joel was smart enough to be aware that something was wrong, without knowing what it might be. Something that threatened the firm in which he’d recently been elevated to partnership. Something, he’d hinted, that might destroy everything he’d worked for – unless someone on the outside started digging.

Matt Creed, Nic soon discovered, had left no family; his wife had died six months after him and they’d had
no children. But Alice Wythenshawe had gone back to her roots and lived with her mother in Scarborough. A few short miles from the town that never was.

Time for a shower. He closed his eyes and let cold water jets hose away the city grime. Afterwards he put on a fresh pair of boxer shorts and stretched out on the Ikea sofa in the living room. He lay there for a long time, gazing across the curving river. He’d ferried his things here before meeting Caron Isley, but had not had time to unpack. It made sense to keep most of the stuff in cases. He did not intend to stay long. Lea had announced her intention to put the place on the market and she was happy for him to stay until it was sold, but he meant to move on as soon as he had worked out what to do with the rest of his life.

One option was to quit London, quit city life for good. In fresh surroundings he might even find a subject he wanted to turn into another book. He’d spent most of his earnings from
Crippen
as well as the proceeds of the sale of his houseboat, but he didn’t need much to live on and he could still make a bit of money from odds and ends of journalism until inspiration struck. If it ever did. Come what may, he would survive. To start again might be the best thing he could do.

Nothing bound him to the city except his hunger to learn what Dylan had meant to tell him about the dead lawyers.
Why not Jazz?
Dylan’s last words had revealed bewilderment as he stared into the face of the woman who would kill him. He had believed Jazz was the one at risk. She had shared a secret with him and she was frightened. Frightened of the man she was supposed to be crazy about? Dylan had seen himself as her saviour. To him it had started as a game, but he’d found himself believing that everything she’d said was
true. Poor self-centred Dylan. He’d thought Jazz was in danger, had never dreamed that he would be the next to die.

Roxanne met the postman coming down the path as she set off for work. He handed her a thin bundle of letters which she stuffed inside her bag before breaking into a run for the station. Usually she missed the morning mail, but she’d overslept and was twenty minutes late. She’d fallen asleep the previous evening on the train home and missed her stop. It wasn’t as if she’d had much to drink at Sigmund’s, but so much had happened in such a short time. On arriving home at last, she had kicked off her shoes and flopped on the bed. Next thing she knew, it was ten to eight and she was lying sprawled over the duvet, still wearing crumpled office clothes.

She’d swallowed a mouthful of coffee, but there was no time for breakfast. On the train, she wondered if it was a mistake. The pangs in her stomach were familiar. They reminded her of what had happened all those years before. Hunger could be a sweet sensation. Seductive. She forced herself not to think about food, or starving herself. Things hadn’t reached that stage, not by a long way.

At Charing Cross she took a couple of minutes to go to the wash room and give her hair another comb. Dark rings were under the eyes gazing at her from the mirror. She splashed her face with cold water. She must keep her wits about her.

Hurrying down the corridor to her office, she came face to face with Chloe.

‘Mustn’t stop,’ Roxanne said. She remembered the pressure of Chloe’s hips against hers at Sigmund’s and
hoped she wasn’t blushing. ‘I didn’t hear my alarm this morning.’

‘I overslept as well,’ Chloe said cheerfully. ‘I was shattered last night, though it’s not as though we got pissed, is it?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Funny, isn’t it? Even if you’ve only had one or two drinks, your inhibitions start to disappear. Embarrassing, really. Then the next day, you’re afraid you may have made a bit of a fool of yourself…oh well, no harm done, eh?’

‘No.’

Roxanne went on her way. She’d dreamed of Chloe’s warm body the previous night, but now it was all a jumble in her mind. It was no good. She mustn’t start obsessing about Chloe Beck. Too dangerous. She had to bury herself in her work. There was no choice.

‘You were working late last night,’ Ben remarked when he called in midway through the morning.

She shrugged. ‘It would have been an early dart for a corporate finance lawyer.’

He smirked. ‘Maybe that’s why I never wanted to be a corporate finance lawyer. How about you?’

‘Employment law’s the only subject I ever cared for.’

‘It’s a hot topic. Political, economic, social overtones. Most of all, it’s about real people, not sub-clauses and schedules in a dusty tax statute. Human nature, with all its imperfections. Think of Howard Haycraft.’

‘I’d rather not,’ she said in a low voice.

He wagged a finger. His mood was gleeful and again she was reminded of a mischievous troll. He’d already announced that he’d received a reserved decision from a tribunal in Newcastle, the result of a battle he’d fought up there a fortnight earlier. It had been a tough and important hearing, a test case for a
major redundancy programme, but the panel had unanimously ruled in favour of his clients. Now they could safely proceed to close a factory at minimum cost. The shareholders would save a small fortune and eleven hundred people would be picking up their P45s.

‘Don’t take it to heart. A lawyer should never get too closely involved. Detachment gives us our strength.’

Something made her say, ‘Will Janus is involved with Ali Khan, isn’t he? They go yachting together, Will’s family stays in Ali’s Tuscan villa.’

‘That’s different. It’s all about rainmaking, getting the work in. Staying close to the client, working out how he ticks, keeping him happy. We’re like any other cutting edge firm, we keep a database of people who matter to us. Clients and contacts. At the click of a mouse, Fergus McHugh can come up with the names of their wives and kids, favourite football teams, golf handicaps. We need to know them inside out, make sure they love us, so they won’t take their business elsewhere. We have to give them what they want, all the time. It’s called relationship management.’

‘I see.’

‘You sound disapproving.’

Oh Christ. The last thing she needed right now was hassle from Ben. ‘It’s just that it seems so…’

‘Manipulative?’ The ginger eyebrows lifted. ‘Is that what you’re thinking?’

It was as if she were on the witness stand, like Tara Glass being cross-examined into a damning admission. ‘I suppose…’

‘Roxanne, it doesn’t happen overnight, acclimatising to a firm like this. Your last job was different. We’re not heartless here. It’s just that we’re advocates, very
good advocates, the best around. Don’t think of what we do as manipulation. It’s simply a kind of persuasion.’

She said nothing. It seemed safest.

He came and sat on the edge of her desk. ‘That’s what advocates do. We persuade people to say what we want them to say, to do what we want them to do. It’s not trickery, it’s technique. Almost like seduction, you might say.’

He held her gaze for a few moments, then slipped off the desk. ‘Must get on. If you need help, if anything’s on your mind, let me know. It needn’t be between nine and five. Think it over, Roxanne. You only have to say the word.’

It wasn’t until early afternoon that she remembered the mail she’d collected from the postman and fished it out of her bag. There was more of it than usual. A phone bill, a handful of circulars, a polythene-wrapped mail order catalogue. Plus a large brown envelope bearing her address and the typed legend
Roxanne Wake – For the eyes of the addressee only.

With a frown, she ripped the envelope open, yanking out the folded sheet of paper it contained. As soon as she glanced at it, she froze. It was a photocopy of a press cutting, two folded pages from a newspaper: a tabloid’s centre spread.

The first thing she saw was a grainy black and white photograph of a young woman lazing on a beach. Her minute bikini revealed a skinny body, the outline of her ribs plainly visible. Lying on the sand beside her was a man with perma-tan. She was gazing at him, as if mesmerised by the sharply defined features, the thick sensual lips. He was not looking directly at her, but rather surveying her slender figure. He wore the
proprietorial expression of a man surveying a golf trophy or his new sports car, and with good reason. No one had ever possessed Cassandra Lee in the way that Grant Dennis had possessed her.

Snatching up the piece of paper, she crumpled it into a ball and hurled it to the other side of the room, but after a few moments she could not help going to pick it up. She’d never seen the piece before; she’d vowed not to read about herself in the Press.

The door opened, and she bowed her head, hoping that whoever it was would take the hint and go away.

Click-clack, click-clack.

‘Roxanne! What is it?’

Chloe. Who else?

‘Nothing,’ she said in a muffled voice. She stuffed the cutting into a desk drawer. It must not be seen. ‘Just give me a few minutes, will you?’

But Chloe advanced into the room and folded her arms. ‘Don’t you think you’d better tell me what’s going on?’

‘Leave me. Please.’

‘How can I? For goodness sake, your eyes are red, you look as though you’re about to burst into tears.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Really. I’ll be fine.’

‘Please. Don’t treat me like a child, Roxanne. I’m not stupid. It’s not the work, is it? You may be new, but you can take that in your stride. Someone’s upsetting you. Why don’t you talk about it?’ A pause. Roxanne could almost hear Chloe’s mind working. ‘Hey, is that why you went to Sigmund’s last night? To unburden yourself – and then I showed up and stopped you? Oh shit. Roxanne, I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘Listen, you can’t keep it all inside.’

Roxanne gritted her teeth. ‘Can’t I?’

‘No, you’re strong, but you’re not invulnerable. No one is. You’re ready to share – whatever it is that’s bothering you. You wouldn’t have gone to Sigmund’s otherwise. I want to help. I don’t like to think of you crucifying yourself over something and nothing.’

‘It’s not something and nothing.’

‘Well, whatever. Even if it’s a calamity, isn’t it better to talk it over with someone, instead of sobbing quietly over your computer keyboard? Let’s take half an hour off, shall we? We could pop up to the restaurant.’

‘No,’ Roxanne said. The harshness of her tone caught her by surprise. ‘I mean, we can’t talk here. Not in the office.’

‘But we can get together?’

Chloe held her gaze. Roxanne couldn’t look away. ‘Maybe,’ she said in the end.

‘When?’

‘I don’t know. I want to get my head together first. Have a walk in the fresh air. On my own.’

‘Suit yourself. After work, then? Fine. I’ll see you here at six thirty.’

Leaning over the fence of the pedestrian walkway on Hungerford Bridge, staring into the unfathomable river, listening to a boat guide imparting factoids about the London Eye to a group of Japanese tourists, Roxanne wondered what story to tell. If Chloe talked out of turn, Roxanne would have to give up the job. If she was quick enough to resign before being sacked. Wasn’t it a criminal offence to give a false name on a CV? People lied to get work all the time; newspapers and magazines were stuffed with jokey articles about how to improve one’s career prospects by adding in a
few extra qualifications. But every once in a while, someone was caught out and sent to prison for obtaining a job by deception.

‘Despite what many people say, the London Eye is correctly described as an observation wheel,
not
a ferris wheel,’ the guide explained. ‘It’s a mistake often made, but you shouldn’t believe everything you are told.’

She had not shared her secret with anyone since breaking up with Hilary, but discretion had not kept her safe. Although she’d planned to start afresh, Hilary had tracked her down in no time. And now Hilary – it must be her, surely? – was playing cat and mouse with her, taking revenge for betrayal by sending the anonymous note and press clipping. Even if she didn’t talk to Chloe, would it make any difference?

The big wheel was turning on the opposite bank. Passengers moved round in their air-conditioned capsules, listening to the commentary and watching the closed-circuit television screens. For a while they would see everything from a different perspective. But they always finished up in the same place they’d started from.

At six thirty Chloe came for her. Even though she hadn’t finished drafting weasel words for Ali Khan’s dignity at work policy, she was sick of the task and allowed herself to be led to a bar off St Martin’s Lane. It was called The Yellow Jersey, because it was owned by a cyclist who had once done well in the Tour de France. The walls were festooned with posters extolling pedal power and the place was supposed to be a sort of unofficial headquarters for an anti-car anarchist cell. A group of teenagers and twentysomethings with studs
in every visible bit of flesh were huddled together in a corner, talking in whispers about reclaiming the streets. As Roxanne and Chloe came in, a couple of the people shot glances at them, before looking away, satisfied that the newcomers were not journalists or undercover police officers. As if.

All the stools and tables were made out of bits of bicycle. Stylish, distinctive and bloody uncomfortable. Chloe didn’t seem to care and the pair of them perched precariously in a quiet corner drinking lager and lime.

For an hour Chloe chattered away about all manner of things – soap operas, clothes, the never-ending saga of her implants – as if intent on putting Roxanne at her ease, not fussing or pressing her for confidences. There wasn’t much for Roxanne to do other than laugh dutifully at the jokes and exclaim in sympathy at each suitable opportunity.

‘Cheers,’ Chloe said on returning to their corner with replenished drinks. ‘To friends in need?’

They chinked glasses. ‘Friends in need,’ Roxanne said.

Her stomach still felt empty, but she liked the sensation of lightness. She sipped greedily and blushed as she realised Chloe was watching her. ‘The booze is doing me good. I’m beginning to understand why so many lawyers end up in Alcoholics Anonymous. First warning sign, eh?’

Chloe touched her hand. ‘You deserve a bit of time off for bad behaviour.’

Roxanne cleared her throat. No one could go on forever, keeping the past locked inside them. She needed to share a little and she wanted to share with Chloe. Chloe was interested in her; soon she’d find out how interested. She was a lawyer, so she would do what
lawyers do so well. Compromise. Fudge it. She’d tell Chloe the truth. But it wouldn’t be the whole truth.

‘It’s difficult for me to say this,’ Roxanne began.

Chloe studied her fingernails. ‘As it happens, I can guess what’s been going on. Even though you’ve denied it. It’s Ben, isn’t it? He’s made a pass at you and you’re afraid to say no. Afraid that’s why he took you on, afraid that if you turn him down, he’ll take revenge. Kill off your career before it’s started. Don’t worry, it’s…’

‘This isn’t about Ben. I can handle him.’

‘But I thought…’

‘Oh, he’s sent me one or two not very coded messages lately, but he’s wasting his time. I’m not just another of the Creed chicks. By the way, I’ve noticed that while most of the solicitors in the firm are women, hardly any of them ever make partner. But I never had any intention of sleeping my way to the top. I’m not interested in him. Or any other man.’

She hadn’t meant to add that last sentence and the moment the words slipped out, she heard Chloe’s intake of breath. Averting her gaze, she swore inwardly at her lack of legal caution. Hilary had once advised her, it was a mistake to come out too soon. First you had to make sure of your ground.

‘I see.’

Roxanne was gazing at an ageing poster on the wall. Eddy Merckx, head down and pedalling furiously on the final stage. ‘You can go now if you want to.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

Roxanne felt her friend’s hand covering her own, lingering there. Warming her. When she turned to face Chloe, she was greeted by a smile.