An Immoral Code (8 page)

Rachel sat in the chair opposite his desk and stirred her coffee with a little plastic spoon. ‘I thought Mr Rothwell might at least have told you I was coming back,’ she remarked, feeling a little hurt that the senior partner had not thought the information worth passing on.

‘Darling, I’ve been in Calcutta for the past three weeks.’ Roger folded his hands behind his head and yawned. ‘Only got back yesterday.’ There was a pause as Rachel stared down at her coffee cup. ‘So, how’s the baby? And hubby?’

‘Oh, fine. It feels a bit strange, being without Oliver, but I imagine I’ll get used to it.’ Rachel realised she didn’t want to think too much about Oliver – the pang of separation was quite acute – and she changed the subject quickly. ‘So, anything you can’t handle at the moment? I need some work to get myself back into gear.’

‘Well, funny you should ask that,’ said Roger, swivelling in his chair and stretching to a shelf behind him. ‘Some instructions came in half an hour ago from one of the clubs … let’s see …’ Roger flipped through a slim sheaf of documents. ‘We’ve got a vessel carrying bagged cement sitting in Bangladesh, charterers haven’t paid the balance of freight, there’s accrued loadport demurrage of $233,000, the owners are going spare, all the usual thing.’ He pushed them towards Rachel. ‘Not exactly anything major, but something to be going on with until people realise you’re back. All the old favourites, like Mr Nikolaos.’

Rachel made a face. ‘Don’t. I can do without Mr Nikolaos and his disasters for a week or two.’ She glanced at the documents. ‘Freight prepaid bills, I take it?’ Roger nodded.
‘Right,’ said Rachel, and rose. ‘It’s a start, anyway. Thanks.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ said Roger, and smiled. Funny, thought Rachel, how Roger had dropped his natural lechery after she got married. Old-fashioned values, she supposed. Anyway, it made him pleasanter to be around. She picked up her coffee cup, and as she was about to leave Mr Rothwell came in.

‘Ah, Rachel. I wondered where you’d got to.’

Rachel held up the papers which Roger had given her. ‘Just drumming up work. From the state of my room, all my cases seem to have been poached.’

‘Don’t worry – I shouldn’t imagine anyone’s done much work on them over the past six months. You’ll probably get them back fast enough,’ said Mr Rothwell.

‘Exactly,’ said Roger. ‘Just whip out the usual letter to the clients: “We have now had an opportunity of considering at length the most appropriate manner of pursuing this action …” They won’t even know you’ve been away.’

Mr Rothwell leant against the windowsill and smiled at Rachel. ‘Glad to hear you’re in need of work, because you and I are taking some important new clients out to lunch today,’ he said. ‘They’re a Japanese company with a new fleet of tankers. Just be your usual charming self and I’m sure they’ll put lots of lovely cases your way.’

‘Sounds promising,’ said Rachel. ‘Anyway, I’ll get on with this in the meantime.’ She and Mr Rothwell left Roger’s office and walked back together to Rachel’s room.

‘By the way,’ he said, as they reached her door, ‘I’ve assigned one of the new secretaries to you – Barbara. She’s about forty, very efficient, but she does tend to come and go absolutely on the dot. She’s got children. You won’t be able to ask her to work late.’

‘You’re forgetting,’ replied Rachel with a smile, ‘so have I. You won’t see much of me after five-thirty.’

‘Good God, so you have! How absurd of me! No, no – of course.’ Mr Rothwell paused. ‘How is Leo, by the way? I instructed him on an oil spillage case a few months ago, but it settled. Haven’t spoken to him since. All well?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Rachel. ‘He’s acting for some Lloyd’s Names at the moment. Very busy.’ She realised that she did not wish to think of Leo at present, and her tone was faintly dismissive.

‘Right,’ said Mr Rothwell. ‘I’ll see you in reception at about half twelve.’

Rachel went back into her room, and closed the door, feeling happier. She hadn’t been forgotten. Mr Rothwell had particularly chosen her to meet these new clients, and take on their initial business. He still thought well of her. Smiling, she glanced through the faxes Roger had given her and picked up the telephone.

When he left the Groucho Club at three o’clock, Charles felt distinctly fuzzy and extraordinarily well. The glare of daylight did odd things to his eyesight as he scanned the streets for a taxi; everything seemed bright and a little fast. Really, sharing a couple of bottles of very good Pomerol was just the thing after a heavy night. It had put him right back on form. Still, it was probably just as well that he had nothing to do that afternoon except sit in the Court of Appeal for an hour or so and daydream. Daydream about those foreign rights, about the lovely great tide of money soon to be flowing into his bank account, while sales of his books soared worldwide. He was going to be the David Attenborough of historical documentaries. Still smiling, Charles hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the Law Courts in the Strand.

In Court Number 71, the postprandial atmosphere was distinctly lethargic. The Master of the Rolls was regretting having eaten that lamb curry at lunchtime, and Lord Justice
Manfred was, as usual, having a little difficulty in focusing his attention properly on Leo’s argument. Counsel on the other side were restive, gearing up for their turn, and the solicitors yawned and fidgeted as they listened. To the inattentive spectators, time in the courtroom had a suspended quality, the little play being acted out seeming to bear no relation to the busy hum of the world outside.

‘… My Lords, I would therefore submit that, on the basis of these documents, my clients did not possess sufficient knowledge to satisfy section 14A. The accounts may have shown over successive years a reinsurance to close premium which was substantially larger than the year before, but I would respectfully submit that this would not necessarily lead a Name to infer that the estimate in the previous year was wrong. I invite your Lordships to allow this appeal, and to discharge the declarations made by the learned judge at first instance.’

Leo drew his papers together with the tips of his fingers, and, with the merest inclination of his head in the direction of the Lords of Appeal, sat down. There was a general rustle and movement in the rest of the court, and Basher Snodgrass nudged Freddie Hendry with his elbow. Freddie, who had unwisely drunk three glasses of red wine with his roast beef sandwiches at lunchtime, had let his head fall forward onto his chest and was snoring gently. Now he jerked awake, and demanded to know how things were going. As he did so, Charles came through the swing doors at the back of the court and glanced around.

Leo, who had turned round in his seat to speak in an undertone to Murray, looked up and saw him and felt his heart give a little lurch of pleasure. That old, delightful feeling. He had not given a thought to the man since their last meeting at Nichols & Co, but the sight of his lean figure rekindled instantly the attraction which Leo had previously felt. His vanity made
him wish that Charles could have been there earlier to listen and watch. Still.

Charles caught sight of Freddie in the back row, sitting next to Basher Snodgrass, cupping his ear attentively to catch what Basher was whispering to him. He slid into the seat next to Freddie and asked how things were going.

‘Haven’t a clue, old fella,’ said Freddie in a loud mutter. ‘Can’t understand a blasted word of what’s going on. Davies seems to have spent most of the afternoon talking about some woman having her breast removed.’

‘That’s one of the authorities, one of the leading cases,’ said Basher in exasperation. ‘I told you about it at lunchtime. It’s germane to the question of whether or not a plaintiff needs to know that the thing they are complaining about was negligent at the time it happened.’

Freddie waved a veiny hand. ‘Load of nonsense, so far as I can tell.’ He leant towards Charles. ‘Anyway, Davies has done his stuff. You just missed it. The other side are on now.’

Charles caught a whiff of Freddie’s cheesy breath and sat back a little. He looked down into the well of the courtroom and saw Leo incline his head to catch something Anthony was saying, then laugh. Very good-looking man, Davies, with that silver hair and those clean-cut features. Must be about his own age. Charles unconsciously touched the slightly sagging skin beneath his own jaw, stroking it, then lifted his chin.

‘Well, Mrs Abbott?’ said the Master of the Rolls mildly, glancing at the defendants’ leading counsel. Mrs Abbott, a composed and confident middle-aged woman, rose. Leo glanced round briefly at the back of the court as she began to speak, and caught Charles’s eye. Charles found himself smiling faintly, as he tended to do when he had had too much to drink and nothing to think about, and Leo, as he turned away again, was aware of a slight thrill of satisfaction.

At the end of the afternoon, when the day’s proceedings were finished, a small group of people, including Basher, Freddie and Charles, stood in conversation outside the courtroom doors. Leo and Anthony came out, still in conversation with the other side’s counsel, and Leo felt faintly pleased and relieved to see that Charles Beecham had not yet left.

Charles caught sight of Leo and Anthony and came over.

‘How do you think it’s going?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t be here this morning.’

‘Oh, you didn’t miss much,’ said Leo with a smile. ‘It all seems to be going pretty well so far. I don’t think the other side are going to say anything they haven’t said before. Should be over by tomorrow afternoon.’ Charles nodded. ‘Actually, Anthony and I were just going to have a chat about it over a quick drink. Why don’t you join us?’

Charles hesitated, glancing at his watch. It was nearly five. No point in catching a train in the rush hour – he’d just have to stand all the way. Besides, he could feel his alcohol level dropping since lunchtime. Could probably do with topping up. Then he could have an early night and get on with some serious work tomorrow. Leo looked at him, taking in the narrow boyish face, the blonde curling hair that was beginning to grey attractively at the temples. He very much wanted Charles to say yes.

Charles smiled and nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I’d like to, thanks.’

Leo glanced over at Freddie and Basher. ‘I’d rather not have to listen to Freddie all evening, though, so don’t mention it to them. We’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes.’

Leo and Anthony went to the robing room and changed out of their wigs and gowns.

‘I told Charles Beecham we’d meet him next door for a drink,’ said Leo as he unfastened his collar. ‘Normally I’d do my best to avoid socialising with most members of the committee, but he seems fairly decent.’

‘Next door? Bellamy’s?’ asked Anthony. That particular wine bar was one of the favourite haunts of Sarah and her friends. He hadn’t heard from her since last Thursday, when they had argued after the party, and he didn’t particularly want to bump into her right now. He was still uncertain of his feelings about her, knew that she was potentially bad news, but had spells of longing for her delightful body and the pleasurable time spent in bed with her.

‘I think that’s the one,’ replied Leo, folding his robe into his red QC’s bag.

When they went into the wine bar Anthony scanned the place casually, but there was no sign of Sarah. He was surprised to feel a slight disappointment, and resolved to ring her later when he got home.

The three of them stayed in the wine bar for only an hour, but during that time Leo was at his best. He was witty, fascinating, everything he said and did was designed to captivate, and Charles thought him one of the most amusing men he had met in a long time. He felt considerable regret when, eventually, Leo glanced at his watch and said he had to go. Charles had just been thinking that it would fill in a blank evening for the three of them to have dinner together.

As Leo was putting on his overcoat, Charles said, ‘If we win, I’ll take you both out and buy you dinner. How about that?’ He liked the idea of spending another evening in Leo’s company, and Anthony was a nice chap, too.

‘You’re on,’ said Leo. He gave Anthony and Charles a quick salute of farewell and left. As he walked briskly to the station, he smiled to himself, aware of a certain sense of accomplishment. He enjoyed using his charm and powers of fascination to his own ends.

As she hurried home to Oliver that evening, Rachel’s feelings were a mixture of longing and anxiety. She had never been away
from him for such a long stretch of time. She had spent the past two weeks interviewing nannies, determined to find exactly the right person, but had realised, after several interviews, that such a person did not exist. At last she had chosen a quiet, pretty blonde girl, who seemed quite mature and sensible, had very good references, and played with Oliver easily and calmly throughout the interview, sitting him on her knee and bouncing him as she talked. Jennifer had moved in the day before, and had been quite unobtrusive so far. She had a bedroom, sitting room and small bathroom on the top floor of the house, and had spent the afternoon up there sorting her belongings out. In the evening she had come down to make herself a meal, exchanging some brief, friendly conversation with Rachel, and then she had gone out in Rachel’s car, to get used to driving it. Leo had been in his study working on his Lloyd’s case, and had scarcely spoken to the girl, beyond being introduced. He had taken no part in the employment of the nanny, leaving the matter entirely to Rachel. This had angered her – any normal man, surely, would have taken some interest in the person who was going to be looking after his infant son for most of the day. But then, she supposed, Leo was not normal.

As she opened the front door, Rachel could hear a murmur of voices from the kitchen, and when she went through she found Oliver sitting contentedly in his high chair, puréed apple on his chin and bib, and Jennifer talking to him as she fed him. An Australian soap burbled faintly from the television.

‘Hi,’ said Rachel, going forward to kiss Oliver, to smell his delicious baby fragrance and stroke his fat satin hands. He dabbed apple onto the cuff of her shirt. ‘How has the first day been?’