Gagged & Bound (11 page)

‘What d’you mean?’ Trish brushed some hair out of her face and reached for her spectacles so she could read over his
shoulder. “Lord Tick to be the government’s House of Lords spokesman on housing and the homeless.” Oh, I see. Even so, it doesn’t excuse his threatening me.’

‘Come on, Trish. It wasn’t a very big threat. You mustn’t be so sensitive.’

The phone rang before Trish could retaliate. George wanted her to leave it, but she could never do that.

‘I need to know who wants me.’

‘It’ll only be a salesman of some kind at this time of a Sunday morning.’

‘Hi,’ Trish said and heard Bee gasping her name. She decided to use George’s assessment of Simon Tick as a sedative. ‘Yes, I’ve read it too. But it means you shouldn’t worry so much. He probably got his solicitors to send the Letters of Claim so that if anyone else ever raised the subject, he could point to what he’d done and show that he was taking action. You can forget it now. Mystery solved.’

‘Forget it? Trish, are you mad? This means the papers will be more interested in him than they were before. They’ll start looking for stuff about him everywhere. Someone will remember my book and bring up Jeremy and the bomb, then to save his face Tick will have to take the claim further. It’s even more necessary to …’

Why did I answer the phone? Trish asked herself. Why is George always right?

‘Bee, calm down. You’ll drive yourself nuts if you go on like this. If you’re really worried, the best thing you can do now is to make an extra-thorough search of all the relevant websites on the internet. I know we’ve both had a quick look, but there must be lots more out there. Dig up every fact and innuendo you can find anywhere about Simon Tick. Among them may be other things he wants to keep hidden. If there are, you can almost certainly use them to bargain with – if Tick ever does come back to you, which I doubt.’

She saw George mouthing the word, ‘Blackmail?’ She shook her head. After another four minutes of exhausting reassurance, she said good bye to Bee and put down the phone.

‘It’s not blackmail, George. Just a way to give her something to occupy her mind, so she doesn’t tear herself to pieces – and to stop her phoning me every two minutes. Now, where’s that bacon sandwich? Providing all this TLC is making me hungry.’

Bee’s publishers worked in an old office building near Whitehall. It had probably once been filled with civil servants long since despatched to the regions. Now the halls and lifts had an air of age and mustiness, but inside the double doors that led to the editorial and design departments, everything was light and modern.

Trish tried not to look at her watch. There wasn’t any reason for her to be at this meeting, except that Bee had begged for protection in her last-ditch attempt to make Motcomb and Winter settle with Lord Tick before anything worse happened.

‘We’ve already said we can’t kowtow to his absurd claim,’ Jennifer, Bee’s editor said, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. ‘Hasn’t Bee told you that?’

‘She has,’ Trish said, wishing Jennifer would occasionally look at Bee.

They were behaving like a couple whose relationship was splitting under the pressure of infidelity. Bee kept trying to placate Jennifer, to make her smile and offer reassurance. But Jennifer continued to look grim. Trish thought of a comment of Bee’s, ‘We were once such friends’, and felt sorry for her.

‘But it’s giving Bee real grief to be kept hanging like this. Wouldn’t it be better to make the whole thing go away by paying a nominal sum and offering an apology for unintentional
defamation? Then it’s over, and none of you need worry any more.’

‘A nominal sum of ten grand, maybe?’

‘Possibly.’

‘And legal fees on top of that? His as well as ours? Absolutely not. Most of it would be within the insurance company’s excess, so we’d have to pay the whole lot, and there’s no way I could get my boss to agree to that. We cannot give in to this kind of blackmail, otherwise it would be open season for anyone who wanted a share.’

‘It’s all very well for you,’ Bee said, ‘but you’ve got the libel insurance as security. You can afford to hang on, knowing that if he does take it to court in the end you won’t go down for millions. I couldn’t begin to afford my share of that. I’d have to sell the house and with Silas getting iller and iller he couldn’t cope, and I—’

‘I’m sure there’s a provision to include you in the firm’s insurance cover,’ Trish said. One of the few practical things she had been able to do for Bee during the week was a little informal research among friends in the book trade. ‘That’s usually what happens, except in cases of extreme negligence. And you weren’t negligent. You just had horribly bad luck.’

‘Although it would have helped if you’d warned me that you hadn’t been able to check out the name Baiborn,’ Jennifer said, putting up both hands to pile her hair on top of her head, before letting it fall back all round her face. Behind her stood her cluttered desk, and behind that was a small window with an uninteresting view towards Trafalgar Square. ‘As a matter of interest why didn’t you? Because you thought it might make us cancel publication and you were so keen to see the book in print?’

Trish and Bee exchanged glances.

‘No,’ Bee said, with a firmness that made Trish feel the first trickle of optimism. ‘Because after I saw the search engine came
up with nothing from anywhere on the whole of the world wide web, I thought I was safe and it wasn’t a name that could belong to any real person. Jenny, why are you treating me as if I’d done this deliberately to give you trouble?’

‘I’m sorry.’ The gracelessness of Jennifer’s behaviour seemed to have occurred to her at last. ‘I’m probably being unfair. But it’s the last thing I need right now. Still, we don’t need to be quite so serious. Why don’t we have a drink? Trish?’

‘I can’t, I’m afraid. My brother’s waiting. Next time, maybe.’

When she eventually escaped, she found herself once more wishing she’d listened to George and refused to get involved. Walking out of the old grey building, she hoped he’d make it to Caro’s dinner tonight. His crisis at work meant she hadn’t seen him all week, and their few phone calls had been rushed and unsatisfactory. She missed him.

 

Simon’s face was stretched in the biggest smile he’d ever felt as he waited with the phone clamped to his ear. For the prime minister himself to want to welcome him into the fold was beyond the call of duty, way beyond it. A real mark of favour.

Hanging on, he thought of the well-known, softly growling voice that could set almost any heart fluttering. At last it came.

‘How are you feeling, Simon?’

‘Raring to go, Prime Minister. And grateful for the confidence you’ve shown in me. I won’t let you down.’

‘Good. Good. Together we can do great things. Homelessness has been the Cinderella of politics for far too long. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that’s about to change. No difficulties on this libel claim of yours?’

‘None, Prime Minister. We’re still in limbo, but so far everyone’s keeping mum, so there’s been no damage done. Issuing the Letters of Claim was obviously the right thing to do.’

‘Good. Good. I gather we’ll be seeing you at the reception
next week. We must have a word then. I look forward to it. Have a good weekend. Bye now.’

The smile stretched even wider, until Simon felt as though his cheek muscles might crack. It wasn’t the substance of the call that gave him such a pleasure, just being in friendly contact with the most important man in the country, and knowing that coming clean with the press secretaries about both the libel claim and the old financial hush-up hadn’t done him any harm at all. He really had arrived now. Thank God Trish Maguire and whoever was behind her had understood the risks involved in harassing him and gone to ground. He picked up the phone again to invite Camilla out to dinner to celebrate.

 

Having dropped David in Holland Park to stay the night with his friend Julian and his parents, Trish went through her wardrobe with care, looking for something suitable for tonight’s dinner. As a compromise between Caro’s instruction to dress comfortably and her partner’s high sartorial standards, Trish eventually chose plain black trousers and a short V-necked cashmere sweater in a colour she always described as pondweed: a kind of dark, dull, yellowish green, which looked like nothing at all until she put it on with a thick, twisted gold torc. Then it flattered her pale skin and made her look interesting rather than formidable. She even added some light make-up to enhance the effect.

She was rewarded for the trouble she’d taken when Jess kissed her and said, ‘Wow! You look great. Come and have a drink. We were late starting the cooking, as usual, so Caro’s only just rushed off to shower. I’m glad it’s you and not this police bloke. I hate the thought of him so much I’d never have managed to be polite enough without a buffer.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘Caro says he’s her biggest rival and I don’t want anybody else getting her job.’

‘It’s not mine yet,’ Caro called from the other end of the flat.

‘Morally it is,’ said Jess, leading the way into the living room, which looked as though it had just been de-cluttered by an expert. ‘Caro’s never had any breaks in the police. It’s her turn now after all the work she’s put in and all the crap she’s had to take for years and years. And all the people she’s helped.’

Trish had never heard Jess sound so passionately loyal to Caro, just as she’d never seen the room so clear of magazines, dying flowers and books. In the empty fireplace, a simple glass jar held a big bunch of fresh but out-of-season lilies. The black trestle table in the bay window was laid for six, and small white bowls of beetroot and parsnip crisps had been dotted about the room.

‘Try one,’ Jess said, seeing the direction of Trish’s gaze. ‘I spent ages this afternoon slicing and deep-frying them, so I couldn’t bear them to go to waste.’

The bell rang and she darted off to answer it. Caro appeared, tucking her waxed hair behind her ears, then smoothing her eyebrows. She was wearing newly washed black jeans, with a tight, low-cut black T-shirt, which showed off her gym-toned muscles, and a wonderful necklace made of stones that looked like small lumps of rough coal, interspersed with highly polished silver ovals. Her face showed less anxiety than it had last week, but she too was wearing an unaccustomed amount of make-up.

‘Hi, Trish,’ she said with an obvious effort to sound cheerful. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine. It’s great to see Jess so perky. And so aware of the job you want.’

‘I had to tell her something,’ Caro said, lowering her voice. ‘But there’s still a lot she can’t know.’

Seeing the worry back in her eyes, Trish was about to change the subject when Caro said, ‘I was feeling so weird that I was afraid she’d notice and start asking questions. At least this way
I can control what I say.’ She straightened her shoulders and brightened her smile, as she added in her ordinary voice, ‘How’s George?’

‘He
may not be all that perky tonight,’ Trish said. ‘He’s had to wade in to help a junior partner, who couldn’t cope with a client from hell, so he’s been working twice as hard as usual. I haven’t seen much of him the last week. And when we have spoken he’s—’

‘John,’ Caro said, smiling past Trish, who turned quickly to look at the newcomers.

She saw at once why Caro had been sure John Crayley would be a winner in any competition. Well over six foot and slim, but with good square shoulders, he also had an alert intelligent expression and a warm smile. He didn’t look remotely like a man who could have had his ex-lover shot to protect his own secrets. Trish hadn’t expected him to have ‘Owned by the Slabbs’ tattooed on his forehead, but she’d thought there might be signs of tension. True, when he wasn’t smiling he looked both tired and preoccupied, but so did Caro, and the last time Trish had looked in the mirror she hadn’t been that different herself.

Crayley shook her hand and introduced her to his wife, Lulu, who was equally good looking. She was well dressed, too, but neither of them was wearing clothes that cost more than the kind of money any honest copper could spend. Trish snatched a quick look at their watches and saw only standard high street stuff on their wrists.

‘What a relief!’ Lulu said, shaking hands with Trish. ‘I thought this was going to be a work dinner for John and Caro. I was all ready to feel like a spare part.’ Her smile dwindled, as she added, ‘Unless you’re in the job, too?’

‘Heavens no! I’m a barrister. I don’t even do crime.’ As she spoke, Trish wondered whether John Crayley had also expected a cosy evening with only Caro and Jess. If so, he’d covered his
surprise well. Remembering that Lulu had once been Stephanie Taft’s best friend at work, she added, ‘But I thought Caro told me you were in the police too.’

Lulu made a face and shuddered. ‘Only for a while. I loathed everything about it. Got out as soon as I could. I’m in PR now, which suits me. Better company, you know?’

In the uncomfortable silence that greeted the insult, Jess poured drinks for everyone. John turned courteously to Trish, the only person he’d never met before.

‘If not crime, what kind of cases do you do?’

‘Commercial mainly, these days,’ she said, bringing a tone of breathy eagerness to her voice as she gazed at him. ‘My only interest in crime is the sensation-seeking sightseer’s kind. Have you ever been involved in anything really, really big yourself?’

‘I only do routine stuff,’ he said, showing not even a hint of irritation. In his place, Trish thought, I’d snap like a crocodile at anything so silly.

‘I’d much rather talk about your work,’ he went on. ‘Why did you choose commercial law?’

‘I used to specialise in family cases, mainly child protection,’ Trish said, prepared to play along for a while. ‘But it got to me so much I couldn’t cope.’

‘Got to you?’ echoed Lulu, looking more interested. ‘How?’

Trish heard herself produce an unhappy teetering laugh, which she covered with an explanation as unemotional as she could manage. She wished she could forget the worst of the old cases, but they were in her mind for all time, however hard she tried to scour them out.

‘I’ve had colleagues who’ve said much the same,’ Crayley said, the sympathy he clearly felt making him look even more attractive. ‘There aren’t many people who can stand it for long.’

‘A lot of other barristers can and do. So do those saintly social workers. But I could see myself cracking up if I didn’t get out. Pathetic!’

‘Except that she wasn’t pathetic at all,’ Caro said, dropping a hand on Trish’s shoulder. ‘When she realised she couldn’t take any more, she negotiated a sabbatical and wrote an important book about crimes against children. After that, she went back to the Bar to build up her new commercial practice and is making a dazzling success of it.’

‘Hardly dazzling,’ Trish said, more grateful for the comforting gesture than the compliment. How had John Crayley managed to get her to reveal something that mattered so much to her so quickly? Was it something he always did with strangers to protect himself? Or was he just a good copper?

She remembered that she was supposed to be unmasking him, not the other way round, and made herself grin, adding, ‘But I have come to enjoy it.’

‘So you won’t ever go back?’ he said, turning it into a question rather than a statement.

‘I don’t know. There’s still so much I’d like to understand and do for children, but …’ Trish’s voice tailed off. Stop it, she said to herself. And sodding-well get to work!

‘What is it you want to understand?’ Crayley asked, sounding as though he cared.

‘So much. Mainly how abused children can best be helped to move on from what was done to them.’ Trish hoped she might be lulling him into thinking her no threat if she went on telling the truth for a while. ‘But also how we can prevent schoolgirls getting pregnant and giving birth to children they’ll come to resent because they’ve had no life of their own. Whether …’

Crayley came to sit beside her on the sofa. ‘You’ll never stop kids having sex. Some will always get pregnant and be too scared or ignorant – or lonely – to have an abortion. It’s a pity adoption’s so unfashionable these days.’