Take My Breath Away (10 page)

You can change your name, but you can’t change who you are.

A statement of the obvious, frankly. But she must do whatever was in her power to ensure that it didn’t wreck her life. No one had the right to do that to her. Her skin grew cold as anger seized her. It scared her and yet she was glad that she could still succumb to rage if that was the only way to save herself.

Breathing hard, she started to shred the sheet, ripping the message with a relentless rhythm. She didn’t stop until she had reduced it into bits too tiny ever to be put together again. Then, with her hand full of specks of confetti, she walked to the women’s room and flushed them down the loo. As the water gushed and swirled in the bowl, she felt a spurt of satisfaction. It was an act of physical defiance. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she realised that she looked a mess. But appearances meant nothing. She would never surrender to her unseen enemy. Cassandra Lee’s spirit lived on.

A legal charity was having a garden party on the North Lawns in Lincoln’s Inn. It was an annual event, but Nic had never attended before. The Lawyers’ Benevolent Society offered assistance to indigent families of deceased conveyancing clerks and others whom time had forgotten, but its social activities appealed to him no more than origami or Morris dancing. On the other hand, Will Janus was chair of the Society and sure to be there. Nic heard a distant trumpet as he walked down Holborn and quickened his pace.

The evening was dry and bright, the best part of the day after a rare flurry of afternoon rain had left puddles on the pavements. The gardens were filling as he arrived. The entertainment came from Brief Encounters, a quartet of barristers, two men, two women, kitted out in straw boaters and striped blazers. They were playing ‘Come Fly With Me’ as if their lives depended on it.

The air smelt of damp grass. He accepted a glass of Pimm’s and, walking past the makeshift bandstand, scanned the crowd until he caught sight of Will Janus, deep in conversation with Fergus McHugh.

Nic strolled across to join them. Will was relaxed and elegant in silk Richard James chinos and hand-stitched alligator belt. He greeted Nic as an old friend, rather than someone he’d had three conversations with in his life.

‘You know Fergus, I think.’

Fergus McHugh said, ‘We were introduced at the Lawyers in the Media Awards Dinner.’

He was a tall, softly spoken old Etonian. Nic had heard that his late father had been something important in the SAS, but Fergus had broken with family tradition by eschewing Sandhurst and opting to read PPE at Oxford. The study of Nietzsche and Machiavelli proved an ideal training ground for a career in marketing and communications and he controlled Creed’s media relations with a military precision that would have brought tears of pride to his father’s eyes. Even when he was flattering journalists, his voice always seemed to carry a note of menace. Knocking copy about Creed seldom saw the light of day in the bitchy legal press. One reason was that Will Janus was squeaky clean. The other was Fergus McHugh.

‘Quite a memory you have.’

‘Yes, I never forget.’

The chilly blue eyes yielded no clue to his thoughts. Fergus was a gifted communicator who never gave away anything unless he wished to. Everything he did was aimed at getting results. And he did get them: Creed in general and Will Janus in particular were never out of the public eye. His flair for spinning a story would have made Aesop jealous. Journalists gave him their grudging respect. He wasn’t simply one more no-brain bullshitter whose press releases had a natural home in the wastepaper bin. By and large, he gave the media what they wanted. It was more than most Public Relations people could claim.

‘Shocking news about Dylan Rees,’ Will said in sombre
I feel your pain
mode. ‘I read in the papers you were an old friend of his, going back to law school days.’

‘You knew him, I gather.’

‘Will knows everyone who is anyone,’ Fergus said quickly.

‘Dylan did business with us,’ Will said. ‘He and I bumped into each other now and then but I can’t claim to have known him well. A dreadful tragedy. Such a pointless waste of two lives. I hear you were quite a hero, by the way. You did your best to save your friend.’

Nic shook his head. He couldn’t forget that if he had moved a little quicker, Dylan would still be alive. ‘I don’t understand why the girl kept biding her time for so long.’

‘The hate must have been there all those years,’ Will said. ‘Lurking beneath the surface. Ready to flare into vengeance at any time.’

‘But what lit the spark?’

‘Who knows?’ Fergus said with a shrug meaning
who cares?
‘Ah well, life goes on. Another drink?’

Nic said, ‘Dylan once told me Creed was one of his best clients.’

‘We certainly paid him enough in fees,’ Will said. Affable to a fault.

‘Your firm’s had its share of bad luck,’ Nic said dreamily. ‘Dylan was talking about it, last time we spoke. The car crash which killed Bradley Hurst. Poor Matthew Creed.’

‘A lot of firms would have crumbled, losing people of that calibre,’ Fergus said, unfazed. ‘Not Creed. Stuff happens, but you have to move on. Look to the future, not the past.’

Nic said, ‘Of course, you’re right. I was looking at your website. So much progress in so little time. Even since Matthew Creed died.’

Fergus jerked a thumb at Will. ‘Here is the man who’s done it all.’

Will laughed and made a few modest remarks about the joys of team-working. Fergus stood with his hands in his pockets; he might have been waiting for a wind-up toy to come to a halt.

‘As Amy Vinton cut Dylan’s throat,’ Nic said carefully, ‘he muttered a few words.’

Fergus took a step forward. Their bodies were almost touching. He radiated physicality, a sense of power.

‘What did he say?’

‘It meant nothing to me.’ Nic paused. ‘
Why not jazz?
’

The others stared at him.

‘Any idea what he meant?’ Will asked.

Nic shook his head. ‘There was another odd thing Dylan said, last time we spoke. About Matthew Creed. I wondered what he meant.’

‘What did he say?’ Will asked casually.

‘He spoke of Matthew burning in Paradise. Strange, don’t you think?’

Perhaps he had a playful streak. Certainly, he relished the reaction of his audience as he allowed his voice to trail away. It was worth dropping a stone in the pool and counting the ripples. Fergus was studying him, as if trying to see into his mind. There was a nervousness about Will’s eternal grin, as if he couldn’t decide whether it was wise to humour this flight of fancy.

‘Dylan never dealt with Matthew,’ Will said.

‘How did Matthew die, as a matter of interest?’

‘In his sleep,’ Fergus snapped.

Brief Encounters had segued to ‘The Look of Love.’ A couple of eminent child care barristers who’d consumed too much buck’s fizz had started slow-dancing to the music, egged on by a group of braying friends.

Nic said, ‘Matthew Creed was scarcely an old fogey. Fifty-seven and a pretty active fifty seven, by all accounts. Remember that time he cycled from Land’s End to Hadrian’s Wall in aid of trade union charities? Pink Lycra shorts and all. In the photographs he looked as fit as a flea.’

Will tutted. ‘You’re so right, yet what Fergus says is perfectly true. Poor Matthew died in his sleep.’

He was so assured, he just had to be right. Impossible that the great man could lie over something like this. What would be the point? Nic guessed that Will was telling the truth but not quite the whole truth. That was what lawyers did all the time.

‘Heart condition, then?’

‘I’m not an expert on the medical details. To be honest, I’m a tad squeamish at the best of times.’ Will smiled, ever self-deprecating. ‘Don’t forget, Matthew’s death came as a great shock to us. We were all pretty numb.’

But not so numb, Nic thought, that he hadn’t contrived to be anointed as senior partner within a couple of days. Ben Yarrow, his rival and at one time Matt Creed’s heir apparent, had never stood a chance.

Fergus said, ‘You sound as though you’re checking us out, Nic. Don’t tell me you’re planning to write about Creed for your next book?’

‘That would be telling, wouldn’t it?’

‘We’d love it if you did,’ Fergus said unexpectedly. Nic caught the bafflement in Will’s eyes, and Fergus’s swift nod of reassurance. ‘I’m not talking about an authorised history, a piece of sanitised puffery masquerading as research. No, you’re a serious writer, tell our story as you see it. Warts and all. Have a look round the office, talk to people, make up your own
mind as to how we’ve coped with the loss of Matthew and Bradley.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Watch my lips,’ Fergus said. ‘We’d be thrilled to see you. Our shoulders are broad, our skin is pretty thick. We all read
Crippen
, we know you thrive on challenging received wisdom. Tilting at the establishment.’

‘And Creed has become the establishment?’

Fergus’s satisfied smile reminded Nic of a conjurer who has carried off an illusion before the audience’s very eyes. ‘Remember our marketing.
Lawyers who are different, a new kind of law firm, blah, blah
. Look at us with an open mind, that’s all we ask. You can have the run of Avalon Buildings.’

‘Including freedom of information?’ Nic asked, teasing.

‘On a need-to-know basis, sure.’

Fergus grinned. With a few words, he had twisted the conversation around. As if by magic, he was back in control. Will was keeping quiet, content to let Fergus have his head. Their expressions were inscrutable. But then, they all worked in the law, were past masters at hiding what they believed in their hearts. Assuming they believed in anything.

Nic glanced up at the sky. It had turned purple, like the choleric face of a gouty old colonel. On the bandstand, Brief Encounters were still giving it their all. As a chill settled on the North Lawns, they were playing ‘(They Long To Be) Close To You.’ They changed their tune so smoothly, you could tell that they were lawyers.

It had been like this with Crippen. He’d become possessed by the idea that the man might not have killed
his wife. A sort of literary Stockholm syndrome. Taken captive by the little doctor, he had almost fallen in love with him – or rather with the dream of proving him innocent of the crime for which he had been hanged. He’d picked up fragments of information here and then, collected bits of memorabilia whenever they came along. Later, when the book was in the bestseller lists, he’d bought Crippen’s turnip watch at auction, paying a huge price, not daring to tell Phil.

His theory was irresistible, if only because of its absurdity. Crippen had gone to his grave protesting innocence. What if he hadn’t killed her? If the corpse in the cellar at Hilldrop Crescent did belong to Belle Elmore and her husband had told a tissue of lies before his desperate flight across the Atlantic, must that mean that he was guilty of murder? He obsessed about sex with Ethel le Neve, but hated meeting his wife’s demands. Suppose he’d decided to give Belle an anti-aphrodisiac. He was so inept, he might easily have given her an inadvertent overdose of hyoscine. His lawyers had rejected it as a line of defence, but suppose they were wrong? How would he have felt, what thoughts would have jostled in his mind as his world fell apart until at last he found himself walking out to the gallows?

Crippen was history. No one cared if Nic turned up ninety-year-old stones. Dylan had talked wildly of murder for pleasure, and less than twenty-four hours later he too had been killed. It suddenly came to Nic that in his heart he didn’t believe Dylan’s death was a coincidence. The answer lay buried in Creed, it must do.
Lawyers who are different
– no argument, Fergus was right. Nic wanted to find out just how different they were.

Creed were holding a breakfast seminar at the Cafe Royal, the theme
Dignity at Work,
and Fergus had invited him along. While a girl at the welcome desk ticked off his name, he cast his eye down the guest list. Government departments, local authorities, private and public companies galore were represented by senior officers. Will Janus had transformed his firm into a market leader, crammed with high-calibre specialists versed in acting on behalf of captains of industry.

Once it would have been unthinkable for Creed to attract such a blue chip crowd. Bosses were seen as the bad guys by their traditional clients: the shop floor workers, the whistleblowers, the victims of workplace bullying. It was as if Robin Hood had opted to move with the times and focus on advising the rich about how to improve their ethical investment strategies.

Ten minutes after the last Full English had been served, Will marched on to the stage and started talking about trust and confidence. This time he had on a Donna Karan navy shirt and taupe pashmina socks. His little Italian boots were of such soft leather that you could almost see his toes moving inside them. On the screen behind him, his enlarged image surveyed the scene, like a revivalist preacher surveying his flock. The law’s gain had been the Church’s loss. His parents were missionaries and during his teens he’d planned to follow in their footsteps before discovering there was more than one way of achieving an ambition to evangelise. He was multi-faceted, and the facets were as carefully co-ordinated as matching furnishings at an ideal home show.

Nic, standing at the back of the room, turned and found himself gazing into the cold eyes of Fergus McHugh. ‘Glad I never had to fight a case against Will,’ he whispered. ‘It would have felt like blasphemy to suggest his client might be in the wrong.’

Fergus smiled. ‘It’s all about knowing the right buttons to press. So important in life, don’t you agree?’

‘Thanks again for your help.’

‘A pleasure,’ Fergus said. ‘I’m sure anything you write about us will be fair. And relevant, too. This old stuff you were talking about, poor Matthew and Bradley. I can’t really see how digging over old ground will help. Frankly, we’ve done our mourning. It wasn’t easy, but now it’s time to move on.’

‘I want to understand what Dylan was talking about.’

Fergus put his hands in his pockets and leaned back on his heels. ‘What’s to understand? You’re reading too much into a few stray words. Dylan was always a line-shooter, you know that better than anyone. The deaths were so tragic. They were private tragedies too, if I may say so. They involved real people, Nic, people like the poor woman who was injured in the accident that killed Bradley. Raking up the past can cause a lot of unhappiness. You had a good line in
The Innocence of Doctor Crippen
, simple but bang-on. “It’s not
right
that the innocent should suffer.” That came from the heart, I guess.’

He’d chosen the best way to sting Nic, hinting at the way in which the Press had treated Bryn Gabriel’s guilt of murder as a foregone conclusion. He scanned Nic’s face, checking for signs of damage, like a heavyweight boxing contestant admiring his bloody handiwork.

Nic felt himself colouring. ‘Yes, it did.’