Take My Breath Away (17 page)

‘You may not have been mad, but you certainly needed your head examining. Of course, you couldn’t escape. From what I read, you’d never even passed a driving test.’

Roxanne nodded. ‘I took his car and some money, but five miles away a police car flagged me down. I put my foot down, but they soon caught up with me. Defective tail light, of all things. As soon as they started asking me questions, I broke down and wept. Within ten minutes, they knew everything.’

Chloe was staring at Roxanne, couldn’t seem to take her eyes off her. Fascinated, yet repelled. Roxanne’s flesh itched. She felt like a specimen on the dissecting table.

‘Even then, there might have been a way out.’ Roxanne’s voice was dreamy as she cast her mind back. ‘That’s the thing about murder cases. You can say whatever you like about the dead and not be sued for slander. I could have come up with a cock-and-bull story. Only one problem.’

‘The video.’ Chloe’s voice was trembling.

‘You read about that too? Yes, the video.’ Roxanne
shook her head. ‘I didn’t know Grant as well as I thought I did. He’d concealed a video camera set up in the bedroom so that he could tape our greatest hits. All he managed was to create the evidence of a cold-blooded murder. Right up to the end, he screwed me.’ She shook her head. ‘Or should I say, he screwed Cassandra Lee.’

Chloe was still looking at her, as if in a trance. ‘So you took your punishment.’

‘I hate what I did,’ Roxanne said. ‘The judge was right. No matter what I had been through, it was an act of wickedness. I didn’t have to kill him, let alone – incinerate him. There was a price to pay and, God knows, I’ve been paying it every day since Grant died.’

Chloe cradled her head in her hands. ‘Your timing was lousy. The Home Secretary was launching a campaign about personal morality the same week that the papers were stuffed with articles about what you had done. A young gold-digger had leeched on to a rich businessman whose only crime was that he liked a pretty face. People said you were evil.’

‘I was crazy in those days, I’ve never denied it.’

Chloe pulled a face. ‘Mad, not bad?’

Roxanne shrugged. ‘Plenty of discussion about that, both before the trial and in court. When it came to possible defences, I was spoilt for choice. Self-defence, provocation, diminished responsibility. You name it. Trouble was, what I did to him was too dreadful to be a proportionate response to his behaviour, that was counsel’s opinion. There wasn’t much evidence of provocation, only my word. People in the restaurant said that Grant had been solicitous. Witnesses said what a caring guy he was. The police even dug up an ex-girlfriend, someone I’d supplanted, to say he never harmed a hair on her head.’

‘I read about it. She said he was besotted with you from day one.’

‘Oh yes, it was a fine revenge. Everyone decided I was a prize bitch. I was sick. I still wasn’t eating. Diminished responsibility was the best card I had, but I refused to play it. I’d done wrong and known it was wrong. In court I came across as a sullen cow. I couldn’t take in that all this was happening to
me
. The judge and jury took against me and the prosecution barrister did his job perfectly. He was a good cross-examiner, I realised that even as I let him goad me into screaming at him. The judge rebuked me, my counsel put his head in his hands. I’d proved to everyone that I had a wicked temper. When I’d calmed down and realised it was too late to save myself, I contented myself with admiring his advocacy. I wondered what it must be like to be in total command of a brief, to have the facts at your fingertips, every argument marshalled to perfection. He convinced me of my own wickedness and I threatened to sack my barrister if he didn’t let me change my plea to guilty to murder.’

‘So you were sentenced to life.’

‘It was the
waiting
before I set him ablaze that did for me.’ Roxanne could not keep the bitterness out of her voice. ‘I picked my moment, I didn’t strike out in the heat of the moment. That was unforgivable, so far as the prosecution and Press were concerned. Unsporting. Killing a man when he was asleep and stark naked. Not playing the game.’

There was a long pause before Chloe reached across and put her arm around Roxanne’s shoulder.

Roxanne looked at the other woman. ‘Sorry. I’ve taken up more than five minutes of your time. Thank you for listening. You can run for it now.’

Chloe tightened her grip and slowly shook her head from side to side.

They went for a meal to a Vietnamese restaurant on Wardour Street. The fates had tested them and they had come through. Roxanne was in the mood to listen not talk and so Chloe told her the story of her life, starting from her years as the youngest in a large family in Thanet. She’d always fantasised about working in a big city firm and marrying a millionaire, she said, giggling uncontrollably.

Roxanne said, ‘One more ambition bites the dust, eh?’

Suddenly Chloe was serious. ‘Was Hilary – your first time with a woman?’

Roxanne said softly, ‘Don’t forget, I spent years inside a women’s prison. Things – sometimes happened. Soon over and done with. For me, they meant nothing.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Chloe was taking care not to seem shocked. ‘And Hilary? She was your defence lawyer. How come you and she got together?’

‘I told you, she was only an assistant when I was put inside. She’d turned to the law late after years as a social worker. I barely noticed her at the trial, I was in such a daze.’ Roxanne paused. She’d thought that she would never get over what had happened. Yet here she was, at liberty just seven years after Grant Dennis’s death. ‘After she qualified, she joined another firm and got in touch. She told me she thought I’d suffered an injustice, that more could have been done to persuade me to plead diminished responsibility. The judge was biased and the publicity didn’t help. The jury should have been given better direction.’

‘It took ages to persuade you to challenge the verdict.’

Roxanne shrugged. ‘Most of the time I was inside, I was doing my best to starve myself. I didn’t have a handle on my life. One thing I could control was my weight. The first kindness Hilary did for me was to persuade me to start eating again. Next, she convinced me I should appeal my conviction. She kept saying I’d punished myself enough.’

‘And it worked.’

‘Yes, the wizened old appeal judges decided the conviction was unsound. They weren’t ecstatic about it, anymore than the tabloid hacks who’d helped to convict me in the first place, but what could they say? The Press didn’t want me suing for libel after I’d walked free with supposedly not a stain on my character. After I was released, Hilary asked me to move in with her. I said yes because I couldn’t think what else to do. It took me long enough to get my head round the idea that I was not guilty in the eyes of the law.’

‘In the end, you dumped her,’ Chloe said.

‘Ruthless bitch that I am.’

‘I didn’t mean that!’

‘It’s the truth,’ Roxanne said, ‘whether you meant it or not. Without Hilary, I’d still be inside. Without Hilary, I’d never have rekindled my interest in the law. She really cares about justice. She made me care about it, too. Who knows, if she hadn’t kept pointing out to me how much she’d done for me, I might never have wanted to escape from her.’

‘You don’t believe that.’

‘Maybe not.’ Roxanne paused. ‘Ever read
Trilby
?’

Chloe’s brow furrowed. ‘I thought it was a hat, not a book.’

‘No, no. Sort of a Victorian classic. I caught up on my education while I was inside. Specially my reading. It’s
a book about a model who is trained by this man Svengali to become a singer. He controls her. When he dies, she can’t escape his spell. Her voice fails and she ends up dead herself. Well, sometimes I think there was a parallel between poor Trilby and Cassandra Lee. Even with Grant Dennis gone, Cassandra simply couldn’t make sense of being free. After the last few days, I’m not sure Roxanne Wake is any different.’

‘Hilary promised she wouldn’t wreck the new start you’ve made.’

‘Who else would have sent the anonymous note, the press cutting?’

‘You can’t let her do this. You have to stand up for yourself.’

‘And how exactly do I manage that? Make a clean breast of everything to Will Janus? A pre-emptive strike before I’m outed? What do I say?
I did something rather disagreeable as a young person, but it was a long time ago. Besides, the wretch is dead
. Call in Fergus McHugh for a bit of advice on good PR?’

‘No,’ Chloe said quickly, ‘It wouldn’t be a good idea to shout it from the rooftops. The fewer people who know about you and Grant Dennis, the better. Obviously.’

Roxanne considered. ‘Maybe I should have a word with Ben Yarrow or Joel Anthony. They took me on. Perhaps I owe it to them.’

‘No, don’t make a snap decision. What you need is a bit of space. A chance to make your way without people looking over your shoulder. Don’t worry about me, I’ll tell no one. You can depend on it.’

Roxanne leaned forward and gripped the other woman’s hand. ‘I do depend on it, Chloe. Believe me, I do.’

Later, they wandered drunkenly back to Charing Cross and caught a train to Greenwich. Neither of them said much. There did not seem to be any need. Soon they were together in Chloe’s bed. It wasn’t like any lovemaking that Roxanne had known before. Chloe was wild, there were no longer any taboos. Roxanne, engulfed, found herself helpless, unable to do anything more than surrender

Afterwards, Chloe propped herself up on her elbows and looked into Roxanne’s eyes. ‘Tell me about it. The murder, I mean.’

‘I told you.’ Roxanne was drenched with sweat, but suddenly she felt cold.

‘No, that’s not what I mean. Not a rehash of the facts. Not what I read on the screen. What I want to know is how you
felt
.’

Roxanne closed her eyes. ‘Why? Why would anyone want to know?’

‘Because,’ Chloe moistened her lips, ‘I need to understand. It’s important to me. I want to have some clue about what went through your mind.’

‘My mind was a mess.’ A pause. ‘Besides, that was Cassandra Lee. I’m Roxanne Wake.’

‘Oh, darling, of course you are.’ Chloe kissed her on the lips. A chaste kiss, as if the last hour had not happened. ‘But that’s not the point. Cassandra is part of you, deep down inside. We are who we are. So I want to get to know Cassandra, as well as Roxanne. Share in the bad times as well as the good. Does that make sense?’

‘Not really.’

Chloe let out a sigh. ‘So you won’t tell me any more?’

‘Not won’t. Can’t.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Chloe didn’t disguise the hurt in her voice. She closed her eyes again and edged away a little.

Roxanne kissed the thick red hair. ‘I’m sorry, darling.’

Chloe buried her face in the pillow. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

It did matter, of course, and Roxanne knew it. She stretched out, her hair brushing against the headboard. She wanted to tell her lover everything. It was an instinct that she had not experienced before. Yet she did not trust herself to be honest. Even now, even after their reconciliation in Soho, it would be so easy to blow the whole thing apart. It could happen, it could easily happen. If Roxanne described what she recalled, as she saw Grant Dennis on fire, listened to his screaming. The dizzying sense of being in complete control. She had seduced a man and then destroyed him. She had played God, wielded the power of life and death. And, for a few moments before sanity returned, she had exulted in it.

Nic watched the day break from Dylan’s bedroom window. Even if he’d never suffered insomnia in his life, he would have found it too hot to sleep. He opened the window wider and stood naked at it, listening to the slap of water against the wharf. The tide was flowing out, leaving stones and bits of brick on the shoreline. When he’d first lived in the houseboat, he’d been startled by the speed with which the tide turned. He’d never been so aware of the phases of the moon, of the way in which the world worked.

‘The estate agent never mentioned the bodies,’ Dylan had once complained. Murder victims and suicides alike washed up on what he liked to call his private beach. ‘Funny thing, their arms are always spread out, like they were modelling for a crucifixion. Talk about pollution. They all have bits of polystyrene in their hair. I have this neighbour, he compares them to Ophelia with weeds and flowers in her tresses. Pretentious, or what?’

Mail tumbled through the letter box. Most was junk, not worth adding to the pile awaiting onward transmission to Dylan’s family, but one envelope caught his eye. A phone bill. On impulse, he tore it open and scanned the list of itemised calls. Nothing with an Oxford code, but a dozen times Dylan had rung the same mobile and almost every time he’d been on the phone for less than a minute. Someone giving him the brush-off?

Nic dialled and held his breath.

‘Hello? Hello?’

A woman’s voice. Edgy, as if she’d been waiting for his call, but expecting bad news.

‘Is that Jazz?’

A pause. ‘Who is this?’

Yes
. He’d guessed right. Her tone was suspicious. On guard.

‘My name’s Nic Gabriel. Dylan Rees told me about you.’

He could hear the intake of breath. She was scared, no question. Hissing her question down the line.

‘For Christ’s sake, what is this? What are you trying to do to me?’

‘Can we talk? You…’

The line went dead and he redialled. A polite disembodied voice told him the phone was switched off. ‘Please try later.’

Every ten minutes for the next couple of hours he tried again, but Jazz wasn’t answering.

‘Please try later. Please try later.’

‘Shit, shit,
shit
.’

He stomped around the kitchen, furious with himself. For a few seconds he’d had the chance to win her trust, to persuade her to tell him what she’d told Dylan. And he’d blown it.

‘Have you visited Avalon Buildings before, Mr Gabriel? Here is your visitor badge, please read the safety and fire instructions for your security and comfort. May we offer you a drink? Caffe latte? It’s a pleasure. Would you like to take a seat? Fergus McHugh will be with you shortly.’

The receptionist’s smile made him wish he’d remembered his Ray-Bans. She chanted the welcome refrain with so much conviction that he could imagine
her being hurt if he failed to take note of where the emergency exits were situated on each floor. She and her colleague at the desk had flawless skins and voices like the chorus singers fluting in the background. Graduates of intensive training at Stepford.

The sun was burning high above the Strand, but inside the lobby the air was cool and cleansed of all impurities. The coffee smelled rich and tasted mild. In the background, Noel Harrison sang about the wind-mills of your mind.

Nic picked up a newspaper. Headlines warned of a big demo planned for the day after tomorrow. Protesters were threatening to bring London to a halt. They wanted justice for the people. Whatever justice was, whoever the people were. Politicians kept saying the way to protest was through the ballot box, priests appealed for calm, pundits recalled student riots of the sixties. All police leave had been cancelled.

‘Strange, very strange,’ Fergus McHugh said.

Nic stood up and tossed the paper onto the table. As they shook hands, Fergus nodded at the photo-spread on the open double page. Pictures from the protests on the day that Dylan had died. Men and women in balaclavas, constables in riot gear, the Home Secretary nibbling at his fountain pen.

‘These people may have a legitimate argument, but breaking the law isn’t the answer. Anyway, good to see you here. Will is delighted you’ve come to have a look at us.’

‘He’s not seen what I’m going to write yet.’

Fergus beamed. ‘We’re in your hands.’

‘And I’m in Ali Khan’s. So I have something in common with the partners of Creed. We’re all in hock to him.’

Fergus frowned. ‘He’s a good client, that’s all.’

‘I ran a few checks. He owns Avalon Buildings, doesn’t he? I suppose the firm took it on a cheap let. He’s your paymaster, isn’t he?’

A shrug. ‘Someone has to be. Now, let’s look in on Will before he becomes even more snowed under. He took a call from Downing Street this morning. I’m not at liberty to tell you more, sadly. Let’s just say that the client base keeps expanding. And please be nice about the Kandinskys in the board room.’

Fergus had the knack of seeming to impart confidences without giving anything away. It was not so much what he said, as the way he said it. A grimace, a shrug, a glance towards the Heavens, all were part of his stock-in-trade. Nic remembered his father’s tales about Merlin: seer, shaman, the wise man who advised the king. The magician who dwelt in the shadows yet who kept so close to the throne that jealous enemies called him the devil’s son.

Soon they were on the penthouse floor. Nic glanced through an open door into a room containing a vast circular table. The room was smaller than St Paul’s Cathedral and the decor didn’t quite compare with the Sistine Chapel, but the atmosphere was of calm and contemplation, far from the hurly-burly in the world below. Each wall was festooned with framed whorls, blots and squiggles. At the far end of the room, sliding glass doors gave on to an outside sitting area and roof garden overlooking the Thames.

‘The boardroom,’ Fergus said. ‘Where our partners meet.’

‘The fellowship of the round table,’ Nic said softly. A phrase his father had liked to roll off his tongue.

Fergus gestured outside. The centrepiece of the roof
garden was a tall and tangled work in iron. ‘It’s an original, created by our sculptor-in-residence. Inspired by Islamic calligraphy and saplings in Vermont.’

‘Yeah, I should have guessed.’

Fergus gave a sly grin. ‘Will likes it very much. Come and say hello.’

They moved next door and Will Janus bounded forward from behind his desk like an eager Labrador. For a moment Nic thought he might have his face licked.

‘Welcome, welcome. Does coming here make you pine for the days when you were in practice? You’d like to record our chat, I presume? Super. Fergus will tape us as well, if you don’t mind. We don’t want any misunderstandings, do we?’

The
bonhomie
was like chloroform. Will suggested that since the weather was so heavenly, the three of them might sit outside. They returned to the boardroom and Fergus opened the sliding doors. Even before they stepped outside, it was as if they were in the open, with the room itself transformed into a shady part of the terrace. Recliners were arranged between the potted plants and the three of them sat out in the sun, with trailing fronds from the hanging baskets tickling the backs of their heads. Eden in the sky.

Nic asked about the firm and Will talked. The firm had come a long way in a few years, but there was still so much to do. At last the law of England and Wales was shaking off the shackles of precedent, following the European philosophy that the
purpose
of laws was paramount, so that justice was done in each and every case. The world wide web was transforming the delivery of legal services, offering the firm plenty of scope for eye-catching initiatives. Through the innovative use of technology, its clients would have access to the
best advice, twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. But at the end of the day, the law was not about virtual reality but about real people. Flesh and blood. Human beings, with all their imperfections. People, Will reminded Nic, like you and me.

At last Nic had the chance to put his second question. ‘You weren’t the most senior lawyer in the partnership after Matthew Creed. How was it that you took over when he died so suddenly?’

Will’s expression wrinkled into earnestness, tinged with modesty. He was in his shirtsleeves, his preferred style of dress, businesslike yet easy-going. He spread his arms, palms open, nothing to hide. ‘You tell me, Nic. It was just something that happened, seemed to gain a kind of momentum of its own. When Matt was taken from us, one or two people came to see me. We’d made so much progress, everyone was anxious that we shouldn’t skip a beat.’

‘Was that peaceful? You overtook Ben Yarrow in the pecking order.’

‘It was very peaceful, actually.’ Will gave a lucky-me smile. ‘I couldn’t have asked for stronger support. I lean on Ben, you can quote me on that.’

‘What about Bradley Hurst?’

Fergus’s grimace said:
so what about Bradley Hurst
? Will shook his head sadly. ‘Bradley was Bradley. We miss him a lot. He was the salt of the earth. One of a kind.’

‘A bit of a dinosaur, surely?’

‘Not a bit of it!’ Will dismissed the suggestion with a flip of the hand, as if wafting away a importunate mosquito. ‘He’d been at the coalface. Served his time, paid his dues. His heart was in the right place.’

‘Ah.’ Nic folded his arms. ‘Past his sell-by date, then.’

‘You’re disappointing me,’ Will said sadly. ‘There’s no cause for cynicism. They don’t make lawyers like Bradley any more, you know.’

A choking noise. Fergus, stifling a giggle.

Ben Yarrow said pleasantly, ‘I never like to speak ill of the dead.’

Nic said, ‘But?’

Ben shrugged. He’d made it obvious from the start that he was only seeing Nic to humour Will’s spin doctor. ‘Bradley was a maverick. When Will took over, he expected all the partners to row in the same direction. Bradley didn’t like to toe the partnership line.’

‘Bradley’s heart was in the right place, Will said.’

‘Faint praise, don’t you think?’ Ben pulled his moustache so hard that Nic half-expected him to pull a chunk of hair out by the roots. ‘No point in beating about the bush. Bradley was fine when it came to thrashing out deals with shop stewards in smoke-filled rooms. Ask him to put a case together on a technical point of European law and it was something else. He had to rely on sidekicks devilling for him. Smart young chaps like Joel Anthony. They soon saw through him, realised the simple truth. Poor old Bradley was no rocket scientist.’

‘Tell me about Matthew Creed. I heard that he fell asleep in a sauna after he’d been drinking. It made me wonder.’

Ben’s head jerked as if on a string. ‘What did you wonder?’

‘If he’d spent the evening with a friend, having a few beers. I wonder if his drinking companion knew he was going to Paradise. Why didn’t he say something?
Everyone knows it’s dangerous, taking a sauna if you’re pissed.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘The grapevine reckons you might have succeeded him.’

‘Will was an outstanding candidate.’

And you hate his guts
. ‘What if Will moved on? Went into television, say? Would you throw your hat into the ring then?’

‘The question doesn’t arise. Will isn’t going anywhere.’

‘Learned anything of interest?’ Joel Anthony asked. Sunlight streamed through the window, making his ear stud twinkle.

Nic took a seat. ‘When we talked at the Cafe Royal, you gave me a lot of useful information. To be frank, much more than I would have expected. One snag, though. You hinted that I ought to keep digging. But you refused point-blank to tell me what to dig for.’

Joel spread his arms. ‘Maybe your guess is as good as mine.’

‘So you’re not giving me any clues?’

Joel considered his lovely fingernails. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind. Suddenly the door opened behind Nic and Joel’s head jerked up. Nic turned and found himself staring into a woman’s face. A beautiful face, and a face he recognised, yet from some other context. A face he associated – a stab of shock at the realisation – with crime.

She held his gaze for a moment. He saw fear creeping into her eyes. She was smart. She could tell he’d recognised her – and for some reason, that scared her.

‘Sorry. Bad time. Sorry.’ She handed Joel a document,
stumbling over her words. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt. I’ll – I’ll come back later.’

Within a moment, she had gone. Joel blinked and then wiggled his eyebrows in a comical fashion. ‘Do you usually have this effect on pretty women? What’s your secret?’

‘If she finds me irresistible, she has a funny way of showing it.’

Joel grinned. ‘Starstruck, maybe. Perhaps Roxanne has read your book. I had the impression she recognised you.’

‘Who exactly is she?’

‘She joined us recently from an advice centre. Very clever, it’s a surprise that she’s never qualified.’

‘What else can you tell me about her?’

‘I don’t think she’s married, if that matters.’

Joel gave him a knowing wink. It was custom and practice, and accorded with precedent, for lawyers to sleep with each other, that had been a tradition long before women entering the profession outnumbered the men. The divorce rate for solicitors was high, but never mind: if a first marriage didn’t work out, there were always plenty of other lawyers in an eligible income bracket. Dylan used to say Nic didn’t know what he was missing, but the point was that he did. When he wondered out loud why lawyers fell for each other when they knew, none better, that all the love talk was rhetorical bullshit, Dylan shook his head and told him not to worry: ‘At least if two lawyers are in a relationship, then for once they’re not screwing the rest of us.’

‘I don’t want to shag her,’ Nic said. ‘I’m just curious.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Joel chuckled. ‘Sorry, can’t help. She was
one of Ben’s discoveries. He was on the other side of a tribunal case she was conducting. He came back and said he’d met a paralegal who was as smart as a silk. Rapturous praise, from Ben. He’s usually too busy sticking the stiletto in between his opponents’ shoulder blades.’