Take My Breath Away (18 page)

‘And if the opponent looks like Roxanne?’

Joel chortled. He might have been sixteen years old. ‘I’m sure Ben would never allow himself to be influenced by inappropriate considerations. Good young advocates are hard to find, whatever they look like. I must admit she impressed me at the interview. She didn’t give much away about herself, but she obviously knew her stuff and was burning to make a success of her career.’

‘So you made her an offer?’

‘One a paralegal in an advice centre could scarcely refuse. Not that her CV mattered. We don’t tolerate elitism here.’

Nic couldn’t help saying, ‘Even though most of the partners are Balliol men and African-Caribbean workers are under-represented everywhere except on the cleaners’ night shift?’

Joel reddened. ‘Even in the most enlightened firms, change takes time.’

Nic left it there. Sooner or later it would come back to him, who the woman was and why she was afraid of him. For the first time since Dylan’s murder, all the stuff about the weird deaths seemed trivial in comparison to the puzzle of Roxanne Wake.

By the time Nic had finished, it was after six. His head had begun to ache, it was time to get a bit of air. As he approached the lift, he saw Roxanne Wake and his heart skipped a beat. She was already inside,
homeward bound. She caught his eye and her cheeks reddened.

The guilt reddening her cheeks as the doors closed was enough to prod his memory. It all came back to him now. He would have recognised her much sooner, if she hadn’t taken the trouble to alter her looks. She could change the cut and colour of her hair more easily than those high cheekbones.

He’d followed her case in the papers, along with millions of others. She was the woman who had doused her boyfriend in whisky and then set fire to him. She’d been rescued from prison by a stubborn lawyer who had taken her case to the Court of Appeal. She was – now, what was the name? Yes, of course. Cassandra Lee.

When Roxanne dreamed, it wasn’t Grant Dennis’s face that filled her mind, but Chloe’s. After they woke, Chloe gave her a lingering kiss, as if to say that all was forgiven. Roxanne reached for Chloe’s hand and held it until the radio alarm switched on, greeting them with news of another scorching day and the prospect of record temperatures in the city.

They took a cooling shower together before setting off for work. Chloe’s idea. Roxanne felt light-headed. The previous night she had drunk too much champagne and hadn’t had enough sleep. Her limbs ached. As she soaped Chloe’s bony shoulders, allowed her lover to tip her head back and shampoo and wash her hair, her mind was drained at last of the fears that had haunted her since her first day at Avalon Buildings. She had found someone she could trust.

‘You know, it’s funny,’ Chloe said as they towelled each other dry. ‘We’ve only just got together and yet I feel I understand you better than I’ve understood anyone. Maybe better than you understand yourself. Does that sound stupid?’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ Roxanne said. ‘but I’m not sure even I understand myself at all.’

This wasn’t like life with Hilary. Hilary had fought for her, but in the end the relationship had become a second Holloway. Hilary had fallen for Cassandra Lee, whereas Roxanne Wake was the one Chloe cared for. Chloe wanted her to relish freedom. As they gulped down coffee in the tiny kitchen, Roxanne surrendered
to the urge to talk about this, but it was difficult to find the right words. Soon Chloe was shaking her head.

‘That’s where you’re wrong. You see Cassandra and Roxanne as different people. They aren’t. They are just two different sides of you.’

She tried to laugh it off. ‘I’m not sure that’s what I like to hear.’

‘Listen.’ Chloe’s’s voice dropped, as persuasive as any trial advocate’s. ‘You’ll never be happy until you stop being ashamed of the past. Face up to it, and be proud. You were Grant Dennis’s victim, not the other way round. No one can blame you for trying to reclaim your own life.’

‘Plenty of people blamed me.’

‘Not me, not now I’ve heard the whole story. At first I was shocked, but you did what you had to do, that’s all. I’m proud of you.’

Proud of a murderer? Roxanne let it go. She didn’t want another argument, one she couldn’t win. Thank God Chloe could not see into Cassandra’s head, could not imagine the buzz that killing Grant had given her. Already she was falling into the same old trap, keeping yet another secret. If she was not to scare Chloe off, there was little choice.

On the crowded train, they stood next to each other, back to back. Chloe was wearing a summer dress, thin as gauze, and Roxanne felt her lover’s buttocks rubbing against hers in a determined rhythm.

She’d borrowed a cotton top and trousers from Chloe and although they didn’t fit well, Roxanne didn’t care. They were late for work, but she didn’t mind that either. The job no longer seemed to matter so much. She said something of the sort as they fought their way through the crowd at Charing Cross and was
taken aback by Chloe’s reaction. She stopped short and seized Roxanne by the wrist, almost causing her to lose her footing.

‘Of course the job matters. More than anything.’ Her voice rang out through the din from the passers-by and the metallic drone of the departure announcements. ‘This is what you’ve worked for, dreamed of. At Creed, you’re accepted for yourself. Everything you ever wanted is within your grasp. It mustn’t be ruined for you. It
mustn’t
happen.’

‘But –’

The concourse was a blur of tired faces. Only Chloe’s seemed alive. Her brown eyes bored into Roxanne’s. ‘Never mind what may have happened years ago. You’ve started again. I won’t let you give up on this. Not me. Not the job. Not anything.’

Chloe squeezed her wrist so hard that it hurt, then released her grip. They gazed at each other in silence, oblivious to sharp elbows and the people jostling past.

They raced down the Strand and into reception together. Before long, if things carried on like this, people at the office would realise that the two of them were involved. So what? No one would mind about the sexual orientation of two junior members of the staff. Creed’s equal opportunities policy preached sympathy and understanding and made it clear that the partners would not tolerate any hint of discrimination or harassment.

For the first time since her arrival, her work seemed tame. The redundancy files needed tidying up. Millions of pounds were at stake, and hundreds of jobs, but Roxanne was beginning to believe that in each case the outcome was pre-ordained. Creed’s clients would win, must win, because that was what
they paid for. The unions might huff and puff, rival law firms would be allowed to portray a face-saving settlement to their clients as a victory for common sense, but the bottom line was always the same. Money talked. People with money bought the best advice and made it pay. All that had happened at Creed was that those who held the purse-strings were no longer those whom the firm had been created to serve all those years ago. Nothing stayed the same forever. One had to move on.

During the afternoon, Joel rang and asked her for an update on the Thrust staff handbook.

‘Would you like a report from me now?’

‘Give me five minutes.’

She walked to Joel’s office and pushed open the door. Someone else was in there, a man she’d never seen before. He turned and looked straight at her. She saw the dawning look in his eyes and felt her gorge rise. For a moment she thought she was going to throw up. She stammered something and escaped. Hardly daring to breathe, she stumbled back to her own office and shut herself in, taking deep gulps of air. One thing was for certain. Somehow the man had recognised her. He knew she was Cassandra Lee.

A couple of minutes later, Chloe came in, carrying a cup of coffee. ‘Thought you might like a drink. It’s – hey, what’s up? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘There’s someone here,’ Roxanne said. Her breath was coming in little gasps. ‘He was in Joel’s room just now. He’s maybe thirty. Fair hair, black eyebrows. I’m sure he knows who I am. I mean, who I really am.’

‘Are you serious?’ Chloe stared at her. ‘Okay, you’re serious. He’s with Joel, you say? Jesus. Haven’t you
asked the girls at reception who he is? All right, leave this to me.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Roxanne had worked long and hard at being strong. She found it strange, to be sitting behind a desk with her head in her hands while Chloe took charge.

‘Find out this man’s name, of course. Who he is, what he’s doing here. We have to know the situation we’re dealing with here, right?’

‘I suppose so.’ She hated the tremble in her voice.

‘I’m sure so.’ Chloe leaned over the desk and stroked the back of Roxanne’s hand. ‘Look, I’ll be discreet. Promise. I can be very subtle, people don’t realise. Let me ask one or two questions, that’s all I mean to do. Then I’ll report back to you. Okay?’

Roxanne nodded, hardly trusting herself to speak.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll sort this out. One way or another. Nothing’s going to mess up your career, I swear.’

Roxanne felt Chloe’s nails dig suddenly into her flesh and for a moment it was as if Chloe were the single-minded one, Chloe the woman with murder on her mind.

‘Chloe, we must be careful.’

‘Trust me.’

Roxanne nodded. She did, she had no choice.

Twenty minutes later, Chloe returned. Her features were set in a sombre expression, as if she were visiting a patient in a hospital ward and the doctor had taken her aside to break bad news. She moistened her lips, a nervous gesture suggesting uncertainty about how much of the truth she believed it safe to reveal.

‘I found out who he is. Ben and Fergus McHugh were discussing him at the coffee machine, so I did a
bit of eavesdropping. His name is Nic Gabriel, he’s a writer.’

Roxanne swivelled on her chair, soaking up the information. She hadn’t been able to touch her work since their last conversation. The screensaver was up on her computer screen, black letters flitting across a red background.
Roxanne Wake, Roxanne Wake, Roxanne Wake.

‘What does he write?’

‘For a start, a book. Now my memory’s been jogged, I think I’ve seen it in the shops. Apparently it was a number one bestseller.’

‘What was it about?’

Chloe bit her lip. ‘A murder case.’

Roxanne closed her eyes. ‘Oh fuck.’

‘Hush, hush,’ Chloe said softly. She might have been a mother comforting a small child. ‘It may not be as bad as you think. The book was about Doctor Crippen. Not exactly topical, huh? That’s the good news.’

‘And the bad news?’

‘I’m not sure it’s a great idea to tell you this, but you’ll find out anyway sooner or later. Gabriel is supposed to be an expert on crime. Someone who likes to re-examine old trials and come up with ideas the authorities missed at the first time of asking.’

Roxanne let the news sink in. Ibrahim used to say that it was a mistake to react too soon to fresh information. One should always weigh it, test it, make the sort of dispassionate judgement lawyers were supposed to be good at and yet which so often seemed elusive.

‘I don’t want you to panic,’ Chloe said. ‘There’s no need. Honestly, there isn’t. This could be just an amazing coincidence. The Crippen case was different,
wasn’t it? Old stuff, the people are all dead and buried. What – what happened with you, there’s no comparison. I can’t believe this man would ever want to write it up.’

She meant to be helpful, but her words of consolation troubled Roxanne more than anything else she had said. There was no hiding the truth. Chloe was afraid for her. The death of Grant Dennis would always be a
cause célèbre
. It had everything: money, sex and savage violence. No wonder the media had lapped it up. A skilled writer could bring it all back to life. He could reinterpret past events with the benefit of hindsight, coupled perhaps with a bit of poetic licence. There was a book in it, for sure. His publishers would make a splash. Press interviews, radio, television. He might sell the rights to a film company.

Even in the air-conditioned sanctuary of her room, Roxanne felt hot and sticky. The borrowed top was itchy and uncomfortable.

‘Suppose he’s known about me for some time. Suppose it wasn’t Hilary who sent me the note, the press cutting?’

Chloe came round the desk and took Roxanne’s hands in hers. ‘Darling, it’s going to be all right. I promise.’

Someone knocked on the door and Chloe sprang away as if she’d received an electric shock. Glancing up, Roxanne saw the gnome-like shadow of Ben Yarrow through the narrow glass pane in the centre of the door. He didn’t usually knock. She guessed he’d glanced in and seen Chloe comforting her. All at once, everything was falling apart.

The door opened. ‘Is something wrong?’ Ben asked. ‘If you could spare me a minute, Roxanne, I have a
client who needs advice on a new dress code policy. Sorry to interrupt.’

He couldn’t quite keep the mockery out of his voice. Roxanne knew then that she’d been right. He’d seen Chloe holding her hands. The sight seemed to have put him in an excellent humour. Perhaps it would make him feel better if Chloe had rebuffed his advances. Now he could put it down to her being a lesbian rather than any lack of charisma on his part.

‘Roxanne’s feeling a bit off colour,’ Chloe said. ‘Must be the heat. I was saying, she ought to take it easy.’

Ben stroked his moustache as he considered this. ‘Of course, you’re right. This weather is taking a toll on all of us.’ He treated Roxanne to a philanthropic smile. ‘Forget about the dress code, go home if you need to. Recharge the batteries. You’ve taken a lot on already, considering that you’re acclimatising to a different way of working. Don’t overdo it.’

Roxanne promised that she would soon be fine. After he’d gone, she turned to Chloe and said, ‘Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘You don’t need to be without me,’ Chloe said simply. ‘I’m here for you, Roxanne. That’s what friends are for. I won’t let Nic Gabriel destroy you.’

‘But how can you stop him?’

‘I’ll think of something,’ Chloe said. She moved towards the door. ‘Are you coming back to mine, tonight?’

‘I need to get a few more oddments. I can’t keep borrowing from you.’

‘We can buy them after work. Retail therapy, eh?’

Roxanne mustered a smile and nodded. But she
knew that it would take more than a little shopping to take her mind off Nic Gabriel.

They arranged to meet at six thirty in Covent Garden. Roxanne hauled herself away from her desk and made her way to the lift, she pressed for the ground floor, she heard footsteps coming down the corridor. They quickened in pace and Nic Gabriel appeared round the corner. When he saw her, he paused in mid-stride. She ground her teeth. She would not surrender to panic. Lifting her chin, she looked straight at him. Their eyes locked for a few moments as the doors closed and then his pale face finally vanished from view. She was on her way down.

Her breath came in short jerky gasps. Lucky she was alone in the lift; anyone seeing her would have thought she was having a seizure. Yet she wasn’t ill, simply shocked. This time she was sure she had seen a strange light in his eyes. Something she remembered from the day when she first met Grant Dennis. The sight of her had excited Nic Gabriel: somehow she knew it. She was sure that he wasn’t turned on by her looks, but by the realisation that she was at his mercy.

She blundered along the pavement, uncertain whether she was heading in the right direction, passing shops which sold maps and jewellery, clothes and kitchenware, keep-fit equipment and books. She halted and retraced her steps. A branch of Waterstone’s. She could not help going inside and searching out the true crime section. A row of shelves that, until now, she would never have gone near.

The titles on the spines, picked out in gaudy lettering on a background of black, were enough to set her teeth on edge.
Deadly Children, Inside the Brain of Ian Brady, A History of Unusual Executions.
She pulled one from the
shelf. It promised hitherto unseen illustrations. Snapshots of decomposed bodies and bloodstained weapons. A rare photograph of a hooded murderer strapped into the electric chair. Or Old Smokey as, the caption said, the device was affectionately known.