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COPYRIGHT

Harper

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Collins Crime

Copyright © Elizabeth Woodcraft 2000

Elizabeth Woodcraft asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780006514794

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780007476961

Version: 2016-02-29

DEDICATION

To Caroline

CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

ONE: Wednesday Afternoon – Chambers

TWO: Thursday Morning – Highbury Corner

THREE: Thursday Afternoon – Chambers

FOUR: Friday – Edmonton

FIVE: Saturday Morning – Church Street

SIX: Saturday Evening – The Queen of Sheba

SEVEN: Sunday – Columbia Road

EIGHT: Monday Morning – Paperwork

NINE: Tuesday Morning – Stoke Newington Police Station

TEN: Tuesday Afternoon

ELEVEN: Tuesday Evening

TWELVE: Wednesday – Royal Courts of Justice

THIRTEEN: Wednesday Evening – Chambers

FOURTEEN: Thursday Afternoon

FIFTEEN: Late Thursday Evening – Finsbury Park

SIXTEEN: Thursday Night/Friday Morning

SEVENTEEN: Early Friday Morning

EIGHTEEN: Friday Lunchtime

NINETEEN: Friday Night

TWENTY: Saturday Morning

TWENTY-ONE: Sunday

TWENTY-TWO: Sunday Midday

TWENTY-THREE: Sunday Lunch

TWENTY-FOUR: Sunday Evening

TWENTY-FIVE: Sunday Night – The Caravan

TWENTY-SIX: Sunday Night

TWENTY-SEVEN: Monday

TWENTY-EIGHT: Monday Afternoon

TWENTY-NINE: Monday Evening

THIRTY: Later Monday Evening

THIRTY-ONE: Monday Night/Tuesday Morning

THIRTY-TWO: Tuesday Morning

THIRTY-THREE: Wednesday Lunchtime

THIRTY-FOUR: Wednesday Afternoon – Kay’s Office

THIRTY-FIVE: Wednesday Evening

THIRTY-SIX: Thursday Morning

THIRTY-SEVEN: Thursday Evening

THIRTY-EIGHT: Thursday Night

THIRTY-NINE: Late Thursday

FORTY: Friday Evening – The Club

KEEP READING

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

ONE
Wednesday Afternoon – Chambers

The phone on my desk rang. I licked my fingers, moved my cream cheese and tomato sandwich and picked up the receiver.

‘Frankie, I know you said you wanted to do paperwork tomorrow, but Davidson’s have just rung. Kay’s got a quick in-and-out job for tomorrow morning that she wants you to do. She’s faxing the papers through. It’s at Highbury Corner Mags.’

I groaned. A quick in-and-out at Highbury Corner Magistrates’ Court was a contradiction in terms and Gavin, my clerk, knew that very well. Then again, if Kay Davidson wanted me in particular there might be something interesting in it.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Drunk and disorderly.’

‘Drunk and – Gavin! I’m meant to be doing those appeal papers in Morris. We’re nearly out of time.’

‘She said it was important.’

‘Oh, what, important that someone regularly in the Court of Appeal should return to the magistrates’ court?’

‘Someone regularly where?’

‘All right, someone who would like to be regularly in the Court of Appeal. Someone of nearly ten years call –’

‘Who is charming and eager to help out a clerk in distress …’ Gavin was playing the game in his gruff, cockney accent.

‘Someone who has been at the Bar for nine years, and who may well be charming and eager to help out a clerk in distress but who has, it should be remembered, forgotten most of the crime she ever knew – you are saying it is important that she should do this case?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Isn’t there anyone else?’ I wheedled. In the pause that followed I knew Gavin was pretending to look at the computer screen to see what everyone else in chambers was doing the next day. He liked Kay. If she had asked for me, he would make sure she got me.

‘No,’ he said. There’s no one else.’

‘All right, Gavin, I will do it. But if I’m not out of court by half past eleven you will seriously regret it.’

‘You say the sweetest things,’ he said. I replaced the receiver and picked up my cup of tea.

My phone rang again. I spilt tea on my sandwich as I answered it.

Gavin said cheerfully, ‘I’ve got Kay on the line, to have a word about tomorrow.’

‘OK.’ I pushed the briefs on my desk out of the way of some insistent drips of tea and looked for something to make notes on. I found a piece of paper that looked suspiciously as if it had been on my desk for some time. I read ‘FR ring Dr Henry’ and a number with a Brighton code, and promised myself I would do it as soon as I had spoken to Kay. Gavin put her through.

‘Frankie, I’m sorry about this case.’

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I thought, as I dabbed at the tea by the desk calendar.

‘It’s just that it’s an old client of yours.’ She paused. ‘It’s Saskia.’

‘Saskia! My God, Saskia.’

I hadn’t seen Saskia for at least five years. Tall, blonde, lovely Saskia. She had large grey eyes and a wide friendly smile with perfect teeth. I’d represented her on several occasions when she’d been arrested after demonstrations. We’d had some good results, mainly due to that charming smile. She made you think of full cream milk and welfare orange juice, as my mum would say. She was in fact more a child of the seventies and eighties, rebelling against the Conservative government.

‘What is Saskia doing being charged with drunk and disorderly? I would have thought a little marijuana was more her thing.’

‘I don’t know. She rang me from the police station. She sounded in quite a state.’

‘What time was she arrested?’ I began making notes.

‘Half past two this afternoon.’

‘Half past two! Where?’

‘Balls Pond Road. Outside the sofa factory.’

‘I can’t believe this. What was she doing in Islington? I thought she lived in Manchester now.’

‘I don’t know any more about that than you do. It was a very short phone call,’ Kay said. ‘The last I saw of her was at one of those women’s sixties evenings at Camden Town Hall. That was years ago.’

‘Do you mean THE women’s sixties evening, where you and I … ?’

‘Yes.’

I snorted. That must have been seven years ago, almost to the month. Kay and I had had our final, noisy, passionate argument at the back of the hall when she refused to dance to ‘Get Ready’ by the Temptations. She said you couldn’t dance to that beat, whereas anyone with half an ear for music … but don’t get me started. Kay and I hadn’t spoken to each other for nearly a year after that night, and since she was a criminal solicitor and I had stopped doing crime shortly after, we had rarely spoken since.

‘What’s in the brief then?’ I said professionally.

‘That’s about it, actually.’

‘And I assume this is a freebie.’ I tried not to sound calculating.

‘We’d never get Legal Aid for it.’ Did she breathe deeply before saying, ‘How about I take you out to supper to make up for it?’

‘When?’ I asked.

‘When you like.’ She was expansive. ‘How about tonight?’

Mentally I surveyed the contents of my fridge. Olives and semi-skimmed milk would test the powers of the best TV chef. I put majesty into my voice: ‘All right, where?’

‘What do you want to eat?’

‘Italian?’ I ventured.

‘There’s a good Korean restaurant near here.’

‘I said Italian.’

‘I know you did.’

I wondered who had stood her up. I could hear the olives calling me, pathetically, tragically. The milk, I knew, was sour.

‘Chinese?’ I was willing to compromise. I always had been. There was silence. ‘I don’t want to eat Korean,’ I complained. ‘The only thing I like are those flowers carved out of carrots and turnips, and you can’t eat those.’

She sniffed.

‘Think Italian,’ I continued. ‘Think of red wine and garlic and crusty bread and a cheerful companion. We can go to that place on Upper Street and you can drive me home after.’

‘I’ll see you there at seven.’ I didn’t like her resigned tone of voice. ‘I’ll bring your brief,’ she added.

‘And your happy face,’ I pleaded. I put the phone down and said, ‘Damn.’ I’d been so close to getting through a phone call with Kay without whingeing. I began dabbing Tipp-Ex over the tea stains on the instructions to prepare Mrs Morris’s notice of appeal.

I always forget where Gino’s is and I got off the bus at the wrong stop just as it began to rain. When I arrived at the restaurant I was very wet. And late. I was not cheerful.

As I opened the door, warmth, candlelight and the smell of garlic embraced me.

‘Buona sera, signora,’ Gino bustled up, his hair a new alarming shade of aubergine. ‘Comment allez-vous? Very very wet, I see. Table for … ?’

I looked round the room. Kay was late too.

‘Two.’

‘And some vino tinto, signora? Asseyez-vous.’ He put me next to the huge open fireplace.

‘Yes.’ I was puzzled. Kay was never late. I sat down, absently giving Gino my dripping coat. My long black jacket, bought expensively from Ede & Ravenscroft, suppliers of wigs and robes to the legal profession, was wet too. I took it off and hung it on the back of the chair. My trousers would have to stay where they were. It was my favourite court outfit, and I was pleased I was wearing it when Kay suggested going out. I always liked how I looked in it, slick but professional. Except that at the moment I looked slick like a wet rodent looks slick. And so much for my fabulous new haircut – my lowlights had slid into my highlights and they all looked just wet. In the back of the spoon I could see spikes of my long fringe sticking damply to my forehead.

Perhaps her car had broken down in the rain, although that was unlikely. She always had a new car; being a successful solicitor, it was a business car. I was still driving my L-reg Renault. Not that I’m bitter, but she wouldn’t have got where she is today without me. I was the one who sat up with her at nights testing her on criminal procedure and client/solicitor relations. Huh!

Perhaps she hadn’t come because she’d had a better offer. She had done that to me before, but not for seven years, and she was meant to be bringing me my brief. Kay would never be unprofessional in that way, she’d never leave me without a brief. Although, as she had said, there was nothing in the brief. It would be merely a piece of white paper with a pink ribbon round it. My instructions would be: ‘Counsel will do her best.’

The red wine came. I ordered some garlic bread. To hell with what it did to my stomach.

She didn’t come.

It was eight o’clock. I didn’t have my mobile with me – I wondered whether I’d left it plugged into the charger – so Gino let me use the phone on the bar and I rang her office. The answerphone wasn’t on. I thought about ringing my flat to pick up my messages but I couldn’t remember my secret code number. I rang Kay’s home, she still lived in the small Victorian house in Stamford Hill which we had shared during our relationship, and left a concerned and only slightly irritated message. I ordered spaghetti à l’amatriciana and my clothes and my hair began to dry. The house red which Gino had poured solicitously into a large glass was soft and full and tasted almost as if I was in Italy. And as I sat, steaming gently by the fire, waiting for my pasta, I thought nostalgically back to me and Kay on our last holiday in a tent in Tuscany.

I had just passed my final exams – yes, OK, she had done her bit and had tested me on revenue and trusts – and she had just been taken on by a law centre in North London. We were both very pleased with ourselves and bursting with success and ambition. The weather in Tuscany was glorious and we visited wonderful cities and ate fabulous food. Then, on our last night, as we walked back to the tent after a silent meal in a small restaurant, she told me our relationship was over. As I stumbled along the grass verge trying to take in what she was saying, she told me she wanted her freedom. We both needed different things, she said, at this new time in our lives. We had had five good years and now we should move on. I assumed that she’d met someone she fancied at her interview.

Of course, the trouble with being on holiday in a tent is that you can’t put physical distance between you. We crept into our individual sleeping bags, but by the first light of day we were in each other’s arms for warmth. By the time we got to the airport we had reconciled, and we bought joint olive oil and sun-dried tomatoes in the duty-free shop. The relationship had limped along for another eighteen months until the night of the women’s sixties do when she had gone home with a woman who probably thought ‘Green Onions’ was something you threw out of your kitchen cupboard.

Gino brought me my pasta. ‘Everything OK, signora?’ he asked, concern filling his soft, round face.

I probably would have burst into tears but I took a mouthful of my food and nearly choked on the chilli.

‘Everything’s fine, great,’ I said, breathing in.

I drank almost the whole bottle of wine. Kay had still not appeared and I was worried.

I asked Gino if he could bring the bill and check again whether anyone had rung me. He went to confer with the chef and brought over my damp coat and the bill with a sad shake of his head.

It was still raining and cars hissed by me as I walked back to the tube. I felt peculiar and it wasn’t the effects of the alcohol or the mix of red wine, garlic bread and green salad. Upper Street was almost deserted and as I approached Highbury Corner, with the little alleyways leading off and the dark looming pub on the corner, the strangeness increased so that if anyone had asked me I would have said that I thought I was being followed. Just by the bus stops someone behind me coughed, but when I turned round there was no one there.

A taxi was passing on the other side of the street. I shouted at it, gesticulating, and narrowly avoided being crushed by a number 19 bus as I ran across the road.

The driver had to go some way in the wrong direction before he could turn off for Stoke Newington and I was pleased. When we got to the house I asked him to wait until I’d got inside the front door before he drove off.

I walked into my ground-floor flat and locked the door behind me. The timer had already switched on the lamp in the living room, filling the room with a pale light. Everything looked normal. The flashing red light of my answering machine on the floor, the Guardian draped over the couch where I had left it last night and a pile of papers marked ‘Return to solicitors NOW’ waiting patiently on the old comfy armchair. A used wine glass, mine, and a half-drunk cup of tea, also mine, sat together on the dark wood coffee table, next to the remote control for the TV. Everything was normal.

I played my messages. My mum, laughing, leaving me her name and number like the machine had asked her to, just saying hello. Dr Henry’s secretary primly asking me to ring the doctor at my earliest convenience. And then Kay. Her voice was strained.

‘Frankie, it’s me. It’s, em, a quarter to seven. I … I just went out of the office to get some cigarettes and when I got back the place had been burgled. I’ve rung the police. I can’t remember the name of the restaurant to ring you there. I’m sorry I shan’t make it. Hope you get this in time. I’ll … I’ll speak to you.’

There was a beep and then it was Kay again, sounding more relaxed. ‘You’re still not home. Don’t you ever take your mobile with you?’

I silently answered an outraged ‘sometimes’ as I noticed my phone in its smart black jacket sticking up sadly between the two cushions of the sofa.

‘I hope you’re having something nice to eat,’ the message went on, ‘and you haven’t given yourself indigestion. It’s nine o’clock. The police took ages. I had to buy some more cigarettes. Ring me when you get in.’

And finally Lena. Lena was my Best Friend.

‘Hi, Fran. Just to remind you about tomorrow evening. The film starts at six forty. The reviews say it’s absolutely fab. Ring me soon. Night.’

I really wanted to ring Lena, but I knew I ought to ring Kay because she had my brief.

She answered the phone immediately.

‘They made such a mess of it,’ she said. ‘All my files everywhere. But no one else’s. And they didn’t even take any money. They scratched the cash box but didn’t open it, or even take it, which they could have done.’

‘Perhaps they were baby burglars and didn’t know what to do. Or perhaps it was an unhappy client who got community service when he’d really wanted forty days in clink.’

‘That’s what the police said, that it might have been a client who’d got a bad result, but there’s no one I can think of.’

‘What about my brief?’ I interrupted her train of thought.

‘Oh, I’m sorry … Can you make yourself a back sheet?’

‘I suppose so. What name is Saskia using now? And what is she pleading?’

‘Susan Baker. I think it’s a straight guilty plea, unless she tells you something that makes you think you should fight it.’

‘Are you all right? Do you want me to come over?’

‘I’m fine, fine.’

‘OK, I’ll ring you tomorrow when I’ve finished.’

I rang Lena.

‘Hiya,’ she said, brightly. ‘How are you?’

I told her about my evening. Despite being in a traumatic relationship, which was more than I was, Lena’s always good for a bit of advice, the telephone equivalent of a cup of Horlicks. Not that I drink Horlicks. But then, she regularly gives me advice that I ignore.

‘Do you think she really was burgled?’ Lena asked. ‘You don’t think she was … required elsewhere?’

‘No, no. She was burgled, you could tell from her voice. Anyway, how are you? Is the gorgeous Sophie accompanying us to the Screen on the Green tomorrow?’

‘She might.’ Lena sounded doubtful. ‘We’re not seeing quite so much of each other at the moment.’

‘Oh dear,’ I clucked.

Our conversation continued along the old comforting lines. I forgot about Dr Henry and went to bed, clicking on a Motown cassette and drifting away as the Four Tops implored their woman to get out of their life and let them sleep at night.

TWO
Thursday Morning – Highbury Corner

Highbury Corner Magistrates’ Court was full of cigarette smoke and depressed young men. Susan Baker was listed as appearing in Court 5 and I made myself known to the usher, smiling so that we would be called on early. Saskia herself was in custody and I made my way down the concrete stairs to the cells to see the jailer.

‘Have you got Miss Baker here?’

‘Indeed we do, madam,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Just along there, past matron’s room on your right.’

I made my way along the dark corridor, past solid, locked cell doors, breathing in the smell of disinfectant on concrete. A woman asked me for a light. I could see her lips through the open wicket. I didn’t have any matches. Each door had a small blackboard beside it. I stopped by the board with the word BAKER chalked in clumsy capitals. I peered through the hatch.

‘Saskia?’ I asked into the gloom of the tiny cell.

‘Frankie!’ Saskia crept up to the door. Her face was a mess. Not so much peaches and cream as pork and beans.

‘What has happened to you?’ I looked at her in alarm.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ she said. ‘I’m going to get out, aren’t I? Have you got your car here? Oh, Frankie, get me out.’ She was crying.

‘OK. First of all, how did you come to be charged with drunk and disorderly? Were you?’

‘No. But I’ll have to say yes, won’t I? Yes, say I was, say I was. Because I don’t want to plead not guilty, I just want to get out. I will get out, won’t I?’

‘Yes, you will, whether you plead guilty or not guilty. If you plead guilty today you’ll get out, with a fine probably. But you could fight it. They’d have to give you bail unless there’s any serious reason why they shouldn’t. Are you living in London now?’

‘Yes … well, I was. Yes, yes, I am.’

‘Saskia, are you OK? Have you seen a doctor?’

‘What? In here? You’re joking. Look, Frankie, I’m just going to plead guilty to this. OK, I was on Balls Pond Road and I was singing, rather loudly. Things have been a bit heavy recently. Then the cops came and we had a bit of a discussion about one thing and another. The only thing of any relevance was that they said I was singing flat. I knew I wasn’t and the lamp-post agreed with me. And I asked lots of people in the street what they thought. I don’t think they like music in Balls Pond Road.’ This is just what she used to be like in those demonstration cases. Talking to lamp-posts! I could imagine how they would feel about that in Balls Pond Road. It was a busy road with huge lorries pounding along day and night, but it couldn’t make up its mind whether it was a select residential area, with its large houses converted into expensive apartments, or a lively friendly place with high-rise local authority flats. Either way they would think she was drunk.

‘Well,’ I said, trying to find the right tone, ‘was it right-on music? Did it have Important words?’

I remembered her singing in court one day, years before, about the purpose behind one of the direct actions she and her mates had done outside a porn cinema. The song had about fourteen verses, but the magistrates were so shocked they listened to every line. Perhaps singing did mean she got her message across. I sighed. I felt old and cynical.

Now she looked at me disapprovingly, as if she knew I still ate meat and that I did not take my bottles to the bottle bank.

‘None of us can claim our music is important. Only history will tell whether it was.’

‘All right, what was it about?’

‘That, Frankie, can only be told over a cup of coffee. You used to make lovely coffee. Are you still in the flat with the Danish pastry shop across the road? Mmm, warm cherry.’ Saskia was obviously beginning to perk up, which I knew had nothing to do with my presence or any sense of confidence she had in my courtroom skills. It was because we were having something like a political argument.

‘Saskia, were you drunk?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. It was sunny and I was drunk on the crisp autumn air.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Saskia, shut up for a minute,’ I snapped, momentarily losing my professional veneer.

She smiled at me, a shadow of her normal smile, tinned pineapple and Dream Topping, but devastating just the same.

‘Do you consider that your behaviour was disorderly?’

‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

‘I think the magistrates might.’

‘I’m pleading guilty, Frankie. I want to get out.’ She was desperate again. I was surprised. This woman had gone in and out of prison very regularly at the height of the demonstrations. She never agreed to be bound over to keep the peace, she was always sent to jail.

‘OK.’ She knew the score. I would follow her instructions.

It was five to ten. I went back upstairs and spoke to the man representing the Crown Prosecution Service, who looked about fourteen. He had a large pile of buff-coloured files in front of him and was trying to talk to six barristers at once. I pushed myself to the front, hissing, ‘I’m a quickie, I’m a quickie,’ and got him to tell me what evidence the police were intending to give. Extraordinarily, their story was almost identical to my client’s, except that they said she asked a Belisha Beacon whether she was singing flat. ‘Lamp-post? Street furniture?’ I suggested hopefully. We settled on ‘inanimate object’ and I told him we would be pleading guilty. He seemed relieved.

The usher was bustling importantly at the back of the court, her black gown occasionally revealing flashes of a shocking pink dress. I pointed to the name of Baker on the list attached to her clipboard and told her that we were a five-minute job and we could be in and out before she had time to turn round. I thought I was being irresistible.

However it wasn’t until twenty-five past eleven that I leapt to my feet as Saskia was escorted into the dock. ‘I represent Miss Baker this morning, madam.’

They weren’t used to drunks looking like Saskia or being represented. The charge was put to Saskia, she pleaded guilty and I had hardly finished repeating my name for the third time for the benefit of the very old magistrate on the left when the chairwoman said, ‘Miss Richmond, we were thinking of a twenty pound fine and ten pounds costs or one day. Do you wish to say anything?’

‘No, madam.’

‘You may stand down, Miss Butcher.’

‘Baker,’ I corrected.

‘Yes.’

By being in custody overnight Saskia had served her one day in prison so she wouldn’t have to pay the fine. She knew that and grinned at me as she walked out.

I bowed to the bench, picked up my Guardian and slid along the seat. A shifty-looking man in his mid thirties, wearing a shapeless brown jacket with the collar up, and holding a spiral notebook, approached me at the back of the courtroom.

‘Miss Eh … ?’

‘Yes?’ I said pleasantly. I noticed that he bit his nails.

‘Your client there, isn’t she also known as Saskia Baron?’

‘You’d better ask her.’

‘And how do you spell your name, Miss Eh … ?’

‘Correctly,’ I said primly, and walked to the door of the court as he slid over to speak to the officer in the case. It was eleven thirty exactly.

Saskia appeared from the lavatory and we walked out to my car, which was parked in a side turning off Holloway Road. There was five minutes left on the meter.

‘Did that journalist speak to you?’ I asked her as she got into the car.

‘What journalist?’ she asked, clicking her seat belt into place.

‘In the courtroom,’ I said as I slowly turned the car in the narrow street where I had parked. ‘He had pock-marked skin and was wearing brown shoes. There he is –’ I watched him cross the road. ‘Why’s he leaving at this time? He can’t have finished work, it’s too early. And I doubt your case is the scoop of the day, it’s hardly frontpage news.’

As I waited for a large lorry to squeeze past me, I saw the man get into the passenger seat of a dark saloon car.

‘Where?’ Saskia twisted in her seat, as the car moved away in the opposite direction. ‘Where?’ Her voice was loud and anxious.

‘He’s gone,’ I said, irritated that she hadn’t seen him, concerned by her reaction. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked her. I didn’t tell her he’d had a driver.

Saskia sat with her head back and her eyes closed, as if savouring her freedom. As we turned into Holloway Road I asked, ‘Do you want to nip in and see Kay? Her office is just down here. You could have a wash and brush up, then we could go somewhere nice for coffee. There are some good places on Church Street.’

Saskia pulled down the sun visor and looked at her face in the mirror. ‘Oh my God, look at me,’ she said mournfully, touching her face with her fingertips. ‘My cheek, my eye – Frankie, I can’t go out in public looking like this. Can we just go to your place? Would that be OK? I can’t face seeing anyone. Perhaps I could I have a bath or something …’

I looked at my watch. I could hear the appeal papers in Morris calling me. Rapidly I reorganised my timetable. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘OK.’ We drove past Kay’s office and I touched her arm gently. ‘You don’t look that bad.’

She smiled at me gratefully. ‘You know, you haven’t changed a bit,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘You’re still … well, smart and crisp, all professional in your black clothes,’ she said. ‘I like your hair, is it different?’

‘No.’ I looked at myself quickly in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s always been like this.’ It was short at the back and long at the front. ‘I’ve just had some blonde streaks put in, to highlight the brown or something.’ I flicked my fringe back.

‘Well, it’s lovely to see you,’ she said. ‘It’s like coming home.’

At my flat I ran a bath in my small white bathroom and found some green herbal essence which filled the room with something vaguely related to the smell of fields and trees as I poured it under the running tap. I put out two giant blue towels and an old clean shirt of mine and left her to it. In the kitchen I made coffee and took some apple strudel out of the freezer to put into the microwave on Saskia’s reappearance.

I rang chambers and told Gavin I’d be in later.

‘You’ve got a couple of messages,’ he said. ‘Can you please ring Dr Henry. And someone called Hayman or Wayman rang – I can’t read this, Jenna wrote it, she’s a lovely girl, but her handwriting’s shocking – anyway, I think it says it’s not urgent and they’ll ring back.’

‘Who is Dr Henry?’ I asked.

‘I thought you knew,’ he said. ‘She said he’d ring you at home, he has your number.’

‘Who did?’

‘The secretary. I thought it was personal.’ He gave me Dr Henry’s number again, reminded me of my appeal papers and rang off.

I dialled the number. ‘Dr Henry’s surgery,’ an efficient female voice said.

‘Is Dr Henry there?’ I could hear Saskia singing something folky in the bath.

‘I am afraid Dr Henry is in consultation at this moment. Could I ask you to call back later?’

‘Well, no,’ I said. ‘Dr Henry appears to be trying to contact me.’

‘What is this concerning?’ The thin voice was guarded.

‘I have no idea. My name is Frances Richmond.’

‘Oh, Miss Richmond,’ her tone was concerned, caring, ‘I’m afraid Dr Henry is so busy right now, but I’ll say that you called. I know that the doctor is very anxious to speak with you.’

I thanked her and put the phone down as Saskia came in, smelling sweet and looking much better than I ever did in my grey denim shirt. Her blonde hair stood up in wet spikes.

‘Frankie, that was a life-saver. Mmm, something smells wonderful.’ She sat down at the kitchen table as I poured coffee into two cups. The autumn sun cut through the French doors. Outside two late pink roses swayed in the wind. Saskia looked like a battered angel as her hair dried into soft pale layers.

The microwave pinged and I took out the strudel. I cut slices and put them on my blue and yellow Italian plates. ‘Now,’ I said, pulling out a chair, ‘we are going to do some serious talking.’

She nibbled her strudel.

‘First of all,’ I began, ‘where do those bruises come from?’

She picked up her cup and ran her fingers across the blue-painted rim. She took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Heaven.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well …’

The phone rang in the living room.

‘Frankie! You’re in! I was going to leave a message on your machine.’

‘Lena, I’m a bit busy at the moment. Can I call you back?’

‘Well, actually, sweetie, you can’t – that’s what I’m ringing about. I’m just off for three days to Paris.’

‘Paris!’ I turned to raise my eyebrows at Saskia, to see her disappearing into the hall.

‘Saskia!’ I called and heard the front door click.

‘Frankie? Frankie?’

‘Look, Lena, I’ve got to go.’

‘I’m ringing just to say I’m going to Paris with Sophie.’

‘With Sophie? My God. I thought you two weren’t talking to each other.’ I stretched the cord of the phone as far as I could and looked out of the large bay window. I banged on the glass as I saw Saskia heading towards Stoke Newington High Street.

‘She rang last night after I spoke to you and said she was exhausted and –’

‘Lena, I’ve got to go.’

‘You’re not upset, are you?’

‘No, no, have a lovely time, send me a postcard. Bye bye.’

‘It means I shan’t be able to make the film.’

‘No problem. Bye.’

‘OK. Bye. I’m sorry. Bye.’

I slammed down the phone and ran out of the house. At the corner of the road there was no sign of Saskia but a 149 bus was sailing majestically towards Dalston. ‘Shit,’ I said and turned back to the flat. ‘Shit,’ I said again as I realised I was locked out.

THREE
Thursday Afternoon – Chambers

‘You look a bit cold, Frankie,’ Gavin said, as I walked into chambers an hour later. ‘You should have come out in a coat.’

‘I should have come out with my handbag, keys and wallet and then I wouldn’t have had to walk most of the way and been frozen half to death,’ I said stiffly. I had found a pound in my jacket pocket but I’d had to get off the bus at Liverpool Street. I had come into chambers because I kept a spare set of house keys in the drawer of my desk. I know most people have a good friend or neighbour who looks after a spare set of keys for moments such as this, but Lena lived in Finsbury Park, which was too far away, and I didn’t know my neighbours very well.

There had been attempts, by my neighbours, when I first moved in to the flat. The woman who lived in the top flat invited me to a make-up party. It was shortly after my split with Kay, and I thought I could buy my way back to attractiveness and social success through cosmetic products. As it turned out, I spent the evening feeling bleak and out of place and signed a cheque for £27.50 for two small bottles of something green for my complexion. I hadn’t spoken to them since.

I felt I could do with something green for my complexion now, particularly my nose, which I knew was red and glowing.

I thought that was the reason for Gavin’s stunned look. ‘I didn’t know you were coming in, so Marcus is having a con in your office.’ He was apologetic. ‘He’s, eh, he’s only just gone in.’

I groaned. Marcus was famous for his two-hour conferences with clients.

‘Think of it this way,’ Gavin said, ‘he’s a sad bloke and it’s the only social life he’s got.’ Marcus was a self-made upper class man. He had changed his voice, his education and his background to become more aristocratic than any of them.

‘Think of it this way: I’m a sad woman,’ I said, thinking of the now cold cup of coffee and the congealing slice of apple strudel waiting to be eaten in my kitchen. ‘I am not Marcus’s social secretary. This means I can’t even get on with my appeal papers.’

I slumped on to a chair.

‘Jenna’s just popped out to pick up some books from the High Court,’ Gavin said. Jenna was the newest recruit in the clerks’ room, our fourth junior clerk. ‘So you can sit there for a moment.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. There was a constant battle in the clerks’ room between the clerks trying to retain their territory and barristers wanting to flop down in the secure and busy atmosphere of the centre of chambers.

‘I think Simon wanted to speak to you, actually.’ Gavin picked up the phone. ‘Simon, Frankie’s in. Didn’t you say you wanted a word? She looks as if she needs lunch … He’s coming right down,’ he said to me.

‘Gavin!’

My life was an open book to the clerks, but Gavin still persisted in trying to get me off with men.

‘I know you’re, you know, That Way,’ Gavin had said to me in the pub one evening, ‘but I also see you as a very open-minded person.’ He had been drunk. ‘Now Simon, he’s just the type of man you could do with.’

‘Does he dust? Does he clean? Would he have my dinner on the table when I got in?’

Gavin blinked at me.

‘Well then, what’s the point?’ I said.

‘No no, he’s, he’s, well, you’re a bit of a thinker, aren’t you? And Simon isn’t. What, for you, could be more perfect? A lot of ladies do find him good looking, you know.’ Gavin had been looking at too many computer screens. ‘Plus, he’s loaded.’

Thinking of the pots of money I knew Simon had inherited only recently after the death of a doting grandmother, his regular private income and his part share in a farm, when he walked into the clerks’ room, I said, ‘All right, Simon, you can take me out for lunch.’ I looked at his wide smile and his good teeth. He really was quite good looking in an old-fashioned way. If he paid more attention to his choice of tie, I thought, he’d be quite a catch for someone.

We went to the Café Rouge in Fetter Lane. As soon as we sat down Simon ordered a bottle of Bourgueuil.

‘Is that just for you, or are we sharing it?’ I asked as the waitress walked away.

‘It’s for both of us,’ Simon said. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I should have asked you. You know about wine, don’t you?’

‘I’m not sure that’s the right answer, Simon. If I had been a man I assume, perhaps stupidly, that you would have asked me at least to agree to your choice.’

‘If you’d been a man like Marcus, who knows nothing about wine, I probably wouldn’t,’ he said irritatingly. ‘But I concede your point. I forgot about your knowledge of wine, because you are a woman.’

‘Well, thank you for that,’ I said.

‘Do you hate all men?’ Simon asked.

‘For God’s sake, Simon, what a stupid thing to say. I work with you, don’t I?’

The waiter came to ask if we were ready to order and we both asked for steak and chips, rare.

‘But it’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? Lesbians …’ I didn’t like to think where this conversation might be going. ‘Have you ever thought of starting your own set?’ Simon poured wine into my glass. ‘You could be head of the first women-only set.’

‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’ I asked.

‘Not at all. I like you being in chambers. It’s an idea, though, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not sure what the point would be. It couldn’t be all lesbians, there aren’t enough of us at the bar.’ I had thought before about the possibility of striking out into the strange territory of an all women’s set of chambers, with women clerks.

‘And so,’ Simon said carefully, ‘some of the barristers would have boyfriends or husbands, and they might have boy children.’

‘Exactly, you couldn’t keep men out.’ I tore a piece of bread in half, showering the table with flakes of crust. ‘You’d have male clients. Then there’d be the motorbike couriers, the postman, the window cleaner.’

The waiter placed our orders in front of us.

‘And I know you’d be the last to say this, Simon, but women barristers are not necessarily any better, whatever that means, than men. They’re not intrinsically more politically right on. Margaret Thatcher was a barrister. They’re not kinder or gentler – but you don’t want that in a barrister anyway.’ I stuffed chips into my mouth.

‘They usually smell nicer.’

‘Simon,’ I said. ‘Barristers are barristers. Rich, posh, privileged.’

‘Are you?’ he asked.

‘I’m trying to make a political point. I’m not, as it happens, as you can tell perfectly well from my vowel sounds. And I’m not rich … well, not particularly. Certainly not at the moment, anyway.’

‘This lunch is on me,’ Simon said with concern.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

We raised our glasses to each other. Simon said, ‘You don’t really think I’m trying to get rid of you, do you?’

‘No, Simon, I don’t.’

‘Because that would be absurd. Because, you know, I really like you.’ His cheeks began to glow. ‘And if there ever came a time when you thought you wanted to, you know, try … try again, try with a man … you could always turn to me.’

‘Thank you, but no.’

‘No strings attached, just to see, you know.’

‘Simon, give me a break.’

‘Just a bit of practice?’

‘Simon,’ I said, slowly swilling the contents of my glass, ‘if this were not expensive wine, I would pour it on your head now.’ I looked at his broad face and his eager blue eyes. ‘Just order two Armagnacs and we’ll forget you said that.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Sorry. This is rather good wine, isn’t it? I assume neither of us is in court this afternoon.’

‘I’m not,’ I said, still trying to assert a sense of annoyance.

‘But if the system is so awful,’ Simon said, as we sat with large glasses of rich amber Armagnac, ‘isn’t it going to corrupt you?’ He gazed at me.

‘It might, but not the way you want it to, Simon. Don’t start that again.’

‘Well, let me cheer you up and tell you about my morning in front of His Honour Judge Swiffham till you regain your sense of justice and love for all humankind.’

‘A slight feeling of pity may be as good as you’re going to get,’ I said. ‘We’d better have some coffee.’

I ordered two espressos and Simon began his story. We were a few minutes in when I realised he was talking about the dreadful pornography case that he had been involved in for weeks, led by our head of chambers. Their client had been found guilty and had been sentenced this morning.

‘And just as the judge was about to pass sentence, our client leapt up and shouted, “Police corruption! Police corruption! I paid good money to keep out of court, and look at me now. How much are you supposed to pay?”’

‘How much are you supposed to pay?’

‘I don’t know.’ Simon grinned. ‘But our client had obviously not paid enough. I didn’t know anything about it, it hadn’t been part of our case. But from something my client mumbled later in the cells, he paid something in the area of five thousand pounds. Not that he had anything to pay for, of course. His was an entirely above-board art bookshop. It was all a horrible misunderstanding. But I have to say, some of the officers in the case arrived at court in very nice cars.’

‘I suppose that’s one of the perks of working in Soho.’

‘Yes. Although not all our shops – all right, so we had a string of them – were in Soho. One of them was in Camden.’

‘Why do you do cases like this?’

‘It’s the cab-rank rule, Frankie. If it comes in with my name on, in my area of work, I have to do it.’

‘Oh yes?’ I said, thinking of barristers who return cases because there’s not enough money on the brief.

‘I don’t have your politics,’ he said. ‘But, anyway, I thought you did this kind of work when you did crime.’

‘I represented prostitutes, not the jerks who live off them. Although I did once represent a woman charged with running a brothel. When she got off, she gave me that china high-heel shoe on my table in chambers. But all of that’s a million miles away from your case.’

Somehow the story ended up involving hiccups, snoring and bad language. It wasn’t very funny but by the time we had finished the coffee, and against my better judgment, we were giggling like contestants in a quiz show. I felt sure enough time had passed for Marcus to have finished his conference so we got the bill.

‘He’s still in your room,’ Gavin said mournfully as we walked into the clerks’ room.

‘Can I make a phone call from here?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, Jenna’s desk’s free, use her phone.’ As junior clerk, Jenna had to take her lunch very late or very early. She was still at lunch. I rang Kay and told her as coherently as I could about Saskia’s court appearance, bruises and all.

‘Oh no,’ Kay sighed. ‘Where is she now?’

‘I don’t know, she just skipped off while I was on the phone.’

‘What, at court?’

‘No, in my flat.’

‘In your flat? God, Frankie, you never give up, do you?’ Did she sound irritated? I was.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘that’s none of your business and, anyway, she just came to have a bath.’

Kay shouted with laughter.

Normally, this is where I put the phone down, but I was seriously worried about Saskia.

‘There was a guy at court with brown shoes,’ I said.

‘Oh yes?’ Kay said. ‘So it’s true, brown is the new black.’

I squeezed my eyes tight shut with frustration, then went on calmly: ‘He seemed very interested in Saskia.’

‘I’m assuming he wasn’t a reporter, am I?’

‘I thought he was at first, he looked the type: seedy, greedy, all those -eedy words.’ I reflected for a moment. ‘Not tweedy, I suppose.’ I remembered I was talking to my instructing solicitor. ‘But then he left court at the same time as us, about half past eleven, and was driven off in a smooth black car. Saskia didn’t see him but she seemed quite shaken when I told her. What’s going on?’

Kay was silent.

‘Why was she so bruised, why was she so desperate to get out of the cells, and what was she doing in Balls Pond Road, of all places?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kay said.

‘She’s not involved in anything … iffy, is she? Nothing that could be connected to your break-in?’

Kay was silent, then said curtly, ‘Meet me tonight at the same place as last night.’

‘We didn’t actually meet last night, if you remember.’

‘Seven o’clock all right?’ Kay asked in a clipped voice.

‘Yes,’ I said humbly.

As I put the phone down it occurred to me that I was quite tired and I needed to do something that would wake me up and keep me awake if I was going to make it through to the evening.

‘I’m going to the pictures,’ I announced.

‘You going with, erm, you know?’ Gavin leered.

‘If you mean Simon, no, I’m not.’

‘Not what?’ asked Simon, coming through the clerks’ room to make himself some coffee. His blue and orange tie had something related to steak and chips on it.

‘Not going to the pictures with you.’

‘But why not? I love the cinema. Apollo 13, James Bond, Toy Story. Whatever. Toy Story 2.’ Simon was eager, like a bouncy puppy. ‘We could share a tub of popcorn, although you probably like salted, don’t you? We could have one each. Ice cream, coffee. What are we going to see?’

I looked at him. In court he was feared for his sharp wit and ruthless cross-examination. Around women he was as daft as a brush.

‘Something French and obscure.’

‘Oh, I’ll take a rain check then,’ he said.

‘Bye,’ said Gavin, shaking his head with disappointment.

I remembered my financial state, ‘Lend us twenty quid, Simon.’

‘Is that enough?’

‘It’ll do,’ I said, snatching the old spare mac hanging behind the door in the clerk’s room. I was on the landing outside chambers when I remembered my keys.

I went back into chambers. ‘Because the con’s been going on so long,’ Gavin said, ‘I’ll go in and get them.’ It was a strict rule that conferences must not be disturbed. When he came out he handed me the small bunch of keys. ‘The things you’ve got in your top drawer,’ he remarked. ‘It could have been very embarrassing for Marcus.’

‘He could have said they were for his feminine side. Perhaps it might stop him having cons in my room. He shouldn’t look in the drawers of my desk anyway,’ I said, and swept out of chambers.

The film was French but light and had that comedy the French laugh at – people hiding in dustbins and being loaded on to dustcarts by mistake, like Benny Hill with an accent – which I always forget about when I say I like French films. But I enjoyed myself being critical and feeling superior about the subtitles, which were too short, too vague, too late. The story of my life.

It was a quarter to six when I came out of the cinema and the air was less cold than it had been earlier. I was humming the film’s catchy theme tune which hadn’t yet become irritating and I decided to walk to the restaurant to meet Kay.

All I will say is, Brunswick Square to Kings Cross was easy enough, through the streets of high mansion blocks and large houses, past the turrets of St Pancras station to the concrete flatness of Kings Cross, but the hill up to the Angel reminded me that I had done a lot of walking already that day and also notified me of all the spots where my shoes rubbed. At least it wasn’t raining.

I felt irritable and ragged when I limped into Gino’s.

‘Signora,’ Gino bustled towards me, his face all concern, ‘you look a little fatigué. Come, sit down, asseyez-vous, and I bring you a bottle of vino tinto red, yes?’

The restaurant was empty and Gino guided me to a small, discreet table tucked behind a large Swiss cheese plant.

‘I am expecting someone,’ I said defiantly, as he put down the bottle of wine and began removing the plate and cutlery opposite me.

‘Of course, yes, signora,’ he said, pretending to tidy them. ‘How long you will be waiting?’

It was ten to seven.

‘Fifteen minutes,’ I said. I had £15 left from the £20 Simon had lent me. That meant, if absolutely necessary, if she didn’t come, I could have the wine, a starter and just about enough for a cab home. I was worrying about the tip when Kay appeared.

I always do a double take when I haven’t seen Kay for a while. She’s tall, about five foot nine, and carries her weight well. She has dark hair and dark eyes, but it’s her mouth that I’m drawn to. It is full and perfectly shaped and she does something which always makes her lips shine. She licks them. It works.

She leaned on the back of the empty chair opposite me.

‘May I?’

I smiled and she sat down. She was wearing a grey trouser suit, with a long draping jacket, it said Armani, it said Donna Karan, it said, successful solicitor. I realised my outfit today said Top Shop, and the jacket was too tight across the shoulders. I poured her some wine and Gino hurried forward with a menu. I ordered a mushroom risotto and Kay ordered chicken.

I had warmed up, I was relaxed and it was good to see her.

‘Saskia rang me,’ she announced. I sat forward in my chair. ‘She said she was OK and thank you very much and sorry she left without saying goodbye. Oh, and she said something about a grey shirt?’ It was a question.

‘She went off in my shirt. But did she say where she was? Did you ask her about the bruises?’

‘Well, I couldn’t really ask about the bruises because I didn’t see them. And she didn’t say where she was.’ She looked at my face. ‘And, no, I didn’t ask her either. To be honest, I didn’t have the time for a chat.’ Unlike you, I read in her eyes. I make time because I care, I flashed back, silently. Oh, please! Her eyebrow twitched.

She shook out her napkin. ‘She did say something odd. She said, “It’s the singer not the song.” I wondered if she’d been flicking through your record collection.’

‘Did you ask her what she meant?’

She didn’t bother to answer. ‘Sometimes I think Saskia says things just to be mysterious. It doesn’t mean anything. What could it mean?’

I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders.

‘There’s nothing more you can do,’ she said sensibly. ‘Saskia’s an adult. And she’s pretty much told us to lay off.’ She poured more wine in my glass and I tried to put my anxiety aside.

We had a pleasant evening. I talked about chambers, she talked about her office. Once we looked at each other as we were laughing about the lifts at Wood Green Court, and the possibility of going home together hovered in the air, but the moment passed.

In Kay’s car at the end of the evening I concentrated on what Saskia could mean by that comment, ‘the singer not the song’. It was true, she often said things for effect, she said it brought interest to people’s lives. But there was something wrong, something not Saskia in all this.

As she dropped me off, Kay said, ‘Look, Saskia was a client, you represented her, the case is over. All you can do now is return the brief and forget about it. There’s no Legal Aid for all this worrying, and your professional insurance probably doesn’t cover you for it either. Knowing Saskia, she’ll turn up in about two years’ time, after another demo, and you’ll be representing her on an assault police charge.’

I looked at her.

‘For God’s sake,’ she said, ‘go to bed.’

I went into the flat and headed straight for the bathroom to run a bath to relax me so that I could sleep. I noticed that Saskia had carefully cleaned the bath, which is not my practice. I believe in self-cleaning baths like other people believe in fairies. My theory is self-cleaning ovens exist, so why not self-cleaning baths?

I undressed as the bath filled. I opened the clothes basket to dispose of my underwear and noticed a blue shirt sheltering like a cuckoo in the nest of my dirty clothes.

I looked at it, uncomprehending, for three seconds then realised it was Saskia’s.

I lifted it out of the basket between thumb and forefinger as if it was a piece of china which might have fingerprints on it. It was a long-sleeve polo shirt with a pocket over the left breast.

I couldn’t work out whether I felt like a detective or a thief as I considered slipping my fingers into the pocket to see what was in there. I knew that Saskia liked and trusted me so I decided I could assume the rights and even duties of a good friend. Also, if there was a tissue in there and I washed it, it would wreak havoc with my court things. I hooked the pocket open with my index finger and looked in. There was nothing but a screwed up turquoise and white wrapper, Orbit sugar-free gum. I was humming the advertising slogan as I pulled it out of the pocket and tossed it in the bin. I tried to picture Saskia chewing gum. It didn’t fit, I had never seen Saskia chewing gum, so I scrabbled among the tissues and old toilet roll to retrieve the wrapper.

What was I expecting? Something dramatic, something helpful, a note that said, ‘I have moved and can now be reached at 0837-24391,’ perhaps. Perhaps an address. Perhaps something more sinister, a name, written in blood.

It didn’t say anything like that. But it did say something: ‘7.30 Gino’s F.’

What? At first I thought I must have written it. I had just come from Gino’s. How had that fact got into Saskia’s pocket? I’d been with Kay. Had Kay written it? It wasn’t Kay’s writing. I tried to remember Saskia’s handwriting.

‘7.30 Gino’s F.’

What did it mean?

Automatically I got into the bath, washed and got out, no more relaxed than I had been five minutes earlier. I wandered into the living room in my dressing gown.

The answer machine light was flashing.

‘Frankie, it’s Gavin. It’s eight thirty. Look, I’m sorry about this, but a new solicitor has just rung and needs someone to do a quick non-mol at Edmonton. You know I wouldn’t normally ask you to do an injunction, but you live so close and she needs a bit of soft soap which I know you’re good at.’

‘You taught me everything I know, Gavin,’ I said to the machine, and missed the last part of the message.

I played the tape again. ‘Client’s name is Fiona Stevens, brief at court. Don’t forget, Edmonton’s a ten o’clock start. See you tomorrow.’

I groaned, then groaned again. A non-molestation application at Edmonton County Court could take all day. The application itself would last ten minutes, the rest of the time would be spent waiting till the judge or the usher decided which of the twenty or so cases in the list could go in.

This was so depressing. I shouldn’t be doing cases like this, picking up my brief at Edmonton County Court on the morning of the hearing. I should be in the High Court, staggering under the weight of briefs which I’d received months before, for hearings which would last two or three weeks. What was the matter with my practice? Was it my solicitors? My clerks? Me?

I put on Sam and Dave singing, ‘Hold On, I’m Coming’ and thought, ‘Well, hurry up then,’ and went to bed.