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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: Caper Court
- Sprache: Englisch
Behind the calm exterior of the elite barristers' chambers at 5 Caper Court rumour and uncertainty are rife. Cameron Renshaw, head of chambers, is dying; there's a move afoot to leave the chambers' comfortable, familiar premises in Middle Temple for Lincoln's Inn; and Leo Davies, the QC with the charmed but amoral life, is about to find his dubious past catching up with him. His ex-wife is ready to do anything to protect her son from his father, Sarah Coleman, who knows more of Leo's secrets than anyone, is now a pupil at 5 Caper Court, and Leo has unwisely compromised himself with a decadent and unreliable new young lover, Joshua.
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Seitenzahl: 525
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013
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A Hallowed Place
CARO FRASER
Contents
A Hallowed Place
CHAPTER ONE
During the long vacation, that fallow summer period falling between the end of the Trinity Term and the beginning of the Michaelmas Term, the Inns of Court in the City of London fall into a drowse. The air barely lifts the leaves of the lofty plane trees, the lanes and courtyards lie quiet and warm, trodden only by the occasional barrister or clerk. The judges have shed their wigs and gowns, and the courts are hushed and still. In the days before the reign of that misunderstood and much-maligned lord chancellor, Lord MacKay, the Rules of the Supreme Court stated that ‘time does not run’ during the long vacation. This ‘running of time’ refers to the time limits within which lawyers, in the conduct of litigation, are required to progress the various stages of their case. The notion of its suspension aptly captures the air of torpor and inactivity which hangs about the City in the dog days. As though, in the geriatric world of the law, it ever managed anything above a reluctant shuffle. Nowadays, of course, under brisk new rules designed to encourage lawyers to prosecute the affairs of their clients as diligently as at any other time of the year, it is stated that time does run in the long vacation. But, in truth, nothing has changed much. Extensions to time limits are sought and granted, and if time runs anywhere, it is in Tuscan villas and on sun-kissed, tropical beaches, where barristers and solicitors take their hard-earned rest. The City slumbers throughout August, until the lawyers return in September, rested and refreshed, sporting sun-bleached hair and rich tans which sit strangely with pinstripes and Turnbull & Asser shirts, better suited to wintry, wine bar pallors.
It was at the end of one of these fading days of late summer that several of the members of 5 Caper Court, one of the most illustrious and renowned sets of commercial chambers in the Temple, congregated in a snug corner of El Vino’s to enjoy a glass of wine. Beyond the propped-open doorway of the wine bar the late-afternoon sky hung blue and balmy above the roar of Fleet Street traffic.
‘My wig’s taken on this strange smell recently,’ said David Liphook, taking another swig of his wine and frowning.
‘Smell? What kind of smell?’ asked Anthony Cross, reaching over for another smoked salmon sandwich.
‘I don’t know … A sort of musty, not very pleasant smell,’ replied David. ‘I thought one’s wig was meant to last a lifetime. At this rate I may have to chuck it and get a new one. I had a look at the prices in Ede and Ravenscroft, and they’re simply frightening.’
At this there was a general guffaw, and David, a stocky, blond man in his early thirties, glanced round resentfully. ‘Well, they are! I’m not that tight, but they are, you know.’ For a barrister whose practice probably earned him in the region of two hundred thousand a year, after tax, it struck the others that the price of a new wig wouldn’t make a great dent in his finances. But David, an eligible young London bachelor with a Ferrari to care for, and extravagant tastes in wine, food and women to husband, was thrifty when it came to life’s little things.
‘Which parsimonious reflection,’ murmured William Cooper, looking up from his Times crossword, ‘forcibly reminds us all that it’s your shout. Get another bottle in, David.’
David sighed, got up, and went to the thronged bar to order another bottle of Chablis. Coming back, he set the bottle down and remarked, ‘I don’t see why we need the bloody things, anyway. Wigs, I mean. They’re archaic, they’re uncomfortable, and they look ridiculous.’
William groaned. ‘You’ve been reading articles in the Guardian about bringing the bar up to date, haven’t you? You really shouldn’t look at that paper. You’re far too impressionable. Anyway, blame the criminal fraternity - they’re all in favour of them. They did a poll of defendants in criminal cases a while back and ninety per cent of them said they didn’t feel that they were getting the real thing if their brief didn’t have a wig.’
‘I’m personally all in favour of wigs,’ remarked Anthony. ‘They’re part of the uniform. They help the general public identify you in court. And they lend a certain authority.’
A large man in his sixties, ruddy-faced, his bulky body straining the broad chalk-stripe of his dark, three-piece suit, came in through the back door from Clifford Court.
‘Cameron,’ said William, ‘pull up a chair.’ He motioned to a passing waitress to bring another glass.
Cameron Renshaw subsided into a chair, puffing a little.
‘I disagree with you entirely,’ went on David. ‘I think the public are quite capable of working out who’s who in court without the benefit of a piece of horsehair. As for lending authority, I’d say they do the opposite. They’re a relic from a bygone age. Besides which, they’re bad PR. This wig and gown business just serves to distance the public, and perpetuates the myth that barristers are a pompous elite.’
‘That’s a myth, is it?’ murmured William from the depths of his crossword.
‘Not this bloody nonsense about wigs again,’ snorted Cameron, sipping gratefully on the glass of wine which Anthony had poured for him. ‘Do you know, this old chestnut comes up once a decade. By the time you’re my age, you’re sick to death of the thing.’ Shifting his bulk in his chair, he lifted his plump chin slightly and ran a finger along his salt and pepper moustache. Cameron was the head of chambers at 5 Caper Court and the younger members waited respectfully for his own views on the matter. ‘The fact is, they’re part of the theatre. Just as a policeman has his uniform, so we have ours. And judges have theirs. British people like their barristers to look the way they do. And the judiciary. It sets us apart.’
‘That’s just my point,’ said David. ‘It creates an artificial barrier between the public and us. It distorts their perception of us as real people. Why can’t we do as American lawyers do and just wear ordinary clothes, without these distinctions of dress? I think it’s all nonsense.’
‘Just because your wig pongs and you’ve got to get a new one,’ observed William.
‘It’s more than that,’ replied David. ‘Our judiciary look like complete fools, too. I mean, look at that ridiculous charade at the State Opening of Parliament. Silk tights, buckled shoes, full-bottomed wigs. Absolutely ludicrous. Much better to have the kind of rig you see judges wearing in Italian or French courts.’
‘That lot? They all look like clerics. The day we start importing any of the habits of our continental counterparts will be the end for this country,’ snorted Cameron. ‘Anyway, look upon it as a form of protection. There are more than a few judges on the criminal bench who are quite glad of the fact that nobody recognises them with their wigs off, at the end of the day.’
‘You have a point there,’ agreed Anthony. He glanced up and smiled at the pretty, auburn-haired young woman who had just joined them, and the others murmured in greeting. Camilla Lawrence was the newest tenant at 5 Caper Court, and its first woman member. When she had first joined chambers as a pupil fifteen months before, she had been a gauche bluestocking, fresh from Oxford and Bar school, brimming with ambition and ineptness. During her time in chambers she had matured into a quietly confident young woman, with a mind just as incisive as any of the men with whom she worked. The others knew of the relationship which had grown up between her and Anthony, but the matter was never referred to. It did not encroach upon their work, and in public they behaved towards one another as they did towards all their colleagues, with candour and friendly insolence.
She sat down and chucked a copy of the Evening Standard on to the table. David poured a glass of wine and passed it to her. ‘Thanks,’ she said, then nodded towards the paper. ‘I take it that none of you has seen this yet?’
‘What?’ asked David, reaching for the paper.
Camilla smiled. ‘Page five. A profile of one Leo Davies, top commercial silk and, if I remember correctly, the possessor of steely blue eyes and a courtroom manner as cold as it is courteous.’
‘Let’s have a look.’ William lost interest in his Times and leant over David’s shoulder as he thumbed through the pages.
‘Oh, listen to this,’ said David, and began to read aloud, grinning. ‘“The world of the commercial Bar is not renowned for its excitement. It doesn’t generally produce headline-grabbing cases or celebrity lawyers. But over the past few days the media have gradually been discovering a new legal superstar in the person of Leo Davies QC. Davies, a charismatic, suave figure, with the kind of good looks not normally associated with middle-aged lawyers, is the barrister who has been conducting the cross-examination of Giannis Kapriakis, the London-based Greek shipping tycoon accused of masterminding a massive fraud involving the sale of metal futures. A member of 5 Caper Court, one of the most prestigious sets of commercial chambers in London, Mr Davies possesses a subtle, infinitely courteous technique, plus the ability to pierce through veils of prevarication with the most devastating and beautifully timed of questions. Although the case has attracted considerable media attention from the outset, Mr Davies has rapidly become its star turn. His steely blue eyes and chiselled features seem to be as much of an attraction for the members of the public gallery as his renowned forensic skills. He is one of the superbreed of commercial litigators, with enormous earning power, and is respected and well liked amongst his fellow barristers. Little is known about his private life, however, except that he is divorced and lives alone in London, and perhaps this enigmatic aspect adds to the fascination. Watching him in court number five today, one couldn’t help feeling that behind the professional facade there is ultimately something cold and lonely about this most ambitious and highly regarded of QCs.”’
‘Extraordinary,’ remarked William, as David laid the paper open on the table. Almost two-thirds of the page had been devoted to the article, which included a full-length photo of Leo Davies striding out of the law courts.
‘They do a lot of this kind of thing these days,’ said David. ‘Especially if the case is high profile. But even so, you don’t expect them to pick on the commercial Bar.’
‘It’s because he’s so good-looking,’ said Camilla. ‘He’s got—’ All eyes turned towards her and she hesitated, embarrassed.
‘Got what?’ asked David.
Camilla smiled. ‘Well, he’s got sex appeal, I suppose. I mean,’ she went on hastily, ‘he’s a handsome, highly paid, successful QC, involved in one of the biggest City frauds in years, and the papers and the public perceive that as very sexy. After all, they’ve even managed to hype up old George Carman in that way, haven’t they?’
Cameron shook his head. ‘It’s utterly beyond me why the newspapers these days have to turn everyone into a celebrity. Fifteen minutes’ worth of fame.’ Cameron paused, musing, then glanced up. ‘That was that Andy Warhol chap, wasn’t it?’ He looked rather pleased with himself. ‘Well, I don’t think it does much good for the dignity of the profession, to have our QCs written up like soap stars. I can’t imagine Leo will like it very much.’
Camilla glanced at Anthony, who had said nothing so far. ‘What do you think Leo will make of it?’
Anthony picked up the paper and gazed at Leo’s familiar, handsome, unsmiling features. ‘I don’t know. To be honest with you, I don’t know what Leo thinks about anything, these days.’
Fifteen minutes later Anthony left the wine bar and walked back to Caper Court. He was seeing his father later that evening and wanted to go pick up a few papers from chambers beforehand. It was, he realised with a flash of guilt, a relief to be doing something on his own, even if it was just a drink with Chay. Since the start of their relationship last Christmas, he and Camilla had seen one another almost every evening. On top of a working day spent in the same chambers, though not necessarily in each other’s company, things occasionally felt claustrophobic.
Pushing open the door of 5 Caper Court, Anthony was surprised to see Henry, the head clerk, still beavering away in his shirtsleeves at one of the word processors. Henry was a slight, amiable young man in his early thirties, who had been unexpectedly catapulted to his position of responsibility two years before when the old head clerk had retired.
‘Still here, Henry? It’s gone seven.’
‘Just chasing up a few fee notes. Otherwise you lot give me an ear-bashing, don’t you?’ He pointed to a sheaf of papers lying in one of the baskets. ‘Those came in for you from Mr Poulson’s chambers after you’d left.’
‘They can wait till tomorrow. Anyone about?’
‘Mr Davies came back just after half five and he’s still up there. That fraud case has him at it every night. Which reminds me -’ Henry fished around on the desk for a copy of the Evening Standard and handed it to Anthony, folded open at page five. ‘You seen that?’ He grinned.
Anthony took the paper and smiled. ‘Yes, someone had a copy in El Vino’s. Haven’t had a chance to read it properly, though.’
‘You can hold on to my copy, if you want,’ said Henry.
‘Thanks.’ Anthony looked curiously at Henry. ‘By the way, forgive the personal nature of the enquiry, Henry, but – is that a moustache you’re growing?’
Henry flushed slightly. ‘Yes, it is, as a matter of fact. Just an experiment. You know, by way of a change.’ He fingered the sparse bristles of his three-day-old moustache nervously, his breeziness suddenly gone. Did it look messy, he wondered. He had hoped it would have been a bit fuller by now. It annoyed him that Anthony hadn’t been certain what it was.
‘Well, very nice,’ said Anthony. ‘I’ve never tried either myself. Beard or moustache, I mean. Good luck.’ He turned and went slowly up the narrow wooden staircase to his room, reading as he went.
On the first landing he paused to finish the article, then glanced towards Leo’s door. Had Leo seen it yet? Anthony longed to go in and show it to him, but the last thing Leo probably wanted was to be interrupted on such a trivial pretext. Anthony glanced down again at the photo. It was a face he had seen every working day for the last five years. Even so, the unexpected sight of it in the newspaper in El Vino’s had caused his heart to give a little lurch. Absurd, but true. Leo had always had that effect on him. His smile, the faint Welsh lilt to his voice, the arrogant glance of his blue eyes. When Anthony had first begun at 5 Caper Court as a raw, nervous pupil, he had liked to think of Leo, the great Leo Davies, as his friend. But it was a friendship whose intensity seemed, over the months and years, to wax and wane according to Leo’s emotional caprices, which were beyond Anthony’s understanding. He rarely thought back to the time when Leo had tried to seduce him and he had almost reciprocated. The incident seemed to belong to another age. But there were still occasions now when the chemistry between them was so intense and perfect that it left Anthony confused and troubled. Not that they had spent much time together recently. That was partly to do with Camilla, and partly due to the fact that Leo seemed to be in one of his reclusive cycles, when he would retreat into his work and the others in chambers would see little of him. Time to break that, thought Anthony. He knocked lightly on Leo’s door and looked in.
Leo was sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, writing. He glanced briefly over his half-moon spectacles at Anthony, then continued with his work. Undeterred by Leo’s silence, Anthony went in, closing the door behind him, and sat down in a chair opposite Leo’s desk.
After a few moments Leo laid down his pen and sat back.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Anthony, breaking the silence.
Leo gave a tired smile. ‘Not badly. Kapriakis is all over the place. Every time he opens his mouth to answer a question his solicitors are almost galvanised with panic.’ He sat forward again, yawning. ‘I should be finished by tomorrow.’
‘Well, it’s certainly turned you into a bit of a celebrity, this case,’ said Anthony. He chucked the copy of the Evening Standard on to the desk.
Leo drew it towards him and unfolded it. ‘Oh, God.’ He sat back and perused the pages briefly, then shook his head. ‘I can’t understand why they bother.’
‘Because you’re a star. Enigmatic, charismatic, brilliant, all that bollocks.’ Anthony got up. ‘Listen, have you got an hour to spare this evening? I’m seeing my father tonight for a drink and he says he’d very much like to meet you.’
‘Me? Why?’ asked Leo in mild surprise.
‘He’s in the process of setting up some kind of gallery or museum, and I rather think he’s trying to find people who’d be prepared to act as trustees. For God’s sake, say no now, if it doesn’t appeal to you.’
‘Hmm.’ Leo considered. ‘I’m not sure about becoming a trustee of anything, but it would be interesting to meet your father. He seems to be the king of the modern art world these days, doesn’t he?’
Anthony grimaced. He had always thought it something of a fluke that his father had risen from anonymous, hippie-like inertia in a squat in Islington to his present status as darling of the postmodernists. Anthony could see no intrinsic merit whatsoever in what he regarded as Chay’s pretentious pieces of voluminous, abstract art. In the days when Chay had been on the dole, doing nothing more taxing than smoking the odd joint, eating vegetarian food and expounding his latest half-baked artistic theory, the teenage Anthony’s attitude had veered between exasperation and embarrassment at having a father who behaved like a wayward adolescent. His parents were divorced and, living with his younger brother and his mother, he knew just how little effort his father made to contribute towards their upbringing. A few years ago fashion had turned its fickle face to smile upon Chay’s works, and now he was successful and wealthy. For one who had always espoused a simple, frugal existence, he had adapted with remarkable ease to the possession of money, and led a life of some extravagance and style, with houses in New York, London and Milan. Anthony’s attitude towards him since the change in his fortunes was a mixture of awe and cynical disbelief. Having no particular liking for or understanding of modern art, Anthony was convinced that Chay was part of an elaborate conspiracy to con the public and the art world, one which must, surely, eventually be discovered.
‘That was once something of a mystery to me, until I paid a visit to the Saatchi gallery. Now I realise that if you tell enough people that something is art, eventually they’ll believe it.’
‘That’s a bit hard,’ replied Leo. ‘I really think your father’s work is excellent. I’d buy some, if only it weren’t so highly priced. It’s also rather - well … big. It calls for greater space than I could afford to be properly appreciated.’
Anthony shook his head. ‘I must be missing something. Anyway, I’m glad you want to come along. I’ve just got to collect some papers, then we can leave. Give me ten minutes.’
Anthony went out, and Leo picked up the newspaper, turned to the article and began to read. When he had finished it he stood up and walked to the window, looking down on the courtyard. Why should he care what a trivial newspaper article said of him? No doubt it had all been designed to be largely flattering. Whoever wrote it had clearly enjoyed developing that picture of him as brilliant, but cold and aloof. Yet Leo felt faintly troubled. Cold? He had never thought of himself as a cold person. In fact, he sometimes thought that his capacity to love was excessive, that he unduly craved intimacy and affection. But this inner truth was at odds with the image he presented to the world, so the world, as represented by the pages of the Evening Standard, was perhaps entitled to regard him as chilly and remote. His loves, his passions, were all concealed, clandestine. Times might be changing, the things one did in one’s personal life might be regarded with greater tolerance, even in a tight-knit, censorious community such as the Bar, but from the very first he had always sought to hide his sexual ambivalence, to keep his life away from work as private as possible. His marriage, which had lasted scarcely a year, had been his only public demonstration of affection and that had been largely a sham, designed to allay rumours about his dubious past at a time when he was anxious to take silk. Nothing good had come of it, except for his son, Oliver, and even he was presently the subject of an acrimonious custody dispute. So why should he be surprised if the world chose to regard him as remote and lonely? God knows, that was certainly the way he felt these days.
‘Okay,’ said Anthony, reappearing in the doorway. ‘Shall we go?’
Leo slipped on his jacket and tidied his papers away, and together they walked out into Caper Court in the late August sunshine. In Fleet Street they hailed a taxi.
‘So,’ said Anthony, ‘tell me why you’ve been such a reclusive figure these past few months. I’ve hardly had so much as a game of squash out of you.’ Leo said nothing, merely glanced out of the cab window. ‘I haven’t done anything, have I?’ added Anthony.
Leo shrugged. ‘All the enforced intimacy of the Lloyd’s Names case must have got to me. Besides, we’ve both been away over the long vacation. And since I came back, I’ve been caught up in this fraud case.’
There was a brief silence.
‘Has it anything to do with Camilla?’
‘In what sense?’
‘Oh, come on, Leo. I think you know what I mean. I know you dislike her.’
‘You’re wrong. I don’t dislike her. She’s an extremely able lawyer. She’s a credit to chambers. I only wish we had more female tenants. It does no good to be as weighted as we are in the other direction. In fact, it’s a point I particularly wish to raise at the next chambers meeting.’
Anthony gave a short laugh. ‘There’s always Sarah.’
‘God, Sarah.’ Leo sighed, then added sardonically, ‘She’s quite another thing altogether.’
‘We’re getting off the point,’ said Anthony.
Leo took out and lit a small cigar, then tugged down the window of the cab. ‘Anthony, there is no point. Camilla doesn’t come into it.’ He turned to look at the younger man. ‘It’s been a difficult few months. I’ve been finding the divorce thing harder than I expected. Not so much to do with Rachel, but being away from Oliver.’
There was a pause. ‘You miss him,’ said Anthony.
‘Jesus, yes,’ said Leo. He smoked for a few seconds in silence, then added dryly, ‘There are even times when I wonder whether I shouldn’t try patching things up with Rachel, just to have him back.’
Anthony hesitated. ‘I thought she was living with Charles Beecham?’
Leo shrugged. ‘I suspect she turned to him because she wanted someone to comfort her. I have the feeling that if I really wanted her to, she’d come back.’ Leo’s tone was matter-of-fact.
‘Why don’t you ask her, then?’ retorted Anthony sharply. He knew Rachel well, was fond of her, and the arrogance of Leo’s attitude angered him more than a little.
Leo drew on his cigar. ‘Because I have no wish to behave dishonestly. And that’s what it would take.’
‘But it’s still something you think about?’
Leo’s inscrutable blue eyes met Anthony’s. ‘I still think about many things. It doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything about them.’
‘Here we are,’ said Anthony, as the taxi drew up outside a chic, but unobtrusive galleria-cum-wine bar, where trendy salads, wine and coffee, were served at steel-topped tables, among photographs, paintings and sculptures by aspiring young artists.
They found Chay sitting at a table with a drink and a newspaper. Anthony introduced Leo and the two men shook hands. Chay Cross was a lean, tall man with pebble glasses, whose scalp was shaved to steely stubble against the ravages of incipient baldness. He was dressed in fashionable Comme des Garcons trousers, a Paul Smith shirt and jacket, and tennis shoes, and a Gauloise dangled from his thin fingers. He and Anthony, in his dark, pinstripe suit and sober tie, struck a curious contrast. Perhaps, mused Leo, as Chay ordered drinks, Anthony’s dogged and ambitious pursuit of a career at the Bar, in the face of considerable financial odds, had been a form of rebellion against his father’s bohemian image. These father-son relationships could hold strange dynamics. He wondered how he and Oliver would regard one another in twenty years or so.
Drinks were bought, and after a few minutes of small talk Anthony brought up the subject of Chay’s latest project. ‘I’ve told Leo about the museum, but only in outline. You can fill him in on the details.’
Chay shoved his glasses enthusiastically a little higher up the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s a project I’ve been thinking about for some time. What London needs is a proper museum of modern art and I intend to establish one. I’ve bought an old brewery in Shoreditch and we’re in the process of renovating it, turning the space into galleries, that kind of thing. Anthony’s dealing with the legal side of the trust, and we’re hoping to get some lottery money to help with finance. Of course, that means satisfying all kinds of criteria, but that’s in hand. I have a vision of something really dynamic, exhibiting everything from sculpture to video art, installation pieces … Are you a fan of video installations?’ He looked questioningly at Leo.
Leo hesitated fractionally before replying, ‘To be honest, it’s not a medium I’ve encountered very often. I’ve seen the kind of thing you mean, but my taste is rather more for sculpture and paintings.’
Chay nodded. ‘Just wait until you see some of the things that are being produced. I attended a completely groundbreaking exhibition in Helsinki three months ago, called Monumenta. There were some fantastic ideas on display. Matthew Barney was exhibiting. You’ve heard of Matthew Barney - no? He’s American, the absolute king of video installations.’ Chay’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm as he leant forward to expound. ‘In one room there were tapes playing which showed him cramponing naked across the gallery’s walls and ceilings, with an ice pick inserted in his rectum. Fantastic. All to do with social neurosis and the artist’s responses to the confines of his environment.’
Anthony took a quick swallow of his drink and glanced at Leo, whose expression was totally impassive.
‘Then you moved on to another room,’ continued Chay, ‘which was filled with great piles of fetishistic rubber items, and there were screens showing Barney being pursued across the car park of the gallery by members of the Royal Highland Fusiliers, then climbing naked up the car park’s lift shaft. That piece was to do with the homoerotic appeal of men in kilts, underlining the fundamental dichotomy between the freedom of the individual and the threat of social-group force.’ Chay picked the olive out of his drink and munched it.
After a pause, Leo said politely, ‘It sounds - interesting. So your museum is going to be devoted to that sort of thing?’
‘No.’ Chay waved a thin, dismissive hand. ‘No, those would be specialist, satellite exhibits. To get funding, we need a collection policy. I want to put together a core collection of the very best modern art - Koons, Kiefer, Boltanski. That’s where we’ll need the help of government funding, though one of our trustees, Lord Stockeld, has already given us very generous support. And we’re doing quite a bit of private fundraising. Then with that kind of solid foundation, we can give exhibition space to really promising new talent, using all kinds of media. So far we have six trustees and now we need one more. It heeds an odd number, you see.’
Anthony’s glance met Leo’s and he smiled faintly. ‘Which is where you come in.’
‘Why don’t you become a trustee?’ Leo asked Anthony.
‘In the first place, I don’t know anything about modern art. And in the second, nobody knows me from Adam. They don’t write profiles about me in the Evening Standard. Chay needs people of prominence to give the project the right image. You’re a QC, you’re the great Leo Davies. That’s why Chay wants you.’
‘He’s right,’ agreed Chay. ‘Anthony’s talked quite a lot about you, that you’re interested in modern art, and it seemed to me you’d be just the kind of person we need. Someone from the legal world would be a great help.’
‘Who are the other trustees?’ asked Leo.
‘Well, let’s see. There’s Tony Gear, the MP for Shad Thames, Melissa Angelicos, Derek Harvey—’
‘The art critic?’
Chay nodded. ‘We thought of asking Brian Sewell, but …’
‘No,’ said Leo, smiling. ‘I think the ice pick might have finished him off.’ He frowned. ‘Who’s Melissa Angelicos? The name sounds familiar.’
‘She’s the presenter of the late night arts forum on Channel Four,’ said Anthony. ‘Something Space.’
‘Open Space. I know the one,’ said Leo. ‘Leggy blonde with a nervous manner. Who else?’
‘Then there’s Lord Stockeld, the publisher, whom I mentioned before, Graham Amery—’
‘The chairman of Barrett’s Bank?’
‘That’s the one. And then there’s myself, of course.’ Chay studied Leo’s face. ‘So - what do you think?’
Leo hesitated for a few seconds as he pondered the offer. Why not? Helping to get a new museum of modern art off the ground was an attractive idea, given his own enthusiasm for the subject, and from what Chay had said the role of trustee wouldn’t be too demanding. He needed a new interest, something that took him socially beyond the cloistered confines of the Temple. His world seemed to have grown narrow of late. Time to change that.
Leo smiled. ‘All right. Fine. I’d be happy to do it.’
‘Excellent,’ said Chay. ‘Let’s have another drink.’
An hour later Leo left Anthony and Chay, and took a taxi back to his flat in Belgravia. It was a good address, and the place was smart and well appointed, but Leo didn’t regard it as a proper home. It had simply been the first decent place that he had seen after the hasty sale of the Hampstead house in which he, Rachel and Oliver had lived all too briefly. The place had none of the character of the little mews house in Knightsbridge in which he had lived as a bachelor. He had been happy there. Just over two years ago, but it seemed a lifetime away. True, there was still the safe haven of the house in Oxfordshire, but even the weekends there seemed lonely, in a way which they had never done in the days of his bachelorhood. He didn’t go down there often.
Leo slipped off his jacket, loosened his tie, wandered into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. It was only half past nine, but already his mind and body felt tired. Since the break up with Rachel, a strange lassitude seemed to have settled upon his spirit, like a mild depression. He couldn’t understand it. When she had left him he had thought - apart from the issue of Oliver - that it hardly mattered, that he would simply revert to his former hedonistic, self-indulgent lifestyle. But months had passed and still Leo felt as though he were in some kind of limbo. It was as if the person he had once been now no longer existed. The invitations, the social life of the days before his marriage, had almost dried up. Things had changed and moved on in just a short space of time, leaving him behind. I’m middle aged, thought Leo, rubbing his hands over his face. There wasn’t even the consolation of Anthony. He was too bound up with Camilla now.
Leo lay for a long time gazing at the ceiling, reflecting. Perhaps the Evening Standard was right. Perhaps his life was cold and lonely. Perhaps it was going to be that way for ever.
CHAPTER TWO
Sarah Colman woke and turned to look at the clock by her bed. Twenty past eight. Maybe she should have set the alarm. Today was her first day as David Liphook’s pupil and technically she should show up at 5 Caper Court for nine o’clock. Still … She yawned and stretched like a cat. David wouldn’t mind if she was a little late. A ‘Tim Nice-But-Dim’ sort if ever she had seen one. Maybe not so dim, of course, but probably fairly easy to handle. She smiled to herself. The money wasn’t bad, either. On top of Daddy’s allowance, it made life even more comfortable. She only hoped David wouldn’t work her too hard. That was the trouble with being a pupil at a place like 5 Caper Court. It was such a shit-hot set that everybody supposed you must be brimming with ambition and zeal. Sarah wasn’t sure about any of that.
She swung herself out of bed and slipped on the robe lying on the end of her bed. Pulling back the curtains, she gazed out at the blue sky. It was going to be another warm day. She picked up a hairbrush from her dressing table and sauntered through to the kitchen, where her flat mate, Lou, was already dressed and making coffee.
She glanced up at Sarah. ‘Morning. Cup of coffee?’
‘If there’s one going,’ said Sarah, and sat down at the kitchen table, yawning again.
Lou poured out the coffee, paused to tie back her dark hair, then brought the mugs over to the table. ‘Aren’t you going to be rather late, if you don’t get going? It is your first day.’
Sarah flicked idly through the pages of the Guardian. ‘Yes, I will be, I suppose. I’m sure nobody’s much going to mind.’
‘I don’t know how you get away with it,’ murmured Lou, and sat down opposite Sarah.
Sarah smiled up at her. ‘Practice. Instinct. Charm. Anyway, you can talk. I thought you had a presentation this morning?’
‘It’s not till ten. I’ve ordered a cab for half nine.’
‘Good. I’ll share it with you.’
‘That means you won’t get to chambers till nearly ten! That’s pushing it a bit, Sarah, even for you.’
‘Lou, the Bar is a more relaxed place than the world of corporate finance. You lot may have to grind away from seven till seven most days, but we barristers don’t. At least, I don’t intend to. I’m starting as I mean to go on.’ Sarah took a sip of her coffee, picked up her hairbrush, then sat back and began brushing her blonde hair with lazy, even strokes, ‘Besides, it’s not as though I’m some trembling novice who hasn’t any idea of what she’s doing. I know half the people there. Some quite intimately, I might add.’ She smiled.
‘Really, what does that mean?’ enquired Lou, avid for any kind of confidence or piece of gossip.
‘Well, let’s see … there’s Anthony, for one. Anthony Cross. He and I had a bit of a thing for a while. But that was when I was living on my own. I don’t think you met him.’ Sarah brushed a fine curtain of hair across her eyes and fingered it. ‘Very much your type, though. Tall, dark, very sexy. A bit buttoned-up. You go for the anally retentive City type, don’t you?’
‘Thanks,’ said Lou.
‘Well, you know - a bit of pinstripe really turns you on, doesn’t it?’ Sarah laughed.
‘Does nothing for me.’
‘Why did you go out with him, then?’
‘Oh, I thought there might be more to him. But he turned out to be just another boring barrister.’
‘So you dumped him?’
Sarah paused in her brushing and her eyes darkened momentarily. She didn’t like to recall the humiliation she had received at Anthony’s hands. Nor the fact that he had then taken up with that drip Camilla shortly thereafter. ‘It was more a mutual thing. We agreed to call it a day.’
Lou sipped her coffee. ‘So – who else?’
‘Well, my pupilmaster, obviously. David Liphook. And there’s a man called William something - I’ve met him a few times socially, and he was on the pupillage committee. Bit of a cold fish. Oh, and there’s a girl there that I was at Oxford with. Camilla Lawrence. Very brainy. Boringly so. She used to be quite pink-faced and eager when she was at LMH, but she seems to have calmed down a bit since then. And then—’ Sarah parted her lips and gave a little sigh ‘and then there’s Leo Davies.’ She looked away, musing, flicking her hair back over her shoulder with one hand.
‘Leo Davies … I know that name,’ said Lou, frowning. ‘Isn’t he the chap who’s doing the big fraud case at the moment?’
‘Very possibly,’ said Sarah. ‘I don’t pay too much attention to the law unless I really have to.’
‘There was a piece about him in the Standard last night. And a picture. Very attractive, even for forty-something.’ She gazed curiously at Sarah. ‘So, what’s the story there?’
‘Darling, it might not be entirely discreet of me to tell you, not if he’s becoming such a prominent figure.’
‘Oh, come on! Don’t be so tantalising. Tell me. You know I’m—’
‘Yes, the very soul of discretion.’ Sarah laughed and put down her hairbrush. She leant her chin on her hands. ‘We go back a few years, actually. I met him through friends at a party. I’d just come down from Oxford and was stuck for something to do. And somewhere to live. Daddy wasn’t quite as generous in those days, and I didn’t really fancy spending all summer living with my parents. So, when Leo mentioned that he had a job going, I volunteered.’
‘A job? What kind of job?’ asked Lou, intrigued.
Sarah arched her eyebrows. ‘Oh - he had a house in Oxfordshire, and he said he needed a housekeeper. You know, someone to look after the place, cook when he came down at weekends with his friends. Leo had lots of friends …’ There was a silence. Sarah traced the rim of her coffee cup with one finger. ‘And there was one special friend. A young man, staying in the house.’
‘What? A lover, d’you mean?’
‘Mmm. Sort of. Though that implies some sort of sentimental attachment, and there certainly wasn’t any of that. A very dirty little boy indeed was James. Quite pretty, too, before he became a junkie. Anyway, Leo had installed him there and I don’t think he entirely trusted him. So he put me in charge.’
‘So … he paid you to look after the house and keep an eye on his boyfriend?’
Sarah smiled. ‘There were other duties of a rather more personal nature, of course, but I regarded those more as pleasure than business.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Certain things I would happily have done free - for Leo.’
‘I think’, Lou said slowly, ‘that I get the picture.’
‘It was a wonderful summer,’ said Sarah with a sigh. ‘But all good things come to an end. Leo realised if anyone found out about it that it wouldn’t do his image much good - he was applying for silk at that time - and we parted amicably. So you see, I think of most of the people in chambers as friends already.’
Lou got up and took her mug to the sink. ‘Frankly, I think I’d prefer to be starting somewhere where nobody knew anything about me. Especially not my lurid past. Too much baggage, if you ask me.’
Sarah stretched luxuriantly, letting the loose sleeves of her robe slip down her bare arms. ‘That depends on whether you’re prepared to turn it all to your own advantage, darling. Now, I must go and have my shower, so that I’m ready in time for your taxi.’
While Sarah was making her leisurely way into chambers for her first day as a pupil, work was already well under way at 5 Caper Court.
As Leo came into the clerks’ room to pick up his mail before going over to court, David Liphook accosted him. ‘Leo, you know that award that was handed down last month against those Greek scrap metal merchants?’
‘That Vourlides lot? I know them well.’
‘Well, Bill Tate has just rung to say that they’re contesting the arbitrators’ award on the grounds that the arbitrators misconducted themselves and that Ken Lightman was guilty of bias. Can you believe it?’
Leo grinned. ‘That bunch will try anything. They once tried to have me removed from a case on the grounds that I was in the pay of the Turkish government.’ He glanced at the two sizeable piles of documents and books ranged next to David. ‘Where are you off to with that lot?’
‘I’ve got an arbitration. Which is why I suggested to my new pupil that today might be a good day to start her pupillage. Thought it would be interesting for her to see something through from scratch. And useful to me. Not,’ he added, glancing at his watch, ‘that it’s going to be particularly useful unless she shows up in the next ten minutes. I’m going to be hauling this lot in and out of taxis myself, at this rate.’
‘Ah, yes - your new pupil. Sir Vivian Colman’s daughter, if I’m not much mistaken?’
‘That’s right. Do you know her?’
Leo hesitated. ‘I’ve met her a few times. I think you’ll find most people have.’ He could hardly tell David just exactly how well he knew Sarah, or just how much havoc her exasperating behaviour had wrought in his life. ‘Yes, Felicity?’ Leo glanced over at Felicity, the junior clerk, who was waggling her hand to attract his attention.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Davies. It’s Fred Fenton for you. Says he needs a quick word.’
‘All right. Put him through to the waiting room. I’ll take it there.’
Felicity came over to where David stood drumming his fingers. ‘You look like a man who’s been stood up, Mr Liphook,’ said Felicity, leaning her elbows on the counter and making even more of her already ample cleavage. She was a pretty, bubbly type, an East Ender with a sharp wit who had been a clerk for only a year. Under Henry’s tutelage, she was developing into a thorough professional, with a naturally maternal care for the interests of the barristers in chambers.
‘I don’t much care for being kept waiting around by my pupil, to be honest. I’d heard that having one can be more trouble than it’s worth. Still, at the time, taking her on seemed like a good idea.’
‘What’s she like, then?’ asked Felicity. ‘Be nice to have a few more women around here.’
David shrugged. ‘Very pleasant.’
‘Nice looking?’
‘Oh, definitely.’
Felicity sighed. ‘I thought she might be.’ She nodded towards the window. ‘There’s your cab. What do you want me to do with this Miss Colman when she gets here? Send her on?’
‘No. Yes.’ David glanced at his watch again. ‘Yes. She should be able to find MFB under her own steam - just give her the address. It’s a bloody nuisance. I was relying on someone to help with all this.’ David began to pick up bundles and stuff them under one arm.
‘Ta-ta,’ said Felicity.
Leo reappeared from the waiting room just as Cameron Renshaw lumbered downstairs.
‘Leo, can you do something for me?’ asked Cameron.
‘Depends what it is,’ said Leo. ‘I’m due in court in ten minutes.’
‘Just a minute of your time. The thing is, I’ve got those people from the Lincoln’s Inn Estates Committee coming over late today about the new chambers we’ve been looking at. The ones in New Square.’
‘Oh. Yes,’ said Leo flatly. He wasn’t exactly keen on this idea of moving out of Caper Court to larger premises.
‘Well, I don’t want to put them off, but I need to see my doctor, and it turns out that the only time he can fit me in is around half four this afternoon. After that he’s off to some golfing holiday in Portugal and won’t be back for three weeks.’ Cameron dropped his voice. ‘Between you and me, I don’t think I can wait three weeks. I’ve been having these stomach pains all summer. I’m frankly not feeling quite the thing. I haven’t been able to keep anything down for two days, and I really think I have to do something about it.’
‘God, I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Leo. Come to think of it, he did think old Cameron had been looking a bit yellow round the gills the past few days. And was it his imagination, or hadn’t he lost a bit of weight? With a fellow of Cameron’s size, it was hard to tell, but he certainly didn’t seem his old Falstaffian self.
‘So I wondered if you’d mind seeing these people for me.’
‘Yes, of course I will. What time are they coming?’
‘Around five.’
‘Fine. I’ll be back well before then. Anyway, I’d better dash.’
Leo hurried out of the door and collided with Sarah as she was coming up the steps.
‘Morning, Leo,’ said Sarah. ‘Shouldn’t run at your age, you know. Not dignified.’
Leo sighed. Exasperating as he found her, he couldn’t help thinking how pretty and professional she looked in her immaculately cut black suit and white, silk blouse, her blonde hair neatly tied back. The very picture of a demure young barrister. If only the world knew the true Sarah. ‘Thank you for that piece of advice. Now let me give you one. It’s not a good idea to keep your pupilmaster hanging about on your very first day. It creates a bad impression. And in your case, impression is everything. Don’t get the idea that dear David is a soft touch. He may seem that way, but when it comes to business, he’s all business. Goodbye.’
‘See you later.’ Sarah turned, smiling, as Leo hurried down the steps. ‘Isn’t it nice that we’re going to be seeing so much of one another from now on?’
‘Bliss,’ murmured Leo as he strode up Middle Temple Lane.
Felicity looked up from her desk as Sarah came into the reception area. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘I’m Sarah Colman. Mr Liphook’s pupil. I’m starting today.’
‘Oh, yes! Hello - I’m Felicity. I’m the junior clerk.’ They shook hands, appraising one another. ‘I’m afraid Mr Liphook’s left. He’s got an arbitration today. I think he was expecting you a bit earlier.’
Sarah did her best to look anxious and contrite. ‘I know. I feel dreadful about being so late. The trains were all over the place.’
‘Oh, well, not to worry. I’m sure you couldn’t help it.’ Sarah’s expression flickered slightly at this. She didn’t much like the mumsy, patronising tone. Nor the implied criticism. A junior clerk was only a jumped-up office girl, after all. One with appalling taste in clothes at that. Low-cut jumpers and short skirts were pretty vulgar, even if you did have the figure for them. Still, since she was playing the part of the anxious-to-please pupil, she’d better keep up the front.
‘No. It would happen on my first day, of all days, though.’
‘Well, he’s only just left. If you set off now, you’ll probably get there before they start. It’s at the arbitration centre at More Fisher Brown, near Spitalfields. You can get a bus on Fleet Street to take you up to Liverpool Street. I’ll write down the address.’ She scribbled it down.
‘Thanks,’ said Sarah, taking the piece of paper from Felicity. ‘I only hope I’m not too late.’
She hurried out into the warm September sunshine, then dropped her pace to a saunter once she was out of Caper Court. A boring old arbitration was the last thing she felt like doing. She’d have preferred to sit and drink coffee in David’s room and read a newspaper, or skive off to Middle Temple Common Room. Still, one had to show willing. As for a bus, sod that. She’d take a taxi.
Sarah arrived at the arbitration with minutes to spare and managed to fake a breathless apology to David.
‘Don’t worry,’ said David, who had promised himself earlier in the taxi that he would take a stern, frosty line with her, but now found himself unable to in the face of her exceptional prettiness and charm. She had certainly caught the attention, too, of the other men seated round the large oval table. Sarah realised she was the only woman present, and at this her confidence lifted. ‘Here,’ said David in an undertone, passing her a pristine counsel’s notebook. ‘Just take notes and try to keep up with what’s going on. I was going to explain the case to you beforehand, but I’m afraid we haven’t got time.’
At that moment the arbitrator glanced across at David. ‘I think we’re all ready now, Mr Liphook.’
‘Thank you.’ David stood up. ‘Good morning. In this case I appear for the plaintiffs, and my learned friend, Mr Gilmore, for the defendants. The matters in dispute arise from the issue in Hamburg of two bills of lading dated 18 April and 23 June 1997 for the carriage of containers of sugar from Hamburg and Bremerhaven to Dubai and Mina Qaboos …’
Sarah started diligently to note down the main points as David spoke, then after fifteen minutes she began to wonder why she was bothering. This was his case, after all, so he must know what was going on. Why should she go to the trouble of noting down what he was saying? There might be some point if the other side’s barrister were talking, but this was just a waste of time. She put down her pen and yawned, then glanced idly at each man seated round the table, trying to assess if there was anything particularly attractive about any of them. Deciding there was not, she picked up her pen again and doodled covertly until tea was brought in. She ate four digestive biscuits and drank her tea, then sat, restless and bored, until lunch time.
‘Well, are you managing to follow what’s going on?’ asked David, when they broke for lunch.
Sarah gave a thin smile. ‘Sort of. How long do you think it will last?’
‘We should be finished by the end of the day.’ He riffled quickly through his papers. ‘Look, I wonder if you could do something over lunch for me. Beddoes and I - that’s our solicitor, by the way, Paul Beddoes.’ David glanced round. ‘Oh, he’s talking at the moment. I’ll introduce you later. Anyway, we have to have a meeting over lunch with the client. We need to get these documents copied. They’re communications between the master and the shore that didn’t reach us till this morning, so none of the arbitrators has copies. I’ll need - let me see … six copies. Can you manage that?’
‘Sure,’ said Sarah. David handed her the documents. ‘Where can I get it done?’
‘Ask down at reception. There’ll be a photocopier somewhere.’ David glanced at his watch. ‘See you back here at two.’
Sarah left the arbitration room and eventually found a photocopier in the lobby. She stood drumming her fingernails as the machine ate and fed, ate and fed the slim stack of papers.
‘Sarah - hello! What are you doing here?’
Sarah turned. A tall, chubby man with wavy brown hair and a suit in the very broadest chalk-stripe stood grinning at her.
‘Oh, hello, Teddy,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m having fun - what d’you think?’ The photocopier chugged out the last sheaves of paper and Sarah stacked them all neatly together. ‘Actually, I’m on the first day of my pupillage and already I’m being treated like slave labour.’ Teddy was a solicitor, someone she had run into on regular occasions on her social circuit.
‘Come and have lunch with me, then. I’ve just put in three hours of honest graft, and could do with something.’
‘All right,’ said Sarah! ‘Anything’s better than hanging around here.’ She picked up the bundles of documents and they left.
‘Oh, Teddy, not another,’ said Sarah, as Teddy returned from the bar with two large glasses of white wine. Before them lay the remnants of a plate of avocado and-bacon sandwiches. The wine bar was thronged with City lunchers. ‘In fact, I shouldn’t have had that first one. I’ll fall asleep this afternoon. Honestly, arbitrations are so boring. At least, this one is.’ She took a quick sip of the second glass and glanced at Teddy’s watch. ‘Is that the time? I’ll have to go. I’m meant to be back at two and it’s five to already. Listen, it’s been lovely. I’ll buy you lunch in return some time. You finish my wine. Bye.’ Sarah, slightly pink from the wine, kissed Teddy quickly on both cheeks and left.
With a sigh, Teddy sat down and scoffed the remaining sandwiches, finished his wine and flipped through his copy of The Times. It was only when he got up to go that he noticed the neat stack of documents, lying where Sarah had left them.
The arbitration was reconvening just as Sarah got back. She slipped breathlessly into her seat and quickly retied her hair, which had come loose. The atmosphere, in contrast to the conviviality of the wine bar, was sombre and businesslike, the only sounds the rustle of paper and the mild hum of serious, muted conversation as everyone prepared to resume.
David came into the room and gave her a quick smile. ‘Did you manage to get those documents done?’ he asked, as he sat down next to her.
Recollection hit her like a shock. ‘Oh, shit,’ she said, and put her hand to her mouth. The word rang in the air with unexpected clarity. Heads lifted, conversation ceased. David stared at her.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she muttered and fled from the room. There was a surprised silence and the eyes of all the men in the room turned to David.
‘Are we ready to recommence, Mr Liphook?’ asked the arbitrator.
Pink with embarrassment, David hesitated, half rose to his feet. ‘Gentlemen, I had intended to introduce some further correspondence between the master and the Bremerhaven agents, which came to us only this morning. However—’ David rustled among his notes ‘—may I in the meantime move to another point, and that is the questions of the contractual status of the bills of lading at German law …’
Sarah sped back to the wine bar. It was emptying now, the tables littered with discarded glasses and empty sandwich plates, a noisy group of brokers still laughing and smoking by the bar. She cursed herself. She had thought this pupillage was going to be a breeze, that she was going to manage David beautifully and not put a foot wrong, and still get away without doing too much hard work, and already it was going haywire. Well, it was her own fault. Praying inwardly, she scanned the floor by the table where she and Teddy had been sitting. Nothing. Her heart sank. But who would want to walk off with some boring shipping documents? She hurried to the bar, where the barman was uncorking yet another bottle for the brokers.
‘Excuse me, I was in here ten or fifteen minutes ago and I left some papers on the floor by the table just over there, by the window—’
Without changing expression, the barman bent slightly and pulled out from beneath the counter Sarah’s bundle of documents. ‘Young man said you’d left them, and that you might be back for them. Lucky, ain’t you?’
‘God, yes,’ breathed Sarah. ‘Thank you.’
Clutching the documents, she sped back to the arbitration centre. In the lobby, she stabbed at the lift buttons and leant against the wall, trying to recover her breath. She was still panting when she reached the doors of the arbitration room. She could hear David’s voice droning away, so she gave herself a couple of minutes to compose herself. Then she went in as unobtrusively as possible and slid into her seat, laying the bundle of photocopied documents on the table before her.
David paused and glanced down at her. She met his eye, and it was stony and expressionless. He suddenly looked much older than she had ever thought him before. Then he went on, ‘This may be a convenient point to return to the matter of what was said by the agents to the master at Bremerhaven. As I indicated earlier, further correspondence has come to light and we now have copies of these exchanges.’ David picked up the photocopies. ‘I do apologise for the delay.’ And he began to pass round the documents. Sarah sat with downcast eyes, feeling ignominious. It was not a familiar feeling and it was distinctly unpleasant. Well, she would just have to put a brave face on it when they got back to chambers. She suddenly remembered Leo’s words to her on the steps outside chambers, and wished she’d got up early this morning and had just gone to a sandwich bar for lunch.
In the taxi on the way back, David was too busy talking over the arbitration with Paul Beddoes to pay Sarah much attention. To add to her humiliation, when she had been introduced to Beddoes, who was an attractive man with a preoccupied manner, she had tried to flirt mildly with him. But Beddoes clearly regarded David’s new pupil as someone of no significance whatsoever, no matter how pretty, and he had snubbed her.
After dropping Beddoes off at his office, they carried on to the Temple. David took a small tape recorder from his pocket and began to dictate some notes. Sarah sat in silence. This had to be just a means of ignoring her. What could he have to dictate that couldn’t wait till they got back to chambers? The cab pulled up, and David handed her a pile of books and papers. She stood on the pavement while he paid the cab, then they walked together across the road and down Middle Temple Lane.
Despite her anger and humiliation, Sarah knew that she should say something. ‘I’m very sorry about the photocopies,’ she said. In an effort to make her voice contrite, she merely sounded cold and ungracious. Sensing this, she added, ‘I had lunch with a friend and left them behind.’
‘I see,’ said David. They passed through the archway, and he stopped and turned to her. ‘Do you realise that those were original documents, and very important ones at that? If you’d lost them, it could have jeopardised our entire case. What the hell would I have been able to say to our clients, or to Beddoes?’
