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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: Caper Court
- Sprache: Englisch
Charismatic and brilliant lawyer, Leo Davies, is now head of chambers at 5 Caper Court and he's beginning to feel the weight of his responsibilities. There's discontent among his fellow barristers, and Leo begins to question whether he wants to continue the nine to five grind when he could be working from home and spending more time with his young son. When irregularities crop up in the paperwork of a case Leo is working on for the construction magnate, Sir Dudley Humble, Leo finds himself drawn into a world of Ukrainian gangsters, money-laundering and prostitute trafficking with potentially dire consequences for himself and his family.
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Seitenzahl: 322
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
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Breath of Corruption
CARO FRASER
With affectionate thanks to Ian Simpson and Tim Young for all their invaluable help
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
A silky blue haze of summer smog lay over London. Along New Bond Street slow herds of taxis and delivery vans grunted and roared from one set of lights to another, sending diesel fumes and CO2 emissions and invisible clouds of human exasperation drifting heavenwards to add to the noxious ether. Dispassionately, the drivers watched the muscled arrogance of the cycle couriers as they wove and sped through the stationary traffic, and eyed the expensively clad women clicking along the pavements in tiny heels and summer dresses, faces disdainful and preoccupied behind designer sunglasses. All human traffic seemed to move faster than the lines of vehicles.
The time was ten to one, and office workers were beginning to spill onto the street and into Pret A Manger and Costa Coffee. Down in the cool, chic basement restaurant of Nicole Farhi, at a peaceful remove from the street clamour of crashing gears and hissing hydraulic brakes up above, tranquillity reigned. Here the only sounds were those of tinkling cutlery and murmuring female voices. Stylish young waitresses moved about, sliding plates of salads onto tables and uncapping chilled bottles of mineral water, while the lunching ladies paused their conversation to watch as the water burbled into their glasses, its discreet fizz heralding the delicious thrill of shared gossip and exchanged confidences.
At one table, and one table alone, was wine being consumed. A bottle of Gavi, light and luscious, and with its own hint of fizz, was already two-thirds empty, and the salads had yet to arrive. Anthea Grieves-Brown lifted the bottle from the wine chiller and glugged the remains into her own glass and that of her friend, Lola Canning. She tucked strands of blonde hair, straightened and smoothed to the sheen of satin, behind one ear as she leant forward to murmur by way of addition to her previous observation, ‘Four times in one night.’ She articulated the sentiment with slow wonder, and a catlike, satisfied smile widened her beautiful features as she waited for her friend’s reaction.
Lola made an unimpressed face. Man-less herself at the moment, feigning boredom was the only way she knew to counter the envy and irritation she felt as Anthea recounted the charms of her latest man and his amazing prowess in bed. ‘But isn’t that rather showing off? Reminds me of the dreadful Tony Blair bragging about being a five-times-a-night man. Ghastly.’ She took a swig of her wine. ‘Suggests he has something to prove.’
Anthea deflected this attempted put-down. ‘Obviously, darling, if it’s the same man you’ve been with for ages and ages, the last thing you want is to have him jump all over you at three o’clock in the morning. But you could never put Leo Davies in that category. Not in a million years.’
Lola swallowed a sigh and gave a tight, bright smile. The unwritten code of female friendship stated that one was obliged to indulge with forbearance, if not enthusiasm, the raptures of friends newly in love, and so remarks of encouragement and gestures expressive of interest were the order of the day. Little murmurs of envy were generally acceptable, too, but since Lola didn’t feel moved to articulate a sentiment which she was in danger of feeling all too sincerely, she merely said, ‘Tell me more about this wonderful man. What does he do, apart from make the earth move four times a night?’
‘He’s a QC – you know, one of those important barrister people.’
‘I do know what a QC is – my father used to be one.’
‘So he was … Anyway, Leo told me the kind of work he does, but I wasn’t really paying much attention. We were in bed at the time.’ Another greedy smile lit up Anthea’s face. ‘God, I can’t tell you, Lola – it’s so absolutely the best sex I’ve ever had.’
‘That’s saying something, certainly, given the numbers.’
‘I mean, just amazing … Anyway, whatever he does is to do with ships and stuff, and other people’s money. Sounds very dull, but it must earn him a complete fortune, because he drives an Aston Martin and has a house near Cheyne Walk. There’s regularly stuff in the papers about QCs who earn squillions, so I assume he’s one of them.’
At that moment lunch arrived. Anthea inspected her salad and then glanced at the little jug of dressing on the side. ‘God, I absolutely don’t want that. Take it away,’ she said to the waitress.
Lola added, ‘And bring us another bottle of this.’ The waitress took the empty bottle and disappeared. A bottle was far more than anyone should drink at lunchtime, Lola knew, but sod it – Anthea, who was meant to be living on a model’s diet of egg whites and mineral water, didn’t care, so neither did she. There wasn’t anything else to do with the day anyway. Maybe they’d wobble along to the Curzon afterwards and slip into a late-afternoon film. Then home for a nap, up at nine to shower and beautify, and out on the town for such pleasures as the rest of the night might yield. A wealthy family and a trust fund did give one a charmed life, but even Lola found it boring occasionally – though alcohol and the odd recreational drug helped take the edge off the tedium. In the long years since leaving her Swiss finishing school, Lola had often thought she should get herself some not-too-demanding job – something involving flexible hours and long lunches, and a stylish office with a PA – but that meant working, and genuine work didn’t really appeal. And to be honest, at thirty-one, she was a bit scared that whatever skills she’d once possessed might be a bit rusty by now. Some of her friends ran fashion shops and glam little businesses, but that took effort, too. And ideas. If she’d had Anthea’s long legs and amazingly slim figure, not to mention her looks, she’d have been able to do a little casual modelling, too. Anthea needed the money, of course, but the job had a certain cachet, and gave her something else to talk about.
‘What does he look like?’
Anthea reflected, fork paused above her salad. ‘He’s sort of moderately tall, I suppose – about five eleven? And rather unusual looking. I mean, he has the most divine face – lovely square jaw and beautiful cheekbones, and the most utterly, piercingly sexy blue eyes – but his hair is completely grey. Well, more silver actually. Rather strange, given his age, but really quite cool.’
‘How old is he?’
Anthea shrugged. ‘Mid-forties.’
‘Wife?’
‘Ex.’
‘Kids?’
‘One, little boy of four, lives with Mummy.’
‘Psychological flaws?’
‘None I can detect. Unless you count the fact that he’s Welsh.’
‘He shags sheep.’
Anthea tilted her lovely head to one side, and smiled. ‘It’s just the faintest accent. Rather sexy, actually. Gives his voice a hint of menace. Like Anthony Hopkins.’
‘You’re mad. Or in love.’
Anthea lifted her glass and arched her brow. ‘You know me, Lolly. I’m not into love. The original material girl.’
‘So this Leo isn’t a long-term proposition?’
‘I didn’t say that. One can make a mid-to-long-term investment without being in love.’ She shrugged. ‘In my experience, love just screws things up. People getting all needy and insecure.’
‘So where did you meet him?’
‘You remember Muriel, who used to live with Jeremy?’
‘The sculptress?’
‘Right. Well, she had an exhibition at the White Cube and invited loads of us to the opening, and I met him there. Lust at first sight. He was seriously into the art – I was seriously into the champagne. We went back to his afterwards, and that was it.’
‘Ant, you’re the most terrible old tart, you know – jumping into bed with men as soon as you clap eyes on them.’
‘Believe me, if you’d been there, you would have too. Anyway, I’m not. I’ve been out with him four times since, and each time he’s called me.’
‘Been out with, or been to bed with?’
‘Out first, bed after. Twice to the theatre—’
‘You? At the theatre?’
‘I know. It was just incredibly dull. He’s a bit of an intellectual. I think he thinks I am too.’
‘He can’t possibly!’
‘Love you too, Lolly.’ Anthea poured more wine. ‘It’s because we met at an exhibition, and despite what you may think, I can say all the right things without necessarily knowing a great deal.’
‘One of your many talents.’
‘Indeed. Anyway, it’s worth sitting through Proust or whatever for a meal at Petrus and the sex afterwards.’
‘He sounds too good to be true. Enjoy it while it lasts.’
‘Don’t worry, darling. I know how to keep his attention. In bed and out of it. My latest tactic is playing hard-to-get.’
‘Isn’t it a bit late for that?’
Anthea smiled. ‘Trust me – everything I do is timed to perfection. By the time the weekend’s over he’ll be aching to see me.’
CHAPTER TWO
A mile or so away from the restaurant where Anthea and Lola were lunching, wedged between the clamour of Fleet Street and the grey meander of the Thames, another oasis of tranquillity basked in the heat of late August – the Temple. This venerable sprawl of ancient buildings, sombre alleyways, shadowed courtyards, echoing staircases and sunlit gardens, has for centuries been home to those who toil in the service of the law. Theirs is a task of dedication, for the machinery of English justice is complex and ponderous, and constant vigilance is required to ensure that it does not buckle or break beneath the weight of its own responsibility. Its little cogs and flywheels are oiled daily, and its component parts kept running smoothly by the clerks who make and take phone calls, scurry between courts and chambers, and negotiate business on behalf of the barristers; the barristers in turn see to it that the pistons pump healthily and the valves open and close with polished regularity by perusing briefs, consulting authorities, delivering learned opinions and appearing in court; Her Majesty’s judges of The Senior Courts of England and Wales preside with admirable sedulity over the machine’s churning output of judgments, awards and practice directions; and voluminous by-products of hot air and ashy waste are generated by City solicitors overfeeding the furnace with mounds of files, letters and papers.
The very names appended to the buildings, courtyards and alleyways – Serjeants’ Inn, King’s Bench Walk, Crown Office Row, Dr Johnson’s Buildings – are evocative of its ancient history, and through its dappled courtyards, stone-flagged lanes and dreaming gardens the shadows of long-dead inhabitants seem still to flit – those eminent jurists, Coke, Halsbury and Littleton, and the great men of letters, Thackeray, Lamb and Goldsmith. Yet the barristers’ chambers situated in the Temple are not mired in ancient practices; they operate in the present day with the streamlined, globalised efficiency of any multinational organisation, and though clad for their work within the courts in horsehair wigs and flowing gowns, the barristers themselves are generally sophisticated, worldly metropolitan beings.
One such being was Leo Davies, a forty-six-year-old commercial barrister who, besides being possessed of all the personal attractions adverted to by Anthea Grieves-Brown over lunch, held a high reputation amongst his fellow lawyers for his forensic skills and powers of rhetoric, not to mention his charm, wit and charismatic personality. Leo had only a year ago been made head of chambers at number 5 Caper Court, and now presided over some thirty tenants, ranging from eminent QCs at the top end, ambitious senior juniors in the middle, and junior barristers and raw recruits, known as pupils, at the bottom.
Caper Court itself, originally laid out by Sir Christopher Wren in the years following the Great Fire of London, was a quaint courtyard with archways leading to Middle Temple Lane at one end and Pump Court at the other, and its buildings housed five different sets of chambers. On the top floor of number 9 Caper Court, which stood on the other side of the courtyard facing number 5, a beautiful old sundial was set in the brickwork, inscribed with the melancholy sentiment, ‘Shadows we are and like shadows depart’, and on this summer day Leo was standing at his window and gazing across at the inscription, familiar to him for over twenty-five years, with particular pensiveness.
He had fallen into one of those occasional moods in which the routine of his work took on an uncharacteristic dreariness, and the point of existence seemed to escape him. Behind him on his desk, next to his computer screen, lay papers relating to a case involving a contract for the carriage CIF of soya-bean pellets to Montoir. Normally the minutiae of the contractual details and exacting issues as to jurisdiction would have exerted their familiar fascination, but today, as he watched the sunshine creep across the gilded Roman numerals of the sundial, such considerations seemed petty and irrelevant. It occurred to him that perhaps he felt this way because his inner man was in need of nourishment. Maybe he should go and get a sandwich or a cup of coffee. Or, better still, rustle up Michael Gibbon to share a glass of wine and the latest gossip at El Vino’s. Not that many people drank at lunchtime any more. The departure of the journalists to Canary Wharf and the arrival of the New Labour puritan ethic had seen to that.
His ruminations were interrupted by a light knock on the door and the arrival of one of the clerks. Felicity, a bright, bosomy, bustling young woman with a tendency to disorganisation which she managed to keep in check only by ferocious concentration and reminders muttered below her breath, had brought yet another pile of papers to add to those which stood stacked on Leo’s floor next to his desk. Leo crossed the room to unburden her.
‘Why didn’t you tell Paul to bring these up?’ he asked.
‘He’s at lunch, and you said you wanted them soon as they came in from Fishers.’ She watched as Leo flicked through the first few pages and shook her pretty, curly head in disdain. ‘You oughtn’t to be working through lunch on a day like this, Mr Davies. It’s lovely outside. You want to get something to eat and have a walk. Do you good. You’re looking peaky.’ She paused, seeming to scrutinise him more closely. ‘How’s your love life?’
The enquiry was one which Leo and Felicity regularly made of one another. This offhand intimacy was one of the facets of his relationship with his clerk which Leo particularly enjoyed.
‘Not bad, thanks.’
‘Boy or girl?’
‘Girl, as it happens. A model, rather lovely.’
‘Mmm. You like them skinny. Me, I like something I can grab hold of. Not that there’s been much grabbing lately.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t worry – it’s a lifestyle choice. Thought I’d give men a rest for a few months. Bit of celibacy’s good for you now and then – like a detox.’
‘I think you mean chastity.’
‘Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I’m right off relationships – especially with people round here,’ she added meaningfully, referring to an unwise liaison some months previously with a fellow clerk, which had ended badly.
‘A very wise decision, Felicity. I came to the same conclusion myself not so long ago.’ For Leo, too, against his better judgment, had been known to conduct discreet affairs within chambers, with unfortunate results. ‘We have more than a little in common, you and I.’
Felicity looked at her watch. ‘Too true. I’m off to get some lunch – you should and all. Don’t forget Brian Bennett from Freshfields is coming in at three with Sir Dudley Humble.’
‘Bugger – so he is. Thanks for reminding me.’ Leo glanced up and winked at her. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get some lunch.’
Felicity left, reflecting on what a real sweetie Mr Davies was. She passed Jeremy Vane puffing up the staircase – the QC, on his way back from court, looked hot and pink in his bands and courtroom attire, a bundle of papers under his arm. ‘’Lo, Mr Vane,’ said Felicity brightly. ‘Lovely day!’
Jeremy muttered some ill-tempered acknowledgement of her greeting and carried on up to his room. Fat tosser, thought Felicity. Like a few others in chambers whose names she could mention – patronising, toffee-nosed, public-school-and-Oxbridge-educated gits – he treated the clerks with the utmost condescension, as though his living didn’t depend on them. Not like Leo, who didn’t share the illusion that a privileged upbringing somehow conferred social and intellectual superiority. He understood and got on with people like Felicity, and the other clerks, because he didn’t think himself any better than they were – just luckier.
A grammar-school boy from Wales, Leo Davies had worked his way to the top of his profession through a combination of brilliance and grinding application. Such tastes as he had acquired along the way – a penchant for expensive cars and clothing, and a passion for collecting pieces of modern art – were real and unaffected, and perhaps because of his lack of pretension he was entirely fearless, in court and out of it. The one weakness in his otherwise robust character – and Leo himself, having no regard for moral conventions, considered it a susceptibility rather than a weakness – was his sexual ambivalence, for he found men just as attractive as women. His past was littered with casual affairs with both sexes, and although he had always endeavoured to be as discreet as possible, the consequences had occasionally proved dire. He had often promised himself that he would mend his ways – for the sake of his infant son, Oliver, if for no one else – but temptation invariably proved irresistible. As a philanderer, Leo was far from heartless. He could be ruthless in his manipulation of lovers for his own ends, as testified by his short-lived marriage, but he found emotional entanglements exhausting, and had this past year vowed to indulge only in the most meaningless and light-hearted relationships. Hence his recent dalliance with Anthea Grieves-Brown, whose vacuity and beauty he found both refreshing and undemanding. He thought of her as he slipped on his jacket and left his room to go in search of lunch. It was a Friday, and although they had made no arrangement to meet, he decided he would call her later and suggest dinner.
CHAPTER THREE
The conference with Sir Dudley Humble lasted a little over two hours, and was trying for a number of reasons, not least of which was that Sir Dudley was an intractable individual, an ex-army man with a strong controlling streak which made it difficult for him to surrender the management of his affairs, including his legal ones, to others. He had built up Humble Construction Services from scratch, and had earned his knighthood, and a couple of lucrative government contracts into the bargain, through his military connections and in the time-honoured tradition of extending discreet but generous donations to the governing political party of the day. He sat at the other side of the conference table in Leo’s room, a tall, square-faced man with shrewd eyes and grizzled white hair and eyebrows, and listened closely as Leo brought him up to date on progress. The case itself was, from Leo’s point of view, dreary enough. Three years ago Humble Construction Services had contracted to build an aluminium smelting plant in Ukraine, and a row had broken out with one of the subcontractors, with the result that Humble Construction were now suing for breach of contract.
Leo went through the niceties of the contract at some length – often interrupted by terse observations from Sir Dudley – and then set out the arguments of the respective parties as he saw them. Here it was that the problems began. For an intelligent man, Sir Dudley seemed to have peculiar difficulty in listening dispassionately to his lawyer rehearsing the arguments of his opponents.
‘I didn’t come here to listen to you telling me the other side have a good case, Mr Davies – quite the opposite!’
‘Sir Dudley, I’m merely trying to approach the matter realistically. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t explore fully the respective strengths and weaknesses of both sides’ arguments. Forgive me if, in so doing, I occasionally seem to stray into their territory. I have to do so to maintain a proper perspective. I’m on your side.’ Leo’s smile was charming and entirely without condescension. ‘That’s why we’re both here.’
Sir Dudley, slightly mollified, tried to contain his impatience, but the conference grew laborious. Sir Dudley felt he understood the rights and wrongs of the case better than anyone else, and found it difficult to accept Leo’s advice with any humility. In the end Leo did what he always did with clients of similar intransigence – he held his peace and listened as Sir Dudley told him how to run the case, while he made up his own mind on the issues.
Sir Dudley departed at the end of the meeting with his vanity satisfied, and a sense that he was in control of matters. Leo felt merely wearied by the difficult and somewhat confrontational nature of the afternoon’s business, and by the knowledge that there would be more such conferences throughout the duration of the case. Not for the first time that week, he found himself wondering if it was all really worth it. Perhaps in his younger days he had possessed some kind of immunity to vexatious clients, but these days he found people like Sir Dudley extremely tiresome.
I’m getting old, thought Leo. If it weren’t for the mortgage on the Chelsea house and Oliver’s education … he’d what? Pack it all in? Hardly. Work was his existence. It was his world, his meat and drink. Everything else was a mere diversion. He was probably just feeling jaded because he’d taken on so much lately. Time for a bit of relaxation. There were papers to read on a new reinsurance case, but they could wait till Monday.
Leo took his mobile from his pocket and tapped in Anthea’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. He left a message suggesting dinner. After sending a couple of emails to solicitors, he put his papers together and left chambers. He walked through Cloisters and down the cobbled slope of King’s Bench Walk to where his car was parked, and ten minutes later his Aston Martin was weaving its slow way through the early-evening traffic towards Chelsea.
When Anthea picked up Leo’s voicemail message, the urge to call him back and agree to meet him was almost irresistible. Despite what she’d said to Lolly, she was a little in love with him. But that was just the point. If she made herself available every time he wanted to see her, he’d lose interest. Men like Leo preferred to make the running, and maintaining uncertainty and unpredictability in an affair was an art. She mustn’t make herself too hard to pin down, or he might get bored – she needed to remain just elusive enough to keep things tantalising and hot. She gave a little anguished sigh, trying not to think of what she was missing, and focused on the most effective response. She could text him to say she was busy. Or she could just stay silent.
In the end she opted for the latter as being cooler, and switched off her phone for the rest of the evening so that she didn’t have to face the temptation of a further call from him. For Anthea, this was indeed a sacrifice – the first of many she was prepared to make to hold the attention of Leo Davies. In the long run, she was sure it would be worth it.
Leo’s house stood in a quiet Chelsea crescent, in the expensive hinterland between Cheyne Walk and the King’s Road. With five bedrooms, it was too big to meet the requirements of a single man, but he had bought it at a time when he was entertaining serious thoughts of settling down with his then girlfriend. That relationship had, like so many, met its demise through Leo’s unfaithfulness, and looking back, Leo wondered how he could ever have seriously believed in its long-term future. He wasn’t the marrying type. He’d tried it once – largely to ward off rumours regarding his libidinous lifestyle which might have stood in the way of his taking silk – and the only good thing to have come out of the whole sad business was Oliver, his son.
He thought of Oliver now as he mixed himself a drink in the kitchen. He unlocked and slid back the long glass door which led outside. The smooth flagstones of the kitchen floor continued out to a large patio, shaded by a mulberry tree, and beyond this stretched the garden. At the end, delivered and erected just three days ago, stood a new wooden playhouse with a climbing frame and swing attached. Leo smiled and sipped his Scotch as he imagined Oliver’s delight when he arrived tomorrow afternoon. He imagined, too, the frozen disapproval of Rachel, Oliver’s mother – she would probably consider the climbing frame too advanced and dangerous for a four-year-old. The patterns of their relations now were familiar. Leo would fight down the urge to snap at her, and attempt instead to say something placatory, and Oliver would disregard them both and tear across the lawn to his new plaything with squeals of pleasure.
Leo glanced at his watch. It was only six o’clock. Normally he would have been content, at the end of a gruelling week, with his own company, a light supper and a little television, or possibly a book and some music, but this evening he felt restive. He was just about to call Anthea again, when his mobile rang in his pocket. He pulled it out to answer it, expecting to see Anthea’s name on the screen, but saw another instead. Leo felt a little start of pleasure.
‘Luca! Where are you?’
‘In London.’ Luca’s suave Italian voice held the same glad note as Leo’s. ‘I flew in yesterday. I have a flight booked back to Milan tonight, but I don’t have to catch it. I thought if you were free this evening we could …’ He paused eloquently. ‘Meet up?’
‘Come over,’ said Leo without hesitation. ‘I’m at home.’ He and Luca, a thirty-six-year-old Milanese lawyer with whom he worked on a number of cases, had evolved what for Leo was the perfect relationship. Luca came to London on business at least twice a year, and Leo had occasion to fly to Italy now and then on cases. They always made a point of meeting.
A little before seven o’clock he and Luca were sitting drinking and chatting in the garden in the early-evening sunshine. Later, while Luca set the table beneath the mulberry tree and laid out candles and glasses, Leo cooked supper. Luca told Leo about the pieces of antique furniture which he had bought for his mother that afternoon at Sotheby’s. Leo opened a second bottle of wine and they talked about art, and music, and a little about cases they had, and afterwards, while moths flitted and bumped in the guttering light of the candles, they went upstairs and made love in Leo’s big bed. Tomorrow Luca would catch his flight back to Milan. It was an ideal, uncomplicated arrangement for both of them.
A mile away in Fulham, Anthea lay stretched out on her sofa, the TV on low, a glass of wine in her hand, bored, but full of hope that her strategy was working. She bet that Leo was thinking about her right now.
CHAPTER FOUR
Rachel arrived at lunchtime the following day, bringing Oliver and his belongings for his weekend stay with his father. She was dressed in a blue cotton blouse and white capri pants, and her dark hair was tied back. At thirty-two, Rachel had pale, smooth skin which never tanned, pretty, sharply defined features and dark eyes, and a reserved, poised manner. This cool composure, touched with vulnerability, had once been a challenge to Leo – reducing her maidenly modesty to a state of helpless, trembling passion had always been a particular pleasure. But in the last few difficult years the fragility in her personality which had once touched him now seemed to have disappeared. Perhaps he was to blame for that.
In the middle of a hug from his father, Oliver spotted the new playhouse and struggled free to race up the garden towards it. Rachel, who had been covertly looking round for evidence of the existence of a new lover in Leo’s life – something she always did on these visits, and not without justification – glanced after him.
Leo watched her face, anticipating disapproval, but none came. ‘That looks like fun,’ she said somewhat flatly.
‘Coffee?’ asked Leo.
‘Yes, please,’ called Rachel over her shoulder as she went out to the garden.
Leo made two cups and took them outside.
‘Must have been expensive,’ remarked Rachel, nodding towards the playhouse.
‘Not especially. Well, not in the scheme of things.’
‘The scheme being?’ Rachel sat at the table beneath the mulberry tree and gave him a challenging little look. Leo found her arch way of picking him up on meaningless phrases immensely irritating. It was a form of verbal fencing. Why did she do it? To maintain some form of emotional rapport, he supposed. There was something sad about it, this need to engage with him in a mildly aggressive way whenever they met.
‘The scheme being,’ said Leo, sitting down in the shade, ‘to keep my son happy and busy. To bring him up, to educate him, to contribute to his well-being. Our joint project,’ he added.
Rachel glanced to where Oliver was struggling, and not quite succeeding, to master the climbing frame. ‘It’s a bit big for him.’
‘It has to be, to give him any fun. Don’t want him outgrowing it too fast.’ Leo sipped his coffee and glanced at the flat, wasted puddles of wax in the glass storm lanterns from last night. Luca would be catching his flight about now. Next to one of the storm lanterns lay an empty Italian cigarette packet. ‘To tell you the truth’ – even this commonplace phrase brought a small, cynical smile from Rachel, which he tried to ignore – ‘I had the idea you might not approve of it. The climbing frame, I mean.’
‘I don’t disapprove of the things you do for Oliver.’ She caught sight of the cigarette packet and picked it up. ‘Just certain aspects of your life. Taken to smoking Italian cigarettes now?’
‘They belong to a friend.’
‘Who was here not so long ago?’
‘That’s right.’ Leo gave an impatient sigh and glanced to the end of the garden, where Oliver was shouting, ‘Mummy, Mummy! Watch me!’ Rachel smiled and waved. ‘So,’ asked Leo, amazed that he should allow himself to enter into this sniping contest, but unable to resist, ‘Still seeing Anthony?’
Rachel’s eyes flickered away from Oliver; she paused, and took a slow sip of her coffee. ‘No. That’s pretty much over.’ Anthony was a young barrister at 5 Caper Court, an erstwhile protégé of Leo’s, whom Rachel had begun seeing last summer.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Why?’ Rachel’s response was sharp and swift. ‘You hated me seeing him. You’d rather have him to yourself.’
‘Nonsense. I care about your happiness.’
‘That’s a laugh.’ She drained her coffee cup, then went to the end of the garden to give Oliver a farewell hug. ‘By the way,’ she said when she came back, ‘Oliver’s starting at his new prep school in three weeks’ time.’
Leo was astounded. ‘You arranged this without consulting me?’
Rachel shrugged. ‘I decided he’d outgrown nursery school. I found an excellent place for him in Chiswick – Kingswood House. I was lucky to get a place so late in the day. Usually it’s oversubscribed.’
‘I can’t believe you did this without speaking to me first. What makes you think I want him going to one of those poncey little places, anyway?’
‘Oh, Leo, please – don’t tell me you want him going to the local state school.’
Leo had to fight down his anger. ‘I’d like to have a say. He’s my son. And why does it have to be in Chiswick?’
‘It’s where he lives. With me.’
‘I mean, couldn’t you have found somewhere round here? That way I could pick him up occasionally, have him to stay overnight, take him in the next day.’
‘Do you know how hellish the traffic is between Chiswick and here in the mornings?’
Leo could see this conversation going nowhere. He didn’t know why he was having it.
Rachel picked up her bag. ‘It’s done now. I’m sorry. Perhaps I should have mentioned it to you.’ She fished out her car keys and went through the house to the front door. Leo followed her.
‘Three weeks from now is a bit late for the start of the autumn term, isn’t it?’ he remarked, opening the door for her.
‘You know how it is with private schools – short terms, large fees.’ Rachel turned to him. ‘Can you bring him back by seven tomorrow?’ Leo nodded. ‘And I take it that your Italian friend – whoever he or she is – won’t be on the premises while Oliver’s here?’
Leo held the door open. ‘Goodbye, Rachel.’ She left without another word, and Leo went back to the garden to play with Oliver.
In the car Rachel leant her head against the steering wheel and closed her eyes. Whenever she and Leo met, things never seemed to go the way she meant them to. She wanted to appear relaxed and carefree, as though seeing him was no big deal – but Leo would always be a big deal, damn him, and her attempts at nonchalance merely translated as defensiveness. She’d intended to deliver the news about Ollie’s new school in a brightly casual fashion – even though she knew she should have consulted Leo first – but instead she’d merely sounded offhand. It was because of that stupid cigarette packet, and the stupid knowledge that Leo had someone else in his life. He always had someone else. She couldn’t help the jealousy seeping through and lacing her words with bitterness. Fool, fool, fool, she told herself. Get over it. If you don’t, it’s going to poison every relationship in your life. He’s a bastard and he always will be.
Rachel didn’t need to persuade herself. She, better than anyone, knew all the worst things about Leo. And still she loved him.
CHAPTER FIVE
On Monday morning Michael Gibbon was standing in the middle of the clerks’ room, perusing the pages of TheGuardian and creating something of an obstruction. Bloody hell, thought Felicity, as she tried to edge past him with a tray of coffee cups – he was like a daddy-long-legs, all spindly arms and legs. She administered an admonitory little jog with her elbow and he glanced up, giving her an owlish, apologetic look through his glasses.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured, and moved nearer the door, thinking he was out of everyone’s way – until Leo came through the door seconds later. Leo stared at Michael trying to disentangle the newspaper from his glasses.
‘Why on earth,’ he asked, ‘are you lying in wait behind the door?’
‘I was actually trying to read this article,’ said Michael, straightening the newspaper. ‘It might interest you – Sir Dudley Humble’s one of your clients, isn’t he?’
‘That’s right – he’s got a contractual dispute with the Ukrainian government over a gas pipeline. Why?’
Michael handed the paper to Leo. The headline of the article read ‘Cash For Honours Inquiry Stepped Up’, and had a small picture of Sir Dudley next to it. Leo took the paper from Michael and read the opening paragraph.
‘Detectives investigating the cash for honours scandal yesterday interviewed the construction magnate Sir Dudley Humble in relation to a £1 million loan to the Labour Party in the run-up to the last election. Sir Dudley said he was “dismayed” by the suggestion that he had been offered any inducement in return for the loan. “I have done nothing wrong and have absolutely nothing to hide,” said Sir Dudley. “It was a straightforward commercial loan to assist the Labour Party with their cash flow.” Sir Dudley said he had fully expected the loan to be repaid.’
‘Interesting,’ said Leo, skimming the remaining paragraphs. ‘But not surprising. One has the impression of a man on the make.’
‘What’s his background?’
‘Ex-military, Falklands veteran – I think he may have been something to do with special operations. He went into construction when he left the army back in the early nineties. He’s done pretty well for himself, but his company’s run into financial difficulties lately. I reckon he’s running this case to scrape up every last penny he can. He fancies himself as a shrewd operator, but I have the feeling’ – he handed the paper back to Michael – ‘that he may have bitten off more than he can chew with the Ukrainians. They’re a dodgy bunch, to say the least.’
Henry, the senior clerk, came over in his shirtsleeves
