Confessions Read online

  Nat nodded. That’s more or less what she’d advised Issa: to write a strongly worded letter, certainly. But Issa wanted to hang fire and think about it; she was clearly hoping for a miracle. Nat hadn’t wanted to point out that doctors did them occasionally, but lawyers never. The only thing that could possibly help would be a resolution by conciliation or mediation, but Nat had no idea how that would work without the involvement of Harrow, or even if there was a service which would cover it.

  ‘Now to more parochial matters.’ Larry’s silver-tongued voice brought her back from her thoughts. ‘Pay attention,’ he said, as he gave her an update. ‘I’m only here for this morning; later I have a tryst with a fine bottle of port.’

  Between Nat, Larry and Robbie, they had a productive morning, but Chantelle held back on the usual chatter, frequently looking at Nat with sucked-in cheeks and narrowed eyes.

  ‘Okay. What have I done?’ Nat finally asked, watching Larry jaywalk to the pub opposite through the dusty blinds.

  Chantelle fired out her vexation: ‘You were out on Saturday night with Joshim.’

  So that was it. She clearly hadn’t given up on her mission to ‘turn’ him.

  ‘Yes, Joshim and another guy I work with, Chantelle, neither of whom would want a… a “butterhead” to shag.’

  God knows what the word meant, but she’d heard Chantelle use it only last week and it brought a momentary smile before the frown returned. ‘Joshim said you were in love with him at college. You told him on Saturday.’

  ‘That was a joke and he’s just winding you up by repeating it. Surely there’s a nice boy out there for you? You know, your own age and straight–’

  ‘Nah, I only want him.’ Seeming satisfied with Nat’s description of herself, Chantelle flashed a perfect smile. ‘Like you and that black guy. What a looker! I take it from the row that he’s your fella?’

  Nat swallowed. ‘You heard the argument?’

  ‘I tried, but not all of it.’ She twirled a strand of shiny hair which had escaped from today’s elaborate bun. ‘He never came here, but I’m guessing he’s Wesley Hughes. Poor sod was married to that Andrea looney, wasn’t he. I felt so sorry for those boys. How on earth did she get bail?’

  Nat hadn’t forgotten Gavin represented Wes but, stupid though it was, she hadn’t linked it with this office and Chantelle in her mind. No doubt the file and all its nitty gritty was in one of the filing cabinets right next to her. The thought made her uncomfortable.

  ‘I wish I knew how. Or bloody sectioned at the least,’ she replied distractedly.

  But she did know really. Andrea’s case was ‘indictable’ and so had been passed to the Crown Court for a full trial with a judge and jury, but she had first appeared before the soft touch JPs in the magistrates’ court. She was a clever and manipulative operator who’d obviously blinked her baby blues and satisfied them that the charges were all a ‘terrible’ misunderstanding or a ‘dreadful’ miscarriage of justice. A next of kin could have asked for a Mental Health Act assessment, but that was for someone who was an immediate risk to themselves or others; while she and Gavin had concluded the Cling-on was as mad as a hatter, she was not, under the law, ‘detainable’. Nevertheless, Gavin thought it was a good thing; he wanted the prosecution to prove that her actions were ‘capacitous’, that she was fully aware of their consequence rather than them being the result of mental health problems. ‘Then they can drag her kicking and screaming into a cell,’ he’d said with unusual venom after the arrest.

  Nat sighed; it was a shame that the woman’s husband didn’t feel the same.

  She came back to Chantelle, still dreamily winding her hair. ‘And he’s not my fella, Chantelle. Not any more.’

  ‘Who’s not your fella any more?’

  Nat knew the deep timbre, but swung round to check anyway. What the flip was Jack Goldman doing in her office? Okay, not her office, but Gavin’s.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt. There was no one in reception so I followed the sound of chatter,’ he said. He offered his hand to Chantelle. ‘Hello, I’m Jack Goldman of Goldman Law. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ she replied with a bob, almost like a curtsy. Nat wanted to snigger. This was the effect Jack had on everyone. It was the voice; full-toned, dominant and charming.

  ‘Are we talking about The Spaniard?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes we are,’ Nat declared, motioning Chantelle to leave. Then, suddenly concerned at his unexpected visit: ‘Why are you here, Jack? Is something wrong?’

  He sat down on the client chair and placed a folder on the desk. ‘A coffee would be nice,’ he said, crossing his legs.

  Still standing at the window, Nat folded her arms. Her alarm had been replaced by the memory of golden-boy Max and his promotion to partner.

  Jack gazed for a moment, then took off his glasses. ‘What is it, Natalie?’

  ‘I hear Goldman Law has offered Max partnership. And let’s face it, Jack, Goldman Law is you.’

  He frowned before replacing his black frames. ‘Wesley put his name forward for consideration. He’s bright, been with us several years; he’s a good, solid and reliable worker…’ He smiled wryly. ‘However, as is often the case, we were reminded of these things when young Max threatened to leave us.’

  ‘And suppose I did the same? Would I be offered it?’ The words came out in a croak. It was ridiculous, but she wanted to cry.

  Jack leaned forward, studying her intently. ‘If partnership is what you want, it’s yours,’ he said softly. Then after a few moments: ‘What do you want, Natalie?’

  The tears really prodded then. The baby. The house in the countryside, the apple tree, the things Wes promised me! she wanted to shout. But she was forty, not fourteen. She had to get a grip.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said instead, stepping to the desk and blowing her nose. ‘Winning the lottery might be a start.’

  Jack lifted his hands. ‘If you need cash, that isn’t a problem, I’m always here. Does the car help?’

  She was already feeling foolish; hormonal and girly and very, very stupid. ‘It does. Anna is delighted to have her car back at last. Thanks, Jack.’

  ‘And what about The Spaniard and the money he owes you? Have you sorted that yet?’

  Nat laughed. ‘Don’t push it, Jack. I’ll get you a coffee. Then you can tell me why you’re here.’

  In the small kitchen she finally breathed. Wondering if Jack knew what he was in for, she sniffed the ‘value’ coffee and added two teaspoons to his cup. She splashed cold water on her face, then added another measure of powder to Jack’s sherry-coloured drink. By the time she returned, she felt more composed, but had it been wise to leave Jack alone in Gavin’s office?

  ‘I had a visitor this morning,’ he said once they were settled.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  His face gave nothing away. ‘Mrs Brian Selby.’

  Nat put down her teacup, all ears. ‘Shirley Selby? Really? God, the poor woman. A husband in custody for the murder of their daughter. It can’t get much worse. What did she want?’

  Jack paused for a moment. He liked dramatic impact, so she knew it was big.

  ‘She says Brian is innocent.’

  ‘As one might expect from a wife–’

  ‘She says he’s covering for her. She says that she did it.’

  Anna had retired early to read before bed and Nat’s cats had formed an uneasy truce, Poppy on her lap, Lewie perched on her shoulder like a parrot, so she wasn’t allowed to move from the sofa. She had flicked through pretty much every channel on Freeview, not taking anything in, but enjoying the muted company.

  After a bumpy day, she felt remarkably calm, focusing properly on what Gavin had said about Wes. She still wished he had the strength to say no to bloody Andrea, but she recognised that his emotions must be all over the show. And she now knew the full story about Max: he had threatened to leave, so the existing partners’ hands had been forced. It wasn’t a rebuff as she’d thought; they hadn’t
chosen him for promotion over her.

  She stroked Poppy’s soft fur. Partnership. Responsibility. Permanence. If she had been offered it, what would she have said? Even the company car made her feel slightly trapped. And Wes knew she had considered looking for employment elsewhere. She wasn’t being fair to him; she was blaming him for what he couldn’t give her, both personally and professionally.

  She took a breath and punched his number.

  ‘Nat,’ he said when he answered. His voice was flat; it betrayed nothing, though certainly not friendliness.

  She didn’t know what to say. ‘How’s everything?’

  “‘Everything” as in what?’

  Her stomach clenched; it was hostility after all. ‘I just wondered how you were.’

  Hearing a sigh, she pictured him rubbing his head. ‘What do you want, Natalie?’

  The tears were at the surface again. She’d never heard him so disinterested, not since she’d first returned to Goldman Law.

  ‘I just wanted to say sorry.’

  ‘Sorry for what, Nat? For cosying up to Max the moment you’d dumped me?’

  ‘I didn’t–’

  But he’d already interrupted. ‘Because nice sex is so easily replaced, isn’t it, Natalie? If you don’t get what you want the moment you want it, if life doesn’t go your way for five minutes, you chuck out the dummy, throw your mobile, have sex with the next man on the agenda.’

  Man on the agenda? The phrase was so quaint, it was almost funny, but seconds later his words soaked in. Did he really think she’d sleep with Max? Insulting or what? And what about his comment about the mobile? Yes she’d thrown it just the once when her heart was as shattered as the phone, but Wes had seemed to understand completely that night; he’d picked up the pieces of both.

  More hurt than angry, she quickly pressed the red icon to end the call. She had thought he cared, really cared. What a stupid fool; she’d believed it was love.

  15

  Closed Doors

  First downstairs on Wednesday, Nat spent a good ten minutes sweeping up cat litter from the kitchen floor. She glared at Poppy. Yes, she was a princess among moggies, but why she had to kick out the granulated clay so far and wide, she had no idea.

  Lost in thought, she reached for the small broom beneath the fridge. How could it be midweek already? Her mind was still buzzing from her meeting with Jack on Monday.

  Once she’d got a grip and stopped snivelling, the two of them had discussed the Selby case for half an hour, a ‘without prejudice’ chat as they’d named it, neither of them knowing what to do about the surprising development of Shirley Selby’s confession. They had concluded it would depend on the forensic evidence pointing to either husband or wife. Fortunately for Jack, Mrs Selby had presented him with a fait accompli; she had already asked the GP to inform the police it was her who’d ended Melanie’s life, so he didn’t have to worry whether her admission to him was a ‘sealed lips’ communication as per solicitor and client ‘legal professional privilege’, or if it fell within an exemption. The common law had long recognised that particulars of an ‘iniquitous nature’ passed between lawyer and client could not be confidential. Indeed, a solicitor had a positive obligation to inform on client criminal behaviour; crime, tax evasion, fraud and money laundering included.

  The thought stopped Nat brushing. Had Jack complied with this rule and his duty when acting for some of his less savoury clients such as Danielle and Frank Foster, AKA The Levenshulme Mafia? One thing was for sure, Nat did not want to know.

  ‘Heavens, who’d want the danger of being a GP in Worsley,’ Jack had quipped at their meeting. He’d then gone on to say how he’d visited the Selbys’ home once, a magnificent modern property on the edge of the local golf course. He’d met a lovely teenager whom he’d assumed was Brian’s only daughter, but the poor man obviously had two, one who’d been bedridden and in pain since childhood.

  It just went to show that no one really knew what occurred behind closed doors.

  Keen to discover more, Nat had telephoned the police station as soon as Jack left, but her request to see Brian had been passed from pillar to post. ‘Police wasting police time,’ as Gavin often put it. No one had been prepared to give a definitive yes or no to a visit, so Nat had just turned up on Tuesday afternoon with Robbie in tow. They’d both waited with folded arms until the female detective appeared, stony-faced. She clearly wasn’t best pleased at the turn of events. A murder-cum-assisted-suicide wasn’t the easiest of cases to investigate, but two loving parents claiming it was solely them made it complicated.

  ‘Is it really in the public interest to detain the Selbys?’ Nat had asked her. ‘Whichever of them did it, it was clearly an act of mercy.’

  The officer had looked coldly at Nat. ‘People are not entitled to take the life of another person, however sympathetic one might be of the circumstances. That’s the law. It’s up to parliament to change it.’ She’d shrugged her shoulders. ‘Two confessions. Someone is playing games. The sooner we find out who, the better. Am I making myself perfectly clear?’

  But the visit with Brian was brief. He’d been both taciturn and truculent. ‘Shirley is trying to cover for me,’ he’d said. ‘Tell her to withdraw her statement and go home. That’s all there is to it.’

  The old dears’ session at SS was interesting, not so much from a legal viewpoint, but from a human interest perspective. Nat was now with Marguerite, who preferred to be called Madge. She’d been born at home seventy-five years ago and still lived in the same building. She’d never married, she hadn’t had children and she’d lived with her mother until the elder lady popped her clogs.

  Nat wanted to stop her there; the back story was a little too close for comfort. Despite the absence of snow, her own mother was refusing to leave the house again, saying she was fine to stay in, that online grocery shopping was just the thing in winter as it saved her from having to face the cold. Madge, however, was glad to be out of hers; after twenty minutes, she was still warming to her tale. Sat with a straight back and wearing a pale blue Crimplene two-piece and pearls, she looked much like the Queen. But unlike Her Majesty, Madge lived in a council house on the huge Wythenshawe estate.

  Nat took in the pensioner’s papery skin and bright eyes as she spoke. The real help was lending an ear, she knew. So many elderly people had no one to talk to, but there were other clients waiting in reception. She had tried several times to get Madge to the crux, which she assumed was a legal issue, but the conversation had drifted so badly, she gave up trying to steer it and just listened.

  Madge had an older brother whom her mother adored; she herself hadn’t ever felt loved by her; indeed, the old woman had regularly told Madge she’d been a ‘bloody mistake’. Despite that, she’d nursed her father until his death, then cared for her spiteful mum who hung on until she was ninety-six. Madge now had cataracts, and until she was at the top of the list for surgery, she was unable to pursue her true love of sewing and embroidery.

  Clearly the old dear had much to feel fed up about, but she told her history with a sunny smile, patting her newly permed hair and diverting to tales of the money her mother had lavished on her brother’s kids even though they’d rarely visited. Patting her chest and coughing delicately, she finally turned her thoughts to the reason why she’d come.

  ‘It’s so lovely to chat with you, dear, but I’m afraid Alfred will be hungry, so if we could talk about–’

  ‘Alfred?’

  ‘Alfred the Great. He’s Persian. Sadly Edward the Elder died last year.’

  Madge had cats; of course Madge had cats. All mother-sharing-house-daughters did.

  ‘Lovely. So you have a legal problem you’d like to discuss?’

  ‘Yes, yes. That’s why I’m here, dear.’

  ‘Great, so…’

  ‘About six weeks ago, a very pleasant man in a builder’s van knocked on my door. He invited me to look at the footpath. It was in a “dangerous state”, he said. If the postma
n tripped, I’d be “in for a claim”.’ Her curls shook. ‘He was right, of course. I could see the chinks for myself. Then he pointed to the roof and the windows and tutted. The house would “fall down” if I wasn’t careful, he said, but seeing as I reminded him of his gran, he’d sort them out on the cheap.’

  Already knowing the outcome, Nat nodded. Bloody cowboy.

  Madge continued her tale: the nice man had filled a few cracks in the paving, then he’d asked for a thousand pounds to buy new UPVC frames and the like. ‘Cash would be best’, he’d added. She’d dug into her savings to pay him, but he’d never come back. It was two months ago now. She was worried about her missing money; what should she do?

  Nat felt the heat rise. For God’s sake, the man hadn’t just worn a Stetson; he’d carried a swag bag too. Even worse, any vital repairs should have been the council or housing association’s responsibility. She inwardly sighed before answering; it wasn’t good news for the poor woman. Proceedings in the small claims court would usually be the way forward, but the cowboy-con-man-builder would hardly be listed in the Yellow Pages, and if he could be tracked down, cash had been paid, so it was her word against his. Even if Madge did get a judgement against him, enforcing it was a whole other problem. The expression ‘blood out of a stone’ came to mind, a frustratingly apt one. Madge would have to fund her own legal costs too; the issue fee alone was eighty quid.

  Once the disappointed pensioner had left, Nat let out a long breath. It felt as though the process for debt recovery was specifically designed to stymie the likes of poor Madge with her small pond of lifetime savings. Good old Gavin had a collection box on reception to cover the cost of court fees, so at least it gave the oldies a start. Occasionally the tin got stolen, but it was surprising how quickly it filled with coins. Nat had found herself sliding in a fiver each time she called in a new silver surfer. The other day she’d seen Jack slip in a couple of twenties.