Confessions Page 2

  ‘And you?’ she asked, noticing some newly acquired highlights in his already-blond hair.

  Sensing girlfriend trouble, she thought back to an office party last autumn. What might have happened had she not encouraged him to make up with his woman then? Nothing, probably. And just as well. That night had turned out to be magical; she and Wes, getting to ‘know’ each other again after a nineteen-year gap.

  Max took a moment to answer. ‘Yeah, good.’

  Nat studied his face; his gaze seemed distracted. Definitely something. Family worries? Demands of work? A cock-up on a file? That was something no lawyer was immune to. ‘Is Wes keeping you busy?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, but that’s a good thing.’ He rubbed the desk and fell silent. Then with a sigh, ‘Right, I’d better–’

  ‘Still with…’ Nat dug for a name. ‘Caz?’

  A shadow passed through his features. Ah, correct the first time; girlfriend trouble. ‘Yeah.’ He lifted a buff folder and gave it a shake. ‘Better get on with this.’ He looked at her meaningfully. ‘It’s for Catherine and urgent, so…’

  Intending to suggest a drink and chat later, Nat took a breath, but she caught herself just in time. A positive effort not to get involved in other people’s lives, remember, Natalie? ‘Okey-dokey, enjoy the file,’ she said instead.

  ‘Will do,’ he replied, leaving the room.

  She shook her head. A close call again. Since November, ‘butting out’ was a daily reminder. She’d got off lightly overall last year, but in truth no good came of interference. Her mum was kind enough to say it was ‘helping’ and not meddling, but Nat knew from experience that the difference between the two was a very fine line.

  Pleased with her miraculous self-control, she went back to the ring binder on the desk. The client was Edward Chaudhury, a fairly recent Goldman Law acquisition. Apparently Jack had first introduced them at Catherine’s fiftieth party but, to put it mildly, Nat had been a little worse for wear that evening. In the absence of a face to remember, she had mentally named Edward the ‘mill man’ and it had somehow morphed into ‘Mr DeMille’ (without the Cecil B). Though she had met him since, she struggled to call him anything else when she worked on his files.

  Passing over both Catherine and Wes, Jack had nominated Nat to deal with Mr DeMille’s ‘rag trade’ needs. The mill in question was located in Stockport, a clothing factory he had acquired not long ago, and he’d instructed Nat to draft employment contracts for the seamstresses. So far so good, but there was something which caused her a ‘prickling’, as her old mucker Gavin Savage would say. When DeMille gave her a tour of the premises last year, it had felt as though two of the darkly clad workers were deliberately avoiding her. When she’d asked him about the checks required to ensure none of his workers were illegal, he’d stared through his spectacles with magnified eyes for several beats, then asked her to look into it as part of her brief. Whether it was a clever ploy at passing a potential £20,000 civil penalty fine per illegal worker onto Goldman Law, or if it was a genuine delegation, she didn’t know, but she had spent the last half hour reading through the relevant UK Border Agency regulations nonetheless, making careful notes of an employer’s statutory duties and the documents required.

  She sighed. Yes, definitely a prickling. She went back to the ring binder and searched for the company’s payroll. Sixteen members of staff. Surely there had been more than sixteen needlewomen when she visited the workshop?

  A knock at the door interrupted her scrutiny.

  It was Catherine’s secretary. ‘Hi, Nat. Thought I’d give you the head’s up before the boys descend. The sandwich guy has just arrived in reception. Are you hungry?’

  3

  Taser

  Lost in her usual lunchtime game of Words With Friends with her mother – who was annoyingly good – the peal of a telephone made Nat jump. She snatched it up.

  ‘Natalie.’

  ‘Your two-thirty appointment is here. Should I send him up?’

  Bloody hell; was it that time already? Just goes to show how time flew when trying to create a word with only flipping vowels. ‘Cheers, Christine. Don’t suppose we could bag a drink? I’m parched.’

  ‘Too much sea salt on the pastrami panini?’

  Ah, so that was it. Nat had finally persuaded her mum to stop making her packed lunches fit for an eight-year-old, but the sandwiches brought into the office by the enterprising young caterer were indeed far too seasoned. She inwardly snorted; not sufficient to cause hypernatraemia, she hoped. Shaking her head, she quickly reprimanded herself for the usual black humour impulse. Andrea’s intermittent ‘use’ of salt to keep Wes from leaving her had been far, far from funny.

  Pushing those dark memories aside, she stood and brushed the crumbs from her skirt. She had hoped her ‘two thirty’ wouldn’t turn up; she was all for genuine civil claims and grievances, but at times it felt like the ‘where there’s blame there’s a claim’ culture had gone too far.

  This new case was all Gavin’s fault; he’d referred the ‘young Ned’ to her. ‘Bach, glad I’ve caught you. I need a wee word about a police matter…’ he’d said last Saturday when she dropped off his kids.

  Gavin Savage, the police and ‘wee words’ were generally a very bad combination. Nat had felt her buttocks clench, but he had grinned. ‘Don’t look so worried, I’ve got a new client for you.’

  His boys had darted into his ex-wife’s house, but Ruthie had stayed at the porch door, holding Nat’s hand, so he had gone on to give them both the lowdown: this particular Ned was the son of one of his criminal clients, and during a pub fracas he’d been tasered by an overeager constable. After an investigation by the Police Complaints Commission, or the PCC, as Gavin had put it, the PC had been charged with assault for using excessive force. The young Ned had been delighted, apparently boasting to his mates on Facebook that he’d be ‘going for compo’. Which was where Nat and Goldman Law had come in.

  ‘Just up your street, Bach,’ Gavin had said in his gravelly Glaswegian tones. He’d cocked an eyebrow. ‘You know; rolling up your sleeves and getting stuck in. Fighting against authority. Looking out for the stooge.’

  ‘I’m not that flipping bad,’ she’d replied.

  ‘Says she who defended a sheep killer.’

  She’d looked down at little Ruthie. Technically the deceased had been a goat, but she knew better than to say so to her animal-loving seven-year-old friend. ‘The client was Catherine’s mum, Ruthie, and she hadn’t killed a sheep.’

  Gavin had stroked his moustache. ‘If you say so…’

  Looking out for the stooge was usually his area. His phrase ‘young Ned’, or indeed ‘Nedette’, wasn’t as judgemental as it sounded; that’s what he called all his criminal clients, the prefix dependent on variables such as offence, age, size or hair colour. It wasn’t unknown for him to employ them too. One who’d tried to burgle his offices was now his sullen receptionist, another mowed the lawn for his wife. Heather Savage was still currently his ex, but both Ruthie and Nat were hopeful that might change fairly soon.

  She’d studied her pal’s ruddy face and noted the twinkle in his eyes. Still holding his red-haired daughter’s hand, she’d given him a hard stare. ‘What are you up to, Gav? Why aren’t you acting for him? Going for the “compo” yourself?’

  Ruthie had peered at him too. She’d shaken her head sagely and breathed her mum’s sigh. ‘Come on, Daddy, spill the beans.’

  ‘Nothing gets past you girls, does it?’ he’d replied. His smile spreading, he’d straightened his six-foot-six frame. ‘Guess who’s acting for the taser PC Plod? Instructions from the Police Federation, no less. Kosher work, though I say so myself. Possibly the start of much more. Fame at last. Are you impressed, Miss Bach? You’ll be begging to work for me now.’

  Ruthie had wrinkled her freckled nose. Of course one shouldn’t have favourites, but of Gavin’s four kids, she was it. ‘Begging to work in your office, Daddy?’ she said, sounding more seventy t
han seven. ‘I don’t think so. Natalie’s offices in Didsbury are lovely. Why on earth would she want to?’

  As was often the case, the words from Gavin’s former wife came straight from her child’s mouth. Hurray for Heather, Nat had thought with a smile, but until this moment she hadn’t twigged there’d be more Chinese walls, those secrets and conflicts of interest she had determined to avoid this year.

  Hearing a knock, she quickly opened her diary. Even Neds had names, as she regularly chided Gavin. Dwayne. The son of Gavin’s criminal was called Dwayne.

  ‘Come in,’ she called.

  A young man’s head appeared around the door. ‘They said to come up to the… conference room?’ he said, stumbling over his words. ‘Are you Miss… Miss Hatch?’

  Nat had long ago given up pronouncing her surname à la Johann Sebastian. ‘It’s Bach with a B, Natalie Bach. Come on in.’

  Wearing a crumpled suit and looking remarkably like Wes’s twin sons, the shy youth shuffled in.

  Reminding herself not to make easy assumptions, she held out her hand. ‘Hello, Dwayne. Pleased to meet you. Take a seat.’ When he’d sat, she dipped her head to meet his eyes. ‘How can I help you today?’

  Seemingly stuck for words, he slunk lower in his chair.

  ‘I understand you want to make a claim for an assault by the police? An assault by taser gun?’ The boy nodded, so she gave him an encouraging smile. ‘Great. Start at the beginning and tell me what happened. There’s no hurry; take your time. I’ll be jotting down notes if that’s okay…’

  Staring mainly at the table, the young man haltingly described the night of the brawl. Several months ago at closing time, he’d emerged from his local pub with his girlfriend, almost falling into an aggressive stand-off between two groups of men. He and his girlfriend had tried to circumvent the clash, but she’d gone one way and he the other. Concerned for his girl, he’d turned back to find her the same moment as the police arrived. A fight had kicked off big time by then, and the next thing he knew he was falling to the ground in sudden pain, later discovering he’d been tasered on the back by a policeman.

  Nat lifted her head from her notepad. ‘I have no idea how that must feel, Dwayne. An electrical current through your body must be incredibly painful, I’m sure. Can you describe it?’

  Dwayne scrunched his face. ‘You know when you get really bad cramp? Playing footie? Like that, but worse. You go stiff and can’t move. It came out of nowhere, so the shock made me think I was… I don’t know; sounds daft, but I thought I was having a heart attack or something. It hurt really badly, making me fall forwards and hit the ground. There was a bruise for ages–’

  ‘From the impact of the fall?’

  He touched his face. ‘Oh yeah, that too, but I meant the stun gun.’ He appeared bashful again. ‘My back was sore where I’d been tasered; the skin had a red scorch in the middle. You know, like a cigarette burn. Kelly – my girlfriend – she took photos of everything. She told her dad what had happened, and he reported it.’

  ‘Bright girl.’

  He grinned and finally met Nat’s gaze. ‘Yeah, she’s brilliant.’

  ‘Will she be okay giving me a statement? She can come here, or I’ll go to her if it’s easier.’

  ‘Yeah, she’d love that. She’s a typist at a local builders, so she’s pretty hot with that stuff…’

  ‘Excellent.’ Nat sat back. The case looked pretty good so far. Liability wouldn’t be hard to prove in the light of the findings of the PCC. Damages were the thing. How much would Dwayne be entitled to for the injuries he’d sustained? Not just physical harm but also mental. As well as compensation for any financial loss. ‘So let’s talk about what happened after the incident,’ she said.

  Nat continued to ask all the relevant questions. Did Dwayne receive medical help at the time or later? Did he go to A&E or see his GP? Did he miss days at work or suffer salary and any other financial losses? What about the clothes he was wearing or his mobile phone? Did anything get ruined, torn or smashed? How long had it taken his injuries to heal? How did he feel about the attack? Any emotional or psychological issues at the time or still now? Any flashbacks, insecurities, bad dreams?

  Once Dwayne had left, she sat tapping her pen for a while. Of course the assumptions had been hers, Gavin had said very little about him. She had expected a youth with swinging arms, a bad attitude and an arrogant leer. She’d been wrong-footed by the suit and the sweet smile. But neither judgement was right. It didn’t matter about the veneer; she’d discovered in the last few months alone that it was often wholly – and sometimes alarmingly – wrong.

  Bringing her mind back to Dwayne, she doodled on her pad. His father had had scrapes with the law, that was true, but the boy lived with his mum who worked ridiculous hours in Morrisons to keep a roof over his head. The skirmish had not been of his making. He had simply got in the way of an overzealous PC. She couldn’t imagine how painful and shocking it must be to be tasered. Gavin was right; it felt good to be acting for the underdog; she wanted to do her best for him.

  ‘You were the only person to get tasered that night. Why do you think the police officer picked on you?’ she’d finally asked, waiting and wondering about his reply.

  He hadn’t mentioned the colour of his skin. Instead he’d shrugged and smiled, keen to know whether he had a claim, how much he’d get, how soon Nat could start, how long it would take. But her advice was to wait; they had the findings of the PCC, but if the officer was also found guilty of the assault charge, so much the better. And the evidence the PC gave during his trial would give them the heads up for the civil compensation claim.

  Dwayne had left with slumped shoulders, but Nat promised to find out more about the criminal proceedings. That was a legitimate request she could ask Gavin about without breaching Chinese walls or client confidentiality, and if he was busy she’d take the short cut by asking his bubbly secretary, Chantelle.

  Scooping up her mobile, she tried Gavin first, but it clicked on to voicemail. Then she phoned Chantelle, who answered straight away.

  ‘What’s the big man’s excuse today?’ Nat opened.

  ‘What? Excuse? Sorry?’ his secretary replied.

  ‘Gav’s excuse for ignoring my call.’

  Chantelle didn’t reply and it finally struck Nat that her voice had sounded tearful. ‘Hey, are you okay, Chantelle? Gav hasn’t been winding you up again, has he? Best way is to bat it back fast, so he doesn’t know what’s hit him.’

  ‘Oh God, Nat.’ A pause and a sob. ‘Haven’t you heard? It’s just terrible.’

  Goosebumps stabbed Nat’s skin. ‘Heard what, Chantelle? What’s happened?’

  When Nat had finished the call, she sat for breathless moments and stared at her hands. They were trembling. Her arms and her legs were shaking uncontrollably. It was too, too dreadful. Focus, she had to focus. Jumping from her chair, she strode to the door, pelted down the stairs, through the first-floor reception, then burst into Wes’s glassy office without knocking.

  His phone to his ear and his expression grave, he lifted a hand. Clearly listening to the caller, he nodded several times, making notes.

  ‘I’m so sorry again. Thank you for letting me know,’ he said finally, turning to Nat.

  ‘You’ve heard too,’ she rushed, her heart hammering her chest. ‘What should we do, Wes? Go to the hospital? Or is that too intrusive? We can’t just send a text. I don’t know what, but we have to do something.’

  Wes frowned. He peered at the scrawl he’d just made, as though it would give him an answer. Then he took a deep breath. ‘She’s dead, Nat. She was dead before the ambulance arrived. There would be no point going to the hospital. I’m not even sure she’ll be–’

  Nat found herself shouting; yelling and crying and covering her face. ‘But Chantelle, Chantelle said she was still in surgery. She said it just now. She can’t be dead. That’s just too cruel. It’s unbearable, Wes.’

  He stood, gathering her tightly in his arm
s. ‘It’s a shock and terribly tragic…’ he started. Then he pulled away and studied her blankly. ‘Chantelle?’ he asked, clearly perplexed. ‘That was… Are we talking about the same thing?’

  Wiping her cheeks with shaking fingers, Nat stared, hope upon hope that they weren’t. ‘Who are you talking about, Wes?’

  He stepped back and put a hand on his notes. ‘That was Brian Selby’s PA. Selby has been arrested.’ He rubbed his cropped hair. ‘Arrested for the murder of his eldest daughter.’ He took a sharp breath. ‘And you?’

  ‘Ruthie, Gavin’s Ruthie.’ The tears were flooding again; it was a struggle to speak. ‘Little Ruthie Savage, Wes. She’s been shot. The shooting on the news yesterday. It was her.’

  4

  Trust

  The puzzlement on Wes’s face was replaced by disbelief. ‘Ruthie? No.’ He shook his head and frowned. ‘No, there must be a mistake; there has to be.’

  ‘I said the same thing to Chantelle. I wish it were, but it isn’t. She’s been in surgery on and off since yesterday. I’m so sorry, Wes.’

  ‘No, God, no.’ Putting a hand to his mouth he stared with unfocused eyes. ‘Heather, Gavin, the boys… How on earth must they…? She’s been shot? My God, it’s horrendous.’

  What could Nat say? She herself was devastated, but Wes had been good friends with Gavin at law school and after; he’d known Ruthie since birth.

  He stepped to the window. Gazing out, he was silent for some time. Finally he turned. ‘What the fuck, Nat? A petrol station, wasn’t it? In Salford? What the hell was Ruthie doing there?’

  ‘I don’t know, Wes. Let’s see what we can find out online…’

  Sharon was perched at her workstation as usual. God knows what she made of the commotion in Wes’s office. She’d been Nat’s secretary for many years, but for the last five she’d worked for him. Well-meaning and loyal, but hopelessly indiscreet, she made no attempt to close her gaping mouth when Nat finally left with a tear-stained face.