Confessions Page 4

  She glanced at her watch. Bloody hell; only eight forty-five and he was already in full throttle on the telephone. She leaned against the door frame and watched him in action. Hmm… was he doing her a favour or the other way around? His bright eyes suggested the latter. Despite his recent setback, he looked good for his sixty-one years. His thick black hair was peppered with grey, but it added that ‘silver fox’ appeal many women found attractive. Not that she’d ever seen him in that light. His current wife had, of course. The discovery that Catherine was his secret mistress had been a shock and their friendship never the same; each time they had tried to rekindle it, the flame had flickered but ultimately died. Then there was her old friend’s ‘mutual need’ with Wes, but Nat wasn’t thinking about that.

  Nat nodded at the filing cabinet when Jack finally put down the phone. ‘Is there any point?’ she asked with a wry smile.

  ‘Nope,’ he replied, leaning back in the chair. ‘I think you’ll find–’

  ‘That you have taught me everything I know.’ She snorted and turned away. ‘Have fun,’ she called before the door closed. ‘And call me.’

  The Mercedes was probably the newest car on Finney Lane; if not, it was certainly the most expensive. Indicating right, Nat peered up at the Savage Solicitors sign. Over the Christmas period, one of Gavin’s Neds had risked life and limb by hanging out of the window above to decorate it, and the second S was still entwined with tinsel. The green chlorosis hue looked like she’d felt after boozy nights out with its owner.

  Parking outside the bookies, she hoped for the best. She didn’t want her new car to get stolen or scratched just yet. Last year Gavin had left his recently bought mountain bike in reception and the client he’d just interviewed stole it.

  ‘Not a very subtle career criminal,’ he had commented with a grin, but at least he’d known the identity of the thief and had demanded the cycle back with ‘interest’. The punishment in that instance had been cleaning; the Ned had been required to scrub and polish the Cannondale after Gav’s cross-country jaunts for the following six weeks.

  ‘I see. Prosecution, judge and jury,’ Nat had laughed at the time, but as she greeted his floppy-haired ex-offender receptionist, she thought there was something in Gavin’s own brand of justice. With the one eye she could see beneath his fringe, the boy was making contact; there was almost a smile, albeit of relief.

  ‘How’s the boss?’ he asked immediately, following her in to Gavin’s office. He looked at his feet. ‘And his little girl? Is she going to be okay?’

  It brought Nat back to reality with a thump, to the reason she was here. After their conversation yesterday, she had received a single message from Gavin: I won’t be texting much, so don’t expect to hear from me. But no news is good news, okay?

  Every time a text had come through last night, her heart had raced with alarm. Ironically it was the opposite of six months ago when she’d stared at her mobile for hours, willing it to beep, buzz or ring. She had thought Jose’s ditching her, and then his silence, were the worst things in the world, but of course she was wrong. The possibility of losing a child was.

  Breathing in the usual mushroomy smell, she went back to the youth, whose anxious face was now mottled with red patches. ‘I really hope so,’ she replied. ‘Ruthie is very poorly, but they’re taking it a day at a time. I think that’s the best way to put it…’ She couldn’t remember his name. It seemed rude to enquire when she’d met him several times. ‘Where’s Chantelle?’ she asked.

  The boy opened his mouth, but a loud gurgle of flushing and vibrating pipes answered for him, then the lady in question appeared, adjusting the hem of a shiny black dress more suited to a nightclub. She was still as rotund as the last time Nat saw her, her face a replica of the young Elizabeth Taylor’s.

  ‘Natalie!’ Holding out her arms, she tottered towards Nat as fast as the Lycra would allow. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. Robbie’s been brilliant, but there are only so many Neds he can advise in a day–’

  Nat cringed. ‘Maybe call them “clients”, Chantelle, just for this week? And who’s Robbie?’

  The burglar-cum-receptionist held up his hand, testing Nat’s assumptions big time. She stared. ‘You’re Robbie and you’ve been seeing the clients?’

  Chantelle smacked his head playfully. ‘He is a paralegal,’ she answered for him. From Robbie’s expression, Nat suspected the slap was harder than his workmate had intended. ‘A certified paralegal, just passed his diploma or whatever,’ Chantelle continued obliviously. ‘Turns out he’s a smart bloody Alec.’

  ‘Oh fab. Congrats,’ Nat replied. Taking in his flicker of pride, she made a silent promise not to let anything in this office astonish her again. She flopped down into Gavin’s leather chair. ‘Okay, let’s get started. Who’s going to bring me up to speed? Where should I begin?’ Staring at the messy desk, she thought for a moment. ‘Well, let’s put it this way, what definitely can’t wait?’

  Gavin’s two employees looked at each other with saucer eyes. ‘Robbie instructed Larry to cover this morning’s mags, and I’ve put off this week’s old dears…’ Chantelle said eventually.

  Knowing she’d have to get used to this surreal, goose-bumpy feeling pretty damn soon, Nat took a deep breath. She gathered the ‘mags’ was a magistrates court somewhere, but ‘Larry’ and ‘old dears’ were a mystery.

  She put a pencil behind her ear, Savage-like. ‘So who is Larry?’

  ‘Larry Lamb.’

  The pinpricks increased. There were only three Larry Lambs she knew of. Her childhood knitted sheep, an actor and– ‘Not Lawrence Lamb QC?’

  Chantelle and Robbie nodded.

  Trying to quell the surprise, Nat swallowed. Lawrence Lamb had been the doddery head of a barrister’s chambers when she’d first qualified. He had to be a hundred and three; he’d retired years ago, surely? Maybe this Larry was number four. ‘No, it can’t be the same one. Not the Queen’s Counsel Larry. He must be–’

  ‘He only works part-time,’ Chantelle said reasonably, as though reduced hours for a centenarian made it perfectly normal. ‘Gavin can’t always be in two places at once and it gets Larry out and about.’

  ‘Well that’s all right then. Does he get paid?’ she asked. ‘No, don’t tell me. What about the “old dears”?’

  ‘Gavin’s OAP session every Wednesday morning. Robbie does silver surfer sessions on the laptop while they’re waiting to see Gavin.’ Playing with one of her hoop earrings, Chantelle glanced at Robbie, who was shuffling his feet.

  ‘And?’ Nat asked, the prickling turning to perspiration. ‘Come on, guys, spit it out.’

  Chantelle’s cheeks pinked. ‘Well, you asked what couldn’t wait. We have a new, er… a new “client” you need to see PDQ…’

  An actual client, alleluia! Glad to have something solid to deal with, Nat looked at her watch. ‘Okay, great.’ She rubbed her hands. ‘What time will he or she be here?’

  Sounding distinctly Mancunian, Robbie finally piped up. ‘He isn’t here. He’s in custody at Salford West. He was arrested yesterday morning for murder. His name is–’

  Wanting to smack her own head Chantelle-like, Nat winced. Oh hell, she knew what was coming and it was her own stupid fault.

  ‘Brian Selby,’ Robbie continued. ‘I’ve no idea who referred him to us, but his PA was really upset, so we said yes…’

  Oh God, Brian Selby, the ‘Three Ls’ from Doncaster. They hadn’t turned him away. Nat had forgotten to speak to Chantelle about it. And the poor man had been arrested yesterday. More to the point, one of Goldman Law’s most wealthy clients had been in a bloody police cell for God knows how many hours.

  Though Robbie’s sore blotches had resurfaced, he was peering at her carefully. ‘Thing is, Mrs Bach… it was a personal recommendation.’ His eyes flickered to Chantelle. ‘And we thought, me and Chantelle thought the boss wouldn’t want to miss out on a–’

  Nat nodded. ‘On a juicy murder.’ Feeling a surge of near hysteri
a, she smiled stiffly. Part of her wanted to shout at this pair, but the other wanted to kiss them both for their loyalty to Gavin.

  She took a deep, calming breath. ‘Okay. Okay…’ Talk about starting at the drowning end; it was only a murder; what could possibly go wrong? She eyeballed Robbie. ‘The first thing: Mrs Bach is my mum, and I’m Natalie or Nat. The second: tell me absolutely everything, whether or not you think it’s important. What do we know so far?’

  Chantelle was now filing letters in the dented grey cabinets, but she spoke over her shoulder. ‘Joshim said he’d call back if he finds out anything more.’

  Nat spun around. ‘Joshim? What? My Joshim?’

  She stared at Chantelle’s placid profile, and her heart fell to the floor. Oh God, it had to be him. A couple of months ago, she and Gavin had met up with their old law school mate, Joshim, for a few pints and a curry. Immediately smitten with his ‘boy band’ good looks, Chantelle had invited herself along and had spent most of the night smashed and squashed on his knee, determined to ‘make him straight’. She hadn’t, but they’d clearly remained friends.

  ‘Please say it’s not Joshim Khan. He’s a CPS solicitor, Chantelle. A prosecutor! That means he’s the enemy, poised to lock Brian up for as long as humanly possible. What did you say to him?’

  Chantelle put her hand on what should’ve been a hip and looked at Robbie with raised eyebrows. ‘We’re not stupid, Natalie. Besides, we don’t know anything.’

  ‘Except this.’ Robbie turned the laptop towards Nat.

  ‘Facebook? Not now, Robbie.’

  ‘It’s the Greater Manchester Police Facebook page,’ he replied patiently. He read it aloud. ‘A fifty-four-year-old man has been arrested for the murder of his twenty-nine-year-old daughter.’ He looked at the time on his mobile. ‘That was posted yesterday. He asked for legal advice, so the police can’t question him until he’s seen you, and before that they have to give you disclosure of all the allegations. Mr Selby knows to say nothing until then. Because it’s murder, they can hold him for thirty-six hours before charging him.’ He clicked another tab. ‘Route planner to Salford West. The motorway’s the best way, it’s actually in Swinton.’

  Nat stared. True, she hadn’t brushed shoulders with ‘crime’ since her mid-twenties, but a flaming police Facebook page. Too loved-up and busy, she hadn’t bothered much with social media in Mallorca, but clearly she had to up her game. Big bloody time. She turned to Chantelle, now humming a tune as she sashayed about her chores. ‘Right. Are you okay to hold the fort? I’m off to Swinton, apparently. Smart Alec is coming with me.’

  6

  Morphine

  Where was Gavin Savage when you needed him? Nat thought during the half-hour journey to the police station. Her criminal law expertise was pretty much zilch. Though she’d never fist-fought with the long arm of the law, she had been on the periphery once or twice, mainly defending Jack Goldman’s obdurate son – a charge of criminal damage for smashing a shop window, and his refusal to take a breathalyser only a day or two after passing his driving test. Those had only involved a plea of mitigation, trying to persuade the stony-faced magistrates, with a suitably simpering smile, to be lenient: Julian had been young and foolish; his parents had recently split; he’d been too easily influenced by peer pressure; he had asthma. The usual baloney.

  Of course there had been last year’s shocking wallop with proper crime: a charge of assault against Julian, upgraded to attempted murder, and Wes’s arrest, but they had been passed on to Gavin, as it was his speciality. He’d played a blinder with both, using the old ‘Savage charm’ to get them bail, and eventually persuading the police to drop the charges.

  God, Gavin, poor Gavin. Of course the resolution of both cases had been more than just his tongue-in-cheek personality. It had involved long hours, hard work, determination and sharp intelligence. She took a deep breath; she’d do everything in her power to do the same.

  The beep of her mobile interrupted her thoughts. She glanced at her companion. Pale and clutching his seat belt, Robbie was staring fixedly through the windscreen. He had been so quiet she’d almost forgotten he was there.

  ‘Grab my phone and see who that’s from, would you, Robbie? It’s in my handbag.’

  His Adam’s apple bobbed, but he duly complied, holding it up with trembling fingers. ‘It’s a message from Mr Khan.’

  Nat’s heart sank. ‘Okay, read it out.’

  Robbie cleared his throat. ‘On the QT. Thought it might help to know that Brian Selby has already confessed. Call if you need me.’

  Her ticker fell even lower. ‘No, Joshim, it doesn’t damned well help!’ she wanted to shout, but from Robbie’s tight expression, she sensed he was already terrified. She was pretty damned anxious herself, but a brave face was the thing.

  ‘Okey-dokey. No worries.’

  She smiled and dug for something hearty that Gavin might say. Nah; she couldn’t find anything that wasn’t an ‘ist’ or an ‘ism’, so she settled on the old Scots proverb hung up in Gavin’s office loo: ‘If ye like the nut, crack it.’

  The traffic was heavy, every light predictably on red, but Nat finally managed to drive into the police station car park and pulled up next to a police van.

  Her nerves tingled. ‘A “Big Black Mariah”,’ she quipped to her companion. Not surprisingly his pale face was blank. In fairness she was an infant when the song came out, so he wouldn’t have even been a twinkle in his dad’s eye, if indeed his dad had been born.

  Oh God, she was internally blathering. Thoughts of Ruthie had been prodding in between her general panic, but she also had to block out the constant worry of how she was progressing. Focus, Natalie, and get a grip. She took a huge gulp of air; she was not going to cock this up for Gavin. Or for Brian Selby; whatever had happened, he was now her client and it was her legal duty to represent him to the best of her ability.

  She nodded briskly to Robbie. ‘Come on, then. Let’s do this.’

  Standing as tall as her five-foot-five would allow, Nat announced herself to the sergeant at the counter. Her eyes swept the room as she waited, coming to rest on the far wall. Her stomach lurched as she stared. Bloody hell; a firearms surrender poster. She prayed Gavin and Heather would never see it; the irony of their child’s shooting during an amnesty period would surely heap on the agony.

  Pursing her lips, she tried to blow out her anger. Over the last twenty-four hours she’d found herself having murderous thoughts of her own. Jack had often said she found ‘excuses where there aren’t any’ when it came to bad or criminal behaviour. Nat disagreed; considering the bigger picture was important to her; not excusing the offence or offender, but searching for reasons: poor parenting, poor education, poverty, peer pressure and, of course, mental illness. But she had discovered that her reactions were very different when the crime was close to home. She’d had no forgiveness for what Andrea had done to Wes and their sons, and if someone gave her a pistol now, she’d happily mete out an eye-for-an-eye punishment to whoever had shot Ruthie.

  Tapping their feet in unison, she and Robbie sat side by side. A weary-looking female detective eventually appeared and showed them through to an office. She didn’t ask them to sit down.

  ‘So disclosure,’ she said, shuffling her papers. ‘Your client smothered his adult daughter to death at 2200 hours on Sunday night. He admitted it to his local GP who duly informed the police.’

  ‘And…?’ Nat asked.

  She shrugged. ‘As mentioned, he told his doctor. He’ll be charged with murder.’

  ‘That’s your “disclosure”?’

  The woman had the good grace to look sheepish. ‘Pretty much.’ She again lifted her shoulders. ‘Your client has confessed, Ms Bach. I’ll ask someone to take you through.’

  Nat frowned. Wasn’t the law meant to be equitable these days? Weren’t the other party to any case, either civil or criminal, supposed to show their hand at the outset in the interests of fair play? But the word ‘smothere
d’ was interesting.

  Following an officer who wasn’t old enough to shave, they were shown into an echoey interview room. Brian Selby was sitting at a table attached to the wall. If he was surprised to see Nat, he didn’t show it. Indeed; he didn’t show any recognition at all. He appeared deflated; still a large man but sagging within, completely diminished from the braggart she’d spent a boozy dinner with only a few weeks ago.

  Breathing in the stench of body odour mixed with pine disinfectant, Nat held out her hand. ‘Hello, Brian. It’s Natalie, if you remember? Natalie Bach.’ She resisted describing herself as his ‘lucky lady’. His luck was clearly all out. ‘I’m on a secondment with Savage Solicitors. Gavin Savage is currently indisposed, but I’m here to help.’

  She looked at his pasty face and felt a surge of emotion. His eyes were empty. It was as though he was insubstantial, just the plump body shell with nothing inside. She inhaled sharply. It was hardly surprising: whatever had occurred at the weekend, his daughter was dead. Until that moment, the dreadful reality hadn’t sunk in. This man had lost his child: she wasn’t just gone forever, but had also died by his own hand.

  She waited for some acknowledgement, but none came. ‘Did you hear what I said, Brian? This is Robbie…’ She didn’t know the boy’s surname. ‘Robbie Smart,’ she said, improvising. ‘We’re here to represent you. Because a period has passed on account of Mr Savage’s unexpected absence, we don’t have much time before the police…’ She cleared her throat. ‘They intend to charge you with murder, Brian. It’s important that you focus and tell us exactly what happened. Do you understand?’