Confessions Page 6

  Nat nodded. She now remembered. Chantelle modelled clothes for ‘the larger lady’ to supplement her ‘bloody minimum wages’.

  ‘So if I need any typing?’ she asked Robbie.

  He shrugged. ‘DIY?’

  Nat was reeling from sheer concentration by noon, but she was wiser too. First up had been Mr Lee and his wife. She had taken them through the psychiatric reports with a fine-tooth comb and discussed their application to the mental health tribunal for the discharge of their son. Four years previously he’d lost his rag in their restaurant and had stabbed an abusive customer in the chest. The psychiatrist they’d instructed was firmly of the view it was an isolated psychotic episode and that he was stable now. Second up was Marcella. The petite, softly-spoken woman had overcome her alcohol addiction for the best part of a year, but her recent relapse and arrest for soliciting had resulted in her infant children being taken into care.

  Nat sipped her tea and sighed. Neither ‘criminals’ were bad people, but both cases were difficult. The Lees loved their boy and wanted him home, but the tribunal had a duty to safeguard the general public from harm; Marcella was mortified to lose her kids, but social services had a duty to protect them. More than ever she understood Gavin’s politically incorrect humour was his way of coping. She could picture him grin and say, ‘I like the Lees, but I won’t be going to their restaurant for a takeout,’ or ‘Marcella’s a good kid, but I doubt I’ll ask her to babysit this week.’

  The air outside was fresh and crisp at lunchtime. She strolled along Finney Lane, bobbing in and out of the local shops. She was really after a (non-salty) healthy sandwich, but found herself waylaid by a craft store selling hand-knitted teddies and baby clothes. Trying to bat away thoughts of Wesley and all ‘that’, she spent several minutes looking at the tiny jumpers and cardigans, brushing a soft finger across the cute farm animals embroidered onto the soft fabric. Forcing herself away from the alluring socks and booties, she picked up a knitted toy dressed in colourful layers of clothing. A version of a Russian doll, she bought it on impulse; a little person she knew would love it. If she regained consciousness; if she got well.

  Arriving at the office with the gift, and something resembling a pork pie which had caught her eye in the butcher’s window, two things struck Nat, both of which were worrying. First, she seemed to have become immune to the champignon smell already and, secondly, why did Larry’s nose now resemble a strawberry?

  ‘Perfect timing, dear lady,’ he said graciously from his seat. ‘The call has come! We are Wythenshawe bound. Are you ready, my dear?’

  Oh God, Wythenshawe police station. She had never been there, but Wes had. Bloody Wesley Hughes who thought his arrest and overnight stay in a police cell, never mind the subsequent charge of attempted murder, was none of her business.

  She batted that thought away. ‘I am, Larry, absolutely.’

  Ready for another foray into the criminal world, she inhaled deeply and shook her limbs. ‘So, do we know anything about the client or the arrest?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. Similar to book blurbs; I don’t like spoilers,’ he replied with a glint. ‘I prefer the unknown. It’s part of the fun.’

  Like wrapped Christmas gifts, Nat supposed, but she was with him on that score. She watched him stiffly rise and sway to the door. His voice sounded steady and as eloquent as earlier, but he was undoubtedly pissed. Catching Robbie’s eye, she found herself stating the obvious.

  ‘Larry, you’re drunk.’

  ‘Good point!’ He wobbled back to Robbie’s bench and accepted the proffered Styrofoam cup. ‘Nothing this won’t cure.’ He took a swig of what Nat hoped was exceedingly strong coffee and walked on. ‘I believe I’m what people call a “functioning alcoholic”. Rest assured, I function well.’ He saluted Robbie at the door. ‘Hold the reins, young man. We’ll be back in a jiffy.’

  The ‘jiffy’ turned into four hours at the nick. First up was a woman charged with criminal damage to her (now ex) boyfriend’s beloved and expensive camera.

  ‘It was an accident. One minute I was holding it, the next I dropped it. It just slipped through my fingers. Honestly.’

  ‘And this happened where?’ Larry asked.

  ‘In our flat. In the bedroom.’

  ‘And on what floor do you and the complainant live?’

  ‘The fifth…’

  Larry lifted a white eyebrow. ‘Might I ask how it ended up, somewhat…’ He wafted a small hand. ‘…irretrievably impaired on the pavement below?’

  A little too close to the bone for comfort, Nat found herself glancing at Larry’s equanimous expression. Like knowing what kids want for Christmas, could he tell how much she was cringing at the memory of her own ‘irretrievably impaired’ hissy fit with her phone?

  But the second case was somewhat more sobering. The juvenile idly kicking the table leg was called Curtis. He had been arrested, yet again, for shoplifting booze. The boy answered Larry’s questions with an indifferent shrug, but once outside the room, his mum was inconsolable.

  ‘Curtis hasn’t been to school for nine months, some nights he doesn’t come home. It’s drugs, I know it is. I’m at the end of my tether. What have I done wrong?’ she wailed.

  Delicately stepping to one side, Larry left Nat to deal with this one alone.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve done nothing–’

  ‘No. Tell me,’ the mother repeated. ‘Please tell me what I did or didn’t do. I’ve tried everything in my power to get my son back on track, but nothing works. What else can I do to help him?’

  A tough one for sure; Curtis had already been on a youth prevention programme but given it up, and he’d refused the Child and Mental Health Services counselling his GP had wangled. Nat’s heart went out to the poor mum, but other than assuring her that Curtis was eligible for legal aid as he was under sixteen she had no answers.

  She squeezed her hand. ‘All you can do is look after yourself; and make sure you’re in the best place so you can help him when he’s ready,’ she replied.

  Oh God; did that sound patronising? What the hell did childless Natalie Bach know about these things? But the woman nodded before shuffling away.

  Pausing for a quick – and disgusting – cup of coffee at the vending machine, Nat had to give herself a swift reminder that it wasn’t her job to solve other people’s problems. She was here to offer logical and coherent advice based on the legal position; or at least Larry, the expert, was.

  Turning to the man himself, she took a breath to ask if any cases ‘got’ to him, but he drank his scalding liquid in two noisy slurps and then smiled. ‘Ready for customer number three?’ he asked with glowing eyes. He rubbed his hands. ‘Exciting isn’t it?’

  Nat blew out long and hard. Exciting it wasn’t.

  ‘Guess what? We’ve bagged another murder,’ Nat announced to Robbie on her return, not quite believing the words coming out of her own mouth. Since when was a victim’s dreadful death a good thing? But she was in Gavin Savage’s head these days: a murder case was high profile, a good earner and interesting, this particular one being no exception.

  Customer number three, an alleged killer, was called George. He had been positively loquacious in comparison to Brian Selby. A man in his sixties, he’d still lived with his mother. She had waved him off in the car for groceries, but on a whim he’d gone to the pub first. All would’ve been well had he not jumped a red light with a police vehicle behind him. He’d been arrested for drink driving, spent several hours in a police cell, gone home to face his mother’s wrath, and had then strangled her.

  From the moment George mentioned his public house diversion, Larry had been all ears, asking incisive questions and making notes which he’d handed to Nat before she dropped him at a gated mansion in Wilmslow. She peered at them now, beautifully written in loopy handwriting. Manslaughter? he’d written. Loss of control? Diminished responsibility. Self defence? Intent? Low IQ. Check causal link.

  Nat took a deep breath which turned into
a yawn. Now the exhilaration had waned, she felt both anxious and tired. Trying to tackle an area of law she knew nothing about was, frankly, exhausting. Collecting her bag to go home, she reminded herself she was only overseeing Gavin’s files, not trying to effect a miracle cure. And as things had turned out, it was a relief not to be at Goldman Law’s offices where she’d bump into Wes. Twenty-four hours had passed and he’d made no attempt to contact her, not even to ask how she was getting on. Clearly the man was a shit.

  She said goodnight to Robbie and climbed into her car, the high of bagging a murder left behind in the office. She hoped she’d done some good today, but it was difficult to feel positive. Snoozing in Wes’s bed, feeling happy and carefree, now seemed a lifetime ago.

  The traffic was looser tonight, a reflection of the later time, she supposed, so she was outside her house in ten minutes. She picked up the pork pie and practised a grin in the mirror. It didn’t seem fair to bring her despondency home to her mum. But the smile fell away. Was that a beep? Yes, definitely a beep.

  She looked at the passenger seat. Too involved and busy all afternoon, she had forgotten to put her mobile in prime view. She felt her pockets and upturned her handbag. Where the hell was it? There had been a beep, she was sure. The glovebox? Yes the glovebox. With trembling hands, she pulled the phone out and peered at the screen. It wasn’t a text from Wes as she’d hoped, but one from Gavin as she’d feared. There was an urgent need to weep, even before she read it.

  Ruthie has just opened her eyes, it said.

  9

  Fair Enough

  Nat found herself doing a ‘circular head’ and singing with Ed Sheeran in the car. A guy in a van and a red-haired rocker at the crossing gave her a scathing look, but she didn’t care. After the brief exchange of texts with Gavin the previous night, she felt bloody happy. So jolly, in fact, that she’d overslept this morning.

  The earworm still buzzing, she pranced into SS and smiled at Chantelle. ‘Morning!’ She was late, but what the hell; she was currently the boss and there were no swipe cards here to keep a check on her timekeeping. ‘How was the photo shoot?’

  ‘So so,’ Chantelle replied, adjusting her sleek Holly Golightly bun. Then, appearing to think about it more deeply, ‘Boring, actually, and I wouldn’t wear the frumpy underwear myself in a million years. I’d rather have been here to chat with Larry about Pilates. But hey ho, if I want to do Vogue one day, I have to start somewhere.’

  ‘Oust Meghan Markle from the front cover?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Slipping delicately from her stool, she followed Nat into Gavin’s office. ‘You’re…’ She squinted at her. ‘…looking good today.’

  Nat snorted inwardly. Flaming millennials! Had she appeared other than ‘good’ before? Stress, anxiety, disappointment…? Well, yes, probably. She shrugged the thought away and grinned.

  ‘I’m certainly feeling top of the morning, as they say. Ruthie woke up yesterday evening. After four unresponsive days, Gavin imagined the worst. She’s still very poorly, but it’s progress.’

  Chantelle opened the desk drawer, pulled out Nat’s gift bag and shed the pink tissue paper from the woollen doll. ‘So cute! I couldn’t resist having a peek earlier. She’ll love it.’

  Slightly stunned, Nat nodded. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Maybe buy something for the other kids too?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Nat hadn’t thought about that. ‘Yes, excellent idea.’ She wasn’t very good on the whole children malarkey, but Chantelle was right; the last few days must have been agony for Gavin’s boys.

  ‘I’d get something football-related for the older two. And Cameron…’ She scrunched her face in thought. ‘Yeah, defo a Matchbox car. He collects them. A Tesla Model X. I doubt he’ll have it yet.’

  ‘Okay, great. I’ll try John Lewis at lunch.’ Feeling a jolt of envy that Chantelle knew more about Gavin’s kids than she did, Nat opened the desk diary. ‘Where’s Robbie?’

  ‘College this morning.’ Chantelle hovered for a moment before making for the door. ‘Jack Goldman’s been on,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Says can you phone him back on his mobile.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  Bloody hell, Jack already? A call from him wasn’t generally good news. Best call him back straight away, then the day could only improve.

  As though he’d been waiting, he picked up immediately. ‘Natalie.’

  ‘Hello, Jack. I got a message to–’

  ‘The police constable with the stun gun.’ As usual there was no preamble. ‘What do we know about him?’

  It took a moment for Nat to orient herself. Right; young Dwayne. Was it really only this last week that she’d seen him? Jack was looking after her files, which meant Dwayne’s taser claim was now in his hands…

  She glanced at the dented filing cabinets and felt a shiver down her spine. Oh God, the taser PC was Gavin’s police federation referral; she’d forgotten about that. It felt horribly incestuous, but Savage Solicitors, and thereby she, owed the PC a duty of client confidentiality – she couldn’t say or do anything to breach it, so she had to tread carefully.

  ‘I can’t tell you anything other than what you’ve read for yourself in my file, Jack. You know that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of asking. PC Abbot, he’s called. Ring any bells?’

  ‘I know and no.’ She felt the old prickling. ‘Why are you asking, Jack?’

  ‘No reason. I’m just a frail old man wanting a chat with the woman who’s deserted him.’

  Nat had glimpsed a ‘frail old man’ a few weeks after his heart attack, but the robust Jack had returned with the birth of his first grandson, thank God. Not that he didn’t still drive her nuts at times. ‘How’s the baby?’ she asked. ‘How’s little Rubin?’

  ‘Fat,’ he replied, though Nat could clearly hear the pride in his voice. ‘Catherine can’t get enough of him. I’m feeling quite… otiose.’

  She laughed. That was most definitely a description she did not accept. Jack had never rested on his laurels. Despite Catherine’s curfew, Jack would never be fruitless or without a purpose. He’d have been busy with machinations of one sort or another from his frosty rose beds, she was sure.

  The word ‘fruitless’ suddenly hit with a sharp swoop. That’s how Catherine had described her life last year. Those low points had resulted in her ‘mutual need’ with Wes. The fling had started well before Nat’s return to Goldman Law, so she’d almost erased the image of them together in flagrante delicto, but now it felt fresh in her mind.

  ‘So, other than trying to dig up info about PC Plod, anything else to report?’ she asked, trying to shake off the image.

  ‘I’m seeing your seamstresses and their documents this afternoon. I might get measured up myself. Treat myself to a nice dapper suit now I’ve been let out.’

  She paused for a moment. Should she mention her disquiet about Mr DeMille and his workers? Nah. If anyone could sniff out a rat, Jack was the man. Indeed, it would be interesting to see what he’d uncover.

  ‘A nice dapper suit, eh? Superman or Batman?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Very droll. Right I’m off. Ciao.’

  Feeling a little lost, Nat listened to the dead tone. She had wanted to casually ask about everyone else in the office to see if she could glean anything of Wes. They had kept their romance discreet, but Catherine knew about it. Had she told Jack? Nat had no idea. Despite being man and wife, there was a huge nest of eggshell information she had about each of them, secrets that the other didn’t apparently know. It had been hell to juggle them behind last year’s Chinese walls.

  The high of her and Ed harmonising in the car receded a further notch. She doodled absently on the pad. God, she missed Wes; she wished he would ring. He was right; his life was complicated. And she had to remember the ‘squeezing’. He wasn’t a person to wear his heart on his sleeve; he was thoughtful and ‘deep’, as a bench boy had once described him. She sighed. If he’d just call and say sorry, they could talk, ge
t their relationship back on track. Because it was more than just an affair, wasn’t it? Much more.

  Looking down at her scribble, she sighed. Love hearts. Unconscious love.

  Chantelle’s presence at the door brought her back from her thoughts. Right; time for work. Nat had already dictated her notes from yesterday’s police station sojourn, but the new Neds, ahem clients, would need to go onto the SS system, with files to be opened and retainer letters sent out.

  ‘Would you mind getting these notes typed up…?’ she began, rustling in her handbag for the tape. Then she lifted her head. The visitor wasn’t her secretary; it was the answer to her wish.

  Her elation dissolved as quickly as it had appeared. Wes’s expression was grim. Oh God, what the hell? The sound of flushing and Chantelle appeared behind him. She lifted her hands in a ‘Sorry’ but clearly curious gesture.

  Seeming to notice her presence, Wes turned. ‘Cheers, Chantelle,’ he said, closing her bulging eyes and slack mouth from the room.

  He stepped to the desk and put his palms on the top. His dark eyes were intense. ‘It is your business. I’m sorry.’

  Finally breathing, Nat tried to cover the heart mosaic with her hands. She gazed at his tense features, wishing he wasn’t so damned attractive when she wanted to milk the apology for all it was worth, rather than go belly-up like a puppy. But he continued to speak before she could do or say anything.

  ‘But you have to understand that it is complicated, Nat. Very. Andrea is the mother of my sons. I can’t just pretend she doesn’t exist.’

  Nat folded her arms, any thought of just letting it go evaporating. ‘I know. But there’s a difference between that and positively communicating with her, Wes. Even worse, meeting her. You know how manipulative she is–’

  ‘She’s still their mother–’

  ‘A mother who poisoned one son and tried to lay the blame at the other’s door.’ The heat rose to her cheeks. ‘I can’t believe you’re turning a blind eye–’