A Greater Evil Read online

  It was hard to believe. But then Caro’s appearance in his studio on such a lame excuse had been pretty hard to believe, and that had definitely happened. So maybe this was down to her too.

  Trish thought of David and how he might react to these articles at a time when he was already dealing with emotional problems no child of his age should have to face. With luck Susie and Phil wouldn’t bother to buy British newspapers, but it was ludicrously over-optimistic to assume David would never know what had been written about his sister.

  She stared down at the loathsome photograph of her scowling face and hated it.

  Chapter Eleven

  The first thing Antony Shelley said to Trish when he phoned later that day was, ‘You must reschedule whatever it was you were supposed to be doing on Twelfth Night and come to my party after all.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said automatically. ‘It’s George’s firm’s annual do. I have to be there for the duration. Ordinarily it wouldn’t matter if I left early, but there’s stuff going on that makes him need support just now.’

  ‘Whose career is more important?’

  Trish hadn’t heard Antony’s voice as steely and precise for a long time. She couldn’t answer.

  ‘Come on. Be honest, Trish. Whatever you feel for him, you’ve got to look after yourself. If your practice is to survive, let alone thrive, you need to be seen to be untouched by all this publicity. Gina Mayford has promised to play, so you get yourself into your best frock and be on my doorstep no later than eight o’clock on the sixth of January. Is that understood?’

  ‘Mrs Mayford?’

  ‘Luckily she’s on your side. I phoned her to ask for help and she was generous enough to agree at once. She’s going to get the Mercury to print a retraction tomorrow, so you don’t need to do anything about that, and she’ll show everyone at the party how much she trusts you. You have more friends than you realize, Trish, and you need to use them all now before any real damage is done.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she feels much like partying with her daughter’s body stuck in the mortuary.’

  ‘Of course not. But she’s coming anyway. So the least you can do is tell George you can’t be his arm candy for once.’

  ‘It’s kind of you – and her – but I’d rather fight my own battles.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. This isn’t only yours. It’s mine and the whole of chambers’ too. What you do affects the rest of us. No excuses, Trish. Be here promptly on the sixth, stay until at least half the other guests have gone, and smile for God’s sake. Gina and I will do the rest.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said with unexpected meekness. ‘It’s very kind of you both.’

  ‘Yes, it is. I’m sticking my neck out for you. I hope you won’t be so damn silly as to get yourself publicly involved with a murder suspect again. And particularly not at this time of year when the editors of the legal directories are scouting around for gossip on all of us for their nasty little paragraphs.’

  He put down the phone, as though he had no interest in anything she might offer to excuse herself. Everything he said made sense. But it wasn’t going to be fun explaining to George that she wanted to renege on her promise to help him face down the sharks in his office.

  Unless she could at least put in an appearance at his party. He hadn’t sent her a formal invitation and she’d never asked what time she was expected to appear. The party would go on half the night, of course; they always did. But if there were any chance that she could look in for an hour or so before fighting for her own future, she’d do it.

  She picked up the phone to speak to George’s secretary. Only when she’d had the assurance that the Henton, Maltravers party was due to start at seven did she ask to be put through to George himself. He listened without interrupting until she’d finished her explanation, then merely said how generous of Antony and Mrs Mayford to be so concerned to help.

  ‘See you tonight,’ he added in a brisk tone that told her he must have clients or colleagues in the room with him.

  ‘Work,’ she said into the empty room, when she’d put down the phone. ‘It’s the only thing.’

  She pushed the pile of papers to one side and switched on the computer, opening the file of notes on the Leviathan case.

  Sam heard the letter-box flap, which released him from the trap of staring at his clay head to try to see what was so wrong with it. He flung the damp cloths back over its ugly proportions and staring eyes and went to see what the postie had brought. There was only one letter. The writing on the envelope made even the thought of more work on the head alluring.

  For a while he couldn’t make himself bend to pick up the letter, then, cursing his own cowardice, he did, ripping the envelope open before thoughts of its author made him freeze again.

  Deere Sam,

  I di’nt know yore wife had been kiled. I’m sory. It must be terable for you. Speshly with the police thingink yore guilty. I hope yo’ur baby wil live.

  No wander you dont’ want to have the DNA. Do’nt worry now. You have to much too put up with. I unnerstand. I can wait.

  With love from yore muther,

  Maria-Teresa Jackson

  PS The preest here sais God cees not what you are nor what you bin but what you want two bee. Remembre, son.

  Sam shouted and punched the wall so hard he broke the skin over his knuckles. There was a heavy stamping from the floor above: Marisa Heering wanted him to know how much she disliked the noise. Well sod her.

  Sucking the blood from one of his knuckles to look at the wound, he saw it wasn’t nearly bad enough. He stuffed the letter into his pocket with his other hand and sucked again.

  How could the woman in prison do this to him? After all those years of longing for a mother, of needing someone to protect him from all the bastards around him, it was vile to be offered the kind of comfort he’d never had and didn’t need. Not any more. He’d grown a skin tough enough to deal with anything, even Chief Inspector Caroline Lyalt.

  For this woman to try to peel back the skin now was vicious. A continuation of the old cruelty. Like Cecilia’s in the days when she’d tried to scrape away at everything he’d fought to build around himself for safety. She’d wanted to make him remember and talk about it, when all he’d needed was to forget.

  He hated the thought of her probing. So why were his eyes damp all over again? He sagged as though someone else had punched him.

  The sensation of more and more blows to come had him shrinking against the wall in a way he hadn’t for years. The knowledge flayed away his rage to lay bare the whimpering boy he’d fought for so long, even harder than he’d fought his enemies. This time the boy was winning. His knees gave way and he cowered in the angle of wall and floor, pulling his knees up under his chin and lowering his head until he could hide his eyes against his knees.

  Trish picked up the phone. She had to know whether Caro had sent the press. The only answer was the automatic voice of her message service.

  ‘It’s Trish. I need to talk about what happened at Christmas. Ring me when you can.’

  She didn’t have long to wait. There’d been time only to reread the original brief given to the Arrow’s architects before her phone chimed out its familiar jingle.

  ‘What did he tell you?’ said Caro, sounding almost gleeful.

  Trish kept the frown at bay with pure will power and tried to be as effective in controlling her voice.

  ‘He didn’t tell me anything. I wanted to ask you how the press knew he’d be with us.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of selling you to the papers, Trish?’

  Was the outrage in Caro’s voice genuine? It was hard to tell. Trish needed more.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m asking. I don’t know how they got on to me, and I don’t know why they wanted to. They distorted what I said, and I don’t understand the agenda behind it. I’m of no interest to them. I thought you might be able to help.’

  ‘Sorry. Nothing to do with me. If that’s all, I’ve got to go.�
�� There was no more outrage in Caro’s voice; only coldness. ‘I thought you were going to pass on some information I could use.’

  ‘I haven’t got any. Caro—’

  ‘Pity. See you.’

  Sam had picked himself up, aware of pains in every joint. He staggered over to the sink to hold his face under the cold tap. He let the water run until it felt icy, making his skin contract and, with luck, removing all the evidence of his snivelling collapse.

  It had been mad to let himself look back to the dead years. Nothing good could come of that – just as he’d said to one of the shrinks years ago – only more anger. The one way to make any kind of decent life, especially now he had the baby, was to go forward. Draw a line and go on. With enough grit, he could do it.

  Water had splashed all over the sink and draining board, as well as down the front of his jersey. He stripped it off and found a spare in the dwindling pile of clothes he kept here. He’d have to get more from Islington soon, even though he hated the prospect of facing Cecilia’s space, the house she’d bought and decorated long before she knew him, where he’d always felt like an interloper.

  Pushing away the thought, he made a mug of strong tea to help force himself to reread Maria-Teresa’s letter.

  Go forward, he thought. Trish is right: there’s no obligation here, even if this woman is who she says she is.

  But memories of longing and isolation told him he had to answer the letter. He couldn’t leave her waiting for an answer she would never get. He grabbed the big sketching pad and tore off a sheet. Trying to think how to say what had to be said, he made a start, then swore and ripped up the paper. Maybe he’d have to do it face to face. He tore off another sheet and quickly wrote to ask if he could visit her. He would go and explain why he wouldn’t take a DNA test. That way, surely he would have done enough and it would be over. There were stamps in a little brass box somewhere on his drawing table. He found it, stuck one on and went to post the letter before he changed his mind. He could go on to the hospital after that.

  Trish felt her steps dragging as she took her favourite walk across the bridge. George should be waiting in her flat, both of them released from family obligations. She’d looked forward to these two weeks for so long it seemed cruel to have had them spoiled before they’d even begun. The views up and down the river didn’t give her the usual lift, so there was no reason to hang about in the cold.

  From the top of the iron staircase that led from the street to her front door, she could smell the familiar scent of onions stewing in olive oil. George must already be home.

  Be cheerful, she ordered herself as she brought a wide smile to her lips and squared her shoulders. The key turned easily in the oiled lock and she pushed open the door, calling his name. He emerged from the kitchen, familiar in the butcher’s apron tied around his waist. Such was the transformation of his figure that the tapes now went twice round and could be tied in the front, like a professional chef’s.

  He held out an arm without speaking. She leaned against him and felt the arm come round her shoulders. His lips brushed her hair.

  ‘We’ll get through it,’ he said. ‘And Antony’s right. You need to show yourself as untouchable in the right circles.’

  She pulled back to look into his face. He was only a few inches taller so she didn’t have to lean far back. There was no tooth-gritting determination in his expression or suppressed rage. He really meant it. They had become a unit, facing the world and each other’s enemies together. Recognizing the security made for a strange sensation. Trish was trying to find words to say why it meant so much when his arm was hastily withdrawn.

  ‘Shit,’ he said with uncharacteristic fervour. ‘The sodding onions!’

  Now she could smell it too, the bitterness of burned sugar. She followed him into the kitchen to see her most cherished pan, one he himself had given her, with a thick charcoal coating. He wrapped a cloth around his hand and picked up the pan to hold it under the running cold tap.

  ‘That makes it smell even worse,’ she said. ‘Shall we eat out?’

  ‘I think we’d better. What would you like?’

  She ran through the mental list of their favourite restaurants and didn’t find any one that seemed right for tonight. Besides, there might be other people there, people who would recognize her and George and might have read the papers.

  ‘Or shall we make toasted sandwiches like David’s and eat them in bed?’ she said at last.

  He took her face between his oniony hands and kissed her. ‘Sounds perfect to me. Except for the bed bit.’

  She stiffened.

  ‘Let’s keep that crumb-free,’ he said, stroking her cheek with one finger. ‘I’ll do the sandwiches while you open the bottle and tell me about your day.’

  With the conflict of interest over the Leviathan case, she could not talk about her work, only about Sam and the journalists’ malicious interpretation of her interest in him.

  ‘Am I so neurotic?’ she asked.

  George put back his head and produced the biggest gale of laughter she’d heard for a long time.

  ‘Of course you are, my only love. But you know that.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Come on, Trish: don’t sound so tragic. We’re all bonkers in one way or another. You know that too. It’s just that some people’s oddities are nearer the surface than others’. For what it’s worth, I don’t think any of the suggestions in the shrink’s piece apply to you.’

  ‘You read it.’ She didn’t know whether she was more relieved or revolted.

  ‘I read it. As you know, I loathe the Mercury, but once I knew our mini-ratpack had it in for you I wanted to know everything they were saying. I tried to think of a way you could sue, but there isn’t one. It was a neatly judged operation.’

  He poured some claret into a large glass and handed it to her.

  ‘I thought so too. D’you suppose that’s the last of it, or should I get an injunction to stop them printing anything more specific about David?’

  ‘I doubt if they’d risk it, and taking any legal action, even just getting an injunction, would intrigue them and could make them look more closely at us. Have you talked to him today?’

  ‘I phoned just before I left chambers. He sounded fine, much better than when he went off this morning. He didn’t mention anything about the papers to me.’

  ‘Nor to me, which suggests he hasn’t seen anything. Let’s wait and see. Better than wading in with things we may regret. Now, am I going to be allowed to come to Antony’s Twelfth Night party with you?’

  ‘Could you? I mean, don’t you have to stay at your own?’

  ‘Don’t see why. I’m not senior partner any more. So long as I’m seen to be there it ought to be enough.’

  He’d started slicing bread and cheese so she couldn’t see his face, but he sounded as though he meant it. She moved sideways until they were in contact again. He shot a quick glance in her direction. ‘What?’

  ‘I just wondered where you’d got to in your fight with Malcolm Jensen. I know I shouldn’t ask, but I need to know. I’d like …’ What she wanted was to do for him what he’d just done for her.

  Putting down the bread knife, he held her for a second. ‘I followed counsel’s advice by telling the bastards I was going to fight,’ he said, making her smile, ‘but that wanker Jensen has been fighting back. There’s to be a final decision at the partners’ meeting on January the eleventh. Then we’ll know.’

  ‘Only five days after the party,’ Trish said. ‘I’m really sorry this mess in the Mercury has come out just when you need me to look faultless and incorruptible.’

  He finished laying the last slice of cheese on the bottom slices of bread, added the top ones and slid the sandwiches into the toaster.

  ‘I’m sure there’s a comforting comment I could make, but let’s not bother. We both know what we’re facing. No point saying any more about it until after the partners’ meeting. Let’s take our comfort from un
healthy food and concentrate on getting through this with the least possible fallout for both of us.’

  ‘You have got guts,’ she said, fighting her own urge to produce the kind of verbal solace that wouldn’t change anything.

  Later, when they were eating the last drips of molten cheese and making New Year’s resolutions to avoid anything so delicious and artery-clogging for the next twelve months, he said: ‘What was Cecilia Mayford like? I know you had a lot of time for her, but I can’t picture her married to Sam Foundling now I’ve seen him at close quarters. What made the relationship work?’

  ‘If it did,’ Trish said, sobering. ‘I keep trying to picture it myself. I mean, I like him …’

  ‘So do I. An interesting chap in lots of ways, but spiky I’d have thought, and not just because of what he’s had to handle these last few weeks. Difficult to deal with. Rough trade, too, for the likes of Cecilia Mayford.’

  Trish opened her mouth to answer, then saw the psychiatrist’s column once more and kept quiet.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was about to pontificate about the way people who grow up feeling unwanted latch on to lame ducks to give themselves a reason to exist – which is about as impertinent as this morning’s piece of press garbage.’

  ‘Perhaps. But it could be true. D’you know anything about Sam’s predecessors in her life?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Trish said. ‘But there’s a suggestion she was having to fight off a senior colleague she may or may not have had an affair with before she married. Although,’ Trish said, thinking of the few times she’d met Dennis Flack, ‘I can’t say he comes over as a lame duck.’

  ‘Her mother might know more.’

  ‘She might, but I doubt if she’d pass it on to me. She did tell me she’d been appalled that Cecilia chose Sam, but that’s as far as it went. And I can’t exactly ask her—’ She broke off, remembering the scared face of the assistant Dennis Flack had brought to the consultation in chambers. Maybe she would be able to fill in a few of the gaps.