Out of the Dark Page 18

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’

  ‘Because he told me so,’ Trish said coldly. ‘There may be no evidence, but I have no reason not to believe him.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I can assure you that he would not have taken my interest as a spur to go and beat the poor woman to death.’

  ‘Beat her to death? Who says … ?’

  ‘It was a figure of speech,’ Trish said, sighing. ‘Because I know that’s how Ron Handsome killed his victim six years ago. Surely his family must be your likeliest candidates for Jeannie’s murder.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Trish could feel her eyebrows pulling together, setting up the usual headache as she thought of the few streets that divided her own expensive building from the murderous estate.

  ‘What’s the matter? You’re shivering.’

  Bleakly she repeated what she’d already told him about the man who’d tried to get past Maria and the one who might or might not have been intending to molest her on her way back from the Shelleys’. Lakeshaw didn’t seem very interested but he politely made a note and said he’d look into it.

  ‘Right. Well, I think that’s all we need from you now.’

  Trish blinked at the dismissal. ‘Are you intending to interview my father?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’d like to be present when you talk to him.’

  ‘Why?’ Lakeshaw said.

  ‘Because he’s had a heart attack and a recent bypass. I don’t want him worried.’

  ‘Or risk giving himself away? It’s that, isn’t it? You lawyers are all the same.’

  Turning away from his contempt, Trish realised that she’d broken her promise to David. She and Lakeshaw were nearly parallel with the staircase now, yards from the glass panel in the doorway. She moved back at once and waved at David through the glass. He’d been watching for her, obviously fretting, but he waved back.

  ‘I want to be there as my father’s daughter, not as his brief,’ she said, turning to face Lakeshaw again. ‘Any woman would.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’m going to Kensington now. I can give you a lift.’

  Thinking that it was lucky Antony was now doing the bulk of the work on Nick Gurles’s case, Trish went back to David’s bedside to explain, stroking his head as she tried to comfort him. She left with the memory of his head filling her hollowed hand.

  Chapter 13

  ‘Trish, will you get the fuck out of here?’ Paddy spat out the words, but she didn’t mind that nearly as much as the hatred in his eyes. His chin was shaking and his lips were so harshly compressed that they made a thin line across his face.

  Her throat tightened. She had to make a huge effort to speak at all and when she forced her voice it sounded as harsh as his.

  ‘This is DCI Lakeshaw. He needs—’

  ‘I know who he is. Will you get out of here? Now!’ Paddy’s face was the colour of borscht as the blood pounded in his veins. A muscle was beating under his left eye. Trish felt her knees weaken as the implications of his fury hit her. She gripped her hands behind her back and tried to fight off the ideas she couldn’t bear.

  ‘How do you know him?’ she asked.

  ‘None of your business. Now go.’

  ‘I only want to give you the kind of legal protection any—’

  ‘Bollocks! You’ve been sniffing around since last week, asking questions about Jeannie. And now you’ve joined this bunch of manipulative jokers who’ve been making my life hell. I won’t have it, Trish. Get out.’

  The injustice of it hit her like a heavyweight’s fist. ‘But, I—’

  ‘So, may I take it, Mr Maguire,’ Lakeshaw interrupted, sounding almost oily in his satisfaction, ‘that you waive your right to legal representation?’

  ‘You may take it that I have absolutely no intention of answering any questions about my past girlfriends with my daughter present. If I want legal help, I’ll call my solicitor.’

  ‘Ms Maguire, you have your answer.’ Lakeshaw was holding open the front door of Paddy’s flat, with the uniformed WPC who’d driven them from the hospital beside him as back-up. Trish hesitated.

  ‘I’m an adult of sound mind,’ her father said, sounding marginally calmer. ‘I do not have to answer to you. Do as you’re told for once in your life.’

  ‘Dad, Jeannie Nest is dead,’ Trish said, making herself look at him. His eyes bulged. ‘If this man charges you or cautions you, will you promise to phone your solicitor before you say anything whatsoever? You don’t have to have me, but you must have someone with you. It’s very important.’

  ‘I know she’s dead. Now get out.’

  Trish went. Not until she’d reached the tube station and bought her ticket did she realise she must have left him thinking she was convinced he was a killer. There was no evidence for that; only Lakeshaw’s suspicions. Trish wouldn’t believe them – couldn’t – without hard and irrefutable evidence. Paddy had to know that now or they’d never have a chance to rebuild even the relationship they had had, let alone a better one. She stuffed the ticket in her pocket and trudged back to his flat.

  The achingly slow lift took far too long. She ran up the eight flights of stairs, so that she was sweating and breathless as she put her finger on the bell.

  The WPC opened the door. Seeing Trish, she shook her head.

  ‘I have to see him for one minute. Your boss can be there all the time. Come on. You know you’ve no right to stop me.’

  The WPC stood aside at once. Trish walked past her to the living room, where Paddy was sitting with his head in his hands, staring at the floor between his knees. Lakeshaw looked almost happy.

  ‘Dad?’

  He raised his head. His eyes looked dead, exactly like those of a man she’d once prosecuted for the vicious and calculated murder of his wife.

  That doesn’t mean anything, she told herself.

  ‘What now?’ He sounded as though he couldn’t bear her. She stiffened herself.

  ‘I just came back to say I know you didn’t do it. I didn’t say so before, and it’s important that you know I’m absolutely certain of your innocence.’

  She thought she heard a half-stifled snort from DCI Lakeshaw, but she wasn’t going to look away from her father to check on anyone else. He glared at her for a moment more, then twisted his lips into a small, chilly smile that did nothing to reassure her. His eyes did not change.

  ‘Thank you. That should make it possible to drink with you again.’

  ‘Mr Maguire, we haven’t finished yet,’ Lakeshaw said.

  ‘May I stay, Dad?’ Trish asked, needing to see the warmth in his eyes again. ‘Not because I think you’re in any danger of incriminating yourself, but just in case I can help. Please? And then we could have that drink.’

  ‘No.’ The monosyllable sounded less hostile, but still not very friendly. ‘I don’t want you involved in this nonsense. But it won’t be long now. Why don’t you wait in the kitchen while I finish with Lakeshaw?’

  ‘All right.’ She shut the door carefully behind her and crossed the narrow hall to his small grey-and-white kitchen.

  It was pristine, apart from a mug that had obviously held coffee standing upright on the draining board. She washed it up, dried it as though his innocence depended on her leaving no moisture at all, then opened all the cupboards until she found the one that held the rest of the set. The only sign of any kind of untidiness was an old-fashioned spike on top of the fridge, where she knew he kept his credit card receipts until he’d checked them off against the monthly statement. It had always amused her that a man like Paddy should be so meticulous. Now she realised it could come in useful.

  A moment later, she walked into the living room with three receipts from an Indian takeaway restaurant in her hand.

  ‘When was Jeannie Nest killed?’ she asked Lakeshaw, ignoring her father.

  ‘The time of death has not been precisely established. As you should know, it’s not an exact science.’
<
br />   ‘But it was one night last week, wasn’t it? On Monday, my father was dining with me and one other person in an Italian restaurant. On Tuesday, he had a delivery from the local Indian restaurant, and on Wednesday …’

  ‘Ms Maguire, this is another charming display of daughterly loyalty, but these receipts merely establish your father’s whereabouts in the early part of each of those evenings. They are not relevant. And we know about them in any case. We’re finished now, for the moment. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Maguire.’

  Something in his expression made Trish turn to glance at her father. She was surprised to see gratitude in the way he was looking up at the tall police officer. When Lakeshaw had gone, she said, ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That sycophantic little smile I wasn’t supposed to see.’

  ‘Sycophantic? Are you not getting a little over-imaginative now, Trish?’ The Irish jocularity sounded even more ludicrous than usual.

  ‘No.’ And even if I were afraid my suspicions were imaginary, she added to herself, your accent would have alerted me. What the hell is going on here? ‘Why does Lakeshaw think you’re involved? You told me you hadn’t seen Jeannie Nest since you quarrelled over her refusal to leave Southwark. Wasn’t that true?’

  ‘Stop this, Trish.’ There was no hint of a brogue now. ‘I’ve had it up to here with the police and I’m damned if I’ll put up with an interrogation from my own daughter.’

  ‘Just tell me that one thing, then I’ll leave you in peace. You must know that I’ll find out from the police if you’ve told them. Have you ever seen her since?’ As he glared at her, Trish felt like a skewer that had been lying on the hob until it was red hot. Dangerous, yet unnaturally pliable. ‘You have seen her, haven’t you? When was it?’

  ‘It probably wasn’t her at all, Trish,’ he said, with a kind of spurious ease that made her feel as though she were back on the edge of the slipping cliff. ‘The hair colour and spectacles were quite different, but when I heard her speak, I had a feeling it was Jeannie.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Oh, about two months ago at that conference when I was speaking about the effects of stress in the workplace. I was mingling with the delegates, like you have to while they have coffee midway through the morning, when I heard her voice. I looked round and didn’t recognise her until I saw the way she tossed her head when she got into an argument with someone. Then I knew … short dark hair and big specs or not, it was Jeannie.’

  ‘Did she see you?’

  His eyes flashed, just as she knew hers did when she was particularly angry. She could hardly bear it. He’d tried to hide his connection with Jeannie Nest from the beginning. Now here he was being shifty about their most recent encounter.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Someone came up to talk to me, and when I looked for her later, she wasn’t there. When I asked to see the list of delegates, her name wasn’t on it.’

  Oh God! Trish thought. He has been trying to find her. Is this all that Lakeshaw has, or is there more?

  ‘Of course not,’ she said aloud, watching him carefully. ‘She went into the witness-protection scheme after the Handsome case. You must have known that would involve a new name.’

  ‘Why would I? It’s the sort of thing you’d know. But it’s not my world.’

  Trish just looked at him. His eyes were as hard as Lakeshaw’s and they didn’t shift.

  ‘But you must have known about the trial, and the evidence she gave. You’d known her well; you must at least have been curious enough to follow the reports.’

  ‘Of course I did. I read every word in the paper, and I thought it was typical of her. Brave and right and so pigheaded you could turn her into sausages as soon as look at her.’

  Trish stared at him, appalled to think he could be so flippant about a woman who’d just been beaten to death, a woman he’d once loved.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said, his voice ripping through the air between them. ‘We were history by then. What she did then was nothing to do with me. And this is nothing to do with me either.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Trish, I tell you, I won’t have it. I’m sorry the woman’s dead, of course I am. But that’s as far as it goes. Now I need a drink. Will you have some whiskey with me or am I still under suspicion?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ It had been a very long day, and she didn’t like Irish whiskey, but she couldn’t leave him like this. ‘Of course I’ll drink with you. But have you got any crisps or anything to have with it? I’m starving. I haven’t had anything to eat since a bowl of yoghurt and muesli for breakfast.’

  ‘Olives, that’s all. They’re in a jar in the fridge. Bring the glasses when you come back, will you?’

  She went to fetch them, feeling as though she had lead weights dragging at her ankles. It couldn’t have been as much as four hours since Caro and Lakeshaw had come to the flat, but it seemed like four days. She ached for George and for sleep and for certainty.

  Next morning all her joints were stiff, as though she’d run the marathon instead of merely battling with her ideas about her father. The hot shower helped loosen her muscles, and so did the familiar walk across the river to the Temple. Antony hadn’t arrived in chambers by the time she got there. She tried to phone Caro for news, but she wasn’t answering. Trish left a message for her and dialled the number of Lakeshaw’s incident room. She had to leave a message there, too.

  ‘Trish, how are you this morning?’

  She put down the phone and looked at Robert Anstey. He seemed revoltingly cheerful.

  ‘I gather you’ve already run into storms with Antony. Quicker even than I expected. How are you bearing up?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘He’s been great. Isn’t his house fantastic? I’d never been to dinner there before Monday.’

  Robert scowled and turned away. It was a small victory and it did nothing to ease Trish’s mood. She wished Antony would hurry up and come into chambers and tell her what he wanted her to do about Nick Gurles. She wondered who had told Robert that there was a problem on the case and hoped it hadn’t been Antony himself.

  ‘So, Trish,’ he said as he walked into her room at last. It was just after half-past twelve. ‘I gather you did your usual effective job in Maidstone.’

  ‘Thank you. And thank you very much for dinner on Monday. I had a great time.’ It amazed her to remember it was only about thirty-six hours since she’d left his house.

  ‘Good. But now we need to talk seriously about Nick Gurles. I thought we might do it over lunch. Are you ready?’

  ‘Well, yes. OK. I mean, fine. I’ll just get my bag.’

  ‘You won’t need it,’ he said.

  He walked exceedingly fast as they left Plough Court and headed towards Smithfield. Trish had to hurry to keep up, in spite of her long legs, but he wasn’t even breathless as he said casually, ‘What did you make of Henry Buxford?’

  ‘I liked him,’ she said truthfully, forcing her mind to ignore Paddy and the dead woman and her son. This was her own life and she had to concentrate on it. ‘And I could see both why he’d done so well at the Bar and why he’d detested being a judge.’

  Antony laughed. ‘We all warned him at the time, but he thought it was his duty. He’d made more than anyone sane could spend in a lifetime and was bullied into believing he had a duty to do it. What a waste! Here we are.’

  She knew there was a negotiation to come, but was not sure of the form it would take. She wished she were in better mental shape for it. When the waiter had brought menus and left them alone again, she thought of asking what he planned to discuss, then decided that would only underline her junior status. Instead, she read the menu carefully and chose a green-bean salad followed by calves’ liver.

  ‘You still look like hell, Trish. Haven’t you stopped tearing yourself apart over Nick’s note yet?’

  ‘Of course I have, although I’m not comfortable
with the thought that you’re not going to disclose it. If it’s nothing to worry about, then there’s no reason not to let the rest of them have it.’

  She tasted the wine the waiter had just poured into her glass, which meant she didn’t have to catch Antony’s eye. The scent was intriguingly grassy, nothing like as rich or subtle as the Burgundy he’d given his guests on Monday, but pleasant.

  ‘Trish?’ The malicious edge had softened, and his voice sounded real and kind. She looked up in surprise and saw something like compassion in his gentle eyes. Then they sharpened enough to alert her to what he was doing.

  ‘No wonder you’re so good in court,’ she said, laughing to protect herself. The pale-blue eyes sharpened like needles as his face settled back into its familiar sardonic lines.

  ‘Now we’ve got that out of the way,’ he said, reassuringly caustic once more, ‘let’s have it. What’s the real problem? If it’s not the police interest in your old cases, and it’s not the document, what’s up?’

  ‘I …’ Would it be worse to explain that she was afraid her father was about to be arrested for murder or to admit to the miscarriage and what Antony would undoubtedly see as the irresponsibility of getting pregnant just before a big case? He had some very entrenched views about women who assumed a right to more privileges than their male colleagues simply because they were the ones who gave birth.

  ‘When I left for Tuscany, you were tough, witty, in control, and apparently serene. Now you’re all over the place. Jumpy as hell. Your eyes are twice their normal size, you’re as pale as a piece of celery, and you look nearly as awful as you did when you had to take that sabbatical in ninety-six. You’re not going to crack up on me, are you, Trish?’

  ‘I had a miscarriage,’ she said lightly, banishing as many memories as she could. ‘They tend to leave one looking washed-out and a bit quivery. It’s been nearly two weeks now though, so I should be over the worst. But it was unexpectedly flattening.’

  ‘Ah.’ His face cleared. ‘That explains it. Although my doubts about your judgment obviously weren’t so far off-beam. What on earth were you thinking of? And why on earth didn’t you tell me on Monday?’