A Place of Safety Page 6

Tamara’s wails were still ringing in Trish’s ears as she rushed from her cab to Blackfriars Prep at twenty to five. She tried to distract herself as she rang the bell at the top of the ostentatious flight of stone steps by thinking how lucky the pupils were that their school wasn’t part of the state system. If it had been, such a potentially profitable piece of real estate with a river view would have been turned into loft apartments by now, with the children sent to classes in a leaky prefabricated building on the edge of a car park somewhere infinitely cheaper.

  ‘Ms Maguire,’ said Mrs More a few minutes later, holding out a well manicured hand, ‘thank you for coming. Do sit down. David will be released in a few minutes.’

  ‘How is the boy who was hurt?’ Trish asked.

  ‘Shocked, of course, and in some pain. His mother has taken him home. But you will be glad to hear that the doctor in casualty said there would be no scarring on the eyebrow. All the tests have confirmed that his sight has not been damaged.’

  ‘And David?’

  ‘Stoical, of course. He’s a brave child and, usually, a pleasure to teach.’

  Trish felt her face relax a little. Breathing became easier, too.

  ‘But rules are rules and discipline is important, so I had to keep him in today. Now, do please sit down.’

  ‘Thank you. You know, I just don’t understand this. Fighting is so unlike him.’

  Mrs More rubbed her hands against each other. There was a rustling sound, as though the skin of her palms was as dry as tissue paper.

  ‘That is why I am so concerned. Given his history, he must have a great deal of repressed aggression, which might be why he was so violent when he let go.’

  ‘I suppose that’s possible. But couldn’t it just have been an accident?’

  ‘I can understand why you would like to believe that. We haven’t been able to persuade David to say anything, and so I should like you to try. Will you tell me if you get anywhere? It is important for us to know exactly what happened.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Trish said, ‘but he’s always reluctant to tell me anything.’

  ‘Which brings me to the other reason why I wanted to see you. Have you considered getting some counselling for him? I think you should.’

  ‘I did consider it, yes,’ Trish said. ‘But his social worker thought he was too young to benefit and that it could simply add to his difficulties. I’m holding it in reserve. And I do not believe this episode is significant enough to justify it.’

  ‘Ah, I see. I was going to recommend a very good woman we use in serious cases like this. Let me know if you change your mind.’ A bell rang. ‘That’s the end of detention. You’ll find him in the courtyard in about two minutes. Good luck.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Trish was relieved to have got away so lightly, but she didn’t look forward to the cross-examination she was supposed to carry out now.

  Seeing how forlorn David looked, and limp, with his bright blue-and-yellow rucksack dangling from his hand and bumping into a muddy puddle, she knew she wouldn’t force him to talk if he didn’t want to. She couldn’t imagine him in a fight with anyone.

  ‘I’ve always thought that child was spooky,’ said a voice behind her. ‘Now I know why. The attack on Stephen was vicious. I’m not surprised she looks so scared.’

  Trish knew she’d been supposed to hear the comment. But it didn’t make the accusation true, any more than the suggestion in the wine bar that Henry Buxford was a psychopath had been true.

  She smiled at David and saw his lips quiver as he smiled back at her. All she wanted to do was hug him, but she fought to keep her hands to herself. Very early in their dealings, she had consulted George about what a 9-year-old boy could and could not accept in the way of public shows of affection, and she tried conscientiously to remember everything he’d said.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked calmly, as she took the boy’s rucksack and walked out of the courtyard beside him. ‘Those bruises must have hurt. How did it happen?’

  David shrugged, his face turned towards the bridge and the blue plastic hoardings that hid this particular bit of Trish’s favourite view of St Paul’s and the river. They seemed to have been up there for ever.

  ‘David?’

  ‘I’m OK.’ They walked in silence for nearly twenty yards before he added, in a voice scratchy with effort: ‘Have you heard what the divers were looking for this morning?’

  ‘No,’ Trish said, as determined to keep him talking about the fight as he was to get her off the subject.

  After a while, getting nowhere, she had to give up and tried to think of something easier for him to answer. ‘You had a rehearsal for the Christmas play today, didn’t you? How did it go?’

  ‘It was OK. Mer was stupid, of course. But he always is.’

  ‘Mer?’ This had to be Toby Fullwell’s son. There couldn’t be two people with such a peculiar name.

  ‘He’s got the part of the tramp.’ His voice was as polite and gentle as ever, but Trish was aware of an unusual antagonism.

  ‘Don’t you like him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘Only because someone at work knows his dad, so I was thinking of asking him to tea. But if you don’t like him, I won’t.’

  David kicked the raised edge of an uneven paving stone, scuffing the carefully polished leather of his black uniform lace-ups. ‘Good. Because he’s stupid.’

  ‘So you said, but he can’t be that stupid if he’s in your class.’ Trish was glad she’d already told Buxford she wouldn’t try to get to Toby this way. ‘It’s the top set.’

  ‘He can’t keep up. I heard Mr Phillips say he’ll have to be put down if he doesn’t shape up. And everyone hates him. He’s always trying to make the cast go to tea with him after rehearsals. He says his dad’s got a secret basement full of treasure, but no one wants to go. He eats rust, too.’

  ‘What?’

  David looked up at her, his black eyes earnest, as though he had to prove that he wasn’t about to be stupid himself. ‘You know the netting round the playground?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, some of it’s rusty. Mer picks off the rust with his handkerchief, then he gets the bits out and eats them. I’ve seen him do it.’

  ‘Hasn’t he got any friends?’

  ‘I told you.’ He sounded as nearly cross as she’d ever heard him. ‘No one wants to go to his house.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  He didn’t answer. His mouth was turned down at the corners and his eyes were sullen. He kicked the pavement again. Trish remembered the light in his smile this morning, and his bouncy conversation about war.

  ‘Will Nicky be in when we get home?’ he asked.

  ‘She should be. She said she was going to make flapjacks for tea.’ They’d reached the iron staircase that led up to Trish’s front door now.

  ‘I’ve got my key.’ David ran up the stairs to unlock the door, then waited for Trish to precede him. ‘Thank you for fetching me today.’

  ‘I was glad to have the chance. It’s always fun to walk back with you. Aha, I can smell the flapjacks. Hello, Nicky.’

  Trish walked on into the narrow galley kitchen, which was really too small these days. Maybe she and George would soon have to take the plunge and buy something bigger together. No one was sure when the next property crash would come in London, but if interest rates went up, there might soon be a buying opportunity.

  But would George want to live with her after all these years of refusing to give up her own space? Would he be able to put up with David all the time? And what would she do if he found he couldn’t? There was no way she could pass the child on to anyone else. He had had more than enough to bear without a rejection like that. But what about her? What would it be like to try to live without George now? Looking back to the days before she’d known him, she could see that she’d inhabited a kind of tundra, semi-frozen and bleak as hell.


  ‘Those look just as good as they smell,’ she said, telling herself not to worry about things that hadn’t happened and probably never would.

  ‘D’you want one?’ Nicky said, looking pleased.

  ‘Better not.’ Trish smiled. ‘I’ve got a client dinner with George tonight and I’ll never be able to eat enough to be polite if I’ve filled up on tea first. I’ve got some work I ought to do now. Will you two be OK?’

  ‘Of course,’ David said, much happier now that he was in Nicky’s consoling company.

  Trish left them to it. Sitting at her desk, she phoned chambers to tell Steve about Tamara O’Connor’s bail application.

  ‘Fine. I’ll let Sam Makins know,’ he said. ‘While you’re on the phone another two likely briefs have come in. We can discuss them in the morning. I can’t see that you’d need a leader for either of them, but you’ll want to check that for yourself.’

  Trish lay back in her chair and smiled at the ceiling. She told herself she hadn’t really been worried that she’d never get any more commercial work. But it was good to know new briefs were coming in so fast, even though there was nothing nearly as big as the case that had just settled.

  Toby couldn’t think why it was so hard to draft a simple letter to a teacher who thought he should admit her pupils for nothing just because her school had no budget for expeditions to art galleries. How did she think his would survive if everyone tried that on?

  He heard the phone in the outer office ring, once, twice. Jo picked it up. This morning’s talking-to had obviously worked. He waited, listening.

  ‘Yes, he is here,’ she said. ‘I’ll put you through.’

  The extension on his desk rang. As soon as he picked up the receiver, Toby heard Jo’s voice, sharp with sarcasm, telling him that he had a call. She knew he would have heard everything she’d already said. The partition wall was very thin.

  He thanked her and waited until he’d heard the click of her phone, before saying quietly: ‘Toby Fullwell.’

  ‘Hi, Toby; this is Ben.’

  Toby’s guts tightened into a sharp tangled mass, like a steel pan-scourer. He couldn’t speak.

  ‘We need to talk,’ Ben went on. ‘Your secretary will be leaving any minute now, unless she’s changed the habit of a lifetime. As soon as she’s gone, I want you to come and meet me at the corner of Bread Street and Cheapside. OK? I’ll be waiting there in fifteen minutes’ time.’

  There was no chance to say anything before Ben cut the connection. Toby tried to breathe, stretching upwards to rid his stomach of the scourer. Every movement set up a new pain somewhere else in his body. He listened to Jo packing up and going downstairs.

  Once, she would have called out a perky ‘good night’, but these days she was too sulky for that. He heard the front door bang, then rang Margaret on the internal phone to say he had to go out for half an hour or so but would be back well before half past six. She didn’t sound surprised, or even very interested.

  Outside the front door, he looked both ways, like a child fresh from his first lessons in road-crossing. No one was paying any attention, still less spying on him. Huddling himself into his coat, which had been far too expensive even in the sales but at least made him look like the director of an important art gallery, he walked to the rendezvous.

  The streets were so full of people struggling to get home from work that he understood why Ben had waited until now to summon him. No one would notice them or bother to eavesdrop in all these crowds.

  ‘You’re late,’ Ben said when Toby reached the corner. ‘Let’s walk.’

  They set off in the direction of Moorgate, heads down against the cold like everyone else.

  ‘OK, Tobe. There’s a Hieronymus Bosch in next week’s old master sale at Goode & Floore’s. We want you to buy it. It’s lot number 50, the only Bosch in the catalogue, so there can’t be any confusion.’

  Toby had already been sent the catalogue and had noticed the Bosch. They didn’t come up very often. But he hadn’t paid much attention because it was only a dull religious panel, not one of the complex allegories.

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’ Ben demanded.

  ‘I heard. But I can’t do it.’ Toby couldn’t believe what he’d just said. He’d had no intention of rebelling when he’d left the house. Muscles in his legs twitched and he put down a hand to hold over the worst one in his thigh. Where on earth had his subconscious found this terrifying courage?

  ‘Either I’m not hearing you properly,’ Ben said quite calmly. ‘Or you’ve forgotten who you’re talking to.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I should have told you to publish and be damned in the first place. But I’m doing it now. You can tell my board of trustees and every bloody newspaper in the country the truth about the Clouet drawings, if you want. I don’t care. But I am not going to buy or sell any more of your fakes. OK?’

  Ben laughed. Toby had his freezing hands behind his back now. They were already painful, but he dug the nails of the right hand into the palm of the left to keep his courage up. He felt Ben’s hand tucking itself cosily into the crook of his elbow. His resolution slipped, along with his grip on his own hands, and he asked himself what he thought he was doing.

  ‘My boss keeps wanting me to give you one of his demonstrations,’ Ben said in the easy voice an old friend might use about his plans for a children’s party, ‘but up till now I’ve managed to persuade him that you’ll do what he wants without anything like that. You will, won’t you, Tobe?’

  ‘No. I know I’ll lose my reputation, my job, my home, and most of my friends, but so be it. Anything would be better than helping you flood the market with fakes.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Ben said. ‘Not that it matters now. You see, the stakes have risen a bit. I didn’t want to have to tell you, but I see I’ve got to. It’s not just your reputation you’re risking. Not any more. My boss hasn’t decided yet which one of your boys he’ll go for, but it’s usually the youngest. He’s found that’s the quickest way to make any parent do what he wants. Could you bear to watch your young Meredith screaming as first his arms are broken, and then his legs, and then God knows what else is done to him?’

  Ben spoke so casually that it was a moment before Toby understood what he’d heard.

  ‘You bastard.’

  Toby wanted to grab Ben’s neck and throttle him, but there were too many people around, and Ben was bigger and stronger than he was, and he was a hopeless coward anyway.

  ‘Now, now. There’s no need to be offensive,’ Ben said. ‘Do as you’re told and you’ll be safe. So will your sons. Rebel again, and they will be hurt.’

  Where exactly was Peter in all this? Toby asked himself. Did he know what Ben was threatening now? Had he sent him to do it? Could anyone have changed that much, even in eighteen years?

  Ben reached across the narrow space between them to flick his fingers against Toby’s cheek. The patch of skin stung.

  ‘Concentrate,’ he said. ‘And remember that it usually takes only one child killed to make anyone toe the line.’

  ‘Christ! You’re unreal.’

  ‘You wish. Don’t forget, Toby, I’m all that stands between you and my boss. If you screw up, or if you so much as breathe a word of this to the police or anyone else, he’ll pick up one of your boys straight away and take him to pieces in front of you.’

  Toby shut his eyes. He could feel the helpless, humiliating tears seeping out through his lashes. This couldn’t be happening to him. He’d made mistakes, been a fool – worse than a fool when he’d faked the Clouet drawings with Peter – but he hadn’t done anything nearly bad enough to warrant this.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so pathetic.’

  When Toby opened his eyes again Ben had gone. But he’d left behind a kind of miasma. Toby had never felt anything like it. He wanted to rush home and scrub his whole body under the shower to get rid of every trace of it before it could contaminate him.

  Chapter 6

  When Trish reached th
e Carfields’ huge penthouse flat at ten past eight, she found that she was the first of the guests to arrive. She handed over her present – a beautiful glazed jar of red Camargue rice, and left her coat on what was obviously the spare bed, an uncomfortable-looking brushed-steel platform covered in pristine pale-grey suede. That didn’t do anything for her, but the amazing living room made her writhe with envy.

  It was nearly twice the size of hers and furnished with the kind of perfect simplicity that must have cost nearly as much as the flat itself. She was glad she was wearing her one plain black designer dress this evening, instead of her usual trousers, and had even put on some mascara.

  Standing at one of the enormous, uncurtained windows beside her host a few minutes later, she looked out at the inky river, and the jewel-like lights strung on garlands along the edge.

  ‘God, London’s gorgeous.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Jeremy Carfield sounded warmly approving. ‘Angelique yearns for Paris. She’s always on at me to move there, but I couldn’t bear to leave all this.’

  ‘It may look pretty,’ his wife said in charmingly accented English, ‘but it is violent beyond belief. The sooner we leave, the better.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense, Angelique. London’s as safe as any European city. Now, Trish, champagne or a margarita?’

  ‘Champagne, please,’ Trish said. She loved margaritas and might have found it difficult to pace herself safely if she’d started on them. Champagne didn’t do nearly as much for her and she could usually make a single glass last all evening.

  She hoped George would arrive soon. It wasn’t that she needed his support or would let herself talk to him for more than about two seconds at someone else’s dinner, but these were his clients and she knew nothing about them. It would be all too easy to pick a tactless subject if she had no guide.

  ‘Of course, London is more violent than Paris,’ Angelique said, with a stubbornness that belied her delicate prettiness and breathy voice. ‘Only this morning they have found a body in the river, just by the bank there. With a bullet in its head.’

  ‘You’re not serious,’ Trish said.