Lover in Law (8 page)

“I see carrots,” I said.

“Say what you see.”

“A health farm. You’re going to take me to a health farm.”

“Say what you see.”

I started to tire of the game.

“You can tell me to say what I see however many times you like Adam, but I still see bloody CARROTS so I don’t know. Come on, tell me, what is it?” I begged.

“Come on Ali, you’re an intelligent woman. Think laterally. Say what you see,” he repeated, clearly having fun.

I cogitated, chewed and considered a good long while, looking at his face for clues, but got nothing but a big smile and a refusal to be any more forthcoming. What did I see? I saw carrots. How many carrots did I see? I saw two carrots. As soon as I added the ‘two’ I got it. It wasn’t carrots. It was CARATS! A play on words. Carats are how they measure diamonds. Adam, I reasoned, was about to propose.

“Adam,” I said, “are you sure?”

He smiled. “You’ve got it then?”

I beamed like a Cheshire cat, girlishly excited, practically jumping out of my seat.

“Yes, I’ve got it. So do you have it?”

“I certainly do.”

His hand disappeared down the side of his chair, over which he’d hung his jacket. He felt around a bit, then pulled out a little blue, velvet box. I expected him to open it up in front of me, take my hands in his or get down on one knee or something, but he didn’t. He handed me the box.

“Happy birthday, Ali.”

Ok, so it wasn’t a conventional proposal, but it WAS original. I opened the box, expecting to gasp at the size of the solitaire, and so was slightly taken aback to see not one, but two diamonds. Mounted completely separately.

Earrings! Adam had given a pair of not so little diamond studs, which I now show to Neeta, pulling my hair back from my ears. She coos at how beautiful they are and I leave it there. As for me, I’m becoming increasingly annoyed with myself for making a ring, or lack of it, into an issue. I mean, up until Neeta’s proposal, marriage had never really been on my agenda. Whatever, somehow the whole thing’s got under my skin sufficiently for me to say “yes” when the Manager of the legal advice centre in Islington called this morning, acknowledging he knew it was cheeky, but was I by any means free to help out again tonight. Even though Adam had been looking forward to a quiet night in.

“So,” I said, spooning some rice and some chicken onto my plate, tearing off a piece of Nan bread. “Set the date yet?”

At least one of us has a wedding to consider.

“New Year’s Eve, venue still tbc.”

“What a great date,” I enthuse. “No excuse for forgetting your anniversary!”

“Beats April 1
^st
then.”

***

I’m working on my opening speech, when Jon the clerk pops his head round the door, says Maxwell wants to see me, pronto. I get up reluctantly. I’d had a good flow of concentration going. I climb the narrow flight of spiral stairs that leads from my office level to the big wig’s floor and knock at the door that has two gold plates nailed into it. One says ‘Maxwell Hood QC’, the other slides to reveal or mask the word ‘engaged’, depending on what’s going on inside.

“Come in,” he booms.

I turn the brass knob handle and give it a good, creaky push. The man himself is sitting hunched over papers at his desk, fountain pen in hand. He looks up as I enter, puts down his pen and relaxes back into his chair.

“Welcome, Ms Kirk. Can you close the door please, take a seat,” he motions, arm outstretched.

I’m wondering if I should feel uneasy as I select my chair. Normally, when Maxwell wants a quick word, he pops his head round MY door. 

“So, Ms Kirk. Are we winning, that’s what I want to know?”

Oh Christ. Is he questioning my ability to cope?

“Yes, I think so,” I keep my cool. “Everything appears to be in order. I think we’ve a more than good chance of a positive outcome.”

Maxwell takes off his glasses, a bad sign. He always does this when he’s about to launch into challenging territory.

“Ali, there’s been a slight change of circumstances. That’s why I’ve called you here.”

“Right,” I say, keeping a calm exterior whilst panic rises in my chest. Whilst I’d be happy to never set eyes on Scott Richardson again, I don’t want to be taken off the case and that, I fear, is what’s about to happen. 

“The case is no longer your case as you know it.”

I knew it.

“There was a call to chambers whilst you were out at lunch, which I took in your absence. Scott Richardson, you see, is no longer charged with dangerous driving,” he continues.

“You mean the charges have been dropped?”

“No, I mean the charge has been changed.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“The allegation against your client, Ali, is no longer one of dangerous driving. He was called back in for questioning shortly after he left here this morning, because he is now being accused of murder.”

“Sorry?” I splutter. “What do you mean, murder?”

“I’m afraid the chief Prosecution witness, Rupert Simons, died this morning.”

“What do you mean he died? He was discharged from hospital a week ago?”

“Yes and he was admitted again this morning suffering from internal haemorrhaging as a direct result of injuries sustained in the accident.”

“This is crazy. My client didn’t murder Rupert Simons. There was no intention or malice aforethought.”

“Well, the Prosecution say they have a case against him. New evidence has come up.”

I know what’s coming next. I AM going to be removed from this case, but not for the reason I thought. I’ve never done a murder trial before and such a high profile Old Bailey job is an unlikely place for a junior to start. However much Maxwell Hood QC rates me.

“I’m not going to remove you from this case though.”

“You’re not?”

I’m genuinely surprised.

“I’ve just come off the phone to Scott Richardson. Whilst he was sounding a little bit down on his luck, he’s very happy with you, so I think the continuity will be good.”

“But I’ve never done a murder case before. Don’t you think this is way out of my league?”

“I’m sure nothing is out of your league Ms Kirk,” he flatters. “But don’t worry, I’m going to get you some senior help on this one.”

There’s a knock at the door. 

“Come in,” Max bellows.

I automatically turn round. It’s Anthony. Our paths haven’t crossed since I helped out at the centre last time. If I’m honest, a small part of me wishes him there again tonight, although that’s not why I agreed to go. 

“Perfect timing, Mr de Klerk. Thanks for popping by. Please, take a seat.”

He displays no sign of surprise by my presence and sits down on the chair to my right.

“The two of you have met?”

“Yes,” we reply in unison.

“Splendid,” Maxwell continues. “Ali, I’ve gone through the details with Mr de Klerk and he’s happy to play senior counsel, if that’s alright with you?”

“Sure, great, fantastic,” my words stumble out. This will be the court equivalent to a Broadway blockbuster.  

“I trust you two will get your heads together,” Maxwell finishes. “Ali will fill you in Mr de Klerk.”

“I’m sure she will,” says Anthony.

“Thank you, Maxwell,” I say.

“Enough. Off to work, the two of you, time is money. He’s at Bow Street police station. They’ve revoked his bail and from the sounds of it, he’s desperate.”

He waves the back of his hand in our direction and we both get up to leave. We’re halfway out the door, Anthony a protective step behind me, when I get a sense of déjà vu.

“Make sure you keep an eye on our Ali please, Mr de Klerk,” booms Maxwell. “That Scott Richardson, he’s got a terrible reputation for being one with the ladies.”

APRIL

Chapter 9

Scott Richardson had me in a neck-lock, holding a blade to my throat. “Make the most of today because it will be your last,” he whispered menacingly.  Then I woke up, in the midst of sheets clammy with the sweat of fear. From the angle of restraint, his chin had appeared longer, the bulbous tip to his nose more bloated. Prior to the death threat, he’d been spitting and swearing from the confines of his claustrophobic cell, a grim square of concrete, with only a heavy-duty steel door with barred hatch to break the monotony. I was being accused of incompetence, of not being able to procure bail for an innocent man who’d clearly been framed.

Thankfully dreams aren’t always our reality. I’d got Scott bail, but he’d had to spend the night in custody first. He hadn’t been amused. “You expect me to crap in that?” He’d pointed at the skid marks staining the ceramic bowl for a toilet. I’d said I understood his distress, but there was nothing we could do. It would hopefully only be until morning, when he’d be in court first thing. As a man of good character, with no previous convictions, bail was a possibility. “I’m a celebrity. Can’t you get me out of here?” he’d pleaded. 

Bail had been set for 250k, on condition he surrender his passport, report to a police station once a week and not go within a mile of Elizabeth Simons or Cameron Matthews.  The bail hearing was a couple of weeks ago now though. I think what unsettled last night’s sleep was the anonymous letter I received yesterday. Bashed out on an old-fashioned typewriter, it was all of two lines:

“Be aware this isn’t the first time the partner of someone Scott Richardson’s dated has died. See William Nichols, deceased husband of Verity.”

First I’d checked for a frank on the envelope, but it was hand delivered. Then I’d gone online, punching the name William Nichols into Google’s search engine. A small Obituary from
The Times
came up straight away. Mr. Nichols, aged 43, was an extremely wealthy entrepreneurial property magnate who dropped dead at his desk three years ago, from a massive heart attack, leaving behind a wife called Verity. When I switched my search to her, a few gossip column snippets popped up. A while back, Verity Nichols had been one to watch on the Brit Art scene, up for the Turner prize. She had indeed stepped out with Scott Richardson, as a couple of photos indicated. When I’d mentioned my concern at these findings to Anthony, he told me to let it go. Even if it was more than a coincidence, I shouldn’t want to know. My job wasn’t to find out my client WAS guilty, it was to defend him when he said he wasn’t. Scott had never been charged with the death of William Nichols. This could never be used as evidence and I should dismiss this anonymous tip-off as an interfering prank. 

All this I’ve clearly found disturbing, although I’ve never been a reliable sleeper at the best of times. There’s more rubbish in my head than pigswill. I’ve tried to counteract insomnia with a tranquil colour scheme, rich lilac and white. The bed’s an iron-frame monster from Selfridges. It cost an arm and a leg, but when you consider a third of our lives are spent in it, it’s worth every cent. The mattress is impossibly deep, a real princess and the pea affair. 

 This morning, I blamed Adam, not Scott Richardson, for my crap night. I said that he’d kept me awake making funny little popping noises with his mouth and that he’d stolen my air, stubbornly refusing to roll over (I’d shoved many times), leaving his head too close to mine. He refused to take responsibility.

“Why didn’t YOU turn over?” he asked.

“You know I can only sleep on my right side,” I snapped.

I’ve been doing a lot of snapping of late. Storing up a long list of misdeeds to bombard him with. Much of which is legitimate, but all the sort of stuff that didn’t used to get to me. Like forgetting to take tissues out of his pockets before loading clothes into the washing machine. Like not washing up the dishes properly so I only have to go and do them again. Like just shaking out the duvet when he makes the bed, leaving the under-sheet all mussed up. Like trailing mud into the house. I’ve been getting so irritated and irritable that fleeting, niggling doubts have started flashing into my psyche. They’re quickly dismissed, but force me to question our relationship, where it’s going and how I really feel, which is in turn irritating. Adam and I are meant to be. I love him. Anyway, the thing that’s pissed me off, more than anything, was his announcement a couple of days ago. That he’s off filming a whole load of quacks in the States for ten days, the day after tomorrow, for some primetime paranormal series he’s producing. Him being away isn’t what’s upset me. He often goes away for work and that’s just fine. It’s nice, from time to time, to be alone. What’s annoyed me is that he’s going to be away when I’m ovulating. It’s no big deal really. I can see that, logically, it’s just another month. 

***

“So,” says Anthony, in the flickering candlelight, much, much later on. “What’s the most stupid question you’ve asked in court?”

He hadn’t been at the law centre the other evening. He is here now though and I’m not certain I should be. After spending the afternoon spooling through grainy CCTV footage, he said I looked in need of a pick-me-up. I’d argued it was sleep that I needed, only I obviously didn’t argue hard enough. We’re in Blacks, a funky private members club in the heart of Soho. This (and I’m against the whole private members club scene on principle) is the most fantastic, bohemian, moody place, with light from candles and log fires the only illumination. Set on three floors in a beautifully restored Georgian townhouse, it’s like stepping into a Dickens’ novel. Low ceilings, rickety wooden floors, sumptuous old armchairs. The food was great too. We had a delicious three-course gourmet meal for twenty-five quid and we’ve downed a bottle of extremely reasonably priced wine each.