Mistakes We Make (18 page)

There was no-one on Logan Keir’s floor. Everywhere was in darkness. She knocked on his door, just in case, but there was no reply, so she went in, flicking the light on.

He kept his room very tidy. Some of the partners were real squirrels – they liked to hoard everything. Mr Keir had always been one of the tidy ones, but now that he was compliance partner for the business, he obviously took security very seriously, because there wasn’t a scrap of paper to be seen anywhere in his office. No wonder Deirdre was keen to get this filing done.

Caitlyn inserted one of the keys into the lock on the filing cabinet and turned it. Compliance partner – that meant making sure that all the regulations were kept properly. It must be a complicated job, she thought as she picked up the first letter, because there were so many regulations these days. Back in the old days, Deirdre had told her, people just went to a lawyer and he acted for them. Nowadays, you had to take heaven knows what along with you if you were a new client – utility bills, passports, anything that was recognised as official identification with your address on it – to prove you were who you said you were. Something to do with money laundering, apparently.

She smiled to herself. She used to think money laundering was when you forgot to take a fiver out of your jeans before you washed them. Well, she knew better now.

She started to work through the pile systematically.

L for Leishman.

B for Brown. There were quite a few Browns.

E for Edwards.

She rifled through the files, but couldn’t locate a Michael Edwards. She checked again. There was no sign of the file. She scanned the documents she was holding once more. There was a form on the top, and the papers had been fastened together with a paperclip. The heading on the form on the top read, ‘New client introduction’. She’d have to open a new file.

She examined the form again and felt a wave of dizziness.

Not again!

A vein started pulsing at Caitlyn’s temple and her skin felt cold.
Introduced by
 
...

She forced herself to look at the name again.

There was no mistake. She wanted to drop the papers and run, out of Logan Keir’s office, out of the building, to be anywhere but here.

Her head was spinning. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts and she clutched at the first thing that came to hand – the hard ridges inside the filing drawer that was open in front of her. The sharpness of the metal forced her to look down.

This was real.

Think, Caitlyn. Think.

The introduction form needed lots of information. The person’s name, of course. Where they lived and who had introduced them to the firm. And finally, the signature of the partner who was taking them on, and the signature of another partner.

A year ago, one of Logan Keir’s forms had become mixed up with a sheaf of documents sent by a couple of other partners for filing. She hadn’t really been reading them, but a name on the document had leapt out at her, stopping her in her tracks. She’d looked at it again, then at the date.

New client: Agatha Franckzac.

Introduced by: Graham Robertson.

Signatories: Logan Keir and John Masters.

She thought that was a bit odd – if Mr Robertson had introduced Agatha Franckzac, why hadn’t he signed the form?

And even odder – John Masters, the partner whose name appeared on the form, had died two weeks before the date shown.

It must be a mistake. Maybe just the date?

She’d gone to Mr Keir and asked.

‘It was merely an expedient,’ Logan Keir had said, his eyes smiling less than his mouth. ‘No-one was around at the time and it needed to be done quickly.’

‘Oh. I thought maybe ... Well, what should I do? Will you change the date, or what?’

To her astonishment, instead of giving her an instruction, he’d turned vicious. ‘You’re a silly child. Just do your job, and if you can’t do your job, find another one.’

And he’d snatched the form out of her hands and marched away.

She’d been cowed. Maybe she was a silly child – she certainly felt like one. He was a partner, and she was way down the ladder.

The episode left her feeling deeply uneasy. What should she do – let it pass? Tell one of the senior partners about it? Inform the Law Society? Maybe she could do that anonymously, then she could stay on at Blair King.

She agonised over what she’d seen. An expedient, he’d said. But he’d lied on the form, hadn’t he? There were lies and there were lies, but she knew that this one must be very wrong because the regulations were so strict.

If it was a mistake, surely he could just have explained to Mr Robertson, destroyed the form and filled in another one with the right dates and signatures.

It didn’t make sense to her, but she lacked the courage to talk to anyone else. If she told a senior partner and was wrong, they’d definitely think she was stupid – or, worse, a troublemaker. If she tipped off the Law Society, Mr Keir would know quickly enough who’d done it, and what would her life at the firm be like then?

She started tossing and turning all night. She lost her appetite. The small edifice of confidence she’d been carefully constructing crumbled. In the end, she couldn’t stand it any more and she handed in her notice.

The day she left, Mr Keir had stopped her in a corridor, blocking her way. ‘Don’t forget,’ he’d said in a low voice, ‘that you signed a confidentiality agreement when you joined Blair King. I expect you to adhere to that.’

And he’d brushed past her, leaving only the faint smell of aftershave and the lingering hiss of the threat.

In the half darkness of Mr Keir’s office, Caitlyn shivered. She’d made her decision, and she’d thought about it endlessly over the towers of cans and mountains of sugar. As time had passed and she hadn’t found a job that paid nearly half as well, she’d revisited the matter endlessly. Had she really just been a stupid child?

Paralysed with fear, she looked down again at the form she was holding.

New client: Michael Robert Edwards.

Date of Birth: 16:09:1954.

Address: Moray Place, Edinburgh.

Introduced by: ...

Introduced by: Caitlyn Murray.

––––––––

‘I
really don’t know what to do,’ Molly said to Lexie as her friend peeled a damp nappy off the baby, folded it and dropped it into a poly bag. ‘Here, give me that.’

She knotted the bag then dropped it in the nappy bin.

‘About what?’ Lexie cooed at the baby, who gurgled. ‘Do you think that was a smile? Look, Molly.’

Molly glanced across to where the baby lay on the changing mat. ‘Isn’t she a bit young to be smiling?’

‘She’s obviously a very quick developer,’ Lexie retorted.

Maternity suited her, Molly thought, watching as her friend played with the baby. And what a surprise that was – it was not much more than a year since Lexie had been submerged in grief for Jamie, unable to lift a paintbrush and completely at odds with Patrick.

‘Now look at you—’ she murmured.

Lexie looked across at her. ‘What’s that?’

‘Oh sorry, did I speak out loud? I was just thinking how quickly all this has happened. You and Patrick, I mean, and the baby.’

Lexie gathered the baby – still unnamed – in her arms and sank onto a low chair. The slanting rays of the afternoon light caught the back of her head and formed a halo – Madonna and child, a timeless image. An indefinable feeling of sadness settled around Molly and she struggled to banish it. How can you feel loss when you have never had something?

Lexie was absorbed in feeding. The baby, her eyes closed, raised one tiny hand to her mother’s breast, let go of the nipple and gave a little sigh of contentment. Molly marvelled at the miracle of life. The fingers were so small, yet so perfect; the skin pure and soft, unblemished by age or weather. If she and Adam had revisited the issue of children, might they still be together? Might they have avoided the sad descent into neglect and anger that had led to her infidelity and torn them apart?

At length the baby’s head fell back and her snuffle turned into a soft snore. Lexie, rousing herself from her own half-stupor, covered herself and laid the child in her cot. ‘Tea?’ she murmured, her gaze filled with languorous contentment.

‘Thought you’d never ask.’

In the kitchen, they debated the thorny matter of names.

‘We’ve only got a few days left to register her,’ Lexie said, fidgeting with her mug. ‘Patrick wants something Irish, like Aoife or Fionnoula. I’m with him on the poetic, but I’d like something easier to spell.’

‘So not Guinevere or Amarantha then?’

‘Definitely not. Nor Calliope or Zuleika.’

‘You’ve considered Zuleika?’ Molly asked incredulously.

‘What do you think?’

Molly reached for a biscuit, then put it back. She wasn’t hungry. She quite often found she wasn’t hungry these days. ‘Lexie—’ she started.

‘Yes?’

‘Oh – nothing.’

‘Come on, Molly, what’s eating you?’

‘I saw a notice in the paper. Adam’s uncle has died.’

‘I didn’t remember that he had an uncle.’

‘We didn’t see much of them – George and Adam’s father fell out years ago. But they came to our wedding, and I really liked them. Jean, his aunt’s called.’

‘So?’

‘I was wondering whether I should go to the funeral.’

Lexie put her mug down, frowning. ‘Why? You barely knew him and he’s not a relative any more.’

‘Well, strictly speaking, he is still a relative.’

‘And when are you going to address that, by the way?’

The matter of her divorce was a recurring theme, and as usual, Molly changed the subject instead of answering. ‘I think I’d feel better if I went. I could just slip in at the back.’

‘You could.’

‘Arrive late and leave early.’

‘If you want.’

‘Yes.’ Molly shoved her mug away and stood up. ‘That’s what I’ll do.’

‘That’s sorted then,’ Lexie said, looking amused. ‘Delighted to be able to help you make up your mind.’

The irony was lost on Molly. ‘Yes. Thanks, sweetie.’ She hugged Lexie. ‘Must dash, lots to do. See you later. Oh—’ she turned at the door, ‘—if I think of a name I’ll let you know.’

‘Yes,’ said Lexie, shaking her head and smiling, ‘you do that.’

Forgie Church sat on a hill so that, although small, it dominated the village. Built in the eighteenth century, it was typically Scottish – plain, airy and unadorned except for a magnificent stained glass window depicting the bush burning in the desert. A dark oak pulpit rose forbiddingly above the congregation, who had to sit on uncomfortably upright pews arranged in neat rows.

They’d visited this church, she and Adam, when they’d been planning their wedding.

‘Too traditional,’ Adam had said.

‘Too stuffy,’ had been Molly’s verdict, and they had settled, instead, on having their wedding in the hills.

She could see the top of Adam’s head from where she stood. From here he looked just like his father – slim and upright, the tilt of the head just so.

The King of love my Shepherd is—

How appropriate for Geordie Blair. Molly remembered him as bluff and hearty, a real man of the land. Adam’s type of man, really. A shepherd of sheep, literally.

—streams of living water flow—

—verdant pastures grow—

How clever of Jean to choose this hymn.

She was still looking at Adam, and now she glimpsed a whisk of white. He was blowing his nose. Molly felt the tears flood into her eyes in sympathy and wished she could be beside him.

The church was full. George Blair must have been a popular man. She looked around, recognised a face here and there, and wondered if perhaps Logan had come.

She would slip out after the last hymn. She didn’t want to risk bumping into Adam nor, for that matter, into his parents. She had only seen James Blair once since she and Adam had separated, and though she’d made herself respond to a couple of invitations from Rosemary, she’d found Adam’s mother’s kindness and bottomless understanding ridiculously hard to bear.

There was a tribute by some cousin – not by James, the brother, which was interesting. The minister spoke, but Molly only half listened. Weighed down by an emotion that had hooked itself somehow to the funeral but didn’t really belong to it, she felt sapped of energy.

—Take from our souls the strain and stress/And let our ordered lives confess/The beauty of thy peace—

How lovely those words were.
The beauty of thy peace.
Molly sat back and closed her eyes. Wouldn’t it be nice to find peace? It had been so long since she had felt at one with herself, and with the world.

Around her, people swayed and sat, the music faded and rose again, dark clothing swirled and heels clicked on the marble floor, but in the warmth of the church, Molly, exhausted, had fallen asleep.

‘Molly? Is it you?’

She woke with a start. Above her, a familiar face was surveying her with some concern.

‘Rosemary?’ she muttered, still drowsy. ‘Oh, goodness!’

She leapt to her feet and looked around. The church was almost empty. The family must have exited down the central aisle, so – thank heavens – she would have been hidden by the congregation. Blood flooded to her cheeks. How had Rosemary ...?

‘I came back in for my order of service,’ Rosemary Blair said, smiling, ‘and spotted someone here at the back. I didn’t realise it was you until ... How are you, Molly dear? It’s good of you to come.’

‘I’m well. I – I must get going.’

But there was no escape. James Blair, returning to look for his wife, appeared at the end of the pew so that both of them now blocked her way.

‘I wondered where you ... Oh. Molly. Hello.’

Adam’s father hadn’t known how to treat her since the separation. She’d only met him once, when he’d come to a corporate dinner at Fleming House, not realising she worked there. That encounter had been stiff, and this looked as though it would be no different.

‘I’m well, thank you. Nice to see you. I really must get going.’

‘Adam’s outside,’ Rosemary said, smiling and extending an arm for Molly to hook hers through. ‘He’ll be pleased to see you.’