Unforgotten (11 page)

Authors: Clare Francis

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BOOK: Unforgotten

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‘Oh, but you must have, Mr Price.’ Catching the judge’s move to correct him, Desmond turned this rapidly into a question. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘No.’

‘So what were your feelings on coming here today?’

Price’s eyes flicked up and down. ‘I . . . can’t say.’

‘Well, satisfaction? Regret? Guilt?’

The whole of Price’s face was glistening now, and two trickles of sweat had tracked down the side of his plump cheek. ‘Nothing like that . . .’

‘What then, Mr Price?’

‘Well . . . I felt . . . you know . . . sorry.’

Desmond waited for Price to elaborate before prompting, ‘Sorry in what way?’

‘Sorry for . . . you know, what happened to Tom. And his daughter . . .’

‘But not so sorry that you weren’t prepared to come here and give evidence for the side opposing his case?’

Price swallowed, his head settled lower on his thick neck, his skin turned very pink, he said weakly, ‘I told you, I didn’t realise . . .’

As soon as court rose for lunch Tom hurried forward and spoke to Desmond in a low voice that did little to conceal his elation. By the time Hugh reached them Desmond was saying firmly, ‘Don’t forget we’ve still got the rest of the week to get through, Tom.’

‘But you did it,’ Tom said with a barely disguised laugh. ‘You showed him for what he is – a liar.’

‘Well, whatever we’ve achieved we mustn’t make the mistake of counting our chickens. Isn’t that right, Hugh?’

‘Yes. Absolutely. But, Desmond, we need to have a quick conference before lunch, if that’s all right with you.’

Tom took a hasty step backwards. ‘Count me out. I’ve gotta go see someone.’

Hugh said, ‘But we need to talk.’

Tom was already turning swiftly away. He was out of the door and halfway down the passage before Hugh managed to grab his arm. ‘For Christ’s sake, Tom, we can’t put this thing off.’

Tom jerked his arm free. ‘I told you – it’s no deal! Not now, not ever! And don’t you go saying anything to Desmond without my say-so. Because you’ve no right. No right at all!’ With a shudder, he strode away.

Joining the rest of the team in the dark wine bar off the Strand, Hugh broke his lunchtime rule and ordered a glass of wine. He needed something to calm him down. Something to nurse him too. He had an ache behind his eyes, a roughness low in his throat, which for him almost always presaged a cold or flu, and alcohol seemed as good a remedy as any. Now and again he tried joining in the conversation, but kept losing track and finally fell silent.

On the way back he warned Isabel he might be late coming into court.

She had been watching him anxiously through lunch. She said immediately, ‘This problem again?’

‘Yes. Tom and I have a difference of opinion about some information that needs to be disclosed. He thinks we can get
away with keeping it secret, I know we can’t. But he refuses to discuss it.’

‘What sort of information?’

‘The fact that he’s been making up stories for the family court in Exeter. Like he’s perfectly well and fit to have custody of the boys.’

‘Oh.’

‘And he went and found a shrink to back him up.’

‘What! But how could he think . . . ?’ She cancelled the question with a sigh. ‘Do you want me to try and speak to him? I’d be happy to give it a go.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t think he’ll listen.’

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I’m a woman after all.’

Hugh shot her a look of surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He has issues with women. Hadn’t you noticed? He switches off the moment a female starts talking.’

‘Does he?’ Hugh remembered the meetings the three of them had had at the Dimmock Marsh office over the years, the numerous cups of coffee, the lunches at the pub next door, and realised with a slight shock that Isabel was right, he couldn’t remember Tom speaking more than a couple of words to her. He thought back to the Sunday Tom had spent at Meadowcroft, the way he had failed to respond to Lizzie’s questions or Lou’s arrival, a reserve that Hugh had attributed to grief, depression, even a sudden shyness, but that he now viewed in a rather different light. ‘I’d never realised. I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought. But I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, it’s not
your
fault,’ Isabel said. ‘It’s just the way he is. But what will you do next, Hugh? What happens if he goes on refusing to listen?’

‘It’s not an option.’ Reaching the pedestrian crossing, they waited for the lights. Then, answering the question properly, he said, ‘Theoretically – no, more than theoretically – I’d have to resign from the case.’

‘That bad?’

‘That bad.’

The lights changed and they started across the street.

Hugh said, ‘You’d have to resign too, I’m afraid.’

‘Of course,’ Isabel declared, as if any other idea was unthinkable. ‘But what would happen to the case then?’

‘Tom would have to find himself some new solicitors.’

‘Won’t that be difficult so late in the case?’

‘Oh, there’d have to be an adjournment. Unless he chose to represent himself.’

‘Would the judge allow that?’

‘I’m not sure he’d be able to stop him. And with only three days left, he might not even try.’

‘And Desmond?’ Isabel asked, after they had passed through the security controls. ‘What about him?’

Desmond was ahead, progressing smoothly across the Great Hall with Sanjay at his side. Watching him, Hugh felt acutely aware of his own isolation, the fact that he couldn’t turn to Desmond for advice. ‘No reason why he couldn’t stay on.’

‘But won’t his position be impossible as well?’

‘Not if I don’t tell him.’

‘You can do that – not tell him?’

‘Sadly, yes. So long as Tom doesn’t want Desmond to know, then my hands are tied. Anyway there’s no sense in Tom losing his barristers as well.’ At this, the shadow of an idea entered his mind, an idea that was as daunting as it was tantalising.

As they started up the stairs Isabel said with a quiver of indignation, ‘Is there no way round it?’

‘Not while he refuses to listen.’ Aware of Desmond and Sanjay doubling back along the landing above their heads, Hugh lowered his voice. ‘And the really stupid thing is, our resignation would achieve precisely nothing. It certainly won’t stop the facts coming out, and the longer Tom tries to keep the whole thing quiet, the worse it’ll look for him.’ The shadowy idea came back to him, stronger than before, and he grasped at it cautiously.

Isabel said something he missed.

‘Sorry?’

‘Just that I
know
Tom can’t help being the way he is, I know he’s unwell and irrational and all the rest of it, but sometimes – just
sometimes
– he seems to get paranoid about
us
, as if we’re trying to go behind his back or something.’

‘I could choose not to tell him of course,’ Hugh murmured. ‘Not immediately anyway.’

‘Not tell him what?’

‘That I’d have to resign. I couldn’t leave it too long of course – a day at the most – but it might be enough to make him see sense. The worst that can happen is that he fires me anyway.’

‘Well, he’d be crazy if he did,’ Isabel said loyally. ‘You’re the best person he’s ever going to get.’

The extra day would be useful, but it was the other, more shadowy idea that had taken the greater grip on Hugh’s imagination. It would be risky because it would put so much pressure on Tom. And, perhaps more to the point, it would mean deliberately deceiving him. New ethical dilemma for the Law Society
Gazette
: Can it be justified to tell your client an outright lie to save him from his own actions?

Tom was late getting back. As court resumed, Hugh considered waiting inside the first set of doors so that Tom wouldn’t spot him till the last minute, but lying in wait felt like a cheap trick, so he stood openly in the passageway, hoping that lunch had put Tom in a more reasonable state of mind.

He heard Tom before he saw him, the tap of his feet on the stairs, the strike of his heels as they hit the level. When he finally appeared, it was at speed. He spotted Hugh straight away but his pace didn’t falter.

Hugh stepped forward and said brightly, ‘Okay?’

Ignoring him, Tom strode past.

With a leap of frustration Hugh cried, ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Tom. I’m going to have to tell them anyway.’ It was out, he had said it; the lie had come surprisingly easily.

For an instant it seemed Tom wasn’t going to stop, but just short of the court doors he halted abruptly and looked back.
‘You can’t do that. You can’t go against what I want. You’re my lawyer.’

‘Sorry, but it doesn’t quite work like that. My first duty is to the law. I’m not allowed to knowingly mislead the court. I’m not allowed to be party to an untruth.’

‘What untruth?’

‘You know what I mean, Tom.’

‘No, I don’t. My life’s a load of shit, I can’t sleep, I can’t work, I can’t get through the day without flashbacks and panic attacks. So where’s the untruth in that, for Christ’s sake?’

‘But you’ve gone and told the family court something else, Tom. And running away from that – and from me – isn’t going to help.’

Tom threw his head back and screwed up his eyes in a gesture of patience worn thin.

Walking over to him, Hugh said, ‘We’re so nearly there, Tom. Please don’t throw it away now.’

‘I told you – I’m not gonna give up my kids.’

‘But hiding the truth isn’t going to help get your kids.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong!’ he exclaimed avidly. ‘It’s gonna get me my boys. And by the time anyone gets to hear anything different –
if
they get to hear anything different – I’ll have got custody.’

‘But this case is going to make the news, Tom. Only a paragraph maybe, but that’ll be more than enough. People will talk. What happens then? What happens when the family court gets to hear about it?’

‘If they try and get the kids, they’ll have to do it over my dead body.’ Tom was trembling, the veins standing out on his forehead.

Hugh sighed, ‘All right, Tom. All right. But do me one last favour – hear me out one more time. If only for my benefit. Just so I know I’ve done all I can to explain it to you.’ He gestured towards the window.

For a while it seemed Tom wasn’t going to move, then with
an imperceptible nod he walked stiffly across to the window and, perching on the edge of the seat, hunched forward with his forearms resting on his knees.

Sitting beside him, Hugh went over it again slowly, explaining the advantages of coming clean and the consequences of covering up, counting the important points off on his fingers. He spoke in tones of concern and understanding, sensing that friendship was the only way to reach Tom just then. Only towards the end, as he prepared to repeat the lie, did he strike a note of authority, saying bluntly that he had a duty to put the matter before the court, that if he didn’t he risked being struck off.

Tom continued to stare fiercely ahead before cocking his head slightly, as if to determine whether Hugh had finished.

Hugh gave it his last shot. ‘What would really crucify me, Tom, is for you to end up with
nothing
. Not the kids, and not the money. We’ve already turned down three hundred grand. If your award gets knocked right back on appeal, if you end up winning less than the three hundred, then the other side will be able to claim their costs out of your money, and then—’

‘I know all that.’

But Hugh said it anyway. ‘Then you’ll end up with virtually nothing. That’s what’s at risk here, Tom.’

Tom hunched even lower over his knees and wrung his long fingers. ‘So . . . what’re you saying?’

‘That we go to the judge now. Explain the situation. Get him on our side as far as we can. He should be reasonably understanding.’

‘And there’s no choice?’ He sounded scornful, and for a moment Hugh thought he was about to call his bluff and demand to know why, if there was no choice, they were bothering to argue the point in the first place.

‘There’s no choice.’ And God strike me down for the lie, thought Hugh, but I’m doing it for his own good.

Tom shuddered. ‘And then?’

‘Then we’ll have done all we can.’

‘I meant the family court,’ Tom growled. ‘What happens with them? They get to be told, do they?’

‘I’m not sure about that. But I can find out.’

Tom dropped his head still lower and caged his hands around his face. ‘Jeese . . .’

Hugh left it a moment before asking, ‘So are we on, Tom?’

‘I dunno, for Christ’s sake.
I dunno.
’ He sat up suddenly. ‘I’ve gotta think it through.’

‘Okay,’ Hugh said soothingly. ‘Why don’t the two of us meet first thing in the morning? I’ll have the information about the family court by then and we can come to a decision and grab a few minutes with Desmond before court begins. How’s that?’

Tom gave no sign of having heard. ‘All I ever wanted was my life back,’ he said with a bitter catch to his voice. ‘And now I’m not even gonna get that. Some sort of fucking justice.’

The club lay on the south side of Pall Mall in a row of similar gentlemen’s clubs with grandiose facades, wide stone steps, and pillared entrances which occasionally bore a street number but never a nameplate, so that in darkness and rain strangers couldn’t be sure of arriving in the right place. In search of the RAC, Hugh found himself in what turned out to be the Reform and was courteously directed two doors further down where he found Ray in the entrance hall, resplendent in a dinner jacket, nose in the
Financial Times
.

‘Hugh!’ Ray’s usual style was a slap on the shoulder and a big grin, but perhaps in deference to his surroundings he greeted Hugh rather more formally, with a handshake. Then, recalling that this was after all his old colleague and friend, he added the usual grin. ‘How’re you doing, boyo?’

‘Okay, thanks.’

Perhaps Hugh’s face told a different story because Ray said, ‘Look like you need a bloody great drink.’

‘I think I’ll go and change first, if that’s okay.’

‘No problem!’ Ray declared. ‘Your room’s on the second floor. But listen . . .’ He narrowed his eyes conspiratorially. ‘Why don’t we slip into the bar for a sharpener first, eh? Come on, just a quick one.’

It was useless to argue with Ray when he was in one of his more expansive moods and, having deposited his coat and bag in the cloakroom, Hugh followed him up the sweeping staircase to the bar. Hugh said he’d have a beer, then, aware of the rawness in his throat, the ache behind his eyes, changed it to a brandy and soda. ‘But just a small one, Ray. Really.’

The drink Ray brought to the table was far from small, a double at least, with only the faintest splash of soda, and Hugh made a mental note to hold back on the wine at dinner.

Ray raised his glass. ‘
Iechyd da!
’ he cried. ‘To the green valleys of home!’

Hugh was the one born and bred in South Glamorgan, but it was Raymond, brought up in Bristol to a Welsh mother, who in the fifteen years they had worked together had been the keeper of the Welsh flame.

‘
Iechyd da!
’ Hugh replied dutifully.

Ray took a sip of his drink and gave an enthusiastic sigh. ‘Just like the old days, eh, Hugh? Out on the loose.’

A Law Society dinner wasn’t Hugh’s idea of being on the loose, but then Ray had recently been kicked out by his long-suffering wife of twenty-five years for playing away, and was looking for adventure in even the most unlikely settings. He was sporting a new haircut, Hugh noticed, shorter on top, longer towards the neck so that it looked fashionable in a faintly foreign way. Or maybe it was cool in an English way and Hugh was simply out of touch. He supposed it was another manifestation of Ray’s decision to take himself in hand, a rearguard action against the ravages of middle age and the challenges of the singles scene, which had led him to give up alcohol during the week, bread and potatoes at all times, and embark on lunchtime visits to the gym from which he returned
looking drained and mottle-cheeked. Ray boasted that he’d never felt better, but beneath his buoyant manner it seemed to Hugh that he was finding his new life a considerable strain. Tonight, though, he was beaming benevolently, perhaps because he was allowing himself alcohol on a Tuesday.

‘So . . . how did the big case go today?’ Ray asked.

‘Oh, all right,’ said Hugh, who didn’t feel ready to discuss the Deacon problem with him. ‘Desmond Riley did an excellent cross-examination.’

‘The press sniffing around yet?’

‘Not that I’ve noticed.’

‘But they will, won’t they?’ said Ray confidently. ‘Bound to get huge coverage.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘Come on, Hugh. There’s the size of the damages for a start. It’s going to be a record for post-traumatic stress, isn’t it?’

‘Who said that? Martin?’

Ray turned his mouth down in an expression of intense thought. ‘May have been. Can’t remember.’

‘Well, he’s quite wrong,’ Hugh said reprovingly. ‘We’re not there yet, not by a long way. It all depends on the judge, whether he accepts everything the psychiatrists tell him. And there’s no way of knowing, not till the actual judgement.’

‘Okay, but even if the judge takes a conservative view it’s still going to be a stonking great award, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not banking on it,’ Hugh said rather crossly.

Ray waved this aside as natural caution. ‘And then there’s the story itself. God, every parent’s worst nightmare.’ He grimaced at the thought. ‘No, the press’ll go for it all right.’ He stabbed an amiable finger at Hugh. ‘The important thing is to make sure they spell your name right.’

‘The press covered it at the inquest.’

‘But how long ago was that? Years. No, they’ll cover it again, of course they will. Don’t look so glum, Hugh, it’ll be a helluva thing for you. And great publicity for Dimmock Marsh. Personal injury hasn’t exactly been one of our strengths till
now. Though for God’s sake don’t quote me to our esteemed colleague Martin Sachs,’ he said with a roll of his eyes. ‘And who knows, maybe you’ll end up specialising after all.’

‘God, no.’

‘Why not?’

‘Too late. I prefer muddling along as I am.’

‘Ah, but never say never, Hugh. Look at me. If I can do it, anyone can.’

‘But you actually like commercial law.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose I do,’ Ray said, basking briefly in this vision of himself. ‘But you don’t want to find yourself losing out financially, you know.’

‘Oh, I don’t care about that.’ Then, as the implications of Ray’s remark sank in, a tiny warning sounded in Hugh’s mind. ‘Would I be losing out?’

‘Well . . . it could just happen, yes . . .’ There was concern in Ray’s manner, but also a sudden awkwardness.

‘I’m not with you.’

Ray hesitated, as if he regretted having raised the subject. ‘Well . . . basically . . . it’s this remuneration issue, Hugh. It seems the young lions aren’t prepared to let it go.’

Leaving aside who these young lions might be, Hugh asked, ‘When you say the remuneration issue . . . ?’

Ray frowned as if it should have been obvious. ‘The performance-related pay issue.’

‘I didn’t know it was an issue.’

‘Of course you did . . . you
do
, Hugh. It came up at the partners’ meeting.’

‘But that was months ago. In June.’

‘Yes, well . . . Just because you did your best to kill it dead doesn’t mean it went away, you know. It’s been rumbling on ever since.’

Absorbing what seemed to be a double criticism, of having taken an unreasonably obstinate line and driven the matter underground, Hugh said, ‘I simply reminded everyone that the traditional salary scheme was a condition of the merger.’

Ray fanned out a hand, as though to concede the point and simultaneously brush it away. ‘Yes, yes . . . But that was
then
, Hugh. This is
now
. And well, there’s a strong mood for change.’

‘The issue was meant to be non-negotiable.’

Ray said, ‘Nothing’s non-negotiable, Hugh. Not in a partnership.’

Suddenly glad of the brandy, Hugh took another gulp. ‘So how long’s it been brewing, this mood for change?’

‘Well, ever since that partners’ meeting. I would have kept you in the loop, Hugh, but I sort of hoped the whole thing would blow over.’

At one time they had both scoffed at the new jargon, the blue-sky thinking and joined-up management, the staying outside the box and inside the loop, but now they spoke it with an affected naturalness that was in itself unnatural, old dogs doing their best with new tricks.

Hugh murmured, ‘Life seemed a lot simpler before we had loops.’

Ray rolled his eyes. ‘God, you can say that again!’

‘But if the performance-related lobby felt so strongly why didn’t they fight their corner?’

‘I think it was more of a kite-flying exercise at the beginning. Yes . . . definitely,’ Ray said, as if this made the whole thing more acceptable. ‘But the young lions had their finger on the pulse all right, because since then, well . . . the idea’s really gained ground, Hugh. A lot of people feel, with the best will in the world, that it’s the right way to go.’

Hugh thought back to the old days when he and Ray and their fellow partners had agreed the firm’s business over a beer and a sandwich at the Old Bell. Differences of opinion – and they’d had a few, not least about the wisdom of merging with Marsh & Co – had been hammered out face to face, sometimes over several sessions, occasionally with some heat, but always openly and with good grace. Since the formation of Dimmock Marsh, however, decision making had become decidedly more opaque, to Hugh at least. A number of people, and it was
usually the same lot, seemed to turn up at partners’ meetings in mysterious agreement with each other, their arguments ready polished to match. But if Ray was right, and feelings had been running strong, Hugh couldn’t understand how he had missed the murmurings of discontent. He hunted back through his memory but he was sure no one had mentioned the remuneration issue in any of the time-honoured ways, casually over lunch, or on leaving a meeting, or drifting into his office on other business. But perhaps he had been too busy to pick up on the signs. Out of the loop . . . yes, that seemed to sum it up.

He said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me before, Ray?’

Ray made one of those gestures that were so characteristic of him, a sweep of one hand that could have indicated anything from regret to denial. ‘Truth be told, Hugh, I didn’t really appreciate how things were going myself, not until just the other day. And knowing how you felt . . . Well, I didn’t want to stir things up unnecessarily.’

Trying not to dwell on the inconsistencies in this statement, Hugh said, ‘And they think I won’t budge, is that it?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Well, they’ve got that right at least.’

‘A lot of up-and-coming firms are going for it, you know.’

‘Well, that’s their choice, isn’t it? But in my view they’re going in the wrong direction. You know how I feel. The whole point of a partnership is to work as a team. Share the load and share the income. Allow for the fact that everyone has a bad year from time to time.’

‘But people’s basic salary would be protected, obviously.’

‘I don’t care. If we went for performance-related bonuses the whole ethos of the firm would change. It would become every man for himself. And then we might as well get shot of the whole partnership and go off and work on our own.’

‘I’m not sure it would be as bad as that,’ Ray murmured.

Hugh asked, ‘So what’s your view, Ray? Do you think it’s a good idea?’

‘Me?’ Ray blew out his cheeks. ‘God, Hugh – what can I
say? I mean, I can see that it has points in its favour. Some of the younger partners are bringing in huge amounts of work – really huge – and you can’t entirely blame them for wanting to see more of the proceeds. Age and seniority will always count, of course they will. But it’s a sharper, profit-related world out there, isn’t it? Everything’s getting performance-linked.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘At the same time . . . Well, I hear what you say, Hugh. I really do . . .’

‘It’ll come up at the next partners’ meeting, will it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And will it get voted in?’

‘Christ . . .’ Ray gave an elaborate shrug. ‘I really couldn’t say.’

Yet something in his manner suggested this wasn’t quite true. With a descent into disappointment, Hugh asked, ‘Which way will you vote?’

‘Haven’t got that far.’

But I think you’ve got that far, thought Hugh with another dart of disappointment; maybe even farther. ‘Well, keep me in touch.’

‘Christ,
everyone’s
going to be kept in touch from now on, I can tell you,’ Ray protested with a rough emphatic laugh. ‘Whether they bloody well like it or not! Full particulars spelt out in bold and underlined. No more of this skulking about in the bloody undergrowth.’ He drank morosely before looking at his watch and sitting up with a jerk. ‘Christ, the time!’ He scrabbled in his pocket. ‘Could you make it down in record time, Hugh? Sorry to rush you but there’re a helluva lot of people I need to talk to before we sit down to dinner.’

The moment Hugh reached the room he checked his phone for messages, but there was nothing from Lizzie. He’d already left one message on her voicemail and, getting no answer again now, debated whether to leave another. She was probably driving or at the supermarket. Or – he couldn’t escape the thought – visiting the Carstairs Estate, walking the concrete passageways alone and unprotected. When she’d first started
going there in the early days of the Free Denzel Lewis campaign he’d buried his worries, or at least persuaded himself the risk was minimal, but last night his fears had come roaring to the surface, and he wasn’t sure why. Because she’d admitted going there after dark? Her alarming belief that it was safe? Or was it linked to his failure to catch the hoodie, who seemed then and now to personify the relentless march of the yob culture? A bit of everything perhaps. Also, if he was entirely honest, he hadn’t liked arriving back at an empty house, not knowing how long it would be before she got home. It was entirely selfish, he knew, but when he’d imagined life after the kids had gone to college he’d seen the two of them having more time together, not less.

He had showered and was pulling on his evening shirt when his phone rang and showed ‘Lizzie mobile’ in the display.

She greeted him over the din of conversation.

‘You sound as though you’re out on the town.’

She laughed. ‘What else?’

‘The moment my back’s turned. So where are you?’

‘Seeing a colleague.’

‘Some colleague.’

‘She’s female and fifty.’

‘Well, take it easy on the cocktails.’

‘Fat chance. I brought the car.’

‘Have you had a good day?’

‘Yes, actually. Very good. And you?’