A Dead Man Out of Mind (22 page)

‘I say,' David stated quietly, ‘that I'm going to forget that we ever had this conversation, and I suggest that you do likewise. And that I wouldn't work for you, Mr Thymme, if you were the last solicitor in London.' Before Thymme could reply or even react, he put the phone down, gently but with great satisfaction.

Mastering his fury, after a few minutes he was able to think coherently about what Thymme had said to him, and about its implications. Mrs Francis Nightingale, a client of his own firm: this might be an avenue to explore. Perhaps he should have a word with Russell Galloway.

It was Russell Galloway who had been instrumental in David's move to Fosdyke, Fosdyke & Galloway. David had met the senior partner the previous year when acting in a volunteer capacity on behalf of a London church, in a successful effort to save it from redundancy and possible demolition; Galloway had been impressed with David and the job offer had resulted. David liked and respected Russell Galloway, finding him more approachable and less intimidating than Sir Crispin.

Now he went through the corridors to Galloway's office, pondering how best to handle the matter. If he told Russell Galloway what he'd learned, Thymme would certainly know where the information had come from, and would undoubtedly be prepared to make David's life difficult in future. Since ‘young Justin' was still his client, whether he wanted him or not, and was currently under investigation by the immigration office, that could be awkward. But his first loyalty was to his firm; he'd have to find a subtle way to let Galloway know about Thymme's interest in the case.

Russell Galloway was behind his desk, which as usual looked as though it had a life of its own, piled high with papers, briefs, files, empty crockery and other assorted items. David had learned, though, that the impression of chaos was illusory: Galloway knew exactly where everything was, and could instantly put his hands on anything required. Russell Galloway's own appearance was equally deceptive. He had none of Sir Crispin's polished elegance, instead possessing a distinct resemblance to an unmade bed: his suit was always rumpled, and his tie was always askew. With his lack of sartorial style and his broken nose he looked more like a prize fighter than a highly-paid solicitor, and though he also lacked Sir Crispin's underlying ruthlessness, he was a pragmatic man with a great deal of integrity; David had learned early on that it would be a mistake to underestimate him.

Looking up to see David hovering at the door, Russell Galloway grinned. ‘Come in, my friend.' He returned David's liking and esteem, perhaps recognising in him some of his own qualities of gentleness underlaid with strength and integrity.

‘Are you busy?'

Galloway laughed and ran his fingers through his greying hair, short and as crisply waved as corrugated cardboard. ‘I'm always busy. But always ready for an excuse for a break. Pull up a chair and tell me something I don't know.'

Deciding that the direct approach was best with a forthright man such as Galloway, David plunged straight in. ‘The grapevine tells me that you're handling a divorce for a Mrs Nightingale.'

Galloway groaned. ‘Yes, for my sins.'

‘Difficult?' David probed.

‘God, yes,' was the heartfelt reply. ‘She's a twenty-two carat bitch, that one, and she knows exactly what she wants.'

‘What
does
she want?'

‘She wants to get shot of her worthless philandering spendthrift husband as quickly as possible, before he can spend any more of her money,' he said succinctly.

‘But won't he be entitled to some of it when they divorce?' asked David.

Galloway shook his head. ‘She's been far too clever for that. Or rather Daddy's smart American lawyers have been. It's her father's money, really – he owns a chain of supermarkets in the southern United States. So he's got the money all tied up for her in neat little legal knots. Prenuptial agreements and all that. The husband can't touch it.'

‘Interesting,' David commented. ‘So where do you come in?'

‘My job, pure and simple, is to produce the divorce. Nothing more, nothing less. Fortunately it shouldn't be too complicated – no kids involved, and clear evidence of his adultery. His wife found letters from the secretary, and they didn't leave much doubt, or much to the imagination. I don't think he's contesting – he'd like to get his hands on some of Daddy's American bucks, I'm sure, but if he's got any sense he'll realise that there's no hope – so it should go through on the nod.' He turned curious eyes on David. ‘Why do you ask?'

David shrugged. ‘I just wondered.'

Galloway scratched his head with an elaborate display of nonchalance, then said casually, ‘I don't suppose I could talk you into standing in for me at a meeting with her?'

This was better than David could have hoped for, but he matched Galloway's casual disinterest in the tone of his reply. ‘Why?'

‘Oh, it's nothing really. But I'm supposed to see her on Friday morning, and the wife is giving me hell about missing some school play that I promised a long time ago that I'd go to. The kid has a starring role, apparently.' Russell Galloway produced the half-embarrassed smile of a proud father. Though he was some years older than David, with grown children, he was in a second marriage to a younger woman and was raising a young family, with the generally successful intention of doing a better job of it than the first time around; complications like this one caused him more mental anguish than he'd care to admit.

‘Why can't you just see her another time, then?'

‘Not that simple, I'm afraid. She's been in Paris for the last few weeks, and is only stopping over in London on Friday, on her way back to the States, and presumably the comfort of Daddy's loving arms. Not to mention his bank account.' Galloway rummaged around on his desk and came up with his diary, then checked the entry for Friday. ‘Here it is. I'm supposed to meet her in the Concorde lounge at Terminal 4, Heathrow. Friday morning at half-past nine.'

David had no intention of missing out on this opportunity, but he didn't want to appear too eager. ‘Well, Russell, I don't know. What is the meeting supposed to be about? Won't she mind if you don't come yourself?'

‘It's really just to get her to sign some papers – nothing more complicated than that. And believe me – as long as she gets her divorce, Cindy Lou Nightingale won't give a damn who turns up! If you could see your way clear to helping me out, I'd be more than grateful.'

There was such pleading in his eyes that David could hold out no longer. ‘Well, all right. After all, I wouldn't want to disappoint your wife.'

Russell Galloway sighed gratefully. ‘Thanks, David. You're a real friend.'

CHAPTER 19

    
Or ever your pots be made hot with thorns: so let indignation vex him, even as a thing that is raw.

Psalm 58.8

Rachel Nightingale's funeral was to be held at St Jude's Church on Friday morning. Incongruously, the day had dawned clear and sunny and almost warm, after nearly a month of chill grey skies. David thought about the irony of it as he drove along the A4 at the end of the morning rush hour. He had expected Lucy to be disappointed that he couldn't go with her to the funeral, but she had taken altogether a more pragmatic view. ‘It's more important for you to take advantage of this opportunity,' she'd said. ‘Besides, you didn't know Rachel as well as I did, so it won't really matter if you miss it. Ruth will go with me. And maybe it's even better this way,' she'd reflected. ‘The people at St Margaret's still don't know that there's a connection between us, and perhaps it's not a bad thing to keep it that way. Some of them may well be at the funeral.'

So while Lucy was putting on her best black dress, he was on his way to Heathrow Airport. Perhaps it was just as well, he reflected. Ruth had shown signs of incipient hysteria before he'd left, and he felt unequal to dealing with her.

In his briefcase were the papers for Cindy Lou Nightingale to sign, papers that would set into motion the machinery of law that would ultimately result in her divorce. Signing the papers wouldn't take long, but David hoped that the soon-to-be-former Mrs Nightingale would be inclined to chat with him, in spite of the impression he had formed of her as being difficult and temperamental. His plans hadn't been formulated beyond that: meeting Mrs Nightingale, and encouraging her to talk. Anything that she might add to the picture he was building up of her husband could be helpful.

He'd never been to Terminal 4 before, so he followed the signs carefully to the multi-storey car park. There was plenty of time, he noted on his watch. But it took more time than he'd planned to find the Concorde lounge, tucked away discreetly in a corner of the terminal, and he had to do some fast talking – and to submit to repeated and thorough inspections of his briefcase – to get through the security checks without a ticket or a boarding pass in order to gain entry to an area of the terminal which was intended for departing passengers only. That he hadn't anticipated, so it was just about half-past nine when he finally arrived at his destination.

David sank nearly up to his ankles in thick carpet as he looked round the lounge for Mrs Nightingale. It wasn't difficult to spot her; most of the passengers were businessmen, in a hurry to get to New York for morning meetings, beavering away on their lap-top computers or reading the
Financial Times
, and there were one or two wealthy dowager-types, be-ringed and bejewelled. Only one inhabitant of the lounge looked a possible candidate. She sat alone in the centre of a luxuriously upholstered blue sofa, sipping a glass of champagne: a stunning brunette clad in a flame-red and lime-green ensemble that had obviously just come out of the door of one of the more famous Paris fashion houses, tailored to fit her statuesque form to perfection. Her jewellery was not, like that of the dowagers, flashy or ostentatious, but instead was discreet in the extreme: gold button earrings and a thin gold chain. No wedding ring, David noted with interest – not even for the purpose of discouraging unwanted attention from her travelling companions. Then he realised that such help was scarcely needed; her demeanour was such that not even the dimmest businessman could fail to get the message that she was not available, and not to be approached.

It was all he could do to approach her himself. She looked up as he neared and frowned, a small crease of displeasure between her perfectly plucked brows. ‘Mrs Nightingale?' he said in a voice that sounded more confident than he felt. ‘I'm David Middleton-Brown from Fosdyke, Fosdyke and Galloway. Mr Galloway sent me to see you.'

‘Why didn't he come himself? I've always dealt with Mr Galloway in the past.' Her southern drawl was as thick as a slab of shoo-fly pie and as viscous as blackstrap molasses.

Good Lord, David thought. She thinks she's Scarlett O'Hara. ‘I'm afraid that Mr Galloway had a . . . family emergency,' he exaggerated, summoning up his most appealing smile. ‘He's briefed me on your case, and I'll do my best to look after you as well as he would have done.'

Cindy Lou took in his appearance with practised rapidity: not exactly a heart-stopper, but more than presentable, and an improvement on the unprepossessing Russell Galloway in any case. She decided that there was nothing to be gained by being difficult, so she may as well be as charming as only the flower of southern womanhood could be. She dimpled fetchingly and indicated the chair across from her. ‘Oh, I'm sure you'll do just fine, Mr Middleton-Brown. Why don't you sit down over there?' (She pronounced it ‘ovah theyah'.) He sat, and she added, ‘Wouldn't you like some champagne?'

Having prepared himself for at least some degree of hostility, David was taken aback. Oh, why not, he decided. It was never really too early for champagne, and the
enfant terrible
wasn't around to disapprove. ‘Yes, please.'

As another glass materialised, he took the papers from his briefcase. ‘Do you want to go ahead and sign these papers now?' he asked. ‘Get it out of the way? Or is there anything you'd like to discuss first?'

She waved a languid hand in the air. ‘All in good time. There's no hurry, is there? My plane doesn't leave for another hour.'

‘Fine.' Uneasily David settled back in his chair and took a sip of champagne. Now that he was here with Francis Nightingale's wife – and she was behaving much more pleasantly than he'd expected – he hardly knew where to begin. ‘You've been in Paris, I understand?' he ventured.

‘Yes. Buying a few new clothes, trying to cheer myself up.' She assumed a tragic expression and sighed deeply. ‘But I think it was a mistake. Paris is no place to be on your own, Mr Middleton-Brown. Don't you agree?' She didn't really expect an answer, continuing with the trembling lower lip of an ill-done-by faithful wife, ‘Frankie and I went to Paris on our honeymoon. It's full of such bittersweet memories for me.'

David, whose only trip to Paris had been on his own but who now entertained fantasies of taking Lucy there one day, nodded sympathetically. ‘If you feel that way,' he said, ‘perhaps you ought not to rush into this divorce. Give it a little more time, perhaps. You might be able to work things out between you.' That sort of advice would infuriate Henry Thymme, he realised with satisfaction.

Abruptly her mood and her demeanour shifted. ‘Frankie is a worthless, no-good piece of shit,' she snapped. ‘A dog turd. Lower than a rattlesnake's belly. I wouldn't have him back if he were the last man on earth, and came crawling to me on his hands and knees. The way that man treated me . . .' Then the tears welled up in her luminous dark eyes, demanding more sympathy. At a loss for words, David produced a clean handkerchief and leaned across to put it in her hand.