Her call was answered after only one ring and she had to listen to the usual quick-fire sputter of news. As soon as Anna’s rattling voice stopped for a second, Trish said:
‘Didn’t you tell me you were working on an environmental film, Anna?’
‘Of course. Why?’
‘Great. You’re just the woman I need then. Have you ever come across this organisation FADE that’s backing the litigant in person in my current case?’
‘I’ve heard of them.’ There wasn’t much colour in Anna’s voice, certainly no discernible excitement or reserve. ‘Why?’
‘I just wondered how the rest of the environmental community sees them.’
‘As a joke.’ Anna’s noisy voice softened in a warm laugh. ‘They’re a tinpot amateur group. There was a flurry of interest a while back when they first got involved with your opponent, but it’s died down now.’
‘You don’t happen to know how they’re funded, do you?’
‘Haven’t a clue. With these little mushroomy groups that spring up and then disappear, it’s usually a one-off legacy or conscience-salving donation from a rich individual.’
‘Like Ben Givens?’ Trish suggested hopefully.
‘Who? Never heard of him. But if he’s got money for environmental good causes put him in touch with me. We’re running short of funding for the film.’
‘He’s a barrister. You’ll find him in the phone book.’
‘Great. I’ll get on to him asap. Got to go now. See you soon, Trish. Oh, how’s your friend? He didn’t—’
‘Die? No, he didn’t.’ Trish hadn’t meant to sound sharp, so she added: ‘Thanks for asking. Bye now.’
Her mobile bleeped as a text came through. She read it and smiled at George’s eccentric style. He’d learned some techniques from David, then made them all his own:
Tx a billn, dling ma + plumb = hell 4 me u trans4m my lfe cul8er tk gd
Angie looked down at her big mug of Fair Trade tea because she couldn’t bear to face Fran and Greg.
‘I’ve got to go home. You’ve both been far too kind to me already, way beyond what was needed for the case. Now we’re not going to be able to finish it for months, I can’t hang around, battening on you, getting in your way.’
‘You could never be in the way,’ Fran said, the warmth in her voice making Angie feel even more guilty.
‘You are kind. And I’m sorry. But I have to go. It doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for—’
‘Don’t worry, Ange. We won’t let you off the leash for long,’ Greg said in a voice that was colder and harder than anything except the stone floor of the Low Topps kitchen.
‘Greg!’ Fran sounded shocked.
He smiled through the beard and quickly changed his tone, warming up his voice and softening the edges of the words. ‘And we
will
need you. Not just for your own case. You’re part of our lives now.’
Angie rubbed both hands over her face, hating the dryness of her skin and trying not to feel so suffocated that she
did something stupid. She longed for the clean emptiness of the north and for Polly’s undemanding company, which never drove her into losing her wicked temper.
‘He’s right. We’ll be starting a new campaign soon,’ Fran said. ‘You could help us with that.’
‘You could indeed.’ Greg’s smile was turning into a grimace that pulled his whole face out of shape and made the beard wobble.
How Angie hated it now! She had to get away. But she’d better show interest. ‘What campaign?’
‘There’s been a horrible spill of some of CWWM’s chemical waste after a traffic accident on a country road in Essex. A woman’s had to have her feet cut off because they were so badly damaged by the caustic sludge.’
Angie’s heart jolted. She put both hands to her chest, as though that could ward off any suggestion that she owed this new victim something. She didn’t have any strength or emotion to spare for anyone else.
‘And
a child’s been hurt up on the west coast of Scotland,’ Greg went on, drilling at her like a torturer. ‘CWWM again, of course. They’re losing so much money, they’re having to cut corners as they dump their muck all over the world. They don’t care who they hurt. Just as they didn’t care when they killed John with their lethal tanks, Ange. We’ve got to stop them. And you’ve got to help us.’
She hardly heard him. Chemistry, she was thinking. Adam moved from English literature to chemistry. He’d know as much about toxic sludge as about explosions. Is he afraid I’ve guessed what he did at the farm and might tell the police? Has he hurt these new people, too, to throw off my suspicion? A woman and a child … What the hell do I do now?
‘And there are likely to be lots more CWWM disasters coming to light.’ Greg was looking revoltingly happy. She felt ill again.
‘Now we’ve started to look for them, I mean,’ he added hastily.
She turned away. All she could think of was Adam’s face. Greg’s voice buzzed on and on, until she had to pay attention. He was repeating her name urgently.
She looked at him, licking her dry lips, trying to get the pictures of Adam out of her head. Fishing for the right words out of the stew of her mind, she decided honesty was her only hope, partial honesty anyway:
‘I owe you both more than I can ever repay. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you with any campaign once my case is over. But I must get back home now. I need time out.’
Her hair needed cutting. Long as it was, it made her whole face itch; she pushed it away, tucking some behind her ears. The strands felt very coarse, quite unlike Fran’s gleaming tresses.
‘I’m losing touch with who I am and why I ever started this legal action. I need … I need to get home and be there again, and remember John, and—’
‘Breathe contaminated air and drink contaminated water?’ Fran’s big hand was stroking Angie’s back as so often before. But that made Angie itch too. Fran’s kindness was coming to feel almost as threatening as Greg’s demands. ‘It’s dangerous, Angie.’
‘I know.’ Angie was just managing to hold in her temper. ‘But I have to do it.’
‘Where will you live? At the farm? Isn’t that a bit—?’
She shook her head. ‘Not immediately. I’ve arranged—’
Breaking off to send a rueful glance she hoped they’d take as an apology, she coughed, then added: ‘I’ve arranged to stay with Polly Green, who lives about six miles away. She’s my oldest friend – oldest, in both senses of the word – and needs help, even this late in the season, so it’ll suit us both.’
‘Until the case starts up again,’ Greg said. ‘You will be back in good time for that.’
It was not a question.
‘Ange?’
‘Of course I will.’ Her reluctance was so powerful she found it hard to get the words out. ‘How could I not after everything the two of you’ve done for me?’
Robert was almost swaggering as he invaded Trish’s room at half past four that afternoon and dumped two batches of computer printout on her desk.
‘What are these?’
‘Contact details for your supposed saboteurs.’
‘What?’ She grabbed them.
The first was a prospectus for a climbing school in Swanage called the Fleming-Stuart Academy; the second a blurb for some ’Victorian walks’ in London. She looked up at him.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘One of my climbing mates did recognise your so-called Bowles woman with the chalk bag. Her real name’s Maryan Fleming and the headless man with her is probably her boyfriend Barry Stuart.’
‘My God! You’ve really found them.’
‘They used to run this climbing business but it collapsed under a wall of debt, and now they’ve split up,’ Robert went
on, not acknowledging her comment. ‘Barry Stuart is climbing in New Zealand and the girl is dragging tourists around Victoria and Albert’s landmarks in Kensington.’
‘That’s great. Thank you, Robert.’
‘But I don’t believe they’re saboteurs, and I’m not taking any responsibility for anything you do with this information. You do understand that, don’t you, Trish?’
She got up and walked round her desk so that she could reach up to pat his cheek.
‘Absolutely, you old hand-washer. On my head be it. I’m still grateful.’
Her phone was ringing. Robert pointed to it in a lordly way and left the room. She picked up the receiver.
‘Trish?’ Fred Hoffman here. ‘I’ve got some info on your Bianchini bloke.’
‘This is turning out to be a much better day than I’d expected,’ she said, tucking the receiver between her ear and her shoulder so that she could pick up a pen to take notes while he talked. ‘Why did he leave GlobWasMan just when he could have made a fortune in the IPO?’
‘The general consensus is that he must have had a kind of road-to-Damascus moment and done it out of conscience.’
Like the story about Givens himself, Trish thought. I don’t believe it of either of them.
‘What my main source says is … Hang on a minute,’ Fred said. ‘I wrote it down so you could have it verbatim. Good. Here we are. Ready?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘“Not nearly as exotic as his name, Bianchini has always been an earnest, nerdy, do-gooding sort of bloke. Outsider. Didn’t join in at Law College. No drinking. Used to lecture us about eating the wrong food, drinking, taking drugs,
that sort of thing. Spent time charity volunteering. We all thought he was sad.”’
There was a short pause, before Fred added: ‘Got all that, Trish? In the slang of those times, I believe “sad” means weedy and pathetic rather than unhappy.’
‘I think you’re right. Thanks, Fred. That’s helpful.’
‘He’s now working for a charity called Start Again, set up by a couple of doctors to help young offenders – like their own recidivist patients – go straight when they come out of prison.’
Trish thanked him again before she cut the connection, silently cheering. Bianchini’s choice of good works could have been tailor-made to give her cover for the questions she had to ask.
Her call to the charity’s switchboard was quickly answered by a human being instead of a recorded voice offering multiple choices at the press of a button. Trish was so surprised she nearly dropped the receiver. She asked for Carl Bianchini and was put straight through.
‘Oh, hi,’ she said. ‘You don’t know me, but I’m at the Bar. My name’s Trish Maguire. I was hoping to ask your advice about an adolescent at risk of reoffending. Is there any chance we could meet?’
‘Goodness. Hello. I know your name, of course,’ he said in an unexpectedly quiet voice, which sound jittery with nerves. ‘But I’m not really your man, you know. I’ve only just started here full time and I have nothing to do with the clients or their families. I could put you through to one of the others, who might be able to help. How old is the boy?’
‘I really would prefer to talk to
you,’
Trish said. ‘As fellow lawyers we’ll use the same language. If I could only
explain my dilemma face to face, I think you’ll see why I need you.’
Her overactive conscience was already beating her up for using Jay like this, but it wasn’t pure exploitation: she really did want to know what kind of professional help might be available for him beyond Shelby’s well-meaning but compromised efforts.
‘Maybe I could buy you a drink one evening,’ she said.
‘I wish I could accept.’ His voice did sound wistful. ‘But my wife’s not been well and I always have to go straight home at five-thirty.’
‘Lunch, then?’ she said. ‘Something simple that won’t take up too much of your time. Where are your offices?’
‘King’s Cross.’
‘OK. There are pubs up there, aren’t there? But they can be noisy. What about the café at the British Library?’
There was a pause. ‘Why not? Tomorrow? I always lunch at twelve-forty to avoid the queues.’
‘I’ll meet you there. I’ll be wearing a dark brownish-red jacket.’
‘And I’ll be in brown cords and a black V-neck sweater because I’ve no meetings tomorrow.’
‘Great.’
She grabbed the Pathfinder again, looking for his photograph. The small rectangle couldn’t tell her much except that he had a plumpish face and dark eyes. His hair was receding, he was probably in his late thirties, and he wore heavy-rimmed glasses. For the photograph he’d been dressed in a formal dark suit, plain shirt and discreetly patterned tie. He looked honest, but that, like the kindness of anyone’s voice, meant nothing.
Hal’s peculiarly heavy tread sounded in the passage
outside her room, which made her check her watch, then reach for her bag and coat. This was the day she’d been going to take back the domestic responsibility from George, yet here she was still at her desk well after five. She ran down the stone stairs, almost tripping at one moment, and was home in a record fifteen minutes, wondering what she’d find and begging the Fates to keep Jay calm and happy for once.
The boys had beaten her back, but they were already hard at work and absolutely quiet when she pushed open the front door. Her banging heart slowed. David looked up and smiled, but Jay didn’t acknowledge her in any way. She tapped her chest then pointed towards the kitchen. David nodded.
Opening the fridge door and flinching in the blast of cold air, she wondered what to cook for them. It had to be something substantial enough to satisfy their ever-growing appetite, and be reheatable if George did make it to the flat later on. Nothing in the fridge appealed to her. There wasn’t time to roast the leg of lamb and they’d had too many omelettes recently. But there were plenty of potatoes, and a good big chunk of Parmesan, as well as nearly half a small truckle of Cheddar from some special cheesemonger found by George. She shot a look at the vegetable basket to see a pile of onions.
Cheese, onion, and potato pie, she thought as she turned on the oven, filled the kettle, and then reached for the peeler. It wasn’t too unhealthy, and it should make even the hungriest of boys feel full.
Her eyes grew as wet and painful as usual while she sliced six large onions. Sniffing in a way that would have shocked Selina, she turned her face to wipe her eyes on her shoulder.