The Collared Collection (10 page)

Elizabeth Lyon-Smith, a very scary QC in her early fifties who specialised in criminal law, bawled across the room. ‘Has anyone seen the papers for Regina v Scott? They were on my desk a moment ago and now they’re not – I’m due in court in half an hour and I need those papers!’ Elizabeth was flipping her wig big time – she’d lost a major case at the beginning of the week, defending a newspaper proprietor. Now the guy was doing porridge, and Liz wasn’t a happy bunny. QC and hack were having a torrid affair, according to office gossip.

She excused herself from Ginny and went over to Elizabeth’s untidy desk. When she lifted a folder of correspondence, she found the missing file underneath. ‘Here you are, Elizabeth. Panic over.’

‘Oh bollocks, great big hairy ones – thank you so much, Callie. Sorry … I’m all in a tizzy today. You’re a sweetie. Must dash – see you later for drinks?’

‘I’ll be there, wouldn’t miss it.’

As she hurried out the door, Callie couldn’t help feeling sorry for the client, who was relying upon Elizabeth to do her utmost in his defence and get him off the charges without a blemish on his character. She hoped he’d take his toothbrush along to court, just in case.

Her extension rang – from the flashing red light she could tell it was an external call.

‘Montague and Brewer, Callie Ashton speaking. How may I help you?’

‘Christ, woman – you sound like a bloody British Gas call centre!’

‘Dominic? What do you want?’ He would never again be the more intimate Nic to her, except as in Nic the Prick perhaps.

‘I’ll be quick – I’m busy.’ No one else is, of course, she thought.

‘We’re driving down to Cornwall very early tomorrow morning, to spend some time on a colleague’s boat – so you won’t be able to see the boys during the day as planned. Could you collect them from school this afternoon instead? That would be very convenient.’

The words manipulating, bastard, and wanker – plus others she couldn’t spell – eagerly offered their services. They jostled to be first to use her tongue as a springboard out of her mouth.

‘No, Dominic, I’m afraid I can’t do that – I’m committed to a leaving party tonight. You haven’t given me much notice, but you just expect me to fit in with your plans at the drop of a hat? And I think that’s a pretty low trick, taking Sam and Alex away for the weekend – now I won’t get to see them at all.’ Tears of disappointment and anger stung her eyes.

‘Well, if you
will
put socialising before motherhood …’

‘That’s not fair!’ she snapped, as quietly as she could, ‘and it’s not true either.’

‘Huh! Sounds like it to me. You’ll be out boozing with that Ginny when you should be spending quality time with your sons.’

Talk about hell hath no fury like a shitbag scorned, she thought, struggling to keep her temper under control and not bite at his unfounded allegation, ‘I can’t get out of this do, because I’m helping to organise it – it’s a presentation for Bernard, who’s been teaching me the ropes. It’s his last day and I can’t let him down.’ As soon as she’d said it, she realised her mistake – she could feel his malice buzzing down the wire.

‘Huh! But it’s OK to let Sam and Alex down?’

‘No, it isn’t, but you’ve sprung this on me at the eleventh hour and there really is nothing I can do. I’ll explain my dilemma to the boys when I next see them.’

His tone became blasé. ‘Oh well, I can’t promise when that will be – we’re a family unit now, with Polly. She’s doing a magnificent job.’

Callie was incensed, though tried not to betray as much. ‘It’s only been a little over a week, Dominic – and I’ve already picked them up from school three times. You know the boys are with you for their own safety, not through my choice.’ The tears flowed now, down her cheeks and onto her new skirt, courtesy of Ginny’s gold card. PC Thompson, her cop-of-the-day, had risen from his seat and walked toward her, a questioning look on his face. She flapped a hand to tell him she was OK – which she wasn’t.

‘You only have yourself to blame, Callie – cavorting around, finding dead bodies all over the place.’ Too bad one of them wasn’t yours, she thought, but immediately retracted. How could she wish her sons’ father dead? She became aware of Ginny behind her, listening in on the conversation.

‘That’s a ridiculous thing to say. Please don’t be like this, Dominic – none of this is my fault …’ She didn’t have a chance to finish the sentence; Ginny grabbed the phone from her hand and didn’t give a toss about discretion.

‘Dominic Ashton? This is Virginia Montague QC. That’s Queen’s Counsel. I have to advise you in front of several witnesses – all of whom just happen to be affiliated to the legal profession – that if you persist in harassing and threatening my client, Caroline Ashton, I will have you in front of a judge so bloody fast you’ll lose consciousness and your ears will bleed. Furthermore, I will escort my client to your home address at 9 a.m. Saturday – that’s one week from tomorrow – to pick up her children, Sam and Alex. We will return those children, again to your address, at 6 p.m. on the same day. Do you understand me, Mr Ashton?’ During a short pause in her side of the conversation, she smiled. She looked at Callie and winked. ‘He understands.’

As Ginny put the phone down, everyone in the office – including PC Thompson – gave her a standing ovation.

Chapter Eighteen

Montague and Brewer’s full line-up – including the ancillary staff, it being an egalitarian outfit – milled around the first floor private function room of an upmarket Victorian pub just along the road from the office. At the appointed time, Ginny climbed up onto a small stage, wobbling on a pair of skyscraper black patent stilettoes that made her a hundred feet tall, and stood, surrounded by much polished mahogany and rust-coloured flocked wallpaper. While she tested the microphone and called for everyone’s attention, the barman helpfully battered a wine bottle with his metal corkscrew, to ensure all those present were aware that the boss was about to speak

‘Ladies and gentlemen! Now that you’ve replenished your glasses, I’d like you to join me in a toast to Bernard, who is leaving us today for chambers new. However, before we wish him well in the customary manner, I’d like to say a few words.’

From the back, a male heckled, ‘Get on with it, then!’ Someone – Ronan, Callie thought – was already well into the party spirit …

‘Quiet, please, in the cheap seats,’ she laughed, nervously flicking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and moistening her glossed lips. ‘For those of you who don’t know, Bernard began working for Montague Chambers, as it was then, when my late father was at the helm. Following a personal tragedy, Bernard felt he could no longer pursue his own legal career – he got a First in Law from Cambridge, by the way – and he joined Montague’s to organise the day-to-day running of the office. The Bar’s loss was our gain and fortunately for us, he stayed … and stayed.’

Polite laughter trickled through the room.

‘Bernard is one of those people who – without saying a word – instantly commands respect, and quite rightly so, but more than that, he is a tremendously likeable man and he has done us proud, keeping our wheels so expertly oiled for many years.’ She turned to face Bernard. ‘We will miss you greatly, Bernard, but we do sincerely wish you every happiness in the future, clerking for your daughter. She is very lucky to have you on board.’ She leant forward to hand him a small parcel. ‘And we hope this small token of our esteem will be a constant reminder to you of the happy years you spent with Montague’s.’

Visibly overcome with emotion, Bernard barely managed to say, ‘Thank you, Ginny – and everyone.’

Ginny raised her voice and a flute of the champagne she had put on ice for the occasion, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please join me in a toast to Bernard’s continuing health, wealth, and happiness.’

Together, her audience chanted, ‘To Bernard’ and quaffed, before cries of ‘Speech!’ bounced through the crowd. He climbed the steps to join Ginny, a frail, stooped man who looked as though he should be in his garden tending prize geraniums rather than about to embrace a new challenge. Callie hadn’t previously been aware of his history and wondered what the personal tragedy was that had put paid to his ambitions in law. It must have been something rather traumatic, she guessed, to have had such a lasting effect upon someone who’d shown great promise so early on. She recalled the first time Ginny pitched her the idea of working at Montague’s – it was lucky she didn’t warn her she’d have such a hard act to follow, or she might have chickened out.

Holding up his gift, Bernard smiled uncertainly and said, ‘Thank you all. I shall miss you, every one of you. But I leave you in the capable hands of Callie Ashton.’

She gulped and felt her face turn beetroot as her cheeks burned. Bernard consulted a small piece of paper, his reading glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose, ‘Ahem … good evening, to those of you I haven’t yet spoken to. As Ginny pointed out, I have been with Montague’s for many, many years and it is a wrench to leave – but move on I must. I hope I shall bump into many of you around town, but for now, I will say good-bye and good luck to you all. Shalom!’ He performed a stiff little bow and that was it – he stepped down and was immediately enveloped by his ex-colleagues, many thrusting personal gifts at him.

Callie felt a tap on her arm. ‘What did the whip-round buy him?’ asked Susan Williams, one of the younger barristers she’d not had much contact with so far.

‘A golf glove.’

‘Oh … I thought …’

‘And five years’ membership at Big Bunkers Golf Club – very exclusive,’ she added.

‘Well that’s a relief,’ she said, smiling. ‘Bernard’s been with the company so long, he should have a decent leaving present.’ They both sipped. ‘Are you settling in alright?’ Susan asked eventually, her eyes scanning the room.

‘Yes, well, thanks – it was all a little confusing to start with, but Bernard’s been great. I’ll miss him very much next week.’

Simon Stirling approached. ‘Evening, Susan – have you come as a string bean?’ Callie was surprised that Simon – a dead ringer for Billy Bunter, hence his nickname, Bunter – felt disposed to criticise anyone else’s appearance. ‘Hello, Callie,’ he said, ‘what – no bodyguard?’

She nodded to a table in a darkened corner, where PC Thompson was nursing an orange juice, looking fed-up and consulting his watch at regular intervals. She knew he was anxious to be relieved of duty so he could join his mates down the not-so-upmarket pub they frequented every Friday night.

Susan looked frosty and smoothed down the jacket of her very smart dark green suit that looked as though it had been sprayed on. ‘You are such a child, Simon,’ she scoffed, ‘and a rather obnoxious one at that. It’s a nice change to appear before magistrates and not have to wear black.’ She returned her attention to Callie. ‘I’m off in a minute and I’m away on holiday next week – don’t let Simon bore you rigid. Now, I must do the rounds and say goodbye to everyone – I have a hot dinner date.’

With that, she stalked off. Regarding her back view, Callie did see what Simon meant; she was tall and very slim and with the colour of her outfit, Susan did resemble … well, a green bean.

‘That’ll be a hot dinner, not a hot date,’ he said, his eyes reduced to slits, his demeanour spiteful.

Callie took the opportunity to pump him for the grisly details, ‘What was the “personal tragedy” that snuffed out Bernard’s career, do you know?’

‘Not the nitty-gritty, dear heart – just that he and his wife suffered the death of an only child. Car accident, I heard, and his wife was driving. Even though she wasn’t to blame, the burden of guilt was too much for her to bear and she killed herself with an overdose a matter of days later. All terribly tragic.’

‘But he’s leaving us to work with his daughter – I met Eloise the other day. Too bad she couldn’t make it tonight, I rather liked her.’

‘Product of a second marriage on the rebound, dear heart – I don’t think it survived much longer than the journey home from the maternity hospital. Bernard didn’t see Eloise for many years – their rapprochement is fairly recent. His second wife is dead too now – natural causes, in case you were wondering.’

‘Oh, I see …’ She was sad to think that lovely Bernard had spent such a lonely life, but cheered up instantly when she saw David enter the room, along with Mike. PC Thompson was happy to see them too – it meant he could hotfoot it out of there.

David was very good at parties, she discovered – he chatted to all and sundry and made perfect sense on a plethora of subjects. Unfortunately, small talk was something she’d never mastered and so she worked the room hanging onto his coattails. While Ginny had Mike pinned in a corner, practically eating him, David and Callie spent the latter part of the evening chatting with George Caldicott, the newest – though quite senior – barrister to join the firm, and the pupil, who went by the most unfortunate name of Tinker Taylor. They were both bachelors, but there the similarity ended; George was a crusty old thing, who seemed to possess only one very shiny suit and always had food splattered down his tie, while Tinker (‘Call me Harry, please! It’s my middle name’) was an immaculately groomed, personable young man. And he had a brilliant, seemingly endless supply of very funny jokes.

When Ronan (with a silk carnation gnashed between his teeth) and Elizabeth Lyon-Smith started to dance the tango to Mozart, they decided it was time to make a move.

‘Did you drive?’ she asked David.

‘No, we got a taxi, at Ginny’s request – she wants one of us to drive her car home. Mike drew the short straw – I hope he remembered not to tie one on.’

‘I don’t think he’s had the chance, with Ginny monopolising him all night – the poor guy has hardly come up for air.’

‘Ha! Any news on your car?’

‘I haven’t really bothered about it much, it’s such a wreck. I’ll get the glass replaced at some stage, but Ginny always drives me to work – with our sidekick, usually.’

‘I should have thought to move the car further away when the house was on fire, but I was concentrating on getting everyone out …’

‘It doesn’t matter, David – what’s a fire hose nozzle through the windscreen between friends?’