The offices of the Gassler Partnership were only a stone’s throw from Claridges, but at least a century apart; a tall glass building rather than a redbrick townhouse that whispered of Georgian dandies, it had a floor-to-ceiling glass frontage and a huge modernist chandelier hanging over the double-height lobby. I supposed when it came to high-tech finance, sleek and shiny was the way to go. As the taxi pulled to a halt, I tried to phone Sophie Cole one last time; she wasn’t as close to Martin as her husband Alex, but at least I had her phone number. When my call went straight to voicemail, I thrust money at the driver and almost fell out on to the pavement.
‘Oi! Your wig!’ shouted the cabbie with a grin. I turned back and grabbed the silver horsehair mop from the back seat. Stuffing it into my bag, I ran through the stiff revolving doors, almost tripping as I came through, raising a questioning stare from a po-faced concierge manning the front desk.
I glanced behind him, noting that the Gassler Partnership was not the only company in the building. Clearly I would have to get past him before I could speak to Martin’s receptionist.
‘I’m here to see Alex Cole at Gassler,’ I said, suddenly embarrassed at the realization I was still wearing my barrister’s robes.
Although I looked a pillar of the establishment at the Inns of Court, he looked at me with suspicion as if I were a drunk or a vagrant.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘If you could just call his office and ask if he’ll speak to me, I’d be grateful. Say it’s Francine Day. I’m his legal representative,’ I said, trying to recover my dignity.
‘I think he’s still at lunch,’ he replied with little enthusiasm.
My fingers drummed against the black marble desk as he picked up the phone and spoke to someone. He seemed to delight in stringing it out before he shook his head and told me that Alex wasn’t in the office.
‘Could I speak to his PA, then?’ I said, leaning forward.
‘Do you not have her direct line?’ he said with a note of challenge.
‘No, I do not have her number,’ I said, my voice beginning to crack. ‘This is an emergency and I need to speak to Alex Cole now.’
‘I can leave a message with reception …’
It couldn’t wait, not with Martin sitting in a cell.
‘Get someone on the phone for me now.’
I could hear myself, loud, aggressive and unconvincing. The concierge stood up and without saying a word, I knew he was about to ask me to leave.
I glanced towards the lift, hearing it ping as the doors prepared to open and began to stride towards it.
The scramble of footsteps behind me fired a thrilling current of energy through my body.
My shoes slipped on the polished concrete. I almost fell, but a pair of hands reached out to steady me.
‘Francine?’
The voice was puzzled, a touch annoyed.
I didn’t recognize Sophie Cole immediately.
‘What are you doing here?’
Her face softened. ‘I could say the same about you,’ she said.
‘Martin, I heard about Martin,’ I replied, catching my breath. ‘I had to find out what’s going on.’
The concierge was standing behind me and I could feel the heat of his disapproval without even looking at him.
‘Is everything all right, Mrs Cole?’
‘Thank you, Graham. Everything’s fine. Francine’s with me.’
She stabbed the lift button to stop the steel door from closing.
‘Let’s go to my office,’ she said briskly.
The small space of the lift seemed to contract around us and I knew I had to say something.
‘So you’ve heard about Martin?’
‘Of course,’ she said, without looking at me.
‘I’m sorry but I had to come.’
Sophie glanced at me and then looked straight ahead.
‘You could start with taking off your gown.’
Another time, another elevator, I had slipped off my blouse as Martin had pressed my spine against the cold metal door. Those days seemed a very long way away.
I didn’t bother to argue with Sophie; I was just grateful for someone else to take control, grateful for her crisp head-girl efficiency.
I bundled the black folds of fabric under my arm and followed her out of the lift. She led the way down a corridor lined with small rooms, each containing someone hunched over a computer screen.
I’d never been to Martin’s place of work before, had never really considered what a hedge-fund office would look like, beyond a vague image of red-faced alpha-males staring at Bloomberg screens and shouting ‘Buy!’ and ‘Sell!’ into their phones. But there was an unsettling stillness about this place; the only movement the flicker of eyes looking up at me as I walked past open office doors. I wondered what they knew.
I followed Sophie into a corner office that bristled with the trappings of success. A large iMac on the otherwise uncluttered desk, a designer sofa that looked out on to the Mayfair streets below.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated as she closed the door behind us. ‘I just had to know what’s happened and I thought Alex was the only other person he might have spoken to …’
‘You can’t do this, Fran,’ she said, cutting me off. ‘I’ve had to field two calls from the press in the past ten minutes. I was just heading to the lobby to check that there weren’t any photographers in the street when I saw you. You can’t come pushing your way in here, dressed like Rumpole of the Bailey. This is a business, Fran. We could have clients here – we do have clients here. How would it look if you’re splashed all over the front pages tomorrow? Think.’
I knew she was right and took a moment to tell her so.
‘I know. But when I got the call that Martin had been arrested, I needed to talk to someone.’
Sophie looked at me, then her expression softened.
‘If it was Alex, I’d be the same.’ She took a bottle of water from the console table and filled two glasses.
‘So how much do you know?’ she asked, handing me a tumbler.
‘Nothing,’ I replied feeling another rise of panic. ‘Just that he’s been arrested.’
‘The police went round to the loft shortly before lunch,’ she said. ‘Thank God he’d taken a few days off work, else they would have turned up here.’
‘But they haven’t got any evidence …’
‘The police just want to look as if they’re doing something. I should imagine at some point he could take legal action against them.’
‘Wrongful arrest,’ I said firmly, wanting to believe that he could one day have a claim.
‘But right now, we don’t want to make things any more complicated than they have to be.’
I looked at her and waited for her to expand. I liked Sophie Cole. Liked her no-nonsense capability, even though it reminded me of the person I used to be. She certainly had more about her than the average wife I met on the high-networth marriage-and-divorce circuit. They were generally attractive but all of them had a touch of steel, a single-mindedness about them. I suppose they needed it. Yet there was a smaller group whose beauty was not the defining quality; the smart wives, the accomplished wives, the women who were as Alpha as their husbands and Sophie Cole certainly fell into this category.
‘People want a bad guy, Fran. The press because it sells papers, the police, because they’ve got a job to do and they want it done. I don’t believe that Martin is involved in Donna’s disappearance, but if people want a villan, don’t give them ammunition. Don’t give them the story of his affair with his lawyer. Don’t turn up here frantic and panicking and expect people not to ask questions, because they will.’
I felt a wave of shame. She was right, of course – and I was supposed to be good at this stuff, thinking four moves ahead, anticipating what the opposition was going to say or do. Today I seemed to be frozen, a seized-up machine.
I sat down on the sleek sofa and Sophie joined me.
‘They can’t charge him,’ she said in a quiet, more reassuring voice. ‘They’ve got nothing on him.’
I closed my eyes and nodded. I wasn’t just the lover, I was the lawyer. I should have been the one reassuring Sophie that Martin would be released without charge, that his arrest was little more than in a bump in the road until we found Donna. But I wanted to hear someone tell me that everything was going to be all right.
I felt Sophie put a reassuring hand on my forearm and I snapped back into the present.
‘Alex is down there with his lawyer. He just texted me. Martin’s fine. He’s made of pretty strong stuff. If the police think they can spook him into making a confession, they’ve picked the wrong man.’
‘Confession?’ I said, flashing her a look.
‘False confession.’ She replied more deliberately.
‘Alex is going to bring him back to our house and we’ll put him up there. Martin’s been photographed coming in and out of the Spitalfields house for the past few days and I’m worried he’ll snap if he’s constantly on his own. And we can look after him of course.’
It made perfect sense to hide Martin away from the long lenses and the insinuations, but at the same time I bristled that it was necessary when he was innocent. Most of all, I knew that it would mean there would be a barrier between us. To protect him – to protect us – I had to keep away.
‘It won’t be forever,’ she said. ‘Just for now. And you know it’s best for Martin.’
Best for the business, I thought.
‘Best for you,’ she added as if she had read my uncharitable thoughts.
‘I won’t come to the office again,’ I said, not looking at her.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
I nodded quickly. ‘I was just rattled. Thank you for being the voice of reason.’
Sophie paused before she opened the door.
‘I know you love him, but don’t let any man ruin your life,’ she said with quiet steel. ‘You met Martin because he wanted you as his lawyer. And if Martin chose you as his lawyer, that means you’re the best. No man is worth risking that reputation.’
I knew she was right before the words had even left her mouth.