Fleet Street was busy as I headed towards Middle Temple. People were already leaving work and I could easily spot the lawyers in their staid suits, pilot cases stuffed with case files for the weekend; their working day not yet over, just changing location from office to home. That was my life once, not so long ago. The thought had been casual, but it struck me so hard that I stopped mid-stride, almost colliding with the red-faced businessman coming up behind me.
I mumbled my apology and carried on walking, getting more and more nervous as I approached Burgess Court. Vivienne MacKenzie had asked me to come in to ‘discuss the ongoing situation’. At least she saw me as ‘ongoing’ which was better than ‘erased from all records’, but still, I wasn’t looking forward to our meeting.
It struck me that, however politely Vivienne had framed her email, there was a very real chance of me being asked to leave chambers. It would then be only a matter of time before word got around that I had been kicked out and once that happened, it would be almost impossible to find another set to take me on. Everything I had worked for over the years, every rung of the ladder I had dragged myself up, every mind-numbing Hansard volume I’d crammed would all be a complete and utter waste. I had thrown everything – everything – away for a fling with a man I barely knew.
I put one foot in front of the other, tried to ignore the grey sky and the rain in the air, tried not to see them as omens until I got to Burgess Court. The first person I saw as I entered the building was Helen, our receptionist. At least she was a friendly face.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said, struggling to pull on her coat. ‘Paul said you were on holiday. Thought you might be somewhere nice.’
‘No, I’ve just been at home. Here, let me help,’ I said, tugging her coat straight.
‘A staycation,’ grinned Helen, ‘I’d love that. Lounging in bed, just watching romcoms and eating pizza – perfect,’ she added with a raised eyebrow.
‘Something like that,’ I said, distracted. I couldn’t see Paul in the clerk’s room, but he had an unsettling habit of just appearing from nowhere.
‘All your messages are on your desk, except for a couple of new ones just here,’ she said, grabbing a couple of hot-pink Post-it notes and thrusting them at me.
‘Got to go. Supposed to have half a day off today, but time flies. New man’s taking me to Brighton this weekend. Meeting him at Victoria in about … shit, ten minutes. Enjoy your “break”!’
I smiled and watched her run out of chambers. I put my messages in my pocket, and ran up the stairs to my office in the eaves.
I took a moment to look around the tiny space, my pencils ordered neatly on the desk, a hammered metallic bowl I had found in Amalfi and used for rubber bands and paper clips reminded me of happier times, a neat pile of books, stacked vertically to use every inch of space reminded me of the careful order that my life once had. I sank into my chair, bowing my head and wondered if I would return to that quiet, predictable life ever again.
There was an incoming text from Vivienne who said she was running late.
I was grateful for the extra minutes. I pulled open my drawers, grabbing Phil’s file on Donna Joy, shoving it into my bag along with a couple of notebooks and, as an afterthought, the black-and-white grosgrain ribbon that had tied up the box that my designer bag, Martin’s gift, had come in.
The lever-arch files containing the Joy vs Joy paperwork were still on the shelves where I kept all my casework. Perhaps there was some detail buried inside that I had missed. I knew I couldn’t take them all; the files were too heavy for a start, let alone the questions that would be asked when their absence was noted. I flicked through the fattest one, grabbed the most important statements and made photocopies of them, then replaced the originals. I cased the room one last time, wondering what else I should take, reminding myself that this was my stuff, or at least, most of it.
I sat down at my desk and unscrewed a half-empty bottle of Evian. The water was studded with bubbles. Then again I must have first opened it a week ago. I was losing all track of time.
I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out the Post-it notes that Helen had given me at reception.
The top one was a message to call a solicitor I had promised to take out to lunch. I wasn’t sure that anyone would be keen to instruct me, no matter how good the restaurant, once they heard about my court melt-down the other day. I scrunched it up and looked at the next one – and froze.
2.55 Pete Carroll. Says he will see you at home.
Helen had drawn a little smiley face underneath the words, a playful code from one woman to another. Finally I understood her hints about staying in bed and eating pizza; I could imagine what she’d been thinking when she’d taken the message. Francine Day finally gets a boyfriend – no wonder she wants the week off.
Suddenly I felt itchy, unclean, as if a toxic spill had infected my workspace, blackening the walls and creeping across the floor, thousands of tiny spider legs tapping towards me.
I shut the door and fled, keeping my eyes on the stairs, fearing to look up at the walls where I knew there was a line of oil paintings: the chambers’ founding barristers, swaddled in their black robes and stern forbidding expressions, glaring at me, judging me. We knew you were weak, Miss Day, we gave you a chance and look what happened. Let us all down – again.
‘Fran, is that you?’
Vivienne was at the bottom of the stairs, as if she had known where I was all along, lying in wait, barring my escape. I had long wondered if Paul had installed secret spy equipment around the building, imagined him, Vivienne and Charles Napier viewing it daily to keep us all in check.
I felt my cheeks flush as I walked closer towards her.
‘Let’s go into the library,’ she said, her manner more brusque and officious than usual.
Vivienne was not really my boss. As barristers, we were all self-employed, but as joint head of chambers, Vivienne was still in charge. Sensing I wasn’t going to like what she was about to say, I gripped my bag tighter and sat down at the big walnut table.
‘Yusef Khan has taken Daniyal out of the country,’ she said without preamble. ‘Holly Khan is threatening legal action against you for negligence.’
I stayed quite still as Vivienne looked at me for a response.
‘I was wrong to leave court,’ I said finally. ‘I left before my closing statements but I’m not sure that the judge’s decision would have been any different if I had made …’
I stopped myself, disgusted that I was even trying to justify my actions. I’d abandoned my client and she had lost her son. She had every right to claim that I had failed her – I had, in the worst way possible, at the most crucial time. Vivienne didn’t make a comment.
‘Paul has checked your insurance policy,’ she said instead. ‘Everything is up to date. So if they do successfully sue you, you should be covered. I’m also having a meeting with Tanya Bryan on Monday; she hasn’t indicated whether her firm is planning to pay you, but you should be prepared for that too. It might be time to obtain a medical certificate from your doctor, although I’m sure you’re aware that any mental health issues could impact on you professionally.’
I could sense it coming. She was going to serve me notice. I was going to be expelled from chambers.
Instead, her expression softened and I felt my breath stutter in my chest.
‘I’ll take my head of chambers hat off now, shall I?’
She gave me a little smile and I was grateful for it. She had skin in the game on this one; my fall from grace would not reflect well on Burgess Court. Lawyers enjoyed a good gossip as much as the next person and I could imagine how much the industry would relish the scandal of legal proceedings against Martin Joy’s counsel.
I had no idea how the merger with Sussex Court Chambers was coming along, but if the negativite publicity surrounding Donna’s disappearance hadn’t killed it off, then rumours of my reckless professional behaviour might do the job.
‘Take a holiday, Fran,’ she said more kindly. ‘A proper one. Get out of the city. Go and see your family. I’ve got a cottage in Devon, which you’re welcome to use. It’s got a view of the sea, and miles of walks in every direction. Making silk isn’t important. Your health is.’
Silk. It had been the last thing on my mind. For so long – nearly fifteen years – it had been my goal, my own personal grail, and now it was like dust slipping through my fingers. But sitting here, opposite Vivienne, a woman, a lawyer I had admired for so long, I suddenly wanted it more than ever.
‘QC interviews aren’t till September. If I take some time off, publish some papers, then work hard to repair whatever damage I’ve done to my reputation …’
‘Corporate burnout is all around us and it’s serious,’ she said with quiet firmness.
I looked away from her in shame, remembering an Inns of Court story I’d heard as a pupil. How a particularly pompous junior at a nearby chambers used to boast about making High Court judge by forty, but quietly retired by the same age, having been found running naked through Middle Temple one Christmas Eve singing ‘Good King Wenseslas’. I didn’t want to be a cautionary tale, another egghead who couldn’t take the pace of twelve-hour days for fifteen straight years. I hadn’t come this far, fought so many prejudices to fail now.
‘Do you know why I took a six-week sabbatical last year?’
I wasn’t aware that she had. I had a vague recollection of some fabulous holiday involving the Orient Express and a cruise up the Mekong River, but I assumed it was to celebrate a milestone birthday for either Vivienne or her husband.
‘I was at breaking point,’ she confided. ‘I had to get out.’
The most inscrutable face in the business coloured.
‘This business isn’t easy, Fran. But if we don’t accept that we’re not perfect, that we’re not robots, that we are just people who want a life outside our place of work, if we don’t give ourselves a break, then we are going to break.’
‘So you’re not asking me to leave?’
‘Leave?’
‘You’re not kicking me out of chambers.’
‘Of course not. Is that what you thought this was about?’
I nodded back with sinking relief.
‘Fran, of all the young barristers that have joined this chambers, out of everyone I’ve tried to support or mentor, you’re the one I’m most proud of.’
‘But the merger …’
‘Take a holiday, Fran. Leave the worrying to someone who has rebooted in the Mekong.’
I walked out of chambers, taking in a lungful of late-afternoon air.
Fountain Square was disappearing into the dusk, although I knew that the longer, warmer nights were just around the corner. There would be a pop-up champagne bar here soon, keeping up the tradition that Middle Temple had once had as a venue for lavish entertaining. Rumour had it that the very first production of Twelfth Night was staged in the Tudor hall in the corner of the square. I’d studied the text for A-level and could barely remember anything about the story except that it involved mistaken identity. Strangely, it was the theme I had enjoyed most about the play, that people were not who they seemed. Ironic, I thought, given I’d spent the past few weeks reading people wrongly.
I slung my rucksack over my shoulder when I saw Tom Briscoe stride across the Square.
He waved and we met halfway at the fountain.
‘Late lunch?’ I smiled.
My mood had lifted after my conversation with Vivienne and I was genuinely glad to see him.
‘Something like that,’ he replied, pushing back his hair. ‘So, you’re back,’ he said after a moment. ‘Good. I was wondering where you’d got to.’
I had no idea if he knew about the Khan vs Khan saga, so I deflected his remark:
‘Sounds like you missed me for a moment there, Tom.’
‘How can I not miss the daily dose of abuse when I make my morning coffee?’
I pushed my bag further up my shoulder and smiled.
‘How are you?’ he asked, with a look of genuine concern.
‘Not great,’ I said honestly. ‘But a weekend doing nothing might sort me out.’
‘There’s a play at Hampstead Theatre, if you fancy it,’ he said, not meeting my gaze directly. ‘My brother’s directing it. I said I’d pop down. You should come.’
‘Me?’ I said, surprised. ‘I don’t want to impose. You’ll be there with your family … Hannah?’
‘Actually, no.’
I was certain Tom was just being kind, but I didn’t want to complicate things any further by seeing my colleagues socially.
‘I’m staying with a friend at the moment. Perhaps another time?’ I said, feeling a drop of rain fall on my forehead, feeling grateful for the chance to leave.
‘It’s about to tip it down. I should go.’
‘You’re right. I’d better check in with Paul before he sends out a search party to the Devereaux Arms.’
I walked away from him quickly, regretting instantly having turned down the chance to have a normal night out.
‘Francine.’
I spun round, hoping that Tom was calling me back. I stopped still when I saw him.
I should have recognized Pete Carroll’s voice. Should have known that he might come here.
He stepped towards me, then shifted his feet so that he stood square on the flagstones.
‘Who was that man?’ he said pushing his hands into the pockets of his puffa jacket.
‘Hello, Pete,’ I said, ignoring the fat raindrops hitting my shoulders. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of letting him see how unsettled I was.
‘Did you get my message?’ he said with a glassy smile.
The Post-it note. I assumed he’d rung, but he must have come to Burgess Court to see me.
‘Just a few minutes ago when I popped into chambers. I’ve not been working this week.’
‘What have you been doing?’
‘I’ve been staying with a friend,’ I said, inwardly cursing myself. I knew I shouldn’t be giving him information.
‘Who? Martin Joy?’
‘No, not Martin,’ I sighed.
‘Then who? That man I just saw you with?’
‘He’s a colleague from chambers,’ I said, stopping myself from using Tom’s name.
‘He didn’t look like a workmate. In fact, I’d say you have a type.’
‘Pete, stop it,’ I said, irritation overcoming my discomfort. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’
‘You haven’t been home for two nights. I’ve been worried about you.’
‘Well, I’m fine.’
‘I was going to cook us dinner on Tuesday but you never showed up. I thought you might be upset because I left without saying goodbye the other day. You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘Pete, I have a busy life,’ I said, trying to keep my voice cool. ‘Work takes me out of town, friends want to see me …’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Because for a moment, it felt like you’re avoiding me. Which hurts, seeing as the last time you saw me, I was inside you.’
His words made me shudder but I covered it by pulling my coat tighter around me.
‘How is Martin, anyway?’ said Pete, oblivious. ‘I thought he’d be in custody by now. Then again, perhaps the police are smarter than we think. Perhaps they suspect Martin wasn’t the only one at Donna Joy’s house that night.’
I didn’t say anything. Pete Carroll was unpredictable and I didn’t want to provoke him any more than I had to.
‘Are you coming home tonight?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said, starting to shiver. ‘Like I told you, I’m staying with a friend …’
He leant towards me so that I could feel his sour breath on my face.
‘I will go to the police, Francine. If you don’t come back to the flat this weekend, I’ll go and see Inspector Doyle.’
I held my tongue. I wasn’t going to bother wasting my breath asking how he knew the detective in charge of Donna’s disappearance. Pete Carroll was smart and a world of information was just a few clicks away on the internet.
‘So what?’ I said, trying to sound defiant. ‘I was drunk, I’m not exactly a reliable witness. You really think they will care?’
Pete laughed.
‘Oh, I reckon they will. Think about it: you admit to being there the night Donna Joy disappears, never to be seen again. I think they might put two and two together and make five. I know I did.’
I was determined not to let him see he’d got into my head.
The things he was saying were the dark thoughts that I’d been trying to ignore for the past ten days, the thoughts that had been festering in my subconscious, since I’d heard Donna Joy was missing. I still couldn’t remember anything about that night, couldn’t recall for certain who had gone into the house and when they had left. But what I did know was that I had been there. In fact, that was the only thing I was sure of. I had been watching from the pub, then lurking in the shadows. I was the one constant in the scene. But while I couldn’t say when Martin and Donna had left, I couldn’t account for my movements either, could I?
‘It’s raining,’ I muttered, putting up my collar. ‘We should go.’
‘Good. I knew you’d see sense. We should get a cab. Hurry back. It’s never too soon to start a nice night in.’
I knew how easy it would be to capitulate. To give in to his manipulation to keep him quiet. But I couldn’t. Not now. Not now Vivienne MacKenzie had my back and I was making progress, helping Martin. I could hold this together. Make it work.
‘Pete,’ I said, ‘I’m not going home tonight.’
‘OK, I get it.’ He nodded. ‘You’re a busy girl. But I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?’
His ability to suddenly shift gears disturbed me more than his words: he was twisting the real world to fit his own internal narrative. I flinched as he reached out and took my hand. Although it was clammy and cold, it seared my flesh.
‘I know you’re a bit worried about the age gap, Fran. But we’ve got so much in common, you and I,’ he said, his voice low. ‘I had a peep inside your medicine cabinet when I was at your house. Saw what was in there. I had my own troubles when I was younger, although a spell at the Maudsley sorted me out. We can talk about it tomorrow. I’ll cook and I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘Fine,’ I said, pulling my hand free. I didn’t want to lie to him, but I had to get away.
‘Till then, babe,’ he grinned and I turned on my heel, heading towards the street, feeling his eyes on my back, expecting him to grab me at any moment. But when I dared to glance over my shoulder, the bench and the square were deserted. As soon as I turned the corner into a side street, I bent over and vomited in the gutter.