In my dream I am drowning. The water is coming up to my mouth and then it slips down my throat. Slowly at first, until the water gets too deep and even though I am tipping my head back I can’t quite catch enough air. Once the liquid starts filling my lungs, my vision begins to cloud. All I can see are bubbles, just out of reach, fluttering to some halo of light above me. I stretch my arms out and try to swim, but I am so weak I can barely move. And as I start to sink, my eyes close and my arms rise and my last thought is that it is all over.
The bleep of an incoming text woke me up.
I blinked hard, disorientated at first, but when I realized it was only a nightmare, that the bleep hadn’t come from a set of electronic pearly gates preparing to open, I stretched out to pick up my phone.
I hesitated before I clicked on the envelope icon, wondering who it might be from, but it was only Jenny Morris, apparently just out of morning conference, where she had mentioned the chance of a Martin Joy interview to her editor, who was apparently ‘very keen’.
A knock at my bedroom door made me jump a second time. It took me a few seconds to remember that Tom Briscoe had slept on my sofa, another moment for it to sink in that I was too embarrassed for him to see inside my room, and how I had slept, in an old sleeping bag on top of a towel.
‘Just wait, I’m coming,’ I said as I wiggled out from under the folds of camouflage nylon.
Tom had his shoes and jacket on by the time I got downstairs.
‘I should go,’ he said. ‘Can’t exactly turn up for chambers like this.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said with a half-smile. ‘People have been talking about getting rid of formal court dress for years.’
‘Not sure I want to be the first one to lower the tone,’ said Tom.
‘Thanks for staying …’ It seemed inadequate, but I couldn’t find the words.
‘Are you taking some time off work?’
I shrugged. ‘Vivienne suggested that I go away for a few weeks. On Friday, that sounded tempting. But I guess things are different now. I’m not sure Inspector Doyle would think Thailand qualifies as local.’
‘You should keep your phone on,’ said Tom, back in lawyer mode. ‘Doyle might want to see you again this week. I expect he’ll contact you through me, now. Just be ready.’
‘You are going to make a great QC,’ I said as I unlocked the door. I genuinely meant it. On impulse I kissed him on the cheek and for a long minute, his cool, confident face looked self-conscious.
I’d been wary about coming home, but there was comfort in being back on familiar territory. I rifled through my cupboards, looking for breakfast, and was forced to settle for some Christmas leftovers – a half-eaten box of Matchmakers and a tub of Heroes I’d been given by my cleaner. It was hardly avocado on toast, but a mindless chocolate binge was just what I needed.
I went back upstairs and undressed while I let the shower run hot. Too restless to stay under the jets longer than a couple of minutes, I jumped out, towelled myself down and went to get dressed: jeans, T-shirt, jumper and boots that I laced up tightly. I lit all the candles, opened the windows, and put a fresh sheet and pillow cases on the bed.
After I’d tidied and cleaned and scrubbed, I stopped to make myself a drink, and sat down at the dining table. I was desperate for another session with Gil, but he’d told me at the counselling centre that he was going on holiday in a couple of days and I figured he was probably at the airport, desperate to forget about clients like me. Meanwhile it was another lively Monday morning for the likes of Inspector Doyle and his team. I had no doubt that my name would be brought up in their start-of-the-week meetings, where officers, bright-eyed and eager, fuelled by coffee and talk of ‘new leads’ would present their evidence against me and Martin Joy.
My eyes fluttered to my neat shelves stuffed with box files and books. In the gaps were mementoes like the small silver cup I had won at university for mooting, and a beautiful David Linley box given to me by a grateful client. Reminders that, once upon a time, I had been considered good.
Sliding my mug to one side, I stretched across to a pile of yellow legal notepads and pulled one on to the dining table.
Fight back, I muttered to myself. It was something my grandfather had said to me the summer I’d left sixth form. After the shame of the school prom and running away, he’d taken me for a long walk over the hills. We could almost see Pendle Hill in the distance and he told me about his time in the war, stories of Spitfires and secret missions to Normandy towns where he’d been trapped behind enemy lines, but had never given up and finally he made it home where he’d forgotten what he’d done and simply started again.
Fight back, he’d said, and even though I was never sure if his stories were true – I’d never seen any medals or heard anything about his heroics mentioned in our family, but it was the conversation that made me get my act together.
The conversation that stopped me feeling sorry for myself and playing the victim.
I lost my nose-ring and found a part-time job. Swapped my history degree for the department of law when a string of A grades in my A-levels told me I was good enough to do whatever I wanted to do.
Fight back.
There was a black fineliner on the table next to my reading glasses, which I’d had for months but couldn’t yet admit I needed. I looked at the blank page, and then started writing. I wrote a list of motives for both Martin and Alex, and suggestions for what might have happened to Donna if she hadn’t been killed or abducted. I wrote down what I could remember from my conversations with Inspector Doyle, Phil Robertson and Jenny Morris: the blood in Donna’s bed, Martin’s ruthless reputation, Donna’s trip to Paris and her affair with Alex Cole. And I wrote down what I had seen with my own eyes: that Martin had left the Chelsea house more or less when he said he did and Donna had watched him go.
I looked down at the page, but it was just a jumble of names and words, a series of shapes, black on yellow, like hazard tape. I moved my pen across the paper, scribbling arrows and lines as if I were trying to connect the dots, but I didn’t have enough information.
For a moment, I was tempted to have another conversation with Sophie Cole. With the exception of Martin, she seemed to know Donna better than anyone. It was possible she knew something of significance, even if its relevance hadn’t so far occurred to her. But after the confrontation we’d had over Alex and Donna’s possible affair, calling Sophie wasn’t an appealing option.
Looking for inspiration, I grabbed my rucksack that was hooked on the back of the chair, pulled out the Sunday tabloid I’d bought the day before, and re-read the story about Donna:
Beautician Jemma Banks, 42, told police that her sister’s disappearance was completely out of character. ‘Donna was looking forward to my birthday party in our home town. It wasn’t like her to miss it.’
I frowned as I re-read the paragraph. Martin had maintained that Donna and her sister weren’t close, but she certainly seemed central to helping the police in their enquiries. And if Donna was going to Jemma’s birthday party, that suggested the two sisters were closer than he thought.
It was surprisingly easy to track Jemma Banks down. The electoral roll, company house records, Facebook – there were a number places where you could find out an alarming amount of details with just a few seconds and a few pounds.
Stuffing a mini Bounty into my mouth, I grabbed my coat and rucksack, pulling out the old clothes that I been storing in there since Thursday and throwing my pants and T-shirts into the laundry bin when my phone chirped.
It had been on my mind all morning that I ought to phone Clare. I felt bad, the way we’d left things yesterday, and although she’d made it clear that I wasn’t welcome to stay another night, I still hadn’t got back in touch to say so.
I’m sorry.
I read the text again, but there was no name of sender and I didn’t recognize the number.
Who is this? I typed back, eager to get out of the flat.
Pete
I forced myself to breathe. I had no idea how he’d got my number and I suddenly felt as if he was watching me.
I looked down at the phone without moving and then shook my head, I needed to fight back, to get back control. Not willing to take it for another second, I went downstairs and knocked hard on his door.
I felt possessed, consumed with rage. Last night every noise from downstairs had made me jump, but now all I wanted was to punch his weaselly face.
He opened the door and must have detected my fury.
‘How did you get hold of my number, Pete?’ I said, not waiting for him to speak.
‘The girl on reception at your work, gave it to me.’
‘Well she had no right to,’ I hissed pointing my finger in his face.
‘Calm down, Fran. I only wanted to apologize.’
‘Oh, so you didn’t mean to go to the police and accuse me of murder?’
‘I’m helping their investigation. Everybody wants Donna Joy found. Don’t you?’
He paused and studied me intently. And I matched his stare. There was a red spot on the side of his nose and a white pustule above his eyebrow.
‘Now you’re here, you can tell me: who was that man this morning, the one leaving your apartment at eight o’clock?’
‘That’s none of your business, Pete.’
He shrugged. ‘We’ve got to keep our eyes open for strangers wandering around the building. It’s only sensible. The other day, my friend found a vagrant urinating in his communal hall.’
He leant against the doorframe, more casual now, more cock-sure than when he had first answered the door.
‘I believe it’s the same man I saw on Friday,’ he said. ‘Your colleague. Have we moved on to an office romance now?’
‘Yes, he’s a lawyer. Because, yes, I’m taking legal advice. We were discussing my situation. He stayed over because, frankly, my neighbour has been behaving unpredictably.’
‘That wouldn’t be me, would it, Franny?’
‘Fuck off, Pete.’
It wasn’t my best line, but I was sick of him.
‘Don’t say that, Fran. I care about you.’
I turned away, bracing myself for him to call out my name, but I was relieved when I heard the door shut. I took the steps two at a time and ran on to the street, not stopping until I reached the car-hire place near my favourite deli in Highbury Fields.
Martin had been right about needing a car. Jemma Banks lived in Colchester, which wasn’t too difficult to get to from Islington – it was only a short hop to Liverpool Street station and then an overground train to Essex, but I felt vulnerable enough as it was and didn’t want to have to rely on anyone for anything.
ZipCars rented vehicles by the hour, but I put down my credit card and asked for a week. I felt a surge of power and urgency as the young assistant pushed a set of keys to a Fiat Panda in front of me and I clutched them in my hand.
The only time I ever drove was on my annual vacation to Italy, so it felt strange sitting on the right-hand side of the car. I took a few moments to familiarize myself with the vehicle, pushing the gear stick from side to side, and revving the clutch pedal slowly with the sole of my boot. The engine gunned to life. I typed Colchester into Google Maps on my phone and as the synthetic voice told me to turn left, I did as I was told and tried to work out my next move.
I’d worked out from my web search that Jemma Banks owned a beauty salon called Tans and Talons on the outskirts of town, on a strip of shops that included a pet store, an off licence and a Chinese takeaway.
When Google Maps told me that I had arrived at my destination, I slowed the car almost to a stop, but when I noticed that the salon looked busy I went back into the town centre, parked the car and went for lunch at Prezzo on the high street.
I checked my messages and emails as I ate. There wasn’t much – just some work-related corrrespondence and a text from Tom Briscoe checking that I was OK. When there was nothing from Clare, I called her as I waited for the bill but was relieved when it went to voicemail.
It was almost four o’clock by the time I got back to Jemma’s shop. As I’d hoped, Tans and Talons was now empty. Through the plate-glass window I could see a solitary figure sweeping up and rearranging magazines in a wall rack. A gust of wind picked up an empty Coke can on the pavement and it rattled along the flagstones as I opened the door of the salon.
‘Sorry, darling, I’m about to close,’ said the woman. Propping up her broom up in the corner, she walked across to the reception desk. ‘We can make an appointment for another day, if you like,’ she said, her acrylic nail skimming across the book on the counter. ‘Got some availability for tomorrow in fact.’
‘I wasn’t after anything like that,’ I said watching her. When she’d appeared on TV for the appeal I had noted the similarities between the two sisters. Jemma’s face had been pale and washed out on that occasion which emphasized the differences between the women but in the flesh they were less obvious. Jemma’s eyes were a more ordinary shade of green, and her floral blouse was the sort you’d find in a supermarket, not in an expensive designer store. Jemma lacked gloss and the subtle boost that came with expensive grooming; but otherwise they could have been twins.
‘Another journalist?’ said Jemma closing the book, her tone not hard but one of weary recognition.
‘No. Martin Joy’s lawyer,’ I said, trying to inject a note of sympathy into my voice.
Jemma looked at me with suspicion. ‘I’ve spoken to someone from your office already.’
‘His divorce laywer. We haven’t met.’
‘So how can I help?’ she said, without much enthusiasm.
‘I just need a few minutes of your time.’
Jemma glanced at her watch and looked doubtful.
‘I’ve got to get home. That’s why I’m closing early. My daughter’s been on a school trip for the past week and she’s due back anytime. I wanted to be home before she is.’
‘I can come with you. We can talk on the way.’
Jemma raised her brow.
‘I should have known Martin would have got himself a terrier. Crufts variety.’
I wasn’t sure if there was a compliment in there somewhere. Either way I wasn’t going to dispute what she had said. I wanted her onside.
I stayed rooted to the spot until she went to a back room and returned with her coat and bag.
She turned off the lights and walked out on to the street, waiting for me to follow her, then locked the glass door behind us.
‘It feels wrong to be working at the moment,’ she said as she locked the front door and put the keys in her handbag. ‘But working helps. Takes your mind off things. Don’t you find that?’
Without waiting for a response to her first question, she asked, ‘You come from London then?’
‘Yes. My car’s just here if you want a lift.’
Jemma shook her head as she zipped up her parka. ‘We’re only round the corner. Easier to walk.’
I quickened my pace to follow her to a Thirties estate tucked away behind the parade.
Jemma nodded towards a red-brick terrace not unlike the one I had grown up in.
‘We used to live there with Mum and Dad. Donna lives in another world now, but I only moved a hundred yards down the road. People are like that, don’t you think? Get as far away as they can from where they grew up, or stay tight to where they grew up. It’s split right down the middle – stick or twist. Which one are you? Your accent’s not Southern.’
‘I grew up in Lancashire. I moved down to London for work.’
‘No lawyers in Manchester?’ she chided.
She had me down as a Donna. A type-A Icarus who thought she was too good for her hometown.
‘There was a lot of coverage in the newspapers this weekend. You were quoted a lot.’
‘Misquoted, more like,’ said Jemma, stuffing her hands in her pockets.
I looked at her in surprise. ‘You mean they made up quotes?’
‘I think the expression is “sexed it up”,’ she said. ‘I had a lot to say to that journalist, but I didn’t think it was the time or the place. I’ve never thought trial by media was particularly helpful, and I was worried it might muck up our case. That can happen, can’t it?’
She looked at me for an answer this time, and I could tell that she actually wanted my advice. Since I wanted something from her, I thought it wise to play ball.
‘You’re right, it’s not helpful for any hatchet jobs or witch hunts to appear in the press. Besides, Martin has only been arrested, not charged. And he was released after twenty-four hours. Insinuations in the media can backfire. A feeding frenzy could end up with the papers being prosecuted for contempt of court.’
‘This is us,’ she said, pointing to a small semi-detached. There was an old Corsa in the drive and a rusted barbecue left hopefully for the refuse collection.
She opened the front door and I went inside, taking a minute to look around.
‘How many children have you got?’ I asked, waiting to be invited through.
‘Two. Ella’s fifteen, Josh started uni in Bournemouth last September.’
The room was dim. She switched on a lamp and I went into the living room and sat on the sofa.
‘Tea?’
I nodded and she disappeared into the kitchen. I took a moment to look around the room. It seemed a happy place. An old piano festooned with photos of the kids: on a trampoline, at school sports day. Framed pictures of her children on the wall – all freckles and gap-toothed smiles.
I’d not been inside Donna Joy’s multimillion-pound townhouse, but I knew it would be a world away from this cosy, lived-in space.
‘Why do you want to speak to me?’ she asked once she’d poured the tea and sat down on a chair under the window.
I had my story prepared. The same one I had told Jenny.
‘Martin is my client. By extension, he’s a client of the place where I work. They’re worried about possible damage to the firm’s reputation.’
Jemma looked teary.
‘I’ve always wondered when Donna’s social aspirations would get her into trouble. She always had big dreams. This life wasn’t big enough for her,’ she said, looking around. ‘She wanted more, and to get more she started hanging around with people who had more. She moved to Chelmsford when she was seventeen, inching her way towards London even then. She got in with the rich Essex lot. Her first proper boyfriend, Charlie, he was a gangster’s son. I tried to tell her why rich people were rich. How you have to be hard, ambitious, ruthless to become wealthy in the first place. But she didn’t listen. She didn’t even seem surprised when Charlie ended up in jail for fraud.’
She paused to sip her tea.
‘Donna always joked that she was Martin’s project.’
‘You don’t like Martin?’ I ventured.
Jemma shrugged. ‘I did at first. I thought he was different. You know he’s not from money? Lost his parents when he was young, was brought up by his grandparents. Worked his way through college, made his millions in the city … He seemed generous to his friends, did a lot for charity. It was hard not to respect him.’
‘What happened?’
‘I didn’t see Donna much,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Not for the longest time. I’m not daft. I know she doesn’t like being reminded of where she came from, even if it means not seeing her big sister. But over the past year, I started to see her a bit more. I think she needed someone to talk to, someone not in her world. It was just a couple of lunches at first, but more so lately. Then a few weeks ago, we were supposed to meet for afternoon tea, but she cancelled. I phoned her up – thought a chat was better than nothing, and she asked me to come round to her place in Chelsea. We were supposed to be meeting in London anyway, so that was fine with me. Besides, I was worried about her. I thought the stress of the divorce was getting her down. When I got to her house, she had a bruise around her eye.’
She let out a long breath and continued.
‘I knew he’d hit her, even before she told me. Apparently they’d met to discuss the court case. They’d argued and he’d lashed out and thrown his phone at her. She said it had happened before. After she’d been on a shopping trip to New York.
‘She told me she’d had to get away because Martin was being so vile; he was taking a lot of coke, drinking a lot, business was stressful and he took it all out on her. He was furious when she got back and hit her. She said she’d been scared for her life and that’s why she filed for divorce.’
I took a few seconds to process it. I knew Martin liked a drink, but I’d never seen him take drugs. I knew how much cocaine fuelled the City. But drugs, violence …? I tried to work out when this phone-throwing episode had happened. He’d admitted that they’d met up to ‘talk’ in the days following our meal at Ottolenghi’s. We’d barely discussed what had been said – I’d found it too painful to go there – but he had given no indication that their meeting had gone badly.
As for the anecdote about the New York shopping trip – that was very different to the one he’d told me.
‘None of this came up in the divorce proceedings, Jemma. Domestic abuse was never mentioned. Donna never applied for a restraining order, there was nothing to suggest she was scared of Martin.’
Jemma was shaking her head.
‘Donna liked creating this illusion of the perfect life. She was embarrassed about the bruise. She’d never have let me see it unless she wanted to talk through what he had done and get my advice on what she should do about it.’
‘And what did you say?’
She paused and looked at me.
‘I told her she should report it to the police, but I’m not surprised she didn’t. Donna would want to distance herself from domestic violence. Pretend it never happened, dress it up as something else, because things like that get out in those sort of social circles. Image, reputation was everything to my sister.’
I let her words sink in. I’d always wondered what Martin and Donna really had in common, and now I knew. It was their outward appearance to the world that mattered, absolutely, to both of them.
‘Why did you report Donna missing?’ I asked quietly. ‘What made you think something was wrong?’
Jemma gave a sad shrug.
‘A few days after I went to her house in Chelsea she came back to Colchester for the afternoon. I closed the salon and we came back here. We dug out old photographs, talked about old times. It was like old times. She liked it so much, she said she wanted to see everyone again. I decided to throw a birthday party and invite all the old crowd. She was looking forward to it so much. But when she didn’t turn up, when she didn’t call me on my birthday, when I couldn’t get in touch with her, I knew something was off.’
‘Even though she goes away so often?’
‘If you’re asking me if my sister is unreliable, I think we both know the answer to that one. But she wanted to come to my party. She promised.’
I bought some time before I spoke again, sipping my tea even though it had lost its heat.
‘Did she tell you she was having an affair with Martin’s business partner?’
‘An affair?’ she repeated, frowning.
‘Did she mention him?’
‘No. Never. I don’t believe that she was having an affair.’ She looked at me with those cat-like eyes, so like her sister’s.
‘How do you know?’
‘I just got the impression she was a bit sick of men.’
‘You were hardly close, Jemma, and it’s a very personal thing to discuss.’
‘We were close enough,’ she said defensively. ‘Our lives were very different but we are still sisters. We shared a bedroom for six years when we were growing up, laughed, cried, worried about boys. We used to lie in our twin beds at night, not able to quite get to sleep, talking for hours. I just think I’d have known if she was involved with someone else, happy about being with someone else.’
‘But something did happen with Martin’s business partner. He admitted it.’
She looked at me, her expression harder this time.
‘We don’t know what’s happened to Donna, but don’t go putting the blame on my sister,’ she said coldly.
‘I’m not blaming her—’
‘You’re dealing with a charming, brilliant and manipulative man, Miss Day. A man who will stop at nothing to keep his money.’
She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Jemma pulled back the curtain behind her and peered outside.
‘My daughter’s home. I think I’ve said enough,’ she said, standing up. She waited for me to stand up, to indicate that my audience with her was now over.
And as I stepped back out on to the unfamiliar provincial street, I wondered if it was a good idea even going there.