Don’t Say a Word: A gripping psychological thriller from the author of The Good Mother. A. Bird L.
as the fathers.
Unless the crack’s got them. Or worse, heroin.
But anyway, it’s better than some rich twat who’s got sick of one house and wants another one, just down the road.
Not stuck in a flat spitting distance from Marsh Farm estate with no real hope of moving away from the spectre of your son getting caught up in the same type of gang that got us there in the first place. Whether they’re boys or men or desexed junkies they’re all the same, wherever you go. And they beat their women. No fucking doubt. And no one gives a shit.
So. Yeah. Maybe with Tim’s case I can help someone.
I can’t fill in this form so angry. I’ll do voicemail instead. I stick the Bluetooth headset on and tap some buttons.
Yes, there’s Lucy, from earlier: ‘Oh, my form, oh it’s so urgent – oh, oh, oh.’
Delete.
Another one. Bill. OK. Take that one more seriously. Wants me to come with him to a meeting at 3 p.m. to make a note. My stomach tightens slightly. Then it relaxes – Bill says he knows it’s close to school pick-up time, but he promises it will be short. Lovely Bill. I’m lucky to have a boss like him. I sit up straighter in my chair. This is what it’s about, Jen. Not Lucy. It’s about doing well for Bill, and getting out on time for Josh. So behave.
Next new message.
Oh. Wow. Now that’s something I didn’t expect.
Daniel.
‘Hey … Jen. Um, yeah I was hoping not to get voicemail … So Tim tells me you’re working on this case. Give me a call. I’m around, unless the clerks chuck a bail hearing at me last minute. Would be good to speak. OK, well, hopefully chat later. Bye.’
You wouldn’t think this guy earns his money from standing on his feet, wooing judges. Was that a hint of a stutter?
I replay the message. Obviously just to check for stuttering. Not because I want to check his voice again or analyse the tone.
Oh, lovely Daniel. I can picture him now. In fact yes, I can – I pull up his profile shot on his chambers’ website.
He’s younger then – when he first got called to the bar, I bet. Clean-shaven still, not yet the confident permissive stubble of a man who’s made it. No empathy lines round the eyes yet, or mouth. But all the good signs in that smile and frank gaze that they will appear. Brown hair that is just brown – no coppers or goldens or anything fancy like that. Not a posh twat, Daniel. Lawyerly, yes. Decent, polite, yes. Well spoken, true – doesn’t drop the ‘t’ in Luton. But he went to his local comp like the rest of us. He mentions that, on the site. No names, but we get the message: normality. Not some private-school tosser.
But why is he calling? The case, yes, but I haven’t even had a briefing from Tim yet.
Could it be personal?
I should call him. Or is that going to be too awkward? Damn it. Bloody Tim not telling me more about the case – or I could fall back on that. Maybe I should wait until I’ve spoken to Tim?
But it would be good, wouldn’t it, after the window scare of lunchtime to hear a safe voice. An almost-friend voice? The voice of someone to whom I came very close to disclosing some of my shit. Too close. I had to rein it back.
I listen to the message again, then hit ‘call this sender’ before I can rethink it.
‘Earl Court Chambers?’ says a voice.
Oh. Of course. The clerks, not a direct dial.
‘Hi. It’s Jen Sutton from Rotham Wyatt. Is Daniel Farley around?’
‘Jen, good to hear from you. Dan’s been missing you!’
Oh good, so there’s clerks’ room gossip about us. Over nothing. How nice.
‘Ha, yes, well, the feeling’s mutual.’ Can’t explain it’s because of the case, I guess, if it’s so secret.
‘Let me put you through to Dan.’
There’s a silence, out of which emerges some Mozarty stuff. Then a voice.
‘Jen, hi!’
‘Hi, Daniel.’
Silence.
‘So I got your –’
‘I left you a –’
Over-keen laughter as we each start then stop sentences simultaneously. I can see that happening for the whole phone call.
‘You go,’ I tell Daniel. ‘You know why you were calling.’
‘Sure, fine,’ he says. He doesn’t sound fine. He sounds strangled, choked. Then he lets a bit of breath out. ‘Listen, Jen – I just wanted to say, really looking forward to working with you again. I know there was a bit of …’
He stumbles. I catch him.
‘Stuff?’ I say.
‘OK, yeah. Stuff. There was a bit of “stuff” last time but don’t worry about it, OK. I’m genuinely looking forward to working with you again.’
Me too, I think. But I don’t fill the silence, in case there are more words to come.
More silence.
‘OK, well anyway,’ he continues, ‘this case looks like a really intense one. I don’t know if you’ve seen the exhibits file yet. It’s –’
‘I’m looking forward to working with you, too, Daniel.’
There’s another pause. A baby pause.
‘Thanks, Jen.’ His voice is softer now. Less manic. ‘I’m glad.’
‘We’ll speak soon, OK? On the case.’
‘Yes, on the case.’
I want to say: ‘And on more “stuff” too.’ But I don’t.
‘Bye, then,’ I say instead.
‘Bye.’
We hang up.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. It’s times like this I wish it wasn’t so tricky being me. That I could simply have ended the call by suggesting a drink. It’s not just the childcare angle. It’s the caring for my child. The guard goes down slowly, slowly, slowly. Otherwise how do you know who you can trust?
‘This is for you.’
With a thud, something lands on my desk.
I look up. A file. The cover is blank. Above the file, Tim.
This must be what Daniel was talking about.
I open the file up, and just get to see a sheet saying ‘The Crown v Rhea Stevens. Exhibits’, before Tim closes the cover again.
‘Have a flick through this,’ Tim tells me, his voice quiet, low. There’s no one around my desk (he’s chosen his moment well, if he’s that fussed about secrecy) but he’s still cautious. ‘Good to go in cold, before I’ve given you the background. Then when we chat you can tell me what you make of it. What you think it’s best to do. I’d really value your opinion – fresh pair of eyes, and all that.’
‘Sure, thanks,’ I say. I stroke the cover. Daniel is reading this too.
Snap out if it, you daft girl. You’ve not even kissed him; you can’t go soppy for him. Focus on the professional side. Someone giving a damn about my opinion for a change, not just looking at me with a sad face like Bill – give the girl a chance, but no proper work.
‘Watch out for the photo at page 5,’ he mutters. ‘It’s a shocker. Don’t say I