There is a beat of confusion as Finbar remembers what I used to do as a day job – and a night job.
‘Maybe we should … leave this be,’ he says, less certain now.
‘No. Talk to me. Did you ever meet Dylan Holstein?’
‘Nah. Never.’
‘But you know his name?’
‘He’d been stirring up trouble about Hope Island; how Eddie got the planning whatsit through the council.’
‘By bribing three councillors.’
Finbar looks at me blankly. ‘Not my area.’
‘Who does the bribing in the family?’
‘Gimme a break, Phil.’ He sighs, wishing we hadn’t started.
‘Go on.’
‘Holstein was writing these stories, but Eddie wasn’t concerned. Fake news, you know. Lot of it around these days. But then Holstein turns up dead and the rozzers start pointing the finger at us. Tapping our phones. Following our cars. They dragged Eddie out of bed the morning after his birthday, and searched the place.’
‘Did they find anything?’
‘Nuffin’ to find,’ he snaps. ‘But the OIC is the ambitious type, you know. Trying to make a name for hisself.’
‘Are you suggesting he might fabricate evidence?’
‘Been known to happen.’
It’s a throwaway line, which might have annoyed me once, until a broken light on my Fiat and the wiping of footage on my body camera.
‘Who killed Dylan Holstein?’
‘How would I fuckin’ know?’
‘Was it Daddy?’
‘Get off!’
‘Would you tell me?’
Finbar lumbers to his feet, his face twisted in misery. ‘I know you’re one of ’em, Phil, and you may think you’re better than the rest of us, but we never closed the door. Eddie kept a light burning in his window, hoping you’d come home.’
He turns to leave.
‘I have a question,’ I say, girding myself.
‘I’m done talkin’。’
‘If I needed some legal advice, where should I go?’
He pauses. Turns. ‘Are you in trouble?’
‘I’m asking for a friend.’
Finbar pulls out his wallet and jots down the name of a legal chambers and phone number on a torn beer coaster.
‘Tell them you’re Eddie McCarthy’s daughter.’
39
An appointment is arranged for the following day in a pub at Spitalfields, which is hardly a good sign. I am picturing some overweight Rumpole-like solicitor with a port-coloured nose, whose expertise is drawing up dodgy insurance claims, or post-dating wills.
When I arrive at the Ten Bells, Uncle Clifton jumps to his feet and bows slightly from the waist. I kiss his unshaven cheeks and am instantly a little girl again, saying goodnight to my uncles before going off to bed. Poker night was every Wednesday; four men around our kitchen table, smoking cigars and drinking Scotch. I would fall asleep listening to them laughing and my mother telling them to be quiet.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
‘Making the introductions.’
‘But I arranged the meeting.’
‘And I’m not going to interfere.’
Clifton is wearing his usual attire, baggy jeans and a Gunners shirt. He has a cowlick that makes parting his hair an impossible task. The clockwise whorl lies in the opposite direction to whichever way he wants to comb it, unless he puts the parting so close to his right ear that he looks like Adolf Hitler.
He pulls out a chair for me and begins telling me the history of the pub, which has a Ripper connection. Two of Jack’s victims, Annie Chapman and Mary Kelly, were either regulars or local prostitutes who plied for trade on the pavement outside.
‘It used to be called the Eight Bells Alehouse because the church on the corner had eight bells, but when they changed the bells, they changed the name.’
‘Who am I meeting?’ I ask.
‘David Helgarde.’
‘The mob lawyer!’
‘He’s a criminal barrister.’
‘Who represents dodgy Russian oligarchs and gangsters.’
‘He’s been the family lawyer for twenty years.’
‘Enough said.’
We’re sitting near the window where the bright August sunshine is blasting onto the table, highlighting the condensation rings. Clifton has bought another Guinness and I’ve opted for a lemon squash, which makes me feel underage.
He wipes foam from his top lip. ‘So why do you need a Tom Sawyer?’
‘I’d rather not make it family business.’
‘Yeah, I get that, but if you’re in trouble—’
‘I’m not!’
Helgarde pushes through the pub door. He could be forty, or he could be sixty, with the lean, emaciated look of an obsessed amateur triathlete. Dressed in chinos and an open-neck shirt, he ducks as he enters the pub, as though frightened the ceiling might be too low.
‘Sorry about my hair. I drove back from the country. The convertible,’ he says, as though it should be obvious.
He examines the waiting chair and recoils. I half expect him to pull out a handkerchief and flap it clean of germs before he takes a seat.
‘You must be Philomena,’ he says in a plummy voice. ‘You can call me David.’ He turns to my uncle. ‘Dry white wine.’
Clifton leaps to his feet and would doff a cap if he was wearing one. While he goes to the bar, Helgarde makes small talk about his house in the Cotswolds. I’m picturing gin and tonics on the lawn and the thwock, thwock of tennis balls.
Our drinks are delivered.
‘I’ll head out for a fag,’ says Clifton.
‘I thought you’d given up,’ says Helgarde.
‘I did, but I find smokers are more interesting than non-smokers. They don’t take life as seriously.’
We’re alone. ‘I’m not sure that I need a barrister,’ I say.
Helgarde gives me a non-committal shrug. ‘I’m here now.’
‘Charging how much an hour?’
‘More than you can afford, but I’ll be billing your father.’
Grudgingly, I set out the details, telling him about Goodall and my misconduct charges. It’s like I’m knitting a sweater and Helgarde is looking for every dropped stitch and loose end. Finally, he leans back and crosses his legs.
‘It seems you have two major problems, Philomena. The allegation of using unreasonable force, if proven, may amount to the equivalent of assault occasioning actual bodily harm, which is a criminal level of offending.’
‘He swung at me first.’
Helgarde holds up his hand, acknowledging the point. ‘I’m more concerned about the charge of accessing data illegally. The police have become very strict about data protection. There is a public expectation and legal requirement that information will be treated in strictest confidence and only used for legitimate policing purposes.’
‘I was attempting to expose a cover-up.’
‘By the very people who want you removed.’
‘You’re telling me it’s hopeless.’
‘I’m giving you my professional opinion.’
I take a moment to quietly seethe, disliking Helgarde’s arrogance or maybe just his answers.
He grows pensive. ‘There might be another way, although it’s rather a blunt approach. Crash through or crash in flames.’