As Stark was being given the guided tour of the basement, on the first floor, Bronson Chapel was in a state of anxiety. As anticipated, when he had informed his client they had to meet urgently, he knew she would demand an immediate appointment. Which she did. Only natural. Anyone getting an unexpected and somewhat cryptic call from their lawyer would want to find out what the hell was going on, and pretty damned quickly. He’d spoken to her on Friday. He’d hinted of urgency, and potential trouble. Enough to get her worried. He didn’t want to arrange anything over the weekend. That wouldn’t look good. It would smack of desperation. But an appointment, in his office, first thing on Monday morning – that, in Bronson’s view, was the best approach. Here, in the cloistered confines of Stoddart, Jeffrey, Pritchard and Sloss, he was in secure territory. His territory, where he felt emboldened.
And now was the moment to be bold. For extra oomph, he had taken a line of purest cocaine. His supply was running low. He vowed, as soon as he got the money together, he would buy enough for a year. His brain buzzed. His heart pumped hard and fast, pounding like a drum in his ears. Sweat dribbled into his eyes. Not a good look, he thought. Like all the partner’s offices, there was a small en suite bathroom. Functional. Sink, toilet. He went to the sink, splashed his face with cold water. He was about to embark on a course from which there was no return. There was still time. He could turn back. He could run away. Hide. But there was no hiding place from the men he did business with. Their world was one of brutality and pain. His was the opposite end of the spectrum. Law books and civilised discourse and reasoned arguments before a judge.
He could run to the police. He laughed out loud at the thought. He had nothing to go to them with. He bought drugs from a man called Billy Watson. He wasn’t even sure that was his real name. Billy Watson would deny. Deny everything. Deny the threat made on the phone. Deny, deny, deny. And then? Back to brutality and pain, only a hundred times worse.
Plus, at the end of the day, cutting through all the bullshit, Bronson wanted desperately to pay Billy Watson, because if he did that, he would get his supply back again. Because Bronson was an addict.
He gazed at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, and wondered, for a brief second, just who the hell he had become. For a brief second only. He forced himself to dispel such maudlin thoughts. He had to focus on the moment. Focus on what he was about to do. The coke gave him clarity. The coke gave him strength.
He dabbed his face with a towel. He opened a small unit on the wall, where he kept some expensive eau de cologne. He sprayed his neck, cheeks, his hands, which he ran through his hair. It was 9am. His client was exact about punctuality.
On cue, his phone bleeped. He took a breath, collected his thoughts, went back through to his office, answered.
“Mrs Shawbridge is here for her nine o’clock appointment.”
He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. He could taste the cologne.
“Please ask her up.”
“Yes, Mr Chapel.”
He sat behind his desk. He placed his mobile phone on the desktop. He waited. His heart thrummed, fast as a racehorse, and suddenly he was scared shitless, not because of the terrible thing he was about to do, but rather, if it failed, he would have no money to buy his next fix.
A minute passed. Two. There was a knock on his door.
Mrs Shawbridge entered.