Stark was thrust into the action from the outset. He had been provided with his own email address. He discovered email was the main mode of communication. The art of oral conversation, within the legal fraternity, was dead. As it was with most of Western civilisation.
“Remember,” Jenny had said, “the shit flows in a downward direction.”
Her words proved accurate. Monday, he was asked to review a commercial lease for new tenants in a shopping complex, provide detailed notes and observations, and submit them to one of the property partners. Over fifty pages. Plus, another partner had emailed him details of a somewhat complex will for an elderly client, and asked him to cobble it together for that afternoon. Then another, requesting a power of attorney. Stark received much needed help from Jenny, who supplied him with files from which he could extract relevant information. Also, he had visited the library. Jenny was right. It was large and well stocked. Easily as good as any university law library. Stark was impressed. He had worked until 7.30pm, had gone home in a state of exhaustion, and was asleep by 8.30. This time, no nightmares of suffocating in a tomb. Rather, a deep and dreamless sleep.
On Tuesday morning, he got an internal call from reception.
“Paul Hutchison would like to see you in his office.”
Stark hesitated. “Of course.”
Four yards away, Jenny sat at her desk, books piled round her like a fortification, preparing for a court case that afternoon. Acting for a major bank, which was suing another firm of lawyers for negligence. Complicated and unpleasant, she had described it. No lawyer wants to sue another lawyer, she’d explained. Except SJPS, of course, who would do anything if the money was right.
She was stressed. He discovered, in such moments, her swearing intensified. Cute, he thought. She was human. An uncommon quality in most lawyers.
“I’ve just had a call from reception,” he said, “who got a call from Paul Hutchison, who must have asked them to call me, to ask me to go up to his office.”
She was scribbling into a notepad. “That’s a lot of asks.”
“Why couldn’t he just phone me? Isn’t that the normal course of behaviour?”
“Fuck him,” she said simply. “The man’s an enigma.”
“An enigma?”
She looked up, sat back, clasped her hands behind her head. “There are three managing partners in the firm. They each head their own department. You met them at your interview. There’s Winnifred Marshall. Shrewd as a lynx. Got caught up in a messy divorce some years back, and carries a wedge of bitterness in her handbag. Don’t be fooled by her soft exterior. She’s as hard as nails. Everything is calculated with dear old Winnifred. She has as much empathy as a wasp.”
“Then there’s Walter Hill. Smooth as silk. Cool and slippery. Knows everything there is about commercial law. It’s said he was involved in a scandal twenty years ago. Money went missing. Fingers were pointed, primarily in his direction. Nothing proved, but the smell lingers. A sadistic little shit. He owns land up in some bleak, shitty part of the Highlands and likes to hunt animals with his big guns, for the sheer thrill of seeing their blood.’
“And then there’s Paul Hutchison. A curmudgeon in the courtroom. But an enigma. Most people – normal people that is – have good days and bad. He’s on a permanent bad day. If you could get a diploma for acting like a right proper bastard, he’d get a diploma with a fucking gold star and a plastic whistle.”
“Plastic whistle. I wasn’t aware that was a thing.”
She managed a tight smile. “Sorry, Jonathan. I shouldn’t speak like that about others in the firm. But you’ve obviously met him.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know what I’m talking about. A right proper bastard. Other than being breathtakingly arrogant, rude, ignorant, condescending, and generally unappealing, both to look at and to listen to, he’s a perfect gentleman. Oh! Did I mention he was a fucking bully? Good luck.”
Stark laughed. “Thanks for that. Excellent pep talk. Next time, please tell it like it is.”
She laughed back. “I try not to be judgemental. Now I’ve got a fucking court case in three hours.”
Stark made his way to the reception area, through the clients’ waiting room. A half-dozen people were sitting, respectfully silent and solemn, presumably booked in for early morning appointments. He passed the front desk, to make his way up the stairs to the first level. Two men stood, addressing the receptionists. Suited, unsmiling. Intense, thought Stark. One older, maybe in his mid-fifties. Pale complexion. Craggy features. Hair cropped short at the sides, a grey bristle on top. He caught a snippet of the conversation. The older man was speaking –
“…Detective Chief Inspector McGuigan. And this is Detective Sergeant Dawson. Do you know when he’ll be in…”
The older man’s gaze, briefly, hovered past the receptionist, and for a second, he locked eyes with Stark. Stark faltered. A sudden image, unbidden, reared up in his mind. Clear and sharp, present for an instant, then gone –
A house of grey stone, beneath a hill, under a grey sky, in a barren grey landscape.
Stark reached out, grabbed the banister on the stairs, steadied himself. Déjà vu? A trick of the mind? The other man gave a polite tilt of his head. Stark reciprocated, turned, made his way up the stairs, grasping to understand what had happened, but reaching no conclusion, thrust it from his thoughts. He had a meeting with Paul Hutchison – the perfect gentleman – to distract him.