9.30am. A meeting had been arranged in the upstairs conference room. One which, depending on its outcome, could have serious repercussions for the firm of Stoddart, Jeffrey, Pritchard and Sloss. In attendance were the three solicitors who had interviewed Stark – Walter Hill, Winnifred Marshall and Paul Hutchison – the respective heads of the main departments.
Mrs Patricia Shawbridge was elderly, widowed, and obscenely rich. She was, by a stretch, the firm’s wealthiest client. When she needed something done, it was done promptly and with a minimum of fuss. Fees were rendered quickly, and paid quickly. She owned a wide portfolio of properties, in Scotland, in England, throughout the world, inherited from her late husband, who owned a pharmaceutical company. After he died she sold the business for over two hundred million. Never would a week go by, when she didn’t issue instructions to her lawyers – buy this, sell that, sue them, defend this. It kept her occupied. It was almost a hobby. It kept the firm smiling. Money, money, money. Mrs Shawbridge was the dripping roast, and her lawyers supped on the gravy with a golden spoon.
Until now, this moment. Mrs Shawbridge was unhappy. She had arranged a courier to deliver a handwritten intimation of complaint on Monday afternoon, and had demanded a meeting on Wednesday morning. At 9.30. The partners were perplexed, and deeply concerned. The letter hadn’t specified the nature of her grievance, which worried them the most. Lawyers hated the unexpected.
Mrs Shawbridge arrived exactly on time, and was immediately shown up to the conference room. The three lawyers sat at the end of the table nearest the door, one on one side, two on the other allowing a space at the top, to give her the impression she was in control, which, essentially, she was.
She entered the room, accompanied by her perfume. She wore a simple navy-blue dress, a matching double-breasted woollen blazer, blue stockings, blue shoes, the picture of austere elegance. She kept trim, a good proportion of her time spent at an exclusive gym. Her face was stern and set, dark flashing eyes under a roiling mass of dark curls. She was in her mid-seventies, and looked fifteen years younger. She worked hard at looking good.
She sat at the table. Fresh coffee was ready to be served.
Hill stood, and displayed his warmest avuncular smile. “Good to see you again, Patricia. I hope you’re keeping well. May I offer you some coffee?” He began the process of lifting a silver coffee jug.
“No thanks.”
“Of course.” Somewhat crestfallen, he put the jug back, and sat down.
A silence fell. She appeared unperturbed by the awkwardness of the situation.
It was Winnifred Marshall who spoke, her voice soft. “You look well, Patricia. How have you been keeping?”
“Poorly,” she replied, her tone clipped. “Since Monday morning, in particular. Very poorly. To be candid, I was left in a state of shock. I’m still in shock. I cannot begin to express my feelings on the matter. What occurred was both outrageous and insulting.” She took care to meet the stare of each of the lawyers. “And a disgrace.”
Hutchison cleared his throat, gave an easy laugh, though it had a tinny undertone. “Perhaps you could elaborate? You have a problem, and we’re keen to help. First, however, we have to understand what precisely the problem is? You agree that would be helpful?”
She gave Hutchison a heavy-lidded stare. “I’m not a fool. Don’t think I can’t detect sarcasm when I hear it.”
Hutchison’s jowls wobbled like a slobbery dog. His eyes widened in apparent innocence. He was not a subtle man. Subtlety was not a useful requirement for court litigators. Both Hill and Winnifred fixed him meaningful stares – Shut the hell up. Let us do the talking.
“Please, Patricia,” said Hill, raising two appeasing hands. “We want to help. I promise. Tell us what happened. Please.”
She straightened in her chair, pursed her lips, as if considering her response.
“I received a telephone call from Bronson Chapel last Friday afternoon. He asked me to attend his offices on the following Monday, at 9am. The matter, so he told me, was urgent, and delicate. I asked him to expand, but he told me it was something which could not be discussed over the phone.”
Winnifred raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Really,” replied Mrs Shawbridge in a flat voice. “Needless to say, I spent the weekend wondering – and worrying – about this somewhat odd, cryptic message.” She darted an acid glance at Hutchison. “If he’d told me what it was about, that would have been helpful, yes?”
Hutchison chose not to respond.
“But he didn’t tell me,” she continued. “And no wonder.” She paused, recollecting the events. The three lawyers waited.
“I arrived as requested. Nine sharp. I went up to his office.” She took a breath. “He was sitting behind his desk. He appeared agitated. Twitchy. I said nothing. The first thing he asked was how my son was keeping. The question took me by surprise. Before I had the chance to answer, he explained that he had met my son several months ago at some dinner engagement, and that they had got on well. He was talking rapidly. The words were almost tripping over each other. Then, he placed his mobile phone on the desk, and asked me to look at a photograph he had taken. I did. I saw a picture of a man leaving a house. Dressed in what appeared to be a blue tradesman’s overall. He asked me if I recognised this person. I said I emphatically did not. I asked him to explain.” She took another long smouldering breath, struggling to contain her fury.
“Can you imagine what he did next?” She looked at each of them, daring them to speak. “Take a wild guess. No? Let me tell you. He laughed. He told me…” she bit her lip, keeping her voice neutral, “…I was a liar. He told me to admit that I knew the man in the photo. I was shocked. And speechless. But he kept going. He said that he would take it to the police, unless…” and here, tears welled up. Her shoulders trembled. She had a blue leather Gucci handbag placed on her lap. She opened it, pulled out a handkerchief, dabbed her eyes, replaced it back into her handbag, clicked it shut.
“…unless I paid him £200,000.” Another deep breath, as she composed herself. “I asked him to explain his conduct. He said, ‘Isn’t it obvious?’. He told me to take a closer look at the picture. He told me the photo was of the man leaving the house where these horrible murders had taken place. He told me the photo was of the man the tabloid press had given the name The Surgeon.” Another pause, as she tried to articulate the thoughts in her head.
“He told me the picture in his phone was my son. He was, in effect, attempting to blackmail me.”
The three lawyers said nothing. Hutchison shook his head. “Bronson? You must be mistaken…”
“Do I look as if I’m mistaken!” she snapped. Hutchison blinked, licked his lips, fell silent.
“He said that because of my unwillingness to accept the position, his price had gone up to £250,000. I informed him that his price could escalate to any figure he wished, it would have no bearing. Whilst the man in the photo bore a strong resemblance to my son, I explained that it could not possibly be him. My son is currently in hospital.” She gave the three a level stare. “He was diagnosed with lung cancer, and is lying in a hospital bed, attached to a breathing apparatus, and has been for the last two months. Soon, he will be transferred to a hospice. He has weeks to live, if he’s lucky.”
She paused, gathering her thoughts. The three lawyers waited. The seconds passed, each stretched tight with tension. “I intend to take this matter to the police,” she said. “I thought, probably as a misplaced act of courtesy, I would inform you of the situation first. If Bronson Chapel has a photograph of the killer, then it has to be brought to their attention. Plus, I will be speaking to them about the blackmail threat. And I will be seeking Bronson Chapel’s disbarment.”
She paused again, maintaining her composure, then continued.
“I am, forthwith, withdrawing all my business from this firm. Furthermore, I will be seeking legal advice, with a view to claiming damages for the considerable distress this affair has caused me. I hope you have deep pockets.”
She stood, gave each a withering stare.
“I hope never to set foot in this building again. All future communication will be through my new lawyers.” She gave a curt nod. “Good day.”
She left the room. The door swung shut behind her. The silence which followed was palpable, broken eventually by Hill.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“Where is Bronson?” said Winnifred, her voice brittle.
“He’s not been in,” said Hutchison. “No one can get a hold of him.”
“Jesus Christ,” repeated Hill. “If the media get a sniff of this.”
Hutchison folded his arms, a posture adopted by an entrenched litigator. “Get a sniff of what! We deny. It’s her word against Bronson’s.”
“You’re missing the point,” snapped Winnifred. “It doesn’t matter what we say or what we do. At this moment, The Surgeon is the most talked about individual in the country. And not because of his sparkling personality. To be associated with such an individual would be catastrophic, and the more legal obstacles we put up to distance ourselves makes us look worse. We need to talk to Bronson.”
“We should go to the police,” said Hill. “Tell them what’s happened. Minimise the fallout. Makes us look better.”
“Go to the police with what, exactly!” chided Hutchison. “Someone claims to have been shown a photo of a man who might be a serial killer. We don’t have the phone, we don’t have the picture, and we don’t even have Bronson to explain what the hell is going on. We would look like fools. Plus, we’d be inviting trouble.”
“Maybe we should get armed up with outside lawyers,” said Winnifred.
“Maybe we should sit tight and ride this out,” retorted Hutchison. “The less people know, the more we can contain the situation. And meantime find out where the hell Bronson is. He’s got some explaining to do. He’s not answering his goddamned phone. There’s a fucking swarm of angry clients wondering where the hell he is.”
“Contain?” said Winnifred. “Really? Patricia Shawbridge is about to tell the world. There’s really not much we can contain about that.”
“We need to hear Bronson’s take,” said Hill. “I agree with Paul. Let’s talk to Bronson first. Then we can rationalise the situation. I can arrange for someone to go round to his house.”
“He lives in one of those church conversions,” said Hutchison.
“I think he also has a holiday home,” said Hill. “He talks about it. He calls it his boat house. We can try there as well. Admin have the address I think.”
Winnifred, usually so stoic, seemed to slump. “This can’t be happening.”
“We have to let Edward know,” said Hutchison. There was reluctance in his voice.
“Not in his condition,” said Winnifred. “He doesn’t need this.”
Hutchison gave an abrasive laugh. “None of us need this. But we’ve fucking got it. If Bronson were here, I swear I would kill him with my two bare fucking hands.”
Hill released a long sigh.
“A storm is brewing,” he whispered.
No one disagreed.