12

Three days after I met Adam I went to a party, mainly because I didn’t want to go. It was that stubborn streak that had made me refuse to submit when John Webster set out to scare me before. No matter how he threatened me, I was going to live my normal life even if it killed me.

But it might just do that.

It was very inconvenient to have Adam Nash’s quiet, ironic voice echoing through my mind, I thought, and the memory of his dark eyes, soft with concern as he said goodbye.

I put on my reddest lipstick so that at least I looked brave, even if I didn’t feel it, and dug out a pair of heels, which I regretted as soon as I’d been standing around in them for twenty minutes.

The party was to celebrate two new members of chambers, one a QC who had moved from a set in Birmingham, one a pupil who had been taken on. It was a long-standing tradition that it was their responsibility to buy the champagne for everyone else to drink, and drink it we did. The room where the party was held rang with loud voices and guffawing laughter. The QC – a tall woman with curling hair and a fearsome reputation – was in her element. The ex-pupil’s face was flushed, his tie at half-mast. He’d had a couple of months to get used to the idea of being a tenant – his name was already painted on the board outside the front door – but he still looked as if he couldn’t believe his luck.

‘Were we ever so young?’ Karen Odili murmured in my ear and I grinned.

‘I doubt it. He makes me feel a hundred years old.’

‘The first-six pupils are worse. They’re children.’ She gestured with her glass and I looked across to where two of them stood by the door, trying not to yearn too obviously.

‘Do you remember what that was like? Wondering if it would ever be you or if you were going to have to find somewhere else to do a third six?’

‘Vaguely.’ She grinned. ‘Of course I do. It’s the pits. A year-long job interview.’

The third pupil slipped into the room, looking as if she wanted to be ignored. She was the girl who had been at the Old Bailey the day Belinda died.

‘Did you hear about Belinda Grey?’ Karen asked, echoing my thoughts.

‘Yes. I spoke to her just before it happened.’

‘Not that.’ Karen dropped her voice so no one else could hear. ‘Apparently she was having an affair with her head of chambers and she got pregnant. She got rid of it but he dumped her anyway. She was devastated.’

The champagne I was holding suddenly smelled revolting. I set the glass on a nearby shelf with some care. ‘Absolute rubbish. Where did you hear that?’

‘I was in a trial with a guy from Garter Buildings. He told me. It was common knowledge apparently.’ She shrugged. ‘They all think she killed herself.’

‘People always say that kind of thing once someone isn’t around to defend themselves. And she once told me she was as likely to clean someone else’s kitchen as sleep with their husbands.’ Why make extra work for myself, she had added with a wicked smile. I couldn’t believe that sharp-edged tongue was silenced forever. ‘It’s just gossip. No one can think why she would have wanted to kill herself so they’re making it up.’

Karen looked mildly offended. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise you were such close friends.’

‘We weren’t close, but I met her husband once, and her little boy. They seemed like the perfect family. I can’t believe she would have chosen to die when she had so much to live for.’

‘People with kids kill themselves too, Ingrid. All the time. Motherhood doesn’t make you some sort of superwoman who can rise above depression, believe me.’ Karen had two adorable girls herself.

‘I know that. But—’ I stopped. I couldn’t reveal my suspicions about Belinda’s death without telling her about John Webster, and that was the last thing I wanted to talk about. ‘Don’t mind me, Karen. I’m not in a great mood tonight for some reason. Tired, I think.’

‘Drink more.’ She raised her eyebrows at a waiter who hurried over with a bottle. ‘That’ll perk you up.’

I retrieved my glass and allowed the waiter to fill it, but I didn’t actually drink from it. I stood around for another forty minutes chatting to people, laughing when everyone else did, but my heart wasn’t in it. As soon as I could, I slipped away, giving the party up as a total failure.

I stopped for a moment on the steps to survey the Temple, which was deserted. It had rained while I was inside and the air was cold. My breath clouded before me. The cars parked under the great old trees had misted up too, their windows opaque. Nothing stirred and after a few deep breaths of the raw air I made my way down the steps and walked through the car park. I glanced up at Garter Buildings where one or two lights still shone. Had Belinda been having an affair? Possibly, but I couldn’t see her dying for it. I shivered and turned away, picking up my pace as a car door closed softly behind me. Getting run over in the car park would round off my evening nicely. My steps echoed as I passed under the archway to Church Court, which was restricted to pedestrians and unutterably ancient.

In the cloisters by the Temple Church a trick of the acoustics doubled my steps, the echoes sounding exactly as if someone was walking behind me. I stopped and looked back, remembering Adam’s warning to me to be on my guard. Nothing moved. No one stepped into view. I felt uneasy and didn’t know why.

Pump Court, narrow and graceful, the trees fluttering their last leaves against the night sky. Brick Court, open, larger, busier as a rule, deserted now. From habit I started to walk towards Fountain Court with its tall water feature before I recalled that the gate would be closed and locked at this hour. Instead I turned to go back up narrow, cobbled Middle Temple Lane towards the Strand. Something made a noise behind me: the sole of a shoe grating on stone, an echo to it as if it came from under one of the arches that led to other parts of the Temple. I looked back, my eyes wide, straining to see anyone lurking in the shadows. My heart thumped, drowning out all other sounds. Below the level of logic, of common sense, I was afraid, as animals are when they know they are being hunted. Someone was watching me – someone who wished me harm.

A man stepped out of an archway some distance away from me. He was a silhouette, but something about the set of his shoulders and the shape of his head was familiar. Recognition made my heart hammer in my chest: the man from the scaffolding accident, who had run to my side and then disappeared.

Had he called my name as the scaffolding piece fell? To warn me or to make sure I was in the right place?

Don’t wait. Don’t think. Go.

I ran up the lane towards the heavy black gate that separated the hush of the Temple from the traffic outside. The buildings crowded in around it, with one hanging right over the top. It cast a shadow that seemed darker than coal. I was hurrying, gasping for breath, aware of being alone apart from the man behind me, aware that I would be the easiest of targets …

I was twenty feet away when something moved against the darkness of the gate and became human. He turned his face towards me and stepped forward with a measured, long stride, into the light.

I stopped where I was, my feet rooted to the ground. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t scream.

Behind me, footsteps echoed. Moving in the wrong direction, away from us. Come back, I thought helplessly, whoever you are. Come and save me.

‘It’s all right.’ He was staring past me, frowning. ‘There was someone following you but I think they’ve gone. I must have scared them off.’ His voice was just the same: clipped, precise, totally distinctive.

John Webster, in person, stepping out of my nightmares to stand in my way.

He glanced back at me and whatever he saw in my face must have amused him because he grinned. ‘That’s what I do, isn’t it, Ingrid? Scare people?’

He hadn’t changed, I thought dully. He would never change.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Just trying to help.’ He moved a step closer to me. ‘I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t been here.’

A clatter at the gate took the place of my answer. The wicket swung open and a group of young barristers piled in, all talking at the tops of their voices, happy-drunk and giddy.

‘No because I’m sure I left it—’

‘As usual.’

‘Have you checked? Have you checked, because this has happened before, hasn’t it?’

‘It’s always in your handbag,’ a deep-voiced, tall man offered. ‘Every time.’

‘Oh God, it’s not, Faraz. It can’t be.’ The young woman crouched and started rummaging through her handbag as the others milled around aimlessly between me and John Webster. There were eight of them altogether: three women, five men. Webster’s eyes were fixed on mine, as if the other people didn’t exist for him. They seemed oblivious to him too, I clenched my jaw to stop myself from screaming a warning: this man is more dangerous than you can possibly know.

‘I can’t believe we had to walk all the way back here. Why didn’t someone make her check her bag before we left El Vino’s?’

‘Because she said she’d looked.’

‘She always says she’s looked.’

‘Here it is!’ She held up a wallet, flushed with triumph. ‘It was in my bag! Amazing! I thought it was on my desk!’

A groan rose from the party, as one. ‘Come on. We’ll be in time for last orders if we hurry.’

Without making a conscious decision about it, I fell into step between two of the larger men and moved towards the gate, past Webster. I didn’t look at him as we swept through the wicket and out onto the pavement, where I walked away with my host of drunken, chatty bodyguards until the first black cab appeared with its amber light on. I hailed it and hopped in as the young men crowded around to compete for the honour of closing the door and said goodnight. The engine roared throatily as the driver took off towards Trafalgar Square. I sat back, trembling, and called Adam Nash to leave another message on his voicemail.

Not a wild fear. Not my imagination.

John Webster was back.