37.

Judge Lovelay looked like he’d woken from a long nap, his salt-and-pepper hair matted on one side, cheek creased. Early retirement hadn’t suited him. The fit and handsome man from the news reports a few years ago was gone, replaced by someone much older.

He appeared bewildered by Caleb’s request for him to turn on the outside lights, even more bewildered at his business card. ‘Are you looking for work?’ he said, eyes still on the card. A clear tone, with the steady pace of a man used to public speaking.

‘No. I’m here about Maggie Reynolds. About her daughter.’

Surprise crossed Lovelay’s face. ‘I’m not really that close to Maggie. You’d be better off contacting her family.’

Caleb tried to dredge the right words from his mind. Strangely blank, as though he’d just woken from a deep sleep, too. Maybe he had: he’d apparently been walking through his life in a daze. ‘How could you think so little of me?’

Focus. Don’t think about Alberto or Frankie or the thin crust of earth cracking beneath his feet, just concentrate on getting Tilda back.

‘It’s connected to Transis,’ he told Lovelay.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know what that is.’

Caleb hesitated: was he mistaken about the judge’s involvement? No wariness to the man’s manner, just faint confusion, an obvious wish to be left alone. Maybe the truth was his best bet. ‘Maggie’s daughter’s been kidnapped. Tilda.’

‘Oh my goodness.’ Lovelay’s face drooped.

‘I’m hoping you can help. Can I come in?’ He stepped onto the threshold without waiting for an answer.

‘Oh. Of course. If you think I can be of some use.’

The judge led him to a large sunroom overlooking the backyard. Spotlights illuminated silver birches, bare limbs shivering in the wind. The room had an unused quality; no clutter, just a wilting floral arrangement and a bookmarked biography of Churchill on a side table. Only one of the four leather armchairs was softened by use.

Caleb took the one closest to Lovelay’s, waited for the judge to get settled. Whatever the man’s role in Maggie’s affairs, he seemed strangely open to helping. ‘Tilda’s in danger,’ Caleb said. ‘Not just from the kidnappers, but from one of Maggie’s clients. They think she knows something incriminating.’

‘Oh that poor child. Poor Maggie.’ In the light of the sunroom, he looked more than badly aged: rheumy-eyed and shaky, a few bristling patches where he’d missed shaving. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what you want from me.’

‘I need Maggie’s client list. I know you’re one of them.’

‘I’ve got no idea about that. Ask Maggie.’ Not denying the connection, but not quite admitting to it.

‘Maggie’s sick, she can’t help. But you’ve introduced her to lots of people. Tell me who they are.’

‘I’m truly sorry, but I don’t know anything that could help.’ The judge’s voice wavered and caught. He pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his watering eyes. ‘My apologies. I’m afraid I’m a little weepy these days. The thought of another child –’

Another child. The rotting flower arrangement and bloodshot eyes: the man was in mourning. Slow today; should have put that together straight away.

‘I’m sorry, have you lost someone recently?’

‘My stepson. He wasn’t a child, of course – twenty-three – but still so young.’

The tawny-haired boy with Lovelay in all the pre-Quinn society photos. Another death. A man peripherally connected to Maggie. Caleb sat still. ‘I’m sorry, had he been unwell?’

‘Oh. No. An accident. I’m sure it was an accident. Although I hadn’t seen him much in recent years. Not my choice, you understand – I loved the boy.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘It’s quite unbearable, you know. Having unfinished business with someone you love.’

Caleb asked the question, tried to keep the hope from his voice, from himself. ‘What was his name?’

Lovelay gave him a grateful smile. ‘Jordan.’