Constance had been invited out on a date – the first for a while. In part, that was why she had worn a skirt this morning, to put herself in the mood for something new. Instead, every time the waist band shifted or the wind caught underneath it, making it billow up and out like a sail, she regretted her wardrobe choice. As soon as she returned home, she discarded the skirt and stood in her underwear, flicking through the possibilities for her evening attire. Eventually, she settled upon some black jeans and a lacy top, which she would match with her favourite ankle boots; casual enough to reflect her preference for informality, but demonstrating some effort had been made before coming out. Then she went into the bathroom to look for a lipstick.
There had been various drink and dinner invitations since Mike, her actor boyfriend, had moved out, almost four years ago. Mike had objected to Constance defending a Syrian refugee on a murder charge and she had not appreciated being told who to represent. And later, much later, she had realised that their differences went deeper than politics, and had been grateful to her client, Ahmad Qabbani, for saving her from making a longer-lasting commitment to Mike, a man she didn’t love. That would have been an even bigger mistake than the eight months she had wasted trying to please him. But the consequence of dumping Mike had been many evenings spent alone; on only two occasions had she felt inclined to allow things to progress with anyone else. Both liaisons (‘relationships’ would be overstating things) had ended quickly; one with a minor disagreement for which neither would apologise, the other just petering out.
She found the lipstick at the top of the cabinet and set it down on the shelf above her wash basin. Then she laid her phone next to it and called Judith Burton.
‘I’ve got a new case in. Thought you might be interested,’ she said, hitting the speaker button as she put the finishing touches to her hair.
‘Have you now? You do know that there are seventeen thousand barristers in the UK. You don’t always have to come to me.’ Constance could sense Judith’s teasing down the phone. She must have caught her at a good moment.
‘I wasn’t thinking of giving this one to you,’ Constance replied. ‘Just telling you the best bits, so you’re jealous when it hits the News. And I know how you like to keep on top of what’s going on in the criminal underworld.’
‘Go on, then.’ Constance sensed rather than heard Judith’s low laugh.
‘Brett Ingram, CEO of Heart Foods. He collapsed and died on Tuesday, during a speech he was giving.’
‘I saw that,’ Judith said. ‘I assumed it was a heart attack.’
‘They think it might have been food poisoning.’
‘How interesting. I’ve never been instructed on a poisoning case.’
‘I said food poisoning. I’m not sure it’s anything deliberate.’
‘Then why come to you?’
Constance picked up her phone, walked back into her bedroom, sat down and laid her comb on her dressing table. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and made a mental note to remember to put on her lipstick.
‘They think the caterer might have messed up; that’s all,’ she said, determined not to say too much to Judith yet. ‘He’s our client – potential client.’
‘Ah! That’s disappointing. I was thinking more arsenic, cyanide, ricin even. Or what did they use for poor Alexander Litvinenko?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You do. Something radioactive in his tea. Polonium, that’s it!’
‘They’re doing more tests. Look, I can’t chat now, but I thought you might have some ideas to persuade the police to go with a health and safety offence, you know, something where the caterer gets off with a fine.’
‘I always have ideas. But a gross negligence manslaughter trial would be much more fun, wouldn’t it?’
Judith was not one to be coy about her enthusiasm for her work.
‘Not for the caterer it wouldn’t,’ Constance said. ‘Although his reputation is ruined whatever happens.’
‘We shouldn’t just discount a sophisticated poison, you know,’ Judith persisted. ‘Look at Salisbury. No one thought about Novichok at the start.’
Constance had known it was a risk that Judith’s imagination would begin to run riot. ‘Brett Ingram ran a food company,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t some kind of spy. And if they suspected one of those poisons, wouldn’t everyone be in quarantine?’
‘I’m just keeping an open mind, that’s all. What kind of meeting was it, where Mr Ingram met his maker?’
‘Public meeting about food, titled “What should we eat?”. That’s all I’ve discovered so far.’
‘Other speakers too?’
‘I don’t have a list from the police yet. But there’s a clip on YouTube doing the rounds; you can see who was there. I recognised Dr Edge, from the radio. It stops short of showing Brett’s death, but only just. I’ll send you a link. So, you’ll think about how to get the prosecution to go for a health and safety offence, then? I’ve got to go.’
‘And where might you be off to so early on a Thursday night?’ said Judith.
‘I have places to go, people to see.’
‘Do you now? You just give out orders and then go gallivanting off. I hope he’s worth it.’
‘I hope so too,’ Constance said, as she grabbed her jacket and bag, before realising what she had just given away. There was a moment’s silence, in which she could imagine Judith congratulating herself on forcing this admission from her. Then Judith spoke again.
‘Don’t tell him you’re a lawyer till you’re sure he likes you.’
Constance laughed. ‘Now you sound like my mother.’ Better to forgive Judith’s intrusion into her private life than to take offence. After all, they had shared a few personal experiences, even if they both tried to maintain some professional distance. That had to be right when you spent so much time together.
As she headed for the Underground, Constance remembered more of her mother’s advice on matters of the heart. Never trust a man who makes you wash his clothes. If he’s like that at the beginning, just think what he’ll be like later on. She giggled. She had only met her date, Chris, once before, but she was fairly sure he owned his own washing machine. Then she thought back to Judith’s words of wisdom and wondered what profession she should admit to: church organist? Primary school teacher? Midwife? ‘How about hired assassin?’ she whispered to herself, as the wind gusted around her neck and she pulled the zip on her jacket higher. It was only then that she remembered she had forgotten to put on her lipstick after all.