Lost - Michael Robotham [92]
A crowbar is summoned from a car trunk. Turf is kicked away from the edges. The grate is pulled aside and strong hands reach inside. I emerge onto a patch of English autumn, blinking into the sunlight and wiping the remains of the sewer from my face.
Reaching into my sodden pocket I retrieve the last of the morphine capsules. Magically, the pain lifts and a wave of emotion passes over me. I don’t normally like emotion. It’s a wishy-washy, moist-eyed, soft-in-the-head state, good for postcoital bliss and rugby reunions, but you know something, I love these lads. Look at them, all dressed up in their school scarves, kicking a ball around the place. They look so cute. They even let me shower in the pavilion and someone lends me a shirt, tracksuit bottoms and a pair of sneakers. I look like a senior citizen on a power walk.
The Professor is summoned and finds me in the pavilion. Straight off he treats me like a patient, taking my face in his hands and holding my eyelids open.
“How many did you take?”
“The last two.”
“Jesus!”
“I’m fine, really. Listen to me. I’ve been down there … in the river. We should have seen it years ago.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know how they got her out of Dolphin Mansions. She went down the hole—just like Alice in Wonderland.”
I know I’m not making sense but Joe perseveres. Finally, I tell him the story but instead of getting excited he gets angry. He calls me stupid, foolhardy, rash and impulsive, but each of the criticisms is prefaced by the term “with all due respect.” I’ve never been so politely told off.
I look at my watch. It’s almost eleven o’clock. I’m due in court at midday.
“We can still make it.”
“I have to stop off somewhere first.”
“To change your clothes.”
“To see a boy about a light.”
25
The Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand are composed of a thousand rooms and three miles of hallways, most of them lined with dark wooden panels that soak up the light and add to the gloom. The architecture is Victorian Gothic because the courts are meant to intimidate the crap out of people, which they do.
For Eddie Barrett, however, it’s just another stage. Striding along corridors, he pushes through doors and scatters the clusters of whispering lawyers. For a man with short legs and a bulldog swagger, he moves surprisingly quickly.
Barrett is to the legal profession what hyenas are to the African plains—a bully and a scavenger. He takes cases according to how much publicity they generate rather than the fees and he uses every legal loophole and ambiguity while grandly extolling the British judicial system as “the finest and fairest in the world.”
In Eddie’s mind the law is a flexible concept. It can be bent, twisted, flattened and stretched until it becomes whatever you want it to be. He can even make it disappear when turned sideways.
A dozen steps behind him comes Charles Raynor, QC, known as “The Rook” because of his black hair and beaked nose. He once made a former cabinet minister cry under cross-examination about his taste in women’s underwear.
Eddie spies me and swaggers over. “Well, lookie see who’s here—Inspector Roooeeeez. I hear all sorts of stories about you. I hear your wife is banging someone else—his dick, her pussy, making whoopee. I’d be pretty pissed if I caught my missus shagging her boss. For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, isn’t that what they say? No mention there of giving it up for the firm’s accountant.”
My jaw clenches and I feel the red mist descending.
Eddie takes a step back. “Yeah, that’s the temper I heard so much about. Have fun in court.”
I know he’s winding me up. That’s what Eddie does—gets under people’s skin, looking for the softest flesh.
Spectators are crammed into the public gallery and there are three full rows of press, including four sketch artists. The furnishings and fittings predate microphones and recording equipment so cables snake across