Subpoena Colada Page 20

  This is all I need. Now I’m starting to doubt myself. At the corner of a junction ahead the warm golden glow from the windows of a pub casts a latticed square of light onto the snow. Music is playing and I can hear laughter. I’d like to order a pint or two and breathe in some second-hand smoke. Zipping up my coat I trudge through the drifts towards it.

  AN EXTRACT FROM SCOTT DOLAN’S GUEST LIST

  As our EXCLUSIVE picture shows, EX-BLACK DAHLIA Brian Fey went loco yesterday at the funeral of John French. Fey PUNCHED ex-bandmate Martin Valentine and was RESTRAINED by the Dahlias’ new singer, hunky Sean Darbo.

  Stud Sean, 27, said: ‘I guess he’s under a lot of pressure what with his career going down the toilet but that’s no excuse for what he did.’

  What Fey DIDN’T know was that heart-throb Sean is a black belt in kung-fu.

  A witness told me: ‘Sean tried to calm things down, but Fey wasn’t having any of it. So Sean hit him. Someone else dragged Fey away.’

  Fey’s recent behaviour has been worrying. On Tuesday he attacked a journo from the NME. If this is all a plan for publicity, it’s not working: yesterday his new album fell to 97 in the charts.

  FRIDAY

  AND SO TO BED

  I wake up cold and sore. I look around. It looks like I’ve managed to make it inside the communal lobby on the ground floor, but that’s it. My key protrudes from the lock above my head, still unturned. I’ve been asleep under the post boxes, leaning against the clammy unfinished bricks with my head half in the pot where the anemic cactus plant lives. My muscles are locked together from the sheer cold. I try to stretch out.

  My attention is drawn down, beneath my chin, by a rancid odour. I find I’ve been sick down the front of my suit. It’s coagulated there in thick, gelatinous chunks. I only picked this suit up from the cleaners the other day, and I have no alternatives save a mauve mistake I bought for my unsuccessful interview at Cambridge ten years ago. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to get into it these days.

  ‘Morning,’ says Hodgson, stepping gingerly over my splayed legs.

  ‘Morning,’ I reply, feeling utterly ridiculous.

  ‘Lost your key again?’

  ‘Nope,’ I say. ‘Here it is, in the lock. Just forgot to turn it this time.’

  ‘What happened to your suit?’

  I try to laugh it off. I’m beginning to realize I’m feeling very ill indeed.

  AN UNCERTAIN DIAGNOSIS

  I haven’t been to the doctor for months. My last checkup? - I couldn’t tell you. Elizabeth had made the appointment for me and left a reminder on the answerphone.

  ‘Mr Tate. We haven’t seen you here for a while.’

  ‘I’ve been busy at work.’

  The bruise on my head is examined; it is prodded and poked until the doctor satisfies himself that it is healing. He looks down at my notes, and then back up at me.

  ‘And how are you? Generally, I mean. Everything all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, feeling great.’

  ‘You don’t look great.’

  ‘Bit of a hangover. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Do you drink much?’

  ‘No more than anybody else.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A bottle here and there.’

  ‘Do you know what the recommended alcohol intake is for someone like you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No more than, say, three glasses of wine a day. Together with two days a week when you don’t drink any alcohol.’

  ‘Well, I don’t drink anywhere near as much as that, not normally.’

  ‘In that case I’ll just give you a quick check-up and then you can be on your way.’

  The usual; height and weight, blood pressure and pulse, light shone into the eyes, a barrage of questions all answered ‘No’.

  The doctor looks at my notes, then addresses me quizzically. ‘Would you mind if I did a quick test?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just routine.’

  He takes my hand and holds a small black box against the tip of my finger.

  ‘This won’t hurt.’

  He presses a button. There is a sharp prick and a bud of blood forms. He wipes the blood onto a glossy strip of thin paper and puts it into a machine. After twenty seconds the machine bleeps; he checks the screen.

  He frowns: ‘How’ve you been feeling lately?’

  ‘I told you, great.’

  ‘No excessive thirst?’

  Just the booze; best keep that to myself. ‘No.’

  ‘Mood changes? Any nausea? Vomiting?’

  ‘No. Everything’s fine.’

  He rubs his chin. ‘I’d like you to come back in a couple of days. I want to take some blood and run a few more tests. Best to be sure.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Your blood sugar’s a little outside where it ought to be. I’d like to test you for diabetes.’

  ‘Diabetes?’

  ‘I saw from your notes that your father had it. It’s not unusual for it to be passed on. It can set in quickly and you don’t want to take chances with it.’

  Diabetes?

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s probably nothing. Stop off at the desk on your way out and ask Cheryl to book you in for thirty minutes on Tuesday. We’ll have this checked out in no time.’

  THE NET CLOSES IN

  Cohen isn’t in our office when I finally make it in. I check that with Elizabeth; he has a meeting with Richard Whiteley and Carol Vordeman for most of the morning. I have two client meetings scheduled for today, so I can probably arrange my time so that our contact is minimal, if any. The shame of last night’s humiliation is still fresh, and I’d rather have the weekend to put my thoughts in order. I’m still angry, mostly with myself, and the last thing I want is another - maybe worse - argument.

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ Elizabeth says. ‘The police have said they’re close to arresting someone with something to do with that John French’s death.’

  Apprehensive: ‘It’s not suicide, then?’

  ‘Well, they’re arresting someone, so I suppose it can’t be.’

  ‘Did they say who it was?’

  ‘Not really. They said something about a new lead that sort of thing - and that they expected to have someone in custody before the end of the weekend.’

  I slide the fresh bottle of whisky I’ve bought into my desk drawer - after taking a couple of mouthfuls.

  A VERBAL WARNING

  My phone is blinking red with a call-me-back message. It’s from Wilson. I’m feeling too numbed to worry or to think about waiting to call her back, so I dazedly dial her number.

  ‘What in the hell did you think you were playing at yesterday?’ she bellows as soon as the call connects. ‘I had Trish Parkes on the telephone for over half an hour complaining about the work you sent over to her.’

  ‘Dawkins stole the original-’ I begin.

  ‘No, no, I’m not listening to that cock-and-bull story again, Tate. You’ve made a very serious mistake. She’s threatening to go elsewhere. Mr Hunter is livid, of course, and he insisted you be removed from the matter at once. But I’d decided to do that already.’

  To my surprise I’m actually relieved by this. It’s not the way I would have chosen to finish my involvement on the file, but at least I don’t have to worry about it any more.

  ‘This isn’t the first time I’ve had to apologize for your mistakes. I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt before. But now I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve got the skills for this job.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, devoid of feeling.

  She pauses; I can almost picture her steaming.

  ‘I’m too busy to deal with this today. Call my secretary and arrange an appointment with me on Monday.’

  When I put the phone down my ears are ringing.

  THE FINAL HUMILIATION

  Things get even worse.

  At 11.15, Fulton pays me a visit.<
br />
  ‘Daniel,’ he says awkwardly, perching on the edge of Cohen’s empty desk. ‘There’s something we have to discuss.’

  This absolutely has to be bad. I’ve never seen him looking so uncomfortable.

  ‘We’re all a little worried about what happened yesterday, obviously. We think you might’ve been putting yourself under too much pressure. I know you’ve been working very hard.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I protest.

  ‘I’ve got some rather bad news. Well, I say bad, but maybe it’s for the best in the long run. I’ve just had a long conference call with Mr MacHale and the directors at Mr Fey’s record label. I’ve dictated a detailed attendance note, and of course you’re more than welcome to look at it and discuss it with me, if you want. But the short version is this - they want you to step aside from the case.’

  Because it’s the reaction Fulton expects, and because it won’t do what’s left of my employment prospects any favours to reveal how far I’ve fallen into the dull funk of fatalism, I manage to reach down for some jaded umbrage. ‘What for?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s not so much a matter of what you’ve done wrong,’ Fulton explains, ‘but more what you haven’t done. I think they feel there’s been a breakdown of communication of some kind. They’ve lost confidence in us and I think they’d rather someone else took up the reins.’

  ‘Who?’

  He coughs, awkwardly. ‘Oliver Dawkins is taking things forward from here.’

  ‘Dawkins?’ This time my dismay is 100 per cent genuine. ‘Dawkins?’

  Apparently he’s met Mr MacHale several times. They got on rather well from what I can understand. Mr MacHale requested him especially when we spoke yesterday.’

  ‘Dawkins doesn’t know anything about the Dahlias. I mean, he hasn’t got a clue.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s fair. I’ve just been in to see him, actually. He’s just gone out and bought all of their records.’

  ‘So, when am I off the case?’

  ‘As of now. We’re reassigning you to help Jonathan Williams with the discovery exercise he’s doing. I think his work will benefit from a little supervision and you’ll obviously have the time to give him that. Plus it’ll give you some time away from the front lines, as it were. I think it might be just what you need.’ He stands and straightens out his shirt. ‘I’d like you to go around and talk to Oliver now. I want to make sure that the transfer is as seamless as possible.’

  Before he goes, Fulton mentions a small matter that he’d like me to take care of for him. A failing star, only recently the subject of lurid tabloid allegations relating to his sexual preferences, wants us to find out who owns the copyright to Runaround. He wants to stage a revival - Channel 5, apparently, are interested.

  And so the punishment begins.

  WINNER TAKES IT ALL

  I sit and seethe for ten minutes after Fulton leaves. I can’t believe this is happening. Now I find myself regretting Cohen’s absence. I need someone to talk this one out with, someone to remind me how petty and pointless this firm can be, and how there really is no need to get steamed up about it. It’s just a job, right? Don’t take it personally. But he isn’t here and so, as I collect the double-armful of correspondence and document folders I’ve accumulated since I started Brian’s case, and head over to Dawkins’ desk, I’m probably not in the diplomatic or constructive mood Fulton was suggesting he’d like me to be in.

  The Dork is already preparing for his new case. A pile of CDs is arranged on his desk. He’s watching a documentary on the history of the Dahlias when I stomp into his office. He stabs the remote control in the direction of the video, and pauses the tape.

  ‘This,’ he says, pointing at the screen - Brian frozen at the edge of an anonymous stage - ‘is surprisingly good. They write some catchy tunes, don’t they?’

  ‘Happy now?’ I ask, dropping the folders on the floor next to his desk. Loose papers spill out around his feet.

  ‘"Happy"?’ he says, placing his tortoiseshell glasses on the desk.

  ‘You’ve been after the case for weeks, haven’t you? Don’t think I didn’t notice.’

  ‘Settle down,’ he says.

  ‘You couldn’t wait, could you? I bet you were really cut up to see me land the firm’s best case.’

  His tone hardens. ‘Listen - I was just chatting with Mr Fey’s manager after the funeral, and we got on well. That’s all there is to say. The fact that you couldn’t handle the case properly hasn’t got anything to do with me. Your incompetence is hardly my fault.’

  ‘So it’s unfair to say you’ve been angling to get me off this case?’ .

  ‘Unfair, paranoid, obsessive,’ he says with a sugarcoated smile. ‘I could go on.’

  ‘You make me sick,’ I say. I head for the door.

  ‘I’m just doing what’s been asked of me,’ he replies. ‘Just doing my job.’

  As I reach the door, he adds, to my back, ‘I had a date last night.’

  I shrug. ‘I really couldn’t care less.’

  ‘It went very well. Rachel really is a lovely girl, isn’t she? A really good sport.’

  ‘Rachel?’

  ‘You know. Rachel Delgardo. Fulton’s new trainee.’

  I can’t help myself. ‘You saw Rachel last night?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he nods. ‘She was telling me about you getting drunk when you took her out on Monday. Bad form, Tate. Bad form. Not the way to impress the ladies.’

  I try to put the images of Rachel and the Dork out of my mind but they are insidious and I’m only partially successful. I try to imagine what Rachel could possibly find attractive about the Dork. It can’t be his looks or his personality. Perhaps she finds the prospect of his imminent promotion to the partnership appealing. Some women are turned on by money and power, I suppose, even the petty influence that junior partners can wield in an office like this.

  This prompts a truly terrifying thought, something I should have realized long ago. If (no, check that: when) the Dork does become a partner, and assuming I haven’t been sacked, I’ll almost certainly have to work for him. The office isn’t big enough to avoid a particular partner, especially one that shares his legal specialization with you. The prospect of having to take orders from the obsequious little bastard… I try not to think about that, too.

  MY NEW HOME

  I ride the lift down to the basement and find the case room Williams has been cooped up in for the last six months.

  I have a morbid desire to look around my new home. There are no windows. Sunlight filters down through the glass bricks set into the pavement above, slanting through in insipid lozenges. The hallway is full of junk that no one knows where else to dump: sheaves of yellowed, decades-old paper; out-of-date marketing brochures; obsolete computers. This is where broken furniture comes to die. It’s a graveyard for office trash.

  The rooms around me are murky and depressing. The firm uses the rooms to store closed files and junk but also as space suitable for the undertaking of the document-intensive tasks for which there is no room in the office above.

  A light shines from one of the four doorways leading off the hallway. With a heavy tread, I investigate.

  Williams is sitting with his back to me, hunched over a table covered with papers. Stacked up to the ceiling along three sides of the room are dozens and dozens of cardboard boxes, each marked with a number in black magic marker. I spot number 312 and stop looking. Williams has one of these boxes on the desk and has pulled out a sheaf of papers from it. As I watch, he goes through each document individually, skim reading at first and then carefully applying adhesive labels to obscure certain passages of text.

  Some documents contain information that doesn’t have to be disclosed to the other side. His task is to locate this irrelevant or legally privileged material and obscure it before the documents are copied. Then the copies have to be checked. In a case with a lot of documents the task can take months, sometimes even years.

  It is apparent th
at this case is one with a lot of documents.

  I can see my life draining away like the last dirty suds sucked down a grotty plughole.

  A WORD WITH MY PATRON

  I bump into Richard Tanner on the way back to the office.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ve been better.’

  ‘Look, I’ve spoken with Wilson and Fulton. I’ve heard what’s happened. Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Richard. I’m having some difficulties.’

  ‘Is everything all right at home?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘All right, just keep your head down for a week or two. I’ll try and smooth things over with the others. You know what Victoria’s like - she loses her rag sometimes. She’ll cool down. And I’ll have a word with Hunter if it comes to that. Now, I’ve got a big case coming in next week, something juicy for Bruce Forsyth, and if you want it, I’ll make sure it comes to you. You won’t have to do anything else for either of them - not until you’re back to being yourself again. OK?’

  ‘They’re going to fire me, Richard.’

  ‘No, they won’t,’ he says, although you wouldn’t call his tone confident. ‘Look, we’ll say you’ve been under a lot of pressure. These things happen, Daniel, they happen to the best of us. Leave it to me. I’ll talk to them.’

  ‘What about the partnership thing?’ He shakes his head.

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s between David, Oliver and Caroline. Maybe you’ll get a chance another time.’

  MEDIA ONSLAUGHT

  The memory of Brian’s messages on French’s answerphone, suppressed by the weight of the morning’s tribulations, slips free and bobs to the surface. I try and put it aside. I don’t want to have to deal with it now.