Mel typed up her Attendance Note, a brief outline of what had gone on in court that morning, the hours divided between preparation, conference and the trial itself. She would pick up her next set of papers and work on tomorrow’s brief at home. She was eager to get back to see Jacob. He’d be starting his exams soon and she needed to be around for him. Just as she was about to leave, she heard Alisha speak. Her words hit Mel like a sudden, destabilising blast of wind.
‘When’s your new pupil starting?’
‘What new pupil?’
‘Natasha. She’s already been here six months with the Civil Law team. Now it’s our turn. You must have seen her around. Fair, straight hair. Striking-looking woman.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Talk to Andy. As far as I recall, he said she’s starting with you.’
Two minutes later Mel had dumped her brief, endorsed with the jury’s verdict, together with the Attendance Note, in Andy’s tray and was standing at his desk.
‘Hi, Mel.’ Andy continued to stare into the screen in front of him. ‘Northampton tomorrow. Meet the client at 9:30 a.m. You OK to get there?’
‘I’m used to early starts. What’s this about a pupil, Andy?’
‘Natasha. She’s starting tomorrow. I’m sending her to the High Court with Jess. After that she’s yours.’
‘Nobody told me.’
‘She was supposed to be Georgie’s but he’s in Birmingham for another three weeks. Plus, it’s your turn.’
Mel was aware of that. It was five years since she had last had a pupil, an overenthusiastic young man who used to hang around for hours asking irritating questions at the end of the day when she needed to get back home for Jacob.
‘She’ll come along to your Patel case in the Principal Registry. I’ve sent her copies of the papers. She seems pretty on the ball.’
‘Fine.’
It was not fine. There would be no more empty afternoons. No more drifting around London suburbs, planning hook-ups with Paul. Pupils were keen. They stuck to you like limpets.
Chapter Two
Natasha
Natasha walked fast, cutting a swathe through the Oxford Street crowd. She looked straight ahead, blurring her focus just enough to avoid confronting the sad inelegance of the English shopper. Women stepped to one side. So did most men. Occasionally a bully would try to face her off and she would make a quick decision, having good antennae for danger and stepping aside at the faintest whiff. There was no point in risking an unwinnable argument. Face-off was a game and she liked games. It was why she had decided to become a barrister, and why she was striding through the West End this bright April morning, about to shoplift a respectable outfit for her first day in Bridge Court Chambers.
Most sensible people would have told her she was an idiot to try a spot of thievery on the day before starting her second six months of pupillage, risking a criminal record and the certain destruction of her fledgling career. Not to mention the waste of £40,000 in fees and expenses, five years of study, a score of exams and twelve interviews. All for the sake of picking up a few items of clothing which, given the size of her debt, she might as well buy. But she was bored, and she needed a kick. She was good at shoplifting and it always gave her a thrill.
She chose Marks & Spencer, despite being thirty years younger than most of their customers. The staff were lazy, only the really pricey stuff was tagged, there were no security guards on the door, and the cameras were usually out of action. She had dressed carefully for the task. Neutral grey shirt and jeans, light jacket, hair neatly clipped back, minimal make-up.
‘You look nice,’ said Luke as she was preparing to leave their flat. She had been changing the battery in her insulin pump, replenishing the stock of glucose tablets in her handbag. ‘Not going to work then?’ He was used to her dark suits. Even if she sat in chambers all day, she was expected to wear court gear in case she had to accompany her pupil supervisor over the road to the High Court. She knew what Luke was thinking. If they were both at home, why not take a break in bed around midday? Sex with Luke was always good, and it was particularly satisfying when the rest of the world was on its treadmill. But Luke would always be there, or for as long as she wanted him, whereas today’s expedition was special. It would be her last. Once she started in court, everything would change. No more shoplifting. That was the plan.
‘Just shopping. Gotta look smart for court.’
‘You’re always smart.’
‘New job, new suit. I’ll be on my feet in court any day.’
‘You’ll be brilliant. Terrifying.’
He grinned, and she was pleased. Nothing he said indicated suspicion, though he must realise she had more cool clothes than could realistically be bought on her income. Pupils at Bridge Court were expected to exist on £14,000 a year. He’d confronted her once and the row had been horrible. Since then he had stayed silent about her shopping hobby. He wanted her more than she wanted him and that meant accepting what she was. There had been one unpleasant incident when she had gone a step too far with a man at a party and tested his patience. After that she had been more careful. She could have any man she wanted for sex, but not many, like Luke, who would care for her and support her. It was not, she told herself, that she needed him. She could easily manage alone. But she was fond of him and had come to rely on him. It was the only relationship she’d had that had lasted more than a few months.
She had met Luke two years ago at a time when she was bored with cooking alone and having no one regular to go out with. He had turned up, in the traditional way, at a party. He was a social worker, but she could forgive him that because he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, thick wavy hair the colour of polished oak, long straight nose, deep brown eyes. Yet he had none of the confidence that one might expect would accompany such an appearance. His movements were tentative and his speech slow and uncertain, as if he had to think hard before deciding what to say.
She pecked him on the cheek, leaving him disappointed, and swung out of the door of the former council flat in Brixton which, for the last two years, had been their home.
Marks & Spencer was quiet, the stock dreary. She bought a brown sweater in the sale for Luke to wear to work and picked up a large store bag, which would come in useful later. She quickly checked the positioning of the mirrors and cameras. The layout of the store was familiar, and she had frequently kitted herself out with gloves, scarves and tights. Jackets were straightforward. She clattered through the rack; charcoal grey with velvet trim and matching skirt looked ideal. Best of all, there were no security tags. She added them to an armful of random stuff. The girl by the changing rooms simply ushered her into Room 7 without bothering to count the items. Seven was lucky. She tried on the jacket and skirt. Perfect. She stuffed them behind the sweater in the store bag, waited a few minutes and then left the cubicle, handing back the other things. None of them was quite right, she said with a practised smile. The girl nodded and proceeded to hang them on a rail as Natasha headed slowly for the exit.
Shoplifting was like lying, most effective when linked to honesty. If they stopped her now, she would say it was an accident, she’d no idea she’d put the items in the bag. She’d started to feel dizzy and confused while she was trying on the clothes. She was type 1 diabetic and must have let her blood sugar fall too low. If she could just sit and eat some glucose tablets and a cereal bar she would be fine. She was so very sorry. The excuse had come in handy on a couple of occasions, but she didn’t need it today, she simply walked out of the back of the store, smiling inwardly as the rush hit, the physical pleasure of small-scale criminality.