When You Are Mine(72)

He pulls out a chair for me and begins telling me the history of the pub, which has a Ripper connection. Two of Jack’s victims, Annie Chapman and Mary Kelly, were either regulars or local prostitutes who plied for trade on the pavement outside.

‘It used to be called the Eight Bells Alehouse because the church on the corner had eight bells, but when they changed the bells, they changed the name.’

‘Who am I meeting?’ I ask.

‘David Helgarde.’

‘The mob lawyer!’

‘He’s a criminal barrister.’

‘Who represents dodgy Russian oligarchs and gangsters.’

‘He’s been the family lawyer for twenty years.’

‘Enough said.’

We’re sitting near the window where the bright August sunshine is blasting onto the table, highlighting the condensation rings. Clifton has bought another Guinness and I’ve opted for a lemon squash, which makes me feel underage.

He wipes foam from his top lip. ‘So why do you need a Tom Sawyer?’

‘I’d rather not make it family business.’

‘Yeah, I get that, but if you’re in trouble—’

‘I’m not!’

Helgarde pushes through the pub door. He could be forty, or he could be sixty, with the lean, emaciated look of an obsessed amateur triathlete. Dressed in chinos and an open-neck shirt, he ducks as he enters the pub, as though frightened the ceiling might be too low.

‘Sorry about my hair. I drove back from the country. The convertible,’ he says, as though it should be obvious.

He examines the waiting chair and recoils. I half expect him to pull out a handkerchief and flap it clean of germs before he takes a seat.

‘You must be Philomena,’ he says in a plummy voice. ‘You can call me David.’ He turns to my uncle. ‘Dry white wine.’

Clifton leaps to his feet and would doff a cap if he was wearing one. While he goes to the bar, Helgarde makes small talk about his house in the Cotswolds. I’m picturing gin and tonics on the lawn and the thwock, thwock of tennis balls.

Our drinks are delivered.

‘I’ll head out for a fag,’ says Clifton.

‘I thought you’d given up,’ says Helgarde.

‘I did, but I find smokers are more interesting than non-smokers. They don’t take life as seriously.’

We’re alone. ‘I’m not sure that I need a barrister,’ I say.

Helgarde gives me a non-committal shrug. ‘I’m here now.’

‘Charging how much an hour?’

‘More than you can afford, but I’ll be billing your father.’

Grudgingly, I set out the details, telling him about Goodall and my misconduct charges. It’s like I’m knitting a sweater and Helgarde is looking for every dropped stitch and loose end. Finally, he leans back and crosses his legs.

‘It seems you have two major problems, Philomena. The allegation of using unreasonable force, if proven, may amount to the equivalent of assault occasioning actual bodily harm, which is a criminal level of offending.’

‘He swung at me first.’

Helgarde holds up his hand, acknowledging the point. ‘I’m more concerned about the charge of accessing data illegally. The police have become very strict about data protection. There is a public expectation and legal requirement that information will be treated in strictest confidence and only used for legitimate policing purposes.’

‘I was attempting to expose a cover-up.’

‘By the very people who want you removed.’

‘You’re telling me it’s hopeless.’

‘I’m giving you my professional opinion.’

I take a moment to quietly seethe, disliking Helgarde’s arrogance or maybe just his answers.

He grows pensive. ‘There might be another way, although it’s rather a blunt approach. Crash through or crash in flames.’

‘Which is?’

‘The whistle-blower defence.’

‘I’m not a whistle-blower.’

‘Not yet.’

I am already shaking my head. ‘You want me to go public.’

‘Expose them. Shame them.’

‘My name would be mud. They would never take me back.’

‘They could be forced to.’

‘And I’d be treated like a pariah. Whistle-blowers are worse than corrupt cops. I’d never get a promotion, or a decent posting, or a positive performance review. I’d be a traitor in their eyes.’

‘Is that what you think of whistle-blowers?’

‘No. I think they’re incredibly brave and stupid. Mostly brave, but I’m neither of those things.’

Helgarde doesn’t respond. We look past each other, marinating in the silence.

‘You’re telling me that I have no choice. If I go quietly, they win. If I go public, they win.’

‘But it costs them. You sue for wrongful termination. They’ll settle out of court.’

‘To keep me quiet.’

‘You’ll have the money.’

‘But no career.’

Smiling sadly, he brushes imaginary lint from the thigh of his trousers. ‘I think that ship has already sailed.’