to reposition his career. These days he called himself an enquiry consultant, but really he was a snoop, a private investigator who did our dirty work. It wasn’t something our profession talked about much, especially after the press got into all sorts of trouble for doing it, although they went too far and broke the rules. But the truth was, the law needed people like Phil Robertson. Barristers are wordsmiths and nit-pickers, but to win, we need information, ammunition. We need missiles to throw at the other side. And it’s all done in the client’s best interest.
I ordered a black coffee and watched Phil tuck into a muffin.
‘So what have you got for me?’
‘She has a nice life, this one, doesn’t she,’ he said, wiping brown crumbs from his chin. ‘Posh lunches, nights out, shopping sprees … Remind me to marry well in my next life,’ he said, as I leaned forward, eager to know more about Donna Joy.
The waitress put a mug in front of me and I took a sip of the thick, black liquid.
‘It’s the nights out we want to know about.’
‘You mean, is she seeing anyone?’
I curled my fingers around the mug and looked at him expectantly.
‘I think she is,’ said Phil finally.
A shot of energy surged through me and I knew it wasn’t the coffee.
‘Donna’s seeing someone?’ I asked, feeling the euphoria build.
Phil nodded.
‘Who?’
‘Not sure.’
‘Phil, come on. What am I paying you for?’
He peered down his nose at me. ‘Here’s the rub. I think it might be the husband.’
Although I was sitting, it was as if I was suddenly falling, down, down through a trapdoor that had opened and sucked me into a dark and bottomless void.
‘Look, I know it’s not what you want to hear …’
The truth of his words almost made me laugh.
I tried to compose myself but I felt weak and dazed.
‘Are you sure? Martin Joy left his wife. He’s the one who wants a divorce. From my reading of the situation, he has a pretty low opinion of her …’
The words were coming out of my mouth as quickly as I could think them.
Phil finished his muffin and rolled the paper case up into a ball.
‘Look, I’ve asked around and tracked her – which, believe me, wasn’t easy.’
‘Why not?’ I asked, as coolly as I could.
‘Lots of parties I couldn’t get into. Trips overseas – one via Heathrow on March twelfth and a Eurostar journey last weekend. I couldn’t get through the gates on both occasions to see where she went. I did text David Gilbert for authorization for overseas expenses but he said not to bother.’
‘And you think these were mini-breaks? With her husband.’
‘I don’t know who she was with. All I can be certain of is that she travelled to the airport and King’s Cross on her own. And there were three or four other occasions when she didn’t return home. That made me think she was seeing someone. Then I saw her meet a man for dinner and they went back to the house in Chelsea.’ He opened a document wallet that was on the table and took out a photo.
‘There they are, Donna and Martin Joy.’
I forced myself to look. It was a black-and-white image that reminded me of a Robert Doisneau photograph. Donna was laughing, her long hair whipping around her face in the wind; Martin’s profile was handsome and strong. There was no denying that they looked beautiful together.
‘When was it?’ I could feel my lips in a thin, tight line. My throat was dry, a white-hot hatred for Donna Joy had muted me.
Phil indicated the photo. ‘Date’s on the back.’
I turned it over and saw that it was the Tuesday night when Martin had told me they had gone to talk.
‘This doesn’t mean much,’ I said, trying to reassure myself.
‘I know what you want here,’ said Phil, holding up his hands. ‘Proof that she’s seeing another man, that she’s got a new, serious relationship that could affect any maintenance payments your client will have to pay. But this isn’t it.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry, but if you ask me, these two look as if they’re still in love. I bet they don’t even want to get divorced.’
He smiled and put the photograph back in the document wallet. And my tepid, black coffee began to make me feel sick.
I was one of the first to leave chambers that night, much to the bemusement of Paul, who caught me on the way out. I took the District line to Sloane Square, and got lost in a sea of commuters as we piled out of the station. It was a grey day, the light poor, the dying sunlight blocked by clouds clotted with rain, and on any other occasion, I would have wanted to hurry home to a glass of wine and the central heating turned up full-blast. But I couldn’t go home tonight. Not yet. Not after my conversation with Martin.
He’d called a few hours after my meeting with Phil Robertson. Usually I loved hearing the sound of his voice, but that afternoon I could hardly bear to speak to him, not after the things Phil had told me which had jolted me into a reality I did not want to face. That I had allowed myself to be fobbed off by Martin’s casual assertions that he was meeting Donna simply to be polite and keep a dialogue open. That I had dismissed Alex Cole’s remarks that Martin had been a mess after his marriage had broken down, even though it contradicted his version of events. But before the call had ended, a masochistic and inquisitive impulse had kicked in and I had suggested dinner. I wanted to look him in the eye, like a defendant in the witness box, and see if he could lie to me. Or perhaps I just wanted him to convince me that I had nothing to worry about.
‘Supper, tonight after work,’ I’d said, and it had been impossible to miss the hesitation, the guilty, pregnant pause before he told me he couldn’t, he was busy. ‘Something’s cropped up. How about tomorrow?’
I knew where Donna Joy worked. It was one of many things I knew about her by this time. Her studio was in a little mews in the warren of streets behind Peter Jones. An arch led to a cobbled courtyard and I peered into the building. The complex was dark, eerie, deserted, like an old, abandoned school.
Through the window of one of the units I could see a middle-aged redhead turn off the only light in the block and lock up.
I turned to leave but she emerged into the courtyard and asked if she could help me.
‘Is Donna around?’ I asked, picking at the cuticles of my nails.
The woman smiled as she tied a floral scarf around her neck.
‘You’ve
