The Pupil Read online

  The Pupil

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part 1 April

  Chapter One Mel

  Chapter Two Natasha

  Chapter Three Mel

  Chapter Four Mel

  Chapter Five Natasha

  Chapter Six Mel

  Chapter Seven Mel

  Chapter Eight Natasha

  Chapter Nine Mel

  Chapter Ten Mel

  Chapter Eleven Natasha

  Part Two June

  Chapter Twelve Mel

  Chapter Thirteen Mel

  Chapter Fourteen Natasha

  Chapter Fifteen Mel

  Chapter Sixteen Mel

  Chapter Seventeen Mel

  Chapter Eighteen Mel

  Chapter Nineteen Natasha

  Chapter Twenty Natasha

  Chapter Twenty-one Mel

  Chapter Twenty-two Natasha

  Chapter Twenty-three Mel

  Chapter Twenty-four Natasha

  Chapter Twenty-five Mel

  Chapter Twenty-six Mel

  Chapter Twenty-seven Natasha

  Chapter Twenty-eight Mel

  Chapter Twenty-nine Natasha

  Chapter Thirty Mel

  Chapter Thirty-one Mel

  Chapter Thirty-two Natasha

  Chapter Thirty-three Mel

  Chapter Thirty-four Mel

  Chapter Thirty-five Mel

  Chapter Thirty-six Mel

  Part Three February

  Chapter Thirty-seven Mel

  Chapter Thirty-eight Mel

  Chapter Thirty-nine Natasha

  Chapter Forty Natasha

  Chapter Forty-one Mel

  Chapter Forty-two Natasha

  Chapter Forty-three Mel

  Chapter Forty-four Mel

  Chapter Forty-five Mel

  Chapter Forty-six Mel

  Chapter Forty-seven Natasha

  Chapter Forty-eight Mel

  Chapter Forty-nine Mel

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  For

  Nathan and Tommy

  Part 1

  April

  Chapter One

  Mel

  Success is an aphrodisiac. Mel pulled out her phone and called Paul’s work number. ‘Another triumph.’

  ‘I’ll read that as another criminal on the streets. So much for legal ethics. Where are you?’

  ‘Isleworth. On my way to the tube. I don’t need to go into chambers.’

  ‘The thing is, Mel, I can’t really get away.’ It was as if he had slammed a door in her face. ‘What about tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘I could grab a couple of hours.’

  ‘Jacob’s back. Plus, I’m in Northampton all day.’

  ‘Sounds like we’ll… listen, I need to shoot. Three o’clock seminar. Mel? You there?’

  ‘Traffic noise. It’s difficult to hear.’

  ‘I’ll call you later.’

  She slipped the phone into the side pocket of her bag and headed northwards past school playing fields and dull suburban houses towards the Great West Road. The day was grey, dry, and windless, neither warm nor cold, the sun no more than a faint glimmer through clouds. Disappointment would subside. How could she expect Paul to adapt his schedule without warning on a Tuesday afternoon in term time? Ringing him had been a spur of the moment thing, a longing to share the thrill of victory. She wasn’t one of those women who fell to pieces at their lover’s absence.

  As she fell into the comforting rhythm of the walk, her whirling mind slowed. The phone call had been a mistake. She usually waited for him to contact her.

  The houses between the Crown Court and the tube were mostly bow-fronted semis with clipped hedges and low walls. She could imagine Paul in such a house, though his would be bigger, glassier, with kitchen and loft extensions. Of course, she would never see the family home which he and Caro had bought soon after the dinner party seventeen years ago where Mel and Paul had met for the first time.

  Mel was still with Claude then and they were planning their own family home, though that dream was to crumble a few years later. There were two other couples at the party, but their names or faces had become lost in time. Even Caro had become a blur, though Mel still recalled her gentle, pale blue eyes and flustered manner as she struggled with the burnt Osso Buco in between sprints up and down the stairs trying to get the children to sleep.

  In the large kitchen the rest of them had speared the charred meat, drank a lot of red wine and argued. Mel couldn’t remember what they’d argued about, only that she had felt outnumbered, and unsupported by Claude. She had sensed Paul watching her and had never forgotten the expression on his face, the power of his deep blue eyes as he turned to her in agreement and said, ‘You are not alone.’

  Three years ago, Claude long gone, she had run into Paul in the Temple. He told her he often used the short cut from Waterloo to his office at the University of North London where he worked. Walking through a well-tended garden was much pleasanter than struggling with crowds on the Strand. They went for a coffee. She talked. The pressures of work. Her need to hold her life together for her son. He listened. Afterwards, she wondered if she had talked too much. But, two days later he rang to say how much he had enjoyed seeing her again, inviting her for a drink. He didn’t mention Caro.

  ‘That sounds great,’ she said.

  When she put the phone down her heart was beating hard. But she felt no guilt. Paul was what she needed at this point in her life. No one would know. No one would get hurt. Sometimes, when Jacob was staying with Claude, she and Paul would meet in Mel’s flat, though there was a niggling discomfort at his presence after they had made love, awkwardness over their cups of tea or glasses of wine. She wanted him, but not in this place. They were better off somewhere neutral. There was a sweet-sour detachment in their hotel encounters which enhanced their intensity. Paul would never move into her life to find fault with her slovenly habits and her moody teenage son.

  The sun emerged from its sheet of cloud. When she started at the Bar, she little realised how much of her time would be spent tramping around London’s fringes, seeking out-of-the-way courts. The courts were fewer and larger now, the directions easier, thanks to mobile phones and Google maps. But she had enjoyed those backstreet expeditions, her battered Court Guide tucked into her rucksack, working out obscure bus routes or parking spots. Nowadays she used a wheelie bag, but that end-of-the-day feeling was unchanged, the mid-afternoon lull that preceded the next set of instructions.

  At least the trains were frequent, and today she would be travelling against the rush hour with the luxury of nothing immediate to prepare, no one to report to, and a good thriller on her Kindle. Never mind Paul. She would do the right thing, hurry back to chambers, listen to other people’s war stories, talk rugby with Andy, her clerk. It was time she showed her face.

  Coming out at Holborn tube an hour later, she cut through Lincoln’s Inn Fields, then across the Inn to the Temple. More than twenty years after she had first seen the place, it could still work its magic, particularly on a bright spring day after a successful afternoon in the Crown Court. Walking past the weathered brick, the arching fountain surrounded by neatly trimmed lawns, the pale tight buds of the lime trees, she breathed the scent of newly cut grass, the sense of renewal deep within the city’s turbulence. Whatever went wrong in her personal life, she had this.

  Bridge Court Chambers was bustling with tenants coming in from court, picking up papers for the next day, solicitors accompanying clients for conferences. Mel swept through the clerks’ room, past the pigeonholes, which even in this day of electronic communication remained a focal point, shoute
d ‘Hi,’ to the clerks and bounded up the stone stairs to her room. It was cramped but light, with three desks. Two were piled high with other people’s papers, the third and best placed faced out across the Temple Gardens.

  In these days of hot desking she could no longer regard it as her own, and it was currently occupied by a beautiful Asian woman. Her glossy hair was drawn back into a large clip, and so fine and symmetrical were her features, so perfect the hairline, that she had no need of the loose strands which most women, Mel included, used to soften the outlines of their faces. Alisha was staring intently into a laptop, flipping the pages in the thick Lever Arch file beside her. Mel viewed her with detached admiration. It would be easier to like Alisha if she had been prepared to let down her guard in private. Chambers gossip hinted at a difficult husband, a gambler. Alisha’s Hindu parents reportedly disapproved. Mel had learnt all this from her friend Georgie and felt a little piqued that she herself had not been chosen as a confidante.

  ‘Hello, stranger.’

  ‘Hi, Alisha.’

  ‘How d’you get on?’

  ‘Fine.’

  What else could she say? In the last five days she had slain the prosecution witnesses, guided her client through his shaky evidence, rescued him from a powerful cross-examination and finally soared in her closing speech. She’d been at her best. Standing up in court she had been oblivious to the outside world, focusing only on the evidence she needed to handle, her own well-prepared tactics, the thrill of battle. The judge’s summing up had felt weighted towards the prosecution and the wait for the verdict was as ever, nerve-jangling. But against all odds, they had won. That her client was clearly guilty, and would no doubt go out and mug another innocent passer-by was something she preferred not to think about.

  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 wo
rk 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.