Martin Edwards - Suspicious Minds

Julian’s door was ajar. As Harry walked in, the barrister came from behind his desk to shake hands.

“Good to see you.” His smile lacked humour. “Especially as you seem to have a client with money to burn.”

“If only there were more of them.”

“Yes, yes. But this letter — really, he’s a fool if he doesn’t simply write it off to experience. You weren’t born yesterday. You know that as well as I do.”

Hamer’s testiness surprised Harry. Usually he was as urbane as a hereditary peer. Today shadows lurked under his eyes, as if he were short of sleep. What were you up to last night? Harry hoped he didn’t know the answer.

“How will he take being advised to forget the whole thing?”

“Badly, Julian. He’s after blood.”

“For Heaven’s sake! He’s more than likely killed his wife and got away with it. Does he want to bump off his motherin-law too? And his daughter’s here, I’m told. Really, Harry, you should have spared me the child.”

“Waste of time, I agree. But Jack insisted. He has ideas about her studying for the Bar.”

At least she’s got the basic attribute, a touch of the prima donna, he might have added. But didn’t.

“Very well. Wheel them in.”

As Harry made the introductions, he saw Stirrup absorb with approval the mahogany furnishings, the instructions to Counsel tied with pink ribbon which were piled high everywhere, the bookcases filled with calfskin-bound law reports and a complete set of Halsbury’s Statutes . Claire confined her greeting to an adolescent mumble.

Denise, David Base’s deputy clerk, came in bearing a tray of tea in a silver pot and dainty china cups. Stirrup beamed. Value for money, his expression said, civilised behaviour in the finest tradition of the English legal system. Julian rather spoiled the moment by letting his cup slip from his hand, spilling its contents on to the carpet. A moment of clumsiness out of keeping with his customary elegance of word and deed. But Denise mopped up and order was restored.

When at last Hamer spoke he had switched to his courtroom manner. Each syllable had a resonance that even Harry found compelling.

“I must congratulate you, Mr. Stirrup.” A sentence of imprisonment might have been pronounced with less gravity.

“I don’t follow.”

Hamer indicated the slim bundle of papers which Harry had sent round to him. His expression of judicial solemnity matched his tone. “I have read the letter. In my view, it contains a plain libel. I take it for granted that in your daughter’s eyes your reputation is excellent and this Mrs….” — he cleared his throat before enunciating the name with as much distaste as an old maid might describe a crude bodily function — “… Capstick, has certainly done her best to tarnish it. Yet it takes a man of some courage to pursue an action of this kind in your — ah, present circumstances. A man, as well, with a deep pocket, for in the case of a libel published to a single party, your daughter here, your damages will be small and the cost great. Not merely cost in terms of legal fees, although those will be heavy — even, I should emphasise, if your claim ultimately succeeds. But there are other costs in litigation and…”

“What other costs?”

“Time is money where a businessman is concerned and this case will take up a good deal of your time. Moreover, in a matter such as this, where principle is at stake, I presume you will not be satisfied with a mere apology. You therefore have to expect that Mrs. Capstick will be advised to throw as much mud as possible at you in the hope — a feeble one, I trust — that some will stick. Naturally that will be distressing and might harm your business. The police, who have according to my instructions already been involved in this matter, may be urged to press their enquiries further. You must be ready to face prolonged interrogation from them as a result. Many of your acquaintances and business colleagues may tell themselves that no smoke exists without fire. And then, there is your daughter to consider.”

Hamer paused. He spoke of Claire as if she were not present. Which in a sense, thought Harry, seeing her stare absently at the ceiling, was right.

“She may well be subject to cross-examination and the experience is likely to prove traumatic. I am delighted, therefore, that you asked her to accompany you today.”

Hypocrite, thought Harry.

“It is only right to warn you,” the barrister continued, “that it may be several years before the action comes to trial, but it is best for her to be prepared from the outset for the ordeal that lies ahead.”

Little creases of anxiety had begun to criss-cross Stirrup’s forehead. Claire was still miles away, plainly indifferent to the prospect of becoming embraced by the tentacles of the legal process. Harry suspected she was daydreaming about being in Peter Kuiper’s arms instead. He settled more comfortably in his armchair. Julian was doing well, even if the picture he was painting of the legal process had a touch of the Salvador Dali about it.

“You — er — mentioned an apology.”

“Yes, Mr. Stirrup. To seek a retraction is the usual first step in litigation of this kind.”

“A climb-down?”

“Yes, that is a fair description. In practice, few of these cases reach the courts. Usually, the factors which I have mentioned deter those involved from taking matters so far and the point at issue is settled in correspondence.”

“Well, shouldn’t we be asking for the woman to apologise?”

Hamer appeared to give the question serious thought. “It would be the orthodox initial move, certainly. But there would be scant likelihood of compensation being paid. We would ask for damages, of course, but you can expect the response to be negative.”

“I’m not in this for the money, you know.”

“Indeed, and as I have explained, you can expect to incur a financial loss as the outcome of a full trial.”

Stirrup glanced at Harry, who had already taken the precaution of arranging his features into the worried expression to which they were well suited.

“What d’you think?”

Dead easy.

“It would be wrong for me to encourage you into a law suit if you could find an easier solution.”

Stirrup hesitated. The working of his mind was almost visible.

“You know,” he said, “it’s all very well you legal fellers talking about litigation and rubbing your hands with glee over the fees. No offence, Mr. Hamer, it’s just that I don’t like to beat about the bush. That bitch Doreen Capstick has gone too far and she deserves to be made to pay. But I’m not a vindictive man. And I certainly don’t want Claire here to be hassled because of a bitter old hag’s stupidity.”

While Harry tried to imagine how carefully preserved Doreen Capstick would take to being described as a bitter old hag, Stirrup folded his arms in a gesture of finality.

“I’d settle for an apology.”

Julian Hamer’s nod was approving yet ambiguous. Harry didn’t doubt that Stirrup would take it as acknowledgement of his magnanimity, rather than as a sign of Julian’s own sense of satisfaction at achieving the lawyer’s ideal — to put words into a client’s mouth without making him aware of it.

“Very good, Mr. Stirrup. If you wish, I shall be pleased to discuss with your solicitor the wording of a suitable letter.”

Hamer rose and extended his hand, his manner courteous yet unmistakably dismissive. He was evidently unwilling to prolong the conference a moment longer than was necessary. Quite right, thought Harry. In five minutes Stirrup might change his mind again.

As Stirrup moved towards the door, he said to Harry, “You’ll be in touch, then?”