Emily Barr - The Sleeper

chapter twenty-four

Leon Campion’s office was on the third floor of a grand building near Liverpool Street. The building was one of those huge white-fronted ones that in some parts of London would be broken up into mansion flats, but in the City housed office after office.

I had not planned anything. My head was still aching gently, and I could feel the alcohol throughout my system. I hoped I didn’t smell boozy. My shoes clipped and clopped across the floor to the reception desk. I wanted to call Alex and apologise. I was nearly ready.

The thing about today was that I did not care at all. I didn’t care if Leon Campion swore in my face. Lara’s dad’s dismissal of me would have left me humiliated and angry coming from anyone else, but I was utterly untouched by it.

‘Hello?’ asked a bored young woman. At least she didn’t look me up and down in horror.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I have a meeting with Leon Campion at Campion Associates.’

‘Sure. If you sign in here.’

I wanted her to finish the sentence. What would happen, were I to sign in here? The answer was not forthcoming, but at least she was not challenging me. I had not really expected to get past this point. My plan B was to hang around outside the building and hope he came out for lunch at some point.

I signed in, using my real name, got in a small mirrored lift, and pressed the button with the ‘5’ on it, as instructed.

I stepped out into a large reception area and saw an intimidating woman behind a desk, on the phone, fiddling with paperwork, not looking at me.

She was groomed like a horse, her thick mane shiny and tamed. She was wearing so much make-up that it was impossible to imagine what she really looked like, and her gold earrings were pulling her ears down so hard that the hole in the ear that was not pressed against the phone was elongated and looked close to snapping point. I winced in sympathy. I had never managed to wear earrings.

There was a thick carpet on the floor, an expensive air of polish and luxury permeating the place, but this, I realised, was actually a small company. Only one door opened out of the reception area, and I could not imagine it leading to an enormous suite of offices or a huge space crammed with desks and activity. It felt more like a one-man enterprise.

The woman smiled at me and signalled that she would just be a moment.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but we’ll need more than that, I’m afraid, sir. We’ll require detailed inventories of all of it before Mr Campion is able to commit himself even to a preliminary discussion … Yes. Those terms absolutely stand … I’ll look forward to hearing from you then. Goodbye.’

She hung up without waiting for the reply to this.

‘Hello?’ She had attached a professional face with a smile that did not come anywhere near her eyes. ‘Can I help?’

This was the crucial part. I had to get it right. I had spoken to this woman on the phone, but she did not need to know that. I could not begin to guess whether she remembered every conversation she had or not.

‘Good afternoon. I’m wondering whether I could have a word with Mr Campion,’ I said as an opener.

She did not betray a thing.

‘I’m afraid he’s not available. Is he expecting you?’

‘I’m a friend of Lara’s. I’d really like to have a word with him. It’s personal business.’

Again she did not react.

‘Well, as I said, Mr Campion is unavailable. He’s out of the country, in fact. If you’d like to leave a note or something, I can certainly make sure he gets it.’

‘Thank you. I’ll maybe write down my number and my email address.’

‘As I said, it may be a while before you hear from him.’

‘He’s Lara’s godfather, isn’t he?’

‘That would be his personal affair.’

She turned her attention to her keyboard, aggressively tapping away with fingers flat enough to preserve her long and immaculate nails. I took the hint, and went to sit on the little sofa in the corner, with the sheet of paper and the pen the woman had handed me. I used a glossy magazine to lean on – Management Today – and tried to decide what to write. It would have to be good enough to grab the attention of the person who seemed actually to care about Lara.

Leon , I began, attempting a self-assured tone. I’ve been trying to reach you on the phone and in person. My name is Iris Roebuck and I’m a friend of Lara’s from Cornwall. I’m …

At this point I ground to a halt. How could I make it sound right? I scribbled out the ‘I’m’ and wrote: Like her family, I am desperately concerned about Lara and convinced she did not do this horrible thing. I have a very good idea of what happened to her, and this is something I would like to talk to you about, because it’s connected to her past, to Asia. Olivia …

My flow was interrupted by the lift doors opening. I looked up and knew at once that it was him. I tried to sit as unobtrusively as I could in the corner in the hope that he would speak to the receptionist without noticing me, but he stared right at me, straight away.

I already knew what he looked like, with his longish grey hair and his long nose, but I had expected someone far more intimidating. This man looked friendly, and sad. I liked him at first sight, more than I had expected to.

He looked at me, half smiling, for a second, then turned to the woman.

‘Anything I need to know?’ he asked, and I was unsure whether he meant me or in general.

She reeled off a bland list of calls and messages, some of which were from journalists, and added, ‘And this lady, Miss Roebuck, is a friend of Lara Finch’s. I told her you were unavailable and she was just writing you a note.’

‘Thanks, Annie.’

My heart pounded as he came closer, but his manner disarmed me.

‘Miss Roebuck,’ he said, smiling politely as he sized me up. I stood, hating the disadvantage of being on the sofa.

‘Mr Campion,’ I replied, and he offered a hand. His handshake was firm and warm.

He was reading my note. ‘You’ve come from Cornwall?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was I terribly rude to you on the phone? I do apologise. Sincerely. It’s been a difficult time. You know that.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘No, it’s not. You see, I look at you now, and I know that Lara had talked about you. You’re the friend who rides a bicycle and has long hair. You were pictured climbing over the gate to see Guy Thomas’s poor widow.’

‘Yes. Yes, I was.’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘Conveying sympathies from Sam.’

‘And I see,’ he said, glancing back at my part-written note, ‘that you know something of her past in Asia, which I agree may be key here. Come into the office, my dear. Though I’m afraid I am a little paranoid, and I’ll have to check a couple of things. You understand?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ve always felt responsible for Lara. And it’s shattering that …’ He looked at me, unable to finish the sentence. ‘Annie,’ he said instead. ‘Some coffee?’

‘I’ll bring it through now.’

His office was huge, with massive windows on two sides that must once have offered panoramic views across London, and that now looked over a rooftop or two to the side of the nearest taller buildings. Nonetheless, the place was flooded with light. Buses ambled and taxis scrambled below, but there was no sound at all. The air in here was layered with upmarket smells, from expensive paper to wood polish; from coffee to Leon’s cologne.

He ignored the huge wooden desk piled with paperwork, and led me to a couple of semi-comfortable chairs in the corner.

‘Now,’ he said, when we were both sitting down. ‘Tell me about Lara. I don’t mean to test you, because I do believe in you, but I can’t risk not running through the basics. How do you know her?’