Unforgotten Read online

  UNFORGOTTEN

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Homeland

  Crime

  Deceit

  Betrayal

  A Dark Devotion

  Keep Me Close

  A Death Divided

  Thrillers

  Night Sky

  Red Crystal

  Wolf Winter

  Requiem

  Non-fiction

  Come Hell or High Water

  Come Wind or Weather

  The Commanding Sea

  CLARE

  FRANCIS

  UNFORGOTTEN

  MACMILLAN

  First published 2008 by Macmillan

  This electronic edition published 2008 by Macmillan

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-330-46325-6 in Adobe Reader format

  ISBN 978-0-330-46324-9 in Adobe Digital Editions format

  ISBN 978-0-330-46327-0 in Microsoft Reader format

  ISBN 978-0-330-46326-3 in Mobipocket format

  Copyright © Clare Francis 2008

  The right of Clare Francis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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  for O. H.

  ONE

  Hugh Gwynne arrived at the Royal Courts of Justice soon after nine thirty and made a quick inspection of the noticeboard and the location of Court 12 before stationing himself to one side of the Great Hall to wait for the rest of the team. The hall was more church than law, a vast Gothic cathedral of soaring arches and high stained-glass windows, designed to overawe. As clumps of people formed and dissolved, he shifted a little to maintain a clear view of the entrance, where a stream of barristers, solicitors and officials hurried in only to bunch impatiently at the security check. There was still plenty of time, but that didn’t prevent him from feeling a nudge of anxiety in case one of the team should get held up, a tension heightened by the rarity of his trips to London and the unfamiliar surroundings of the Royal Courts. There had already been a scare late on Saturday evening when it looked as if their key witness Dr Ainsley might be delayed by a snowstorm in Chicago. Then Hugh’s client Tom Deacon had called last night to insist on a case conference before court resumed, on a subject he refused to reveal in advance. The conference was meant to happen at ten, the hearing to resume at ten thirty, so when no one had appeared by five to ten Hugh allowed himself a more serious twinge of concern. Where had they all got to?

  A minute later Hugh spotted Desmond Riley’s round figure approaching at a leisurely pace, his gown draped over one arm, his briefcase swinging lazily at his side, and, close behind, Sanjay, dragging a wheeled case, his free arm full of documents. Leading and junior counsel, and no mistaking which was which.

  ‘Oh, hello, Hugh,’ said Desmond with a show of mild surprise, as if they’d bumped into each other by chance. ‘Well, here we are again.’ His tone, like his walk, was deliberately casual, almost off-hand, an affectation which Hugh had found disconcerting in the early days of the hearing, until he realised it was less a vanity than a disguise for the anticipation Desmond felt at the prospect of a stimulating day in court.

  Sanjay smiled. ‘Hi, Hugh.’

  Hugh was on the point of asking after the latest addition to Sanjay’s family, which had been imminent when they’d last met, when Desmond came in with: ‘All set?’

  Hugh said, ‘We’re just waiting for Tom.’

  ‘Ah.’ Desmond’s face took on a distracted expression, as if clients, essential though they were, could be something of an unwelcome complication.

  Hugh said, ‘I’m sure he won’t be long.’

  Desmond made a show of looking at his watch. ‘But do we really need a confab now? Can’t it wait till lunchtime?’

  ‘He was anxious to go through a few points.’

  ‘Points?’ Desmond echoed dubiously.

  ‘I think he’s been going over some of the witness statements.’

  ‘Ahh.’ Desmond managed to instil the sound with a breadth of meaning. ‘He gave no indication of what these points might be?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a pause while they pondered the intricacies of dealing with Tom Deacon. For Hugh, who could never think of his client without a stab of sympathy intensified by a reflexive guilt at his own good fortune, Tom’s wilder ideas and strange inconsequential obsessions demanded respect and attention, if, ultimately, firmness. The fact that Tom no longer trusted Hugh with his ideas, stubbornly guarding them for Desmond’s scrutiny, was just another manifestation of the man’s psychological injury, which was, after all, why they were here in the first place.

  ‘It’s nothing urgent though?’ Desmond asked hopefully. ‘Nothing that concerns this morning’s business?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Nothing in the way of new instructions as such?’ Desmond persevered.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, no.’

  Desmond glanced towards the doors, as if to emphasise Tom’s non-appearance.

  ‘He must have got held up,’ Hugh said lamely.

  ‘In that case, I think we’ll go on ahead,’ Desmond declared with a brisk smile. ‘Perhaps when Tom arrives . . .’ He passed this thought to Hugh with a lift of his eyebrows.

  ‘I’ll bring him straight up.’

  ‘And if there’s no time for the confab we’ll hold it over till lunchtime, shall we?’ Abandoning any last pretence of languor, Desmond moved rapidly away.

  As Sanjay started to follow, Hugh asked quickly, ‘Boy or girl?’

  Sanjay gave a happy grin. ‘Boy.’

  ‘Wonderful news. Congratulations.’

  Sanjay tilted his head in thanks and hurried off, only to turn back with an air of having forgotten his manners. ‘And your son – did he get that university place?’

  As with so many matters concerning Charlie there was no simple answer to this, and after a moment’s hesitation Hugh called, ‘Near enough anyway,’ adding a baffled shrug, which Sanjay took as a show of fatherly modesty, but which caused Hugh a darting sense of disloyalty, as though he had damned Charlie’s achievement with faint praise.

  Finally, Hugh’s trainee Isabel Mazzara came into sight with Derek, the firm’s outdoor clerk, wheeling a porter’s trolley of boxed documents.

  ‘The traffic,’ Isabel breathed, with residual anxiety. ‘I knew London was bad, but . . .’

  ‘Lots of time,’ Hugh assured her.

  ‘What’s the news on—’ Isabel broke off with a deep spluttering cough. ‘Sorry.’ She scrabbled for a tissue and blew her nose. ‘Thought I’d shaken this off . . .’

  Isabel was a health and yoga devotee, who in her eighteen months at Dimmock Marsh had tried with gentle fervour to encourage Hugh into healthier lunching habits. Seeing her watery eyes and reddened nostrils, Hugh offered a sympathetic wince. ‘Bad luck.’


  Her naturally grave face, accentuated by a wide, slightly startled gaze, creased into an expression of concern. ‘Just hope I don’t give it to everyone else.’ She snuffled into her handkerchief again. ‘Did Ainsley’s flight get in all right?’

  ‘Yesterday morning. He said he’d be here by ten fifteen.’

  He could see Isabel mentally assembling the documents that would need to be on hand for Ainsley’s evidence. When she had ticked everything off to her satisfaction, her expression, always a mirror to her thoughts, registered the fact with a small gleam of relief. ‘And Hugh – what do you want me to do once I’ve got things set up? Do you want me to come back and wait for Tom?’

  ‘No.’ It was unthinkable that anyone else should wait for Tom. ‘No. If you’d just keep an eye out for Dr Ainsley. In case I miss him in the crowd.’

  Needing no encouragement to get up to the courtroom and work out how best to arrange the documents, Isabel picked up her briefcase, only to set it down again and root hastily through her handbag.

  Derek took a step forward. ‘How are you, Mr Gwynne?’

  ‘All right, thanks, Derek.’

  ‘Mrs Gwynne keeping well?’

  ‘She is indeed.’

  ‘Still working for the Citizens Advice?’

  ‘Yes. Keeps her pretty busy.’

  ‘And the rest of the family?’

  ‘Thriving.’

  Having a good idea of what was coming next, rather hoping to avoid it, Hugh made a point of looking away towards the entrance. But Derek had served thirty years in the Bristol police before coming to work for Dimmock Marsh and took a fussy proprietorial interest in events that impinged on his former territory.

  ‘No further news?’ he asked in a confidential murmur.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘From the local force?’

  ‘It was only a broken window, Derek.’

  ‘And fifty pounds in cash,’ Derek corrected him, in the manner of someone who likes to get the facts rights. ‘And some jewellery.’

  ‘It was costume jewellery, worth very little.’

  ‘You haven’t found other items missing subsequently?’

  They’d had this conversation several times in the last two weeks, but going over old ground had never been a problem for Derek.

  ‘Nothing, no.’

  Departing from his usual script, Derek declared, ‘Likely an addict then. They’re the ones that go for the cash.’

  Hugh cast him a sharp look, wondering if he knew about Charlie’s problem but was too polite to mention it.

  But Derek’s bland transparent face was void of pretence as he said, ‘Likely as not someone known to the local lads if they’d bothered to take prints.’

  ‘They issued me with an incident number, Derek. That’s all you can expect nowadays.’

  Derek’s doleful expression suggested that things had gone steeply downhill since his time on the force. ‘Well, if there’s anything I can do, Mr Gwynne, you know where to find me.’

  ‘Thanks, Derek.’

  With a small exclamation, Isabel finally extracted a small packet from her handbag. ‘Here, Hugh, take one of these every two hours. They’re the best thing for warding off colds. They’ve got vitamin C and zinc and—’

  ‘No, you keep them, Isabel.’

  ‘But I can get some more at lunchtime.’ Conscientious to a fault, she would go without eating to scour the neighbourhood.

  Hugh shook his head. ‘Really. I’ll have some extra chips instead.’

  The cold or the stress had made her slow, she gazed at him in puzzlement.

  ‘Spuds are good for vitamin C, aren’t they?’

  ‘But chips aren’t—’ Then, catching his expression, she coloured slightly. ‘Here,’ she said, thrusting the packet forward. ‘Have one for now.’

  Hugh took the pastille dutifully and, as Isabel set off with Derek to find Court 12, slipped it into his pocket.

  Resuming his scrutiny of the entrance, Hugh searched for Tom Deacon’s taut discordant figure, his characteristic staccato stride. At ten twenty he decided Tom must have got lost on the Underground or badly misjudged the travelling time. Tom had talked vaguely about staying with friends somewhere beyond Putney, as if there was some region of south-west London yet to acquire a proper name. Though it was more than twenty years since Hugh had been articled to a firm of solicitors in Westminster, returning each evening to a cramped flat-share in Fulham, he was familiar enough with the layout of the suburbs to know that the rail links were few and far between. Tom had probably underestimated the time it would take to reach the nearest station, and the number of changes necessary, and the likelihood of delays due to points failures, bomb scares, and driver no-shows. Hugh only hoped he wasn’t suffering a full-blown panic attack.

  To know Tom Deacon was to worry about him. In the four years since Hugh had taken on Tom’s personal injury claim, through all the setbacks and delays, the hagglings and manoeuvrings with the other side, not to mention the numerous crises in Tom’s health and personal life, it seemed to Hugh that he had spent more time worrying about Tom than all his other clients put together.

  Hugh called Tom’s mobile, knowing it would be switched off on the advice of his therapist, who insisted he pick up messages no more than twice a day. Hugh left a message anyway, reminding Tom they were in Court 12, saying he might have to go on ahead.

  A moment later his phone beeped, but the text wasn’t from Tom, it was from Annaliese, Hugh’s PA, to say she would be dropping off some urgent mail at his house that evening.

  Hugh left it as long as he dared, then, two minutes before court was due to begin, started up the stone steps at a run, diverting briefly to the first-floor balcony to take a last glance into the Great Hall below. He was veering away when a familiar figure caught his eye. It was Tom, standing in the queue for the security check. Even in the shadows at the end of the hall he was unmistakable, the bony head, the hunch of the sharp shoulders, the ill-fitting jacket cut by the straps of his rucksack.

  Hugh hurried down again and, overcome by affection and relief, strode across the hall to meet him. ‘You’ve made it! Well done!’

  Tom was too busy casting around the hall to notice his outstretched hand, so by way of a greeting Hugh touched his sleeve instead.

  ‘Problems on the Underground?’

  ‘Where’s Desmond?’

  ‘He had to go on ahead.’

  Focusing properly on Hugh for the first time, Tom’s eyes flickered with agitation. ‘What about the conference?’

  ‘It’ll have to wait till lunchtime.’

  ‘But I need to talk to him.’

  ‘Court’s just starting, Tom. It’s ten thirty.’

  Tom’s frown contained puzzlement but also what looked like a more general confusion, and Hugh wondered whether he’d overdone his medication. It had happened a couple of times before, most notably on the second day of the hearing when Tom, giving evidence, had found it so hard to form even the most basic sentence that the judge suggested he step down till another day.

  ‘You all right, old friend?’ Hugh asked, noticing the pallor of his skin where it stretched over the sharp cheekbones, and the sheen of dampness that clung to his forehead.

  ‘Yeah . . .’ Tom murmured distractedly. ‘Yeah . . .’

  ‘Anything you need?’

  ‘No, I . . . just didn’t sleep too well . . .’

  ‘Always difficult in a strange bed,’ Hugh said, knowing that Tom hadn’t managed a good night’s sleep in five years, ever since the road accident when, unable to free his four-year-old daughter from the overturned car, he had been forced to watch her burn to death. ‘Look, do you want to go for a coffee first? Take a few minutes to—’

  ‘No,’ said Tom with sudden urgency, as if he’d finally understood how late it was. ‘No, we should get up there!’

  They moved off, Tom walking in long jerky strides, his eyes fixed doggedly on the floor ahead. ‘What I’ve got to tell Desmond,’ he s
aid, ‘it’s very important.’

  ‘Okay,’ Hugh said. ‘Why don’t you tell me what it is, then I can pass him a note?’

  But Tom was wearing the stubborn, harried expression that suggested he had other plans. ‘It’s . . . too complicated. I’ll have to write it out.’

  ‘Fine. So long as I can see it first.’ Then, because this had sounded peremptory, never the best approach with Tom, Hugh added, ‘You know how it is, Tom. Procedure.’

  ‘I know the procedure.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Hugh said easily, as they started up the steps.

  ‘It hasn’t been that long.’

  It had in fact been five weeks since the hearing had overrun its time allocation at Bristol High Court and been adjourned until the next gap in the judge’s peripatetic schedule. This week, the first available, had found the judge sitting here at the Royal Courts, so like a band of gypsies they had struck camp and brought the caravan of lawyers, documents and witnesses to London.

  ‘I’ve been working on the case non-stop,’ Tom went on, with a hint of rebuke.

  ‘I know you have, Tom.’ And Hugh had batches of his typed notes to prove it, in duplicate, a set for him and a set for Desmond on which Hugh had exercised a certain discretion, either editing them heavily or omitting to forward them. More recently Tom had taken to calling Hugh in the evenings, sometimes quite late, to go over points they had covered a dozen times before.

  Tom climbed the last few steps at the double.

  Hugh said, ‘We shouldn’t have missed too much, you know. There’s bound to be some preliminary stuff before they call the first witness—’

  ‘Price,’ Tom breathed derisively. ‘Bloody Price.’ Price, a former army comrade of Tom’s, was giving evidence for the other side.

  ‘It’s not Price on first, Tom. It’s Dr Ainsley. Price won’t be on till this afternoon at the very earliest.’

  Tom halted. ‘But you said it was going to be Price.’ The lack of sleep or the medication had lent his voice a childish whine.

  ‘What I said, Tom, was that Price could be on first if Ainsley got delayed. But Ainsley’s made it okay, so we’re back to the original schedule.’