The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister

By S. Faith, © 2012
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 14: 11 Aug – 5 Sept

Mon, 11 Aug

In the wake of what happened just before B left for Thailand, I have channelled my feelings of frustration into something productive by returning to the squash and the five-a-side I have for so long abandoned. I come home from those feeling exhausted, and in a good way. It at least helps to offset the insomnia I've been experiencing since we split.

Fri, 15 Aug

I stopped in at my investment bank today and bumped in to Jude, who unexpectedly treated me with much more kindness than I expected, asking how I was doing, the usual exchange of small talk. Something niggled at the back of my mind, though, until I realised that it was mid-August, and that Jude and her fiancé Richard had been invited to Tuscany. I asked her about it.

"Oh, we decided after that weekend in Gloucestershire that we weren't going," she said. "In fact, I think the whole thing fell apart. Richard would rather we went on our own." After a pause, she added, "I don't want to seem unkind, but…"

"What?"

"He referred to Rebecca as a 'deranged social engineer'."

I uttered a short, sharp laugh, the sort of laugh that ricochets around the marbled walls and arched ceilings of a bank, and causes people to look at you. "Sorry," I said, feeling my collar turn a bit tight and warm.

"Don't apologise," she said, smiling too. In a more confidential tone, she added, "It's just not usual to hear laughter in an investment bank that's not hysterical or panicked." After a pause, she asked, "So, if you don't mind me asking, what happened with Rebecca?"

I preferred not to talk about it at all, but this small part of me hoped it might get back to B, and I was prepared to speak when Jude went on.

"I assume you had it out or something, because, well, you laughed just then, and she's apparently seeing Giles Benwick now."

I thought perhaps I had misheard. Giles? The same Giles who had been so distraught (presumably about his wife) he'd nearly offed himself? My expression must have said it all because Jude smiled.

"Hard to believe, I know," she said.

I bade her goodbye and left, thinking about how much nicer it all would have been if Jude and I could've been that friendly with each other from the beginning.

I should have asked her if B had returned yet.

Weds, 20 Aug

22.30

Have just had the most devastating telephone call. Was washing up in preparation for bed when the house phone rang. It was Sharon, with whom B had apparently gone to Thailand.

"Mark, hi, sorry to trouble you." Her voice was uncharacteristically shaky. "I didn't know who else to call, and Jude thought immediately of you."

"What's the matter?" I asked. I knew instantly something was wrong, and that it involved B. I was right.

"Bridget got nicked in Thailand as a pigeon."

For a moment, I felt as if I had fallen into a '30s film noir. "She what?"

"Drugs. She got nicked with drugs in the airport. They tried to nick me too but they had nothing on me. We've tried the Foreign Office but—"

"When did this happen?" I asked, feeling myself slip into a persona that would allow me to deal with what was going on. I couldn't otherwise handle thinking of B in a Thai prison for drugs.

"Tuesday. Yesterday. The nineteenth."

"Okay. And you said you rang up the Foreign Office."

"Yes. They did nothing, except that they kept saying she could be in for up to ten years."

My mind raced; I couldn't believe in a million years that B would willingly participate in drug smuggling. "What happened?"

She didn't reply right away. "It was a man we met in Thailand. I'm afraid he duped us." Another pause. "Well, me, really."

"Tell me what happened. Everything."

And she did. Turns out she'd met this fellow—Jed? Jeb?—on the plane to Thailand, and he'd been quite a good guy to know as he seemed a seasoned adventurer peppering them with all kinds of tales. "Like he knew to drink gin and tonics for the quinine. He just seemed—" She stopped. I got the impression that maybe she'd gotten involved with this character. "Anyway, when our bags got pinched he gave us a replacement. I can only think something must have been in the bag, because I went ahead for the plane at the airport while she had all the luggage and the bag was the only thing we had that we hadn't come with and… how else would she have had drugs? This is all my fault… if I hadn't gotten tangled up with… I don't know what I'll do if…"

She didn't have to continue. After I let her get it all out, I took a deep breath then spoke. "Okay. Tell you what I'll do. Let me ring up my contacts at Amnesty and Interpol. That's a pretty elaborate scheme, what he did to you two. If the man who orchestrated this managed not to get caught himself—because surely he had someone watching and waiting to see the bag made it through—I'm sure he's done it before, probably even out of Bangkok. And if he's done it before, he's learned from his mistakes… and he probably has a record of some kind. So if he does…"

I heard her burst into sobs, for which I was thoroughly unprepared. "Thank you, Mark."

"Don't thank me yet," I said, trying to keep my tone level, but still optimistic. "I'll ring you back when I have news. Um. Your number?"

I took it down (and Jude's as well) then gave her my mobile in turn. They said call any time, day or night. Immediately after I went down for my attaché and made as many phone calls as I could despite the hour. Fortunately I have good working relationships with my contacts, and they could tell this was of some urgency with me. They reassured me that I would be contacted at first opportunity. I then rang back Sharon, who again expressed gratitude.

I told her to please save it for when B's returned. I can't lie—I'm worried for her. The conditions in the prison, how's she's being treated—and a blonde Englishwoman is bound to stand out in the crowd.

Thurs, 21 Aug

Spoke with Sharon. She said they had tried to ring up B's parents, but they got an answerphone message saying they were on holiday, too. Also mentioned ringing up the Alconburys (B must have mentioned them or something) but decided against it.

"Probably wise. I know the Northamptonshire contingent quite well. Everyone there would just get hysterical."

I heard Sharon chuckle.

I let her know that I'd heard from my contacts. "Oh, they know who he is, all right. They know where he is, too."

Startled gasp. "They do?"

"Yes," I said. "Dubai."

Silence. "They keep track of people?"

"They keep track of people like him. I'm pretty sure they know who he is and that he did it, based on M.O. alone. Gets someone in line behind the unwitting pigeon, then if it all goes bad, that person rings him up to let him know. Always heads to Dubai to lie low after a failed run, and he's there now. It's a matter of pushing the right buttons, making the right connections."

I'm prepared to leave at a moment's notice if I have to. I feel so much more confident than I did just a day ago.

Fri, 22 Aug

Roger Dwight is the man's name, he's in Dubai, and I'm in the air now to see what I can do on the ground there. I've got the support of Amnesty and Interpol—they're putting pressure on, too.

Mon, 25 Aug

Dubai City, Dubai

Seems we have the weight of the Foreign Office behind us now as well, someone called Alfred Palmer-Thompson, who is leading the charge. I spoke with him myself—it seems his son, Charlie, is the assistant to the British Consul there in Bangkok—Charlie's the one who has been seeing B in prison. (As much as I wanted desperately to ask about her, how she was, I didn't.) Startling that they are acting with such vigour, particularly as it's Summer Bank Holiday.

Later

Dubai authorities have relented and will pick him up in the morning. Spoke to Palmer-Thompson again, who delivered more surprising news. "Charlie says that Miss Jones has been most insistent that they take things seriously, and kicked up such a fuss insisting that he get someone from the Drug Squad in there that one of their best men spent four hours today detailing everything about what happened." He chuckled a little. "It seems she is not one to take things lying down."

Also learned from him that the Foreign Office let the two of them (Sharon and Jude) send out some of B's mail to her, which she will get probably Wednesday. I don't know whether or not to hope they mentioned I was helping—surely she knows that whatever the state of our relationship I'd do whatever I could to help, but on the other hand I don't want for her to feel indebted to me.

Tues, 26 Aug

Rang up Sharon as soon as was decent given the three-hour time difference to let them know that he was in custody. I was fairly certain she hooted with joy.

Weds, 27 Aug

Have been with the authorities since morning, have faxed the Home Office a photo of Roger Dwight for Sharon for an identity parade of sorts.

(Have tried to stay indoors as much as possible during hottest part of the day—was 38° today; was almost 40° yesterday. And for the weekend, they tell me 42-44°. I shall never complain about London heat again.)

Thurs, 28 Aug

Have just received word that Sharon made a positive identification on Roger Dwight's photo. Not sure how they're going to get him to confess. If not for Amnesty's presence, I would venture a guess how.

Fri, 29 Aug

Went to the police today to observe the interrogation at James' request (from Amnesty), who had been doing so this week but had another appointment this morning. Like every police show I've ever seen on the telly, there was a separate room behind a two-way mirror, in which I got to comfortably sit and enjoy a very potent cup of coffee. They brought in this Dwight fellow and began asking questions again, presumably from where they'd left off previously.

The man did have a bit of Harrison Ford about him, thinking back on what Sharon had said. He looked ragged and tired, but I had very little sympathy for the man I was certain had landed B in prison.

A detective (older man, greying hair, decent physical shape; I later learned his name was Pradesh) came in just afterwards, looking almost as tired, carrying a stack of papers contained within a folder and a detective's notebook, as well as his own coffee. Another man (more of a constable than detective) came in to give the prisoner a glass of water, then left again. The detective sat, took a pen from his front pocket, and began to make notes.

He turned towards where he knew I was and I swore he smiled a little before he began. The same water-delivering constable then joined me in the room, bearing an official-looking report. We nodded to each other in acknowledgement.

"So, Mr Dwight, yesterday you said that you met the girls, took them out for more than one meal, helped them when they had trouble in their hut, paid for their train tickets."

Dwight ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair. "As I've already said, yes."

"But that you did not give to them anything for their possessions when their luggage was stolen."

"No, I told you, I gave them a holdall."

Silence as Pradesh wrote. I could see he was writing in something that was not English. "All right. The record is corrected to say that you admit to giving them the… holdall that had the drugs in it."

"No, no," Dwight said with irritation, as if he were being inconvenienced about a tepid breakfast. "You're putting words in my mouth. I gave them a holdall. It did not have drugs in it."

More writing. "Okay, all right, I see, I see." Silence as he took a sip of coffee. "You do know, Mr Dwight, that we are aware of your previous arrests."

"All charges were dropped. There was no proof."

"That is true, that is true," he said. More writing. I could not begin to imagine where this was going. "No proof. That does remind me, we have had a positive identification of you with the women."

"So what? I've already admitted to befriending them!" Dwight's temper was escalating. "This is bordering on harassment. You've held me since Tuesday, asking the same questions repeatedly…"

"I do apologise," he said with the placidness I'd only ever seen of a hotel concierge. Pradesh glanced to the mirror again with a penetrating look; at this apparent cue, the constable beside me left hastily. "Oh, there is just one more thing. The matter of the fingerprints on the polythene bag."

Dwight laughed derisively, but his tone was still angry when he spoke again. "You know as well as I do that I don't have any."

"That is true. Forgive me."

As I pondered the thought of what had to have happened to result in no fingertips, the constable appeared in the interrogation room again with that report. He handed it to the detective.

"Ah, at last," he said. "Thank you. I've been waiting for this." He opened it. "The reason we kept you so long, and I am sorry, but it looks like we were right to do so. The DNA testing was a match."

I didn't think it possible for Dwight's face to go redder, but it did, and he stood, pounding the table with his fist, exploding with fury: "Bullshit! I wore glov—" He stopped, realising his error at once, then sank back to the seat. "I mean—"

Pradesh sat back and smiled in satisfaction, reminding me, oddly, of the Cheshire cat. "I think I can safely say that, in front of witnesses—" He nodded towards where I still sat, my identity shielded by the mirror. "—you have confessed to placing the drugs in the bag, after admitting to giving the holdall to the girls. You can make a full confession and make it easy on yourself as we prosecute you here, or refute the confession and make it very difficult once you're in Thai custody."

In that moment I saw all of the fight go out of Roger Dwight. He leaned back into the chair, then he nodded.

I departed the observation room, and as I did Pradesh left the interrogation room. I introduced myself then said, "Well done, sir." I glanced down to the report, then put the whole thing together; the constable waiting with me, the cue, the timely re-entrance. "That isn't even a real DNA report, is it?" I surmised.

He grinned. "I'm a very big fan of 'Columbo.' Very big fan indeed."

I wasn't sure what he was talking about, but I was very glad, all the same.

The moment I got back to my hotel I rang up Sharon. It was midday where I am, so not too early in London. I still seemed to wake her up.

"Sharon?"

"What?" she asked groggily.

"It's Mark."

"Mark!" She was instantly awake. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing wrong," I said. "In fact, I have great news."

"Did he confess?!" she exclaimed, taking the wind out of my sail. I confirmed that he had. She screamed excitedly. "Surely Bridget gets to come home now! Surely!"

"Believe me, I will do all I can to ensure that happens." I explained that the Foreign Office is keen to keep this under wraps as much as possible, the fact that they and the local authorities did little to investigate at first, and were content with letting her possibly spend a decade in prison halfway around the world. There's a pretty big tourist industry there, and I doubt they want to jeopardise that.

Before we disconnected, she said, "Mark, one last thing—you do know it's okay to call me Shaz, don't you?"

I smiled and stopped myself shy of saying thanks—because I felt maybe B's friends finally liked me at last, damn the small detail that B and I were no longer seeing each other. "If you prefer."

Sun, 31 Aug

Strange to have had so much communication from the Foreign Office, then nothing. Possibly the sudden silence is related to the news about Diana, which of course reached us here. Tragic. An international champion of so many causes.

Tues, 2 Sept

Still in Dubai. I finally got word that B is home in London. Was put on a plane and arrived home Saturday. As deeply involved as I've been with the arrest and questioning, I can't go home until Thursday, but I wanted her to know I was happy to hear she was home, because surely Sharon and Jude told her I was helping. I decided to ring her home number. It didn't surprise me in the least that she was not there to answer.

Left answerphone message, but the end might have got cut off. Perhaps best that it did: "Bridget, I've only just got the news. I'm delighted you're free. Delighted. I'll be back later in the week if you want to have a coffee or something."

In the busy-ness and excitement of everything it almost slipped right by that it was two years yesterday since I started keeping journal entries.

Thurs, 4 Sept

Back now in London. I should stay home and sleep tomorrow as it's very close to midnight, but I should also get back to routine and back into this time zone.

Fri, 5 Sept

Notting Hill Police Station

15.30

Since I'm stuck waiting here and happen to have this journal with me, I may as well record the tumultuous events of today. It all began this morning in the Coins Café, where I went in (no use in denying it) with the hope I'd run into B, since I knew she liked to stop in for breakfast on occasion. I went in, set my case down, and did a scan of the place. To my great joy I saw her at a table with her typical chocolate croissant, cappuccino, and a little shiny gift box. She must have seen me first because she was already looking at me. As pleased as I was to see her, I felt a sense of dismay and concern at seeing how thin and gaunt she'd gotten in such a short time.

I drew nearer to her table. "Hello," I said, in probably in too curt a tone, but I didn't want to play it too overly friendly given she had not called back before she'd gone. I indicated the box with a tilt of my head, then asked, "What have you got there?"

She picked up the box and handed it to me. "I don't know what it is. I think it might be a biro."

I opened the box and within—well, needless to say that while it had her name engraved on the side, it was not in fact a pen. I placed it hurriedly back into the box. "Bridget, this isn't a promotional biro, it's a fucking bullet."

I grabbed a napkin, took hold of the lid, and set it back into place as she murmured something to herself.

"What?" I asked, thinking to myself, 'Don't say what, say pardon.'

"Nothing."

She looked and acted genuinely stunned. "Stay here. Don't touch it. It's a live bullet." I dashed away, out and to the street—why I did this, I'm not sure; I suppose I expected to find a constable happening to pass by, which was sort of foolish in retrospect—then I went back into Coins to find she hadn't moved position at all, not even to sip her cappuccino. "Bridget? Have you paid up? What are you doing? Come on."

She blinked as if utterly unable to comprehend. "Where?"

"The police station." As if I hadn't spent enough time in those lately.

Once we got into my car, she started to talk in a nervous, fill-the-silence way. "I'm really, really grateful for what you did to get me out of jail, what you must have had to do to pull so many strings, for going all the way to Dubai—" (Would have gone to Thailand if I'd had to.) "—and I just don't know what I would have done without the poem. It helped me so much in jail."

I swung 'round the corner into Kensington Park Road. Had no idea what she meant. "Poem? What poem?"

"The 'If' poem; you know, 'force your heart and nerve and'… oh, God, I'm really sorry you had to go all the way to Dubai; I'm so grateful, I…"

I got to a stoplight at that moment and turned to face her. "That's absolutely fine," I said with tenderness. "Now stop auto-wittering gibberish. You've had a big shock. You need to calm down."

I swear she pouted as she sat back into the seat.

We arrived at the station and were met with… well, indifference at best. Told repeatedly to go to the waiting room, but I rather forcefully insisted we be taken upstairs at once. We were brought to an empty office (that had clearly seen better days) with the promise that someone would be in soon.

While we waited, I asked her to tell me everything she could about Thailand. The details of meeting the well-travelled, knowledgeable stranger lined up with what Sharon had told me, the hut being burgled, the holdall offered to get their things home.

I got up and began to pace as I organised my thoughts. "What about this fellow, then? Did he ever mention contacts in the UK?"

"No," she said.

"And did the box come with the regular post?"

"I think so. There's this table downstairs, you recall, and sometimes if mail is misdirected, we'll put it on the table for the right person to pick it up."

I did recall. "Did the package have postage on it? Your mailing address?"

"I don't remember. It was in brown paper though."

"So someone might have set it on the table."

"Yes, I suppose they might have."

I paced some more, then looked to her. "Have you seen any strange people lurking around your building?"

She shook her head again. "No stranger than usual, anyway."

She looked really nervous, and I realised I was pacing around and asking questions like she was a witness in court. I sat again. "The worst you and Shaz could be accused of was breath-taking stupidity." I offered a small smile. "You did very well in jail, I heard." She didn't respond; idly glancing to my watch, I said, "Do you think you'd better call work?"

She gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth.

I couldn't help laughing. "Don't look like you've just accidentally eaten a child. For once you've got a decent excuse for your pathological lateness."

I could tell straightaway that the call was not going well. She looked like she was going green. From what I could tell, from every conversation we'd had together about him, that boss of hers is a mean-spirited bully. I reached for the phone. "Give it to me."

"No!" she said, reeling back as if I were about to poke her with a hot iron. "I'm a person in my own right."

"Of course you are, darling, just not in your own right mind."

As I said it, as natural as it was to call her 'darling', I regretted the slip—if it bothered her, though, she didn't show it. She returned to her telephone call with Richard Finch. "I'm in the police station," she said, then, "I've had a death threat."

I could hear the excited tone of voice through the earpiece; I don't know what it was exactly that caused her to lose her temper, but she did.

"Richard," she said in a level, cool-steel voice, "that, I'm afraid, is like the kettle calling the frying pan 'dirty bottom.' Except that I haven't got a dirty bottom because I don't take drugs. Not like you. Anyway, I'm not coming back. Bye." She put the phone back onto its receiver with more force than strictly necessary, looking triumphant for a moment until her features fell.

Before I had a chance to ask, a policeman appeared at last. I banged the desk hard with my fist. "Look! We've got a girl with a live bullet with her name on here. Can we see some action?"

He gave me an odd look. "It's the funeral tomorrow," he said impatiently (which I'd forgotten all about), "and we've got a knifing in Kensal Rise. I mean there are other people who have already been murdered." He then left rather abruptly. It took every ounce of will to not sock the guy in the face, but a policeman in a police station… and me, a barrister… would not have done at all.

A long ten minutes passed before a detective came by. He introduced himself as DI Kirby, and he seemed pleasant enough, though quite gruff, and preoccupied (understandably) with the funeral. He brought in a file folder that included the fillet steak incident, but had details of Thailand too. I got a glimpse of it while he was on the phone with another station, but didn't see much before he shielded it from view.

"What did the report say about Jed?" she whispered to me.

"'Jed' he said his name was, did he?" I asked; I hadn't ever been clear on the alias he'd used with them. "Roger Dwight, actually."

Although Kirby was on the telephone, he clearly missed nothing, for the moment he put down the phone he said, "Roger Dwight. It's kind of pointing that way, isn't it?"

It did seem the most logical choice, but why B? Why not Sharon Shaz? "I'd be very surprised if he's managed to organise anything himself. Not from Arabian custody."

Kirby looked thoughtful. B looked a bit put-out. "Well, there are ways and means," Kirby said.

"Excuse me," she said indignantly. "Could I possibly participate in this conversation?"

I said, "Of course, as long as you don't bring up any bottoms or frying pans."

The perplexed expression of Kirby was matched by the speechlessness of B; I intended to dominate this conversation despite her protest. I went on, speaking directly to Kirby again: "He could, I guess, have organised someone else to send it, but it seems somewhat unlikely, foolhardy even, given…"

"Well, yes, in cases of this kind." The telephone shrilled; he excused himself to answer it. It was more bickering about tomorrow's cortege plans.

As he rung off again B prompted, "In cases of this kind…?"

"Yes," said Kirby, "it's unlikely that a person with serious intentions would advertise his—"

"You mean they'd just shoot her, right?"

I wished she hadn't asked, because I had a feeling that's where he might be going with it. She paled as he nodded, confirming my question.

The snippy policeman from earlier came in to take the box off to be examined; Kirby continued questioning B. "Is there anyone outside from the Thai connection who has a grudge against you, young lady? An ex-lover perhaps, a rejected suitor?"

She seemed to be in her own little world.

"Bridget?" I prompted tenderly. "Whatever you're thinking, I think you should tell DI Kirby."

So she did.

"Well, it all started because he claimed I didn't know where Germany is."

"Who's 'he'?"

She glanced to me fleetingly. "Daniel Cleaver. My ex." She straightened up in her seat. "When I called him to dispute this claim, he sounded sad. I mean, in general, not about Germany. He asked me out for supper, and I thought, why not, why shouldn't I be his friend?"

I couldn't believe my ears. Dinner as friends with a man like Daniel? My anger was building. She can be too damned trusting. First this with Daniel, then what happened in Thailand…

"So the dinner, then. That was the trouble?"

She nodded. "Well, it probably would have gone all right if we'd just gone to dinner. But there was this thing with my friend Tom's mobile, and I went out to the dustbins to find it—" Again she glanced to me. "—because I knew he wasn't due to pick me up yet." She went pink. "I went down in a bra and knickers." Kirby's brows rose nearly to his hairline. "With a coat over! But I'm afraid he got quite the wrong idea when he turned up early."

"This Cleaver fellow."

"Yes."

The more I heard, the angrier I got:

"So obviously I needed to get dressed so we went upstairs, which… in hindsight was a mistake."

"Did he attack you?" Kirby asked with concern in his voice.

"Not 'attack', no. But there were some… unwanted advances." Again she glanced to me, and this time, Kirby did too. I tried to control my features—anger towards Daniel, guilt for my own inaction—but I'm afraid he must have noticed (obviously, given I'm still here). "He broke down when he told me he'd gotten promoted downstairs. I felt bad for him, but I still made him go." After a moment, she added, "But I don't think it's him. I can't see him making death threats just because I rejected him and kicked him out."

(Also obviously, I was pleased that she had.)

Kirby made more notes. "Have you been involved with any lowlife characters at all?" She mentioned something that sounded like 'Geoffrey's rent boy,' but surely I misheard. "You're going to have to move out of your flat. Is there anywhere you can go?"

Immediately I offered. "You can stay with me," with which I quickly amended, lest she thought I meant to overstep the bounds I'd promised in the note, "in one of the spare rooms."

Kirby narrowed his eyes at me, which took me by surprise. "Could you give me a moment, sir?"

It took me a few moments to realise he was asking me to leave, and I had a feeling what he might be asking once I left. "Of course," I said, then went out into the hallway.

I admit I stood near to the door to try to catch snippets of the conversation. When I heard Kirby making mention of my apparently coincidental appearance at Coins, I knew I was right: Kirby suspected I was involved. I went back into the room. "Okay," I said with resignation, glancing to B. "Print me, DNA me, let's get this out of the way."

"I'm not saying it was you, sir," said Kirby in such a way that made me think of the famous 'the lady doth protest too much' line from Shakespeare. "It's just we have to eliminate the—"

I interrupted, "All right, all right. Let's go get on with it."

So now I've been here for something like two hours now, waiting mostly while they get someone to take samples. I'd better put this back in my case lest someone get ideas about looking at it.