Babyface. Elizabeth Woodcraft

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      She wore two thick gold rings on the third finger of her left hand, one splattered with stones that looked like diamonds. She wore a thick gold chain round her left wrist. Her blonde hair was caught up in a sleek chignon and she wore expensive cream clothes. She looked like she had stepped out of the eighties, the seventies. She was obviously older than me, and older than Danny Richards, but as she relaxed, nibbling at a Hob Nob, sipping her coffee, she seemed to grow younger. Maybe that’s what classic clothes and hair do for you. Or perhaps good biscuits. Or possibly good company. I smiled.

      She crushed it. ‘You know who I’m married to?’ she said. I couldn’t work out if it was a statement or a question.

      ‘No.’

      ‘He’s a bastard.’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘He hates the fact that I’m having an affair with Danny.’

      ‘Well he would.’

      ‘No, he wouldn’t. Not for the reasons you’re thinking. He doesn’t care about me.’ Uh-oh, we were into the barrister-as-priest situation. I fixed a bland but caring expression on my face. ‘But I actually care about him.’

      ‘Mmm hmm.’ Whatever gets you through the night, I thought.

      ‘He’s fifteen years older than me. To him I’m a kind of trophy. That’s what he wanted when he asked me to marry him. And that’s what he got. Look at me. Long legs, blonde hair, good face.’

      ‘He’s a lucky man,’ I said, meaning it, uncertain where the conversation was going.

      ‘We’ve been married fifteen years.’

      ‘That’s good. Did you care about him when you married him?’

      ‘Good question,’ she said. I felt a small glow of pleasure. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I married him because he asked me. And it made my sister’s eyes pop. And he was very rich,’ she added. ‘So I suppose in one way I married him for his money. And he’s got his money’s worth.’ She ran a hand down her leg. ‘He’s been good to me. It’s just … he can’t help Danny with this … thing.’ She stared at the pieces of carpet on the floor.

      ‘That’s understandable.’

      ‘And I wondered if you could.’

      My head snapped up from the turquoise swirls on the floor. I was more than happy for her to ask me to go for coffee because of my personal charm. I was also happy to be a listening ear, even to offer a little bit of moral support. But I wasn’t sure what concepts we were now dealing with. What might a husband do? Put up shelves? Have a toolbox with screwdrivers in? Plan a jailbreak? We could be heading towards a conflict of interests. ‘I’m Danny’s barrister,’ I said. I was already in too deep, I was calling the client by his first name. ‘Does he know you’re talking to me?’

      ‘Oh yes, I just went to see him. He said he thought you were OK.’

      ‘That’s nice, but I can’t represent anybody else.’

      ‘But I thought that after today, you weren’t going to be his barrister. You could give me some advice.’

      ‘No, no, no. There are professional considerations here. I really shouldn’t be talking to you at all.’

      ‘Professional considerations! Where have I heard that before?’

      ‘I don’t know, but I’m no good to anybody if I’m not professional. You have got to go through Kay Davidson, the solicitor.’

      ‘I don’t know her, I don’t know if I can trust her.’

      ‘She’s straight,’ I said, adding to myself, professionally speaking. ‘I know her, you have absolutely nothing to worry about from her. But, if you don’t trust her, what’s she doing being Danny’s … Mr Richards’ solicitor? Not to mention the fact she’s in London.’ It’s not unheard of to have a solicitor from out of town, even on Legal Aid, but it is unusual.

      ‘Because he – he needed a new solicitor. For this, he needed a new solicitor.’

      ‘I thought all his recent offences were serious assaults? Why change now?’

      ‘He’d … had the old one for years. He needed someone new. And we heard she was good. She was in London, away from Birmingham. But I’ve never met her. You can get a feel of people when you meet them. You know who to trust.’ Her expression changed. ‘Danny’s got to get off this.’

      ‘You can trust Kay Davidson,’ I said. ‘Ask her.’ I was so anxious not to know about Danny Richards and his problems. I could feel myself slipping down into a large vat of golden syrup. Nice, especially if you had a slice of bread and butter with you, but really difficult to get out of.

      ‘But she’s only been to see him a couple of times. She won’t even speak to me on the phone.’

      I lifted my hand. ‘It’s probably because she hasn’t been given the say-so from Danny to speak to you.’ Oh God, Kay was going to kill me for talking to Yolande. ‘It really is tricky in a case like this, who you talk to, who you don’t. Why don’t you go and see Danny? He’s on remand, you can go any time, can’t you? Tell him to talk to Kay.’

      ‘I can’t take any more time off,’ she said, gesturing round the room with a biscuit.

      ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Don’t you have an early closing day? Or a late opening?’

      ‘I’ve lost too much time already.’ She saw my expression. ‘I can’t go, all right?’ A small flush rose up her neck.

      ‘Then tell Simon, the barrister, when he comes up.’

      ‘For the start of the trial? No, that’s too late. Danny will have pleaded guilty by then. And I don’t want that on my conscience.’ She took a mouthful of coffee. ‘If he goes down for this, he’ll be inside for years. He won’t get time off because he never does, he won’t show remorse. He can’t go down for this.’ She shuddered.

      ‘But why did he bother getting a new solicitor if all he wants to do is plead guilty?’

      ‘I made that happen. I wanted someone to fight for him.’

      ‘But it’s his choice, surely.’

      ‘No, it’s not!’ she said sharply. ‘There are other people involved.’ She took a mouthful of coffee and paused. ‘He just needs time.’

      It wasn’t only Danny who needed time. I leaned over to pick up another biscuit, casually easing up the sleeve of my jacket. It was getting late.

      ‘Look, you obviously stopped him pleading guilty this morning,’ she went on. ‘You had a go at the judge. You’ve got to help me.’

      ‘Ehhh…’

      She leaned down and picked up her handbag from the floor. She took out a small gold-covered diary and a slim, gold ballpoint pen. She turned to the back of the diary and looked up at me. ‘What’s your number?’

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