Don’t Say a Word: A gripping psychological thriller from the author of The Good Mother

Nothing doing. I am not the centre of the universe. The websites don’t, in fact, contain any headlines pertinent to me, or anything about Chloe. Which is good, right?

I still gag on my tuna sandwiches, though. What was I thinking when I chose these?

See, Jen, this is the real-world impact of your crazy single mum paranoia. Dodgy lunch and fishy breath. Josh is going to love that kiss on the cheek later.

I chuck the sandwich, half-eaten, in the bin, and minimize the websites. Time to be intellectually curious about the work I’m actually meant to do. That’s how I got the job. ‘She’s bright,’ Bill was told. Which is basically code for ‘She knows fuck all, but she’s had a tough time, and she can string a sentence together, so cut her some slack.’

She knows nowt, not ‘fuck all.’ Cut the swearing, even in your mind, Jen – what you don’t think, you won’t say; give the game away. Crap, but ‘nowt’s’ wrong too. Too Yorkshire. ‘She knows nothing.’ Finally.

Except I do. I know stuff. I know more stuff about their fucking legal system, the wrong side of it, than all the ones who’ve grown up in suits. The stuff you can’t learn from books. So don’t put me on fucking conveyancing files … Christ, what a waste. Yeah, I looked at property law in my diploma but, I’m sorry, it’s puddle dull, and anyone with a printer, some coloured pens, and the one brain cell you need to fill out a form can do it. Yes, that means you, Lucy.

For those of us with a bit of life experience – family and criminal law. They’re what make sense. They’re what matter. If you’re working for the defence of course. Or the mothers. Some of them are fucking toerags. But I tell you – nine times out of ten they are not as bad as the fathers.

Unless the crack’s got them. Or worse, heroin.

But anyway, it’s better than some rich twat who’s got sick of one house and wants another one, just down the road.

Not stuck in a flat spitting distance from Marsh Farm estate with no real hope of moving away from the spectre of your son getting caught up in the same type of gang that got us there in the first place. Whether they’re boys or men or desexed junkies they’re all the same, wherever you go. And they beat their women. No fucking doubt. And no one gives a shit.

So. Yeah. Maybe with Tim’s case I can help someone.

I can’t fill in this form so angry. I’ll do voicemail instead. I stick the Bluetooth headset on and tap some buttons.

Yes, there’s Lucy, from earlier: ‘Oh, my form, oh it’s so urgent – oh, oh, oh.’

Delete.

Another one. Bill. OK. Take that one more seriously. Wants me to come with him to a meeting at 3 p.m. to make a note. My stomach tightens slightly. Then it relaxes – Bill says he knows it’s close to school pick-up time, but he promises it will be short. Lovely Bill. I’m lucky to have a boss like him. I sit up straighter in my chair. This is what it’s about, Jen. Not Lucy. It’s about doing well for Bill, and getting out on time for Josh. So behave.

Next new message.

Oh. Wow. Now that’s something I didn’t expect.

Daniel.

‘Hey … Jen. Um, yeah I was hoping not to get voicemail … So Tim tells me you’re working on this case. Give me a call. I’m around, unless the clerks chuck a bail hearing at me last minute. Would be good to speak. OK, well, hopefully chat later. Bye.’

You wouldn’t think this guy earns his money from standing on his feet, wooing judges. Was that a hint of a stutter?

I replay the message. Obviously just to check for stuttering. Not because I want to check his voice again or analyse the tone.

Oh, lovely Daniel. I can picture him now. In fact yes, I can – I pull up his profile shot on his chambers’ website.

He’s younger then – when he first got called to the bar, I bet. Clean-shaven still, not yet the confident permissive stubble of a man who’s made it. No empathy lines round the eyes yet, or mouth. But all the good signs in that smile and frank gaze that they will appear. Brown hair that is just brown – no coppers or goldens or anything fancy like that. Not a posh twat, Daniel. Lawyerly, yes. Decent, polite, yes. Well spoken, true – doesn’t drop the ‘t’ in Luton. But he went to his local comp like the rest of us. He mentions that, on the site. No names, but we get the message: normality. Not some private-school tosser.

But why is he calling? The case, yes, but I haven’t even had a briefing from Tim yet.

Could it be personal?

I should call him. Or is that going to be too awkward? Damn it. Bloody Tim not telling me more about the case – or I could fall back on that. Maybe I should wait until I’ve spoken to Tim?

But it would be good, wouldn’t it, after the window scare of lunchtime to hear a safe voice. An almost-friend voice? The voice of someone to whom I came very close to disclosing some of my shit. Too close. I had to rein it back.

I listen to the message again, then hit ‘call this sender’ before I can rethink it.

‘Earl Court Chambers?’ says a voice.

Oh. Of course. The clerks, not a direct dial.

‘Hi. It’s Jen Sutton from Rotham Wyatt. Is Daniel Farley around?’

‘Jen, good to hear from you. Dan’s been missing you!’

Oh good, so there’s clerks’ room gossip about us. Over nothing. How nice.

‘Ha, yes, well, the feeling’s mutual.’ Can’t explain it’s because of the case, I guess, if it’s so secret.

‘Let me put you through to Dan.’

There’s a silence, out of which emerges some Mozarty stuff. Then a voice.

‘Jen, hi!’

‘Hi, Daniel.’

Silence.

‘So I got your –’

‘I left you a –’

Over-keen laughter as we each start then stop sentences simultaneously. I can see that happening for the whole phone call.

‘You go,’ I tell Daniel. ‘You know why you were calling.’

‘Sure, fine,’ he says. He doesn’t sound fine. He sounds strangled, choked. Then he lets a bit of breath out. ‘Listen, Jen – I just wanted to say, really looking forward to working with you again. I know there was a bit of …’

He stumbles. I catch him.

‘Stuff?’ I say.

‘OK, yeah. Stuff. There was a bit of “stuff” last time but don’t worry about it, OK. I’m genuinely looking forward to working with you again.’

Me too, I think. But I don’t fill the silence, in case there are more words to come.

More silence.

‘OK, well anyway,’ he continues, ‘this case looks like a really intense one. I don’t know if you’ve seen the exhibits file yet. It’s –’

‘I’m looking forward to working with you, too, Daniel.’

There’s another pause. A baby pause.

‘Thanks, Jen.’ His voice is softer now. Less manic. ‘I’m glad.’

‘We’ll speak soon, OK? On the case.’

‘Yes, on the case.’

I want to say: ‘And on more “stuff” too.’ But I don’t.

‘Bye, then,’ I say instead.

‘Bye.’

We hang up.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. It’s times like this I wish it wasn’t so tricky being me. That I could simply have ended the call by suggesting a drink. It’s not just the childcare angle. It’s the caring for my child. The guard goes down slowly, slowly, slowly. Otherwise how do you know who you can trust?

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