Mine: The hot new thriller of 2018 - sinister, gripping and dark with a breathtaking twist

I looked down and gathered my thoughts. I felt nervous, but then I always did when I was meeting clients for the first time. I was conscious of my desire to please those who were paying my fee, and there was always a certain awkwardness dealing with people who thought they were tougher, smarter than you were.

‘I take it you’ve read the file,’ said David. ‘Martin is the respondent. I’ve recommended you to him as leading counsel.’

‘So you’re the one who’s going to fight for me in court,’ said Martin, looking directly at me.

‘I’m sure David has explained that no one wants to go to court,’ I said, taking a sip of my coffee.

‘Except the lawyers,’ replied Martin without missing a beat.

I knew how this worked. I had been in this situation enough times not to get offended. Family law clients tended to be angry and frustrated, even – especially – with their legal team, so first meetings were often tense and fractious. I wished he wasn’t sitting opposite me – a configuration I hated. I preferred to remind people that we were all on the same side.

‘Actually, I’m a member of an organization called Resolution. We favour a non-confrontational approach to marital dispute, avoiding courts where possible, encouraging collaborative legal solutions.’

‘Collaborative legal solutions,’ he repeated slowly. I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of me by using the stiff legalese. He was certainly judging me. The woman. The Northerner. The junior.

He leant forward in his chair and looked at me.

‘I don’t want this to be difficult, Miss Day. I’m not an unreasonable man; I want this process to be as fair as possible, but I can’t just sit back and let my wife take everything she wants.’

‘I’m afraid the concept of “fair” isn’t for you or Mrs Joy to decide,’ I said carefully. ‘That’s why we have courts, judges, case law …’

I shifted tack: ‘Do we know her starting position?’ I knew some detail about the case already having spent two hours of the previous evening digesting it. But it was always better to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

‘My wife wants half of everything. The houses, the money, the business … Plus, a share of future earnings.’

‘What is it you do?’ I asked briskly.

‘I head up a convertible arbitrage fund.’

I nodded as if I knew what that meant.

‘We trade off anomalies in the market.’

‘So you’re a gambler?’ I asked.

‘It’s financial investment.’

‘And is it successful?’

‘Yes. Very.’

I was reminded of Vivienne McKenzie’s words. About men and their buoyant self-confidence that makes them believe they are kings of the world.

‘We have only thirty employees, but it’s a very profitable business. I set the company up with my partner, Alex Cole. I own sixty per cent of the business, he owns the rest. The bulk of my assets are my shares in the business. My wife wants the valuation of my shareholding to be as high as possible. She’d prefer liquid cash to shares.’

‘When did you start the business?’ I said, writing it all down.

‘Fifteen years ago.’

‘Before your marriage,’ I muttered. According to the file, they had been married for eleven years.

‘We should probably go through the Form E,’ said David Gilbert.

I nodded. I had seen the financial disclosure documents for both Martin and his wife. His were remarkably similar to the dozens of other declarations of wealth I had seen over the years. The properties dotted around the world, cars, art, and overseas bank accounts.

I ran my finger down the form that his wife had submitted.

Donna Joy, a thirty-four-year-old with a Chelsea address, had the typically heavy expenditure and low personal income that seemed standard for a woman in her position.

There were pages of it, although my eyes picked out the more remarkable details.

‘Annual expenditure on lunches: £24,000,’ I muttered out loud.

‘That’s a lot of sushi,’ said Martin.

I looked up and our eyes met. I’d been thinking exactly the same thing.

‘She claims she is unemployable. Mental fragility …’ I noted.

Martin gave a soft, quiet snort.

‘Has she ever worked?’

‘When we met, she was the manager of a clothes shop, but she handed her notice in once we got married. She said she wanted to educate herself, so I paid for a lot of courses. Art courses, mainly. I set her up in a studio. She works there, but she won’t call it work for divorce purposes.’

‘Does she sell her stuff?’

‘A little. Honestly, it’s more of a vanity project, but she enjoys it. Her paintings are quite good.’

His face softened and I found myself wondering what she was like. I could picture her now. Beautiful, a little bohemian … high maintenance, definitely. I felt I knew her without having met her.

‘And everything that’s listed here. That’s it?’

‘You mean, am I hiding anything?’

‘I need to know everything. Pensions, off-shore accounts, shareholdings, trusts. We don’t want any surprises. Besides, she’s asking for forensic accounting into your affairs.’

‘So what do you think?’ asked Martin finally. I noticed that his shirt was very white.

‘Your wife is young, but she enjoyed a very high standard of living during the marriage. You had what we call a mid-length marriage. Her claim would have been more concrete if you had been together over fifteen years, less so if you were married under six years.’

‘So we’re in a grey area that the law loves.’

‘Provision for the financially weaker spouse is generous in this country. The start point is generally one of equality. But we can argue that she didn’t really contribute to the accumulation of wealth, that the business is a non-matrimonial asset.’ I scanned the file, checking a detail. ‘You haven’t got children. That helps.’

I looked up at him, realizing I shouldn’t have said that. For all I knew, the relationship might have broken down because of an inability to have a family. It was one of those things I never found out as a divorce lawyer. I knew that people wanted to get divorced, and I advised them how to do it. But I never really knew why, beyond the broad strokes of infidelity or unreasonable behaviour. I never truly got to know what made two people who had once genuinely loved one another, in some cases, grow to hate each other.

‘We’re keen for a clean-break settlement,’ said David.

‘Absolutely.’ I nodded.

‘What sort of split do you think I can realistically expect?’

I didn’t like to be drawn on a number, but Martin Joy was the sort of client who expected answers.

‘We should start at a seventy–thirty split and go from there.’

I put my pen down, feeling exhausted, wrung out. I wished I hadn’t touched that wine and soda at lunchtime.

Martin shook his head, staring at the desk. I thought he might have been pleased at the suggestion that we could avoid a fifty–fifty asset split, but he looked absolutely shell-shocked.

‘What happens next?’

‘The First Directions meeting is in ten days’ time.’

‘Will any decisions be made then?’

He had seemed composed throughout the meeting, but hints of anxiety were beginning to show.

I shook my head.

‘The clue is in the name. All very preliminary stuff, I’m afraid.’

‘Fine,’ he said uncomfortably.

It was dark outside now. He stood up to leave and pulled his shirt cuffs down from under his jacket sleeves. One and then the other. Then he looked at me.

‘I’ll see you then, Miss Day. I look forward to it.’

I stretched out my hand and as he closed his fingers around mine, I realized I was looking forward to seeing him again too.

Chapter 3

I liked getting the bus home from work, not just because I was a little claustrophobic and hated the tube system. The number 19 took me from Bloomsbury all the way home to Islington. It was not the quickest way to get to and from my place of work, but it was my favourite way to commute. I liked the head-clearing walk down Fleet Street and Kingsway to the bus stop, past the red telephone boxes outside the Old Bailey, and the church of St Clement Danes, especially when its mournful bells rang out the tune to the old nursery rhyme, ‘Oranges and Lemons’. And once I had boarded the bus, I enjoyed observing the sights and sounds of the city. When I first came to the capital, I used to spend the whole day riding the number 19 route, face pressed to the glass, watching the city drift by: Sadler’s Wells, the twinkling lights of the Ritz, the exclusive stores of Sloane Street, then down to Cheyne Walk and Battersea Bridge. It was a distilled version of the best the city had to offer, all for the price of a Travelcard. It was the London of my childhood dreams.

As I sat down and wiped the condensation from the window with my fingertips, I wondered if I should have made more of an effort on my birthday. Even David Gilbert, a workaholic if ever I’ve met one, thought I was off out for birthday drinks. But I didn’t see why I should break my weekly routine just because I was another year older. One of the perils of my job has always been the lack of a social life. There were plenty of pubs around Temple, and people to have a drink with, but I had always taken the view that, if you wanted to get the job done properly, then you had to make sacrifices.

I pulled my mobile out of my bag and phoned my local Chinese takeaway. I couldn’t decide between the beef with fresh basil or the yellow bean chicken, so I ordered both, along with a side order of dumplings and chow mein. What the hell. It was my birthday.

Ending the call, I thought back to my conversation with Viv McKenzie about applying for silk, and wondered what becoming Francine Day QC might mean.

There had certainly been little other change in my life in the past five years. I’d lived in the same flat on the sketchy edges of Islington since my late twenties, settled into an ordered routine. I went to the gym the same two evenings every week, took a ten-day holiday to Italy every August. Two short-lived romances punctuated a long stretch of being single. I saw friends less regularly than I should. Even the small detail of my life had a satisfying familiarity. I bought the same Starbucks coffee on my way into work, my copy of the Big Issue from the same Romanian man outside Holborn tube. Part of me liked this reassuring familiarity, and saw no need to change the status quo.

Peering through the water droplets on the cold window, I realized we were on St Paul’s Road. I nudged the snoring commuter beside me and squeezed off the bus, walking the rest of the way to my flat on the road that descended into Dalston.

As I neared my flat I groaned as I saw the headlight of a delivery scooter pull up and stop. I started to run but the pavement was wet. Almost slipping, I hissed a curse and slowed to a halt, fishing around my bag for my purse, tickets and sweet wrappers falling to the floor like blossom blown from a tree. I bent down to pick up the litter, but already the scooter was setting off again into the dark.

By the time I reached my front door, I was out of breath. There was a figure in the doorway holding a white carrier bag stuffed with cartons.

‘You owe me twenty-three quid,’ said my neighbour Pete Carroll, a PhD student at Imperial who had been living in the downstairs apartment for the past eighteen months.

‘Did you give him a tip?’ I winced.

‘I’m a student,’ he said with mock disapproval.

I debated running after the delivery man. They were my regulars. They gave me free prawn crackers and I didn’t want to short-change them or have them think I was tight.

‘I only called them fifteen minutes ago. They usually take ages.’

I handed him a twenty-pound note and an extra fiver, and stepped inside our neglected hallway, picking up my post and putting it in my bag.

‘Tuesday night is a bit decadent for takeaway,’ smiled Pete folding his arms awkwardly.

‘It’s my birthday,’ I replied without even thinking.

‘I wondered what the brightly coloured envelopes were doing scattered among the junk mail.’

‘So you’re not going out?’

‘It’s mid-week. I’ve got work to do.’

‘Killjoy.’

‘I’ve got to prepare for court tomorrow.’

‘You boring sod. I’m going to march you down to the pub.’

‘Pete, no. I’m really busy. Work with a pork dumpling chaser,’ I said holding up the bag of Chinese. ‘I know that might seem an odd way to celebrate your birthday, but that’s what happens when you’re almost forty.’

‘I’m not taking no for an answer,’ he said, with a zeal that told me he meant it.

‘I suppose I’ve bought too much Chinese. I’ll supply the chow mein if you’ve got any drinks. But I’ve got to be at my desk in an hour.’

‘I’ll be up in a minute,’ he grinned.

Pete disappeared into his ground-floor flat and I walked up the stairs to mine.

Leaving the door slightly ajar, I hung my coat on the rack and set my bag down in the hall. I slipped off my shoes, enjoying the soft feel of carpet under my feet, and undid the top button of my blouse.

My flat was my sanctuary. A cool, calm, Farrow-and-Ball-painted haven for one, and I instantly regretted having invited someone in to share it.

Resigning myself to a visitor, I pulled two plates out of the kitchen cupboard, just as Pete appeared in the hall with a four-pack of lager.

‘Pass me a glass. I assume you’re not a straight-out-of-the-tin girl.’

He poured me a frothy glass of lager, then opened another can for himself as I carried the Chinese into the living room.

‘So, you’re almost forty,’ he said, perching on the sofa next to me. ‘You don’t look it.’

‘I’m thirty-seven,’ I said, realizing how little Pete and I knew about each other. We spoke more than most London neighbours: we saw each other at the bus stop, he was a willing fixer of laptops and fuse boxes. On one occasion last summer, I’d been walking past the local pub and he’d been having a beer outside. He invited me to join him, which I did because it was hot and sunny and I was thirsty from the gym, but I did not consider him a friend.

‘By the way, I got a letter from my landlord, yesterday,’ said Pete, peeling the foil top off the chow mein box. ‘He’s putting my rent up. The freeholder says the roof needs doing. Reckons both leaseholders have got to put fifteen grand into the sinking fund.’

‘Shit, I’ve not heard about that.’

‘But fifteen grand is just a day’s work for a distinguished lady of the Bar,’ he smiled.

‘I wish.’

‘Come on, you’re loaded.’

‘I’m not, I promise,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘I am a jobbing barrister, in debt, thanks to thousands of pounds’ worth of unpaid invoices.’

‘You’ll get paid. The banks know you’re good for it. And then you’ll be rich.’

Rich, I scoffed quietly. My family thought I was rich, but everything was relative, and in London, mixing with lawyers and businessmen like Martin Joy, it was easier to view my financial situation through another prism. Perhaps if I made silk, things would change. I would land big, juicy cases, my hourly rate would double, so that one day I might even be able to afford one of those Georgian houses in Canonbury – the ones that had drawn me to the N1 postcode in the first place, the ones I still liked to walk past and dream about.

I thought about the £15,000 I would need to find from somewhere and took a commiseratory slug of beer, though I knew I shouldn’t.

‘You know, today, I was dealing with someone who spends £24,000 a year on lunch,’ I said, dipping a dumpling into some soy.

Pete shook his head. ‘And you’re missing a birthday night out on account of these people.’

He laughed and I knew he had a point.

‘I’m acting for the husband in that particular divorce. But you’ll be glad to know that tomorrow’s case, the case I should be preparing for, is a more deserving cause.’

‘Another poor rich husband about to get screwed,’ he smiled.

‘Actually, no. My client’s a man who is about to lose access to his kids. Just a regular guy who found his wife in bed with another man.’

‘People,’ said Pete quietly.

I nodded. ‘I bet you’re glad you only have to deal with computers all day. Things that don’t have feelings.’

‘Yet.’

‘Yet?’

‘If you subscribe to one model of how our brains create consciousness, you’ll believe that sentient computers will never exist. Other schools of Artificial Intelligence thought believe that the day is coming when computers will be able to imitate humans.’

‘That’s a scary idea. They’re going to make us all redundant, aren’t they.’

‘Some jobs are more future-proof than others.’

‘Like divorce lawyers?’

‘Machines are logical. Love and relationships are anything but. I’d say you’ll be all right for the foreseeable future.’

‘Glad to hear it, with a new roof to pay for.’

There was a long silence. We had eaten our food and run out of conversation.

‘I should get on with some work.’

Scooping up the leftovers, I took the plates into the kitchen. When I turned round, Pete was in the doorway. He took a step towards me and cupped his hand on my jaw. Gasping in surprise, I didn’t have time to think whether he had misinterpreted this as a sign of my desire, because his lips were already on mine. I could taste the ginger and yellow bean on his breath. His saliva smeared across my cheek.

‘Pete, you’re my friend. And you’re drunk,’ I replied, pulling away.

‘Sometimes you need to get drunk,’ he said.

I took a step away from him. I couldn’t say his approach had been a complete surprise. The way he had loitered outside with the takeaway should have alerted me.

‘It’s the age difference, isn’t it?’ I registered the pique in his voice. Men and their self-confidence. ‘If I was a thirty-seven-year-old man and you were my age, no one would even bat an eyelid.’

I felt guilty, cruel. I don’t suppose he had any reason to think I would turn him down. After all, I had invited him up to my flat, for dinner, on my birthday.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly. ‘I know I’m a miserable old spinster, but I like it this way.’

‘Do you?’ he said, challenging me.

‘I work eleven hours a day, Pete, I come home, and I work some more. There’s no room for anything else.’

‘Stop blaming your job.’

There was a time when I wouldn’t have cared that Pete was not my type, when we’d have ended up in the bedroom, but tonight, I just wanted him to go.

‘I should leave,’ he said flatly.

I nodded and he exited the flat without another word. And as I closed the door behind him, I leant forward, pressed my head against the door and puffed out my cheeks.

‘Happy birthday’, I whispered, desperate for the day to be over.

Chapter 4

There was no getting away from the fact that I needed a new bag. Over the past week, the rip in the seam of my trusty Samsonite case had been getting longer and longer. Work had never been busier, with new instructions and cases springing to life after weeks of dormancy, and the numerous files that needed transporting between court, home and chambers, meant that my bag was one vigorous pull of the zip away from fatal damage.

I was brought up to be thrifty and part of me thought that I just needed to fix it. But I had no idea who repaired bags these days – cobblers? Tailors? In our consumerist society it seemed our only option was to buy a new one.

Glancing at my watch, I noted that it was not yet seven o’clock. Burgess Court was well placed for pubs but less convenient for retail therapy. But I calculated that if I took a taxi, I could be on Oxford Street by quarter past, out of there by seven thirty, and home in time for a ScandiCrime drama that was starting that week on cable.

‘You off home?’

Paul was standing at the door to my office with a bundle of files.

‘In a minute,’ I replied, fishing around in my desk drawer.

‘I’ve got something for you tomorrow, if you fancy it.’

I knew I should have turned it down but saying no to work had never been one of my strong points.

‘What is it?’

‘Freezing application tomorrow. Listed for nine thirty.’

I hesitated; the only reason I had earmarked a night in front of the TV was because my workload for the following day was relatively quiet.

‘I can get it biked round to Marie or Tim,’ he offered.

‘Give it here,’ I sighed. ‘It’ll save you hanging around for the courier.’

Paul looked at me, a smile playing on his lips. ‘You know, it’s fine to have the night off sometimes.’

‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead,’ I replied. Not finding what I was searching for in my desk drawer, I glanced up at him. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare carrier bag? My case is fit to burst and I’m worried it’s not going to make it home.’

‘I’m sure we can do better than a carrier bag for a sophisticate like yourself,’ he laughed, disappearing downstairs. He returned a couple of minutes later with a cloth tote bag branded with the Burgess Court insignia.

‘What’s this?’

‘Marketing. By the way, I popped the QC application forms in there for you.’

‘A master of subtlety, as usual.’

I left the office and hurried across Middle Temple, past our grand Elizabethan hall and the fountain firing a silver flume of water into the night sky. It was eerie after sunset, when the gas lamps had flickered on; the cloisters threw shadows around the square and the sound of your shoes against the cobbles tricked you into thinking you were not alone. Increasing my pace, I threaded my way down the thin, dark alley of Devereux Court, one of the artery routes on to the Strand, just as the rain began to fall. A cab responded to my outstretched hand and I jumped in before it really began to pour. The driver asked me where I wanted to go and I said the first department store name that came into my head: Selfridges.

I am not a great shopper. That gene escaped me and I don’t think it’s because I was once on free school dinners. I remember one client, a Russian model, who in one breath told me how she used to pick up rotten fruit from the markets to take home to feed her family, and in the next breath told me that she needed at least a million pounds in maintenance per anum from the property magnate husband she was divorcing. Growing up poor sent you one way or the other.

The taxi dropped me off on Cumberland Street. The rain was pelting down now and the pavements looked black and oily. Cursing the weather, I ran into the store.

I knew within minutes that I was in the wrong place. I hardly ever came to Selfridges and I had forgotten how expensive it was. Boutiques lined the outer perimeter wall: Chanel, Gucci, Dior, each one like a jewellery box, glitzy and polished. I preferred the shops in the City, where everything seemed more ordered and less dazzling for time-pressed people like me. But in the West End, in Knightsbridge, shops were caves of temptation for tourists and trophy wives, retail labyrinths designed to make you get lost and spend, whereas I just wanted to find a bag and go home.

Taking a breath, I told myself that it wouldn’t hurt to look, that my bag, my image, was my calling card. I browsed the central handbag area and a beautiful bag displayed on a plinth caught my eye. It was smaller than the pilot bag I had been carrying around the past five years, its black leather soft and buttery to the touch. It was a QC’s bag, I realized, as I picked it up and hunted around for the price tag.

‘I thought it was you,’ said a voice behind me.

I turned round and for a second I didn’t recognize him. His hair was damp from the rain, and he was wearing glasses with smart, tortoiseshell frames.

‘Mr Joy.’

‘Martin,’ he smiled.

‘Sorry, Martin,’ I replied.

‘Retail therapy?’

I started to laugh. ‘You make it sound pleasurable. I’m actually on a mercy mission to replace my briefcase.’