Chapter 11: Sir Trevor McDonald's Comforting Voice

It was lovely and sunny on the roof of the police station, but I had to get out of here. The police were right that I knew more than I was saying about David Tennant and why he had killed my husband, even if the things I knew were a kind of crazy madness that I didn’t officially believe. I caught sight of myself in one of the glass panels walling the covered section of the roof, and I was shocked for the thousandth time that day by my stupid new haircut. And now I’d be in the newspapers. When I got my phone back, half the messages would be from my mother saying that I looked like a convict. There was no way that everything that was happening wasn’t a nightmare, and the reason I knew this for certain is that I found the hair aspect amusing rather than tragic. I looked at Sir Connaught in mute appeal.

‘Would you please stand away from us, Sergeant Price,’ he told Rollo. ‘I must speak with my client.’ He walked me to a shaded bench, sat me down and perched alongside. ‘I want to get you out of this building as quickly as possible, old thing, get you somewhere where we can work out what to do. However, Tennant insists on speaking to you. Do it, find out what he needs to tell you, tell the police you have nothing more to say, and then we will leave. Once we’re out of here we can have a proper conference.’ I nodded.

‘I said that David is my client?’ I said. ‘Can I really use that to keep what he said secret?’

His eyes glittered, and an edge of smile appeared. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If you aren’t involved in this crime, and so long as he doesn’t ask you to plead against what you know to be true, then yes. Given what he did to your husband, it’s terrifically unprofessional, from an ethics viewpoint, and as your Head of Chambers, I disapprove wildly. However, these are extraordinary circumstances, and from a legal perspective, you’re fine.’

When the police reluctantly let me in alone to see David Tennant, David smiled and said, ‘Thank God you’re here. Are you ok? Is Sir Conn sorting you out’

My reaction was to weaken at the knees. Appropriate, I told myself. Stay appropriate. ‘How do you know about Sir Conn?’ I asked.

‘I know a lot of things. You didn’t tell them what I said?’ he asked. I shook my head. ‘Good. It would have made you sound like a nutter, like I must sound to you.’ I glanced at him sharply. ‘I know how this appears. Good and evil, angels and demons. You need to know what you’re involved in before you can help me, and I can’t tell you here. I only have one crucial thing to say to you, the reason I absolutely had to see you now, and it’s this: you need to speak to Miss Smallbone before you do anything else.’ Miss Smallbone was the lawyer David brought with him to my office this afternoon. He’d already told me not to mention her name, though I couldn’t see why he was so worried. Seeing me puzzle over Miss Smallbone’s place in the scheme of things, a shadow crossed David face. ‘You didn’t mention her, did you? Not to anyone, even Sir Conn? I can’t tell you how important this is.’ I shook my head. ‘Of course! I knew you wouldn’t. She’ll be at your flat. The very next thing you must do is speak to her, and let her explain what’s happening, and tell you what to do. I’ll be fine here until tomorrow. Go straight home. Don’t let anyone divert you. I cannot tell you how crucial it is you speak to her first.’

Detective Inspector Pushkas was very unhappy when I insisted on going home, and as Rollo Price took me to the back door, he advised me urgently, as a friend, that I should really help the police in any way I possibly could. Sir Conn pulled up in his bright red Aston Martin. ‘Had to put the roof up, just in case anyone was here. Pity. Lovely day. Hop in.’ I did, and before I could say goodbye to Rollo, we roared away, wheels squealing. ‘Love doing that,’ said Sir Conn. ‘Parp parp.’ He sped through the traffic, eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror. ‘Police following,’ he said. ‘Don’t blame them. Nil desperandum.’ At Tottenham Court Road station, he pulled over to the side of the road and squeezed out.

‘No, Sir Conn. I have to go home.’

‘Because Tennant told you to? Don’t worry. He wouldn’t mind this.’

‘But, Sir Conn…’

‘No time, old thing. Hurry, hurry.’ Sir Connaught Sampson-Samson is a hard man to gainsay. I got out of the car. ‘Don’t worry about the car, someone will come for it.’ He pulled me towards the tube entrance, and I followed dumbly. He wove through the crowds, and along to one of the horrible underpasses. He was holding a clipboard for some reason. A man, smelling hideously of urine, was in the doorway of what looked like a cupboard. Sir Conn reached over him, unlocked it and pulled me in after him, turned and shut the door. ‘Clipboard,’ he said, waving it. ‘It’s like we’re invisible. People think we’re reading the meter. If they thought at all. Don’t like using this door, but needs must.’

‘What is this place?’

‘Cupboard,’ he said, turning on a light. It was full of mops. ‘This, however…’ He pressed his thumb against a light switch at the back of the cupboard, and the wall opened. ‘Hop in.’ It was a lift, with four buttons, Sir Conn pressed the top one. The lift whooshed up, up and more up. Sir Conn raised his eyebrow.

‘Centrepoint?’ I asked. He nodded, pleased.

The lift opened on a ring of worried faces. I didn’t recognise half of them, but, among the other half were Davina Mccall, Freddie Flintoff, Jeremy Clarkson and Kylie Minogue. They gave a collective sigh of relief as Sir Trevor McDonald’s patrician voice intoned, ‘Thank goodness, Mary Sue. We were very worried about you.’