LOGINPriya Raman had been at the Bar for twenty-two years, and in that time she had learned three things: that the law was a vast and cunning machine, that juries were weather, and that nobody, in the history of the world, had ever read the small print.She was reading it now. It was eleven o'clock on a Sunday night in the second week of November, and she was sitting on the floor of her room in chambers, in Hare Court, with her shoes off and her back against the radiator and the whole of Dunne v. Institute of Chartered Accountants (Interim Orders Committee) spread round her in a ring of cardboard folders, like a small and badly organised stone circle. Her handbag lay at her elbow, open. It was the size of a Labrador. At that moment it contained two pens, a law report, a banana, a tangerine, a folded copy of the Civil Procedure Rules, a very small bottle of gin and a plush tiger the size of a fist, which had been given to her five years ago by a grateful client and which she did not, as a m
Mick had faced a good many things in his career, but none of them had ever come with a loyalty card.He stood in the doorway of the kitchen in Primrose Hill at ten past ten on Saturday morning with a white paper bag in each of his enormous hands and the stunned look of a man who has been briefed for one war and sent to another. Behind him, in the hall, the grandfather clock ticked with an air of tact."Sir," he said."Mick." Rafe, at the table, in yesterday's shirt, with a cold cup of tea in front of him, got to his feet with the expression of a man being brought a very small bomb. "Did you—""Six, sir.""I said one. I said discreet.""I put it on the counter and looked at her, sir. I didn't know what size. She said they came in different kinds, and I said all of them." Mick set the first bag on the table. "She gave me a loyalty card."He set down the second.There were six tests, in six different boxes, in a rainbow of pastels. There was a hot-water bottle in a knitted cover. There w
Margaret Hartley had cleared her desk.It was the first thing Furina saw when she came into the glass office at eight o'clock on Friday morning, and it frightened her more than anything that came afterwards. Margaret's desk was never clear. It was a landscape of files, cold tea, a stapler like a small artillery piece and a glass paperweight in which a Victorian accountant, long since dead, had been preserved in a bubble. This morning there was nothing on it at all. There was a leather blotter. And in the very middle of the blotter, squared exactly to its edges, were three sheets of paper."Sit down, Ms Dunne," said Margaret.She was standing at the window with her back to the room and her reading glasses pushed up into her bob. Rupert was by the door. He was extremely pale, and he had the look of a young man who had been told to say nothing and was holding it in his mouth like a hot coal.Furina sat."I want you to look at the first sheet," said Margaret, "and tell me what you see. I
The Cavendish Club admitted women through a door marked TRADESMEN.It was a very small door, in a very narrow alley off Pall Mall, with a brass bell and a card that said Ring Once. Furina rang once. She stood in the thin November drizzle in her best navy coat, with her hair pinned up and her handbag held in front of her like a shield, and she thought, with real affection, of every woman in the history of London who had been told to go round the back.Mercer had given her the pen that morning. "Left pocket," he'd said. "Click the top once, and it records. Fourteen hours. My sisters gave it to me as a joke. I've never used it.""Which sister?""The one I haven't arrested."The door opened on a very old man in a black tailcoat."Mrs Vauclair," he said. "Sir Lionel is expecting you. If madam would be so good as to follow me? We do not, as a rule, admit ladies by the front. It is a rule of the Founders.""I'm sure the Founders had their reasons.""They did, madam," said the waiter, gravely
The worst morning of Noor Haddad's life had also been the politest.It had happened on the second Monday of October, at nine o'clock exactly, on the first floor of a Georgian house in Hill Street, in an office panelled in pale oak and smelling of lavender and old leather. A fire had been lit. It was a gas fire, but it had been lit with such feeling that it seemed almost to crackle. On the desk, between a silver inkstand and a photograph of a younger man shaking hands with Henri Vauclair, stood a tray with two cups of bone china and a plate of shortbread."Noor," said Sir Lionel Pembridge. "My dear. Do sit."She had sat. She had put her handbag on her knees and her hands on her handbag, and she had thought, quite clearly, I'm going to be sick on the carpet, and had not been.He had poured the tea himself. He had asked after Sitto's hip. He had asked, with real interest, whether she was still reading the Russian novels, and she had said yes, she was on The Idiot, and he had said that wa
Tiffany Summers had been taught from the cradle that there were exactly three acceptable reasons for going to a party on a yacht: you had been invited, you were thirsty, or your mother would never forgive you if you stayed away.She had been invited. She was thirsty. And her mother, who had been told that Tiffany was flying to Antibes to see an old family friend, had said, "Do go, darling. Lionel's champagne is the only honest thing about him," and gone back to her crossword.It was, Tiffany reflected, standing on a hot pontoon at Port Vauban on the last Saturday of October with the Mediterranean winking at her like a conspirator, quite possibly the most accurate thing her mother had ever said."I'm going to die," said Tariq, behind her."You're not going to die. You're standing on a concrete walkway.""It moves.""It's a pontoon, Tariq. It floats. That's what they're for." She turned to look at him. He was the largest and most reliable of Callum's men, a calm Bradford giant who had on
Yvette’s voice hung in the air like a dagger poised to strike. Her eyes glinted with malice, a smug confidence that made Furina’s skin crawl. It was the look of someone who had planned for every contingency, someone who had known this moment would come and had been waiting for it. She wasn’t surp
Four years later, The second Furina Dunne opened the front door, she knew something was not right. Her heart told her so before her eyes could see the proof wide open. The whole place was ransacked. Everything was thrown onto the wooden floor. Burglary? No. There was no way it was done by a burgla
Instead of heading back right away, she showed her hotel keycard and asked the receptionist to borrow a phone. Thankfully Furina recalled all of her friends’ phone numbers but she knew only Tiffany would answer her phone in a flash so that was whom she was calling. “Hello?” “Tiff?” “Oh my gosh? F
A small frown formed on Furina Dunne’s forehead as sunlight cascaded across her face through the windows. She stirred and blinked her eyes open for a split second before shutting them again. Her head felt incredibly heavy, and her whole body ached. She felt an unusual throbbing between her thighs. T







