Time passes. I can’t keep it or save it or mark it—the ribbon slips through my fingers regardless. And time shows that Tom is right, of course: the Dictaphone tape is cleaned up, but not all of it is audible. Crucially, not the part where Caro confessed to dumping roofies in my wine, if that confession truly happened at all, though it remains fixed in my memory. Despite the lack of confession, the police question Caro, and they even find her drug dealer (the unexpected casualty in all of this, as his is the only actual arrest); they leave no stone unturned. It is my repeated and most fervent wish that this investigation has completely annihilated any chances of Caro making partner this time round; surely, even more than the Severine investigation, it must be diverting her attention from that process? But in the face of the finest legal representation money can buy (Tom was right on that, too), the decision is made not to prosecute.
By that point, I am back at work—hollow cheeked but clear-eyed, with most of my cracks papered over. Paul did an admirable job of holding the Channing Associates fort in my absence by the remarkably sensible solution of promoting Julie to work alongside him and hiring a temporary secretary. Julie, it turns out, loves the role, and I can’t bring myself to demote her, so now I am up a head count with zero prospect of raising any new contracts given the impending tidal wave of gossip that is no doubt beginning to circulate. We are diligently working out the contracts we do have, but every time I talk with Paul I find myself imagining scales behind his eyes, weighing up the best time to jump. Still, I’m actually relieved to have Julie in place; the first few weeks back at work are incredibly exhausting, and I barely pull my weight. Neither of them quite understand what happened, though I suspect Tom may have told Paul more than I realize; anyway, in communications to clients Paul wisely blamed my hospitalization on an accidental blow to the head and left the rest well alone.
The Haft & Weil contract hasn’t been revoked, to my surprise. Paul picked it up in my absence, liaising with someone other than Caro due to the need for her to focus on the partnership selection process (official line only, I hope); I have made no move to regain control of it. Therefore it’s a complete surprise to find Gordon Farrow waiting by my office front door when I step outside one lunchtime to get a sandwich; I grind to a halt halfway down the steps.
“Hello,” he says diffidently when I make no sound. “I don’t suppose you expected to see me.”
“No,” I reply warily. “I didn’t.”
“Can I buy you a coffee?” It’s very much a question; he shows no expectation of a positive response. Perhaps that’s why I nod.
“There’s a café this way where we can get a sandwich, too, if you haven’t eaten.”
I glance at him as we walk along. He looks like he always does, a nondescript man in all respects. He must be appraising me, too, as he says, “I’m glad to see you looking so well. How do you feel?”
“Tired,” I say, yawning messily on cue. “Head injuries can do that, apparently.”
We find a table in the café and settle down, each of us hiding behind the menu. It’s not the same café as the one where Lara and I experienced the bird incident, but I still find myself glancing at the window and almost exclaim aloud when I see Severine sauntering by in her black shift dress. She turns her head and eyes me coolly, then continues down the pavement outside, away from the café. What does it mean, that she is back? Is she staying, or is this her version of good-bye? “I’m so pleased you agreed to meet with me,” Gordon says abruptly, putting down the menu. I drag my attention back to him, resisting the urge to crane my neck to see if she has really gone. “I wasn’t sure you would. I should have known you wouldn’t blame me for any . . . difficulties . . . between you and Caro—”
“Difficulties.” I put down my own menu. “Difficulties, Gordon? Is that the right word? She tried to kill me. She put so much Rohypnol in my drink that she damn near succeeded. So forgive me if I find the word difficulties a little too weak.”
“There is no evidence of that—” He tries to hold my gaze, but even his legendary steel is wavering.
“So I’m told. Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. If you’d heard the tape—”
“I heard it.” He looks away.
“Who—” I start, but the waitress comes to take our order; she is a plump brunette continually smiling even as she speaks. I can’t imagine why she’s quite this happy at work. It’s jarring.
When she leaves I find Gordon appraising me again. “You’re angry with me,” he says mildly.
“Yes.”
“Because I stand by her? She’s my daughter; failing evidence to the contrary I have to believe her.” He explains this like it’s an intellectual discussion on the finer points of a legal draft.
“Do you have to?” I consider that. “Perhaps. I don’t know. What would you do if there was evidence but she claimed it was all fabricated?”
He shrugs, with a slight smile I don’t entirely understand.
“Anyway, that’s not why I’m angry with you.”
His control is superb. “Why, then?”
“Because I do blame you, for her behavior: you and your wife. You are partly responsible. How did she come to believe this kind of behavior is allowed? Where were the boundaries when she was growing up? You got divorced and then you felt guilty and you let her get away with murder and then, well, then getting away with murder wasn’t a metaphor anymore.” I stop and pick up my water glass, feeling oddly shaky after my savage words. I had no idea that was going to come out of my mouth. Is that how I really feel about it? Do I really blame him?
He looks at me sadly, saying nothing until the silence stretches out. I find myself holding my breath for a response. I shouldn’t care at all what Gordon thinks of me, but it’s clear I do. Finally he sighs. “I’m not sure I entirely agree with your position, but I do fully respect your right to say it. In truth there is very little you could say to make me feel any more wretched than I already do.” In that moment I can see through to the anguish in his eyes.
“Well,” I say, after a moment, “I’m sure it’s not as simple as all that.” He inclines his head, acknowledging my softening. The waitress has returned with our drinks, her smile in no way dimmed. Surely her cheeks must hurt?
“There is one thing I wanted to tell you before it becomes common knowledge,” Gordon says as he stirs milk into his coffee.
“Yes?”
“Caro has been suspended from Haft & Weil.”
My eyes fly to his face. He smiles a little ruefully at my shock. “Why?” I ask warily when he doesn’t add anything further.
He sips his coffee. “As I already mentioned, the police played me the tape. A French detective, it was; very bright chap, I thought.” I mentally cheer Modan as he shrugs. “Our firm can’t afford to ignore allegations of impropriety around the partnership process. I would have done the same with any employee, and Caro cannot be treated any differently.”
“You took it to the operating committee?” I must be round-eyed in shock.
“Yes. I was duty bound to.” This is arguably true, but still . . . his own daughter. I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact that he reported allegations against his own daughter to the operating committee of the firm. The integrity of that action is staggering. “Therefore we have been further investigating Darren Lucas’s case, and he has been entirely exonerated.”