‘Here, take a look.’ Leo handed the letter to Henry. ‘The JAC reckon I’m not High Court Bench material, after all.’
Henry read the contents in disbelief. ‘I can’t understand it. I thought you were a dead cert. I’m really sorry, Mr D. I mean, I always said it would have been a huge loss for chambers, but I know it’s what you wanted.’
‘Well, I did in some ways. But in other ways …’ Leo glanced around the busy clerks’ room and sighed. ‘In other ways, I don’t much mind. I’d be grateful if you didn’t broadcast this, though.’
‘Course not. Discretion is my watchword. Still – always next year, sir, eh?’
‘Yes, Henry. There’s always next year.’
As Leo left the clerks’ room, Anthony came hurrying downstairs, pulling on his overcoat.
Leo took him aside. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you. How is everything? With Gabrielle, I mean.’
Anthony turned up his coat collar and nodded. ‘Good. Everything’s good. Lucky you knew where to find her. Listen, I’m meeting my dad, and I’m late as it is—’
‘Of course. We can catch up another time.’ Those few words of Anthony’s, the casual way they had been uttered, told him everything, and told it more clearly than if Anthony had sat down and talked to him for hours on end. His significance in Anthony’s life had dwindled in comparison to the importance of Gabrielle. And maybe that was as it should be. It was clear, too, that she had mentioned nothing to Anthony of what she knew, and never would, no doubt hedging her bets that Leo would say nothing either. Clever girl, thought Leo.
As he put his foot on the stair, he heard Anthony’s voice behind him. ‘Leo …’
He turned. ‘Yes?’
‘I forgot to tell you. We got judgment in the Astleigh’s casino case.’
‘Oh?’
‘We lost. Coulson decided that the twelve months the casino gave the Lion King to repay the two million pound debt amounted to illegal credit under the Gaming Act, so Astleigh’s claim on the cheque was unenforceable. Still, the upside was that Al-Sarraj’s counterclaim was dismissed. Coulson came out with a great line – “This is one of those cases which have everything to do with law, and nothing to do with justice.”’
Leo smiled. ‘Sounds like every case I’ve ever been involved in. Still, bad luck.’
Anthony shrugged. ‘You win some, you lose some.’
‘But you always get paid.’
Anthony smiled. ‘Indeed. See you later.’
As he made his way upstairs, Leo suddenly realised that he should have been in the City ten minutes ago, meeting Sarah.
Chay and Anthony had arranged to meet in the bar of the Waldorf Hotel on the Strand. Chay had refused to say over the phone why he wanted to see Anthony, only that it was urgent. When Anthony arrived, Chay was sitting on the far side of the room, a solitary figure hunched in an armchair, still wearing his overcoat. The look of him reminded Anthony of the old Chay, the one who used to huddle crosslegged on the floor of unheated squats in his second-hand army greatcoat, pontificating about art and the excesses of the capitalist system. The only difference was that now the overcoat was cashmere, the granny glasses were expensive tortoiseshell-framed varifocals, and the lank hippy hair was trimmed to fashionable bristle. But Chay’s face, latterly serene and self-confident, now wore the morose, disaffected expression of old, and Anthony felt a twinge of alarm as he sat down.
‘You OK?’ he asked.
‘Not really.’
A bartender came over with an enquiring smile. Chay ordered a gin Martini with a twist, and Anthony a vodka and tonic.
‘What’s up?’ asked Anthony.
Chay seemed to sink further into his seat. He stared at the table for a long time. Then he looked up and said, ‘You’ll have heard in the news about Bernie Madoff?’
Anthony swallowed. Remembering the conversation last time he’d seen his father, he suspected what was coming. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, he was the financier I met in Palm Beach, the one making investments for me. I’m one of his … his …’ Chay decided to discard the word client. ‘I’m one of his victims.’
There was a long silence.
‘How much?’
Chay cocked his head, as though trying to evaluate, his glance straying round the empty bar.
‘Everything. About eight and a half million.’
‘Dollars?’
‘Pounds.’
‘Eight and a half million pounds. Right.’
Neither of them said anything. The waiter brought the drinks on a little silver tray. He laid paper coasters neatly on the table, and set down the chilled cocktails. They looked delicious. A little twist of lemon bobbed in the gin Martini, icy droplets trembled on the side of the vodka glass. Chay and Anthony stared at the drinks in silence. The waiter set down a bowl of nuts and crisps, and went away.