‘That’s okay. I can’t imagine you’d be interested in what goes on in my head.’
‘But I am.’
She looked up and read not only curiosity in his eyes but openness and sincerity as well. Was he really just a nice guy, or did he have an agenda? It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him all about her mother’s murder, about Fay, and about her epilepsy and fragmented memories, but she had no doubt what the outcome would be. He’d reject her, like everyone else had done, because people always did. For that reason she’d learned to rely only on herself. It might lead to loneliness, but it kept her safe from hurt.
So why did she find the thought of confessing so appealing? Was it simply his kind blue eyes? The carefully shaved goatee which showed someone who took good care of himself without worrying that it made him less of a man? Or maybe the way he wore a pair of old jeans, low-slung and hugging his backside like a second skin, inviting you to reach out and run your hand over the soft, worn fabric. She couldn’t decide whether it was the sex appeal which attracted her, or Jason the person.
So it was probably best to leave well alone.
‘Another time,’ she said and felt like a meanie when the eager light in his eyes went out.
Armed with the business card Aggie’s solicitor, Ronald Sweetman, had given her in Goa, Helen tracked down his office in a less salubrious part of town with a strong Asian influence, above a shop selling fabrics. Access was through an alley, at the backstreet level via an entry phone.
Someone buzzed the door open. Inside, narrow steps led upstairs. Water damage had caused the plaster to crumble in the corners, and the hall itself smelt very faintly of cat piss.
A woman, presumably the one who’d buzzed her inside, met her at the top of the stairs. Dressed in a black trouser suit, she was tall and angular with flat straw-coloured hair and horsey smoker’s teeth. Clutching a stack of files, she had a harassed air about her.
‘Third door on the right,’ she replied when Helen asked for Sweetman. ‘Tell him I’ll bring some coffee in a tick. And don’t worry if he snaps at you, he’s as tame as a pussy cat.’
Puzzled that she hadn’t been challenged about an appointment or asked who she was, Helen knocked on the door at the end of the corridor.
‘Come in!’ bellowed a voice.
Ronald Sweetman was sitting behind his desk with his feet on the windowsill, staring out through the grimy glass while twirling a pen in his hand. He was wearing a polo shirt like last time they met, which stretched tight across his belly, grey trousers, worn leather belt and scuffed black shoes, and looked more like a down-at-heel private detective than a solicitor. Turning in his chair, his eyebrows rose when he saw Helen, and he quickly righted himself, extending his hand.
‘Miss Stephens. I was hoping I’d see you again, but I didn’t expect you so soon. Obviously I was mistaken.’ A teasing look accompanied his outstretched hand.
Helen shook it politely then withdrew quickly. There was something about his demeanour which didn’t sit right with his cuddly exterior. She’d sensed it in Goa, and did so even more now. Pussy cat, my arse.
‘Just Helen,’ she said.
‘I see, Just Helen.’ He ran his tongue over his lips as if tasting her name. Maybe he had synaesthesia, she thought, the ability to taste and smell sounds. She wondered what hers tasted like, fancying the idea of sticky toffee pudding, but maybe it was more like earwax. The thought made her smile.
Ronald Sweetman caught her grin. ‘That’s quite a different expression from the one you greeted me with in India. Never has one man travelled so far to be so cruelly dismissed.’
His paraphrasing of Winston Churchill’s famous blood, sweat and tears speech broadened her grin despite the serious business she wanted to discuss. ‘I was horrid, wasn’t I? Sorry about that.’
‘But you’re better now, Just Helen?’
‘Much better. By the way,’ she jerked her head towards the door, ‘your secretary said she’d bring you coffee in a minute.’
‘My wife, yes. Let’s hope she remembers to bring two. Shall we sit down?’
Sweetman’s office was small, and apart from the desk and the chairs, there was only a yucca plant in the corner and a row of steel-grey filing cabinets against the back wall. Everything looked as if it had been collected haphazardly from second-hand furniture shops, apart from the filing cabinets which appeared strong enough to withstand a terrorist attack. The shabbiness gave Helen a sense of being on an equal footing with him.
‘So to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ he asked and rested his steepled fingers on his desk.