it’ll not do Harold Weldon a bit of good shouting about his supposed innocence from the rooftops; one has to have some hard facts. Staines has none to offer, therefore there’s no point in bothering the police.’
‘I’m with you part of the way. But supposing, just for the sake of argument, that Staines has not called in the Law because he himself is just a wee bit scared of them? I know this is pure surmise but just suppose he’s scared to have too many stones uplifted, too many private alleys peered into.’
Linda burst out laughing. ‘Darling, you’re getting your metaphors all mixed up, and what’s more, I don’t like that gleam in your eye at all. Finish your lunch and think about that deadline before we can get away on holiday. The Weldon case is not for you.’
Mike grinned and turned to his plate once more.
Over coffee, which Mrs Potter brought in later, he said casually: ‘Doing anything special this afternoon?’
Linda snorted. ‘I know exactly what that introductory gambit means. And you know perfectly well I have a thousand and one different things to do. Packing, for instance.’
‘When I think of the size of that bikini you’re planning to wear in Cannes I fail to see how it’s going to take you very long to pack.’
Linda frowned. ‘All right, darling, what’s on your mind?’
‘Just an idea that you might give your old friend Sammy Spears on the Tribune a tinkle and get him to talk about the Weldon case.’
‘Sammy Spears?’
‘Yes, dear. He’s still their ace crime reporter, isn’t he? He’s bound to have covered the trial. Don’t blush, darling, he was one of your more ardent admirers in the old days.’
‘Sammy Spears was just—’
‘Splendid! So do your stuff and see what you can get from him, will you? Rather than spend my valuable time trudging round Fleet Street reference libraries I’d much prefer to let your old boyfriends do my homework for me.’
‘What exactly do you hope to get out of Sammy?’
‘I’m not quite sure. Put it this way: Sammy’s a good journalist and a very bright boy and I’d be interested in hearing anything he has to tell me about the case. Literally anything. The facts, the rumours, his general impression, any hunches or private conclusions he came to and couldn’t write about, what he thought of the principal figures in the case, and so on.’
‘And if Sammy says Harold Weldon got what was coming to him?’
‘Then I’ll take Sammy’s word for it and drop the matter.’
It was later that evening as Mike was mixing dry martinis in a tall pitcher – don’t bruise the gin with a noisy shaker, introduce it to the vermouth with loving care in a slender jar, Mike always maintained – that Linda burst somewhat breathlessly into their Sloane Street flat and apologised for being late.
‘Drink, darling?’ he asked.
‘Thanks, no. I’ve had more than my ration with Sammy. You know how it is with my late colleagues – nothing under half an hour at El Vino’s will get them to so much as open their mouths.’
‘And how long were you at El Vino’s?’
Linda grinned guiltily. ‘One hour and three-quarters. I thought I might as well make the most of it, since you told me I could go out with an old admirer.’
‘I sense a strain of female logic that is likely to baffle me coming up. Did Sammy get around to talking about the Weldon case?’
‘He did.’ Linda sighed heavily and lit cigarettes for them both.
‘Why the dramatic sigh?’ Mike asked.
‘Because I’m having a battle with my conscience. What Sammy told me was not at all what I wanted to hear, but I regret to say it’ll be food and drink to you.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Well, this is strictly off the record, and of course Sammy couldn’t print a word of it unless he wanted to face about twenty-five libel suits, but in his opinion it was a mis-trial.’
Mike whistled softly. ‘That is a big statement, coming from Sammy. Go on, dear, you begin to intrigue me.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ Linda said dryly. ‘However, I imagine you’ll drag it out of me one way or another. Why was it a mis-trial? Well, partly on account of the Judge, who seems to have been half senile and should have been put out to grass years ago. The Jury also struck Sammy as being more than usually bovine. But the prize ass of them all, apparently, was Jaime Mainardi, QC, Harold Weldon’s defending lawyer. In Sammy’s opinion the man made a terrible hash of the case. It’s not the sort of thing you can put in a newspaper article, but it really does seem as though there was an underlying antagonism between Mainardi and Weldon throughout the whole of the trial.’
‘Between Defence Counsel and client? That is unusual.’
‘Exactly. One expects the Prosecution to clash swords with the accused, but not the two who are supposedly sitting on the same side of the Court. General opinion appears to label this man Weldon as an awkward sort of cuss, but by all accounts he was extraordinarily badly handled. Mainardi sounds a terrible ham, playing to the gallery all the time regardless of the inept job he was making of defending his client.’
‘It would be rather interesting, one can’t help thinking, to have a short talk with Mr Jaime Mainardi, QC,’ said Mike musingly.
‘That’s what Sammy suggested. Mainardi has chambers just off Chancery Lane,’ said Linda in a flat, resigned voice, groping in her handbag for a piece of paper. ‘Sammy looked up the address for me.’
Mike coughed with mild embarrassment but did not take the proffered slip of paper. ‘Thanks, but I’ve already got the address. Don’t glare at me, darling, I finished my writing stint and I had to fill my time doing something whilst waiting for you.’
‘Mike Baxter, you promised me you wouldn’t get involved in this case,’ she reminded him.
‘Nor will I, darling, so you go right ahead packing that tiny bikini for Cannes, and we’ll set off just as soon as I’ve got one or two little things tied up.’
Mike walked over to the phone and dialled a number.
Linda said, ‘You don’t expect to find barristers in their chambers at this time of the evening, do you?’
‘Certainly not. I’ll catch him tomorrow morning.’
‘Then who are you ringing, darling?’
‘Oh, just a call to Superintendent Goldway,’ said Mike with a grin. He turned to the telephone again at the sound of a familiar voice. ‘Hello, is that you, John? Mike Baxter here. Sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you could help me out on a small matter?… Could you get one of your departments to check up on the existence or non-existence of a pub, hotel, club, or similar type of meeting place named the Lord Fairfax?… Yes, Fairfax … Say within a rough fifty-mile radius of London?… No, I can’t tell you now, but I might be very grateful for five minutes of your time tomorrow morning … Splendid! I’ll give you a ring, if I may?… Thank you so much. Good night.’
Linda said, still in the same flat voice tinged with irony, ‘You have been doing some thinking, haven’t you, darling? And there was I, happy in the thought of you all afternoon, nose hard at the old grindstone, winding up the last chapter.’
‘The book’s nearly finished. As for this Fairfax idea, it’s just a mild speculation. Probably nothing in it at all. But I did wonder whether, instead of hunting amongst a nation of some fifty million souls for a mysterious gent by the name of L. Fairfax, whether it might not be worth looking for a place of that name, perhaps a pub or hotel, where Lucy Staines had an appointment on May 12th at eight-thirty.’