Deep Justice

CHAPTER 1

The deep crack ran a jagged path across the grass, as if a lightning flash had fallen to earth and embedded itself in the back garden of the White Hart.

Maggie Pierce tapped a foot as she waited in the doorway of the small riverside pub, two-year-old Ben perched on her hip. What do you think, Ray? Should we call the Council?

Silence.

Maggie glanced at her watch. How much longer would he stand there just staring at that hole in the ground? Ray?

Ray pushed a hand through his dark, lank hair. After a few moments, he lifted a garden spade from the nearby vegetable patch and prodded at the crack. The blade slid in easily, and he let it down until half the shaft disappeared. Bugger me! He pulled the spade out again.

What?

It’s a bit deep, I’ll tell you that.

Maggie sighed—a long sigh, full of exasperation—and stepped out into the garden. I can see that. How dangerous is it? That’s what I want to know. Should we call someone?

Without waiting for an answer, she trod uncertainly past him to peer over the wooden fence that separated their garden from that of the neighboring house on the right. The crack continued its jagged course across an ornamental rose garden, a concrete path and a narrow strip of lawn before it disappeared under a tall cypress hedge on the far side. The high wall bordering the property on the left side of the pub garden prevented Maggie from getting a look at how far the crack went in that direction, but a new zigzag gap split the wall’s brickwork.

When she turned back, Ray was scratching his head.

I don’t know, he said.

A surge of anger tightened Maggie’s shoulders. If only her father were still alive. He would have found out by now what was wrong. As a qualified surveyor, he had known about such things: Ray was a barely qualified publican and knew little about anything.

I’ll give Al Peters a call, he announced at last. He’ll send a couple of the borough engineers round. They’ll know what needs doing. He ambled into the pub, hands stuffed into his pockets.

Maggie swallowed the temptation to criticize his lack of urgency and turned to gaze out over the estuary. Close to the riverbank, forty yards beyond the end of their garden, a mist of fine spray drifted up as if something below the surface threshed the water. Her stomach tightened as she reconsidered an earlier thought. She had been on the point of sharing her concern with Ray but decided to keep her ideas to herself. He would only accuse her of having too vivid an imagination and take it as an excuse, however feeble, to go out and leave her to deal with it on her own. After all, he would remind her, this was a quiet village in Essex; nothing unusual ever happened here . . . until now.

She turned back toward the pub. In thirty minutes, it would be busy with market day customers. She and Ray would have little time then to think about a crack in the ground. Perhaps she was worrying unnecessarily.

Ben wriggled in her arms to get down. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he trotted toward the bright red and green climbing frame installed on the far side of the crack.

No! Maggie yelled, snatching at the straps on his dungarees. The toddler squealed in protest as she tugged him back. You can’t play on there for a bit, my love, not until we know what’s wrong. Go inside with Daddy—just for a minute. She guided him in through the back door before closing it.

She busied herself by making sure Ray had cleared the crates of empty bottles away from the side entrance. Even though the White Hart was a small, unglamorous pub, they should still maintain high standards, Maggie believed. It was their only hope of increasing business and getting the chance of a move to a more up-market inn. Ray might be content to spend the rest of his days living precisely the way he did now, but she had promised herself better things for Ben, even if she had to do it alone. And that prospect no longer seemed so remote. Her fiery determination and Ray’s bitter taunts about the child not being his had brought them to the brink of separation more than once, and with each dispute, Maggie found it harder to persuade herself that the marriage was worth saving.

She followed the small path that led around the side of the pub, past the front entrance, toward the main road. Near the small wrought iron gate at the end of the path, she stopped. Another crack had eased the paving stones about an inch apart. Maggie blinked her eyes clear.

No, it couldn’t be!

She knelt and pushed her fingers into the gap between the paving stones. The breath caught in her throat. The gap was widening before her eyes. Now, she could fit her hand in easily. She whipped round to her right and saw the end of the crack snaking away across the grass. She heard a snap as the roots of the hedge parted underneath.

Oh, God.

Maggie scrambled to her feet. Ray! She dashed to the front door and threw it open. Ray, get out here. Quick!

Even as she made her way along the hallway to the rear of the pub, Maggie felt the floor shake under her feet. A porcelain ashtray slithered off one of the tables in the lounge bar to her left and smashed on the floor. She stretched her arms out to steady herself as she stumbled forward.

In the back room, Ray was kneeling with Ben clutched tight in his arms. He looked up, terror in his eyes.

She stretched an arm toward him. The front door. Come on! As she grasped Ray’s hand, Maggie glanced out of the kitchen window. The climbing frame buckled, the ground falling away beneath it. A deep rumble reverberated through the whole building.

She staggered with Ray and Ben along the bucking hallway. Floorboards snapped free, rippling under the carpet like a wave. Maggie felt the wrench on her arm as Ray stumbled, but she heaved him upright again without looking back.

Through the open door, she could see the deep crack right across the garden path. It was much wider now, at least two or three feet across. Ben began to wail, but still she didn't turn.

Hurry! she yelled.

Behind them, glass shattered, timber groaned and creaked before yielding with a violent crack. The television in the lounge bar blinked off. Glasses and bottles toppled from shelves that tilted ominously.

Maggie lunged forward through the front doorway, hauling on Ray’s arm. The rumbling filled her ears now. The ground trembled and swayed beneath her feet as she stared at the widening crack in front of them.

God, would they be able to leap that?

She spun round and snatched Ben from Ray. Jump, she ordered.

Ray seemed not to understand at first and gazed in bewilderment at her.

Jump! she yelled again and spread her legs to steady herself. Ben's screams filled her ears as she held him tight.

Ray sized the gap, took two strides and leapt to the other side, clasping the gatepost as he landed. He turned and, for a moment, gaped open-mouthed, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond her. Christ, he gasped. His arms shot out. Give me, Ben.

But even as Maggie moved forward to hand the toddler over, Ray seemed to move away from her. The ground sank beneath her feet. The huge crash behind her, Maggie knew, was the pub collapsing. She had to get across. Now.

She stumbled to the very edge of the fissure that separated them and threw Ben into Ray’s arms. Her heart stopped as she saw Ray fumble and drop him. The toddler rolled toward the edge before Ray snatched him back.

The gap was over six feet now and widening fast. She could see electricity cables stretched taut below her. A pipe had severed and water gushed into the chasm below.

Ben squealed for her, his arms outstretched.

Maggie took a step back then hurled herself forward, stretching for the far side. She fell short, and her ribs smacked against the edge of the fissure, blasting the air from her lungs. A sharp pain stabbed her right elbow and she lost her grip. With desperate lunges, she clawed at the earth.

Maggie! Ray bellowed.

She swung her legs forward, trying to find a foothold. The pain in her arms was intense now, and she gritted her teeth. If only she could get some purchase with her feet. But her legs thrashed the air and found nothing. Panic clamped her stomach as she felt her fingers slip.

A hand—it had to be Ray’s—hauled at the collar of her shirt. Her hands ached, the muscles in her shoulders and back seared with pain as she strained to pull herself up. Behind her, the roar of crashing masonry and tumbling earth filled the air. A sudden stab of pain in her right elbow made her slump to one side. She heard her collar rip and Ray’s startled cry.

At last, her right foot connected with something. A ledge. A rock. She couldn’t tell. She pushed up, forcing her shoulders onto level ground. Ray still tugged hard at her collar, threatening to strangle her in his anxiety. Through eyes watery with pain, she saw the base of the gatepost within reach of her left hand now. She lunged forward to grasp it, clenching her jaw as she pulled herself up and clambered to safety.

She rolled onto her back, gasping for breath.

Look. Ray’s voice was taut with anguish.

Maggie propped herself up on one elbow. She stared down into the deep pit that had opened beneath them, gazed at the rubble that had been their pub and watched the water from the estuary wash over it.

CHAPTER 2

The dark red Daimler raced onto Westminster Bridge and powered past the queue of trundling, rush hour buses. Sparse flakes of snow drifted off the river and swirled in the headlights; a last defiant blast of winter before British Summer Time would officially get under way during the coming weekend.

Jonathan Broome groaned. This was not a good omen. He was due in his Berkshire constituency the following day, and the prospect of performing the grand opening of their new athletics track in the middle of a snowstorm deepened his foul mood. He regretted now his reckless promise to run an inaugural four hundred meters after the opening ceremony. It had been meant as a joke, but the local athletics club had tipped off the press and supplied an honorary vest and shorts especially for the event.

Up ahead, the lights changed from green to yellow to red. Damn!

A jovial radio announcer delivered roadwork reports with enough enthusiasm to suggest that he had arranged them personally. Broome jabbed at the switch. He needed peace to think.

Damn Estelle! She knew the debate on the Health Bill was due to start at eight; she knew he had to be there. This latest game of hers—insisting that every new development, however trivial, needed urgent discussion—was getting out of hand. He had been stupid to let things go this far, allowing himself to be pressured this way.

Tonight would be different, though. Tonight he would put things in order, once and for all.

He watched in agonized disbelief as some buffoon on a sputtering 50cc motorcycle sailed up between the two lanes of traffic and took pole position at the lights, in front of the Daimler. Broome thumped the horn with the heel of his hand.

The biker turned slowly, lifted the visor of his crash helmet and stared into the tinted windscreen.

Broome waved him aside.

The biker looked down at the front grill of the Daimler—no doubt inspecting the distinctive license plate carrying Broome’s initials—and looked up again at the windscreen. The fellow raised a fist with the middle finger extended, then turned away.

Broome sighed and pulled a small silver flask from the glove compartment. The Remy Martin slid down easily. Its warmth soon began to ease the tightness in the nape of his neck. He snatched a second swig just as the lights changed and cursed as he felt a stray drop fall from the end of his chin. Hopefully, it wouldn’t leave a stain. He had a good chance of being on close-up tonight.

Angry horns blared as he switched lanes with no signal.

A few seconds later, the traffic slowed to a crawl again. He cursed as he checked the clock. He had no time for this nonsense. He should have been firmer with Estelle at the outset. Give a woman an inch and she’ll take a damn light-year.

After all, he’d been generous. More than generous, considering what he had been told over lunch. He owed her nothing now, and he’d been tempted to tell her as much when she phoned that afternoon. In the end, he decided it would be safer to meet as she had demanded. He still had the nagging suspicion that she would take any opportunity to drag his name through a tabloid scandal.

Another red light! If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was sitting somewhere monitoring his every move, controlling these damned lights, directing brainless Neanderthals on motorcycles.

He decided against another shot of brandy, welcome though it would have been. Rumors started easily enough in the House without fuelling them unnecessarily. Members of Her Majesty’s Government—even junior ones—were prime targets for Opposition and media alike.

The sluggish traffic through Lambeth eventually thinned near the Town Hall, and he made good time over the next couple of miles, reaching the NCP multi-story parking lot just after five-fifty. In spite of his hurry, Broome dutifully observed his own strict rules. He never parked within two hundred yards of her home and always varied the routes by which he walked there. The parking lot itself was fully automated, not even an operator in a control booth, just a phone number to call in case of any problem. Discretion guaranteed by technology.

Before getting out of the car, he wound a bulky scarf twice around his neck and buried his chin deep inside it. He donned a tweed cap and tugged it down so that its peak lay almost on his nose. Finally, he turned up the collar of his overcoat, so that only his eyes remained visible.

The snow was descending in great, cottony flakes, and the sidewalks began to take on the consistency of wallpaper paste. Traffic swished by, racing from one set of lights to the next, hurling slushy pellets at the feet of luckless pedestrians.

He decided to take the alleyway that ran between tall Edwardian terraces to the small square opposite her three-story town house. He had never used this route in the evening—dark London alleys were not recommended for evening strolls—but it was the quickest route and time was short. He strode into the gritty darkness of the passage.

The conversation with her would have to be short and to the point. He would announce matter-of-factly that their relationship had to end. His tone would be neither happy nor sad, simply reflecting a weary recognition of the inevitable. It had been good while it lasted, but surely she could see that it had lost the snap that once made it exciting? The best thing they could do now would be to accept it and part as friends—good friends, he hoped.

She would be angry, of course. Angry? Hell, she would be livid.

Only once had he experienced the full intensity of Estelle’s unbridled fury. It had been after a night at the Haymarket Theatre—a Tom Stoppard play, he remembered—and she urged him to accompany her to a party at her friend Jenny’s apartment. In Ealing, for God’s sake! He refused, pleading fatigue after an all-day debate. In reality, he feared being seen in her company at a potentially intimate event. It was one thing contriving to turn up by separate routes at the theatre and coyly hold hands in the darkness, quite another to arrive arm in arm at a social gathering. After all, he had no idea who might be there. Perhaps some journalist or TV news editor might recognize him and know at once that his beautiful companion bore no resemblance to his ungainly wife.

Estelle begged him, cajoled him, nagged him and finally threatened him, but he maintained a stubborn resistance. He encouraged her to go to the party alone. It was, he reasoned, not something worth making such a fuss over. Finally, they drove back to her town house, cocooned in an uneasy silence.

Once indoors, her simmering annoyance rapidly boiled to a scalding invective. No word was too foul, no phrase too obscene, to describe her revulsion of him. He was the lowest form of life. He was so nauseating that she was in a permanent state of restraining herself from retching in public every time she accompanied him.

And then came the violence.

She clawed at his face, kicked at his shins or occasionally higher, threw whatever came to hand: a porcelain mug, an earthenware pot complete with cactus, a book of Priestley’s plays and, finally, the paperweight.

The heavy glass ornament passed close enough to his head for him to feel the swift rush of air as it whistled by. It crashed into her collection of CDs and sprayed their contents in a wide arc. Piqued, it seemed, by her own destructiveness, she halted then and fell to her knees sobbing. He took the chance to hurry out and spent a wretched night driving the streets lest she turn up at his own apartment. Her anger seemed stupidly over the top for such a petty incident, and he swore to himself then that he would never see her again.

She must have called his office at the Palace of Westminster at least twenty times the following day, apologizing again and again, begging forgiveness. And he, brain-dead moron, had relented.

Their next meeting—her making up night as she called it—had been unforgettable; a session of frenzied lovemaking that left him thrilling at every wild memory of it. Now, if the tabloids ever got hold of pictures from that night . . .

The town house came into view as he emerged from the alley, and he slowed, toying with the idea of turning back. The image of the paperweight, or something even more lethal, finding its mark this time made his stomach tighten. He would have a hell of a job explaining his absence from the debate because his irate mistress had slammed him unconscious. His irate, black mistress, if you please. The Sun would have a field day.

But their criticism would be nothing compared to the barbed comments of his parliamentary colleagues. The verbal artisans of the House would delight in honing their words, putting a sharp edge on their sarcasm and hacking him into tiny pieces. He would be at their mercy. Government colleagues would leave the PM no choice. And Caroline would finally snap out of her dutiful role and her stupor to demand a divorce. No custody of children to squabble over, thankfully, but she would probably fight to the death for the drinks cabinet.

The subdued light in the first floor of the town house made it clear what sort of urgent conversation Estelle had in mind.

This was madness. He shouldn’t be standing here, flecked with snow, summoning up the courage to face her. He should be in his office with his parliamentary secretary discussing probable Opposition and backbencher questions. He should be memorizing statistics on hospital waiting lists, the mounting budget overruns in Labour-controlled health authorities and the alarming resurgence of viral diseases.

It was time to put an end to this.

A distant clock struck the hour. Broome took a deep breath of the wintry air and marched across the small square to the front door of the town house.

He dug into his coat pocket for the key, kept carefully separate, and turned it in the lock. As the door latch sprang open, he made a furtive check behind him. It was an absurd habit, he knew. But he had never been able to shake the feeling that, on one of these occasions, just as he opened the door and stepped inside, a hand would clamp his shoulder, and he would turn to confront some sleaze hunter carrying a camera.

The music from upstairs was soft, not Springsteen this time, thank heaven. He eased the door shut and draped his coat, scarf and cap over the end of the stylish wrought-iron banister before heading upstairs.

In the lounge, she lay on the lush sofa sipping a long drink, one knee peeking seductively from the folds of her silk dressing gown. He pushed away the thought that she was probably naked beneath it and crossed to the drinks trolley. He reached for the Remy Martin.

Thanks for coming so promptly, Jonathan, she said in a tone of exaggerated coyness.

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t dare look. He knew her opening moves so well and his own weakness for them: the flutter of eyelashes, not overdone, just brief, like the tiny blur of a wren’s wings as it took flight; the closing and parting of her lips as if she were mouthing the word please over and over; the long languid sigh as she eased into a position that would better emphasize—if that were possible—the sensuous curves of her body.

He carried the glass of cognac with him to the mirror and inspected his shirt and tie for any telltale stains caused by drips from his flask. All clear. He ran a hand over his dark hair, priding himself on the fact that he still had no trace of gray despite turning forty a month earlier. He focused on her reflection.

She had shifted position and the dressing gown was drawn back revealing both legs. Helplessly, he felt his eyes drawn to the dark shadow at the top of her thighs.

Damn it, she was using him, and he was falling for it again. He slammed the glass down, slopping the brandy.

What’s wrong? She swung her legs smoothly over the edge of the sofa. Her face creased in a mild frown as she rose and crossed toward him.

Wrong? Oh, nothing, Estelle. Just the fact that you choose the night of one of the most critical debates of my political life to insist that we meet. ‘Urgent business’ was the phrase you used, I believe. Urgent business. And now I arrive to see that the only urgency is the fact that you can’t face the evening without a quick screw.

A hint of annoyance flickered along her eyebrows, but she shrugged it off and smiled. That’s not what I had in mind, but, she ran a long fingernail inside his shirt, stroking his chest, now that you mention it.

He snatched her hand away. That’s enough. I haven’t got time for this. I have to get back to the House. He turned and checked his tie again in the mirror.

Don’t you even want to hear what I have to tell you?

Frankly, no. To be honest, I don’t know why I bothered to come. He turned to face her. But now that I’m here, we might as well settle this. I can’t go on seeing you, Estelle. We have to finish it. Here and now. He studied her face for a reaction, but she remained unmoved. It’s been a good relationship. We’ve both enjoyed it while it lasted, but surely you can see now that it’s lost its excitement? We should simply accept it and part as friends. Good friends, I hope? He forced a smile.

She held him in a curious gaze for a moment then threw back her head, laughing. Oh, Jonathan, you’re so melodramatic. She lifted his glass and offered it to him. Here, relax and have your drink while I tell you what’s happened.

He ignored her outstretched hand. Estelle. I know what’s happened. Ross Perring called me this afternoon. The deal is done. The GenSim software has been released to Agrapharm. That was the ‘big news’ wasn’t it? He checked his watch. I must dash. I’ll collect my things later.

For the first time since his arrival, the smile faded from her lips. She stood in silence, her eyes lowered. She held his glass close to herself, curling both hands around it as if treasuring a fond memory of him.

Broome hesitated, then placed a hand on her shoulder, caressing it. It’s for the best, Estelle. Really, it is. You shouldn’t have to live your life in secret and, well, things are only going to get more difficult. There’s a rumor that Peter Chadwell is about to step down. I’m the obvious successor, and that would mean much greater visibility. As a member of the Cabinet, I—

Suddenly, her eyes lifted, ablaze with anger as she spat the words. You bastard! Do you think I give a damn about your stupid promotion to . . . to head boy? Do you really think I care?

He swallowed hard and stepped back a pace. Well, it looks as though we won’t part on good terms after all. That’s too bad. He turned and headed toward the stairs.

The glass carrying the remains of his cognac flew past and smashed against the wrought iron balustrade. He barely had time to turn before she was upon him, pushing him back onto the landing.

You think you can drop me just like that? she screamed. You—you—

Broome raised his arms to shield his face as her hands snatched and tore at him. He felt her bare feet kicking at his shins. Estelle, wait.

Again and again, she punched and slapped. You used me, you bastard. Her eyes were wide, drilling hatred deep into him.

No, Estelle. Listen to me. He edged away, wincing as the balustrade dug into his back.

She stopped then. Her eyes narrowed and she jabbed a finger at him. I put my job on the line for you. And now you’ve got what you need, you think you can just dump me. Well, tough! I’ll tell the whole world what a scheming lowlife you really are. With a vicious swing, she caught the side of his face, her long nails gouging his cheek.

Broome clamped a hand over his face. The sharpness of the sting injected an awful realization. Good grief, he was scheduled to appear in a televised debate in just over an hour. How in Hell’s name would he explain this one?

You stupid bitch! He lunged at her, gripping her left wrist, wrenching it downwards. Her knees buckled as she grimaced in pain. With a sharp tug, she pulled her arm free, staggering away from him until, in what seemed almost slow motion, she tipped sideways toward the stairs.

Too late, he realized what was about to happen. He leapt forward snatching at her flailing arm, but she fell away from him, screaming—a hideous scream, suddenly muffled as she hit the stairs. Her body tumbled, almost without form it seemed until, with a sharp crack, she came to an abrupt halt a few steps from the bottom.

He stood there, waiting for her—praying for her —to move.

After a few moments, he started down the stairs. Her body lay twisted unnaturally. As he approached, he could see that her head was lodged between two curving irons of the ornate railing. The sickening angle of her neck made it clear what had caused the loud crack. Her eyes were closed.

The horrifying spectacle of such a sudden death squeezed an involuntary groan from his throat, and he slumped to his knees beside her. He lifted a stray wisp of hair from her face. It was then he noticed the trembling rise and fall of her chest.

She was still alive!

He took the stairs two at a time back up to the lounge and snatched the phone. He had just tapped 9-9-9 when a chilling thought gripped him. He mustn’t be caught here. She desperately needed help, but he couldn’t afford to be seen by anyone, not by any ambulance team, nor a doctor. Besides, what if she died later? There would be an inquest with difficult, probing questions. No, he would have to gather everything here that belonged to him, anything that could remotely be connected with him. He would wipe away any fingerprints and—

A voice echoed from the phone. Emergency. Which service? Hello?

He slammed the receiver down. The clock on the answering machine alongside showed six-thirteen. If he didn’t start back to the Commons now, he would miss the start of the debate.

There was no choice. He would have to come back later for everything. Maybe, with more time to think, he could work out how to get help for her without implicating himself.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror. A large red weal had appeared around the scratches on his face, and two tiny flecks of blood spotted his shirt collar.

What a holy mess!

He threw off his jacket and strode to the bathroom where he snatched some Kleenex from a box. Dampened with cold water, they soothed the stinging, and the scratches narrowed to much less visible scars. In the small cabinet above the washbasin, he found a make-up palette. He dabbed a finger into one of the pale shades in the palette and smeared it over the wound. The stinging flared up again, but no matter. The scratches had all but disappeared. He studied his face from various angles. Yes, it would do.

In the bedroom, he pushed the sliding mirror door of the wardrobe aside and found one of the spare shirts that he kept there for the rare occasions when he succumbed and spent the night with Estelle. He changed, re-knotted his tie then checked his appearance in the wardrobe mirror. Almost presentable. With a bit of luck, the cool air outside would ease the stinging in his face and the last traces of telltale redness would disappear.

He went to throw the soiled shirt in the linen basket, then thought better of it. He rolled it up and carried it with him as he walked back out to the hall.

After a last quick glance around the lounge, he hurried downstairs, keeping his back tight to the wall as he passed her. She lay in exactly the same position.

A feeling of nausea gripped him as he failed to detect any sign of life, but then he heard the shallow, ragged breathing. He swallowed hard. It seemed heartless to leave her lying in such a wretched position, her neck twisted that way. But if he moved her, she might not survive at all.

He threw on his coat and stuffed the soiled shirt in the inside pocket. He wound the scarf around his neck and pulled on the cap before easing the door open.

The unfamiliarity of the scene shocked him. A layer of snow blanketed everything. Most importantly, it lay white and unblemished over the steps and sidewalk outside the house. Damn! Now he would leave clear footprints for anyone to see.

He shook his head. This