Chapter Twelve Tristan #2
We turned off the main road and into a narrow drive in Highgate, the building hidden behind trees and old brick walls, ivy climbing up windows that didn’t advertise what lay behind them.
Residential. Anonymous. Exactly the point.
Gravel crunched under the tyres as I parked beside a familiar white Range Rover.
Keeley peered out. “This it?”
“Yeah.” I cut the engine.
We got out together. Lennon and Keeley went to the boot for her bags as the front door opened. Eloise stepped out, halfway into greeting mode. The bump was barely there, but she wore maternity clothes anyway, as if staking a quiet claim to the space she was in.
“Tristan.” She hugged me and I kissed her cheek, then she glanced over to Keeley. “Is this her?”
“Yeah.” I nodded towards Keeley, Maisie being put down to wobble on her feet and Lennon hefting the buggy and bags behind her. “Keeley, I’d like you to meet Eloise.”
Eloise smiled. “Welcome, Keeley.” She then crouched to Maisie’s level and took her tiny hand. “And you must be Maisie. Aren’t you simply beautiful.”
Keeley stiffened, uncertain.
“This is Rosewood House.” Eloise straightened. “Your new home.”
Keeley’s gaze travelled up the building, taking in the windows. “There… other girls in there?”
“Yes.” Eloise nodded. “Some are younger than you. Some older. All with babies or toddlers.” She gestured to the side garden, where flowers edged a small, fenced play area.
“Rosewood is a private mother-and-baby unit. Referral only. Designed for women who need stability and safety while they find their feet.”
Keeley chewed her lip.
“Shall I show you around?” Eloise angled her head towards the building. “You can see the rooms. The garden. Decide where you’d like to be.”
Keeley glanced back at Lennon.
He nodded. “Go on. I’ll wait here.”
Eloise led her inside, pointing out the communal kitchen, the nursery rooms, the washing lines strung between trees, and the quiet corners where mothers could sit without feeling watched. Keeley followed, Maisie pressed close to her chest.
I exhaled.
“You know a lot of good people in high places,” Lennon said beside me.
“I also know a lot of bad ones.” I took a breath, realising I probably knew more bad ones. “Eloise is my sister-in-law. She’s a patron here. One of the founding donors.”
I’d remembered Marcus mentioning it at the baby shower.
Eloise’s work. Her boards. The one involving vulnerable young mothers.
So I’d called her the same night I’d spoken to Lennon.
Kept it clinical. Professional. I was a barrister seeking safeguarding options for the sister of a remand prisoner, at risk due to criminal association.
Rosewood House wasn’t council-run. It didn’t rely on waiting lists or stretched statutory funding.
It was privately owned, charity-registered, funded through donors and placements.
Some families paid to keep daughters safe and anonymous.
Others were funded by patrons when urgency outweighed bureaucracy.
This was one of those cases.
Rosewood offered safety, structure, parenting support, access to education and work placements, on-site childcare. Midwives. Social workers. Mental health support. A place to recover without being interrogated about how you’d ended up needing help.
Eloise was funding this herself, despite my offer to cover it.
She’d said, simply, that there were placements reserved for cases like Keeley’s.
Urgent, safeguarding-led, no questions asked.
I’d been ready to hand over whatever I could access without delay, but in truth, I was relieved the money wouldn’t trace back to me.
Funding, like everything else here, sat behind layers of confidentiality.
As a board member, Eloise was bound by strict safeguarding protocols. She could not, and would not, discuss Keeley’s presence at Rosewood House with anyone. Not with Marcus. Nor my parents. Meaning it wouldn’t slip into conversation over Sunday lunch.
I trusted that obligation more than I trusted her goodwill.
When Eloise returned, Keeley followed, Maisie half-asleep buried into her shoulder. Eloise met my eye and gave a single nod.
Settled.
Lennon passed over the last of Keeley’s bags and pulled her into a hug. Eloise waited by the door, giving them space, and when Lennon stepped back, Keeley hesitated. Then came over to me.
“When you see him.” She chewed on her lip, trying to look tough and not quite getting there. “Tell him he’s a bellend from me. And give him a slap.”
I let out a breath that turned into a quiet laugh. “I’ll pass it on.”
She turned to go, then paused. Looked me up and down. Tailored suit, knotted tie, hair behaving itself. She gave a small, knowing nod.
“You’re cute.” She winked. “Can see why he likes you.”
Heat rushed straight to my face. I didn’t trust myself to answer, so I watched as she followed Eloise inside. Then I got into the car, shut the door, and sat there for a moment before starting the engine.
Beside me, Lennon exhaled. “Right. Now we get him home.”
I nodded, tightening my grip on the wheel. “Yeah. That’s the hard part.”
* * * *
And that hard part started the moment I stepped back into chambers.
We had the papers spread across the long table like a body laid out for identification.
Bail summary. Prosecution skeleton. Custody record.
The same thin disclosures I’d read so many times they felt memorised rather than understood.
Intelligence-led. Redacted sources. No physical recovery.
No fresh charges. Ten weeks in and still nothing solid enough to touch.
Imogen stood at the head of the table, jacket off, sleeves rolled, glasses perched low on her nose as she annotated the prosecution schedule in tight, economical strokes.
Mercer leant on the windowsill, arms folded, the city smeared grey behind him.
I sat nearest the papers, waggling my pen between my fingers, pulse irritatingly loud in my ears.
“Remand justification hasn’t shifted,” Imogen said. “They’ll argue seniority again. Risk of interference. Gravity.”
“They always do,” Mercer agreed. “But they’re light on specifics.”
“Light doesn’t mean weak,” she said coolly. “It means they think they don’t need to convince.”
I swallowed and nodded, forcing my focus back to the page in front of me.
Razor’s name sat there in block capitals, clinical and impersonal.
A defendant shaped entirely by allegations.
I underlined a paragraph about the absence of further charges when the door to chambers opened.
Not our door. The outer one. A voice carried.
One belonging to someone who expected to be welcomed.
Then Marianne, pitched a fraction too carefully, called through to us, “Lord Wolfe to see Ms Barrett.”
Imogen paused her pen mid-line. Mercer straightened. And I felt the cold, instinctive tightening in my chest, as if something sharp had brushed past my ribs.
Wolfe.
He hadn’t been a presence for weeks. A deliberate absence.
And a name I refused to think too hard about, because thinking about him felt dangerously close to inviting him back into the room.
I’d ignored every attempt he’d made to reinsert himself into my life.
Messages. Emails. Calls that went unanswered.
All framed as mentorship, concern, continued interest in my career.
The last time I’d seen him was at the baby shower.
When I knew he had a hand in this case. This case.
The one laid out in cold black type between us now.
“I didn’t invite him.” Imogen was on her feet.
“Didn’t think you would,” Mercer replied.
“I’ll deal with it.” She glanced at me. A look too quick to be casual. “Stay here.”
I nodded automatically.
She was halfway to the door when Wolfe appeared in it.
He didn’t wait to be announced. Lord Wolfe never needed an invitation.
The world was his to roam wherever he saw fit, and he stood framed by oak and glass as if he’d been built for this place, too.
Tailored coat, silvered hair immaculate, expression faintly amused, like a man interrupting something he already knew the outcome of.
His gaze took in the room.
Then it settled on me.
No surprise.
“Tristan.” He smiled. “How very predictable of us.”
Imogen recovered first. “Lord Wolfe. You should have called.”
He smiled at her; all charm and teeth. “I was in the area. I thought I’d pay my respects.”
Even Mercer joined in. “This isn’t a social call.”
“Few things ever are.” Wolfe drifted his attention back to me, and I felt it like pressure around my throat. “You look well, Tristan. Grounded. Focused. I hear you’ve been busy.”
I said nothing. There was no safe answer.
He stepped further into the room without being invited and caught sight of the papers on the desk.
“Difficult case.” He inhaled the air as if sniffing out everything we were planning to argue. “These organised crime matters tend to be… untidy. So many moving parts. So many people invested in a particular outcome.”
Imogen cut in sharply. “If you have business with chambers, Adrian, I’d prefer you state it plainly.”
“Of course.” He inclined his head, gracious. “I’m advising on a policy review. Witness handling. Public confidence. The usual headaches.”
My jaw tightened.
Witness handling.
He hadn’t said Razor’s name. He hadn’t needed to.
“One has to be careful.” He flicked his attention back to me. “Particularly at the start of a career, not to confuse principle with… attachment.”
Mercer shifted beside me, tension spiking, but I kept my face neutral. Professional. Still.
Wolfe smiled faintly, as if satisfied. “I won’t take up more of your time.” He turned back to Imogen. “I merely wanted to ensure you knew that this case has attracted attention. Unhelpful attention in some quarters.”
Imogen’s expression hardened. “Is that a warning?”
“An observation.” Wolfe smoothed his jacket. “It would be a shame for a junior of such promise, and from such an established family, to find himself exposed by a matter that carries… wider consequences.”
I didn’t react.
Imogen held Wolfe’s gaze for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was steel-wrapped silk. “Thank you for your concern. Chambers is quite capable of managing its own affairs.”
“I’m sure,” Wolfe said. “You always are.”
He glanced at me one last time, a look that said I know where you are, I know who you love, and I’m still here.
Then he twisted the knife. “And your father, Tristan. How is the treatment progressing?”
“He’s fine,” I snapped, irritation at him knowing my personal information and using it to disarm me striking a nerve.
“Wonderful news. One hopes recovery, in such circumstances, is allowed to proceed without distraction.” He then nodded and stepped back, allowing the clerk to reappear, murmuring polite goodbyes as if this had been nothing more than a professional courtesy call.
The door closed.
Imogen exhaled through rounded lips. Mercer swore under his breath.
“Well,” Mercer said. “That’s cheered me right up.”
Imogen turned to me. “You didn’t tell him anything.”
It wasn’t a question.
She wouldn’t accuse me outright of leaking anything, deliberately or otherwise. Not with my name, my family, and my place in chambers. But she was checking all the same.
“No.” I shook my head. “I haven’t said a word.”
“Good.” She straightened. “Then whatever Wolfe thinks he knows, it isn’t coming from you. Which tells me exactly how seriously we need to take this. Lord Wolfe, no matter how high a circle he moves in, does not get to decide how this case is run.”
She went back to the table and gathered the bail papers, holding them to her chest with decisive finality.
“This,” she tapped the papers, “just became non-negotiable.”
I nodded, unable to deny the flicker of relief that followed. Not because Imogen hadn’t been committed before, but because, until now, there had always been the risk she might see this as my weakness steering her hand. That my investment in Razor blurred the professional lines.
Wolfe had just erased that doubt for her.
He gave her something far cleaner than loyalty or sympathy: a target.
Imogen despised men like Lord Wolfe. Men who mistook access for authority, who assumed the world bent quietly around them and that consequences were for other people.
She didn’t just enjoy toppling Goliaths. She made a career of it.
And I was there to reap the benefits.