Solicitor
Chapter Two
Ten-thirty Monday morning, in the foyer of the Empire Square Building in Pimlico, I join a crowd of darkly elegant suits—smart, poised and predatory.
Only as the elevator doors open, revealing mirrored panels, and we glide forward as one, am I disturbed to see how much I stand out.
Dressed in denim jeans and jacket over a simple white crewneck sweater, with my heavy camo-green rucksack slung over one shoulder, I am a stain on the corporate collage. So much for dressing inconspicuously.
Standing inches from the closing door of mirrored metal, I watch my breath frost the surface. As the lift ascends, I rest my forehead against the cold surface and scroll down on my phone to the comments section of a news report.
One of my foster parents used to tell the kids in her care that if they had nothing intelligent to say, they should keep their mouths shut.
At the time, I’d thought she was mean-spirited.
Now, I find myself agreeing. I remember those harsh days with mixed feelings.
Many newly entitled generations will never appreciate that simple social and mental discipline of thinking first before speaking.
A semi-illiterate troll called ‘anonamus’ has responded in the comments section to an online article about the distinguished British medical professionals involved in a crash on a trip to a medical conference.
The report is concise and accurate, stating that they had been on their way to Brussels for the WHO-organised Global Healthcare Conference.
The accident occurred in thick fog on the M20, killing three, including the driver, while seriously injuring another.
My eye is drawn to the handful of comments beneath, most of them sympathetic, but the troll’s appallingly spelt rant is the one that captures mine, and probably other readers’ attention.
anonamus: does anyone else find this suspicious? Did someone finely get revenge on these evil Nazi scinetists who been getting rich exploiting the sick and holding us hostage with medecines what should be free to everyone
I agree with the first line, but this person clearly didn’t know Albert, didn’t stop to research how hard he worked, or learn about the countless nights he spent trying to find cures for diseases from which people like him could have died an excruciating death.
I might have sympathised if the person had taken out their frustration on the pharmaceutical and biotechnology corporations.
When the lift doors open on the seventh floor—not my floor—I have to step out to make space for those exiting, and take a moment to lean my back against a cool marble wall.
Thoughts of Albert Callico’s last moments haunt me still.
The world should share my mourning of this gentle man with a brilliant mind whose life was cut short at only forty-five.
What we had might not have been sexual, but I loved him in my own way, and I know I would have killed anyone who tried to harm him.
From the familiar shoebox corridor on the thirty-seventh floor, the glass reception door to Clyde Cartwright and Partners opens into the austerity of brown leather and varnished rosewood.
With the oversized floral arrangement on the reception counter, comprising mainly white lilies, I associate the place’s smell with death.
“Go straight through, Mr Callico. Mrs Hammond-Clyde is expecting you.”
I obey the pineapple-haired Barbie doll behind the desk, ignoring the misnomer.
I gave up correcting people. We might have been partners, but we never married.
I would have refused to take his family name even if we had.
Once I am seated around the small coffee table in the back office, I flash Hammond-Clyde a closed-mouthed grin in response to her obligatory greeting and dismiss the offer of something to drink.
“Your receptionist called me Mr Callico again,” I offer by way of conversation.
“Don’t mind Brittany.” Hammond-Clyde smiles as she comes over and takes a seat across from me. “She used to assume you were Dr Callico’s bodyguard.”
This is news to me. Albert never said anything.
“Why would she think that?”
“Your height and the fact that you take care of yourself. And if I am going to be completely candid, you do have a somewhat intimidating countenance.”
The remark elicits mild irritation rather than surprise. I try to mask my capability. As I sink back in the chair and relax my shoulders, I notice her staring down at the rucksack resting against my leg.
“Are you heading somewhere?” she asks, one of her pencil-thin eyebrows raising.
Everything I own is in there. Or rather, everything I wanted to keep.
The rest I took out in black sacks to the refuse collectors who turned up early this morning.
After using the pool one last time, I chose to slip away and avoid suffering through an insincere farewell speech from Edward.
Should he choose to look—and I’m sure he will—he will find nothing of me left behind, as though I’ve never lived there.
I left my keys with the housekeeper and told her to tell Callico I would not be returning.
“Staying with a friend. I find being in the house too painful.”
“Oh. I see,” she says, her tone not one of sympathy but of disappointment.
“Problem?”
“I assumed you would be returning to Callico House from here and could hand a copy of these papers to Edward Callico. Never mind. I can always get Brittany to—”
“No, that’s fine. It’s on my way.”
Even if Alice is home, I am not setting another foot in that house. But I’m not too petty or averse to pushing a copy through their post box if it means having this episode of my life closed.
“Excellent. Then let us get this over and done with, Mr Redbrick.” I know she is not asking for permission, but warning me not to make waves.
“Roger, my husband, has taken the children to his parents’ Geneva home for the last of the school holidays, and I have the Bentley waiting to take me to London City Airport right after this meeting.
It’s a little family tradition of ours.”
Why she thinks I care about her life is a mystery.
Albert didn’t either. As a spectator, on visits when I’d accompanied him, I came to despise Hammond-Clyde and her middle-class insouciance.
She doesn’t need to work because she and her husband come from wealthy families, a circumstance she manages to weave into the conversation at each meeting.
Both were educated at expensive schools, and Mr Hammond holds the prestigious position of senior partner in one of the country’s leading accountancy firms. Today, her deference is only assumed because of my provisory association with the Callico family.
“Ah, yes, here we are.”
She cranes over a neat pile of papers, the gold chain links attached to her designer reading glasses swaying every time she peers up at me.
“As you may know, Dr Callico was in reasonable shape financially.” I had learnt very little about his financial status from him, but I understood he’d had more than enough.
He’d refused to take any of the income I earned from my logistics job at the Gateway Charity.
His single substantial asset was the family home, inherited upon his father’s death, where we lived free of debt, thanks to his father’s strict instructions and generous legacy.
“I’m sure you’re aware, Mr Redbrick, that the Mayfair home stays in the family and will pass to Edward Callico. And of Dr Callico’s liquid assets, a sizeable proportion has been pledged to medical research organisations.”
After the death of his best friend some twenty-two years ago, Albert had made his intention quite clear to his ultra-conservative siblings that upon his death, he intended to bequeath most of his money to AIDS-related research organisations.
Nobody questioned him, even though I am sure not all of them approved.
“Of course.” As ever, she studies me coldly over the top of her glasses. “I don’t really know you, Mr Redbrick, but as his partner, you are wholly within your rights to challenge these instructions, although I should point out—”
“Then you don’t know me. I have no intention of challenging anything.”
“As you wish,” she says, continuing to scrutinise me as though waiting to see a crack in my resolve.
After a satisfying pause, she pulls a flimsy folder from the pile and places the document on top.
“Good. Then that leaves you. Even after everything else, there is still a little encouraging news. You’ve been left an annuity. Not excessive, but comfortable enough—”
“No,” I say, cutting her off. “I don’t want any Callico handout.”
My friend Josh would berate me, telling me not to be so proud, but I want nothing more to do with the Callico family and their old-world money.
A tiny knot appears between Mrs Hammond-Clyde’s eyebrows.
Albert once referred to her as the nastiest kind of terrier when it came to legal matters, one of the reasons they employed her as their family solicitor.
“This annuity is Edward’s late brother’s express wish. Written into his will.”
“And I am not blood family, as Edward Callico made perfectly clear at every family gathering.”
“But this is—”
“Can I formally decline the money?”
“Of course you can, but—”
“Then to save time and your legal fees, I would rather do so.”
Once again, Mrs Hammond-Clyde narrows her eyes at me, probably aghast that anyone would turn down hard cash.
I don’t even want to know how much this modest amount might be.
I just want to be set free from this family.
I already have enough problems filling my head, worrying about what my future holds.