Silent Accusation

First published in Great Britain in 2023 by The Book Guild Ltd Unit E2 Airfield Business Park, Harrison Road, Market Harborough, Leicestershire. LE16 7UL Tel: 0116 2792299 www.bookguild.co.uk Email: [email protected] Twitter: @bookguild Copyright © 2023 Lesley Scott The right of Lesley Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead. ISBN 9781915853073 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. For Clee, Connie, Thomas and Caitlin Contents One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two Twenty-Three Twenty-Four Twenty-Five Twenty-Six Twenty-Seven Twenty-Eight Twenty-Nine Thirty Thirty-One Thirty-Two Thirty-Three Thirty-Four Thirty-Five Thirty-Six Thirty-Seven Thirty-Eight Thirty-Nine Forty Forty-One Forty-Two Forty-Three One The darkening London sky brought a sense of premature lateness, amplified by our early escape from work. It was mid-December 1982, and I walked out of Henry’s restaurant with my boss, Philip Wallis, into a sharp afternoon. Our long, winter coats covered made-to-measure suits and through a leather glove, he shook my hand. ‘See you tomorrow, Peter.’ ‘Thanks, Philip. I mean, thank you for everything.’ ‘You better be worth it.’ He slapped me on the back and strode off to Charring Cross. He’d offered me his top client portfolio, with the promise of promotion and a bonus cheque to match. Thatcher would have clapped. And I had no doubts that I was worth it. Despite every ache of my unloved being, I knew that I shone and belonged with Philip. The afternoon had been a loose one. I’d gossiped on my peers after only the slightest pressure. But only essential stuff that Philip needed a handle on, of course. Then Philip had dropped his bombshell. The partners were impressed, my talent was precious and their show of appreciation enticing enough to stop me from straying. In front of Philip, I’d contained myself, I’d smothered my excitement and now I needed to walk and burn it off. I weaved my way through the Covent Garden Christmas shoppers, armed with lethal carrier bags, determined in their paths. My footsteps echoed through St Martin’s littered alley, where I ignored the two homeless men in their nests of sleeping bags. Then over the main road I danced between the traffic, threading my way to a pulsing Leicester Square. I stopped and took a breath to quell the brandy and champagne. There was something I could sense, something weirdly different. An awakening in the cinema lights of Ben Kingsley’s Ghandi. A heightening of the senses in the roasting chestnut smoke. Then a busker struck guitar strings to the “Eye of the Tiger”, and for winning my attention, I flipped him fifty pence. The streets became emptier as I cut through side lanes and passed a row of shops that glowed festive in the gloom. Glass cases of shiny, delicious chocolate led on to toys and children’s clothing. A window full of fairy lights showed Christmas cards and gifts. Then I was drawn to a shopfront of bright Georgian windows, where second-hand books beckoned from their shelves. I stepped in and the fusty smell of ripe pages hit me as hard as the skewed ratio of books to workable space. Tall cases lined the walls, all full to bursting, with overflows of books sat double on most shelves. Boxes and crates filled the floor with no care for health and safety or the presentation of the place. I stepped around a carousel of Penguin Classics and tried to orientate myself. At the back of the shop, hiding in the corner, a man in a diamond-patterned jumper sat reading behind a desk. ‘Afternoon,’ I said in my cheeriest greeting. He looked up but then his eyes dropped back to his paper. I raised an eyebrow in response to his non-existent welcome and headed for the shelves. A crimson-red guidebook on Chile caught my eye, but as I slipped it out, its neighbour slid out too. I grabbed out instinctively, saving the book from falling, and found myself holding a small, black hardback. I read its title, The Silent Accusation, just as raised voices came from behind. A man was at the counter, arguing for a refund, and Mr Diamond-Patterned jumper was refusing to consent. I didn’t fancy the customer’s chances and before long my judgement proved right. After another firm refusal, the customer started shouting and, uncomfortable with the tension, I left. Back on the street, the night sky had fallen, and the chill pierced through my coat. I walked out of the lane and searched for a taxi home. A couple whizzed straight past, but after a minute, I saw another and waved to flag it down. The driver carved an exaggerated arc to the pavement and with the grace of a tiger I pounced in. ‘Randall Terrace, Islington,’ I called. ‘Islington, righty-o.’ He looked over his shoulder and manoeuvred into the road. I slipped back on the hard, leather seat and my heart dropped when I thought I’d lost my briefcase, until I remembered I’d locked it in my desk. I’d guessed right: I didn’t feel like work after a lunch with Philip; my head was in no fit state. I replayed our conversation, and a thrill sprang through my body with the thought of my impending promotion. I’d be earning more at twenty-five than my father had at sixty, and I cracked my fingers as I considered how that felt.