Page 68 of Claim

Imogen set her pen down. “Then you have a problem. Because without a verified, stable address, this application does not leave chambers. Not on my authority.”

I waited. Too long. The silence pressed in, but I couldn’t let it end there. I’d come too far for that.

So I blurted, “I could put forward Henry.”

Imogen looked up. Slowly. Interlacing her fingers over the files. “Excuse me?”

I regretted it immediately, but it was out there now, and I needed to explain why I’d unwittingly thrown my best friend under a bus.

“Henry Redmayne. He’s a doctor. Lives in Chiswick. No connection to the investigation, no ties to organised crime. Entirely removed from Mr Slade’s usual environment. He’s an upstanding—”

“And who,” Imogen interrupted, rubbing her temple, “in God’s name is Henry Redmayne?”

“An acquaintance.” Even to my own ears the word sounded thin. Fragile. I hadn’t asked Henry. I wasn’t even sure I could. And worse, who was he to Razor? Nothing that would satisfy a judge. A medic who’d stitched him up once. A name dragged in because I was grasping.

Christ.

Imogen rocked back in her chair, studying me with a look stripping away every illusion I’d been clinging to. “Of the defendant?”

“They know one another.” I chewed my lip. “Yes.”

“Tristan,” she sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples. “You have the makings of an excellent barrister. Your background gives you instincts most people have to learn the hard way. You have judgement, precision, and a regrettably effective talent for getting under people’s skin.”

She looked at Mercer, then back at me.

“And because of that, I’m going to pretend that suggestion was never made. Mr Mercer is going to pretend he didn’t hear it. And the last five minutes of this meeting are not going in any attendance note.”

Mercer closed his laptop without comment.

Imogen glared at me. “You do not invent bail addresses out of desperation. You do not offer well-meaning professionals because you are emotionally invested. That way lies professional embarrassment at best, and catastrophic compromise at worst.”

I nodded, heat creeping up my neck.

“Now,” Imogen picked up her pen again, “we do this properly. You will leave this room, you will regain your composure, and you will find me an address that can withstand judicial scrutiny. Only then do we move.”

Mercer stood, smoothing his tie. “I’ll prepare the draft pending confirmation.”

I gathered my papers, my mind racing ahead of my body. As we stepped out of Imogen’s office, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Unknown number. I answered automatically, putting the phone between my chin and shoulder.

“Tristan Hale-Fitzroy.”

There was a snort on the other end. “Don’t you posh boys ever answer with hello like the rest of the world?”

I knew that voice. My chest tightened. “I do. When I expect friends. Are you one?”

A baby wailed in the background. Then another. Lennon sounded breathless. “Guess we’re going to have to be.”

I turned back into my room and sat at my desk, chucking my stuff down to hold the phone properly to my ear. “I’d like that.”

“Well, answer hello next time.”

“I will. What’s this about?”

“I had a call.” Lennon sounded as if he were rocking a baby. Maybe two. “From a mutual friend. Courtesy of Pentonville.”

My pulse spiked. “When?”

“Half an hour ago. Call cut off before he could get to the point properly, but I gathered I was meant to speak to you.”