Another day, another conference, this time in the more congenial surroundings of Rivelli’s London office. Christine had objected at first, but then – well, why not? It was good to get out of the legal ghetto once in a while. And if Rivelli insisted on sending a car to take her to Marylebone High Street, it would be rude to refuse. Solicitors’ offices, even those as high-end as Ferguson McCreath’s, were functional spaces that exhaled the misery they’d witnessed. Rivelli’s office was like an expensive hotel suite, right down to the fresh flowers and lovely views over desirable addresses and budding plane trees.

‘Ah. Miss Crabtree.’

‘Indeed, ah Miss Crabtree. What is she to you, and what are you to her?’

‘We were lovers.’ He pronounced the word with a heavy Italian accent: loffers.

‘Were? Or are?’

‘Were. Most definitely passato.’ Rivelli smacked his hands as if knocking off the dust from a dirty job.

‘Because, as I’m sure you know, your wife is citing your relationship with Miss Crabtree as one of the major grounds for divorce.’

‘It is ridiculous. She knows that is not true.’

‘Again, Mr Rivelli, if that was the case your wife would not be committing large amounts of money to prove it, not to mention jeopardising her divorce settlement.’

‘You do not trust me yet, I see.’

‘I am a lawyer, Mr Rivelli. I trust nobody.’

‘I told you. I am a good boy.’

Christine paused for a moment. ‘Do you want to win this case?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you think I know what I’m doing?’

‘Your reputation is good.’

‘And do you think I have never encountered, in twenty years at the bar, husbands who deny things that their wives swear are true?’

‘No, I . . .’

‘If you don’t want to tell me the truth, Mr Rivelli, just say so now and I shall withdraw from the case. John Ferguson will find you alternative representation. The way I work, you see, is always from the basis of truth.’

‘But the truth is . . . complicated.’

‘It usually is.’

‘And if it all comes out in court it might not look so good.’

‘Who said anything about it coming out in court?’

‘You . . .’

‘Mr Rivelli, perhaps you have never been through the British judicial procedure before. We say things in court that we think will win our case. We conceal other things. We do not tell outright lies, except in extreme cases. What we do – what you are paying me to do – is to present the truth in a certain way.’

‘I see.’

‘So you need to lay your cards on the table. Then you let me play them as a winning hand. Do you understand me?’

‘I do.’

‘Very good.’ Christine pulled her chair closer to the table. ‘Where were we? Ah, yes. I need to know about Victoria Crabtree.’