Just a Dead Man by Margaret von Klemperer Page B

Your hair needs washing; no earrings or rings; no make-up; ratty clothes. You’re a sight.”
    â€œNonsense, Ness. I was just going to start painting when you came in.”
    â€œNo, you weren’t. Come on, pull yourself together. If Dan’s innocent, it’ll all be sorted quickly. If not – well, then you’ve had an escape. Come on, get changed, and we’ll go out for coffee.”
    Sometimes, with Vanessa, the path of least resistance is the only route to travel: it’s how I had got caught up in painting for her exhibition. And, anyway, the thought of a decent cup of coffee was tempting. She hustled me off tochange, and as I pulled off my ancient jeans and shapeless T-shirt, I looked in the mirror. She was right: I did look a mess. I’m not one for make-up, though I usually manage a bit round the eyes. Now I looked pale and, worst of all, old. I swear I could see wrinkles growing and spreading as I watched, like something from a horror flick. And damn her, Ness was right. I always wear earrings. I have a huge collection, and I love the feel of them, and the way they give a different dimension to my face. So I rummaged in my drawer and found a pair of chunky amber ones, set in silver. They were big and heavy, and might draw attention away from my hair, which was indeed looking awful. I pulled it all back, away from my face and put in a wooden slide. There. I looked, if not great, at least a bit less like a bag lady. With stone-coloured cargo pants and a yellow shirt, I could pass as human.
    And I have to admit I felt a lot better after the coffee. Vanessa picked over the Daniel story, and was obviously angling for an invitation to come and see Robin with me, but when it wasn’t forthcoming, she started to tell me about her relationship with Ben, the sculptor. It sounded like a liaison made in hell, but Ness, putting on the full drama queen act, was very funny about it all. I could see an elderly couple at the table behind her shamelessly listening, all pretence at a conversation of their own abandoned. This was better than their afternoon soap opera. Ness gave me a hug on parting, and insisted I call her after I had seen Robin: she wanted to be kept fully up to date. Maybe she would even waylay Inspector Pillay and see what she could find out. I groaned inside.
    Robin’s office is in the centre of town, in an area that is still okay, but certainly not smart. The receptionist told me he had gone to court but would be back any minute, so I sat down in an ancient cane chair that creakedwhen I moved. The table in front of me held a copy of today’s newspaper and a nasty collection of waiting-room magazines. There was a three-year-old Farmer’s Weekly , a six-month-old Men’s Health and a copy of Femina so ancient and dog-eared that it was impossible to see a date on the cover. None of them appealed, so I sat back and watched the people come and go. A very good-looking young man, file in hand, was energetically flirting with the receptionist. She tossed her head and made a couple of dismissive remarks, but I could tell she was definitely interested. I was pretty certain he knew it too. Confident body language and a practised smoothness. Their by-play was absorbing: I almost forgot why I was there. But then Robin came in, looking untidy and harassed.
    â€œHi, Laura. Sorry I’ve kept you waiting. Come on through. Sandile, have you been to the Master’s Office yet? Well, for God’s sake, get a move on!”
    Shaking his head as he held his office door open for me, he muttered about the problems of having good-looking articled clerks. “Thinks he’s God’s gift to women. Trouble is, some of them think he’s right.”
    Robin’s office was filled with tottering heaps of files. A couple of Spy legal prints hung crooked on the wall, making me itch to straighten them, while in the corner what might once have been a decent solid Victorian