Chapter 1

 

Roberta inspected the man sitting at the other side of her desk and decided that she didn't like what she saw. He was altogether too relaxed, too confident, too self-assured for someone in his position. There he sat, erect but with all the appearance of easy nonchalance, one leg crossed over the other with the highly polished shoe swinging just slightly. He'd contrived to do that without endangering the crease in the immaculate suit he wore: dark blue: mohair, she judged, elegant, expensive, understated. Just like him: he was a mass of understatement, from his artlessly unkempt yet somehow perfectly groomed thick black hair to the even grey eyes, past his entirely unremarkable but subtly handsome face to his fine-boned, long-finger hands, now crossed, relaxed but not limp, in his lap. A combination of understatements that added up to something altogether too damned handsome, composed and elegant than anyone had any right to be; something that the unconscious mind recognised long before even a judiciously observant person could put a finger on it.

He nettled her, sitting there with that calm serenity, his lips bearing the almost infinitesimal hint of a smile. It was as if he was mocking not only her but also the world around him; a world that she knew, instinctively, would fall at his feet if he as much as hinted that it should. And she knew that he knew it, too, as certainly as anything could be. Behind all that careful carelessness, on the other side of those level almost mocking grey eyes was arrogance: a huge, overweening arrogance. He'd be hell on wheels with women, she judged; probably had been since he'd been old enough to take an interest. He made her angry.

She was good at hiding her feelings, just as she was good at judging people; it was part of her job, and she was very good at that. But just in case anything showed, she bent her head to the folder on the desk. It was an artifice, too: by taking her look from him, she made a gesture of disinterest. She didn't expect it to break that self-assurance, but it might put a tiny dent in it.

Peter Ransome, she read. He'd have to have a name like that, wouldn't he? Like the hero in some cheap novel: 33 years of age, occupation: company director. That could cover a multitude of sins and probably did; given some of the other so-called 'company directors' she'd had through her hands. She flipped the page; offence: assault with intent to which he pleaded guilty; sentence: one year's probation, awarded by... She blinked... Maude Carter? How had he got away with that? Maude Carter was the hardest of the new breed of magistrate; in the old days, she'd have been all for flogging, birching and deportation. A plea of guilty to assault with intent would normally have her reaching for the guidelines on maximal penalties and handing out a six-month jail sentence. Or had the smooth operator sitting opposite her waggled his eyebrows at the 40-odd-year old magistrate? Anyone else trying that would probably have collected a contempt charge, but she fancied that this one might just have got away with it. Well, he might have smarmed his way round Maude Carter, but he was getting away with nothing as far as Roberta Richards was concerned.

Ransome examined the woman with considerably more approval than she had him. Her distaste for him had shown, despite her practised impassivity: a tiny tension in the shoulders, a faint hint of anger in the eyes. It didn't bother him; in fact, he rather admired her for it. Women fell under his spell far too easily; to find one that didn't was something of a relief. But then he'd know she'd react like that, just as he knew that Roberta Roberts was 26 years old, unmarried, unattached and more than just a little attractive. She was five feet eight in height, weighed ten stones exactly, had thick blonde hair - of which she was inordinately proud - cut to shoulder length, a perfect complexion that required and received no make-up other than a hint of lipstick. He knew her measurements, too, though it was hard to believe them, given the severity of the clothes she wore; it was odd that a woman who took such pride in her hair could hide the rest of herself so effectively. Even away from the office, she dressed similarly; no one could possibly have told from looking at her that she had a figure that more than one film star would kill for.

He knew all that because he'd made it his business to know. He knew a few other things, too; the principal one was that Roberta Richards was a hellion of the first order. She made life hell for anyone who came into contact with her, particularly her colleagues. Not because she was ambitious: if she had been, she'd have chosen something other than the Probation Service as a career. Nor was she sexually dominant; his researches had indicated a remarkable lack of sexual activity of any kind, with either gender. It might have been some deep-seated frustration that Ransome wasn't qualified or interested enough to probe, but the fact was that Roberta Richards was a right royal pain in the arse.

Her hands came down on the open folder and she looked up, holding his level gaze. "You," she said, icily, "are a very lucky man, Ransome."

He inclined his head while his lips twitched slightly. "Indeed I am," he said. His voice was baritone with just a hint of gravel, as assured and confident as everything else about him.

There was no inflection in what he said, nor any overt sign of what she could consider impertinence. But Roberta was not the sort of woman to let even a slight ambiguity pass by. "Understand one thing from the outset," she said, her voice bleak. "You have been assigned to me because you pleaded guilty to a serious offence. Just how you managed to charm your way round the magistrates is no concern of mine, except that you should, in my opinion, be serving a prison sentence at this very moment. But I warn you now that I am impervious to any and all tricks, ruses and stratagems; I've seen them all, so don't bother."

Those grey eyes didn't falter. "I quite understand," he said, his voice as level as the look.

"Good. Then understand something else while you're about it. You are on probation for one year. I am your probation officer. That means that I have the power, if I so choose to refer you back to the court for a review of your sentence. That, in turn, means jail, which I've already said I think you deserve. So if I were you, Ransome, I'd tread very carefully indeed."

"I will follow your advice to the letter. I am entirely in your hands."

The sheer equanimity of the man nettled her even more. He wasn't even slightly nervous, rebellious, angry, defiant or just plain scared, all emotions she'd seen in those who'd sat where he was sitting. It was as if he was discussing the cut of a new suit with his tailor rather than having his first interview with his probation officer. It goaded her into going further than she'd intended. "I might as well tell you that there are two or three things against you from the start: you have never expressed any remorse for what you did; you brutally assaulted a woman: I don't like men who hit woman. And last of all, I don't like YOU, Ransome." That last was going too far, she knew, but he showed no sign that he heard it.

"The girl was a burglar; she was in my house, stealing my property."

"That is no excuse for a brutal assault!"

"I put her across my knee and spanked her. It seemed appropriate."

"Your ideas of what's appropriate and those of the law are at considerable variance, Ransome. And it isn't going to help you at all if that attitude of yours doesn't start changing, and changing fast. I..." A tap on the door interrupted her. She glared at it. "In," she called.

It opened hesitantly and a young, apprehensive face peered round; the office junior, Sandra. She'd worked in the office for only three weeks and had already felt the sharp side of Ms Richards' tongue: hence the nervousness on her face. With good reason: the fierce expression on Roberta's face deepened into an angry scowl.

"Are you blind, you pathetic little ignoramus? Or are you just plain stupid? What does a red light outside a door mean? Or are you such an ignorant cretin that you don't know?" she snapped.

The girl, who'd advanced a step into the office, but who'd kept the door protectively between her and Roberta, having felt the woman's anger before, flinched; her lower lip trembled and tears sprang to terrified eyes. "M....mister Collins said..." she began.

"I don't CARE what Mister Collins said," Roberta snapped, red spots appearing on her cheekbones. "You don't burst into an office when there's a client interview going on, EVER. So go back and tell Mr Collins that we need a junior with a lot more sense than you've ever had in the feather-brained head of yours. Now go away, you idiot!"

The girl hesitated for a moment, then burst into tears and left, closing the door behind her. Through it, they could hear the diminishing sound of sobs as she fled. Roberta turned angry eyes back to Ransome. His expression hadn't changed; it was as if the episode had never happened. He held her gaze, quite calmly for a moment then let it slide away to the desk. She followed it, to the two small buttons, one red, one green. The green one glowed. She'd forgotten to push the red one.

With an entirely casual motion, she reached out and pushed the red one now, looking back at him challengingly. Once again, there was no change, except that the merest suggestion of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. She wanted to hit him. A deep breath controlled that surge of anger, but she vowed that she'd have him jumping through hoops to keep himself from going back to court. She decided to push that point home. "Remember, Ransome, that I'm in charge of your life for the next twelve months. I want to see you here at nine sharp every Wednesday. No excuses. I want to see a full description of your activities in writing and I will have to come to inspect your house." She glanced at her watch. "Now, I don't have any more time for you. Ask at the reception desk for the information folder. Read it. I will call at your home tomorrow at three in the afternoon. Be there." She snapped the folder closed. "That's all. Don't bother offering to shake hands or perform any other conventional ritual. Just close the door behind you." She hadn't bothered covering the areas that the law said she should cover, nor had she explained what her responsibilities were. She didn't care: if he got it wrong and landed himself back in court, then that's what he deserved. Roberta believed strongly in justice: her sort of justice.

He paused at the door. "It will be a pleasure," he said.

She opened her mouth to reply, then paused as the odd expression he'd used sank in. By the time she'd recovered, the door had closed. "Smart-arse smoothie," she muttered, jabbing at the green button with more force than necessary. As she did it, the telephone rang.

***

Paul Collins was a big man in his mid-forties. He'd been muscular, but like many semi-fit rugby-playing men, time had begun to turn the muscle to flab. It had worked on his hair, too, so that what Roberta saw as she entered his office was a man past his physical best. And in Roberta's opinion, not too good in the mental stakes either; she regarded him as a weakling, someone she'd been able to dominate quite easily in previous encounters.

"Sit down, Roberta," he said. He looked uncomfortable and nervous.

She took her time about it then grabbed the initiative. "I suppose that this is about that idiot junior?" she said.

"Er, yes, it is. And, er, one or two other things." He fiddled with a pencil. "Look, Roberta, we've had this discussion before and I've asked you before to try a little harder to get on with your colleagues. Now we've got young Sandra having hysterics. And it wasn't her fault, you know. That light was green, I saw it myself only a few minutes before."

"The girl's an incompetent. I must have put the light on after you saw it." Which was true enough.

"She's not the only you've upset," he pressed, becoming a little more confident. "I've had several more complaints from other members of staff. You really do have a somewhat abrasive way with people." He took a deep breath. "It can't go on."

She raised her eyebrows. "Are you asking me to resign?" she asked. "If so, I'm only too happy to accommodate you." She opened her handbag, took out an envelope and handed it to him. "It's not sealed; you can read it."

He looked relieved, yet puzzled. Sliding the folded sheet from the envelope, he unfolded the sheet of paper and read it, his expression clearing to one of barely-suppressed joy. Roberta had been a thorn in side ever since she'd been in the office and now he held her resignation in his hand. It felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

"Of course, she continued, "I'll be following that one with this." She held up another envelope.

His eyes narrowed; he frowned, suddenly wary. "I don't understand," he said.

She handed him the envelope. "Read it," she suggested.

He did so, his expression changing from puzzlement to shock as the colour drained from his face, leaving it grey. His hands shook so badly that the paper slipped from them; as it did, his head rose and he gazed at her with anguished eyes from an ashen face. "It....it's .... It's a lie," he croaked. "not a word of truth in it!"

"Isn't there?" she replied, reaching out to take the paper from his unresisting fingers and slipping it back into its envelope. "That's not what Karen told me. And Tracy. When I twisted their arms a bit, that is." She shook her head, tut-tutting. "How many years do you think they'd give a senior probation service officer who messes about with his female clients? Sixteen-year old clients, at that."

"It's not true! You can't prove any of this!" he croaked.

"I won't have to. Just think of the fun and games you'll have while they investigate. They'll turn up something, I'm sure." She tucked the envelope back into her handbag. "You can keep the letter of resignation," she said. "Just remember what'll follow it, won't you? Oh, and get rid of that bloody junior, all right?"

His head had gone down as she spoke. As she rose to her feet, he stayed in the bowed position, the picture of a broken man. It had taken less than three minutes.

"All right?" she repeated.

"Yes, all right, Roberta," he said, his voice broken.

As she left the office, she exulted. Not only did she have power over the egregious Ransome, but now she'd beaten down Collins, too. She could do exactly what she wanted and no one could stop her.

Back in the office she'd just left, Collins wiped his brow with a handkerchief, his hand still shaking. Then he reached for the telephone and punched a number.