Mine: The hot new thriller of 2018 - sinister, gripping and dark with a breathtaking twist

‘Mr Joy will be with us in a moment.’

‘I’ve just got to pop upstairs. Do you want to go through?’ I said pointing towards the conference room. ‘Helen can bring Mr Joy in when he arrives.’

I climbed the stairs to my office, a small space beneath the eaves at the very top of the building. It was little more than a broom cupboard, but at least I didn’t have to share it with anyone.

I scooped up the case files, grabbed a pen from the pot and ran my tongue around my teeth, wishing that I still had a packet of Tic Tacs on my desk to get rid of the sour tang of alcohol and cigarette smoke on my breath. When I came back downstairs meeting room two had been prepared for clients in the usual way, with a tray of sandwiches and a small plate of Marks and Spencer’s biscuits in the middle of the conference table. The pump-action coffee pot I could never work sat ominously on a chest of drawers by the door, alongside miniature bottles of Evian.

David was on his mobile phone. He glanced up and indicated he would just be a minute.

‘Water?’ I asked, gesturing towards our catering.

‘Coffee,’ he whispered, and pointed at the biscuits.

I grabbed a cup, faced the coffee pot with determination and pushed the top hard. Nothing happened so I pushed it again, harder, spurting coffee over the back of my hand.

I winced in pain as the liquid seared my skin.

‘Are you OK?’

Someone handed me a tissue and I used it to wipe my stinging hand.

‘I hate these things,’ I muttered. ‘We should buy a Nespresso machine and be done with it.’

‘Or maybe just a kettle.’

I looked up and a suited man was looking at me intently, momentarily distracting me from the burning sensation on my skin.

David snapped his phone shut and turned to us.

‘Do you two know each other?’

‘No,’ I said quickly.

‘Martin Joy – Francine Day. It’s her birthday. Maybe we can put a match in one of those fancy biscuits and sing to her.’

‘Happy Birthday,’ said Martin, his green eyes still fixed on me. ‘You should go and run that under the cold water.’

‘It’s fine,’ I said, turning to throw the tissue in the bin.

When I faced the table again, Martin had already poured two cups of coffee. He went to sit across the table from me, next to David, which gave me the chance to observe him. He was not particularly tall but had a presence that filled the room, something I noticed a lot with very successful people. His suit was sharp, his tie neatly drawn into a Windsor knot. He was around forty, but I could not say a precise age. There was no sign of grey in his dark hair, although a hint of stubble around his jaw glinted tawny in the strong lights of the conference room. His eyebrows were flat and horizontal across mossy green eyes. Two frown lines carved into his forehead gave him an intensity that suggested he would be a very tough negotiator.

I looked down and gathered my thoughts. I felt nervous, but then I always did when I was meeting clients for the first time. I was conscious of my desire to please those who were paying my fee, and there was always a certain awkwardness dealing with people who thought they were tougher, smarter than you were.

‘I take it you’ve read the file,’ said David. ‘Martin is the respondent. I’ve recommended you to him as leading counsel.’

‘So you’re the one who’s going to fight for me in court,’ said Martin, looking directly at me.

‘I’m sure David has explained that no one wants to go to court,’ I said, taking a sip of my coffee.

‘Except the lawyers,’ replied Martin without missing a beat.

I knew how this worked. I had been in this situation enough times not to get offended. Family law clients tended to be angry and frustrated, even – especially – with their legal team, so first meetings were often tense and fractious. I wished he wasn’t sitting opposite me – a configuration I hated. I preferred to remind people that we were all on the same side.

‘Actually, I’m a member of an organization called Resolution. We favour a non-confrontational approach to marital dispute, avoiding courts where possible, encouraging collaborative legal solutions.’

‘Collaborative legal solutions,’ he repeated slowly. I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of me by using the stiff legalese. He was certainly judging me. The woman. The Northerner. The junior.

He leant forward in his chair and looked at me.

‘I don’t want this to be difficult, Miss Day. I’m not an unreasonable man; I want this process to be as fair as possible, but I can’t just sit back and let my wife take everything she wants.’

‘I’m afraid the concept of “fair” isn’t for you or Mrs Joy to decide,’ I said carefully. ‘That’s why we have courts, judges, case law …’

I shifted tack: ‘Do we know her starting position?’ I knew some detail about the case already having spent two hours of the previous evening digesting it. But it was always better to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

‘My wife wants half of everything. The houses, the money, the business … Plus, a share of future earnings.’

‘What is it you do?’ I asked briskly.

‘I head up a convertible arbitrage fund.’

I nodded as if I knew what that meant.

‘We trade off anomalies in the market.’

‘So you’re a gambler?’ I asked.

‘It’s financial investment.’

‘And is it successful?’

‘Yes. Very.’

I was reminded of Vivienne McKenzie’s words. About men and their buoyant self-confidence that makes them believe they are kings of the world.

‘We have only thirty employees, but it’s a very profitable business. I set the company up with my partner, Alex Cole. I own sixty per cent of the business, he owns the rest. The bulk of my assets are my shares in the business. My wife wants the valuation of my shareholding to be as high as possible. She’d prefer liquid cash to shares.’

‘When did you start the business?’ I said, writing it all down.

‘Fifteen years ago.’

‘Before your marriage,’ I muttered. According to the file, they had been married for eleven years.

‘We should probably go through the Form E,’ said David Gilbert.

I nodded. I had seen the financial disclosure documents for both Martin and his wife. His were remarkably similar to the dozens of other declarations of wealth I had seen over the years. The properties dotted around the world, cars, art, and overseas bank accounts.

I ran my finger down the form that his wife had submitted.