Concealment (11 page)

No doubt he did, but in all the time I’d been with him, I’d never known Greg to compromise on ethics.

‘I’m sure that wouldn’t affect his judgement. More likely he reckons there’s nothing in it.’

‘Or he’s shutting it out.’

‘I don’t get why you’re telling me all this,’ I said.

‘Don’t you? Really?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I’d like you to help me.’

‘With what?’

‘Can you have a dig around the client papers, give me your honest opinion?’

What a cheek. I mean, he’d practically raped me, tried to hold me responsible, and now here he was asking for a mega favour.

I laid down my knife and fork—my appetite had disappeared. Digging round would benefit no one, least of all me. If I did identify any irregularities, Greg would be livid, and Eric Bailey had a terrible habit of shooting the messenger. At best, I would be forever marked as the one who derailed the JJ sale. At worst I would be ‘counselled out’.

Yet as Ryan sat there, anxious and defeated, I pitied him despite everything. My gut instinct still told me he was innocent, and it was a bizarre story for him to make up. So I quashed my doubts and agreed.

‘OK, but on one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘You contact the police first thing tomorrow and tell them the whole story.’

‘Consider it done,’ he said.

It occurred to me after we’d parted that I hadn’t progressed the meeting with HR. Still, perhaps there would be no need for it once Ryan had established his innocence.

But overnight, the game changed.

At five forty-five am, a dog-walker found the fully-clothed body of a young woman floating in the Grand Union Canal, near a quiet cul-de-sac in Southall. A fresh media base was speedily set up outside the cordoned off area—with all the TV stations competing to bring a novel twist to the breaking news. Uniformed police searched the surrounding grassy banks with wooden poles, although what they sought remained unclear.

Carmody made a brief statement, explaining how it was much too early to comment on the cause or circumstances of death. Although a pathologist was attending the scene, the post mortem would take place the following day. He also added that CCTV footage from the Uxbridge Road was already being studied. He confirmed that Isabelle’s parents had been informed of the developments—they were naturally extremely distressed and everyone’s thoughts were with them at this trying time.

Cut to the front of the Pearson Malone offices. An oily-faced Smithies stood, petrified, as if facing a firing squad rather than a camera. Like a goldfish out of water, he gulped his way through a stilted pre-prepared statement. His hands shook as he read from the piece of paper, his voice rendered even shriller by nerves.

The enjoyment of seeing him making a complete tit of himself was short-lived. When I checked my iPhone, which had been on silent overnight, I saw nine missed calls (five from Smithies) and four voice messages, in chronological order.

1. A journalist from Sky asking me to do a sound bite
   
2. A pleasingly anxious ‘where the hell are you?’ from Smithies
   
3. Danielle from the BBC hoping for a statement (PM had offered her the guy who’d been on Sky, she said, but they’d much prefer me)
   
4. Smithies asking if I’d heard the news
   

They could all wait. First I called Ryan—no reply. So I texted him.

Terrible news – thinking of u. Did u speak to police as agreed?

Seconds after I’d pressed the send button, as though on cue, a breaking news item flashed up. Police had arrested a twenty-five-year-old man at a hotel in central London. He hadn’t been named, but I knew it was Ryan.

My phone rang.

Smithies.

‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ he barked. ‘I’ve been trying to contact you for the past hour.’

I wasn’t obliged to justify myself. The clock showed seven forty-five, and those bastards didn’t own me twenty-four-seven.

‘Sorry—had my phone on silent.’

‘I suppose you’ve heard by now.’

‘Yes—dreadful, I don’t know what to say.’

‘Well, say nothing then,’ snapped Smithies. ‘I do wish you’d been more accessible this morning. Eric Bailey is hopping mad that you weren’t available for media comment.’

Doubtless Bailey’s annoyance stemmed from Smithies’ ham-fisted performance, but it didn’t seem wise to say so.

‘Yes, I’m sorry. I’m available now if you need me...’

‘I don’t. In fact, Bailey has said he’ll be handling the media personally going forward and if you get any requests you are to ignore them. Is that understood?’

‘Crystal clear.’

‘This is a delicate situation and we can’t risk making it any worse.’

‘Of course not—I understand.’

Relief trumped my irritation at being censured for Smithies disastrous performance. I had enough stress in my life without having to psych myself up for the TV cameras.

***

An air of suppressed hysteria pervaded the office. Many people were scrutinising the BBC and other news websites, but quickly flicked them off their screens when they saw me approaching. The earlier excitement had evaporated in the sober face of a death and the arrest of one of their own. For although Ryan’s name had not been officially announced, the internet buzzed with rumours.

How, people asked themselves, could a murderer have mingled among them without them realising? And whereas earlier in the week the prevailing mood had been in Ryan’s favour, now no one gave him the benefit of the doubt—least of all Lisa.

‘So the alibi you provided for Friday night didn’t cut the mustard.’

Her ‘nudge-nudge, wink-wink’ attitude chafed, but it was only a foretaste of what I’d be compelled to endure when the exact nature of Ryan’s alibi became public knowledge.

‘Do you really think he did it, Lisa?’

She wore a lovely dusky blue skirt suit and silk blouse that screamed out ‘job interview’. See, she could dress properly when she needed to. I felt a pang of guilt that despite my promise, I’d done nothing to get her promotion back on track—I should rectify that.

‘I reckon he did. Lost his rag and killed her in the heat of the moment.’

Lisa’s instincts were normally sound, but I had my doubts—the modus operandi simply didn’t fit with my understanding of Ryan’s personality. It was difficult to visualise him calmly bundling a body into his car and driving to Southall, before calling on me, and everything else. He would have rung for an ambulance in a total funk, claiming there’d been a terrible accident. Even if he had dumped Isabelle in the canal, he would certainly have cracked before the weekend was out. And his panic-stricken performance on Monday morning surely couldn’t have been anything other than genuine.

Lisa didn’t agree.

‘For all we know, he may have confessed.’

‘I shouldn’t think so, based on what he told me last night.’

‘You saw him last night? Really?’ she said, wide-eyed in amazement and no doubt hoping for further salacious details.

‘Only to discuss the HR meeting.’

‘Too late for that now.’

I ignored this statement of the obvious.

‘Actually, Ryan said something strange.’

‘What?’

‘This may sound odd, but did Isabelle mention anything about a fraud at the JJ slate division?’

She wrinkled her nose.

‘A
fraud?
No—we had the disappearing tax losses, but nothing else. Why?’

‘Ryan thinks Isabelle may have discovered something dodgy at JJ a few days before she went missing.’

‘Isabelle never said a word,’ Lisa replied quickly. ‘It has to be a smokescreen.’

On balance I agreed, and Lisa had reinforced my decision not to overexert myself honouring my promise to Ryan. But Fate intervened, as she often does.

A cluttered office disturbed me, and I’d slipped behind in my efforts to keep on top in the past few days. Now I was seized with an overwhelming urge to restore order, and I set to the task with determination. For a start, the stack of JJ files could be replaced in storage now I’d signed out the revised computations.

But as I made to place them on the trolley outside my office, I noticed Isabelle had included the old reorganisation file in the bundle. Which seemed odd, because it wasn’t directly relevant. But that was her, wasn’t it—thorough to a fault.

A yellow Post-it label protruded from the top. My curiosity piqued, I flipped the file open to see what she had flagged.

It was an implementation checklist, prepared by Pearson Malone. The then junior on the client team had painstakingly reviewed each item. He’d concluded that the client had implemented the reorganisation precisely in line with our recommendations.

In other words, the tax losses had been available all along.

On the Post-it, in Isabelle’s rounded girlish writing were the words, ‘No client error.’ I checked the log to see when she’d taken the file out.

Tuesday—three days before she’d died.

I felt reasonably relaxed about the trip to the police station to formalise my statement. With nothing to hide, I had nothing to fear. Or so I thought.

But the unfriendly vibes hit me the moment I stepped through the door to the interview room.

Carmody sat stony-faced on the other side of the desk, and DS Holland, sitting alongside him, bore little resemblance to the jovial character I’d met the day before.

‘Ah, Ms Robinson,’ Carmody began. ‘I do appreciate you giving us your time. DS Holland will go through some of the procedural stuff with you.’

He explained I was attending on a voluntary basis, for them to formally record my version of events. He asked me to sign a declaration.

‘Purely a formality,’ he said when he saw me skimming over it.

‘Give me a minute—I never sign anything before reading.’

They glanced at each other as though they regarded my request as unusual, perhaps indicating an inappropriate level of anxiety.

On the surface the document seemed innocuous enough—in particular the paragraph stating I was free to terminate the interview at any time. I wondered if I was allowed a solicitor. But why should I need one? I was a witness—a wholly innocent bystander, who planned to tell the truth. Yet I couldn’t shake my sense of foreboding.

‘OK,’ he said after I’d signed. ‘Now, in fairness… it’s procedural, you understand… I have to caution you that you’re not bound to answer any of these questions we put to you today. But if you do, your answers will be recorded, may be noted, and may be used in evidence.’

This statement disturbed me. Naturally I understood my answers might be used in evidence—that’s what I’d been afraid of—my stupid little fling with Ryan being paraded in open court. But at the same time his words sounded worryingly familiar. The phrase “May be used in evidence against you” sprang instantly to mind. Maybe I shouldn’t have signed the declaration so readily.

‘We’d just like you to clear a few things up for us,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Following on from your earlier statement and your subsequent informal discussion with DCI Carmody.’

‘Happy to help,’ I replied, managing a weak smile.

‘So tell us again about last Friday evening.’

‘Starting from when?’

‘From the beginning of the drinks party.’

‘OK.’

Apart from some awkward probing into how much alcohol I’d drunk, it all went swimmingly until we got to the part where Ryan rang my doorbell.

‘What time did Mr Kelly arrive?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I confessed.

‘Surely you have some idea…’

‘Somewhere between ten-thirty and eleven-thirty, at a guess.’

‘Did he visit you regularly?’ asked Carmody.

‘No,’ I said indignantly. ‘He did not.’

‘Why did he call on you that night?’

I thought carefully.

‘He’d said he’d gone to see his brother, but Greg was out, so he popped into see me instead.’

‘Greg being your ex-husband,’ Carmody cut in.

‘Yes.’

‘Had Ryan ever called on you before?’

‘Occasionally—when Greg and I were married.’

‘Were you surprised to see him?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘And what did you talk about?’

I gave a full account of our conversation, and how we’d ended up in bed.

‘Had you been to bed with him before?’ asked the sergeant.

‘No,’ I said, unsure about the relevance of this intrusive question. ‘It was a one-off.’

‘And when did he leave?’ asked Carmody.

‘About eight in the morning. I heard the front door go.’

‘And he stayed with you all night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘As sure as I can be. And Ryan will tell you the same.’

He’d promised me he’d tell the truth. And with a murder charge hanging over him, he had every incentive to do so.

‘Oh yes,’ said Carmody. ‘He’s given us an account fully consistent with yours. But that means nothing, does it?’

‘Oh?’

‘Because you might both be lying.’

The accusation floored me. After psyching myself up to confess all, they suspected me of making things up—how ironic was that?

‘But we’re not—it’s the honest to God truth. I...’

‘Before you go any further, I should point out we have a few concerns about this new testimony.’

‘Like what?’

‘Am I correct in thinking you met Mr Kelly last night after our discussion?’

That wrong-footed me for a moment, until I realised that they must have kept Ryan under surveillance.

‘Yes—he was outside Daly’s—it wasn’t prearranged.’

‘It hardly could be, if you didn’t know Mr Kelly’s whereabouts.’

The clear insinuation that I might be lying hung unspoken in the air.

‘I
didn’t
know.’

‘Why did he want to see you?’

‘He wanted me to look into a potential racket at JJ Resources.’

Carmody had sensed an inconsistency.

‘But last night, when I asked you about JJ, you assured me everything was above board.’

‘Well I’m not so certain now.’

Carmody, drew himself up to his full height, and exchanged a spooky little glance with DS Holland.

‘Funny how since you two met yesterday evening, your stories marry up so closely. Kelly only told us about your night of passion when we arrested him this morning, and now you open up to us on this so-called fraud.’