Concealment (13 page)

Inevitably, the news of me “helping the police with their enquiries” had spread. The BBC’s low-key anonymous disclosure had now mushroomed into a major story, including my name, across all the major media channels.

The first person to quiz me on this was Jim Jupp, ostensibly calling to ask who would attend the slate mine tour in place of Isabelle. The little bitch would have been proud to be hailed as such a key player on one of her clients.

‘I’ll go myself,’ I said without hesitating, hoping the trip might give me some further insight into any potential irregularities.

‘Excellent,’ he said, with insincerity. Then he moved on to the real purpose for his call.

‘By the way, what’s all this about you helping police with their enquiries? It’s everywhere in the news.’

‘Beats me why it’s such a hot story,’ I said with a nervous laugh. ‘I was resolving some loose ends, that’s all.’

‘I’m pleased it isn’t anything more serious,’ he replied. He sounded unmistakeably sceptical.

Smithies was also agog to hear the details.

‘Everyone’s saying you’ve been interviewed under caution,’ he announced cheerily. ‘What on earth’s been going on?’

He’d evidently tuned into the highly exaggerated rumours doing the rounds, rather than checking the news himself. I told him the same as JJ, but Smithies was less easily fobbed off.

‘
What
loose ends egg-zackly were you resolving?’

‘I’m not allowed to say. The police investigation is confidential.’

Smithies was astute enough to realise that direct questioning wouldn’t elicit any further information. Instead he resorted to his usual tactics of unsettling me in the hope of garnering more clues.

‘How odd. There must be a reason they latched onto you…’

His gaze seemed knowing, but I held firm. I was painfully aware that he had new ammunition to use against me, even without any details. Sly allusions to my possible connection with Isabelle’s murder would be dropped into conversations at the appropriate point, along with suggestions that I’d been covering up for Ryan. Hell, he could make up whatever he wanted, no matter how bad it sounded.

‘I can’t think what the reason might be,’ I said confidently.

It occurred to me that if Smithies was Isabelle’s killer, playing up my involvement might be driven by more than plain spite. If a crime was being committed at JJ—if they were sleeping together—if Isabelle had unwittingly revealed her discovery, then he had a motive—to protect his creepy brother-in-law. And if he’d framed Ryan, dragging me into the net would further obscure the truth. But much as I loathed the man, this train of logic still contained far too many ifs to be compelling.

‘I should mention,’ he went on, aware that he hadn’t hit home yet, ‘Bailey is disappointed you didn’t find the time to compromise Ryan out.’

‘It was a tough ask. He was on the run, and now events have overtaken us…’

‘Oh,
I
understand completely. We can’t always respond to fast-paced developments. I told Bailey you’d tried your best, but he’s not the most tolerant of men.’

His tone was at best condescending, at worst malevolent.

‘No.’

‘Well, let’s hope events don’t move on any further,’ he said, cryptically.

But events would move on further, because somehow they’d developed a momentum all of their own.

***

‘Is this about Ryan?’ Greg asked straight away when I called him.

I hesitated. How much did he know?

‘Indirectly, yes.’

‘Come over now.’

I’d expected him to feign busyness, to assert his importance over mine. But either he’d mellowed or was so disturbed by Ryan’s situation that the corporate mask had slipped.

This was the first meaningful contact I’d had with Greg since our divorce. We felt no great animosity towards each other—that would have required a greater passion in the first place—but the sheer size of the building limited our encounters. Someone once calculated that if you stepped into an elevator at random with someone in the Pearson Malone London office, it was fifty-fifty you’d never see the person again. True or not, avoiding a member of a different department involved little to no effort.

Greg was on the telephone as I arrived. He leant back, hands clasped behind his head as he engaged in empty chitchat with a crony. His brash, assertive demeanour didn’t surprise me—Greg had always found it easy to compartmentalise his life.

His secretary, seated outside his office, scarcely acknowledged me as I hovered outside the door. She was a bare-faced dragon with hair scraped back in a tight bun, grey pleated skirt and a grubby cream nylon blouse. Perhaps they’d thought it unwise to let him loose with another dolly bird after what had happened the last time—or perhaps Greg didn’t trust himself.

Always one to play it safe sartorially, Greg wore a subtly pinstriped navy suit, a pristine white shirt, and what could have passed for an old school tie. He quickly cut short his conversation when he saw me waiting. For a few seconds, we eyed each other with a shared incredulity that our lives had ever been linked.

‘Amy. How are you?’ he asked. He gave me a bitter little smile, exposing new veneers on his front teeth.

‘OK, thanks. More to the point, how are you?’

No aspect of his appearance betrayed the strain he was under, but I understood enough of him to realise his macho posturing did not reflect his true emotions. And equally, he recognised that pretence was useless.

‘Been better,’ he said, shaking his head sadly. ‘Not good news about little bro.’

‘I know. But everyone’s certain he’s innocent.’

‘I wish I shared their optimism. You’ve heard all the evidence stacked up against him, I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, still unsure to what extent he knew about my involvement.

‘Did he really stay at yours that night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah—I suspected he might be making it up, along with a load of other stuff.’

‘No. It was only a one-night stand. We were drunk…’

Sensing my discomfort, he said, ‘Look, it’s OK—none of my business. You don’t have to explain. Shame you couldn’t give him an alibi though…’

My cheeks reddened. He had much more information about my police interview than I felt comfortable with. How had he come by this so soon after the event? I wondered.

‘I’m sorry. But his car…’

He cut my apologies short with a dismissive wave of his hand.

‘Don’t stress yourself—we’re getting together the best legal representation money can buy—they’ll find an angle.’

I hoped, probably in vain, that the angle wouldn’t involve me. For I could imagine, all too vividly, how Ryan’s shit-hot defence team would tear a flaky prosecution witness like me to shreds.

‘I may have an angle. That’s why I came to see you.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Now I know Ryan mentioned it to you already—but what if JJ Slate
is
running some sort of racket? As I see it, the main evidence against Ryan is the car. There’s no reason for anyone else to have been driving it with Isabelle in the boot, unless it was to set Ryan up. If JJ Slate has something to hide, they would have a motive to frame Ryan.’

He leaned forward in a way which I chose not to interpret as patronising.

‘Believe me, Amy, there is no racket.’

‘So everyone keeps telling me. But have you seen the divisional accounts?’

‘Yes.’

His answer took me by surprise.

‘Then you’ll have spotted what I did—there are far too many receivables. I thought some of the debtors might be fictitious.’

‘Really.’ He sounded weary, as if I was retracing a well-ploughed furrow.

‘I know you don’t wish to hear this, how desperately you need this deal…’

‘Oh Amy, for Christ’s sake. I’m not
that
desperate,’ he yelled. ‘If I could find
any
way to save Ryan, I would grab at it—even if it meant the deal falling through. You must realise that. What kind of person do you think I am?’

I blushed, wishing now that I’d spoken with more tact.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘When Ryan brought this up,’ Greg explained, ‘I checked out those accounts and yes—the receivables are high. So I contacted the partner in charge of the audit. He told me they did a full debtors’ circularisation, and also that the vast majority of the debts owed were repaid between the year-end and the audit. Plus, as he was at pains to point out, the slate division is so small it’s doubtful if an adjustment material at group level could arise.’

Which was precisely why they might not carry out much work on it
, I thought, but didn’t say.

‘And don’t forget,’ he added, ‘the Megabuilders’ due diligence team has picked through everything.’

‘Yes, I suppose they have.’

‘Besides,’ he concluded. ‘What’s the point of artificially inflating the profits? Who benefits? No one has extracted any cash.’

‘True,’ I agreed. ‘But I just wondered…’

‘Amy, I appreciate your efforts to help Ryan, but the police have checked and discounted this as a line of enquiry.’

‘But why would Ryan invent the story?’

‘As I understand it, we had a dispute over some tax losses—you would be more up to speed on that than me. Perhaps he misunderstood the position.’

‘Possibly. But you do realise they conceded those losses unnecessarily?’

‘Not what I’d heard. I thought the client messed up, but we took the rap for some wacky political reason nobody except Bailey understands.’

‘That’s precisely the point—the client didn’t mess up. On the file, I found a detailed implementation checklist…’

‘Then you’ve missed something. Why would a client disclaim the losses if they were available?’

‘If they were up to something dodgy and they were worried it might come out.’

He shook his head.

‘That’s just not possible. We’ve been into it to the nth degree of detail.’

Indeed, contrary to Ryan’s perception, Greg did seem to have explored all the possibilities with great thoroughness.

I conceded defeat, pleased to avoid the inconvenience of raking up shit on a prestigious client in the run up to a trade sale. I’d done what Ryan had asked, and must now lay the whole matter to rest.

‘OK—I give in. Sorry to put you through the wringer. But I had to ask, for Ryan’s sake.’

‘I understand,’ he said.

‘One other point,’ I said as I was leaving. ‘Did Ryan suggest that Isabelle might be having an affair with Ed Smithies?’

Despite everything, Greg roared with laughter.

‘Yes, last weekend, but the idea’s ridiculous. I would be careful who you say that to if I were you—if it gets back to Ed he’ll go loopy. He’s already worried that you don’t like him.’

‘That
I don’t like him
—you must be kidding.’

‘No, seriously—he reckons you’re out to stab him in the back.’

‘That’s the pot calling the kettle black—
he’s out to get me
. And vile piece of shit that he is, he’s trying to twist it all round.’

‘You’ve got him all wrong, Amy. He’s not a nasty person. Yes, he makes quick business judgements, which pisses everyone off, but—hey—he’s usually spookily accurate. As a matter of fact, he’s worried about you—feels you’re under a lot of pressure.’

I found it infinitely depressing the way everyone bought into Smithies’ lies without question, but it didn’t seem worth arguing with Greg. He wouldn’t change his mind.

‘So no affair?’

‘Absolutely not. Look, Amy, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I get the sense you’re a bit lost since Ed took over.’

‘I do mind you saying, because you’re wrong.’

‘OK, but I’m here, if you ever need to chat about work stuff.’

‘Thanks—I’m alright.’

I had begun to suspect this wasn’t entirely true. But hell, I still had my pride. And I wasn’t yet reduced to using my ex-husband as a counsellor.

***

Seized with the urge to demonstrate just what excellent shape I was in, my next stop was Adrian Townsend, UK Head of Tax, and Smithies’ boss.

Townsend was the polar opposite of Smithies. Reserved and owlishly intellectual, he led the tax practice with a benign benevolence almost extinct in Pearson Malone since Bailey and his bully-boy henchmen had seized control. Smithies and his ilk saw kindness only as a tool with which to leverage their own interests, and once Townsend had served his purpose he’d be out. But for now, he clung onto the vestiges of power and had agreed to meet me without hesitation.

Not that this meant much. He was quite capable of beaming affably throughout our meeting, making supportive noises while carefully avoiding any commitment to action.

But I had two strategic advantages. One—Townsend detested Smithies with a vengeance. Two—for once, Smithies the master tactician appeared to have goofed.

Townsend greeted me effusively.

‘Ah, Amy—nice to see you. Very tricky times in your team at present, I imagine.’

If Smithies had made the same remark, I would have suspected a hidden meaning, but Townsend gave a credible imitation of genuinely caring. Too bad Smithies was jockeying to be elected as Townsend’s successor, before he’d even formally announced his retirement.

‘Yes, morale’s taken a knock, but they’ll get through this with some TLC.’

‘Good—I imagined you’d have it all under control. And are
you
OK?’

Why did everyone keep asking me that? It had to be Smithies spreading his poison.

‘It’s a tough time,’ I confessed, ‘but I’m holding up.’

‘Yes indeed. And I understand you’ve been helping the police with their enquiries.’

I tensed—Townsend might be more sympathetic than Smithies but in no way did that lessen my reticence on the subject.

‘Frankly, I’m amazed it’s had so much coverage,’ I said blithely. ‘I was only clearing up a few minor points.’

‘So—Lisa Carter,’ he said, moving swiftly to the matter in hand.

‘Yes—I’m disappointed that you’ve pulled her from the partner assessment centre, despite passing the initial selection interview.’

‘I sympathise,’ he said, ‘but in the current economic climate we had to review all the candidates objectively…’

‘Yes, yes.’ It irked me beyond belief to be palmed off with the same drivel as I dished out to others. ‘But what was the review process?’