Concealment (14 page)

‘Ed Smithies met with each of the section heads and discussed each case, and he based the decision on the results of those meetings. I reviewed the findings and signed off on them. I must say, the process seemed quite fair to me.’

I didn’t agree—effectively Smithies had made the decisions and Townsend had rubber-stamped them. I suspected too that Smithies had nobbled Townsend before our meeting, but wasn’t unduly troubled. I had yet to play my ace.

‘You may have a big problem,’ I told him bluntly.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Six people in the tax practice had their partnership applications cancelled as a result of this “objective” review. You may not have noticed, but five are female and one is Asian.’

I watched his face for any trace of a reaction, but saw none.

‘I see.’

‘The potential for a discrimination claim is enormous,’ I went on, ramming the point home with all the subtlety of a pile driver.

In truth, I didn’t believe Smithies was a sexist or a racist. But that didn’t mean he’d applied any objective criteria in deciding which of the candidates to eliminate.

‘Ah, yes,’ Townsend replied, fiddling with his cufflink. ‘And are you suggesting that Lisa is planning to lodge such a claim?’

‘Well—you know Lisa—feisty, outspoken, doesn’t put up with unfairness.’

Had he noticed I’d avoided answering the question directly? I thought not—I fancied he was too busy weighing up how best to manoeuvre the situation to his advantage. Perhaps he wasn’t so different from Smithies after all. And it wasn’t exactly a lie—Lisa had alerted me to the situation.

‘That would be unfortunate,’ he said, with his usual flair for understatement. ‘Especially so soon after we’ve publicly committed to increasing the proportion of female partners.’

Finally, he’d latched onto the key issue.

‘Which is why I’m bringing the matter to your attention,’ I replied.

I must admit it puzzled me that Smithies—normally so careful to ensure every action he took was “on message”—had made such a blatant gaffe. I could only conclude that power had gone to his head and made him reckless. Still, his loss was potentially Lisa’s gain.

‘Leave it with me,’ said Townsend. ‘And thanks.’

The key question now was how he might deal with the information.

As I walked back to my office, I congratulated myself. Even as my own harshest critic I knew I’d shone. The tough, cut-through-the crap Amy was back.

The weekend passed uneventfully. I didn’t get drunk or laid and instead caught up with household tasks and shopping. By Sunday, I’d found the energy to enjoy a health-giving run in the park.

I marvelled at how capably I’d coped with the challenging circumstances of the past week. I’d appeared on live television, held the group together, fulfilled my promise to Ryan and tried to help Lisa. Even the interview with Carmody seemed less traumatic in retrospect—it wasn’t everyone who could keep cool in the face of hostile police questioning. And while Carmody’s threats about potential charges were worrying, what evidence did they have against me? If there’d been something concrete, surely he wouldn’t have been so gung-ho in releasing my name to the media.

The future seemed less bleak now too. Although the night spent with Ryan would emerge in his trial, I would deal with it. After all, there were plenty of male partners in Pearson Malone with truly appalling records of inappropriate relationships. And I’d even chased away the horrible guilt that gripped me about the murder being my fault, because I’d failed to promote Ryan. Such ridiculous self-flagellation didn’t deserve to occupy any space in my mind. Now that I was embarked on this positive thinking offensive, it also struck me that the weird Little Amy voice had been mercifully silent over the past few days. Yes—I was on the up.

Then on Sunday evening my landline rang.

‘Hello—Amy?’

My precarious equilibrium toppled in an instant as I recognised the old and quavery voice.

‘This is Cynthia Hope, your mother’s next door neighbour.’

‘Oh, hello,’ I said. The brightness of my voice bore no correlation to the dread I felt inside.

‘Your mother didn’t want me to call you.’

No kidding.

‘She said you were far too busy to be bothered.’

‘Bothered with what?’

‘She fell and broke her hip.’

‘When?’

‘The other day,’ she said vaguely.

‘Where?’

‘Outside in the street.’

I clung to a pathetic optimism that the secret might still be safe.

‘And where is she now?’

‘In the hospital. But there’s a problem.’

‘What?’

‘They won’t let her come home.’

The optimism died.

‘Why not?’

As if I didn’t know.

‘They came inside, to check it was safe for her to go back home. I gave them the key…’

My stomach tightened.

‘Yes?’

‘Have you any idea how your mother is living?’

‘No,’ I replied truthfully. ‘It’s been some time since I last saw her.’

Although I could make an educated guess.

‘Squalid is the word for that house. Something must be done.’

Squalid was the word but believe me, if anything could have been done I’d have done it.

Here’s the Big Secret—the one I kept from everyone, including my husband and my best friend.

My mother lives in clutter and filth because she likes it that way—she’s a compulsive hoarder. You tidy it up and she trashes the place again in no time at all. Left to their own devices, hoarders fill their houses to the rafters with rubbish. For all I knew, she’d reached that stage now. After all, this had been going on for thirty years.

When I was eight years old, my father dropped down dead. My life changed irrevocably from that point on. I’ll never know whether that was when the hoarding began or whether my father had kept it in check—it hardly matters. Masses of stuff came into the house but little left it, and it quickly became so chronically untidy and dirty that no outsider could be allowed to enter. I tried to clear it up, but it was no use—the house grew more and more chaotic, because I wasn’t allowed to throw anything out. After a couple of years the plumbing broke, but repairmen couldn’t be allowed to see the mess so they didn’t get called.

And I was forbidden to tell anyone how we lived. Even as an adult I kept the Big Secret because somehow it must reflect badly on me to have grown up in a shit hole.

I left as soon as I could and got on with the business of pretending to be a successful professional leading a charmed existence. And no doubt my bravura performance had fooled them all, despite the quivering jelly underneath the façade. Not even Smithies would suspect I’d been raised in a trashcan. But the time for avoiding the truth had passed, as deep down I’d known it eventually would.

‘Something
must
be done,’ she repeated.

‘What do you suggest?’

‘I think you need to see it for yourself—it won’t be a simple matter to resolve this…’

I didn’t need to see, but in a moment of weakness brought on by shock I agreed to go over the following afternoon.

I put down the phone and poured myself a mega gin and tonic, breaking my alcohol-free weekend. But no amount of booze could assuage the feelings of panic and shame. People now knew, had properly seen, what a pigsty my mother lived in. And naturally they must all be asking themselves,
how can Amy let her mother live like that
?

Paradoxically though, I couldn’t stop her.

‘
What a muddle you’re in
,’ piped up a familiar little voice, full of self-righteous condemnation. ‘
I knew this would happen eventually.’

Little Amy stood in front of the fireplace; in the same outfit she’d been wearing the night Isabelle had died. There could be no doubt now—the voice I’d been hearing for the past couple of weeks was hers.

I closed my eyes and opened them again. She was still there. And disbelief gave way to a grudging recognition that I must be less together in my head than I’d thought.

Voicemail message from Eric Bailey

Hello, this is Eric Bailey with a message to all our people.

As you may know, the police announced on Friday that Ryan Kelly, an employee of this firm, has been charged with the murder of Isabelle Edwards, another member of staff.

Naturally, we struggle to accept that one of our own people could be the perpetrator of such a terrible crime. Nevertheless, we are doing everything we can to cooperate with the police in their enquiries.

Now, it’s important to remember that under the fundamental principles of UK justice, Ryan is to be regarded as innocent until proved guilty. But it’s also worth pointing out that in this country the police do not generally bring charges without solid evidence.

In these challenging times, I would remind you all about our rules on speaking to the media. Any infringement of those instructions by staff or partners, however senior, will be viewed with the utmost seriousness. Likewise, you should refrain from making any comment on internet chat rooms or social networking sites.

I trust I can rely on your professional judgement and discretion in this matter.

Thank you all in advance for your cooperation.

Translation by Amy Robinson

Let’s keep our dirt to ourselves.

Ironic or what?

With a heavy heart, I punched my mother’s Croydon address into the sat nav of my sleek Mercedes CLK, and pulled out of the underground car park.

It was impossible to estimate how much rubbish she might have accumulated in the ten years since I’d last set foot in the house, but that didn’t stop my imagination. If I pictured something truly dreadful, it might lessen the shock at what I actually found.

‘
Nah,’
said Little Amy. ‘
It’s always worse.’

She knew as well as I did how our mother could surpass our worst expectations, and seemingly take pleasure in doing so.

My former childhood home was a three-bedroom inter-war semi in a leafy avenue, with pebbledash and bay windows. From the outside, superficially at least, it resembled the other houses on the street. The garden was neat and the exterior décor no worse than some of the neighbouring properties.

Cynthia Hope was hovering impatiently at the window, awaiting my arrival. The past decade had aged her. At one time she’d been a force to be reckoned with—a former headmistress. But she’d lost her vigour somewhere along the way—with a shrunken, fearful face, her tweed skirt and baggy sweater tired and pilled with age.

‘It’s good of you to spare the time,’ she began. ‘Your mother tells me you’re quite the tycoon these days—far too grand to associate with the likes of her.’

How typical of my mother to blame me for our estrangement. And how typical of Cynthia to unquestioningly accept her version of events.

Cynthia scrutinised my car with suspicion—as if it corroborated the fiction my mother had woven to explain our alienation.

‘Won’t you come in for a cup of tea first?’

I refused, although I did step inside while she fetched the key. The house was neat but dated and shabby—as my mother’s would have been if she hadn’t succumbed to this terrible hoarding sickness.

‘Would you like me to go in with you?’ she asked, although understandably she didn’t sound keen.

‘There’s no need.’

‘You might find it easier to go round the back,’ she said—I assumed because of the stiff lock. Maybe she didn’t realise I had the knack of jiggling the key at precisely the right angle.

‘No—front will be OK.’

‘Please yourself,’ she said.

As I made my way up the path, the illusion of a normal house began to unravel. Naturally the curtains were drawn, to ensure none of the neighbours saw the horrors within. But my mother never seemed to consider what they made of the dusty windows and the haphazard arrangement of flowerpots, replete with dead plants, on the inside window sill.

The lock had been stiff for as long as I could remember—a repair would have involved someone seeing inside the house. It now seemed reluctant to yield even to my much-practised nifty jiggling. But I persisted and eventually the key turned.

I’d scarcely opened the door a crack before the musty stale odour of my mother’s wasted life hit my nostrils. A visceral terror swept over me as I fought for breath. Dread of the doorbell ringing—fear that my mother would die and abandon me in that squalid pit—the relentless ordeal of keeping friends and boyfriends at bay. My whole childhood was encapsulated in that foetid odour. I steadied myself against the doorpost before pushing open the door, or rather, attempting to push it open.

I now understood why Cynthia had suggested the back entrance—I could scarcely squeeze through the front. In the gloom I saw that apart from a tiny pathway, the hall was waist-deep in a jumbled mass of debris. I caught my breath as I took in the sheer scale of the squalor—worse than my worst imaginings.

How did my mother manage? She’d been a solidly-built woman the last time I’d seen her, whose lack of self-discipline embraced overeating as well as the senseless accumulation of crap. Either she’d slimmed down, or she no longer used the front entrance. That sounds ridiculous I know—I mean any normal person would clear the clutter once it obstructed their movements——but for hoarders, stuff outplays convenience every time.

Once I’d levered myself in, I picked my way along the narrow goat trail through the mountain of rubbish. I felt calmer now—brilliant in a crisis, as ever. Among the random debris, I spotted shopping bags (never unpacked), unopened mail, newspapers, suitcases, boxes of book-club purchases, mail order packages, hats, gloves, coats, garden chairs and casserole dishes. Despite my primeval response to the smell, the scale of the mess didn’t shock me, at least not on an intellectual level. Unbridled over-acquisition combined with failure to discard led to one outcome. And the only limit to the depths plumbed (or more accurately the heights scaled) by a hoarder is the ceiling.

A chest of drawers stood in the centre of the hallway, heaped precariously with junk. As I inched round it, I must have disturbed the pile, for a huge avalanche of junk tumbled down, missing my head by inches and obliterating the small footpath.