Concealment (16 page)

I cut her off.

‘She was and is a mentally ill person, who didn’t give a shit about her little girl. And, whether you care to admit it or not, I’ve got every right to disown her and all this. If you reckon it’s so important, you can do something, since you’re obviously so fond of her.’

‘She always says you don’t care to associate with her now you’ve come up in the world.’

‘Bull. God knows the bar isn’t set high, but she doesn’t meet the minimum standard for a mother. That’s why I’ve cut off contact.’

‘But you must visit her in the hospital, surely? After all, she’s the only mother you’ve got.’

Still she clung to illusion that I would preserve all the middle-class niceties.

‘No chance.’

‘But you have a duty...’

The simmering anger finally boiled over.

‘And you had a duty to report a vulnerable child living in squalor but you shunned it. So don’t you lecture me, you sanctimonious old bitch.’

I left her standing speechless and horrified in the doorway as I rushed to the car, floored the accelerator and set off screeching down the road.

I honestly still believed I was alright. Yes, it’s odd to have a conversation with your fourteen-year-old self, but you can rationalise anything if you try hard enough—ask my mother. In my warped logic, Little Amy’s role was to help me decide whether to offer assistance. For the last ten years I’d understood that I was blameless, but now Little Amy had helped me to see that my mother’s treatment of me was abusive. This absolved me of any responsibility to help her. Little Amy’s job was done, so surely she’d leave me in peace. And as for Cynthia Hope—well a hypocritical busybody like her deserved to hear a few home truths about herself.

I put away a quarter bottle of gin and was rewarded by the worst night’s sleep ever. Seeing the hoard again had reawakened memories dormant for a decade, giving the rubbish dream a new vibrancy. Armed men pursued me through the hoard. I dived frantically into the mountains of crap to take refuge, but the bullets rained hard and fast. I woke, shaking with fear, and hurried to the bathroom to vomit.

Although I felt considerably better by the time I’d hit the office gym and arrived at my desk, the illusion of wellbeing was short-lived. Smithies had asked to see me.

He offered me tea—a bad sign. I hoped I wouldn’t puke it straight up.

‘Amy,’ he said, flashing his hideous crocodile grin. ‘How are you?’

The question freaked me out—or rather it destabilised me, to use Smithies’ own terminology. And as I’d expected a swift and brutal reprisal for my intervention over Lisa, I found his syrupy pleasantness worrying.

‘I’m good, thanks.’

The water-skiers looked down on me pityingly in the long pause that followed—a pause he hoped would be long enough to fracture the brittle façade of my composure. I steeled myself. Whatever he had in his arsenal, Smithies’ tactics wouldn’t work. I was tougher than he realised.

‘I’m sorry to say Eric Bailey took a very disturbing telephone call yesterday afternoon.’

Bonus points to Smithies for a surprise opening gambit. I’d expected him to begin by mentioning Lisa, and couldn’t imagine what lay behind this more oblique attack.

‘Yes?’ I said, trying to sound unconcerned.

I figured the call must somehow be connected with the murder investigation. Charges of perverting the course of justice or accessory to murder were hardly career-enhancing. And I remembered with a shudder how quickly they’d despatched Venner, Smithies’ predecessor. Was this my firing meeting—Smithies’ ultimate retribution?

Another lengthy pause intensified the suspense. Then he hit me with it.

‘From your mother’s neighbour—a Miss Cynthia Hope.’

Adrenalin surged through my veins, as though an invisible hand had injected a powerful narcotic. Bile rose in my throat. The game was over—he’d trapped me in the first few moves.

Clearly, the Hope woman was less frail than she’d appeared, and I’d been stupid enough to underestimate her. This man had been angling to discover my weakness ever since he’d taken charge. Now, through my own stupidity, I’d handed the dangerous knowledge to him on a plate.

‘She claims you were extremely abusive to her yesterday afternoon,’ he said. ‘Now leaving aside the lie you told Lisa about being at a marketing meeting, Miss Hope’s allegations are serious. Do you know what she told us?’

‘No.’

I could imagine, though, and I cursed Lisa for grassing me up.

‘She says she called you over when she discovered your mother was living in squalid conditions, which apparently you’ve been aware of for a while. And for this, you subjected her to a torrent of abuse, and told her you refuse to lift a finger to help.’

I said nothing.

‘I notice you’re not denying the allegations,’ he said, misinterpreting my silence.

‘I don’t have to confirm or deny anything,’ I said, when I’d summoned enough emotional strength to speak. ‘This is a personal matter. Bailey shouldn’t have been involved.’

‘But, Amy, we are all ambassadors of the firm twenty-four-seven,’ he said, trotting out the Pearson Malone cliché of the month.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘It would be open to Miss Hope to bring charges…’

‘
For what—speaking your mind? The toffee-nosed cow.’

‘But fortunately she has no intention of doing so—she merely wanted to warn us you were under a considerable strain.’

How helpful
, I thought acidly.

‘Amy, I realise the shock and guilt when you found out about your mother’s living conditions must have been terrible for you.’

He oozed with sympathy, but that didn’t make him less dangerous—quite the reverse. My track record was strong, but in the final analysis this counted for nothing. Smithies had trashed the careers of dozens of people on a whim. And without a doubt his end game was firing me. Underneath all the treacly pseudo-empathy, he’d already worked out that the latest developments presented him with an unparalleled opportunity to destroy me.

‘I’m so sorry we all failed to notice what strain you were under,’ he burbled on. ‘And it’s such a shame you felt unable to confide in us about what’s been happening in your life.’

I found it impossible to respond appropriately to this mawkish drivel, so I said nothing.

‘You didn’t have to lie about that client meeting yesterday. Every family has its challenges and absolutely no shame in it.’

I tried to imagine how Smithies would have fared if he’d grown up in a hoarded house. Would he still have the same ruthless arrogance and overweening sense of entitlement? Shit no—he’d be a wreck in a straitjacket in a padded cell in an institution.

‘We’ve all lost our tempers at a time of stress—it’s perfectly normal. And how are you to blame if the silly old woman complains to Eric Bailey? He doesn’t hold it against you, honestly. He can seem harsh and unsympathetic, but he gets it, just as I do.’

I severely doubted if either Bailey or Smithies got even a fraction of it.

‘And it must be especially trying for you, coming hot on the heels of your other worries.’

‘What other worries?’ I asked, prickling.

‘The numbers for your operating unit are simply appalling,’ he said, pointing gravely to the printout of the fortnightly profit and loss account.

I hadn’t yet seen the figures, but wasn’t surprised. In the last two weeks, the pay review, the murder of one team member and the arrest of another must have all reduced productivity. A blip in performance was wholly predictable.

‘They were bang on budget last month,’ I bleated. ‘Surely they can’t be so bad.’

‘Well, I don’t want to depress you,’ he said, hastening to do so, ‘but utilisation for the last two weeks is considerably below average. You’re behind with billings and cash collection, and as for the recovery rate on what you did manage to bill—frankly, I’ve seldom seen such a low percentage.’

‘Can’t you cut us some slack? It’s been hard for the team to concentrate, as I’m sure you appreciate.’

‘Obviously there are mitigating circumstances, but you seem so stressed at the moment, it’s unfair to burden you…’

‘It’s my job to be burdened,’ I cut in. ‘I’m touched by your thoughtfulness, but I’m honestly OK...’

He sipped at his tea and fixed me with his trademark reptilian gaze.

‘You know, I admire your strength, but sometimes you need the insight to recognise that you require help.’

This was how it went. Once the gossip started about someone suffering from stress, the outcome was all but guaranteed. Smithies had started the rumours, but like a fool, I’d played right into their hands.

Smithies moved in for the kill.

‘Now, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,’ he went on, straining hard to convey his sorrow at the bad tidings about to follow. ‘But Bailey, Townsend and I all agreed it would be advisable to relieve some of the pressure on you.’

‘You did?’

‘So we’ve decided that pro-tem, I should take over the running of your group.’

I should have anticipated this—not firing, but a demotion—the first step towards it. He’d lost no time in playing the new cards I’d dealt him to his maximum advantage. What a mug I’d been.

‘What—you mean I’m not group leader anymore?’

‘Egg-zackly—just for the time being, though.’

‘But surely…’ I began.

‘Yes, yes, I know what you’re going to say,’ said Smithies, without giving me the opportunity to say it. ‘And it’s so brave of you to keep battling on against the odds.’

‘It’s two weeks’ results,’ I said, trying in vain to modulate the rising pitch of my voice. ‘With extenuating factors…’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘There are always extenuating factors.’

‘But I’m perfectly fine.’

‘Amy, the way you’re overreacting to this temporary change appears to validate my thought process.’

That was another tried and tested technique. They did something to upset you, and then cited your distress as justification for their action.

Temporary change—bollocks—he’d appoint one of his toadies and cut me out. And without a leadership role, I’d be a sitting duck in any downsizing of the partner team. Everything I’d fought so hard for over the years hung in the balance—all through my own stupidity and weakness.

‘I felt sure you’d understand once you got used to the idea,’ he said, interpreting my silence as acquiescence.

But I refused to give in without a fight.

‘I’m only too familiar with your agenda,’ I told him. ‘Before long, you’ll install one of your own guys as leader. That’s been your game plan from the start.’

He shook his head sadly. However true the accusation, even uttering it evidenced paranoia.

‘Look, you seem to have issues none of us were aware of,’ he said, in his most avuncular tone. ‘I’ve suspected something of the sort for a while now. I won’t ask you how your mother came to be in such a terrible state...’

And I won’t tell you
.

‘But what a pity you felt unable to open up to anybody here. We like to think of ourselves as an extended family as you know, and our employee-counselling programme is second to none. I would urge you to make use of it, by the way—it’s strictly confidential. But in the meantime, please have faith in us while we make your life easier.’

‘Seems like I don’t have much choice,’ I replied bitterly.

‘And can I offer you some advice?’

I suspected the advice would be forthcoming even if I said no.

‘I think you have a hard time trusting people. You should loosen up a bit. There’s no reason you couldn’t have told us about your mother’s situation.’

Except there was a reason, and he was it.

‘And in a similar vein, I felt hurt by the lack of trust you placed in me over Lisa’s promotion. I’m at a loss to understand why you didn’t discuss it with me before running to Townsend.’

I clamped my mouth firmly shut, afraid of what I might say.

‘But rest assured, all this will remain strictly
entre nous
including, for the avoidance of doubt, your inappropriate relationship with Ryan, of which we’ll say no more.’

It would have appalled me that he’d found out, but somehow the discovery of the hoarding had eclipsed the Ryan issue to the point where I simply felt numb. Bloody Greg must have spilled the beans—just when I’d begun to put the hurt of our divorce behind me and believe in him as a decent human being. It went to show, you couldn’t rely on anyone.

I saw with appalling clarity how it would play out from here. Smithies had already broadcast my issues with alcohol and stress, and capitalised on my possible involvement in the murder. Now on top of that, he could allude to impropriety with Ryan, in addition to unspecified family problems adversely affecting my performance. What an overabundance of ammunition I’d provided him with. Even without making specific allegations, his snide insinuations would give the blackest possible impression. With every drip of his poison, people would lose faith in my ability and judgement, and I’d be powerless to arrest my descent on this downward spiral. No question about it—my career at Pearson Malone was over.

‘Anyway, sermon finished,’ he said in an artificially bright tone that I found immensely dispiriting. ‘I do hope reducing your workload will give you an opportunity to sort your life out. And I’m always happy to chat if you feel the need.’

Hell would freeze over first.

‘And in the meantime, I hope you don’t mind me saying so but you might be happier if you helped your mum, even though you’re not keen. Guilt is an insidious emotion—eats away at you.’

How would he know?

‘Perhaps if you hired someone to have a little clean around.’

I restrained myself from laughing out loud as I grasped that he had no conception of the scale of the squalor. Like most normal people, he simply couldn’t imagine it.

‘After all,’ he concluded. ‘She’s the only mother you’ve got.’

‘
Yes,’
said Little Amy. ‘
And that’s the whole fucking problem.’

And for once, I agreed with her.

When Eric Bailey’s number flashed up on my phone later in the day, I supposed he’d be following up on the Cynthia Hope incident. But instead, a different topic preyed on his mind.