Concealment (26 page)

But they’d botched it.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘Yes, no worries—see you tomorrow.’

I shook uncontrollably. Good sense, let alone paranoia, suggested this was no coincidence. My plan to steer clear of all this nonsense had run up against a major hitch—I knew too much already to be safe.

Without thinking I hit Carmody’s number on the phone.

‘
Uh, uh,’
said Little Amy.
‘I can’t believe you still trust that creep.’

What did she know—silly little bitch? She still trusted our mother to clear up the house.

He answered on the first ring.

‘Amy?’

‘Somebody tried to run me down.’

‘Where?’

Incredibly, he didn’t sound shocked—but I suppose nothing fazes police officers.

‘Arundel Street.’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No—no—I’m OK, sort of.’

‘Did you get the registration number?’

‘No—too quick…’

‘Type of car?’

‘I’m not sure—some big SUV?’

‘Any witnesses?’

I looked around me. The few people who’d been in the street had all hurried on, as everyone does in London.

‘No… not any more. It was JJ—he called me while they tried to kill me. He must have found out I saw a drug farm at the slate mine. Maybe he knows about the warehouse at East Grinstead too—that’s where they deliver the cannabis. I didn’t actually see it, but I’m right. Why else would they try to shoot me? And that’s why Isabelle was killed—she had all the same information as I did—the phony invoices, the bank statements, the whole blinking lot. So I got it wrong—it’s not Smithies—it’s JJ, or his son—I guess you realise his son’s a drug dealer. But I worked it out. The drug money paid those invoices off, though I can’t fathom how they got the cash back. So there was a fraud after all.’

This deluge of information made total sense to me, but Carmody sounded less convinced.

‘Amy,’ he said. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way…’

A ‘but’ was coming.

‘But have you been drinking?’

‘Yes, but not much, I only…’

‘You’re not making much sense and you sound kind of drunk…’

‘So you don’t believe me…’

‘I believe you’re telling the truth as you see it, but it does seem astonishing that someone would try to mow you down like that.’

‘But someone did—you
must
treat this seriously.’

‘I wish I could.’

‘You have to do
something.
’

‘You’re not hurt, so in the absence of further evidence there’s nothing I can do.’

‘Ah, I see.’

And indeed I did see—he had no intention of potentially making a fool of himself by acting on the ranting of a hysterical drunken woman.

‘I suggest you jump into a cab back to Chiswick and sleep this off…’

The patronising git.

‘I suggest you get stuffed,’ I said, and hung up.

‘
Told you.’

***

Whatever Carmody thought, I hadn’t drunkenly stepped in front of an oncoming car. No—this had been a serious attempt to eliminate me. I did know the difference.

They’d pulled a gun on me the previous night and now they’d discovered my identity and location. I hurried to the Tube station, ears pricked and eyes casting neurotically around for any sign of a repeat attack. Despite my fears, I made it onto the train safely and flopped down in a seat, still shaking, with relief now rather than fear. But a sense of realism tempered my relief. They’d botched this attempt to kill me—next time I might not be so lucky.

‘
Carmody doesn’t give a shit. And you gotta ask why.’

‘His promotion, obviously. He doesn’t want anyone to find out he arrested the wrong person.’

‘
No—there’s more. He’s hiding something from you.’

‘But what?’

Without thinking, I’d been speaking out loud, and people in the carriage were staring at me oddly. I’d have to be more careful. And for once, Little Amy must have agreed with me, because she didn’t say another word on the journey home.

Four weeks ago, my only worries had been Smithies, the upcoming pay review and Lisa’s promotion. I hadn’t yet slept with Ryan, Isabelle was alive and my mother’s hoarding out of sight and out of mind. I still had my job as group leader and Lisa was my friend. And I had no idea that the new clients I’d taken on were fraudsters. Best of all, a pesky little kid who claimed to be my past self wasn’t yet hounding me.

She was onto me again as I picked up the gin bottle on arriving home.

‘Not
a great idea,’
she said, shaking her head. ‘
Honestly, an old biddy like you should have more sense.’

‘OK, Miss Goody Two Shoes—I’m fed up of your pious twaddle. Do you ever consider that you might be responsible for how I’ve grown up?’

‘
Bloody typical—everyone always blames me for everything. Anyway, even it is my fault I can’t help it. I’m an abused child—you told me so yourself.’

‘I despair! I cannot believe I’m here talking to you—you’re not real.’

‘
Oh—I disagree,’
she said, smirking.
‘I’m the most real person you know.’

‘Well, I’ve had enough of you. I’m ordering you to go away and leave me alone—forever.’

‘
OK—OK. I know when I’m not wanted. But remember—I told you—I’m always with you.’

I made to pour out my gin, but thought better of it. When I looked again, she’d gone.

I checked and double-checked all the doors and windows, then set the alarm. Though I was as secure as possible in the circumstances, I didn’t feel safe at all. I fell into bed fully clothed.

I lay in the darkness, buzzing and unable to settle, certain that Little Amy was close by, watching me and judging. And I wasn’t wrong.

‘
Use your brains, for fuck’s sake.’

Language, please, child, although who was I to talk. I sat up, switched the light on to find her critically appraising the contents of my wardrobe. How dare she, in that yellow jumpsuit—a garment so hideous she must surely have broken the rule of a lifetime and discarded it.

Still, the little bitch had a point. I’d missed something, and for my own safety, for my own sanity, I needed to find what it was.

‘If you’re so smart,’ I said. ‘How come I grew up so dumb?’

‘
I dunno,
’ she replied. ‘
You do realise these clothes are extremely boring. I think I’ll kill myself if I grow up into you.’

Go ahead
, I thought.

‘So where do I start, clever clogs?’

‘
I’d get rid of the whole bloody lot.’

What a cheek, especially coming from someone who had no concept of throwing stuff out.

‘Not with the clothes, with JJ.’

‘
You have to connect JJ with Parallax.’

Sure. JJ was behind the attempt to kill me, without a doubt. It couldn’t be a fluke that I’d been on the phone to him when the car had come at me. But how had he tracked me down?

And then I twigged—Smithies—they were in cahoots. Yes, Smithies had tipped them off when I left the party.

‘Have a safe journey home.’ Smithies’ parting words played back inside my head. And all the while he’d been aware of JJ’s plans for me. Heartless—utterly heartless.

Somehow I must find the evidence to join the dots. Without question, proof that JJ was connected with Parallax would be useful. And yes, I’d tried and failed before, but perhaps I hadn’t tried hard enough. In retrospect, most of my failures had arisen because of lack of effort and willpower—even clearing up the hoard.

‘
So who
are
the directors of Parallax?’

Great question, kid. I should revisit the register of directors and shareholders.

One director’s name stood out as unusual—Roderick Lavender. I googled him.

First up was a Facebook page.

‘
Check his friends,
’ urged my pesky alter ego. Her astute suggestions narked me immeasurably. Had I really been so annoying at her age? For a nanosecond, I sympathised with my mother.

‘What do you know about Facebook?’ I chided. ‘It didn’t exist when I was you.’

‘
So what,’
she said. ‘
It exists now.’

Roderick had been savvy enough to set up his privacy settings so only friends could see what he posted. However, like many Facebook users, he hadn’t restricted the visibility of his list of friends.

One of them was Jason Jupp.

I was in business. Easy to have your chums front you as a company director, or as a shareholder. And how would anybody find out unless they trawled through social media sites? Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

Impatient for more, I clicked the link to Jason’s page. He too allowed open access to his friend list. And up popped the names of the remaining two Parallax directors.

Result—I’d made connections between Jason and drugs, and Jason and Parallax.

All I needed was a way to link Parallax with the drugs, apart from another abortive trip to East Grinstead.

‘
Bank statements.’

I wanted to tell her to shut up, but I needed her. She was my brain—she was guiding me.

All the deposits in the Parallax account came by BACS from a company called Impex Ltd. It was odd for a company to have one customer, and as I’d spotted before, even odder for drug transactions to be paid for by bank transfer. I mean, with all the anti money laundering rules, it must be a real challenge to introduce drug money into the banking system. Yet Impex had coolly wired millions to Parallax over the last few years.

In the beginning, most of the money had been paid away from Parallax by cheque. It was impossible to tell where without Chloe Fenton’s assistance, which I felt certain wouldn’t be forthcoming. But then a couple of months ago a flurry of BACS payments totalling three and a half million to JJ Resources had cleared all the amounts owed.

But once again, why pay drugs money to the JJ company? And who was Parallax’s mysterious customer?

‘
Time to do due diligence on Impex
.’

This mini-me was amazing. I’d never heard the words ‘due diligence’ at her age.

I fully expected Impex Limited to be a shell company with nominee shareholders and directors, but there I was wrong. The company described itself an import-export agent, with a proper website, and a business established for several years. A company search revealed they’d filed accounts, all meticulously set out and audited.

This threw me. Were they after all genuine customers of a genuine firm?

‘
Import export agents are prime fronts for money laundering
,’ Little Amy informed me.

How the hell did she know? My fingers flew as I called up a search on the directors.

There were two of them—Darren Mayhew and Carol Andersen. They had everything you’d expect, down to their professional profiles on LinkedIn. Darren’s photograph stirred a vague memory, but I struggled to place him. The address on the register was the same for both, and it checked out to the electoral roll too.

‘
They’re aliases, obviously.’

But if they were, they’d been elaborately and comprehensively constructed. Darren’s biography gave his education as being Oldham Grammar, a school which no longer existed. I checked Friends Reunited—nothing doing, but far from conclusive—the network had fallen out of favour in recent years.

‘
When were they born?’

My mind now hared ahead of Little Amy’s. Of course—Genes Reunited lets you search for birth and death records. I had Darren’s date of birth from the directors’ register so away I went. I clicked on “search all records”—only one birth with that name and surname in the relevant year, but in Slough, not Oldham. Oddly, there had been a death in the same year. Father, grandfather perhaps.

‘
Nah,’
said Smarty Pants. ‘
Old men weren’t called Darren then.’

I downloaded the certificates. Darren and Carol were both real enough, until that is they’d died in infancy.

‘
Wow, they’re using the identities of dead kids.’

I clicked back to LinkedIn. I figured it must be tricky to fabricate a whole profile, but both seemed to have a comprehensive list of contacts. Neither had any jobs listed before Impex, though, which I guessed would make the task of constructing a mock persona easier.

This was significant progress, but I’d gone as far as I could tonight. Tomorrow I’d take a trip to Impex’s business premises, or maybe the directors’ home, but for now I must try to get some sleep. Nobody can run on empty forever, however wired.

As I attempted to settle back down, I remembered. Darren was the guy I’d met in Daly’s the first evening with Carmody. They’d worked together, Carmody had said.

In an intense flash of lucidity, I finally understood the truth. Carmody had been hiding something. They were all in it, Smithies, Jim Jupp, his son and a bent policeman. And Ryan had been their scapegoat.

I woke with a start at eleven-fifteen, seized by a conviction that I must go into work immediately so as not to raise their suspicions.

In hindsight, this belief had little logical merit. It certainly didn’t warrant flying out of the house without showering and still wearing the same clothes as the night before.

Smithies was after me before I’d even grabbed a coffee.

‘Can you spare me a few minutes?’

‘When?’

‘How about now?’

I shook with fear as I replaced the phone in its cradle.

No doubt Smithies was disappointed not to be announcing my untimely demise. But now what would he do?

‘Come in, Amy, and sit down,’ he said. His calculated gentleness made me shudder.

‘Now—do you have any idea why I wanted us to meet this morning?’

I shook my head, although a connection with their failure to kill me seemed probable.

‘Don’t look so worried. My turn to be worried today.’

‘Why’s that?’ I asked, a shade too belligerently.

‘I’m concerned about your mental health.’

He sounded for the world as though he meant it, which disturbed me more than anything.

‘It’s clear that relieving you of the stress of the group leader role hasn’t done the trick.’