Concealment (9 page)

‘On what grounds?’

‘Oh come on,’ he said. ‘You’re an experienced partner, not a bloody first year trainee—I don’t have to explain how the world works. We compromise him out.’

In other words, pay him off and make him sign an agreement not to sue the firm for unfair dismissal. Pearson Malone management hated compromise agreements because they cost money, but they were miles quicker than a disciplinary process. And in this case, speed was evidently of the essence.

‘What happens if he’s not guilty?’

‘Amy, sometimes you can be so naïve,’ said Smithies. ‘The Boston Strangler would have performed better in the press conference. He’s finished here, however this plays out.’

‘But he hasn’t even been charged!’

‘We can’t take the risk.’

British justice might be based on a man being innocent until proven guilty, but Pearson Malone operated to much harsher standards.

‘OK,’ I said, more to avoid further argument than because I agreed. ‘I’ll contact him to arrange a meeting with HR, if that’s what you want.’

‘It is. By the way—your TV appearance this morning was most impressive.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, bemused by the rare nugget of praise. I waited for the punchline.

‘Just as a minor point, because I’m all for people using their initiative, that interview wasn’t properly authorised, was it?’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because Media Relations was closed and you didn’t speak to me.’

‘I tried to call—left a message on your mobile.’

‘Didn’t get it—these voicemails are so unreliable.’

‘And I called you at home—didn’t your wife mention it?’

‘Oh dear—it may have slipped her mind. Look, I’m tolerably relaxed, but Eric Bailey won’t be if he finds out. He hates partners acting like loose cannons with the media.’

‘But what I said was totally innocuous.’

‘Completely,’ he agreed. ‘And I
do
sympathise.’

‘I guess it’s the principle.’

‘Egg–zackly. But don’t you worry—I’ll do my utmost to stand up for you.’

It occurred to me that the only way Bailey would discover about the incident was if Smithies told him, but I thanked him like a moron nonetheless.

‘Oh, and, Amy,’ came his parting shot. ‘Do try and relax a bit. You’ve been so tense recently, and everyone’s asking why.’

Who was everyone? I wondered.

‘I’m perfectly OK,’ I replied curtly. ‘And I’ll keep you updated on Ryan.’

The water-skiers grinned in gleeful relish at my predicament. To fire my ex’s kid brother within days of shagging him would be challenging under the best of circumstances. And meanwhile, Smithies had set me up for a bollocking from the CEO. Because the more I thought about it, it had plainly been slimy Smithies rather than Carmody who’d given my name to the press. With his usual cunning, he’d boxed me into a corner, driving me to break the rules or be slated for not using my judgement. He could have played it either way.

Back in my office, the menacing blink of the voicemail light on my phone greeted me.

Bailey. I prepared myself for the torrent of invective.

It never came.

‘Just a quick message to say congrats on your TV appearance—you came across as very human and caring. Ed Smithies is rather agitated that you didn’t jump through all the hoops, but don’t take any notice. It’s good to see that some partners in this firm aren’t afraid to step up to the plate and use their initiative when it’s needed. Thanks.’

I hadn’t expected Smithies’ treachery to backfire quite so spectacularly. But perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. It detracted from our CEO’s authority if his minions were able to predict his actions with complete accuracy all of the time.

Amy one—Smithies nil.

***

Despite that stroke of luck, I’d still plenty to cope with.

Lisa sensed my gloom, and suggested a morale-lifting trip to the Savoy for cocktails after work. I hesitated—the apprehension plaguing me stretched far beyond what a few drinks could fix, and I was still loath to confess my idiocy to her. But my half-hearted excuses failed to convince her.

I’ve always had a weakness for hotels. As a child, holidays had been a welcome respite. Then, the most basic guesthouse had seemed luxurious. But even now, plush hotels represented a life of glamour and grandeur that still, although money was no object, remained tantalisingly out of my reach.

I especially loved the Art Deco charm of the Savoy’s American Bar, with its live pianist and splendid array of bottles above the bar. And because the place evoked a bygone era, it was acceptable, even appropriate, to feel a little wistful for what might have been.

‘So—come on—what’s eating you?’ asked Lisa, as we contemplated the extensive cocktail list. A creature of habit, I always plumped for a gin martini with an olive. By contrast, Lisa chose a different drink every time.

I’d share some of my difficulties with her, I decided, but not all.

‘I’ve been told to fire Ryan. Smithies has his orders.’

She raised her eyebrows.

‘Talk about kicking a guy when he’s down.’

‘I know.’

‘And typical of bloody Smithies to delegate the hatchet job to you.’

‘Agreed.’

‘It won’t be a popular move—there’s no way anyone thinks Ryan’s got anything to do with this.’

Surprisingly, that was true. Despite his creepy performance on TV, and his demonisation in the press, nobody truly believed Ryan might be a murderer, except for Smithies and possibly me.

‘That’s irrelevant, according to Smithies. Harsh as it sounds, Ryan’s forever tainted by this.’

‘Oh well, best get it over with and move on,’ she advised. ‘It’s not the first time you’ve had to fire someone you didn’t want to.’

‘It’s easier said than done,’ I replied, as the waitress took our order. ‘Ryan’s disappeared as well. He’s not answering his phone or responding to emails.’

‘That’s hardly surprising. He sees you coming a mile off.’

‘I even called his mother to try to track him down.’

‘Wow—your ex mother-in-law,’ said Lisa, stunned. ‘How did
that
go?’

‘Chilly.’

Chilly was an understatement—she’d told me I was the last person in the world Ryan wanted to speak to before hanging up on me.

‘You sure nothing else is worrying you?’

She scrutinised me with the discernment of someone who understood me too completely for comfort.

‘Totally.’

‘There’s something, I can tell. And Smithies knows it too,’ she added darkly.

‘What—did he actually say so?’

‘Well, he’s aware we’re friends, obviously. He asked if you were OK. I said yes, as you’d expect.’ She paused. ‘I lied though, didn’t I?’

Shame pricked at my conscience. Lisa, who never lied, had put aside her principles and defended me to Smithies. I guessed I owed it to her to come clean.

The waitress set out the drinks, along with an eclectic assortment of nibbles.

‘The thing is,’ I said when she’d gone, ‘firing Ryan is a bit trickier than you imagine.’

‘Go on.’

She took a long swig of a strange pinkish confection known as a ‘Blushing Monarch.’

After a fortifying glug of my own drink, I poured out the whole story, omitting only how rough he’d been.

‘Wow,’ she said, when I’d finished. ‘These people skills courses don’t seem to cover firing someone you’ve just shagged.’

And you couldn’t help feeling there must be a reason for that.

‘I never even knew you fancied him… I mean, when I said he was cute…’

‘I didn’t fancy him, except in the moment.’

‘You were in a bit of state, saying shadows were watching you…’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, clutching at the easy defence. ‘It was a stupid drunken lapse.’

‘Have you told anyone else about this?’ Her drink had gone in an instant, and with an imperious click of her fingers, she summoned the waitress to order another.

‘No.’

‘But the police must be aware he was at yours on Friday night?’

‘No—they’re not. He told them he stayed the whole weekend at Greg’s.’

‘He lied to the police,’ she said, shocked. ‘You’ve got to ask what he’s hiding.’

‘You said he was innocent just a moment ago.’

‘This changes things. An innocent man would be keen to establish an alibi. Anyway, I guess you’ll set them straight.’

I blushed. And she stared at me aghast.

‘Seriously? You must be crazy…’

‘Ryan wants me to back him up and it’ll look bad if I give a story that’s not consistent with his.’

‘That’s his problem, not yours.’

‘But I feel…’

‘Never mind how you feel. Suppose he’s charged with murder and you’re caught out in a lie—that’s not a great place to be. It’ll come out whether you lie or not, probably in court.’

I hadn’t yet considered the possibility that this silly episode would be aired in a public courtroom. But now Lisa had pointed it out in her trenchant way, a strange queasiness came over me.

Thursday dawned—still no sign of Isabelle. The gloomy assumption that she must be dead gradually gained credence and hung like a pall of gloom over the team. In the afternoon, I watched a second press conference live on my computer. This time her parents spoke of her in the past tense and Ryan was conspicuous by his absence, forcing Carmody to deny that he was a suspect.

Detective Sergeant Holland came to interview me—a moon-faced guy who beamed engagingly through our meeting while showing remarkably little interest in what I had to say.

I answered him truthfully when he asked about my movements on Friday evening. At no point did he ask if I’d received a visitor and I saw no reason to volunteer the information. Lisa’s advice would have been sound enough if Ryan had been a suspect, but he was not. In that case, what did Ryan’s whereabouts matter?

He passed me a list of telephone numbers.

‘Do you recognise any of these?’ he asked. ‘It might save us some time.’

I assumed they’d come from Isabelle’s phone. There was no indication of when the calls had taken place, whether they’d been made or received, or how many of them there were—just a list without names.

‘Yes—a few of them. That’s Ryan’s, and Greg’s mobile, and Lisa’s and Ed Smithies.’

Isabelle had a reason to be in contact with all those, except maybe Smithies. I speculated again about an affair, or worse.

‘Did you interview Smithies?’ I asked him.

‘Oh yes, we found him most helpful.’

I pictured Smithies fawning around the police team, while giving away nothing.

‘Did he say why he’d been talking to Isabelle?’

‘Client matter.’

‘Oh—I didn’t think they worked on any clients together.’

This was untrue, but the temptation to subtly insinuate that Smithies might be in some way involved proved irresistible.

‘He said they did,’ replied DS Holland, leafing back over his notes. ‘But we’ll double-check. Are any other numbers familiar to you?’

‘No—none.’

‘Is there anything else you wish to add to your statement?’

I faltered. Surely this was the moment to explain? But instead I found myself expressing my bemusement at Isabelle’s lack of pleasure in her promotion.

‘Perhaps she found it a bit awkward, with the boyfriend, or her peers?’ he suggested.

‘Yes—that’s possible.’

Or if she’d come by it dishonestly
, I thought.

‘Anything else?’

‘No,’ I said quickly.

‘Well, do get in touch if anything springs to mind.’

‘Yes,’ I promised, avoiding his gaze. ‘I will.’

At around seven pm DCI Carmody arrived at my office and greeted me with a firm but not bone-grappling handshake.

He was perceptibly relieved to have another press briefing behind him. This one had seemed tougher than the first—he’d dealt with some aggressive questions from the assembled throng of journalists, particularly about Ryan. In the flesh, Carmody showed no hint of the stilted hesitancy he’d displayed on screen—he stood taller and sounded more authoritative. With enquiring eyes and an aquiline nose, he resembled an intelligent budgerigar. His on-trend suit—most likely M&S upper end—was set off with a pink button-down collar shirt and coordinating tie. The whole ensemble screamed ‘I am not a boring policeman’ a tad too loudly, but I could forgive him that.

‘Just dropping by to say thanks for letting us interview everyone. It’s saved us a huge amount of time.’

‘No worries.’

‘Do you fancy going somewhere for a glass of wine?’ he asked, out of the blue.

‘What, now? Surely policemen aren’t allowed to drink on duty?’ I replied inanely, fearful of a hidden agenda.

‘There’s a whole team running this enquiry you know. I’m entitled to some time off.’

‘OK then—how does Daly’s wine bar sound—it’s only round the corner?’

***

‘You’re much prettier in real life than on television,’ he observed, as we moved into a booth vacated by another couple.

I relaxed. Maybe there was no hidden agenda. The experience with Ryan had left my confidence in tatters, so the idea Carmody might find me attractive cheered me more than the first sip of wine.

‘Strange—I was thinking the same about you. Mind you, seven am isn’t my best time.’

‘I don’t much enjoy these press conferences. I guess it shows.’

‘Perhaps you need more practice.’

‘Believe it or not I’ve been on the media training course—twice—they failed me the first time.’

‘If I’d taken a course I’d have failed too.’

‘I doubt it. You’re very poised.’

It always amazed me how everyone bought into the myth of my supreme self-assurance—Smithies alone intuited the insecure confused mess lurking beneath the façade. Public speaking never troubled me at all. But then again, why should it, when putting on an act was second nature to me?

‘Thanks—but it’s a hell of a lot easier to do a short pre-prepared piece than deal with all those reporters firing questions at you. Some of them were positively hostile.’

‘Yes, but I’ve got to get to grips with it—don’t want to give them another reason to block my promotion.’

‘What reason have they given so far?’ I asked, hoping for some new weasel words to fob my people off with.