Dying for Millions (24 page)

‘You can be allergic to the most innocuous things in nature – dogs and cats, not to mention all those nice country flowers. Hellebore's a flower, come to think of it … Andy,' I said, pushing myself from the table, ‘I'll eat later. I'm off upstairs now, to my study.'

‘You mean that little box room? You usually work down here.'

‘I've got the printer and modem up there. Now, I mustn't be interrupted. Tell anyone who should phone I'm flat out with a migraine – OK?'

It was better not to allow him time to reply, so I strode out briskly, ran up the stairs, and closed the door.

I'd expected myself to be sick with apprehension. To fumble hopelessly. I'd even written down the password, lest I forget it at the psychological moment. But I was so calm I frightened myself. And because I was calm, it was easy. Mechanical. If I ever left William Murdock, perhaps I could write a Hackers' Handbook. I erased the offending lines and closed down the system: whoever now tried to print from them would get the same, innocuous invoices. Standing and stretching – perhaps it had generated more tension than I'd realised – it occurred to me that since I knew who the continental suppliers were, I could have a go at rewriting their files too. Retrieving all Gurjit's papers from my little safe, I settled down for a more earnest hack. But my concentration wasn't such that I could ignore the front doorbell followed by a man's voice directly under my feet.

Chris!
What the hell was he doing at this hour, and in this weather? There was no time to get the paperwork back into the safe – he'd see me scuttling along the landing – so I shoved it into my marking file. Better get out of the system quickly. Come on, come on …

Why the hell wasn't Andy keeping him downstairs? Shit! But the screen was just asking if I'd finished when he burst in.

No, he didn't burst. Not Chris. A more stately entrance you couldn't have imagined. But he'd register the computer screen fading, and the fact that I was using the modem: he couldn't fail to. And there was nervous edge to my voice he'd pick up, for all my striving to be relaxed.

‘Not interrupting anything?' he asked.

‘Just saving something,' I said, sunny with innocence. And truth. ‘But I've finished now.' I stood, and stepped towards him and the door; the room was so narrow he had no option but to back out. ‘What brings you here on a night like this?' I asked, trying to sound pleased.

‘The night like this. My central-heating's packed up, I've got a bagful of washing and have you eaten? Something smells good.'

Fortunate, really. Or he might have smelt a rat.

I was sure he had, come to think of it. Throughout the meal, he kept looking at me when he thought I wouldn't notice; and afterwards, from the speed Andy checkmated him, his mind couldn't have been on the chessboard. What had he seen? At least I had had a chance to conceal the papers again when I went to the loo. But had Andy said anything to make him suspicious? He was only a musician, not an actor, after all. I was tense and trembling enough to drop the soap powder all over the floor, and I knew I was smiling too much. Andy clearly wanted to catch my eye; I would have loved the chance to reassure him about the hack – not to mention asking what he'd said to Chris, or Chris to him. But, despite getting outside three glasses of Merlot, Chris didn't need the lavatory until we all stood to go to bed.

Then I discovered another thing about breaking the law: it gives you hang-ups about bonking a policeman who trusts you. This time it was I who turned a cold back.

For once the classic inability of a central-heating engineer to predict anything approaching an exact time of arrival was a bonus: it got Chris out of my hair soon after eight. Presumably he had reckoned it would be too cold for him back home to iron his shirts: I could think of no other explanation for their continued presence in my kitchen. Naturally, I ignored them; I had work to do. As I plodded upstairs, however, it struck me that a pile of newly-ironed shirts would offer an exquisite hint of an alibi, a fact which struck Andy less hard than I'd have liked. However, eventually he admitted that ironing had been one of the skills I'd inculcated into him years ago, and he got stuck in, to the accompaniment of Radio Three.

As I fished the papers out of the safe yet again, I had sudden doubts. Was this urge to conceal the material going to betray me? Wouldn't the papers be safer tucked in with my marking? But, rationally, who was going to check up anyway? No one, not if I did my job properly.

Germany turned out to be relatively easy; I emerged stiff but triumphant.

‘There! That's that job jobbed,' I said.

‘You look knackered. I'll massage your shoulders as soon as you've had your lunch.'

‘Lunch?'

‘Well, it is nearly two. What'll you have?'

‘
Two
!' Relatively easy, was it? When was I going to find time to deal with Switzerland? In the meantime, trying to work out what would be a tasty lunch without any onion or garlic – bearing in mind my evening activities – I headed back upstairs again to hide those papers.

I was too stiff to do any more this afternoon. In fact, despite my leaking boots, making a snowman seemed the ideal occupation. Chris, returning to take Andy and me to the wine-tasting, groped for adequate words to describe our creation – or perhaps he simply found the whole occupation simply beyond his comprehension. At last Andy found a way of making him loosen up. He pelted him with snowballs.

We ought to have won, Ian and I. It was my fault we didn't. I kept on forgetting names of the most familiar grapes.

‘Never mind! Third's better than nothing,' said Ian gamely.

‘Not when bloody Andy comes in first.' I did not add that having Stephenson come in first with him was even more galling. Presumably it had something to do with the discovery of Malpass's name on that list. And come to think of it, what was she doing sloshing umpteen varieties of wine round her mouth when she and her team should be out locating murder suspects? And, moreover, why, when Chris went to give her a fraternal cheekbuss, did she turn so she took it on the mouth?

I wish I was a better loser.

Sunday started – surprisingly – with a bonk. It continued with breakfast and thence to Chris's for lunch. I predicted, rightly, that he and Andy would lock horns over the chessboard, and had taken my marking and preparation: Joyce, mostly, and
The Dead
. Chris took time off to congratulate me on the excellence of my ironing; I could see the effort it took Andy not to claim the praise for himself. The afternoon drifted into evening, with Chris resolving to stay over till the following morning, and suggesting I made up the spare bed for Andy: obliging of him. And neither Andy nor I could think of a reason not to. Perhaps it was just as well: as bonks went, it was the most adventurous and satisfying I'd ever had with Chris. He even made sure the duvet was tucked round me when he set off at five.

I was up soon afterwards myself, going home to change. I left Andy where he was: apparently Ian had plans which involved collecting him later in the day. So I was alone in my house for a while – long enough to get breakfast, to shower and wash my hair, and go through the post. ‘Lonely but free' had been Brahms's motto – I whistled the theme to the
Third Symphony
to remind myself. But the sound echoed round the empty rooms. Maybe I should think of taking in a lodger? Despite the central-heating, I shivered: someone walking over my grave. Not mine, if I could help it! It occurred to me that the little canister Chris had given me might be more useful on my person than in the kitchen: if there were another attack there was no guaranteeing it would be in such a convenient location. I shoved it in my bag.

To work, then. As I parked, Richard drew up: I waited for him, observing the hunch of his shoulders, the down-turned mouth, the greyness of his skin. How long had his hair been silvering? It was white, now, at the temples. All this for a William Murdock that no longer cared about him or the fact that he was wifeless. I found I had opened my arms to cuddle him – a gesture I had quickly to convert to a slapping across the chest against the cold wind. He smiled, if such a wan movement of the mouth can be called a smile, and fell into step beside me. He shot a couple of glances at me, keen, at a guess, to ask me to keep quiet about Thursday night. What could I say? A rhetorical ‘Your secret is safe with me?'

‘Are you staying on in Brum when you leave?' I asked at last, hoping he'd pick up the sub-text of my question.

He nodded. ‘They say you shouldn't do anything in a hurry when you retire.'

‘I hope you'll keep in touch,' I said, turning to face him before we went into the foyer. ‘You could risk some of my cooking.'

‘That's very kind of you,' he began, awkwardly.

I shook my head. ‘I should enjoy it. You might not!'

He smiled. Then he nodded his head, almost imperceptibly. Yes: he could trust me not to blab. We waited for the lift together.

As we chugged up, I wondered about Gurjit. It was inevitable that she should seek me out, and I clearly had to say something that would reassure her about her work, both at college and at the airport. What could I say? That I'd like to knee-cap her father? That she should pursue her relationship with Mark, no matter what? Or would she be better to pursue the career her parents – correction, her father – wanted? She was academically gifted, she'd enjoy the Merc, and she might well be happier married to someone of her own background. Perhaps all she had was a crush – love at first sight was pretty unreliable. Sometimes.

‘Are you all right, Sophie?'

‘Sure. Why not?'

‘You sighed as if – you're sure?'

I must have sounded bad for Richard to notice. I pulled myself up and straightened my shoulders. ‘I'm fine,' I said.

So I was, compared with Gurjit. Her black clothes hanging drably on her, she leaned against the wall outside the staff room as if she could no longer support her own weight. Her skin was blotchy – from crying if her eyes were anything to go by, though she insisted she merely had a cold when I questioned her.

‘My father is right,' she said, pre-empting anything I might have said. ‘My college studies must come first. The hours have been over-long, and I'm not sufficiently at home at a keyboard to clear the backlog as quickly as Mark needed it cleared. I let him down – just as I've let you down by pulling out like this.'

I shook my head. ‘You stuck at it longer than most. And it sounds as if Mark asked too much of you.'

‘I'm afraid his expectations were too high.'

She didn't talk as if she were suffering from a broken heart; but in my experience that didn't mean she wasn't.

‘I'll tell you what I'll do,' I said, as if I'd just been struck with inspiration. ‘I'll go round to the airport myself tonight and see how much of the backlog I can clear, shall I? And tell him officially that you've left. With a bit of luck he'll be so pleased by the amount we achieved between us he'll give you a smashing reference. Would you want – I could take a message for you.'

She smiled, painfully, shook her head. ‘What about that fraud?' she asked, with an obvious effort.

I hoped I'd got away with that. ‘Something's obviously been going on. But I doubt it's that serious. I'll talk to him tonight, shall I?'

She lost what little colour she'd had. ‘He's bound to blame me …'

Logic didn't come into it, did it? And I thought of her parents, and mourned her lost self-esteem.

‘He won't.'

‘I'd really rather you said nothing – to anyone, Sophie.'

‘Not even to the person who I think has been doing it?'

‘Could you – really?'

‘I've no proof.' With a bit of luck I wouldn't have, anyway. ‘But I've got a suspicion. Let me see what I can do.' It occurred to me that there were other people than Richard in the world who might need a hug; I reached up and gave her one. ‘Remember: you know where to find me if you need me.'

Her smile was watery, but brave. And then her eyes, catching sight of something behind my back, widened in horror; I turned, following their gaze.

Nothing out of the ordinary, not at William Murdock, deplore it how I might. A young woman dressed from head to toe in black, her face veiled so heavily that there was not more than a two-by-six-inch slit for her eyes. If Gurjit's eyes had been smeared with tears, this woman's were bloodshot with bruising: she staggered, rather than walked, along the corridor.

‘Halima!' Gurjit breathed. She turned to me. ‘It's Halima. See you later, Sophie.' And she strode off, purposeful again, putting her arms gently round the other woman's shoulders. She glanced quickly back at me. Yes, she knew where to find me. If she needed me.

Having such a splendid young woman putting so much trust in me was scarcely likely to make me feel any better about my criminal activities. OK, there were hundreds of other young women who would benefit from Andy's Third World work – but I'd spent all my life not only on the side of right but inculcating it into others. If I could get off my high horse and be simply pragmatic it would be better for all concerned. Nearly all. Not the drugs companies, of course, but I found it hard to squeeze a tear for the big multinationals. Their shareholders? Nice ordinary people like me? Surely, a few pence off their dividends wouldn't hurt anyone. I squared my shoulders. I'd whip through the paper records that were left, get them into the post, zap home and spend the night talking to Switzerland. And tomorrow please God, I could start living a normal life again.

Normal. Except for the fact that someone from Andy's past was trying to kill him – and wouldn't mind getting his evil mitts on me. I fingered the canister in my bag.