Getting Even (32 page)

“I can take a hint when I'm not wanted.” And he wandered off.

“Twat.” Clearly Ursula was in the mood to be candid. Great—it was the lead Orianna was looking for.

“Actually, Urs, I didn't come over here to talk to you about Cassie.”

“What then?”

“There's someone else I wanted to ask you about. But it'll look a bit dodgy if we carry on sitting here like this.” She glanced about her, and, sure enough, there was Russell, eyes narrowed, watching them across the table. He might not be able to hear them, although it wouldn't surprise Orianna to learn he had lip-reading down to a fine art.

“Oh?”

“Russell,” she murmured. “But it's something pretty serious.”

“How serious?”

“Serious, serious. Serious enough to get me in big trouble if he gets wind of what I'm telling you, but equally serious enough to get the agency into even bigger trouble if I don't confide in someone.”

Ursula sussed the situation with typical efficiency. “How about we take a little walk?”

“Excellent idea.”

Ursula got to her feet. “Better not be seen leaving together. Follow me in a bit. I'll meet you outside the Curzon on Shaftesbury Avenue in five.”

 

38. Villainy, villainy, villainy!

The Saturday after the Kettner's party, Orianna met Ursula again, on a bench in Soho Square. If they were going to snoop around the agency as agreed, they'd decided it was best done over the weekend, when the likelihood of discovery was remote, and Saturday was better than Sunday—recession or no recession, even the most diligent employees rarely darkened the doors of Green on weekends. More to the point, they could be almost certain Russell wouldn't show. No matter how much he pressured others to work all hours, it was well-known the weekend was when he returned to his wife and family in the country.

Orianna was a few minutes early, but Ursula was already waiting.

“Got your keys?” asked Ursula.

Orianna jangled her pocket—as creative director, she was privy to a set.

“Let's go then.” Ursula jumped up and hugged her overcoat to her skinny frame. “It's bloody freezing.” Their breath steamed in the icy air.

Once inside, they headed straight up to the top floor. As usual, Russell's door was open.

“His cabinets will be locked,” whispered Orianna. It was as if she could feel their financial director's presence even though he was miles away.

Ursula tugged at the drawers regardless. “Bugger.”

“Now what?”

“We could try his PC.” Ursula bent to flick on the hard drive. But Orianna didn't hold much hope of cracking Russell's password even with two of them, and ten minutes and a great deal of cursing later, she was proven right.

“Next?”

Ursula scanned the office. “You found this Harvey Nichols statement in his in-box?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps we should go through that again.” She reached for the three-tier stack and took a seat. “One of us better keep watch. Why don't you wait by the door of the department—let me know if someone's coming? Only don't be too obvious.”

“Sure.” Some found Ursula's stridency overbearing, yet it had never bothered Orianna. And now, despite her nerves, she had to smile. It's because Ursula's this capable I sought her help, she thought.

As she sat waiting on one of the communal sofas thumbing her way through a directory of illustrators, it seemed Ursula was taking forever to inspect Russell's papers, but eventually she came bounding over.

“Look.” She plonked herself next to Orianna. “It's just a hunch…”

“So was my theory about that statement,” reminded Orianna.

“Yeah, exactly. But—see all these invoices?” She checked the door then proudly brandished a stack of papers.

“Yes.” They looked exactly like the ones Orianna had seen in Russell's in-box a few weeks earlier. “They're from suppliers. Nothing untoward there, surely?”

“I reckon they could be fake.”

“Fake?”

“Yes. Who
are
these suppliers? I don't recognize them, do you?”

Orianna peered closely at the cream-colored paper. M
ONTANO
& S
ONS,
P
RINTING
& R
EPROGRAPHICS.

“No,” she admitted.

“Me neither.” Ursula's voice accelerated in excitement. “And-I-would-have-thought-wouldn't-you?-that-one-or-the-other-of-us-would-have-heard-of-a-printer-that-the-agency-was-using-this-much?” She paused for breath and slowed herself. “I haven't heard of them either, and trust me, I know most of the printers in London. So I searched on Yell-dot-com, and there's no record of Montano and Sons at this address.”

“Are you sure they weren't just ex-directory?”

“Why would a printer be ex-directory? I've Googled them too—there's no printer with that name anywhere. Which is odd, don't you think?” She didn't wait for a reply and her voice sped up again. “Yet-according-to-these-invoices-we're-putting-tens-of-thousands-of-pounds'-worth-of-business-their-way.”

Orianna frowned. “But what's the point of doing that?” Then it dawned on her.
“You're saying he's forging invoices so he can pay himself?”

“Precisely.” Ursula sat back on the sofa, smugly.

“Wow,” said Orianna.

“Wow indeed. I don't know exactly how he's doing it, but it's my guess he's paying the money—”

“—into his own bank account.”

“Yup. And I bet it's not an account anyone else in the agency knows about. It wouldn't surprise me if it's even offshore.”

Orianna examined the invoices again. “This is all very well, but how can we prove it?”

Ursula scratched her head. “That's where you've got me.”

“Tell you what. We need to copy these invoices before we put them back. You stay here and do that; keep an eye on the door. I'll go and give Russell's office one last look.” And before Ursula had time to come up with a better suggestion, she was off.

Once again Orianna went through the in-box. Nothing. Through the packets of paper he kept by his printer. Every single sheet was blank. Through his wastepaper basket. Nothing. She even inspected the family photos he had lining his windowsill.

Then, just as she was about to give up and leave the office, she stopped. Could it be…? Hmm, possibly … She went back to the paper by the printer. Yes, sure enough, one of the packs contained paper that wasn't white, but cream. A coincidence?

She cantered out to Ursula, a sheet in her hand, grabbed once of the invoices, and held it up to the light. “See this?”

“What?”

“Same paper.”

Ursula squinted. “Mm?”

“Here.” Orianna pointed. “It says ‘Conqueror.'”

“So?”

“It was by his printer. His personal printer—Russell's.”

“Ah.” Ursula raised her eyebrows, impressed. Then she looked doubtful. “I'm sure you're right—this is the same paper he's using to print off these invoices. Though I doubt it's enough evidence for the fraud squad, don't you?”

Orianna was deflated.

“It's just cream paper. Conqueror—it's not that uncommon, is it?”

“I guess not.”

“You can buy it in most branches of Smiths.”

Orianna sighed. “So now what?”

“We need to prove this is the
actual
paper he's using…”

In a split second it came to Orianna. “I've got it!” she exclaimed. Not for nothing was she an art director, her knowledge of markers and pens first-rate.

“Yes?”

“I've got one of those UV pens in my drawer.”

“A what?”

“Remember? Russell gave us them months ago, asked us to mark our Macs and PCs with the agency postcode. The ink's invisible, but it shows up under ultraviolet or something. So the police can trace your stuff should it get stolen.”

“Oh yeah, I do remember. How brilliant! And it'd be easy to detect if it's been printed on afterward, over the top.”

“Too bloody right. You wait here,” Orianna bossed her colleague, “and I'll go and mark every sheet of that cream paper.”

“How-are-you-going-to-mark-it?”

Orianna grinned, tickled by the divine justice. “I reckon
‘forgery'
will suffice, don't you?”

 

39. Hell and night must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light

It took weeks for Orianna and Ursula to gather evidence. Throughout the rest of January and February they had no joy at all.

“It's nearly the financial year end,” Ursula pointed out. “I reckon he's concerned he's overdone it. Our figures are grim, but still, he doesn't want the company to go under. Where would his income be then? What do you bet he waits till we're a little closer to April fifth before counterfeiting some more.”

Sure enough, come March, when Orianna made her regular Saturday checkup at the agency, she discovered three invoices in the tray which added up to several thousand dollars.

Carefully, she slid them from the in-box—noting which papers they sat between. Then she went to her office, unlocked her filing cabinet, and removed a handful of the cream Conqueror paper she had stored there. She'd bought a packet from W. H. Smiths weeks earlier, and put it by in preparation for this moment.

Next, she went to the photocopier, loaded the paper, laid the first invoice on the glass, and pressed
Copy.
Eventually it churned out—darker than the original so she adjusted the settings. It took a few attempts, but soon she had it perfect. She repeated the process for the remaining two invoices, and then she carried both sets over to the window and compared her copies with Russell's originals.

Well done, she said to herself. The difference is almost impossible to detect.

She removed the remaining Conqueror from the copier and tucked it under her arm. Then, with her copies in one hand and the originals in the other, she headed to Russell's office. She slotted the copies into the exact spot she'd found the originals. Finally, she returned to her own office, put the Conqueror back in her cabinet, found a large envelope for the originals, and popped them inside.

*   *   *

That evening, several pivotal events took place.

In Battersea, thanks to a phone call from Chloë urging him to give it a go, Rob discovered Internet dating. “It's only a small step on from those chat rooms you love,” she said. “And what have you got to lose? If you don't mind me being frank, I reckon it's high time you stopped hankering after straight boys. Surely Dan was one disaster too many?” It was true his experience with Dan made Rob cringe whenever he thought of it, so, grudgingly, he checked out a couple of sites she recommended. He opted for the one with the tastiest selection—reasoning there was little point in sharing interests if you didn't fancy one another—and it rapidly proved the ideal vent for his e-mail addiction. By midnight he'd completed his personal profile in glorious detail, scanned in a flattering shot from the wedding the previous summer, and fired off witty responses to a number of promising-looking gentlemen. Then he sat back, fingers metaphorically crossed, and waited for their answers.

*   *   *

In Hoxton, Ivy perched on the sofa, bracing herself to read her divorce papers. They'd arrived by courier at the agency, but she'd not wanted to open them in public. Now, cigarette in hand and a gin and diet tonic by her side, she was as prepared to examine the contents of the large manila envelope as she'd ever be.

She ripped it open and pulled out several sheets of paper.

It transpired they weren't actual divorce papers as such; a cover letter from Ed's lawyer explained these would follow at a later date. This was simply the announcement of an official separation.

Nevertheless, it was the first stage of untying the knot, and a sure sign that their marriage was over.

Ivy took a drag on her cigarette and inhaled the smoke deep, deep into her lungs.

*   *   *

Meanwhile, in Camden, Dan was watching one of his all-time-favorite movies,
Predator 2.
He'd spent countless Saturdays since his split with Orianna in front of the TV, though it seemed no amount of gunfire and explosions could blast away his misery.

He'd tried phoning Orianna a few times since he'd left the agency, but she had never returned his calls. Even freelancing didn't take his mind off his troubles, so he'd decided to look for a full-time job again, hoping a fresh challenge might help him get over his heartbreak. The day before he'd been to consult the well-known headhunter, Trixie Fox, about finding a permanent position.

“I don't hold out much hope,” she'd said at the end of their meeting. “We're in the middle of the most ghastly recession, and there's not a lot around. Obviously I mustn't tell you who, but I've had a senior creative from your agency on my books for several months—she's
very
senior—and I can't find her anything for love nor money. She's even prepared to look abroad, though I've had no joy there either.”

Dan's stomach had turned over at the news. It sounds like Orianna is thinking of leaving Green as well, he thought. What a pity that would be. I've left—surely there's no need for her to go too? And if she leaves the country there'll be no chance of us getting back together. How horribly depressing.

As the final credits of the video rolled, he made a vow.

I'll give it one last shot at talking to her, he decided, before she disappears from Green forever.

*   *   *

A couple of miles northeast, in Holloway, Orianna was indulging in one of her favorite pastimes: sharing a pizza and bottle of wine with a girlfriend. But on this occasion the girlfriend wasn't Ivy. She'd not confronted Ivy directly lest it hamper the case they were putting together, nevertheless, Orianna was disinclined to spend time with her erstwhile writer since discovering she was colluding with Russell. Instead she was with Ursula, and on the coffee table before them lay a brown envelope containing Russell's invoices.