‘Hello, Claire…’ Agatha stops after this opening gambit, as if at a loss for what to say next.
‘How are you feeling?’ I prompt.
‘I feel terrible.’
She sounds terrible too, as if she is curled into a small, tight ball on a bed or sofa.
‘What, two days later?’ I try to adopt the wasn’t-it-a-laugh inflection that I would use in any other case of birthday party excess.
‘I mean I feel terrible about what happened. I can’t even remember most of it.’ There is an audible intake of breath. Her voice falls to a whisper. ‘I made such an idiot of myself.’
‘Hey, we’ve all been there. I bet everyone has forgotten about it already.’ This is a tad optimistic, given my recent encounter with Jane and the general mood music of the office.
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Sure—’
‘Even Nigel?’
‘Nigel?’ For a split second I am dumbfounded that Agatha continues to have any interest in Nigel’s views about anything, then I realise she probably has no idea of his hand in Friday’s debacle. Nor was she privy to the touching little vignette of him snogging Jane. She is probably still under the illusion he might fancy her. ‘To be honest, I haven’t seen Nigel today,’ I say flatly. This is true – I’ve been in the tribunal – and when I crane my neck to glimpse his normal abode on other side of the room it has the same abandoned look as Agatha’s desk. ‘I’m not even sure he’s come into the office.’
‘Oh.’ She sounds a bit put out, and I wonder if the prospect of facing Nigel was actually the main reason she stayed away. With a noticeably huge effort to change the subject, she says, ‘You must have finished your cases quickly?’
‘Yup, makes a change to have an easy session. Back nice and early and I’m not in the tribunal again for a few days so I’ll actually have the chance to prepare the next ones properly for once.’
An email from Maggie lands in my inbox with a tinny ping. I open it while Agatha prattles on for a minute about caseloads and backlogs, and I discover that our mid-week team meeting has been rearranged for tomorrow because Maggie’s six-year-old daughter has a ballet recital on Wednesday.
I glance across at Agatha’s computer.
‘How are you getting on with the monthly statistics?’ I ask. ‘Did Maggie say she wanted the report in time for the team meeting?’
‘The statistics report?’ Agatha sounds a little bemused. ‘It’s not complete yet, but I should have time to finish it before Wednesday.’
‘Well, that’s just it, Maggie has brought the meeting forward to 11 a.m. tomorrow.’ I squint at the conveniently timed missive.
‘What? Really?’ There is a panicked pause, presumably while Agatha checks her own inbox. Then, ‘Oh God! I see what you mean.’
For a second or two, I let her anxiety expand into the silence until I say slowly, as if it is an afterthought, ‘I don’t suppose you would like me to spend an hour or two working on the report for you? Since I’ve got some free time this afternoon.’
‘Oh, Claire!’ There is a relieved whoosh of air down the line. ‘That would be fantastic. I was just thinking I would have to come in really, really early and even so it would be a push to get it done by eleven.’
‘No problem,’ I say. ‘All I need is your password to log on to your desktop.’
‘Of course.’ Immediately, she begins to trill a complicated sequence of letters and numbers. I grab a pen from my drawer and start to scribble.
Like taking candy from a baby.
Once the call is done I rise from my seat to fetch myself a caffeine hit before I embark on my homework for Mark. By the time I get back – a whole three minutes later – there are five missed calls from Agatha on my phone, while a text is pasted across the screen the first few words of which read, On second thoughts please don’t…
My ringtone bursts into life again.
Before I can even say hello, Agatha blurts, ‘Actually, Claire, I honestly don’t need you to help with the report after all. I don’t mind coming in early—’
‘Right—’
‘I wasn’t really thinking straight. If I get to the office by seven o’clock, I’ll have four whole hours to finish it. I’m incredibly grateful for the offer but I don’t want you to spend time on my work when you must have your own to do.’ She draws to a ragged halt. I can practically visualise the steam puffing out of her ears.
‘OK. That’s fine.’ Although my tone is relaxed my brain is scrabbling frantically, trying to work out what the hell is going on.
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Why would I mind? I was only doing it to help you out.’
‘And you’ll tear up my password?’
‘Of course.’
And I will, just not quite yet.
It takes me a matter of seconds to locate the statistics folder on Agatha’s computer. For the last six months she has set out in neat, tabular form the case numbers, the names and nationalities of the corresponding appellants, the type of appeal and whether each one succeeded or failed. The information has obviously been trawled from the computerised history reports of the case handlers, which record all the key dates and actions in every claim. The statistics for October are still incomplete, of course, but I decide it is better to take what I can get now, rather than rely on another opportunity to access Agatha’s work later in the week.
I am just about to dispatch the files to my personal email address when I become aware of someone approaching.
‘Hi, Claire.’
I look up to see Katy standing beside me.
‘Isn’t that Agatha’s computer?’
‘Yeah, Maggie asked her to do a report for the Wednesday briefing and she’s panicking because the meeting has been rescheduled for tomorrow. I’m emailing her the document to work on at home.’ I press send, rather theatrically, praying that Katy won’t have a chance to clock the recipient. When she doesn’t say anything, I add, pulling a sad face. ‘Agatha couldn’t handle coming in today. Not after what happened on Friday. I feel so bad for her.’
Katy has the grace to blush. ‘Right. Well, actually I was just bringing this back to her.’ She lifts up a package crudely covered in torn yellow tissue and lays it gently on the desk. ‘I guessed she wouldn’t remember to pick up the candles and so I took them with us when we left.’ The pink in her cheeks intensifies, probably at the recollection of the group of them doing a runner before Agatha could make it out of the ladies.
‘Great,’ I say, ‘Agatha will be really pleased. Thanks.’ I get the strong sense Katy is trying to take a peek at Agatha’s screen and see what I am doing. I hang on to her gaze so there is nowhere else for her eyes to roam, even when the silence frays from the merely awkward to the unambiguously painful.
‘I guess I’d better get on with some work,’ she says, eventually capitulating, and walks slowly back across the office.
Once she has gone I contemplate Agatha’s screen again. There was nothing remotely unusual about the statistics files, as far as I could tell, no smoking gun, no reason at all why she might not have wanted me to view them, so the obvious question is why did she suddenly change her mind? What on earth did she worry I might stumble across?
I scroll down her list of directories. They all have eminently sensible tags – notes of team meetings, Home Office policy updates, key guidance from the higher courts – and even if one of them did contain some peculiar buried secret, Agatha could hardly believe I would be likely to discover it while finishing off the October statistics. Her inbox is merely a testament to the dreary tedium of office life. The only non-work-related messages I can see are both from me, the one I sent her on Saturday and the other from this afternoon.
I decide to forget about Agatha’s strange behaviour and focus on the job in hand – Mark. I close down her documents and email account and I’m about to log out when I spot the polychromatic icon at the bottom of the screen, the flower-like symbol with its multitude of coloured
petals. The shortcut for photos is only conspicuous because there’s no similar icon on my own home screen; the need to store images not being an obvious feature of my job – or of Agatha’s.
Naturally I click on the link. I am expecting to find a harmless, if mildly embarrassing, collage of Agatha’s life. Holiday snaps in somewhere like the Cotswolds or Devon, a house with aging parents and equally ancient dog. Recipes or embroidery patterns, perhaps, or images of second hand furniture, for the next haberdashery or homeware project. An intimate insight into the domestic minutiae of a humdrum life that Agatha would rather keep to herself.
What I actually see, blazing from the screen in full resplendent masculine glory, is Nigel. Nigel is everywhere, staring back at me like an animal trapped by the bars of a virtual zoo. Various pictures show him at an early, relatively sober stage of last year’s Christmas party, a glass in one hand and a cutting of mistletoe in the other; addressing an earnest group of visiting students in the lecture room; and at his desk, lost in concentration and chewing on a pencil. He has also been captured in action outside of office hours, the images obviously snapped by Agatha from a distance: Nigel striding across a park, Nigel outside a pub with a couple of mates, and even Nigel coming out of a purpose-built apartment block, possibly his own home, looking, it has to be said, pretty rough.
There is no prize for guessing why Agatha was so anxious to keep this little album private – it makes her seem like a demented stalker. In normal circumstances I might be prepared to admit that it takes one wayward individual to recognise another, however given the amount of photographic evidence on display here I would say that anyone at all would reach exactly the same conclusion as me.
I am gawping, slack-jawed, at the photographs, wondering if there is a way of talking to Agatha about Nigel without actually revealing I’ve been snooping around on her computer, when my gaze spirals into the image of Nigel and his friends drinking beer in the sunshine. Nigel occupies the right-hand side of the picture, the bloke in the middle I am confident I have never before seen in my life, but the woman on the left – slight and blonde – is considerably more familiar. She is angled away from the camera, towards the white sleeve of the waiter, which is protruding into the frame with a tray of drinks. Nevertheless, I am virtually certain I am staring at our recently hired cleaner, Viktoria. There is no reason why Nigel and Viktoria shouldn’t know each other, of course, and it’s impossible to tell from the picture whether they are friends or lovers, or merely happened to find themselves sharing a table – it can happen when the sun is shining and everyone wants to sit outside. Nevertheless, it’s an odd sort of coincidence.
I turn off Agatha’s computer with a queasy, unsettled feeling, and open one of my own files. I am reading the first page of an asylum decision letter for the third time, trying to muster some concentration, when Maggie appears at my elbow and indicates with a minute jerk of her chin that I am to follow her.
In the sanctuary of her conservatory office, she revisits the matter of the High Court claim she spoke to me about on Friday, explaining who will be working on the case and outlining the timetable for getting instructions to the barrister representing the Home Office. I am still making notes, bent diligently over a pad with a black biro in hand, when she says out of the blue, ‘I was just leafing through the personnel files the other day – I already knew you went to Cambridge, Claire, but I couldn’t find many details about your time there.’
Raising my head, I see that this is intended to be a question. I shrug, hoping to come across as nonchalant rather than difficult. I can’t argue with the accuracy of the observation.
‘What college did you go to? Your CV doesn’t specify.’
‘Trinity,’ I lie. Although Maggie is hardly likely to phone up the admissions office, if the opportunity arose for her to ask any contacts she might have I would rather she drew a confusing blank than discovered the ignominy of those awful last weeks.
‘I was at Queens.’ She throws me a warm smile, like an invitation to a club.
It is tempting to reciprocate. Instead I give her a half-smile, enough to acknowledge the offer, slot the lid on my pen and stand up.
Maggie’s face stiffens fractionally. ‘It must have been a good night on Friday,’ she says, just as I am approaching the door. It is another statement-come-question, a bowling ball pitched towards a set of skittles.
‘Oh,’ I say carefully. ‘Why do you say that?’ I stop beside a tall plant with thick foliage. I touch one of the leaves, but it is impossible to tell whether the rubbery surface is real or artificial.
‘Agatha hasn’t come in today. I’ve never known her call in sick before.’
‘I don’t imagine that’s because of Friday. Probably a bad cold or she’s picked up a virus.’ Two lies in less than two minutes. I move my hand onto the door handle.
‘And Nigel isn’t here either.’
‘Really?’ I try to sound surprised.
‘There’s no sign of him. He hasn’t telephoned Jane to say that he’s ill. It’s actually rather annoying because both he and Agatha are supposed to be producing reports for the meeting. Any idea where he is?’
‘None at all, I’m afraid.’ I could suggest that Nigel might have walked under a bus or suffered some other kind of freak accident, however I don’t think I would be able to suppress a note of optimism from my voice. Instead I say, ‘Agatha is aware the meeting has been moved to tomorrow. I know she’s intending to come into work very early.’
‘Oh. Well…’ Maggie seems partly pacified. ‘Perhaps Nigel has written his report already. I’ll ask Jane to see if she can find any sign of a printout on his desk.’
I wait a respectful couple of seconds before closing my fingers around the lever and escaping.
* * *
Much later in the afternoon, once most of my colleagues have left for the day, I move on to the second part of Mark’s little task. I delete the details of the successful appeals from Agatha’s inventory, so the list comprises only the failures, those who will be desperate for the chance of another ticket in the great immigration lottery. After that I fetch a selection of the original files from storage. Amongst all the papers each dossier inevitably contains a witness statement from the individual bringing the case, or a family member living in the UK – if the individual lives outside the UK and is relying on a family member for their golden passport entry – and each witness statement contains the address of the person making it.
I add those contact details in a separate column beside the name of the corresponding appeal, just like Mark instructed.
Well, almost like he instructed.
By way of a small departure, I make up addresses for those appeals where I don’t have the dossier because it’s not amongst the pile I collected from storage. Sometimes instead I tweak a name or change a sex. I am banking on the assumption this strategy will give Mark enough information to persuade him I did what he asked and that he will put the errors, the gaps, down to lying claimants or poor administration. Nevertheless, it feels as if I am inventing my own kind of lottery, exposing a few of these people to God knows what, while hiding, protecting others for no reason save that their files are located further away from the storage room door.
At one point I hear a ‘Goodnight, Claire.’ When I look up, Maggie raises her hand from the other side of the office. ‘Don’t stay too late.’ The instruction is mellow with approval, the assumption that my industry is well-directed. She probably imagines I am starting the research for the claim in the High Court.
In the wake of Maggie’s departure I reconsider the list. I think about meeting Mark for the first time, curled on his sofa with a glass of red wine, how I happily mistook his questions about my work for an interest in me. If he was looking for ways to get inside information about vulnerable immigrants then our encounter must have seemed like a perfectly ripe apple dropping straight into his lap. Before my resolve can weaken I remove every genuine address that I have taken from the files and repl
ace them all with fictitious ones, inventing road names and flat numbers and adding convincing-sounding postcodes. I reassure myself that since it will take Mark a while to realise the full extent of what I’ve done, I’ll still have a chance to get to the bottom of what he’s up to. And when the moment of discovery comes I will simply have to face up to the consequences of not being the quite-so-perfect stooge after all.
By the time I’m ready to print out the finished product the cleaners have arrived, hoovering the carpet, emptying the bins and shouting snatches of conversation to each other over the noise of the machines. As I watch the printer cough the final page onto the tray, I tell myself the statistics I am disclosing are not really confidential. Anyone can sit in the tribunal, and assuming the weight of misery and desperation didn’t send them straight to the distraction of the nearest bar they could compile their own set of data, their own tally of failure, very easily. Besides, I have the greater good in mind. The means justifies the ends, and all that. Sometimes our notion of right and wrong needs finer calibration, more nuance than the one-size-fits-all approach we normally abide by.
Chapter Twenty
I call Mark on the way home. It’s barely twenty-four hours since he asked me for this information and, like a student returning an assignment ahead of schedule, I am proud of my efficiency – even if my competence comprises a certain creative element. There is no reply, only an automatic answer message in a stilted electronic voice. Later in the evening, I try twice more, still with no success. Leaving a message feels too risky, too exposed, so eventually I give up and go to bed accompanied only by an acute sense of anticlimax.
Tuesday unfolds in an equally uneventful manner. I arrive to find Agatha beavering away at her desk. Immediately she says, ‘You did destroy my password, didn’t you, Claire?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Of course.’ I offer up a little prayer that Katy doesn’t mention seeing me on Agatha’s computer.
The Couple: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist Page 20