‘Of course,’ said Webster, ‘Glad you could come. I hope I can think of you as part of the team, too.’
He gestured, ‘It’s all technical stuff, Sita here deals with that, she’s good with numbers. I’m just the salesman.’
Ms Devi smiled quickly at Ade and looked down again at the spreadsheets. She was slightly built with eyes that reminded Ade of olives and skin the colour of dark syrup. She wore a neat trouser suit and used a biro to point at the sheet in front of her.
‘Please observe.’ She spoke precisely, with the accent of a leading university, ‘transactions, costs, fully itemised, depreciation, carry over from our loss last year and there is the net figure.’
She tapped the biro on the sheet again and glanced up at Webster.
‘All duly certified.’
Ade felt their eyes on her. There must be something wrong. The cash flows into the Webster Consultancy exceeded those shown in the accounts by many times. Start low key. ‘My analysis indicates that the sums handled by your firm are larger than those shown here.’
‘That’s a mistake,’ said Webster, rather sharply. ‘We’re only a small concern; just one office, a handful of staff. Old-established. You mustn’t confuse us with our overseas subsidiary.’ He smiled. ‘That’s based in another jurisdiction.’
Ade met his eyes and held them. ‘I need to see the details.’
‘It’s a nested spread-sheet.’ Ms Devi clicked on a tab, filling the screen with tiny numbers. ‘It’s all certified of course. If you look at the bottom line,’ she scrolled down a thousand lines and increased the font size, ‘you can see: money in, money out. The transactions are elsewhere.’
Webster gestured towards the screen: ‘We pay all the tax required by the law in the jurisdiction where the transactions take place. No double taxation – that’s the rule isn’t it? Wouldn’t be fair.’
He had stopped smiling at her. He almost looked bored.
‘Yes,’ said Ade. ‘The Caymans I believe.’ Perhaps named after the caiman, a close relative of the alligator.
‘Why not? A well-developed financial services sector there. Excellent location for global business contacts. Low office costs.’
This is all pointless, Ade thought. So long as the Treasury allows Webster to off-shore his profits to tax havens, all my work, Morwen’s work, is for nothing. She felt a sense of disgust, as if she were being forced to touch something dirty.
She continued with her prepared script. ‘There’s the loss carried forward from last year,’ she said. ‘That more or less wipes out your net profit.’
Ms Devi glanced at her, then down at the sheet. ‘Yes,’ she said, and coughed. Webster cut in.
‘It’s a risk business, up and down. I made big losses last year on the overseas business and I set them off this year.’
He patted the accountant on the back and let his hand linger there. ‘That’s the rule, isn’t it?’
Ade looked away out over the river, over the city the towers gleaming in winter sunshine, the greatest financial centre in Europe. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s the rule.’
Webster rubbed his hands together. ‘Good, that’s that. We can tidy up the details by email.’
He rose.
‘Now let’s eat.’ His gesture included both of them. ‘You’ll come won’t you, Adeline?’
She felt his hand on her arm.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
That’s in the rules now, too, she thought. Saying ‘Thank You’ to them. Business-friendly. Ms Devi picked up her briefcase. Webster stood back for Ade to precede him through the door.
‘No,’ she said. ‘After you.’
She noticed the fair-haired young woman who’d brought the coffee standing behind an oak desk to one side of the reception area, the appointments book open in front of her, her eyes fixed on the page.
‘Just a moment. I’ll catch you up.’
She walked across to the desk. ‘I don’t think we were properly introduced.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Adeline Corey.’
The young woman flushed. She was strikingly beautiful with a heart-shaped face, dark blue eyes and rich blond hair that looked as if it had been polished. ‘I’m Jessica Dean. You know, you’re the first visitor to this office who’s introduced herself properly to me.’
She put down her pen and shook hands. Her fingers were cold, slender with perfect nails.
‘I just wanted to talk to you. You know you don’t have to put up with it. There are organisations that will help you. He’s harassing you.’
Jessica looked up at Ade with full eyes. She spoke more confidently that Ade expected. ‘Thank you. You’ve got it all wrong, you know. People like Webster expect to behave in a certain way. I can handle him. And the money’s good.’
‘If you ever need any help, you know where to find me.’
Jessica smiled and glanced round. The desk was clear apart from the register. ‘Thank you, and I mean it. Most of them treat me like I’m part of the furniture. Here. Christmas present.’
She offered the biro she’d been writing with.
‘Thanks,’ said Ade. ‘Thank you very much.’
She took it, an expensive ball-point pen. Silvery metal, with a hint of gold in the clip and RW engraved in italics.
‘One for the collection.’
She slipped it into her pocket.
‘Have another, they’re good pens,’ said Jessica. ‘Nothing else to give you just now.’
‘Thanks.’
Webster stood by the lift.
‘Come on,’ he said. He was standing too close to her. She edged away from him. She felt the anger starting to glow inside her, embers among the tinder.
‘Like I said, Adeline, you mustn’t take things to heart. It’s a game. Jessica does what she’s paid for. She’s good at some things.’ He patted her arm. ‘Just like everyone else. Everyone on the team.’
‘Does that include the Minister’s special advisor?’
‘Which one?’ he grinned at her. ‘Come on Adeline, money’s money.’
‘I would prefer it if you would address me as Ms Corey. Let us be clear. I’m only here on instructions. The Revenue wishes to show a human face to its cases.’
‘Of course, and you’re doing your job very well. Nothing to stop us enjoying ourselves, though. Besides, money’s money.’
8
They were at a restaurant two streets away, next to a small hotel, no sign outside, just a liveried porter on the steps who saluted them. Webster stood back to allow the two women through the door. Ms Devi went first and Ade followed behind. She felt his breath on her neck. Why am I here? she thought. Same answer as last time – you don’t enjoy it but you get paid for it. Just like a …professional, Denny called it. He thinks he’s bought me, but he hasn’t.
A plump man in evening dress came towards them, a sheaf of menus in his hand, smiling past her. ‘Mr Webster,’ he said. ‘Always a pleasure. Welcome!’
‘Table for three, George. Somewhere quiet.’
He took Ade by the elbow, steering her after the waiter. She had an impression of space, of warm humid air, of arches, of gold wall lights and mouldings, of tables scattered across what must once have been a ball-room, a splendid chandelier above each one. All round them rose the noise of conversation. Nobody saw anything unusual, a couple and a friend going out for a meal, obviously straight from the office. They were led to a table set back in an alcove.
‘George is one of my clients, you know,’ said Webster when they were seated. ‘Owes me a favour. Now what do you say to some bubbly?’
He took out his handkerchief, the scent of expensive perfume wafting towards her.
‘Mr Webster, this isn’t what I imagined. I can’t accept something like this, it’s far too expensive.’
; He leaned back in his chair, smiling.
‘Nonsense! Just a meal at a quiet restaurant. You work hard, you deserve it. Sita’s happy here, aren’t you?’
Ms Devi nodded without smiling and looked down at the menu. Webster ignored her, snapped his fingers for George and rattled off a list of dishes. Ade had never eaten so well. She’d never eaten truffles before, nor sturgeon, nor cavy, nor Patagonian strawberries. She’d only had the kind of champagne you get in supermarkets, and not much of that.
A glow of warmth spread through her, softening everything. She caught herself thinking of Paul and his quick nervous eyes, and smiled. And there was the man opposite her with his expansive gestures and complacent mouth, the man she had to watch like she was a snake. No, he was the snake – she had to make sure she kept her head. Somewhere her pulse was beating loudly. She kept her eyes fixed on him and talked about the Revenue and the City. The wine was so smooth you could drink it like lemonade.
Ms Devi’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it then answered the call, turning away from the table and speaking rapidly in a language Ade didn’t recognise. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Webster. I really have to go. My son…’
‘That’s a pity,’ he said, ‘just when we were getting another bottle.’
She turned to Ade, and held out her hand. ‘A pleasure Ms Corey. I’m sorry to appear rude. I hope we can look forward to a speedy resolution of the accounts.’
It was the most she’d said all evening.
She looked directly at Webster for the first time. Ade caught him nod to her and she was striding out of the restaurant before Ade could wish her good evening. Webster smiled across the table at her. She stood up.
‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? There was that business with the Christmas card.’
She frowned. ‘What Christmas card, Mr Webster?’
She met his eyes.
‘Don’t be silly. There aren’t so many fifty-pound notes that you can’t trace them quite quickly. Particularly when they crop up in unusual places. Like a gang of homeless people, drunk as lords, using them to buy litre bottles of whisky. I’ve paid. Haven’t I? Fair’s fair.’
His eyes were fixed on hers. Poor Johnno, she thought. Webster felt in his hip pocket and slipped out a snug pigskin wallet. His eyes still on hers, he extracted a fifty-pound note, laid it on the table, tore it in half lengthways, and held up the pieces at shoulder height. She straightened her back, the blood racing though her veins. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Whoever said that didn’t know hatred.
‘Of course, fifty pounds means nothing to me,’ he said softly.
The waiter was standing next to him.
‘Got any sellotape, George? Here’s another. And another. And another. On account.’
When George had gone he added: ‘George is a very good witness in court. He sees things you wouldn’t believe. So just enjoy your meal. Business-friendly, as your boss at the Revenue says.’ He grinned and left the wallet on the table. ‘Ah, here’s the wine. He took the bottle out of the ice-bucket. ‘Drink up.’
Her thoughts were coming more slowly and everything was pleasantly blurred. The relaxed, comfortable feeling suffused her whole body. She was in a café with Paul, somewhere off Tooley Street and they kept bringing sausages and plates of chips, wonderful chips, crisp and delicate, and bottles of champagne. Music was playing and he was on his feet. He was inviting her to dance, she was a wonderful dancer.
Then a door slammed behind her, cutting off the noise of the restaurant, and Paul’s face was pressed against the glass panels, like Morwen against the glass screen in Bronzefield, and the air was suddenly cold and Webster had his arm wrapped round her, he was guiding her into a lift.
‘Where are we going?’ she said.
He pulled her against him. She felt dizzy.
‘Come along, there’s a good girl,’ he grunted.
The doors whispered shut and he pushed her back against the mirrored wall of the lift. Anger surged through her. She felt the harsh bristles on his face scratching at her skin, the weight of him pressing her backwards, she smelt the odour of wine and sweat and tobacco hanging round him. She twisted her head and the roll of fat at his neck pressed against her lips, stifling her. She felt she couldn’t breathe; panic flared within her.
She bit at him as hard as she could, and tasted the blood, salt in her mouth.
‘Get off me!’ she shouted. She shoved at his chest with both hands.
‘Now don’t be like that,’ he said, slurring the words slightly. ‘Think yourself lucky. That’s good money you’ve had.’
She could see blood on his neck smudging his collar.
The lift stopped and the doors crashed open. He pushed her forward, onto the landing, his hands groping at her body. She twisted round towards him. His face lurched towards her and she punched at his mouth. He seized her wrist and forced her hand down onto his body, exhaling a stale smell of half-digested food in her face. Nausea overwhelmed her. She jack-knifed forward and vomited, coughing, the acid burning in her throat.
She felt him stagger backwards, snorting, and she stumbled sideways into the lift. Her fingers were on the buttons. He grabbed at the closing door, pulling at it to force it open. She spat thick phlegm onto his hand. It made no difference. She steadied herself against the corner of the lift and slipped off a shoe. She stared as the woman in the mirror opposite her swung up her hand and smashed the heel down onto the fingers. He screamed and the hand disappeared leaving a smear of blood on the brass-work.
9
Ade leaned against the wall of the alley, watching him as he moved away from her. He reeled into the gutter, then back onto the pavement. He’d tied a silk scarf round his throat for a bandage and he had his right hand in his overcoat pocket. Her heart pounded in her chest and her fingers curled as if she had them wrapped round his throat. She tasted the blood in her mouth, iron and bone, and spat. The road was wet after rain, the streetlights glared down on them, glistening yellow on the tarmac. There was no-one about and she was certain that he had no idea she was following him. She’d waited in the shadows, watching the hotel entrance, not moving, not thinking, just standing there, she didn’t know for how long, until he came out. Revenge is a dish best eaten cold.
After a while she pushed herself upright and moved forward. She had no idea what she was going to do. She stared at him, the scarf almost cutting into his neck, the exposed band of soft skin, the broad back, the rounded shoulders, the expensive shoes stumbling through the puddles. She hated him.
He turned a corner onto a wider road and she ran a few paces so as not to lose him. She shrank back from the brightness of the street, the light spilling from the windows of the pub opposite. A group of people were striding towards her, she could hear them chattering, the fair-haired girl on the end walking sideways so the others could see her, waving an arm. She could see no sign of Webster.
The girl pulled at one of the men and the group veered across the road towards the pub not looking where they were going. A cyclist in pink lycra swerved, skidded, recovered and sped away.
He’s in there with those drunken louts, thought Ade. They’re like him, all of them. I can’t do a thing.
That’s what she hated most. There was no way you could get back at them, they always made the rules, they owned it all and you were on the outside, you counted for nothing.
She heard a splashing, hissing noise to her right and edged forward. There was another alley to the side of a shop. She saw a dented metal bin with cardboard boxes piled against it. He was the other side of it, holding onto a drain-pipe, his back to her, pissing. He retched and spat.
She stared at him and moved forward into the mouth of the alley. He was no more than five feet away from her. He grunted and hunched forward, the stream of urine spattering onto the stones, the sharp animal smel
l gusting back at her. The band of white skin at his neck gleamed in the light from the street behind her. The image of a knife, with a riveted wooden handle and a long slender blade, sharp, serrated on one side, like the knife in her kitchen drawer, only gripped tightly in her fist, filled her mind. She thought of the knife in her hand, her fist pounding, pounding against his back. She flexed her fingers and moved forward, feeling in her pocket, making no noise at all. On the street behind her someone was shouting for a taxi.
He grunted something, she couldn’t make out the words, then she caught them: ‘Bitch. Paid good money. She owes me.’
He spat again. The metal pen was in her fist, sleek, gleaming in the yellow streetlight. She rammed the point hard against his neck.
The pissing stopped. There was a second of absolute silence, then he said, hardly above a whisper, ‘Don’t hurt me.’
She increased the pressure on the pen very slightly. She stared at the pit it made in the fat skin, stretched tight. She thought of dimples, of a baby’s plumpness. She thought of how much more force it would need to break through, to jab into his neck, for blood to spurt up hot onto her hand, to trickle round under the scarf, to join up with the blood from where she’d bitten him. She thought of Morwen’s face that morning when she’d finished the Model, the brightness in her eyes.
‘I’ve got money,’ said Webster. ‘Take it, all of it.’
The soft flesh of his neck, drawn taut round the tip of the pen, filled her gaze. This was the feeling of power they had, when they casually asked you for a drink, when they took you out, when they ran their hand across you, when they pinched and poked you, when they treated you like flesh on a market-stall, something they’d paid for.
‘I don’t want your money,’ she growled in a deep unfamiliar voice. She twisted the pen slightly and increased the pressure.
He was fumbling at his wrist.
‘Take my watch. Franck Muller – best watch in the world.’
It dangled from his fingers, light from the street behind them glinting on the dial. She knocked it to the ground with her free hand.
Ardent Justice Page 4