by Heleen Kist
‘They’ve ripped us off.’ And I left it there.
Sascha probably regretted asking me to help out in the mornings as I repeatedly blurred the lines of responsibility. She’d been doing a great job, blowing new life in the café through social media in a short space of time; whereas I would dip in and out, grumpy and only marginally helpful. If she kept this up, we might even turn a profit. A real one.
A shroud of sadness fell over me as I considered this potential posthumous success. My sister never knowing her baby was alive and well. I had planned to meet with Alastair again to discuss the café’s future. He was bullish about a sale and had even offered to place it on a specialist website. But, of course, he didn’t know the books were a lie. My stomach fluttered every time I considered it. With the numbers inflated, we’d get a better price than we should, and I worried I could go to prison for fraud. I wished I knew if that was possible, but it’s not the type of thing you can explain to a search engine.
As if by telepathy, my phone rang and his firm’s number popped up.
‘Stephen has asked to meet with me to wrap up Glory’s estate.’
‘Oh.’ I sighed. It was bound to happen. I wondered who had given him Alastair’s details.
‘He assumed Glory owned the café. Given your astonishment at finding out that wasn’t the case, I prefer not to be the one to tell him. I’ve tasked him with more pressing matters for now, but he’s within his rights to ask. What do you want to do?’
The pressure to make this decision twisted my guts into knots. It would be irreversible, so I had to be dead sure. I’d been running through different scenarios for days and each direction surfaced kinks in the road that prevented a clean escape. There would always be a clue somewhere, a single leftover sock from the laundry giving the game away. In weighing the different outcomes against each other, I was now factoring only two things: how easily could the clue be found, and who got landed with it.
‘What would it take to put all the shares in Glory’s name?’
The line went quiet for a while. ‘Only yours or the kids’ trusts also?’
‘Preferably all.’
‘For yours, it’s easy. You gift them to her and we can record that through a letter and in the company’s books. I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone make a gift to a dead person. But it should be fine since probate has not completed yet.’
All I understood was ‘it’s easy’ and I would have to rely on Alastair to handle the paperwork. It sounded like he was approaching this with his standard professional rigour. But the poor guy had to be feeling conflicted: not a hundred percent sure who his client was, and therefore who was entitled to what information. Even though he had refused to speculate about the state of Glory’s marriage, by calling me he seemed to have concluded the husband was being kept in the dark for a reason. And he probably didn’t want to know. Poor Uncle Alastair. He’d made a mistake once in trusting Glory. As it was in our joint interest for that mistake to not come to light, I hoped he would trust me in reversing it.
‘As for the shares for the trusts, I recommend you keep them. They are a very handy tax avoidance mechanism I’m sure Stephen would approve of, as it helps with school fees.’
Unsavoury as it was, having established there was no way to claw that money back, I had to let the tainted cash flow to the school. I took comfort in the rumours that Lochiel Academy counted more than a few dodgy characters among the parents and trusted the source of funds would never be called into question. ‘These won’t impact a sale in any way,’ he confirmed.
Here was my chance to ask the daft lassie questions and test out scenarios.
‘Can you walk me through what selling would entail, you know, in terms of process?’
When he explained the seller would need to warrant that all the financial information provided to the buyer was correct and that an audit may be required, he hit me with the mother of all snatches. If I gave Veg&Might to Stephen pretending nothing had happened, he would dispose of it without hesitation. And that would be like him waving a big stinky neon-yellow laundered sock attracting attention.
‘Can I have a day to think about it?’
Protecting Stephen wasn’t the only reason I was reluctant to relinquish control. I hadn’t given Dad an answer yet.
Chapter Forty-One
Dave was struggling to follow, and I couldn’t blame him. He’d come to the flat that evening to take me out as a treat and found me surrounded by scribbled sheets of A4 strewn across the breakfast bar. I’d roped him in, laying it all out, hoping that a fresh pair of eyes could spot a missed opportunity, some nifty trick. He had such a calming influence on me, too.
Well, as long as he was on side.
‘So you’re saying that if you give the shares to Stephen, he will incriminate himself when he sells the café. And once it’s bloody obvious to the new owners the accounts are dodgy when they see the real takings, they could go after him?’
‘Uhuh.’
‘And if you keep hold of your shares you can carry on with the café and sell it when you think there’s been a long enough period of clean trading. But in this case, you have to explain to Stephen why Glory gave the shares to you.’
‘Yup.’
‘Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘No, I know. Sorry. What about shutting it down?’
It was an option I’d considered. But aside from the guilt I’d feel at dismembering Glory’s creation, this too had its share of unsurmountable problems. ‘How do I convince Stephen to flush money down the drain? Why close it when you can sell it? He’s not an idiot.’
‘I can see why you’re stuck.’ He grimaced and mirrored my slumped posture. ‘By the way, what happens with the money that’s meant to be yours but is in Glory’s account? You know, the one in her maiden name?’
‘Would you believe Alastair told me I bloody owe income tax on those dividend payments? Even though I didn’t get them!’
‘You’re shitting me.’
‘No. But bless him. Because he knows he screwed up, he said that if I put the shares into Glory’s name right now, then it was unlikely anyone would spot the historical discrepancy and we could all pretend the money was hers all along. Mind you, he is only playing along with this if he gets to take care of Glory’s tax filings, so that HMRC gets what it’s due. I think he smells a rat.’
‘I can’t blame him. But we’re basically left with the only option being plan A: hand Stephen the business and get him into trouble.’
I nodded. ‘Unless I can print money from my arse.’
He snickered and wrapped his right arm around me, pulling me close. ‘And such a nice arse it is.’
Sinking into him for comfort, my mind wandered to Dad. There was a way to print money, of course, and it’s what he wanted me to do. With plan A, I was freeing myself from the burden of Dad’s expectations—there could physically be no more money laundering—but it also meant being the world’s worst daughter.
‘You okay?’ Dave kissed me on the forehead.
‘As okay as I can be, under the circumstances.’
He couldn’t be told about the conflict raging inside. He had enough contempt for my family as it was. And I could definitely not tell him about being followed. He’d have a fit and march me into the police station himself.
I still didn’t know what those following me wanted, but I’d decided to let it play out a bit to see. I’d thought maybe they knew about the photos and wanted to keep an eye on me to see what I would do. But how could they know?
‘Shall we go? What would you like?’
‘I could murder a curry.’
‘That can be arranged. But can we agree one thing?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Just for this meal, can we be a normal couple having normal conversations?’
I punched him softly in the chest.
We walked ar
m in arm—me checking behind us occasionally—headed for New Delhi, a small family-run Indian. With a tacky neon sign and an uninspiring cream and brown decor inside, the venue’s lack of glamour contrasted with the trendier restaurants popping up around it. But as its generous dinner buffet for £9.99 was an age-old neighbourhood institution, I suspected it would outlast its rivals.
‘I take you to the nicest places,’ Dave joked as we approached the rounded red facade. I gave him a gentle squeeze.
When we arrived, the young woman at the bar was busy handing out take-away orders and ringing up departing guests. She welcomed us with half an ear and two fingers for minutes and instructed us to sit by pointing at the cramped waiting area by the entrance. I peered into the dining room and gauged that it wouldn’t be long; they were cleaning a few tables already.
We sat knee to knee. I straightened the tabloid newspapers and trashy magazines lying about, and we both picked up bits of the Scottish Record. A front-page article covered a controversial new leisure esplanade to be built on the left bank of the Clyde.
The company behind the development complained that city officials didn’t show enough support for their multi-million pound investment proposal and rattled off the untold benefits the local economy could expect.
Forgetting what rag I was reading, I leafed over for the architects’ rendering of the development and was confronted with a pair of giant breasts in a red lacy body stocking. Dave was thankfully engrossed in the football, and I folded page three lengthwise to help the lovely Chantayle regain her modesty—though it may have been a little late for that.
‘I think it would be nice to liven up that part of town.’ I guided Dave’s attention to the drawings. ‘Look. You could have a meal outside, right by the water.’
‘For all the two days of sunshine we get!’
‘No, I’m serious. Other big cities with rivers really make it a feature. We’ve only got Springfield Quay, and everything is facing away from the water. It’s depressing.’ He returned to his scores and I read on. ‘Says here there will be a decision on planning permission next month and they’ve had loads of responses on the consultation. Mostly objections. That’s a shame.’
‘Oh, it will get through,’ Dave said, now perusing the racing fixtures.
‘Why are you so sure?’
He laid his paper to one side and pointed at the casino on the image. ‘See that? That’s got a lot of people jazzed up. It’s where the money is. I overhead two guys at the Prince William talking, and let’s just say they were surprisingly confident the authorities would grant approval for the site.’ He tapped his finger against his nose.
Intrigued by the gangster gossip, I asked, ‘What did they say?’
‘They pretty much said it was a shoe-in. It seems they have leverage on a guy on the approvals committee. And it’s big.’
The blood drained from my face and the room started to spin. I steadied myself by placing a hand on his leg.
‘Babe, what’s wrong?’
‘Stephen. He must know.’ I jumped up and kissed him on the head. ‘I’m sorry. I have to go.’
‘What do you care about the council?’ he called, watching me go. He’d clearly not understood.
Chapter Forty-Two
It was less than half a mile to the house, but I arrived breathless. My usual thrice weekly 10k had been severely curtailed, and I marvelled at how quickly that became noticeable. With the days at their longest, there was no excuse. I vowed to do better.
The crunching of the gravel signalled my presence to Blue, who barked from inside. Within seconds, Stephen’s shape appeared in the porch to check who had bypassed the gate. I waved, and he opened the glass-panelled door while holding the dog to prevent an escape.
‘Hello Grace.’ My winded state must have revealed the urgency behind the visit. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Hi. Sorry for barging in like this. I need to talk to you.’
As he stepped aside to let me in, Blue seemed to be the only one happy to see me.
‘We’re having our dinner. Will you join us?’
‘Um, no. Best to not speak with the kids around. It’s a bit of a long story.’
His face darkened. ‘Come. I’ll park them in front of the TV.’
As we entered the kitchen, the boys failed to look up from their plate. There was a time when my appearance would yield an excited screech; but now they saw me nearly every day, the novelty had worn off.
‘Adam, Noah, take your food to the living room. You can turn on Netflix. Auntie Grace and I want a chat.’
They looked at each other with puzzled faces but whizzed off before their father could change his mind, spaghetti slipping across their plates. I got hit by the distinctive aroma of Dolmio. Their advertising slogan popped into my head—‘Like Mama makes’—and my heart suffered a small pang of sadness.
‘Remember Adam gets to choose first,’ Stephen shouted after them. He took a large, last bite and placed his unfinished meal in the sink, red oily pasta worms spilling onto the white enamel.
While chewing, he fished two glasses from an overhead cupboard. ‘Wine?’
‘I wouldn’t say no.’
He poured the drinks in silence and he pulled out a chair from the dining table for me to sit while he grabbed another. The cartoon noises and childish cackles floating in from the interconnected room were our cue it was safe to talk.
‘What’s so important?’
‘I’m sorry. There’s no easy way to say this. There’s something I’ve been hiding from you.’
‘Okay.’ He frowned and folded his hands around the stem of the glass, resting his gaze on the yellow liquid. ‘What is it?’
When I described Glory’s sticky situation, it was like speaking to an ice wall. Expressionless, he took it all in without even the slightest gasp or sigh. It unnerved me, and my speech sped up as I told the story of how she’d ended up laundering money for the wholesaler. By the end of the exposé, I was pacing across the room, while he had remained immobile.
‘I’ve been working on making it right, so you wouldn’t have to know.’
At last he faced me, his eyes challenging. ‘Why are you telling me now?’
‘I thought you should hear it from me.’
‘Instead of?’ I felt a sense of foreboding, as though I was being tested. Why was he not more upset? Why was this his first question? I sat down again, assuming my answer would be met with incomprehension and more questions.
‘Instead of the people behind the Left Bank development.’
‘Ah.’ He pushed his glass away and reclined in his seat, rubbing his neck. ‘Then you’re too late.’
The world might as well have flipped upside down, I was so disorientated. Here I’d been, so confident I had put two and two together, and yet I hadn’t seen this coming. He knew.
I searched my brain for clues I might have missed and found nothing. No, straight-laced Stephen—who I would expect to be devastated and disgusted by such a thing—had never given an inkling.
‘You knew? About Glory’s money laundering? How long?’
‘Long enough.’
His chilly composure was getting on my nerves. The confused swirling in my head grew into an angry storm as I replayed all my sacrifices for him, for my sister over the last few weeks. ‘And at no point did you think it necessary to tell me?’
Apparently unwilling to get caught up in my emotions, he maintained a neutral tone. ‘Glory assured me those activities had stopped. And then she died. There didn’t seem to be anything to tell.’
‘Well you were wrong. Fucking hell, Stephen—’ With this, his eyes flashed in warning and swept to where his boys were. I lowered my voice. ‘I’ve been killing myself trying to whitewash this mess, dealing with total creeps, having my car bashed up, being followed. And all this time you knew?’
‘Nobody asked you to do any of this, Grace.’
His glacial voice caused all my
cells to constrict. The iceberg collision crushed any certainty I’d had about my actions and my intentions. And I hated feeling like a castigated child. As though I’d been playing Grace the Hero, and it was a bad thing.
I reminded myself I hadn’t asked for this: it came looking for me. And I burnt with rage at the injustice of being told off when I should have been thanked.
Our stand-off was short-lived. I had been pummelled with problems and had managed to stack them all away neatly, so I was damned if I was going to let a giant loose end get the better of me.
‘So are they blackmailing you with this to get planning permission?’
‘Yes. Unfortunately, I got myself into a bind when I gave Glory’s landlord approval when I shouldn’t have.’ He looked sheepish, his earlier frostiness thawing into an acceptance of shared blame. ‘They’ve been pressuring me for ages, threatening to have me sacked unless I did what they said. But I resisted, figuring that if push came to shove, I could blag my way out of it with my boss. It had only been a small violation. And then they came looking for a big favour—the new development—and they told me about Glory. They knew I couldn’t let that come out.’
‘Did Glory know about this?’
‘Not at first. But I confronted her straight after they’d truly cornered me, and she admitted it. We had it out and she was very sorry. She kept telling me she never meant to damage my career. She hadn’t thought it through.’ He poured himself another glass. ‘That bloody café. I always thought it was a mistake. Anyway, she swore it was over. That it had only been temporary, to fill a gap…As if that made it okay.’
Contempt had dripped from his lips when he recounted his wife’s corruption. If he was ever to remember her fondly, he could not find out Glory had continued squirrelling money away illegally.
‘When did all this happen?’
‘Roughly a month before the accident, I would say.’
Working the dates in my mind, I discovered this coincided with the period in which Glory started taking pictures at Excelsior. A hypothesis was brewing in my mind, a faint shape forming through unexpected connections.