Now You Know

by Nora Valters

  And what if she’s stolen my money? Moved it to other accounts? Taken it all and left me with nothing. I’ve always worked hard to earn money to live comfortably, to eat well, to survive. I’ve always saved for nice things, to splurge every now and then. And I’d been saving more recently for the wedding and honeymoon. I had a tidy sum put away – the most I’ve ever had in savings.

  I have to hope and pray she’s not done that. Just restricted access to shit me up. Imani has no need for money – she’s swimming in it.

  This is a disaster. It’s as if I’ve been thrown overboard amongst the sharks and they’re slowly picking off every last bit of me before pulling me under.

  How much worse can it get? What’s next?

  I dial Imani’s number again.

  “Hey,” Imani answers, bored. “It’s after work hours,” she adds as if I’d better have a very good reason for calling her at 7 p.m. on a Wednesday.

  I’m furious but force myself to switch to my calm and collected, in-control boss tone, thinking it the best way to get her to do anything, to reverse the harm she’s caused by pressing the explode button on my life. I can still pick up the pieces and put things back together again as long as I handle this right: steady but firm. “Imani, this isn’t cool. You need to stop.”

  She groans. “I knew you’d lose your shit. I was just trying to be funny.”

  “Funny? Are you kidding me?”

  “Jeez, chill out. It was jokes.”

  “A joke? It has gone way too far to be a joke. You’ve made your point. You don’t like me coming down on you heavy at work. And you’re getting back at me. But this is not how it’s done. If you have an issue with me, we talk about it like adults. We go to HR if necessary, but attacking me like this is not the answer.”

  “What the fuck? HR? I thought you had a sense of humour.”

  “I know you sent those emails at work, that you’re responsible for the porn in that presentation. I know you sent those dirty texts and the lingerie—”

  “Whoa. Stop. I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about and seriously do NOT want to hear about your personal life. Dirty texts? I mean, eww.”

  “I’ve found you out. You had access to my laptop before the CozMoz meeting.”

  “You do know you’re talking to Imani, from work, don’t you?”

  “Yes. You’re not so clever. Did you think I wouldn’t work it out?”

  “Work what out?”

  Frustrated at Imani’s complete show of ignorance, I lose patience and shout, “That you’ve been targeting me and trying to ruin my life!”

  Imani sighs impatiently. “Duh. I have zero interest in your life. I’m far too busy living my own. Screwing with you would take time and energy and headspace. And, you know, I have none of that for you. Ever.”

  This is unexpected. I thought she’d capitulate as soon as I called her out. Or perhaps gloat and rub my nose in it for a while and then relent. But she’s not concerned. She sounds utterly blasé.

  Imani continues, “I thought you were calling me to tell me off for joking about watching and making porn in that media list email. But you’re going on and on and on about shit I’ve got no idea about. And, to be honest, it’s giving me a right headache.”

  I hear voices and laughter in the background, then a tannoy announcement. Imani adds, “My movie starts in five minutes. I can’t be dealing with you calling me just to be… like… weird. Madeline said you weren’t feeling well, but call a therapist or someone, you know, I’m busy.”

  I decide to change tack. “Did you see anyone near my laptop around the time I told you we’d won the supermarket business?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do you remember? I did a little dance?”

  “Not especially,” she replies.

  “Not especially as in people near my laptop or that you remember?”

  She huffs long and loud.

  I continue, “Imani, this is important.”

  “I don’t recall your ‘little dance’, and I don’t remember anyone near your laptop.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I don’t spend all day looking at it. I’m not your laptop bodyguard now, am I?” she snaps.

  “No, of course not.”

  There must be something that will trip her up. “Did you access my PW-Protekt?”

  “You use that?”

  “Yes. Did you access it?”

  “No, why would I?” Someone in the background shouts her name. “Look, is there something you actually need from me, for work? Like a client emergency or something?”

  All the wind is knocked out of my sails, and my bluster fails. She’s genuinely unfazed. All her responses are textbook Imani. If she’s not going to admit to this, then I’ll need to find some hard evidence.

  “That’s all for now, thanks. Enjoy your movie,” I reply and hang up.

  17

  Stumped. That’s the word. I confronted the perpetrator, and it didn’t work. So what next?

  I take stock of my situation. A part of me just wants to retreat. To curl up in a ball and hope this’ll all blow over. Be realistic, Lauren. That’s not going to happen. There must be some evidence that points to Imani. There has to be something that I can do… or somewhere I can start… or someone who will help…

  My money. I can’t just let it disappear. I’ll start there.

  I scrabble in the ‘important paperwork’ box in the front room for the letter from the bank with my telephone banking details. I so rarely call that I didn’t bother to add the information to my password manager.

  I dial the number on the back of my bank card, listen to various menus and press the right numbers. I’m told I’m in a queue, and an earworm pop song cuts in. When it finishes, it starts again. The same fecking song. I put my phone on speaker and drum my fingers on the sofa’s armrest. A notification pops up on my screen – battery running low.

  Gah. I pick up the phone just in case someone answers while I’m on the move, take the stairs two at a time and grab my charger from the bedroom. I bring it back downstairs and plug it in a kitchen socket. I stand there looking at the phone and listening to the same song again and again. I pace, do some shoulder stretches, which make me yelp – the tension of the past few days settling in my tight muscles there, and then put my forearms on the kitchen counter and cradle my head in them.

  Thirty-five minutes later, after the music lulls me into a half-conscious state, a human says, “Hello?”

  It startles me, and I fumble for my phone and almost drop it.

  “Hello! Hello! Yes, I’m here.”

  I tell him my telephone banking number, which – thank the heavens – still works.

  “I just need to ask you some questions to make sure you are who you say you are.”

  “Of course.”

  “What was the last transaction you made on your debit card?”

  “Umm, paying for some shopping at Tesco Express in Chorlton on Thursday night? I think it was around thirty pounds?”

  “No, that’s not correct. Let’s try another question. What is the approximate balance on your account?”

  “Around two thousand.” I know this for certain because I always keep about that amount in my current account after my salary is paid in every month. Anything over that goes into my savings account.

  “Hmm, that’s not quite right. What’s the first line of your address?”

  “Number twenty-four Three Acres Road.”

  “Have you moved recently? Is there a possibility that your account details need updating?”

  “I moved here six months ago and changed my address then. I get post from you guys, so you’ve definitely got this address.”

  “Ah.”

  This is NOT going well. I desperately reel off information that isn’t so easy to change. “My full name is Lauren Virginia Cohen. I’ve had the account for twenty-four years. I opened it in the Salford branch in February, just after my birthday. I have a credit card with you guys and a
savings account. I took out a loan when I graduated and paid it off four years ago – I know this because it was just before I started at my current job—”

  He cuts me off. “Thank you, Lauren. Can I just confirm your date of birth?”

  I tell him, and when he replies with “That’s what we have on our system,” I almost weep with joy.

  “However,” he continues, “I’m not able to confirm your identity.”

  “That’s because I think I’ve been a victim of fraud. I think someone has accessed my account without my approval and changed my personal details and password. I can’t log on to my online banking, and none of my cards work,” I say, trying to remain calm.

  The call centre employee puts me through to the fraud department, and I’m on hold for another ten minutes. With every minute that passes, I can feel my blood pressure rising.

  Finally, the call is picked up, and I’m asked the same questions to confirm my identity and have the exact same conversation. The fraud department employee asks me some more questions specifically about the fraud claim and determines that I’m probably telling the truth.

  “Is there any money left in my account?” I ask.

  “Because I can’t verify your identity, I’m not able to tell you that information,” the fraud department employee replies.

  “Are all my cards cancelled?”

  I get the same reply.

  “Is there anything you can tell me? I’m freaking out a bit here,” I say.

  “We’ll investigate these claims as a matter of urgency and come back to you.”

  “What can I do to prove that this account belongs to me?”

  “You will need to go into a branch with your passport and driving licence and potentially some other forms of ID to prove your identity.”

  “How long will it take for you to come back to me?” I ask, already plotting the route to my nearest branch to be first in line when it opens in the morning.

  “It’s going to take between twenty-four to forty-eight hours,” he replies.

  I can’t access my money. It’s probably all gone. And the bank is telling me to wait for up to two days. “Seriously?” I say in a tone brimming with exasperation.

  “Please be assured we’ll look into it as quickly as possible. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

  Maybe he can help me to rebuild the ruins of my life? To pin down the entitled twenty-something who’s doing this to me? I say no, thank him, and end the call.

  A broken heart I can just about cope with. It’ll take time but it’ll heal. But suddenly not having any money? That blows my mind. And all those years of saving for a rainy day? Well, it’s absolutely pouring down, and I have nothing to fall back on. All of it, gone. Yes, Mum left me some money. But that isn’t enough to live off for any length of time.

  All that financial security, just… vanished. Poof. Up in smoke.

  I google cybercrime UK. There’s a dedicated centre to report financial fraud and cybercrime to the police. It has a hotline. I go to call it, but it’s only open until 8 p.m., and it’s now 8.17 p.m. FFS.

  There’s no way I’m waiting until tomorrow. So I navigate to the online reporting tool. I have to sign up first and automatically put in my personal email address, curse when I remember that is the account that’s been compromised and change it to my work email, which I can still access at the moment. I complete the online report, write the report number on my notepad, and read the fine print: someone from the relevant police department will get back to me in… ‘up to forty-eight hours’.

  “You’re taking the piss,” I shout out loud. Why does it all take so long? My life has imploded, and everyone who might be able to help will ‘get back to me’. I don’t have forty-eight hours. It’s all going tits up right this very minute.

  Right. I need evidence. I know there are no cameras inside the office, so I know I can’t find CCTV of Imani jumping onto my laptop and sending that email to supermarket Stephanie. Perhaps there are cameras in the car park that picked up Imani keying my car? But I remember the graphic designer’s motorbike got stolen when he decided to leave it there over one weekend after a few heavy nights. He’d told me that there was CCTV only at the entrance/exit and not on each of the floors. Work’s a dead end, then.

  But what about the personal things? Perhaps I could compare a sample of her handwriting with the letters Akshay found in the tub outside? I rack my brain. There must be a time when I saw her handwriting. A memory pops up. I have seen it, and it’s surprisingly neat and tidy, considering her completely impractical fingernails. It’s nothing like the looping scrawl on the notes. But she could’ve got someone else to write those notes.

  Or maybe I could somehow check her bank statement to see if she purchased the underwear and sex toy – but how would I even go about doing that? Or maybe I could ask Rob if he can check her laptop and see if she has some kind of deepfake software on it? But I discount that, because the IT guy would want to know why I needed to snoop on another colleague’s laptop and likely inform Madeline.

  What about the burner phone she used to send the dirty texts? Long binned by now. And even if it wasn’t, where would she keep it? At home, I expect, and I can’t exactly rock up and say, “Hi, Imani, can I just search through your belongings?”

  There’s nothing quick and simple I can think of that wouldn’t involve some kind of highly irregular or illegal activity. And that’s just not me. A twang of guilt about looking at Madeline’s emails yesterday reverberates again. But if that’s what I have to do… An uncomfortable knot forms in my chest.

  I feel so isolated and impotent. Like someone has sucked out all the goodness of my life and left me with an empty husk. My brain aches from the mental torture, and I rub circles on my temples. Is this what Imani wants? To grind me down so completely that I self-destruct?

  But an idea pops into my head. I check the time on my watch. There is something I can do.

  18

  I hunch down in my car in the car park at work, my eyes trained on the route down to the exit. I’m on the floor beneath the MBW floor. I drove up, saw Imani’s car still parked there – hers was the only car – and then strategically parked so I could see when she left but so she wouldn’t notice me.

  She’s still at the cinema. The movie must be ending soon, they all last around an hour and a half to two hours, and there’s always a good twenty to thirty minutes of adverts at the start. And she went in around 7 p.m., after I’d called her. It’s now gone nine.

  I know exactly which cinema she goes to. It’s just across the road from the office. She’s told me before that she goes with three friends who also work in the city centre. It’s a regular conversation within the PR team about what movie she might watch, and what she thinks of it the next day. She always goes on the same night because it’s two-for-one Wednesdays. Not that I imagine Imani is bothered about saving money, but perhaps her friends are.

  The lights on my floor go out, and I wait in the gloom. They’re automatic, and if I don’t move the car, they won’t come on again. Perfect.

  But agitation crawls under my skin, and I can barely sit still. I’m sweating. Following people like some kind of private investigator on the tail of a cheating spouse isn’t something I ever thought I’d do. I wrapped up warm in my big coat and scarf, as it’s a cold night, but now I’ve got way too many layers on. But I don’t dare take my seatbelt off to wrangle off my coat in case that’s the moment Imani’s car whizzes past.

  The glass is beginning to steam up with my body heat, so I wind down the passenger-side window, which isn’t facing the route that Imani will take. I doubt she’d notice a car with its window down, but you never know.

  There are two other cars still parked on this floor, and I hope the owners don’t come out any time soon. They’re sure to spot me and wonder what I’m up to, hiding in my car, my head just high enough to see out the window. I switch my phone to silent, not wanting it to ring and somehow give me away.
/>   I’m not entirely sure what I’m hoping to achieve. But I have to find some kind of evidence to prove that Imani is the one doing this to me. And if that means tailing her for a while, then so be it. I can’t think of anything else to do right now.

  A light snaps on from the floor above. Here we go. My finger hovers above the ignition button. A few moments later, headlights spin around, and Imani’s in-your-face metallic pink Range Rover flies past on its way down to the exit. I catch a glimpse of the driver – it’s definitely her.

  I count to three and then follow, without turning on my headlights. As I turn into the exit barrier, I see the back of the Range Rover turning right. The car park empties onto a one-way street, so I know which way she’ll go. I turn on my headlights and follow at a discreet distance.

  The Manchester city roads are busy with traffic, but her car is hard to miss and hard to lose. It sticks out like a sore thumb among the drab cars around it. She drives south out of the city centre towards Wilmslow, where I know she lives. But I’ve never been to her house and don’t know her address. I’ve never had to pick her up for a meeting or had any reason to go there.

  As we get closer to where she must live, turning off the main road into a smaller, upmarket, new-build estate, I hang back. I’ve no idea whether she’s noticed a car following her or not – and my Mini at that – and I’ve no idea what I’m doing. I watch from afar as she turns into the driveway of a small detached house. I drive past at a normal speed and glimpse her getting out of her car and heading towards her front door.

  I turn at the end of the road and then head back, parking on the other side of the road not quite opposite. I see the light in a downstairs window come on. It’s the kitchen. She doesn’t bother pulling the blind. I watch as she puts some bread in the toaster, looks in the fridge and pulls out a tub of butter, opens drawers, puts a plate and knife on the counter.

  My mouth goes dry, and I get an achy feeling in my side like a stitch. This is so intrusive. It doesn’t feel right. She’s oblivious to my presence. How would I feel if I found out someone was watching me in my home like this? It’s awful to imagine. She looks so vulnerable. And I feel so… sleazy. Nausea squirms, and I almost turn away and drive off. But I’m rooted to the spot. I have to find out who’s doing this to me. And if this is the only way, then I need to persevere. I decide to approach this with a clinical, unemotional mindset. It’s a job I need to get done.