by AA Abbott
His iPhone rang at six thirty. “Who the devil is that?” Charles grimaced. He let the phone default to voicemail.
“You’ll have to pick it up, darling,” Deirdre said, as the inevitable voicemail calls began.
“When we’re done,” Charles said, already aware the spell was broken. He brought Deirdre to a satisfactory, if unspectacular, climax before finishing himself.
His boss had left a message requesting an urgent call back. Cursing under his breath, as good manners precluded him from using bad language in front of a lady, Charles obliged.
“Yo, Charles. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
“No, Alex.” Charles kept his tone friendly as ever. He didn’t believe in bringing his emotions to work.
“Great stuff,” Alex replied. “Can you get here within the hour? I want you to work on a new project, and we need to get our ducks in a row. You’ll have to be NDAed by nine.”
“All right, Alex. I’ll leave now,” Charles said, mentally clocking the unpaid overtime and resolving to leave early to compensate for it. He’d seen many of his colleagues succumb to stress over the years, and decided he wasn’t going to join them. Since hitting forty, he’d refused to work for more than thirty five hours a week. Alex, ten years younger and doubtless destined for burnout, didn’t see eye to eye with him on this. There was nothing he could do, though, in the face of Charles’ charm, persistence and sheer ability. Charles was easily the most capable member of his team.
“Do you have to go so early, Chas?” Deirdre pulled a face.
“Sorry. The bank has another top secret project, and Alex wants me to sign a non-disclosure agreement.”
“How annoying for you,” she sympathised.
Charles had a quick blast in the shower, scraped his chin and dashed for the Tube. There was no time for breakfast, but at least he could enjoy a few minutes of blokey football chat with the smokers before his day started. This, and the buzz of solving IT problems that no one else could crack, ensured his work was congenial as long as there wasn’t too much of it.
Alex either had no interest in football, or wasn’t prepared to share it with Charles. Short and intense, he made an effort to chat to his superiors but avoided small talk with his team. As soon as he saw Charles walk into the cavernous, humming room where they both worked, he pointed to a break-out area. “Let’s have a one to one,” he said, handing Charles a sheaf of papers and a pen. “We need to find somewhere private.”
Charles flicked through the papers as soon as they were seated, in a glass-walled booth which in reality was as private as a goldfish bowl. There was a non-disclosure letter for the new project, another letter saying his emails and phone calls would be monitored, and a notice forbidding him to buy or sell shares in several companies. One of them was Veritable Insurance, presumably because Amy worked there. He signed everything with a flourish, under Alex’s impatient gaze.
“Thanks,” Alex said. “Okay, Charles, I suppose you can guess what I’m going to ask you to do next.”
Charles genuinely had no idea. He guessed some data was required for one of the redundancy exercises which the bank undertook, regular as clockwork, each year. All the staff who were culled seemed to be replaced within months, leading to a degree of cynicism amid his coterie of smokers. He decided silence was the best policy.
“You’ve signed the NDA for Project Termite,” Alex said. “I want you to go to a meeting about it at nine, but meanwhile, I’ll fill you in. You know of Veritable Insurance, of course.” Here, Alex permitted himself a thin smile. “The CEO of Veritable is your girlfriend’s brother, as we’re both well aware. I therefore thought it inappropriate for you to work on this project, but I was overruled.”
That was useful intelligence. Alex reported into the bank’s Board. Charles had long suspected that he had supporters at that level, and here was the confirmation. He possessed friends in high places, and apparently, he had more than Alex. Wisely, he kept quiet.
“Bishopstoke Insurance is buying Veritable, and merging the two companies together. Both Boards have reached agreement and will recommend the deal to shareholders. We’ve been instructed by Bishopstoke to help them with the acquisition. We’ll be arranging a rights issue for them.”
“You mean,” Charles said, eager to prove he understood what this involved, “Bishopstoke is asking its shareholders for cash, and needs to prove the acquisition will be value for money. The bank will say it is, but we need to check that’s actually the case first.”
“Absolutely,” Alex said. “Any questions?”
Charles was tempted to ask why the project was named after a destructive insect, but thought better of it. “What’s my role in this?”
“Glad you asked,” Alex said acerbically. “I want you to do a deep dive into Veritable’s IT systems. We’ve got three days, so give it 110%.”
“Ah, you mean a systems audit,” Charles said. “That would normally take two weeks from start to finish, even with extra resources. I tell you what, lend me John and a couple of contractors, and I’ll see what I can do. You’ll have to arrange cover for our other tasks, though.”
Alex’s sallow face reddened. “I haven’t got a budget for backfill.”
“You’re kidding,” Charles said. “The bank’s fee will be north of £10m. It always is.” A subtle reminder that he had worked here far longer than Alex. “We can afford a few contractors, surely? If you won’t give me time to do the job properly, there’s no point asking me to do it. You’d better go to this meeting alone.”
“I thought you could fit it in around your work. You always leave at five, so you’ve obviously got capacity.”
“You shouldn’t be putting me under stress and expecting me to do overtime at my age,” Charles said, aware he had the upper hand. The Board wanted him to work on the project, so Alex would have to facilitate that or face awkward questions. Alex might decide to dispense with his services in future, of course. Charles had played the age card as a warning that he would expect a handsome redundancy package. He could walk into another job easily enough.
“I agree.” Alex’s demeanour suggested he did not. “I’ll see you in the conference room at nine.”
Charles had just enough time for a coffee and a smoke. He bumped into one of the directors, a fellow Crystal Palace supporter, in the street outside.
“Going to the Project Termite meeting?” his colleague asked, lighting a Marlboro.
Charles nodded.
“It’ll be a cast of thousands. Don’t stay too long. I’ll make sure we’re done with IT by ten, then you can go away and plan your audit. Bishopstoke has given us a stupid deadline. Just do your best.”
“Is there a budget for it?” Charles asked.
“Of course. And enough left over for a big party afterwards.”
It still took Charles the rest of his working day, and more, to plan the audit. The next day, he would be meeting Veritable’s IT director in the morning. Much to his irritation, he ended up working past six o’clock.
He was supposed to attend a networking evening with Deirdre at the Institute of Directors, a gracious stucco building on Pall Mall. Having texted to say he would meet her there, he found his reception frosty.
“I can’t believe you’re late,” she hissed. “You went to work stupidly early this morning.”
“It was the project,” Charles said.
“Oh, that.” Deirdre appeared unimpressed.
He suspected she’d have been interested if she’d realised it involved Veritable, although he was far too professional to divulge it. If she ever found out he’d kept a secret like that, she’d be less than amused. “I don’t know why you wanted me here anyway,” he said.
“I won’t get leched over if everyone sees I have a handsome, dashing boyfriend.”
He preened, before Deirdre pointed out Camilla, the same bored-looking brunette he’d seen at their flat.
“Would you mind turning the charm on Camilla? I’m hoping to do some nutriti
onal films with her.”
Camilla, alas, did not smoke. She was a vegan and spent a good thirty minutes explaining the benefits of her diet, and the deficiencies of the Institute’s canapés, to him.
“I thought they were rather yummy,” Charles said, nibbling a smoked salmon blini.
“I don’t eat anything with a face,” Camilla said, scowling at Charles as if he were a cannibal.
“I can see you two are getting on famously,” Deirdre said brightly, appearing like a particularly well-timed ray of sunlight.
“Well I’m feeling hungry listening to Camilla talking about her diet,” Charles said, as Camilla shooed away the servers gliding past with trays of canapés. “In fact,” he added desperately, “I’m rather tired. Why don’t we go home soon and have supper at the flat?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Deirdre agreed. “Would you like to join us, Camilla?”
“No thank you,” the brunette sniffed, to Charles’ relief. “I’m going back to Soho for a kale smoothie.”
“I didn’t realise that’s what Soho was famous for,” Charles observed when Camilla was out of earshot.
“Don’t be too dismissive,” Deirdre said. “She has her own TV programme already. Viewers love her. I suppose they think they’ll be gorgeous too if they drink her smoothies. She looks like a young Elizabeth Taylor, doesn’t she?”
“You’re beautiful despite the complete absence of kale from your kitchen,” Charles declared. He drew her towards him.
“You don’t know all my guilty secrets,” Deirdre said, holding his gaze just long enough for him to wonder.
“Then I’ll make sure you eat properly tonight,” Charles replied. “Supper in bed?”
He persuaded Deirdre to go ahead of him to the flat and popped into a Marks & Spencer food store nearby. Charles often went there; it was, as on this occasion, an excuse for a couple of cigarettes whilst appearing to be helpful. Back home, he rustled up rare steaks and salad, red wine in Deirdre’s crystal glasses, profiteroles with chocolate sauce. He arranged the meal on a gilded tray they had bought together in Florence, and took it into the airy white bedroom. Deirdre was sitting up in bed, wearing a pink tulle baby doll nightdress.
“You look like Barbie,” he laughed.
She giggled. “Well, Ken,” she said, “show me what’s for supper.”
He left the tray next to her on the bedside table and pulled up a chair. Tenderly, he cut up a forkful of steak and fed it to her.
“Mmm.” She mouthed appreciative noises.
They both ate the main course and pudding with relish. Charles approved of Deirdre’s appetite. She exercised so much – it was her profession after all – that she could eat whatever she chose, with no need for the diets that seemed to turn his female colleagues into snappish dragons.
“Chas,” Deirdre murmured greedily, “is that an extra pot of chocolate sauce?”
“It is,” he admitted. “Shall we share it?” He was already removing his clothing, and with one swift stroke, he lifted away her flimsy nightdress. Dipping a finger in the sauce, he spread it over her lips and nipples, then turned his attention between her thighs. Gradually, he licked the chocolate from her skin.
Deirdre returned the favour, painting him with the sugary liquid, nibbling and licking him sensuously.
He could bear it no longer. He pulled her face to his and rewarded her with a deep French kiss. Then, at last, he began to make love; slowly, and without interruption. “I’ve waited all day for this,” he gasped.
Deirdre’s brown eyes shone. “I waited all my life,” she said, “and it was worth it.”
Chapter 13 Amy
Amy dialled 999.
“Emergency. Which service?” It was a woman’s voice.
“Police.”
“Putting you through.”
The next speaker was a man. “Where are you?”
Amy gave her address.
“What is the emergency?”
“It’s my flatmate – she’s vanished.” Amy’s voice trembled.
“How old is she?”
“Twenty four.”
“Does she have mental health issues; suicidal at all?”
“No.”
“This number is for emergencies only, my dear. You need to call 101.”
Amy was indignant. Why was a young woman’s disappearance so unimportant? It was the first thing she asked when she rang the non-emergency line.
“She’s an adult and free to come and go,” the male operator explained. “Do you still want to report this?”
Amy said she did, and they went through all his scripted questions. “She wouldn’t just go away for two days without telling me,” Amy said, “and she’d reply to my texts.” As she spoke the words, she asked herself if they were true. She had lodged in Fitzrovia for a mere two months. Did she really know Kat? They had shared late night wine and laughter, sipped coffee together to ward off weekend hangovers, partied at the glamorous events to which Kat somehow secured invitations. Despite that, Kat had told her very little about herself. Her childhood and family were almost a closed book. An aunt in Birmingham had been mentioned in passing, as had a father in the drinks trade. Even Jeb, who had visited the flat most weeks to take Kat out for cocktails, was a man of mystery.
She finished the call and was given an incident number. “You need to quote that to the police,” she was told. The operator gave no assurances that the police would be in touch. In the circumstances, Amy was relieved when they visited next morning, although she would have preferred not to be woken at six.
The doorbell, strident as a siren, wormed its way into her dream until it could no longer be ignored. There was a spyhole in the front door through which she noted the uniformed man and woman. She opened the door.
“Miss Amy Satterthwaite?”
“Yes.”
Once they’d introduced themselves as PCs James Burnett and Saffron Cole from the local police station, Amy ushered them inside, to Kat’s room. Here, the visitors could sit on Kat’s sofa bed and she on one of the two folding dining chairs. In Amy’s bedroom, by contrast, there was barely clearance to walk past her single bed, and no seating save the bed itself. “This is Kat’s room,” she explained.
“Kat would be your flatmate?” PC Cole asked. “Does Bronwen Jones live here too?”
“Bronwen moved out two months ago, when I moved in. It’s just Kat and me.”
“Where’s Kat at the moment?” Cole wanted to know.
“You tell me.” This was quite extraordinary. Amy had reported Kat as missing. Didn’t they understand that? She hadn’t even mentioned Bronwen, and why should she when they’d never met? “Wait,” Amy said, “I’ll fetch the incident number. I have it written down in my room.” She would make them tea as well. That was what witnesses did for the police in crime dramas, wasn’t it? Perhaps they would prefer coffee; she must ask.
The two officers exchanged glances. “I’ll come with you,” Cole said.
“Good. You can help me carry the tea.” Amy’s brain really wasn’t functioning well. She was used to rising half an hour later, which in itself was early enough.
They walked through the narrow corridor together, stopping briefly for Amy to open the door of the kitchenette and switch on the kettle. “What would you prefer – tea or coffee?” she asked.
“Tea for me and a coffee for Jamie, both white,” Cole replied.
Amy left the kettle to boil, and obtained the scribbled-down number from her room.
“It’s cosy in here, isn’t it?” Cole said, her eyes on the small, barely accessible window a metre above the bedhead. For the first time, she smiled at Amy. “Shall I help you make the drinks? Jamie just takes a spot of milk in his. I know exactly how he likes it.”
Amy put two teaspoons of instant coffee in her own mug. She saw that Cole had noticed, although the other woman remained silent. Obviously, the police were trained to spot every detail. “Please help yourself,” she said, placing mugs, teabags, coffee an
d milk in front of the officer.
They took the drinks into Kat’s room. Amy unfolded the small black dining table. “Now,” she said, “What do you need from me? I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
“Thank you,” PC Burnett said. He took a photograph from his pocket. “Do you recognise this man?”
It was a dark-skinned young man of south Asian appearance, perhaps from India but more likely one of the millions of Englishmen whose parents and grandparents had emigrated from the subcontinent. “No,” Amy said.
“That’s strange,” Cole said, “because you married him a fortnight ago.”
Amy felt giddy. The world blurred before her eyes. She clutched at her seat, willing herself to stay upright. “That’s impossible,” she said. “I’ve never been married. I don’t even have a boyfriend.”
“This is Ahmed Khan,” Burnett said. “He came to London from Bangladesh on a student visa, to learn English. That’s quite common. The majority of students complete their studies and go home. Ahmed didn’t. He had a job as a chef. Whether he was a diligent student too, I don’t know. Most visa over-stayers learn enough English to tell me to F myself. I haven’t spoken to Ahmed himself – yet – but his boss tells me Ahmed was deeply in love with you and decided to stay in London to marry you. The records of St Edyth’s church in the East End show that he did so this year on July the first. The vicar’s confirmed it. He remembers you well. After all, you and Ahmed went to marriage classes at which he presided before the happy day.”
“Perhaps it was another Amy Satterthwaite?”
“With the same address?” Burnett said warily.
“We are investigating this, and a number of other weddings at St Edyth’s,” Cole said. “We suspect they’re sham marriages and criminal offences have been committed. We’d like you to come to the station to make a statement.”
Amy took a deep breath. Suspicion was growing within her; the fear that her flatmate and friend had stolen her identity to marry Ahmed Khan. It all made sense: Kat’s intense interest in Amy’s background, borrowing her passport and birth certificate to ‘show the landlord’, even Kat’s cheerful admission that she was about to make a short-term marriage. Had that been on the first of July? Amy struggled to remember.