by A. L. Lester
Slumped in a chair at the little Formica table in their kitchen and staring into a cup of tea, he summarized what had happened.
“That fucker!” Percy said. “Adrian will be back in a minute. Drink your tea and wait to tell the rest of it until he gets here. You don’t need to go through it twice. Are you staying for supper?”
Phil drank some tea. “If that’s okay. I don’t really know what to do with myself.”
“It’s only beans on toast, mind. I ate at the dining hall at school and Ade usually lunches with clients. Come and sit in the other room, I’ve got some marking to do and I like to spread it out on the dining table.”
It was a comfortable evening. His friends both shared his fury and distaste at the whole debacle.
On the way home he tried to frame it as an unexpected holiday. Peter and Portnoy would go through the books, the transactions would all track, and he’d be back at work in a fortnight.
He thought he might go and see Aunt Mary out at Chislehurst for a night or two and then carry on and get a ferry over to France for a few days. Clear his head completely.
Mary was his last surviving family member, his mother’s youngest sister. He’d been a surprise late arrival to his older parents and they’d both passed on when he was in his twenties. Mary was in her seventies and unflappable. She lived in a bright modern semi-detached bungalow with a neat garden and he’d been bringing his troubles to her since he was old enough to talk. He thought she had probably guessed he was that way early on when she never questioned him about girlfriends…and he had a sneaking suspicion that she might be on the other bus herself. They’d never discussed it.
For him to visit her on a Tuesday was unusual. He usually drove down at the weekends.
“Is everything all right?” she asked on the phone in the morning when he rang to see if she was at home to visitors. “Is something the matter?”
“Nothing dreadful,” he replied. “I’ll tell you when I see you rather than on the phone. Nothing to worry about.”
Sitting in her tiny, bright kitchen as she poured tea into china cups from the Brown Betty and fussed about pink wafer biscuits was very comforting. He didn’t want to upset her, but he desperately wanted to confide in her as a maternal figure.
She finally arranged the teacups and biscuits to her satisfaction and seated herself opposite him.
“So tell me,” she said. “Is it work? It must be, if you’re here on a work-day.”
“In a sense,” he said. The whole sorry story poured out.
She listened in silence, stirring her tea and occasionally taking a sip. He couldn’t make himself meet her eyes for fear of what he’d see in them and when he finally looked up after pouring them both another cup from the cooling pot on the table between them, he was unsurprised to see anger. Disappointed, but unsurprised.
He was surprised, however, when the first thing she said was “Well! What an unpleasant little creep!” She saw him staring and continued. “Honestly, Philip, did you think I was going to be shocked? Emmeline and I lived together for twenty years before she was killed in the blitz. I know it’s easier for women than men. But you might have guessed.”
He coughed. “I did wonder,” he said. “Sorry Aunt. I should have asked. Or I should have told you, so you could tell me.”
“It didn’t seem like something you wanted to talk about, so I didn’t bring it up,” she responded. “No need to talk something to death if there’s no need.” She proffered the biscuits at him. “Go on. Have another. It looks like you haven’t been eating. When did this all happen?”
“Erm…” He thought back. “When I got home from visiting you the weekend before this one. He’d had someone at the flat and it turned out it wasn’t the first time.”
She sniffed. “Classy chap.” Then she corrected herself. “Sorry. I know you must have liked him a lot to invite him to live with you. I don’t think you’ve ever had anyone like that before, have you?”
“No. And it looks like I didn’t really have that now. I think he’s probably a gold digger. I don’t know what he’s going to do when this investigation comes up blank. He’ll lose his job unless he’s very careful. Presumably he doesn’t want to out himself to the Board any more than I want to be outed.”
She looked at him shrewdly. “If he’s a gold digger and knows that you don’t want to be outed, then he has a hold over you.” Her eyes dimmed a little. “That happened to a friend of mine. Years ago. Before the war. He killed himself.” She patted his hand, suddenly. “Don’t do that, will you, dear?” she said. “You’ll always have a place here with me.”
He swallowed an unexpected urge to cry at her kindness. “No, Aunt Mary. I won’t do that. And thank you.” He put his hand on hers where it rested on his own. “I was thinking I might swing over the channel for a few days tomorrow. Would you like to come? We could potter round the Pas du Calais for a few days and have a holiday.”
“That sounds lovely, dear. I’d be delighted.”
Chapter 3: Arrest
He went to work feeling quite hopeful on the Monday. His two weeks off had done him good and from what Portnoy had said on the phone on Friday, it was all sorted out and he’d been cleared. He wondered what was going to happen to Richard, but it didn’t bother him too much. He’d regained his usual equilibrium during the time he’d spent with Mary. He even found himself whistling in the fresh spring air as he got off the tube for the short walk to the office.
That lasted until he opened the door to his office and found Peter already in there, sat behind his desk. “Morning!” he said. “What are you up to in here?”
Peter looked at him sadly. “I’m so sorry old chap,” he said. “Portnoy wants you in his office as soon as, I’m afraid.”
“What for?”
“He’ll tell you all about it.” Peter looked grim. “You shouldn’t have lied about it, Phil. Not once Richard had blown the whistle.”
“Lied about what?”
Peter only looked at him. “Go and see Portnoy, old chap,” he said, solemnly.
* * * *
Phil didn’t bother to take his coat off or put his briefcase down. He knocked on Portnoy’s door and was immediately bid to enter.
Portnoy was not behind his desk. He stood in front of it, pipe still in hand. There were two other men beside him. “McManus.” His voice was as grim as Peter’s. “Thank you for coming in.” He glanced down at his pipe-filled hands and cleared his throat as he looked back up. “I have to tell you, McManus, that I wasn’t entirely truthful to you on Friday when we spoke.”
He turned to the two men beside him. “This is Detective Sergeant Morris and Detective Constable Ridler of the City of London Police. I have had to hand the information we came up with in our investigation over to them and they will be taking things from here. I’m very sorry you lied to me two weeks ago, McManus. You’ve only made things worse.”
Phil stared at him, astounded. “I beg your pardon?”
“By lying, you’ve made things worse. Norman uncovered several serious irregularities in your last six months’ worth of transactions. There are at least two very obvious incidents of short-selling in your name where it’s clear you were acting on inside knowledge that only became common knowledge a few days after your trades.”
Phil backed toward the chair behind his and sank into it. He felt sick. “I beg your pardon?” he said again. “I…what? Insider trading? Me? Short-selling what?”
Portnoy looked at him. “It’s out of my hands now. Norman felt it was sufficiently serious to go to the Board and they called in the police.” He frowned. “I’m very sorry, McManus. It’s a mess of your own making.” He gestured once again to the police officers. “These gentlemen have come to escort you for questioning. I suggest that if you give your word you’ll go quietly, there will be no need to restrain you.”
Detective Constable Ridler looked as if he would like nothing better than to restrain Phil, from the way he was glaring at him.
“I’ll come quietly,” Phil said. He didn’t have an alternative.
* * * *
After an extremely unpleasant thirty-six hours in gaol, Phil was released without charge. He realised quite early on that although there were trades in his name, and someone had definitely been making money on the side by buying and selling stocks at a good price well before knowledge about the companies became public, there wasn’t quite enough evidence to actually pin it on him.
He’d phoned Adrian as his legal representation. “Don’t say anything ‘til I get there,” Adrian had said. “Give me an hour. I’ve just arrived in the office; it won’t take me long.”
Adrian was good at his job, although Phil had never thought he’d be so grateful for the fact. They questioned him over and over again, even bringing in a forensic accountant to try to trip him up over details. He was as helpful as he could be, given that he didn’t know what they were talking about or looking for. He had a horrible feeling that it was Richard who had been committing some sort of fraud and he’d set Phil up to take the fall.
“How could he have done it?” he asked Adrian, in one of the breaks they’d allowed him on the Monday afternoon.
“Don’t know,” Adrian said. “I’m wondering if he had help. Peter…” His voice trailed off.
“Yes. I thought that. But…he wouldn’t. Would he?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Adrian said, unconvinced. “Anyway. That’s not our job at the moment. We need to convince them that it wasn’t you, that’s all.” He chewed his pencil. “He’s been very clever. Did he have access to your passport and that sort of thing?”
“He must have done, mustn’t he? It looks like the funds have been sent somewhere in my name. They mentioned the Bahamas. And it wasn’t me. So unless Aunt Mary went through my papers that weekend she visited last winter…” He let his voice trail off.
Conveniently they had taken him to Wood Street Police Station, which was just round the corner from his flat. Conveniently, because when Adrian finally put his foot down mid-afternoon the following day and extracted him without charge, he was able to stumble home without much trouble and collapse on his sofa.
He hadn’t had a night in the cells for twenty years and he’d been so drunk on that occasion that he hadn’t realised he wasn’t in his own bed. He ached all over and he smelled disgusting.
Adrian let him be and presently emerged from the kitchen with two glasses of brandy. “Here,” he said. “Medicinal.”
Phil knocked it back and put the crystal glass on the coffee table with a clunk. “Thanks,” he said. “Ugh. I need a shower. I can smell myself. Sorry.”
Adrian folded elegantly into the chair opposite. “I’ve got a cold, don’t worry about it,” he said. “You can have a shower now, anyway.”
Phil wriggled out of his coat without getting up. “Yes. And then I suppose…” Again he tailed off. What exactly? What was he supposed to do now? “What happens next?” he asked.
“Well, I expect they’ll poke about some more. Ask more questions about what Richard was doing. Look at Peter’s audit. Double-check everything. They can’t ignore it now they know about it, whatever the firm wants to do.”
Phil grimaced. “I bet poor Portnoy is bricking it. Under his watch. And Richard went over his head. If they can’t pin it on me, they’ll be wanting to pin it on someone. Portnoy will out me, though. He’ll have to, to get them to look at Richard.”
Adrian turned his glass between his palms thoughtfully. “Do you think so?”
“Pretty sure. He implied he knew, when he sent me on leave a couple of weeks ago. So he knows Richard has a motive to stiff me.” He sighed. “I don’t have to hang around though, do I? So long as I tell them where I’ve gone?”
“No. You don’t need to tell them where you’ve gone, strictly speaking. It would be good manners, though.”
“Yes.” He sighed again. “I feel a strong urge for a change of scenery coming on. I need to get away from everything while they work it all out. And I can’t go back to work, regardless. Even if they clear me, everyone will know I’m gay. I can’t work with them under those circumstances.”
“No, I can see that,” Adrian said. “Don’t forget to leave us your address as well, though, will you?”
Chapter 4: Cottage
October, 1971
It wasn’t much. Phil didn’t need much. He sat in the car at the gate and examined the outside of the cottage he’d rented sight unseen. It had a rambling garden with what he assumed were things like hollyhocks and…peonies? And maybe marigolds? Or were they nasturtiums? After that he was lost. It wasn’t really relevant anyway. The important thing was that it was a hundred and fifty miles from London and although it had a telephone, no-one knew the number.
He hauled himself out of the door of the Vixen and stood for another moment, taking it in. The photograph had been pretty accurate. There was a slightly lop-sided porch that was weighted down with rambling yellow roses. The roof was thatched and not in very good condition. It was serviceable but clearly hadn’t been re-done in the last twenty years. The windows were small and not lined up with each other, probably because of the age. The walls had once been painted a shade of yellow but were faded and patchy.
All in all it looked like a child’s drawing of a country cottage. It was a comforting and steadying sight after the drama of the last few weeks, as if once he stepped through the door, he’d be in a children’s book with a guaranteed happy ending.
It was probably damp. And had mice. Or bats. Or frogs. Or something. He sighed as he grabbed his suitcases from the small boot. The person he had spoken to at the agency had told him that they key would be tucked into the side of the porch. He reached up above the green-painted wood and found it as promised, alongside what seemed to be a bird’s nest.
It did smell damp. It had been empty for a few months, he’d been told, since the old lady who lived here died. He put his bags down on the floor and went on a journey of exploration. The kitchen led to a lean-to scullery and an afterthought of a bathroom. The scullery unlocked with the key in the door and led out to a larger rear garden that had clearly once be laid to vegetables. He might turn his hand to that once he settled in. He had vague memories of helping his grandfather with his allotment during the war. It brought a pleasant, warm, fuzzy feeling that he’d like to reclaim after the grim clarity of the last few weeks.
There was sitting room that the previous occupant had probably called a parlour with a couple of old-fashioned wing chairs and an uncomfortable-looking sofa. There was a big fireplace. He’d get that lit and air the place out as soon as he could.
Upstairs were two small bedrooms with sloping roofs. The largest had a double bed that was made up with bright, white sheets and what looked like a hand-made quilt on top of the blankets. The curtains were blue and white gingham and wouldn’t do much to keep the light out. But they’d stop people seeing in from the road. The second room had twin beds with the bedding rolled at the end and the same curtains.
That was it. It was tiny, cluttered, and very different from his Barbican flat. He took himself down to the kitchen and looked for tea supplies. There was a new-looking electric kettle on the side and loose leaved tea in the cannister. His new landlady had undertaken to stock the place with food and was going to come in twice weekly to clean and change the bedding. So far the unknown lady seemed to be meeting all his needs.
Chapter 5: Incident
Laurie couldn’t work out why he was on the ground. He’d been in the top field working with the two dogs to get the sheep into the holding pen before running them through the dip. Now he was on the patchy grass looking up through the branches of the chestnut, the leaves edged with the rich brown of approaching autumn. Jimmy was bending over him.
“The ambulance is coming lad, don’t panic,” he said, his soft country tones familiar and reassuring. “Paul ran across to the cottages and rang them as soon as it happened, they said about half an hour and it’s been near
ly that now.”
“What happened?” Laurie tried to say, but he heard himself saying “Whhhhh?” and couldn’t articulate any more. He tried to sit up, but his left arm wouldn’t move to support him.
Jimmy put a hand on his shoulder. “Stay still, lad. Just rest there until they get here. Paul’s gone down to the end of the track to wave them down.”
Everything was taking a lot of effort, moving, thinking, talking. He sank back as Jimmy ordered and realised the old man had put something under his head as a pillow. It must be serious, he thought. For Jimmy to take his jacket off involved unwrapping the cat’s nest of baler-twine around his middle that held his elderly jacket in place and struggling out of it. Laurie wasn’t sure he even took it off to sleep.
“What?” he managed to get out. It sounded slurred.
Jimmy patted his arm. “Stroke I think, lad. But let’s get you to the hospital and they’ll sort you out. Just lie there a bit and rest.”
The older bitch, Fly, was laid along his right side across from Jimmy, and Laurie raised his hand and put in on her head as she nosed at him anxiously. She was warm and comforting under his palm. He turned his head slightly and saw her daughter Nell a couple of yards away watching what was going on with her head tilted to one side. “It’s all right, girl,” he tried to say. But it came out as something completely unintelligible, so he stopped.
Time seemed to drift. He opened and shut his eyes a few times, watching the light breeze move the leaves above him. It was a good day for the autumn sheep dipping. Nice and warm. Then he could hear voices above him. Paul and Jimmy. And someone else.
“This the patient then?” A jovial sort of voice. “Is he with us?”
“He was just now, but he’s dropped off again, I think.” Jimmy, answering. “He keeps waking up, trying to talk, and then drifting off again.”
“Well, let’s have a look at him.” Laurie was conscious of Jimmy moving away and opened his eyes again. It was a great effort.