“Trust me.”
“OK.”
I rang Ludgate to tell him a fax would soon be with him. He said nothing. The fax departed.
Then Matthew called.
“This is all very well, but all it proves is that Cameron’s ordered a few transfers. We still don’t know there is anything suspicious. The transfers may have been made prior to a big investment, or to buy a raft of annuities.”
“That’s not what my contact thinks.”
“Cameron’s will take us to the cleaners over this.”
“Then leave them out of it. The story stands, without any reference to them. This was just meant to be more reassurance for you.”
He went quiet.
“I’ll talk to Andrew. Where are you by the way?”
“I’m in the office, I’ll be going home shortly. Call me there if you need me.”
He called me almost every hour until 2am, each time pulling the story to shreds in a different way. At 2am, the final deadline past. I was no nearer to knowing whether it would be used or spiked.
I dreamt fitfully; of Mrs Strachan at the inquest, of Pitcher’s offer to work together, of Sister Robert and a girl called Roxy, and of Alexander Ross’s expression, when he learned Maurice Patterson had lost his mind. “Oh no,” he said over and over again in the dream.
I woke to the sound of the newspapers hitting the mat. I picked my copy of Square Mile with trembling hands. It was all there in 72 point.
‘Watchdogs probe suspicious Kelly transfers.’
Chapter 21
10am Friday, October 26,
Southwark
By the time Marsha arrived at my flat, I had checked out the competition on the internet. Two of the most prominent titles had followed us up, pretty much verbatim, without being able to verify a word.
Ordinarily this would have been a source of satisfaction, but not today. The phone had begun ringing at regular intervals. I let it switch onto answer machine. Their questions could wait. There was something more important to do. It was October 26. Three years to the day that Philip had died.
Marsha parked her one luxury, a 20-year-old MG, on double yellow lines outside my flat, and honked the horn until I joined her. She was dressed more soberly than usual in a dark skirt, which must have taken ten times more material than her usual tight above-the-knee numbers.
I wore my yellow silk suit. Yellow had been his favourite colour. The Southwark street was quiet. Many residents had joined the cattle trek to the city hours ago. Others, who worked from home – writers, graphic designer, advertising copywriters – were already glued to their computers. A postman went from house to house making his delivery. There was a woman, in a grey trench coat, I didn’t recognise.
Marsha stopped at a flower shop, picked out two dozen white roses and waited patiently, while I stood looking at the display. Flowers are what we take when we visit the graves of loved ones, but they seemed to have nothing to do with me. There was nothing in the shop I wanted.
Marsha picked up another dozen roses, yellow this time, and paid for them at the counter.
“These will do for both of us,” she said.
We got back in the car and drove to the cemetery where Philip was buried. It had not changed since our last visit, a year ago. It was deserted, the lives commemorated here forgotten by the outside world. Tall thin trees lurched in an east wind.
Marsha opened her bag, took out a damp cloth and cleaning materials, and set to work on the head stone. She rubbed and wiped and polished for a good ten minutes, while I stood watching. Next, she tipped out the dead flower-pots, cleaned those too and filled them with fresh water from a tap along the way. Finally, she cut the roses, arranged them in the pots, and placed them neatly around the stone.
Then, she stepped back and we gazed at the grave in silence.
‘Philip Anthony Lighthorn’ I read, although I’m not sure anyone else would have heard. ‘We will never forget you.’
That was all it said. And then the tears came, like they did every October 26. I tried to stop them, I really tried. But part of me knew, I would never be strong enough to control this grief. I cried for the happy summers I would never see, the young man who had been taken from me and the grandchildren I would never cradle.
I cried for Ken Strachan, and his family. And I thought of Alexander Ross. He must have stood at such a gravestone, grieving for his lost wife, and wondering how he could cope with the years ahead. And I thought of Sister Robert and the lost girl. A wave of despair engulfed me.
“Come away now,” Marsha said, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. We walked slowly back to the car. A light had come on in the little church. Another funeral. Another bereavement. More tears.
As Marsha revved the engine, I saw a shadow of a figure emerge from the chapel. It vanished the instant it caught my eye. I could have sworn, it was the woman in the grey trench coat, I’d seen hanging about my road. But no, it couldn’t be. My nerves were strained.
“Did you see someone, over there?” I pointed to the chapel porch as we drove passed.
Marsha gave me a strange look.
“I need a drink,” she said, moving her hand from the gear stick and placing it over mine. If there were any ghosts lurking in the shadows, they would have to cross her first.
She pulled into a pub. We were the first visitors of the day.
Its brown wooden chairs and iron tables were reassuringly old-fashioned. A fire glowed in the grate. I sat staring into the flames, while Marsha went to the bar. A big swig of whisky hit the right spot.
“Three years…it seems like…” I stopped. What did it seem like? Like a life-time. Like no time.
Marsha said nothing, just listened.
“All this business with Strachan. It brought back it all back.”
“I was afraid for you, Jules, so was Omar.”
“I still can’t believe Ken harmed his family. Men don’t become violent over night. There are signs. I know the signs.”
Her mouth was a flat line. I knew she wanted me to stop.
“My God, I should know the signs. I was married to one.”
“You survived,” she put a hand over mine.
“I never saw it in Strachan, the need to control.”
“We never really know other people.”
“And people change,” I added.
Our drinks were empty, so Marsha went to the bar again, leaving me thinking of my wedding day and all that had followed. The second whisky burned that satisfying combination of pleasure and pain.
“You mustn’t blame yourself,” she said.
What else could I do but blame myself, for my rotten marriage, for Philip, for Strachan, for throwing away my career.
“It was the job,” I tried to excuse it all.
She nodded.
“Do you still think about...”
“Every day. Not a day passes, not a minute…”
“Yes.”
“I did love him, Marsha.”
“I know you did.”
“In many ways, he was wonderful. Truly, you didn’t know him then. He was witty and funny, but he could be passionate and driven. It was love at first sight. And it was perfect, those early years. Me, working for the Examiner. Him on the foreign desk at the Globe. Out every night, parties, receptions, concerts…”
“Then he went to the Middle East.” Marsha had heard this story before. A million times.
“Embedded with a platoon,” the whisky had loosened my tongue. “He was shocked by the brutality and casual violence. But it changed him.”
“It does change people,” Marsha understood. “They become brutalised. Violence can be addictive, like heroin. They crave the next fix.”
I nodded.
“I wouldn’t hear from him for months. Then he’d turn up, demanding and possessive. The slightest thing would spark a rage of jealousy. He started using me as a punch bag.”
“They were all casualties.”
“I know, I forgave him a long time ago.
”
“But it still hurts?”
I nodded.
“You have to let go, Julia,” she hardly ever called me Julia. “You have to…you have to learn to trust again, to trust another man.”
“No. I tried that once and it’s not for me.”
“Give yourself another chance.”
“I’ll never marry again. Never.”
“Lor’ I said nothing about marry. Just let go. Try letting someone into your life.”
“You don’t and what about Omar?” she could hardly deny her own celibacy. But Marsha had her family. It comprised every waif and stray, down and out in London.
Her reply, though, struck me as odd.
“Omar will marry, and he’s very fond of you.”
“Not in that way. He’s waiting for his parents to arrange a marriage. He’s told me a hundred times.”
“That’s not what he’s waiting for,” she looked at me pointedly, then picked up her purse to leave.
I wondered how Marsha, normally so astute, could have misread my friendship with Omar so badly.
A smell of pizza greeted us as we walked up the stairs to the office. Mina was shouting at Omar about the stench.
“Good on yer mate,” Marsha greeted him, biting into a warm slice.
“We’re hank marvin, ain’t, we gal.”
Mina hugged me close for a moment, although I wasn’t entirely sure, whether this was in solidarity at my grief or in disgust at the greasy cheese smell. Then, she left us. Omar looked across nervously.
“All went well?”
“It was fine,” Marsha answered for us both,
“Some good stuff in today’s edition, Jules.” he continued.
“Thanks.”
“So a productive trip up north?”
I sat at my desk. Marsha pulled up a chair.
I finally got round to telling them about Sister Robert, the story of the lost girl, and the body in the Clyde.
“Pitcher held out on you?” he said.
“Looks that way, he must know more than he’s letting on.”
“But Ross seems to have come through?”
“Yes and no. He’s using me.”
“Don’t knock it. At least, we’re getting somewhere with the money.”
“Yes. According to Ross the fund’s £2 billion short.”
“And nearly £1 billion was withdrawn in these £15 million slugs,” Omar reached for another slice.
“That we know of – there could be others. The markets will account for some of the loss.”
“Could these withdrawals have been made legitimately?”
“Some of them, possibly, in Cameron’s days, maybe. Ross implied to prove fraud, you’d need to prove the valuations were fraudulent.”
“Ah fraud...”
“I know, hellish difficult to prove.”
“Get back to Hercule.” he couldn’t resist a joke at Pitcher’s expense.
“You need to chase him on that Hannigan case and find out if he has files on the paedophilia accusation and the child’s disappearance.”
“What about the body?” Marsha interrupted. “He must know something, even if the local bill are saying nothing.”
“You must keep pushing Pitcher.”
Mina was right, the pizza smell was disgusting. I got up to open a window.
“What about the girl?” Marsha asked. “Can we try and find her?”
“How? It’d be like looking for a needle in a hay stack,” I said, staring out at the by-passers in the street below.
“That poor girl… if she’s alive,” Marsha said.
I turned back to them, angry now. The day was taking its toll
“Isn’t all this just the way capitalism is supposed to work.The girl, the Strachans, the pension fund. Don’t we just have to get used to it?”
“Don’t think we can blame capitalism here, my dear friend.” Omar had sucked in a love of enterprise with his mother’s milk. “You can’t blame the market place for the failings of individuals.”
“The market, the market, that’s all we bloody hear. What about its victims, Omar?” Marsha spat.
“The great free-market economists accepted there would be victims, but as Adam Smith said, their numbers would be psychologically small.”
“Psychologically small, eh, Omar?” I retorted. “Tell that to Sugden and Strachan…”
I gazed out the window as Omar and Marsha continued arguing the theory of economic ethics. My eyes rested on a stall below selling eastern trinkets. How glamorous it looked and how I wished I were the other side of the world. Then I saw her again. The woman in the grey trench coat. A third sighting couldn’t be a coincidence. Who was she, and what did she want?
Chapter 22
3pm Friday, October 26,
Whitechapel.
“What is it doll?” Marsha said, as I pulled back from the window.
“Nothing, nothing,” I mumbled, not ready to share my suspicions. Journalists often found themselves more spied upon than spying, particularly when they break a big story. Interested parties can be desperate to trace your sources. I knew of several organisations, which kept detailed files on me, and my phone had been tapped on three occasions in the past. But I’d never been followed before.
“I must go,” Omar stood. “Before I do, I’ve bad news. I’m so sorry, Julia, to bring it today of all days.”
“You couldn’t get an adjournment?”
“No. There will be a preliminary hearing in a month.”
“Dear God.”
“Don’t panic, it’ll be fine. It’s all just part of the game.”
“What if?”
“No ifs…just put the date in your diary. November 13.” With these words, he left.
“I must get moving too,” Marsha said, leaving me alone.
I switched on Sky News to catch the latest headlines. Two more suicide bombs in the Middle East, a stabbing in Manchester, a racist attack in Govan, oil price up, market down. Another pension fund closed. No news though on any identification of the mystery Clyde corpse or the disappearing actuary.
There was an item about Victor Kane. He’d pulled off the bid for Boston Bank, but 10,000 jobs worldwide would have to go. I froze as his face appeared on the screen, and I could feel my pulse racing. Yet there was nothing physically scary about this man. He looked like any other banker, which reminded me he was Kelly’s Banker, or rather his director David Black was.
The news moved quickly on to other matters so I clicked it off and tapped into my emails, downloading 64. One, a herogramme from Ludgate, ended with his instruction, now we were way ahead of the race, to make sure we stayed there. Easier said than done. There were 15 calls on the answer machine, one from Alexander Ross, asking me to call him. And another from Pitcher.
“It’s time to make a list,” I muttered, pushing the keyboard away and pulling an A4 lined pad in front of me.
I sucked the pen for a moment and then wrote a big ONE at the top of the list, with Black beside it.
What I would give to talk to him, but the libel case ruled out making any approach to him. I could imagine what Omar would say if I even thought about trying. I wrote “no” beside his name.
2. Briggs; the fund’s legal adviser, but he was Kelly’s son-in-law. Another “No”.
3. Jack Kelly. It was time I confronted Mr Kelly. I put a tick beside him.
4. Pitcher. He got a long line of exclamation marks.
The phone rang. It was Ross.
“I’m flying down tomorrow. I’m going to see Patterson. D’ you want to come?”
My stomach caught at the sound of his voice. What was he up to now?
“Hmm…it’s Saturday…I’m not sure whether…”
“Fine, it was just a thought.”
“No, no, wait…” I said, hesitatingly. “Yes, I can probably do that.”
“Good. Meet me at Heathrow in your car… I take it you have a car…you can drive me down.”
“So you were
just after a free ride?”
“Something like that. I’m landing at 10am, terminal one.”
“Ok. I’ll be there.”
How strange, I thought, replacing the receiver. He never mentioned the article. If he hadn’t liked it, I was pretty sure, he wouldn’t have held back from telling me.
Next I dialled Pitcher, to be told he was away for the weekend. Would I like to make an appointment to see him at the station on Monday?
“No, tell him I want to see him in my office,” I knew he would come.
“I’ll make sure he gets the message,” said the voice at the other end. I was pretty sure he’d get my message.
I picked up my pen and added Sister Robert to the list. It was time I called her. I got through quickly. No, there was no news about the girl, and yes, she had put the word around.
“My numbers are falling, though,” she confided. “People are getting nervous.”
“Nervous, of what?”
“Just nervous.”
I cut the phone off at the base, but continued to hold the receiver. I desperately needed an interview with Jack Kelly. Taking a deep breath, I dialled the head office of Kelly’s Brewery and requested the interview. I was put through to his secretary.
“Mr Kelly doesn’t give interviews,” came the reply.
“Will you ask him please if he will see me?”
“I will ask him, but I shouldn’t hold out much hope.”
“Ask him and please call me back. My number is …” I reeled off my mobile. This was one call, I wanted to make sure I took, whatever the hour of day or night.
I decided to call it an early night, but before I left I put in one more call, to Jamie’s Aunt Sally.
“My, my, did you hear that, Timmy?” which he couldn’t have done, not being on the phone. “Julia’s coming to Upton Grey tomorrow to see us. And she’s bringing her young man. “
“Not my young man. A colleague. We’ll pop in for a quick cup of tea.” It made sense to catch up with the local gossip.
“We are popular all of a sudden. Well, not so much us, as Grey House. Visitors almost every day.”
“Really?”
“Oh my yes. Goodness knows what the Pattersons make of it all.”
DEAD MONEY Page 11