by T M Heron
Mariel crosses his ankles and rubs his toes together. His toenails have what Ava would have called a “French finish”.
Seymour opens the door looking bloodthirsty and says, “Everything all right?”
Somewhere else in the house something glass hits the floor and shatters. Mariel flinches. Seymour disappears.
“Mariel, I don’t want to use excessive force, but I’m not leaving without an answer from you. So you are going to tell me, if you had to take a guess at why Jo was murdered, which you do, what you think happened. I’m not asking for definites, I’m asking for your gutfeel, for a hunch. Who do you think killed Jo?”
Mariel looks at the ceiling. As if he’s willing something to come into his head. I delve into my pocket and bring out a small camera. When he looks back down, I take a photo of him.
“What are you doing? What are you going to do with that?” Mariel instinctively runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t know what the photo is for, but he wants to look good in it.
I angle in and take another headshot. Then my phone goes. It’s Eliza. I hit “Ignore” but speak into it anyway. “We’re here now. He’s not cooperating,” I say quietly.
Mariel looks like he’s about to wet himself.
“Her boss, okay?” he says. “The only person I can think of would be her boss.”
◆◆◆
It’s midday and Ingrid and I are back in the basement. Back at the scene of our first date. Already I’m thinking ahead for our one-year anniversary. I’ll stage a candle-lit meal here for her. It’s a shame it is too early to crack open another bottle of wine.
“The masseuse knew nothing,” I tell her. “But he charges two hundred and fifty a session. How the hell could she afford that?”
“Her weekly sessions at Cathedral Spa were three hundred, like I’d thought. That’s five hundred a week she was blowing on self-indulgence.”
“Did you get anything else from them?”
“Just that she went there first. She had a weekly booking from eleven until twelve. Then the massage.”
“Did you ask them how she paid?”
“Cash.”
“She paid cash for the massages too. Where on earth was she keeping this cash? How was she getting it and where was she keeping it?”
“It most certainly wasn’t her house. They went over that place with a fine- tooth comb.”
“Maybe someone was paying her weekly in cash?”
We sit and ponder that. Then we both answer together.
Ingrid says, “No, too—”
I say, “No, why wo—”
Then we both say, “Sorry, you go . . . No, you go.”
We laugh and in our moment of levity I touch her on the arm. Not a lingering touch like I do to Eliza when I want to reward her. No, that would be creepy. Just a light throwaway touch that is there and gone before it’s even happened, only we both know it has happened.
Ingrid smiles. “A weekly meet would be too high a risk of exposure for whoever was paying her.”
“And why would she spend the whole lot on something like spa treatments if that was all she got?”
We sit in silence again, and all I really want to do is touch her again. Instead I say, “She must have had a secret bank account. And obviously a separate source of income.”
“Maybe whoever was paying her also paid Charlotte’s school fees,” says Ingrid. “I bet whoever is behind Munich Investments was financing Jo’s beauty regime.”
“Highly likely. But that doesn’t help us. We’re never going to know who that is.”
“Let’s sleep on it,” says Ingrid. “I have a lunch appointment with the dean of St Andrews. Hopefully he’ll be able to shed more light on something.”
“Why does it have to be lunch?” This just blurts out of my mouth.
Ingrid looks surprised. Then she gives me a small smile. “Jealous?”
“Not at all,” I say, while my innards roil. “Men can exploit situations, that’s all.”
As I climb the stairs back to my office, I reflect that Ingrid using her beauty as a trade for information is something that is going to have to change as soon as we are together. She’ll have to get used to functioning as plain women do. It’s not like she’ll need to be as successful anyway. She’ll have me.
42
First thing Wednesday morning I duck into a dodgy little internet café and log on to Savannah’s Facebook page.
I can’t get the thought out of my head that something bad will happen to her before I have the chance to intervene. As unaccustomed as I am to feeling anxious or worried I’m beginning to develop a theory on the phenomenon. The theory is that once you have one legitimate worry it’s a lot easier for other worries to take root. As if the mind becomes more receptive to worrying. And what has weakened me to the point that I have entered this state of receptivity in the first place? Caring.
There is nothing on Savannah’s Facebook page to indicate that she has recently been hurt or is upset. This does nothing to appease me as there was never anything in her posts to signpost that she was anything other than your average spoilt, carefree, teenage girl. Her public front is a sham.
“At least I know you’re alive,” I mutter.
I walk the remaining half hour to work. Being in low-end public places like the café disgusts me and makes me feel contaminated, but it’s nothing thirty minutes of bitter wind can’t remedy. I probably shouldn’t have gone there in the first place. I don’t think I was followed but it was an unnecessary risk. The old me would never have condoned it. I can’t afford to get sloppy. It’s just that I’m sure I’d concentrate better if I knew Savannah was okay.
Back at work I take the note Jo wrote to Mel out of my secret compartment and photocopy it. Then I head off to see Mel.
Mel has an unusual set-up in his office. His desk is in the center of the room and he faces away from the door and towards the window. I’ve no idea why he does this. I assume it has something to do with having minimal office in front of him and maximum vista.
I approach his office quietly. I’m going to try and give him a fright. I’ve found that when people are startled it encourages candor.
Mel is not hard at work but sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. Perhaps he is worrying about his wife/mistress situation. I creep up to him then clap my hand on his back. He jumps about half a meter up and about half a meter forward then turns on me with uncharacteristic hostility. “What the fuck, man?”
“Hey, sorry. I had no idea you’d be so, ah, tense.” I’m fighting to keep the satisfaction out of my voice and off my face. I was expecting Mel to get a fright, but this reaction is beyond gratifying.
I take the photocopy out of my pocket and prepare to off-balance him further. “I was called down to the station the other day. They had some questions about Jo. And while I was there, I saw they had this.”
I put the note on his desk. Mel picks it up and does a double take. “What the fuck?” he says again.
He’s silent for a few seconds. Then he says, “Did you give it to them? Why would you do that?”
“Of course I didn’t,” I say haughtily. “You saw me screw it up and throw it out. Someone else must have had a copy. Jo probably took a copy. Turns out she copied all kinds of stuff.”
“God, you’re right, of course she did. Sorry.” He puts his head back in his hands again and for a moment it’s as if he’s forgotten about me. Then he says, “But what are you doing with this copy? Did they want to talk to you about it?”
His face has gone pale and, as much as I like Mel, I can’t help but enjoy the experience. “Relax,” I say. “I took it from his desk. He no longer has a copy.”
“I need to go talk to them,” says Mel. He looks as if he’s about to be sick. “I should’ve told them right from the start.”
“I took it from the middle of a folder,” I say. “I don’t think it was a priority. I wouldn’t go down there reminding them about it if I were you.”
; “I don’t know what to do,” he mumbles. He takes his head out of his hands and looks at the sea, which is angry and choppy and grey.
“Thing is,” I say, “she wrote it on old letterhead. If it had been about our visit to Lily’s it would have been on new letterhead.”
“Who knows?” says Mel dismissively. But he doesn’t meet my eye.
“I mean, if the cops were to re-examine this, they’d probably ask that question.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I guess I’m just wondering myself what it was about. I’m in the firing line, as you know. I think I have a right to ask this question.”
“What? Because you think I might have killed her? Do you honestly think that might be a possibility?”
Mel’s face has gone from white to red. His hands tremble. I’m pretty sure it’s not an act. For a moment I regret even asking him about the letterhead. Although the whole process of watching someone else go through such an impressive gamut of negative emotions has been somewhat cathartic for me.
“Maybe she’d hoarded the old stuff for her personal use?” I offer.
But Mel has stood up and walked over to the door. “Get out,” he says.
“I—”
“Get out!” His face is stony, and his eyes look a lot like the ocean out the window. As I walk past him I feel he wants to hit me.
From Mel’s office I saunter down the corridor towards Leo Packer’s. I should probably feel upset at the end of my friendship with Mel, but I don’t. It’s not like I need him for anything.
Leo looks up from his desk and forces a smile onto his face. “Hey, buddy. What can I do for you?” He looks just a fraction too relaxed in my presence. Since I’ve made partner, he has been noticeably apprehensive around me, but not today. I wonder if he knows about Anthony’s big push to get rid of me.
“I’m involved in an investigation into Jo’s murder,” I say.
Leo gives me a slow smile. “You’re involved all right, buddy. At the suspect end of the deal.”
I gaze at him passively and think how easy it would be to crush his tiny budgie head with one fist.
“Yeah, funny. Anyway, I understand it was you who recommended Jo to the partnership. HR doesn’t have anything on her previous employment. No CV, no nothing.”
“I’m not head of HR, buddy” says Leo silkily.
“No, thankfully. But you did recommend her.”
“Not to my recollection.”
“That wasn’t a question. You did recommend her. I’ve seen the email.”
Leo is looking way too confident. Not surprising given how much of Jo’s HR material has been successfully wiped. And his confidence suggests he knows this. “I didn’t recommend her.”
“You did.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“So a moment ago you couldn’t recollect and suddenly you’re absolutely certain?”
“I don’t have to have this conversation with you.”
“I’ll forward you the email.”
“You can actually just fuck off.” Now Leo is fuming and, like Mel earlier, his face is crimson.
I can’t help myself. I do the shotgun thing with my hand and wink at him. “Spot you later, buddy.”
◆◆◆
Having sent Mel’s and Leo’s blood pressure soaring into the ether I wander back to my own office feeling vaguely soothed. A bastion of taste, it is larger than Mel’s and more stylish than Leo’s. Shame about it being bugged.
My interchanges with Mel and Leo have left me feeling more like myself than I have in a long time. Then my burner phone buzzes, and I remember Ingrid had lunch with Scott the dean yesterday and once again my spirits flag. I wish to God we were already firmly established as a couple. I’m not enjoying the oscillating emotions I’m experiencing as a result of our courtship.
“How was lunch?” I say with fake cheer. I’m going to take this call in my office. I’m sure I can make it obscure enough to confuse whatever mastermind is overseeing the bugs today.
“It was great,” says Ingrid. “Just a little bit more to tell you.”
I knew it. I knew he was drip-feeding her. She cannot attend another meeting with him.
“We’ll talk about it tonight then?” I say. “Same place, same time?”
“Sure.”
I knew he’d want her!
On my desk is a crystal paperweight that was gifted to me by a client when I made partner. When I hang up, I hurl at the wall with all my strength.
Eliza comes running in. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“I dropped my paperweight.”
Relief passes over her face. I think she lives in fear of a paint-throwing episode happening on her watch.
“Have someone clean it up.”
“I’ll clean it up.”
Eliza also doesn’t like anyone else being in my office. I have gone from having the world’s worst EA to having the perfect EA. To reward her for her loyalty I help her clean up, letting our arms brush together as we sweep away the shards.
When we’ve dispatched the paperweight to crystal heaven, I follow Eliza back out to her desk. “That email, where Leo Packer recommends Jo to HR. I’d like to see it again. And I need you to forward it to him.”
Eliza busies herself at the keyboard. She clicks into a password-protected file and types away. Then she looks up at me in horror. “They’re gone. All of the emails from the sweep. They’re gone.”
“I thought that file was password-protected?”
“It is. But the files are only links. I couldn’t copy them because it would’ve left an electronic footprint.”
We look at each other in astonishment.
“What is happening here?” says Eliza.
“A woman has been murdered and it is being covered up,” I say, solemnly, as if I care.
“Well, they haven’t covered this bit up well enough,” says Eliza. “Because I printed out every email from that file. I couldn’t back them up, so it was the only way of preserving them.”
“You’re amazing,” I say. And I partly mean it.
She blushes. So predictable. Which in Eliza’s case is a good thing. But I’m sure Ingrid wouldn’t bat an eyelid if I told her the same thing. Which raises a concern I hadn’t thought of until now. How do I actually compliment the woman? How do you make someone who already knows they are special feel special?
“Do you want me to deliver a copy to Leo?” says Eliza.
“No. Let’s not show our hand. Better that he thinks he’s safe. He obviously was involved and he’s not going to elaborate further even if we do give him a copy. The question now becomes why did he recommend Jo? What was in it for him?”
“I’ll go back and review all of his emails again with that in mind.” Eliza beams up at me and there is more than affection in her eyes. I feel momentarily annoyed.
◆◆◆
I scurry down to the basement half an hour ahead of my meeting with Ingrid. The weather outside is arctic and I want the basement to be toasty for our after-work meeting. I’m hoping it will involve wine consumption and no one wants wine when they’re cold.
Ingrid arrives at seven on the dot. She wears an expensive-looking white coat with a white suit underneath and navy stilettos. As usual I become semi-aroused just looking at her.
“Wine?” I say. I’ve snorted a few lines of coke off the suitcase coffee table and am feeling brave. Before she can decline I pour her a glass. It’s a Central Otago pinot noir, one of my favorites.
She smiles. We clink glasses. It tastes of cherry and tobacco which is a surprisingly delicious combination. I’m sure being high sharpens my palate.
“What did the dean have to say?” I’m keeping it light.
She opens her notebook. “Charlotte started at St Andrews in August of 2015. Which is a very strange time to be changing schools in your senior year.”
“Jo started at Bakers in October 2015,” I tell her. “That’s close enough to be connected.”
Ingrid hands me two documents. One is a picture of Nigel Berryman, the other of Floyd Masters. Masters looks like any other private-school product, twenty years down the track. Berryman is a heavy-looking guy with a massive nose and slack, acne-scarred skin. He should probably invest in some form of corrective surgery.
“I wonder how they connect to Bakers.”
“I can look into it,” says Ingrid. “But you will probably have more luck doing a search through your work databases.”
I nod. “I will. But no real connection to Bakers as yet with these guys? Although Anthony Hartman is on the board.”
“I’ve seen the minutes. He wasn’t even at the meeting.”
“But presumably he knows them.”
“Yes, but so might Leo Packer. And if Anthony has anything to do with this it may have been as a favor to Packer.”
“Hmm. Did you get anything else out of this lunch?”
“No. That well has run dry.”
“So, no need to see him again then. More wine?”
Ingrid smiles. “I shouldn’t,” she says. “I’m meeting Neville Schuler after this.”
“What?”
“Ray Investments are considering re-sponsoring the annual fundraising evening for my charity. You know, the one you did the speech at?”
“Are you kidding me?” I nearly crown the table with the wine bottle I’m holding. I’ve never thrown anything in my life and now in the space of one day I’ve come close to smashing two items. It’s the pressure. The looming deadline. And this woman. Who is now standing up. Ready to leave. “Why didn’t you come to me?” I say.
“Well, technically he’s the CE,” says Ingrid. “I thought this would be more appropriate. I didn’t want to . . . You know?”
“No, I don’t know.”