Concealment

by Rose Edmunds

  Several times I began to dial Lisa’s number and stopped midway. Sure, she’d keep my shame a secret, but how do you admit to your protégée that you’ve fallen so short of your own standards? And heck, I’d been too feeble to stop Ryan when I came to my senses. Feisty Lisa would be appalled at my weakness.

  I trusted no one else at work—my fellow partners were colleagues rather than friends, and several had ambitions to usurp my leadership role. The climate of suspicion created by our CEO not only prevented people from uniting to depose him, but made it impossible to trust anyone. I wished so much I had a close friend, someone unconnected with work, to confess my idiocy to. But close friendships didn’t come easily to me, and nor did confessing my deficiencies.

  So I toughed it out, unaware that Monday’s events would render all my worst imaginings trivial by comparison.

  ***

  I’d been in work for all of five minutes when I spotted Lisa ambling towards my office, carrying coffee for both of us and obviously keen to talk. I hoped she’d reflected over the weekend and decided to fight for her promotion after all, because the place would be unbearable without her.

  She was almost at the door when a visibly distressed Ryan shoved her out of the way in his haste to reach me first.

  ‘Piss off, Ryan,’ Lisa said. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s bad manners to push?’

  ‘I need five minutes to tell Amy something,’ he shouted.

  A sudden nausea hit the pit of my stomach. Ryan’s appearance suggested he’d lain drunk in a gutter since Saturday. His red eyes hinted at raw emotions. Had I been responsible for this?

  Lisa opened her mouth to protest, but Ryan cut in.

  ‘It’s bloody urgent,’ he snarled.

  Lisa gave me a knowing glance, smart enough to recognise when she was onto a loser.

  ‘OK, keep your hair on. If it’s so important, you go first,’ she said.

  She handed me my coffee, although I fancied I’d need something stronger to get me through this particular encounter. My heart pounded faster than on the early morning treadmill session I’d just endured.

  I closed the door and invited him to sit down. The formality of the office setting accentuated the stupidity of Friday night’s events, as everyone watched us through the glass with curiosity. Ryan’s reflections in the mirrored panels embodied an infinity of anguish—an anguish of my creation.

  ‘You look dreadful,’ I told him, unhelpfully, as I braced myself for the coming outburst.

  There was a long, painful silence while he fought to control himself.

  ‘Issy’s gone missing,’ he said at last.

  I held my breath. They’d rowed about me—she’d stormed off. Shit.

  ‘Missing? Since when?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly—she arrived home after the party on Friday, because her jacket and phone and everything were inside the flat on the dining table. But when I got home last night, she’d gone.’

  My mind raced.

  ‘No contact during the weekend?’

  ‘Nope.’

  My relief was both profound and selfish as I discounted the possibility of any connection between her disappearance and my idiotic fling with her boyfriend.

  ‘You said you got back last night? What were you doing since Saturday morning?’

  ‘Now see,’ he said, ‘I spent the weekend with Greg, like I told the police.’

  ‘The police are involved?’

  ‘Yes—that’s what you do when someone’s missing—you report it to the police.’

  ‘And you told them you’d been with Greg.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But nothing,’ he said nastily. ‘I stayed most of the time with Greg, after all. What the bloody hell difference does it make?’

  Quite a lot, as it transpired.

  ‘You didn’t tell Greg about…’

  ‘How can you be so egocentric? Issy’s missing and all that bothers you is people finding out what a slut you are. Issy is missing,’ he repeated. ‘This is serious shit.’

  ‘So where does Greg believe you were on Friday night?’

  ‘Christ—will you shut up worrying about yourself.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ I lied.

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? No one has seen hide nor hair of Issy since Friday. She’s gone—vanished.’

  He spoke with deliberate slowness, as if to a foreigner.

  ‘OK—I hear you. Are you sure she didn’t go somewhere to cool off after your row?’

  ‘I checked everywhere, and besides her phone was there, her handbag, jacket and everything. She wouldn’t go out without her things. And the flat… it was different somehow. That’s why I called the police.’

  ‘I’m positive she’ll turn up soon,’ I said in a vain attempt to soothe him. ‘Why—it’s only just gone half nine—she might walk in here at any moment.’

  ‘Believe me—she won’t. To be honest with you, it looks like…’

  He paused as he wiped away a tear from his face and gave a strange hiccupping sob.

  ‘It looks like… she’s been abducted.’

  ‘Abducted?’

  I hadn’t meant to sound disbelieving, but the idea did seem farfetched.

  ‘There’s stuff the police told me not to mention…’

  Until this point, I’d suspected Ryan of overdramatizing. Now, the gravity of the situation hit me full on. It wasn’t Isabelle’s style to flounce off and miss work. The suave little bitch would show up and put on a professional performance irrespective of her personal life. The police were taking her absence seriously, plus Ryan’s grief was real and visceral.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I asked, switching into my professional sympathy mode.

  ‘Nothing, apart from keeping your mouth shut,’ he said baldly.

  ***

  ‘Charming,’ said Lisa after Ryan had left. ‘What the hell was all that about?’

  ‘Isabelle’s gone AWOL. He’s beside himself.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ she said, ‘after the way he spoke to her on Friday. But fancy little Miss Perfect being late for work, because of a row with her boyfriend...’

  She didn’t even try to conceal her delight at the prospect of Isabelle having blotted her copybook.

  ‘Ryan says she’s been abducted.’

  ‘By who—aliens?’ she snorted.

  ‘Apparently she left her jacket behind, her bag, her phone. He’s called in the police.’

  ‘I say there’s nothing in it—I’d put money on it. Remember the guy who went missing after his stag weekend?’

  Despite my sense of foreboding, I chuckled at the memory. The police were involved then too, and we’d all been worried sick. Finally, it transpired that his friends had bundled his comatose body onto the Inverness sleeper train for a prank.

  ‘This is different,’ I said.

  ‘But it’s far too early to jump to melodramatic conclusions.’

  It puzzled me that Lisa was so unconcerned. I felt much less breezy. With hindsight, there’d been some nasty undercurrents swirling around for a while, which we’d all been too blinkered to notice.

  ‘Who said I was?’

  ‘You seem tense,’ she observed. ‘Is everything OK?’

  I tried not to wince as she patted my arm on the bruises.

  ‘Apart from this, yes.’

  ‘But you had that stressed, haunted look even before Ryan came in, like something freaked you out.’

  I obviously hadn’t done as proficient a job as I’d thought in pulling myself together.

  ‘No—no I’m OK. Anyway, how are you?’ I said, spinning the conversation around to a safer topic. ‘I assume you came to see me for a reason. Have you changed your mind about leaving?’

  ‘No—I came to tell you I’m definitely off—that pathetic bonus is the last straw. Why fight a foregone conclusion?’

  Why indeed?

  ***

  I figured Smithies should he
ar the news from me rather than a distorted version via the office rumour mill.

  He was speaking on the phone when I arrived—his back to the door, and admiring his reflection in the glass. I took in the details of his office as I waited for him to finish his conversation.

  The desk was bare, either in compliance with the firm’s ‘clear desk’ policy or because he didn’t have enough work to do. One of the glass wall panels had been replaced by an opaque partition, now filled by a jumbo-sized portrait of his wife and children water skiing—tanned, beautiful, smiling and perfect in every way. Naturally, the shot did not include Smithies—his flabby pasty body could only have detracted from the flawless image.

  The biggest bastards often favour conspicuous displays of family photographs in their offices, in which everyone is invariably grinning as though auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. It’s a psychological thing—a means of saying—hey get this, I’m a nice guy, my family is happy and if you don’t like me it’s your fault. Smithies had taken this concept to a new extreme.

  The picture disturbed me on various levels, yet I found myself inexorably drawn to it as Smithies wrapped up his discussion.

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ came his quasi-sympathetic nasal whine. ‘She’s got far too much on her plate to focus on the detail.’

  Silence, as the person on the other end of the line no doubt protested. I hoped he wasn’t talking about me.

  He abruptly stopped preening himself in the glass and terminated the call when he saw me loitering.

  ‘Must shoot now—let’s talk later.’

  He spun his chair round to face me.

  ‘Can’t you see I’m busy,’ he snapped.

  ‘Yes, but this is important. Thirty seconds of your time.’

  ‘OK—but calm down for heaven’s sake. You’re making me tense just watching you.’

  So he thought I was on edge as well. I would have to redouble my efforts to act relaxed.

  Smithies greeted the news with an almost infinitesimal movement of the eyebrows—he might have been a professional poker player in a previous incarnation.

  ‘I heard she and that cretin Ryan had a big row,’ said Smithies. ‘Perhaps that’s why she went off.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  His extra-sensory antennae twitched, detecting I had something new to conceal.

  ‘Remember,’ said Little Amy. ‘You mustn’t allow him to psych you out.’

  I appreciated the reminder and steadied myself.

  ‘Frankly, I wouldn’t be too worried at this stage.’

  ‘I’m not worried—I just thought you should be aware, especially as Ryan’s involved the police.’

  ‘What a complete jerk that guy is—the police never act on a missing person report for the first twenty-four hours.’

  ‘From what Ryan said, they’ve launched a full-on enquiry. And it’s more than twenty-four hours anyway—it seems she went missing on Friday, after the drinks.’

  ‘I still reckon they’ll sit on it for a while.’

  ‘Ryan says she’s been abducted.’

  ‘Really—well, you were one of the last people to see her alive. You didn’t like her much did you…’

  A wintry smile signalled that he was joking. But it made my flesh creep to listen to him talking as though she was dead.

  ‘Not as much as you, no,’ I replied, with obvious innuendo.

  No flicker of a reaction.

  ‘I suppose you’ve tried calling her?’

  ‘What’s the point? Wherever she is, her phone isn’t with her.’

  He tut-tutted.

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said. Clearly, dead or alive, and with or without her phone, she wouldn’t dare to ignore a call from him.

  ‘Do you have her number?’

  ‘It’s on the system.’

  With some effort Smithies brought the number up on screen and dialled. So either she wasn’t on speed dial on his phone, or he was bright enough to pretend otherwise, I thought.

  ‘Voicemail,’ he pronounced.

  ‘Told you.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure she’ll be back before long,’ he said. ‘Although this is completely inappropriate behaviour from someone who’s been double promoted. Hope it hasn’t gone to her head.’

  Two things struck me about Smithies’ reaction to the news. First, if he was having a fling with Isabelle, he hid it astoundingly well. And second, whether he was or not, he seemed blithely indifferent to her fate.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, as I was leaving. ‘You were right about the chicken. Been puking up half the weekend.’

  ‘What a shame,’ I replied.

  10

  Smithies’ confident prediction of police inactivity proved to be somewhat wide of the mark.

  A gorgeous young professional woman had literally vanished into the night. Moreover, she’d had the presence of mind to do so when little else of substance was happening in the world. The media found the story irresistible and the police responded with a high profile public campaign. By Tuesday evening every TV channel was saturated with images of our star tax consultant, her parents, her boyfriend, and their flat in Ealing.

  A media encampment was hastily established outside the flat, where white-suited forensics experts picked through the driveway with exaggerated care. Occasionally, the front door opened to allow the removal of bagged items, but otherwise all was quiet. Undeterred by the lack of activity, the TV stations eked out their coverage with endless speculation. And in the background to the BBC reporter’s inane chatter, the equally mind-numbing drivel of his counterpart from Sky could be heard.

  Cut to the press conference, and a Detective Chief Inspector Dave Carmody of the Metropolitan Police gave a pre-prepared statement to the assembled pack of reporters.

  ‘Isabelle Edwards was last seen at a social evening with colleagues from the accountancy firm of Pearson Malone in the Victoria Pub in Fleet Street, London at around eight-thirty pm. She took the Tube to Paddington, the train to West Ealing and then walked the half-mile to her flat in Drayton Green. We know she reached home because we found timed receipts from local shops, and we’re examining CCTV images to try to piece together her movements. She was reported missing on Sunday night by her live-in boyfriend, Ryan Kelly, who worked at the same company, and who’d been away for the weekend. Isabelle failed to show up for work on Monday morning, which her family say is out of character.’

  I’d spoken to Carmody earlier in the day about interviewing the team. Over the phone, he’d sounded imposing, but the camera did him no favours. Uneasy and stilted, he resembled an insolvency practitioner announcing a major receivership with many job losses. His eyes darted nervously, as if seeking out a friendly face.

  ‘I repeat—we’re satisfied that Isabelle arrived home, but have no information about her movements afterwards. We’re appealing to anyone who saw her on her way home, or early Saturday morning, or indeed at any point over the weekend, to contact us.’

  Cut to Isabelle’s grieving parents sitting next to Carmody. The father delivered an emotional appeal for the safe return of her daughter, describing how precious to them she was. The Welsh lilt to his voice added extra pathos to his plea. Isabelle’s mother managed to maintain her elegance and poise to begin with, but broke down when it was her turn to speak. She sounded properly posh between the racking sobs—so posh it seemed amazing she’d wound up married to a Llandudno solicitor.

  The obvious affection of Isabelle’s parents stirred a stab of envy in me. After thirty years I scarcely remembered my own father and as for my mother—enough said. If they lured that bat-shit crazy woman from her lair to plead for my return, I’d never come back.

  ‘Isabelle, we love you—please get in touch, or at least contact the police to tell them you’re safe,’ said Isabelle’s dad in conclusion. But his voice sounded defeated, as if he’d reconciled himself to the worst.

  Alongside them sat Ryan, unshaven and scruffy, like someone sent from central casting to play the part of pri
me suspect. He stuttered over his own appeal.

  I slurped at my gin as I stared at the screen in disbelief.

  ‘You stupid idiot, Ryan,’ I shouted. ‘If Isabelle’s parents can get their shit together, why can’t you?’

  ‘Maybe he’s involved,’ said the Little Amy voice. ‘After all, he hurt you, didn’t he?’

  I shuddered, suddenly conscious of my bruised arms again.

  Carmody summed up as a contact number flashed up on the screen.

  ‘This is a level-headed professional woman, who had no reason to disappear. She vanished last Friday, taking none of her things with her. We’ve explored all the obvious avenues and drawn a blank. Now we need help from you, the public.’

  When fetching ice for a second gin, I checked my iPhone on the kitchen counter and discovered two missed calls and three messages. One was from Charles Goodchild, hoping Isabelle’s absence wouldn’t slow up the sale process. What a narcissistic twat—I would call him in the morning, if he was lucky. The other two were both from journalists—I guessed they’d got my name from Carmody.

  I ignored the journalists, assuming someone else in the firm had dealt with them, until I heard the News at Ten. They specifically mentioned that Pearson Malone had so far made no comment, in suggestive tones implying that we didn’t care or might conceivably be somehow involved ourselves.

  I called the twenty-four-seven hotline to the firm’s Media Relations team, hoping they would have everything in hand. But a recorded message provided a selection of alternative contacts, depending on your department. I was supposed to call Smithies.

  I steeled myself and dialled his mobile. Voicemail. Keen to exhaust all avenues, I called his home number.

  A woman, his wife I supposed, answered. She claimed, pleasantly and plausibly, that he wasn’t around, but the pompous droning of his voice in the background nailed the lie. She offered to pass on the message “when he got back”.

  Now what?

  Pearson Malone’s attitude to media exposure verged on phobic. They had such a big name that any coverage, except for their own orchestrated PR blitzes, was unlikely to enhance it. Consequently the firm had established an elaborate protocol for media contact, which required the authorisation of either Media Relations or a designated senior partner. Nowhere did it mention what action to take when you’d exhausted the official channels, but the underlying principle seemed clear enough—if in doubt do nothing.