Concealment

by Rose Edmunds

  I would have left it there, had the BBC woman not called back.

  Danielle was unmoved by my bleating about Pearson Malone procedures, and knew how to turn the screws to secure the quote she wanted.

  ‘I’m so surprised no one from the firm has commented yet,’ she said. ‘If you made a quick statement it would kill all the speculation dead.’

  ‘What speculation?’

  ‘About why you guys haven’t released a statement.’

  ‘No comment,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh dear, that doesn’t sound good. If we were forced to tell everyone you refused to comment…’

  She left the implications hanging like an axe ready to fall.

  ‘You are a partner of the firm after all, and Isabelle’s boss.’

  I wavered. Failure to follow firm’s procedures was risky, but equally I might be criticised for not being resourceful enough if Pearson Malone came out of this looking bad.

  What use was an emergency hotline which led to a dead end? Why did bosses who tried to micromanage the minutiae of your working day always leave you in the doo-doo when you really needed them? What was the point of being a partner in a global firm if you had no freedom to act? But this internal maelstrom was senseless—I had to decide.

  We were all at a loss to explain Isabelle’s disappearance, I said. She was a happy, popular and talented team member, whose professionalism and dedication to duty made her sudden departure all the more baffling. Her team were all frantically worried, and we urged her to make contact, whatever the reason she’d left.

  No one would have guessed from this bland, impromptu little piece just how much I detested the smug bitch. And who could legitimately object? After all, I’d followed the time-honoured tradition of venerating the vanished. Isabelle was a paragon of virtue, a princess in terrible danger, and the media were lapping up the story. I prayed to a non-existent God that I’d made the correct decision. Pearson Malone kept a record of non-compliance issues, which they dredged up as evidence of your incompetence if they decided to fire you.

  ‘Oh great stuff,’ gushed Danielle. ‘Lovely. Any chance of a sound bite to camera early tomorrow morning—show the caring face of corporate Britain? Perhaps standing outside your offices?’

  The damage, if any, must have been done already, so I agreed.

  The Telegraph also required a short statement. I detected a hint of annoyance at missing the deadline to go to press, but they promised to update the website instantly.

  That night I dreamed of junk again. This time, a mass of old newspapers and rags barred the entrance to the underground station. As I attempted to flee, the pile collapsed on me.

  As I woke, gasping for air, the image of Ryan thrusting naked on top of me sprang unbidden into my semi-slumbering mind.

  ‘Oh God, you slut—you’re loving it—you wanted it all along. You’re so horny.’

  And then he’d put his hands round my neck…

  I sat up with a start. Where the heck had that come from—memory, imagination or a combination of both?

  11

  Like most people who’ve grown up in a dysfunctional household, I’m brilliant in a crisis. So after my morning TV appearance, I convened a group meeting.

  At this point, the general excitement at being caught up in the eye of a media storm outweighed any anxiety about Isabelle. Everyone was still optimistic of a benign explanation for her absence and a safe homecoming. People worried more about the way the press had vilified Ryan.

  I told them the police planned to spend all day interviewing the team, and in particular anyone who’d been at the social on Friday. I added “for the avoidance of doubt” that this would include me. In keeping with the human touch which had recently become such a virtue, I said I knew how “destabilising” all this had been for everybody. But we needed to keep focussed and professional, and positive nonetheless.

  When I’d finished, I discovered a voicemail from Smithies.

  ‘Drop by for a quick word when you have a minute,’ he said. ‘We need to discuss a couple of minor matters.’

  Matters plural. I guessed he’d sussed out that my media contact hadn’t been properly sanctioned—but what else could be on the agenda?

  In his office, I glanced at the mural of the water-skiers. Their eyes twinkled triumphantly today, particularly the wife’s. Wasn’t I so plausible when I told you Ed was out—had you totally fooled? And check out my body—size eight, with pert boobs and washboard tummy—all effortless—aren’t you jealous?

  Of the abs perhaps, but not of her lying underneath Smithies’ heaving sweaty torso and simulating ecstasy. Even the thought turned my stomach.

  ‘OK?’ he asked, keeping the obligatory inter-personals to a minimum.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘We need to talk about Ryan.’

  I stiffened—an involuntary physical response he must have noticed.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘What do you plan to do?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  My voice shook with nerves. Smithies paused—long enough to make me think he knew everything.

  ‘It’s vital we exit him—we have to get him off the payroll before the shit hits the fan.’

  ‘What shit?’

  ‘Oh wake up, Amy. What is wrong with you this morning? It’s quite clear he’s as guilty as hell.’

  ‘Guilty of what?’

  ‘He’s killed her, can’t you see that, or are you so blinded by your relationship with him?’

  ‘What relationship?’ I asked, the panic rising again.

  ‘Because he’s family, of course,’ said Smithies, fixing me with a penetrating gaze.

  My pulse fell back to normal.

  ‘Aren’t you jumping a bit ahead of yourself? We don’t know yet if Isabelle is dead and still less if Ryan had any involvement. And HR will do their nut about firing someone with no evidence…’

  ‘I’m amazed you’re continuing to defend him. Even Greg thinks we should sack him.’

  I doubted Greg had said any such thing, though God only knew why I should attempt to argue Ryan’s corner, having seen a more sinister side to him.

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Oh come on,’ he said. ‘You’re an experienced partner, not a bloody first year trainee—I don’t have to explain how the world works. We compromise him out.’

  In other words, pay him off and make him sign an agreement not to sue the firm for unfair dismissal. Pearson Malone management hated compromise agreements because they cost money, but they were miles quicker than a disciplinary process. And in this case, speed was evidently of the essence.

  ‘What happens if he’s not guilty?’

  ‘Amy, sometimes you can be so naïve,’ said Smithies. ‘The Boston Strangler would have performed better in the press conference. He’s finished here, however this plays out.’

  ‘But he hasn’t even been charged!’

  ‘We can’t take the risk.’

  British justice might be based on a man being innocent until proven guilty, but Pearson Malone operated to much harsher standards.

  ‘OK,’ I said, more to avoid further argument than because I agreed. ‘I’ll contact him to arrange a meeting with HR, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is. By the way—your TV appearance this morning was most impressive.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, bemused by the rare nugget of praise. I waited for the punchline.

  ‘Just as a minor point, because I’m all for people using their initiative, that interview wasn’t properly authorised, was it?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because Media Relations was closed and you didn’t speak to me.’

  ‘I tried to call—left a message on your mobile.’

  ‘Didn’t get it—these voicemails are so unreliable.’

  ‘And I called you at home—didn’t your wife mention it?’

  ‘Oh dear—it may have slipped her mind. Look, I’m tolerably relaxed, but Eric
Bailey won’t be if he finds out. He hates partners acting like loose cannons with the media.’

  ‘But what I said was totally innocuous.’

  ‘Completely,’ he agreed. ‘And I do sympathise.’

  ‘I guess it’s the principle.’

  ‘Egg–zackly. But don’t you worry—I’ll do my utmost to stand up for you.’

  It occurred to me that the only way Bailey would discover about the incident was if Smithies told him, but I thanked him like a moron nonetheless.

  ‘Oh, and, Amy,’ came his parting shot. ‘Do try and relax a bit. You’ve been so tense recently, and everyone’s asking why.’

  Who was everyone? I wondered.

  ‘I’m perfectly OK,’ I replied curtly. ‘And I’ll keep you updated on Ryan.’

  The water-skiers grinned in gleeful relish at my predicament. To fire my ex’s kid brother within days of shagging him would be challenging under the best of circumstances. And meanwhile, Smithies had set me up for a bollocking from the CEO. Because the more I thought about it, it had plainly been slimy Smithies rather than Carmody who’d given my name to the press. With his usual cunning, he’d boxed me into a corner, driving me to break the rules or be slated for not using my judgement. He could have played it either way.

  Back in my office, the menacing blink of the voicemail light on my phone greeted me.

  Bailey. I prepared myself for the torrent of invective.

  It never came.

  ‘Just a quick message to say congrats on your TV appearance—you came across as very human and caring. Ed Smithies is rather agitated that you didn’t jump through all the hoops, but don’t take any notice. It’s good to see that some partners in this firm aren’t afraid to step up to the plate and use their initiative when it’s needed. Thanks.’

  I hadn’t expected Smithies’ treachery to backfire quite so spectacularly. But perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. It detracted from our CEO’s authority if his minions were able to predict his actions with complete accuracy all of the time.

  Amy one—Smithies nil.

  ***

  Despite that stroke of luck, I’d still plenty to cope with.

  Lisa sensed my gloom, and suggested a morale-lifting trip to the Savoy for cocktails after work. I hesitated—the apprehension plaguing me stretched far beyond what a few drinks could fix, and I was still loath to confess my idiocy to her. But my half-hearted excuses failed to convince her.

  I’ve always had a weakness for hotels. As a child, holidays had been a welcome respite. Then, the most basic guesthouse had seemed luxurious. But even now, plush hotels represented a life of glamour and grandeur that still, although money was no object, remained tantalisingly out of my reach.

  I especially loved the Art Deco charm of the Savoy’s American Bar, with its live pianist and splendid array of bottles above the bar. And because the place evoked a bygone era, it was acceptable, even appropriate, to feel a little wistful for what might have been.

  ‘So—come on—what’s eating you?’ asked Lisa, as we contemplated the extensive cocktail list. A creature of habit, I always plumped for a gin martini with an olive. By contrast, Lisa chose a different drink every time.

  I’d share some of my difficulties with her, I decided, but not all.

  ‘I’ve been told to fire Ryan. Smithies has his orders.’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Talk about kicking a guy when he’s down.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And typical of bloody Smithies to delegate the hatchet job to you.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘It won’t be a popular move—there’s no way anyone thinks Ryan’s got anything to do with this.’

  Surprisingly, that was true. Despite his creepy performance on TV, and his demonisation in the press, nobody truly believed Ryan might be a murderer, except for Smithies and possibly me.

  ‘That’s irrelevant, according to Smithies. Harsh as it sounds, Ryan’s forever tainted by this.’

  ‘Oh well, best get it over with and move on,’ she advised. ‘It’s not the first time you’ve had to fire someone you didn’t want to.’

  ‘It’s easier said than done,’ I replied, as the waitress took our order. ‘Ryan’s disappeared as well. He’s not answering his phone or responding to emails.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising. He sees you coming a mile off.’

  ‘I even called his mother to try to track him down.’

  ‘Wow—your ex mother-in-law,’ said Lisa, stunned. ‘How did that go?’

  ‘Chilly.’

  Chilly was an understatement—she’d told me I was the last person in the world Ryan wanted to speak to before hanging up on me.

  ‘You sure nothing else is worrying you?’

  She scrutinised me with the discernment of someone who understood me too completely for comfort.

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘There’s something, I can tell. And Smithies knows it too,’ she added darkly.

  ‘What—did he actually say so?’

  ‘Well, he’s aware we’re friends, obviously. He asked if you were OK. I said yes, as you’d expect.’ She paused. ‘I lied though, didn’t I?’

  Shame pricked at my conscience. Lisa, who never lied, had put aside her principles and defended me to Smithies. I guessed I owed it to her to come clean.

  The waitress set out the drinks, along with an eclectic assortment of nibbles.

  ‘The thing is,’ I said when she’d gone, ‘firing Ryan is a bit trickier than you imagine.’

  ‘Go on.’

  She took a long swig of a strange pinkish confection known as a ‘Blushing Monarch.’

  After a fortifying glug of my own drink, I poured out the whole story, omitting only how rough he’d been.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, when I’d finished. ‘These people skills courses don’t seem to cover firing someone you’ve just shagged.’

  And you couldn’t help feeling there must be a reason for that.

  ‘I never even knew you fancied him… I mean, when I said he was cute…’

  ‘I didn’t fancy him, except in the moment.’

  ‘You were in a bit of state, saying shadows were watching you…’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, clutching at the easy defence. ‘It was a stupid drunken lapse.’

  ‘Have you told anyone else about this?’ Her drink had gone in an instant, and with an imperious click of her fingers, she summoned the waitress to order another.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But the police must be aware he was at yours on Friday night?’

  ‘No—they’re not. He told them he stayed the whole weekend at Greg’s.’

  ‘He lied to the police,’ she said, shocked. ‘You’ve got to ask what he’s hiding.’

  ‘You said he was innocent just a moment ago.’

  ‘This changes things. An innocent man would be keen to establish an alibi. Anyway, I guess you’ll set them straight.’

  I blushed. And she stared at me aghast.

  ‘Seriously? You must be crazy…’

  ‘Ryan wants me to back him up and it’ll look bad if I give a story that’s not consistent with his.’

  ‘That’s his problem, not yours.’

  ‘But I feel…’

  ‘Never mind how you feel. Suppose he’s charged with murder and you’re caught out in a lie—that’s not a great place to be. It’ll come out whether you lie or not, probably in court.’

  I hadn’t yet considered the possibility that this silly episode would be aired in a public courtroom. But now Lisa had pointed it out in her trenchant way, a strange queasiness came over me.

  12

  Thursday dawned—still no sign of Isabelle. The gloomy assumption that she must be dead gradually gained credence and hung like a pall of gloom over the team. In the afternoon, I watched a second press conference live on my computer. This time her parents spoke of her in the past tense and Ryan was conspicuous by his absence, forcing Carmody to deny that he was a suspect.


  Detective Sergeant Holland came to interview me—a moon-faced guy who beamed engagingly through our meeting while showing remarkably little interest in what I had to say.

  I answered him truthfully when he asked about my movements on Friday evening. At no point did he ask if I’d received a visitor and I saw no reason to volunteer the information. Lisa’s advice would have been sound enough if Ryan had been a suspect, but he was not. In that case, what did Ryan’s whereabouts matter?

  He passed me a list of telephone numbers.

  ‘Do you recognise any of these?’ he asked. ‘It might save us some time.’

  I assumed they’d come from Isabelle’s phone. There was no indication of when the calls had taken place, whether they’d been made or received, or how many of them there were—just a list without names.

  ‘Yes—a few of them. That’s Ryan’s, and Greg’s mobile, and Lisa’s and Ed Smithies.’

  Isabelle had a reason to be in contact with all those, except maybe Smithies. I speculated again about an affair, or worse.

  ‘Did you interview Smithies?’ I asked him.

  ‘Oh yes, we found him most helpful.’

  I pictured Smithies fawning around the police team, while giving away nothing.

  ‘Did he say why he’d been talking to Isabelle?’

  ‘Client matter.’

  ‘Oh—I didn’t think they worked on any clients together.’

  This was untrue, but the temptation to subtly insinuate that Smithies might be in some way involved proved irresistible.

  ‘He said they did,’ replied DS Holland, leafing back over his notes. ‘But we’ll double-check. Are any other numbers familiar to you?’

  ‘No—none.’

  ‘Is there anything else you wish to add to your statement?’

  I faltered. Surely this was the moment to explain? But instead I found myself expressing my bemusement at Isabelle’s lack of pleasure in her promotion.