Concealment

by Rose Edmunds

‘Don’t stress yourself—we’re getting together the best legal representation money can buy—they’ll find an angle.’

  I hoped, probably in vain, that the angle wouldn’t involve me. For I could imagine, all too vividly, how Ryan’s shit-hot defence team would tear a flaky prosecution witness like me to shreds.

  ‘I may have an angle. That’s why I came to see you.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Now I know Ryan mentioned it to you already—but what if JJ Slate is running some sort of racket? As I see it, the main evidence against Ryan is the car. There’s no reason for anyone else to have been driving it with Isabelle in the boot, unless it was to set Ryan up. If JJ Slate has something to hide, they would have a motive to frame Ryan.’

  He leaned forward in a way which I chose not to interpret as patronising.

  ‘Believe me, Amy, there is no racket.’

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me. But have you seen the divisional accounts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His answer took me by surprise.

  ‘Then you’ll have spotted what I did—there are far too many receivables. I thought some of the debtors might be fictitious.’

  ‘Really.’ He sounded weary, as if I was retracing a well-ploughed furrow.

  ‘I know you don’t wish to hear this, how desperately you need this deal…’

  ‘Oh Amy, for Christ’s sake. I’m not that desperate,’ he yelled. ‘If I could find any way to save Ryan, I would grab at it—even if it meant the deal falling through. You must realise that. What kind of person do you think I am?’

  I blushed, wishing now that I’d spoken with more tact.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘When Ryan brought this up,’ Greg explained, ‘I checked out those accounts and yes—the receivables are high. So I contacted the partner in charge of the audit. He told me they did a full debtors’ circularisation, and also that the vast majority of the debts owed were repaid between the year-end and the audit. Plus, as he was at pains to point out, the slate division is so small it’s doubtful if an adjustment material at group level could arise.’

  Which was precisely why they might not carry out much work on it, I thought, but didn’t say.

  ‘And don’t forget,’ he added, ‘the Megabuilders’ due diligence team has picked through everything.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they have.’

  ‘Besides,’ he concluded. ‘What’s the point of artificially inflating the profits? Who benefits? No one has extracted any cash.’

  ‘True,’ I agreed. ‘But I just wondered…’

  ‘Amy, I appreciate your efforts to help Ryan, but the police have checked and discounted this as a line of enquiry.’

  ‘But why would Ryan invent the story?’

  ‘As I understand it, we had a dispute over some tax losses—you would be more up to speed on that than me. Perhaps he misunderstood the position.’

  ‘Possibly. But you do realise they conceded those losses unnecessarily?’

  ‘Not what I’d heard. I thought the client messed up, but we took the rap for some wacky political reason nobody except Bailey understands.’

  ‘That’s precisely the point—the client didn’t mess up. On the file, I found a detailed implementation checklist…’

  ‘Then you’ve missed something. Why would a client disclaim the losses if they were available?’

  ‘If they were up to something dodgy and they were worried it might come out.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘That’s just not possible. We’ve been into it to the nth degree of detail.’

  Indeed, contrary to Ryan’s perception, Greg did seem to have explored all the possibilities with great thoroughness.

  I conceded defeat, pleased to avoid the inconvenience of raking up shit on a prestigious client in the run up to a trade sale. I’d done what Ryan had asked, and must now lay the whole matter to rest.

  ‘OK—I give in. Sorry to put you through the wringer. But I had to ask, for Ryan’s sake.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said.

  ‘One other point,’ I said as I was leaving. ‘Did Ryan suggest that Isabelle might be having an affair with Ed Smithies?’

  Despite everything, Greg roared with laughter.

  ‘Yes, last weekend, but the idea’s ridiculous. I would be careful who you say that to if I were you—if it gets back to Ed he’ll go loopy. He’s already worried that you don’t like him.’

  ‘That I don’t like him—you must be kidding.’

  ‘No, seriously—he reckons you’re out to stab him in the back.’

  ‘That’s the pot calling the kettle black—he’s out to get me. And vile piece of shit that he is, he’s trying to twist it all round.’

  ‘You’ve got him all wrong, Amy. He’s not a nasty person. Yes, he makes quick business judgements, which pisses everyone off, but—hey—he’s usually spookily accurate. As a matter of fact, he’s worried about you—feels you’re under a lot of pressure.’

  I found it infinitely depressing the way everyone bought into Smithies’ lies without question, but it didn’t seem worth arguing with Greg. He wouldn’t change his mind.

  ‘So no affair?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Look, Amy, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I get the sense you’re a bit lost since Ed took over.’

  ‘I do mind you saying, because you’re wrong.’

  ‘OK, but I’m here, if you ever need to chat about work stuff.’

  ‘Thanks—I’m alright.’

  I had begun to suspect this wasn’t entirely true. But hell, I still had my pride. And I wasn’t yet reduced to using my ex-husband as a counsellor.

  ***

  Seized with the urge to demonstrate just what excellent shape I was in, my next stop was Adrian Townsend, UK Head of Tax, and Smithies’ boss.

  Townsend was the polar opposite of Smithies. Reserved and owlishly intellectual, he led the tax practice with a benign benevolence almost extinct in Pearson Malone since Bailey and his bully-boy henchmen had seized control. Smithies and his ilk saw kindness only as a tool with which to leverage their own interests, and once Townsend had served his purpose he’d be out. But for now, he clung onto the vestiges of power and had agreed to meet me without hesitation.

  Not that this meant much. He was quite capable of beaming affably throughout our meeting, making supportive noises while carefully avoiding any commitment to action.

  But I had two strategic advantages. One—Townsend detested Smithies with a vengeance. Two—for once, Smithies the master tactician appeared to have goofed.

  Townsend greeted me effusively.

  ‘Ah, Amy—nice to see you. Very tricky times in your team at present, I imagine.’

  If Smithies had made the same remark, I would have suspected a hidden meaning, but Townsend gave a credible imitation of genuinely caring. Too bad Smithies was jockeying to be elected as Townsend’s successor, before he’d even formally announced his retirement.

  ‘Yes, morale’s taken a knock, but they’ll get through this with some TLC.’

  ‘Good—I imagined you’d have it all under control. And are you OK?’

  Why did everyone keep asking me that? It had to be Smithies spreading his poison.

  ‘It’s a tough time,’ I confessed, ‘but I’m holding up.’

  ‘Yes indeed. And I understand you’ve been helping the police with their enquiries.’

  I tensed—Townsend might be more sympathetic than Smithies but in no way did that lessen my reticence on the subject.

  ‘Frankly, I’m amazed it’s had so much coverage,’ I said blithely. ‘I was only clearing up a few minor points.’

  ‘So—Lisa Carter,’ he said, moving swiftly to the matter in hand.

  ‘Yes—I’m disappointed that you’ve pulled her from the partner assessment centre, despite passing the initial selection interview.’

  ‘I sympathise,’ he said, ‘but in the current economic climate we had to review all the candidates obj
ectively…’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ It irked me beyond belief to be palmed off with the same drivel as I dished out to others. ‘But what was the review process?’

  ‘Ed Smithies met with each of the section heads and discussed each case, and he based the decision on the results of those meetings. I reviewed the findings and signed off on them. I must say, the process seemed quite fair to me.’

  I didn’t agree—effectively Smithies had made the decisions and Townsend had rubber-stamped them. I suspected too that Smithies had nobbled Townsend before our meeting, but wasn’t unduly troubled. I had yet to play my ace.

  ‘You may have a big problem,’ I told him bluntly.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Six people in the tax practice had their partnership applications cancelled as a result of this “objective” review. You may not have noticed, but five are female and one is Asian.’

  I watched his face for any trace of a reaction, but saw none.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The potential for a discrimination claim is enormous,’ I went on, ramming the point home with all the subtlety of a pile driver.

  In truth, I didn’t believe Smithies was a sexist or a racist. But that didn’t mean he’d applied any objective criteria in deciding which of the candidates to eliminate.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Townsend replied, fiddling with his cufflink. ‘And are you suggesting that Lisa is planning to lodge such a claim?’

  ‘Well—you know Lisa—feisty, outspoken, doesn’t put up with unfairness.’

  Had he noticed I’d avoided answering the question directly? I thought not—I fancied he was too busy weighing up how best to manoeuvre the situation to his advantage. Perhaps he wasn’t so different from Smithies after all. And it wasn’t exactly a lie—Lisa had alerted me to the situation.

  ‘That would be unfortunate,’ he said, with his usual flair for understatement. ‘Especially so soon after we’ve publicly committed to increasing the proportion of female partners.’

  Finally, he’d latched onto the key issue.

  ‘Which is why I’m bringing the matter to your attention,’ I replied.

  I must admit it puzzled me that Smithies—normally so careful to ensure every action he took was “on message”—had made such a blatant gaffe. I could only conclude that power had gone to his head and made him reckless. Still, his loss was potentially Lisa’s gain.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ said Townsend. ‘And thanks.’

  The key question now was how he might deal with the information.

  As I walked back to my office, I congratulated myself. Even as my own harshest critic I knew I’d shone. The tough, cut-through-the crap Amy was back.

  16

  The weekend passed uneventfully. I didn’t get drunk or laid and instead caught up with household tasks and shopping. By Sunday, I’d found the energy to enjoy a health-giving run in the park.

  I marvelled at how capably I’d coped with the challenging circumstances of the past week. I’d appeared on live television, held the group together, fulfilled my promise to Ryan and tried to help Lisa. Even the interview with Carmody seemed less traumatic in retrospect—it wasn’t everyone who could keep cool in the face of hostile police questioning. And while Carmody’s threats about potential charges were worrying, what evidence did they have against me? If there’d been something concrete, surely he wouldn’t have been so gung-ho in releasing my name to the media.

  The future seemed less bleak now too. Although the night spent with Ryan would emerge in his trial, I would deal with it. After all, there were plenty of male partners in Pearson Malone with truly appalling records of inappropriate relationships. And I’d even chased away the horrible guilt that gripped me about the murder being my fault, because I’d failed to promote Ryan. Such ridiculous self-flagellation didn’t deserve to occupy any space in my mind. Now that I was embarked on this positive thinking offensive, it also struck me that the weird Little Amy voice had been mercifully silent over the past few days. Yes—I was on the up.

  Then on Sunday evening my landline rang.

  ‘Hello—Amy?’

  My precarious equilibrium toppled in an instant as I recognised the old and quavery voice.

  ‘This is Cynthia Hope, your mother’s next door neighbour.’

  ‘Oh, hello,’ I said. The brightness of my voice bore no correlation to the dread I felt inside.

  ‘Your mother didn’t want me to call you.’

  No kidding.

  ‘She said you were far too busy to be bothered.’

  ‘Bothered with what?’

  ‘She fell and broke her hip.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The other day,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Outside in the street.’

  I clung to a pathetic optimism that the secret might still be safe.

  ‘And where is she now?’

  ‘In the hospital. But there’s a problem.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They won’t let her come home.’

  The optimism died.

  ‘Why not?’

  As if I didn’t know.

  ‘They came inside, to check it was safe for her to go back home. I gave them the key…’

  My stomach tightened.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you any idea how your mother is living?’

  ‘No,’ I replied truthfully. ‘It’s been some time since I last saw her.’

  Although I could make an educated guess.

  ‘Squalid is the word for that house. Something must be done.’

  Squalid was the word but believe me, if anything could have been done I’d have done it.

  Here’s the Big Secret—the one I kept from everyone, including my husband and my best friend.

  My mother lives in clutter and filth because she likes it that way—she’s a compulsive hoarder. You tidy it up and she trashes the place again in no time at all. Left to their own devices, hoarders fill their houses to the rafters with rubbish. For all I knew, she’d reached that stage now. After all, this had been going on for thirty years.

  When I was eight years old, my father dropped down dead. My life changed irrevocably from that point on. I’ll never know whether that was when the hoarding began or whether my father had kept it in check—it hardly matters. Masses of stuff came into the house but little left it, and it quickly became so chronically untidy and dirty that no outsider could be allowed to enter. I tried to clear it up, but it was no use—the house grew more and more chaotic, because I wasn’t allowed to throw anything out. After a couple of years the plumbing broke, but repairmen couldn’t be allowed to see the mess so they didn’t get called.

  And I was forbidden to tell anyone how we lived. Even as an adult I kept the Big Secret because somehow it must reflect badly on me to have grown up in a shit hole.

  I left as soon as I could and got on with the business of pretending to be a successful professional leading a charmed existence. And no doubt my bravura performance had fooled them all, despite the quivering jelly underneath the façade. Not even Smithies would suspect I’d been raised in a trashcan. But the time for avoiding the truth had passed, as deep down I’d known it eventually would.

  ‘Something must be done,’ she repeated.

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘I think you need to see it for yourself—it won’t be a simple matter to resolve this…’

  I didn’t need to see, but in a moment of weakness brought on by shock I agreed to go over the following afternoon.

  I put down the phone and poured myself a mega gin and tonic, breaking my alcohol-free weekend. But no amount of booze could assuage the feelings of panic and shame. People now knew, had properly seen, what a pigsty my mother lived in. And naturally they must all be asking themselves, how can Amy let her mother live like that?

  Paradoxically though, I couldn’t stop her.

  ‘What a muddle you’re in,’ piped up a familiar little voice, full of self-ri
ghteous condemnation. ‘I knew this would happen eventually.’

  Little Amy stood in front of the fireplace; in the same outfit she’d been wearing the night Isabelle had died. There could be no doubt now—the voice I’d been hearing for the past couple of weeks was hers.

  I closed my eyes and opened them again. She was still there. And disbelief gave way to a grudging recognition that I must be less together in my head than I’d thought.

  17

  Voicemail message from Eric Bailey

  Hello, this is Eric Bailey with a message to all our people.

  As you may know, the police announced on Friday that Ryan Kelly, an employee of this firm, has been charged with the murder of Isabelle Edwards, another member of staff.

  Naturally, we struggle to accept that one of our own people could be the perpetrator of such a terrible crime. Nevertheless, we are doing everything we can to cooperate with the police in their enquiries.

  Now, it’s important to remember that under the fundamental principles of UK justice, Ryan is to be regarded as innocent until proved guilty. But it’s also worth pointing out that in this country the police do not generally bring charges without solid evidence.

  In these challenging times, I would remind you all about our rules on speaking to the media. Any infringement of those instructions by staff or partners, however senior, will be viewed with the utmost seriousness. Likewise, you should refrain from making any comment on internet chat rooms or social networking sites.

  I trust I can rely on your professional judgement and discretion in this matter.

  Thank you all in advance for your cooperation.

  Translation by Amy Robinson

  Let’s keep our dirt to ourselves.

  Ironic or what?

  18

  With a heavy heart, I punched my mother’s Croydon address into the sat nav of my sleek Mercedes CLK, and pulled out of the underground car park.

  It was impossible to estimate how much rubbish she might have accumulated in the ten years since I’d last set foot in the house, but that didn’t stop my imagination. If I pictured something truly dreadful, it might lessen the shock at what I actually found.

  ‘Nah,’ said Little Amy. ‘It’s always worse.’