Concealment

by Rose Edmunds

  I can’t explain the subliminal logic that led me to the passport hidden in a plastic storage container in the bathroom, or the jewellery in the piano stool. Nor can I say what prompted me to check inside that old kettle in the kitchen, stuffed with share certificates and the deeds to the house. Anyway, irrespective of the thought process, within an hour, I’d stashed all these items in my handbag. They were probably all that was worth saving—she would have her bank cards and cheque book in her own bag, I guessed.

  If you’re concerned about childhood photographs, forget it. They’d all been ruined when the garage roof had developed a leak ten years before. Fortunately I’d already salvaged a precious few from my grandmother’s house—the only evidence that I hadn’t sprung into the world as a fully formed adult. I did discover a college graduation picture while searching though, stained beyond salvation. My mother had used it as an impromptu stand for the teapot. These quasi-accidental acts of malevolence hardened my heart. Yes, she was ill, but it doesn’t take much effort to keep a picture of your daughter’s special day safe.

  Next, I dug a canyon through my old bedroom, where crumbling posters of forgotten pop idols clung to the faded kids’ wallpaper my father had hung weeks before he died. After I’d left, my mother had commandeered the room as yet another repository for her rapidly burgeoning wardrobe. Her clothes were now heaped high, the summits of some mounds reaching almost to the ceiling—a remarkable feat for a five-foot-tall woman.

  From the piles, I picked out an assortment of clothes for her to wear afterwards. I had no idea if they were the best ones or the most appropriate, and didn’t much care. I marvelled at the collection of exotic outfits she’d managed to accumulate—plenty to see a member of the Royal Family through a year’s engagements. Her obvious yearning for a better life triggered a strange sadness, but I choked it off—this woman wasn’t worthy of my pity.

  My old wardrobe was stuffed full of clothes I’d worn at school, including the pale blue batwing jumper, pilled and moth-eaten.

  ‘That looks horrible now.’ Little Amy peered over my shoulder as I examined the sweater.

  ‘Well it is nearly twenty-five years old,’ I said. ‘Clothes aren’t meant to last such a long time.’

  ‘They’re not?’ she said dubiously.

  And then I remembered, Little Amy didn’t realise people threw out clothes. Only several years later at university did she make that discovery.

  ‘And I hate those—they’re vile.’

  She pointed to a pair of Doc Martens I’d worn in the sixth form.

  ‘Don’t worry—you’ll like them in a year or two.’

  The sight of Little Amy reminded me painfully of what I was struggling to blank out—what I might or might not have witnessed underground. I knew I should ignore her and bring myself back on track. But the kid was stubbornly persistent.

  At lunchtime, I checked my phone and found a missed call from Lisa.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, when I called her back. ‘Just checking you’re OK.’

  Why wouldn’t I be?

  ‘I’m at the hoard house, picking out the wheat from the chaff, but apart from that I’m fine.’

  I deliberately omitted to mention the previous day’s hallucinations, but Lisa had already heard her own version of the story, prompting her call.

  ‘Are you sure? They say you had a funny turn yesterday.’

  Who said, I wondered?

  ‘I felt a bit giddy and then lost my way, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ve done it again,’ she moaned. ‘I’m supposed to be your best friend and you never tell me anything.’

  This was my moment to explain what I’d stumbled across in Wales, but I ducked it. It sounded so incredible—she surely wouldn’t believe me.

  ‘And that’s all it was?’

  ‘Absolutely. Would I lie to you?’

  ‘I guess not—are you alright now?’

  ‘Yes, of course—just getting ready for the big hoard clear-out tomorrow.’

  ‘So you took my advice.’

  She sounded surprised.

  ‘You bet—I even faked her signature on the agreement…’

  ‘It’s the right answer,’ she said, without hesitation. ‘And best of luck.’

  In its own way, the conversation had been useful. Any suspicion that a client was involved in a crime had to be reported to Pearson Malone’s MLRO (Money Laundering Reporting Officer). He would decide what action to take and whether to pass the information on to law enforcement. I’d been considering reporting the cannabis farm, even though I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced I’d truly seen it. I now realised I couldn’t do it. If I hesitated to tell my closest friend for fear of being disbelieved or thought crazy, how realistically would I summon up the courage to confide in anyone else, especially after Bailey had warned me off rocking the boat? So, either I gathered more evidence, or let it go.

  By mid-afternoon I’d achieved my objectives in the house, although you’d never have thought it. The fundamental law of hoard clearance says when piles of stuff are disturbed their volume increases, being less densely compacted. Consequently, the mounds often appear larger even after removing a considerable amount. And all I’d done was to redistribute the crap.

  Nevertheless, a square metre of the lounge carpet was now visible and I bent down to pick up a newspaper that had fallen to obscure it.

  August 2002.

  I read the headline with a rush of vindication.

  TYCOON’S SON JAILED FOR DRUGS FACTORY

  Jason Jupp, prodigal son of Jim Jupp, had been busted for running his own LSD factory while studying chemistry at Cambridge and jailed for eight years. That had to be why his father had fallen out with him, why they’d had that massive row when I’d attended JJ’s headquarters.

  Now everything fell into place. It was Jason, not Jim, growing cannabis—his Porsche with the personalized number plate. I was not a crazy woman suffering from weird hallucinations—I was a sane, rational person who’d uncovered a major drug farm at a client. Now surely I had to do something.

  Little Amy sat in my mother’s chair, eying me curiously.

  ‘See—there’s some point to keeping newspapers, isn’t there?’

  Oh, the irony. My mother would be jubilant—the slightest usefulness of one item in the hoard would justify filling the house to the rafters.

  Yet a niggling doubt punctured my elation. Was it possible that I’d glanced at this newspaper before and unconsciously taken in its contents? Instead of the article confirming what I’d seen, had it merely provided the material for my hallucination?

  ‘Oh, come off it. You saw what you saw.’

  But that was the trouble—I’d begun to doubt my own senses. Little Amy wasn’t real, yet she insisted the cannabis farm existed. Logically it didn’t stack up.

  ‘Are you real?’ I asked her.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied.

  What was I to do?

  ***

  Either ‘nothing’ or ‘seek psychiatric help’ would have been sensible answers to that question, but I was trapped like a fly in a spider’s web. Each time I attempted to disentangle myself, another connecting thread ensnared me—but who was the spider? That question spurred me on.

  I still lacked hard evidence of the cannabis farm’s existence, without which Pearson Malone’s MLRO would be reluctant to act. A repeat visit to the slate mine to confirm what I’d seen was out of the question. I could only hope to gather more evidence from the paper trail. And if nothing else, I owed it to Ryan’s memory to examine JJ Slate’s books again.

  So far I’d seen an analysis of debtors broken down by the age of the debts. But the audit team must surely be able to provide a more detailed ledger with customers’ names. And since re-invoicing old debts to make them appear more recent was a classic fraudster’s ruse, I would also ask them for a list of credit notes. A breakdown of debts cleared after the year-end would be useful too.

  To avoid arousing suspicion, I directed
my information request through the most junior members of the audit and tax teams. Despite the circuitous route, five minutes after I’d arrived home, the data pinged into my inbox. I printed off the documents and poured myself a generous glass of Chardonnay. Now down to business.

  It took me all of thirty seconds to spot a suspiciously hefty balance on the debtors’ ledger—owed by a company called Parallax Projects Ltd. The sums involved were disproportionately large and quite a few credit notes had been issued on the account. Fresh invoices, in subtly different amounts, had been raised at the same time, so the “debts” appeared younger than their true age. I suspected too, but couldn’t prove, that they’d reissued some invoices in the names of other customers and allocated those other companies’ payments against them.

  Again I wondered why the audit team hadn’t spotted anything. But the fact that they hadn’t didn’t automatically mean they’d been negligent. Contrary to public opinion, an auditor is not necessarily expected to spot a fraud—it’s possible to plan and carry out a competent audit and still miss it. When you think about it, this isn’t so surprising, because a criminal will go to elaborate lengths to throw everyone off the scent. But auditors should exercise “professional scepticism” when considering the possibility of fraud. And without delving too deeply, there was plenty here to arouse suspicion.

  But that was the point—they probably hadn’t checked the numbers at all, let alone subjected them to the same scrutiny as I was now. As Greg had pointed out, the slate mine was a tiny division of JJ. With around two percent of turnover and four percent of employees the auditors wouldn’t have regarded it as a key area. I called up an online company search on Parallax, cynically doubting its existence.

  I was wrong. Parallax was a privately owned property development company, too small to require an audit, although apparently large enough to be purchasing a colossal amount of slate.

  Greg had also said that loads of debts had been cleared after the year-end. Frankly, I doubted if the audit partner had even checked and fully expected to find the balances still outstanding. Wrong again. Three months after the balance sheet date, just before or during the audit, Parallax had paid everything it owed to JJ and (pardon the pun) wiped the slate clean.

  Which was odd, because fictitious debtors never pay.

  And if the debtors weren’t fictitious then how could there be a fraud?

  I had reached a dead end and to be honest, that suited me down to the ground.

  25

  By late Saturday afternoon the piles of rubbish had diminished appreciably in size.

  The fundamental law of hoard clearance was unknown to the Clearall team, who were palpably dispirited to see their early efforts yield few visible results. I questioned whether they were as experienced as they claimed. But they kept at it, and finally their hard work paid off.

  No further vital valuables came to light, but Clearall extracted other items of potential value. There were clothes still in their wrappings, new dinner services, three vacuum cleaners (despite the lack of visible floor space), an ice-cream maker, and four sets of kitchen scales.

  ‘Give them all to charity,’ I said.

  ‘Any particular one?’

  ‘The NSPCC.’

  Finally, they produced a school photograph from one of the clothes piles. It showed angelic Little Amy, aged thirteen, beaming broadly in a skilful masquerade. Even I could almost believe this girl lived in an immaculate home with state of the art plumbing. Little Amy irritated me immensely, but you had to hand it to her—the poor kid could put on a damned convincing front. I would take the picture home and frame it, or perhaps have a mega-enlargement in my office, Smithies-style.

  By Sunday evening and six skips later, they were done, and the carpets cleaned. The eerie emptiness of the house unsettled me, and I could scarcely believe how easily the noxious smell had been eliminated. I asked Cynthia Hope around to see the results. I detested the meddling old busybody, but after all the trouble she’d caused I wanted her to bear witness to my achievements.

  ‘Just think,’ she said, ‘all these years she wouldn’t allow me in here—so unnecessary. I’m so glad you helped her. After all, she’s the only mother you’ve got.’

  I said nothing.

  26

  A fine mist shrouded the churchyard, symbolising the suffocating sadness we all felt at Ryan’s passing. His promising life had been cut short in the most tragic of circumstances and the suspicion clouding his final weeks made it impossible even to mourn his lost future.

  My black Armani trouser suit and peach silk shirt gave the impression of someone en route to a job interview rather than a funeral. But whoever buys a new outfit for such a grim occasion? People grab whatever vaguely suitable garments they have to hand.

  Despite the hostility of our last conversation, Greg greeted me with a warm hug outside the church, much to the disgust of his mother and a heavily pregnant Tiffany. A malicious pleasure swept over me as I took in her puffy face, swollen ankles and shapeless body. For someone who had invested all her effort in physical appearance, it must be hell to lose control—and with luck her belly would be flabby forever.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said, ignoring the women’s hostile glances. ‘It means a lot to me.’

  ‘Look—I’m sorry for being out of order last time we spoke.’

  There was nothing to be lost in apologising, despite the residual anger that I felt. I’d implied that he didn’t give a shit about his brother, and that now that sentiment seemed singularly inappropriate.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’d give anything to turn the clock back and have Ryan with us. I feel so terrible we none of us recognised how traumatised he’d been…’

  ‘Don’t. It wasn’t your fault.’

  The fault lay with me. Now that I’d convinced myself that all was well at JJ, I also had to accept that nobody except Ryan had any reason to kill Isabelle. And what reason for him to kill her except for a stupid argument about a promotion? Two lives wasted for nothing—my responsibility.

  Unlike Tiffany, Greg’s mother did not hold back in voicing her displeasure. She’d never cared for me anyway, as she’d hoped Greg would marry the daughter of a furniture shop owner in Cork. Theresa had aged significantly in the time since I’d last seen her, her nervous, haunted air more exaggerated than ever, with thinner lips and baggier eyes.

  ‘Dear God, you’ve got a nerve showing up here after everything. Have you no shame?’

  ‘Ma,’ said Greg. ‘Please leave it. This is not the time or the place…’

  ‘Take no notice,’ said Mr Kelly senior, who’d been standing silently at his wife’s side. His breath stank of whiskey, though it was not yet eleven am. ‘She’s a wee bit upset—we all are. Thanks for coming, Amy.’

  I’d always liked Greg’s father—he was someone you could have a laugh and a drink with—a bit like Ryan on a good day. And though Greg had sometimes hinted at a darker side to him, I’d not seen any evidence of it.

  As I walked into the church, the censorious stares bored into me, as though everyone held me responsible for the whole sorry business. The Kelly sisters and assorted spouses, in particular, gave me the evil eye as I passed.

  I tried not to speculate about who knew I’d slept with Ryan, and whether Greg had shared the news of my mother the garbage lady with his family. I carried on walking with my head held high. None of this mattered—today wasn’t about me, and I was here not for them but for Ryan. Surely for his sake I could hold it together for one lousy day.

  As you’d expect, Greg gave a composed and professional tribute to Ryan. Delivering his speech in measured tones he urged us all to remember the fun times with Ryan. He reminded us that Ryan hadn’t been convicted of any crime and that his family and friends were utterly convinced of his innocence. Ryan would now be judged, he added, by the final arbiter. A nice touch, considering his upbringing in the Catholic faith had hardened Greg into a resolute atheist.

  ***

  F
or obvious reasons, I hoped to avoid joining the family at the local pub. I made to slink away, but Greg’s father caught me.

  ‘Come on, girl—a wake’s not a wake without a few drinks.’

  ‘Only if I’m welcome,’ I said carefully, glancing at Theresa.

  ‘I say you are, and what I say goes.’

  He took me by the arm, perhaps for support, as we walked along the lane.

  ‘Don’t understand why he left you for the other one,’ he said, with engaging candour, in Tiffany’s earshot. ‘No fun at all, her.’

  He had no clue how little fun I’d been for Greg, how the strain of being the perfect wife had proved too much. But why dash his illusions? And it struck me now that the fault had lain equally with Greg. There’d been no room for either of us to be anything less than flawless.

  I dreaded interacting with the rest of the family, so when a girl around Ryan’s age intercepted me outside the pub, it seemed like a gift from heaven.

  But not for long.

  ‘You’re Ryan and Issy’s boss, aren’t you?’ she said in a haughty voice. She was immaculately made up and dressed rather showily in black velvet.

  I had been, I thought bitterly, until Smithies had pulled the rug from under my feet.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  I waited for an impassioned tirade—another stab at my conscience—but Kelly senior interrupted.

  ‘C’mon, have a drink, both you lovely girls.’

  Mrs Kelly was plainly disturbed that her husband had now cornered two women. She came to reclaim him, glowering at us both.

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked the girl, certain I’d not met her before.

  ‘Oh—sorry—I should have introduced myself. I’m Chloe Fenton, Isabelle’s friend.’

  I didn’t warm to her. She had that same smug, self-congratulatory aura as Isabelle, and I feared she might be about to launch an attack that I lacked the strength to withstand.

  But when she offered me a cigarette I realised she had no intention of arguing. I’d given up smoking five years before, but there’s nothing like an untimely death to highlight the folly of trying to prolong life. She lit my ciggie with a classy vintage lighter.