by Rose Edmunds
That was it—I’d had it listening to her crap.
‘No way.’
28
Following my conversation with Smithies that morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother’s response to the enforced clean-out. The uncertainty niggled away in the background, popping occasionally into the forefront of my mind. I shrank from calling her, but the silence was puzzling. Was it remotely possible she’d accepted the need for action and was pleased with the results?
I’d just concluded that a call to the loathsome Hope woman might be the best way forward, when she beat me to it.
‘Your mother got home yesterday and she’s not happy at all,’ she said gleefully.
I should have known. It never paid to have any expectations of my mother—it merely gave her the power to disappoint.
‘No?’
‘She says you’ve thrown out all her valuable possessions.’
‘Not true—I went to a great deal of trouble to salvage them.’
I wished I hadn’t bothered—the backlash would have been the same irrespective of what I’d chucked out.
‘But you have got rid of a huge amount. I had no idea you’d be disposing of things. I promised her you wouldn’t.’
As a former English teacher, Miss Hope’s mathematical ability was doubtless limited, but surely she understood basic volume calculations.
‘Now listen,’ I told her firmly. ‘You saw all the stuff in there and the space it took up. Tell me—how exactly did you expect me to tidy it all away without throwing anything out?’
‘But you could have used your intelligence,’ she said, ducking my question in a stern headmistress–like tones. ‘Your mum is terribly upset, she’s thinking of calling the police, especially as you forged her signature on the agreement with the cleaning company.’
I supposed it had been inevitable that she’d find out about that.
‘It’s all hot air—she’d never report me. Taking control of events would violate the habits of a lifetime. She’d much prefer to be the victim.’
‘You shouldn’t underestimate how angry she is.’
‘Oh, I’m not. And you shouldn’t underestimate the pleasure she gets out of playing the martyr.’
‘Well,’ she said in pained tones, ‘I thought if I told you what was brewing you might try to defuse the situation.’
Her lack of insight into my mother’s personality astounded me. After some three decades living next door, she saw nothing beyond the image my mother, the master illusionist, chose to project. Even the “discovery” of the hoarding hadn’t shaken her certainty.
‘From where I’m standing there’s nothing brewing. And just so we’re clear, I have no intention of ever helping my mother again. And you, you interfering old busybody, you can go and fuck yourself.’
29
There were too many egos round the table at the JJ all-parties meeting that afternoon—lawyers, brokers, grey suits from Megabuilders, plus Jupp and the slimeball Goodchild. Only Greg was missing—his number two in the corporate finance advisory team stood in for him.
Oh yes, and Little Amy sat in a chair in the corner, wearing her school uniform and smoking again—hers the biggest ego of the bloody lot. This was a disturbing development—normally she kept her visual appearances for when I was alone.
The sparring began early, as each of the participants vied with the others to determine who was the toughest, most macho tiger in the jungle.
‘Now I think it’s fair to say I have some concerns,’ began the lead partner from Megabuilders’ legal team, a chippy little Scouse guy called Kevin.
‘Yeah—like what’s going to happen to the drug dealing division none of you guys know about yet.’
‘We’re less than two weeks away from completion and there’s still some major issues to be resolved. And your lead advisor can’t even be bothered to attend our final catch-up.’
The “major issues”, or at least the ones he was aware of, were probably easily manageable points of detail, of the type you’d expect this late on in the process. But attempting to unnerve the guy off the subs bench made for good entertainment in an otherwise dull meeting.
‘I’m sure you all appreciate the tragic circumstances,’ pitched in JJ.
‘Shit happens,’ Kevin replied, with a shrug. ‘You deal with it.’
‘Or avoid it, in the case of some people.’ Little Amy looked pointedly at me.
‘In any case, the guy’s suicide is tidier all round,’ he added with breathtaking obnoxiousness.
‘Yes, the brother was obviously guilty,’ Goodchild opined, in a clumsy attempt to build rapport.
I watched him intently for signs of complicity, but he showed no sign of discomfort. I wondered—if Smithies had killed Isabelle to save Goodchild, would he have even told his brother-in-law what he’d done?
‘Ryan wasn’t guilty. Isabelle was killed to cover up for these arseholes. And you’re allowing it to happen.’
‘Let’s try and stick to the point,’ said JJ, glaring at Kevin. ‘Since there’s so much to be done.’
It was unclear to me whether he was uncomfortable with the direction of the discussion, or merely displaying his well-known aversion to wasting professionals’ time.
‘Him and Goodchild must be up to their necks in it,’ said Little Amy, reading my thoughts. ‘And you’re letting them get away with it.’
But what could I do? I could hardly blurt out my perception of the truth, here in the meeting. And I was loath to make an internal money laundering report, especially when I still had no proof.
‘I told you—ring that prick Carmody.’
Which wouldn’t be happening either.
As I’d predicted, the open issues were all relatively trivial, but the Megabuilders’ contingent seemed entrenched in their aggressive mind-sets. They were so nasty that I concluded they deserved to buy a company riddled with fraud.
Greg’s sidekick handled the assault with aplomb. He’d either been comprehensively briefed by Greg or had effectively been in control of the whole project from the outset. I suspected the latter.
The tax position was left to me to resolve. Rob, the capital allowances specialist, had told me there should be ample claims to cover the hole left by the losses, but Megabuilders were doubtful. Rather than attempt to convince them, I suggested the sum in dispute be held in an escrow account and released when the claim had been agreed. Perhaps because they’d all been worn down by constant wrangling, everyone agreed.
‘You can’t allow them to get away with this—why should Ryan take the rap? You’re just playing along with their game.’
She had a point. Ryan’s “guilt” was far too convenient for everyone. Intentionally or not, all of them were helping to cover up some kind of swindle, and possibly a murder. And by taking the easy path, I was colluding with them.
I was done with colluding—I’d kept my mother’s illness hidden for years, through shame and ignorance. I’d allowed her to avoid the consequences of facing it, and helped her to weave a fiction with her friends. And see where that had got me.
Little Amy needed to know she wouldn’t always be stuck in the same rut, and the only person able to prove it to her was big Amy. She’d come into my life, I reasoned, to show me a different way, and when I’d finished she’d give up bugging me.
OK, you win, kid, I thought.
‘Anyone else got any points to raise?’ asked Kevin, when he’d been through his own exhaustive list.
‘Not at the moment,’ I said.
‘But just you wait.’
30
‘So what made you change your mind and take me up on my dinner offer?’ Dave asked as we sat the next evening in an absurdly pricy Mayfair restaurant. When I say pricy, I mean relative to Dave’s salary, not mine—yet he’d chosen the venue. It crossed my mind he might be on expenses.
‘I decided you deserved another chance,’ I lied. Happily, Little Amy had slithered off somewhere, so I wasn’t forced to endu
re her sarcastic comments.
I’d dithered for ages over what to wear. If it had been a proper date, I would have known precisely how to dress. But I had a purely business agenda for the evening and so, I strongly suspected, did Dave. I settled on a forties-style tea dress, with a turquoise bolero jacket to go on top—demure but businesslike.
‘I’m not convinced I do,’ he said with a hangdog expression, ‘but thanks anyway.’
No expense spared, he ordered a bottle of Bollinger Special Cuvée at a hundred and five pounds.
‘What are we celebrating?’ I asked.
‘My prospective promotion. They’ve signed me off for the superintendent assessment process.’
The disclosure took me by surprise. Could this after all be a genuine celebratory dinner, to which he’d invited me because he fancied me? I remembered that night in Daly’s when his sole purpose had been to pump me for information. I’d be careful not to delude myself again, although for now I had little option but to play along with the fiction.
‘Congratulations,’ I said inanely. ‘But aren’t you counting your chickens a bit soon?’
‘No—I’ve been told I’ve every prospect of being successful. And besides, I’ve been waiting long enough to be put forward. That in itself is enough reason to be cheerful. We can always have another celebration when I’ve got the title.’
I refrained from commenting on the multiple assumptions contained in that final sentence, as the waiter returned with the champagne and poured out two glasses.
‘To us,’ said Dave.
‘And to the prospective promotion.’
‘That too,’ he said.
We chatted about nothing in particular until the arrival of the tiniest smoked salmon roulades I’d ever seen—little more than canapés. It’s one of those peculiar economic paradoxes that the more expensive a London restaurant is, the less food they provide. The bread rolls were equally miniscule, but the four carb-phobic designer stick-insect women at an adjacent table nevertheless waved them aside.
‘Before we get too far, I have a confession,’ Dave said.
‘Go on.’
‘We’d verified that Ryan Kelly visited your house before we interviewed you. One of your neighbours confirmed she’d seen him arriving.’
It worried me that my neighbours kept such close tabs on me so late at night, but not as much as Dave’s earlier lack of transparency.
‘So why suggest I was lying?’
‘Tactics. We needed you to admit that Kelly could have gone out in the night.’
‘With hindsight, I don’t see how that helped you anyway. You never had any definite proof that Ryan was driving the car—a serious weakness in the case.’
‘Not such a weakness as you might imagine,’ Dave replied. ‘To create reasonable doubt the defence would have to establish a realistic possibility that someone else was behind the wheel. Kelly always claimed that he’d been set up, but we found both sets of car keys in his possession, and then there was the bigger question. Why the hell would anyone want to set him up anyway?’
Unwittingly, he’d led the discussion exactly where I wanted it to go.
‘But suppose there was a plausible motive for someone other than Ryan to kill her, and to put Ryan in the frame.’
Dave’s face fell.
‘Oh dear,’ he said, before I had a chance to expand on my theory. ‘I suppose you’re still on about this fraud business. Ed did warn me that you might bend my ear about it.’
‘Ed Smithies?’ I sounded incredulous, but truthfully it came as no surprise to me that Smithies had wheedled his way so far into Carmody’s trust.
‘Yes—nice guy—invited me to the Pearson Malone box at Wimbledon a few days ago when his client pulled out unexpectedly. As a thank-you for the sensitive way we’d handled the enquiries.’
How on earth could it be appropriate for Carmody to accept a freebie on this basis? Surely the police had rules forbidding it?
‘Oh, I see.’
‘We had a great time,’ he went on, oblivious to the frosty tone in my voice. ‘And Ed mentioned in passing that you had a bee in your bonnet about some alleged racket at JJ. He thought maybe you felt guilty about what happened to Ryan.’
A bee in my bonnet. Why did everyone feel they had free rein to trivialise my thoughts and experiences, and attribute non-existent motives to me? Smithies had potentially sinister reasons for playing down my unease, but he had Dave Carmody wrapped round his little finger, so must have figured he’d get away with it.
‘Oh yes,’ I said, rapidly backtracking as I questioned the wisdom of confiding in Carmody. ‘At one point I did give some credence to Ryan’s idea, but not now. I was just speaking hypothetically.’
‘Oh, Ed will be relieved. And so am I.’
He put his hand on mine. I managed a weak smile, but Smithies thwarting my plan had sent my spirits into a tailspin. Mortified, I found tears coursing down my cheeks.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Sorry—there’s stuff happening on top of this Isabelle and Ryan business—and I’m so stressed out.’
He handed me his handkerchief.
‘Yes, Ed did say you’d been tense lately.’
And what right did Smithies have to trumpet his opinions on my state of mind?
‘You can’t believe everything he says,’ I said, dabbing at my cheek.
‘But he’s not wrong on this though, is he?’
‘I guess not,’ I reluctantly agreed.
‘You’re not a big fan of his, are you?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘It’s been obvious from the off. I even asked him about it. He said that inexplicably you had a real down on him. He seemed mystified, and genuinely hurt.’
The odious man had covered every base with his Oscar-winning portrayal of the decent boss trying to fathom the irrational hatred of an unstable subordinate. Yes—he’d spread his poison far and wide—first Greg and now Dave. But convincing anyone of it was another matter altogether.
‘Hurt—unlikely—Ed has no feelings. And he’s trying to make everyone believe I’ve gone crazy.’
As soon as the words were out, I regretted saying them.
‘Why would he do that?’ Dave asked gently, in tones suggesting he’d completely bought into Smithies’ lies.
‘I don’t know,’ I snapped.
I never had understood Smithies’ rationale for selecting me as a victim, before even any suggestion of deception or murder. Had he merely scented weakness and gone for it? If so, his judgement had been impeccable. I cut a pathetic figure sitting here sobbing, while the anorexic bitches at the next table gazed at me in mock pity.
‘Frankly, I think you’re overreacting a bit, Amy. Ed’s anxious about your welfare and so am I. I hoped tonight might cheer you up. Heck, if I’d realised you were under so much strain I wouldn’t have given you the third degree in the interview. But I thought you were a real tough cookie…’
‘I am a real tough cookie,’ I sobbed unconvincingly. ‘Which is why he needs to break me.’
Dave shook his head.
‘That makes no sense at all.’
I quickly evaluated my options. Surely Dave wasn’t so much in cahoots with his new best buddy Ed that he wouldn’t listen to reason. I had to confide in someone not embroiled in the toxic Pearson Malone establishment, and could ill afford to throw my one lifeline away. Besides, I’d never hear the last of it from my teenage alter ego.
‘It does make sense if Smithies killed Isabelle.’
After an unnervingly long silence, he spoke.
‘Do you seriously believe that’s possible?’
Dave’s tone of voice and facial expression were professionally neutral and non-judgmental—but somehow I could tell he gave no credence to the suggestion.
‘Yes—based on what I know.’
‘That’s bonkers,’ he said, quickly ditching his tolerant façade now he saw I was serious. ‘He may not be your favourit
e person but…’
‘Are you aware that the finance director at JJ is Ed Smithies’ brother-in-law?’ I cut in.
‘I must confess I wasn’t.’ A puzzled expression clouded his features. ‘But I don’t see how that’s relevant.’
‘Isn’t it obvious? If Isabelle did discover dodgy dealings at JJ, then Smithies would have a motive for killing her—to protect his brother-in-law.’
‘But you just told me that Ryan’s suspicions were wrong.’
‘I lied, because I was afraid that you might alert Smithies. But then I thought better of it. I have to trust you, because apart from you there’s no one.’
Dave switched back to his open-minded mode, having decided that humouring me was his best option.
‘I promise I won’t say a word. Tell me more.’
‘Goodchild stands to lose millions in share options if the company sale falls through. I think Isabelle discovered something wrong and Smithies killed her to protect his family.’
‘That sounds a bit fanciful to me. What evidence do you have?’
‘I have evidence—some dodgy invoices and other stuff. I can show them to you if you want.’ I held off mentioning the cannabis farm—if he thought what I’d said so far sounded fanciful, it might strain his credulity too far.
‘But nothing to tie Smithies into the murder, apart from a potential motive?’
‘Not directly, no.’
Dave sipped at his champagne as he contemplated the best way to handle me. I regretted now having suggested that Smithies might be the culprit—which appeared to undermine the integrity of the rest of my allegations.
‘I’m sorry to pop your balloon, but Ed Smithies has a cast iron alibi for the night in question.’
‘Well he would have, wouldn’t he?’ I retorted.
‘It’s been verified. And besides, I’ve come across plenty of murderers in my time and in my opinion, Ed isn’t one of them. He’s a typical City type, streetwise and politically astute, and though some of those guys would do all sorts to advance or protect their own position…’
‘That’s just it,’ I said. ‘He’d do anything to protect his position, or rather his sister’s.’