by Rose Edmunds
Dave shook his head.
‘Guys like him don’t tend to kill. They have much more effective ways of neutralising a threat.’
‘But that’s what he’s doing with me—neutralising the threat. He can’t take the risk of killing another person, but he can demolish my credibility.’
‘I have to say, this sounds so flaky that if you don’t watch it you’ll demolish your own credibility.’
As if I wasn’t painfully aware of that already.
‘But what about the fraud? Aren’t you interested even in that?’
‘I might be, but what do you expect me to do?’
For a deluded moment, I believed he might actually help me.
‘Investigate it, of course.’
‘Amy, if you truly suspect any criminal activity, I’d advise you to follow your firm’s procedures and contact your Money Laundering Reporting Officer.’
If I’d thought clearly, it should have been obvious all along what the answer would be.
‘Ha,’ I snorted. ‘Do you realise how impossible that is?’
‘Why?’
‘Because everybody’s got such a vested interest in JJ. Apart from the Smithies connection, our CEO Eric Bailey is Jim Jupp’s best friend. Pearson Malone has a multi-million pound fee resting on a successful completion of the company sale and the Corporate Finance Partner is my ex-husband. So for one reason or another they’re all desperate for JJ’s books to balance. Nobody will listen to me, because everyone’s perfectly happy that Ryan’s taken the rap.’
‘But the MLRO is independent,’ Dave protested. ‘That’s the whole point.’
‘No—he’s not—you don’t get how it is with him. He’s another one who’s a big buddy of Smithies.’
‘Buddy or not, ignoring your report if he thinks there’s any substance to it would be a criminal offence. Pearson Malone is a highly reputable firm. He wouldn’t take the risk.’
‘So you’re refusing to help me.’
‘No, no—I am helping you. If you give me the evidence I have to disclose where I got it. If your firm find out you haven’t been through the proper channels they’ll go nuts. Does that make sense?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said grudgingly, wondering if he was really obliged to reveal his sources. For I was acutely mindful of Dave’s possible motives. If I handed the documents to him, he’d be compelled to act. The revelation that he’d arrested the wrong man would hardly aid his promotion. Whereas if, as I expected, Pearson Malone buried my report, who would be any the wiser?
‘But I have to say, you’ve got Ed Smithies all wrong,’ Dave went on. ‘He is concerned. Why—he called me up specifically to ask me not put you under undue strain. He told me your mother was unwell, that she had a hoarding problem which you were sorting out.’
So much for Smithies’ assurances about absolute discretion. I could just about forgive him mentioning the hoarding to Greg, but this was unforgivable.
‘He had no business to mention that.’
‘But it might help you to talk about it.’
‘I severely doubt it,’ I said. ‘And you don’t care anyway. You believe I’m barking mad too.’
‘That’s not true,’ he protested. ‘But I wish you’d open up a bit.’
‘I can’t open up—it’s not in my nature—I’m not the same as you. In Daly’s, you explained how you’d been found as a baby. That’s an incredibly personal matter to bring up in a first meeting. I simply wouldn’t do it.’
‘But it’s my unique selling point—I tell everybody about it—people are interested. Perhaps you should regard the hoarding in the same light.’
‘But the hoarding’s over—it’s not part of who I am now.’
‘I beg to differ. It’s a huge part of you and much better to recognise that and integrate it into the rest of your life.’
Perhaps, but could I bear to announce to the world that I grew up in a trashcan? No—I’d shrunk from telling Dave, and wouldn’t have voluntarily confided in Smithies even if he’d pulled out my fingernails one by one with pliers. Bad enough that I’d confessed all to Lisa.
My Dover sole arrived, but I had little appetite. Now I’d established that Dave wouldn’t assist me, only politeness kept me there. And politeness didn’t stretch to sitting meekly listening to impractical advice on how to live my life.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I have to leave—I can’t talk about this stuff.’
‘What’s eating you? Are you scared that if you reveal too much of yourself, I’ll go off you?’
‘No,’ I lied, ‘but I’ve had my fill of people who drag me down and belittle my feelings. I’m sure you had an ulterior motive in asking me here. I have no idea what it is, but I suspect you’re using me.’
‘Who are you to talk?’ he said. ‘Looks to me like your only purpose in meeting me was to avoid making an internal report of this hare-brained conspiracy theory of yours.’
‘Yes—you’re right, as it happens—and since you’ve refused to help, the meeting is pointless.’
I stood up and walked out of the restaurant, ignoring both his pleas to come back and the supercilious stares of the other diners. And I vowed I would never, ever see him again.
31
Flouncing off had been immensely satisfying, but I was no further forward.
Despite my anger I recognised the sense in Carmody’s advice. I should follow the correct procedure and make a disclosure to James Potter, the firm’s MLRO. If he blabbed to Smithies or Bailey, or chose to ignore my report, too bad. And if anyone criticised me for daring to report, ditto.
I had plenty of choices if they screwed me over. It beat me why I’d suffered for so long. Lisa’s foray into the job market suggested that our rivals Brown & Taylor were seeking new partners. While I’d no desire to go back there, other firms must be hiring too. I’d spent too long in this poisonous environment and it was time to fill my lungs with fresh air.
‘So—go and see Potter.’
The next morning, that’s exactly what I did.
Potter was a bespectacled highbrow, who’d found that the cut and thrust of client work aggravated his dyspepsia. Consequently he’d gravitated towards one of the few jobs in Pearson Malone which required a purely intellectual judgement on a set of facts. But would the web of allegiances in this case allow him to use his intellect to the full? I still had my doubts, particularly given his friendship with Smithies.
It was a surprising alliance, as superficially the two men had little in common. But I’d heard that Potter had helped Smithies out of the poo at least once, and that Smithies had been instrumental in Potter’s move into his current role. The bond was built on mutual benefit and respect, but would Potter have the guts to stand up to pressure from his friend, or from Bailey? That wasn’t my problem—it was Potter’s judgement call to make a report to the authorities. For me, it would be like confessing to a priest and absolving myself of all responsibility.
All psyched up to go, I sat in the waiting room outside Potter’s office, proud that I’d been able to conquer my fears to follow the correct path.
Then disaster struck.
Bailey walked in, knocked on Potter’s door and entered without being bidden. Two minutes later he emerged, minus the piece of paper he’d been holding. In the intervening time, I’d held myself together by dint of a superhuman effort, but my resolve was rapidly unravelling.
‘Hello, Amy—here to see Potter, are we?’
‘Dumb question—why else would you be waiting outside Potter’s office?’
‘Hopefully not about our friends at JJ,’ he quipped.
‘No, no absolutely not,’ I replied with a tinkling laugh, as my newfound daring melted away like ice in a heatwave.
And I established, in a moment of frightening mental clarity, that I couldn’t do this, wouldn’t have done it even if Bailey hadn’t put in an appearance. Once again, I’d been deluding myself.
It was a simple matter to analyse my reluctance. I could live with t
he consequences if everyone accepted my story—they wouldn’t be pretty but I’d take that on the chin. But the point was that nobody would believe me—they would all band together to mock and discredit me to avoid the truth. And that would be unendurable.
Potter beckoned me in through the glass door. I knew I couldn’t just cut and run without making an excuse, so I pleaded an urgent conference call I’d just been summoned to join.
‘I’ll contact you later to make another appointment,’ I lied.
‘Cowardy custard,’ said Little Amy.
Lisa was in my office when I arrived back, armed with several reports for me to sign off.
I’d been trying to reach her for more than a day to discuss prepping for her partnership assessment, and I suspected she’d been avoiding my calls.
‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked. ‘Had you forgotten we were meeting for a catch up?’
‘No,’ I fibbed. And then, staring at the pile of papers, ‘Jeepers—that’s a whole morning’s work by the look of it.’
‘Shouldn’t take a mo,’ she said briskly, as though determined to be in and out as quickly as possible.
I worked my way through what she’d brought. None of it needed reviewing—Lisa was a better technician than I would ever be. Normally, I liked to whizz through and make the odd salient comment to show I’d added value. Today though, I signed without raising any questions.
I sensed that my failure to confide in her about the hoarding and other matters still rankled with her. But surely it would be possible for me to make amends…
‘I’ve been trying to contact you—to ask if I could help you prep for the assessment centre?’
‘Bit late for that now. I mean you’ve known for nearly two weeks that I’m attending.’
‘Not too late at all. Why don’t we sit down over the weekend and…’
‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘I have all the help I need.’
Something stopped me from asking her where from.
‘Well then, fancy a drink after work?’
‘Um, sorry, I’ve something else on.’
‘Another time?’
‘Sure. How’s your mum by the way?’
‘OK, I guess.’
‘You still haven’t seen her?’
Her voice conveyed more than a hint of rebuke. Like everyone else, she judged the relationship by conventional standards and found me lacking. She’d been prepared to make allowances when there’d been “something terrible” lurking in my background. But the hoarding was no big deal to her—she neither understood the secrecy surrounding it nor why it had driven a wedge between my mother and me.
‘No.’
Did anyone seriously imagine I’d found it easy to cut off contact with my own mother? That I was callous enough to take this draconian action on the trivial grounds of her failure to meet up to my standards of tidiness?
‘Shouldn’t you get in touch with her?’
‘No.’
‘Up to you,’ she said. ‘You might find the relationship more fulfilling if you tried harder. But then, being close to people doesn’t come naturally to you.’
Her barb stung. It also irked me that without having met my mother, Lisa appeared to be taking her side. My feelings never seemed to matter to anyone.
‘Perhaps not,’ I agreed. ‘But you and me, are we OK? Lately you’ve been a bit off with me. Can’t we clear the air?’
Lisa didn’t hesitate before replying.
‘I’ll be honest with you—it’s grim being your friend at the moment. You never tell me anything—you’re really paranoid about everyone. And if I’m brave enough to suggest there’s something wrong you become angry and defensive. What am I supposed to do?’
What was I supposed to do, throw myself at her mercy, and beg for another chance? Not likely—it takes two to break a friendship. I suspected she’d somehow manipulated me to get on the assessment centre, but I daren’t say so. She’d pounce on any such thoughts as further evidence of my paranoia.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ I said lamely, instead. ‘And fingers crossed for next week.’
‘Thanks—I’ll be fine.’
‘And call me when you’re through.’
‘Sure, yes.’
She left without a backward glance.
‘She won’t call you—she’s not your friend anymore,’ whispered Little Amy.
Which was a shame, because I’d been contemplating asking Lisa’s advice on JJ. But that was impossible now, with the permafrost between us.
Scarily, apart from an imaginary version of my fourteen-year-old self, I was entirely alone in the world.
***
Fact was, as I’d warned Carmody, no one at Pearson Malone would ever accept there was any irregularity at JJ Slate. Too many links and personal agendas clouded people’s judgement. And without any definitive proof, discrediting and belittling me was a much easier option than facing the truth. Eric Bailey had probably been joking around, but there’d been a menacing edge to his comments—don’t you dare rock the boat, Amy Robinson.
The answer was obvious. Possession of suspicious documents, which could always be explained away, was not enough. I needed proof. Then they would have to sit up and take notice, like it or not.
I took a mental inventory of what I had.
Debtors ledger—bank statements—haulage invoices—calculations.
Out of all the bundle of papers, the invoices intrigued me the most. They were all for deliveries to Parallax Projects at an industrial estate in East Grinstead, Sussex. But as I’d spotted before, the serial numbers of two of them were out of sequence, meaning they might be forged. Fake transport invoices for non-existent consignments of slate.
I’d quickly established that the East Grinstead address was the registered office of Parallax, which was not wholly surprising. But I’d made little progress otherwise, and hadn’t unearthed any links between Parallax and Jason Jupp—quite the reverse. A Companies House search showed he was neither a director nor a shareholder.
Questions swirled round my mind. Where had the two million paid into Parallax every quarter come from? Why was everyone pretending to sell slate? Was there a secret JJ drug-dealing division of which the auditors, central management, and Megabuilders were all unaware? Why hadn’t Parallax paid off the JJ invoices on a timely basis and avoided arousing anyone’s suspicion? Why pay the money into JJ anyway—why not just to Jason Jupp himself? And why would drug dealers have all these neat traceable transactions through bank accounts?
My brain cried out for coffee to kick-start it. At the machine, I pressed the button for cappuccino, but instead a vile diarrhoea-like liquid spurted out.
‘Oxtail soup,’ said a passing secretary, spotting my disgust as she put envelopes into the nearby pigeonholes. ‘They got the buttons mixed up when they serviced it.’
‘So if I press soup do I get cappuccino?’
‘Nah—not so simple—you have to press the button for black coffee.’
‘OK,’ I said.
‘Oh—while you’re here, this is yours,’ she said, handing me an envelope with the Vodafone logo on it.
All the bills on the corporate phone account came round shortly after the end of the month.
All the bills…
The same brain that minutes before had been struggling whirred unbidden into action.
‘Is there one of those for Isabelle?’ I asked, endeavouring to hide my excitement. ‘We’re sending a few bits on to her parents.’
‘Sure,’ she said, rifling through the pile and handing it to me.
I poured away the soup and rushed off—the need for coffee forgotten.
***
By sheer good luck, I now possessed a log of all the calls Isabelle had made up from 1st June to 14th June, the date she’d died.
I worked backwards.
She’d last called Ryan, presumably trying to track him down. An earlier call to Greg must have been made for the same reason. Before that, she’d rung
a number with a Llandudno dialling code—her parents, I guessed, to share the joyous tidings of her promotion.
But she hadn’t called Smithies.
That was disappointing—after all the shenanigans over the tax losses I still favoured him as number one suspect. If he’d somehow got wind of what Isabelle had discovered, then he had a motive. It was possible he’d called her—I recalled that the police list had included his number. Also Ryan had told me Smithies’ number had come up when he’d checked Isabelle’s phone. But that might have been days or weeks earlier. I contemplated several devious ways to get my hands on Smithies’ phone bill, before concluding that the task was impossible.
She’d called another mobile number Friday lunchtime. I googled the number, but to no avail.
‘Dial it.’
I used my landline, so whoever answered would see “number withheld”.
‘Hello.’
‘Uh—who is this?’
‘Thomas Evans,’ came the reply. ‘Who are you?’
I resisted the urge to ask directly if he was connected with Evans Haulage.
‘Jan Brady,’ I said, making a rapid decision to impersonate my personal assistant. ‘I’m a secretary where Isabelle Edwards used to work and I’m calling round everyone who knew her—we’re having a collection for a memorial fund…’
He cut me off abruptly.
‘I’m not that close to Isabelle.’
‘But your number’s on her phone, so I assumed…’
‘We went to school together, but I haven’t seen her since—well not much. We exchanged a few words in the local now and then when she visited her parents. To tell the truth, I was surprised to hear from her.’
‘Did she say why she was phoning?’
‘Said she wanted to pick my brains about the business.’
My ears pricked up.
‘What business?’
‘Why, the family haulage company.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said Little Amy.
‘What did she ask you?’
‘Nothing—but she asked to meet up the next time she came back to Llandudno. That would have been last weekend. But then she went missing and the rest…I already told the police all this…’