by Fiona Neill
The Darkes were standing in dressing gowns by the van, asking the driver exactly what was going on. The twins came out of the bedroom next door and came over to Ali, sleepily rubbing their eyes. They jostled for space at the window.
“Has Grandpa died?” asked Hector as he observed the scene. Foy was such a large figure in their life that she could understand the logic that his death would result in such fanfare.
“No,” Ali said, and smiled. “Can’t you hear him shouting downstairs?” They listened for a moment.
“Will someone tell me what the bloody hell is going on?” Foy’s voice snaked upstairs. It quivered with the effort of maintaining enough breath to say everything in one sentence.
“Open the door, please, Mr. Skinner,” cried a voice from the other side of the front door. “We have a search warrant from Westminster Magistrates’ Court.”
“It’s Mr. Chesterton,” Foy shouted back at them.
There was the sound of voices discussing this unexpected development.
“Can you please find Mr. Skinner and ask him to open the door, Mr. Chesterton?”
“Who is it?” said Foy, trying to summon strength he no longer possessed.
“It’s the police,” the same voice shouted back though the letterbox. “If you don’t open, we’ll have to make a forced entry.”
“Has this got something to do with selling fake organic salmon?” Foy shouted back as best he could. “Because I’ve got nothing to do with Freithshire Fisheries anymore.”
It was typical of Foy that he assumed whatever was happening was related to him and not to anyone else in the house. Then Ali felt guilty because of course he was still confused following his stroke. The recent scandal at his old company had dented both his confidence and his bank balance. The knocking on the door started up again.
Ali heard the door of Bryony and Nick’s bedroom open and slam shut. Nick ran downstairs, two steps at a time, so fast that his paisley dressing gown floated behind him in the slipstream. Bryony followed, already dressed in her gym kit. The twins and Ali tiptoed down to the landing on the first floor, where they could observe what was happening in the hall without being seen. Nick opened the door, and a detective from the City of London Police handed over an envelope containing the search warrant.
“Is it something to do with the bank?” Bryony asked as Nick skimmed the letter. “I said you shouldn’t rock the boat.”
“We have permission to search the premises, Mr. Skinner,” the policeman said.
“What’s going on, Nick?” Bryony asked sharply.
“I’ve got no idea.”
“Has it got something to do with Lehman’s?” Bryony persisted.
“Bryony, the only person I want to speak to right now is a lawyer,” Nick said calmly as he glanced over the warrant and put it neatly back in the envelope. “Could you call Hannah and ask her to come over right away? Otherwise, please don’t say anything.”
“Why do we need a lawyer?” Bryony asked in confusion.
Malea had come up from the basement. When she saw the group of people standing in the hall, she turned tail.
“Malea Cojuangco?” the policeman asked, referring to the notes in his hand. “Please come into the drawing room.”
Malea froze by the staircase.
“Malea Cojuangco?” the policeman repeated. Malea nodded to confirm her name.
“Leave her alone,” barked Foy. “She’s completely legal.”
“You want me to get my papers?” Malea asked nervously.
“We’re not interested in you or your papers,” the policeman abruptly replied. He turned to Nick again and calmly informed him that they were arresting him on charges of insider trading. Malea disappeared back downstairs.
“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Nick. Bryony was pulling at his sleeve, hysterically asking what was happening over and over again until Nick lost patience and shook her off.
Ali listened from the landing. She couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing or hearing. She had no idea what insider trading was, but she understood that Nick was in trouble. Izzy had come out of her bedroom and was standing beside her. Her Goth attire didn’t stretch to nightwear, and she was dressed in a curious ensemble of men’s pajama bottoms and a pale pink sleeveless T-shirt that made her look more childlike and vulnerable than usual. Her face was pale, but this time it wasn’t due to layers of foundation.
“I feel as though I’ve got a walk-on part in The Wire.” Izzy laughed nervously, hoping that someone would suddenly tell them this was all an elaborate practical joke dreamed up by her father to wind up Foy. She clung on to Ali’s arm. Hearing the voices from the landing, a policewoman craned her neck upstairs and suggested that they all come down into the drawing room.
“Look here,” said Nick, “it’s for me to tell my family what to do. You’ve got this completely wrong. Let me make a couple of calls and you’ll understand you’ve made a big mistake. Heads will roll.”
“If you don’t let us start this search, then you will be obstructing the rule of law,” the policeman said calmly.
“Do you know who I am?” Nick asked.
“Yes,” said the policeman.
He explained that a similar “discreet” search was taking place at the same time in his office at Lehman’s. A couple of women came through the door, and the policeman said that they were from the digital forensics team and would be responsible for examining computer equipment to decide what exactly should be confiscated.
“They can download a lot of information from your hard drive onto memory sticks, so the children don’t lose their computers. It’s less traumatic that way.
“Do you mind if we get started?” said the policeman. “We’ll be here for the best part of a day. If we kick off now, we’ll have taken most of the evidence to the van before your neighbors get up and start asking awkward questions.”
It was a line that might have held meaning if it wasn’t for the fact that most neighbors had already left their houses to come and see what was going on.
“Burglary,” Nick shouted across to the Darkes, who relayed the message to other people farther down the street. “None of us woke up. Definitely premeditated.”
“Let us know if there’s anything we can do,” said Desmond Darke earnestly. “Glad to see the police are taking it seriously. When we had a break-in last year it took them two days to come and take fingerprints.”
“I’ll let you know the upshot,” said Nick, in a tone that suggested he could be counted on to represent their interests in matters relating to neighborhood security but would appreciate it if they left him to deal with the problem right now.
“Of course. Thanks, Nick. I’m sure you’ll get through to them.” Then he reluctantly returned home. Nick’s tactic worked, and other onlookers dribbled back inside their houses, muttering about how much money they paid to the private security agency to patrol the street, precisely to avoid this kind of unfortunate event.
“Hand over your telephone right away, please, Mr. Skinner,” said the policeman, “then we’ll give you ten minutes to get everyone in the drawing room. It can be unsettling for your wife and children to see their belongings searched by strangers. We’ll locate the exhibit officer discreetly in the dining room opposite.”
“The exhibit officer?” questioned Nick impatiently.
“He’ll be logging exactly what evidence is found and where, as well as the exact time. We’ll be looking for notebooks, checkbooks, and paperwork relating to deals. We’ve already got bank statements. Can he use the dining room table?”
“Look, I need to get to work,” said Nick. “I’m sure you’re aware that Lehman’s has a huge liquidity crisis.”
“I don’t think you’ll be going to work for a very long time,” said the policeman quietly.
; “Are they going to search our room?” asked Hector, as they trooped downstairs into the drawing room. “Will they take Laurel and Hardy?”
“They’re not interested in guinea pigs,” said Ali gently.
A policewoman Ali hadn’t seen before was sitting on the sofa. She stood up and offered to go and make them all a cup of tea.
“Can I have hot chocolate. Please?” asked Hector, sensing an opportunity.
“Can someone please explain to me what is going on?” asked Bryony, nervously twisting strands of hair around her fingers.
“Your husband is suspected of being involved in insider dealing,” the policewoman explained. “Do you understand what that means?” She didn’t wait for an answer.
“We have reason to believe that he has illicitly gathered price-sensitive information to make a profit trading shares.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bryony retorted. “He earns a fortune. Why would he bother doing insider dealing? It’s not worth taking the risk. My husband is a very cautious man.” Ali was relieved by Bryony’s tone, although she wasn’t convinced by her description of Nick.
“We recommend that you are honest with the children about the fact their house is being searched and reassure them that anything that is taken away will be returned at a later date,” the policewoman said sotto voce to Bryony. “We’ll be taking your husband to Bishopsgate police station for a preliminary interview under caution. We’ll hold him in a cell until his lawyer arrives.”
The policeman came in and told Nick that a press release with skeletal details about the raid had just been released and that an application to freeze all his assets had been approved.
“What does he mean?” Bryony sounded panicked.
“It means that we can’t access any money from our bank accounts,” said Nick.
“For how long?” Bryony asked.
“Until this is resolved,” said the policewoman gently.
21
When Ali got up with the twins the following morning, there was no sign of Malea. For the first time since she had moved into Holland Park Crescent, breakfast wasn’t waiting on the table when she came into the kitchen at seven o’clock in the morning. The sink was full of unwashed saucepans, there were crumbs and dog hairs underfoot, and the door of the dishwasher was wide open. Leicester was taking full advantage and had managed to climb right inside to ensure there wasn’t a plate or piece of cutlery that could escape his tongue. Hector pulled him out. There was chocolate soufflé on his nose and pasta sauce on his back. Ali opened the door into the garden and watched as Leicester immediately dumped the contents of last night’s meal on the grass. She didn’t go out to pick it up.
“Where’s Malea?” asked Hector.
“Maybe the police confiscated her, too,” suggested Alfie. He looked toward Ali for approval for remembering the correct terminology. They seemed remarkably unruffled by yesterday’s events, perhaps because they were the only members of the family to retain all their gadgetry and their father’s sudden disappearance was nothing unusual. But also because the very insularity that Bryony found so disturbing protected Hector and Alfie from life’s squalls.
“When will they bring Daddy’s computer back?” Alfie asked as he sat down, waiting for breakfast to appear.
“They’re just borrowing it,” Hector reminded him. Ali wasn’t sure what to say to them about anything.
“They’ll bring it back when they’ve finished playing with it,” said Bryony brightly, as she emerged from the larder carrying four packets of unopened cereal, accordion style, between her hands. She had no idea what anyone usually ate for breakfast, so she had chosen the healthiest options. These she put down on the table in front of Hector and Alfie. The twins explained in unison that Malea usually made them eggy bread.
“I don’t know how to do that,” said Bryony, sounding defeated.
“We’ll show you,” said Hector. Alfie took her by the hand and led her over to the cooker. Hector lined up eggs, a frying pan, and two pieces of bread, and issued instructions. Bryony managed a small, quick smile that made her face look a little less drawn. She was always pale. But this morning her skin had taken on an almost translucent quality. Her eyes were a shade lighter than usual, and her hair was a briary, unkempt tangle. She was wearing a skirt, a silk shirt, and high-heeled summer sandals that suggested she might go to work at some point. Whether it was out of habit or intent was unclear to Ali.
“You’re only as good as your last meal,” said Alfie, cracking eggs into a bowl. “Now beat, please.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Bryony, as she whisked the eggs together with a fork. A dollop slopped over the edge of the bowl onto her shirt, but either she didn’t mind or she didn’t notice.
“It’s a line from MasterChef,” explained Hector.
“When do you watch that?” Bryony asked.
“I thought it fell under the auspices of educational TV,” Ali nervously interjected, although since she had never seen Bryony or Nick prepare a meal, perhaps they didn’t consider cookery an essential life skill. It was one of those things you could outsource.
“Can we have breakfast in front of the television?” asked Alfie. Ali kept quiet, waiting for Bryony’s lead.
“What do you think, Ali?” she eventually asked.
“Maybe as a special treat,” Ali agreed, not wanting to appear either too strict or too indulgent.
No wonder nannies that worked for stay-at-home mums said it was the worst of all worlds. Hector and Alfie headed to the other end of the room and immediately put on a DVD of The Great Escape. Ali could tell because they were whistling the theme tune and arguing over the names of the three tunnels.
“Where’s Malea?” Ali asked, as Bryony dipped the bread in the egg and failed to cover the edges.
There were so many unanswered questions, but at least this one was relatively innocuous. Bryony pointed to a note pinned on the fridge. Ali read a sentence formally announcing Malea’s decision to resign as housekeeper. Her signature was bigger than the resignation letter. No reason was given. Perhaps the police raid brought back memories of something bad that had happened to her in the Philippines? Maybe her work permit was out of date? Or the Philippine bush wire had gone into overdrive after yesterday’s raid and Malea understood how the land lay better than anyone else? Bryony shrugged to indicate she had no idea and still less desire to discuss.
“Do you know how the washing machine works?” she asked Ali.
“I think so,” said Ali. “At least, I’m pretty sure I can work it out.”
“Thank God. I thought I might have to take the clothes to a laundrette.” Bryony smiled weakly. “Then someone can take a picture of me washing our dirty laundry in public.” It was a brave rather than a funny joke, and Ali did her best to laugh, but she couldn’t help worrying that Bryony was expecting her to fill the domestic void.
“Do you want me to show you how it works now or after breakfast?” Ali blurted out. The rules of engagement had subtly altered. Bryony looked flummoxed.
“After breakfast is fine,” she said eventually, acknowledging this shift in the balance of power. “Thanks very much.”
Their normal routine dissolved, Ali started to review her options for the day. It would be better for Hector and Alfie to go and play with friends. Given the situation, she imagined the separate-playdate rule wouldn’t be a deal-breaker for Bryony. She went to the notice board where the class list was usually pinned, intending to call Storm’s nanny to see if they could go play at her house. Storm’s mother wouldn’t pick up the phone, because she didn’t get out of bed until after midday, and she took so many pills to sleep that she wouldn’t be woken by the sound of children coming over to play so early in the morning. The list, however, had disappeared, although four drawing pins were still stuck in the board where it had onc
e hung.
“I think it’s been removed as part of this investigation,” Bryony explained. “Can you believe it? They took a couple of photo albums and all the invitations from the mantelpiece in the drawing room as well. They even took the photograph of Izzy’s netball team from her bedroom wall. Probably because it’s full of girls in short skirts.”
“What exactly do you think they are looking for?” Ali asked, sensing a softening of Bryony’s tone.
“They’re searching for evidence to prove these ridiculous charges against Nick, I guess.” Bryony sighed deeply, and the arm of the silk shirt slipped from her shoulder, revealing a small area of pale flesh. She started massaging it in tiny circles. “We didn’t get much sleep last night. Nick got home after midnight.”
“Where did they take him?” Ali asked.
“They kept him in a cell at Bishopsgate police station until his lawyer arrived. Then they questioned him for four hours and released him on bail. He could hardly speak when he came in.”
“What is he accused of?” Ali asked. “I was just wondering what I should say . . . in case the children ask . . . or other nannies.”
“Insider dealing,” said Bryony, putting overcooked slices of eggy bread onto plates. Ali sprinkled sugar on top. Bryony chose to ignore the lapse, but Ali could see from the way she chewed her lower lip that it bothered her. “He’s accused of using information from someone inside a company to buy shares in it before it was about to be sold or taken over. It’s just the FSA trying to flex its muscles because of the banking crisis. And a managing director at Lehman’s is a perfect target.”
Her manner reminded Ali of the way she spoke to journalists when she was trying to kill a rumor.