The Girl Inside

by Susan Culligan

Jo hid the photocopy in a locked drawer of her desk. Her adrenalin was ebbing and she lacked the mental energy to continue piecing together the evidence she already had.

  Instead, Jo wandered down to the trading floor to gather information and gauge market sentiment from traders as part of her research for an assignment she had been given. She took the opportunity to talk to Serge, who still appeared to be tethered to his desk processing volumes of trading data. Jo noticed that, for once, he didn’t appear averse to her impending company.

  After some stilted small talk, Jo came to the point.

  “Serge, do you think it would be possible to print out some trading records for me? Going back a couple of months or so. It would be really useful for my analysis for a deal I’m trying to put together.”

  Serge was surprisingly happy to oblige given his distaste for his glorified clerical position. He proceeded to demonstrate to Jo how he had overlaid a program he had designed over the database which vastly improved the ability to sort and retrieve historical information. Within a few seconds, lists of trades started scrolling down the screen in quick succession.

  “Impressive,” nodded Jo, “now is it possible to sort the results by volume and profit?”

  A few keystrokes later, two lists started appearing simultaneously on different screens. Quickly scanning the data, Jo was immediately struck by some obvious facts. It was apparent that about ten percent of the trades had generated approximately ninety percent of the profit for the period, and each of these highly profitable trades had a number of elements in common.

  Firstly, such trades required the largest capital commitments, and secondly, research of the trade was attributed directly to Bray with trade authorization coming from Bray or Wright.

  Jo also noticed that each trade was associated with a link to the supporting analysis, and she remembered that whenever a trade was recommended, the instigator was required to provide a link to the trading floor for the underlying analysis and justification.

  Jo pointed to one of the recent trades on the screen which had been instigated by Bray.

  “Can you pull up the research for that one?” she asked Serge.

  Serge clicked on the associated link, but no file attachments appeared to exist.

  “That’s a bit strange isn’t it?” asked Jo.

  “Let’s just say there are some holes in the data,” replied Serge.

  “Well doesn’t that bother you?” persisted Jo, “I mean you’re supposed to maintain the database right?”

  “Bien sûr, I questioned it when I took over. But the traders told me it must be an IT problem, and IT attributed it to data not being provided by the Quant Group, and the message from the Quant Group was that the database was a trading floor tool.” Serge held up his hands in surrender.

  “Well do you think I could have a print out of the top fifty trades by profit over the last quarter?”

  Serge’s finger hovered over the print button. “Well do you think we might go to lunch sometime?”

  Jo was caught off guard despite being sure that Serge had no other motive than the avoidance of eating sandwiches at his desk. She was certain that she was neither French enough nor svelte enough for his Gallic tastes.

  “Yes. Let’s do that. Sometime,” she agreed noncommittally.

  Serge pressed ‘print’ and Jo made a swift exit with the document. Back in her office, Jo surreptitiously studied the print out, looking for any further patterns and trying to match the names of the trades with directories in the Quant Group computer files. She jumped at the sound of her phone ringing.

  It was Ben. His tone was quick paced and serious.

  “I haven’t had any luck locating the whistleblower at Money Trust yet,” Ben informed her, “but I have a contact at the Financial Times who is doing a piece on the story and has promised to let me know if the bloke’s whereabouts become known.”

  “Thanks for following it up,” said Jo.

  “In the meantime, I asked to be assigned to do a special for Viewpoint on Radcliff and his contributions to modern economic policy. Did you see the news hit the papers this morning?”

  Jo had not, and the prospect of seeing the announcements and tributes in stark print was not something she felt ready to face.

  “Are they going to let you do it?” asked Jo. She was surprised that the most prominent current affairs program would focus on the life of a reserved academic, no matter how brilliant. Sensational atrocities that happened a safe distance away seemed to be a more staple program diet fed to its viewers.

  “It’s the tech fund booms that have fueled the interest. Geeks are all the rage and the fact that his life was tragically cut short contributes to the drama of the story. Anyway, it gives me a legitimate reason to dig some more. Who knows, I may be doing an in depth profile on you one of these days.”

  “Are you implying I am a geek, or that my life is about to be cut short?”

  “I don’t think you are in any imminent danger, you don’t know enough – yet. However, as to the geek question, underneath your beguiling exterior, you are irritatingly smart.”

  Jo tried to think of something witty to lob back, but found herself uncommonly disarmed.

  “Anyway, as part of my story I’ll be at the memorial service tomorrow. Will I see you there?”

  Although Jo hadn’t forgotten about the service, having received a call from Becky earlier with the details, the reminder snatched any playfulness from their conversation.

  “Yes. Tomorrow. I’ll be there, of course,” replied Jo, the immediacy of the final goodbye to her professor weighing heavily.

  Thinking of her old teacher’s aversion to the limelight, Jo also felt obliged to add, “I’m really glad not to be alone with all this, but I’m not entirely sure that Henry Radcliff would want the media to cover his send off.”

  “Don’t worry,” assured Ben, “there’ll only be two camera crews, one for inside the chapel and one outside to interview the mourners…”

  “Ben, No!” protested Jo.

  “Calm down. It will just be me and my very discreet notebook,” appeased Ben. “You appear to grossly underestimate my considerate side.”

  Jo was relieved, thinking that what she truly underestimated was Ben’s consistent ability to make her feel gullible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The weather the following morning was bleak, mirroring Jo’s thoughts during the bus ride to Cambridge. Charles Bray was also attending Radcliff’s memorial service and had asked Jo to accompany himself and his wife in their chauffeured Range Rover. However, Jo’s deference to her boss did not extend to being able to endure being in close confines with the Brays for the two hour drive.

  Jo had also decided against taking the train due to her mounting negative associations with rail journeys to Cambridge, coupled with an uncomfortable feeling that she should make her movements less predictable. Jo realized that taking the public bus wasn’t exactly clandestine, but it was all the effort she could presently muster to play the role of a fledgling fugitive.

  As Jo walked down the long, narrow entrance to Jesus College again, the sound of her heels on the worn flagstones seemed foreign and incongruous, as if she were not the cause. Advancing against the flow of undergraduates in jeans, who were grabbing their bikes and rushing off for lectures, Jo found each step forward more difficult. It was as if her legs were sinking in sand as she tried to walk out to sea against the tide.

  Jo stopped a few paces from the porters’ lodge, physically and mentally exhausted. She became a motionless grey suit, devoid of desire to move forward or to flee. Unaware whether thirty seconds or ten minutes had passed, Jo became conscious of a presence and then an arm placed lightly around her shoulders.

  The arm propelled her forward as the Head Porter quietly offered, “Let’s go together shall we? The service is about to start.”

  The arm stayed around Jo’s shoulder as they walked in silence the short distance across Main Court to Cloister Court and toward the e
ntrance to the chapel. The covered walkways around the perimeter of the court outside the church had been lined with tables covered in white linen and laden with bottles of wine and hors d’oeuvres. Uniformed catering staff stood solemnly by, already in place to serve guests after the service.

  Jo was slightly taken aback. The extent she had allowed herself to picture the event hadn’t conjured up the image of a cocktail party. But as she recognized some very expensive wines, no doubt supplied from the college’s well stocked cellar, it occurred to her that this was what Henry Radcliff would have wanted; remembrance, yes, by those close to him, but also a celebration.

  Jo stopped and drew herself up taller, facing the Head Porter.

  “Thank-you. I’ll be OK now.”

  Making every effort to maintain her composure, she joined the last mourners entering the chapel. Inside the darkened church, all the seats had already been taken, the wooden pews filled with world-leading professors crammed next to math and economic students, some of whom looked like they ordinarily never ventured out of their studies. All of them were united in a palpable sense of loss that merged with the radiance of the candlelight, and haunting tones of the choir, creating an overriding sense of spirit.

  The fragile courage that Jo had mustered to join the service crumbled along with her composure and she gulped the incense-laden air in an effort to stem her tears. Again, she was aware of a presence near her, but this time it was a strong, enveloping embrace that needed no words. When Jo eventually drew her face away, she noticed her mascara had left a black, watery trail across the front of Ben’s white shirt.

  “My dry cleaner is not going to like you,” chastised Ben in a whisper. “Well go ahead, blow your nose on the cuffs then,” he added, offering his sleeve.

  “It’s OK,” said Jo producing a tissue. Ben used his cuffs anyway to wipe away Jo’s smudged make-up from her cheeks. Jo managed a weak smile, her first of the day. They stood close and waited for the service to commence.

  The funeral of Henry Radcliff had taken place earlier that morning, attended only by close family and friends. Jo therefore hadn’t had the opportunity to pay her personal respects to the Professor, and was unsure if she was grateful or saddened. She also couldn’t help wondering whether, on seeing the body, she would have looked for any suspicious clues as to the cause of death. She quickly dismissed such morbid thoughts.

  The service proved to be moving and poignant. Those who spoke conveyed a sense of heartfelt loss for a remarkable man who had given so much both personally and to his vocation. The hush of the chapel descended into complete silence as Radcliff’s daughter rose and walked slowly to the pulpit with impeccable poise.

  Tall and slender, with waist length raven hair, Isabella had inherited the commanding presence of her father as well as his arresting blue eyes. From her renowned mother she had acquired both grace and nobility.

  Isabella’s mother was also present at the service; a remarkably handsome woman, attractive in large part because of her years, not in spite of them. Her mask of grief was not only for her daughter’s loss of a father, but also for her own bereavement. She had remained close with Radcliff, complicit in ensuring the happiness of their child. She had since married into a wealthy Italian family, some said to appease her own family, who had not approved of the then unknown Radcliff, yet Isabella remained her only child.

  Isabella’s words were brief and carefully chosen. She emphasized the gratitude that her father had expressed to her for the great gifts of friendship and academic opportunities that those now present had bestowed upon him. She talked also of his philanthropic endeavors, many of which had been undertaken anonymously, and finished by mentioning his great love of the water and sailing in particular.

  Her voice cracked only once when she acknowledged her father’s death when stating that he had passed away in the midst of living fully and pursuing one of his great passions.

  As Isabella descended from the pulpit, the Reverend rose to continue the service, but was intercepted by a figure bounding forward to offer his hand to assist Isabella down the final steps. She openly recoiled from the gesture, and as Bray leaned forward to whisper in her ear, her lips set in distaste as she resumed her seat and Bray took to the podium.

  Jo had not thought about her boss up until this point, but she now craned her neck and could see that he had risen from a space in the front pew. Jo could also now make out the wide-brimmed black hat of Bray’s blond wife, which must have obscured the view of those behind her for at least five rows.

  Bray’s speech proved eloquent, but largely emotionless. Jo cringed on his behalf as an ill-conceived attempt to introduce a humorous anecdote fell flat. Bray paused dramatically near the end of his address, and looked benevolently at the congregation as if he believed that they had all been waiting patiently for this moment.

  “I am very pleased to announce the establishment of a new endowment fund by my company, Butterfly Investments, in honor of the late Professor Henry Radcliff,” Bray declared with a flourish and a wide smile. “While this is not the place to disclose the capital contribution gifted, I can assure you it is very generous. It has been bequeathed in order to offer graduate research fellowships to continue the important work of the Professor’s Department.”

  Charles Bray’s countenance at the end of the announcement clearly betrayed an expectation of applause, which quickly changed to a more somber expression as he recalled his surroundings.

  The College Choir ended the service with the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel’s Messiah, which many had heard emanating from Professor Radcliff’s study as he practiced his genius. Jo was relieved that she could now cry openly, her sobs absorbed by the stirring notes.

  Jo and Ben were among the first to exit the service.

  “You OK?” asked Ben.

  Jo gave a noncommittal shrug to the simple question she had no answer for.

  “Give me a couple of minutes. I need some air and I should probably attend to my make-up disaster. I should have gone for the waterproof mascara.”

  “You look fine,” assured Ben, “but go ahead. I’ll stay and mingle.” He raised his hands in surrender, “And yes, I promise to be tactful.”

  When Jo returned a few minutes later, Ben had been corralled by an elderly lady, who appeared so delighted by the opportunity to talk, that pauses to take breath were redundant. Jo thought she recognized the woman as one of the administrative members of the college who haunted the more obscure corridors and who held no specific position. It was as if everyone had forgotten her role, but didn’t want to appear impolite by posing the question.

  Ben was clearly signaling the need to be rescued. Jo waved at him, as if oblivious to his predicament, finding some satisfaction in the fact that Ben was the one in need of help for once.

  Jo stood in line to offer her condolences to Isabella while observing the Professor’s daughter interact with the mourners. She was being gracious, but her mind clearly dwelt elsewhere. Isabella’s glazed expression changed to one of sharp focus, however, when Jo introduced herself.

  “Jo, thank-you for being here. My father always spoke so highly of you,” greeted Isabella, her voice animated and warm, and her hands reaching out to clasp Jo’s. “You know you were one of his favorite students. He was sure you were destined to add so much to the field when you joined his department. You are a post grad now, right? I know this is awful for everyone, but I’m going to need someone to help me go through his papers, the academic material. Perhaps we can talk later?”

  “I’d be more than happy to help in any way I can, only…” Jo paused, reluctant to disappoint, “only, I am no longer a student here.”

  “Oh?” Isabella looked surprised. “Where are you studying?”

  “Actually I work in London, in the City. For Butterfly Investments.”

  Isabella withdrew her hands as if burned. In contrast, her demeanor turned icy.

  “So nice of you and Dr. Bray to take the time from your busy schedules,�
�� finished Isabella, immediately moving on to the next person.

  Given little choice, Jo moved on, but with much unsaid.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Don’t take it personally.”

  Jo turned around to see the familiar, lanky figure of Andy Bowen, an assistant professor in Radcliff’s department and Jo’s erstwhile tutor.

  “Don’t take what personally?”

  Andy gestured toward Isabella with his empty wine glass, which he promptly exchanged for a full one from a passing tray. He leaned toward Jo, who suspected that he was taking ample advantage of the unlimited refills.

  “It’s your boss she doesn’t like and, unfortunately, she finds you despicable by association.”

  “Thanks,” said Jo, leaning away. “That makes me feel much better. And yes, I can imagine Bray wasn’t often a guest at Radcliff family dinners.”

  “But I’m sure he was often the topic of conversation.” Andy’s speech was distinctly slurred and he threw a pantomime wink in Jo’s direction. Jo had spent enough hours with her tutor to proceed directly to the point.

  “Andy, you’re obviously drunk, which is understandable in the circumstances, but did you just make a pass at me, or are you trying to be mysterious?”

  “Astute as always Jo. Yes, I am attempting to drown my sorrows with alcohol, but, appealing as you are, I have always made it a rule never to become romantically involved with my students.”

  “Ex-student, actually. Which leads me to assume that you have something to tell me.”

  “Well, I just want to warn you. You must be careful in your dealings with Bray. The affable professor turned benevolent mogul is quite an act.”

  “You know something?” urged Jo, fully prepared to take advantage of Andy’s inebriated state.

  “Well I know why Bray had to leave the Department. It was more than an academic disagreement.” He surveyed the scene furtively. “More like a criminal one.”

  “That’s a pretty bold statement.”