The Girl Inside

by Susan Culligan

  Ben and Adam shook hands with a general bloke-like murmur of “Hi mate. Alright?” Ben excused himself to get a drink from the bar.

  “It’s Ben Faber,” Jo started.

  “Yes, I know who it bloody is,” Adam interjected. “I do actually watch news stuff on TV you know, and I saw him at our offices that time. What is going on here? Don’t tell me you’ve brought in the media on this one?”

  “Well yes, I suppose. Technically. But not officially. He’s a friend,” stammered Jo, trying to figure out the best way to calm the situation.

  “Define friend. Childhood friend?” demanded Adam. Jo shook her head. “Family friend? Boyfriend?” Jo continued to shake no.

  “So when did you meet him?” pressed Adam.

  Jo decided to tell the truth, even though she realized it wouldn’t appease Adam. “When he came to do the piece on Butterfly, actually.”

  “What? You’ve only known him since he came fishing for a story on the firm and now you’ve brought him in on one of the potentially biggest scoops of his career with the slight downside that that this particular scoop may involve a hit list that we could end up on, which only makes the potential story even more interesting from his perspective. Smart move, Jo.”

  Adam started shutting down his computer and packing up. Jo put her hand on his wrist.

  “Please, you’ve got to trust me on this. He’s alright.”

  “Well, when you agreed to tell me everything, everything didn’t include his involvement. I’m not sure where the trust is supposed to come from.”

  “You’re right. I apologize. No more surprises. I promise.”

  Jo could see Ben weaving his way through the increasingly crowded pub, intently staring at the three pints of beer in his hands, trying to limit spillage. Ben skillfully lowered the glasses to the table, looking satisfied with their admirable fullness, then flopped down, addressing Adam.

  “I’m guessing my appearance here was a surprise.” Ben turned to Jo, “Nicely handled,” and then turned back to Adam, “and you were no doubt telling Jo that getting the media involved is a ghastly idea since we’re all blood sucking, back stabbing leeches that only live to expose the next big scandal. Fair point, fair point.”

  Adam looked at Ben as if the danger now lay in Ben’s mental balance rather than his profession. Jo looked at Ben willing a reassuring end to the insightful observation. Ben downed his beer.

  “But…” Jo prompted Ben.

  “But?” responded Ben blankly. “Oh, yes, but I’m not here in my official capacity. Jo and I are friends.”

  “So she tells me,” said Adam, with ill-disguised sarcasm.

  “In fact,” continued Ben, “given my recent absence, the BBC is questioning my capacity altogether now. Although it so happens that some grunge band star overdosed, pushing the ugly image of teenage role models to the forefront, so the pressure is off my less sensational pieces.”

  “Which have turned out to be a lot less dull than we’d all hoped,” said Jo ruefully.

  “To put it mildly. I’ve told my boss that I’m doing some in depth covert research – code words for ‘sod off and leave me alone for a while’. Although my top motivation isn’t the story. It’s making sure that I don’t end up on the same list as Radcliff.”

  Jo cut in. “OK Ben, your presence here isn’t exactly adding to morale. We were actually beginning to feel positive before you arrived.”

  “First rule of real journalism. Tell the story how it is, not how you’d like it to be. But you’re right; my motivations aren’t all about self-preservation. There is also helping out the delectable Miss Lavelle here.” Jo shot Ben a warning look, advising him not to go in that direction either.

  “Right you are then. I’ll just shut up shall I?” Ben addressed Adam again. “But I hoped that helped assuage any concerns mate.”

  Adam inhaled deeply. The truth was that Ben had the power to instill trust, irrespective of the words he chose, a talent that had yielded him many stories where other journalists had failed.

  “OK,” Adam finally said, “as long as none of this goes public yet. It’s too soon and we don’t have enough evidence. So if the story leaks early, I’m on the next plane to the Cayman Islands and I will help out our rich friends by deleting all incriminating evidence that I’ve come across and deny all knowledge of our conversations, leaving us on different sides of this horrible mess. Clear?”

  “Clear,” Jo and Ben quickly agreed.

  Keen to raise both Ben’s credibility and Adam’s comfort level, Jo asked Ben to relate his trip to Birmingham earlier in the day. Ben proceeded to relay all the details and the group listened to the tape with Pam talking about the holiday, new car purchase and the message from Wright.

  “Pretty conclusive link don’t you think?” asked Ben. Jo readily agreed.

  Adam nodded slowly but said, “It’s good, but still not enough. As I was saying earlier to Jo, what we need is a money trail. Concrete evidence that Butterfly paid these guys off for the information.”

  “Don’t you think they would have done it in cash precisely to avoid a trail?” asked Jo.

  “I doubt it,” said Adam. “Unexplained movements of significant amounts of cash are always treated with suspicion, even for large corporate accounts. It raises money laundering red flags. Besides, what would Schmidt and Dawson do? Turn up at their local high street bank or Porsche dealership with suitcases of notes? Again, more red flags. Too risky for both sides. No, my guess is that Butterfly would have relied on their maze of offshore special purpose companies and accounts to process the payments exactly as they are labeled, miscellaneous expenses. They probably helped Schmidt and Dawson to set up their own offshore accounts, with few questions asked, and transferred the pay-offs.”

  “But surely someone could come across that. Someone at the bank, or Butterfly’s auditors or lawyers?” reasoned Jo.

  “Theoretically, yes,” agreed Ben, “if they were looking. But vast sums flow through Butterfly’s trading accounts every day. An auditor is going to take the line item as it is stated, an expense. Let’s also not forget what kind of client Butterfly is, a large, demanding and, above all, well-paying one. The firms Butterfly hire don’t get paid fees for snooping into grey areas.”

  Ben was visibly impressed. “Jo told me you are an IT guy. How do you know so much about finance?”

  “I have a computer sciences degree from Imperial College. But I also completed my MBA at the London Business School where my final year thesis was on IT infrastructure and the prevention of money laundering.”

  Jo was now the one who looked impressed and, unintentionally, somewhat surprised.

  “What?” said Adam, “You thought Butterfly only recruited the best for their analyst pool? The analysts certainly win the arrogance prize, but we’re all pretty smart.”

  Ben intervened to ward off the impending sniping. “It sounds like you have a plan. Spill it.”

  “Well,” started Adam, “I’m the one primarily responsible in IT for synchronizing the accounting data between Jersey where the majority of the offshore vehicles and accounts are set up, and Butterfly’s finance department in London.” He paused. “You guys are familiar with Jersey, right? One of the Channel Islands, off the south coast of England.”

  Jo rolled her eyes. Ben raised his hands, “Hey, no offense taken here. I slept through my entire geography education and last I checked, Jersey wasn’t one of the war zones I’ve been packed off to.”

  “Anyway,” continued Adam, “I know the bank IT guys in Jersey pretty well.”

  “So you can hack into their systems and download all the files we need without being detected?” said Ben enthusiastically.

  “Yeah, only that’s the movie version. In reality, I don’t know that evidence obtained by hacking is the best way to clinch our case, and secondly, the database is huge.”

  Ben still couldn’t entirely relinquish the idea.

  “But you could do it then? The hacking I mean.”r />
  Adam shrugged. “As I said, I’m good.”

  “And not at all arrogant,” mumbled Jo.

  Adam chose not to hear. “What I need is someone on site to tell me the relevant accounts related to these transactions. But to know which accounts, I’m going to have to tell them the names of the offshore companies that were set up for the trades.”

  “Who has that information?” asked Jo.

  “Butterfly’s legal department,” said Adam, “and whichever lawyers they used to set the companies up. They always use the same big City law firm, I think.”

  “Whitfield Bowes,” offered Jo. “So if you had the names of the special purpose companies then you could call up the bank in Jersey and get the account data we need?”

  “Yes, it would be convenient if it were that straightforward, but there are a couple of issues. Butterfly deals only with Grey’s Bank in Jersey. They are a pure offshore entity, with no branches, operations or even data servers on the UK mainland. That way they offer the highest level of comfort to clients that the legal and tax structures set up will receive full offshore treatment. This means that Grey’s are very wary of transferring raw account data directly back to clients’ onshore systems. They insist that clients travel to Jersey to run queries for detailed account information. It’s probably an unnecessary precaution, but they are meticulous.”

  “So you’ll need to travel to Jersey to get the information we need then?” asked Jo.

  “Well Grey’s Bank is one side of it. The other is Butterfly, which is equally meticulous. I personally don’t have clearance to request that kind of data. We would have to make the enquiries appear more legitimate. I could probably fake an authorization e-mail from Butterfly’s finance department, but the team turning up in Jersey would have to carry more weight.”

  Jo thought quickly. “Like a lawyer from Whitfield Bowes and an IT guy from Butterfly who’s there to download information for the lawyer, and an analyst sent by Bray to help the lawyer fully document past transactions so they can work on refining legal structures for future deals?”

  “Sounds very legitimate to me,” said Adam.

  “Sounds completely incomprehensible to me,” said Ben, downing the rest of Jo’s pint that had been sitting neglected.

  “Well let me think about the lawyer part,” continued Jo. “I may be able to help.”

  “Someone we can trust?” asked Adam.

  “Oh yes, completely,” assured Jo.

  The group all sat back, ruminating on their own parts in this increasingly elaborate drama.

  Jo broke the silence with a simple, but sincere, “Thank-you guys.”

  Leaving the pub separately, none of the three conspirators noticed the stationary black SUV in the shadows of the parking lot or the tall figure behind the steering wheel. They, however, did not go unnoticed by Eric.

  Eric’s call to Bray was brief, “Lavelle, Carter and Faber just exited.”

  Bray’s reply was also to the point, “Appreciate the update. We’re done for tonight.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Jo savored the fifteen minute walk from the Bull and Bush pub to her sister’s house in the Hampstead Garden Suburb. Each inhale of cold air jolted the fog of thoughts in her mind, creating space and crystallizing ideas.

  The muted lights filtering through leafy gardens from picturesque cottages acted as a living brochure for the dream of prosperity and serene family life, on the off chance you could afford the hefty real estate tag typically above the £1 million mark. Jo personally refused to buy into this dream since the added undisclosed price of conformity was too high, but she did acknowledge that the illusion was pretty.

  As Jo stood in the dark alcove on her sister’s front porch waiting for the door to be answered, a dark figure slid into the shadows behind her and placed a hand firmly on her shoulder. Jo screamed with a suddenness and force that even surprised her. Simultaneously, Amy opened the door and screamed at the sight of her sister and the figure behind her, who was still in darkness.

  Chris stepped forward, laughing, “Bloody hell! Making the two Lavelle sisters scream at the same time. I must be the man.”

  The women scowled at him. “Now I seem to have made the Lavelle soeurs both pissed off with me at the same time. Perhaps the man is not so smart.”

  Just then, another scream decided to join in the fray.

  “Oh good going Chris, now Jack’s awake, which gives you the honors of getting him back down,” Amy admonished.

  Chris looked genuinely alarmed, but obviously thought better than to protest. He walked past Amy muttering, “Yes thank-you dear, I did have a good day at work and a vodka tonic with lime would be lovely.” Then, as he was about to climb the stairs, “Um, any suggestions on getting him back to sleep?”

  Amy was not sympathetic, “If you can bill a hundred and fifty an hour, eighty hours a week, then I’m sure you can use your expensive expertise to come up with a creative solution. And it can double as your ten minutes of quality time with your son for the day.”

  Chris trudged upstairs and Jo and Amy could make out some faltering renditions of mixed up nursery rhymes quickly drowned out by even louder cries from Jack.

  “Bit harsh on him, don’t you think?” ventured Jo.

  “On who? Chris for expecting him to parent or Jack for sending Chris up there?” Amy sighed, losing the flippancy, “I know it seems that way, but after my own eleven hour shift, I don’t need another child coming home. After being a lawyer, I actually thought that motherhood would be a break. You know, how hard can it be to look after one little baby? The answer is really hard. Amazing, of course, but exhausting, and Chris thinks I’m living on some permanent vacation, just like I used to think about all those corporate wives. But if I talk about it, it just sounds like I’m whining. Oh God, I sound like I am right now. Let’s talk about you, far more interesting I’m sure,” said Amy ushering Jo into the living room that reflected Amy’s deft skill for mixing antique and eclectic decor, “this is a great surprise. What are you doing lurking around the suburbs?”

  Jo sank down into a generous armchair slip-covered in white linen. “Hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to crash here for the night. And I’d like to discuss something with Chris. I need some legal help, and I also might need your help with persuasion,” responded Jo.

  Amy immediately looked concerned, “Everything OK?”

  “Um, I think it will be; I’ll fill you in on it in a minute.” Jo watched Amy clear the living room coffee table and floor of stacks of papers. Jo couldn’t make out what they were. Some appeared to be corporate papers and legal documents; others were brochures and newspaper and magazine clippings.

  “This all looks intriguing,” said Jo. “What are you plotting?”

  Amy looked a little sheepish. “Well it’s supposed to be a secret for now. At least until we’re a little further along. But I’m doing some work with Mum on a business idea she has. You know, helping with the business planning and legal and finance sides. I think it could be big.”

  “But why the secrecy part?” asked Jo.

  “Mum doesn’t think that Dad,” Amy looked sideways at Jo, “or you, actually, will take it seriously until it is more than just an idea.”

  Jo thoughts turned to the time she had spent at home recently, which hadn’t been much, and she tried to recall the last long conversation she had had with her mother. She couldn’t. Admittedly she had had a lot on her mind, but her mother didn’t know that. In return her mother had been nothing but supportive and understanding. Gratitude and guilt merged.

  Chris entered the room looking extremely pleased with himself, “Well I seem to have that one figured out.”

  “Is that so?” asked Amy, “want to let us in on your secret method?”

  “I think it was by singing so badly that Jack decided to feign sleep, or maybe even passing out, just to avoid any encores.”

  “Impressive,” said Amy, “if only my singing voice was that bad, but Jo inheri
ted that gift in our family.”

  Jo wanted to protest, but Amy’s point was difficult to argue; she was indeed a terrible singer.

  “Well then, I need your assistance in persuading your talented husband to help me, or we may have to perform a duet for you.”

  Chris looked apprehensive. “Why am I going to need persuading? It’s not another charity golf event with your father is it? You know I transform into an intellectually vacant mute within five minutes of being alone with him. The topic of conversation last time centered on the existentialist school of thought in France in the 1940’s with much emphasis on Sartre’s classic Huis Clos, in which hell is represented as other people. I think it was intended personally.”

  “No, this doesn’t involve Dad,” Jo reassured. Chris visibly relaxed, “But it does involve Butterfly Investments and Whitfield Bowes,” continued Jo. Chris didn’t move, but Jo caught the jolt of apprehension in his eyes and the subtle paling of his skin.

  “I think I’ll take that round of golf then,” Chris quipped. Then with a distinct edge, “Look Jo, whatever this involves, in both a legal and personal capacity, I am obliged to tell you, as I told you before, drop it.”

  “I know what you advised me, but it’s too late now.”

  “I said drop it!” Chris’ voice was louder and Jo’s gaze fell on his clenched fists.

  Amy approached her husband with a nervous smile, taking his hand. She looked back and forth between the two other people in the room. “Guys, you’re scaring me here. What is it that Jo is supposed to drop?” To her husband, “Surely we’ll help her in any way we can. At least we can listen. Let’s not overreact before we even know what Jo is asking.”

  Amy guided Chris down onto a sofa, her hands offering both comfort, but also gentle restraint. The warning in Chris’ eyes remained focused on Jo, and Jo’s resolve faltered. The human element of involving her family cast a shadow over her quest for the truth and vindication of Radcliff’s death. Although Jo knew it was not entirely fair, but given the sisters’ fierce loyalty toward each other, Jo decided to place some of the burden of choice on Amy.