The Girl Inside

by Susan Culligan

  Adam logged out of the computer and they quickly packed up. Adam swigged some tea and grabbed a cookie as they were dashing out. Both women glared at him, conveying the need for urgency.

  “What?” he protested, spraying crumbs from his mouth, “just want to make it look like a routine visit.”

  Jo’s heart beat faster with every step as they made their way toward the building exit with mounting exhilaration at having accomplished their mission.

  Their hearts may have quickened for other reasons if they could have witnessed the unfolding scene outside the bank. That shock fell to Ben, who was vigilantly waiting outside in the rental car, feeling more nervous than in his more habitual situation of being caught in obscure locations while dodging the crossfire of military exchanges.

  Ben observed a black sedan arrive at considerable speed and come to an abrupt stop outside the bank.

  A tall dark haired male figure emerged from the driver’s seat and Ben experienced a cold flash of familiarity, although the placement of the face lagged a few seconds, interrupted by the immediate recognition of the second figure climbing out of the passenger side; that of Chris Smith.

  The tall figure, who Ben now placed as having been at Professor Radcliff’s memorial service, punched a number into his cell phone. Ben scrambled out of the car, hurrying to follow them, but careful to remain unseen. He fumbled with his own phone, trying to find the entry for Jo’s number.

  Jo’s phone rang. She froze at the number on her caller ID. Her eerie memory for figures did not fail her, and she instantly matched it to the sequence of figures she had found in the call history of Radcliff’s phone in his study. She accepted the call, but said nothing. Jo felt as if ice was creeping down her spine as the words in the distinct French accent registered on her consciousness.

  “Tut, tut, Miss Lavelle. It seems that all that brilliant education didn’t make you as smart as everyone hoped. Must run in the family. Your sister is obviously more endowed in the looks than brain department too.”

  Amy was looking at Jo questioningly, pulling her forward after Jo’s abrupt stop. Amy looked over Jo’s shoulder, reminding Jo that a scurrying Mr. Crawley might appear at any moment. Jo heard the beeping of another incoming call on the line. Disoriented, and willing herself not to completely lose her composure, Jo took the other call.

  “Get out of there. Now!” hissed Ben, the low volume of his voice not diminishing the urgency it conveyed. Jo switched back to the first call. “Where are…” she started. Jo dropped her phone on the marble floor, the sight confronting her in the reception area rendering the end of the question obsolete.

  Within a few feet of them, and blocking the path towards the door, was the arresting figure of Eric Manton and the familiar face of her brother-in-law. Jo looked towards Adam trying to convey the danger although there was no time for explanations. Adam looked confused, motioning for them to move forward. Jo then looked towards Amy. Amy’s countenance was one of utter confusion giving way to the dawning realization that something about the situation was very wrong.

  “Chris?” choked Amy, switching her stare between her husband and the stranger he was standing beside.

  “Amy, I’ll explain later. But right now, walk towards me, slowly. Leave your briefcase with Jo.”

  “Chris, what’s going on? Why are you talking to me like you’re trying to calm Jack?” The rising anger in Amy’s cheeks contrasted with the draining pallor of Jo’s face. Eric lunged forward and roughly grabbed Amy’s arm.

  “Do as your husband says. There’s no need for you to get hurt.”

  “Hurt?” exclaimed Amy in alarm, “who’s getting…”

  Chris stood close behind Amy and put a hand briefly over her mouth to silence her outburst. He looked around the lobby. The only other person was the receptionist at her desk. She was busy directing calls and apparently hadn’t yet noticed anything untoward about the group standing close together near the exit.

  “Now,” continued Eric, “may we relieve you of your bags? They look very heavy.”

  Neither Adam nor Jo moved.

  “It wasn’t exactly a request.” Eric’s voice was now menacing and with his last phrase he reached inside his padded jacket, slowly pulling out a metal object, which quickly revealed itself to be the handle of a gun.

  With Eric’s subtle revelation, Jo noticed another movement behind him in the background, the other side of the glass entrance doors. Ben was attempting to stay out of sight while judging the critical moment to intervene. Jo made eye contact with Ben and almost imperceptibly shook her head. She knew Ben was more useful as an escape driver at this point.

  Jo started to hand over her laptop bag to Eric. He reached out his hand to take it, but before anyone could react, Adam snatched the bag from Jo’s hand and made a run for the door.

  The shot was deafening in the confines of the reception. Its abruptness contrasted with the seeming slowness at which Adam fell to the ground, Jo’s briefcase sliding across the marble like the action replay of an ice puck.

  Amy screamed “NO!” as Chris held her back.

  The receptionist just screamed. Alarm bells reverberated along with rapid footsteps converging from every direction.

  Jo acted on instinct within seconds of the shot, knowing that if she stopped to reason, she would be unable to leave Adam. She bolted for the door, slamming into Ben who had just rushed inside. She dragged him back out of the bank and across the street to the car. Ben visibly willed himself out of the fog of shock and they scrambled into the car.

  They could see Eric crashing out through the doors clutching Jo and Amy’s bags as well as Adam’s backpack which Jo realized he must have ripped off from his victim on the floor. Jo almost jumped out of the now moving car to tackle him, enraged by the callousness of the act. Ben reached over and grabbed Jo’s seat belt with one hand, buckling it firmly across her.

  Craning her neck, Jo watched the sedan speed off in the opposite direction. If Eric had noticed their car, giving chase was not his current priority. He was obviously satisfied that, for now, their plot has been successfully intercepted and, for obvious reasons, he was keen to leave the scene.

  As Ben careered down the narrow roads, he asked, “What went on back there? Why did Chris turn up and what the hell went wrong?”

  Jo was herself struggling to put it all together, but one unpleasant deduction was looming into clear focus.

  “My guess, at this point, is that my conniving brother-in-law must have made some calls to our friends at Butterfly to thoughtfully advise them of our plan.”

  “Chris? Ratted us out? Why would he do that? You said he was in,” responded an outraged Ben.

  “Well, I didn’t let you and Adam know just how much convincing was needed, and obviously our persuasion didn’t prove quite enough.”

  Hearing herself say Adam’s name brought a rush of anguish and concern. “Oh God. Adam. Should we go back? We can’t just leave him.”

  “Jo, I know it’s tough, but I’m sure there’s a swarm of paramedics with him right now. There’s nothing we could do. Although if he comes through…” Jo looked distraught, “I mean when he comes through it, he’s going to be gutted that his heroic move was in vain. I’m assuming the cases that Eric guy was making a getaway with contained all your incriminating evidence?”

  “Yes,” said Jo in her most crestfallen voice. “But,” she added slyly, opening her jacket a little.

  “Blimey, you haven’t got a gun too have you?” exclaimed Ben in mock-concern, shielding his face with one of his hands.

  “No, a much better weapon.” Jo pulled out a roll of papers from the inside pocket of her suit jacket.

  “Are those…?”

  “Yes, copies of the most important documents we printed out at the bank.”

  “You are a genius!” Ben grinned.

  “Yes, Eric had obviously overlooked certain aspects of my brilliant education, including the teachings I received at Butterfly – to anticipate the wors
t. These are why I bolted out of the building back there.”

  “Well, let’s get those documents off the island in case the malevolent duo come looking for us,” said Ben, pulling into the rental car return area at the airport.

  Their jet was waiting where they had disembarked two short, but monumental hours earlier.

  Standing at the foot of the plane steps, Jo was still hesitant.

  “Do you really think we can leave Amy and Adam?”

  “Jo, the best thing we can do for them right now is finish what we came here to do.”

  Ben guided her up to the cabin. Jo boarded the jet trying to keep the end of the plan in focus. She allowed herself only one swift, backward glance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Jo and Ben spent the plane journey huddled close together. Jo derived comfort from the solidity of Ben’s presence after the recent shattering of envisaged outcomes. Both stared out of the window, as if willing the mainland closer.

  At City Airport, the transition from the private jet to Ben’s Golf would have been ironic if normality were still playing any part in the day.

  “We’re going to my flat,” announced Ben.

  Jo didn’t have any other plans.

  “Are you ready to go public with this?” asked Ben.

  “Am I ready? No, not really. But the evidence is. Let’s do this.”

  Ben theatrically leaned closer and winked. “Don’t worry darling, it’s not my first time,” he drawled in gravel notes.

  Although far from rush hour, the traffic in London was horrendous as usual. Past the monolithic bank buildings of Canary Wharf, they inched along the Limehouse Link Road, Ben making a series of phone calls.

  “Gail? It’s Ben. Yes, I’m still alive, and I appreciate how thrilled you sound. No, I haven’t been fired. Well, I might have been – I haven’t checked in for a while. But if so, I’m about to ensure my reinstatement. Look, I’d love to chat, but you’re not the only person on my call list – the most delightful one of course – but not the only one. Look, I need you to find Fiona, our boss lady, and interrupt whatever she’s doing. I mean whatever. I’m on my way to my flat, and when I get there, I’m going to fax something major. But get Fiona to call me when you find her. You’re the best. Love you too babe.”

  “Babe?” Jo raised an eyebrow.

  “My boss’ secretary has always had a thing for me. Well frankly, who can resist?”

  “Do you see me trying to restrain myself?”

  Ben’s phone rang. “Gail’s a quick worker. Fiona, I appreciate you interrupting your monumentally busy schedule. OK, I’ll get to the point,” Ben’s tone turned serious. “Look, I have something major here. It’s going to rock the political and financial landscapes. You remember that boring piece on Butterfly Investments you assigned me to as penance for getting our camera equipment confiscated in Kabul? Well it took a turn for the explosive. Literally.”

  “The whole Butterfly set up is an elaborate cover to conceal huge insider trading deals. And Daniel Ives is right at the center of it. Yes, Ives, our favorite sleaze ball minister. Proof? Oh, yes, we’ve got it, but it’s too dangerous to let these guys know we have something in advance. But I have a plan. Clear the broadcast tonight. Get Ives on. Promise him a live forum to calm the nation over the nanotechnology sector and its safety after the big explosion news. Appease the public that the government is putting all the necessary resources into the investigation, that there are no significant economic implications etcetera. Assure him that we won’t be too confrontational, blah, blah.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll send you what we have on Butterfly. Also, try and find out where Wright and Bray are likely to be tonight. Look, I’ve never pushed you on anything that’s been wrong, have I? Trust me on this one. I’ve got to go.”

  “Wow, you really gave her a chance to talk it through there,” observed Jo.

  “Well, I admit I get a little emphatic, but I’m always right.”

  “Really? I thought that was my domain.”

  “Well, as long as we always agree, I don’t see a problem with that. So let’s agree I’m right on this one,” said Ben, patting Jo’s knee

  “OK, we’re in agreement,” acquiesced Jo, moving her knee away, “for now.”

  Ben started dialing again.

  “Now it’s time for me to call my buddy in the Serious Fraud Office. I’m sure they’ll be interested. Mike? It’s Ben. Long time no talk. Yes, it’s high time we downed some beers again.”

  Ben turned away from Jo slightly, lowering his voice, “No, I didn’t take that redhead up on her offer in that bar – yes, my loss no doubt.” Louder again, “Anyway, mate, I’ve got to make this quick. Who deals with insider trading charges? Is it you guys? The Financial Services Authority? Well, I need you to make some calls.”

  Ben briefly went over the details, agreeing to send Mike the same evidence they were going to prepare for the BBC.

  They reached Tower Bridge and crossed the Thames to the south side, where the traffic thinned. Ben careered down Tower Bridge Road, ignored any right of way at the Bricklayers Arms roundabout and reached the unglamorous Elephant and Castle.

  From there they headed in the general direction of Westminster. Just before they reached the Thames again, Ben took a sharp left into a small side street followed by a sharp right into an underground car park marked, “Parking for Parliament Vista Residents Only”.

  Ben jumped out, almost before he had stopped the car, and ran around to open the passenger side.

  The car was now at a standstill.

  “Normally, I’d take credit, but right now I’m just encouraging you to get a bloody move on – in a chivalrous way of course.”

  They rushed to the elevator and Ben pushed the button for the seventh floor. The elevator stopped at the ground floor, and a mother struggled to maneuver a jogging stroller inside. Ben picked up the whole stroller, containing a hefty three year old, and lifted it in.

  “Thank-you. How chivalrous,” smiled the mother.

  Jo covered a smirk with a cough. The three year old stuck her tongue out at Ben.

  “Grace!” admonished the mother, “I do apologize.”

  “No need,” assured Ben.

  As soon as the mother looked away, Ben reciprocated the tongue gesture toward the toddler who responded with a look of juvenile admiration.

  As they all arrived at their seventh floor destination Ben offered to help again, vigorously propelling the stroller into the corridor and running past it. Jo hurried behind.

  Ben dug his keys out of his pocket and jammed them into the lock of 704. When they were both inside, Ben turned two locks behind them and attached a door chain.

  Jo’s first impression of the apartment was one of modern sparseness. As she was ushered down the short hallway, she observed one larger bedroom and a second bedroom with the bed pushed into a corner to make room for an office area. The rooms were furnished in a neutral, minimalistic style and there was a small but expensively appointed kitchen.

  As she entered the large living room, Jo was momentarily taken aback by the view. Two walls of floor to ceiling windows offered a spectacular vantage point over the river and across to the Houses of Parliament, with Big Ben residing majestically over the bastion of UK democracy.

  The midafternoon winter sun basked the scene in postcard hues. Jo could also see that they were in a corner apartment in the curved apartment building, whose entire front façade was glass. Ben abruptly pulled down all the roller shades. Jo frowned at him.

  “Remember, there are people right now who might be more interested in the view looking in from the outside.”

  “Right,” said Jo, suddenly brought back to their tasks at hand and with a jolting reminder of her sister and Adam.

  “Shall we call Amy?” asked Jo.

  Ben faced her, putting both hands on her shoulders.

  “Yes, absolutely, we will. But right now, Jo, if we are going to pull this off, I need you to sit down and write for
me. Half an hour, max, and then we’ll call your sister.”

  He gently guided Jo down onto the sofa and put his laptop on the glass coffee table in front of her.

  Ben opened a blank document and quickly typed at the top, “Butterfly Investments. Summary of Events and Findings.” He then turned the laptop toward Jo and motioned for her to start typing.

  “Um, where do I begin?” asked Jo, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed.

  “I’m not trying to be trite, but how about starting at the beginning? While you do that, I’ll let my people know that the material is on its way.”

  Five minutes later Ben returned with the obligatory mugs of steaming tea and with the news that Ives had accepted the interview invitation. He assessed how Jo was progressing, reading aloud, “Butterfly Investments is a London based hedge fund, founded five years ago by Simon Wright and Charles Bray. Charles Bray is the once renowned economist and former professor at Cambridge University, where his research focused on…”

  Ben took a deep breath, obviously mustering up all of his tactfulness, “When I suggested starting at the beginning, I didn’t mean the beginning of time; what I meant was from the beginning of when you first suspected something at Butterfly.”

  The atmosphere became perceptibly taught as a storm of emotions brewed dangerously close beneath Jo’s brittle composure.

  “What I mean to say, is that it is a very, let’s say, thorough approach, but journalistic writing is a specific style.”

  Ben eased the laptop back toward himself, turning the screen before deleting Jo’s efforts. “How about you tell me the story, and I write it down?”

  “If it means I can call Amy sooner, then OK,” conceded Jo. Ben sat at one end of the couch and stretched out his feet with the computer resting on his lap. Jo curled up at the other end, cradling her tea.