The Girl Inside

by Susan Culligan

  Ben asked questions and Jo responded. They fell into a rhythm. Ben’s questions honed in on critical events. Jo poured out facts, dates, events and conversations, some of which she was surprised herself at being able to recall in such detail. Ben’s fingers tapped continuously across the keyboard, although his eyes rarely left Jo, urging her to recollect and concentrate.

  After about thirty minutes they turned their attention to the print outs which Jo had smuggled from Jersey. Huddled together, Jo explained all the essential details to Ben as he marked up the printout and added explanatory notes to the existing events summary.

  Finally, Ben purposefully pushed a final button and Jo could hear the printer whirring into life in the next room. Ben e-mailed a copy of their document to its intended recipients along with scanned copies of the bank printouts.

  They both splayed out on the sofa, like marionettes at the end of a performance when their strings have finally been released.

  “That was intense,” remarked Jo. “I don’t know if I feel like I just had a marathon sex session or a wrenching therapy experience.”

  “Well, both can be great stress relievers, although I tend to prefer one over the other.” Ben’s green eyes glinted. “Although I’m still feeling some residual tension, which I’m sure a good foot massage would alleviate.” Ben lifted up both feet, offering them to Jo. Jo pushed them down.

  “Amy, remember?”

  “Maybe later?” Ben implored

  “Maybe not. And maybe I can use your phone now? I dropped mine at the bank and I’m not in the mood to go back and get it right at this minute.”

  Jo entered Amy’s number. She was initially disappointed when it went straight to voice mail, but was soon listening intently to Amy’s message.

  “Jo, I hope this is you. I’ve sneaked off to the ladies’ room to record this since I can’t say anything when I’m with them. I’ll be quick. I’m fine and Adam will be – he’s in hospital, but stable. I’ll call you when…” The message ended abruptly with a beep, having reached the outgoing message recording limit.

  Jo fell on Ben, hugging him. Ben didn’t object.

  “That was one hell of a non-conversation.”

  “It sounds like Amy and Adam are OK. I don’t have the details, but…” Jo broke off, tears of relief streaming down her face.

  “Well I think that calls for something more celebratory than tea then.” Ben grabbed the mugs, heading back to the kitchen. He returned bearing two champagne flutes and a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. Jo was calling another number. Ben grabbed his phone and hit the cancel button.

  “Who were you calling?” he demanded.

  “Ok, you’re acting a little scary. My father. He must be wondering after my spy like departure this morning – God, was that only this morning?”

  “Look, I know it’s hard, but you have to wait until after the program tonight. You can’t tell him what’s happened and being evasive will only make him more concerned. Who knows, our friends may have already dropped in for tea again looking for you. Please, just a few more hours. For now he thinks you’re on a business trip and will be back late. Not entirely untrue in fact.”

  Jo gave in.

  The pop of the champagne cork was a fitting mirror of the release of the enormous tension of the day. They raised their glasses in a toast.

  “To Adam and Amy,” said Ben.

  “And you,” added Jo.

  “And you,” added Ben.

  “To all of us,” finished Jo.

  “Cheers,” said Ben, downing his glass. Jo wasn’t far behind.

  “What do we do now? Can we go down to the studios?” asked Jo.

  Ben checked his watch. It was 4.30 pm. “No, too risky. Ives or one of his cronies might see us. We wait. Welcome to the thrilling world of journalism. A few hours of palpitating adventure, followed by a period of surprisingly dull suspense. But in a couple of hours you’ll experience the first twinges of anticipation, growing to nervousness followed by impending nausea as your program goes on air.”

  “Hey, let’s go back to the dull part. Surely the word dull and your present company are mutually exclusive?”

  “Of course. How can I have overlooked the number one exception to the dull rule? It of course doesn’t apply when alleviated by beautiful and scintillating company. Of which you are both, no doubt.”

  “No doubt?” objected Jo “I thought we were reasonably well acquainted.”

  “I suppose. In certain respects. We’ve developed great teamwork in exposing elaborate money laundering schemes. Admirable racing skills on wet rugby pitches. Also, superb coordination in making a getaway from armed killers at offshore banks. So I suppose we have the mundane getting-to-know you dates out of the way. But on a profound level, I’m not sure I know the real Jo.”

  “Well how about I find out about the real Ben first?”

  “Sure. Go for it. But there are so many intriguing facets to me that it may take a while. So I’m going to have to stretch out – I’m knackered.”

  Jo rose from the sofa to sit in another chair. Ben caught her wrist. “I think there’s room for both of us.”

  Jo hesitated for a moment then lay down next to him. Ben propped his head on a pillow and offered his shoulder for Jo to rest on. She sensed her breath quicken and deepen – the sensations she had experienced in his car on the rain soaked day of Radcliff’s service. She hoped Ben didn’t notice.

  “So what do you think of chez Faber then?” asked Ben.

  Jo surveyed the room. A study in neutrality. Blond wood floors. Beige, taupe and brown furnishings merging seamlessly into the magnolia walls. No artwork or photos. The only deviation from the monochromatic scene was a small potted tree in a corner that Jo suspected was probably fake.

  “It’s very understated,” Jo managed.

  Jo felt Ben’s laugh rise through his chest and shake her resting head. “There’s no need for tactfulness for goodness sake! Just say it. It’s bloody bland. Boring as hell. Did you think I kitted it out? See, I told you we don’t really know each other! It’s a short term let with rental furniture. My assistant arranged it after I was booted out of the princess’ palace. Just haven’t had time to find my own place. Been distracted by a certain banker.”

  Ben poked Jo in the side. She pulled away sharply, giggling.

  “Hmm, ticklish? Well now I know something.” Ben’s cell phone gave a shrill ring. “The boss, with updates hopefully.” He stood up to answer the call and wandered out of the room, talking intently.

  Ben returned ten minutes later to find Jo asleep on the sofa. He covered her with a throw and then returned to the office in the apartment to keep in touch with his colleagues at the BBC studios.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Jo was awakened by the aroma of something cheesy, greasy and altogether hunger provoking. She opened her eyes to find Ben waving a piece of pepperoni pizza under her nose.

  “Wasn’t sure if you liked meat or veggies, so I ordered both.”

  Jo sat up. The coffee table was laden with two large pizza boxes, garlic bread, salad, an ice pitcher, bottled water and beer.

  “Goodness, quite a spread.” Looking at the blinds, Jo could tell that it was pitch dark outside. “What time is it? How long did I sleep?”

  “It’s seven-thirty. Half an hour before show time. And probably not long enough – you were completely out of it.”

  Jo was ravenous and dug in, hunger overcoming any desire to appear femininely dainty. They made an impressive dent in the copious amounts of food.

  By 7.55 p.m. they were both nervously awaiting the start of Viewpoint. Jo was sitting, her knees fidgeting up and down. Ben was pacing.

  “Has there been any outside reports about the bank shooting?” asked Jo.

  “Nope. Complete radio silence.”

  Jo looked puzzled.

  “Let’s just say free press is a relative term here. I’m sure all the witnesses were fed some ‘national interest’ spiel and told to keep quiet by
some paid-off authority dispatched by Ives.”

  After what seemed to Jo like an hour, the familiar theme tune, which hadn’t changed since the program’s inauguration several decades earlier, built to its abrupt crescendo as the spotlight in the studio fell on Clive Campbell, the program’s seasoned and authoritative presenter. Today, his chiseled jaw and azure eyes conveyed added gravity as he delivered his opening message.

  “We wish to inform viewers that we are interrupting the first half of our scheduled programming to bring you an exclusive interview with Daniel Ives, Science Minister, in the wake of the tragic accident last night at Extron Laboratories.”

  The camera switched briefly to an immaculately groomed Ives flashing the perfect empathetic, yet confident smile right on cue. The camera panned back to Clive Campbell.

  “Our scheduled segment, “Cloning: Scientific Advancement or Playing God?” will air at a special time next week.”

  Campbell turned to Ives. Jo was now also pacing.

  “Good evening, Minister.”

  “Good evening, Clive. And thank-you for having me. And may I say that on the issue of cloning that the government has several task forces liaising with the scientific community and concerned social and religious groups to pave the way for safe, moderated advances in that field.”

  “He never stops does he?” said Jo, shaking her head. “I mean being a politician.”

  “Except when he’s plotting to blow up a laboratory. Don’t worry, Clive will keep him in check.”

  “Thank-you Minister,” dismissed Campbell, “but that’s not why we are here is it? Nanotechnology. A dangerous business, it appears.”

  Ives turned away from Campbell, the full intensity of his sincerity directed at the camera.

  “Before we enter into any debate on the subject, I would just like to extend my deepest condolences to the family, colleagues and friends of David O’Malley, the laboratory assistant who tragically lost his life in the unfortunate accident at Extron Laboratories.”

  “Tragic loss of life. Unfortunate accident. As I said, quite a dangerous business.”

  “Well let’s not jump to any conclusions,” defended Ives, “I mean, even in the safest industries and with the best precautions in place, isolated industrial accidents are an unavoidable reality.”

  “Unavoidable you say?” questioned Campbell. “When you visited this firm three weeks ago, which you did didn’t you?”

  Ives nodded, having lost his smile.

  “When you visited this firm, did you have the impression that every safety precaution was in place?”

  “Well, I’m not an expert…”

  Campbell now smiled, “Well you are our Minister for Science.”

  “OK, with my level of experience and expertise, the company appeared to be very efficiently run, and when I was given a tour of the facility, great emphasis was placed on safety aspects and the precautions in place. I think the greater message is that scientists, investors, and the public in general should continue to embrace the idea that, despite this isolated incident, nanotechnology is an inherently safe industry offering massive potential for scientific advancement and economic contribution.”

  “So the advancement of science itself is a good thing?”

  “Yes, I believe so, in the case of nanotechnology.”

  “But maybe not the advancement of the Minister of Science?” asked Campbell in an innocuous tone.

  “I beg your pardon?” Ives appeared as if he had genuinely misheard.

  “I mean,” continued Campbell, “that you benefited handsomely from this so called unfortunate accident did you not?”

  “In what way? What are you implying?” Ives was shifting in his chair.

  Ben and Jo were now both standing motionless, transfixed by the unfolding train wreck.

  “Well, you are a non-executive Director and significant shareholder in the hedge fund Butterfly Investments.”

  “Frankly, I don’t see the relevance of this. Can we get back to the point?” Ives’ veneer was visibly crumbling.

  “Oh, if you prefer, we can get straight to the point,” said Campbell in false apologetic tones.

  “Please, let’s.”

  “Several sources in the City have confirmed that Butterfly investments took some large positions in the last few days in nanotechnology stocks. Positions meaning bets really – wagers that would pay off handsomely if shares in the Nanotechnology industry were to take a significant dive, which they did, of course when the markets opened this morning.”

  “Look, I have no influence over the investment decisions at Butterfly Investments. It is widely known that they apply complex mathematics and sophisticated programming to predict market movements. I wasn’t aware, until you just informed me, of these positions taken by Butterfly. The timing of the trades and the Extron accident are entirely coincidental.”

  “Is it also coincidental that Butterfly paid a certain,” Campbell checked his notes, “Lisa Brown, the head of Extron’s laboratory division the sum of four hundred thousand pounds two days before the accident? Look, it’s clearly shown in these Butterfly Investment accounts.”

  Campbell produced one of the Jersey bank print outs, offering it to Ives.

  “Where the hell did you get these? This is preposterous. Pure fabrication!”

  The imperturbable politician was now agitated. Watching, Jo and Ben were relishing every moment.

  “And is this fabrication?” asked Campbell. He switched on a screen showing Ives talking closely and intently with a woman in a laboratory setting. The voices were hushed and the camera could not pick up the audio.

  “That’s quite an intense conversation you’re having with Lisa Brown. About safety aspects was it?”

  “Look, I barely remember meeting the woman. I cannot recall what we talked about.”

  “I’m sure she’s pleased to hear that. All in the day’s work of a politician I suppose. Kissing babies, touring industrial plants, offering bribes to organize explosions that appear to be accidents.” Campbell had entirely dropped his welcoming host demeanor.

  “That’s enough. I’m out of here.” Ives ripped off his microphone.

  “But we’re just warming up. Our investigators have reason to believe that you were also key in orchestrating similar pay-offs to insiders in recent trading cases involving IBJ in Germany and Money Trust, where bad news caused stock prices to crumble much to the surprise of most except, it seems, Butterfly Investments.”

  Even without his microphone, Ives was clearly audible. “Damn you and your underhand reporting tactics. I don’t owe you or your so-called investigators any explanations.”

  Campbell continued to exude a level of calm appropriate for an afternoon tea function. “No, of course not Mr. Ives. You don’t owe me any explanations, but you might owe some to the gentlemen behind you and their colleagues.”

  Ives turned, stunned at the appearance of three uniformed police officers who swiftly escorted Ives off set.

  Jo and Ben burst into spontaneous applause.

  “Campbell is a genius!” Jo enthused.

  “Well let’s face it, we did give him some pretty good material. But yes, the man is a TV god,” agreed Ben.

  They switched their attention back to Campbell.

  “Well unfortunately our first guest appears to have some pressing business, but perhaps the co-heads of the illustrious Butterfly Investments, Charles Bray and Simon Wright, will have some comment on the matter.”

  The screen split into duel shots of Viewpoint reporters outside the home of Simon Wright and outside the Gregory Club in Mayfair.

  “Hi, I’m Clare Aberson reporting from The Boltons, an exclusive residential address in Chelsea, London, and the home of Simon Wright. Two minutes ago an officer rang the intercom behind me and was admitted up to the front door, which is obscured from our view. We are awaiting further developments. Clive, back to you.”

  The shot switched. “And I’m Mike Barker, outside The Gregory Club, the
favorite private dining establishment of Charles Bray. In a similar scene, two officers entered the building a few minutes ago.”

  No further waiting was required. Simultaneously, camera shots showed Wright and Bray bursting onto the scenes flanked by policemen. Impressively in synch, both appeared mortally offended and supremely indignant conducting loud soliloquies proclaiming their outrage and innocence as they were unceremoniously herded into waiting police cars, which speed off.

  Back in the studio Campbell concluded, “We have also been given information that two further arrests have been made this evening in connection with the cases. Samantha Conner, the head of Butterfly Investments trading floor, and an Eric Manton, whose connection with the affair is, as yet, unknown. That concludes our special exclusive feature. Of course we will keep you informed as the story progresses. In the meantime, we will return to our scheduled segments.”

  Ben flipped off the TV. Jo sat down again, stunned.

  “Did that actually happen?”

  “Yes, we did it girl. In a big way. Did you see Ives’ face? Priceless.”

  “It was so dramatic. Almost unreal. Like…”

  “Like it was something off TV?”

  “Yes, now you mention it!”

  “Well do you need another drink? More champagne?” offered Ben.

  Jo’s thoughts returned to her family. “Thanks, but I need to get back to my parents’ place. Mum was due to fly back from the States this afternoon, and I think Dad must have figured out by now that it wasn’t some routine business trip I was on. Viewpoint is about the only TV program they actually watch. They’ll be worried silly.”

  “I’ll come down and get you a cab then.”

  “Thanks.”

  They grabbed their coats and Ben offered Jo his hand as they headed out together. Ben excitedly recounted the pivotal moments of the broadcast.

  “That was classic the way Wright and Bray burst out at the same time. Like a raid on mob members.”

  Jo smiled, but didn’t fully reciprocate Ben’s enthusiasm.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, “Still worried about Adam and Amy?”

  “Yes, of course. But there’s something else. I don’t want to criticize – I mean, you, Clive, everyone at Viewpoint did a brilliant exposé – but why was any mention of Professor Radcliff left out? Surely that was more important than the money scandal, and I know we covered what we knew about his death in that document you sent. I mean if it hadn’t been for making sure that the truth about that came out, I just would have walked away a long time ago.”