The Manhattan Puzzle

by Laurence O'Bryan

  ‘Thanks. It’s horrible out there.’ Isabel shivered. ‘There’s something I want to ask you. You always have your finger on the pulse.’ This was the woman most of the other BXH wives wanted to be.

  Mrs Vaughann smiled, like a Siamese cat enjoying being stroked. ‘Please, call me Suzi.’ She put her hand on Isabel’s arm. Her skin looked translucent, as if she was made of expensive porcelain.

  ‘You poor thing. You’re wet.’ She handed Isabel a tissue.

  ‘I’m okay.’ Isabel rubbed her hands together.

  Mrs Vaughann leaned back, looked at her appraisingly. She made an exasperated noise.

  ‘You know, I’m glad you came over. I do hate sitting here. You know they’ve gone too far this time.’ She sounded angry.

  ‘Who’s gone too far?’

  Mrs Vaughann picked up a copy of the Evening Standard lying on the floor near her feet. It was folded open at an inside page. She pushed it towards Isabel as if it had a bad smell. Her hand was gripping the paper so hard her knuckles were white. Then she uncurled them, as if she didn’t want Isabel to see how anxious she was.

  ‘A few BXH people were at some horrible place last night.’

  Near the top of the page there was a picture of police tape cordoning off the front of what looked like a crummy restaurant. On a canopy above the door was part of a word – Magnol. Isabel’s pulse was beating on both sides of her forehead.

  The headline above the picture read: ‘Lap Dancer Murdered.’

  A prickling sensation ran up her neck. ‘BXH people went there?’

  Mrs Vaughann looked at her as if Isabel was a slow learner.

  ‘They were there when that poor girl was murdered.’

  Sean couldn’t have anything to do with this, could he? He’d been working late last night.

  Please, God, make it so that he isn’t involved in this.

  ‘What is it you wanted to ask me, Isabel?’

  She swallowed. ‘Sean’s missing.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I wanted to find out if you knew where they were last night.’

  Mrs Vaughann’s eyebrow arched. ‘Since when is he missing?’ She sounded almost happy at the news.

  ‘He should have come back at two, maybe three this morning. He hasn’t turned up.’

  Mrs Vaughann sucked air in through her pursed lips. ‘Paul didn’t come back either,’ she said quickly. ‘We’re in the same boat, my dear.’

  She put a hand on Isabel’s thigh. It was a sisterly gesture, she knew, but Isabel was tempted to say her husband wasn’t like Mr Vaughann. Sean had told her that Vaughann liked to be friends with lots of women in the bank. Friends with benefits was the rumour.

  Sean wasn’t like that.

  ‘You should know,’ said Mrs Vaughann, ‘that if I find out there’s another woman involved or if he’s got anything to do with what happened to that dancer, I’ll cut his equipment off myself. He won’t be a big swinging dick if I do that.’ She sounded like she meant it.

  Mrs Vaughann pressed her hand to her pale forehead. She looked the picture of a wronged corporate wife in her Jimmy Choo shoes and steel-grey Agnès B dress. She’d probably just come back from one of her charity coffee mornings, which she was famous for.

  ‘What about your husband? Do you have any idea why he …?’ Mrs Vaughann’s voice trailed off. Her pencil eyebrows were raised even more now.

  Isabel imagined what she was going to say next. Was Sean cheating on her? She’d been pushing the thought away all morning. But she couldn’t do that forever.

  Her standard reply to any girlfriend, who suggested he might stray, was to say that he never stayed out late. But she couldn’t even say that now. She plucked at her sleeve, as if there were fluff there. There wasn’t.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ She knew she sounded uncertain.

  Mrs Vaughann looked at her and smiled. Her teeth were perfect. Most of the wives of the bank’s top executives had tight-lipped superior expressions. Most of them still had a personal masseuse, trainer and a holistic therapist pampering them every day or two. They usually tried to hide how superior they felt to the rest of humanity, but not very successfully.

  Smugness oozed from them like the rotting smell from a carcass. But Mrs Vaughann was different. Her smile was genuine.

  ‘All men are bastards,’ she said.

  ‘I trust Sean,’ said Isabel. But there was a hollowness in her tone, as if she didn’t believe what she was saying. Her mouth was dry too.

  She shook her head, glared out the window at some people leaving the bank.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right about Sean,’ said Mrs Vaughann. ‘It’s probably just bad timing, him going missing.’

  Isabel turned to her. There was something sad about the way Mrs Vaughann looked, all taut, like a wire about to snap. Suddenly she felt sorry for her.

  ‘Have you talked to Paul about all this?’ She pointed at the Evening Standard.

  If staff from the bank, senior staff, had been in that sleazy club when a dancer was murdered that was definitely bad news for the bank. Their reputation would be in the gutter. But did Isabel care? Sean mightn’t have even been there. He certainly wouldn’t have done anything stupid there.

  ‘No, I haven’t. Not yet. But I’m not leaving here until I do.’

  Isabel stretched towards the door handle. Outside, hail was ticking and slithering against the window. Great, even the weather was conspiring against her.

  ‘I have to go.’

  Mrs Vaughann squeezed her arm, held it.

  Then she coughed, and bent forward. As she did Isabel caught a glimpse of her neck, and saw rows of wrinkles. She looked older than Isabel had imagined. There are some things even Botox and plastic surgery can’t hide.

  ‘Prepare yourself, Isabel. The media will be all over us because of this takeover.’

  Her eyebrows rose. They looked to be in the wrong place now. Her eyes were fixed on Isabel, as if she was working out if she could trust her. Her lips were pressed tight. Mrs Vaughann looked out of the windows on both sides, as if she thought someone might be listening to them.

  ‘Your husband is leading the facial recognition project, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Is there a problem with it?’

  Mrs Vaughann’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s a problem with everything at the moment, Isabel. I just hope your husband is able to cope with the stress.’

  She looked worried.

  ‘I have to go.’ Isabel opened the door. The urge to leave was getting stronger by the second.

  She had to find Sean. And she wasn’t going to do that listening to Mrs Vaughann. She stepped out of the car and didn’t look back.

  The hail was coming down like a million icy arrows. She raced for the entrance to the underground.

  19

  Adar got out of the taxi. He headed for the coffee shop overlooking Bank Street. He could see the front and side entrance to BXH from one of the window seats.

  He put his backpack on the floor and sat in the empty chair opposite the older grey-suited man who was talking softly into his phone. He eyed Adar with surprise and suspicion. A minute later he stood and left the coffee shop.

  Perhaps it was the way he’d stared at him, unblinkingly, or perhaps it was the hood that covered his head, which he kept pulled down to the level of his eyebrows.

  The only time he’d taken it off had been when he was walking through immigration at the City Airport corporate terminal twenty-four hours before. Immigration officials like to be able to see who they’re letting into the UK and for people to smile.

  He accommodated them.

  The Bombardier Global 5000 he had arrived on would be ready to fly back to La Guardia on Long Island, in New York State, in a few hours. It was the fastest private long-range jet available. The leasing company they had hired it from had allowed Lord Bidoner to provide his own crew.

  Adar’s flight record was well beyond the number of hours needed to pilot long distance with only passengers, and La Guardia was used
to the odd arrangements of the sporting and corporate elite, heading for their Gold Coast Long Island mansions. He put his day old pay-as-you-go phone down in front of him and downloaded the email app. He looked at the saved message in the draft folder.

  Red, it read.

  He added the word ‘green’ to the message, then saved it. That was enough. Lord Bidoner would be able to see that he was about to proceed.

  He downloaded the Instagram app, and logged in as the agreed identity. His next message would be a picture of a London black cab. That would mean he had completed his next task and was on his way back with the package. He glanced at the entrance to BXH as he put the phone away.

  He didn’t want to miss him. He had a message for George Donovan. All he had to do was work out how to deliver it.

  20

  This was all getting ridiculous, Sean wouldn’t have gone to a strip club – he was not that kind of man. But it would explain the late nights. The thought of Sean visiting that club left an ache in Isabel’s chest. The weekend in Paris didn’t matter now. He’d been the best thing in her life since they’d come back from Istanbul. She could almost feel his arms around her when she thought about him.

  As the cab came up the street she saw a police car outside their next door neighbour’s house. A dark Ford was double-parked outside their house. She got out of the cab by the police car, and peered in. What was she expecting, Sean to be in handcuffs in the back?

  He wasn’t. She fumbled for her keys. The black paint on their front door glistened. The glass was opaque. She could see a shape moving on the other side. She heard someone behind her, turned.

  It was one of the neighbours. She was wearing a bobble hat. She glanced at Isabel, then looked away as she passed, as if she suspected that the police car had something to do with her. Isabel didn’t care. She turned back to the door. She wanted her old life back. Now.

  She took out her keys. Her hand was trembling. The mist on her breath filled the air as she turned the front door key.

  Before she even got a chance to take it out, someone on the other side yanked the door open, almost catching her fingers. A burly, hard-eyed policewoman was looking at her as if she were a criminal.

  Isabel felt weak. Blood was rushing the wrong way inside her. Her knees had stopped working.

  The police were in her house.

  ‘What’s going on? Where’s my husband?’ Her words came out in a rush.

  ‘Are you Isabel Ryan?’ the policewoman said. She’d have been able to find a place on a Soviet-era ice hockey team, she was that big.

  ‘Yes?’

  The policewoman looked at her. For a heart-twisting moment Isabel thought she was going to say that Sean was dead.

  Then another man, in plain clothes, said something Isabel didn’t catch, and the policewoman stepped aside.

  ‘I’m Inspector Kirby,’ said the man. His accent was from the north of England. He was tall and had a sickle-like jaw. He was standing at the bottom of their stairs, as if he’d just come down.

  What was going on?

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, Mrs Ryan. Your cleaner let us in. We have a search warrant.’ He patted his breast pocket.

  She didn’t want to see any search warrant. She had nothing to hide.

  ‘Is Sean okay?’ she said quickly.

  ‘We thought you might be able to help us with that, Mrs Ryan.’

  The weakness in her legs came rushing back. She put a hand out, steadied herself against the wall. The policewoman reached towards her. She shrugged her away, straightened herself, and focused on the inspector.

  ‘Why the hell are you in my house?’ She knew she sounded angry, but she didn’t care.

  ‘We’re investigating some serious matters, Mrs Ryan.’ His voice had a passive quality, but his eyes were as hard as granite.

  ‘Under our search warrant powers we’re permitted to remove all the computer equipment in your home, and any papers or any other items related in any way to the matters under investigation. All these powers have been granted under regulations contained in the Financial Services and Markets Act 2000.’

  It sounded like a set of words that he was well practiced in delivering.

  ‘Your cleaner showed us your husband’s office.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Ryan. There was nothing I could do,’ called out a weak voice from down the corridor. Sabrina’s head poked up over Inspector Kirby’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s all right, Sabrina. It’s to do with the bank.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. She had to focus. She couldn’t care about them being here.

  ‘You’re trying to find my husband?’ She rubbed her forehead. It was slick with sweat.

  ‘Yes,’ was Inspector Kirby’s curt reply. His tone made it clear he thought she should be the one answering questions.

  ‘I have to go, Mrs Ryan.’ Sabrina pushed past the inspector, gave Isabel a weak smile, and patted her arm as she went by.

  Sabrina opened the door and then went out.

  A gust of freezing wind swept in. The policewoman followed Sabrina outside, pulling the door closed behind her. ‘We need to ask you some questions, Mrs Ryan. Where can we do that?’ Inspector Kirby looked like someone who’d seen everything the world could throw in front of a policeman.

  ‘You probably know the house as well as I do by now, Inspector. Where would you suggest?’

  ‘The kitchen.’

  She led the way. The walls seemed to be closing in as she went down the corridor, as if the house was suddenly smaller than it had been, as if it wasn’t hers any more.

  ‘You have a nice house,’ said the inspector. His tone was cool, official, but there was a hint of something else in it, as if he was questioning how they could afford such a big place.

  She entered the kitchen and stared at Alek’s baby drawings on the wall, which Sean had framed so beautifully and simply, in black wood with a thick white border. A lump formed fast in her throat.

  Had he done something stupid?

  Why would the police be here if he was innocent?

  Her fingers felt icy. She hadn’t noticed the cold when she was outside, adrenaline must have been warming her up, but now she was back in the house, and with the police here, they felt frozen.

  There was a picture of her on a cork notice board on the kitchen wall, from the time before Alek had been born. She looked pale, smiling tentatively. Sean had been so concerned about her back then. She sat in the green wicker chair at the end of the kitchen table. It was a giant well-worn table, the type they had in the kitchens of big old English country houses. And now a policeman was sitting at it with her. She gripped the edge of the table with both hands. She must have looked stupid, or mad. But she didn’t care. Inspector Kirby sat, leaning over his notebook. She forced herself to breathe. They hadn’t told her he had done anything wrong. Not yet.

  21

  The pastor was spread-eagled on the steel bed. There was a gag in his mouth. He was naked. His eyes were wide open. He’d been hours in that position.

  Xena had persuaded him once again to allow her to put handcuffs on him, but now he was definitely regretting it. She hadn’t been in the room for a long time. And she hadn’t left him like this the first time they had done it. Lord Bidoner had told him she was a bonus for him then, but he was starting not to like it.

  If this was some technique of hers, it wasn’t doing anything for him.

  What time was it, he wondered. Martha would be going mad. He hadn’t told her where he was going or what he was doing.

  As if he could.

  He tried to break the handcuffs again, pulled at them hard, but they were too strong.

  That thought worried him. And his heart started beating faster again. He should have taken his medication before he came out. All this excitement would not be good for him.

  He thought about shouting for Lord Bidoner, but he decided to wait a little longer. She had to come back soon to release him. He had things to do in New York.

  He shivered. Ma
ybe he shouldn’t have told Lord Bidoner that he had discussed anything they were doing with his family. Hadn’t he heard him rant after he found out what had happened in Jerusalem?

  He listened.

  The door to the room opened. In walked Xena. Pastor Stevson began grunting. He couldn’t speak properly, because of the gag, but it was clear he was appealing to be let free.

  And then his eyes widened some more. She was naked. And the snake tattoo around her thigh rippled as she walked towards him. This was getting interesting again.

  What was she going to do?

  She leaned towards him, rested her hand on his big white belly.

  ‘Secunda quattuor invocare unum,’ she whispered.

  That was when he felt something cold and sharp touch his belly.

  22

  ‘What’s all this about, Inspector?’ She tried to sound collected. The hesitation in her voice didn’t help though.

  Inspector Kirby was holding a silver pen as if it were a baton, and he was about to conduct an orchestra.

  ‘We don’t want to alarm you, Mrs Ryan, but we need to speak to your husband, urgently.’

  ‘That makes two of us, at least.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Has he done something wrong?’ She dreaded the answer, shifted her body back a little, as if it was a blow she was expecting.

  The inspector shrugged, noncommittally.

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Ryan. We believe he has information that could help us with our enquiries.’

  She let out her breath.

  ‘What enquiries?’

  ‘I work for the City of London Financial Crime Unit. We’re investigating activities at BXH.’

  ‘What activities?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to discuss that. Let’s just say our investigations, since the eurozone crisis, now cover the management and the supervision of all financial institutions.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘I’m not here to defend or describe our investigations, Mrs Ryan. But we do have the power to carry them out. The public expects robust supervision and that is what we provide.’