When in Rome

When in Rome Page 17

by Gemma Townley

  My next e-mail is from my mother. James has been trying to get her to use the Internet for ages, and it seems he has finally triumphed.

  CAMILLA EDWARDS: Hello. This is an e-mail. James tells me you will get this. Personally I prefer the telephone.

  There’s another one from James.

  JAMES EDWARDS: For God’s sake, send your mother a message. Otherwise she’ll never use e-mail again. Hope everything’s going well? Love James.

  E-mail is actually ideally suited to my mother, I realize. She doesn’t generally require someone to talk to; rather, she likes people she can talk at. And with e-mail she can write as much as she likes without anyone telling her that actually they have to go out now, or go to bed, or whatever.

  I press Reply.

  GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: Hi Mum! Congratulations—welcome to the information superhighway! Sorry can’t write a long message because very busy here. See you soon—maybe over the weekend? Lots of Love Georgie x (P.S., James, are you sure you know what you’re doing?!)

  I’ve also got an e-mail from David. I tentatively open it.

  DAVID BRADLEY: Darling, I called you last night but you didn’t answer. Are you still okay for this evening? I’ve bought a Harry Connick Junior CD for us to dance to . . . x

  I want to smile but I feel sick to my stomach. David thinks I’m coming over for a lovely supper and dancing and actually I’m going to be searching for some stupid Zip disk to give to Mike. And if he does know why I went to Rome, he must really hate me. It’s all horrible. I’ve never been any good at lying—I was always the one who went red in assembly when the headmistress said something had been stolen or something, even though it was never me. I have a highly developed guilt complex and it’s making me feel ill.

  I hit Reply.

  GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: Can’t wait! G x

  More like “Can’t think of anything else to say because I’m going to be there under totally false pretenses!” I think as I hit Send. I suppose everything will be okay eventually. That this is for the best. But I don’t like it.

  “Georgie?” Nigel’s face is about two centimeters away from mine and I jump.

  “Nigel, will you not do that, please? Can’t you just stand back a bit like other people?”

  Of course I don’t really say that. I just move my head back and give him a look.

  “I think we need to talk before going in to see Guy,” he continues. “Get our story straight. There’s a meeting room free if you’ve got a minute?”

  Get our story straight? I’m not sure about this “our” business. All I did was stand in front of the printer and talk to Guy about his hair, or lack of it. I suppose in a court of law that could be considered aiding and abetting, but I didn’t know what Nigel was doing. And even if I did, what was I meant to do? Tell someone? Well, yes, I suppose that’s what I should have done instead of suggesting sending the material anonymously. But still. This is very much Nigel’s problem.

  “Okay,” I shrug. “Nigel, do you think we’re in trouble?”

  “I don’t know, Georgie. I really don’t know.”

  We go to the second-floor meeting room. The second floor is where all our magazines and newsletters are actually produced. Everyone looks very po-faced. I don’t recognize many faces; frankly, after my encounter with Gary from IT, I rather went off company socializing. And Nigel never ever goes to the pub after work, so I’ve kind of followed suit.

  I sit down and Nigel shuts the door.

  “The question is whether Guy will be able to establish any linkages between the envelope and my computer,” says Nigel.

  “Linkages? You mean links?”

  Nigel shoots me a dark look. Nigel learned the wordlinkages at a management training course. He has never been able to give me one good reason why the wordlinkages is any different to the wordlinks , but he always tries to drop it into conversation, particularly if any of the directors are around.

  “If he has established anylinkages . . .” Nigel emphasizes the word for good measure and continues to pace up and down. “. . . I will simply explain that I was actioning the research, and that I stumbled on the records through error.” I nod seriously. I’ve never seen Nigel like this. He’s pacing around and his face is all pink. I’ve seen the pink before, just not the pacing.

  “How are you going to explain the envelope?”

  “I’ve thought about that. I’m going to say that I was going to give him the pages, and I left them on my desk and they disappeared.”

  “So someone else found them on your desk and sent them to Guy, you mean?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And that helps us how?”

  “It means that we didn’t enter an agreement to deceive. We printed out information pertinent to a business-linked criticality and this information was circulated by someone else.” Nigel is gripping the top of a chair and staring at the table. I’m not sure that even Guy would have understood a word of that, but the last thing I want is for him to repeat it for me. I look at my watch.

  “Nigel, it’s nearly ten now. Shouldn’t we go up to Guy’s office?”

  Nigel looks a state. Dark patches have appeared under his arms and beads of sweat are evident on his forehead. If Guy suspects Nigel of anything now, when he sees him his suspicions will be confirmed immediately.

  I realize that this could be the last time I stand in this room as a Leary employee. If Guy knows, we could be escorted from the building never to return. I suddenly feel really attached to this dismal office block. I’ve worked here for five years, and it’s sort of a home away from home. I take in the pink floor tiles, the white board on which someone once wrote “Technological advances” in black pen and underlined it three times only to find out that they’d used the wrong pen and it wouldn’t come off. They can’t make me leave, I think to myself. I belong here. I’ve even snogged Gary in IT, for God’s sake. Nigel is combing his hair to one side. He looks truly dreadful. I realize that if I do get the sack, I will even miss him in a funny sort of way. I’ll have no more stories to tell my friends.

  We take the lift up to the fourth floor in complete silence. I feel like we’re on our way to a really important exam or something. The fourth floor is nothing like the rest of the building. For one thing, the carpet is really thick so it’s a lot quieter. And for another, there are no open plan areas, just offices with secretaries outside. The secretaries never smile at you. Guy’s is particularly fearsome—I’ve been to see him a few times now and she always gives me this piercing look as if to say “I know you’re a time waster” and I automatically feel like I have no right to be there at all. Like when I go to the doctor, I’m always convinced the doctor thinks I’m wasting her time. The moment I sit down I forget what my symptoms are, and end up apologizing and leaving, only to remember that I’m almost dying of food poisoning.

  Luckily Guy’s secretary isn’t here today. His door is open and we enter in silence. So silently, in fact, that Guy doesn’t seem to have noticed that we’ve come in.

  I clear my throat and he looks up from some papers on his desk. I scan the room quickly for any sign of the printouts or a pink flowery envelope, but can’t see either.

  “Nigel, Georgie, thanks for coming up. We’ve got a slightly tricky situation on our hands.”

  Nigel and I exchange glances as Guy gets up to shut the door of his office. He looks at us long and hard and says nothing for a minute or two. I can almost hear Nigel sweating.

  “Okay. I need to know if I can trust the two of you to do some work for me.”

  Nigel and I look at each other and both turn earnestly to Guy with “you can trust us” looks on our faces. Guy grimaces.

  “Some information has come to me,” he continues. “Information about HG that could only have come from within HG. I need to find out if it’s genuine.”

  “What information?” I ask, trying to sound as innocent as I can.

  “Personnel records, stuff that we shouldn’t have.”

  “Gosh!”

  Nigel shoots daggers at me. I know what he’s thinking. Use the wordgosh and Guy will know we’re guilty. I mea
n, who says “gosh” these days? Mind you, Guy should be used to me saying stupid things by now, surely. But he doesn’t seem to have noticed, which is a relief.

  “The thing is, it appears that HG has a track record of decimating all the companies they take over. They are telling us a very different story, according to the board, and I need to find out what the truth is.”

  He pauses again, then looks up at us earnestly.

  “Look, would you mind just digging around a bit? Find out anything you can about HG and previous mergers. I’ve got a board meeting on Friday, and if there’s anything I should know, I need to know it by then. Otherwise it could be too late. Okay?”

  We both nod furiously and I mutter “Absolutely,” but it doesn’t come out loud enough because my throat is kind of caught, so I say it again and this time it comes out really loudly. Guy looks at me strangely.

  “If this gets out now, it could jeopardize the future of the company, as well as our jobs,” he says slowly. “I need to know I can rely on your discretion.”

  “Guy, you can depend on us. This won’t get out.” Nigel sounds amazingly calm, like an actor in a spy film or something. An actor with a really nasal London accent who sweats a lot.

  Guy forces himself to smile as he stands up, but his forehead is creased in concentration. Personally, I’m grinning ear to ear. We’re not fired! Not only does Guy not suspect us of giving him the information, but he’s putting his trust in us to find out what’s going on! We are truly employees of the month!

  Nigel is also looking visibly relieved. “It worked!” he whispers as we wait for the lift. “He didn’t suspect a thing! And now we’ve got the go-ahead to do somereal research.”

  “Real?” I say uncertainly. “You do mean legal, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes you need to bend the law to get the information you need,” says Nigel and his eyes are glinting. I wonder if Guy quite realizes what he is getting us all into.

  Back at my desk I try to work out if there’s any way I can talk David round without having to steal the disk from him. But each time I think I’ve found the right words, I realize that by admitting that I know all about it, I’ll be revealing that I’ve been seeing Mike, and I just can’t risk it. If David doesn’t know I went to Rome to meet Mike, imagine how he’ll react if he finds out what I’ve been up to! It’s no good—I’m going to have to go through with it.

  My phone rings and I answer it to find Nigel on the other line. Even though his desk is about five feet away from mine.

  “Um, Nigel, why are you calling me?”

  “It’s quieter. Honestly, Georgie, you’re going to have to learn how to do this sort of work. Right, I’m going to dig around HG some more and see what I can find.”

  As he talks I can see him shoving everything on his desk to one side. That is so unlike Nigel—he isn’t even labeling anything! I miss most of what he’s saying because I’m so preoccupied with his new approach to paperwork, but I tune back in to the conversation to hear him say “What I want you to do is to find out more about Tryton. If they are involved in all the mergers, we need to know who they are—the people who run it, the investors, that kind of thing. Okay?”

  I think it’s okay. I mean, it’s not the sort of research I usually do—it’s not just a case of ringing up some accountants or lawyers and asking their opinion on something—but it beats having to think about the Zip disk and Mike.

  “Leave it with me,” I say in businesslike terms, and put the phone down purposefully. It feels good to have something proper to do. Something that is going to make a difference. I am Georgie Beauchamp, Private Investigator. It’s just me and Nigel against the world. Well, against a rather large accountancy publishing company anyway.

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  Frankly, research isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, it’s exciting to start with, but then it turns into work and that’s pretty boring really. Tryton seem to be involved in everything from financing companies and buying them, to managing mergers and advising on acquisitions. They’ve been involved in hundreds of companies in the past few years, including every publishing company HG has been associated with, and it’s making my brain ache tracking everything they’ve done.

  I’ve written a list of the personnel on the new pad that I’ve just taken out of the stationery cupboard. I know I could easily type them onto a Word document, but having a notepad feels more gritty and exciting. Like I’m a reporter or something taking important notes. And to make it a bit more interesting, I’ve written each name in a different color, and assigned them each a Clue character—it’s a lot more fun that way. There’s a Duncan Taylor at the helm—he’s the chairman (Colonel Mustard, written in yellow). Then there’s a Graham Brightman, who’s chief executive (Professor Plum, written in purple), and Jane Larcombe, who’s the finance director (Miss Scarlet, written in red). I underline each name for good measure. For some reason, the name Duncan Taylor rings some sort of bell with me, but I can’t think why. I had a teacher at school called Duncan Mailor, so maybe that’s it.

  To be honest, I’m pretty bored with all this. And even if the company is sold, or merged or whatever, it’s not exactly the end of the world. I’m sure I can get another job. Probably a better one. I halfheartedly dig around a bit more and find a whole load of boring information aimed at investors, which I print out. I don’t really understand it, but I’m sure Nigel will be impressed when I present it to him. Actually, this investigative work is pretty easy really. You just go to a Web site and copy stuff off it. I don’t know how much people are paid for this kind of work, but I’m sure it’s too much. Except for me, obviously.

  I log on to Reuters and do a search under “Tryton.” To my surprise there’s loads of stuff, so I print all that, too. Then I do a search for HG and print a whole load more pages. I start feeling a lot better. I’m going to have a brilliantly huge pile of paper for Nigel to go through, I think as I happily watch pages spew onto the floor.

  Nigel gets up and walks over to the printer. He picks up the pages for me and brings them over. Now that’s what you call teamwork.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he hisses.

  “Research! I’m getting loads of stuff for you to go through!”

  “Georgie.” Nigel’s fists are clenched. “Did you understand when Guy talked about discretion?”

  “Yes, of course I did,” I whisper confidently. “We’ve got to keep our mouths shut. I understand perfectly!”

  “So then you may not want to have these pages coming out all over the floor. You may like to wait at the printer rather than leave them for someone else to find.”

  Nigel stomps back to his desk. Honestly, I think he might be taking this a bit far, but he is a paranoia junkie.

  I read through all the pages of names and numbers, hoping that something will come out and grab me like in Agatha Christie novels and I can say “Of course, they did it with mirrors” or something and I’ll have solved the mystery. But instead my eyes glaze over as I turn to story after story about finance and shares and profits and really boring stuff like that, and apart from some of the names being the same again and again, there’s nothing else that stands out at all.

  When I’ve got a sufficiently impressive pile of papers, I decide I need a break, and I go out to buy a sandwich for lunch, which I eat at my desk. I am enjoying the feeling of doing something important. I feel all charged up and serious. I finally understand what David meant when he said that he really enjoys his work and how once he gets started on a case he can’t stop till it’s finished. Maybe I could get a job as a top research analyst for the government or something. I think I’d be really good at it. Maybe I should get David to introduce me to someone at the fraud office.

  By the end of the day I have a pile of papers that is about four inches high. I did actually take a rather extended lunch break (Denise boughtHeat magazine at lunchtime and I spent most of the afternoon reading it), but still, it’s not how long you work, but what you achi
eve that matters, and I even had to go to the stationery cupboard to get more paper for the printer. How dedicated is that? I call up Nigel—I think he’ll prefer that to me walking over to his desk.

  “Nigel, I’ve got some interesting information,” I say, imagining I’m Scully from “The X-Files.” “Maybe you should come over and take a look at it.”

  Nigel doesn’t say anything; he just puts the phone down and comes over. This is so much better than what we used to do. He arrives at my desk looking quite exhilarated. “So what have you got?”

  I show him my pile of printouts with a confident smile.

  “Right,” he begins uncertainly. “But what’s the interesting information?”

  “All of it!” I whisper excitedly. “I’ve got piles of stuff on Tryton, on HG, on Leary . . . look how many pages there are!”

  Nigel looks at me strangely. “Georgie, interesting information means something that doesn’t add up, or a link that we didn’t know about. You need to go through the pages to find it.”

  “I have!” I say hotly. At least I read through some of it. The problem is, I didn’t understand a word, but I’m not going to tell Nigel that.

  “Right, well then, you’ll be able to tell me what this interesting information is.”

  Nigel looks like he’s smirking. How dare he; I do all this work and now he’s making fun of me.

  “Yes I can, actually,” I say angrily. “It’s that . . . that . . .”

  I grab the top sheet from my pile and scan it for something to tell Nigel. It’s a page of information on the Leary Group, its board of directors, and its major shareholders. I spot a name that I recognize. “That Duncan Taylor is a major shareholder in Leary, and . . .” I pause for dramatic effect, “and is the chairman of Tryton.” I look at Nigel triumphantly. Actually, I’m not sure if it’s interesting or not, but at least it’s a link. Or should that be linkage?

 

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