Cut Out

by Marcia Woolf

  Chapter Two

  Monday 3rd/Tuesday 4th November

  Playing the Part

  Early next morning, Sayler swung by. She was on her way home and looked like she needed the sleep. I let her in and we sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table. She stared into her coffee.

  “You gave a statement, right?”

  I’d had to, under the circumstances. Talk about winging it.

  “I didn’t say why we were there, together.”

  “Good. So what did you say?”

  I watched Sayler carefully while she made a start on the toast.

  “You know as well as I do that they would check me out and find out about – well, you know. I had to think of something convincing. So I said Ollie was trying to get me to act as an informer.”

  Sayler’s eyes widened. She carried on eating.

  “Well? What do you think?”

  She finished her piece of toast and started on the next one.

  “Informing on what?”

  “I dunno. I didn’t expand. If anyone asks, I’ll say the conversation didn’t get onto specifics, and I wasn’t going to oblige anyway.”

  “I’ll have to work something out with Ollie. Even if you don’t know what it was we weren’t discussing, I think we’d better have an idea. It helps if your informant has access to information. What do you know that might help the Fraud Squad?”

  I detected a note of sarcasm.

  “I read the annual accounts from the family trust fund. I attend the Annual Meeting. I go to Board meetings sometimes.”

  “So you are financially literate then?”

  “As a newt.”

  She rolled her eyes. While she was helping herself to more coffee I decided to get a question in myself.

  “What was all that about Nelson?”

  “Nelson?”

  “Just before they took Ollie away. I heard him say something to you about Nelson.”

  Sayler stared at me hard for a few moments, then burst out laughing.

  “Not Nelson. That’s funny: what, did you think he was asking me to kiss him?”

  I felt relieved, not because I’d been wrong, but because it had amused Dawn. Still smiling, she took a mouthful of coffee. I waited.

  “If you must know, he said Nilsson. He was talking about a guy called Lars Henning Nilsson. Ring any bells?”

  “No.”

  Dawn leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. Well, I wasn’t going to ask. Police business: none of my business.

  “That’s good. At least he’s not been getting you involved.”

  “Involved? In what?”

  “The investigation into Nilsson.”

  She was actually giving me the old interrogation technique. Sit quiet, look meaningful, wait for a response. I offered her another slice of toast. She took it, applied a thick pasting of butter and started to eat.

  “Do you think Nilsson was responsible for the shots?”

  “I don’t know what makes you say that. He works in a bank. Anyway, I can’t tell you anything, you know I can’t.”

  I shrugged and stood up.

  “Can I go to the hospital, to see him?”

  She bit her lip.

  “He’s under guard. Best not to.”

  “Right. Thanks for coming over. You didn’t need to.”

  “No, but I wanted to make sure you were okay. And to find out what you said in your statement. Look, about you and Ollie…”

  “You’d rather we didn’t.”

  Sayler pulled on her coat and headed for the door.

  “It’s nothing personal. He’s got a lot to lose. More than you.”

  She gave me a half-hearted slap on the arm and slipped out quietly along the corridor, turning to wave as the lift doors closed.

  Well, red rags to bulls and all that. I got ready and went straight to Angels hire shop in Shaftesbury Avenue. The woman who served me was very helpful: I said I needed something convincing and she rooted around amongst the scrubs until we got the look just right. Step forward for duty, Nurse Garrity. I went home, dug out an old passport photo and, with a bit of artwork and a hole punch, I managed to make an ID that would pass for the real thing, provided nobody inspected too closely.

  At the hospital I wandered around for a while, pretending to be a lost visitor, until I found the right ward. Then I slipped into a nearby lavatory and left my coat and hat on a shelf in there. It was possible someone would find them, but there was no ID in the pockets so the worst thing that could happen was that I would have to go home in a taxi in fancy dress. I waited a few moments, then strode out and straight along to the door of Ollie’s room. The PC sitting outside gave me a quick glance and nodded to indicate that I could go in.

  Ollie was lying flat on his back, full of tubes and wires, eyes shut. I hadn’t expected to find him asleep. Maybe he was unconscious? I approached carefully, worried how he would react when he recognised me. I reached out and touched his hand, like I might be going to take his pulse. The pale blue eyes opened slowly, then he jolted slightly as he focused on my face.

  “Shh. Don’t say anything.”

  “What are—?”

  “It’s okay. Nobody knows I’m here. Lie back.”

  I spoke softly and moved around to the other side of the bed, out of view of the guard.

  “What’s going on?”

  Ollie shook his head a little and asked for water. His voice sounded sandpapered.

  “Here, take a sip. Don’t choke. Who is this Nilsson guy? Sayler told me everything. He’s the one who tried to have you killed.”

  He looked at me disbelievingly.

  “Sayler’s not told you that.”

  “Oh, come on, Ollie. You’re investigating him. I haven’t got much time.”

  I glanced towards the door. The guard seemed to be pacing up and down outside.

  “He’s a Swedish investment banker.”

  “Fine. I can find him from that.”

  Ollie took hold of my hand and gripped it hard.

  “No. Keep out.”

  I tried to free myself but he clung on.

  “Love you.”

  “What?”

  “I love you.”

  Then he fell back against the pillow and my hand slipped loose. I heard voices outside.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything stupid. Got to go now: I think you’ve got another visitor.”

  I picked up the water jug and stepped out of the door just as a tall man in a navy coat made his way into the room.

  “Excuse me,” I said as I sidestepped him, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Then I swapped the jug for my coat and hat and was out of the building even before Ollie’s boss had begun to wonder where the nurse had got to.

  It was dark by the time I put my key in the lock. The flat was warm, but I kept my coat on. I wandered around switching on lamps and closing blinds. Living on your own is weird. Nothing changes. You go out, come back hours later and everything’s where you left it. Like a kind of time warp. It was the evenings when I missed Jack the most. And now Sullivan was stirring things. I love you indeed. Well, I can’t say I was surprised: he’d been mooning about since the first day we met, and any man who wants to risk his entire career for a woman who’s never going to love him back must have been downing the old elisir d’amore by the pint. Anybody else would have been glad of the fun – no strings, no commitment, and maybe I flatter myself here, but some pretty hot action between the sheets. No, don’t go there. Just makes me think about Jack again. I poured myself a drink and switched on the laptop. I typed “Lars Henning Nilsson” into the search bar. As I’d expected, he appeared right away, all six top places in the listing. I double-clicked.

  Lars Henning Nilsson, Investment Director, Claus Berthold Investment Bank.

  There was a picture of him, looking confident and relaxed, a typical Scandi financier. Blond hair, blue eyes, sharp suit, no tie. The photo was a three-quarter profile against a dark background
so he stood out like a Russian icon in a frame, eyes glinting, white teeth bared in an over-friendly smile. I scrolled down.

  Lars Henning Nilsson, 36, has been Investment Director of CBIB since January and was formerly Investment Analyst with Vikersborg Investment Management in Stockholm. He holds an MBA from the Institute of Business Finance, Lausanne, and a first-class honours degree in Mathematics from Gothenburg University.

  Well done, Lars. Clever boy. So what’s going on at CBIB that’s come to the attention of the Fraud Squad? I fetched a refill and carried on reading. The entire outfit comprised equally young, good-looking and no doubt rolling-in-it Scandinavians, apart from the obligatory Brit (Simon Leach, Operations Director, 42, a Qualified Chartered Accountant), and the eponymous old boy who presumably had put up most of the start-up capital: Ingmar Berthold, 63, Chairman.

  I must say they seemed extremely well-qualified for whatever it was they did in their investment bank; and all very smooth and shiny and healthy-looking. It was tedious reading but somebody had to do it, so I pressed on through the pages headed Our Investment History, Our Portfolio, Our Investment Strategy and finally An Ethical Approach to Investment, which was where they had put all the jokes.

  I went back to the home page and noticed at the top, under Our Team, there was a sub-heading that read Work for CBIB. It was a bit of a long shot, because what I know about investment banking you could write on a cheque stub, but anyway I scrolled through the vacancies and there, under Junior Analyst and Portfolio Manager (“must be fluent in Greek”) was an opportunity too good to be missed: Administrative Assistant/PA to Operations Director. I read the job spec. Excellent standard of English, written and spoken. Check. Competent in all Microsoft packages. Check. Okay, half-check. But I’m a quick learner. Must be highly organised, used to working at senior level and willing to use own initiative. Oh, check, check, and check, in spades. The job had my name all over it.

  The next morning, I phoned Clive Godwin. He’s an old family friend, and manages the Garrity Family Trust which is so generous in paying my way in life, and Jack’s, when he’s not being subsidised by the state. He sounded rather surprised when I said I was hoping for a reference.

  “A reference for a job?”

  “Yes, Clive. I’m so bored at home all day without Jack. It’s no fun. And besides, it’s time I stopped just playing around. I need to be more responsible. You know, socially useful. I ought to work and pay my tax and be a productive member of society.”

  There was a stunned silence at the other end. I think maybe I’d over-egged it a bit.

  “Are you sure? I mean, you’ve never had a job before.”

  “That’s not strictly true, Clive. I did work as an intern at the Marchmont Gallery.”

  “For about four months. Five years ago.”

  He was evidently not entirely happy about the idea of the reference, which was a pity because he’d already been added into the CV I’d concocted the night before.

  “Please, Clive. I haven’t got a hope of getting a job without one, and I really do want to get out there and prove what I can do. I don’t want to be dependent all my life.”

  He sighed.

  “Cookie, I know perfectly well that you are more than capable... but it wouldn’t be entirely honest, would it?”

  “They won’t check.”

  “They might. Anyway, your name is the same as the fund’s name. Don’t you think that might appear odd?”

  “I’ve thought of that. I thought I’d apply under a pseudonym.”

  “What sort of pseudonym?”

  “Well, Charlotte something. I don’t know. Smith.”

  “Smith?”

  “Okay, not Smith. Housemartin.”

  “Housemartin? Well, if that’s what you want.”

  “Oh, it is, it really is, Clive. Please say you’ll do it? For me. For Dad. You know he wouldn’t want me just to waste my life shopping and going on holiday and having fun. He would really have wanted me to be sensible and pull my weight.”

  Clive sighed again. Given that he is actually my employee, he didn’t have a lot of choice, but I don’t like to rub his nose in it.

  “Fine. I’ll have Donna put something together. Are you sure you’ve decided on this Charlotte Housemartin name? It doesn’t sound very plausible.”

  “Oh, alright. Let’s go for Bronski.”

  “Bronski. Charlotte, you don’t happen to be reading a book about British bands of the nineteen-eighties, do you?”

  “Of course not. I never read anything, you know that, Clive. I just like the sound of it.”

  “Okay. Bronski it is. I’ll send you a PDF and put the original in the post.”

  “Thanks. You’re a darling. I won’t forget this, Clive, and you won’t regret it, I promise.”

  “Good. I hope not. Oh, and Cookie?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re right, your father would have been really proud of you.”

  I laughed, in a way that I hoped Clive interpreted as pleasure rather than sarcasm. Then I hung up, and typed the name Charlotte Bronski in 12pt bold in the header of my extremely impressive CV.

  When I arrived at CBIB’s offices in Mayfair it was late morning. The receptionist buzzed me in via the intercom. I sprinted up the stairs and put on an eager but not over-confident expression.

  “Do you have an appointment, Miss Bronski?”

  “No. I just wanted to drop off my application, for the PA job.”

  The receptionist, whose badge said her name was Lucinda Fleming, smiled at me in a way that was both insincere and slightly annoyed. I guessed she’d applied for the post herself and hadn’t cut it.

  “Thank you. I’ll make sure Mr Henning Nilsson sees it right away.”

  She took the sealed envelope from me.

  “But the job, it’s working for Mr Leach isn’t it? The Operations Director?”

  “Yes. But Mr Henning Nilsson makes all the recruitment decisions. He’s very hands-on in that respect, what with it being such a small team. We all have to work well together.”

  I nodded, in a way that I hoped suggested I agreed and understood, rather than in a way that might convey what I was actually thinking about the officious cow. She smirked at me.

  “Was there anything else?”

  “No, thank you. I was just admiring the view from up here. What nice offices you have.”

  As I said this, Ms Fleming’s eyes darted over my shoulder and I heard a man’s footsteps approaching.

  “Hello! Can I help you?”

  I turned round, and there, large as life and twice as handsome, stood Mr Lars Henning Nilsson himself, all cashmere suit and expensive aftershave. Lucinda, flustered, explained that I was an applicant for the job. He looked me up and down.

  “Are you working at the moment?”

  “No, I’ve been taking a sort of sabbatical. But I’m available to start work immediately. On a trial basis, if that helps.”

  Lucinda was watching me like a hawk. She was watching Nilsson like two hawks. He smiled. Now, if there’s one thing I can recognise in the dark with my eyes shut, it’s a man who’s letting his friend do the thinking, and Lars was listening one hundred per cent to whatever his pants were telling him. He gestured towards a glass-fronted meeting room on the other side of the reception area.

  “Well, as you’re here, why don’t you come in and we can have a chat?” Without taking his gaze off me, he reached out an open palm and Lucy placed the offending CV into it.

  “Shall we?”

  I smiled politely and followed him into the meeting room. It was fairly small, very recently laid out with some fancy Scandinavian brand chairs and an architect’s idea of a boardroom table. There was all the usual kit: conference phones, big screen, some dodgy final-year artwork, an espresso machine. Lars pointed at the array of drinks on display: Icelandic water, herb teas, individually wrapped bags of hand-made cookies.

  “No, thank you.”

  He opened a small fridge under th
e sideboard and took out a low-cal Coke which he popped and drank straight from the can. He gave the CV a cursory read through.

  “So, what do you know about investment banks? Private banks?”

  “Not a lot. But I’m very keen to learn: it’s such an interesting area.”

  He smiled again, the same smile as before, like he was doling them out from a job lot. I wasn’t sure if the CV was convincing him. He looked amused rather than impressed, but he was the kind of guy who takes a lot of impressing.

  “And you could start right away?”

  “Yes, first thing tomorrow.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “…Or I can start now.”

  He laughed, apparently quite genuinely, which made me think he was far too confident for his own good, and probably for mine as well.

  “Tomorrow would be fine. Simon’s previous PA, she only left five days ago. It was unfortunate. She was offered a post in Dubai. One of these take-it-or-miss-it things. So I had to let her go.”

  “That was very generous of you.”

  “Yes, probably it was. But I don’t believe in standing in the way of career progression.”

  I smiled. Not that I know anything about interviews, but it seemed bizarre to me that I hadn’t even been introduced to the Simon Leach guy. Supposing he took an instant dislike to me? Perhaps in the world of investment banking, like or dislike didn’t come into the equation, only ability and competence. If that was it, I was well and truly fucked. Nilsson glanced at his Rolex.

  “I have an appointment at midday so I’m afraid we have to cut it short, but let’s meet again tomorrow. I’ll get Lucy to call you with a time.”