Cut Out

by Marcia Woolf

  Then he bowed in my direction, picked up his empty drink can and strode out of the room, crushing it in his hand as he left. Leach watched him go. He put me in mind of a dog who’d been told to sit and stay.

  We left it that I would start work the following Monday, which gave me four days to get my act together. That’s act as in Act. What I knew about working in an office was sketchy, and seemed to involve a lot of hanging about drinking coffee, reading emails and gazing wistfully out of the window. I called round at the family trust’s offices in Fleet Street on the way home.

  “Clive!”

  “Cookie. Hello. This is a nice surprise. What can I do for you? Another reference?”

  “No thanks. The first one did the trick. I got the job.”

  “You did? Oh, good. That’s... very good.”

  Clive seemed even less enthusiastic when I told him I’d like Donna to give me a quick run-down on office procedures.

  “You know: filing, typing... that sort of thing.”

  He moved the weight from one foot to the other and back again, like he was thinking about making a run for it. Donna, on the other hand, was a lot more amenable. She fetched me a chair and I positioned it where I could watch over her shoulder. After an hour and a half, we went for a sandwich.

  “So, Donna, how’d you learn all this stuff? Did you go to college?”

  She laughed.

  “I’ve got a degree in palaeontology.”

  “That must be a big help.”

  “Not really. It’s a long story.”

  Then she stopped hunting through the tiers of cheese and pickle and gave me a very earnest look. I’d known Donna for years, but it was the first time we’d spent more than ten minutes in the same room as each other. She took hold of my elbow and drew me towards her so that she didn’t have to speak up in the crowded shop.

  “Look, we both know you’re up to something with this job business. I’m not going to say anything to Clive, and so long as you can take phone messages accurately, write decent English and remember how the photocopier works you should be fine. Any problems, give me a call and I’ll try to talk you through it.”

  I was fairly taken aback.

  “Donna, I really do appreciate your help. I need this job.”

  She waved her £20 at the guy behind the till.

  “Like hell you do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I found myself being propelled towards the door.

  “I mean,” she said, “that I know you’re planning something. Now, it’s none of my business what that might be, but I’m not an idiot so don’t treat me like one.”

  We stood facing each other on the pavement in the drizzle. I wiped the hair out of my eyes and tried to read her expression, but she’d been doing the mirror trick as well and there was nothing I could detect that gave me a hint one way or the other. A man pushed by us, tutting. We started back to the office, Donna striding ahead, clutching our lunch like it was her life savings. It was a side to her I’d not been aware of; in fact, had never needed to be aware of. Now, it’s not that I have a view on the matter, but I knew that Donna and Clive had been engaged in some extensive overtime together for the past fifteen years. His wife had MS and he’d never leave her, so Donna’s role was strictly office wife. She had a sense of loyalty to Clive that went beyond the job description. I don’t think they believed it was a secret, but being ladies and gentlemen it was the decent thing to pretend. We were all ladies and gentlemen, apparently. I followed her up the stairs and back to her desk.

  “Donna, I’m sorry. You’re right. I am up to something, as you put it. And I do really need to stay in this job for a while, and I need your help to do it.”

  “Is it legal? What you’re doing?”

  To be honest I wasn’t sure.

  “Well, I applied for the job and they’ve offered it to me.”

  “You applied with a bogus CV.”

  “Caveat emptor and all that.”

  She sighed, took off her coat and started unwrapping her sandwich. I did likewise, hoping to garner a smidge of sympathy from the old mimic routine.

  “I know nothing about it, OK? The dodgy CV?”

  I smiled. “Of course not.”

  “Right, so aside from a crash course in office work, what do you need me to do?”

  “Don’t know yet. Not till I’m in there. The thing is, Donna, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. But there’s something sick in the Bank of Denmark, so to speak. A friend of mine was nearly killed because of it. I’m just trying to get some inside information.”

  “That sounds to me like data theft.”

  “It’s not. I wouldn’t call it data theft. It’s just being nosy.”

  “It sounds dangerous, even if it’s not illegal. I don’t want you dragging the Trust into this. Or Clive. He’s been very good to you, and Jack. Very loyal. In spite of everything.”

  I watched as she wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and put the empty packages neatly back into their carrier bag.

  “I’m not planning on dragging anybody anywhere. Trust me, Donna.”

  She looked at me over the top of her glasses.

  “I don’t mind helping you, Charlotte, although I think you’re mad to take a risk like this. Supposing they catch you?”

  She was quite serious, and I must say that so far I hadn’t been paying a great deal of thought to the downside of my little enterprise.

  “What have I got to lose? The worst they can do is sack me.”

  “Or have you arrested.”

  I shrugged. Actually the worst thing was a good deal less appealing than being arrested again, but I wasn’t going to alarm Donna with all that.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon on the sort of stuff Donna thought I would need to know. Apart from the endless acronyms it all seemed fairly common-sense, and although I felt confident about pulling the wool over Leach’s eyes for a while, I wasn’t looking forward to it. Routine isn’t exactly my strong point.

  On the way I home I gazed absent-mindedly out of the taxi at the dark streets, the rain, and the whole of London marching by, heads down against the wind. I thought about what Donna had said, and about Nilsson. People like him outsource everything. He wasn’t the sort to want blood on his hands, but a nice clean bullet fired from fifty feet away, that was a different matter. Even so, I found it hard to imagine that Nilsson would hire a gunman so inept that he could miss from that distance. What if it had only been a warning shot, scare tactics?

  Chapter Four

  Monday 10th November

  Suspicious Minds

  I leaned over the edge of the reception desk. Lucinda had left a book next to the phone: it was called A Horse in the House.

  “Looks interesting.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “What’s it about?”

  Her eyes narrowed a bit more. Then she picked it up and threw it into a drawer.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I don’t seem to have a notebook. Is there a stationery cupboard?”

  She lifted the receiver, at the same time indicating the far corner of the office.

  “Good morning, Claus Berthold Investment Bank, how may I direct your call?”

  I couldn’t see what she was pointing at, but she carried on listening to the caller and still waving her hand up and down in the direction of the corner, mouthing something unintelligible. Eventually, I spotted that there was a handle low down in the wooden panelling. I went over and pushed it, and to my astonishment a whole new world opened up: a room beyond the reception area, lined with shelves piled high with brochures, huge plastic archive boxes, stationery and all sorts of awards which had been stacked in there, higgledy-piggledy and unloved. Awards won but soon outdated and irrelevant, surpassed by greater achievements, new goals, bigger targets, to be recognised by even more bizarre lumps of wood, spikes of metal and shards of engraved perspex, more monuments to the glory of Mammon: in the world of finance, they
are called tombstones, possibly without irony. I scanned the shelves and selected something to write on.

  When I walked back to my desk, Lucy was still trying to help her caller. I waved the notebook, indicating my successful mission. She nodded.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m sure. Yes, it would be. I agree.”

  Then I heard her say, “Natürlich, Frau Sussmann. Es ist immer noch mal.”

  I strolled by, as if I hadn’t understood. But I was curious. Still time for what?

  Simon Leach arrived just after ten. He hovered in the doorway.

  “Welcome. You’ve found everything? Lucinda showed you round?”

  I smiled. “Of course. I was just reading the company brochure. Would you like a coffee?”

  He seemed pleasantly surprised by the offer, so I headed towards the kitchen. He called after me.

  “Milk, one sugar. Please.”

  I felt his eyes on my rear end as I walked away. When I returned with the cup he leaned back in his leather chair and looked approvingly at his new assistant.

  “Miss Bronski, Charlotte. Give me a few minutes to catch up and then perhaps we can have a chat.”

  “Of course. Ten thirty?”

  “Perfect.”

  While I was waiting I had a quick look around the files on the PC. Nothing out of the ordinary. I opened a folder called Letters. All referenced by number and date order. Numbers related to projects; projects were also code-named. Bloody weird code names as well. Project Armadillo, project Long Distance, project Turkish Delight.

  At ten twenty-nine I took my virgin notebook and knocked on Leach’s door. He waved at me to come in. I sat opposite. He got straight to the point.

  “I gather you don’t know much about what we do here. Anyway, don’t worry. It’s not rocket science. Basically we buy and sell. What I do, what you will be doing with me, is all back-room stuff, reporting to the board, compliance, toeing the line with the regulator, and Companies House.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He paused. I was surprised by his next question.

  “Do you know Lars Nilsson?”

  “Know him?”

  “Apart from the interview. Before, I mean. Is he a friend?”

  I hesitated.

  “No, I only met him a few days ago. Why? Do I look familiar?”

  “It’s not that. I just wondered if maybe he knew you and thought you would fit into the team. When Susie left. Susie was my previous PA. Susie Delaney. I don’t suppose you know her?”

  It was very strange: I couldn’t work out if he was accusing me of something. He shrugged.

  “Never mind. I must have made a mistake. Let’s get on with a few things. Perhaps you could type up these notes from my meeting this morning?”

  He pushed half a dozen pages of A4 across the desk. At the top he’d written in blue ink, very neatly, the names of the attendees and the date and time of the meeting, but the rest was in the same thin pencil italics as his notes for my interview.

  “Don’t worry if you can’t read it all, you’ll get used to my scrawl.”

  He watched me walk back to my desk. I made a start on the document, but it was deadly dull. I began to feel grateful that I was only typing the notes and hadn’t actually had to sit through the meeting. Perhaps the whole infiltration idea had been a stupid one from the outset. Whatever Nilsson and his banking friends were up to, it was unlikely they would let me in on it. I’d probably spend the next six months typing up Leach’s unending pontifications on the German economy and learn nothing at all, apart from where the umlaut was on the keyboard. Hell, by the time I’d been there that long I’d almost certainly think it was worth sticking it out a few months more for the bonus. A year and I’d be worrying about losing my pension. Still, it was early days. Correction: early day. Day one. It dragged by like fingernails on a blackboard, utter bloody torture. Leach told me to go home at four-thirty. I have no idea if he felt sorry for me or wanted me out of his hair, but I was grateful in a way that I had previously vowed I would never be grateful to a man, and certainly not to a man wearing a pastel blue shirt with a white collar.

  As I got home the phone was ringing. Don’t you just hate it when that happens? I was frantically jiggling the key in the lock, trying not to drop my handbag and hold onto my gloves at the same time, but the caller hung up the moment I got inside. I waited. There was a bleep and the answerphone started to record. It was Ollie.

  “Cookie. Where are you? I’m worried about you. I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Your mobile’s switched off.”

  He sounded annoyed, even though we’d agreed to speak at six.

  “Please call me back within the next half an hour or I’ll have to send someone round.”

  Send someone round! I snatched up the phone.

  “Ollie! I’m sorry, I couldn’t get the door open. I heard the phone ringing.”

  “Thank God. Are you all right? I’ve been trying all day.”

  “Have you? Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  There was a pause at the other end, and I wondered if he was going to do a Jack and hang up.

  “Where have you been?”

  It came to me at this point that not only had I been out all day, but I was likely to be out all day, every day, for the foreseeable future, during the week at least, with no excuse whatsoever that would wash with DCI Sullivan. Think, woman, think.

  “I’ve been volunteering.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Volunteering. At the shelter for the homeless.”

  “What?”

  I was starting to wonder if he couldn’t hear me.

  “Saint Clement in the Crypt. Hot meals for the homeless.”

  “Hot meals?”

  “Ollie, will you stop repeating everything I say? I told you, it’s a new thing. Since you told me I should keep out of your hair I decided to do something worthwhile with my time, instead of sitting around here reading novels.”

  “Novels?”

  “There you go again.”

  “What novels? Cookie, stop lying. You’re not feeding the homeless, so what are you up to?”

  “I’m not up to anything. I want to be useful. It’s not healthy to be so privileged.”

  Ollie started to cough.

  “Are you okay? When are they going to let you out of hospital? Sayler said you’d be home by now.”

  “Yes, well. Look, I don’t want you to worry but I’ve got a bit of an infection...”

  “Not MRSA?”

  I heard stifled coughing again, or possibly he was laughing.

  “Why are you always so melodramatic? It’s not serious. I’m going home on Friday; Saturday at the latest. I’ll be back at work by Monday.”

  I said I thought that was unlikely and he muttered something about he damn well ought to be. Then he asked me if I’d heard from Jack lately.

  “What’s it to you?”

  Silence.

  “Go on. Why do you ask? He phoned me on Sunday.”

  “He might be coming up for parole.”

  I sat down. I never imagined I’d say it, let alone feel it, but I really hoped it wasn’t true. I needed Jack now like a hole in the head.

  “Bit early. Anyway, knowing Jack he’s been getting up a few noses. They’ll keep him in.”

  “Not what I heard.”

  “Not what you heard? I thought there was supposed to be a formal hearing with the Parole Board.”

  “I made enquiries.”

  “Oh, you did, did you? Well, thank you very much. And your inside informant said Jack’s parole was a sure thing. Or have you been putting in a good word for him?”

  Ollie made a sort of indignant spluttering noise, followed by more coughing. He really didn’t sound great.

  “I have not. I wanted to know so that we – you – can be prepared. That’s all.”

  “Get out the bunting?”

  I could hear someone in the background asking how long he was going to b
e on the phone. Not long, he said, not long at all, mate.

  “Don’t. Look – oh God, I – I really need to see you, Cookie. We have to sort this out before Jack gets back.”

  “Sort what out?”

  “What’s going to happen. With us. He won’t like it.”

  Well, that was understatement of the century.

  “Ollie. This is not the time or the place. I’ll see you at the weekend.”

  “Okay. I’ll call. I love you.”

  “Okay. Saturday, yes?”

  I could tell he was still being hassled by the other guy. He just wanted me to say it, but I couldn’t.

  “I love you,” he repeated, as if it would trigger something, but all I could say was goodnight, sleep well, see you on Saturday. Maybe, I thought, maybe on Saturday I’d be saying goodbye.

  The next day I arrived early at the bank, in the hope I could get a few minutes to look around. No such luck. Nilsson was there before me, already on the phone in his glass-fronted office which overlooked the reception area. He didn’t like to miss anything, clearly. He gave me a friendly salute, but I’d surprised him. The call over, he came to find me. I was making coffee.

  “You’re here very early, Miss Bronski.”

  “Yes. The journey didn’t take as long as I’d anticipated.”

  “Aha. So it’s not just that you’re eager to be the first one here?”

  I offered him a coffee but he waved it away, opened the fridge and took out a Coke.

  “How are you finding it so far? Getting on with Simon?”

  “Fine. He’s very – focused.”

  Nilsson laughed.

  “That’s good. You’re tactful, Miss Bronski. I like that.”

  It was the first time anyone had ever called me tactful, so I wasn’t sure if that was what passes for humour in Stockholm. Nilsson was standing very close to me, I noticed. Certainly closer than Simon Leach would think proper. I edged away.

  “And Lucy? How are you getting on with her?”

  I took a sip of coffee. Looked like I’d have to have another shot at tactful.