Cut Out

by Marcia Woolf

  “And this Rudy Bannerman guy was around even then?”

  “He’s in the wedding photos. He was a fixture.”

  Ollie rolled towards me and pulled the covers over us.

  “How did Jack take the news about your mother's note?”

  “I didn’t tell him.”

  “No?”

  “I didn’t want to upset him.”

  “He has to know eventually. Best he finds out from you.”

  Yes, I thought. But not over the phone. When I tell him, I want to see the look on his face. We lay there in the dark for a while, until I could tell that Ollie had fallen asleep. It was comfortable, warm. But it couldn’t last.

  My mind drifted away from the conversation with Rudy Bannerman and onto Dirk Brenninkmeijer. I wondered what Dirk would say when I told him about the call. It was weird that those two had always been part of my life, the ying and yang of it, with Dirk always the kind one, the funny one, always giving good advice and trying to see the best in people. My father’s closest friend. Then Rudy, always scowling in the background, wheedling his way into conversations, stroking his chin and nodding sagely; not that anyone took any notice apart from Shirley. I doubt anyone had been able to see why she kept him in tow: he was the definition of surplus to requirements. A crutch, I supposed. Unless. For the first time, it occurred to me that maybe my mother wasn’t the one pulling the strings in that relationship. Supposing Bannerman had something on her? Supposing he’d been blackmailing her all those years?

  I extricated myself from Ollie, who had flung his arm across me and was now snoring softly into my ear.

  I might never know. Some things are best not known. But in the dark, lying next to a man who said he loved me, who wanted to marry me, for heaven’s sake, I began to formulate a plan.

  The next morning, as soon as I had managed to shoehorn Ollie out of the flat – which took some doing, because he wasn’t easily satisfied – I sat down and began to compose an email to Dirk. It was too early to phone, and besides, I wanted to give him the opportunity to digest what I’d said before he got too worked up about it.

  The problem was, since I’d left Chicago, I’d just about convinced myself that if Hayden Garrity wasn’t my father then the most likely candidate was Dirk. I knew it was wishful thinking. For one thing, Dirk and my father – correction, Jack’s father – had been friends since the day they first met in the entrance lobby of Houlihan Enterprises in 1982. How many times had I heard that story? The idea that Dirk would go behind his back and have a fling with the boss’s daughter was unthinkable. But supposing I was wrong? Dirk wouldn’t have been the first man to let his trousers do the talking. And it was possible – just – that he had had something going with my mother before she became Mrs Garrity. Even more tempting was the idea that he’d been in love with her. I tried to imagine it and just as quickly tried to stop imagining. Shirley had been beautiful once. And Dirk was the sort of man who would stick around when she was widowed, making himself useful, doing his duty as a friend. It would be tragic if he’d held a candle for her all that time, only to watch her downhill slide into a screeching, foul-tempered drunk. I started to type.

  Dear Dirk,

  You will think I’m crazy but…

  No. That won’t do.

  There’s something I have to ask you. Please forgive me if I’m wrong…

  After twenty minutes of typing and re-typing, I gave up. There was no other way but to come straight out with it.

  Are you my father?

  I clicked SEND, regretted it immediately, and got into the shower. A few minutes later as I was drying myself I heard an email ping into the inbox. What on earth was Dirk doing, reading his emails in the middle of the night? I’ll call you in ten minutes, he’d written. I sat down and waited, my hair dripping onto the tiles. Even so, when the phone rang it made me jump. I let it ring three times, then picked up.

  “Dirk?”

  “Cookie. Oh, Cookie.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “No, no. You haven’t – I mean, I am so—”

  “I know. You wouldn’t have done that to Dad. To Hayden, I mean. It was very insensitive of me.”

  I listened carefully. He was crying.

  “Cookie, believe me. I am not your father. But if I could have been, then nothing would have made me happier. I would be proud to be your father.”

  I felt awful. Poor old Dirk.

  “I suppose I was kind of hoping that you might be.”

  He laughed.

  “That would be good, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes. That would be wonderful.”

  I wished I could be in the room with him, hug him, feel the affection and warmth and uncomplicated love I’d always felt from Dirk, even if he wasn’t my father, even if it was something I didn’t deserve and wasn’t entitled to. Maybe he was thinking the same thing.

  After a few moments he seemed to recover and he asked how I was, and what had prompted the question. I told him about the call from Rudy Bannerman. He listened in silence.

  “So, what do you make of it? Pretty strange?”

  Dirk growled. “He’s a bastard. Always was. I think he’s unhappy with what he was left in the will and wants a bigger cut. You’re his way in.”

  “You mean you think he’s expecting me to be grateful to him? He knows how I feel, Dirk. He knows about Jack and me. Hell, everybody knows about that now.”

  “He has a sense of entitlement.”

  “I’ll say. Well, it’s not going to happen.”

  “No.”

  I paused, thinking there was more to come, but I could hear voices and airport noises in the background.

  “Dirk? You’re not angry with me, are you?”

  He sounded surprised.

  “Angry? No, of course not. I think it was, under the circumstances, quite a logical conclusion.”

  “I don’t often get accused of being logical.”

  He laughed.

  “Have you told Jack yet, about your mother's message?”

  “Not yet. I thought it might be better if I told him in person. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just using that as an excuse to put it off. He’s been a bit difficult lately, you know?”

  I heard a distant tannoy announcement and the sound of people moving around.

  “That’s my flight. Listen, I’ll be in the UK tomorrow. I have to go to Manchester first,” he pronounced it the American way, with the emphasis on the middle syllable, “but if I can rearrange the return flight I’ll come down to London late Wednesday and we can meet up. Yes?”

  “Sure. Manchester?”

  “Retail consortium. They insist on seeing the architect every fourth Wednesday, always in the morning. They’re crazy, these Northern English guys. But hey, they’re paying.”

  There was another announcement, more urgent.

  “I have to go. Take care of yourself, Cookie.”

  “I always do,” I said. But he’d already hung up.

  As I dried my hair, my conversation with Dirk started to worry me. I was pleased that he wanted to meet up, of course, and made a mental note to book a table somewhere. For a minute or two I entertained the idea of inviting Ollie along, introducing them, but then I discounted it – not least because Dirk would be certain to recall Ollie from the court case and wonder what the hell I was playing at. No: the thing that stuck in my mind was what Dirk said about coming to the UK for a meeting every four weeks, and always on a Wednesday. After a while I switched off the hairdryer and started scrolling through the calendar on my phone. If Dirk was meeting his client on Wednesday 26th, then four weeks before that would have been Wednesday 5th November. The day Ollie got shot was the 2nd. That was the day Jack told me he’d had a visitor. I had a visitor yesterday. I remembered it distinctly. But would Dirk have been in the UK on the Friday, if his meeting wasn’t until five days later?

  I sat on the bed and thought about it. I’d have to check with Dirk, of course; but the only
rational explanation was that, when Jack told me he’d seen someone, he wasn’t talking about Dirk. Jack didn’t pass on the information about Shirley being sick because on that Sunday he didn’t know. He was angry with me for some other reason. I could only conclude that whoever had visited him the previous day must have been the one who told him about Sullivan and me.

  15th July

  Day Three - Transcript

  Miss Helena Chung, QC (Prosecuting Counsel)

  Ms Chung:

  DI Sayler, I’m going to ask you now about the events of 26th November last year, when you and DCI Sullivan met Miss Garrity at her apartment. You went there at around two-thirty in the afternoon, did you not?

  DI Sayler:

  Yes.

  Ms Chung:

  And could you tell the court, in your own words, what happened at that meeting?

  DI Sayler:

  When I arrived at Miss Garrity’s flat, DCI Sullivan was already there. He’d asked me to meet them both there.

  Ms Chung:

  Was that normal, for you to have meetings outside of work with DCI Sullivan and Miss Garrity?

  DI Sayler:

  Not really. It wasn’t the first time, but I wouldn’t say it was a frequent thing.

  Ms Chung:

  Not the first time. Very well. Go on.

  DI Sayler:

  He – DCI Sullivan – started to talk about the case, about Mr Leach, and I said that it was inappropriate to discuss it in Miss Garrity’s presence.

  Ms Chung:

  And how did DCI Sullivan react to that?

  DI Sayler:

  He changed the subject.

  Ms Chung:

  He changed the subject? You mean he accepted your suggestion that you shouldn’t talk about the case?

  DI Sayler:

  Yes. He went on to talk about other things.

  Ms Chung:

  Can you elucidate?

  DI Sayler:

  He said he was thinking about quitting the force.

  Ms Chung:

  DCI Sullivan told you that he was thinking about leaving the police force? Did he give a reason for considering leaving the force?

  DI Sayler:

  Yes: he said he would have to leave if he and Miss Garrity were going to get married.

  [Disturbance in the public gallery. His Honour Judge Simler calls for order.]

  Ms Chung:

  He told you that he and Miss Garrity were to be married?

  DI Sayler:

  Not exactly: he said that he wanted to marry her, but Miss Garrity said she didn’t want to get married.

  Ms Chung:

  They were arguing about it, in front of you?

  DI Sayler:

  No: well, not arguing exactly. It was more like they were joking about it. But I think he – DCI Sullivan – was serious, he wanted to get married. He meant that because of Miss Garrity’s background—”

  Ms Chung:

  By ‘background,’ you understood that he was referring to her criminal record?

  DI Sayler:

  Yes. That it would be difficult for him to remain as a serving officer.

  Ms Chung:

  I see. And was this revelation about the proposed marriage the only topic of conversation that day at Miss Garrity’s flat?

  DI Sayler:

  Yes.

  Ms Chung:

  You didn’t, for example, discuss DCI Sullivan’s views of Dame Sally Dannatt’s role in the investigation?

  DI Sayler:

  I don’t recall discussing that, no, ma’am.

  Ms Chung:

  So the whole purpose of that meeting on 26th November was so that DCI Sullivan could tell you that he was planning to leave the force and to marry Miss Garrity, and there was no other topic of conversation that day concerning Dame Sally or the case that you were working on at that time?

  DI Sayler:

  To the best of my recollection, that’s correct.

  Ms Chung:

  Thank you, DI Sayler. I have no more questions.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Monday 24th November

  A Meeting of Minds

  As agreed with Ollie and Dawn, I went into work as normal on that Monday morning, arriving just before nine. I was surprised to find nobody in the office, and had to use my passkey and code to get in. I switched on the lights and got the coffee machine warmed up. Then I checked the weekend post and a couple of emails that had come in. At five past nine, as I was loading paper into the printer, there was a loud rapping on the main doors. Two police officers. I opened up.

  “Excuse me, miss. You work here, do you?”

  I opened the door wider and indicated that they should come in. I hadn’t seen anybody guarding the entrance, and there was no sign of any ‘Do Not Cross’ tape, so I’d just carried on as normal, as instructed. The two officers came in cautiously and scanned the reception area.

  “On your own?”

  “Yes. What’s going on?”

  They looked at each other.

  “Haven’t you heard?”

  The bigger of the two spread his legs and folded his arms.

  “There’s an investigation under way. Gentleman who works here was found dead at home over the weekend.”

  “Oh, my God! That’s terrible. Who was it?”

  “A Mr Simon Leach.”

  I tried to look horrified.

  “I work for him.”

  “I’m sorry. We have been trying to contact everyone who works here, but for some reason,” he pulled out a notebook and flicked through the pages, “we don’t seem to have you listed.”

  Before I could give my pre-prepared explanation he took hold of my elbow and began to steer me towards the door.

  “I’m afraid you can’t stay here, miss. Please get your coat and bag. Oh, and turn off your computer.”

  He leaned over the counter-top and pulled the plug on the coffee machine. As we left, he switched off the lights.

  “Well, I’d better go home then,” I said.

  The shorter officer stood between me and the lift.

  “We’ll need you to make a statement.”

  “I’ve been out of the country,” I said. “At a funeral. I don’t know anything – I’ve only worked here for a couple of weeks.”

  The short officer smiled sympathetically.

  “Won’t take long,” he said.

  In my statement I stuck to the basics: when I started working at the bank, what I did there. My best dumb blonde routine. The police didn’t think I could add much to what they knew already, and I was soon back at the flat.

  If Ollie’s theory was right, sooner or later Ash Kumar would have to let slip that he knew who I really was, and that would open up a whole can of worms with Sally Dannatt. Truth to tell, neither Ollie nor Dawn had any idea how things would pan out. We got together again that evening over a takeaway and a few beers that Dawn picked up on her way. She hauled herself and the curry over the threshold.

  “Who else are we expecting?”

  She looked at me blankly.

  “That’s quite a lot of food you have there.”

  She held up the bag and inspected it critically.

  “Just us.”

  “Okay. I’ll get some plates.”

  Within seconds the previously spotless glass table was smeared with brown gunk, finger marks and scattered rice. I have no idea where all the food went. I didn’t eat much, but between them Dawn and Ollie managed to hoover up the contents of a huge number of trays and tubs and greasy brown bags. I hoped the smell wouldn’t hang around. Jack would have had a fit.

  “Right,” said Ollie, wiping his fingers and mouth on a paper napkin.

  Dawn watched him.

  “I’m still not sure about this.”

  “Too late. We’re here now.”

  She shrugged.

  “Simon Leach – dead. Did he kill himself, or was it just made to look like it? And supplementary question, if he did kill himself, why? And second supp
lementary question, if he didn’t, who had the opportunity and motive to string him up?”

  “Well it wasn’t me,” I said. “I wasn’t even in the country.”

  Ollie rolled his eyes.

  “We know it wasn’t you.”

  “That’s good,” I said, “because once the police find out who I am they might try to pin it on me.”

  “We don’t pin things on people, Cookie.”

  I laughed.

  “Stop being stupid. Dawn, any ideas?”

  She leaned back in her chair, arms folded across her increasingly ample bosom. A worry flickered through my mind that if she kept on with the regular curry nights our dining chairs might not be up to the job. I briefly considered telling her the Diet Coke wasn’t having the intended effect, but thought better of it.

  “Well, we’re getting the forensics tomorrow but the assumption seems to be that Leach killed himself. Garage was locked from the inside, nobody noticed any unusual comings and goings, security camera on the front of the house shows only him, entering the garage on his own.”

  “So why did he do it?”

  “Usual. Guilt or depression.”

  “Which?”

  “His wife says he seemed fine right up until the day before. We’re looking into his bank accounts, but nothing’s shown up so far. Toxicology might give us a clue, but the main trigger seems to have been the news about Susie – PC Dillon’s – body being found.”

  “So we think Leach was involved in her death?”

  I had to interrupt.

  “Leach wouldn’t have killed Susie. I mean, he only knew her as Susie, right? He didn’t know she was undercover. As far as he was concerned, she was his PA. He liked her, she was good at her job. Plus, he was a major wuss. Got me to get rid of a moth that had found its way into his office. Spent half his time washing his hands. Not the sort to commit murder and bury a body in the woods, in my humble opinion.”