Cut Out

by Marcia Woolf

  “A CBIB deal two and a half years ago, in which Van Helsing Pyrotechnica was bought out by the bank and almost immediately merged with Involtini di Romana, creating a nice profit for the bank and the second-largest firework display company in Europe. I’ve done my homework. You’re impressed, I can see.”

  He pulled me towards him and kissed me hard. I tried to escape but Ollie wasn’t giving in.

  “Let’s go to bed.”

  “No! What’s got into you?”

  “You, you mad woman. You haven’t told me yet who you think we arrested.”

  “It can only be one of three people. Four people worked on the deal from CBIB: Leach, and he’s dead, so you can’t have arrested him. Henning Nilsson, but he was the senior, and I suspect it was his tombstone in the store room, so not him. That leaves a guy called Archie Rocca, who’s left the bank and gone to work in Argentina, so I guess you’ve not managed to arrest him. Oh, and Lorenzo Gallo. His first big deal at the bank, and the one most likely to have put his trophy on the mantelpiece at home, where he almost certainly used it to kill Sam Dillon.”

  “Evil genius.”

  “Gallo or me?”

  Ollie laughed.

  “I thought you said you liked Gallo?”

  “I do. Did.”

  “It’s likely that Gallo was the one running the Alphabet Fraud.”

  “It’s not. Not likely, I mean. He’s the last one you’d suspect. Too nice, too polite, too pretty. Someone put him up to it, if he was. Nilsson told me he'd got Gallo working on a new project.”

  “So why kill Sam?”

  “She got suspicious. I think she worked out he was involved and just took the opportunity to have a snoop around, check him out.”

  “Not her style. She’d have told us.”

  “If you want my opinion – and it seems that you do – I’d say he asked her out for a drink and she played along to get a look around his flat. Something went wrong: he caught her going through his desk, who knows?”

  “So he kills her with the nearest thing to hand, the trophy on the mantelpiece, and then takes her body out to Epping forest.”

  “Then he realises the trophy has blood on it; tries to clean it and then thinks it makes more sense to swap it for the one in the store room.”

  “That’s why I’m here now. Got a couple of hours’ break before the team meeting. We’ve got a forensics team going over his place at the moment. Even if he’s redecorated and re-carpeted the whole place, we’ll find something. There’s his car as well. We’ll get him.”

  “Excellent. British policing at its finest. Give me a few minutes to change and we’ll go get something to eat. I feel like a night out.”

  He leaned in the bedroom doorway while I got undressed. He wasn’t happy.

  “I’d rather stay in. We could order a takeaway.”

  “I dare say. Don’t be a cheapskate.”

  “It looks like you were right about the archive box being full of papers.”

  “Does, doesn’t it?”

  “Sarcasm. We still don’t know where that box went. I’ve got two officers going through hours of CCTV footage from the time Leach drove out of the car park at the bank, trying to work out which way he took to get home. Have you got any idea how many cameras there are, in that bit of London? And how many of them don’t work?”

  “Maybe he didn’t go home. And I hate to say it, but are you sure it was Leach driving?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a straightforward question. Supposing Leach wasn’t driving the car?”

  “Why would anyone else be driving it?”

  “You’re the detective.”

  “He’s on CCTV, getting into the car and driving out.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, of course alone.”

  “Okay, so did he go straight home? I mean, given the time he left and the time his wife reported him back at the house, does that check out?”

  Ollie folded his arms and looked at me sternly, like I was the kid in class who kept putting their hand up with really difficult and not very pertinent questions.

  “He left at six forty-five. It’s a journey time of roughly forty minutes, but we don’t know what time he got back, because his wife was out that evening and didn’t get home herself until just after eleven-thirty, by which time Mr Leach was sitting in bed reading a book.”

  “So he could have been somewhere in the time between leaving the office and the time she found him in bed?”

  “That’s what we’ve been trying to establish. I don’t know what you think we do all day in the Metropolitan Police, but we’re not total fuckwits, you know. This is pretty obvious stuff.”

  I pulled on my coat and picked up my bag.

  “Okay, all under control then. Let’s get food.”

  While we were waiting for the first course I noticed that Ollie seemed quiet. He’d stopped flirting and started examining the pattern on his side plate, tracing around it with his pinky as though he was trying to pick up a speck of dust. I leaned towards him inquisitively.

  “What’re you thinking?”

  “Why do women always ask that?”

  “We’re optimists.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “When you worked with Simon Leach, what was your opinion of him? Was he a nice guy?”

  “He was polite, friendly enough. They’re all the same: your standard plastic Euro banker – navy suit, silk tie, novelty cufflinks. It’s a club and that’s the uniform. I think he got on okay with the others on the team.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Not Nilsson. He was a bit in awe of Nilsson, I think. He was quite pally with Lorenzo Gallo, and a guy called Martin Faltmeyer. Oh, and Steven Bick, but he’s only worked there for a couple of months. They were in the office on the day you did your sweep, so you must have taken their statements at the station.”

  “So, do you think if any of them had asked him to do them a favour…?”

  “A favour?”

  “Nothing dodgy. Just, you know, would he pick up a sandwich for them if he was going out to fetch one for himself? Something like that.”

  I thought about it.

  “Yes, I’d say so. He was pretty laid back most of the time. Where are you going with this?”

  “Do you think he’d make a detour to drop off an archive box at Lorenzo Gallo’s place on his way home?”

  We looked at each other across the table.

  “That’s why Gallo helped him take the box down to the basement. Leach was doing him a favour, not the other way round.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So Gallo disposes of the papers, and Sam. Very convenient for Nilsson with his 'out of the country' alibi. I bet he didn't know about Gallo's little insurance policy of the tombstone swap.”

  The waiter arrived with our starters. He was about to step away when I stopped him.

  “Excuse me: there’s been a mistake. I ordered the gurnard.”

  He inclined his head slightly.

  “Yes, madam. That is the gurnard.”

  Ollie stifled a smirk.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, fluttering my lashes at the waiter, “sometimes I have trouble understanding what it is I’m looking at.”

  He gave a little bow.

  “I sympathise, madam. It is an innovative presentation.”

  I gave him a silly me sort of look and he left us. Ollie was still amused, but he knew I wasn’t in the mood to be made a fool of.

  “If it’s any consolation,” he said, “I don’t think it looks like fish either.”

  “Well, there you are then,” I said, prodding at the innovative gurnard with the point of my knife, “it’s not what we were expecting.”

  When we got back to the flat I pulled my office handbag out of the wardrobe and extracted the newspaper. It was getting a bit yellowed and scuffed round the edges. I showed it to Ollie.

  “Is this Sam’s handwriting?”

  “Looks like i
t. Where did you get this?”

  “It was in the desk drawer – her desk drawer – when I started working there. I nearly threw it away, but then I noticed that these answers she’s filled in don’t mean anything in relation to the clues. They’re actually project code names from the bank. Telescope, Alphabet, Good Causes.”

  “This is evidence. What the hell do you think you’re doing, withholding evidence?”

  “I didn’t know what it was until a couple of days ago, and even then I wasn’t sure it was relevant. Do you remember the first list of names I brought home?”

  “Where we found the eleven percent discrepancy?”

  “Yes. The mysterious zero log on all.”

  Ollie frowned. “What are you smiling at?”

  “Haven’t you worked it out yet?”

  “What? It’s just – oh shit. It’s an anagram, isn’t it?”

  “Lorenzo Gallo. Sam had definitely worked out that he was involved.”

  He leapt up and snatched the newspaper off the table.

  “Come on, we’ve got to do something about this now. Put your coat on. I’ll go and flag down a taxi. Hurry up.”

  As we headed west towards the station he tried calling Dawn, but there was no reply. He kept checking the route. The second time he told the driver to get a move on he flashed his badge and the old boy obliged, swerving this way and that to avoid the drunks meandering around the City: office Christmas parties making their way noisily from wine bar to restaurant to pub. Squealing girls carrying bottles and balloons, tottering in glittery heels, coats flapping open to reveal low-cut mini-dresses. Men in suits, divested of ties, unsteadily arm-in-arm, talking bollocks as men do when they’re three pints down and on their way to the next three.

  “When did you work it out? The anagram?”

  I shrugged. “This evening in the restaurant. I’ve not been sitting on this information, Ollie. If I’d known earlier I’d have told you. It’s a bit cloak and dagger, if you ask me. I mean, why didn’t Sam just call you and tell you what she’d found out? What’s with all the Agatha Christie stuff?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she wasn’t sure.”

  “More likely she thought she was about to be found out. She took one hell of a risk going to Gallo's place that night.”

  He glanced out of the window, probably remembering the last time he’d seen her. Thinking about Magic. He took hold of my hand.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “the way things have gone. I wish you hadn’t got mixed up in it, but if you hadn’t...”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  I pointed through the window. “We’re nearly there. You know, Gallo couldn't have carried out the fraud on his own. He must have been siphoning off the money for Nilsson. You’ll find it in a holding account somewhere offshore. Eventually.”

  “I hope so. He’s a weird guy, Nilsson. He’ll deny it, of course.”

  “But he must have known that Gallo had killed Sam. He told me at my interview that she’d said she was leaving the country. They'd never had that conversation. He was covering for the disappearance.”

  The taxi slowed as we approached the station. Ollie patted his pockets.

  “Shit. I left my wallet on the table at your place. Got any cash?”

  I laughed and took out my purse.

  “Oddly enough, I do.”

  Ollie was distracted, impatient to get inside the building. But I thought about my impending inheritance, wondering how many fares it would pay for in a lifetime of taxi journeys – and how many of those would end outside a police station.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  December 23rd

  Homecoming

  Lorenzo was such a handsome child, everyone said so: a golden-headed boy, clever and charming. His mother was a beautiful Italian, dark haired, slender; his father a Swiss banker, urbane and distinguished. Lorenzo was the elder son: his sister Marietta, two years younger, was busy with her modelling work; then came Paolo, the baby of the family – still only nineteen; fond of waterskiing, so we were told, because people like to gloat. The sort of family that never, under normal circumstances, would find their photographs on the front page of The Evening Standard. Disgraced, shamed, humiliated. Lorenzo, Lorenzo. Where did it all go wrong? Oh, I can tell you. Believe me, I know.

  Sullivan pulled me towards him and pressed my face deep into his coat. He kissed my hair.

  “You’ll have to come back, for the trial. And you’ll want to see Dawn’s baby, won’t you?”

  I wriggled free. Another announcement; the gate was closing.

  “Yes,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t.

  I held out the Selfridges bag.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  He laughed; he was crying and laughing.

  “What’s this? A leaving present?”

  “No,” I said, “It’s something to remember me by.”

  “I don’t want you to go. It’s not too late. I want us to be together.”

  I picked up my bag and stepped away from him, towards the barrier.

  “Thank you,” I said, “for what you’ve done for Jack. I knew he needed to be in hospital. He could have died.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “Tell me,” he repeated, “tell me you don’t want me to come with you. Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll walk away.”

  They were calling my name, Passenger Garrity, report to Gate 12 where your flight is ready to depart.

  ***

  The plane was full. The steward pointed me towards an aisle seat, next to a young boy, about ten, travelling unaccompanied. I could tell he’d done it many times before: not a flicker of anxiety as we lifted off, though I was still breathing hard from my sprint through the departure area. Once the seatbelt sign went out, he pulled out a small book from the seat pocket and opened it up. He began to write: neatly-formed letters along the lines. I could see it was a diary, but I asked him anyway what he was writing. He stopped and looked up at me: an open face, pleasant, civilised. I guessed he was on his way to or from a very expensive school, just like Jack and I used to be.

  “I write my diary every day,” he explained, “so that when I’m older, I’ll be able to remember everything that’s happened to me.”

  I smiled.

  “Do you keep a diary?” he enquired, as if he knew it was unlikely.

  “No. But perhaps I should. I wonder though, it is a bit late to be starting?”

  He looked me up and down, as though he had experience of assessing a woman’s age.

  “You could,” he said, “start by remembering as much as you can from when you were little, until you get to where you are now.”

  He fixed his deep brown eyes on mine, and waited for an answer.

  “I could,” I said, “but I’m still not sure I’d know where to begin.”

  Would I begin with Papa Houlihan? With Jack and me? With that St Patrick’s night when Shirley’s drunken ranting turned to an unholy row? When shouting turned to pushing and pointy-fingered rebukes, and Jack and Hayden grappled with each other, angry and afraid of what the other might say or do? Or when I picked up the marble ashtray and brought it down on Hayden’s head with a hard and well-aimed strike? It sounds strange to say I feel proud of what I did that night, but I thought quickly, acted quickly, put the situation all to rights as best I could, and we three agreed – though Shirley never could recall with any accuracy – what occurred. I did it for us, for the family, such as we were. I held it all together, and now it’s mine. And Jack, who never was right in the head, whose moral compass unfailingly points south, in the end always does what’s best: what his big sister tells him is best for us both.

  It was unfortunate that I'd had to lie to Dora, and especially to Dirk, but in the scheme of things what difference did it make that I'd swapped one story for another? All that matters in the end is what we believe.

  I paid the driver and waited on the pavement until he’d gone. The house was as it ever had been: perfectly kept, solid, d
isplaying its imposing face to the world, curtains framing each sparkling window like half-lidded eyes. The driveway inclined upwards, and the whole edifice seemed to be looking down on me, watching. I walked slowly up the gravel pathway beside the topiary borders where not a single weed had been allowed to grow, and past the wide-striped lawns, smooth like fabric just unrolled, alternate jade and malachite, determined by some gardener’s alchemy when every other green space in the city was parched and frozen brown. Preparations had been made. The steps had been washed, the wide front door standing to attention, a painted soldier, brass medals glinting in the winter sun. The scent of polish reached me as I climbed the steps, and I paused just long enough for the door to open, silently, as if the house had been waiting. There was Dora. I hesitated, unsure, but then she let her stick fall to the floor, her arms flew wide, and a beatific smile spread across her lined old face. We hugged each other hard, and crossed the threshold into the cool marble lobby, where a magnificent Christmas tree glinted and shone as it had done every year for as long as I could remember, and always would. Dora, still beaming, stepped back and looked me up and down like a mother. Like the one I never had.

  “Welcome home, Miss Charlotte. Welcome back to the Belltower.”

  Then, puzzled, she glanced towards the entrance. She’d been anticipating, hopeful, ever since I’d told her I was on my way back, though I’d promised nothing.

  “You’ve come alone?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I have.”

  She hung her head and slowly closed the door behind us.

  “That’s a pity,” she said. “If I may say so, I was rather fond of Mr Sullivan.”

  I smiled to myself and began to walk, and then to run, up the wide shallow staircase towards my newly refurnished room.

  “Never mind,” I called over my shoulder. “Jack will be joining me soon.”