Say You Never Met Me

by Martin Yallop

  Although he had rolled up his sleeves and almost ripped off his tie as soon as he had left the police station, George was hot, sticky and uncomfortable. He had a half-formed plan to visit the taverna on the way home to renew his acquaintance with the new waitress and impress her with his city-smart, man of the worldliness, but he didn’t feel up to it now; aside from anything else he suspected that his deodorant had capitulated under the strain. He hungered for company but feared rejection if he was not properly prepared and presented. He had had enough female company for the day and his need to impress was sated for the time being.

  He noticed with distaste, that there was a dead pigeon in his usual parking place and he moved to the adjoining street hoping that the local cats would have removed the body by the next day. As he walked up to the front door of the rented house he saw a bulging carrier bag on the doorstep. It was full of fresh figs, obviously a gift from some kindly neighbour. Time would reveal which one. Munching one the sweet, seedy fruit he gratefully peeled off the sticky shirt and unsuitable suit. God, the shower was good! What a shame that the glut of figs, like every other fruit when in season, could not be spread over a longer period. A month or so with every variety – green and sweet, purple, almost black giants, green with bright red but less sweet flesh - all in quick succession, then nothing until next year. He had been spoiled by too many years of shopping in British supermarkets with their all year round supply of exotic but tasteless produce, he told himself. Figs be damned, he thought to himself. I’m turning into a lotus-eater!

  “George? George! Where the bloody hell are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” said George, pretending to mishear the question. “And how’s life treating you?”

  “Not nearly often enough, old boy! Look. Sorry to be a bit short but I’ve got a client waiting outside. How about lunch next week if that’s not too far away. Not in a police station or anything are you?”

  “No, not right now, anyway. I’ve got to be a bit quick too. This is an international call.”

  “Skipped the country to escape the long arm of the law, eh? Heard you were not exactly flavour of the month at the bank. What did you do? Empty the strong room or something?”

  “Not quite. I’m not surprised I’m persona non grata and it might even be more serious than that, but actually I’m after a bit of a favour, Maurice, for old time’s sake. I know you’re a shit-hot immigration lawyer, probably the best in London, and I’ve got a problem.” George described the circumstances of the four girls and his own involvement without saying exactly where they were now.

  “Mmm. Well, nothing’s impossible, as you know but let’s look at this. I don’t suppose any of them have British parents or grandparents? No? Thought not. They don’t seem to be in any desperately sought-after occupation. No doctors or nurses or civil engineers? Best chance as I see it would be if some UK firm were planning to set up operations in Albania… okay, and Macedonia, too… and wanted to bring in some staff for familiarisation training. Get to know the systems and culture, all that. What do you think? Could that be the case?

  “Okay, Maurice. I get the picture. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can come up with. Who got my old job at the bank?

  “Three guesses. Yup! Got it in one. Good old Nicholas. Are you still on speaking terms? Look, sorry, but I must go. Can I put you through to my secretary, Julie? Good girl. She’ll take all the details: full names, dates of birth, qualifications and all that. Great to talk to you. We’ll do that lunch soon. My treat, eh? Bye George. Speak to you soon. And don’t worry, old boy. We’ll get your four young protégées into the county all right.”

  Chapter 7

  Susanna sat at the tiny table on the pavement outside the Leadenhall Market restaurant. The weather was humid and overcast – a sort of dirty, clammy heat – and she thought longingly of her Mediterranean home. She felt jealous of George who would be enjoying the brilliantly intense light and clean heat of the sun shining from a cloudless sky. The table was covered with a cheap blue and white check cloth that further reminded her of the colours seen everywhere in the Greek islands. The miniscule folding chairs of slatted wood only provided a perch for the pertest of posteriors and were intended to discourage lingering meals and ensure a rapid turnover of clientele so that every setting generated income from at least two or three customers every lunchtime. The whole area was cramped and Susanna realised this would not be the place for an intimate meal or a private conversation.

  Jill was late as usual. In all the months they had worked together at the bank, Jill had been late for everything – business and social – but her bubbly personality and seemingly limitless capacity for work had made her popular with colleagues and superiors alike. As Susanna fidgeted on her unforgiving chair, resisting the temptation to look at her watch again, she spotted Jill weaving through the lunchtime crowds and, at the same moment, Jill saw her and waved enthusiastically. Breathlessly she wriggled on to the seat facing Susanna.

  “Sorry I’m a bit late. Had to get a fax off to Frankfurt ASAP – money is minutes as I’m always being told. Anyway, how are you? Gosh, you look brilliant! Fantastic tan! Have you lost weight? Can I ask you loads and loads of questions? I want all the details. Where have you been hiding? Tell me everything!”

  Susanna heard the alarm bell in the reference to ‘hiding’ and checked herself, recalling George’s many warnings about the need to be discreet about their whereabouts. She had been about to tell Jill about all the excitement at the airport but checked herself before connecting herself to a location that might have been described in the media.

  “We’ve got a wonderful little house on a tiny island. I’ve probably had to lose weight to avoid sinking it. It’s really beautiful. We live in a little village with a lovely view overlooking a bay with fishing boats and all that sort of thing. It’s like a post card and that’s why I’m not going to tell you exactly where it is or we’d have half the bank clamouring for free holidays. Tell me what’s going on in HR. Who got George’s job. Not bloody Nicholas, I hope. And who got mine?”

  “Yes he did. Nick the d… Well, you don’t have to guess what we all call him. He’s had three secretaries – in the purely organisational sense, of course; at least as far as anybody knows. Word is he’s just another nancy boy. Current one is a temp. I can’t remember her name, Thelma or Wilma or something. Nice enough guy but not the sharpest pencil in the box, if you know what I mean; bit lacking in direction for director. Not a patch on good old George. How is he, by the way?”

  “Great, great; working on the all over tan on some beach right now, I expect. And not so much of the ‘old’. He’s a long way from being over the hill, if you know what I mean.”

  “Would you ladies like a nice aperitif?” The waiter had appeared without their noticing and stood, pen poised over his pad.

  “Not for me,” said Jill. “But don’t let me stop you.”

  “Nor me. Wine? White okay?” And to the waiter, “A bottle of Frascati, please, while we look at the menu.”

  “How long are you here for and where are you staying?”

  “At Mum’s. She’s going into hospital on Thursday for an operation. How long I’m staying depends on what they find. Unless the lump is benign – just a cyst or something – which is not what they think - they’ll have to do a mastectomy and that could be a bit emotional so I’ll stay longer than I originally hoped. It all depends. To be honest, Jill, I’m trying to keep a bit of a low profile. I don’t want a lot of people fussing around and asking me for drinks and that sort of thing. I need to concentrate on Mum.” The conversation continued until two steaming bowls of sauce-covered pasta arrived and the waiter had flourished Parmesan and pepper in inadequate quantities.

  “Gosh! I can’t eat all this. Look, Susie, I hope I haven’t put my foot in it but I told a couple of the others that I was meeting you for lunch. I was sort of preparing the ground for the possibility that I might be a bit late back. Sorry if I’ve ca
used you a problem. I didn’t think.”

  While her mother was packing on Thursday morning, Susanna took three telephone calls in quick succession. The first was from someone in the bank’s pensions department enquiring where they could contact George to ask him what he wanted to do with his share of the fund. She had been expecting that question from someone and she said he was travelling a lot just now and she would ask him to get in touch. It was fortunate that that call was the first because it gave her the opportunity to practice fielding the tougher questions in the next call. She recognised the voice of the chairman’s secretary almost at one.

  “Hello, Susanna,” said Jan. “How are you?” And without waiting for a reply, “Could you hold the line one second. Sir Alec wants to speak to you.” She was gone before Susanna could say anything, leaving a five second silence; just long enough for a deep breath before the bank’s chairman was on the line.

  “Hello, Samantha. How are you? Look, I’ve got to talk to George. Where can I get hold of him?”

  “Susanna,” said Susanna. “I’m sorry, Sir Alec but he asked me not to say.” She braced herself for the onslaught and was relieved when it didn’t come

  “Yes, of course, my dear. Apologies but this is business, you understand. It’s very important and I must speak to him. Get him to call me as soon as he can, will you?” Susanna took another deep breath.

  “I’ll ask him, Sir Alec but I’m not his secretary any more you know. Come to that, he’s not your employee either. And he’s not even in the country.”

  “I know that! Look, just tell him it’s very important. And urgent, or soon will be. There’s a lot of money involved. As soon as he can. Please.” The line went dead. She only had time to curse Jill under her breath and she had barely turned away from the telephone before it rang again.

  “I want to speak to George, please.”

  “He’s not here. Who is this?”

  “It’s his wife.”

  “Oh!”

  “And that must be Susanna. Before I tell you what I think of you, get this into your little head. He’s not getting his hands on the house or anything else and I want half of everything else and he owes me for the bills I’ve paid for him. He shouldn’t think he can hide forever. Now I know where to find you, I know I can get to him. Tell him that. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, you little slut!” Two minutes later, Susanna was pale, still shaking and ready to murder Jill.

  “Who was that, dear?” asked her mother.

  “What? Oh nobody. I mean the pensions people at the bank. They want George to tell them what to do with his money in the pension fund.”

  “He’s not old enough for his pension is he?”

  “No, but he’s got to decide whether to transfer it to a new employer or whatever.”

  “You said he wasn’t working.”

  “He‘s not, but they need to know whether he wants to leave it there or put it in a private scheme or something. Anyway, have you finished packing, Mum?”

  Chapter 8

  About the same time that Susanna was taking calls from the bank, George was making a call to a former colleague there.

  “Hello, Nicholas. It’s me, George.”

  “George! Bloody hell! You’re the last person I expected to hear from!”

  “Yes, well… Look, there’s no easy way of saying this. I’m after a teensy favour; not for me of course but for someone, well four girls, actually, who are in deep trouble…or will be if we don’t help them. It’s something you could easily do with hardly any effort and no risk of any comeback on you. And you owe me, don’t you, Nicholas? For a start, you wouldn’t have that job if it weren’t for me, not to mention a few times when I’ve covered up embarrassing little slips for you. Shall I tell you what I need?”

  “Okay, George. No need to labour the point. Tell me the story of your four totties. But no promises, mind.”

  “Thanks, Nicholas. I’ve always said you’re a good bloke. Now, you’ll remember that the bank was looking at opening a Balkan office and one of the places under consideration was Albania. I don’t think the project was ever officially abandoned so, technically, it’s still alive. All you have to do is write a letter to Maurice Blomer at Potting and Cutts saying that you want to bring over a nucleus of office staff for up to six months for familiarisation training – procedures, communications, culture – all that sort of stuff – so that they’ll be ready to rock and roll if the Balkan office project does go ahead.”

  “So what’s the real reason? I can’t believe you are into people trafficking or need four hand-maidens to look after your needs.”

  “You’re not far off the mark, as it happens. The girls were being trafficked and it went wrong. To stay out of gaol, they will have to tell the police what they know about the criminal smuggling ring and then they can’t go home – which is Albania for three of them; the fourth is from Macedonia – without the probability that they will be badly beaten up, or worse. The only solution I can think of is to get them to the UK and that means work permits, or at least visas. That’s where you come in.”

  “This is all very public spirited of you, George. Why exactly are you their knight in shining armour?”

  “Well, because there was a hostage situation when their illegal trip went pear-shaped. In fact, Susanna was the hostage and it was all rather nasty. She could have been killed but now she feels some responsibility for them, some sort of shared experience thing, I suppose. I’m not sure I should tell you that, so keep it to yourself.”

  “That was Susanna? It was on the news here two or three days ago but I didn’t hear a name. In fact, they didn’t give one as I recall. That was really her? Okay. I wouldn’t normally do this kind of thing but give me the details and I’ll write your letter. Just don’t expect me to actually put them to work though, will you?”

  “No. I don’t think it will come to that. Thanks, Nicholas. I owe you a pint. Or two.”

  The road to the taverna took George past a newly-erected advertising hoarding – yet another desecration of the countryside, he thought. The hoarding carried an advertisement for a private college and depicted three teenagers in their early thirties smiling inanely and posing woodenly while staring at something outside the picture. One was pointing something out to the others as if drawing their attention to a distant mountain peak or an approaching aircraft. The ‘point at something to give the shot interest’ technique had been very popular in home movies a generation before and had figured prominently in all his father’s cinematographic epics of family holidays. There had been one in a houseboat on the Thames near Reading. The houseboat had been a converted World War II landing craft painted sky blue, the colour widely used in Greece. If that houseboat been the first maritime excursion of a future Greek shipping magnate, it had not been very successful because the boat broke down on the second day and, despite his father’s Herculean efforts in a cramped and oily engine compartment, had never started again. They had been towed back to their willow-hung moorings where the overpowering smell of diesel had mingled with the damp river odour of rotting vegetation to give George a lifelong dislike of both. He remembered clearly being frightened by the purposeful approach of successive flotillas of smoothly-gliding, black-eyed swans that had seemed sinister and enormous to a seven year old who did not understand their curiosity and hunger: another lifelong phobia to be kept secret. And why was the water so green and sluggish and thick? All water in his life so far had come quick and clear from a tap or was blue-green-grey and incessantly mobile at the seaside. Determined not to be depressed by these disturbing phenomena, George had responded to parental urgings and spent much of his time swabbing the decks of the houseboat with a mop doused in a bucket of water drawn from the river over side. The water was a lot less threatening when spread thinly over pale blue paintwork. For this activity he had worn his new, navy-blue and white, hoop-striped tee shirt. His mother had thought this had a nautical air. Although he had n
ot understood the reference at the time, his father had wondered whether a mask, a jemmy, and a bag marked ‘swag’ might not complete the ensemble. The swabbing shots had featured prominently in edited holiday highlights shown to adoring – or, possibly, terminally bored – aunts and uncles at family get-togethers for several years. Other memorable images had included some of his mother pointing out of shot to draw the viewers’ attention to an approaching alien spaceship. The soundtrack had been separately recorded and was added to the much edited and spliced film as a voice-over that matched the action only at the very beginning of the epic but George’s father had apparently been oblivious to the fact that his commentary described his wife as a popular local beauty spot only spoiled by an unsightly erection…[pause]… a block of council flats. George could not remember any music – he could not remember any music at all in his parents’ lives – but perhaps the Reading holiday had somehow been the inspiration of subsequent visits to the annual Bank Holiday weekend rock festivals there.