Tightrope

by Marnie Riches

  Should she tell him how panic had gripped her when she’d realised the crane was missing? To most people it would be just a dusty folded bird, but for her it held a special memory of her father. A gift from him that could never be replaced. No. Maybe she’d imagined it was gone. She’d been in a bad way when she got home. It made sense to double check she hadn’t moved it absent-mindedly before raising the alarm that someone was trying to freak her out or keep tabs on her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s really impressive though. And tactile. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Come on. I’ll show you those bank records and then we can run through yesterday’s footage.’

  ‘So, Spartacus Holdings,’ he said, pointing at the screen.

  Bev sat on an old dining chair at his side, her battered nether regions stinging thanks to the almost non-existent upholstery. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Big chunks of money come in from various companies, yeah? Just over a quarter of a mill, in six months. I googled those companies, right?’

  Bev scanned the generic-sounding names. They looked like corporates. ‘Maybe he does consultancy work on the side. A lot of these MPs supplement their income with private work. They sit on boards. He does have twenty years’ of banking experience behind him.’

  ‘No! Listen! All of those companies. Data International Ltd, Fisher, Fraser and Delaware. Cranbourne Consulting. All of them . . . they’re owned by one guy. A business magnate called Matthew Stephens, right? And guess what?’ He brought up a different tab that showed an article in the FT.

  Scanning the contents, Bev started to nod.

  Owner of Stephens Biotech plc was delighted today when his company’s stock soared after parliament greenlit funding for research into the editing of human genes. The groundbreaking research, developed to help eliminate hereditary disease, has been championed by the Chinese, but shadow Minister for Science, Jerry Fitzwilliam, said it was high time the UK reclaimed its mantle as a leading . . .

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ Bev said, smiling wryly. ‘Cash for questions, or whatever they call it. That sort of thing.’

  ‘And cop this,’ Doc said, bringing up another screen from a leading science journal. He poked at a paragraph of densely written text. ‘Stephens Biotech has been done for fudging research in the past when the company had its main labs overseas. Their lead researcher retracted six articles from scientific journals after he was rumbled for paying for fake reviews. The researcher was sacked, so Matthew Stephens brushed the dirt right off himself and his company. But I’ll bet this guy’s not so clean.’

  ‘Certainly not if he’s bunging a politician backhanders to influence parliament and make it rain millions of quid’s worth of funding,’ Bev said. ‘Where does all this dodgy cash go then? Into Spartacus Holdings? What is that?’

  Doc raised an eyebrow. ‘Offshore account in the Bahamas,’ he said. ‘Angela Fitzwilliam’s down as the director. Clever.’

  The hairs stood up on Bev’s arms. ‘Angie? But she claims not to know a thing about their money set-up. She’s done nothing but cry poverty. That’s why she’s got me working on a promise. Apparently, she’s lucky if Jerry gives her enough cash for the shopping.’

  Folding one long, spidery leg over another, Doc stretched and yawned. ‘Well, she could be feeding you a line – maybe she wants to bring him down, get him out of the picture and walk off into the sunset with her tennis instructor and Fitzwilliam’s hard-embezzled cash. Or else he’s nominated her as a director without her knowledge, to keep the heat off him. Which sounds more likely to you?’

  Shrugging, Bev bit her lip. ‘I think she’s straight. But my ex took me to the cleaners, I just don’t trust anyone.’

  There was that hurt expression on his face again. A tautness in his features. Narrowed eyes. Surely he wasn’t going to cry.

  ‘I trust you, like,’ she added. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Do you?’ He snatched up a sponge stress ball and started to squeeze it until the skin covering his knuckles bleached out. ‘Is that why you didn’t tell me you’re a sex addict?’ Clicking his mouse, he started to run the shaky, muffled footage from the X-S Club. There was a glimpse of Phillipe d’O, grabbing her crotch. There were the other members, screwing in the hallway. There was a tiny man being fellated by a giant of a woman. The film sputtered out when her handbag and clothes were finally stashed in the cloakroom, but not before the camera had caught a brief shot of her, topless and grinning.

  ‘I’ve told you. My private life has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘You’re ill and you’ve not told Mo about this. This is way more than an origami habit, Bev! For Christ’s sake! You could get murdered. Is this why Rob ditched you?’

  But Bev was not going to engage with this intrusive crap. ‘Show me what you’ve got from the dinner date. Have I got enough to show to Angie? I don’t want to have to go through that again with her sleaze of a husband.’

  ‘Are you going to ignore me?’ Doc asked, scrolling backwards to footage of the private room in the fine-dining establishment.

  Balling her fist, grinding her teeth, Bev wrestled with her emotions. Indignant outrage ; guilt ; the need to confess.

  ‘Rob didn’t ditch me because of anything I did, you twat.’ Her angry words tumbled from her mouth like speeding molten lava. ‘Don’t pass judgement on something you know nothing about.’ She poked her friend hard in his pigeon chest, watching him deflate as though he’d been punctured by her touch. ‘I’ve had my entire world destroyed by my shit of an ex, right? Like gaslighting and controlling me for years wasn’t enough! He stole everything from me. Everything! And ever since, he’s been blowing my hard-earned cash on cheap slags and living high off the hog.’ She thought, then, about Jerry Fitzwilliam’s hog-like features and found she was shaking with anger ; choking back tears, not just for herself but for Angie Fitzwilliam and all other wronged women. ‘I didn’t feel strong enough to fight. All I could do was accept my fate for the time being. Crawl under a stone and hope, over time, I could lick my wounds, regroup, come back at him when I’ve sorted myself out. The only means of survival I had left after he’d ruined me were these two hands.’ She held her hands aloft. Pointed to her head. ‘This brain, and the ability to graft. But even then my options are limited, because of what he did. I can’t go back to a marketing director’s salary and perks. He had me blackballed. So, now I’m a two-star budget PI. I’m struggling to stay afloat because the man I trusted most robbed all my money and my reputation, and took from me the one beautiful, precious thing in my life that I thought was mine unconditionally. So don’t lecture me about my behaviour. Whatever I’ve done, Rob’s done far worse.’

  Doc was all awkward arms and legs, folded into his typing chair. His lips were trembling and almost pale blue, as though he were allergic to conflict. It didn’t stop him, though. ‘You lied to me.’

  ‘I didn’t lie. I was economical with the truth. It’s my business and mine alone what I do when the sun goes down. I don’t need a father, James Shufflebotham. One was enough. I’m a big girl now. So how about you keep your well-meaning neb out of my shit and just show me that footage from the restaurant? The sooner we give Angie what she needs, the sooner we both get paid.’

  Doc pressed play on the filmed evidence. As she watched, Bev’s own discomfort was instantly forgotten. In tampering with her handbag, Jerry had inadvertently knocked the recording equipment so that the sound was muffled and the camera had only recorded great shots of the empty chaise longue. She felt the blood drain from her lips, leaving them prickling with ill portent. ‘I don’t believe it. We’ve got nothing. I’m gonna have to meet him again.’

  ‘Listen. You’re on your own, now,’ Doc said, holding his hands up. ‘This guy’s too well-connected for my liking. I’m not saying I don’t need the money, but you can’t even pay me more than twenty at a time.’

  ‘Hey! I’m giving you what I can, when I can, right? I’ve got to cover the travel to London. I need to eat! Twenty’s all I can
manage for now. Angie promised there’ll be cash. If they’re as loaded as that Coutts account suggests, she’ll be able to pay, once she’s got her hands on it.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. Assuming the cops don’t freeze their assets. And it’s not just about the money. I’ve got a criminal record, Bev. If Fitzwilliam gets wind that I’m hacking his shit, what’s the bet I’ll get my collar felt? I’ll go down. Imagine what all those meatheads in prison will do to a streak of piss like me. They’ll eat me for breakfast! Imagine what my arsehole folks will say!’

  ‘Please, Doc!’ Bev could see her opportunity to pay off her credit card debts and settle the mounting bills slipping away with every word that came from her friend’s downturned mouth.

  He merely shook his head. ‘Sorry. I’m out.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Doc

  The knocking on his front door was insistent. But not the pounding he would expect if it were bad news or heavies in the employ of Jerry Fitzwilliam, waiting to chop his hacking fingers off. Doc looked through the spyhole, his heart a-flutter, and opened the door. Bev was standing before him, carrying a box.

  She pushed past him, advancing down the hall and into his living room. ‘Get a brew on and get the Jaffa Cakes out. You’re gonna need sustenance when you see this.’

  Pulling his bedroom door shut, praying she hadn’t seen the mess, he called out after her. ‘You’ve been dodging my calls for three bloody days. I thought you were sulking because I said I wouldn’t do any more snooping. Now you show up all Mrs Chirpy? You been off on a sex-bender again?’

  ‘Shut your face, Doc. I was sourcing something.’ Bev sat on the sagging sofa. Pushed the computer magazines and marijuana paraphernalia on his coffee table aside, laying the box down reverentially. It was wrapped in brown paper. ‘If this doesn’t convince you of my good intentions, I don’t know what will.’ That smile was still there.

  With a tingle of anticipation, Doc took a seat next to her, staring at the package.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  Frowning, Doc’s nimble fingers made short shrift of the poorly wrapped gift. But it didn’t matter that it hadn’t been expertly presented with bows and ribbons. He gasped, feeling suddenly light-headed. He could feel an asthma attack coming on. Rifled through the mess for his inhaler and took a sharp toot on the Ventolin. ‘Oh my God. Oh. My. God.’ Gazing at the image of Star Wars’ Darth Maul – head and neck, rendered faithfully in black and red Lego on the cover of the box, complete with tribal Sith markings and horns. ‘This is the motherlode of all Star Wars Lego, man. Do you realise that? I mean . . .’ He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to find the words. Savouring the endorphins that rushed around his body, making him feel like a King of Men, or at least, he acknowledged, a Lord Among Dorks. ‘How the hell did you afford this? I thought you were stony broke. This is, like—’

  ‘Sophie and Tim can wait for their rent,’ Bev said, sinking back into the sofa’s squishy cushions. ‘I whacked in an invoice for some work I’ve been doing for my old boss and asked him to push through payment. It’s my way of investing in this case. Speculating to accumulate, and all that. Investing in me and you.’ She nudged him and winked. ‘Was I on the money, then?’

  Doc put his hand over his mouth, grinning beneath it. ‘A Darth Maul bust. An actual limited edition, rare-as-fuck Darth Maul bust. Jesus. You’ve just given a Lego addict the equivalent of a junkie getting the keys to a Colombian coke lab. You’re the bomb, Bev.’ He desperately wanted to lean in and kiss her on the cheek for this literally breathtaking show of generosity. But, of course, he never would. And as he studied the light that shone in her eyes, he privately admitted that she hadn’t even needed to bribe him. He would have relented in the end, he knew, simply because he wanted more than anything to make Bev happy. He would never have let her tread a dangerous path alone. But, of course, he’d never tell her any of these things because Bev wore knackered old trainers and jeans for him, not stilettos and a tight skirt.

  ‘Now, will you please hack that bastard’s cloud? I had a rendezvous with her in Altrincham Aldi. Angie, I mean,’ Bev continued. ‘She had fresh bruising on her back, Doc. He’d punched her in the—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Taking another shot from his inhaler, Doc imagined Bev taking this rare Lego kit he’d coveted for years away from him, along with her friendship. He couldn’t let either of those things happen. He held his hands up. Itching to get started on those polythene bags full of black and red bricks. ‘Whatever, man. I’ll do it.’

  Three hours later, when his legs and bottom had gone quite numb and he’d smoked his way through three strong joints, he realised he was desperate for a pee, something to eat and a break from his new obsession. Doc sat at his desk with a party-sized bottle of Dandelion and Burdock and a cold Cornish pasty. Feeling that it would be worth every night spent sleeping in a cell if he got caught, providing he could keep his new Lego prize, he started to reach through his keyboard into the secret back alleys of the information superhighway. The firewalls of Jerry Fitzwilliam’s internet provider were flame retardant to the uninitiated, but Doc was no hacking virgin.

  By the time he’d finished his pasty, two bags of Quavers and a packet of Maltesers for pudding, he’d accessed Fitzwilliam’s entire electronic world – or at least, the world contained on his laptop and home computer, connected to the cloud.

  As he downloaded every email exchange, every photo, every document and spreadsheet onto a USB hard drive plugged into his own machine, he sang at the top of his voice about blazing torches and sacred chants, as the hordes worshipped the beast. Iron Maiden’s finest moment perfectly described this desk-based IT triumph.

  ‘666 . . .’ Heavy metal fingers bent into devil’s horns, Doc told the screen that he had the fire, the force and the power to make his evil—

  ‘Fuck! No!’

  Just as he removed the USB stick from his machine’s port, his screen started to flash in bright shades of neon, showing strings of corrupted code spooling ever down, down, down. Symbols. Letters. Worse than the number of the beast.

  ‘Shit!’ Switching his machine off, Doc panted heavily, feeling the warmth drain from his face. Switched it back on again, praying for a normal reboot. But there was the code, still whizzing down his screen. Lights flashing.

  He unplugged his machine from the wall, staring at the keyboard as though an assassin had doused it liberally with anthrax.

  Throwing clothes into a rucksack, he pinned his phone between his shoulder and ear. ‘Pick up for Christ’s sake.’

  Bev answered just before her voicemail message kicked in. All bright and breezy and, ‘How’s it going, partner?’

  ‘I’m in deep shit, Bev. Shut up and listen. I’ve just hacked Fitzwilliam’s cloud. He has malware installed on his devices that are designed to infect anybody hacking his shiz. Don’t ask me how. It’s beyond even me how he’s bypassed the cloud. I’m guessing this is some high-level spy-type crap.’ He was struggling to breathe. Feeling light-headed again. Where was his inhaler?

  ‘Slow down, Doc. Have you been smoking too much?’

  ‘Nah, man. I’m outa here. I bet they’re tapping this bloody phone already.’ He could hear his own voice, amping up into hyperdrive ; rattling the words off as fast as they popped into his head. ‘Be careful, Bev.’

  Ending the call, after explaining to her he’d send the USB, he broke apart his phone and destroyed the SIM card in his microwave. The last things he packed into a separate holdall were the Darth Maul kit, a bag of home-grown and his limited edition vinyl pressing of Iron Maiden’s Killers. Even his favourite Slipknot CDs were surplus to requirement. Some MI6 ninja could kick down the door at any moment. Come on, Doc! Get a wriggle on, man.

  Before he headed off to hitch the first ride he could get down the M6, hoping to make it to his folks’ place in the home-counties cultural dust bowl of Chalfont St Giles, he placed the USB hard drive into a Jiffy bag and addressed the package to Bev. Placing every stamp he ha
d in his wallet on the front, praying it would be virus-free and would get to her – providing her post wasn’t being intercepted and read – he slid the package into the postbox at the end of the street. Looked up, to see if there were any CCTV cameras in sight.

  ‘Oh, you’re kidding,’ he said, gazing into the lens of one that was hanging from the nearest lamp post. It seemed to be focused directly on him.

  Sirens wailed on the air, suddenly, coming swiftly closer. Were they coming for him? He started to walk briskly in the direction of Washway Road, where he might find an accommodating van driver heading south, via the M60.

  Sticking out his thumb. Heart pounding. Chest tightening.

  The police cars came into view. Swung a right into the main road, blues and twos flashing. A dizzying din. And they were speeding straight for him.

  CHAPTER 17

  Boo

  ‘I’m moody?’ Mitch said, slamming down his pint so that his stout sloshed out, drowning the cardboard coaster beneath. ‘Difficult? Are you kidding me?’ He angled his body away from her. Pointedly looked through the window at the view of the river and the castle above. ‘How is adoring you difficult behaviour?’

  Though she didn’t even have a hangover, Boo’s head throbbed. And the lime and soda wasn’t quelling the constant waves of nausea, exacerbated by the pub’s smell of second-hand alcohol and roast dinners.

  ‘Look, I didn’t mean to insult you.’ She reached over to rub his upper arm in a show of contrition. Wishing she could unsay those accusatory words. Hating herself for managing this badly.

  He jerked his arm away. Still staring up at the castle. ‘Well, you’re doing a good enough job. First you accuse me of eyeballing those girls at the bar, when I clearly wasn’t. Now, I’m moody and difficult.’ Finally, he turned to her with glassy eyes. ‘That cuts me to the core, when all I want to do is make you happy.’