by Rae Shaw
Razzles was a mistake. She wished she was somewhere quieter. Cooler, too. The swelter of bodies in close proximity burnt her skin. It seemed a ludicrous way to spend time – squeezed into a confined space and blasted with loud voices and music when you could be outside in the fresh air. Digging in the dirt was more fun, as was running with Nicky.
She finished another glass of wine, then weaved through the sea of bodies to Mark's side. ‘I want to leave,’ she whispered into his ear. She had to say it twice before he heard her correctly.
He glared. ‘Leave. It's not even midnight.’
‘I don't like it. The whole atmosphere is a tawdry, chauvinistic power play. I want to go.’
He heard her clearly that time.
‘Who's your friend, Mark?’ a bearded man asked, swaying, leering at her sparking sequins, especially the ones that decorated her bosom.
‘My sister. Hands off.’
The intruder crashed into a table and his beer spilt over his shirt.
Jackson filled the empty space. ‘Okay?’
‘Sure,’ Mark said. ‘Hogan is a little worse for wear.’ The stumbling Hogan was jettisoned from Jackson's inner sanctuary by the minder. Jackson grunted something incomprehensible but seemed satisfied.
‘I'm afraid we have to go. Ellen is a little tired.’ Mark's excuse ensured Ellen bore the brunt of her brother's annoyance.
‘It's been a pleasure to have your company, Miss Clewer,’ Jackson said pleasantly.
‘Devera. Ellen Devera.’
Mark's body stiffened, just as she expected.
‘My grandfather's name,’ she said unnecessarily.
It was their mother's maiden name, too, but she wouldn't mention Deidre in the same breath as their beloved, late grandfather. She hadn’t changed it legally. By not uttering their name, she maintained a distance from her immediate family.
Jackson's eyebrows furrowed. ‘Perhaps you should take her home, Mark.’
‘Too much drink,’ Mark muttered, apologetically.
Ellen fumed; they treated her like a child. Mark bundled her through the crowd, passed the revellers to the exit.
The frosty atmosphere between them didn't thaw in the taxi. Mark took her to his apartment and the spare bed. She was too pissed to care where she slept. She sent a text to Nicky, warning him she wasn't going to join him for the Sunday morning run. She lay rigid and listened to Mark potter about as he readied himself for bed. This could be her home. She needed to save money; Mark's offer was too good to ignore.
She twisted on her side, drifting, never quite sure if she was awake or inebriated; she came face to face in the dim light with the boxes and witnessed the spectacle of her father perched on one of them, drumming his fingers on the lid. His sunken eyes formed dark pits, and below his ragged nose were his swollen lips. That was how she remembered him from the last visit – patched up bruises. Trapped alone with the vacant expression of an apparition, she grappled with nausea. He might as well be a ghost, except Bill wasn't dead.
‘Go away,’ she said to the shadow.
The hallucination wavered, then vanished.
In the morning, she called for a cab to take her home. Mark wasn't up. She left a note.
I'll move in with you if you get rid of those boxes. I don't want to see them.
11
Julianna
Julianna hot-desked nearly every day. She generally either hijacked a spare workstation in the security office in the basement, which was a ghastly pit with no windows, or she hopped upstairs to the floor where the internal auditors worked and borrowed one of their desks. She was typing up a lengthy report when her mobile rang.
‘Julianna?’
Her heart sank slightly. ‘Yep. What can I do for you, Chris?’ She saved the document and closed the lid of her laptop.
‘Sorry for the short notice, but Tess had to dash off with a vomiting bug—’
‘That’s what happens when you share a car with babies—’
He emitted a low rumbling that resembled laughter. ‘Probably. I need you to collect Hettie from her gallery A.S.A.P. and take her home.’
‘She's working?’
‘Just this week. New exhibits going up. Tess is very apologetic.’
‘I understand. I take it there's a car waiting downstairs?’ Speed was essential. The boss wouldn’t tolerate his wife being unmarked at a public venue. Julianna sped along as quickly as the traffic allowed. She parked outside the gallery and found Hettie in the back office, somewhat bemused by Julianna's appearance.
‘Rabbit’s hat? Tess in and you out?’
‘Tess really isn’t well. So, I jumped out of the rabbit hole,’ Julianna said. ‘Backup girl to the rescue.’ But no cape; she didn't come with accessories.
‘I thought she looked a little pale earlier. I'm about finished. I need to get home.’
Julianna helped Hettie lock up and set the surprisingly complex alarm system. The traffic was especially horrendous, and rain lashed the windscreen. Winter crept closer every day, adding to the sense of bleakness. The gloom spilt into the car. Not being able to see Hettie's face perhaps made Julianna unusually trusting. Why not come clean with her? It wasn't as if Hettie hankered after Mark. She had had some dealings with him, was possibly party to some information about his past, things Mark wasn't happy revealing to Julianna, but might have done with his attractive client.
‘Mrs Haynes, I thought you should know, well...’ Julianna lost momentum before she had uttered a complete sentence.
‘Go on, Julianna. The road is long, as they say,’ Hettie said, encouragingly.
‘Mark Clewer and I are in a relationship.’ Julianna exhaled and waited for a reply.
‘Okay. He once was my accountant. It’s not something that bothers me. I get the feeling that my previous dealings with Mark are bothering you though.’ Hettie leaned towards the centre of the car and came into view of the mirror.
‘We’re not in love or anything.’ There was nothing romantic about what she did with Mark in her bedroom, only that it served a mutual purpose. ‘But I do care about him. Can we just be honest with each other, Mrs Haynes?’
‘Sure, fire away.’
‘I’ve being seeing Mark since the gala ball. But my question goes back to before them. To be blunt, I drove you and your husband to the clinic, remember?’
‘Ah. We spoke about Mark in the car on the way, didn’t we? Whoops.’
‘Yes. You implied Jackson was being less than kind about how he was treating Mark.’
‘I did?’ Hettie feigned surprise. She had shifted back in her seat again, hiding whatever expression was painting her face. ‘I probably over-egged it, that's all.’
‘I know about his father being in prison for murder. I assume that was what you were referring to.’
‘Yes, naturally,’ Hettie said slowly. ‘That's quite a lot to get to grips with, isn't it, on top of everything else. Poor Mark.’
On top of everything else? Hettie hadn't known about Mark's father. Julianna now knew she and Jackson had been discussing something else. Julianna had unwittingly told Hettie about Mark's father. Jackson would not be pleased. There again, Jackson had not laid down his own agenda and what was she expected to do with the sporadic amounts of information flying in her direction? Duck or charge at them?
‘He's so frustrated by the lack of closure.’ Damn Jackson's secretive nature. Julianna decided to go for bust. ‘His mother insists on taking the case to appeal. She's driving him nuts.’
‘Domineering, then. Oh dear.’
Julianna blinked. She hadn't expected such a harsh comment from Hettie. It implied Mark was weak-willed. Wasn't Hettie somewhat in the same boat with regard to Jackson? Pot calling kettle black?
The traffic moved off and Julianna tracked the leading car's brake lights.
‘I guess she is. I've not met her.’ Julianna wasn't keen to either. ‘Or Ellen.’
‘The sister? I have. At Razzles. Sweet girl. Out of her depth in London. I thi
nk her ambitions lie elsewhere. She's very keen to become an archaeologist. Jackson has this friend she should meet.’
Hettie was far more perceptive than she let people think. It was what made her a good artist. All those observations were filed away and brought to life in paints or inks, occasionally sculptures. She had talented hands and observant eyes, an excellent combination.
Julia pulled up outside the house. ‘So, with regard to Mark, I shouldn't be worried about him? I mean, what Jackson implied was there was things he didn't know—’
‘Your question poses a dilemma. If Jackson wanted you to know, he'd have said, wouldn't he? You see, I know that it's to do with Mark's job in Manchester, and that it troubles Jackson that Mark hasn't pieced things together – he doesn't think it's his responsibility to tell Mark. But frankly, beyond knowing that Mark hasn't, I've no clue as to what Mark is supposed to know. Jackson doesn't tell me everything. He is very protective of me, as you might have noticed.’
Julianna turned to face her. ‘Doesn't it get too much, this cocoon he keeps you in? I'd feel smothered.’
Hettie’s hand was on the door handle. ‘Oh, that’s why I love him. Married him. I crave that kind of control. I'm quite capable of doing things my way, don't get me wrong. People don’t get to see all of Jackson, I do, somebody has to, and I will always have that advantage. I didn't tell him I was working today. He'll be a tad mad. It won't change anything between us, because love, whether you want it or not, generally has no limits. I must get in. Children calling.’ She grabbed her briefcase. ‘Don’t browbeat Mark. He'll open up in his own time. He's got a lot on his plate, bless him.’
Trouble was, unless Julianna could get him to open up to her, their relationship was probably doomed to failure. On the way to her house, she picked up groceries. She wanted to cook something special for Mark; he was visiting.
She welcomed him in with a kiss and a glass of wine. From the way he shovelled food into his mouth, he was hungry for food, and probably something else, but he would have to be patient.
‘The situation with Ellen? This moving in, has she agreed?’ she asked, grappling with the spaghetti on her plate.
He shrugged. ‘She's not exactly said no. I reckon, given her income, she should be able to save enough for the first year of living costs. I'm prepared to chip in, if she would let me. I don't think she likes the idea of loans.’
‘Don't blame her. That's very generous of you.’
He spooled his spaghetti around a fork. ‘I didn't treat her well when she was a kid. Ignored her.’
‘She turned out all right. Can't be that bad.’
‘I guess.’ He paused, spaghetti dangling off his fork. ‘I worry about her drinking. Her lack of friends. I took her to the club, but nothing came of it. She asked to leave. I thought she might get on with Hettie.’
By raking up family issues, Ellen was in danger of dragging Mark into a black hole, especially as the young woman refused to discuss anything to do with her parents, which riled Mark, obviously. He needed to share the burden with somebody. While Ellen might have cut herself free, Mark refused to. Or couldn't. Was there a difference?
‘What happened when you left home? Did you not want to stay in contact with Ellen?’
‘Student life is rather selfish. Then, I went back to Manchester, but avoided home. We've an uncle, Tim, Dad's brother. He's so different. He washed his hands of Dad long before the murder. He offered a sanctuary from it all. I'd occasionally see Ellen at his house. We weren't talking much, though.’
His appetite out did hers. He had eaten half his plate before Julianna had a chance to tackle hers. ‘You lived elsewhere?’
‘Salford, in lodgings. The job was demanding. A steep learning curve. Too steep. I discovered things I shouldn't have done.’
Julianna's ears were on fire. ‘Oh,’ she said, as nonchalantly as she could while her heart thumped heavily. She avoided Mark's eyes.
‘Yeah.’ He chewed slowly. ‘Shit, basically. I uncovered criminal activities.’
‘A client's?’
He swirled his wine around the glass before downing a generous mouthful. ‘More complicated. I had to run for it when I realised I'd stirred a hornet's nest. Before I left, I downloaded heaps and sent it to the police. You see, I blew the whistle and legged it. To this day, the police don't know who sent them the stuff. I used a fake account and deleted it straight away.’
Julianna had a different training to Mark. One that went beyond unearthing falsified figures, tax evasion and phoney bank accounts. Hers went deeper into the dark net and covert communications. If the police wanted to know, they could find out. But she suspected they were more interested in what Mark had uncovered and considered chasing after the whistle-blower a waste of time.
‘What was the name of the company you worked for?’ she asked.
‘Haydocks. Just one owner who is now locked behind bars facing charges of money laundering.’
‘And the clients?’
Mark shrugged. ‘I never uncovered the whole trail before things got a little dicey. I'm assuming they were drug dealers or something. They’d been using Haydocks to help them launder money for some time. Perhaps they'd got slack with the process. Something caught my eye and boom, it blew up, as they say.’
‘Ellen knows nothing?’
‘Nah. It's nothing to do with her. But, obviously, I kept quiet. Didn't even tell Tim why I left. Nobody came after me. I moved a few times just to be sure.’
Nobody came after Mark because of Jackson. Somehow, he had crushed the police investigation into Mark’s involvement in case anything leaked out to the bad guys. The snippet of information she had overheard in the back of the car now slotted into the picture, another brush stroke made visible. ‘And… that's it?’
He pivoted, his eyes darkening. She had pushed too hard.
‘What's with the third degree?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, perhaps too sharply. ‘Am I getting under your skin?’
‘A tad. Frankly, it could easily have fucked up my career. Snitching seemed the honourable thing to do and the legal one. But clients want to trust their accountants. It's no secret that everyone cooks the books a little, don't they? Loopholes get exploited. Numbers fudged. It's the way of things.’
‘So, you moved into forensic accountancy because you fancied more of the same? Isn't that the whole point of the job, uncovering illicit activities?’
‘Except now I've got Jackson’s backing. It's his name that comes knocking on people's doors, not mine. He's the crusader. I actually enjoy investigating fraud, and the like.’
‘Is this why he employed you, do you think? He must have known about Haydocks.’
‘Well, yeah, it’s on my resume. Can’t wipe out all those years and leave them blank on my employment record.’
‘And within months of being in London, you end up working in his forensics team: your ideal job. When do you think he knew about you?’
Mark smirked. ‘I met Hettie first, remember.’
Poking Mark to think was harder than she thought. He hadn’t realised the lengths Jackson went to with his vetting process; Mark’s lack of imagination and dogmatic style of work seemed to stymy his ability to think outside of the box.
‘You met her, yes, and it was a lucky break for you. What if when she gave Jackson your business card, he already knew your name?’
He frowned, shaking his head. ‘Jackson? Interested in me because I uncovered a money laundering operation in Manchester? Nah.’ He resumed eating.
‘Haydocks is a competitor of Jackson’s, isn’t it?’
He sighed and lowered his fork; she was annoying, she knew that was a problem. ‘Not really. Look, it’s more likely he read about the arrests in the newspapers. He never even asked about Haydocks in the interview.’
Julianna called that a red flag. The one thing Jackson should have raised in the interview was the thing he didn’t. And yet Mark wasn’t seeing why. What if Haydocks was known to Jackson
for a different reason, and having Mark in his company was a useful asset because of it.
He twizzled his fork round and round, without lifting the spaghetti to his mouth. ‘All the same,’ he said, ‘please don't say anything to anyone. I'm watching my back, that's all.’ He was suspicious. Perhaps, it might make him open up more another time. Maybe he might tell her what made him decide to bring down Haydocks.
She lay down her knife. ‘I won't say a thing about it at work. Honest. You're right, it's none of my business. But can I just say I'm proud of you, Mark. That took guts.’
She had recovered herself well; the shadow across his face lifted.
‘Okay, tit for tat. Tell me something that you've kept secret.’
A fair request. ‘My husband screwed my best friend.’ Julianna poured them both two full glasses of wine.
‘Friend? I thought she was his secretary?’ Mark leaned forward on his elbows, keen to hear the dirt on her ex.
‘Paralegal secretary. She and I studied at the same sixth form college down in Cornwall. I left home and she joined me in London. Best mates for years and then she got a job at this law firm where Alex worked and introduced us. It was how we met, Alex and me. Never crossed my mind back then that she would have her own designs on him. She was my bridesmaid.’ Julianna stabbed at the pasta. ‘And right under my bleedin nose.’ She gave up and tossed aside the fork.
Mark collected the dishes and carried them through into the kitchen. She followed him.
‘You couldn't have known—’
She cut him down with a glare. ‘I'm a copper, or I was. I worked for the government in intelligence. And I couldn't even work out my husband was cheating on me with my best friend! It's galling, truly, fucking... Back-stabbing bitch. Betrayal by two important people in my life.’ Downstairs was the punch bag. She needed it. Without it, objects would probably fly around the room and doors would be kicked in. Her anger wasn't directed at them, those two, but her failings. Her inadequacies.