‘Drugs, you mean?’
Nigel had shrugged nonchalantly. ‘The thing is, the client would rather we move into this without external influence. He wants to see what we come up with of our own accord …’
Then came the ace card – a truth that when he heard it, Harry could not deny.
‘Look, I could sit here all night engaging you from a moral standpoint and that would be perfectly legitimate, but the fact is, beggars can’t be choosers. What have they offered you as severance from the paper – three months’ pay? You need a job. And I’m offering you one …’
Who was Harry to argue with that?
He ran a hand over his hair as he moved through the automatic doors into a discreet but capacious reception area. He had intentionally dressed down in his most crinkled shirt and scuffed boots – anything to demarcate himself. I’m not one of you, he wanted them to know, while continuing to tell himself he still didn’t know who ‘they’ were. Newspapers were all corporations these days anyway, their stance dictated by the agendas of the billionaire owners and the advertisers who funded them. What was the difference between that and accepting payment from the coffers of a corporate intelligence agency?
The main difference, it seemed to him in this moment, was the amount of money and the transparency of the transaction.
‘Harry!’
Nigel beamed at his former protégé as Harry made his way towards the reception desk.
‘Delighted you could make it.’
Harry followed Nigel into the lift and out again three floors up, noting the interior architecture as they passed through the office floor. White walls, sealed meeting rooms, corporate coffee machines all creating the illusion of effective neutrality. Function over form. None of the employees looked up as the two of them walked through the main floor. Whatever happens in this building stays in this building, the subtext read. An important message, presumably, to clients whose payments flowed out of bank accounts in the Cayman Islands, Switzerland, the British Virgin Islands, anywhere their provenance could not be traced.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Wouldn’t say no,’ Harry replied, looking around the room as he moved towards the table and chairs; a meeting area that could accommodate some twenty attendees, set aside for just the two of them.
Nigel leaned forward towards the phone system and pressed a button. ‘Bring us in a couple of coffees would you, Marika? And a bottle of water.’
He sat back and surveyed Harry, smiling.
‘Water?’ Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Thought you didn’t touch the stuff. Fish fuck in it. I’m pretty sure that’s what you said last time we had lunch – how long ago was that, two years?’
Nigel leaned back in his chair. ‘Gosh, I really do have a way with words. Well, that was then, and this is … Maybe it’s what happens when you get old, and have to have one of your balls lopped off …’
Harry winced. ‘I heard something about cancer but I didn’t know …’
Nigel lifted a hand as a middle-aged woman came into the room carrying a tray of drinks, setting them on the table between the men. ‘Thanks, Marika.’ His face transformed effortlessly into a smile.
‘I’m sorry to hear it, Nige,’ Harry said once she had left the room.
‘Well, so am I. But one bollock is better than no bollocks. And you know what they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. So here I am. Gave up the newspaper game, moved over to the corporate dark side – sold out. And bugger me, I’m making more money than ever, and I have a woman who delivers me coffee. It’s awful.’
He smiled and Harry frowned. ‘So you’re a journalist for hire these days, Nige? Who would have thought it?’
Nigel made a so-shoot-me expression. ‘What journalist isn’t for hire? It’s just a matter of who’s doing the hiring – and what they’re prepared to pay.’
Harry looked up at him. ‘Well, I wasn’t going to bring it up, but now that you have …’
A crooked smile formed at the edge of Nigel’s lips. He reached into the bag by his feet and pulled out a wad of A4 papers, neatly stapled together.
‘As you’ll appreciate, our clients expect the highest levels of discretion.’
‘Is that an NDA?’
‘It’s a contract,’ Nigel replied, sliding the papers in front of Harry. ‘It’s all there.’
Harry looked down, flicking through the pages until he found the one he was looking for.
‘That’s how much we’re prepared to pay … More than enough to buy yourself some help, should you need it,’ Nigel confirmed.
‘Holy shit.’ Harry spoke before he could stop himself. When he looked up, Nigel was grinning back at him.
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself … Once that’s out of the way, we can set to work.’
Reaching back into the bag, half an hour or so later, Nigel pulled out a series of photos, which he spread across the table.
‘So now that’s all sorted, this is Witherall with his right-hand man, Jeff Mayhew. Nominally, Mayhew is just the money man, but he’s also in charge of the ethical foundations and, from having put the feelers out, it seems he’s a bit of a live wire. Might be worth looking into. That one there is a minder, Jorgos Constantine …’
Harry cast his eyes over the image. From the suits and sunglasses and the champagne glasses in hand, he imagined it must have been taken at a party. In the background were mountains, and a flash of blue sea. As his eyes moved away from the figure of Jorgos, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, he felt his attention settle briefly on the younger man on the other side of the photograph, in conversation with someone just out of frame.
He felt a bolt of recognition.
‘Who is that?’
Nigel sensed the urgency in his voice.
‘That?’ He turned the photo to face him, leaning in to get a better look. ‘That’s Witherall’s son, David.’
‘Fuck.’ Harry sat up and fixed Nigel with his eyes. ‘I’ve met him.’
Nigel smiles, leaning back into his chair. ‘I know.’
Harry
Harry approached the front of the building with a glance up at the window above the kebab shop. Behind him, Camden High Street bustled with life as he pressed the buzzer. Waiting a moment, he looked up again and saw a flicker of movement.
A few moments later, a voice sounded over the intercom.
‘Hello?’
The four of them had been out last night, to the club on Delancey Street. He spoke into the intercom. ‘Anna? It’s Harry,’ he said and then, after a pause, ‘It’s bloody cold out here – are you going to let me in?’
Making his way up the flight of stairs towards the internal front door, Harry listened out for the sound of a second voice inside the flat. Nigel’s words that day at the office haunted him as he moved up the steps.
‘You know, Harry, I would have thought of you anyway,’ his old boss had told him moments after pulling out the photo of David at the office. ‘You would have been my first port of call for a job like this, in an ideal world. But you know what you’re like, you’re always busy so it didn’t occur to me at first. That’s right … And then, as if by some sort of divine intervention, David turns up a couple of nights ago at the pub and who do you think ends up having a drink with the man we’ve got eyes on?’
Harry had sat back in his seat without saying a word.
‘And then it turns out you’ve just been fired?’
Harry’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. ‘What are the chances?’
Nigel had thrown up his arms. ‘You tell me.’
There was a pause like the moment before a boxer lands a blow and Harry had looked at Nigel, searching his face for what was coming next. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘What were you doing there? You can’t be telling me it’s fate that we’re watching the son of a corrupt criminal and you just happen to turn up on the scene.’
‘He was in the pub just around the corner from my office, the night I was fired.�
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‘Right you are, but … you can see why I might find it a little too coincidental …’
‘Wait, Nige, are you interrogating me?’
Harry pushed himself back in his chair, eyeballing his old boss.
Nigel shook his head. ‘I’m asking you to tell me the truth. And I trust you to do that.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand your question.’
Their eyes held one another’s without blinking.
‘My question is: had you ever met or heard of David Witherall before that evening?’
Harry didn’t hesitate, replying truthfully, ‘Never.’
Watching Nigel’s deadpan expression, Harry continued. ‘What I can say is that I don’t believe in coincidence either. If I’m honest, I’m not liking this much …’
Harry looked at the clock on the wall. It had been almost forty-five minutes since their meeting started and they had reached deadlock.
Nigel breathed in sharply, leaning back in his chair. ‘So what do we call this – the exception that proves the rule?’ His face twisted into a smile. ‘Or I suppose we could just call it destiny.’
As Harry reached the top of the stairs, he heard the front door click open.
When Anna opened the door, it was clear she was alone. Her hair pulled back in a bun, she wore an ill-fitting T-shirt and the same leggings Harry had seen Meg come and go in a couple of times over the past few weeks.
‘What are you watching?’ he asked now, following Anna to the sofa, in front of which the TV screen flickered soundlessly.
‘A film,’ she replied, moving towards the kitchen counter, her back turned to him. He could almost feel the embarrassment coming off her. She must have known he’d seen her the previous evening, groaning, sick stains on her vest top as Meg and David carried her outside.
‘You alone?’ he asked casually.
‘Yeah. Would you like tea?’
‘You feel like shit, right?’
‘I don’t know what happened, I’m not usually—’
Harry laughed. ‘Course you’re not. I’m just glad you’re OK. That’s what I came to check …’ He was good at this, thinking on his feet. He enjoyed it, too, these little games of cat and mouse, even – or especially – when the other player had no idea of the game he or she was engaged in.
He settled on the sofa, mentally scrolling through potential excuses to hang around until Meg came home. Anna talked on and off, Harry replying willingly at first and then suppressing his irritation as time wore on. He had expected Meg to be back by now. She was working today, she’d told him the previous night, as she lifted a bump of MDMA to his nose in the corridor in the club, their lips just about to meet when Anna came crashing around the corner, her body swaying with drink.
Surely she wouldn’t be long.
‘Have you eaten?’ he asked Anna, looking for reasons to prolong the visit, an idea popping into his mind.
‘I still feel pretty sick,’ she replied.
Harry stood. ‘You’ve got to eat. And have a drink. Trust me, it will make you feel better.’ He winked, taking a sip of his tea and passing it back to her.
‘I’ll be back in ten.’ He paused, his eyes moving to the table. ‘Actually, are these your keys? You sit. I’ll just let myself back in.’
By the time he returned from the shops, Anna seemed to have settled into herself.
She sat on the sofa, taking a slice of pizza while he made hot chocolate, its sweetness sharpened with a strong dose of brandy.
‘How long have you guys known each other?’ Harry asked, passing her the drink, watching her wince as she took the first sip.
‘Me and Meg? Since university. We lived in halls together and then moved into a flat, just the two of us.’
‘In Brighton?’
Anna looked up at him. ‘Yeah. Did I already say that?’
‘Meg mentioned you were both at Sussex,’ he lied, taking another bite. ‘With David, right?’
Anna nodded. ‘He was our Residential Advisor in the first year. So how’s work?’
Harry sat a little straighter, the two of them facing each other on the sofa. ‘Well, if you really want to know, I’ve been sacked.’
It made sense to tell her everything, within certain constraints. About the investigation, about Naomi’s allegation. Not the whole truth, of course. But enough to pre-empt the rumours Meg was bound to hear in the office.
‘It’s bullshit, you should know that. I mean, Jesus …’
At that second, there was a jangle of keys in the lock and then Meg was there, her expression unreadable as she looked from Harry to Anna.
‘Hi!’ she said unnaturally brightly, looking down and placing her bag on the table. Was she regretting their almost-kiss the night before, or was she simply annoyed by his unbidden arrival?
Sensing this was not the time, he stood and smiled at Anna. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling OK.’
Anna stood, too, brushing her hands self-consciously against her thighs.
‘What are you guys doing next Friday?’ he asked before he left. ‘I’ll be working near here in the afternoon if you fancy a drink afterwards?’
Harry intentionally looked at Anna first, to prove to Meg he wasn’t asking her out on a date. ‘Bring your friend David, too, if he’s around …’
It was a Monday morning, a month after that night in the club, when Harry sat in the window of the coffee shop across the road from the flat, his gaze fixed upwards, watching occasional shadows move across the window as the women got ready for work. He knew from their most recent night out together that both would be leaving early this morning. Meg was going back to Newcastle for a couple of days while Anna headed to the magazine, which was gearing up for a bumper Christmas issue.
David hadn’t joined them the last time he met up with the girls and Harry wondered fleetingly if he had started to pick up on what was going on between him and Meg. It wasn’t possible, he reminded himself. They had been so discreet. Nonetheless, David wasn’t as daft as Harry might have hoped he would be; he could tell from the way he looked at him, sidelong, that he was suspicious – not that he knew anything specific, but rather he simply didn’t like having him around. Harry had vowed to be careful. It would be counterproductive to drive a wedge between Meg and David, but equally he needed to get close enough that she would bring him into the fold. In that respect, at least, things were going well.
Given how aloof Meg had been the night Harry showed up at the flat, he had been surprised when she texted the following day. They had agreed to meet early at the Crown and Goose, before the others were due, and as they sat facing one another, Harry felt the tip of Meg’s shoe running up his shin. He could see that she enjoyed it when he suggested they should keep anything that might happen between the two of them private – not least owing to his reputation at the newspaper where she was now staff. It wouldn’t do either of them any favours, she agreed.
He could see that she loved it, secretly stroking his thigh under the table as the four of them sat together, her eyes giving nothing away.
Harry felt a shiver of excitement thinking of it as he watched the building from the road this morning. Anna emerged first, wrapping her coat tightly around her waist as she stepped out on the street and turned right towards the tube. When Meg appeared, she had a wheeled suitcase at her feet, a second bag clutched chaotically under her arm. She stopped briefly to light a cigarette, a curl of red hair falling in front of her face, dangerously close to the flame, and then she turned left towards the bus stop, presumably to catch the bus to King’s Cross where the train would shuttle her back up north.
Harry waited another twenty minutes before leaving the coffee shop. Checking the stretch of the high street in both directions first, he weaved between the stationary traffic before arriving at the front door and pulling the key from his pocket. It was the one he had had copied at a Timpson down the road in Chalk Farm that evening at the flat with Anna, ordering a Margherita by phone and then jumping
in a cab to the locksmith, collecting the pizza on his way back and handing the original key straight back to Anna.
Approaching the door, he had no idea what he was looking for, but it was always a good idea to have something in reserve, just in case – and you could always find something.
The lock gave way after a few seconds’ struggle. There was a musty smell in the hall as Harry made his way up the stairs. Inside, a radio had been left on, music rattling out from one of the bedrooms. Following the sound hesitantly, though he knew no one was in, he approached Meg’s room slowly. Pausing for a second, he breathed deeply before moving inside towards the sound of the radio.
The room was strewn with clothes. Beside the bed in front of the window was a desk with a drawer beneath. Without knowing what he was looking for, Harry moved through the space towards the desk. When he opened it he found the drawer was filled with the usual female detritus: tampons and dried out pens side by side with receipts and old photos. In one there was Meg as a child, her arms wrapped around a German Shepherd, the sky grey and sodden behind her. In another, slightly further down the pile, was Meg as a pre-teen, next to a woman who must have been her mother, in a wheelchair.
Rifling further, Harry’s fingers brushed against the soft metal frame of a digital camera. As he pulled it out, he sat back on the bed, pressing the on button and watching the screen come to life. The date in the corner told him the images were a few years old, and as he flicked through, he smiled at the sight of Meg in what would have been her first year at Sussex. It was part of a series, all taken on the same night, featuring various faces. But the ones that came up again and again were of Meg and David. He flicked through, until he found one that caught his attention: Meg holding the camera, the lens turned to face the two of them, their tongues outstretched, pupils blazing. Then another, taken by someone out of shot. Anna, perhaps? Meg leaning into David, her hand moving towards his, passing a tiny folded pouch of paper that was clearly a wrap.
Bingo.
Pulling out his phone, Harry angled his lens at the screen of the camera and took a photo. Returning the item to the drawer, he pushed the contents around until he pulled out a notebook. Inside, the pages were roughly gridded by hand, in pencil, with three titled columns: Names, Amount, Tick? Smiling to himself, Harry pocketed the book and then stood. He was about to leave when he gave a final glance from the doorway and spotted the corner of a ring binder poking out of the bed.
The Second Woman Page 11