Corruption!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  As Suzanne Jones and Steven Ford stood in front of their friends and family in Vauxhall Registry Office, Charlie stood to one side and grinned to herself. She’d been so sure her sister would opt for a big church wedding, if only to keep their parents happy. It had come as a huge surprise when the happy couple announced they were having a quiet ceremony with just a small number of guests, followed by a meal in a select restaurant with almost more Michelin stars than tables, before heading off on honeymoon in South America. Charlie wasn’t sure how Suzanne had persuaded her rather staid, stay-at-home, veterinarian fiancé that leaving the United Kingdom was a good thing to do. But she guessed the lure of seeing so many different species, including the diverse fauna of the Galapagos Islands and the penguins of the Antarctic had something to do with it. All she knew was her sister was leaving her in sole charge of the Jones Technical Partnership for the next four weeks.

  Charlie glanced across at their mother, who was discreetly wiping her eyes with a tiny lace handkerchief almost lost in her large, farmer’s wife hands. It was several years since she’d seen her parents. Their greeting had been a little cool, and they’d barely acknowledged Annie’s existence. But at least they hadn’t refused to talk to their elder daughter, as she’d feared they might. And from the glances Mrs Jones was casting at the swollen belly of the woman sitting at Charlie’s side, she suspected the lure of a grandchild at last, might be just the thing to finally thaw the freeze. A freeze that had settled on her parents when she ‘came out’ in her early twenties, before a brief spell in the army and an apparent string of short-lived, dead end jobs. This was the face she’d showed her friends and family for many years before setting up the consultancy with Suzanne nearly five years ago.

  As Charlie glanced across at Annie, sitting demurely next to her, she felt her stomach plummet as usual. The feeling had been growing daily, ever since Annie told her the IVF treatment had finally worked and they were going to have a baby. It was laughable really, the idea of Charlie Jones, ex-army, apparent layabout, saved by her sister—although actually far more capable of saving than being saved—becoming a parent. At the ripe old age of forty-six. No, she’d be forty-seven by the time the baby was born. But that’s what was happening. And it scared the hell out of her. She’d faced drug dealers in Africa. She’d broken into a pharmaceutical factory in Brazil to gain evidence of illegal ingredients. And in her undercover years, she’d seen and done far worse. Yet despite all that, she didn’t remember ever feeling more petrified than she did every time she looked at Annie and remembered their dream was about to come true.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Charlie caught a flash of emerald green and turned to look at Francine Matheson who was sitting two rows back. The women smiled at each other. But as Charlie gave her attention to the registrar once more, she couldn’t help wondering, for the hundredth time that week, exactly what Francine wanted to talk about.

  CHAPTER 6: LONDON, JANUARY 2007

  The dog appeared out of nowhere as Suzanne was jogging through the deserted park. It was large, a bright tan with black patches across its rump, very loud and obviously not a fan of runners. It knocked her sideways into the hedge and sank its teeth into her gloved hand. Screaming, Suzanne lashed out with her foot and caught the dog in the side of its ribs, causing it to growl deep in its throat. A figure came running around the side of the pagoda and along the path towards her.

  "Stand still," said a quiet voice. "I'm going to calm him down." The man walked up to the animal and placed one hand gently on its neck, burying his fingers in the thick fur, while with the other grasping the dog's nose, squeezing gently on either side. All the time he talked softly, almost whispering in the dog's ears. The animal gave a gentle whine and released Suzanne's hand. Sinking onto its haunches, it looked up adoringly at its conqueror.

  Released, Suzanne stumbled across to a nearby bench, holding her throbbing hand in her armpit. Blood was starting to seep through holes in her glove, where sharp teeth had broken the skin. She sat trembling, head down, lips pressed together, trying to stop herself from crying.

  "Are you alright?" said the man from where he was standing, still stroking the dog which now looked smaller and less fierce than before.

  "Of course, I'm not alright, you stupid man," she shouted at him. "That dog of yours should be muzzled. It could have gone for a child—or an old person." Then she stopped, as he shook his head.

  "It's not my dog," he said. "I heard you scream and came running. He's probably run away; there doesn't seem to be anyone with him."

  Suzanne felt herself blushing and stood up, although she still kept her distance from the dog, and therefore from the man.

  "I'm so sorry," she said. "I shouted at you, when I should be thanking you for saving me." Suddenly the world tilted sideways, and she grabbed the back of the seat to stop herself from falling. "I don't feel so good..." she murmured, her voice fading away as she struggled to stay upright.

  "Sit down again, put your head between your knees and take deep breaths," he said. "I don't want to let go of this beast, so you’ll have to look after yourself for the moment." He held on to the dog's collar with one hand while with the other he extracted a phone from his pocket.

  "Police, please," he said. "Someone's been attacked by a dog, but there's no owner around. I think he's escaped from somewhere." When he'd finished giving directions to the operator, he looked up and smiled at Suzanne. "My name's Stephen, by the way; Stephen Ford, but my friends call me Steve."

  "You know, there's no such thing as a bad dog," said Steve, an hour later, as they watched the police drive away with the vagrant dog in the back of the van, “but there are certainly plenty of bad owners." Suzanne privately disagreed with this view but thought it best to keep her opinion to herself. After all Steve had rescued her—and he’d been able to handle the attacking dog very well indeed. "Now," he went on, "I think we should take you to get that hand looked at."

  And ignoring her protestations that she was okay, he insisted on accompanying her to A&E; waiting while the wound was dressed, and she’d assured the nurse her tetanus jabs were up to date, and then escorting her home. She told him she was okay to walk, so they strolled westward along the embankment from St Thomas’ Hospital to her apartment block by Vauxhall Bridge, past the watchful eye of Edith Cavell outside Lambeth Palace.

  On arrival, she turned to Steve, who was illuminated by the bright spotlight on the front of the building. It was the first time she'd really looked at him since they met. He was tall, a couple of inches taller than her, with straight black hair neatly parted on the side and falling obediently into place. His clothes were casual but also neat. She suspected he was the sort of man who pressed the creases into his jeans but didn't want to drop her eyes to check. There was a slight middle-aged spread about him, suggesting he might be going to seed, but he still looked good for a man his age; she guessed he was just a couple of years older than her. Now, appearing embarrassed under her scrutiny, he cleared his throat and held out his hand.

  "Well, I must get off; I'm so glad there's no lasting damage done. And now that poor dog's been taken into custody—" he used his fingers to mime speech marks around the phrase "—you should be safe to start running again."

  "Please don't think you have to rush off," Suzanne said. "I was just about to ask you in for a drink. It's the least I can do in the circumstances."

  But Steve was already shaking his head before she'd finished the sentence and looked like he was about to take flight any minute.

  "No, I won't, thank you, if you don't mind. I've got a long way to go." And reaching across and taking her left hand in his, he shook it. "Goodbye, Suzanne; I've enjoyed meeting you, although I wish it might have been under slightly better circumstances. Goodbye." And walking backwards for a few steps, he bowed slightly, waved his hand and then positively ran up the steps to ground level. As Suzanne watched, he flagged down a passing taxi and disappeared inside.

  Steve phoned her a week later and
they went out for a drink. He was nice enough, but Suzanne, never an animal lover, got very fed up with hearing about his work and his hobby, both of which centred around dogs. He was a vet, but only worked three days each week; the rest of the time he spent volunteering at the local centre for abandoned dogs. They were his main, in fact his only, topic of conversation. She was frankly rather relieved when a trip to Brazil interrupted their burgeoning friendship. She told him she didn’t know how long she would be away and left him with a vague promise to get in touch when she returned.

  The following week, Suzanne was in bed in the hotel in São Paulo, and at a particularly thrilling point in her novel, when the phone rang. She put down her book with a sigh and picked up the receiver, wondering why Charlie was calling her at this time of night. But it wasn't Charlie. In fact the call wasn't from the hotel at all.

  "Suzanne, is that ....; it's ..." There was a buzz on the line and Suzanne could barely hear the voice at the other end.

  "Hello; who is this?"

  "Suzanne, it's ... Ford."

  "I'm sorry, I can't hear you. It's a terrible line."

  The interference continued, and she was just about to cut the caller off, when suddenly the buzzing stopped. An English male voice came across the airwaves to her, sounding so clear and so loud that he could almost have been in the same room as her.

  "Suzanne, Suzanne, can you hear me? It's Steve, Steve Ford. Can you hear me?"

  "Yes, Steve, I can hear you," she said, holding the receiver away from her ear and grimacing. "The line's quite clear now. You can stop shouting." She could hear the sigh of relief across the phone lines.

  "Oh, thank goodness! What a terrible connection. I could barely hear you!"

  "Well, this is a surprise. How on earth did you find me?"

  "Oh, it was quite easy really," he said with a smile in his voice. "You told me you were staying at the Marriott, remember?" She vaguely remembered him asking where she was staying. "So, I just looked it up. We have this invention here in England, called the internet. I don't know if you've heard of it?"

  She laughed at the gentle teasing in his voice. "Yes, I do believe someone mentioned it to me once," she said. "Anyway, how have you been, Steve?"

  "Me? I'm fine. Same old, same old. Had an interesting day today, in fact."

  "Hmm?"

  "We had a call from the police last week, asking for our help."

  "What, at the surgery?"

  "No, at the rescue centre. There was this old lady in Stroud; she'd been living on her own and neighbours were worried about her. She’s no longer able to cope on her own and needs to go into a care home."

  "That's sad; but I guess it's good she’s got neighbours who care enough to do something."

  "True—and she was really grateful people were trying to help her, but she’s got this little dog, you see, an elderly spaniel. But the home doesn't allow pets. She was distraught…”

  At this point, Suzanne found herself drifting out of the conversation. Nearly midnight. She really needed some sleep; the jet lag was catching up with her. She was struck by a sudden thought. Nearly midnight in Brazil? That made it nearly four in the morning back home.

  "…so, we agreed I’ll take the dog to see her every weekend and she’s happy to let him go," Steve concluded.

  "What a lovely story," she said, trying to instil some interest and enthusiasm into her voice. "Steve, why are you phoning me—and especially, why are you phoning me at four o'clock in the morning?"

  There was a pause, then Steve cleared his throat.

  "I missed you! I wanted to hear your voice!"

  Suzanne reflected wryly that the main voice crossing the ether so far had been Steve’s.

  "That's sweet. But why at this time of night?"

  "Er, I've been to a party. A friend's thirtieth. It got a bit out of hand, went on rather longer than I expected, and I might have had just a bit too much to drink. I've had this number ever since you told me where you’d be staying. But I didn't have the nerve to call before. And then I got in tonight and I thought if I didn't ring now, I'd lose my nerve. So, I just dialled."

  Suzanne's head buzzed with the thought that Steve had sought out her phone number, just in case. And that he'd been too shy to phone before. And that he'd had too much to drink—safe, staid Steve making drunken phone calls in the middle of the night. Then she latched on to the strangest part of the whole story.

  "You went out drinking—to a party—on a Monday night? With work in the morning?"

  "Yes, I know. It should have been at the weekend, but there was an away match on that all the guys went to, so no-one was in town. And today, I mean yesterday, was the actual date of the birthday, so the party got moved." There was another long pause, followed by a groan. "I think I'm going to regret this in the morning."

  Suzanne grinned to herself, imagining the serious dog-lover, possibly dishevelled, sitting with his head in his hands on a sofa in a darkened room, thousands of miles away.

  "Well, it's lovely to hear your voice; but don't you think you should try and get some sleep? You'll be getting up for work in a few hours' time."

  "You're right. I'll go—and I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I won't call you again in the middle of the night. I know you're working out there. In fact, I won't call you again. Come to that, I don't think I'm ever going to drink again either!" His ramble finished with another groan and this time, Suzanne laughed out loud.

  "Don't be silly; of course, you can call me. Now go to bed—but try drinking a pint of water first. Charlie swears by it for staving off a hangover. Goodnight, Steve."

  As she switched off the light and settled down to sleep, Suzanne found herself smiling. It had been good to chat with him and she was surprised to find she was looking forward to getting home and spending more time with Stephen Ford. If only she could get him to stop talking so much about dogs!

  CHAPTER 7

  The sound of the registrar’s voice proclaiming Steve and Suzanne to be husband and wife pulled Charlie back out of her reverie and she joined in the applause. She even gave a little wolf whistle, then subsided as her mother shot her a stern look, one she so remembered from her childhood. Annie saw the exchange of glances and squeezed Charlie’s arm, smiling sympathetically. Then the happy couple were walking through the room, exchanging hugs and kisses with everyone and the moment was forgotten.

  “Phew, I’m stuffed!” Charlie announced later that night as she and Annie got ready for bed. “I’m not sure I’ll want to eat anything tomorrow—or for the next few days for that matter.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have had that extra pudding, should you?” said Annie in her gentle Scottish brogue, as she rubbed cream into her belly and climbed into bed. Within minutes she was asleep, giving that tiny little snore, more of a murmur than anything else, that Charlie found so endearing.

  Suzanne and Steve spent their wedding night in the Dorchester. They needed to be at Heathrow for their flight to Rio de Janeiro first thing the next morning. Suzanne had suggested they stay in the apartment on Vauxhall Bridge, but Steve put his foot down, an event that was as sweet as it was rare. He insisted on booking a suite in the Park Lane hotel—even though they were barely there for more than a few hours.

  The next morning, Charlie was waiting in the foyer when they came down with their overnight cases. Their main luggage had been sent on to the airport the previous day. It was a little after six and although there was a bit of traffic coming into town—even on a Sunday—the westward route was almost empty and they made good time.

  “Now, you’re sure you know where everything is?” asked Suzanne as Charlie took the bags from the boot of the car. “You can always call me if you need to.” Steve looked alarmed at this suggestion and Charlie laughed.

  “Of course, I know where everything is! I set the systems up, remember? And it’s all on the computer. I don’t think I’ll be needing to call you.”

  “And remember to sort out the details for next month’s trip
to the Czech Republic. The guy we’ve got on that one is new to the consultancy game. He may need a bit of hand-holding.”

  “It’ll be fine; don’t worry.” Charlie had been amused to watch the confusion on the face of the latest recruit to their team of sub-contractors. Recently made redundant from his senior position in the manufacturing division of one of the larger pharmaceutical companies, he was bemused at the notion that the level of support available to him as an independent operator was much lower than when he was part of the corporate organisation. He was shattered to hear there was no secretarial resource available to type up his reports and he was expected to carry his own laptop with him and produce at least a reasonable draft of his notes himself. “It’s going to take a little while, but he’ll get used to it.” One thing she knew; she was going to be much less of a soft touch than her sister would have been. “Now go; or you’re not going to have time to introduce Steve to the delights of the lounge. And you wouldn’t want him to miss that, would you?” Turning to her new brother-in-law, she gave him a hug. “Try not to get too drunk before you get on the plane, Steve,” she said with a grin. She knew he was virtually teetotal and the last thing her sister was going to have to worry about was her new husband having too much to drink—now, or at any time.

  The pair finally walked through the doors to the terminal and Charlie jumped in the car, giving a cheeky wave and blowing a kiss to the security guy who’d been glowering at them ever since they’d pulled up on the double yellow lines with hazard lights flashing.

  CHAPTER 8

  In the past four years, the reputation of the Jones Technical Partnership had grown quite considerably, and they now had a thriving drug consultancy. Gone were the days of Charlie poring over spreadsheets and warning Suzanne they would have tighten their belts if they didn’t get some more contracts. These days, the main problem was finding sufficient resources to fulfil all the contracts they had on the books.