Somehow this was different from all the times I’d dismissed her before. She pouted, but she’d got the message alright.
‘
Don’t forget, I’m always with you, even if you can’t see me.’
But she’d already faded and her voice was dying away as she said it. And I knew for sure she wouldn’t be back.
After dinner, I smoked eight cigarettes, one after the other. Why had I ever given them up? You can die anytime, whether you smoke and drink or exercise like a demon and eat five portions of fruit and vegetables a day. And my body felt marvellous, as did my fucked-up bombed-out crater of a mind.
I passed out on the sofa and woke at eleven in the morning, with a euphoric sense of freedom.
***
Like so many of my recent experiences, the freedom was illusory. Consequences had to be faced, apologies made and bridges rebuilt. That was reality.
The doorbell rang. I ignored it. It rang again, repeatedly and more insistently.
I dragged myself up and hobbled to the door, trying to ignore the crippling, almost overwhelming, physical pain. I scooped up the post from the mat and reluctantly, I opened the door a crack, on the chain, as I had the fateful night when Ryan had called.
Carmody.
OK, squaring the circle with law enforcement was a reasonably sensible place to start dealing with the fallout of the past few weeks.
‘Thank God you’re OK,’ he said. ‘We were on the verge of breaking down the door.’
I didn’t see anyone with him—he was as bad as Smithies with the ‘royal we’.
‘No need for that,’ I told him brusquely, showing him in.
‘So how are you?’
With a practised sweep of the eye, he took in first my crumpled dress; followed by the pizza remnants, dirty glasses, half-empty gin bottle, and overflowing ashtray. Finally, his gaze came to rest on the charred silhouette of a cigarette on the otherwise immaculate beige carpet.
‘Pretty good, in the circumstances.’ Especially as I’d narrowly avoided being burnt alive.
‘I didn’t realise you smoked.’
‘I quit five years ago.’
‘Looks like your carpet’s ruined.’
‘Nah—must be possible to have it repaired. And if it can’t be I’ll buy a new one. Coffee?’
‘Please.’
His wandering into the kitchen after me caused me no anxiety—the pills I’d been prescribed worked like magic.
‘Fab kitchen.’
His gaze came to rest on the knife block with the carver missing—but nothing was said.
I sniffed the milk and poured it down the sink.
‘Milk’s off—you’ll have to drink it black.’
‘No worries.’
‘Why you did come here?’ I asked when we were back in the lounge.
‘Just curious about how you were doing.’
‘I wish I knew.’
‘Also I wanted to inform you that in all the circumstances we won’t be proceeding with the drunk driving charges, or pursuing your mother’s complaint.’
‘Am I supposed to be pleased?’
Frankly, I’d reached a point where I simply didn’t care.
‘You’ve been through a lot. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you earlier.’
‘What made you listen in the end?’
He told me how he’d taken my comments about using his brain to heart, his issues in dealing with NCA and the CCTV evidence which finally nailed Greg.
‘I imagine he’s weaselled his way out of it though. He’s a slippery bastard.’
Even as I said it, I pictured Greg coming up with a plausible and perfectly innocent justification for everything.
‘As a matter of fact, no—he’s confessed—seemed glad to get it off his chest. But he’s hoping to plead guilty to manslaughter. He says he went there to talk to Isabelle and play down her disquiet, but she argued with him and insisted he should file a report with the MLRO. And he lost his temper and put his hands around her neck then she went limp… He claims it was a terrible accident…’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘Perhaps. But given the way he tried to frame his brother afterwards he’ll struggle with a manslaughter plea. And Isabelle’s family will object like crazy. But to his credit he’s been helpful in filling us all in on the accounting anomalies and the drugs.’
‘But Greg told me the purpose of the invoicing scam was to increase the value of the company. He didn’t seem to know anything about the drugs.’
‘Not true—he’s given us the full story. A few years ago Jason Jupp hit on the bright idea of using his father’s slate mine to grow dope. It was a big scale operation producing around two million pounds street value every quarter. The manager and staff took a cut, but they were worried Head Office might decide to sell the mine if it wasn’t profitable enough. So they started raising fake invoices. After Megabuilders put in their bid, Greg somehow discovered the false invoicing and alerted JJ. JJ dug deeper, found out about the drugs and hit the roof with Jason. Both Greg and JJ realised they’d lose the sale if the irregularities came to light, or at best there’d be a substantial price reduction. So Greg suggested coercing Jason into putting the drug money back into the company. He’d worked out they’d get it back many times over when the deal went through.’
It was worse than I’d thought. Greg had been instrumental in perpetuating the crime, rather than merely turning a blind eye. And I now remembered the conversation I’d overheard between Jason and his father way back at my first meeting with JJ—something about taking his dirty money. If only I’d listened more intently.
‘JJ was arrested as soon as he stepped out of the meeting room, at the same time as his son and the team at JJ Slate,’ Carmody added.
‘And Goodchild, the finance director?’
‘No—Goodchild’s still free—no evidence. He claims to have been unaware of any wrongdoing, and no one’s suggested otherwise.’
‘Bollocks,’ I said. ‘He was the one who disclaimed the tax losses.’
‘Yes, yes, but proving it is a different matter. And frankly, most people are not as hung up as you on esoteric aspects of tax law.’
Carmody had a point, but a piece of shit like Goodchild deserved to cop it, if only as an indirect blow to Smithies. And an indirect blow was probably the best I could hope for. I now supposed Smithies must be beyond reproach, despite my paranoia.
With some trepidation, I raised the subject of Impex and Carmody’s dodgy ex-colleague Darren. I was now almost sure that Carmody wasn’t himself involved, but the events of the past few weeks had shaken my sense of certainty about everything.
He explained the internecine politics with the NCA that made the inter-departmental rivalry at Pearson Malone seem good-humoured by comparison.
‘So basically, I was investigating a law enforcement sting?’
‘Yes—and astonishingly well, I might add. Mind you, even you wouldn’t have put together the whole picture if we hadn’t seen that guy Darren—he was working deep undercover.’
‘So was it coincidence we bumped into him?’
Carmody cleared his throat nervously.
‘That bugged me too. I shouldn’t say this, but I’ll level with you. I have a hunch that those bastards at NCA knew all along I’d arrested the wrong guy and let me go ahead anyway.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they were so determined to keep their covert operation on track at all costs.’
‘Now
that
does sound paranoid,’ I said. ‘
I’m
supposed to be the one with the mental problems.’
He gave a lukewarm smile.
‘I hope you’re charging Greg Kelly with my attempted murder too,’ I said.
Carmody shook his head.
‘I shouldn’t think so—it’s all a bit awkward for us—you understand…’
I understood all too well—once again he’d prioritised his own concerns above mine. Still, what did I expect? Everyone treated me like that.
‘He will be charged with conspiracy to defraud, though,’ Carmody added in a vain effort to soften the blow.
‘Well, that’s a comfort.’
He hesitated.
‘If you must know, I feel dreadful. I should have listened more carefully, not been so ready dismiss your ideas. Hard as it is for you to accept, I really do like you and I wondered…’
‘No.’
The word came out with such vehemence he must have instantly recognised that changing my mind would be impossible, at least in the short term. I felt sure we were fundamentally unsuited to each other on any level. Because I understood now the real damage my mother’s hoarding had done. It wasn’t the mess, or even the shame, but the indignity of having my feelings, opinions and desires invalidated time after time. Just as I wasn’t important enough for my mother to clear up—I was less important than Carmody’s promotion. And that wasn’t good enough.
‘Fair enough,’ he said, backing away apprehensively. ‘Maybe I’ll see you around.’
‘Maybe not,’ I replied.
After he’d gone, I opened an official looking envelope that had come in the post. It was the psychiatrist’s report to my GP. The last paragraph read as follows:
On admission she believed that she was the victim of a conspiracy involving business associates who were attempting to kill her and this included her ex-husband who she believed had spiked her drink. She had acted in response to these beliefs driving while intoxicated. At the time she believed her life was in danger so she may have a defence to the drink driving charge and I would recommend she seeks expert legal advice. By the time I assessed her several days later these delusional beliefs had resolved and she had regained full insight. She appears to have had an acute psychotic episode from which she has made a rapid recovery. She acknowledged that she has been drinking hazardous quantities of alcohol but strenuously denied recreational drug use, however her drug screen was positive for Ketamine which would be consistent with her drink having been spiked though it is not clear how reliable her account is. She has been under considerable stress at work which may be a contributory factor. I have strongly advised her to moderate her alcohol consumption and avoid recreational drug use. I have prescribed a modest dose of antipsychotic medication and on balance suggest she continues this for the present to reduce the risk of recurrence. I have arranged to review her in the clinic in two weeks and recommend she does not return to work until after the review.
Despite everything, I had to laugh.
I’d been eagerly anticipating my scheduled “return to work” meeting with Smithies. He didn’t know it yet, but this time I had the upper hand.
‘Amy,
how are you?
’
His solicitous tones confirmed that he was still playing the old game, but he would discover soon enough just how dramatically the rules had changed. In fact, everything was different. I’d never noticed how strained the grins of the water-skiing party were, particularly Smithies’ wife. It was obvious now how she gritted her teeth and feigned happiness for the sake of her fancy lifestyle.
‘I’m on top of the world,’ I informed him.
‘I suppose it’s the medication you’re on,’ he replied, no doubt searching for some rational explanation for my change in attitude.
No way would he cope with the new improved Amy. After all, how do you psych somebody out who’s invincible? Undaunted, he continued on his pre-prepared script.
‘As responsible employers we’ll fully support you in your return to work. If there’s anything we can do to assist you, please let us know.’
‘For a start, I’m not at all happy with these alleged breaches of the money laundering regulations everyone’s banging on about. Anything you can do?’
Predictably, Pearson Malone had been left with egg on its face. A partner of the firm was up on charges of murder and conspiracy to defraud, and questions were being asked on the quality of the JJ audit. Private Eye had run a whole series of articles highlighting the close relationship between Bailey and JJ the drug baron. And because I’d brought the scandal to the fore, I was in line for all the flak.
During my absence, emails had flown around whipping up a ferment of condemnation at my failure to make a timely money laundering report, as though this had caused the whole debacle. Smithies was the prime mover, naturally. He’d latched onto this as a much quicker and more reliable method to see me off than long term sickness due to poor mental health. The final email from Smithies stated, ominously, that “the appropriate steps” would be taken in due course.
‘Well, it’s not
me
,’ he said apologetically. ‘And you’re lucky no other action’s being taken. Eric Bailey found various other aspects of your unprofessional conduct most disturbing.’
‘Did he?’
‘But I’ve fought your corner and we’re down to this minor compliance breach.’
‘Technically it’s not minor at all—potentially non-compliance with the money laundering legislation carries a prison sentence…’
‘I take your point, although you don’t seem too worried.’
‘Actually, I’m pretty sure the police won’t be taking any action.’
‘Ah yes, your friend Dave Carmody—very much on your side now he realises you have the power to queer his pitch. However, our internal disciplinary procedures are an entirely separate matter…’
‘But surely you can do something…’
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible.’
‘But I’m not the only one who failed to report my suspicions, am I?’
He gave a nonchalant little smile.
‘I can’t imagine who you’re referring to.’
‘If you listen to this you’ll find out,’ I said, pulling out my laptop from my bag and inserting the CD Smithies’ predecessor John Venner had given me.
Smithies’ brow furrowed, but bewilderment quickly gave way to alarm as he heard the familiar whiny grating of his own voice. He listened with mounting apprehension as he calmly advised Goodchild how to conceal the fake debtors he’d discovered from the auditors.
Goodchild had fallen on his sword, resigned and forfeited his precious share options, but had wriggled out of prosecution, because nobody could prove his involvement. Significantly, neither JJ nor Greg had ratted on him. He wouldn’t be safe, though, if this recording came to light.
Cut to a later conversation—where Goodchild expressed his relief and puzzlement at the debtors having been repaid. This didn’t mean Goodchild knew about the drugs, of course, and on balance I suspected not. Most likely he’d found the false debtors and tried to hide them from JJ, while JJ had been simultaneously concealing them from him. What a pair.