Concealment (28 page)

‘I’ve heard more than enough.’

‘Oh come on, Amy—lighten up. This is no big deal.’

‘Not to you, evidently, but for me… I can’t trust you anymore. You do realise that?’

‘I seem to recall that you advised me never to trust anyone at work.’

The tidal wave of anger welled up again. How dare she, how fucking dare she, throw my own advice back at me?

‘If you’re a chavvy Essex girl,’ I said. ‘You’ll understand this.’

And I socked her one, full in the face.

I’d blindsided her. She stared at me blankly, not even registering shock, blood trickling from her nostril. But before her jungle instincts kicked in to deliver her retaliatory blow, we heard the door.

Both of us quickly straightened up as Jan, my secretary, walked in.

‘Lisa has a nosebleed,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could call a first aider.’

‘Won’t you stay with her?’ asked Jan, with alarm.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going home—I’ve been signed off sick.’

I wondered if Lisa would rat on me. Frankly, I didn’t much care—it was hard to see how things could get much worse.

But every time I caught myself thinking that, they did.

‘
Can you spare me a minute of your time, sir?’

Dave Carmody looked up from the stack of paperwork on his desk.

‘
Sure.’

‘
About Amy Robinson—Isabelle’s boss.’

Carmody’s stomach lurched. Had something terrible happened to Amy? She’d sounded pretty wild the previous evening, and he feared the worst.

‘
You’d better take a seat,’ he said. His calm demeanour belied the turmoil within.

‘
She seems to be in a spot of bother, one way and another, sir.’

‘
Yes?’ The fear ratcheted up a few notches as Carmody fought to keep his voice steady.

‘
A guy from Croydon division called. Her mother has filed charges against her for forging her signature on a contract with a house clearance company. This apparently resulted in all her mother’s possessions being taken away.’

Carmody relaxed slightly.

‘
How come they called you?’

‘
Her neighbour practically frogmarched the mother into the station, and she mentioned Amy’s connection with the Isabelle Edwards case. They asked if we’d interviewed Amy—if we’d formed a view of her.’

‘
And what did you say?’

‘
I said she was a thoroughly professional and upright woman, and the whole story sounded most implausible. I hope that was OK, sir.’

‘
Yes, very good—thank you.’

Carmody had little respect for DS Holland’s intellect, but the guy was endowed with a shrewd perception of emotion that was equally useful. Without anything having been said, he was all too aware of Carmody’s attraction to Amy.

‘
I expect they’ll ask her a few questions,’ Carmody went on. ‘I bet it’s all a silly misunderstanding. She did tell me in passing that her mother’s a hoarder.’

‘
Ah I see, sir. But the weird thing is, they’re not the only ones who’re after Amy. They called me back afterwards and told me they discovered NCA have been making enquiries about her.’

‘
What?’

Carmody sat bolt upright.

‘
Connected to an undercover operation they’ve been running jointly with various forces around the country. They wouldn’t give any details—said it’s top secret. But they’re scared stiff she might undermine whatever it is they’re trying to achieve.’

‘
Really?’

‘
So it’s been agreed that Ms Robinson’s to be arrested for the forgery and brought in for questioning. They’ve been told to hold her as long as possible.’

‘
Sweet Jesus, what’s that all about?’

It had to be serious, though. The National Crime Agency only involved themselves in the most substantial organised crimes, such as major drug dealing. Last night, when she’d called him, he’d been absolutely convinced that Amy was gripped by drunken paranoia. Now it seemed there might be some substance to her wild allegations. Had Amy attempted to do her own sleuthing and run up against an existing investigation?

Somehow, he must find out.

I’d just returned to my desk to collect together my things when my landline rang.

‘Reception here. There’s two policemen downstairs asking for you.’

My mind hared through the possibilities. Assault on Lisa? No—too quick—she must still be ineffectually blotting her nose in the loo. Trespassing at warehouse? No—drug dealers would shrink from involving the police. Accessory to murder? Ancient history. I took my handbag with me though—instinct told me I might be gone some time.

Two plainclothes detectives waited for me in the foyer. They flashed identification, which might have been gym membership cards for all I knew.

‘How can I help you?’

‘We must ask you to accompany us to the station,’ said the younger of the two men, stony-faced, ‘to assist us with our enquiries.’

‘Enquiries into what?’

‘Amy Melissa Robinson, I am arresting you for forging the signature of your mother, Mrs Pauline Robinson, on a document. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence against you in court.’

The astonished expression on the receptionist’s flawless face said it all—to my knowledge this was the first time that an arrest had taken place on Pearson Malone premises. But she couldn’t have been more staggered than me. As I’d said to the Cynthia Hope, there was no way on God’s earth my mother would report me to the police.

The conclusion was clear—these were not real policemen—they were JJ’s people faking it. If I accompanied them I’d be dead meat on the slab.

‘Do I have to come now? This isn’t a great time…’

‘I’m afraid so.’

My mind raced—how on earth had JJ’s crew got wind of the forgery? But then I remembered, I’d told Lisa, who must have helpfully informed her new best buddy Smithies.

‘Can I see your ID again please,’ I asked, playing for time. Strangely, I felt calmer than I had in weeks, ready to use all my wits to rescue myself from this predicament.

‘Sure.’

He let me peer at it for longer this time. It seemed genuine enough—they looked policeman-like. But still I had doubts.

‘You’ll have an opportunity to give a full statement at the station,’ said one. But that failed to reassure me.

‘Listen,’ I said, thinking fast. ‘Can I pop to the loo? I’ve been sitting in a meeting for hours and I’m absolutely desperate. It’s just over there.’

‘I suppose so,’ the older man replied uncertainly.

I was desperate not for a pee, but for a few seconds to consider my options.

I didn’t have many. The only exit was the door I’d come in by, which they’d be watching assiduously.

If I hauled myself up above the suspended ceiling and crawled along the ducting…

I stood on the loo and pushed, but the ceiling panel stuck fast. Even if I’d been able to dislodge it, the athletic demands of the plan would have been far beyond me, especially with my scabby, purulent knees.

No—I’d have to exit the way I’d come in. And they’d spot me for sure.

Unless…

At lunch hour, people came and went all the time. A secretary I recognised emerged from one of the stalls and put on a cerise raincoat with a black baker boy cap.

‘Could you do me a huge favour?’ I asked her.

‘Sure,’ she said, studiously ignoring my unkempt appearance.

‘Can I borrow your coat and hat? I know it sounds absolutely ridiculous but some bad men are waiting outside for me and I need to escape.’

As a partner, people automatically do your bidding and don’t ask too many questions. I counted on that now. And although she plainly thought me deranged, she reluctantly handed over both items of clothing.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll make certain you get them back.’

I exited the Ladies, covering my face with a handkerchief as though blowing my nose. It was vital to walk assertively, as if I had every right to be hurrying along. I averted my head from the bogus detectives as I scuttled across reception.

Unobserved, I stepped out into the normality of a Friday lunchtime in London.

***

Once clear of the building I fled, running faster than I knew, the scabs on my knees cracking open as I went. It would be dangerous to stick to the main streets—already I’d drawn too much attention to myself—so I left Fleet Street as quickly as I could. I dived into a narrow passageway, which led to a labyrinth of further walkways and courtyards, and thinking quickly, jettisoned the borrowed coat. It was too conspicuous and before long, the two fake Plods would discover how I’d escaped.

Was it my imagination again or did I hear someone behind me? I scurried round a corner, into another ginnel and then another. Still I fancied I heard indecisive footsteps going this way and the other as my pursuer tried to find me.

I tiptoed into a new section of the maze and through an alley containing the back entrance to a pub. The bar was packed with grey suits drinking mineral water with their lunch. I wriggled past the heaving throng and exited by the main door on Shoe Lane, before hailing a taxi on Farringdon Street.

‘Where to, ma’am?’

Good question. I needed to hole up somewhere while I worked out my next move, but I couldn’t risk a trip home.

‘Heathrow Terminal 5,’ I said in a flash. Airports were anonymous—and anonymous equalled safe. Plus I could leave the country—someone could fetch my passport—no idea who, but that was tomorrow’s dilemma.

After a few hundred yards, I asked the driver to stop by an ATM and I withdrew five hundred pounds from each of my three cards. I didn’t know much about being a fugitive but avoiding leaving a financial footprint seemed like a sensible precaution.

There was plenty of time for rumination in the hour and a half it took to reach Heathrow, and plenty of issues to ponder. How had I ended up in this mess in the space of four weeks? How much of it was my fault? What was real and what was imaginary?

None of the questions had an easy answer.

Fraud in a respected Pearson Malone client seemed unlikely enough. But cannabis growing in a slate mine—possible police involvement in money laundering—a partner murdering a junior colleague—all this sounded crazy and delusional.

‘
Come on. You know it’s real.
’

Great—so a figment assured me all the rest of it was genuine. What sense did that make? And wasn’t that the whole point? People with delusions
believed
them.

And if it was real, which I now doubted, that didn’t necessarily mean I was OK—far from it.

I’d dreaded anyone seeing the muddle inside my head, or the mess in the house. For years I’d striven to present a polished image to the outside world. But now the madness had seeped out through the veneer of sanity, as an unchecked hoard would eventually spill outside the house. The prospect of being crazy terrified me, but equally I’d seen all too graphically where the path of denial led. So I had to ask myself—was it possible I needed help?

‘
No—no!’
Little Amy shrieked.

***

I’d last stayed at the Sofitel hotel with Greg when we’d flown to San Francisco in a last-ditch attempt to save our flagging marriage. With hindsight, the futility of the endeavour was clear, since he’d already lined up my replacement by then. But at the time I still harboured an irrational hope that my perfect life was salvageable. My decision in the taxi might have seemed random, but now I saw a depressing logic to it. Perhaps deep down I sensed that I was doomed to failure once more.

Reception seemed reluctant to take a walk-in for cash—even asking had evoked a defensive, suspicious response. Being memorable might be more dangerous than being traced through a credit card, especially as the two goons were not real police. So I reluctantly handed over my Premier MasterCard, which the receptionist swiped, eying me curiously. With luck, the hotel wouldn’t charge it till I left, and not at all if I paid in fistfuls of notes at the end. Besides, I’d be long gone before anyone identified the Sofitel as my destination.

But gone to where? And who could I trust to assist me?

Not my mother, for sure. Nor the colleague who’d betrayed me. Not the boss who’d killed Isabelle and plotted to get rid of me. Or even the police. As I mentally ran through my pathetically short list of friends, I realised they were all acquaintances, work colleagues and business contacts. But whose fault was that? Isolation was the reward for distancing myself from everyone.

The room was a standard, far less plush than the Prestige Suite I’d booked for the last visit, and noticeably smaller. The poky bathroom lacked the opulent marble finish I remembered, and the absence of a minibar was an additional irritation I could have done without. I sat on the bed, exhausted by the physical and mental exertions of the day, and flicked on the TV. At least I saw no announcement about a hunt for a deranged woman—something to be thankful for I supposed.

After few minutes I’d recovered enough to run a bath—there could be no doubt I badly needed one. I also hoped relaxing in a hot tub might coax my brain into action. I gasped in agony as I submerged my scabby knees—how could they ever heal when every action triggered a relapse?

Despite my valiant efforts to stay alert, I dozed off and woke nearly submerged in the now chilly water, amazed to find it was nearly eight pm. Shivering, I wrapped myself in a fluffy white towel and padded back to the bed, where I found seven voicemails and five missed calls on my iPhone. Two from Greg—the other three, worryingly, from Carmody. I daren’t listen to the messages.

In the midst of my aching loneliness, a sudden nostalgia for the times I’d spent with Greg swept over me, together with a recognition that the break-up had been my fault. My secret had been the cancer in our marriage, his betrayal merely a symptom. All he’d wanted was a normal girl to share his charmed life, and superficially I’d fitted the bill. How was he to have suspected the crumbling wreck that lay behind the elegant façade? How frustrating for him, living with a shadow, my big secret tethering us to a half-lived life filled with unspoken fears. Hardly surprising that he’d sought solace elsewhere.