Concealment (8 page)

‘
Remember
,’ said Little Amy. ‘
You mustn’t allow him to psych you out
.’

I appreciated the reminder and steadied myself.

‘Frankly, I wouldn’t be too worried at this stage.’

‘I’m not worried—I just thought you should be aware, especially as Ryan’s involved the police.’

‘What a complete jerk that guy is—the police never act on a missing person report for the first twenty-four hours.’

‘From what Ryan said, they’ve launched a full-on enquiry. And it’s more than twenty-four hours anyway—it seems she went missing on Friday, after the drinks.’

‘I still reckon they’ll sit on it for a while.’

‘Ryan says she’s been abducted.’

‘Really—well, you were one of the last people to see her alive. You didn’t like her much did you…’

A wintry smile signalled that he was joking. But it made my flesh creep to listen to him talking as though she was dead.

‘Not as much as you, no,’ I replied, with obvious innuendo.

No flicker of a reaction.

‘I suppose you’ve tried calling her?’

‘What’s the point? Wherever she is, her phone isn’t with her.’

He tut-tutted.

‘
I’ll
try,’ he said. Clearly, dead or alive, and with or without her phone, she wouldn’t
dare
to ignore a call from him.

‘Do you have her number?’

‘It’s on the system.’

With some effort Smithies brought the number up on screen and dialled. So either she wasn’t on speed dial on his phone, or he was bright enough to pretend otherwise, I thought.

‘Voicemail,’ he pronounced.

‘Told you.’

‘Well, I’m sure she’ll be back before long,’ he said. ‘Although this is completely inappropriate behaviour from someone who’s been double promoted. Hope it hasn’t gone to her head.’

Two things struck me about Smithies’ reaction to the news. First, if he was having a fling with Isabelle, he hid it astoundingly well. And second, whether he was or not, he seemed blithely indifferent to her fate.

‘By the way,’ he said, as I was leaving. ‘You were right about the chicken. Been puking up half the weekend.’

‘What a shame,’ I replied.

Smithies’ confident prediction of police inactivity proved to be somewhat wide of the mark.

A gorgeous young professional woman had literally vanished into the night. Moreover, she’d had the presence of mind to do so when little else of substance was happening in the world. The media found the story irresistible and the police responded with a high profile public campaign. By Tuesday evening every TV channel was saturated with images of our star tax consultant, her parents, her boyfriend, and their flat in Ealing.

A media encampment was hastily established outside the flat, where white-suited forensics experts picked through the driveway with exaggerated care. Occasionally, the front door opened to allow the removal of bagged items, but otherwise all was quiet. Undeterred by the lack of activity, the TV stations eked out their coverage with endless speculation. And in the background to the BBC reporter’s inane chatter, the equally mind-numbing drivel of his counterpart from Sky could be heard.

Cut to the press conference, and a Detective Chief Inspector Dave Carmody of the Metropolitan Police gave a pre-prepared statement to the assembled pack of reporters.

‘Isabelle Edwards was last seen at a social evening with colleagues from the accountancy firm of Pearson Malone in the Victoria Pub in Fleet Street, London at around eight-thirty pm. She took the Tube to Paddington, the train to West Ealing and then walked the half-mile to her flat in Drayton Green. We know she reached home because we found timed receipts from local shops, and we’re examining CCTV images to try to piece together her movements. She was reported missing on Sunday night by her live-in boyfriend, Ryan Kelly, who worked at the same company, and who’d been away for the weekend. Isabelle failed to show up for work on Monday morning, which her family say is out of character.’

I’d spoken to Carmody earlier in the day about interviewing the team. Over the phone, he’d sounded imposing, but the camera did him no favours. Uneasy and stilted, he resembled an insolvency practitioner announcing a major receivership with many job losses. His eyes darted nervously, as if seeking out a friendly face.

‘I repeat—we’re satisfied that Isabelle arrived home, but have no information about her movements afterwards. We’re appealing to anyone who saw her on her way home, or early Saturday morning, or indeed at any point over the weekend, to contact us.’

Cut to Isabelle’s grieving parents sitting next to Carmody. The father delivered an emotional appeal for the safe return of her daughter, describing how precious to them she was. The Welsh lilt to his voice added extra pathos to his plea. Isabelle’s mother managed to maintain her elegance and poise to begin with, but broke down when it was her turn to speak. She sounded properly posh between the racking sobs—so posh it seemed amazing she’d wound up married to a Llandudno solicitor.

The obvious affection of Isabelle’s parents stirred a stab of envy in me. After thirty years I scarcely remembered my own father and as for my mother—enough said. If they lured that bat-shit crazy woman from her lair to plead for my return, I’d never come back.

‘Isabelle, we love you—please get in touch, or at least contact the police to tell them you’re safe,’ said Isabelle’s dad in conclusion. But his voice sounded defeated, as if he’d reconciled himself to the worst.

Alongside them sat Ryan, unshaven and scruffy, like someone sent from central casting to play the part of prime suspect. He stuttered over his own appeal.

I slurped at my gin as I stared at the screen in disbelief.

‘You stupid idiot, Ryan,’ I shouted. ‘If Isabelle’s parents can get their shit together, why can’t you?’

‘
Maybe he’s involved
,’ said the Little Amy voice.
‘After all, he hurt you, didn’t he?’

I shuddered, suddenly conscious of my bruised arms again.

Carmody summed up as a contact number flashed up on the screen.

‘This is a level-headed professional woman, who had no reason to disappear. She vanished last Friday, taking none of her things with her. We’ve explored all the obvious avenues and drawn a blank. Now we need help from you, the public.’

When fetching ice for a second gin, I checked my iPhone on the kitchen counter and discovered two missed calls and three messages. One was from Charles Goodchild, hoping Isabelle’s absence wouldn’t slow up the sale process. What a narcissistic twat—I would call him in the morning, if he was lucky. The other two were both from journalists—I guessed they’d got my name from Carmody.

I ignored the journalists, assuming someone else in the firm had dealt with them, until I heard the News at Ten. They specifically mentioned that Pearson Malone had so far made no comment, in suggestive tones implying that we didn’t care or might conceivably be somehow involved ourselves.

I called the twenty-four-seven hotline to the firm’s Media Relations team, hoping they would have everything in hand. But a recorded message provided a selection of alternative contacts, depending on your department. I was supposed to call Smithies.

I steeled myself and dialled his mobile. Voicemail. Keen to exhaust all avenues, I called his home number.

A woman, his wife I supposed, answered. She claimed, pleasantly and plausibly, that he wasn’t around, but the pompous droning of his voice in the background nailed the lie. She offered to pass on the message “when he got back”.

Now what?

Pearson Malone’s attitude to media exposure verged on phobic. They had such a big name that any coverage, except for their own orchestrated PR blitzes, was unlikely to enhance it. Consequently the firm had established an elaborate protocol for media contact, which required the authorisation of either Media Relations or a designated senior partner. Nowhere did it mention what action to take when you’d exhausted the official channels, but the underlying principle seemed clear enough—if in doubt do nothing.

I would have left it there, had the BBC woman not called back.

Danielle was unmoved by my bleating about Pearson Malone procedures, and knew how to turn the screws to secure the quote she wanted.

‘I’m
so
surprised no one from the firm has commented yet,’ she said. ‘If you made a quick statement it would kill all the speculation dead.’

‘
What
speculation?’

‘About
why
you guys haven’t released a statement.’

‘No comment,’ I replied.

‘Oh dear, that doesn’t sound good. If we were forced to tell everyone you
refused
to comment…’

She left the implications hanging like an axe ready to fall.

‘You
are
a partner of the firm after all, and Isabelle’s boss.’

I wavered. Failure to follow firm’s procedures was risky, but equally I might be criticised for not being resourceful enough if Pearson Malone came out of this looking bad.

What use was an emergency hotline which led to a dead end? Why did bosses who tried to micromanage the minutiae of your working day always leave you in the doo-doo when you really needed them? What was the point of being a partner in a global firm if you had no freedom to act? But this internal maelstrom was senseless—I had to decide.

We were all at a loss to explain Isabelle’s disappearance, I said. She was a happy, popular and talented team member, whose professionalism and dedication to duty made her sudden departure all the more baffling. Her team were all frantically worried, and we urged her to make contact, whatever the reason she’d left.

No one would have guessed from this bland, impromptu little piece just how much I detested the smug bitch. And who could legitimately object? After all, I’d followed the time-honoured tradition of venerating the vanished. Isabelle was a paragon of virtue, a princess in terrible danger, and the media were lapping up the story. I prayed to a non-existent God that I’d made the correct decision. Pearson Malone kept a record of non-compliance issues, which they dredged up as evidence of your incompetence if they decided to fire you.

‘Oh great stuff,’ gushed Danielle. ‘Lovely. Any chance of a sound bite to camera early tomorrow morning—show the caring face of corporate Britain? Perhaps standing outside your offices?’

The damage, if any, must have been done already, so I agreed.

The Telegraph also required a short statement. I detected a hint of annoyance at missing the deadline to go to press, but they promised to update the website instantly.

That night I dreamed of junk again. This time, a mass of old newspapers and rags barred the entrance to the underground station. As I attempted to flee, the pile collapsed on me.

As I woke, gasping for air, the image of Ryan thrusting naked on top of me sprang unbidden into my semi-slumbering mind.

‘
Oh God, you slut—you’re loving it—you wanted it all along. You’re so horny.’

And then he’d put his hands round my neck…

I sat up with a start. Where the heck had that come from—memory, imagination or a combination of both?

Like most people who’ve grown up in a dysfunctional household, I’m brilliant in a crisis. So after my morning TV appearance, I convened a group meeting.

At this point, the general excitement at being caught up in the eye of a media storm outweighed any anxiety about Isabelle. Everyone was still optimistic of a benign explanation for her absence and a safe homecoming. People worried more about the way the press had vilified Ryan.

I told them the police planned to spend all day interviewing the team, and in particular anyone who’d been at the social on Friday. I added “for the avoidance of doubt” that this would include me. In keeping with the human touch which had recently become such a virtue, I said I knew how “destabilising” all this had been for everybody. But we needed to keep focussed and professional, and positive nonetheless.

When I’d finished, I discovered a voicemail from Smithies.

‘Drop by for a quick word when you have a minute,’ he said. ‘We need to discuss a couple of minor matters.’

Matters plural. I guessed he’d sussed out that my media contact hadn’t been properly sanctioned—but what else could be on the agenda?

In his office, I glanced at the mural of the water-skiers. Their eyes twinkled triumphantly today, particularly the wife’s. Wasn’t I so plausible when I told you Ed was out—had you totally fooled? And check out my body—size eight, with pert boobs and washboard tummy—all effortless—aren’t you jealous?

Of the abs perhaps, but not of her lying underneath Smithies’ heaving sweaty torso and simulating ecstasy. Even the thought turned my stomach.

‘OK?’ he asked, keeping the obligatory inter-personals to a minimum.

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘We need to talk about Ryan.’

I stiffened—an involuntary physical response he must have noticed.

‘What about him?’

‘What do you plan to do?’

‘How do you mean?’

My voice shook with nerves. Smithies paused—long enough to make me think he knew everything.

‘It’s vital we exit him—we have to get him off the payroll before the shit hits the fan.’

‘What shit?’

‘Oh wake up, Amy. What is wrong with you this morning? It’s quite clear he’s as guilty as hell.’

‘Guilty of what?’

‘He’s killed her, can’t you see that, or are you so blinded by your relationship with him?’

‘What relationship?’ I asked, the panic rising again.

‘Because he’s family, of course,’ said Smithies, fixing me with a penetrating gaze.

My pulse fell back to normal.

‘Aren’t you jumping a bit ahead of yourself? We don’t know yet if Isabelle is dead and still less if Ryan had any involvement. And HR will do their nut about firing someone with no evidence…’

‘I’m amazed you’re continuing to defend him. Even Greg thinks we should sack him.’

I doubted Greg had said any such thing, though God only knew why I should attempt to argue Ryan’s corner, having seen a more sinister side to him.