What the Nanny Saw (37 page)

“The exhibit officer?” questioned Nick impatiently.

“He’ll be logging exactly what evidence is found and where, as well as the exact time. We’ll be looking for notebooks, checkbooks, and paperwork relating to deals. We’ve already got bank statements. Can he use the dining room table?”

“Look, I need to get to work,” said Nick. “I’m sure you’re aware that Lehman’s has a huge liquidity crisis.”

“I don’t think you’ll be going to work for a very long time,” said the policeman quietly.

“Are they going to search our room?” asked Hector, as they trooped downstairs into the drawing room. “Will they take Laurel and Hardy?”

“They’re not interested in guinea pigs,” said Ali gently.

A policewoman Ali hadn’t seen before was sitting on the sofa. She stood up and offered to go and make them all a cup of tea.

“Can I have hot chocolate. Please?” asked Hector, sensing an opportunity.

“Can someone please explain to me what is going on?” asked Bryony, nervously twisting strands of hair around her fingers.

“Your husband is suspected of being involved in insider dealing,” the policewoman explained. “Do you understand what that means?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

“We have reason to believe that he has illicitly gathered price-sensitive information to make a profit trading shares.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bryony retorted. “He earns a fortune. Why would he bother doing insider dealing? It’s not worth taking the risk. My husband is a very cautious man.” Ali was relieved by Bryony’s tone, although she wasn’t convinced by her description of Nick.

“We recommend that you are honest with the children about the fact their house is being searched and reassure them that anything that is taken away will be returned at a later date,” the policewoman said sotto voce to Bryony. “We’ll be taking your husband to Bishopsgate police station for a preliminary interview under caution. We’ll hold him in a cell until his lawyer arrives.”

The policeman came in and told Nick that a press release with skeletal details about the raid had just been released and that an application to freeze all his assets had been approved.

“What does he mean?” Bryony sounded panicked.

“It means that we can’t access any money from our bank accounts,” said Nick.

“For how long?” Bryony asked.

“Until this is resolved,” said the policewoman gently.

 21 

When Ali got up with the twins the following morning, there was no sign of Malea. For the first time since she had moved into Holland Park Crescent, breakfast wasn’t waiting on the table when she came into the kitchen at seven o’clock in the morning. The sink was full of unwashed saucepans, there were crumbs and dog hairs underfoot, and the door of the dishwasher was wide open. Leicester was taking full advantage and had managed to climb right inside to ensure there wasn’t a plate or piece of cutlery that could escape his tongue. Hector pulled him out. There was chocolate soufflé on his nose and pasta sauce on his back. Ali opened the door into the garden and watched as Leicester immediately dumped the contents of last night’s meal on the grass. She didn’t go out to pick it up.

“Where’s Malea?” asked Hector.

“Maybe the police confiscated her, too,” suggested Alfie. He looked toward Ali for approval for remembering the correct terminology. They seemed remarkably unruffled by yesterday’s events, perhaps because they were the only members of the family to retain all their gadgetry and their father’s sudden disappearance was nothing unusual. But also because the very insularity that Bryony found so disturbing protected Hector and Alfie from life’s squalls.

“When will they bring Daddy’s computer back?” Alfie asked as he sat down, waiting for breakfast to appear.

“They’re just borrowing it,” Hector reminded him. Ali wasn’t sure what to say to them about anything.

“They’ll bring it back when they’ve finished playing with it,” said Bryony brightly, as she emerged from the larder carrying four packets of unopened cereal, accordion style, between her hands. She had no idea what anyone usually ate for breakfast, so she had chosen the healthiest options. These she put down on the table in front of Hector and Alfie. The twins explained in unison that Malea usually made them eggy bread.

“I don’t know how to do that,” said Bryony, sounding defeated.

“We’ll show you,” said Hector. Alfie took her by the hand and led her over to the cooker. Hector lined up eggs, a frying pan, and two pieces of bread, and issued instructions. Bryony managed a small, quick smile that made her face look a little less drawn. She was always pale. But this morning her skin had taken on an almost translucent quality. Her eyes were a shade lighter than usual, and her hair was a briary, unkempt tangle. She was wearing a skirt, a silk shirt, and high-heeled summer sandals that suggested she might go to work at some point. Whether it was out of habit or intent was unclear to Ali.

“You’re only as good as your last meal,” said Alfie, cracking eggs into a bowl. “Now beat, please.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Bryony, as she whisked the eggs together with a fork. A dollop slopped over the edge of the bowl onto her shirt, but either she didn’t mind or she didn’t notice.

“It’s a line from
MasterChef
,” explained Hector.

“When do you watch that?” Bryony asked.

“I thought it fell under the auspices of educational TV,” Ali nervously interjected, although since she had never seen Bryony or Nick prepare a meal, perhaps they didn’t consider cookery an essential life skill. It was one of those things you could outsource.

“Can we have breakfast in front of the television?” asked Alfie. Ali kept quiet, waiting for Bryony’s lead.

“What do you think, Ali?” she eventually asked.

“Maybe as a special treat,” Ali agreed, not wanting to appear either too strict or too indulgent.

No wonder nannies that worked for stay-at-home mums said it was the worst of all worlds. Hector and Alfie headed to the other end of the room and immediately put on a DVD of
The Great Escape
. Ali could tell because they were whistling the theme tune and arguing over the names of the three tunnels.

“Where’s Malea?” Ali asked, as Bryony dipped the bread in the egg and failed to cover the edges.

There were so many unanswered questions, but at least this one was relatively innocuous. Bryony pointed to a note pinned on the fridge. Ali read a sentence formally announcing Malea’s decision to resign as housekeeper. Her signature was bigger than the resignation letter. No reason was given. Perhaps the police raid brought back memories of something bad that had happened to her in the Philippines? Maybe her work permit was out of date? Or the Philippine bush wire had gone into overdrive after yesterday’s raid and Malea understood how the land lay better than anyone else? Bryony shrugged to indicate she had no idea and still less desire to discuss.

“Do you know how the washing machine works?” she asked Ali.

“I think so,” said Ali. “At least, I’m pretty sure I can work it out.”

“Thank God. I thought I might have to take the clothes to a laundrette.” Bryony smiled weakly. “Then someone can take a picture of me washing our dirty laundry in public.” It was a brave rather than a funny joke, and Ali did her best to laugh, but she couldn’t help worrying that Bryony was expecting her to fill the domestic void.

“Do you want me to show you how it works now or after breakfast?” Ali blurted out. The rules of engagement had subtly altered. Bryony looked flummoxed.

“After breakfast is fine,” she said eventually, acknowledging this shift in the balance of power. “Thanks very much.”

Their normal routine dissolved, Ali started to review her options for the day. It would be better for Hector and Alfie to go and play with friends. Given the situation, she imagined the separate-playdate rule wouldn’t be a deal-breaker for Bryony. She went to the notice board where the class list was usually pinned, intending to call Storm’s nanny to see if they could go play at her house. Storm’s mother wouldn’t pick up the phone, because she didn’t get out of bed until after midday, and she took so many pills to sleep that she wouldn’t be woken by the sound of children coming over to play so early in the morning. The list, however, had disappeared, although four drawing pins were still stuck in the board where it had once hung.

“I think it’s been removed as part of this investigation,” Bryony explained. “Can you believe it? They took a couple of photo albums and all the invitations from the mantelpiece in the drawing room as well. They even took the photograph of Izzy’s netball team from her bedroom wall. Probably because it’s full of girls in short skirts.”

“What exactly do you think they are looking for?” Ali asked, sensing a softening of Bryony’s tone.

“They’re searching for evidence to prove these ridiculous charges against Nick, I guess.” Bryony sighed deeply, and the arm of the silk shirt slipped from her shoulder, revealing a small area of pale flesh. She started massaging it in tiny circles. “We didn’t get much sleep last night. Nick got home after midnight.”

“Where did they take him?” Ali asked.

“They kept him in a cell at Bishopsgate police station until his lawyer arrived. Then they questioned him for four hours and released him on bail. He could hardly speak when he came in.”

“What is he accused of?” Ali asked. “I was just wondering what I should say . . . in case the children ask . . . or other nannies.”

“Insider dealing,” said Bryony, putting overcooked slices of eggy bread onto plates. Ali sprinkled sugar on top. Bryony chose to ignore the lapse, but Ali could see from the way she chewed her lower lip that it bothered her. “He’s accused of using information from someone inside a company to buy shares in it before it was about to be sold or taken over. It’s just the FSA trying to flex its muscles because of the banking crisis. And a managing director at Lehman’s is a perfect target.”

Her manner reminded Ali of the way she spoke to journalists when she was trying to kill a rumor.

“Why would someone do insider dealing?”

“To make money. It happens all the time. That’s why I’m so careful about what I say to people about my clients and never buy shares in any of their companies. It’s a very dodgy but very simple way of making lots of extra pocket money: if a company is being sold, its value increases and its share price goes up once the deal is announced,” explained Bryony.

She stopped and looked Ali directly in the eye. Ali could see a hint of steel. “Nick didn’t do this. They’ve got the wrong man.”

“But if someone was to do this, how would they actually make any money?” Ali persisted.

“If you know a deal is happening before anyone else, then you can buy shares in the company before the price goes up and sell them once the announcement has gone out and the share price rockets. You pocket the difference.”

“I still don’t understand why the police would take the names and addresses of parents at school and photos of your wedding and all that other stuff?” Ali asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Bryony. “Thanks for staying, by the way. When all this is over, we’ll remember your loyalty.”

Ali’s phone beeped to indicate she had a message. She looked down to see who had called but didn’t recognize the number. While Bryony took the plates of eggy bread over to the twins, Ali dialed her voice mail to hear a message from Felix Naylor asking her to get in touch urgently.

“We can’t talk on the phone,” Felix said. “We need to meet. Just name the date and place and I’ll be there.”

•   •   •

Nick came downstairs.
Ali hadn’t seen him since he had left in a police car the previous afternoon, and wasn’t sure whether to acknowledge what was euphemistically dubbed “the situation.” She was taken aback to see him dressed in jeans and T-shirt on a weekday. He hadn’t shaved, and his eyes were as puffy and wrinkled as Leicester’s.

She stood up suddenly, in case he hadn’t noticed she was in the room. Her chair went flying.

“Steady, Ali,” he said. “My nerves are shot already.”

“Do you want me to make you a coffee?” Ali offered.

“Where’s Malea?” Nick asked.

“She’s gone,” said Bryony flatly.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his brow furrowing. Bryony gave him the note. He read it and tore it up. “Coffee would be great, thanks. So I’m in good fettle for my lawyer.”

According to Bryony, Nick had hired the best corporate-fraud defense lawyer in London. She knew the woman charged £750 an hour because Foy was paying and yesterday afternoon it was all he could talk about. Since his collapse, he had a tendency to relentlessly fixate on a single issue until he had exhausted himself and anyone else unfortunate enough to be in the drawing room at the same time.

Nick was carrying all the newspapers under his arm, and a copy of yesterday’s press release from the FSA. This he handed to Bryony while he began scanning the newspapers for stories. Despite the fact that a couple of journalists and at least four photographers had arrived outside the house yesterday before the investigators had even left, the FSA had been true to their word and given only a skeletal account of the dawn raid.

“‘The Financial Services Authority (FSA) today arrested two senior City professionals at leading City institutions and executed two search warrants in two premises in connection with a significant insider-dealing ring.’” Bryony read the top paragraph out loud twice, the second time a little slower than the first. She stared at it in confusion and then repeated it again.

“It says that two people were arrested and two premises were searched. What are they talking about, Nick? Do they mean because your office was searched, too?”

“Just what it says: they arrested someone else at the same time,” said Nick, as he spread out the first newspaper on the table in front of him. “There is an alleged co-conspirator.” He didn’t look up. His smooth tone was reassuring to Ali, as if underlining the absurdity of his situation, but it seemed to agitate Bryony.

“Do you know who it is? Were they at the police station, too? Did they raid their home at the same time?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.” He still didn’t look up from the paper.

“So who is it?”

“Ned Wilbraham.”

“Ned Wilbraham?”

“Ned Wilbraham,” Nick confirmed.

“You hardly know him.”

“That’s what I told them. It’s ridiculous.”

“What did they say?”

“They suggested that we were in cahoots. They say that I got the information, passed it on to Ned, he bought the shares, and then we split the difference. I told them they should reconsider a career writing fiction.”

“It explains why they’ve taken the school list, though, doesn’t it?” said Bryony, jangly nerved. “And the photo albums. Because they’ll find pictures of you and Ned together, won’t they? At our party, for example, or at the Petersons’ house in Corfu. Isn’t Martha on the same netball team as Izzy?”

“You can’t build a case around such spurious evidence,” said Nick dismissively. “Insider dealing is notoriously difficult to prove. I buy stocks and shares all the time.”

“They obviously think they’ve got something, otherwise they wouldn’t pursue it, would they?”

“Sometimes the FSA indiscriminately sticks a net in the sea and pulls out whatever fish they can catch in the hope of scaring off others. It’s banker-bashing season, after all,” commented Nick.

Ali sat at the table throughout this exchange, wondering whether Nick had forgotten she was in the room. She debated whether to go but felt too self-conscious to suddenly get up and leave when they were in the middle of such a heated debate. His reaction niggled Ali. He should be protesting his innocence rather than finding reasons why he couldn’t be prosecuted.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this last night?” It was difficult to work out whether Bryony was more annoyed that Nick had withheld information or that Ned Wilbraham was involved.

“It didn’t seem relevant.” Nick sighed, as though the whole affair was a ridiculous rigmarole. “Still, if we both go down, at least you and Sophia can share lifts for prison visits.” He lifted up his espresso to his lips and drank the whole cup without pausing.

“Stop being so flippant,” Bryony said angrily.

“Sorry,” said Nick. “I just can’t take this very seriously. I was underwhelmed by their evidence, and my lawyer says it’s going to be very difficult for them to prove any connection between us.”

“But in the meantime our bank accounts are frozen, your passport is confiscated, which rather messes up our holiday in Corfu next week, and you can’t go to work,” said Bryony, her voice rising. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I would say that all in all, that seems like a pretty shit situation to me.”