Concealment (18 page)

‘Well, it’s a damned sight better than being married to all your secrets. Why the hell didn’t you ever tell me about your mother?’

‘Smithies shouldn’t have told you. He promised he’d keep it confidential.’

‘
Dammit, he assumed I knew,’
Greg replied. ‘Jesus—we were together for three years—what sort of marriage did we have with
that
coming between us?’

‘You were always such a judgmental prick—perhaps that’s why I kept quiet.’

‘Amy,’ he said, ‘listening to the way you’re talking, I’m feeling you might benefit from some professional help. Would you like me to…?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Piss off.’

As I hung up, I spotted Little Amy lurking in a shop doorway. She said nothing, but smirked triumphantly.

I hadn’t yet hauled myself out of bed and into the shower when my phone rang. It had been another uncomfortable night in the hoard house, this time trapped with a fire raging and no means of escape. Now I lay dozing quietly in an attempt to regain my equilibrium.

I came to with a jump. Shit—Smithies—at 7.02. Didn’t he realise how these early morning calls unsettled me? On second thoughts, maybe that was his intention.

‘Hi there,’ I said as brightly as I could manage.

‘Just calling to check how you’re holding up after the shocking news.’

‘What news?’ I asked, my stomach tightening.

‘You mean you haven’t heard?’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘Ryan Kelly’s committed suicide—hanged himself. It’s breaking on Sky.’

‘Oh God—no.’

I sank back into the pillows, shaken to the core. I hadn’t seen this coming at all.

‘I thought you’d be shocked,’ he said, sounding pleased.

Shocked didn’t even come close to describing it.

‘Why yes. Aren’t you?’

‘Obviously,’ he said breezily. ‘Although, I must admit this does bring the whole episode to a nice tidy conclusion, doesn’t it?’

The most loathsome aspect of this statement was its accuracy, and it applied to me even more than Smithies. Ryan’s death meant I wouldn’t have to regale the court with an account of my drunken one-night stand. Even better, any potential charge as an accessory had surely died along with him.

‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ I agreed.

‘I’m heading into the office now and I’ll do what I can to calm the troops. No need for you to rush in though—I expect you’d like some time to compose yourself, given how close you were to Ryan.’

‘Thank you for thinking of me,’ I said tartly.

I flicked on the television. The media gloves were off. No trial meant no contempt of court, and you cannot libel the dead. They enjoyed complete freedom to say what they liked about poor Ryan, and they made the most of it.

The consensus was that he’d been guilty and unable to live with the crime he’d committed. Nobody suggested that following a wrongful arrest he’d had zero faith that justice would be done. I sat on the arm of the sofa, mesmerised by the commentary, and weighed down with guilt.

I should have done more to defend him—should have promoted him. Hell, if he’d been given his promotion he would have been with Isabelle that night and she would have been safe. Instead, he’d spent the night with me and then I’d betrayed him too. In my heart, I knew he hadn’t left my house at the critical time, yet I’d capitulated quickly under pressure to save my own skin.

There were no tears though, because I don’t do grief. The sudden death of a parent leaves you with few illusions as to the transient nature of life. Grief is a silly, selfish emotion. The dead person has gone and is indifferent to your feelings, so your misery is wholly centred round your own inability to adjust to the loss. Me—I can adjust to anything.

In truth, if I was able to stomach the guilt, Ryan’s death brought an opportunity for closure and rebalancing my life. I would clear out my mother’s squalor then move on, and I would stand up to Smithies instead of allowing him to bully me. Finally, I would forget any ideas of uncovering any double-dealing at JJ—better to let it lie, whatever the truth. It would be a neat and tidy end to everything, just as Smithies had suggested.

But as you must realise by now, life is never neat and tidy for me.

Pearson Malone sent a sympathy card and a wreath—Smithies’ doing, of course. Although Ryan hadn’t quite been posthumously transformed into Employee of the Year, he’d graduated from being public enemy number one. His death had erased most of the complications preceding it, not least the need to fire him.

Smithies suggested I should attend the funeral on behalf of the firm ‘as you’ll presumably be going anyway’. Purely because I couldn’t think how to refuse, I agreed.

I was determined not to let the depressing corporate hypocrisy around Ryan’s death drag me down. I had much to do.

First came ‘Project Mother’.

As Lisa had suggested, if you have the money, there’s no task that can’t be delegated. I was stunned by the number of clearance outfits in the London area, offering comprehensive solutions to an obviously widespread issue.

Clearall described themselves as “hoard clearance specialists” on their website, with particular expertise in trauma situations and council properties. Why a council house should be any different from any other property mystified me—maybe I should ask them. They claimed, somewhat brazenly, to provide a solution to any situation. That remained to be seen, but agreeing to meet me the same evening was a promising start.

Unquestionably, my main motivation was to fulfil other people’s expectations. I felt more comfortable with my subsidiary motive, which was to capitalise on a unique opportunity for action, and to ensure I never found myself in the same position again. This time I would foot the bill, but if my mother re-hoarded, she’d have to face the consequences on her own—there would be no repeat performance. And if she didn’t—perhaps our relationship might be salvaged. But I didn’t hold out much hope.

My cheeks flushed as Andy, Clearall’s managing director, coldly appraised the level of squalor. Alongside my lingering embarrassment, I wrestled with a sense of inadequacy. Even as a child, my failure to keep the house presentable shamed me, and the blame my mother heaped upon me did nothing to allay my distress. Little Amy could be exonerated, but grown-up Amy found it tougher to disclaim responsibility. I wasn’t even an average adult, but a high-flier who cut a swathe through complex challenges every day. It seemed ridiculous to have allowed matters to reach this stage. But as Andy bluntly pointed out, if the families could sort their hoarding relatives, he wouldn’t make a living.

‘I’ve seen worse,’ came his verdict. ‘Two days’ work for a team of five—four large skips—assuming you’re keeping the furniture.’

Although it was mainly obscured by junk, I guessed the furniture was worn and tatty but still functional. I could easily afford it, but buying new stuff for her was far above and beyond the call of duty. Let her buy her own if she wanted—she hadn’t ended up in this hole through poverty.

‘Pretty much.’

‘And anything else goes?’

‘Yep.’

‘Just to be clear, if we find any valuables we’ll put them aside.’

They wouldn’t. Despite the apparent impossibility of the task, I was positive I’d locate every item of importance before they started work.

‘OK. So how much?’

His eyes lighted on my gold watch and diamond earrings.

‘Five thousand plus skip hire. Half in advance. Card payment or bank transfer.’

‘Can you work at the weekend? I need it done while my mother’s away.’

‘Ten grand,’ he said without hesitation. ‘We don’t normally do weekends.’

I produced my premier Mastercard. It was a rip off but the price was irrelevant.

‘Will you be able to supervise the clearance?’

‘Yes.’

‘And will your mother sign a consent? We’ve had some tricky situations in the past, you see, with hoarders claiming they never authorised the clean-out.’

I wavered. Obviously my mother couldn’t provide a signature without becoming aware of the plan. And once aware, she wouldn’t sign anyway.

‘Send me the paperwork and I’ll sort it out,’ I said with confidence. Forging a signature offended my ethical senses, but needs must.

‘
I knew you’d do it in the end
,’ said Little Amy after he’d gone.

‘I do wish you’d go away,’ I snapped. ‘You make me worry that something’s wrong with me.’

‘
Well, something is wrong with you
,’ she retorted, and promptly disappeared.

I stared at the empty chair in disbelief. I’d have gladly paid ten grand to clear out the junk in my head.

***

Later that evening, my phone showed “number withheld” as it rang.

There was no reason not to answer.

‘Hi—Amy.’

A male voice, which I didn’t immediately recognise.

‘Who is this?’

‘Dave Carmody.’

Unbelievable.

‘Oh—not DCI Carmody today then.’

‘No—not today.’

‘Why are you calling?’

‘To find out how you’re doing.’

‘You think I want to tell you?’

‘I owe you an apology.’

‘Too right.’

‘And I totally get how angry you must be—looking back, we may have handled things a tad insensitively.’

‘
A tad insensitively—he must be joking.’

‘If that’s your idea of an apology, it doesn’t cut it.’

‘OK, I apologise unreservedly and I’m asking you out for dinner.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re an interesting, attractive woman.’

‘
Believe me, you’re not.’

I sort of agreed with Little Amy. What was interesting or attractive about a drunken slut who could be easily intimidated? Unless he was one of those weird guys who got off on weak women. Or maybe he wanted something else from me, under the pretence of asking me for a date. Two weeks ago I might have been tempted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the new Amy didn’t take any crap from anyone.

And Little Amy certainly didn’t.

‘The answer’s no.’

‘I guess I’m not surprised. Anyway, it was worth a try.’

He sounded genuinely downcast and I vacillated for a few seconds, but held firm. My guts told me DCI Carmody would be a disastrous influence on my life.

‘Well, I don’t suppose our paths will cross again, so all the best for the future.’

I couldn’t bring myself to reciprocate the good wishes.

‘OK, bye,’ I said, and hung up.

‘
And good riddance!’

I would have gladly ducked out of the trip to JJ Slate, but felt it unfair to dump the assignment on anybody else at such short notice. Although Lisa had suggested a Friday meeting, Isabelle had insisted Thursday would be better, to allow her a long weekend at home.

As I set off in the car, it struck me how death is always lurking round the corner, even when we least expect it. The last time Isabelle drove this same route she would quite reasonably have expected to be making the journey many times in the future. Ryan must also have anticipated a long and healthy life ahead. And in a few years I would be older than my own father, dropped down dead at forty-two, always assuming I didn’t succumb to the same fate before then.

Despite these gloomy thoughts, my spirits grew lighter as the suburbs gave way to the motorway, and then to the leafy winding roads of Wales. I’d left my problems far behind in London.

According to Wikipedia, the JJ Slate mine’s history extended back far beyond its current ownership. It had first been developed towards the end of the eighteenth century and a hundred years later had grown to one of the world’s largest, employing over three thousand men. To call it a mine was, I discovered, something of a misnomer, since the majority of its grey slate was excavated by quarrying. However, a vein of highly prized and more exotic green slate lay beneath a heritage site of outstanding natural beauty. It therefore had to be extracted via underground workings—the last working slate mine in Wales. As a result of technological advances, the workforce now stood at a mere two hundred.

A fine drizzle fell as I drew up at the security barrier, and with dismay I noticed the muddy ground. How stupid of me to have worn my black patent stilettos. Every time I thought I’d regained control, I did something utterly dumb as if to prove what an idiot I was. I could only hope that alternative footwear would be provided for the site tour.

A red Porsche 911 with a personalized JJ registration plate took pride of place in the car park. Surely we weren’t to be graced by the presence of Jupp himself? I pulled up alongside it and tried to navigate a path to reception through the murky puddles.

Neil Waterhouse, the managing director of the slate operation, was a pompous little nerd, with a sweaty handshake and a fancy job title that meant bugger all. A visit from the Pearson Malone tax partner had swelled his ego and he swaggered around, puffed up by his perceived importance. Just the type to be on the fiddle, I reckoned—arrogant enough to assume he wouldn’t be discovered, and stupid enough not to cover his tracks properly.

Not that any of that mattered now.

‘I’ve been reading up on the history of the mine,’ I said, to make polite conversation as we waited for Rob, the capital allowances specialist. ‘Incredible how few workers there are here compared to a hundred or so years ago, isn’t it?’

‘Not really—times move on,’ he said, leaving me in no doubt as to the futility of continued attempts at communication.

‘Does JJ come out here often?’ I asked.

‘No, very seldom,’ said Neil quickly.

I detected a trace of nervousness in his response, which deterred me from asking if he was here today. I remembered JJ demurring when I’d proposed the tour, and wondered if he might be on site to ensure no one inadvertently gave anything away. But how could a mine tour reveal a white-collar crime? Quickly, I reined in my imagination—I’d resolved not to think about it anymore.

JJ didn’t show and Rob arrived a couple of minutes later, saving me from any further exchange of pleasantries with Waterhouse. Rob was based in our Manchester office—a balding guy with sandy coloured hair and gold-rimmed glasses. I recognised him straight away—he’d been another of Greg’s cohort who’d been a guest our wedding. From memory, most of the guests had been connected with Greg. Rob gave no acknowledgement of this tenuous connection—most likely he’d forgotten.