Trick of the Dark

by Val McDermid

  By the time she got home, Charlie was more upbeat than she'd been in a while. It was far too late to get hold of lawyers; she would deal with that first thing in the morning. She had two hours' teaching in the morning at a sixth-form college, but the rest of her day was free to chase solicitors.

  She pulled into the drive, glad to be done with the journey. The M6 was always hideous. Clotted with traffic, clogged with lorries and plagued with roadworks. Charlie, an inveterate driver, hated to admit it, but now they had free Wi-Fi and power points, she was definitely starting to prefer trains. She got out and stretched, then realised Maria's car wasn't already parked up by the garage. She checked her watch. It was after eight. When she'd called earlier to say she'd be back, Maria hadn't said anything about going out.

  The house was dark and chilly. The heating had obviously been off since Maria had left in the morning. Charlie snapped the lights on as she went, ending up in the kitchen where there was no note on the table. Odd, she thought, pulling out her phone to call Maria. She noticed a text had come in earlier, presumably when she'd been talking to Nick. Going to early movie with girls from work. Home by nine. Xxx, Charlie read. It was unreasonable of her, but she felt pissed off. She'd wanted Maria to be home.

  She knew even as she pressed the keys that what she was about to do was petulant and childish. But she didn't care. The text message from Lisa filled the screen. Stomach suddenly hurting, Charlie read it. Sent u email, gues u didnt get. Hope ur OK. Want 2 c u b4 u go bk. Any time aftr 3. Pse? Hope ur gd. Xxx. For Lisa, it was effusive. It was, Charlie thought, the first time Lisa had been the one doing the asking. The second anomaly of the day, and even more welcome than the first.

  And it made the email impossible to resist any longer. Charlie ran upstairs to the box room over the garage that had become her home office. She woke the computer and went straight to her email program. There, nestled among the twenty-seven emails that had arrived since Monday afternoon, was the message from Lisa.

  Hi

  Hope you are going well and not too cluttered by the burden Corinna has tried to place on your shoulders. I wish we'd had longer to spend together on Saturday. I feel neither of us really got the chance to say the things we wanted to. But still, I suspect it was more pleasant for both of us than the other calls on our time. I've been dealing with poor Tom, who is struggling with his wife's terminal cancer. He's very emotional, understandably. He's confusing me with a mother figure which is not his wisest move.

  Are you back in Oxford? I thought I saw you in the car. Come and see me if you are. On the one hand, I want you not to waste your time on this crazy chimera Corinna has set breathing flame. On the other, I quite like the thought of you having a reason to come to Oxford. It's hard on both of us when we get so few chances to talk properly.

  Thinking of you.

  Lisa

  Charlie leapt on the mention of Tom and his grief. Immediately she replayed the scene in her head. Could she have been mistaken? Had her mind created what she feared in what had been an emotional but sexually innocent embrace? It wasn't impossible. Charlie herself had been in a disturbed frame of mind, her incontinent emotions already churned up. And here was the innocuous explanation, offered before it had even been sought. She almost laughed aloud, cursing herself for a fool who'd been ready to believe the worst instead of keeping an open mind. Years of professional training tossed aside just because she was suffering the adolescent torments of longing for someone she thought was out of her reach. 'You're a fuckwit, Charlie Flint,' she said, hitting the 'reply' button with a flourish. 'But it's never too late to make amends.'

  17

  Magda ran through the rain, ducking into the scaled-down Sainsbury's round the corner from her flat. She'd come home ready to fix herself dinner and been shocked by how low her supplies had fallen. She'd been spending so much time at Jay's, she hadn't noticed how she'd been eating into her kitchen cupboard staples whenever she was in the flat. Tonight, Jay was in Bologna, probably eating a sensational meal in an intimate family-run trattoria, and she didn't even have a bag of dried pasta and a jar of sauce to pour over it.

  With only half her mind on shopping, Magda filled her basket and stood in line. Here was yet another difference between her past life and her present one. When she'd been living with Philip, she'd savoured his occasional absences on business. They'd been an opportunity to do the things she never seemed to manage when he was around: a long candle-lit soak in the bath with a gin and tonic; late-night book shopping on the Charing Cross Road; renting a DVD to watch with a couple of the oncology nurses whose company always cheered her up; or just taking a good novel to bed with a bottle of San Pellegrino and a packet of chocolate digestives.

  But when Jay left town there was never any cause for rejoicing. The flat seemed empty in a way it never had before. Magda felt restless, unable to settle to anything. Maybe it was because she never felt guilty indulging in whatever took her fancy when Jay was around. Either Jay would join her, or she'd do her own thing without the faintest flicker of reproach. So there was nothing she could do when Jay was gone that she couldn't do when she was around.

  Except miss her, of course.

  By the time she'd paid for her basket of food, the rain had eased. Even so, she was glad to reach the shelter of her lobby. She shook her hair like a wet dog as she headed for the lifts. Before she could put down one of her carrier bags to press the bell, a man appeared at her side, poking a finger at the button.

  He was a stranger, which wasn't particularly unusual. The block was large enough and her hours sufficiently irregular for Magda to be unfamiliar with most of her neighbours. The man followed her in and as she turned to face the doors, she gave him a covert glance. Yes, definitely nobody she'd seen before. Only a few centimetres taller than her, a bristle of light brown stubble surrounding his bald patch, soft features and eyes the colour of boiled gooseberries. He was wearing one of those overcoats she always thought of as the preserve of public school men - camel-coloured with a brown velveteen collar, slightly nipped in at the waist - and carrying an umbrella and briefcase. He didn't look much older than her, but he was dressed at least a generation older.

  'It's Magda, isn't it?' he said as soon as the doors closed and they were alone in the small metal compartment. His voice matched his overcoat - plummy, posh and very smooth.

  Startled, Magda half-turned and stepped back simultaneously. 'I'm sorry? Do I know you?'

  'I was on my way to call on you when you appeared just now.' It was as if she hadn't spoken to him in her best 'keep your distance' tone. 'I have something for you. I was a friend of Phil, you see.'

  Not if you called him Phil, Magda thought. Philip had hated being called by anything other than his given name.

  As if reading her mind, the man gave a little self-deprecating shrug. 'Well, not so much a friend. More a business associate.' He thrust a hand inside his overcoat and rummaged in an inside pocket. For a mad moment she thought he was reaching for a gun. Too many late nights watching film noir, she told herself as he produced an innocuous business card. 'This is me.' He seemed not to notice that Magda didn't have a free hand to accept it with.

  The doors opened and Magda wasted no time leaving the lift and heading for her front door. She put down the bags of shopping and turned to face the man. He was a few feet from her, holding his card out. She took it and read, Nigel Fisher Boyd. Fisher Boyd Investments. A mobile number and a URL but no physical address. 'I've never heard of you,' she said.

  'I appreciate that,' Fisher Boyd said. 'But as I said, I do have something for you. And I'd rather not conduct business out here in the hallway.'

  'And I don't invite strangers into my flat.'

  'Very sensible. Why don't you put your shopping inside and meet me downstairs? I noticed an agreeable little wine bar just down the street. We might go there for a drink?'

  Magda looked at his proposition from all sides and couldn't see anything wrong with it. 'Fine,' she said at last. 'I'll s
ee you downstairs.' They both stood for a moment staring at each other. Then he got it.

  He wagged a finger at her. 'Very sensible.' He backed away, then wheeled round and marched back to the lift. Magda watched him disappear behind the brushed steel doors before she let herself in.

  The strange encounter had unsettled her. Of course she wanted to know what Nigel Fisher Boyd had for her that couldn't be handed over on her own doorstep. But she was aware that her recent notoriety made her interesting to the sort of criminals who saw crime victims as potential prey. And he had called her late husband 'Phil'. She wished for Jay's presence; not because she couldn't handle this alone but because it was always nice to have back-up.

  Magda left her bags on the kitchen counter next to Fisher Boyd's card. If anything did happen to her, at least she'd left a clue behind.

  Ten minutes later, she was sitting at a corner table in a wine bar she'd never visited before in spite of its proximity to her home. She'd never been tempted inside; it always appeared rather dim and sad, its occupants an odd assortment who looked as if they didn't fit in anywhere else so they'd fetched up there like driftwood. Fisher Boyd returned to the table with a bottle of Sancerre and a dubious look on his face. 'Not sure this is quite chilled enough,' he said, pouring two glasses and sipping it. He swilled it round his mouth, puffing out his cheeks, pursing his lips then swallowing ostentatiously. 'It'll do, I suppose.'

  Magda tasted the wine. It seemed fine to her. 'How did you know my husband?' she said.

  Fisher Boyd took off his overcoat and folded it carefully over the back of a chair. Magda hated those sharp chalk-stripe suits with the double vents and slanted pockets that she only ever saw on the backs of the kind of men that Philip described as 'necessary evils' in the world he moved in. Because of his company's specialised role as confidential printers, he had to work with a wide range of people involved in making and taking money. 'From borderline spivs to the grandees of private banking,' he'd once said, adding, 'And sometimes the extremes are closer than you might think.' She was pretty sure which end of the spectrum Nigel Fisher Boyd tended towards.

  'Some of my clients need very high-quality confidential printing. Share certificates, bonds, that sort of thing. That's how we met.'

  It was plausible. But nothing that couldn't be cobbled together from reading the trial reports. 'So if you've got something for me, why has it taken you this long to bring it to me?'

  Fisher Boyd gave her a pitying look. 'It seemed sensible to wait until after the trial. So there could be no possibility of you perjuring yourself.'

  'Perjuring myself?' Outrage battled bewilderment and won. 'How dare you suggest I would lie in the witness box!'

  He flashed a quick, sharp-toothed smile. 'Precisely as I feared. You're much too honest a person not to have told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth in court. And that would have been awkward for all of us.'

  'I don't like the sound of this. What's all this about?' Magda gripped the stem of her glass tightly, feeling out of her depth.

  Fisher Boyd snapped open his briefcase and took out a slim leather folder the size of a hardback novel. He pushed it across to her. 'Go on, open it,' he said when she just sat there looking at it with foreboding.

  Magda opened the flap and looked inside. There were a few sheets of heavy linen paper but she couldn't see what was written on them. She pulled them clear and stared at the fine engraving, uncomprehending. The figure of 200,000 jumped out at her. There were four of them, each with the same amount embossed on them. 'I don't understand,' she said.

  'They're bearer bonds,' he said. 'Whoever holds them owns them. They're not registered in anyone's name. It's like having the money in your hand without the inconvenience of walking round with a suitcase full of fifty-pound notes.'

  'Why are you showing these to me? Where have they come from?'

  'Didn't Phil tell you about them?' He looked faintly amused.

  'No. I have no idea where this money has come from. His estate's been settled. Everything's accounted for. There's no missing eight hundred thousand euros.' She slipped the bonds back in the wallet and closed the flap as if that would somehow make it all go away.

  Fisher Boyd shook his head, his mouth a tight, twisted line. 'Just as well I'm not a thief, then. I could have pocketed the lot and you'd have been none the wiser. Luckily for you, I don't believe in cheating my clients.'

  'Look, you're going to have to explain this to me,' Magda said. 'I don't understand any of this.'

  'It's quite simple. The motive that Paul Barker and Joanna Sanderson had for killing Phil was insider trading, right?'

  'Yes. He was going to report them to the police and the FSA. They were finished. They'd go to jail.'

  Fisher Boyd flashed his scary smile again. 'Well done, my dear. And how do you suppose Phil worked out what they were up to?'

  'He found out they were spending far too much money and he discovered they were insider trading.'

  'And how did he know what to look for?'

  Magda frowned. 'I don't know. He just knew how the financial world worked, I suppose.'

  Fisher Boyd's expression was pitying. 'He knew because he was doing it himself. This' - he tapped the wallet - 'is the laundered proceeds.' He raised his glass in a toast to the wallet, draining it and refilling it from the sweating bottle.

  Magda felt her chest constrict with shock. What this man was saying was so at odds with her view of Philip that she couldn't make sense of it. 'Philip wouldn't do that,' she said.

  'My dear, he not only would, he did. Why else would I be handing you a small fortune in bearer bonds?'

  'But why would he inform on Paul and Joanna if he was doing the same thing?'

  He shrugged. 'I wondered that too. My only conclusion was that they were doing it so badly that he was afraid they'd be unmasked and his own little house of cards would be pulled down with them. At least this way he was in control of things. He was prepared for the investigation.' He patted the wallet. 'And the proof of the pudding is in here. The investigators didn't find a trace of what he'd been up to.'

  'I can't take this in,' Magda said.

  'I know. It's a lot of money to fall into your lap,' he said, misunderstanding.

  'I can't believe Philip did this.'

  'He was trying to take care of you. As a good husband should.'

  It was as if they were speaking different languages. Magda had never wanted Jay by her side more than she did right then. Jay was solid ground. And Magda needed something in her life to be solid ground. Her parents had failed her, and now it seemed her husband had done the same. 'I don't know what to do with this,' she said.

  Still at cross-purposes, Fisher Boyd responded briskly. 'You'll need to deal with a private bank. Much easier than trying to get someone at your local branch to understand what this is, never mind what to do with it. I'll give you some covering documentation about it being a life insurance payout to keep you straight with the taxman. Perfect way to clean it up.'

  'That doesn't seem very honest. I thought you said you weren't a crook? That sounds pretty crooked to me.'

  A flicker of annoyance crossed Fisher Boyd's face. 'I said I wasn't a thief. I provide a service. I don't ask why my clients need this service, and I don't cheat them. Frankly, that's more than one can say for an awful lot of people in this business.'

  'I can't make sense of any of this,' Magda said.

  'Just think of it as a nice little nest egg,' Fisher Boyd said. He drank some more wine, smacking his lips at its dryness. 'You're a very lucky lady.' He reached for his coat and stood up. 'I'll send you that bogus insurance stuff in the post. You've nothing to worry about, I've done this sort of thing before and nobody's ever batted an eyelid.' He slipped into his coat with a flash of scarlet lining then picked up his umbrella and briefcase. 'Should you ever need my services, don't hesitate to call.' He tipped an imaginary hat to her. 'A pleasure to meet you.'

  Dazed, Magda barely noticed him leave. She sat
for a long time staring at the leather wallet. Part of her wanted to tear the bonds into small pieces and flush them down the toilet. But that wouldn't erase the memory of their existence. That wouldn't diminish the betrayal. Destroying them couldn't restore the image she'd always held of Philip as an honest, decent man.

  And then there were the precepts dinned into her as a child. 'Waste not, want not.' 'There are poor children who would be grateful for what you take for granted.' She could hear her mother's voice in the back of her mind saying, 'Just think of the good you could do with it, honey.'

  Magda picked up the wallet and thrust it into her handbag. For now, at least, she would hang on to it. She pushed her wine glass away and got up to leave. She was halfway to the door before the barmaid called her back. 'You need to settle up,' the woman said. 'A bottle of Sancerre.' Somehow, Magda wasn't entirely surprised.

  With a wry smile, she paid for the wine. It was good to be reminded there was no such thing as a free lunch.

  18

  Wednesday

  Unlike most cops, Nick Nicolaides never minded days when he was due to give evidence in court. Most of his colleagues liked activity. Sitting around for hours waiting to be called to the witness stand drove them mad with boredom. Nick had never had any problem with occupying his mind. Music in his ears, a book in his hand, and he was happy. The iPhone had been a glorious addition to his life. He could compose music, he could surf the web, he could read, he could play games. If he felt like it, he could even download files from the office and catch up on his report reading.

  Or, like today, he could pursue his own investigations without anybody looking over his shoulder and wondering why in God's name he was Googling Swedish newspapers when he was supposed to be smashing an international child-trafficking ring. Because here, today, all he was supposed to do was wait till he was called into court and then respond to questions he already knew the answers to.