by Jemma Harvey
‘You meet such a low class of people, don’t you?’ He accepted a top-up from a passing champagne bottle and went on: ‘Where’s the toad-in-the-hole? I understood that was a staple of Jerry’s parties. Actually, I was quite looking forward to it – though it’ll have to be good to match my mother’s.’
‘After the speeches.’
‘Speeches?’ He did the eyebrow trick.
‘Haven’t you ever made a speech at any of your launches?’
‘Well, last time I think Alistair said a few suitable words – great book, straight up the bestseller list, going to make us all lots of money – and I said something in acknowledgement – thank you, probably – and that was it. Nice and short. Not what you’d call speeches.’
‘These won’t be short,’ I said sweetly. ‘Alistair will say what a great writer Jerry is and how lucky we are to publish him. Then Jerry—’
‘Will say what great publishers you are?’
‘Fat chance. But I should warn you, it’s a lot more than thank you. He’s written it up in advance. Several pages. I’ve seen them.’
‘My God. Why did I come?’
‘That,’ I said, ‘is what I’m still wondering.’
‘Are you?’ He was looking at me with something in his eyes which I didn’t recognise, not quite mockery, almost a challenge. I found myself noticing their colour – grey with a hint of green – and the crinkling of his eyelids, and the downward sweep of his werewolf brows over the bridge of his nose, all in great detail. The intimacy of my perception disturbed me; I felt myself going hot inside. He said something else but for a few seconds I was so absorbed in his face I didn’t hear.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, “Take a guess”. Never mind. Your face glazed over. You’re obviously saturated with small talk.’
‘No, I . . .’ But he had turned away to include his neighbour in the conversation, and whatever had nearly been said was lost.
Jerry had scheduled the speeches for half-past eight. The vast living room was crowded and the party buzzed, but it still lacked the top-rank stars, aristocracy and – probably – royalty that Jerry considered his due. Nonetheless, he continued to give his Klingon impression of a good host. The ominous moment arrived when Alistair stood on a chair, and a hush ran through the room. A hand fell on my arm. Georgie. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Lin’s done a bunk somewhere. I think she’s in trouble.’
I whispered: ‘Excuse me,’ to Todd and we slipped out.
We found Lin in the master bedroom, hunched up on Jerry’s fourposter looking like an abandoned orphan in a period novel. Her face was pale and pinched under the long fall of her hair. ‘One of the journalists recognised me,’ she said. ‘She started on at me – why was I out, leaving my children? Who was looking after them? How did I feel about having my name linked with paedophiles and ex-cons? I said it was work, that was why I was here, but she wouldn’t listen. She just kept going on and on. How friendly was I with Jerry? I claimed the press had treated me unfairly – did I think they’d treated him unfairly too? I didn’t know what to say. I ran off – she tried to follow, but that minder of Jerry’s got in the way.’
‘MacMurdo,’ I supplied.
‘I can’t go back out there. I’m sorry, Georgie, I just can’t. I’ll wait in here till everyone’s gone . . .’
‘It’s the speeches,’ Georgie said. ‘We’re not going back out there either. Let’s have another go at taking the bath to bits.’
‘Shouldn’t someone keep watch?’ I said.
‘No need. We’ll just lock the door.’
In the bathroom, we all crouched down by the faux-marble panel. ‘It’s got to be here,’ Georgie told Lin. ‘Why else would this section be in two pieces? I’ve tried levering it open here, but—’
‘Did you try the other end?’ Lin asked. ‘Maybe it opens that side instead.’
‘That’s too obvious.’ Georgie gave her a severe look and got out her all-purpose nail file. She slid the tip into the crack at the corner of the panel, working it to and fro. ‘I can feel something,’ she said abruptly. ‘Like . . . a latch . . .’ She wriggled the file more vigorously. There was a tiny snick, and the panel swung open a fraction.
‘See?’ Lin’s face had lightened. ‘It worked.’
‘I hate it when people do that,’ Georgie remarked. ‘You wrestle with something for ages and then somebody comes along and says brightly: “Why don’t you do it that way?” and they’re right. That’s so infuriating.’
‘Open it wider,’ I said, disregarding her. ‘Let’s see what’s in there.’
The cavity was dark and the overhead lighting did little to illuminate it, but there was a bulky object inside, squashed against the curve of the Jacuzzi. A bag. Quite a big bag. Georgie seized it and tried to pull it out, but it was wedged. It came free with a wrench that sent her rocking backwards, and there it was. An ordinary sports bag, rather dirty from prolonged incarceration, bulging at the seams and zipped tight.
‘My God,’ I said – or something like that. ‘We were right. We were right . . .’
Georgie undid the zip.
The bag was full of money. Lots and lots and lots of money. Great wodges of scarlet and mauve notes, sealed in plastic, presumably in case the bath leaked. We couldn’t begin to count it, but it didn’t matter. It looked like half a million quid, and that was good enough for us. I’d rarely seen a fifty-pound note, and here there were fat bundles of them. Money is – money. The purchasing power of life. It’s food and drink and shelter, new-reg cars and first-class travel and designer clothes. It’s security and status and influence and bank managers who kiss your arse. It may not have the glitter of jewels or the lustre of gold but in this day and age – in such large quantities – it has magic. We stared and stared. At the bag and the money and each other.
Lin said faintly: ‘Wow.’ Her troubles were (briefly) dimmed by the glow of our discovery.
Georgie began to scrabble at the plastic, trying to tear it open.
‘Why wasn’t the panel locked?’ Lin said. ‘I mean . . .’
‘I suppose Jerry didn’t think anyone would look there,’ I said. ‘We’d never have thought of it if I hadn’t hidden stuff under the bath when I was a student.’ And, glancing at Georgie: ‘We have to decide what to do.’ I only hoped I sounded forceful enough to get through to her.
‘Call the police?’ Lin.
‘Pay my credit-card debts.’ Georgie.
‘We can’t just take it. Leave it alone.’ I pushed her hands away from the bag. ‘We’ve got to talk.’
‘What about ethics?’ Lin demanded with less conviction than I would’ve expected.
‘What about them?’
‘Perhaps . . . if we gave some of it to a good cause . . .’
And then – with the sort of timing that normally only occurs in books – there was a knock on the door. ‘Hello? Mrs Corrigan?’ A Scots accent. MacMurdo. ‘Are ye all right in there?’ There was a note of rough concern in the voice, and I realised he must have noticed Lin’s flight and come after her. Even musclemen have a small dose of the milk of human kindness in their system. I nudged her violently.
‘Yes,’ she said in a sort of gasp. ‘I – I won’t be long.’
‘I’ll see to it ye’re not troubled nae more,’ he assured her.
‘Thanks.’
Now what? I mouthed.
‘Supposing he’s still out there?’ Lin whispered. ‘Waiting for me.’
‘We can’t stay in here forever,’ I said.
‘You go,’ Georgie said to Lin. ‘We’ll wait in here, then we can follow when the coast’s clear.’
‘What’ll you do with that?’
‘Take it with us.’
‘How?’ I hissed. ‘Under your coat?’
‘I’ll . . . improvise . . .’
She’d managed to tear the plastic by now and there was a breathless moment when she pulled the rip wider and we each snatched a wad, feeling the thickness of it, the crisp smo
othness of new notes. Money really does feel crisp: did you know? Not crisp like crisps but crisp like the best bed linen, and every bit as sexy. Then came the voice again: ‘Are ye sure ye’re all right?’ and the spell was broken.
‘What kind of a world is it,’ Georgie muttered as we shoved the money back, ‘where a girl can’t have a pee in peace?’
‘I’m not having a pee,’ Lin said.
‘No, but you might be. Now, get out there – distract him – get him out of the bedroom.’
Georgie and I flattened ourselves on either side of the door, Georgie clutching the bag to her bosom. Lin went out, omitting to switch off the light behind her – I trusted MacMurdo wouldn’t notice that someone else had done it. Their voices retreated and I peered round the door-frame.
‘Okay.’
In the bedroom, Georgie said: ‘Our best chance is to sneak out with it now, under cover of the party.’
‘Don’t be an idiot. Jerry would be bound to spot you – he watches the entrance lobby like a hawk in case anyone important shows up. And you can hardly pass that off as your handbag.’
‘I should’ve brought an overnight bag with my work clothes instead of leaving them at the office. Why didn’t we plan this better?’
‘Because we never really expected to find anything.’
‘I could throw the bag out of the window for you to collect down in the street.’
The window was locked.
‘We shouldn’t be removing it at all. It’s evidence. You have to leave it in situ.’
‘Are you going to tell the SFO?’
We were glaring at each other, locked in conflict – how fast money can undermine the deepest friendship! – when we heard the door opening. Georgie threw my koala fur over the bag, just as a woman walked in, raking the room with a ferret-like gaze. She had a short skirt, very thin legs, and a hairdo that combined back-combing and sticking-out ends in a tangle of such complexity it had to be deliberate. I didn’t recognise her but Georgie did. ‘Jocasta Tate,’ she said, sotto voce. The name was familiar. A Glenda Slagg working for the Mail or the Express or the Mirror, I couldn’t recall which.
‘I’m looking for Lindsay Corrigan,’ she said. ‘I know she came in here. Skinny little thing, sandy hair.’
I opened my mouth to say she’d left – and shut it again. Loot or no loot, we had to divert the enemy from Lin.
‘She went into the bathroom,’ Georgie said glibly. I detected a note of inspiration in her voice, and my heart sank. ‘I think you can get out that way. There’s a balcony or something.’
A balcony? Outside the bathroom?
But Jocasta was too hot on the trail to smell a red herring. She pounced on the door, knocked, pushed it open. ‘Keep her there!’ Georgie adjured, and bolted back to the party. It took her a few seconds to locate Jerry.
‘Jerry, have you got a moment? There’s some woman in your bathroom – I think she’s a journalist. She says she’s found a secret panel in the side of the Jacuzzi. She took something out of there—’
Jerry snarled a summons to MacMurdo and they all burst into the bedroom at a run, with Lin – who had been clinging to the minder for protection – tagging along behind. Jocasta had found the panel ajar – the way we left it – and paused in her pursuit of Lin to peer inside. Seeing the cavity was empty, and there was no sign of any alternative exit to the room, she re-emerged just in time to collide with Jerry. He grabbed her, tossed her into MacMurdo’s grasp – ‘Don’t let the bitch get away!’ – and dived through the door. An instant later he appeared again, his face white and lipless with rage. He plucked Jocasta by the shoulders and shook her so savagely I was afraid she’d be really hurt. ‘What’ve you done with it? You thieving whore! What – have – you – done – with – it?’ Jocasta, her head jerking like a rag doll, couldn’t have answered him even if she’d known what to say.
Georgie, meanwhile, had picked up the bag – still covered by my coat – and strode purposefully to the door (she knew better than to sidle). Everyone’s attention was fixed on Jocasta. Once Georgie was out of the bedroom, the party crowd would engulf her . . .
It was a bold plan and it might have worked. It very nearly did.
But Jerry’s departure from the party had been rapid and noticeable. Several of the guests, scenting drama, had trailed in his wake. In the lead was Cal, who had been keeping an eye out for Georgie; behind him came Todd, who – well, I still hadn’t worked out what his agenda was. With them, the It girl, a spare EastEnder, assorted representatives of the press, and the official photographer, who was employed by Ransome and blithely continued taking pictures when Jerry had long passed his save-by date. Even as Georgie reached the door, it was blocked by people.
‘Let me through!’ she commanded Cal, but the crowd was building up behind him and escape was becoming impossible.
‘What have you got there?’ he asked, catching a glimpse of the bag.
‘Shush!’
But it was too late. A couple of hacks were shouting at Jerry – one went to Jocasta’s assistance – and he spun round, saw Georgie struggling to get out, guessed what she was carrying. He leaped towards her – made a grab for the bag – my dead teddy slid to the ground – and then the two of them had hold of it and were tugging in opposite directions. Lin and I ran to support Georgie, hooking our fingers into the gaping zip, but Jerry, inspired by greed, must have had the strength of ten – or at least of four. In an ideal world the bag would have split apart, showering money into the air which would have come fluttering down like oversized confetti. In fact, Jerry called MacMurdo to his side and, letting go with one hand, punched his principal opponent in the face. Georgie reeled backwards, letting out a screech of fury. ‘You bastard! My blusher—’ Cal, operating on instinct, sprang into the breach and hit back.
Not for nothing did he go running and play squash regularly. The blow was a good deal harder than Jerry’s, and sent the recipient crashing to the floor. Meanwhile, the guests were pushing forward into the room, anxious not to miss any of the action. MacMurdo, who knew his job, swung in retaliation – Cal dodged sideways – and somehow the Scotsman’s huge fist encountered Todd’s lantern jaw. Todd would have fallen, if there hadn’t been too many people getting in the way. I let go the bag and went to his side, and there was a moment when he collapsed against me, his arm clamping my shoulders. (It should have been a moment of bliss, but I had no time to feel blissful.) Somewhere in the background, Helen Aucham shrieked: ‘We’ll sue you for millions, Beauman, you arsehole!’
Todd sat down on the bed, evidently dizzy. His lip was bleeding. There was a box of tissues on one of the tables and I snatched a handful and began to staunch the flow. Lin dropped the bag to harangue MacMurdo – Jerry was trying to sit up – Cal was kissing Georgie’s swollen cheek. The photographer went on snapping industriously at what was clearly the most photogenic launch party in history.
There was a minute when the bag was unattended. Jocasta Tate and the It girl almost smashed head-on in their haste to look inside, yanking it open between them and gazing fixedly at the contents. Then Jocasta up-ended it and the money came pouring out, thick wads of banknotes pounding into a heap on the floor, skidding across the carpet. For a second, there was almost silence. Jerry, tottering to his feet, cried: ‘Leave it! It’s mine!’ but no one paid any attention. They all knew ill-gotten gains when they saw them. That crowd of literati and glitterati – society girls and celebs – journalists both famous and infamous – burst through the confines of the door and rolled forward like a wave. Half a million disappeared under the rush. Georgie, I am sure, grabbed a bundle or two before Cal pulled her away; Lin was in danger of being trampled but MacMurdo lifted her clear. Jerry plunged into the free-for-all and temporarily vanished, though his voice could be heard from time to time.
‘Thieves – you’re all thieves! Get out of my house!’
‘I told you I was no good at the fights,’ Todd remarked. I was still daubing his mouth, though it wasn
’t bleeding much any more. ‘Are you going to tell me what the hell’s going on?’
‘It’s a long story,’ I said, unable to resist a grin. Helen, too, was swamped in the mob.
‘That’s all right,’ Todd said. ‘I’ve got time. After all, I only came tonight to talk to you.’
Chapter 15
Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects as soon as I can.
JANE AUSTEN: Mansfield Park
All tragedies are finished by a death,
All comedies are ended by a marriage;
The future states of both are left to faith.
BYRON: Don Juan
Afterwards, Georgie said she couldn’t decide if the party was her most spectacular failure – or her greatest success.
‘You always said it was Jerry’s responsibility,’ I reminded her.
‘Only if it was a failure. If it was a success, it’s down to me.’
‘It all depends what you mean by success . . .’
The wave of marauding guests had retreated at last, leaving a dishevelled Jerry, one eye puffed up and slowly turning black, clutching the remnants of his half a million. There wasn’t much of it. He was shaking visibly, his face shrunken into taut lines, the gleam of his good eye almost demonic. He strode towards Georgie, his left arm still pressing the crumpled bank notes against his chest, his right jabbing at the air with a malevolent finger. ‘You did this! – you – you—’
‘Leave her alone,’ Cal said tersely, stepping in front of her, ‘or I’ll black the other one.’
‘MacMurdo!’
‘You can’t make him beat people up!’ Lin declared unexpectedly. ‘He’s supposed to be your chauffeur – your minder – but not your – your private thug! Anyway, he’s not like that.’ She was holding him back with an outthrust hand. It was a small hand, and it looked child-sized against the looming mass of MacMurdo. I stared at Lin with new respect. The bodyguard appeared decidedly uncomfortable.
