Due Diligence

by D J Harrison

11

  As I queue in line at the bank, an officious lady with hair slightly too blonde and lipstick definitely too pink accosts me. She is carrying a clip board and wearing a navy blue uniform with the bank logo on its breast.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she demands busily. Her manner is brusque and unhelpful, in direct contrast to her words.

  ‘Oh.’ I am taken aback at first, deep in my own guilty thoughts. Having grabbed the bundle of cash this morning I decide to open a bank account with it during my lunch break, a sole account, one that Tim is unaware of, my account just for me and my future. It seems a safer place to keep the twenty grand and as I stand here excitedly I wish I’d brought it all with me.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asks again and looks aggressively at her clip board as if seeking some justification for all this.

  ‘I want to open an account,’ I meekly reply at last.

  ‘An account?’ she repeats loudly. ‘Do you already have an account with us?’ At first hearing, the question appears to be nonsensical.

  ‘No, no, I don’t have an account. I want to start one,’ I explain.

  ‘You don’t bank with us?’ she demands, as if I’ve committed a cardinal sin.

  ‘No, but I want to.’

  ‘What sort of account?’

  ‘I don’t know, what sorts are there? Just a normal, everyday current account, I suppose.’

  There is a look in her eye that makes me feel even more like a criminal than when I came in here.

  She bustles off and returns with some forms.

  ‘Here.’ She thrusts them into my hand. ‘Complete these then hand them in at the reception desk.’ She indicates a large lady in a uniformed blouse that isn’t quite managing to contain everything it’s meant to.

  I breathe a sigh of relief and use one of the pens on a chain to write my particulars on the form. The questions are impertinent, but I persevere and put the thing on the desk hoping to get away in time to buy myself a sandwich.

  ‘Passport, driver’s licence and utility bill,’ the large lady intones.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Passport, driver’s licence and utility bill,’ she repeats. ‘You need to have proof of identity to open an account, passport, driver’s licence and utility bill, that’s what you need.’

  I fish about in my handbag, pull out my driver’s licence.

  ‘Here,’ I say, ‘it’s got a photo and my address. That should do.’

  ‘We need a utility bill and a passport,’ she repeats. ‘It’s money laundering regulations.’

  ‘I haven’t got my passport with me,’ I say.

  ‘Can’t you go back and get it?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’m only on my lunch break, it’s at home.’

  ‘You’ll have to bring it tomorrow,’ she says.

  I take out the money from my purse and put it on the counter with my form.

  ‘Can I pay this in now, then, I don’t want to be carrying it around. I’ll bring in my passport tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looks at the bundle of twenty pound notes as if it were one of Toby’s soiled nappies. There is a hush. A silence seems to descend on the whole bank. Even the unhelpful lady with the clip board has disappeared, presumably to stalk people elsewhere. The plump lady gives me a conspiratorial look and whispers, ‘Not cash, love.’ I could barely hear her words. ‘At least, not a big wad of cash like that.’

  I look puzzled because I am puzzled. This is a bank after all; they should be used to handling money.

  ‘You’ll get a visit,’ she hisses. ‘Does your husband know you have this money?’

  I am shocked to the core by her inference and can’t think of a suitable response. ‘It’s all right, dear.’ I must look pathetic because she has started to patronise me in a serious way now. ‘We’re not allowed to tell people,’ but she does anyway, ‘large amounts of cash get reported, then you get a visit from the police.’

  She stops whispering, then shovels the money and the form into an envelope that has the bank’s address conveniently printed on it, with a square in the top right corner that helps you to position the stamp in the event that you need to post it back to them.

  I get out of there quickly, trying not to run and managing to resist screaming until I’m well away.

  12

  Roger, two desks away, knows all about the Money Laundering Regulations. He knows pretty much everything about everything, according to himself. What he knows nothing about is personal hygiene and two desk widths are hardly sufficient distance to remain safe, particularly on a warm day. Braving the stench, I ask the question, still worried by my experience in the bank. What was the receptionist thinking? Where did she think I got the money from? Drugs? Whoring? Robbery?

  Roger regales me with a detailed account of the regulations and helpfully points out that I should have been on the course, everyone else had been on it. It was compulsory, a part of Continuous Professional Development with which all accountants have to rigorously comply. He expresses horror that I missed such an important element of my education. He can’t believe that I’m really not already aware that all suspicious transactions must be reported to the police.

  ‘It’s the law, Jenny,’ he says. ‘Anybody who fails to report suspected money laundering can be put in prison, it’s a very serious offence.’

  ‘Yes, but what if I sell my car and the man gives me cash?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, if you take over five thousand pounds to pay into a bank they have to report it whether or not they’re suspicious. Most banks will report any sizeable cash sum just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘What? Even a couple of thousand pounds? Would that be enough?’ I ask. My horrible experience at the bank churns around in my stomach.

  ‘Almost always, unless they know the person paying in the money really well and it’s a regular thing that they’ve checked out before.’

  ‘So if, say, I took the money from the car and opened a new bank account?’ I just have to ask.

  Roger throws back his head and howls with forced laughter, drawing as much attention to my naivety as he possibly can.

  ‘Well?’ I prompt when he stops laughing long enough for me to get a word in.

  ‘Sorry.’ He doesn’t look sorry. ‘But that’s classic. Every small time drug dealer there ever was will have tried that out at least once. Surefire certainty that one. Has to be reported by the bank, it’s the law, they have no other option.’

  ‘Yes, but if it’s my money, if all I did was sell a car?’

  ‘Then you’d be able to show the police a receipt and tell them who you got the money from. You see, it’s the person who gave you the cash that the police are interested in. Cars,’ he sneers, ‘are one of the most common means of laundering money. People buy and sell them for cash, adding some undeclared earnings here and there as they go. It’s commonplace, everyone’s at it.’

  He sits back smugly and gazes intently at me. A sudden wave of nausea greets my suspicion that he fancies his chances with me. He is probably interpreting our conversation as confirmation of my interest in him.

  I return to my own desk without spitting at him or kicking him in the groin. It’s a close thing, but I have enough to contend with already. I pull out the bank envelope; it contains both the form I completed and the cash. Nobody at the bank has got my details, the receptionist might recognise me if she sees me again, but it was a busy, city centre branch so I doubt it. Thank God I didn’t try that stupidity closer to home. The idea that I am a less friendly receptionist away from having the police investigating me is very disturbing in view of the twenty grand in used notes that I can’t account for either to the authorities or my husband. I resolve to find a safer place to hide the cash. But where?

  13

  There is a subdued feeling in the office, worse even than a normal Monday morning. Eyes don’t lift to meet my gaze as I walk to my desk, there is no chatter, not even the sound of legitimate business conversations. Even the phones are
still. Emma’s bright eyes are soft with sadness as she imparts the grim news.

  ‘They found Martin…’ She half speaks, half whispers. ‘Have you heard?’

  I shake my head in denial and prepare for the worst. They found Martin – sounds like they found Martin’s body or they found what’s left of Martin or they found what used to be Martin. The words give me no hope, only an overwhelming sense of loss.

  ‘He’s dead.’ Emma confirms my fears with a bluntness arising from ignorance.

  As I forgive her for this hammer blow I’m still knocked down and broken. To Emma, the man in the corner office, who waves at her as she walks past, has died. As the tears flow, I begin to heave great sobs that I can’t prevent. Emma can have no idea of the reason for my devastation and she looks shocked by the sight of it. She expects me to react the way she reacted when she herself was told the news. To feel the way that she felt, not this way; not a total loss of control, an overwhelming display of emotion.

  A small voice tells me that I’m giving the game away, I’m revealing my personal involvement, but I neither believe it nor do I care. Martin is gone; the love, the laughter, the intimacy and the secrets we shared are lost. The weight of guilty excitement lifts slightly now I no longer have an illicit lover. There are fewer opportunities now for my unfaithfulness to be discovered. Shock, sadness, sorrow and relief all mingle in my tears.

  Emma watches me recover a little composure before continuing with her news. I know what she’s feeling; her knowledge has to be shared while it’s new and energetic.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asks. I nod and blow my nose in confirmation. ‘They found his body on Saturday. Apparently he had a heart attack or something, anyway they say he died in his sleep. It’s just that nobody found him until now.’

  ‘Where did they find him?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh in some flat, apparently he’d been there ever since he disappeared. I suppose nothing could be done, even if they had found him sooner.’

  ‘I see.’ I feel numb now and very tired. I get up to go to the toilet, there are shooting pains in my bladder.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Emma asks. ‘Shall I come with you? You look a bit upset.’

  ‘It’s a shock,’ I admit. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  I hope.

  14

  From where I sit, almost at the rear of the church, I can see only the back of her black head scarf. I wonder at her sadness, this woman who assumed her missing husband had left her for a mistress. Is this a preferable outcome for her, does it make things less complicated? How had she felt when she heard Martin was dead? Did she feel relief that she’d not been betrayed after all, or sadness that she had lost her husband? There’s one way to find out, I can seek her out and ask her. Even the thought of doing this is too frightening and I push it aside and try to concentrate on the burblings of the priest standing beside the polished casket, amid an expensively assembled forest of flowers. Above him, the beautifully preserved ancient vault gives testimony to the wealth and generosity of the local congregation.

  The participants in this ceremony are a mixture of local and remote, family and friends, business partners and colleagues. Oh, and one mistress who is racked with grief that cannot be shared.

  At the end of the ceremonial discomfort, the coffin is borne aloft and the family head the procession behind it. I stand uncomfortably at the end of an aisle as she passes, unable and unwilling to look at her in case my eyes betray my guilt. An elderly lady follows immediately behind her, supported by two men, one of whom resembles a stouter version of Martin. The woman is his mother, I assume, and my heart goes out to her. The prospect that I might one day attend little Toby’s funeral fills me with horror and I fervently pray for an earlier death to deliver me from that pain.

  At the graveside we form a sombre queue, ready for the widow to hand each of us a white rose which she expects us to cast into the hole where Martin has been placed. Again, I fail to meet her eyes. I stare down at her dainty feet as she mechanically hands me the flower. As I release it to join the others strewn untidily across the casket, a vision of Martin lying there, cold and lifeless, overwhelms me. It’s as if the coffin becomes transparent and I can see his face looking up at me, a slight smile on his face which will now never change.

  My legs give way and almost pitch me headlong to join the flowers and Martin, but a steadying hand on my shoulder prevents me from making a disastrous show of myself. Turning, I see the man I assume is Martin’s brother; his eyes are kind and soft. I quickly flee to the anonymity of the crowd, stand among Landers Hoffman personnel and begin to recover some semblance of composure.

  Emma comes up beside me.

  ‘Are you coming with us to the pub?’ she asks. I’m not able to understand her and she explains, ‘There is an official do but we don’t want to go. We all thought we could get a drink at the pub down the road instead.’

  I’m grateful to be taken away by her and half a dozen colleagues. The widow is still receiving people and giving them flowers as we leave. At the gate to the churchyard, I turn for a last look at Martin’s resting place to see that his widow is being hugged by a small neat man, the last mourner in the line. Even from this distance I recognise him and my urge to run intensifies. Giuseppe Casagrande, the man who bribed me, is here in Cheshire and attending Martin’s funeral.

  *

  The pub is called the Leigh Arms and it’s really a posh restaurant and doesn’t normally cater for a dozen or so accountants intent on washing away the sour taste of the funeral. In their concern for sensibilities and out of respect for Martin, Landers Hoffman gave us all the day off to attend the funeral. This has the desired effect of swelling the turnout, but also gives us the rest of the day to get drunk. I’m in no state to resist the pull of the throng and find myself dipping into Casagrande’s money for the first time in order to buy a round of drinks. The inevitable consequence of my purchasing intoxicating liquor for half a dozen people is for each recipient to insist on repaying the compliment. This prospect holds no fears for me.

  It’s late afternoon and my face is numb, my head is swimming, I am becoming nauseous. While the conversation rests on the topic of Martin I have to keep my peace and drink steadily, speaking only the words ‘large gin and tonic’ when addressed, or nodding to indicate that I do want ice and lemon.

  By now, the congregation has thinned out. Two people from my floor remain, Emma and the malodorous Roger, together with three people from downstairs, Bob, Ted and Jeremy. All seem intent on getting even drunker than I am. Roger shifts his position closer to mine, puts a large hand on my skirt and begins to squeeze my thigh. I feel the urgent need to vomit.

  By the time I manage to stagger back from the toilet, having violently expelled the contents of my stomach through my mouth and nostrils, only Bob and Roger remain at the table and they greet me with undisguised leers. Being sick has sobered me up enough for me to desperately need to go home. Toby! A thought pierces my stupor and sends a shock through my body. Toby needs picking up from nursery. My handbag is on the bench seat. I rifle through it to find my phone and stare uncomprehendingly at the time display. Seven forty. I don’t understand what that means. Seven forty. The phone informs me that I have twelve missed calls. I vaguely remember putting it on silent for the funeral. Twelve missed calls and eight text messages.

  ‘I need to go home,’ I keep muttering as I scroll through the messages. It seems that Tim eventually got Toby from nursery but is getting increasingly pissed off with each call. I phone him back and he answers instantly.

  ‘Sorry, I got a bit drunk at the funeral and lost track of time,’ is all I can say. Tim has much more to say and when I judge he is mostly done, I hang up.

  ‘I need to go home,’ I say to Bob who pushes a drink towards me. The smell of gin makes me want to throw up. ‘I can’t drink that, I don’t feel well.’ He gets me a glass of water and puts it in my hand. Even the water tastes horrible, but I drink it down in the hope it will make me feel b
etter.

  *

  Moving my legs is difficult and painful. Everywhere seems to ache, my head is still swimming and I can hardly lift it. Catching a few breaths brings me round enough to realise I’m in a car, curled up on a back seat made of worn plastic. A man with red hair and a fat stomach is driving. I seem to be the only passenger. I think it must be a taxi. They got me into a taxi, thank God. I sweep my arm in panic, feeling around for my handbag. What remains of one thousand pounds after buying drinks all day is in there. I’ll need it to pay the taxi.

  I locate the bag in the footwell and my panic fades away. As I try to push myself upright I realise that I’m still pissed out of my head. I can hardly move or think. My bladder signals its intentions to empty itself immediately.

  ‘Stop!’ I call out to the driver, hearing my voice in the far distance. ‘Stop, I need a pee, I need to pee right now, if you don’t stop I’ll piss all over your car.’

  The car stops, the door is opened and I half fall, half stagger out onto the grass verge. The complete darkness comes as a shock; it must be even later than I think. There is a constant stream of headlights in both directions but I pull down my pants to my ankles and squat. As the flow starts I lose balance and fall backwards which makes me pee into the air. All I can do is lift up my legs to avoid peeing on them as far as possible. The ground is cold and wet underneath my back, I can feel the damp soaking through my clothes. I’m finished peeing now but I can’t get up. Rolling over, I try to get to my knees but collapse in a tired heap. I need to sleep. I need to rest for a while and then I’ll be okay.

  Somebody has got hold of me and is dragging me back to the car and pushing me onto the seat. I’m so grateful. It’s much more comfortable here than on the cold wet grass. The taxi driver seems to have got in the back of the car with me which I find a bit strange. He can go now, he can drive me home. Something soft and warm pokes my cheek and I push it away with my hand. The taxi driver is making groaning noises and I feel warm splashes on my cheek and forehead. As I settle down to sleep I feel the car start to move again and hope that I’ll be home soon.