by Rona Halsall
The silence pressed down on her, the rhythm of her heart shaking her body against the hard edges of the chair. She shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position, but realised it wasn’t possible, the furniture design having nothing to do with comfort.
It was too hot, heaters pumping blasts of warm air through vents at floor level. She could feel it on her ankles and she plucked at her joggers, peeling them away from sweaty skin. She wished she’d been able to change into something more presentable, something that didn’t smell of body odour and wasn’t dotted with stains. The fluorescent lights hummed and flickered, giving off a glare that made her head ache.
After a while, the door opened. Someone brought her a cup of coffee, and then, without saying a word, they left. She was numb, her thoughts floating up in a bubble of disbelief. But as she drank her coffee, the questions started to form, crowding into her mind and demanding answers. What was going on? How had she ended up alone, in this room, in a godforsaken frigging police station? And where the hell was her husband? If this was about work, they should be talking to him, not her. It was his sodding business, wasn’t it? She fidgeted in her chair, sat up straighter, less sure now that she was here because of something she’d done. Surely it was all a bloody great mess, a mistake.
She clung on to that thought. A mistake. Or… another possibility emerged from the maelstrom of her thoughts; perhaps one of her clients had attracted police attention. Perhaps she was here as a witness, not a suspect. She stopped breathing for a moment as the implications registered. Yes! The idea had merit, because everyone knew that a proportion of people with money were less than honest. In her mind, she scrolled through a list of her clients, trying to identify the most likely culprits, a welcome distraction from the doubts that still lingered.
An hour later, she swirled cold coffee around in her polystyrene cup, an attempt to convince anyone who might be watching that she was bored, unconcerned and obviously not guilty of anything. She looked at her watch again. What were they doing for all this time?
Finally, the door to the interview room clicked open and two men walked in. They could almost be clones, with the same shaven heads, matching black suits, white shirts and plain dark ties, like in Men in Black. She put them somewhere in their late thirties, early forties.
Here we go, she thought, her hands suddenly slick with sweat, making her lose her grip on the cup, spilling the remnants of her coffee all over the table. She watched as the pool of dark liquid spread, like a bloodstain, horrified by her clumsiness and the impression she was making.
‘Sorry,’ she said, jumping to her feet as the coffee started to drip off the table and onto her legs. ‘You startled me.’
‘Geoff, get something to wipe this up,’ said the first man who’d come in, his thin lips hardly moving when he spoke. Geoff sighed and went back out of the room.
The man looked at her, a cold stare, and her heart started to beat a little faster. Geoff came back in, cleared up the mess, and eventually they were ready to start. She wiped her hands on her joggers and took heart from the fact that they didn’t seem to be in a hurry. That meant it wasn’t too important, didn’t it?
‘I’m Detective Inspector Alan Morgan,’ the man said, giving her a ghost of a smile, gone before it properly arrived. ‘And this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Geoff Adams.’ Geoff nodded a greeting, staring at her with icy blue eyes.
Her hands locked themselves together in her lap. She sat up straight, forced her shoulders back and tried to look confident.
‘These are preliminary questions,’ DI Morgan said. ‘You’re not under caution.’
She breathed. That was good, wasn’t it? She dared to imagine that she’d got it right, that this was about one of her clients, but her heart still raced.
DI Morgan opened a file and spent a moment flicking through the papers until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a single sheet, looked at her and ran his tongue round his lips. ‘Okay. Let’s just clear up the basics, shall we?’
She nodded, wanting to appear helpful so they could get this sorted out and she could go home.
‘Do you work at your husband’s firm, Wilson Wealth Management?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I do. I manage investment portfolios for a number of clients.’
‘And were you at work on Monday twentieth of February?’
She had to think about that, days and dates all merging together into an impenetrable mass of forgotten events. What date was it today? She looked at her watch. February twenty-seventh. A week ago.
She nodded. ‘Yes, yes I was.’
‘And what are your working hours?’
‘Nine to five generally.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘So, you never go in earlier?’
She shrugged. ‘Occasionally.’
‘What about on that day?’
She thought about it, shook her head. ‘I honestly can’t remember.’
He stared at her for a long moment. She swallowed, gripped her hands together a little tighter.
‘Okay, let’s move on.’ DI Morgan’s eyes locked with hers. ‘Do you have a client called Ballios Christopoulos?’
She raised her eyebrows, breathed a quiet sigh of relief, surprised that he was the subject of investigation. Because that must be what this was about. She’d never considered his finances suspect, but there was obviously no way of telling just by looking at somebody. The nicest people could still be criminals, couldn’t they?
‘Yes, I do,’ she said, her body aching with the effort of sitting up straight, determined that her posture should present a professional persona even if her clothes were letting her down. ‘Is he in trouble?’
DI Morgan’s lips tightened. ‘We ask the questions, if you don’t mind just answering.’
‘Yes, yes of course.’ Her cheeks flushed.
‘And you look after his investment account with your firm?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
He handed her a sheet of paper. ‘Would you mind having a look at this, please. Tell us what you think it means?’
She looked at the columns of figures and was about to hand it back when she realised that something wasn’t right. She frowned, put it on the table in front of her, looked at it again and suddenly knew what this whole thing was about.
A bead of sweat worked its way down her spine. She swallowed, and met DI Morgan’s gaze, giving him what she hoped was the look of an innocent woman.
‘It’s my husband’s business. Maybe you should be asking him about this?
DI Morgan smiled, but there was a challenge in his eyes. ‘We believe it’s your client and you’re the only person he deals with, so we’re asking you.’
‘Well, I’d like to speak to my husband, please.’
He stared back at her, and the seconds ticked by, but she wasn’t going to break eye contact first, knew it was important to appear strong, however weak she felt inside.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ he said. ‘But now you know what this is about, I’ll leave you to have a think about things, shall I?’
He stood and left the room, Geoff not far behind him.
The door clicked shut and she was alone again, shaking and clammy. How the hell was she going to explain her way out of this one?
Seven
Now
The Centenary Centre, where the gig is being held, is a squat but tidy building, with an Art Deco feel about it. People are waiting to get in and Natalie attaches herself to the end of the queue, careful not to catch anyone’s eye.
She tells herself there’s safety in numbers, the best place to hide is in a crowd, but these platitudes are a nonsense because she senses people sneaking glances at her. She wishes she’d taken a bit more trouble getting ready, at least put on some make-up, or changed her clothes but it’s so long since she’s been to a social gathering, it hadn’t even crossed her mind. Now her lack of effort makes her stand out. She shakes out her hair, combs it with her fingers to tidy i
t up, hoping it will shade her face a little, make her less obvious. She stares at the pavement while the queue shuffles forwards, hands tucked in her pockets, trying to look relaxed.
A few minutes later, she’s at the front of the queue, looking at the middle-aged woman who is manning the door. She has a severe haircut, short and angular, that does nothing to flatter her prominent nose and she reminds Natalie of a Russian assassin in one of the old James Bond films.
‘I’m Natalie.’ She lowers her voice, aware that several people are listening. ‘Jack invited me. From the band. He said he’d mention it to you.’
‘Have you got a ticket?’ The woman’s face is a picture of disapproval. ‘It’s a sell-out tonight and you won’t be able to come in if you haven’t got a ticket.’
Natalie stares at the woman, who stares back, then lifts her eyes to the next person in the queue and beckons to him. Natalie’s been dismissed, the woman’s demeanour making it clear that there’s no potential for negotiation. She clamps her jaw tight, and turns to go, eyes on the ground as she wonders what to do next. I can ring him later, she thinks. But then I’ll have to wait until the gig’s over. A couple of hours at least. Too much wasted time.
‘Excuse me!’ A strident voice calls out, making Natalie stop. ‘Excuse me.’ She turns to see the assassin woman waving at her, Jack standing at her shoulder, a grin on his face. Everyone in the queue looks at Natalie as she scurries back to the entrance door, relief flipping in her stomach.
‘Hey! You made it,’ Jack says.
She smiles and decides he’s scrubbed up pretty well. His hair is a lighter brown now that it’s clean and falls in shiny waves to his shoulders. His face is freshly shaven, only a faint hint of stubble remaining, allowing his dimples to show when he smiles. He smells of something spicy and fresh, looks bigger out of his biker gear, a plain white T-shirt showing off a toned torso and muscular arms.
‘Auntie Beth, this is Natalie,’ he says, turning to the woman manning the door.
‘I know,’ she snaps and turns to deal with the next person in the queue.
Jack shrugs.
‘Daft old bat,’ he murmurs in Natalie’s ear as he leads her away from the door.
Natalie gives him a tentative smile and opens her mouth to speak, to tell him that she’s not staying, but Jack speaks first.
‘We might be running a bit late,’ he says, as she follows him into a small bar area that is jam-packed with people, the hum of conversation a few decibels louder than comfortable. ‘Just waiting for the drummer to turn up. Want something to drink?’
She shakes her head. ‘I can’t stay.’
He leans towards her, hand cupping his ear. ‘Sorry, you can’t what?’
‘I can’t stay,’ she says, louder. ‘I just wanted to ask about Tom Wilson. From Excalibur Wealth. I think they might be one of your sponsors.’ But he’s not listening, his head turned, distracted by the shout of his name.
‘Jack! Jack!’ A bearded young man with big holes in his ears, like an African tribesman, is at the door, waving tattooed arms above his head. ‘Craig’s here!’
‘Right, gotta go,’ Jack says, eyes alight, looking nervous and excited at the same time. ‘I’ll see you at the interval. Okay?’
Natalie watches, helpless as he pushes his way out of the room, the chance of finding Harry going with him. The noise of excited chatter hammers inside her skull, making her wince while her mind spins through her options. Stay or go?
Her eyes to do a sweep of the crowd and she glimpses a familiar face, a woman standing at the other end of the room, on the edge of a noisy group. She does a double-take, thinking she must be mistaken. But she’d recognise Sasha anywhere; her profile, that mane of strawberry-blonde hair. She used to be her best friend.
She remembers the postcard she received in prison a few weeks ago, a picture of a woman in Elizabethan dress on the front, posted from Liverpool:
Cool part in a period drama, posh frocks and everything. Should be back before you come out. Confirm date and time and I’ll try to be there to pick you up. Not long now. Can’t wait to see you.
Love Lady Catherine (Okay, Sasha to you) xxx
In all honesty, she hadn’t believed that Sasha would come and pick her up, because filming schedules were variable, and she’d been disappointed so often in the past when arrangements had fallen through, so she’d put it out of her mind.
In any case, Natalie’s release had been sudden, a bit cloak and dagger, due to the death threats and even Natalie hadn’t known what was happening until the morning she’d been freed. Then they’d taken her to a halfway house in Wales, which had been a surprise and had prompted her to make a flurry of phone calls to get everything organised. She hadn’t thought about Sasha, and where in the world she might be filming.
This is a sign, she tells herself. Forgive and forget.
Sasha will help her find Tom and Harry, she’s sure of it, because Sasha has promised that she’ll support Natalie in any way that she can. She pulls herself towards her like a drowning woman pulling on a lifeline, twisting and turning as she tries to find a way through the mass of people crammed between them.
She’s about to call out to Sasha when she stops, sandwiched between two overweight men, and the cacophony of conversation fades away, to be replaced by the thudding of her pulse in her ears: a drumbeat that signals caution.
Is Sasha still a friend?
It’s something Natalie has asked herself more than once over the years.
Theirs was not a natural friendship, more an attraction of opposites, but somehow it had worked, having bonded at secondary school when they’d had to sit next to each other as new girls. Sasha had always wanted to be an actress, while Natalie had wanted to be a journalist and they’d shared dreams of successful careers, celebrity boyfriends and beautiful houses in London. After school, when Sasha had gone off to the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts, still chasing her dreams, and Natalie had abandoned hers and went to work in a casino, they’d kept in touch. Even when Sasha’s work had taken her backwards and forward to America, their friendship had remained strong.
Until Natalie had been sent to prison.
‘I’m so scared,’ Natalie had said when she’d rung Sasha, voice wavering. ‘Please come and see me. You will, won’t you?’
‘What?’ Silence for a long moment. ‘Oh, Nats.’
Silence.
‘Sash, you still there?’
‘Look… I’m so sorry, but… I can’t.’ Natalie had heard a shuddering sigh. ‘I can’t come to a prison. You know what it was like when… when Dad was inside. Panic attacks like you wouldn’t believe when I tried to go and see him. Couldn’t breathe, blacked out and ended up in hospital. You remember, don’t you? I can’t do it. Honestly, you know I want to, but I just… I just… physically I can’t.’ Sasha’s voice had been thick with emotion. ‘I’m letting you down, I know I am, but…’
Another silence had filled Natalie’s ears. She’d swallowed back the words she’d wanted to say. ‘It’s okay,’ she’d said instead and leant against the wall, her legs weak. Sasha’s father had been in prison when Natalie had met her and it was something she’d rarely spoken about. But it had happened when Sasha was a child. Surely, Natalie had reasoned, things were different now she was an adult?
‘It’s going to be fine.’ Sasha had sniffed, tears in her voice. ‘I’m here for you. You know that, don’t you? Ring whenever you want.’
Natalie had huffed, her fist thumping the wall behind her. ‘Yeah,’ she’d said.
Sasha had cried then. ‘Hang on in there,’ she’d sobbed. ‘I’m thinking about you. I want you to know that. Always. Sending positive vibes. Don’t you worry. It’ll all work out.’ Natalie had heard Sasha blowing her nose.
‘Yeah,’ Natalie had replied, then slammed down the phone. She hadn’t tried to call her again; the idea of everything unsaid, all the emotion was too much to contemplate and she’d found it was easier to write.
Ove
r the years, Natalie reminded herself that it wasn’t Sasha’s fault. Reality wasn’t her strong point. As an actress, she lived in a pretend world and the practicalities of ordinary people’s lives were often beyond her. Natalie had always been the sensible one, the comfort that Sasha gravitated towards when her own world was shaky. The idea that Sasha was still her friend was the important thing, the life jacket that stopped Natalie from drowning in a sea of loneliness and resentment.
Natalie thinks about this now, and wonders what constitutes friendship when one of you is locked away. Is the idea of it enough? Or would a friend have made more of an effort to come and see her? They would at least have tried, wouldn’t they? She would have done it for Sasha. No question.
There’s still a nugget of hurt, tucked away in her heart, that makes her want to keep Sasha at a distance, but if she’s going to find Harry, she needs Sasha’s lateral thinking, and another person would make the task so much easier. It’s an opportunity that she can’t throw away, for Harry’s sake.
The movement of people brushing past Natalie shakes her out of her thoughts and she realises that the bar is emptying as people make their way to the hall. She’s swimming against the tide and decides it’ll be easier to go with them as far as the door, where she can stand to one side and wait for Sasha to come through. She glances over to where Sasha had been standing, and her eyes widen when she realises she’s not there anymore. Her pulse quickens. She glances around the room but can’t see her anywhere.
Oh no! What if she’s left? Gone back to wherever she’s staying?
Natalie detaches herself from the tail end of the crowd, hurries towards the exit, and bumps into Sasha coming the other way. Literally walks into her. Flesh bumping flesh. She gasps. Sasha frowns, looks annoyed and steps round her before Natalie can say anything, leaving a waft of perfume in her wake as she hurries into the hall, where loud cheers signal that the band has come on stage.
Natalie lets out a long breath, her hand on her chest. She frowns. Doesn’t that tell me everything I need to know? She didn’t even recognise me.
