The Code

by Nick Thripp

  I puzzled over what to do. I telephoned Rachel’s old office hoping to speak to Wendy, her secretary, but was informed she’d left the organisation, and they didn’t have contact details for her or Rachel. I didn’t want to ask Neil. That smug tone of voice he’d barely suppressed when he told me about Suzie still rankled. That only seemed to leave one avenue, and I recoiled from taking it. Finally, however, with my concerns mounting, I found myself on the steps of Beart’s Belgravia house. The door was opened by their Filipina maid, Bing. Her usually sunny expression clouded over when she saw it was me.

  ‘Bing, I wondered whether you had a forwarding address for Lady Beart,’ I said.

  ‘Who is it, Bing?’ A female voice I recognised asked in the background. Seconds later Suzie, wearing a short white silk dressing-gown, padded barefoot into the hall.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, as though greeting a troublesome neighbour. ‘What do you want?’

  Bing retreated.

  There were so many things I wanted to say, so many questions I wanted to ask, so many insults I wanted to unleash that they wrapped themselves around each other, strangling my brain and paralysing my vocal chords. It took me some moments to straighten out my thoughts, and even then I stumbled in getting the few words I could articulate out.

  ‘R-R-Rachel’s address.’

  Suzie folded her arms. ‘Thought I’d cured you of that prissy cow.’

  The anger in me prevailed over the hurt and the shock.

  ‘She’s worth a million of you.’ As I mounted the last step and pushed myself forward, she slammed the door in my face, missing my nose by millimetres.

  ‘Go away! This is private property,’ she yelled through the letterbox. I thundered on the gleaming brass knocker.

  ‘I’ll call the police,’ she shouted.

  I dropped to my knees and pushed the flap open. ‘You fucking hypocrite. What happened to property is theft and all the other shit you spouted? Let me in. I want Rachel’s address.’

  ‘Go away, you pathetic little man. I’m calling them now.’

  I heard a telephone number being dialled as a shadow loomed over me. I looked round, shielding my eyes from the sun’s glare, to make out a policeman’s pointed helmet.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  I stood up and brushed the dust from my knees. The policeman was a couple of inches shorter than me and, fleetingly, I felt the strong desire to push him down the front steps.

  ‘Bloody hell, you were quick. Suppose you’re part of his personal protection squad, paid for out of my taxes.’

  ‘No idea what you’re talking about, sir. Is this your house?’

  The door opened. Suzie stood there looking at me as though I were her least favourite form of invertebrate.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ she said. ‘He’s stalking me.’ Suzie’s gall rendered me speechless. She could switch between social codes with the ease of a chameleon changing colours. The free-wheeling socialist who’d sponged off me had changed into the protector of property rights, albeit someone else’s.

  ‘In that case, I suggest you move along now, sir.’

  As I walked away, I cast a bitter look in Suzie’s direction. I’d always expected her to abandon me, but never to turn against me. She was still standing on the steps, talking to the policeman. She noticed me looking and gave a cheery wave, accompanied by a hearty ‘goodbye’. Resentment clogged my chest as I made my way to the Beart Enterprises Head Office, only a few yards away in Victoria.

  The doorman knew me well from my auditing days.

  ‘Morning, George,’ I said.

  In place of his usual stiff smile, I was greeted by a grimace. Suzie must have warned them. He stood on the top step before the revolving doors, barring my way.

  ‘Sorry sir, I have instructions not to admit you.’

  I glanced behind him. He was a flabby sixty-something, with a sizeable paunch. If I pushed past him, I could be through the doors, up the stairs and into Beart’s office before anyone could stop me. At that moment, the lift doors opened and Beart emerged. He strode towards us, eased the doorman aside and stared down at me. He looked lean and strong in his pale blue shirt, his gold cufflinks glinting in the sun. His arms hung loosely by his sides, and his mouth was twisted into an expression of disgust. I stepped up to his level. His body tensed and I saw his right arm twitch.

  ‘You—’ he snarled.

  I puffed my chest out. Although he would beat me in a fight, at least I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me back down.

  ‘Give me Rachel’s address.’

  The doorman was joined by three men in dark glasses and security officers’ uniforms. One of them must have been six feet four and the other two not much shorter; the muscles in their necks bulged above their tight dark blue collars.

  ‘Doesn’t exist.’ Beart spat the words and I felt a fine spray of saliva on my face.

  Despite the trembling in my arms and legs, I forced myself to square up to him. Memories of adrenaline-charged playground fights came flooding back.

  By now a crowd, breathless with excitement, was gathering around us. I recognised one of them, Leigh Rosenberg, a truculent young Finance Manager from Ilford, with whom my audit team had had several run-ins. He yelled, ‘Don’t put sugar on it, boss, gob him,’ and made a punching motion with his right arm as several people picked up the chant of ‘gob him, John,’ and waved their fists.

  ‘What do you mean, doesn’t exist?’ I shouted above the mounting clamour.

  Beart, his face now impassive, said to the security men. ‘Our friend is leaving. Please see him off the premises.’ The three stepped between us. Then he turned to the onlookers and said, ‘OK folks. Show’s over. Back to work.’

  Past the three broad chests ranged in front of me, I glimpsed him stroll back into the building as though nothing untoward had occurred. One of the security men put a hand on my shoulder. I shook it off.

  ‘I’m going.’ I swivelled on my heel and walked quickly across the forecourt and around the corner. Once out of sight, my legs buckled and I slumped against a wall, where I stood shaking with a mixture of disbelief, nerves and exhilaration. Although I hadn’t found out where Rachel was, for the first time since schooldays, I’d stood up to John Beart.

  It was Richard who suggested a private investigator. I found Arnold Trippier’s name in Yellow Pages and visited his Hackney office.

  A week later I was back in Arnold’s office to hear his report.

  ‘She’s either disappeared or been disappeared. I traced her to a rented apartment a couple of months back. After that, nothing. I’ve tried my police contacts. Another blank. Maybe she’s in hiding somewhere. If so, she’s made a professional job of it.’

  ‘No surprise there. Rachel makes a professional job of everything.’

  ‘Disappearing without trace isn’t that easy. Most people leave some clues, unless they’ve been trained by the security services or Special Branch.’

  I sat forward on his leather sofa.

  ‘Could she have hired someone, perhaps someone like you, to help her?’ I sipped my macchiato.

  ‘Unlikely. I don’t know anyone legit who’s in the business. There are a few criminals who do it for a living. Is it possible she had contacts?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘And her mother?’

  ‘Had a stroke. Can’t remember a thing, and the care home doesn’t have Rachel’s details. Two other daughters had power of attorney and sold the house to pay for care.’

  ‘Her sisters?’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t know anything.’

  ‘Any point going to the police?’

  ‘Absolutely none. They won’t pay any attention to you.’

  ‘Must be something I can do.’

  ‘I’d wait. Missing people usually turn up sooner or lat
er, alive or dead.’

  When I shared Arnold’s advice with Richard, he pronounced it sound, advising me to get on with my life and sort out my own problems.

  I tried repeating the phrase, ‘I’m sure she’s fine’ and, with plenty of help from my old friend Johnny Walker, did my best to put thoughts of Rachel out of my mind.

  *

  Richard hadn’t worked on the Beart Enterprises account, and he quickly managed to find a job as Finance Director of a drinks company. More confident of the future, he and Sandra gave a house-warming party when they moved from Wandsworth to a much larger property in Esher and insisted I come.

  ‘Could be a new start. Perhaps you’ll meet someone,’ Sandra said.

  The house was enormous with a sizeable garden surrounded by laurel bushes. As I gripped the antique bell-pull, memories of Thorpe Barton flooded back, stirring up deep feelings of failure.

  Richard was very good at keeping in touch so I was hoping some of the people I’d known in my younger days would be at the party. I propped myself in a corner, sipping a glass of red wine, and was quite enjoying trying to recognise old male acquaintances, despite their balding heads and thickening waists, when Alison and Mark arrived.

  ‘Hi, how are you? Long time, no see. We almost didn’t recognise you with your bushy beard. You look more like an artist than an accountant.’

  ‘What are you two doing here? I didn’t know you were friends of Richard’s.’

  ‘I treat Sandra,’ Alison replied. ‘Rachel was very good at recommendations.’

  ‘And how are the fitness and herbalism businesses going?’ I asked, proud of my ability to dredge up their occupations. It suddenly occurred to me they might know Rachel’s whereabouts. ‘Are you still ministering to Rachel, Alison?’

  ‘I am, or rather I was,’ Alison said, ‘only it’s, or it was, shiatsu and reiki. Mark’s given up fitness coaching and is now wholesaling biodynamic food.’

  ‘Trouble with my knees,’ Mark said, almost apologetically.

  ‘What do you mean, you were?’

  ‘Rachel seems to have vanished. We’re quite worried about her.’

  ‘Yes, I can’t imagine her surviving without her daily dose of qi,’ I said, though my heart was beating faster and my bowels twisting and contorting.

  They didn’t smile. Perhaps they believed Rachel really did need daily reiki and cosmically enhanced vegetables to continue with the arduous process of living.

  ‘When did you last see her?’ I continued.

  ‘Must be a couple of months or more ago, I think,’ Alison replied. ‘She seemed scared.’

  I couldn’t picture Rachel scared of anybody or anything.

  ‘Of what?’

  Alison shrugged. ‘Don’t know. She wouldn’t answer the door, the blinds were down, she kept looking out at the street, you know, a million little things.’

  ‘The atmosphere there,’ Mark added, ‘smelled of danger, of fear. I was in overload when I was with her.’

  I looked at Mark’s brawny frame and the deep scar on his cheek. He would easily have passed as a rugby prop forward or a nightclub bouncer.

  ‘What was she doing?’

  Alison looked around as though concerned we might be overheard.

  ‘Eating chocolate bars and analysing figures on her computer.’

  ‘Chocolate bars! Are you sure?’ I couldn’t believe this of a paragon of the virtues of exercise and wholesome food.

  ‘Absolutely! She ate two in front of me.’

  I mentioned the name of the apartment Arnold had found.

  ‘That’s it. It’s one of those fully equipped service apartments. After Rachel, a Japanese businessman rented it. Said he knew nothing of her. The company that runs the block couldn’t or wouldn’t tell us where she’d gone.’

  ‘I fear the worst,’ Mark said. ‘My sixth sense is telling me something bad has happened. We went to the police, but……’ His voice trailed off and his shoulders hunched. Alison gave a little squeal.

  ‘Don’t say that, Mark.’

  Mark put his arm around her and produced a small phial.

  ‘I think we both need some more rescue remedy.’

  I left them tending to each other. I needed some air. Queasiness gripped my stomach and, after a few palpitations which left me breathless, my heart started racing. Rachel was in danger, or, worse still, may already be dead. A shudder shook my whole body. I’d been a fool not to go to the police myself. She needed their protection. I overcame my reluctance and phoned Neil’s mobile number. It rang through to voicemail. I left a garbled message, asking him to call back urgently.

  Two anxious days and two sleepless nights followed with Neil neither answering his phone nor returning my calls.

  On the third day, my phone rang.

  ‘What’s the panic, mate? You won the lottery and want to share your winnings?’

  ‘Rachel’s disappeared.’ I told him the details, blending Alison and Mark’s account with my own and adding in Arnold Trippier’s conclusions.

  ‘People disappear all the time, then they reappear. She’s a jilted woman, thrown over for her own younger sister. You wouldn’t expect her to sit around at home doing macramé, would you?’

  ‘Neil, how can you be so relaxed? You told me Beart might have disposed of other people who crossed him. Rachel probably knows more about his business, and him, than anyone else alive, if she is still alive, and you don’t seem to care. I thought you wanted to get the goods on Beart. If that’s true, Rachel is your best bet. You can’t put her life at risk.’

  ‘Being a bit melodramatic, aren’t we? Why don’t you leave it a few days and see what happens?’

  ‘Neil, I can’t believe you’re being like this. If you won’t do anything, I’ll go to the ordinary plods and see whether they can help.’

  ‘Please yourself, mate. However, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t refer to my esteemed uniformed colleagues as “plods”.’ The line went dead.

  I went to Scotland Yard and asked for Inspector Barnes. After a two hours’ wait, I was seen by a young officer with a lop-sided face and acne. He seemed more perturbed that an ex-husband should be reporting his former spouse as missing than he was about my suspicions, and I had the uncomfortable feeling I’d unwittingly edged myself into being prime suspect.

  Chapter 33

  Dittington, 2004-2005

  Even though I went through the motions of job hunting and approached my contacts in other accountancy firms, I always was greeted with polite, slightly condescending smiles and told I was too senior. I applied, to no avail, to several blue-chip companies for roles as Finance Director, and then as Financial Controller or Head of Internal Audit. Although they never admitted it, it was clear I was damaged goods. I was even rebuffed by the consultancies I approached.

  Sharing a living room, kitchen and bathroom with three other people was proving difficult. From their frowns, they disapproved of my drinking a bottle or two of red wine each night, and from the lulls in the conversation when I walked in, I knew they talked about me, so, after a while, I found it less unpleasant to stay in my own room in the evenings. Meanwhile, I looked around for somewhere cheap but more private and more permanent to rent.

  It was probably a chance in a million; I found The Wattock and Dittington Bugle, on the tube, picked it up and took it home. Leafing through it, my eye was caught by details of a small thatched cottage which was available to rent. Too far from London, I sighed and threw the paper onto the sofa. The next day, I picked it up and looked at it again, searching Google and the public library for everything on Dittington. There wasn’t much. The place sounded ideal.

  The next day I drove there and its picture postcard charm seduced me; the narrow, cobbled streets, the timber-framed Elizabethan cottages with honeysuckle and climbing roses wrapping themselves round each front door. Every ga
rden was ablaze with flowers. Children’s voices floated on the light summer breeze, wafting across from the playground of the old stone village school. A pub, The Jolly Throstle, its rusty sign depicting a thrush catching a worm, and a shop with small panes of old fashioned glass in its window, stood side by side at the village’s heart. Although the cottage for rent was easily the most dilapidated, the garden more than compensated. Without a sign of a weed, it was planted out in different hues of pink and blue, interspersed with the occasional blotch of sparkling white. Around the back, I could make out neat rows of lettuces, beans, peas and carrots.

  ‘It was Old Bob’s passion. In fact, he died right there.’ The letting agent pointed to a cucumber frame. ‘Odds-on favourite, he was, for first prize at the village fete. He was cruelly robbed.’

  I agreed to take the place on the spot; I could manage without creature comforts if it meant having access to this magnificent garden.

  Within a month, I’d moved in even though I’d no idea how I was going to earn a living there. After all, I had my plants and vegetables to console me. The only thing which continued to worry me was that I’d still heard nothing from Rachel.

  Dressed in old brown corduroy trousers and a faded denim shirt, I’d managed to work up quite a lather digging in the hot sun one afternoon. I was leaning on my spade contemplating my efforts when I became conscious of a high-pitched, nasal voice.

  ‘Are you the gardener?’

  I looked round. A man, aged about forty and dressed in a cream linen suit, was leaning against the cottage’s peeling white picket fence. A lock of dark blond hair hung down across his forehead.

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘We’ve just bought the place down the lane, Honeysuckle Cottage, and need some help. If you’re not fully booked perhaps you’d consider keeping our place tidy. We only use it at weekends.’ He looked around at my garden. ‘You’ve certainly done a great job here.’

  ‘All down to Old Bob. I’m new here. If you’re still interested, I’d be happy to do some work for you.’