The Code

by Nick Thripp

‘How much do you charge?’

  I peered down the lane and, just past the massive beech which towered over it, I could see the gate to Honeysuckle Cottage, with the boot of a Maserati protruding. I thought of a figure and doubled it, regretting I hadn’t asked for more when the man didn’t quibble, or even express surprise.

  ‘Name’s Anton, Anton Guillard.’ He extended a hand, then half withdrew it when he saw the dark mud staining my own.

  ‘Bit mucky,’ I said, declining to take it. He breathed a soft sigh of relief, pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his brow.

  ‘When would you like me to start?’ I asked.

  ‘Sooner the better, old sport.’

  We ran through some formalities and agreed I’d start the next day.

  *

  Anton was a bond trader, and his wife, Clarinda, a corporate lawyer. Some weekends they would invite me to join them in the shade of their old apple tree, and we would drink Sancerre and discuss ways to improve their garden. My initial reluctance to make expensive suggestions evaporated when I realised that for Clarinda cost was not a consideration, and I could refashion the garden by bringing in mature trees and shrubs. Within a few months, it was transformed. Delighted with the results, Anton and Clarinda invited me round one hot and sunny Sunday for Pimms and a celebration meal. We sat on the terrace I’d created in the shade of plants which had, only recently, been growing in Italy. In the woodshed beside the cottage lay neat piles of apple wood logs, now drying out for use in the winter.

  It seemed that the village was made up of Anton’s City colleagues and acquaintances. Through him, and even more so Clarinda, my reputation spread and my services were soon in demand.

  Though most of my new clients’ ambitions, initially, were modest, over time my work grew in scale and complexity. From being someone who did a bit of lawn cutting and hedge trimming, I graduated to laying out sizeable chunks of ground with plants, and from that to fully fledged garden design.

  I also found, to my delight, I could live on the proceeds from my horticulture business and even have enough left over to run my black BMW. I became a regular in the pub and, while the old locals who’d been born and bred in those parts were still reserved, the more recent arrivals in the village welcomed me, buying me drinks and including me in their conversations. I took up darts, at which I made a fool of myself on numerous occasions, and even tried my hand at shove ha’penny and dominoes.

  I didn’t have a television and I’d given up reading newspapers. I’d changed my mobile phone number and was in contact with no one, except, very occasionally, Richard. I’d even lost track of the length of time I’d been in Dittington; it felt as though it was forever, so it came as quite a surprise when I heard a visitor had been asking after me.

  ‘Said his name was Neil,’ Colin, the landlord, told me as I raised my pint of bitter to my lips. ‘Said you’d know how to contact him. He wants to speak to you; says it’s important.’

  A twisting in my gut told me it could have something to do with Rachel. I slipped out of the bar and stood in the frosty night air, my breath pluming in front of me as I called his number.

  ‘Oh hello,’ Neil said in a tone that suggested we might have been speaking only a few hours ago, rather than the year or more that had elapsed. ‘I hear you’ve buried yourself in the darkest countryside. “Budding Genius”? Not a very original name for a gardening firm, is it? Would have thought you could have come up with something better, but I suppose as you were an accountant, imagination can’t have been your strong point.’

  ‘Wonderful to talk to you too, Neil. However, I doubt you sought me out to tell me your views on the names of horticulture companies. In any case, I now pay for my own phone calls, so it would be good to get to the point. Is it about Rachel? How is she?’

  ‘Rachel’s OK, but I think it would be better if we met. There’s quite a lot to tell you. I’m in Wattock, staying at the Beetle and Pulpit. If you’ve still got a car, why don’t you motor over and I’ll buy you dinner? It sounds as though you could probably do with a square meal.’

  ‘My business is doing pretty well, thank you. Even so, I’ll take a meal off you any day.’

  Chapter 34

  Trials and Tribulations, 2005-7

  The fourteenth century Beetle and Pulpit was replete with low, dark wood beams, bottle-glass windows and a battered sign saying, ‘Duck or Grouse’. I pushed open the heavy oak door and looked inside. Something about the regularity of a lot of the wood, the horse brasses scattered liberally across the walls and the rows of too-shiny Toby jugs whispered, ‘cynical restoration’ to me. Neil was in the corner of the snug, engrossed in flipping peanuts. I paused to watch him as he executed this trick seven times perfectly before the eighth bounced off his nose and dropped into his beer. It was an appropriate point to make my presence known.

  ‘I see you haven’t improved despite all the practice you’ve doubtless had.’

  ‘That peanut just wasn’t aerodynamic.’

  ‘A poor craftsman—’

  It was the sort of thing we used to say to each other when we were messing around in the old days. He stood up and we shook hands.

  I settled down with a pint and we exchanged further pleasantries as we placed our order for food.

  ‘What news of Rachel?’ The words burst out of me almost involuntarily.

  ‘Steady on, mate. All in good time. I’ve got some other hot news for you first. Did you know your friend Beart’s in the slammer?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Looks like his famous Investment Fund was laundering Colombian drugs money and siphoning off chunks to unsavoury third parties like Al Qaeda.’

  ‘Why would he do that? He had everything to lose.’

  Neil gazed at me levelly.

  ‘Greed.’ He put his mug back firmly on the table.

  ‘Surely he can’t have been convicted already? I know I’ve been out of circulation for a while, but these trials take ages to come to court.’

  ‘We’re in the process of putting the case together, thanks to Rachel. Concerns raised by the new auditors had started to arouse her suspicions. Then when Beart went off with your woman Suzie, Rachel declared war on them both. She’s dedicated herself to the task of unearthing what was going on, despite heavy intimidation. We had to whisk her away and give her a new identity.’

  ‘So, you knew where she was all along, you bastard! You could have told me, or at least hinted.’

  His eyes slid away from mine and fixed on the ceiling.

  ‘Sorry mate. Level five classified. Couldn’t breathe a word.’

  ‘And Beart—?’

  ‘He’ll be out on bail in a jiffy. Only until we get him convicted, of course. I really think we’ve got him this time.’

  I sank back into my chair. It was worth having paradise invaded to hear this news.

  ‘Don’t know what you’re looking so smug about,’ Neil said. ‘You’re going to be called by the Crown as a witness. It seems a lot of the things Beart was getting away with were quite basic and should have been picked up long ago, or at least that’s what the new auditors say.’

  I felt myself blanch. ‘They’re not really going to call me, are they?’

  ‘Star witness, mate, star fucking witness.’

  ‘What about Rachel?’

  ‘We’ll protect her until the trial’s over. Then it’s up to her. She can continue with the false ID or resume her true identity.’

  The chump chop, new potatoes and peas I’d ordered arrived. I stared at them. I’d lost my appetite.

  ‘Cheer up mate,’ Neil said. ‘You’re the person who’s brought him down, you and his ego that is. If you hadn’t been such a crap auditor he’d never have sacked your lot and we’d never have got a toe-hold, and if you hadn’t been such a woeful boyfriend, Suzie wouldn’t have dumped you for him so R
achel wouldn’t have got on his case. We couldn’t have done it without her, you know. She’s sacrificed a lot. She’s close to broke and virtually unemployable now. Isn’t jealousy a marvellous motivator?’

  I cut a small piece of lamb, put my knife and fork down and pushed my plate away. I couldn’t face eating anything.

  ‘Could I speak to Rachel?’

  ‘Sorry mate, it’s beyond my powers to allow it. She’s hermetically sealed.’

  ‘I’m an old friend—’

  His expression was enough to make me realise my request was hopeless.

  ‘By the way, as well as some of my colleagues, you can expect the DTI to be in touch shortly. I daresay your institute will also have something to say to you.’

  I had the uncomfortable feeling Neil was enjoying my discomfort even more than his rare T-bone steak, from which a thin trickle of blood had found its way into the blue-grey stubble on his chin.

  *

  Unfortunately, Neil’s predictions were all too accurate and my life over the next few months became peppered with uncomfortable interviews with the police and assorted regulatory bodies. Each interview exposed my incompetence more starkly.

  ‘Stupid child! I knew you’d fuck it up. You’re even worse than your brother.’ My father’s imagined words echoed frequently in my ears, and many were the times I cursed him for pushing me into accountancy.

  Not knowing what else to do, I kept my head down and continued with my gardening business, deriving great satisfaction from the growing beauty – in both senses – thanks to my efforts, of the village. It wasn’t difficult to persuade the bankers and city lawyers who owned most of the second properties to part with sizeable sums to improve their investments. As beneficiaries of six or seven figure bonuses every year they hardly noticed the cost, and it gave them something to talk about at dinner parties in town.

  I had broadband installed and bought a laptop, the first I’d used since leaving work, and started to follow the news online. I read that Beart had been released on bail. Not much else was reported, which surprised me. The police really must want to keep a tight lid on this one if they weren’t talking off the record to their journalist paymasters.

  Even though I’d prepared myself, it came as quite a shock when I received a subpoena requiring me to testify at the trial.

  *

  The trial lasted only four months, a short time for such a complex case. It was a tribute to the quality of Rachel’s two-year dissection of the data that the jury appeared to understand something of what had gone on.

  My own appearances, which lasted a couple of days, were inglorious and I was pilloried in the media for my incompetence. Martha Grant was called to give testimony, telling the court I’d been in Beart’s pocket because we were old school friends. Even though Bedlington House was hardly Eton, the press had a field-day. ‘Toffs stick together’ was one red-top headline, ‘Old Boys, Old Tricks,’ another.

  During my interrogation, it took me some time to recognise the two identical solicitors sitting behind Beart’s barrister, and providing the QC with her ammunition, as the Kray twins.

  Beart didn’t look at me once throughout my testimony, though I thought I detected a faint smile on his face as I was grilled for several hours by both prosecution and defence counsel. My words were twisted so many times that even I lost track of what had taken place. I was on the verge of tears when my inquisition drew to a halt and I left the stand shaking so hard I had to cling onto the rail to avoid collapsing.

  My heart had barely stopped thumping when I bumped into Neil in the Court’s hallway.

  ‘My God, that was hell. It felt as though I was on trial, not Beart,’ I moaned, relieved to see a friendly face. ‘I’d hate to think what it’s like actually being in the dock.’

  ‘You were lucky you weren’t. The Crown Prosecution Service tried to put a case together against you. There wasn’t quite enough evidence. That, and the fact Rachel said you weren’t bright enough to be in league with Beart.’

  The insult stung, though I suspected Rachel had said it to protect me. It was painful enough to be portrayed as an idiot by the press. It was worse when it was a close friend and ex-wife.

  ‘In fact, her theory,’ Neil continued, ‘is that Beart relied on being able to fool you whenever he needed to. You were his patsy.’

  Rachel’s performance in court was, apparently, outstanding and the jury hung onto her every word. Despite defence counsel trying to bully her into contradicting herself or admitting to the existence of guesswork or gaps in her account, she remained unruffled. I wondered what expression had played across Beart’s lips as she set about destroying his life.

  I only saw her fleetingly as I was called and she stood down as a witness and we coincided briefly outside the courtroom. I flashed her a nervous smile. She was so calm and self-assured; it was as though this was the big match for which she’d been preparing for years, and now she was ‘in the zone’.

  Beart was convicted at the end of the trial and sentenced to fifteen years in prison.

  If I thought it would be all over when the trial concluded, I was sadly mistaken. I was pursued by petty officials from diverse Government departments and regulatory bodies, as well as being hounded by the press, who plastered my name and career details over their pages with little regard to truth or accuracy. I wasn’t in a financial position to sue even though much of the comment was libellous. After an assortment of humiliating hearings, I was struck off as an accountant and told I may well be personally liable for losses sustained by investors in Beart Enterprises.

  *

  The day after the trial I walked into the village shop. A couple of locals, one with a baby, were chatting and laughing with Maria, the shop assistant. The conversation died immediately.

  ‘Morning all,’ I ventured. Only the baby responded, and that was with an incomprehensible gurgle. The mother inspected the cereal packets and the other woman started rummaging through the cabbages.

  I picked some reduced fish fingers out of the deep-freeze, and handed them to Maria. She took them silently.

  ‘How’s Brenda?’ I asked. Normally any reference to her three-year-old triggered an avalanche of information about every aspect of her health and well-being.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And how’s Bill?’ She didn’t ever say much about her husband, except how busy he was.

  ‘OK.’

  I put a note on the counter. Without a word, she rang up the till, laid the change down and pushed the packet towards me.

  ‘Thank you, Maria,’ I said brightly. ‘Have a good day.’ Her eyes were fixed on something below the counter.

  ‘Bye.’

  I looked back through the glass door as I walked away. The three women had converged, their heads inclined towards each other in the unmistakable gossip pose. It didn’t require great intelligence to guess the topic.

  As I hurried down the lane I bumped into Rod and Marjorie, two of the village’s older inhabitants.

  ‘Morning,’ I said. They ignored me.

  Having deposited my shopping at home I wandered into the pub.

  Three locals were sitting at their usual table. I sensed the group tighten into a circle to exclude me, like wagons defending themselves against marauding Apaches.

  Colin was behind the counter.

  ‘Morning,’ I said. He nodded.

  ‘My usual, please Colin. I seem to be the village leper today.’

  He took a glass, gave it a perfunctory polish, filled it and put it down in front of me.

  ‘Are you surprised?’ he said, unloading the dishwasher and stacking the still-steaming glasses on the shelves above the bar.

  ‘I’ve done nothing to hurt them.’

  ‘They’re pissed off with you. You told us you were a gardener. Now it turns out you weren’t. People don’t like being deceived.�
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  ‘Can’t they see I was trying to re-invent myself?’

  ‘What they see is you lied to them.’

  ‘Am I welcome here still?’ I didn’t know what I’d do if I weren’t.

  ‘Your money’s as good as anyone’s. Besides, I know what it’s like to be down on your luck after my marquee rental business folded a few years ago.’

  Being shunned by the locals was bad enough. Being pestered by the City folk to re-live my experiences so they could derive enjoyment from my incompetence was worse. One day I overheard Anton and Clarinda, their voices carrying from their back garden, exclaim to some friends,

  ‘Hiding down here like some war criminal… No one could be that incompetent… Must have been in cahoots with Beart… Should be in jail.’

  ‘There should be a national gullibility award. He’d walk it,’ came the reply, ‘if he isn’t, as you say, bent.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s the cleverest one.’ It was Clarinda’s dark chocolate voice. ‘After all, he’s got away with it while Beart’s in jail.’

  I was horrified at my public dissection. I shaved my beard off to make me less recognisable and became a virtual recluse during the day. In the evening, even though all the locals ignored me, I would take up my position alone in the corner of the public bar, only moving from it to replenish my glass or visit the gents.

  One evening a group of farm lads nudged each other, pointing in my direction and sniggering. I ignored them. I was settling in for my fourth pint when one of them I’d heard called Josh approached me.

  ‘Are you the accountant who doesn’t know the difference between right and left let alone right and wrong?’ He was quoting a press headline and I shouldn’t have risen to the bait. I tried to ignore him, to control myself, to think of something, anything else. Suddenly, it became too much; his idiotic straw-coloured fringe, his buck-teeth, his inane grin. I lashed out, catching him on the jaw. As he sprawled across the bar, I surged forward, my fist clenched. I was pulling back my arm to unleash another punch, this time at his nose, when a couple of local farmers grabbed my arms and pinned them to my sides.