Tightrope

by Marnie Riches

  Pulling onto the drive, Bev caught sight of the postman in the distance in his hi-vis bib, carrying his red satchel down the street. Is he coming or going? Has Doc’s package showed up? She climbed out of the car, grunting as she straightened up. The stiff muscles in her legs screaming.

  ‘Out again?’ Sophie asked.

  Bev started and let out a small shriek. Clutched at her chest. Tittered nervously. ‘Jesus, Soph. You gave me a fright. Where the hell did you come from?’ She’d not noticed her friend and landlady, crouching in the flower bed that bordered the driveway, with a potted petunia plant in her hand. Next to it was a tray of identical brightly coloured plants.

  Sophie pointed to the tray. ‘An impulse purchase.’

  ‘I thought you had a gardener,’ Bev said.

  ‘They’re so colourful. I couldn’t resist.’ Sophie stood, stripped off her gardening gloves and brushed the non-existent soil from her pale pink cropped trousers. ‘Tim’s taken the children to the park and the weather’s divine, so . . .’

  ‘Divine, is it? I’m frozen to the marrow.’ Nobody gardens in pastel trousers, Bev thought. Is she seriously wearing Prada trainers?

  ‘Actually, you look like you’re the one who’s been gardening,’ Sophie said, chuckling. Pointing at the coffee and chocolate stains on Bev’s jeans.

  ‘Stains come with the job,’ Bev said, suppressing the urge to grimace at her friend.

  ‘Shall I make us a coffee?’ Sophie asked, untying her ponytail and pinning her blonde locks into a high bun. ‘You still haven’t told me where you went all dolled up the other night.’

  But Bev switched off Sophie’s gossip-hunting the moment she heard next door’s letterbox squeak open and clatter shut. She spied the postman’s head bobbing up and down beyond the bushes. He was moving towards them. Striding along the gravel driveway with his back bowed against the weight of his bulging red satchel.

  ‘Morning, love! Got anything for me?’ Bev asked. ‘Basement flat.’

  ‘Sorry, cocker. Not today.’ He handed a sheaf of letters to Sophie.

  ‘I’m expecting a package though. My mate posted it four days ago, first class. I should have had it by now.’

  Rummaging inside his satchel, the postie shook his head. ‘There’s nowt else in here for you.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I delivered a package yesterday, though. Basement flat. Wasn’t that what you’re waiting for?’

  Bev frowned. ‘Package? What package?’

  The postie inclined his head towards Sophie. ‘I gave it your flatmate.’ He shrugged. ‘Ta-ra!’

  He loped quickly away leaving Bev alone with Sophie. ‘You took in a package for me and didn’t say anything?’ She ground her molars together.

  Sophie’s porcelain complexion had flushed pink. ‘I-it’s in the kitchen. Sorry. I completely forgot.’ Biting her lip. Blinking too fast.

  ‘Do you think you might give it me? Now!’

  Bev followed her friend up the steps to the main house and into the kitchen, where Sophie pulled a small Jiffy bag from her ‘To Do’ basket full of bills, business cards for workmen, school letters and other family-logistics-detritus. Snatching the small mustard-coloured padded pack from her, Bev saw that Doc’s scrawl was on the front, together with far too many stamps.

  She turned the packet over, spying the poorly stuck flap. ‘You’ve opened this.’ It was a statement, rather than a question. Sophie’s reddened face told Bev all she needed to know. ‘You opened my bloody post and didn’t even have the good grace to pass it on?!’

  Sophie turned away and poured coffee beans into the Gaggia machine. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I thought it was for me.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Bev thumped the marble worktop of the kitchen island. ‘It’s got Beverley Saunders written in giant capitals on the front, marked, “Private and Confidential”. How can you stand there and tell me you thought it was for you? Admit it, you’re nosing into my shit!’

  But her friend still faced the gleaming glass splashback. ‘I am not.’

  ‘At least turn around when you’re lying to me, Sophie! Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t been in my flat. You’ve had my origami crane, haven’t you?’

  Her friend was staring at her, finally, a hurt expression puckering up her beautiful face. Incomprehension in the tightness around her eyes. ‘I haven’t been in your flat.’ Shook her head. ‘No way! Not without your invitation. I never have, I swear. And I haven’t got your origami . . . thing. I admit, I did open your package in error and I’m sorry.’ She folded her slender arms tightly. ‘Forgetting to pass it on to you was a simple oversight and I apologise.’

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice! I offer you a home and a fresh start and bring paid work to your door, and this is what I get in thanks? Verbal abuse!’

  The tears standing suddenly in Sophie’s eyes took Bev aback. What was this nonsense?

  ‘Stop crying!’ she said, steeling herself not to put an arm around her friend, who was clearly vying for the sympathy vote in a bid to avoid Bev’s further castigation. ‘I overreacted. I believe you. OK?’

  Sophie dabbed at her eyes with a piece of kitchen roll. ‘It’s bad enough having to keep secrets from Tim. He’d go spare if he thought I was helping Angie to leave his best friend. He’d see it as a betrayal of Jerry, and Tim’s got very strong opinions on divorce. He’s never got over his own parents’ acrimonious split.’ She whispered conspiratorially to Bev, ‘My father-in-law was a terrible husband, by all accounts. And I mean, terrible!’ Wide eyes implied a raft of the worst kind of marital misdemeanours.

  Bev glimpsed the USB stick inside her packet. She decided that she really didn’t need to stand in her friend-cum-landlady’s designer kitchen, listening to how badly done-to poor old Timbo was and how wronged Sophie was feeling. ‘Can we do this later, Soph? I’ve got work I need to be getting on with.’

  ‘But your coffee!’

  ‘Later. And don’t even try to pump me for information about Angie’s case. She’s a client. Confidentiality and all that.’

  ‘I’m not!’

  ‘OK. Well, stop opening my post, then.’

  Quickly descending the steep stone steps that led from the period splendour of the family home above to the cold, utilitarian gloom of her flat below, she burst through her front door and took out the stick.

  ‘Bingo.’ She held the unobtrusive chunk of plastic and metal before her reverentially, as if it were the Holy Grail. ‘Oh, you beauty. Good on you, Doc.’

  About to insert the stick into her laptop’s USB port, she paused suddenly, wondering if she’d be infected with the same malware as Doc had been. If only the irritating sod was answering his phone. Knowing Doc with his love of a good conspiracy theory and hatred of authority, he’d already destroyed the SIM and his connectivity with it. She didn’t even have a landline for his parents either, nor an address, assuming he had gone there.

  For as long as it took to make herself a pot of coffee and two slices of toast and Vegemite, she pondered exactly what her laptop might contain that was irreplaceable. Concluded that she didn’t really have anything that wasn’t backed up. Even the laptop itself could be replaced on the insurance, if she accidentally on purpose dropped a full mug of coffee onto it or knocked it from her dressing table. All of it was expendable – especially if it meant she had the chance to access perhaps all the dirt she’d ever need on a corrupt wife-beating moron like Jerry Fitzwilliam.

  ‘Feel the fear and do it anyway, Bev,’ she said, shoving the stick into the port.

  Bracing herself to contract a dramatic virtual plague, she was relieved to see nothing happened whatsoever. Either her own anti-virus software had protected her from anything hidden in the stick’s contents or the malware had bust its beans on Doc’s machine.

  ‘Don’t question it, for God’s sake.’ She downed her scaldingly hot coffee. ‘Sometimes the universe just provides, woman.’

  And it had. Doc had been right. He’d stol
en the map and found the buried treasure. Word files, spreadsheets and, most important of all, emails. At a glance, with a thudding heart, Bev worked out that Jerry also banked with the Halifax and Natwest. He had equity investments coming out of his nose – all legitimate, unless you questioned how an MP on his modest salary could afford to have several million in investments, as well as a mortgage the size of Texas on the family house in Hale.

  ‘Spartacus Holdings, eh?’

  Scanning through his emails, she found correspondence not only with Matthew Stephens from Stephens Biotech, but also with several other CEOs of science or engineering companies that were FTSE listed. A little light googling showed that all had been given lucrative government contracts to provide products to the military or else had been awarded enormous amounts of public funding for research projects. In every instance, Fitzwilliam had been the main advocate for them in parliament. But that felt like old news, since Doc had unearthed the Coutts statements. Bev’s eye was caught by something else.

  To: stan8055@gmail.com

  From: jfitzw@yahoo.co.uk

  Subject: shopping list

  Hey, Stan. Thought I’d send through the list for the weekend. We need a big bag of sugar and some spring lamb. Make sure the lamb’s nice and tender. Maybe two lambs, thinking about it. One of the guys has asked for dark meat. He’s in the mood for something different. Deliver to the usual place.

  J.

  Every few weeks, Jerry had sent an email in a similar vein to somebody called Stan. Each time, he’d ask for sugar. The communiqués would always refer to fresh meat or spring lamb or a tender chicken.

  Stan, please make sure the meat you send is as tender as possible. The last lot you sent was on the leathery side and gave us indigestion. Mutton’s not my bag. We need nice racks of lamb and a mix of white and dark meat. Preferably plenty of greens.

  ‘Girls,’ Bev said. ‘He’s after underage prostitutes. Virgins, maybe? I bet they’re trafficked. Ugh. Scumbag.’

  She chewed on her toast, reading how in other emails he asked for Ernie to come along. Was that some euphemism for Ecstasy? The sugar was almost certainly cocaine. With years’ of experience of attending the X-S Club and places like it, Bev knew code when she read it.

  ‘You’ve got a bolthole in London, haven’t you, you piece of filth?’ she said, scrolling through his grand plans with Stan, the mystery dealer and pimp. Bev struggled to remember if Sophie had said whether or not Tim still owned his pied-à-terre in London that he’d bought together with Jerry, and made a note to quiz her. She also needed to make contact with Angie as soon as possible. Though if her client didn’t even know where her husband banked, how likely was it that she’d have laid eyes on the deeds to a secret London pad? It might even be rented through some Westminster civil service department as an MP perk.

  The complexities of this damned case felt insurmountable at that moment to an exhausted, dishevelled Bev. More than anything, she wished she had Doc to moan to.

  ‘You’re on your own, kiddo,’ she told herself, feeling loneliness and loss nibble away at her edges, threatening to devour her completely if her life didn’t change soon.

  Aware of the tears that stabbed at the backs of her eyes, she was about to close her laptop and head for the shower when she noticed the subject heading on one of the more recent emails to Stan.

  Tatjana

  It was flagged as high priority. She clicked the message open, feeling curiosity bite.

  Stan

  You’re not answering my calls. What did they do with Tatjana? What happened to the film?

  J

  Bev had a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach. Rereading the words, she felt certain that Jerry Fitzwilliam was keeping an even darker, more ominous secret, and that somewhere, the evidence of it was just waiting to be uncovered.

  CHAPTER 19

  Angie

  ‘So, Jerry owns a second home in London?’ Bev asked, her voice cracking thanks to terrible phone reception. ‘Is that where he stays when he’s in parliament?’

  ‘No, gosh. You must be joking,’ Angie said. ‘MPs only get a modest rental allowance nowadays, so he rents a tiny barge on the dock at Surrey Quays. It’s an icebox in winter.’

  ‘Jerry. Roughing it on a barge? You’re kidding. Have you been there?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ Angie said, twirling a pearl on her necklace like a worry bead. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the work-surface of her kitchen island, keeping her voice as low as possible, lest the children should hear. ‘He says he doesn’t need distractions while he’s working, and to be honest, staying in a cramped, leaky tub is not my idea of minibreak heaven.’

  ‘So, you never visit? It’s London!’

  ‘Of course I go down occasionally. Theatre. Shopping. Sightseeing with the children. But we stay at my friends’ houses or in a hotel. The barge doesn’t sleep more than two.’ Angie felt agitation itching away beneath her skin. Glanced at the large clock on the wall. 10.30 a.m. She was running late for her meet with Sophie. ‘Even when Jerry was in banking and shared the Clapham flat with Tim, it was the same. Work was work. Home was home. And never the twain shall meet.’

  ‘Did he sell the flat with Tim?’

  ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes. I’m certain. I think.’

  ‘He definitely doesn’t own a second property in London, then? Are you absolutely certain? Co-own, maybe, with another old work colleague? Share with other MPs?’

  ‘I told you. No!’ she shouted. Then, in a smaller voice, ‘No. Not that I know of. Why is this such a big deal? Do you think he owns property I don’t know about?’

  Bev hesitated on the line so long that Angie checked the bars on her phone to see if the signal had failed again. Finally, she spoke. ‘Let’s call it a hunch. OK? Can’t you just ask him?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘You could just drop it into conversation, couldn’t you? Especially if he controls the finances. Crack on thick! Say you were watching some housey-housey programme on daytime TV about second homes and casually ask if—’

  ‘He’ll smell a rat or think I’m making a pointed comment about his running of the family finances.’

  ‘You’re entitled to know if you own a damned flat in London. Ask!’

  How the hell could a strident, independent ball-breaker like Bev comprehend what life for Angie was like, being married to a man like Jerry? Bev wouldn’t have a clue!

  ‘I daren’t.’ Angie clutched the phone to her ear, gently stroking a fine scar on her cheekbone. It was where Jerry had punched her in the late stages of her second pregnancy – his response when, bolstered by hormonal courage, she’d demanded to know why he’d returned home one night at 3 a.m. reeking of perfume. That had been the turning point. She had realised then that, if Jerry Fitzwilliam was prepared to knock his pregnant wife to the floor for reasonably asking why he’d missed a booked trip to the cinema, and then gone AWOL for eight hours, she had to get out. The only saving grace had been that he’d paid to have the cut on her cheekbone stitched by a cosmetic surgeon.

  The criticism and disbelief were gone from Bev’s now-softened tone, thankfully. ‘I’m just thinking of you, you know. Jerry’s got a lot of money you never even knew about, and at least one company that’s registered in your name. I’m assuming you didn’t know about that, right? Anyway, it stands to reason that a man like him will have a bit of a property portfolio. I feel it in my water, Angie. If you can find the deeds to a second home, you’ve got a valuable asset you’re entitled to half of, right there. Plus, I’m on my way to the Big Smoke now. I can go to the barge and anywhere else he lays his head. Get me addresses and it’s very easy for me to go round and rifle through his paper recycling bin. If his guard is down when he’s away from home, who knows what he throws away unwittingly? Deeds, Angie. Go through his filing cabinet again. Just to be sure.’

  But Angie already knew that the door to Jerry’s o
ffice was locked. Moreover, he’d now bolted the window shut from the inside. She was certain he was onto her.

  She could ask Sophie. She might be able to help. But Tim was far more likely to know Jerry’s secrets. Interrogating Tim was risky, though. Might Jerry have already confided in him that Angie had shown signs of discontent? If she started asking Tim questions, might he somehow intuit she was up to no good? She’d have to be stealthy and act natural. Drop it into conversation. Was she up to a task like that?

  Angie stood there, surrounded by glossy magazine domesticity, staring blankly at her children in their corner play area. Poppy was sitting on her padded mat, chewing on a Duplo brick. Benjy was drawing all over the freshly painted walls with pink chalk, determinedly refusing to use his child-sized blackboard. Angie acknowledged silently that she had no control over her marriage, no control over her home and, with Gretchen still on leave, following her demand for an extension of her time off, no control even over her own children. Perhaps it was time to take back ownership of her destiny. Wasn’t that why she was planning for a divorce?

  Damn right!

  Her head reeling, feeling like her legs might give way at any moment, Angie took a seat at the kitchen table and started to apply make-up thickly to cover her scar ; the dark circles beneath her eyes from lying in bed at night, unable to find sleep ; the ghost of the bruises on her jawbone and neck. Showtime.

  The children were safely stowed at the stand-in childminder’s. Having inveigled the information from Sophie over coffee that Tim was meeting friends for lunch in Carluccio’s, ahead of the big Manchester United v. Liverpool showdown, Angie thundered around the M60 in the Range Rover. She prayed that she’d be able to find him before he disappeared into a seventy-five thousand-strong crowd of excitable football fans, dressed almost identically in red and white.

  You can do this, Angie. The more you can help Bev, the better case she’ll be able to build. And the sooner you’ll be out of this waking nightmare.

  More than an agonising forty minutes later, having crawled along with the other traffic bound for Old Trafford, or a hard afternoon’s consumerism, she pulled into the car park of the Trafford Centre. It was laid out like a patchwork throw of coloured metal, beneath the blue dome, marble statuary and stucco of this cod-classical shopping mall masterpiece. Despair threatened to erase her resolve like a strong solvent. Would she really be able to find Tim at midday on a Saturday when the rest of the North West had descended on the place for the week’s biggest shopping bonanza?