The telephone rang, shattering the sombre atmosphere in the office. Charlie picked up the receiver, automatically switching from sister to efficient personal assistant in the blink of an eye.
‘Jones Technical Partnership; good afternoon. Charlie Jones speaking, how can I help you?’
She pulled the diary across to her as she listened to the voice on the other end. Then she held the receiver close to the pages as she riffled through them, pretending to look for a free space.
‘Well, let me see, Mr Smithson; our diary is usually booked well in advance, but it so happens we’ve had a cancellation tomorrow morning. Shall we say ten-thirty? You know how to find us? Great. See you then.’ Dropping the phone back onto the cradle, Charlie let out a whoop and grabbing her sister’s hand, pulled her to her feet.
‘Charlie, what is it? Who was that?’
‘That, my dear sister, might just be the answer to our problems.’ She let go of Suzanne’s hand and picked up the diary, clearing her throat. ‘Tomorrow morning, at ten-thirty precisely, you have a meeting with Mr Damien Bradley Smithson the Second from New York, New York (so good they named it twice) in the good ole U S of A. He wants to talk to you about a commission he has for us!’
‘Damien Bradley Smithson..?’
‘The Second; don’t forget the Second! And he has some work he wants to put our way. Maybe we won’t have to move after all. The one thing we know about American clients is they have money and they’re not afraid to spend it!’
Damien Bradley Smithson II sounded quite mature on the phone and Charlie had visualised someone in their forties. So the man who strolled into the office the following morning was a complete surprise to her. For a start, he looked young, very young; almost too young to be wandering around London on his own, in fact. But his air of confidence far outshone his years. Charlie realised this was a man who was used to having his own way. But not, she suspected, in a bad way. His smile was easy, self-assured and reached the very depths of his dark blue eyes which shone through tortoiseshell-framed glasses. She was no real judge of fashion, but guessed his dark blue jacket and tailored slacks were made to measure, rather than off the peg. And you won’t get a pair of shoes like that in Marks and Sparks, she thought.
While Suzanne settled their visitor in a chair, Charlie made them all a drink: fresh coffee, black, no sugar for Smithson; the same, but with a dash of skimmed milk for Suzanne; and a mug of instant with three sugars for herself. She decided the possibility of a new client and some paid work justified pushing the boat out, so she opened their last packet of chocolate biscuits and piled some on a plate. Smithson was telling Suzanne he was a student at Duke University in North Carolina and Charlie wondered what he was doing in that case visiting a technical consultancy in London.
‘I’m a keen runner—have been all my life—and since I’ve been at Duke, I’ve had some success with the athletics team, particularly in long distance.’ As he went on to talk about the medals he’d won representing the university and the state in national and international competitions, Charlie realised the phrase ‘some success’ was quite an understatement. This was a young man who loved his sport and seemed to be a bit of a rising star on the American horizon. She took her mug of coffee over to the window seat, sipped the drink and studied him as he continued speaking.
‘Three months ago, a new runner joined Duke University Athletics Club. Her name was Lulana and she was Brazilian, on an exchange visit from University of São Paulo. She was supposed to be there for a year.’
‘Supposed to be?’ murmured Suzanne.
But Smithson held up his hand and carried on.
‘We hit it off, right from the start and I asked her out the second time I met her. She agreed and we were having a great time—until we got close to the next important tournament, which was the National Varsity Meeting. She turned moody, started picking fights at everything I said then throwing herself at me afterwards until we made up. I put it down to a combination of nerves and her Latin temperament, but I have to admit it was starting to get difficult to spend time with her; not to mention the effect it was having on my own training regime. In the end, my coach put his foot down and told me I was to stop seeing her—at least until after the National Varsity Meeting.’
He bit his lip and stared down at his coffee in silence. Then he looked up and smiled at both of them—but to Charlie, there was a wry tinge to the smile that hadn’t been there before.
‘I wonder whether I was to blame,’ he said. ‘If I’d been there, maybe I could have helped.’ Suzanne leaned forward and put her hand on the young man’s arm.
‘What happened?’ she said quietly.
‘She got thrown out,’ he said, ‘sent back home in disgrace for fighting with another athlete.’
‘And why do you think you could have changed things?’
‘Well, I heard afterwards she’d been going right over the top with her training, pushing herself ever harder, ever faster. Friends said they tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t rest; it was as though she was addicted to the exercise. And on the day, the training seemed to have paid off. Not only did she win her race, she did so in the fastest time ever for a university event. Her time was international level. Then afterwards she was moody again, wouldn’t talk to anyone, didn’t seem to realise she’d won, and attacked someone who tried to congratulate her.’
‘How strange,’ said Suzanne. Damien nodded.
‘Yes, and she’s not the first to behave like this. I’d heard rumours in the past couple of years. Nothing concrete; friends of friends knew someone who had a friend; that sort of thing. So after Lulana got thrown out, I did some digging around. I’ve come up with at least half a dozen other runners who’ve behaved the same way.
‘Sounds like some sort of epidemic,’ said Charlie.
‘And there was one odd thing,’ he went on. ‘All of them had been in Brazil at some point in the past two years.’
‘All of them?’ said Charlie. ‘That sounds a bit too much of a coincidence.’
‘It does, doesn’t it?’ agreed Suzanne.
‘Lulana used to talk about a company back home, Sunshine Supplements. They’ve developed a sort of health drink, based on yerba maté, the South American herbal tea. It’s supposed to enhance performance in a legal way. She swore by it and always had a flask of the stuff with her. I think there may be a connection. She left some in my bathroom cabinet when we split up—and I’ve given it to a friend to get it analysed.’
‘And how is Lulana these days?’ asked Charlie. ‘Are you in touch with her?’
‘I’ve tried to contact her several times. But she seems to have dropped right off the radar. She didn’t return to USP when she went home and none of the friends she made at Duke have heard from her either.’
‘This is all very interesting,’ said Suzanne, ‘but why have you come to see us?’
‘I’m over here visiting my aunt,’ he explained. ‘My father’s quite a bit older than her. We’ve always been close; she’s more like a big sister to me than an aunt. Well, I was telling her all about Lulana and my concerns over the health drink—and she suggested I come and talk to you guys.’
‘Us? But we don’t know your aunt, as far as I’m aware; why would she have heard of us?’
‘Aunt Jo-Jo works at the Victoria and Albert Museum; she’s a textile expert. And in the evenings, she helps run craft workshops, and what I believe are called ‘stitch and bitch sessions’. She runs one in Dolphin Square.’
Charlie and Suzanne looked at each other and said in unison: ‘Francine Matheson!’
Their visitor nodded.
‘That’s right. Jo-Jo and Francine have become quite friendly and we were all having supper together the other evening, when we were talking about Lulana. Francine mentioned the great things you guys did in Africa a couple of years back and that you’ve since set up on your own. Then Jo-Jo suggested I come and talk to you.’
‘That
’s very kind of her,’ said Suzanne, ‘but I still don’t see what we can do to help you.’ Charlie hoped her more cautious younger sister wasn’t going to scare this potential client away with her reluctance; after all, they really did need the money.
‘I want someone to take a look at the company in Brazil; see if there’s anything dodgy going on. I only have a suspicion at the moment and no-one is going to listen to me on the basis of that.’
‘But exactly what do you want us to do?’ Suzanne asked again.
‘I’m going to São Paulo later this month to compete in the marathon. I’d like you, Suzanne, to come with me and find some way of getting into the company, have a look around, see what you can find out. You understand the pharmaceutical industry; you’ll have more chance of spotting if something’s not right.’
But Suzanne was shaking her head even before he’d finished speaking.
‘I really don’t think—’
‘Now, don’t let’s be too hasty, Suzanne,’ broke in Charlie. ‘Let’s ask Mr Smithson why he thinks you can help.’ She nodded encouragingly at the young man, ignoring the frown she could feel coming across the room from her sister.
‘Damien, please call me Damien,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve made a bit of a nuisance for myself, contacting the company, and asking questions. I’ve rather put them on their guard. I figured a British woman, with no connection to me, to athletics at all, would have more of a chance of getting in there.’
‘But how?’
‘Well, it might sound a little ‘cloak and dagger’ but I thought you might pose as a reporter and try to make contact with the guy who runs the company. He’s an American, called Nigel Atkinson. He fancies himself as another Donald Trump from what I can find out. I reckon he would jump at the chance of being interviewed by, say, a freelance reporter.’
He stopped and looked at Suzanne, who was still looking unconvinced. ‘Look, I know it’s a long shot—and I may well be making something out of nothing here—but I feel I owe it to Lulana to look at the company. If you can’t find anything, I’ll let it drop.’ He looked across at Charlie. ‘And I wouldn’t ask you to come out on your own, Suzanne. Charlie could come with you—unless you’re too busy running the office to leave it for a couple of weeks,’ he said with just a touch of irony.
‘No, I think I can manage to get away for a while,’ said Charlie with a grin. ‘These days everything is done via email and the internet, so I can work more or less from anywhere.’
Smithson stood up and placed his empty coffee cup on the tray, then shook hands with Suzanne and Charlie.
‘Ladies, it’s been great to meet you. I know I’ve given you a lot to think about, so I’m going to leave you in peace for now.’ He opened the shiny leather attaché case he’d brought in with him and took out a slim folder. ‘This is what I’ve been able to find out so far about Sunshine Supplements. Have a look at it and talk it through. Then give me a call; my number’s in the folder. I’m here until the end of the week, so you’ve got a few days to think it over.’
As he reached the door, he paused and turned back with a grin. ‘And, Charlie, Suzanne tells me you’re a keen runner too. If you fancy going out for a run one day, you’ll find me training in Hyde Park from five am each morning. Maybe I’ll see you there?’ And with a wave of his hand he was gone.
‘Well, what do you think of that?’ said Charlie. Then she held up a hand as her sister opened her mouth. ‘No, don’t answer yet; I’m going to put the kettle on again. I suspect this is going to be a rather long conversation.’
CHAPTER 3
‘I’m sorry, Charlie, I just don’t see what purpose I would serve by going out to Brazil with this guy. He’s a fantasist—has to be.’ Charlie watched as Suzanne paced up and down the office with her arms folded and wearing her ‘serious, grown-up face’. ‘A health supplement that changes people’s moods, and then causes them to pick fights with people. It’s like something out of Dr Who or an old B movie from the 1950s.’
‘But Suzanne—’
‘And the idea of me pretending to be a reporter; well, that’s just preposterous! Who on earth would believe a story like that?’
‘Someone who wants to believe it. Someone with an ego the size of a planet, who wants to be as rich as Donald Trump, and is happy to have some free publicity in a British national newspaper. Someone like this Nigel Atkinson in fact.’
‘But I don’t know anything about being a reporter!’
‘Nonsense. You’ve been auditing factories for years, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And what do you do while you are auditing the factory?’
‘I ask questions and make notes.’
‘And what do you do after you’ve finished auditing that factory?’
‘I write up a report. A proper, scientific audit report, listing the strengths and weaknesses and making recommendations for improvement.’
‘Precisely.’ Charlie started ticking off on her fingers: ‘You review the facts that you’ve collected. You summarise the facts in such a way that readers who are short of time can get the gist without having to read all the background. You produce a readable report. So it’s not that different from a newspaper article, now is it? Besides, it’s only a cover story. I don’t suppose for one moment you’d have to deliver an article. It’s not as though it’s actually been commissioned, now is it?’
‘Charlie, it’s a stupid idea! And possibly illegal. It’s certainly unethical.’ Suzanne was being even more stubborn than usual and Charlie thought hard for something else to persuade her.
‘Of course, we could always make it real by soliciting a commission in advance. I’m sure Francine could call in one of the favours she must be owed by some of the newspaper editors.’
‘And that’s another thing! I need to have a serious chat with Francine next time we meet. I know she thinks she’s being helpful finding us work, but sending Damien over to see us with what has to be a wild goose chase is a bit much. And I don’t know how she knew we were looking for new projects. I haven’t seen her for ages.’
‘Well, I might just have mentioned it when I phoned her last week.’ Charlie felt herself going pink and smiled sheepishly at her sister.
‘Charlie, how could you? She’s our friend. You shouldn’t lean on her like that.’
‘Oh come on, sis; that’s what friends are for.’ Charlie gave a sigh and got to her feet, collecting the empty mugs and heading to the kitchen. At the door, she turned and raised an eyebrow. ‘But you’re right. It’s a silly idea. We’re going to be far too busy over the next few weeks to waste time in Brazil.’ Suzanne looked at her in puzzlement. ‘We’re going to be looking for new, cheaper premises, packing this office up and moving. Or we might even be attending job interviews. Because, let’s face it, Suzanne, if we don’t get some more projects soon, The Jones Technical Partnership is finished, isn’t it?’ And with a bang, she disappeared into the kitchen.
The vigorous discussion—Charlie was fond of saying that the Jones sisters never fought—raged for the next few hours. Every time Suzanne came up with a reason NOT to take the job, Charlie came back at her with a counterargument. In the end, they talked themselves to a standstill and headed across the road to Sanjay’s for takeaway curry which they carried back to Suzanne’s flat. Charlie was at a loose end as her partner Annie was away on a course all week.
‘Although why she needs to go all the way to York to learn more about being an estate agent, when there are more of them here in the capital than anywhere else in the country, I just don’t understand,’ she grumbled to Suzanne.
Secretly, Charlie was very proud of the success Annie was making for herself in the agency she’d joined two years ago. Already she was the senior salesperson and there was even talk of a partnership at some point in the future.
As the two women wiped the last traces of curry sauce off their plates with chunks of chapatti, Suzanne looked across a
t her sister.
‘Charlie, why do you really want to go to Brazil? It can’t just be about the money. I know you better than that.’
Charlie stared back at Suzanne and wondered what to say. How was her sister, who was already balking at the idea of crossing the Atlantic on what she saw as a wild goose chase, going to take to the idea that had been percolating through her brain ever since she’d heard Damien Bradley Smithson II say ‘Brazil’ that morning?
‘I’ll say just one word,’ she said. ‘Michael Hawkins.’
‘That’s two words,’ said the pedant across the table from her, but Charlie could see she’d shocked her sister. ‘Oh, Charlie, we haven’t talked about him for months. What brings his name up now?’
‘Come on, Suzanne, think! He went to Brazil! We have the chance to go to Brazil.’
‘Brazil’s a huge country, Charlie. And I thought you told us he flew to Rio?’
‘He did. But there was also an ongoing internal flight on record, to São Paulo. He lives there, I’m sure of it. This gives us a chance to track him down. Prove who he is—maybe even get him back home to face trial.’ Charlie stopped talking.
Suzanne was shaking her head again.
‘Charlie, there are twenty million people or more living in São Paulo. How on earth are we going to be able to find one man—especially a man who’s not keen on being found—among that lot? It’s not like we can look him up in the telephone directory!’
‘Actually, I think that’s more or less exactly what we can do. You know this man; he’s cool, he’s arrogant, he thinks he’s got away with everything. He’s going to be hiding in plain sight. And you remember the sort of lifestyle he loved when he was here in England. He’s going to be spending time with a certain class of people. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he isn’t known to this Nigel Atkinson, or at least moves in the same circles.’
Deception! Page 2
