Concealment Page 2

  He added the final comment with a trace of a smirk, despite his prudish hyper-awareness of corporate propriety. I remembered the little look he’d given Isabelle, and how a couple of days earlier I’d seen them sitting together in the canteen.

  And the thought flitted into my brain and out, almost before it had fully formed. Were they having an affair?

  ‘But…’

  ‘You don’t like Isabelle, do you?’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘Well, it’s true isn’t it?’

  ‘It was obvious at the brainstorming meeting.’

  This flair for mind reading was not only disturbing but also puzzling. Obviously, he couldn’t see inside my head, but the conclusions he drew were nonetheless unnervingly accurate. Now, I wished I’d second-guessed him better and suggested the double promotion myself.

  ‘The double promotion is OK,’ I said, avoiding any discussion of my feelings for Isabelle. ‘But Ryan Kelly deserves to be moved up.’

  You may reflect on this later and think I’m lying, but it honestly wasn’t a big deal. Yes, Ryan’s promotion had been marginal, but everyone falls one side of the boundary or the other, and Ryan fell on the right side. Why should I capitulate purely based on Smithies’ snide remarks?

  ‘We’ll come back to that later, once we’ve dealt with your other questionable decisions.’

  That alarmed me, no matter how firm my determination to stay calm.

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Well, for example, you’ve allowed six subgrade promotions to go through on the nod, despite my instructions to rigorously review each case.’

  ‘I did rigorously review them.’

  ‘I fear that your idea of a rigorous review may be not be the same as mine,’ he said sadly. ‘But hey—it’s a fairly minor point and if you can agree to hold Kelly back, I’ll let those stand.’

  I pushed my plate aside. Who needed an eating disorder with Smithies’ slimy cunning to blunt the appetite? The trade-off was clear enough—one pissed-off guy instead of six—a fair deal on the face of it. Yet the cynic in me knew Smithies had introduced the subgrade promotions as a pseudo bargaining chip.

  Though I could only guess at why he was so keen to advance Isabelle.

  ‘OK.’

  If I had to rationalise, I’d say I’d taken a pragmatic approach, done the best job for my team. But that still didn’t ease the sting of guilt at not having tried harder.

  ‘What a complete shit you’ve turned out to be.’

  ‘So are we done?’ I asked, ignoring the voice.

  I had no desire to spend a nanosecond more than necessary with the odious man, but my hope that the meeting had ended was premature.

  ‘One more matter,’ Smithies said. ‘Lisa.’

  We’d been considering Lisa for promotion to partnership, an elevation that would deliver a salary comfortably into six figures. I dreaded what was coming next.

  ‘It’s not me,’ said Smithies, with a faux apologetic hand gesture. ‘But questions are being asked, at board level.’

  He might not have asked the questions—for a start, he wasn’t on the executive board, but he’d doubtless prompted them.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve been forced to pull her off the partnership promotion list.’

  He was such a consummate liar that his pain on delivering this news appeared utterly genuine.

  ‘So sorry, but in the current economic climate…’

  ‘What excuse does he use for stabbing people in the back when the economy’s booming?’

  ‘She’s passed the first interview—she’s jumped through all the hoops so far—it’s not fair to…’

  But he cut me short.

  ‘It’s perfectly fair. We’re in a recession and everyone’s wary of who egg-zackly we let into the partnership. Frankly Lisa is a bit too much of an Essex chav girl to cut it.’

  ‘What about diversity?’

  ‘Aren’t Essex chav girls part of our diversity initiative then?’

  The words tumbled from my mouth before I could stop them. He greeted them with a cold stare.

  ‘If you and I are to work amicably together, Amy, you’ll need to lose the habit of making flippant comments when I’m being serious.’

  I felt my cheeks flush.

  ‘Yes, sorry.’

  ‘And I’ll leave you to tell her. OK?’

  I shuddered in anticipation.

  ‘Look—I know it’s a tough conversation,’ he said, picking up on my hesitation, ‘especially as she’s your chum. But hey, we don’t pay you half a million quid a year to have an easy life.’ He wiped his mouth with his napkin and blotted the beads of sweat off his forehead.

  No—they paid me half a million quid to be shat on from above and below simultaneously, dogged by self-doubt, striving desperately to play the part of a successful Pearson Malone partner.

  ‘Is it worth it—is half a mill the price of your soul?’

  I must admit, I’d been asking myself that question.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ I said, standing up to go before he had the chance to suggest coffee. ‘And thanks for lunch.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he replied with another Instagram grin.

  Of course if I’d known how it would all pan out, I’d have played it differently. For one thing, I wouldn’t have wasted my breath arguing about a promotion for someone who’d be dead before it took effect. I’d have refused to take on JJ due to immense pressure of work and I’d have told Smithies to speak to Lisa himself.

  But as it was, I actually believed I’d handled the meeting well.

  3

  JJ’s secretary must have been psychic—before I’d even arrived back at the office, she’d called to fix a meeting the next morning.

  I’d been planning to impart the sad news about her partnership to Lisa during a quiet drink after hours, but I now realised it couldn’t wait. I needed her help preparing for the meeting and she’d instantly twig why the client had been allocated to me.

  Lisa bounded into my office with no inkling of her fate, wearing a purple trouser suit, far too full-on for her spiky red hair and green eyes. Her skull and crossbones earrings finished the outfit with a flourish—no convention of business dress too trivial to flout. Such non-conformist signals disturbed Smithies—no wonder he’d killed her promotion.

  Her face crumpled as I broke it to her.

  ‘Well, I told you Smithies doesn’t like gobby cows,’ was her verdict.

  True, but neither of us had foreseen this—Lisa stood so far above most of the other candidates, we’d assumed she’d be safe.

  ‘My position is untenable,’ she said simply. ‘I’ll have to leave. And truth be told, it’s probably for the best, given the way everything’s panning out here.’

  She had a point. For some time we’d been bemoaning how the firm had changed in the three years since Bailey had taken control and gathered his clones around him. Ironically, amid all the pontificating on diversity, he’d created a culture where everyone was afraid to be authentic. Everyone except Lisa, that is.

  By dint of her talent and sheer force of personality, they’d allowed her some latitude. But with Smithies in the driving seat, she’d finally paid the price for bucking convention. Her response surprised me though—how could someone with her drive and naked ambition capitulate at the first hint of opposition?

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to fight, get the decision reversed, pass the assessment and then give them the finger? I’ll do everything in my power to help.’

  ‘What power?’ she asked, with a roll of her eyes. ‘You can’t stand up to Smithies. It’s only taken him a few weeks to make you toe the line. No—much wiser to quit while I’m ahead, before I end up the same.’

  It was sad to hear her thinking this way. Once I’d been a role model—now she pitied and despised me for jumping through the hoops.

  ‘I’m amazed you’re taking it so calmly.’

  ‘It’s called being realistic.’

  I wasn’t
wholly convinced by her stoicism. Whatever she said, I would try my utmost to help, and not just for her, but me too. Without Lisa, life at Pearson Malone would be intolerable.

  Meanwhile, we had a meeting to prepare for.

  Lisa rattled off a status update. Since Princess Isabelle Edwards also worked on JJ’s affairs, it came as no surprise to learn that everything was under control. Queries from the Megabuilders’ due diligence team—sorted. Review of draft sale and purchase agreement from a tax perspective—no sweat—Isabelle had already emailed off a raft of incisive comments to the lawyers. What a paragon of virtue the girl was.

  I was beginning to think this would be a doddle, until Lisa casually mentioned there’d been a “slight problem” on the account.

  The hairs on the nape of my neck prickled.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A risk management issue.’

  “Risk management issue” was a euphemism for being sued. And although even Smithies couldn’t find a way to reproach me for an error made before I took over, I still felt uneasy.

  ‘Surely not an Isabelle cock-up?’ I suggested in tones laden with sarcasm.

  ‘No,’ laughed Lisa. ‘And not me either, thank God—it goes back years. But Isabelle’s been the most involved in sorting it out—why don’t we ask her to explain the details.’

  Lisa picked up my phone and dialled Isabelle’s extension. Seconds later, Isabelle stuck her immaculately coiffured head round my office door.

  I’d been to school with girls of Isabelle’s ilk. Flawlessly presented, they churned out straight A’s, ran for the county and lived in spotless detached Tudorbethan houses, where the sheets were laundered twice a week. Nothing bad ever happened to them as they glided effortlessly through their perfect lives.

  Twenty years on, the bile of envy was as caustic as ever.

  She sat down next to Lisa, her sober grey skirt suit and pale blue silk blouse in marked contrast to Lisa’s outlandish outfit. The image was shrewdly calculated—Pearson Malone men responded better, if only on a subliminal level, to women who played it safe sartorially. I absorbed every detail—the nude ten-denier tights, the skirt an inch below the knee, the medium-heeled navy pumps…

  ‘What a worthless, shallow bitch,’ said the little voice, leaving me unsure if she meant Isabelle or me.

  Isabelle sensed me peering at her, and flushed almost imperceptibly.

  ‘You wanted to know about the potential lawsuit on JJ?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘OK—a few years ago, JJ carried out a reorganisation, and all the business divisions were moved into one company. They have a slate quarry and mine, which had always been unprofitable, and the tax losses brought forward were transferred to the new trading entity.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘JJ first claimed the losses two years ago, when the slate division turned the corner. Then the Inspector of Taxes raised an enquiry. He thought profits might be overstated.’

  While it’s unusual for HMRC to suggest that the declared income of a business is excessive, they may do if they suspect manipulation to maximise loss relief.

  ‘Don’t tell me—queries on the allocation of divisional overheads?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Been around a bit, kid—seen it before. Be all too easy for JJ to move expenses from the slate division to another part where there’s no losses available.’

  ‘He also thought there were bad debts which they should have provided against.’

  ‘And what’s your view?’

  ‘The apportionment of overhead expenses is always subjective,’ she said with her customary diplomacy, ‘but there were some robust counter arguments we could have deployed. And the questions on the bad debt provision were plain silly, in my opinion.’

  ‘You said arguments could have been deployed?’

  ‘We never got the chance, because Charles Goodchild identified a mistake we’d made in our advice so that the losses weren’t actually available.’

  Goodchild was JJ’s finance director, who I’d also be meeting in the morning.

  ‘What mistake?’

  She proceeded to describe a highly technical tax pitfall of group reorganisations—one I’d faced many times before. We usually found a work-around if the issue was identified upfront, and it would have been shocking negligence if we’d failed to spot it. Our clients paid us to recognise and sort out these conundrums.

  ‘I can’t believe we missed it. We’ll mount a vigorous defence…’

  But both Lisa and Isabelle were shaking their heads.

  ‘You needn’t bother,’ said Isabelle.

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘Because Jim Jupp and Eric Bailey are such good friends, JJ’s agreed not to sue,’ she explained.

  I must say this didn’t ring true, but I let it go.

  ‘So in other words, the matter is now resolved,’ I said, breathing a little easier.

  ‘Egg-zackly,’ she said. ‘But Goodchild will be expecting to see a letter to HMRC, explaining why we’re dropping the loss claim. I’ve drafted it up, if you’d like to review it before tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks—I will—that’s all, Isabelle.’

  Isabelle shimmied off, graceful and self-confident, leaving a discreet fragrance behind her.

  Of course, she might not have been quite so poised if she’d known she only had four days to live.

  ***

  ‘Convincing little liar, isn’t she?’ remarked Lisa after Isabelle had gone. ‘I predict a glittering career ahead for her.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Because Jim Jupp and Eric Bailey are such good friends, JJ’s agreed not to sue,’ she said mimicking Isabelle’s voice.

  ‘I agree—it doesn’t sound at all in character. JJ’s not a man to put friendship above business. Bailey must have offered him some inducement.’

  ‘What about the Pearson Malone Entrepreneur of the Year Award—Jupp is on the shortlist?’

  ‘Could be. But to sacrifice several millions of tax losses for a poxy trophy—even for an egomaniac like Jupp…?’

  ‘Agreed. It only makes sense if for some reason the losses are unavailable.’

  ‘Oh I get it,’ I said, the light beginning to dawn. ‘The client screwed up the implementation.’

  It was by no means unusual for clients to attempt to blame us for their own shortcomings. Jupp had merely gone one step further by twisting the truth to wheedle a concession out of his old chum Bailey.

  ‘And you reckon Isabelle knows the client messed up?’ I asked Lisa.

  ‘I’m certain she does. She checks the files, she’s little Miss Perfect.’

  ‘So why’s she lying?’

  ‘Search me. I believe she raised the issue with Venner when I was on holiday but he told her to back off.’

  ‘Should I speak to Venner?’

  I was reluctant to do so—he hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye properly, hadn’t given me the chance to tell him I didn’t believe a word of the allegations against him. Which made me wonder…

  ‘You won’t be able to reach him. He’s gone on a month-long cruise before taking up his new job and he’s uncontactable.’

  Or rather he didn’t want to be contacted.

  ‘Mind you,’ I said, ‘you’ve not made much effort to set the record straight either.’

  ‘Nobody’s suggested I lie about it,’ she retorted, a shade defensively.

  ‘I should think not, because you never lie, do you?’

  She knew as well as I did that there was often little moral distinction between a lie and remaining silent.

  ‘No, but equally I’m not on a kamikaze mission—if I’m leaving I need a reference.’

  It wasn’t even much of a justification for keeping quiet. Everyone who left received the standard reference, except for the crazy guy who’d lasted a week before he glassed someone in the pub on the Friday night.

  ‘Oh come on,’ she said, sensing my disa
pproval. ‘If I drop Goodchild in it, Smithies’ll be out for revenge big time.’

  ‘Why would he be bothered?’

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You haven’t been told, have you? Goodchild’s married to Smithies’ sister.’

  4

  Dozens of demonstrators barred the entrance to JJ’s headquarters as I arrived.

  ‘Stop Capitalist Pigs Now,’ read one of their placards. ‘The 1% are killing the rest of us,’ proclaimed another. And, in a more direct jibe, ‘Pay Up Jim Jupp.’

  The protestors hadn’t targeted JJ’s offices at random. JJ’s wife, an Isle of Man resident for tax purposes, held all the family’s shares in the company—she would pocket nearly five hundred million tax-free when the Megabuilders deal went through. No matter that this brand of tax planning was within the law—the media had been relentless in their condemnation and had whipped up a tidal wave of public hysteria. Now everyone was baying for Jim Jupp’s blood.

  As I elbowed my way past the demonstrators, they stared at my navy blue Armani suit and peach silk blouse with grave mistrust, but let me pass unimpeded. Maybe they saw through the costume to the weirdo underneath.

  The JJ building showcased the work of their office construction and fit-out division. Behind the elegant Art Deco façade, it had been gutted and subjected to a hi-tech remodelling. An imposing marble reception area with ornamental fishpond led to a glass-roofed three-storey atrium. In the centre, a lavish space-age chandelier hung, apparently suspended in thin air, while glass elevators with flashing coloured lights whizzed up and down at terrifying speed.

  Jupp’s office suite occupied the whole of the top floor. In sharp contrast to the rest of the building it was traditionally furnished with leather sofas, antique tables, plush carpets, and works of art which didn’t look like reproductions. And that was just the waiting room.

  The sound of raised voices from behind the closed door of Jupp’s office broke the illusion of tranquillity. I couldn’t hear everything but I caught snatches of the words.

  ‘Take my money… I’ll honour my part of the bargain… won’t answer for the consequences… wouldn’t have the balls… nothing more to be said...’

  At which point the door opened and a red-faced man in his mid-twenties burst out.