Mark had moved to London in self-imposed exile after the incident in Manchester. Snapped up by a specialist recruiter, the spell at Daneswan, a small subsidiary, led to a change in fortune and a swift transfer to Haynes’ top-notch forensic accountancy team; a reward for tidying up Mrs Haynes’s account. He had been promised the forensic role by the one man who could ensure he would get it: Jackson Haynes.
Mark’s first case was an internal one and involved the car fleet manager. The man accused of embezzling was responsible for keeping the fuel tanks topped up; a routine internal audit had flagged discrepancies. Mark read the file and made notes. It wasn’t the first time he had seen this type of fraud. The audacity of some never surprised him; criminals lurked in all the dark corners of life. The manager would likely lose his job. Many corporations would go out of their way to hide unwanted publicity, but not so at Haynes Financials: the perpetrators were publicly vilified in court. Mark imagined Jackson had had a hand in shaping the policy.
However, to make his case, Mark needed the illegal act to be witnessed. A paper trail alone wouldn’t be as convincing as a photograph or audio account of the illicit transactions. Mark wasn’t cut out for hanging around petrol stations with a long lens camera. For one thing, he lacked a car. He needed a field operative to catch the man red-handed. The suggestion by one of the team was to speak to the head of the security team, Chris Moran, and ask for one of his operatives. The meeting concluded, and alone at his desk, he pulled up Moran’s profile and accompanying mug shot in the company directory – a torpedo shaped head with a granite face. Mark suspected the request would be granted with a begrudging glare.
His mobile sang an unmelodious tune, which he had specifically picked for a purpose. She had to ring him, on his first day. He flicked the mobile to speaker phone then slid it a good distance away from his hand. His fingers clutched a pen.
‘Mum.’
‘I rang you yesterday.’ No hello or how are you. Bloody typical.
‘What do you want, Mum?’
‘When are you going to send me the two hundred you promised?’ She whined like a teenager.
Always money. It wasn’t as if he was rolling in it. According to her, she hadn’t a penny left even with the two jobs she worked. Lawyers cost, she liked to remind him, which was a gripe at his preferred profession. He never regretted his choice of career. Numbers were more polite than words.
‘Give me a chance, will you. It’s my first day. I’m trying to make an impression.’
A lengthy pause. She wasn’t impressed. Deidre had to be the most important person in his life.
‘Fine.’ She sniffed. The fake disappointment washed over Mark. She couldn’t act.
‘I’ll transfer some money this evening. Just a hundred though. I’ve taken out a deposit on a new apartment.’ He instantly regretted mentioning the flat.
‘Another one? You’re always moving.’
Away from you, he nearly said. Instead, he chewed the end of the pen. ‘It’s on the bus route. If you want me to splash out and buy a car…’
‘No, no. Save your money, darling.’
The “darling” made his toes curl. He hated it. Hated the falseness of her tone, the way she delivered affection in little packages as if it made up for all the crap she threw at him.
‘Don’t forget to find a solicitor. There must be good ones in London. Better than up here.’
‘God, Mum. It doesn’t make any difference.’ He punctuated each word staccato style. ‘If anything, they’ll be more expensive.’
Deidre clung to the hope new evidence was around the corner. She fruitlessly pursued missing connections, the names of her husband’s backstabbing mates who supposedly had slithered away to secret hideouts in London. Mark’s optimism had vanished years ago. Nobody spoke up for his father. Whoever held the clues to Bill Clewer’s guilt or innocence remained shamelessly silent or petrified. The whole bunch of them were scared, not of the law, but of what life had turned them into – career criminals. Clearing his father’s name wasn’t top of anyone’s list.
‘Well, let’s hope that means something.’ She didn’t bother to say goodbye.
Releasing his grip on the pen, Mark reached for the office telephone and dialled a number.
~ * ~
She had taken up residence in his head – a grating echo of her voice – and the reverberations refused to budge. Grabbing his overcoat, Mark escaped to a cafe two streets away. He substituted the irritating sound with the remorseless milieu of traffic, then the eruption of steam pulsing out of the coffee machine intervened.
The queue snaked its way around the chairs and tables to the counter. He picked up partial conversations; the ear bashing of an absent colleague or problematic client, the slump in the stock markets. He ordered a coffee, then waited for his panini to be toasted before spotting an empty table. He made a beeline for it. A young woman pivoted on her seat and jolted his arm. The coffee spilt out of his cup and splashed her leg and table.
‘Oh God! So sorry,’ she said. The hem of her short skirt was high and the stream of coffee ran along the elastic lace of her hold-up.
Mark froze. The blunt tip of her nose stuck out from under her fringe of mocha curls. Her melodious
