…LONDON…
‘THere’s money in my account I know nothing about,’ said Caroline. ‘Ten thousand pounds.’
Colley was looking at her over the Telegraph, narrow red eyes, cigarette smoke rising. ‘Wonderful, darling,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised you noticed. Perhaps mummy popped it in.’
‘The bank says it’s a transfer from the Bank of Vanuatu. An electronic transfer.’
‘Electronic money. Floats in cyberspace, falls anywhere, at random. Like old satellites. Finders keepers. Congratulations.’
‘I’m declaring it to Halligan, I’m handing it over.’
He lowered the paper. ‘Are you? Yes, well, that’s probably a sound thing to do. In theory.’
‘In theory?’
‘Well, it may be a bit late to develop principles. After you’ve played the bagwoman.’
Caroline wasn’t sure what he was saying. She had no anger left, it had taken too long to get the bank to tell her where the money had come from. The blood drained from her face. She was no longer certain that she knew what had happened. But she had a strong feeling about what was happening now and she felt cold.
‘I’ve been set up,’ she said. ‘You know about this, don’t you?’
Colley shook his head. He had an amused expression. His strange hairs had been combed with oil and his scalp had a damp pubic look.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But if you’re unhappy, that probably stems from something unconnected with the present situation. It could come from realising that you’re just a pretty vehicle, a conduit. Something people ride on. Or something stuff flows though.’
She had no idea what he was talking about. ‘I’ve been set up.’
‘You’ve said that, sweetheart. Remember? Not too much nose-munchies with the public schoolboys last night? All I know is you came to me with a proposition involving paying someone for something that we could make a lot of money out of. I told you that the right thing to do was to go to Halligan. I said I wanted nothing to do with your proposal.’
He opened a drawer, took out a flat device. ‘You’re out of your depth here. Like to hear the tape?’
Caroline felt the skin on her face tighten, her lips draw back from her teeth of their own accord. She turned and left the room without saying anything, went down the corridor, through the newsroom. In her cubicle, door shut, she sat at the desk with her eyes closed, clenched hands in her lap.
Out of your depth.
Her father had said those words, those words were in her heart. The image came to her of her toes trying to find the bottom of the pool, toes outstretched, nothing there, the water in her mouth and nose, smell of chlorine. She could still smell chlorine anywhere, everywhere, smell it in the street, anywhere, any hint of it made her feel sick. Her father had used the phrase that day when she was a little girl wan from vomiting and he had repeated it every time she failed at anything.
She shut the memory out, stayed motionless for a long time. Then she opened her eyes, pulled her chair closer to the desk, and began to write on the pad.
Out of her depth? Go to Halligan and tell him the whole story? Who was going to be believed? Colley had a doctored tape. She had no hope.
Out of your depth.
No. Death before that.
The phone rang.
‘Marcia Collins. You probably don’t remember me. I’m the features editor now. Does your personal arrangement with the executive branch permit me to ask what the hell you’re doing? Am I allowed to ask that?’
‘No, you aren’t,’ said Caroline. ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’
A silence.
‘I suppose you’ve heard they found your little Gary. Dead of an overdose. Been dead for days.’