Quentins (24 page)

E
lla looked up when the stories were told. As far as she could see, they had gone well. At least she had managed to hold their interest. She must leave them now and give them a chance to talk about it all. She moved swiftly. No, no, she would get herself a taxi, she pleaded. It was part of the excitement of being in New York. Please let them not see her out, she would much prefer them to stay and discuss what she had told them.

And then she escaped. Down in the elevator, out of the quiet building into the amazingly noisy traffic. And then she got to her little hotel, which was beginning to seem like home, and up to her room.

Now she could do what she had been putting off until she got her work settled. She sat down and opened up Don Richardson's computer.

It got dark in New York as she trawled through the computer, bank account numbers in the Isle of Man, in the Cayman Islands, in Switzerland. None of it made any sense, since the names were in some kind of code.

She recognized property agreements there, but none in his name or in his father-in-law's. Not in any name she knew. Then she saw the file with her own name and her heart leaped. Maybe he
had
made an investment for her as he had once told her he would. Something to provide for her after his time. She gulped in case he really
had done that. He must have loved her at one stage. But it didn't seem likely. It wasn't Ella Brady. This Brady family was a family of five, a man, his son, the son's wife and two children, and they were living in Playa dos Angeles. There were letters about them to banks and from banks. Whoever they were, these Bradys had plenty of money. And a lot of it deposited very recently. By far the largest sum had been the week that she had been in Spain with Don. When he had been away from the hotel. When his wife, Margery Rice, mother of his two children, was there. Suddenly she realized that not only had he taken everything else she had but he had also taken her name.

There were so many things she could do. She could find the number of the Fraud Squad in Dublin and tell them the machine was ready for collection. She could contact an Irish television station. She could telephone Don now; the Brady family had a phone number and was listed in his machine. She could tell him that if he restored all that her father had lost, she would hand him back the computer, no questions asked. She could contact one of the various insurance companies involved and offer to give it to them. She realized that this was a decision she had to make entirely on her own. Everyone's judgment would be partisan. They would want to do what they thought was best for her or for them or for somebody. Why did she not give it straight to the police? That was what a normal citizen would do.

She opened the mini bar in her room and took out a miniature Jack Daniel's and drank it from a large glass. It made nothing clearer. It did nothing to sharpen the blurred edges. If you had loved someone, slept with him, shared everything with him for month after month, you didn't hand over the files without a backward glance. There was some kind of mad nobility about it . . . Even
if
he
behaved like a bastard, she was not going to. This was just one more test of her loyalty.

There was a way she wanted to show him that not everyone sold their friends and lovers out. She didn't want to talk to Deirdre about it, or Nick or Sandy or anyone. She had to make up her own mind what to do. In some crazy way she wanted to talk to Don. Well, that
was
an option too. Mad as it sounded. There were so many things she wanted answers to. Like had he always known he was going to call himself Brady, or was it because of her. Like how could he have planned everything so meticulously and then left the machine in her flat. Did he intend to, or was it an oversight?

And if he had always loved Margery, why had they lived such totally separate lives? And did he have any guilt, or could he live with it all, saying it was just show-biz? In some insane way, she could imagine the conversation. But she would not have it from here. She had been alarmed to know that he was now looking for the machine and sending messengers around the place trying to trace her down. It had been a bit frightening.

But she hadn't felt frightened before. In fact, having the laptop made her feel in some odd way more secure. And as long as she had this computer in her possession, he might get in touch. She realized now that this was why she had never let it go. It was her last link with him. For four months it had been a sort of comfort to her to know that it was there physically. Some solid reminder of all they had.

But things were suddenly very different now. She could no longer tell herself that Don knew nothing of all that had been going on. That he had been swept along somehow in his father-in-law's plans. That there was going to be a perfectly innocent explanation.

Having opened the lid of the laptop, she could no longer tell herself this. It was beginning to dawn on her
that Don Richardson was deeply involved. For the very first time she realized that she might indeed be in real danger and she had no idea what to do. She was so tired, she couldn't think.

She would do nothing tonight. There was no need. After all, the briefcase containing the computer had been in her possession for over four months. If she had been going to turn him in, he could well assume that she would have done it by now. He must think that she had never gotten into it and had decided not to hand it over to those who would be able to work out to learn what it contained. He should be feeling safe and secure now, so why on earth was he suddenly getting jittery and sending her messages about it? Maybe he really wanted to see her.

A man went up the lane behind Tara Road and put a letter into what they called the annex of what used to be the Bradys' house. It was not in an envelope, just folded in half. It had been sent by e-mail and printed out, but with no name or identifying marks at the top.

Barbara and Tim Brady didn't hear it coming through the letterbox, because they were asleep. They didn't see it until the next morning at eight o'clock, when Barbara was going out to work. And she did not read it then because the hall was dark and she was running for the bus. She let herself out the wooden door into the lane behind the house. The garden didn't belong to them anymore. It never would again.

In New York, Ella was in bed. Not asleep but resting. No pressure, no hurry, she told herself over and over.

She had to be at Derry and Kimberly's office tomorrow at nine. She must sleep well.

There was a system on the hotel telephone where you could switch it to automatic voice mail. She switched it
over. That meant if someone called in the night it wouldn't wake you. Not that she was expecting a call, but she had to be alert tomorrow, no matter what happened. No pressure, no hurry. He doesn't know you've opened it.

She had a long, warm bath, went to bed and fell asleep with a television chat show blaring away.

So she missed the series of phone calls that began at about ten minutes after three
A
.
M
. New York time, just after everyone in Ireland had come to grips with the eight
A
.
M
. news there. She didn't look at the little winking light until she was dressed and ready to leave the room. Hoping it wasn't a message from either Derry or Kimberly about the meeting, Ella dialed the number to retrieve the messages.

She sat in horror on the edge of her bed as she heard Nick and Deirdre and her father tell her what had happened.

These were the only households who knew where she was staying. Nothing they said made any sense. It was like words that were all jumbled, strung together, not proper sentences.

Only one more person knew her address, and that was her new friend, Harriet, the dealer who had sold her the dog collar. She had called also. Because Harriet's voice was less shocked, less horrified and sympathetic than the others, it was the only message that Ella understood.

“Listen, Ella. In case nobody's told you, he's killed himself out in Spain. He was scum. He wouldn't even stay and face what a mess he got everyone into. Probably half the country's already told you, but just in case, I wanted you to be warned. You're worth twenty of him, so don't weep over him, Ella. He's not worth it.”

When she got her breath back, she played the first three messages again. Now she understood what they were saying. It had to be true. They couldn't all have imagined it. Who should she phone first? Ella didn't want to talk to any of them.

She looked across at the computer. It really didn't matter anymore. He had taken a boat out to jagged rocks and ended his life. She wondered had he choked or suffocated to death, or had his body been dashed against the rocks? Had he any last-minute regrets and tried to survive? Don dead. Because of other people's money? Because of failure? Because he couldn't get his hands on that briefcase.
Why
hadn't she given it back to him? She hadn't even known what to do with it herself. If she had called him and said he could have it, then he would still be alive. She would call up the Irish newspapers on the Internet and see what they said. Before she talked to anyone, she needed to know more.

Don Richardson's handsome face looked out of every newspaper in Ireland and even some in England. He was described as a disgraced financier. The newspapers congratulated themselves for having correctly speculated that he had been in hiding in Spain. It was reported that his small boat had foundered on rocks at a particularly dangerous Spanish headland. A place where nobody took any kind of craft. Certainly, an experienced boatman like Don Richardson would have been aware of its perils. His body had not been found. The tides in this area could have carried it far out to the Atlantic. He had parked his car on a nearby pier and left several envelopes on the front seat. The contents had not been made public, but it was understood that the letters were in the nature of an apology and an attempted explanation. Sympathy and concern had already been expressed by many of the
business community in Ireland. Shock and disbelief had been registered by those of his family and former friends when they had been contacted. Of his immediate family there was no information. Some papers thought that they were cooperating with the authorities. Others said there had been no trace of them. One newspaper, in an article called “Darling Margery,” claimed that one of his letters had been to his wife, urging her to raise the children in dignity. But since that newspaper was also one which in the past believed it had interviewed extraterrestrials and women who had been born with four legs, it was not given a lot of credence.

She telephoned her father first, but his line was busy. So she called Deirdre on her cell.

“I know there are ways it's sad for you,” Dee said, “as well as being a terrible shock, but honestly, there are ways it's for the best.”

“That someone should
kill
himself, that's somehow the best?”

“I'm thinking of
you,
Ella. That's all I'm doing. You can get on with your life now.”

“I'm getting on with my life fine. I've been doing that since he walked out on me months ago. It's he who's not getting on with his life. Can't breathe or talk or know what day it is today.”

“I'm not making light of it. I thought in a way it kind of ended all the stress . . . somehow.” Deirdre was backtracking now. She had most definitely said the wrong thing.

“What stress did I have that has ended? I still know he never loved me. I still have to work to pay off the debts he left in my family. What's better about his being at the bottom of the ocean?”

“I'm so sorry, Ella, so very sorry,” Deirdre said.

“I know you are, Dee. Just don't go round thinking it's all for the best, will you?”

Deirdre made a quick call to Nick. “She's probably trying to get through to you now. Whatever you do, walk on eggshells. She doesn't see it all as the great relief that we do. I opened my big mouth and felt a right eejit.”

“Thanks, Dee. I'll warn Sandy.”

“Heavy on the sympathy, that's where I fell down,” Deirdre said ruefully.

“You're a good friend. She'll know that.”

“I hope.”

“Hi, Nick.”

“Ella, poor, poor Ella.”

“Why am I poor Ella, Nick. He never loved me. He stole everyone's money. I was just saying to Dee, nothing's changed. That's all the same as it was. He's dead, that's all. I just wanted to talk to you about this meeting today.”

“You're going to it?” He was astounded.

“Well, of course I am, isn't that what I'm here for?”

“But maybe not today, Ella. I could call them and explain.”

“This is my job, my pitch. Don't dare interfere. The thing I wanted to talk to you about was these clearances they talk about so much here. Our usual form that people sign agreeing to let us use the interview . . . that's enough, isn't it?”

“Those forms are fine. You can reassure them I checked all that out,” said Nick, who decided that women were so unpredictable, there was no point in trying to understand them anymore.

“Dad?”

“Oh, Ella, thank God you rang.”

“You're not to get upset, Dad. He was a grown man. He knew what he was doing, he must have.”