The Manhattan Puzzle. Laurence O’Bryan
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18
Isabel held the edge of the desk. She was getting the runaround. Something was going on that she wasn’t being told about. That’s what it felt like, even if she couldn’t prove it.
Yet.
‘Is the security manager available?’ she said, as calmly as she could, addressing the receptionist.
The woman looked at her, her mouth slightly open. Then her expression changed. Her mask of smiling professionalism slipped back on.
‘Certainly, Mrs Ryan. If you’d like to wait over there, I’ll see if she’s available.’
Isabel sat on the front edge of one of the sofas, examining everyone who passed by. Was it still too early to call the police? Would BXH be a bit more accommodating if she had a police officer with her or if she told them they were on their way?
She looked at her watch. It was still only eight or nine hours since he should have been home, not twenty-four. She took a slow breath, then counted to ten. The world around her was continuing in real time; prosperous-looking people were going out for their lunch break. Though many of them were grim-faced, others were smiling, as if they had nothing to worry about and the stories all over the media about BXH were just lies.
The buzzer in her hand went off again. She turned. Standing beside the receptionist was a small, wide-shouldered, cropped-haired woman. There was going to be no friendly smiles with this lady.
‘Are you the security manager?’ were Isabel’s first words.
‘Your husband is not here, Mrs Ryan.’ Her tone was as definite as a punch in the ribs. ‘His car is in the car park all right. It’s been here since last night. The rules of this building are quite clear. No employee is allowed to leave a vehicle overnight. When you see your husband, will you ask him to remove it?’ She looked at Isabel as if she had a contagious disease.
‘Can I speak to George Donovan?’
‘You’ll have to call him later. He’s out.’
‘A lot of good that’ll do.’
The woman recoiled, as if Isabel had slapped her.
‘It’s all I can suggest, Mrs Ryan.’
She thanked the woman for her help, and crossed the foyer, pulling her coat tight around her as she left the building.
The black Mercedes was still standing, purring at the curb.
Then it came to her. Maybe the wonderful Mrs Vaughann might know something about what had happened last night. Her husband had probably been with Sean.
She headed for the car and tapped on the window, hard. Mrs Vaughann stared at her, eyes wide, as if Isabel was a beggar. She knocked again, harder this time.
The window slid open less than an inch.
‘Mrs Vaughann, we met last summer. I’m Isabel Ryan. My husband works with Paul.’
‘Isabel,’ Mrs Vaughann shouted, as if she’d found a decades-lost friend. The door clicked open.
Mrs Vaughann leaned forward. She looked like someone waiting desperately for something, the way an alcoholic looks while waiting for a bar to open. Her eyebrows were raised. Her skin was pale. Her cheeks hollow. Her brow was all scrunched up.
Isabel stepped inside, then pulled the door closed behind her. It made a perfect reassuring clunk. The driver was in front behind a wall of thick glass. He didn’t even turn his head as Isabel got in.
‘I have to tell you,’ said Mrs Vaughann. ‘I almost didn’t open the window.’ She sounded amazed at herself that she had.
‘Thanks. It’s horrible out there.’ Isabel shivered. ‘There’s something I want to ask you. You always have your finger on the pulse.’ This was the woman most of the other BXH wives wanted to be.
Mrs Vaughann smiled, like a Siamese cat enjoying being stroked. ‘Please, call me Suzi.’ She put her hand on Isabel’s arm. Her skin looked translucent, as if she was made of expensive porcelain.
‘You poor thing. You’re wet.’ She handed Isabel a tissue.
‘I’m okay.’ Isabel rubbed her hands together.
Mrs Vaughann leaned back, looked at her appraisingly. She made an exasperated noise.
‘You know, I’m glad you came over. I do hate sitting here. You know they’ve gone too far this time.’ She sounded angry.
‘Who’s gone too far?’
Mrs Vaughann picked up a copy of the Evening Standard lying on the floor near her feet. It was folded open at an inside page. She pushed it towards Isabel as if it had a bad smell. Her hand was gripping the paper so hard her knuckles were white. Then she uncurled them, as if she didn’t want Isabel to see how anxious she was.
‘A few BXH people were at some horrible place last night.’
Near the top of the page there was a picture of police tape cordoning off the front of what looked like a crummy restaurant. On a canopy above the door was part of a word – Magnol. Isabel’s pulse was beating on both sides of her forehead.
The headline above the picture read: ‘Lap Dancer Murdered.’
A prickling sensation ran up her neck. ‘BXH people went there?’
Mrs Vaughann looked at her as if Isabel was a slow learner.
‘They were there when that poor girl was murdered.’
Sean couldn’t have anything to do with this, could he? He’d been working late last night.
Please, God, make it so that he isn’t involved in this.
‘What is it you wanted to ask me, Isabel?’
She swallowed. ‘Sean’s missing.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I wanted to find out if you knew where they were last night.’
Mrs Vaughann’s eyebrow arched. ‘Since when is he missing?’ She sounded almost happy at the news.
‘He should have come back at two, maybe three this morning. He hasn’t turned up.’
Mrs Vaughann sucked air in through her pursed lips. ‘Paul didn’t come back either,’ she said quickly. ‘We’re in the same boat, my dear.’
She put a hand on Isabel’s thigh. It was a sisterly gesture, she knew, but Isabel was tempted to say her husband wasn’t like Mr Vaughann. Sean had told her that Vaughann liked to be friends with lots of women in the bank. Friends with benefits was the rumour.
Sean wasn’t like that.
‘You should know,’ said Mrs Vaughann, ‘that if I find out there’s another woman involved or if he’s got anything to do with what happened to that dancer, I’ll cut his equipment off myself. He won’t be a big swinging dick if I do that.’ She sounded like she meant it.
Mrs Vaughann pressed her hand to her pale forehead. She looked the picture of a wronged corporate wife in her Jimmy Choo shoes and steel-grey Agnès B dress. She’d probably just come back from one of her charity coffee mornings, which she was famous for.
‘What about your husband? Do you have any idea why he …?’ Mrs Vaughann’s voice trailed off. Her pencil eyebrows were raised even more now.
Isabel imagined what she was going to say next. Was Sean cheating on her? She’d been pushing the thought away all morning. But she couldn’t do that forever.
Her standard reply to any girlfriend, who suggested he might stray, was to say that he never stayed out late. But she couldn’t even say that now. She plucked at her sleeve, as if there were fluff there. There wasn’t.
‘I don’t know what to say.’