Free Concealment by Rose Edmunds Page B

dredged up as evidence of your incompetence if they decided to fire you.
    ‘Oh great stuff,’ gushed Danielle. ‘Lovely. Any chance of a sound bite to camera early tomorrow morning—show the caring face of corporate Britain? Perhaps standing outside your offices?’
    The damage, if any, must have been done already, so I agreed.
    The Telegraph also required a short statement. I detected a hint of annoyance at missing the deadline to go to press, but they promised to update the website instantly.
    That night I dreamed of junk again. This time, a mass of old newspapers and rags barred the entrance to the underground station. As I attempted to flee, the pile collapsed on me.
    As I woke, gasping for air, the image of Ryan thrusting naked on top of me sprang unbidden into my semi-slumbering mind.
    ‘
Oh God, you slut—you’re loving it—you wanted it all along. You’re so horny.’
    And then he’d put his hands round my neck…
    I sat up with a start. Where the heck had that come from—memory, imagination or a combination of both?

11
    Like most people who’ve grown up in a dysfunctional household, I’m brilliant in a crisis. So after my morning TV appearance, I convened a group meeting.
    At this point, the general excitement at being caught up in the eye of a media storm outweighed any anxiety about Isabelle. Everyone was still optimistic of a benign explanation for her absence and a safe homecoming. People worried more about the way the press had vilified Ryan.
    I told them the police planned to spend all day interviewing the team, and in particular anyone who’d been at the social on Friday. I added “for the avoidance of doubt” that this would include me. In keeping with the human touch which had recently become such a virtue, I said I knew how “destabilising” all this had been for everybody. But we needed to keep focussed and professional, and positive nonetheless.
    When I’d finished, I discovered a voicemail from Smithies.
    ‘Drop by for a quick word when you have a minute,’ he said. ‘We need to discuss a couple of minor matters.’
    Matters plural. I guessed he’d sussed out that my media contact hadn’t been properly sanctioned—but what else could be on the agenda?
    In his office, I glanced at the mural of the water-skiers. Their eyes twinkled triumphantly today, particularly the wife’s. Wasn’t I so plausible when I told you Ed was out—had you totally fooled? And check out my body—size eight, with pert boobs and washboard tummy—all effortless—aren’t you jealous?
    Of the abs perhaps, but not of her lying underneath Smithies’ heaving sweaty torso and simulating ecstasy. Even the thought turned my stomach.
    ‘OK?’ he asked, keeping the obligatory inter-personals to a minimum.
    ‘Fine, thanks.’
    ‘We need to talk about Ryan.’
    I stiffened—an involuntary physical response he must have noticed.
    ‘What about him?’
    ‘What do you plan to do?’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    My voice shook with nerves. Smithies paused—long enough to make me think he knew everything.
    ‘It’s vital we exit him—we have to get him off the payroll before the shit hits the fan.’
    ‘What shit?’
    ‘Oh wake up, Amy. What is wrong with you this morning? It’s quite clear he’s as guilty as hell.’
    ‘Guilty of what?’
    ‘He’s killed her, can’t you see that, or are you so blinded by your relationship with him?’
    ‘What relationship?’ I asked, the panic rising again.
    ‘Because he’s family, of course,’ said Smithies, fixing me with a penetrating gaze.
    My pulse fell back to normal.
    ‘Aren’t you jumping a bit ahead of yourself? We don’t know yet if Isabelle is dead and still less if Ryan had any involvement. And HR will do their nut about firing someone with no evidence…’
    ‘I’m amazed you’re continuing to defend him. Even Greg thinks we should sack him.’
    I doubted Greg had said any such thing, though God only knew why I should attempt to argue Ryan’s