Two Women

Ten

Alice was at the rear of the cathedral and Carver saw her the moment he entered, Jane at his side disdaining his supporting arm as she’d rejected Dr Newton’s offer of tranquillizers, either for the earlier private entombment or for this very public ceremony. Alice smiled faintly. Carver showed no recognition, although he could have done: they’d officially – publicly – met, more than once, during her article preparation on Northcote. He realized it was the first time that the two women he loved had been together in the same place. The first time, also, that Alice had seen Jane, although that might be difficult, through Jane’s dark veil. Despite the rationalizing, he waited for the discomfort. There wasn’t any. He wished he’d responded to Alice’s smile but it was too late now. He was long past her pew, more than halfway along the nave. An estimate was difficult but Carver guessed there were at least a thousand mourners. Maybe more. Maybe among them were…

He hadn’t paused, at seeing Alice: hadn’t needed to. But he came close now, the briefest, easily hidden, stumble. Of course they would be here, somewhere: whoever they were. What did they look like, mob guys? Did they wear five-hundred – a thousand – dollar suits? Permanent dark glasses? Not move without 3001b bodyguards around them? Or were they – or those who represented them – quite ordinary, the sort of people you never noticed on the streets or on the subway: never saw anywhere, anywhen, because they were professionally and physically so inconspicuous as to be invisible? Carver actually looked around, more intently at the crowd than he’d looked at Alice. And saw no one, no face he could have remembered, no thousand-dollar suits, no dark glasses. Nothing. But he was sure they’d be there.

He was so enclosed in his own thoughts that there was almost another stumble when he momentarily failed to recognize their pew, from which he only recovered by ushering Jane in ahead of him. But so engrossed did Carver remain that everything – the service and the hymns and the eulogy – seemed to be on a suspended, out-of-body level until it was his moment to give the second of the readings, from Corinthians.

It was as if his steps, ascending to the pulpit, awoke him, although it was only when he started reading that he appreciated the hypocrisy of the passage. He began: ‘Render therefore to all their dues: tribute to whom tribute is due…’ The cough was disguisable, like everything else. ‘Fear to whom fear; honour to whom honour…’ Carver managed to complete the full text without any further hesitation, wondering as he spoke how many sharks out there in the sea of unseen faces were recognizing, as he was recognizing, the irony of the meaningless words he was mouthing. When he got back to his place Jane felt across and squeezed his hand and whispered: ‘That was wonderful, darling. Thank you.’

There was a second eulogy from the bishop, in which he referred to Northcote’s financial support for a drug rehabilitation centre in Harlem of which until that moment Carver had been unaware, and two more hymns before the procession out of the cathedral. As he passed where Alice stood Carver smiled at her. Now she remained expressionless towards him.

Stanley Burcher stood, anonymous as always, within the crush of people, watching the man he now knew to be John Carver caringly although not touchingly escort his wife from the cathedral. Not as dominantly commanding as George Northcote, not as physically big, but certainly imposing, tailored to illustrate the broad-shouldered, straight-backed stature. Tight, crinkled hair like a tight cap, heavy-nosed face, no jewellery, not even a wedding band. In closer proximity Burcher guessed Carver would emanate the same instinctive ambience of power that came from Charlie Petrie. Burcher was turning, with the existing procession, and intently studied the congregation to try to locate whoever it was to whom Carver had so briefly smiled. If the Deliocis had done as they were told there should be somewhere among this train of people someone preparing for him as full a profile as possible upon John Carver. He hoped he was wrong, about his impression that the man had the arrogance of power. He’d declared himself – and his idea for continuity – now. He’d lose face if he didn’t come through. But then how could he fail to come through, with the backing he had. He didn’t need to go to the wake. He’d shown sufficient respect for George Northcote’s passing. If the stupid bastard hadn’t behaved in the totally unexpected way that he had, he’d still be cutting the grass of his Litchfield pastures.

The receiving line at the Plaza was so interminable that Carver decided he’d miscalculated his one thousand mourners estimate by at least half and he stood, constantly, surreptitiously, looking beyond the person he was immediately greeting and introducing to Jane for the initial sight of Alice, for the first time – at last – experiencing a discomfort he expected to become guilt, which he knew – although he didn’t want to accept – was a feeling he deserved. But never felt, because Alice never appeared in the line. Discomfited though he was, Carver still felt a lurch of disappointment, which increased his discomfort even more.

He and Jane split, to circulate, which Carver realized he would normally have accepted as a necessary duty – which it still was, because the majority of the people with whom he exchanged empty pleasantries were existing clients – but now his concentration was absolute, entirely different from what it once would have been. He was intent upon every name, trying to remember it from the client list, and when he didn’t know one he stopped longer, waiting for one of the company names constantly echoing in his mind, not knowing what he would do if he heard it. Which he didn’t.

It was almost thirty minutes before he reached Jack Jennings, grouped with the house and office staff. Carver only intended a passing greeting but Jennings separated himself from the others and said: ‘Everything’s out of the house, for when Mrs Carver needs to come with the realtor.’

‘I’m grateful,’ thanked Carver.

‘And sheriff Hibbert stopped by. He says he can’t understand it, but his forensics guys haven’t picked up a single clue from the way the house was trashed. He asked me to tell you: tell you he was sorry and that he’d see you up in Litchfield.’

There was really nothing Hibbert could have told him, thought Carver. He looked beyond Jennings, to the office staff. ‘Where’s Janice?’

‘She got upset at the service,’ said Hilda. ‘She’s gone home.’

Security would have the combination code to her safe, Carver guessed. He couldn’t wait until the following day to retrieve the valise. Or finally to go through its contents to understand, if he could, the importance of BHYF and NOXT.

Carver tensed for Jane to say she would return to Wall Street with him but she didn’t, accepting his promise not to be longer than an hour. Security did have the code and Carver’s relief began at the sight of the valise and settled when, inside his own locked office, he found what he initially believed to be everything intact. It only took him fifteen minutes to realize it wasn’t. He’d counted the folios he had taken from Northcote’s nightstand and the six spreadsheets were there but they, in themselves, were incomplete for both BHYF and NOXT. There was, though, a pattern. It was classic double-accounting, with sufficient reworked figures to see that already-substantial profits were being hugely inflated, doubling or even trebling the returns. Which didn’t make sense. These were the sort of massaged, fraudulent figures that he’d accused Northcote of creating when they’d had their confrontation over the three other companies, meant to be produced at a stockholders’ meeting or just prior to a flotation, to boost share prices and investors’ confidence. But BHYF and NOXT were clearly shown on the papers in front of him to be private, non-stockholder companies with inaccessible registrations in Grand Cayman, certainly not businesses about to offer themselves on a publicly scrutinized, monitored market. It was a jigsaw. A jigsaw with too many pieces still missing. He’d only skimmed the other spreadsheets in Northcote’s safe, everything far too brief to learn what he needed to know. His linking denominator in all five companies was this inexplicable inflation. Where was the bridge, the conduit joining it all together, making it understandable? Still hidden, he answered himself.

Geoffrey Davis, the firm’s lawyer, answered the internal telephone himself and said at once: ‘I didn’t expect you back this afternoon.’

‘One or two things to look at,’ said Carver. ‘Let’s talk about the Chase.’

‘What about it?’

‘Do we have a safe-deposit facility there as well as the firm’s account?’

‘George did.’

After so many blocked alleys Carver’s feeling was more of hope than expectation. ‘In his name? Or the firm’s.’

‘The firm’s.’

‘So I’ve authority to access it?’

‘Might be an idea to advise their security director. You want me to do that?’

‘Right away,’ said Carver.

‘Too late today. Tomorrow OK?’

‘First thing,’ said Carver.

It was time to get back to as much normality as possible, Carver decided, replacing the telephone. Hilda had to reestablish his diary. And devise a way for her and Janice Snow to work together. And he had to see Alice, with more reason than normal. He needed to hear what she was so excited about. She must have been directly beside the telephone from the quickness with which she picked it up.

‘I’d hoped it would be you,’ she said. ‘Kind of expected it.’ She wouldn’t tell him on the phone how much more she’d discovered. One of the few rules between them – the most important rule of all – was always to be honest and she hadn’t been: not exactly dishonest, not talking to him about how she learned some of the things that had made her successful. Still, better disclosed when they were face to face.

‘I certainly didn’t expect to see you there today.’

‘Jane’s very beautiful.’

‘I don’t want to go this route.’ Alice’s phrase, he remembered.

‘Sorry. You OK?’

‘No. There’s a lot I want to talk to you about.’

‘A lot I want to talk about to you, too.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘When?’

‘Early. I’ve got to go to the Chase in the morning. I could come straight on from there.’

‘Still nothing?’

Carver hesitated. In some manner, somehow, she’d involved herself, obviously wanting to help. But potentially endangering herself, which in every way – at all costs – he had to stop her doing. ‘Things still to check out. You haven’t done anything more, have you?’

Now the hesitation was from her end. ‘I’m looking forward to our talking tomorrow.’

‘That isn’t an answer.’

‘I think I know how it’s done.’

Which was more than he did. ‘You told me that already. And I told you to stop.’

‘What time tomorrow?’

‘Just stay in the apartment until I get there. And don’t do anything else until I do.’

‘How about I love you?’

‘I love you. So please do as I ask.’

‘I love you too.’

That wasn’t a proper answer either, thought Carver. He was soon to find others, though. Some of which he wanted to know and others which he didn’t.

Jack Jennings was waiting at Northcote’s West 66th Street apartment, as they’d arranged, and said at once: ‘I think I’ve found what you’re looking for,’ which he had.

The safe was in Northcote’s study, fitted behind a cupboard as it had been in Litchfield. This was a much more modern model, although still key-operated, and the last remaining unidentified Litchfield key, the odd red one, fitted perfectly. It contained far more than Litchfield, although it took Carver far less time to absorb. There were a lot more photographs of Northcote and the unknown Anna, whose surname he discovered from three of the accompanying documents to be Simpson, and other photographs he looked at intently but failed to recognize. And there were five spreadsheets which he guessed, without comparing, to be part of what he’d found in the nightstand at Litchfield.

Carver sat at Northcote’s desk almost too long, the BHYF and NOXT material of least interest, as he realized it couldn’t be taken from here, not tonight at least. When he told Jennings he’d be back early the following morning the butler said he hoped everything was all right and Carver said he hoped it was, too.

With the extra staff, and the nurses who were still there, the East 62nd Street apartment seemed very overcrowded: when Carver went to enter the dining room that night, one of the Litchfield maids helping Manuel stood aside to let him in as he held back to let her out and Manuel completed the confusion by colliding into her, from behind.

Jane said: ‘I’m taking four back to Litchfield with me.’

‘That’ll help.’

‘They can live-in there but you need to check the apartments here.’

I know.’ He’d actually forgotten. Remembering was part of returning to normality, he told himself.

Manuel led the maid back in with the serving trays, his irritation obvious at what he clearly regarded as an intrusion on to his territory.

Jane said: ‘I thought meat loaf was the easiest: I didn’t know how today was going to turn out.’

‘Meat loaf’s fine.’ Carver took a token portion to rearrange on his plate.

‘I talked with Rosemary when I got back this afternoon.’ Rosemary Pritchard was Jane’s gynaecologist. Alice’s, too. Upon John’s recommendation, when she’d had an irregularity problem which Rosemary Pritchard had rectified to the point of Alice’s complacency.

It would have been fatuous to ask what about. ‘What did she say?’

‘That there’d have to be some tests, obviously. But if they’re OK I can start IVF right away…’ Jane ate with her head over her plate, not looking at him. ‘She asked what you thought about it.’ She looked up at last. ‘So how do you feel about it?’

Carver sipped his wine, delaying. ‘About our having a baby, I feel fine. About rushing into it now, as if we have something to prove, like it’s a race, I’m not so sure.’

‘Rosemary told me it nearly always takes time, so we’re not rushing into it.’

‘Maybe we should talk to Rosemary about it together. Other people, perhaps.’

‘Other people like psychiatrists, perhaps?’ she said, in echo.

‘I didn’t mean other people like psychiatrists,’ he lied.

‘What other people then?’ she demanded, trapping him.

‘I wasn’t thinking any further than Paul Newton.’

‘Who’s a medical doctor who’s overcrowded this apartment with nurses I don’t want or need and who are leaving the very moment their seven days are up.’

Carver pushed the meal away. ‘I won’t let this get into a fight. It’s not a situation to fight about. I’ll come up to Litchfield at the weekend and we’ll talk more about it and then we’ll go to see Rosemary together and work it out.’

‘You…’ started Jane but stopped.

Carver waited but she didn’t continue. Instead she said: ‘I forgot you didn’t like meat loaf.’

‘I wasn’t hungry anyway.’

Stanley Burcher heard his telephone as he walked along the corridor to his room and finished at a run, snatching it off its cradle at what he guessed would have been its last ring. The voice he recognized at once to be Enrico Delioci’s said: ‘She knows too much. She…’

‘Stop!’ insisted Burcher. ‘Where are you?’

‘With her, in her apartment.’

‘Using her phone?’

‘Mine. Cellphone,’ said the other man, heavily patronizing.

Burcher breathed out, heavily. There’d still be a trace to the Algonquin, on the cellphone. ‘What’s she know?’

‘The names of all the companies. That records were never kept after she wrote up the official returns from Northcote’s handwritten originals. She also told us Carver brought a bunch of stuff back with him from Litchfield. Needed a valise to carry it. And he’s been asking her questions about it all.’

Burcher’s mind was leapfrogging ahead of all that was happening, trying to keep everything in its proper order. This looked like another fuck-up, worse maybe than Litchfield. ‘She hurt?’

‘You told us to find out what she knew. She wouldn’t tell us at first.’

The bastards were setting him up, making him responsible! ‘There has to be another accident. Get it wrong and there’ll be a lot more.’