The bright autumnal sunlight arched through the tall windows of Howard’s new third floor apartment in the recently refurbished Georgian building just offEdinburgh’s Royal Mile.  As well as being his new home, this was Howard’s showpiece, the pinnacle of his career in interior design.  Howard busied himself putting the finishing touches to the preparations for the soiree he was holding for a few close friends, one of whom, Sally, was bringing a potential new client, an American woman called Sandra.

His guests were not due for more than an hour.  Howard drifted into the bathroom.  Howard smiled contentedly at the effect he had achieved in this his favourite room, with its glossy black and white tiled floor, its grand, gilded fittings and glass brick shower.

Suddenly Howard noticed some brown-coloured staining around the golden clawed feet of the roll-top bath.  He rubbed at the mark with a flannel, failing to make any impression on it.

Howard hurried into the kitchen and armed himself with bleach and floor cloth.  Returning to the bathroom, he began to scrub at the stain, but there it wouldn’t budge.  Howard’s brow furrowed; he had a potential client coming in half an hour and everything needed to be perfect, however, fearing that he might damage his beautiful tiles with further scrubbing, he artfully draped a towel over the side of the bath so that it spilled onto the floor obscuring the stain.

An hour later, the evening was getting into full swing; Howard’s friends had complemented him on every aspect of his new apartment and Sally’s friend Sandra, a rather over-bearing American woman (weren’t they all), was particularly taken with the bathroom, gushing compliments, like one of his gilded taps.

“I just love these old buildings, Howard,” she drawled.  “I’d just bet they’re full of phantoms and ghouls.  Do you know any ghost stories about the place?”

Howard didn’t.  The thought hadn’t really crossed his mind.

“I know, let’s have ourselves a séance!”  Sandra announced with great enthusiasm.  Before anyone could object, Sandra was clearing the polished mahogany dining table and directing the rest of the guests to sit around it, telling Howard to turn off the music, dim the lights and bring more candles.

Sandra took the high-backed seat at the head of the table.  She stretched out her hands taking those of the guests on either side of her and indicating that everyone should do the same.

“Now we will summon the spirits!”  Sandra winked at Howard who was sitting opposite her, before lowering her head and beginning to make a series of loud ‘omming’ noises.

“Omm”, she intoned, “make yourselves known, spirits of James’ Court.”

Howard looked around the table; everyone seemed to be taking this seriously.  All his guests were staring down at his beautiful polished table, as Sandra chanted on.  He thought the whole thing rather silly, but it was well worth humouring her if there was money to be made.

Suddenly Howard felt a chill rush through him, then a warm sensuous feeling, as if he was being borne away in the folds of a huge eiderdown.  Then there was a jolt and he found himself standing in the bathroom.  All his senses were alert, but he was unable to move anything except his eyes.  He could feel the hard, cold tiles under his feet and a soft fabric against his skin.  He noticed that he was wearing a cream silk robe.

The bath was filling up; the water foamed with rose-scented bubbles.  Howard felt his arm stretch out across the bath and turned off the taps.  He noticed that the arm was pale and smooth and the long, delicate fingers of the hand were painted with dark red nail varnish.  He felt the robe slide to the floor as trancelike, he stepped into the hot, fragrant water.  The arm reached out and took a glass of champagne from a little side table which had been set alongside the bath.  As he picked up the glass he noticed a small silver box.  He sipped the cool liquid which fizzed lightly on his tongue.

Setting the glass down, his hand picked up the silver box and with elegant, carefully manicured fingers picked out a shiny new razor blade.  In one swift movement the fingers drew the blade across the slender wrist of the left arm.  Blood dripped into the water.  Switching hands, the vein in the right wrist was also severed.  A second rivulet of blood ran down the other arm.  With a graceful red-toe-nailed foot, he turned the hot tap back on and settled back into the steaming tub.

Howard watched in calm fascination as the blood mixed with the scented water.  He was floating again.  Blood-stained water started to spill over the rim of the bath, pooling on the tiled floor around the golden clawed feet.  Howard drifted on.

Then Howard felt himself being shaken vigorously; someone was slapping his cheeks.  “Howard! Howard darling, wake up,” a voice seeped into his consciousness.  Then louder: “Howard!”

As his eyes flickered open, Howard experienced a rushing feeling, a chill wind rising up through his body and out of the top of his head.  His eyes focussed on a sea of concerned faces crowding over the chaise-longue on which he was resting.

“Shit, Howard, mate, you gave us a fright!”  Jim, Sally’s husband gently helped him into a sitting position.  “We thought you’d left us for a moment there.”

“Lucky I’m safety trained.”  Sandra’s face came into focus.  “I wouldn’t want to lose my new interior designer before he’s even started work on my place.”  She threw her arms around him and hugged him warmly.

Howard disentangled himself and made his way to the bathroom.  He pushed open the door, fearing what he might find.  But the enamel surface of the bath gleamed and the towel which he’d carefully draped over the side was hanging neatly on the towel rail.  The black and white floor tiles shone immaculately.  There was a faint scent of rose petals.  The brown stain had gone.

©2018 Chris Hall

“He’s cleaned us out!  All the money from the private clients’ accounts has been wiped out!  It’s all gone!”  George Worthington looked up from his mahogany desk.  “Slow down, Howard, what’s happened?”

Howard Evans sank into the well-upholstered leather chair with a sigh, facing his business partner and friend, across the desk.  “Your bloody whiz-kid, Simon, he’s somehow managed to transfer everything out of our private clients’ accounts…and he’s gone!”

How do you know all this?  Everything was fine yesterday.  I had lunch with Simon at the club, for heaven’s sake.”  George peered across the gleaming, polished wood at Howard.  “Well…?”

“Look at this.” Howard pushed an email print out across the desk, “It’s from Simon.  It’s…well, it’s kind of a threat.  Says he’s used the new computerised authorisation system to transfer the money from the clients’ accounts to an off-shore account…and you and I are shown confirming the transactions.  So it looks as if we’ve authorised the funds transfer.  It will look on the system as if we have simply siphoned off the cash!

George put on his glasses and regarded the flimsy piece of paper.  “When did this arrive?”  “First thing this morning; I’ve been checking through the system with Holly to see if we can’t cancel the transfers or reverse the money back or something.”  Howard’s voice was taut; sweat was beading on his forehead.  “I don’t know what we’re going to do!”

We should call the police – the fraud squad – explain what’s happened and get them to go after him, get our money back.  Thieving scoundrel!  The private clients’ accounts; that’s over half the business!  After all, it’s not as if we’ve done anything wrong.  Have we?

There was a knock at the door and Holly Richardson’s anxious face appeared.  “Can I come in?”  Holly was the partnership’s ‘safe pair of hands’.  Highly professional and competent, she was the firm’s most experienced dealer.  The only person who had surpassed her performance had been Simon Lestrade, erstwhile golden boy, and George’s protégé.

Simon Lestrade had arrived just over a year ago and from the start, he had impressed.  His appearance exuded good breeding and confidence.  He arrived for an ‘informal interview’ (prior to George appointing him that afternoon) dressed in an extravagant and immaculate pin-striped suit in an attractive shade of dark blue, with a pale blue shirt which exactly matched the narrow, contrasting stripe of his suit.  His tie had been somewhat flamboyant, more suited to the world of advertising than austere financial circles, but this was deemed to be an indication of an ability to innovate and take calculated risks.  His CV had been even more impressive, but most importantly, he came highly recommended by Rupert Churchill, George’s old friend and fellow club member.

Lestrade’s performance had been better than good; it had exceeded all expectations and in the first six months he had grown the private clients’ side of the business by over a third, with an even more significant profit attached to that growth.  There had been tensions though, particularly between him and Holly, who undoubtedly resented his success although she had concealed this well, consummate professional that she was.

Holly would have been the first to admit that he was a smooth operator, sometimes a bit too smooth, “in a creepy sort of way”, she had described to her female friends.  ‘Never trust a man in white shoes’ was her maxim, so when he graced the Christmas bash in pressed denim complemented by off-white loafers, it confirmed her prejudice.  His manner of dress might have been an indication of future felony, but that was hardly an issue now.

At George’s nod she entered the room, closing the door softly behind her.  “It’s bad.  He’s stitched us up and there’s no way out.  I’ve checked the system; he’s in the clear, but it looks like both of you have committed a huge fraud.  I can’t trace the overseas account.  The money’s gone and you’re implicated!  And if you go down, so does the firm.”

“Does anyone else know about this, Holly?”

“No, George, and they won’t.  We’ll just have to make the money back.  Beg, steal or borrow.  Well, beg and borrow at least.  If we put the clients’ money back before they notice, at least you’ll stay out of prison.”

“But we haven’t done anything wrong,” lamented Howard, “it’s Lestrade who should be locked up.  Not sunning himself on some beach on our hard earned profits, even if he did make most of them.  It’s not as if he wasn’t very well paid…with bonuses.”

“No doubt about that.” said Holly, tight lipped.  “However, we need to come up with a strategy and we need to make sure that no-one finds out about the missing money until we’ve fixed things.  We’re good at what we do.  We’re very good.  We just need to work hard, maybe get some good extra help?  Someone reliable, a dealer with a sound track record.”

“I admire your loyalty, Holly, but I don’t think it’s going to be that simple,” said George heavily.  “Talent to redeem a loss of this size doesn’t grow on trees.”

“Actually, there is someone.  She’s a friend of mine who’s been working out in the States.  She’s just moved back to London and is looking for a position.  She’s one of the best in her field.  We’d be lucky to get her, but I’m sure we can persuade her.”

“As long as she doesn’t want to look at the books,” said George ruefully.  “Anyway, who is she?  Can we trust her?”

“Well, Julia left her former firm with glowing references, not the family silver.  I’ve known her since University, lost touch for a while, but she’s sound…and sharp.”

“Worth a try, if she’ll give it a shot, George.”  Howard squared his shoulders and sat up in his seat.  “What have we to lose anyway?”

*

Julia Deakin picked up the phone in her smart new Docklands apartment and dialled.  A man answered.  “Rupert, thank you so much for putting me back in touch with Holly.  She’s found me just what I need – and they sound very keen.  I owe you one!”

Rupert Churchill replaced the phone and smiled as he crossed one pale leather brogue over the other.  What Julia didn’t know was that he had certain photographs of her, involving illegal substances and compromising positions.  She’d find out just what she owed him and how what she’d need to do to repay him.

©2018 Chris Hall