A Filthy Week

A few years ago, when I was just starting out in my career, I arrived at work to find three police cars parked outside, and an ambulance at the entrance, its blue emergency lights off, but the engine still running. Paramedics were loading a body into it and whoever was on that gurney had to be dead because it was covered completely by a drab grey blanket.

Inside the foyer, I was stopped by security. As well as putting my shoulder bag and sports bag – I’d just been to the gym – through the scanner as usual, I was asked stand with arms raised while a security guard I’d never seen before frisked me. There was always one security officer on duty, but that morning there were four. I don’t know whether it was her nature or because she believed her badge sanctioned superiority, but the woman giving me the once-over glared at me as if I were guilty, as if I was somehow responsible for whatever had happened to that person outside on the stretcher.

A policeman stopped me using the stairs. The stairwell was closed, barred with bands of that yellow police tape you see on shows like Crimewatch.

Later that morning, the entire staff was asked to assemble in the conference room on the ground floor. By then the office was a fever of speculation. Who was on that gurney? Was it an accident? Or something sinister? No answers. And not a scrap of work done. Morning tea at the Housing Bureau was customarily a prolonged affair – taxpayers would be shocked to know how long – but that morning it lasted all morning and the only reason any of us turned on our PCs was to find out if there was anything to find out.

It was mid-summer and hot, one of those rare days in Wellington when you can be fooled into thinking the town has proper weather. I was wearing a short linen dress and sandals. Neroli Langdale was wearing her usual navy trouser suit, black low-heeled courts, and a white blouse, all very senior public servant, with a thin gold chain around her neck, and so much make-up it was impossible to know what she really looked like, or how old she was. I guessed our chief executive to be in her late forties but the Botox made it hard to tell.

Sometimes I liked to imagine the contents of Neroli’s wardrobe: five identical suits, lined up like soldiers on parade, with five white shirts ironed with military precision. My own wardrobe is random and eclectic, the only constant being a scarf, even in summer. This is for protection against another perennial: Wellington’s unfriendly wind.

I’d been with the Bureau two months and, so far, hadn’t had anything to do with the CE. I’d barely even seen her. Visiting teams from time to time, having a friendly chat with her staff, just to show she cared, clearly wasn’t on the CE’s job description. That morning she seemed ill at ease. Her expression was frosty. She didn’t even say good morning, or make eye contact with anyone, not as far as I could tell anyway. She may just as well have been talking to the walls. It worried me. This was only my second job since leaving uni, but I’d learned already that toxic behaviour at the top has a nasty tendency to seep like sewage all the way down the hierarchy to the minion who doles out the stationery.

‘There was an incident here this morning.’ The CE spoke with an English accent, a regional one but I didn’t know which one. ‘One of our colleagues, who was epileptic, had a turn on the stairs. It’s regrettable she was alone.’

‘Are you telling us she died in the stairwell?’

‘Who was it, Neroli?’

The CE let her deputy handle the questions. His name was Tim Fraser. Tall, middle-aged with short wavy grey hair brushed back, sexy in a silver fox kind of way.

‘Those of you who worked with her will be notified of the funeral,’ he said. ‘We’re sending flowers of course, from all of us.’

‘If it was a medical mishap, why the additional security this morning? Why the body-search?’

It was Patrick Walsh asking. He was my manager and head of the media liaison team, so of course he’d want the full picture. He’d need it to do his job.

‘Let’s just say the police were a little overzealous,’ said Tim. ‘It wasn’t immediately clear what had happened.’

‘But who was it? We’d like to know so that, well...’ It was the same person who’d asked before, a sharp-looking brunette in slacks and Zara’s take on a Chanel jacket. She was head of people services – what used to be called personnel, then human resources. What’ll it be next? Anthropoid delivery?

‘Until the family is informed, we must respect their privacy,’ said Neroli. She fiddled with the chain around her neck. ‘We ask you to be patient, and to wait here while the police finish checking the building.’

‘Why? What are they looking for?’

Before anyone could throw any more questions at her, the CE left the room, with Tim Fraser close behind.

The fever which had taken hold earlier in the morning was now a furore, with everyone talking at once. After an hour we were told to return to our desks.

I caught up with Patrick at the lifts. ‘Why didn’t they tell us who it was? Why all the cloak and dagger?’

‘When someone tells you there’s nothing to be concerned about,’ said Patrick, ‘it’s a sure sign there is.’

‘You mean, did she fall or was she pushed?’ The words came out more flippantly than I intended and I was aware of Patrick’s scrutiny. He had blue eyes that could be quite penetrating. ‘What I mean is, if she died of natural causes, why search the building?’

The lift was crowded and it wasn’t until after everyone else got out and we reached the ninth floor that he turned to me and said: ‘It was Rachel Quentin.’

‘The Chief Financial Officer?’

‘I saw them carry her out this morning. And its news to me she was epileptic. Rachel was crazy about rock climbing which, for anyone at any risk of seizures would be an absolute no-no.’

I was still digesting this when we arrived back at our work stations and found a security guard there, sitting in my chair and messing about with the photo of Karam on my desk. It annoyed me the way he flicked his fingers against the glass and I asked him to put it down. He dropped it carelessly on my keyboard, then got up and asked me to accompany him to the CE’s office. Straight away Neroli made it clear we weren’t there to swap muffin recipes.

‘It’s Rebecca, isn’t it? You’re new here I believe.’

‘Yes, and it’s Rita, Rita Vegas.’

Neroli wasn’t listening. It was as if she’d already made up her mind that I was delinquent. She pointed to a brown envelope on her desk and asked me to explain its contents and where they’d come from. When I said I’d never seen it before, she gave me an accusatory stare – she could make eye contact after all – and I swear the temperature in the room dropped five degrees.

‘It was found at your desk.’ She spilled the contents onto the table. There was a photograph of Rachel Quentin and a chunky wad of $100 notes. She turned the photo over. Scrawled in capital letters on the back was a crude note: Keep your trap shut.

2

I picked up the photo. I hadn’t met Rachel but I’d seen her around and remembered she was attractive, petite, with a smooth blonde bob, and trendy clothes. Nothing chic about her now. Someone had gouged rough crosses over her eyes and her mouth, over and over with a black marker pen. I dropped the photo on Neroli’s desk.

‘Keep your trap shut about what?’ Neroli spoke as if she found its vulgarity distasteful.

‘I’ve no idea.’

Tim Fraser came in and picked up the photo. Without even looking at me said: ‘If it isn’t your mouth this note refers to, whose is it?’

Who did they think I was? Ma Barker? I needed to sit down. Until then Patrick and I had been standing in front of Neroli’s desk, an elegant expanse of white wood, curved at either end and with nothing on it except a shiny new laptop and that envelope and its noxious contents. Tim motioned me to the other end of the office where there were two pale grey leather sofas. Neroli and Patrick sat on one, Tim and I facing them on the other. A coffee table between us matched the desk. There was a round pewter tray on it with bone china coffee cups, but no-one suggested coffee. It wasn’t that sort of meeting.

There was a brief tense silence. Rays of sun fell like blades across the grey carpet and the room was warm. The CE clasped her hands together in her lap, and gave me a fixed stare. I clasped my hands in my lap as well. I’d been told the mirroring technique helps establish empathy but it didn’t seem to be working with Neroli. I did my best not to feel intimidated. ‘Why are you looking at me like I’ve just stolen someone’s baby?’

Neroli gave an almost imperceptible shrug. ‘We’re waiting for you to explain,’ she said.

‘It does seem a coincidence,’ said Tim, ‘given Rachel’s accident last night. Wouldn’t you agree?’ He gave me an encouraging look, as if to say we’re on the same side. I hoped we were.

‘Look, you can’t possibly think that message was meant for me,’ I said.’ I don’t know anything about it.’

‘We appreciate your reluctance to say anything,’ said Tim. He picked up the photo, turned it over. ‘This is quite a threat. We only want to help.’ He placed a hand on my shoulder; his touch was light and he was probably trying to placate me but I shook him off.

‘I’m telling you the truth. None of this has diddly-squat to do with me.’ I got up to leave. Neroli told me to sit down again. Her voice was hard. She asked me to hand over my access card, and suggested I take garden leave while an investigation was carried out. I could ignore the sweat dripping between my breasts, and the damp patches in my armpits, but by then I was so flummoxed by the CE’s assumption of my culpability that I couldn’t think of a single thing to say in my defence.

Patrick came to my rescue. When I lifted my lanyard to unclip the access card, he held up a hand to stop me. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Aren’t we jumping to conclusions? If Rita says she’s never seen this stuff before, then she hasn’t.’

I could have hugged my boss right then. I gave him a grateful smile instead.

You could be forgiven for thinking Patrick Walsh was laid-back. His black hair was invariably messy because he was always running his hands through it, his expression was open and unaffected, and he wore casual clothes smartened with a skinny tie only when he went out for meetings. But I’d learned in the first week at the Bureau that my boss was astute, and dedicated to truth – he refused to play the spin doctor – and when it mattered, stood his ground. Sometimes I wondered how he’d managed to keep a government job so long.

I recalled his intimation earlier that Rachel’s death may not have been an accident. Maybe he was right. And maybe, probably, it was connected with all this. We exchanged a glance and I knew he believed me.

‘Whoever put that envelope in my filing cabinet,’ I said, ‘is going to want it back, the money anyway… wouldn’t it help if I was at my desk, to be around to see who turns up?’

Maybe I was clutching at straws but I had nothing to lose. I was being blamed for someone else’s grot and wanted to see the real culprit caught. That wasn’t likely if I was stuck at home on garden leave, a euphemism for ignominy if ever I heard one.

Neroli studied the walls. Maybe looking at walls helped her to think. They were nice walls, papered in a gorgeous design of soft silver and white feathers. She asked me to wait outside while she spoke with Tim and Patrick.

When Patrick emerged ten minutes later, he ushered me towards the lift. ‘Common sense prevailed. I want you to go back to work as if none of this happened.’

‘As if.’ I shivered a little. ‘Those two really believe I’ve done it, whatever ‘it’ is. They made me feel as if I was about to have my knee-caps smashed.’

Patrick rubbed his chin; the way men do. ‘Let’s go and find a coffee.’

We bypassed Mojo’s which was the usual hangout for Housing Bureau staff and walked further up the Terrace to Frank’s Café. It was almost two o’clock and the place buzzed with civil servants lingering over lunch. I wasn’t the least bit hungry. I’ve never been able to eat when my spirits are low and right then, my mood was fluctuating between anger and dismay over the morning’s fiasco. Patrick ordered a panini and an iced chocolate while I settled for a bottle of kombucha tea. I asked Patrick how well he’d known Rachel Quentin.

‘Well enough to know how she spent her weekends. We worked together once, on an inter-agency thing – it was over that terrorism scare up north, you know, tenants running amok with guns and machetes, scaring the bejesus out of the entire neighbourhood.’

‘I remember.’

Patrick spooned the last of the cream from his glass. ‘Don’t let it put you off. Most of our clients are good people.’

‘I’ll never get used to calling them clients.’

When I joined the Bureau, I’d been confused by its jargon, and what I saw as excessive wokeness. Social housing rents are heavily subsidised by the taxpayer and I don’t see why tenants’ rent notices don’t convey who’s making up the shortfall.

‘It’s meant to show we care,’ said Patrick. ‘Which we do of course. Anyway, Rachel and I shared an office for a couple of months so, yeah, I got to know her pretty well.’

‘You think she was murdered, don’t you?’

Patrick nodded. ‘That loot in your drawer says it all, don’t you think?’

‘I do think, but please don’t say ‘your’ like that, it makes me nervous, as if any minute I’ll be called up for a lie-detector test.’

‘How are you feeling?

‘Better,’ I lied. ‘Thanks.’

‘Let’s get back. This is bound to get out and Neroli needs a statement, to shut down any speculation.’

‘She can hardly keep a lid on it.’

‘No, but we’ll do our best, at least until some sort of enquiry is finished.’

By the time we returned to the office the CE had announced that it was Rachel Quentin who had died. In the public affairs section, an envelope was doing the rounds for contributions towards a funeral wreath. I put in five dollars.

For an hour I sat at my desk staring at my monitor. Now and then I opened and closed both drawers of my filing cabinet. What did I think I’d find in there? A bloodied cosh? A severed ear? I was creeped out and wanted to be home, talk it all over with Karam, but first I needed to go for run, clear my head, get to the gym and sweat it all out. I left work early, without saying anything to anyone.

š

It was almost six-thirty when I got home and found Karam in the kitchen, adding caramelised onions and roasted pine nuts to a dish of mujadara. I dumped my sports bag on the floor by the door and flopped onto a seat at the kitchen table.

‘Long day?’

‘You don’t know the half of it.’ I told him what had happened and about the rottweiler I was working for. Just thinking about Neroli Langdale made me shudder.

‘You don’t need this shit.’

It was so unlike Karam to swear that I burst out laughing, then groaned. ‘My head feels terrible. The music in that gym is too loud. I’ve got to find somewhere quieter. Is there such a place do you think?’

Karam handed me a glass of mint-lemon. It was one of his specialties. ‘That’s why I like squash,’ he said. ‘The only racket on the court is our own.’

‘Oh, very good.’ I envied my husband’s facility with languages and wished my Arabic was as good as his English. I’d tried, hours of night classes, but been too busy and it had all been too hard. One day, I promised myself, and Karam, I’d get back to classes and nail it, before our next visit to the family in Jordan.

I sipped the limonana. Karam had added ice and it was bracing. He kissed me on the top of my head, sat down and studied me with an anxious expression. ‘This business at the Bureau, it’s not your problem, Rita, you know that, don’t you?’

I nodded but Karam wasn’t convinced. ‘Let other people handle it,’ he said, and as if that was all that needed to be said, got up to set the table with bowls, cutlery and napkins. He placed his dish of seasoned rice and lentils in the centre of the table, and then sat down and served it.