I've Got Your Number

It turned out that she lives in Clapham and it would take her only about five minutes to get here to see me. So here she is, in Costa, chomping on a chicken wrap and swigging a smoothie. Ruby and Annalise have gone back to work, which is a good thing, because I couldn’t cope with having to explain the whole saga to them. It’s all too surreal.

As Violet has told me several times, if she hadn’t happened to be in London, between jobs, and happened to see the headlines as she went to get a pint of milk, she would never have known about the scandal. And if she hadn’t happened to have a brain in her head, she wouldn’t have realized that she totally knew what had been going on the whole time. But are people grateful? Do they want to hear? No. They’re all idiots.

“My parents are on this stupid cruise, ” she’s saying with disdain. “I tried to look in their telephone book, but I don’t know who’s who, do I? So I tried ringing Sam’s line, then Nick’s line … but I only got snotty PAs. No one would listen to me. But I need to tell someone.” She bangs her hand on the table. “Because I know something was going on. I even sort of knew it at the time? But Sam never listened to me? Do you find he never listens to you?” She focuses on me with interest for the first time. “Who exactly are you, anyway? You said you’d been helping him. What does that mean?”

“It’s kind of complicated,” I say after a pause. “He was left in the lurch a bit.”

“Oh, yeah?” She takes another bite of chicken wrap and regards me with interest. “How come?”

Has she forgotten?

“Well … er … you left with no notice. Remember? You were supposed to be his PA?”

“Riiiight.” She opens her eyes wide. “Yeah. That job didn’t really work out for me. And the agency called and wanted me to get on a plane, so … “ Her brow wrinkles in thought as though she’s considering this for the first time. “I guess he was a bit pissed off. But they’ve got loads of staff. He’ll be all right.” She waves her hand airily. “So, do you work there?”

“No.” How am I going to explain it? “I found this phone and borrowed it, and I got to know Sam that way.”

“I remember that phone. Yeah.” She peers at it, screwing up her nose. “I never answered it.”

I suppress a smile. She must have been the crappest PA in the world.

“But that’s why I know something was going on.” She finishes off her chicken wrap with a flourish. “Because of all the messages. On that.” She jabs a finger at it.

OK. At last we’re getting to it.

“Messages? What messages?”

“It had all these voice mails on it. Not for Sam; for some guy called Ed. I didn’t know what to do about them. So I listened to them and I wrote them down. And I didn’t like the sound of them.”

“Why not?” My heart starts to thud.

“They were all from the same guy, about altering a document. How they were going to do it. How long it would take. How much it would cost. That kind of thing. It didn’t sound right, you know what I mean? But it didn’t exactly sound wrong either.” She crinkles her nose. “It just sounded … weird.”

My head is wheeling. I can’t take this in. Voice mails for Ed about the memo. On this phone. This phone.

“Did you tell Sam?”

“I sent him an email and he said ignore them. But I didn’t want to ignore them. You know what I mean? I had this instinct.” She swigs her smoothie. “Then I open the paper this morning, and I see Sam talking about some memo and saying it must have been sexed up, and I think, yes!” She bangs her hand on the table again. “ That’s what was going on.”

“How many voice mails were there in all?”

“Four? Five?”

“But there aren’t any voice mails on here now. At least, I haven’t found any.” I can hardly bear to ask the question. “Did you … delete them?”

“No!” She beams in triumph. “That’s the point! I saved them. At least, my boyfriend, Aran, did. I was writing one out one night, and he was, like, ‘Babe, just save it to the server.’ And I was like, ‘How do I save a voice mail ?’ So he came into the office and put them all on a file. He can do amazing stuff, Aran,” she adds proudly. “He’s a model too, but he writes games on the side.”

“A file?” I’m not following. “So where’s the file now?”

“It must still be there.” She shrugs. “On the PA’s computer. There’s an icon called voice mails on the desktop.”