‘Not sure,’ whispered Brenda. ‘Something dodgy.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Callie.
‘So where is the lord and master, then?’ asked Brenda. ‘The Fraud Squad come when there’s fraud. Did you ring the lawyer?’
Callie had rung Jason’s personal lawyer many times but there was no answer.
‘Probably done a runner too,’ Brenda had snarled and began packing.
‘I can’t get my husband’s lawyer on the phone,’ Callie had said to the female police officer in the dressing room. ‘I don’t know anything about any of this ...’ she added helplessly.
Despite her shock, Callie could sense the other woman’s disbelief and the words not spoken.
We’re here with a search warrant, Mrs Reynolds. How could you not know you were in trouble, Mrs Reynolds? How could anyone be that stupid?
Brenda had bypassed the wardrobes with the expensive evening dresses, designer suits, handbags worth the price of a small car and shoes lined up with exquisite care, but had swept out the lingerie drawer.
‘No resale value in this,’ she’d said calmly, stuffing it all into a squashy case. She’d taken the ordinary clothes: jeans, plain trousers, sweaters, the expensive little camisoles Callie loved, cardigans, her old leather jacket, the everyday things Callie wore around the house like her yoga pants, and a couple of very plain black dresses and matching shoes.
Court shoes they used to be called, Callie had thought blankly. To be worn in court?
She’d felt the nausea rise up but, somehow, it backed down into the pit of her stomach. Brenda had told her to get her creams and potions, but the only thing Callie’s shaking hand had reached for was the old make-up case under the sink with her Xanax in it. She’d stashed it in her handbag, unable to do anything else. It was a big handbag, expensive, but old. Worth money in a resale shop? Was this how she was to pack? Only take what would not be worth anything?
Brenda scooped up books, phone chargers, photos, the pile of Callie’s vitamins, her face creams, all the personal bits and bobs on her dresser.
The Loewe, Bottega Veneta and Dior handbags sat in her wardrobe in their dust bags, polished and perfect.
All the while, she tried to empty her mind, because if she allowed herself to think, it would allow her to remember that Jason was gone, leaving her with this.
As Brenda swept back into the bedroom, Poppy sat on her parents’ bed, pretty face reddened with crying, watching the TV with the headphones as if she could somehow block out what was happening.
Brenda had already dispatched Poppy’s friends and had packed up everything Poppy owned at high speed. A motley selection of bags sat ready and waiting.
Poppy wouldn’t look at her mother since she and Brenda had come in to break the news.
‘What have you done?’ she’d screamed at Callie, mascara cascading down her face as if she was auditioning for a horror movie, while Brenda was ushering her confused friends out and Callie and Poppy were left alone.
‘Nothing,’ protested Callie.
‘You must have! Where’s Daddy? He can fix it. You can’t,’ Poppy screamed and then cried again, until her face was transformed horribly with make-up, but she wouldn’t let Callie help her take it off.
‘Get away from me!’ she’d hissed.
‘Please, darling ...’ Callie had begged, trying to hold her daughter, to comfort her, but Poppy screamed some more, until Brenda had marched in and slapped her on the cheek.
At that, Poppy had collapsed against Brenda, sobbing in her arms, while Callie had stood to one side, devastated. How could she fix this when she didn’t know what to fix?
The police had let Callie and Poppy go – with their limited belongings, no computers, no papers – in Brenda’s car with a pal of Brenda’s coming with another car to haul the suitcases.
From the safe, with two police officers watching, Callie had taken her passport and Poppy’s, but had been told she was not to leave the country. Jason’s passport was gone, as was the wodge of cash he always kept in there. Callie had said nothing about this being missing. The safe was quite empty, apart from their passports and her jewellery in the leather cases.
‘Can you tell me what’s going on?’ she’d said as they left to the police detective in plain clothes, the one who’d spoken to her first.
‘This is a criminal investigation into your husband, Jason Reynolds, and we are searching this premises.’
‘Crime? What sort of crime?’ Callie could barely ask but she had to.
‘Large-scale fraud,’ he said bluntly.
