She’s right. Of course she’s right. It’s just that right now I don’t want to know that she’s right. I want her to give me a hug and put me to bed and tell me that everything will be okay. I was hoping she’d just be able to make a few phone calls—to the police, to David’s bosses, telling them that it was all a bit of a mix-up, and probably best not to mention it again, particularly in front of me. I have a sinking feeling, however, that this particular mess is going to take more than a couple of phone calls to make things right again. I swallow my pride, and look up at my mother beseechingly. “Will you help me?”

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We’re sitting outside Mike’s flat in my mother’s battered Mini. Well, not exactly outside his flat, more opposite and along a bit, so as not to draw attention to ourselves. My mother is dressed as a cleaning lady. (I’m not convinced that white linen trousers and an apron with red poppies all over it constitutes typical cleaning lady dress, but my mother is in no mood for questions.) James, who has driven us there, is looking extremely uncomfortable. My mother refused to let him bring the Jag because it would stand out, but I can’t help thinking that James looks so wrong in a Mini that anyone looking at us would be convinced we were up to something. And a Jag would hardly stand out in St. John’s Wood, whereas a Mini looks completely out of place. But what do I know?

“Call him,” instructs my mother, and I take out my mobile. As expected, Mike’s home phone rings until the answerphone picks up.

“I told you. He’s in the office waiting for the disk to arrive. He won’t be coming round here for ages, if at all.” I wish Mum would just take my word for it sometimes.

“Right, I’m going in.”

Mum lets herself out of the car and walks purposefully down the road. She takes a bunch of keys out of her apron pocket and lets herself into Mike’s house, taking a quick look around her before going in.

“And Mike’s not going to notice that his keys are missing?” James asks me.

“No! He’s in a meeting.”

It wasn’t too difficult getting Mike’s keys. I popped into his office to assure him that the disk would be arriving “any minute” and just accidentally on purpose picked his keys up off his desk on my way out. He’s always losing things so he’ll never notice. If all goes according to plan he will be sitting at his trendy round desk for the next few hours wondering when the postman is going to arrive with the envelope. Which gives us plenty of time. All we need to do is to pick up the disk from his flat, where I actually sent it, and then I can get the keys back to Mike. Easy peasy.

The Mini is getting increasingly uncomfortable. I’m charged with adrenaline, and being cooped up is torture. James and I don’t have a great deal to say to one another, so we sit, waiting.

Suddenly my mobile rings. It’s my mother.

“You’re going to have to come in,” she tells me. “There are lots of letters here and his desk is covered with papers and I don’t know which ones to take.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “You don’t need papers, just the disk.”

“Darling, I am not going to leave with just a disk. Mike has all sorts of papers here. I’m sure we can find something more interesting than just the disk.”

I can’t decide whether to be terrified that my mother seems intent on searching Mike’s flat, or delighted to have a reason to leave the car. Either way, I have to go in. I give James a quick peck on the cheek and cross the road, looking around me. I know there won’t be anyone looking, but . . . I can’t help feeling like I’m starring in a “Starsky and Hutch” episode as I approach Mike’s building. As soon as I reach the main door, the buzzer goes to let me in. And when I get upstairs Mike’s door opens almost immediately. My package is lying on the floor and I pick it up gratefully, putting it straight in my pocket. I then follow my mother into his study, where piles of paper are all over the floor.

“What a mess!”

“We can tidy up afterward,” says my mother. “Just find what you need.”

I stare at her. “You mean these papers weren’t all over the floor when you arrived?”

“We do not have time to sift through files,” my mother says slowly but firmly. “Now kindly get on with it.”

I start sifting through the papers, but I can’t make head or tail of them. There are investment agreements, letters from banks, business plans, all in piles on the floor. But I have no idea what I need. Banking information must be a good place to start, though, if Mike has been stealing money. I pick up a few credit card statements, but other than proving that Mike eats out a lot, they don’t tell me very much.

“Hurry up!” hisses my mother. “Come on, darling, you work in the City. You must know what these things mean.”

“I do not work in the City,” I say pointedly. “I work in the West End. And I am not a financier. I research stuff.”

“Then do some research! Come on!”

I knew it was a mistake letting my mother come. I sift through a few more papers. And then I see something interesting. It’s a bank statement in Mike’s name, but it isn’t a U.K. bank. It’s a Spanish one. And a lot of money has been deposited in the past month. Like hundreds of thousands of pounds.

And it hasn’t come from Big Base Records, it’s from Proud Promotions. I’ve never even heard of Proud Promotions.

“Proud Promotions,” I mutter to myself as I continue to sift through papers. “Who the fuck are Proud Promotions?”

My mother looks up. “Don’t swear, darling, it’s so unbecoming,” she chides me. “Now, did you say Proud Promotions? There’s an invoice here to Proud Promotions for ?100K. And look, another one for ?50K. And another . . . and another . . . is this what you need? Will this get that Mike what he deserves?”

I want to say yes, that we’ve cracked it, but to tell the truth I have no idea whether these invoices are important or not. I need more information and I have no idea how to get it.

Unless . . . oh, but I couldn’t, could I?

I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures. I take out my phone and dial a number.

“Nigel Lymes.”

“Nigel! You’re there!”

“Of course I’m here. Which you patently aren’t, Georgie. And unless you are ringing to tell me about a serious illness, I am going to be filing a report for HR this very afternoon.”

“Yes, look, I’m sorry I haven’t been at work, but there’s been a bit of an emergency.”

“I see. And would you like to elaborate any further?”

“Nigel, look, forget about this for a minute will you? I need your help.”

Nigel pauses.

“And why would you need my help?”

“I’m in trouble, Nigel. A friend is, too. I need to find out some information about a company—

who runs it and stuff. It’s called Proud Promotions. Could you do a quick search for me?”

“You could go to Company’s House, you know.” Nigel doesn’t appear to want to play ball.

“I know that. I haven’t got the time though. Please, can you just see what you can dig out?”

Nigel acquiesces and I hear him typing furiously.

Mum is scrabbling around on the floor piecing together balance sheets, letters, and bank statements covered in scribbles.

I can’t believe that just a couple of days ago I was in this flat being impressed by Mike’s decor.

How convinced I’d been that Mike had turned his life around just for me. How could I be so naive? I shudder to think of it.

I can hear Nigel’s computer whirring. “Okay,” he says, “we’re getting somewhere now. Not much information, I’m afraid.”

My eyes are scanning the floor for something, anything, that might make some sense of all of this. I wish David was here—he’d know exactly what to take. Except if David was here, the police would probably turn up and then he’d be done for trespassing, too—again, all my fault.

And then I see it. It is a statement of revenues from Proud Promotions, which has a company address in Switzerland. I pull it out from under a pile of press releases about the enormous success enjoyed by BB Records and the recent successful round of investment that had netted the company ?1.2 million.

The revenue statement shows that over the past year and a half, Proud Promotion’s revenues have totaled over a million pounds. All the revenue has come from Big Base Records.

“Nigel, are you still there?” I am breathless with excitement. “The company isn’t a U.K. one—

it’s based in—”

“Geneva,” interrupts Nigel. It’s a holding company, owned and set up by a Mr. Geoffrey Proud.”

Geoffrey Proud. The name is sort of familiar, but I can’t place it.

“Just Geoffrey Proud, or is there a partner?”

“No, just Geoffrey.”

“Nigel, you are so my favorite person, thank you,” I gush.

“Is that all, then? I’d hardly call that an emergency.”

“No, there’s one more thing. Nigel, how easy do you think it would be to break into an airline’s reservation system?”

“You are joking, I presume?”

“No. I need to know the details of a flight to Malaga. I know that it’s leaving tonight sometime; I just need to know which airport it’s going from and whether a Mike Marshall is booked on it.”

“You just need restricted flight information? Oh, well, that’s easy,” Nigel says sarcastically.

“Please. I know you can do it. Look, I will do anything if you help me out, I promise.”

“Anything?”

I hesitate. What could Nigel ask me to do? What am I saying? I quickly remind myself that I am doing this to save David.

“Anything.”

“Don’t call me ‘Nigel’ anymore.”

“I’m sorry? What?”

“Everywhere else I’m known as Steve. Steve is my middle name. I tried telling personnel when I joined but they didn’t remember. I want to be called Steve.”

I take a long, deep breath. I can’t believe it! I am so close to laughter, but I know I have to suppress it. It’s just the idea of Nigel knowing how awful his name is and not saying anything for

. . . how long can it be? He’s been at Leary much longer than me—it’s probably near to fifteen years. Poor old Nigel. Sorry, Steve.

“Steve, consider it done. And I’ll make sure everyone else does, too.”

“And you’ll say you found out by accident? You won’t tell them I asked you to?”

“Of course. You know, if you don’t tell anyone about this.”

Honestly, who needs colleagues you can go out to lunch with when I’ve got a pal like Nigel?

Maybe when this is all over I’ll make him a cake with “Steve” written on it. Then again, maybe not . . .

Suddenly Mike’s phone rings. Mum and I look at each other, not sure what to do. I mean, of course we’re sure what to do (not answer it, obviously), it’s just, you know, unexpected. We stare at the phone as it rings and then the answerphone kicks in.

“Please leave a message after the tone.” Short and to the point, I guess.

“Geoff, it’s Rob here from Foxtons. Your buyers are wondering when your keys are going to be delivered. I’ve had confirmation from your solicitors that the money has been transferred to the PP account, so if you could give me a call I’d appreciate it. I’ll try you on your mobile now.”

Keys? Geoff? So that would make this Geoff Proud’s flat. But then why did Mike pretend it was his? Why is Mike’s stuff in it?

And then it hits me. Mike Geoffrey Marshall. The second name he professes to hate. I would bet my bottom dollar that his mother’s maiden name is Proud—it’s the oldest trick in the book. Mike has set up another company under a false name, and transferred all the investment money from Big Base Records to his fake one in Geneva. And now he’s sold “Geoffrey’s” flat, and is planning to bugger off to Spain with all the money. Not if I can help it, he’s not.

“Got them!” My mother holds up a cluster of bank statements triumphantly. There are a number of payments to solicitors, and some withdrawals from a Swiss bank account.

This is all the evidence David needs, surely. My heart is beating so loudly I’m convinced Nigel will be able to hear it down the phone. David will be okay. Everything’s going to be fine. If only we can stop Mike getting to Malaga.

“Nigel, sorry, Steve, are you still there?”

“Yes.” He sounds annoyed. “Mike Marshall, you said?”

“That’s right. Traveling to Malaga tonight.”

There’s a pause. And then I hear Nigel’s breathing get quicker.

“I’m sorry, Georgie, I just can’t get through. Their security measures are too complex. I’m . . .

I’m only a first stager, you might say. I haven’t really got on to the advanced stuff yet. I’m really sorry . . .”