Close My Eyes by Sophie McKenzie Read Free Book Online Page B

system is highly organized, but unlabelled. He has a phenomenal memory and knows – or claims to
know – exactly where everything is. Apart from the cupboard in the corner, which is locked, everything is accessible, so there’s a lot to get through. I could, of course, call him again
and ask where the Fair Angel info is, but he won’t understand why I want to look. Anyway, he’ll still be in his meeting, not to mention in another country.
    After a while I work out the logic to the layout. Everything to do with his personal tax affairs in one cabinet, personal investments in another, household stuff, contractors . . . I stop at a
section of the cabinet that seems more haphazard than the rest. I pull out a few papers. Certificates. Licences. Diplomas.
    Half an hour later, I’ve been through every official document Art has stored here, from his childhood swimming certificate for 50 metres (‘You have now achieved Flipper
level!’), through various school reports from City of London Boys – to which he won a scholarship – to his degree cert. in Economics, finding nothing relevant to Beth.
    I start again and work systematically through every single file in each of the four cabinets. There are business records going back years and letters from various financial advisers too. I flick
through a sheaf of paperwork from one of Art’s old accountants . . . business loans . . . overdrafts . . . VAT . . . It’s overwhelming and largely incomprehensible.
    I come to a folder marked: ‘Personal’. Inside there’s a small sheaf of bank statements for an account I didn’t know Art had. The account covers the year after Beth died
and is in the name of ‘L. B. Plus’. As far as I know, this isn’t a Loxley Benson trading name, though Dan, the finance director, has set up various business accounts for the
company. But the folder says ‘personal’. I can’t stop myself from looking down the list of transactions, a slightly sick feeling in my stomach. I know Art loves me. I know he is
devoted and faithful, and yet I can’t help but wonder what I might find here. The suggestions shriek inside my head: Evidence of meals in romantic restaurants? Payments to prostitutes? I tell
myself not to be stupid.
    And there’s nothing that looks out of the ordinary. The running balance on the account is high – it never seems to drop below £10,000 – and there are several outgoings in
the thousands: a few online payments to the wine store that Art uses for the office, deposits for business trips to the places Art regularly visits . . .
    And then I notice a lump sum . . . £50,000 paid in on 16 June eight years ago, one week after Beth died, and paid out again a few days later.
    What was that for? The payee is named as ‘MDO’. I don’t recognize the initials. I think back. Eight years ago, Loxley Benson was already well-established and generating a
decent income, with hundreds of thousands of pounds going through the books every month. Art and I were planning to buy a bigger house soon after Beth was born – a plan that ended up being
shelved for two years. It is entirely possible Art could have spent 50k from the business that I didn’t know about, though I can’t believe he wouldn’t have told me if the money
was used for something personal.
    I flick through more bank statements, searching for additional payments to MDO. But there isn’t anything.
    I sit back on my heels, my heart thudding.
Stop it, Gen, you’re being stupid, paranoid, crazy.
This money could be for anything. It certainly isn’t enough to pay a doctor to
fake a baby’s death.
    Another couple of hours pass and I’m exhausted. There’s info here on holidays and business trip, plus copies of both Art’s and my birth certificates. But there is
nothing
here on Beth or my time in the Fair Angel hospital.
    I rub my eyes. They’re sore from staring at all the fine print and my head is aching too, so I put all the files back and, after a quick look