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‘Hello?’
‘Hello, this is Sandra Nagle from Sheridan Bank Customer Services. Am I speaking with Ms Harry Martinez?’
Harry yanked the phone away from her ear as though she’d been scorched. Shit. The helpdesk supervisor she’d tangled with that afternoon. Had she tracked her down and called her to bawl her out? Then she remembered the woman couldn’t see her and put the phone back to her ear.
‘Ms Martinez?’
‘Sorry, yeah, that’s me.’ Harry perched on the edge of the bed.
‘Our reports have shown up a slight anomaly on your current account. I need to check some of the details with you, if I may?’
Harry blinked. ‘Anomaly?’
‘I just need to confirm the size of the lodgement you made today.’
‘What lodgement?’
There was a pause. ‘Our records show that twelve million euros was lodged into your current account this afternoon.’
Harry’s eyes widened. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Is the amount incorrect?’
Was she out of her mind? ‘Of course it’s incorrect. I didn’t make any lodgements.’
‘Perhaps it was lodged by a third party.’
A third party. Something cold dropped into Harry’s stomach. ‘I don’t know anything about that money. Surely your records must show where it came from?’
Sandra cleared her throat. ‘Well, that’s the slight anomaly, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Our records seem to be incomplete. Your recent transactions are on the screen here in front of me, and the lodgement is there, but it’s not coming up with any other information. Usually we can tell whether it’s a cheque, an online transfer and so on, but that part is blank.’
‘Doesn’t it tell you anything? A branch number? A name?’
‘No, just the amount. Twelve million.’
Harry flopped back down on to the bed. What the hell was going on?
‘That twelve million euros doesn’t belong to me,’ she said. ‘I don’t want it in my bank account.’
She could almost hear the other woman draw herself up.
‘I’m afraid I can’t do anything about that,’ Sandra said. ‘The money has been credited to your account.’
‘This is ridiculous.’ Harry closed her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose. ‘People don’t just lodge twelve million euros without leaving some kind of record. Don’t you have any limit checks on what goes in and out of your bank? Wouldn’t someone query an amount like this?’
‘Normally, yes, which is why I’m on the phone to you now.’ Sandra’s teeth sounded clenched. ‘There’s obviously some problem with these transaction details. I’ll put the system-support team on it straight away. But in the meantime, the money stays in your account.’
‘Can you send me out a bank statement? I’d like to see a record of this.’
‘Of course.’ The woman was all service.
Harry hung up. Then she grabbed her satchel and whipped out her laptop, hooking it into a phone jack in the wall. Within minutes she was online, logged into her Sheridan bank account. She clicked the balance option and stared at the screen. Then she refreshed the web page, checking it again. Same answer.
€12,000,120.42
Harry sank back on to the velvety bed. It had to be a mistake, a hitch in the bank’s paperwork. These things happened, didn’t they?
She examined the palms of her hands. The cuts from the gravel were like a row of teeth marks. She sighed and sat up. Who the hell was she fooling? She may not want to face it, but everything that had happened today just had to be connected. And her gut told her the connection was her father. If she was honest with herself, she’d known it from the minute the guy in the station had whispered in her ear. Sorohan was a name that had resonated with significance for her ever since her father’s arrest.
She remembered the newspaper headlines: Insider Trading Ring Exposed Over Sorohan Fraud; KWC Ring Leader Charged by Stock Exchange. A hard knot burned inside her chest. That was almost eight years ago: 7th June 2001, to be precise. The day the shutters had slammed down for good between herself and her father.
But who the hell would lodge twelve million euros into her account? Not her father, surely. He was locked up in Arbour Hill prison, and she doubted that online banking was a facility the inmates enjoyed. She slammed her laptop shut. Not only had someone stashed a chunk of money in her account, but somehow they’d done it without leaving any tracks. It didn’t make sense.
She pushed herself up off the bed and trudged into the en-suite bathroom. Too tired to deal with a complicated-looking Jacuzzi shower, she made straight for the sunken bath in the corner and spun the taps on to full blast.
Harry stripped off her clothes and surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. Her legs were splotched with dark bruises, like blackening bananas. Her sooty face was hollow-eyed and anxious, with grazes along the cheeks. She looked like one of those waifs they used to send up chimneys.
She lowered herself into the steaming water an inch at a time. Then she closed her eyes and let her mind drift. She found herself thinking, not of her father nor of the twelve million euros, but of Dillon. And not the Dillon who was downstairs on the phone cutting a deal, but the boy of twenty-one who had once sat in her bedroom and held her by the hand.
‘Why do you want to hack?’
Thirteen-year-old Harry groped for an answer that would impress this dark, good-looking boy with the half-smile. She couldn’t think of one, so she just told the truth.
‘Because I can.’
She waited for his reaction, but there was none. Instead he seemed absorbed by the collection of soldering irons and screwdrivers that littered her bedroom shelves. He was dressed all in black, like a young priest, and his hair fell in a heavy fringe over thick brows. If only she wasn’t wearing her brown school uniform and ugly lace-up shoes.
Her mother had shown him up to her room, acting as though the FBI had landed on their doorstep. When he’d introduced himself as Dillon Fitzroy, an investigator with the Dublin Stock Exchange, a whisper of fear had tickled Harry’s spine.
She watched as he picked up one of the screwdrivers and tapped the business end against one hand.
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