Rachel Carter is at a crossroads in life. She longs for a child, but her husband doesn't. Her debts are mounting and her job at a pharmaceutical company is no longer satisfying.
When an opportunity for a secret income appears, she convinces herself it's harmless. A small stepping-stone to a better future. But she has unwittingly done a deal with Ninja Magpie, a shadowy cybercrime network plotting a multimillion-pound extortion against her company.
As the campaign unfolds, Rachel wrestles with her conscience. Trapped between the criminals who control her and the company investigators closing in, she faces the prospect of losing everything, including the chance of ever becoming a mother.
Rachel Carter is at a crossroads in life. She longs for a child, but her husband doesn't. Her debts are mounting and her job at a pharmaceutical company is no longer satisfying.
When an opportunity for a secret income appears, she convinces herself it's harmless. A small stepping-stone to a better future. But she has unwittingly done a deal with Ninja Magpie, a shadowy cybercrime network plotting a multimillion-pound extortion against her company.
As the campaign unfolds, Rachel wrestles with her conscience. Trapped between the criminals who control her and the company investigators closing in, she faces the prospect of losing everything, including the chance of ever becoming a mother.
It’s payday.
Rachel stares at her phone, breath caught in her throat, as the negative bank balance glares red, taunting her like a smug-faced emoji. She shudders. She can’t even cover the mortgage payment this month. She presses her thumbs against her temples. This shouldn’t be happening to a thirty-eight-year-old woman, in a good job, earning a decent salary.
The busy open-plan office is noisy. The sounds of fingers tapping keyboards and voices murmuring into headsets penetrate her thoughts. A clattering photocopier spits out paper, page-by-page and an abandoned shrills its infuriating ringtone. Every sound ratchets up her irritation levels. She wants to stand on her desk and scream, shut the fuck up. But that wouldn’t be a good look for the tech service desk manager.
She escapes to the ground floor food-court, strides to the espresso bar and orders her usual double-shot latte. She stirs in half a sachet of sugar, dusts it with cinnamon powder and mentally calculates how much she could save if she were to break her two-coffees-a-day habit. Not enough. Not even close.
She finds a table in the corner, far enough away from the burring of coffee beans and clattering of crockery. She knows exactly where her money’s going.
Living close to the edge is nothing new. In university, she would often run short before the end of term and live on budget meals and cheap cider. But Mum and Dad were only a phone call away and would always help. She can’t call them now. They’re modest-living retirees. This problem is hers to solve and she’ll start with her husband.
She unlocks her phone, opens LinkedIn, and navigates to her saved jobs list. Two roles:
Social Media Marketing Guru
Digital Media Manager
Both London-based, decent salary. She forwards them to Richard.
She remembers when he first went freelance. Every time he gained a new client, they’d celebrate by going for a meal. That’s when they were close. Now, three years on, he has more clients than ever yet seems to earn less. She enjoys being the higher earner, but he needs to pay his share. It’s been months since he paid anything towards the mortgage.
Her thoughts drift to the interview she has tomorrow, in the cyber security team. A full grade promotion and more money. She feels ready for the step up and has spent all week preparing for the interview by reading up on the latest cyber security risks in the pharma industry. She would love to get back to being hands-on technical again. Her love for programming began in high school where she was a member of the computing club. Her project – a language translation app that converted English to French and vice versa – was a prize winner. Nowadays, that sort of thing would be called artificial intelligence. She’s always been technically curious, and this job would be the perfect career move. She needs this more than ever.
Her phone pings:
Richard: Stop sending me crap. Those are low-grade jobs. Not worth getting out of bed for!
Well, that was expected. He enjoys his self-employed lifestyle too much. No, she will not stop sending him jobs. They’ll talk tonight.
She sits and gazes at people she doesn’t know walking by. Her company – Synaptonica Pharmaceuticals – is one of four organisations occupying this central London office. Still a fledgling company, trying to carve out their niche in an industry dominated by big pharma corporations. They’ve invested millions into their research programme: a big bet on a new drug to treat dementia. If it gets through clinical trials, it could be transformational for patients and a blockbuster revenue generator for the company.
Back at her desk, her workday follows the usual dreary routine: unnecessary meetings, verbose emails and well-intended interruptions from colleagues. Lionel, her deputy, saunters over for his daily drama. Today’s crisis involves a new app that has gone live with no user acceptance testing. It’s supposed to simplify the work of research scientists by capturing results of their experiments. But support calls are surging and stress levels in the team are rising because users are shouting at them. She indulges his crisis for twenty minutes before reassuring him she will be recruiting a new team member. Appeased, he wanders back to his desk, exchanging fist-bumps with a few colleagues on the way. She’s still thinking of a polite way to tell him that jet-black dyed hair, on a man approaching fifty, is not a good look.
Rachel spent most of her lunchtime on the phone to the mortgage company. After navigating an overly complex numbered menu system, she finally spoke to a genuine person, and explained her husband was between jobs and had a short-term cash-flow problem. Could they skip a couple of payments? They put her on hold, kept her hanging on for ten minutes, before offering her a six-month repayment holiday. She was close to tears at that point. A lifeline.
It’s 5.30 p.m. Most staff are heading home, but Rachel is in the all-gender restroom, standing in front of the mirror. She smooths the front of her skirt, checks the collar of her blouse and reapplies a touch of concealer beneath her eyes. It’s been a stressful day, but she’s determined not to let it show for her meeting with Jonathan Winstanley, her leadership mentor. Few people get a chance to meet with the chief financial officer, and she will not waste this opportunity.
She polishes her thick-rimmed glasses, angles them to catch the light, then wipes grime from her shoes with a leather wipe. One last check. Her dark hair, cut into an asymmetric bob, sits just right. Yes, she looks professional. Hold your composure, girl.
Jonathan’s not much older than her, but his career path seems to have been supercharged. She wonders what he’s got that she hasn’t. When they last spoke, he told her she was a ‘rough diamond,’ which sounded like a compliment. There’s a lot she wants to discuss, but with only thirty minutes available, she’ll stick to two topics: her counter-proposal to the outsourcing initiative, then his advice for her interview tomorrow.
She steps out of the lift and makes her way to his office. Her heart is racing, and she feels the nerves stir inside. But there’s something else. Belief in herself.
She takes a seat in his twelfth-floor executive office, gazing out at the darkened skyline, mesmerised by the glass skyscrapers, which resemble misshapen LEGO towers. Her eyes find The Shard; it always draws her in. Richard proposed there, in the cocktail bar on the fifty-second floor, where he went down on one knee in front of a room of strangers. That was six years ago. They always said they’d go back. They never did.
Jonathan reclines in his high-backed leather chair and tugs his tie loose. A framed magazine spread, hanging on his wall, catches her eye. His photo dominates the page alongside a bold headline about visionary leadership.
He swivels to face her. ‘Good to see you again, Rachel. How’s your day been?’
She takes a breath, ‘Hectic. Impatient users demanding immediate service, stressed team members. We had this call—’
He points to her notebook. ‘So, what would you like to discuss?’
Don’t waffle. She takes a breath. ‘Can we start with the outsourcing proposal?’
He nods. ‘Sure.’
She outlines her alternative to the outsourcing plans. One where she keeps most of her team. It involves upskilling and shifting towards a more proactive model, providing a better-quality service for no extra cost. As she talks, she notices him clicking his mouse, looking at his monitor. She falters.
He turns back to face her. ‘What you need to think about, Rachel, is how to deliver more with less. We can get the same number of service desk agents in India for less than half the cost of London. It’s a no-brainer,’ he says.
Her pen is poised above a blank page, but she writes nothing down. ‘I’m also thinking of the people impact.’
He smiles. ‘Empathy is a nice leadership trait. Good for the company image. But…’
‘Business first,’ she finishes his sentence.
He nods. ‘Let me tell you about my career journey.’
He launches into a self-promoting monologue. She’s heard it before: a start in professional services, a stint with two of the big-four and a transfer to New York. An executive search firm brought him back to London, as CFO, who would deliver greater shareholder value by more efficient cost management.
Rachel nods, feigning admiration. She’s still thinking about her team. The team she doesn’t want to see being made redundant, but he’s as good as closed down that discussion. When he stops talking, she tells him about her planned interview tomorrow, for a role in the cyber security team, working for Ray Dunlop.
His smile drops. ‘Ray Dunlop works for me.’
‘I know.’
He leans forward on his desk. 'How important is this job to you?' he asks with a smirk.
She takes a breath. 'It just seems like the perfect next-step.'
He nods. 'He's interviewing external candidates. You're up against tough competition.'
'And I have a lot to offer.'
He stares at her for a moment, smiling. Then he stands, comes out from behind his desk and crouches down beside her chair. His hand drops onto her shoulder. Too close.
‘Listen,’ he says, voice low, ‘I could just tell Dunlop to appoint you? Cut out the interview charade.’ He leans in, inches from her face, eyes sweeping over her body as he massages her shoulder.
Rachel stiffens. She knows what’s coming. Abruptly, she rises, shaking her head, one hand raised in warning – keep your distance. He ignores it, steps in and grabs her waist.
He smiles. ‘Have you ever done it on an office desk before?’ He leans in for a kiss. The sour edge of coffee clings to his breath. Rage burns inside her. He has no right to touch her.
‘No!’ she shouts as she turns her face, shoving him back. Her eyes dart to the window, but there is no line-of-sight into the office, no witnesses. She moves for the door, but he shadows her. Her legs tremble, her heart pounds like it wants to leap out of her chest. She wants to hit him, but he’ll easily overpower her, and they are alone and now she’s scared.
‘Jonathan, this is inappropriate.’ She forces the words out, steadying her tone, hiding her fear and fury.
He blocks the door, arms folded, entitled smile plastered on his face. ‘How about this? If you get the job, we’ll celebrate. Dinner. Just the two of us.’
Dinner with him will never happen. But this is her chance to escape. She fakes a smile. ‘Okay.’
He steps aside. Her trembling hand snatches the handle. She pushes the door open and rushes out, though not quickly enough to stop his hand brushing down the back of her skirt. She strides down the corridor, steps into the lift and stabs the door-close button again and again. When the doors finally shut, she exhales a shuddering breath. Relief, laced with disgust.
This isn’t the first time someone’s hit on her at work. She can handle smutty remarks and juvenile flirting. But this was different. Threatening. A meeting in his office after hours. He’d planned this.
She steps out into the ground-floor lobby and spots a woman in a security uniform. They nod at each other. Two younger men with backpacks are chatting, oblivious to her harassed appearance. She pushes through the revolving door, glancing behind as she walks out into the night-time bustle. Buses rumble past, horns sound, shop fronts dazzle. The cold air hits her face. She should be safe now. Just another city worker making her way home. But she’s still trembling. And angry. She had prepared for that meeting thinking he would see her as a future leader. Someone worth mentoring. She shouldn’t have been so naïve.
Dim yellow street lights cast long shadows as Rachel walks the cracked pavement back to her North London home. Her eyes scan the ground so she can avoid the uneven slabs warped by tree roots. Her mind is still looping through the encounter with Jonathan. The company has policies against that kind of behaviour. He’s probably done it before and got away with it. Her inner rage is still simmering. She used to look up to him, but now she just thinks he’s an entitled prick. She could report him using the integrity helpline, but it’s her word against his and whistleblowing a senior executive, without witnesses, could backfire in a way she doesn’t need right now.
She reaches her mid-terrace house, unlocks her front door and exhales as she enters. Richard is out, as usual. They’re like ships that pass in the night these days. He works from home during the day; she’s in the office. He heads out around 6.30 p.m., shortly before she arrives home. It’s Wednesday, so he’ll be at his pickleball club, coaching the improvers group and preparing for whatever tournament they have on at the weekend.
Wednesday used to be date night. Dinner, cinema or just down the pub. They took turns choosing, but he would give himself the power to veto her choice. She still remembers the night she chose to see No Hard Feelings at the cinema – an easy-watching comedy. She asked him to get the tickets. He did, but not for her choice. They watched The Hunger Games instead.
Date night faded. She doesn’t miss it.
She walks into her narrow L-shaped kitchen, reaches for the Bombay Sapphire, pours herself a large one, drops in some ice cubes, tops it up with tonic and gives it a swirl. The sound of the clinking against the glass is helping her wind down. She opens the fridge. Her shelves – the top two – are stacked with Tupperware boxes, containing various homemade meals and leftovers. His shelves are stocked with convenience foods. She’s not in the mood for cooking tonight, so retrieves a portion of bread-and-no-butter pudding, warms it slightly, and spoons Greek yoghurt on top. She’s proud of how she can turn leftovers into a satisfactory meal. She checks her windowsill garden: basil, thyme, spring onion, pak-choi and spinach are all thriving. A large jar of Kombucha is fermenting in the corner.
As she eats, her mind shifts to her money problem, and a feeling of frustration takes over as she thinks about the conversation she needs to have with Richard. It has a certain inevitability about it. She’ll tell him they’re running out of money and will ask when he’s next getting paid; he’ll say he can’t predict when his next viral video hit will be, but that’s when the money will come in. She’ll suggest part-time work; he’ll accuse her of stifling his creativity. And then they’ll shout at each other, with no compromise. She can’t let it go that way tonight. This is too important. She needs him to work out for himself that this crisis is his problem as much as hers.
She moves to the lounge, places her glass on the pine coffee table and closes the curtains before sinking into the sofa. Her head buzzes and her neck and shoulders are stiff. She needs to unwind, to calm herself before Richard gets home. As a married couple, they should be able to talk properly and openly. But too often, their conversations spiral into bickering and end in stalemate or silence. It’s the big things that weigh heaviest. Like children. For Rachel, the thought of having a family is impossible to quieten. But whenever she mentions it, he fires back the same line. ‘We agreed before we married that we would remain child-free.’ Yes, that is correct. But she feels differently now. He should at least talk to her about what she is feeling instead of closing the subject and making her feel guilty.
At just after nine, the front door rattles open. There’s a dull thud as his sports bag hits the floorboards.
He sticks his head into the lounge. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ she replies. No kiss.
He points to her drink. ‘Tough day on the helpdesk?’ He smirks.
She glares at him.
‘Oops, sorry. I mean the tech service desk,’ he says with a laugh.
‘Why don’t you grab a beer and come in and talk to me.’ She keeps her tone light.
He disappears into the kitchen, returns a minute later, and drops into the chair opposite. Gangly, relaxed. Carefree. He’s wearing long cotton sports shorts. Rachel watches him as he takes a long drink from a bottle of Moretti. She starts calmly. Tells him she had to arrange a mortgage repayment holiday, but it’s only temporary – six months.
He nods. ‘Loads of people are in the same boat. Cheap Covid mortgages, then they re-mortgage, and find they are paying double.’
She stares at him. Yes, everything’s gone up, except our joint income.
‘What do you think we should do?’ she says.
He takes another swig, shrugs. ‘I don’t know. What do you think?’ he says, as if the crisis is happening to someone else.
She bites her lip. ‘If I get this promotion, that will help. But that’s not enough. I’m worried we’ll go bankrupt.’
He laughs, then leans forward in his chair. ‘Show me your bank statement.’
She freezes. She hadn’t planned for this. ‘Trust me. I’ve been through everything.’
‘It’s on your phone.’ He holds out his hand, jiggling his fingers. ‘Let me look.’
Her hand grips tightly around her phone. If he sees her account statement, he’ll notice the regular monthly payment she’s making to her brother, Tony. She needs to deflect.
‘I need you to contribute more,’ she says, her voice stern.
He shakes his head. ‘Have you any idea what it’s like being self-employed?’
‘No, but I know what it’s like being married to someone who is.’
And that was the detonator. He stands, raising his voice. She matches him. They shout and talk over each other. He storms out, kicks his sports bag and stomps upstairs.
Rachel exhales hard, slumps into the cushions and drains the rest of her drink. She tried. She said nothing about getting another job and this is how it ends. At least he didn’t see her bank statement, and the payments to Tony. She can’t afford to subsidise him anymore, but she can’t just stop supporting him either. He needs her, and she owes him.
It’s past midnight and Rachel lies awake while Richard sleeps beside her, breathing heavily, not quite snoring. The thick duvet between them forms a soft, silent divide, like a peace wall. If bad days came with ratings, today would be on the scale of a multi-car pile-up: the debt, the incident with Jonathan and a husband who’s found a new level of obstinacy.
Theirs has always been a volatile relationship. Trivial stuff like forgetting to put the bins out would flare into a fight, then pass like a sudden storm, smoothed over with make-up sex. Not anymore. Now, the void between them only widens. Their lives are diverging. She goes to the gym; he plays pickleball. She maps out her next career move; he makes viral videos that rarely go viral.
But it’s not just about money or children. It’s the way he takes pleasure from making her angry: laughing at her leftover meal creations, mocking her job as a manager. Belittling her achievements as if it were a sport. She’s thought about couples’ therapy but can imagine him turning it into a point-scoring contest, triumphantly listing her flaws and failings.
She tries to recall the last time they had sex. Six months, maybe more. In their early days, they were insatiable, and she remembers the excitement of buying their first sex toy together. Now she owns three, which are hidden with the Mother & Baby magazines at the bottom of her wardrobe. But toys don’t provide intimacy. She wants to be desired, but he doesn’t even initiate sex anymore. Maybe he fears she’ll accidentally get pregnant.
From the first page of No Crime Intended, I knew Steve Williamson was about to keep me awake because there was no way I was going to sleep not knowing how the inevitable was going to unfold. Rachel Carter, a 38-year-old woman, is drowning in financial demands. She is struggling to pay the mortgage, and her husband is not willing to be a ‘corporate puppet dancing to someone else’s tune’ so that he can contribute to the household income. It does not help that her brother is also looking to her for assistance as he rebuilds his life. She is drowning. Then someone offers her a lifeline.
All of this is quite predictable. A person in a desperate situation being helped by someone with ulterior motives is standard. It also did not help that Williamson gave clues early on, but the way it unfolds is so intense that I was struggling to put the book down. My heart was constantly hanging in the balance, understanding what was at stake here. As a well-edited book, I did not have to deal with writing pitfalls on this treacherous journey into which Rachel had dragged me.
Because, very early on, it is quite clear where this is going, things that should have had an impact just slide like water down a duck’s back. Even the characters were such standard representations of the kinds of parties that would be involved in this type of situation, but how well-developed they were kept the intrigue alive. For example, although Rachel has been pushed into this situation by her present, she has to fight for her future. In this way and many others, Williamson made the smart move of keeping the plot tight and relevant by creating characters whose traits generate the needed tension to make this story worthy of its readers’ time.