The Irregular Invoices

Romy had worked in accounts payable for nine years, and she had developed an ear for invoices, the way a piano tuner has an ear for a flat note. A good invoice was boring in a particular, reassuring way. The ones from Almond Row Services were boring in a different way. It took her until a wet Friday in November, with the year-end reconciliation spread across two screens, to work out what was wrong with them.

There were forty-three of them, all for "facility maintenance," all for exactly four thousand nine hundred. Anything above five thousand needed a second signature. Each invoice had been approved by a different manager, which meant that nobody had ever seen more than three or four. The supplier's address was a unit above a laundry, and the company's own database said that Almond Row had been added in January by a user whose login had since been deleted. No purchase order had ever been raised against it.

She printed the whole set and laid the pages side by side on the long table in the empty meeting room. Not until they were in a row did she see that the invoice numbers ran in an unbroken sequence from one to forty-three, which is not how a business with other customers behaves. It was only then that she noticed the typo as well, a missing letter in the word "maintenance," identical on every page, as though the same finger had slipped on the same key.

What she could not decide was what exactly she had found. A supplier that did not seem to exist was one thing; a supplier that existed and was merely badly run was another. A dozen managers had each signed one small invoice in good faith, or one of them had taught the rest to sign without reading, or nobody had looked at all. Had she found a single invoice for fifty thousand, the course would have been obvious. Forty-three small ones, each safely under the line, had been shaped by someone who knew precisely where the line was.

And the person who knew that was most likely somebody in her own building, which meant that the obvious steps were no longer obvious. Her manager had approved four of the invoices himself. Going to him would be natural, and might be exactly wrong. The finance director had written the approval rule, which made him either the best person to tell or the worst. The company's whistleblowing policy named an outside line that nobody she knew had ever used, and a form that asked, in its third question, whether she had discussed the matter with anyone.

She went home without deciding. On Saturday morning, at her kitchen table, she wrote out the numbers, the dates and the typo on a single page, and she was careful to include only what she could prove. She did not say whom she suspected, because she did not know. Reading it over once more, she took out an adjective she had been rather fond of, and then she sent it to the outside line before she could take out anything else.

The reply was waiting on Monday. "Thank you. We will be in touch. Please do not discuss this with anyone in the company until we contact you."

She read it standing in the corridor by the printers. Across the office, through the glass wall of his room, her manager looked up from his screen, smiled, and raised his coffee cup to her.