by Keith Dixon
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE SKY WAS A lead slab scored by a blunt knife. A frigid wind cut through my standard-issue detective leather jacket as I crossed the car park and entered Brands’ offices. Within ten minutes a hard-edged rain would be slanting diagonally through the air.
I’d driven up to Stockport and spent a fruitless fifteen minutes knocking on Gerald Finch’s door. No answer and no sign of life. I slipped a note under his door asking him to call me. Then rather than drive straight home I thought I’d try to talk to Laura. Upsetting clients is an art, but this could possibly be my masterpiece. I wasn’t happy about that.
Laura wasn’t in, and I had an even frostier greeting than usual from Carol-the-receptionist. Could anyone else help? Did I have an appointment? Would I like to try again later?
‘I’ll try again later,’ I agreed. When I turned to go, Derek Evans, the Finance Director, was watching.
‘Mr Dyke,’ he said. ‘We met at Rory’s funeral. It’s fortunate you turned up just now.’
‘My timing’s always been good.’
‘Yes. I thought I ought to tell you that in fact we’re not going to continue your contract, thank you very much.’
Well why not? One damn thing came after the other at the moment, and ever since we’d met I knew this confrontation would come. When the bean counters got involved it was only a matter of time. If I didn’t contribute to the bottom-line, what was I for?
‘Can I ask why?’ I said. I saw no reason to make it easy for him.
‘On consideration, we think that while the use of a private investigator is on balance a good idea, we’re going to use a larger organisation better suited to the way we operate.’
‘Who’ve you got in mind?’
‘That’s none of your concern, thank you very much.’
‘Is it Brannigans?’
He flinched but said nothing. Brannigans was a large and well-established agency that operated in the south Manchester area. They were slick and wore suits and carried laptops to work. Their average age must have been about twenty-five. I’d lost work to them before.
‘So,’ Evans went on, ‘Despite the fact that Laura seems convinced that you have some talent, I’m going to ask you to stay away from our people here.’
‘That’s a blow.’
‘Yes, I can understand you would be disappointed. I won’t have you harassing the staff and getting in the way. They’ve had enough upset lately and I think you should leave them alone.’
‘So Miss Marshall knows about this?’
‘I’m afraid what I say to her is no longer any of your business.’
I had to give him credit for being upfront. But why not? I was off the clock now. If I carried on with the investigation it would be under my own steam and for my own reasons. Brannigans wouldn’t say anything – they had their daily rate to keep them happy.
For some reason I was glad that Laura thought I had talent. Though after our row she might have changed her opinion. Evans was still looking at me expectantly.
‘Is there something I can do for you, Mr Evans?’
‘We’re an odd company, Mr Dyke. I’m sure you’ll have realised that from the people you’ve met. We’ve got some very mature and responsible people, real grown ups, and we’ve got a lot of youngsters who are still learning to drive, and living in their first flats and getting drunk every Friday night.’
‘I’m sure that’s very interesting.’
‘I don’t want you to leave with the idea that anyone working here could possibly be involved in Rory’s murder or Tara’s disappearance.’
‘As I’m not going to be given the opportunity to find out, I suppose we’ll never know.’
I couldn’t read the expression that played over his face. It might have been guilt, it might have been relief. He shook my hand again. ‘I must go. Thank you for your time.’
He turned and left. So that was it. If the Finance Director had made the decision, it really did seem to be the end of my relationship with Brands. I shrugged and walked to the exit.
This time I reached the doors at the head of the stairs before being stopped by a voice.
‘Mr Dyke? Mal O’Donovan. Could I have a word? There’s something you ought to know.’
