by Keith Dixon
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I RANG ANDY Braithwaite. At first he listened, wary and distant, while I explained who I was. Then I told him that Rory was dead, and if anything the line went even quieter. Finally he said that he’d see me. After some negotiation, we arranged to meet at Sandbach Service station on the M6 motorway.
Laura had given me a thumbnail sketch of how he and Rory had met, and between them had set up a multi-million pound business venture off the back of a couple of casual conversations in a McDonalds restaurant. Braithwaite had been developing the programme that became Compsoft for several years, working on it at nights after spending his days supervising data security for an IT consultancy. He was single, living in Manchester, and eager to find someone with the money to develop his brainchild. Brand operated with his usual charm and Braithwaite thought he was partnering up with God. Laura made it sound as though he’d been naive and easily disadvantaged by Brand, who saw the potential for the new program immediately. Over time Braithwaite had become disillusioned with what Brand was doing—particularly when the company started to spend the venture capital as if it were about to self-combust—and left, but not before having a couple of Olympic-standard rows with Rory over the division of the spoils.
I arrived at the service station early, swooping brazenly down the service slip road as dozens of people did every morning on their commute up to Manchester. I sat by the picture window that looked out over the car park. Scrapped lottery tickets and sweet wrappings drifted and tumbled across the concrete, then launched themselves on to radiator grills and hub caps that they seized like desperate orphans hoping for escape, unwilling to release their grip.
There was a threat of rain in the grey air, and I realised grimly that whenever I found myself alone and waiting for people I was usually depressed. This time I was more than depressed—I felt as though I were letting down all those people who were dealing with me as if I knew what I was doing. It struck me that on this case I’d been acting like a blindfolded bear trying to keep his feet while baiters snapped, growled and laughed from a position of safety. Apart from finding Derek Evans, I hadn’t made many inroads into the mystery surrounding Rory and Tara, and I was now seriously worried about what might be happening to her. The weather was turning wet and cold and if she were being held outdoors, her condition would be worsening every hour. What’s more, we’d heard nothing from her captor—no hint of a ransom, no boasting telephone calls, no requests for interviews with newspapers. The silence was worse than any of these options, and was beginning to set my teeth on edge.
I pulled myself back into this meeting, dragging my eyes from the grey skies and wind-whipped hedges beyond the cars and lorries parked just the other side of the glass. I supposed Braithwaite had every reason to be suspicious of contact from Brands, or from anyone connected to them, and I had no idea what he expected from me. Perhaps there was a sense of unfinished business—Laura had said that he’d left Brands feeling bitter. Maybe he saw this as an opportunity for some small-minded gloating.
If I was expecting a nerd, I was mistaken. A fit-looking man who was probably older than he looked stepped into the entrance to the café and inspected the room. His grey suit was tight on the shoulders, the knot of his tie refined to a small point positioned exactly on his Adam’s apple. His head was square-cut and chunky, as though hacked out of limestone by someone using crude tools. He noticed me noticing him and walked towards me with the spring and single-minded intent of a big game hunter. He juddered to a halt and thrust out a hand. ‘Andrew Braithwaite,’ he said in a firm voice. I shook the hand, impressed by its grip. This was a hand that had dealt with more than keyboards in its past.
I fetched us both coffee then told him again who I was and what I was doing. He concentrated fiercely, his pale eyebrows pointing down towards a surprisingly delicate snub nose. He had the weathered, freckly skin of someone who had spent a long time abroad.
‘Got you,’ he said when I’d finished, as though I’d been giving him a complex set of instructions. ‘So you’re not on the payroll but sense of duty and all that. Find it hard to believe you’ve got a debt of honour to that scoundrel Brand, but I suppose it takes all sorts.’
‘Why do you call him a scoundrel?’
‘Bit of an old fashioned turn of phrase, I suppose. If the cap fits, though. Never trusted him. Or rather I did trust him once, and look where it got me. Stuffed.’
‘Weren’t you paid for your work?’
‘I suppose technically yes. Got a handout like everyone else. But it’s the principle of the thing, isn’t it? I come up with something that stands to make him pots of money, and he finds a fancy loophole to stiff me on the copyright. “Intellectual property rights vested in the company not the individual”—what malarkey. If I could have been bothered I’d have taken him to court.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Life’s too short, old man. Got to move on. Leave your dead behind. They’ll find their own way to the Pearly Gates.’
I drained my coffee. ‘Where did you serve?’
‘Ireland, Cyprus. Here and there.’
‘You learn a trade, though.’
‘Stood me in good stead, Signals. Know my way around a black box.’
‘How did you come across Rory?’
‘Met him at an exhibition. Plausible sort of guy. Big ambitions. I’d been working on the software by myself for a few years and he offered to put in some money. Never say no to money, do you? Threw in my lot with him.’
‘When was this?’
‘About eighteen months ago. Not long after he married the little woman. Very strange relationship that, you ask me.’
‘Let’s pretend that I did ask you.’
He paused. ‘Did you know them?’
‘A little.’
‘What did you make of them? Did they seem like the kind of people who’d want to work together and spend their lives in each others’ pockets?’
‘My opinion doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘What’s your point?’
He looked away, into the car park where a huge lorry changed up and rattled the windows as it passed. ‘Mine’s an outsider’s point of view,’ Braithwaite said. ‘But they weren’t much of a couple, were they? They barely saw each other, and then later he had one or two other things going on the side, if you get my drift.’
I sat up. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘All seems rather besides the point, what with recent events.’
‘Do you have any names? Anyone else I can talk to?’
‘No, I don’t. It was just gossip in the office. Generally don’t listen to that kind of thing, but I was angry. When you’re angry you look for another rod to beat them with, don’t you?’
‘Do you?’ I said. He didn’t back down from my gaze. ‘So were you angry enough to do something about it?’
Now he smiled grimly at me. ‘The bitter artisan enraged to murder by the hard-hearted businessman? Really, Dyke. Give me more credit. He was about to receive a letter from my lawyer. Hardly likely to bump him off in those circumstances.’
‘You said there was gossip. Who was gossiping?’
His look became steely and direct. ‘No one in particular,’ he said. ‘Look here, I’m not sure where this is going.’
Despite his rigid manner, he had suddenly become very uncomfortable, as though he were tip-toeing into a field laced with landmines. I didn’t have much sympathy. He’d obviously thought he could come and have a good time bad-mouthing Rory without facing any consequences. His military bearing now seemed forced and rather pathetic.
‘Why was he interested in what you had to offer, Andy? He was in charge of a consultancy. You were—what? A programmer?’
His already stiff back stiffened some more. He put down his plastic cup as if it were bone china. ‘My partners and I consult for some of the largest companies in the North West. I had expertise that he needed. He put some capital into my business. I put some expertise into his. Now I think I ought to be g
oing. I’m meeting some people in Liverpool this lunch time and I don’t want to get caught in the traffic.’
‘Aren’t you interested in who might have killed him—and taken the little woman?’
He stood up. ‘That’s rather your business isn’t it, old man? I’m just a programmer.’
‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I didn’t realise there was a hierarchy.’
‘There’s a hierarchy in all walks of life, Mr Dyke. You see it more plainly in the forces, but it only makes overt what everyone knows deep down.’
‘I’m from Yorkshire. We don’t have a lot of time for hierarchy. When I hear the word hierarchy I reach for my machine gun.’
‘Very droll.’
‘But mention the word whippets and we could have a conversation.’
