The Concrete Ceiling

by Peter Rowlands

  The train was crowded with late summer holiday traffic, but the five-hour journey from Paddington always seemed worth enduring for the spectacular coastal stretch in Devon, where the train seemed to float along as if in the sea. It put me in an elegiac mood, and when I arrived in Truro I was reluctant to go straight to my flat. Instead, I made my way to the town centre. It was a pretty place, and when I’d first moved here I’d been completely beguiled by the slower pace of life and the friendliness of the locals. I realised now that I’d missed all that.

  I bought a beer in a town centre pub and sat outside, watching the world go by and admiring the hanging flower baskets and the quaint period architecture. In the past I’d sat here with Ashley, but today my thoughts were about Sam. The conversation with Jess had been revealing; it had told me that beyond my regret over losing Sam, there might be something seriously flawed in her relationship with Nick Hathaway. But I couldn’t work out what, if anything, I should do about it.

  * * *

  I’d always liked Bob Latimer, even though our relationship had sometimes been stormy. Having inherited a substantial but unadventurous transport company from his father, he’d built it up into a national logistics enterprise, with branches in many towns and a multi-million pound turnover. Now well into his forties, he still had a youthful can-do manner that I envied.

  When I arrived at his office next morning he talked me through a couple of writing projects he had in mind for me, then sat back with a glint in his eye. “I also wondered how you would feel about going a bit further afield.”

  “Very amenable, I should think. What did you have in mind?”

  “I want to get some editorial in the pipeline about Maintown, our friends in Los Angeles. Stuff that we can feed out to the press in the coming months and put in our newsletter – that kind of thing. I could ask someone from our PR firm to go and see them, but you know the score better than they do. Besides – ” he allowed himself a smile – “it would be an opportunity for you and Ashley to catch up.”

  I wondered fleetingly if seeing Ashley would smooth out our relationship or bring its uncertainties to a head, but I quickly concluded that either outcome would be preferable to continuing in our current state of limbo. And this way, Latimer Logistics would be paying my fare to and from the US. I said, “It sounds a great idea, yes.”

  “It wouldn’t be for a while. Maybe in a month or six weeks’ time.”

  I nodded, relieved. As things stood with the police, it was unlikely that I would be allowed to leave the country at the moment. Hopefully that issue would be resolved by the time the trip happened.

  As our meeting wound down an idea came to me. I asked Bob, “Have you ever come across an outfit called Antler Logistics?”

  He frowned, brushing his over-long black hair back in his characteristic way. “Indeed I have. Those buggers beat us to a contract a month or two back, even though we’d been told we were the favourites to win it.”

  The sense of déjà vu made me do a double take. I said, “Someone else told me almost exactly the same story recently – Rick Ashton, the chair of Vantage Express. Do you know him?”

  “I know of him. I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

  I wondered for a moment how much I could acceptably reveal, then decided Bob would keep a confidence. I said, “Vantage are trying to expand into contract logistics. Rick thinks these Antler people snatched a contract from under their noses.”

  Bob sat back. “That’s very interesting. That’s more or less exactly what happened to us. We were in advanced negotiations with a client in Worcester, and we were all set to sign the deal, then suddenly Antler got the job instead. I know all’s fair in love and war, but I’ve never encountered anything quite so blatant.”

  “I went to interview them recently. I thought I might get a handle on what makes them tick.”

  “Did you indeed? Who did you see there?”

  “A guy called Will Ponsonby – the chief executive.”

  Bob nodded. “Did you know Gary Hobbs was on his team? He’s the one you should have talked to.”

  “No I didn’t! I thought he was running his own show these days.”

  “You’re behind the times there, Mike. That operation folded, and now Hobbs is in bed with this man Ponsonby.”

  Gary Hobbs had once worked for Bob Latimer’s firm, but had attempted to steal a valuable contract from him and start up on his own. Indirectly I’d helped to uncover his plan, and he’d left under a cloud.

  I said, “It sounds as if Gary is up to his old tricks again.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  As Bob stood up to see me out he said, “Ashley seems to be thriving over in California.”

  “She certainly does.”

  “I was impressed when she agreed to the project extension. I thought she would be pining for home by now, but she put her hand up for it before I’d even asked her to. Fortunately, I don’t foresee any visa issues.” He hesitated. “I assume she must have told you all about this?”

  She hadn’t. Improvising, I said, “I’ve been picking up the general gist.”

  “She’s doing a brilliant job as our ambassador. She knows how we work here, and now she knows how they work over there as well. You can’t put a value on that kind of in-depth experience.” He gave me a contrite look. “But I’m sorry this project keeps dragging her away from you.”

  I wondered how sorry Ashley was.

  Chapter 26

  I knew something was wrong as soon as I opened the front door to the flat in Camden Town. The atmosphere felt dry and airless after my two-day absence, but it was more than that. There was an indefinable presence in the air – a sense of something out of place.

  I scouted around warily, but there was no sign of damage, and nothing obvious was missing. I made my way into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, then froze. I’d heard the unmistakable sound of someone scurrying to the front door and on to the landing. They must have been hiding in the bedroom all along.

  I tried to give chase, but stumbled at the doorway. I could hear footsteps clattering down the stairwell, but by the time I’d recovered, the intruder was opening the outside door and escaping into the street. I went over to the window and peered down, but I could see nothing.

  I set myself to the task of checking more thoroughly to see if anything was missing, but half an hour later I was none the wiser. I examined the front door. There was no damage to the lock, so how had the intruder got in? I went round the flat, checking the windows. They were all shut and locked, and in any case there was no obvious way of reaching them from the outside.

  Should I call the police? Presumably yes, but that seemed to imply a lot of hassle over something fleeting and indeterminate – and in any case, I’d had enough of the police recently. Probably a higher priority was to change the lock on my front door. My landlords might not like it, but presumably they would prefer that to another break-in, with the possibility of a worse outcome.

  I wondered how the intruder had gained access to the building. The lock on the street door downstairs was solid, and the hefty spring always seemed to keep the door securely shut. Then an idea occurred to me. Taking care to lock my own front door behind me, I trotted up two flights of stairs to the top flat and knocked on the door.

  After a moment it was opened hesitantly, and my neighbour Amanda peered out. On recognising me she opened it fully and gave me a broad smile. “Mike! What can I do for you?”

  I’d never been able to decide how old Amanda was. Her bohemian attire was ageless, and her clear complexion gave no clue either. She always seemed friendly, but I’d realised from the outset that we were on different wavelengths.

  I said, “I’ve just got back from Cornwall, and there was someone in my flat. I wondered if maybe you’d let them in?”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean someone you didn’t know? A burglar?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Did you see them? Are they still there
now?”

  “No, whoever it was ran away before I could get a proper look at him – or her.”

  “Did they steal anything?”

  “Not as far as I know, thank goodness.”

  “Well I suppose that’s something.”

  She gave me an uneasy look. I had the sense that she was wondering if there was any way she could escape responsibility, but if so, she seemed to conclude that there wasn’t. Her face collapsed into a look of anguish. “I’m really sorry,” she said. “This must be my fault.”

  “What happened?”

  “Some man buzzed me on the entry phone earlier on. He said he was from the bottom flat and he’d left his key inside.” She shrugged. “I haven’t met that new guy yet – the one who moved in a couple of weeks ago. I just assumed it was him.”

  “Well at least that explains it.”

  “I’m afraid so. Sorry.” She rallied. “But I didn’t let him into your flat. I would never have done that.” Amanda had a key – an arrangement set up with the owners before I moved in. She added, “How did he open your front door? Did you leave it unlocked?”

  I gave her a reproachful look. She was trying to transfer the responsibility for this to me. “Of course not. I always check.”

  “You never know, though. It’s easy to forget if you’re concentrating on something else.”

  “I’m certain it was locked.”

  “I’m only saying.”

  I made my way back down to my flat. I was thinking I should contact the police and endure the hassle. This might be part of a pattern of break-ins, and if so they should know about it.

  Then my thought process was interrupted by my phone. I glanced at the display, and tentatively I said, “Sam.”

  * * *

  She said, “This is me in Banbury.”

  “Hello you in Banbury.” I sat down on the sofa and leaned back.

  “So what’s happening?”

  “I don’t know – what is happening?”

  “Well, I’ve fed the fish. I’ve ironed the curtains. The usual.”

  She sounded as though she must be on her third or fourth glass of wine, but Sam had never struck me as someone who would drink alone. I said, “I didn’t know you had fish.”

  “We don’t, but if we did I would have fed them. We don’t have curtains either – not in the spare room, anyway. But boy oh boy, will we have them when they’re delivered next week. Double lining, double weight, double pelmet, double sodding everything. You should see them.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Hm.” She left that thought dangling for a moment, then said, “How about you? No more nights in a police cell?”

  “No, thank god. That whole thing has gone completely quiet.”

  “You think they’re off your back now?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. I can’t thank you enough for swinging into action and coming all the way down to London.”

  She made a dismissive sound. “Nothing to it. Couldn’t have you wasting away in custody.”

  “Well, I’m grateful.”

  She said nothing, so after a moment I asked, “What’s really happening with you?”

  “Not a lot. Nick’s away at an estate management conference, and I’ve just had Jessica round for the evening. He doesn’t know.” She chuckled sagely. “She’s gone to bed, so I thought to myself, who else can I talk to? Oddly, you came to mind.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “In fact Jess mentioned you. She said she’d met up with you.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I suppose you talked about me.”

  “Don’t go getting tickets on yourself.”

  “Ha! What was the agenda then? Do you fancy her?”

  “Er, no.”

  “Quite right too. Completely the wrong type for you.”

  “And you would know all about that, would you?”

  She cleared her throat theatrically. “I have a nose for these things.”

  “Well, it was just a sociable get-together – nothing special.”

  There was a long pause, then she said, “What am I doing here? There’s a question for you.”

  “Is it rhetorical, or are you looking for an answer?”

  “I doubt if you could give me one. I’m trying to decide where I’m heading. Metaphorically speaking.”

  “It’s too late in the evening for you to go existential on me.”

  She drew a deep breath. “Tell me honestly, Mike, am I mad to be putting myself in this position?”

  “You keep asking me questions that I don’t know how to answer.”

  “Evasion! What’s stopping you from expressing an opinion?”

  I didn’t know how to get off the back foot in this conversation. I wanted to open up to her, but I was unprepared. Instead, I heard myself saying, “So you’re having doubts?”

  She almost shouted, “Doubts?”

  I decided to say nothing, but Sam did the same, so there was another long silence. Finally she said, “Just tell me something helpful. Stop prevaricating.”

  “OK.” I pretended to think. “Um, I want you to be happy.”

  “For god’s sake, you’re useless! Is that all you have to say?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Sam.”

  “Look, forget it. I’ve got to go.”

  “How come?”

  “Things to do. Didn’t I tell you?” She disconnected.

  Chapter 27

  A persistent buzzing on my entry phone next morning told me the Rob Openshaw affair was far from over. It was DS Ratcliffe, and when he’d climbed the stairs to the front door I found he was not alone. With him were DC Baird and two uniformed officers. The fact that they’d turned out in numbers was not encouraging.

  Ratcliffe said, “Do you mind if we look round your flat?” He held up a piece of paper. “Search warrant. I don’t want to barge in, but we can if we must.”

  I felt a thud in the pit of my stomach. I had nothing to hide, but the very notion of such an invasion was a shock.

  I said, “I suppose you’re going to trash the place and leave it in chaos.”

  He gave me a weary look. “We won’t do that.”

  I shrugged. “So go ahead.” I stood aside to let them pass.

  It quickly became obvious that they had a specific objective. They went straight over to the desk and bundled my laptop computer into a bag. Then they picked up my tablet and bagged that. Ratcliffe said, “Are there any other computers on the premises?”

  I shrugged. “No, that’s it.”

  Ratcliffe directed one of the uniforms towards the bedroom. “Check in there.” He started opening cupboards and drawers and poking through them. Then he stooped down and tapped a panel on the front of the desk.

  “What’s this?”

  “What’s what?”

  He poked at the panel, and it popped open at one side. It was a hinged cupboard door. I watched in fascination. “I never knew that was there.”

  “Really.” He squatted down and peered behind the door. There was a space about eighteen inches high, and inside was an old cream-coloured computer tower unit. There was a shallow shelf above it with a small flat-screen monitor stuffed into it, along with a keyboard.

  He beckoned to the other uniformed officer. “Get this thing out of here, will you? Bag it up, if we’ve got a bag that’s big enough.”

  He stood up and turned to me. “We’ll need you to come down to the station again to answer a few more questions.”

  * * *

  They left me in their pokey interview room for more than an hour, then Ratcliffe and Baird joined me. They reminded me of my rights, and asked me again if I wanted a solicitor. I was reluctant to call on Nick’s expensive man; I had no desire to put myself even more in his debt. But I didn’t want to start afresh with someone else either. I said, “Not at this stage.”

  “Duly noted.” Ratcliffe pulled up his chair and placed a sheet of paper in front of me. He said, “For the benefi
t of the tape, I am showing Mr Stanhope a computer print-out made from a file recovered from a computer hidden in his flat in Camden Town.”

  I said, “That computer wasn’t hidden by me. I didn’t even know it existed.”

  “There was no visible evidence that the computer was there – would you agree? The mains lead was routed under the floor, so even a quick search round the back of the desk wouldn’t have revealed its presence.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Therefore I think it would be reasonable to assume that it had been arranged in that fashion so that even a fairly inquisitive person wouldn’t necessarily have found it.”

  “That may well be, but it has nothing to do with me because it’s not mine. Today is the first time I’ve ever seen it.”

  “Is that so? Then please look at the sheet of paper in front of you, and explain to me how it is that an email was sent by you from this computer to Robert Openshaw.”

  I looked down. It was a printout of an email message, surrounded by all the usual email paraphernalia and headed “We want our money back now”. The “From” field showed my name, and the “From” email address was the one I usually used.

  The message was uncompromising.

  Your evasions over the book promotion campaigns for myself and Graham Bulwell are unacceptable. If you are not prepared to refund the full cost immediately, you need to be prepared for the consequences, and they will not be pleasant. Consider this your final warning.

  I looked up. “Is this a joke?”

  “It doesn’t sound very funny to me. This is a blatant threat. No one can read it any other way.” He sat back and frowned at me. “Was it really worth all this grief just to recover eight hundred pounds?”

  “Don’t forget about Graham Bulwell’s six hundred.”

  “I would advise you not to treat this flippantly.”

  I realised I was shaking my head vigorously. “But this is ridiculous! I’ve never seen this message before in my life. Someone else must have written it.”

  “Such as who?”