The Concrete Ceiling

by Peter Rowlands

  “How do you mean?”

  She drew a deep sigh. “It’s an engagement, for god’s sake, not a marriage. Can’t you tell the difference?”

  “Um – what does that mean?”

  She took another moment to round up her thoughts. Finally she said, “Nick came along at the right time in my life, and we had a good thing going. Then he wanted to take it to the next level. I thought I might as well go along with that.”

  For someone not given to clichés Sam had excelled herself. Cautiously I said, “Are you telling me you never intended to marry him?”

  “No! I’m saying I came into this situation with my eyes open, and I’m moving forward with my eyes open – taking things one step at a time.”

  “So you’re saying you might not marry him?”

  She gave a frustrated laugh. “I’m not saying anything. Draw you own conclusions. But stop treating me like a blind fool who needs educating out of a delusional state.”

  “I hear you.”

  “I hope you do.”

  Chapter 38

  “Don’t tell me – they’ve arrested you again.” Dave’s response to my phone call was predictable.

  “Ha! No, not at all. They seem to have lost interest in me.”

  “Hallelujah to that.”

  “They’ve arrested a mate of mine. Well, an acquaintance, really. It’s Graham Bulwell, the other self-published author I told you about. The one who bought a book promotion package with Rob Openshaw around the same time I did. The police interviewed him early on, but ruled him out.”

  “And now they’ve ruled him back in again?”

  “So it seems.”

  “And you’re phoning me to share this intriguing information because …?”

  “Well, his family and friends don’t believe he would be capable of such a thing. But nobody is telling them anything.”

  “By family and friends, you mean your girlfriend Samantha?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s engaged to someone else.”

  “Have it your way.”

  “Anyway, his family and friends are completely in the dark about what’s happening.”

  “Oh, I get it. You want me to find out what’s happening for their benefit. For god’s sake, Mike, when will you stop taking advantage of me? It’s bad enough expecting me to find out things for you, but now you want to share privileged information with other people. What happens if it they start blabbing it in the wrong places, and it gets back to my sources? Who do you think carries the can then?”

  “You do.”

  “Precisely.”

  He said nothing more, and I took a moment to collect my thoughts. Finally I said, “Look, I told Sam I would ask you the question, so I’ve asked it. If the answer is no, so be it. I truly don’t want to take unfair advantage of you.”

  “Not much you don’t.”

  Did I detect a chink in his armour? I waited a beat, then said, “If you did find anything out, you could consider it to be for my benefit, not anyone else’s. Maybe I could use it to work out what the hell is really going on here.” I paused, then added, “After all, it does affect me indirectly as well as Graham.”

  “Just promise me this isn’t another example of Mike Stanhope, Super Sleuth, wading in to solve a case that has tied the police in knots. I’ve had enough of those.”

  “Not at all. No way. I’m just speculating on whether I could do something to help.”

  “Of course you are.” He sighed deeply. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  * * *

  It took Dave less than twenty-four hours to get back to me. He said, “I had another word with my tame DI in north London, Pat Evans, and he didn’t mind sharing again. You don’t deserve to be so lucky.”

  “So what’s the word on Graham Bulwell?”

  “OK. Well, believe it or not, he’s been released. You can tell your girlfriend that.”

  “Run that past me again?”

  “Where do I start?” He paused for a moment. “OK. The reason Bulwell was arrested in the first place was that his alibi fell apart. He claimed that on the afternoon of the murder he was on his way to a reading group meeting in Bromley. That’s pretty much in the opposite direction to Islington. It turns out that this reading group had two meetings on consecutive afternoons that week. He actually went to the one the day before the murder, but the woman leading the group mis-remembered the day. Apparently he didn’t even have to prompt her – she just got it wrong, and he took full advantage of her mistake.”

  “So what was he doing on the afternoon of the murder?”

  “Ah, that’s where it gets interesting. Seemingly he was on his way to see Rob Openshaw. He lied about that as well. They’ve got him on CCTV on the Northern line, and then in Islington town centre. He was filmed in exactly the right timeframe to put him on the scene at the moment when Openshaw was killed.”

  This was a revelation. I felt sure Graham had insisted to me that he’d never gone anywhere near Rob Openshaw.

  “Also,” Dave was saying, “they’ve now found threatening emails sent by Bulwell to Openshaw – stuff like ‘If you don’t give me my money, you’ll regret it’. Apparently they weren’t looking very hard before because they thought Bulwell had a cast-iron alibi.”

  “Can they definitely place him at Openshaw’s house?”

  “Ah, well that’s where it gets a bit vaguer. As you know, there’s no CCTV in the square where Openshaw lived, and they found no fingerprints or other evidence to prove that Bulwell was ever in that house. If he was there, he took pains to conceal the fact. Unlike you.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, the daughter never saw Bulwell, so she couldn’t place him at the scene.”

  “Yet they still arrested him.”

  “The circumstantial evidence was strong, and the timeframe fits. Oh, and to cap it all, six hundred pounds was paid from Openshaw’s bank account into Bulwell’s within the timeframe for the killing.”

  “So what are the police saying? Do they seriously think Graham threatened Openshaw into repaying his money on the spot, then killed him anyway? That seems ridiculous.”

  “Who knows? It fits in with the theory that Bulwell was with Openshaw around the time of the killing, and that’s pretty powerful. Bulwell might have whipped up further acrimony after the payment went through. The killing might have been a mistake.”

  “Do you think they have enough evidence to make a convincing case against him?”

  “I couldn’t tell you, but it seems to be going in that direction.”

  “So why have they released him?”

  “Ah, that’s the big question, isn’t it? Basically they made their move too soon – as usual, it seems. Apparently the evidence didn’t meet their threshold. Yet again, Pat Evans had to intervene. He insisted that they let him go.”

  “But you don’t know exactly what evidence they were missing?”

  “Can’t help you there.”

  After we’d hung up I thought over what I’d learned. Seemingly Graham had deceived me on at least two counts. He’d visited Rob Openshaw on the day of his death – or at least he’d gone as far as Islington – and he’d had his money reimbursed, even though after the killing he’d continued to grumble to me that he was unlikely to get it back.

  He’d also been sending threatening emails to Openshaw, though they might not have differed in substance from the messages that he’d told me he’d sent in the preceding weeks.

  All in all, it seemed to me that Graham had made a point of covering his tracks, even when the police spotlight had been on me. I didn’t know whether to feel angry with him or sorry for him, but either way, his evasion had left me in the firing line much longer than I need have been. He’d allowed the police to focus on me to avert the risk that they would turn their attention to him.

  I felt I should be empowered by what I’d learned, but I wasn’t yet clear how I could make use of the information. If the killer really was Graham, there was
nothing more I could do about it; and if it wasn’t Graham, I didn’t see how this new intelligence threw any light on who the real killer might be.

  Chapter 39

  “Mike.” Sam’s tone sounded a little warmer than it had the previous day. “You must have some news about Graham.”

  “He’s been released.”

  “That’s fantastic! Do you know why?”

  “Lack of evidence, apparently. I’m not supposed to tell you the details. But it doesn’t mean they won’t arrest him again.”

  “Well, it’s a step in the right direction.”

  I said, “While we’re speaking, I wonder if you know a friend of Nick’s – Dan Risby.”

  “Dan? Yes, we had him round for dinner a while ago. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, he’s come up in connection with a logistics story I’m writing for the web site.”

  “That’s a coincidence.” She sounded unconvinced.

  “Yeah.” I paused. “I just wondered what sort of a person he is.”

  A slight chuckle. “I’m not sure that I should be divulging privileged information to the likes of you.”

  “My sources are always protected.” I attempted a laugh. “I’m just trying to get a handle on the man before I approach him direct.”

  “OK. Well, he seems a really nice guy. He’s in a similar position to Nick – he works at his father’s company, but he’s had to struggle to make his impact on it. But they’ve both come through with flying colours. I think Dan more or less calls the shots now at Cavenhams.”

  I hesitated, then said, “I picked up a rumour that Hathaways are about to buy a stake in Dan’s company. I wonder where that will leave him?”

  “You’re very well informed! I didn’t know they’d gone public on that yet.”

  “People talk – you know how it is.”

  “I suppose so. Anyway, I think Dan will still be the boss at Cavenhams. It’s not as if this is an outright takeover – Nick’s company couldn’t afford that. They’re just taking what they call ‘a substantial shareholding’ in Cavenhams.”

  “Do you know why they’ve done this?”

  She seemed to consider the question for a moment. “From what I understand, it’s been an ongoing saga. A few years ago Cavenhams tried to take over Hathaways, but the directors rejected the deal. Now that Nick’s in charge, I think he wants to get his own back. And for some reason Dan has given in.”

  “I thought the two of them were supposed to be mates?”

  “Well, they are – but it’s one of those relationships where there’s a lot of one-upmanship. It won’t stop them being friends.”

  “But Nick won’t actually be calling the shots at Cavenhams?”

  “Not for the time being, anyway. It’s going to be a hands-off arrangement, from what I’ve been told.”

  I reflected that I’d heard that story before. Nick’s involvement in Sam and Ronnie’s jewellery business was supposed to be hands-off, but it seemed it was anything but. However, I merely said, “That makes sense.”

  “So is this any help?”

  “Definitely. Much appreciated.” I hesitated. “I suppose you’ll tell Nick I asked about this?”

  I could feel her bristle slightly. “Shouldn’t I?”

  “It’s your call. I just don’t want to make waves for anyone.”

  “OK, I’ll think about that.

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  I now had to decide if I should approach Dan Risby direct. If I did, what would be my cover story? I could hardly accuse him outright of divulging confidential information to Antler Logistics, or ask how it was that a man had died of a heart attack during a meeting he’d attended – a meeting, moreover, at which Nick Hathaway had also been present. Sam’s oblique involvement in all this tied my hands.

  In the end I decided to play it straight. I would contact Dan and ask for any comment he might have on the Antler Logistics contract win and the death of Don Smithson, the head of Backer Logistics. I would let his answers dictate the rest of the conversation.

  I called Cavenham Risby and asked to speak to Dan. The receptionist immediately sounded flustered. She said, “Oh, he’s … he’s not available. I’m very sorry.”

  “Could you suggest a better time for me to call him? Maybe this afternoon?”

  “Oh no, he won’t be available then either.”

  “Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you any further. Can I ask you to call again in the morning, and somebody will be able to tell you more then.”

  Tell me more? I disconnected with a sense of puzzlement. What was she not saying?

  I turned back to my work and focused on that for the next few hours, then after lunch I ran a search on Dan Risby’s name. Rather abruptly I found out why he hadn’t been available; the answer was on a minimalist property industry news website.

  “Property leader cut short in his prime,” the headline read, then the text continued: “The death was reported this morning of Daniel Risby, 33, the son of Lionel Risby and CEO of Cavenham Risby, the long-established industrial property specialist in Banbury. No cause of death has been confirmed so far, but sources close to Mr Risby are speculating that a drug overdose may have been involved.”

  I sat back, feeling a strange sense of half-shock – the kind that often accompanies the death of someone who seems close, but in fact isn’t. I’d never met Dan Risby – just glimpsed him briefly with Nick Hathaway at the entrance to his office building. Yet I felt I almost knew him, and he’d certainly figured prominently in my thoughts in recent days.

  At any rate, I now understood why the woman who had answered the phone to me that morning had been so evasive; presumably she knew what had happened, but hadn’t been properly briefed on what to say.

  Should I read anything other than misfortune into Daniel’s death? I had no reason to think so, yet it had come at a curiously fraught time in the life of his company and Hathaways. There’d been a few pointed questions I wanted to ask him. Now I would never have the chance.

  I decided I should phone Sam and tell her the news, but she’d already heard. “Nick called me this morning,” she said. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “D’you think it’s true what the press is saying – that it was an overdose?”

  “That’s what Nick says. Apparently Dan had a history with recreational drugs, whatever that means. Everyone thought it was in the past, but apparently they were wrong.”

  Chapter 40

  My book had been withdrawn from sale.

  Sitting idly at my computer that evening with a whisky in my hand, I called up my book page on the Endpaper web site to check for new reviews … and it wasn’t there.

  I put my glass down and called up my Endpaper administration page. The book was still displayed in all its glory, but underneath it was a splash of text in red type: “Book withdrawn from sale owing to contract violations by the author.”

  It was like a metaphorical blow in the gut – one of many that I seemed to have received recently. This web site was the only place in the world where the book was available to buy. At a stroke, for reasons entirely beyond me, my authorial voice had been silenced.

  I stared reflectively at the screen. What I ought to be doing, it seemed to me, was getting things in proportion. Dan Risby was dead, and my book had been removed from sale: scarcely equal setbacks in the scheme of things. How could I treat the withdrawal of the book as anything more than a microscopic blip on my horizon?

  I had no answer to that. All I knew was that it mattered to me. I couldn’t fake emotions to satisfy some idealised view of the natural order. With a sigh, I poured myself another whisky.

  Next morning I spent half an hour crafting what I hoped was a reasonable email to the Endpaper web site, asking politely for an explanation of my alleged contract violations. An automated reply told me I should expect a reply “within 24 hours”.

  The company surprised me. In the middle of the aft
ernoon, which might have been the middle of the morning or the middle of the night at the company’s contact centre, an email from a human being pinged in.

  “It has been drawn to our attention that you are in contravention of Article 27a of our Publisher’s Contract. This Article deals with issues of good repute, and explicitly prohibits authors or their publishers from exploiting illegal, immoral or prurient aspects of the author’s private life as a means of seeking publicity in order to further the sales of their work.

  “Endpaper operates an appeals procedure, and if you believe this sanction has been applied to you incorrectly, you are encouraged to make a representation to us, stating your grounds as clearly as possible and providing any supporting documentary evidence. Click here for details.”

  For a few moments I wondered what the hell this meant, but it didn’t take me long to work it out. I’d posted comments in various online locations about Rob Openshaw’s murder and my involvement in the investigations, and some of them had automatically linked themselves to my book. Apparently this was verboten, and as a result I’d been banned.

  I found myself wondering whether the same punitive sanctions would have been invoked by a report in the media. I wrote yet another email, asking that question. The answer came back swiftly this time: “No, in principle a newspaper report would not affect your contract with Endpaper. The prohibition applies mainly but not exclusively to material published or otherwise directly influenced by the author or publisher.”

  There was also a postscript, which appeared to have been written by the Endpaper staff member in a fit of helpfulness. It said, “To improve your chances of success with any appeal, it might help your case to be able to demonstrate that you have removed any inappropriate postings from web pages over which you have control.”