The Concrete Ceiling

by Peter Rowlands

  He was still peering at me suspiciously. “I don’t see how killing Dan would achieve that.”

  “The survey was conducted in confidence. Even the firm that did the research wasn’t allowed to talk about it.”

  I sensed that I was starting to win him over. Grudgingly he said, “So assuming I believe all this, and I’m not saying I do, what do you expect me to do about it?”

  “Nothing. I just hoped you could tell me a bit about Dan. I think Nick had some sort of hold over him, and this survey was his way of getting round it. I’m trying to find out if I’m right.”

  He looked at me for a while without replying. “If I tell you anything, will you agree to stop hounding us over that logistics contract? Will you agree not to publish anything else about it ever again?”

  I almost did a double-take. I said, “Look, I’m trying to establish if there’s been a crime here. Why should I have to bargain for information? You’d have to talk to the police if they were the ones asking these questions. Don’t you want to see justice for your friend?”

  “But you’re not the police, are you? You’re just a meddler, giving me a theory you’ve put together on your own. I don’t have to tell you anything.” He took a sip of his coffee.

  It was happening again. Every time I found a promising lead on a story, someone seemed to tie my hands by forcing me to a vow of silence.

  I said, “I could ask other friends of Dan about this. You’re not the only one.”

  “Be my guest. Those are my terms.”

  A wave of anger shot through me. How many times did I have to compromise my position to get hold of information? Before I knew it I was starting to stand up. I said, “OK, forget it.”

  “Hang on – hold your horses. If there was something suspicious about Dan’s death, I want to know about it too.”

  I sat down again slowly. “So why are you making this about you?”

  He stared at me, making small tapping movements on the table with his hand. After a moment he said, “What happened with that contract, it wasn’t a heinous crime. We didn’t break any laws, we just kept our eyes and ears open. It happens a thousand times every day. Can’t you get down off your high horse and keep it in proportion? Chill out a bit? That’s all I’m asking.”

  I sat staring at him, wrestling with my feeling of intense dislike. Eventually I said, “OK, I hear you. So can we talk?”

  * * *

  He went to fetch another coffee and came back with two cups. “Don’t say you never get anything from me.”

  I opened the lid of mine and stirred the contents, waiting.

  “Dan had a gambling habit,” he said. “That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?”

  “If it’s true.”

  “Oh, it’s true all right. We used to hit the clubs up in Brum. They were good times. But then it got more serious with him. I would tell him I was knackered, I wanted to head home, but he would say no, no, let me try one more shot at this. He would sit at those tables for hours, and squander literally thousands at a time. Typical addict – he always thought he would get the big win at the next attempt.”

  “Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “We didn’t always go together. At first I didn’t know what was happening. I gradually got the idea, but by then he was in too deep. I stopped going with him, but I think he kept on.”

  “So he was in debt to some bad people?”

  He gave an ironic laugh. “No, not bad people, it was his own company he owed the money to. He found a way to tap into their cash reserve … and then just pissed it away. He must have fiddled the books to conceal what he’d taken, but he was bound to be found out sooner or later.”

  “Couldn’t you do anything?”

  “Well, when Will and I were setting up Antler Logistics I asked Dan to put out feelers about any contract bids he came across, and he told me about the one that you’re not reporting on.” He gave me a meaningful glare. “I gave him a big finder’s fee for that. Ridiculously big.”

  “But it wasn’t enough?”

  “Not by a long shot. What I think happened is that Nick Hathaway latched on to this, and bought into Cavenham Risby to save Dan’s skin. They were always close. But of course that gave Nick a hold over him. I assume that’s what you’re talking about.”

  I nodded and fell silent. We drank our coffees for a moment, then I said, “What about drugs? Was Dan into that scene?”

  He shrugged. “A bit of coke now and then. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Not out of the ordinary? People like these seemed to exist in a different world from me – a world that perhaps I’d simply been refusing to acknowledge. I said, “So were you surprised when he died of an overdose?”

  He seemed to think about this. “I wasn’t surprised, I wasn’t unsurprised. It was a shock, I’ll admit. Dan was a good mate. I miss him, but these things happen. And considering the pressure he was under, maybe he was tempted by something more hard-core – something that turned out to be lethal.”

  “But it could also have been faked.”

  “I suppose so.” He checked his watch. “I assume that’s something you think you can find out. Well, good luck with that.”

  Chapter 72

  “Mike, it’s Sam.” Her voice sounded breathless. “I’m in Nick’s flat in Banbury, and I think I’ve found that surveyor’s report.” She paused. “Radon, potassium, thorium, bla bla. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  She’d called me just as I was climbing the stairs to the flat in Camden Town. I closed my front door and switched on the light. “Sounds like it to me. That’s brilliant!”

  “I’d better not take it away from here. He would know it was me. I’ll photograph it on my phone. It’s only a few pages long.”

  “So long as you think you have time.”

  “Oh, he shouldn’t be back for a couple of hours. I’ll text you the pages, then call you back.”

  A couple of minutes later my phone sounded again. “Right, I’ve done that. You should get the pics in a second.”

  “Where was the report?”

  “In a locked drawer in his desk – but I knew where he kept the keys.”

  “OK, so don’t hang around there longer than you need to.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t … ” She broke off. “Bloody hell! This is extremely weird.”

  “What is?”

  “Hang on.” In the background I could hear further muttered exclamations. Eventually her voice came on loud again. “I truly don’t know what to make of this.”

  “What is it?”

  “You remember last year when I was shot by Alan Treadwell?”

  “I’m not likely to forget it.”

  “So you must have seen some of the press coverage afterwards. In fact they interviewed you for a long article in one of the Sunday papers, didn’t they?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well Nick has cuttings about it at the bottom of this drawer – loads of them. There’s a full-page article on this page, with a big picture of me. And here’s a half-page article with another picture. And another half page. And lots of smaller articles … There must be at least a dozen cuttings here altogether.”

  “Do you think he downloaded them from the internet and printed them off?”

  “Hm.” She considered this. “Yeah, some of them are probably computer print-outs, but others are real cuttings from actual newspapers. They’re jagged down the sides where they’ve been torn. It’s definitely newsprint. You can always tell.”

  We both fell silent as we considered the implications of this. Finally she said, “Nick didn’t know me then. We only met later in the year, in Covent Garden.”

  “So where did these cuttings come from? Did he get them from someone who did know you?”

  “I suppose that’s possible.” She paused. “It doesn’t seem very likely, though, does it? He would have told me about them, surely?”

  Another pause while we reflected on the only plausible alternative. S
he said, “Nick must have known who I was before he met me.”

  There was a long pause as we both unwound the whole history of the past year. She eventually said, “For Christ’s sake, Mike. What’s been going on?”

  “You should get out of there, Sam. Put those cuttings back where you found them, lock the drawer and get out. We don’t know what Nick would do if he realised you knew about them.”

  “You’re right. Hang on.”

  I hung on.

  Abruptly she said, “Fuck, I can’t get this drawer to shut.” Then in a sudden panicked whisper: “Christ! I think Nick’s come back early. I can hear him out in the corridor. Shit! There’s only one way out of here.”

  “Go to the front door and walk straight past him when he comes in. Leave before he has time to work out what’s going on.”

  “All right.”

  But at that moment I heard the sound of a door closing and Sam’s voice saying, “Oh, hi Nick. I was just on my way out.”

  He said something I couldn’t catch, then I heard the electronic tinkling sound that marked the end of the call.

  * * *

  What should I do? Calling Sam back might be a distraction that would prevent her from getting away. But what exactly did I think Nick would do to her? He was hardly likely to stop her from leaving the flat by force – was he? Yet if he found the open drawer and realised she knew about the environmental report, there was no knowing how he would react. As for those press cuttings, what would happen if he found out she had seen those?

  I paced up and down indecisively. Minutes passed.

  Finally I could wait no longer. I called her number. It went to voicemail. This seemed ominous.

  Now what? I felt helpless, sixty miles from Banbury and unable to influence events. I waited another ten painful minutes, then called Sam’s number again. Voicemail again. I tried to work out what that signified. Had she switched her phone off? Had it been damaged? I started to imagine all kinds of unpleasant scenario.

  My instinct was to rush out to my car and drive straight to Banbury, but an inner voice warned me to hold back and take stock. I didn’t actually know anything bad had happened. I should give Sam a chance to get completely clear of the flat, then call her again.

  I sat on the sofa, fretting and unable to think clearly. After another ten minutes I called her number again. As before, the call went to voicemail.

  I called Nick Hathaway’s number. I wasn’t sure quite what I would say if he answered, but he didn’t.

  An urge to take some kind of action was now sweeping over me, but my first thought was to phone Dave. This call too went to voicemail. I mumbled a message about Sam being in possible danger, then tried to focus my thoughts and formulate a sensible plan.

  It didn’t take me long to decide I really would drive to Banbury and go to Nick’s flat, but I realised immediately that I didn’t know the address. I glanced at my wall clock: after six. I opened the Hathaway & Simms web site on my laptop to find the company’s phone number, but when I dialled it the call was answered by an out-of-hours voice message.

  Who else would know Nick’s address? His friends, maybe? I tried Gary Hobbs’ number, but this call too went to voicemail. The gods were against me this evening.

  Noel Valence should be able to find the address easily enough. I phoned his number, but was rewarded with yet another voicemail message. I asked him to contact me urgently. Then I forced myself to take the time to send him a text message asking the same thing.

  I felt I’d done everything I could to prepare the ground. It was time to go.

  Chapter 73

  It was more or less dark as I reversed the MG out of the garage. The residual rush-hour traffic proved worse than I expected, and it took me fifteen minutes just to reach Marylebone Road, one of the main arteries across central London.

  There were long waits at the many traffic lights, and there was a queue where the road shrank to two lanes on the ramp up to the Edgware Road flyover. Every delay was an agony. The Westway viaduct broadened out to three lanes, but I had to keep reminding myself to pay at least some heed to the modest speed limit. And then we slowed back to a crawl on the long approach to the crossroads at East Acton. I felt I would never get out of London.

  Gradually the traffic eased up as I passed Park Royal, then Ealing, then Hillingdon. Finally I was on the M40 motorway. Only an hour or so to Banbury.

  The first person to respond to my messages was Noel, who wasted no time reading out Nick’s address to me. “And I’ve texted it as well,” he added. I thanked him and drove on with a renewed sense of purpose. But still nothing from Sam, and no word from Dave either.

  It was past eight o’clock when I reached Banbury. I stopped to enter Nick’s postcode into my satnav, then navigated my way to his apartment building, which turned out to be close to the centre of the town. I found somewhere to park, then hurried over to the main entrance and pressed the buzzer for his flat. I had no idea what I would say to him if he was there – I would have to improvise.

  In fact there was no response. I glanced up at the building. All the windows were in darkness. I pulled out my phone and called his number again. Voicemail. I glanced around, wondering if I would spot Sam’s car anywhere. I couldn’t see it. What now?

  I decided I’d better check the cottage. It seemed unlikely that Sam would be there, but I felt I’d better go through the motions. I returned to my car. As I expected, there were no lights on in the cottage and the doors were locked. I rang the bell anyway, but there was no response.

  Should I go to the local police and allege foul play by Nick Hathaway? My problem was that I had no evidence – just suspicions based on long months of conjecture. How would I condense all that down to something they would understand and act on? Perhaps I should sit it out and hope Sam would materialise.

  That wasn’t going to happen, was it? A persistent voice in my head was telling me I had to face up to a new reality. Something bad had happened to Sam, and I had to report my suspicions to someone. I went off in search of a police station.

  I almost wished I hadn’t bothered. The police were polite and respectful, and made at least a show of listening to what I was telling them, but I soon realised there was little they could do. Nick Hathaway was well known in the area; his family name was on estate agency shop-fronts throughout the South Midlands. The officers seemed determined not to suggest that they thought this entitled him to any special treatment, but they also made it plain that their hands were tied. Sam was not a missing person in the strict sense of the word, and there was nothing apart from my allegations to suggest that any harm had come to her.

  While I was sitting waiting for them to tell me something definitive I tried calling Sam’s phone again several times, and also Nick’s. All the calls went to voicemail. Eventually an officer told me someone had checked Nick’s flat and the cottage. Nick himself was apparently not there, but there was nothing out of the ordinary to report at either location. I reflected that I could have told them that.

  In the end they suggested that I head home and wait to see if Sam would resurface next day. Instead, I drove back to the cottage. It was still in darkness. I parked outside, checked my messages and emails, then switched on the radio and listened to some bland middle-of-the-road music. It was calming, but it did little to lift the sense of dread that had settled on me.

  * * *

  The night was mild for the time of year, but all the same a chill gradually crept over me. Periodically I switched on the car engine and ran the heater, but I was reluctant to keep it going too long; I wasn’t sure what harm it might do, and I didn’t want to leave myself without any viable means of transport. I debated going to find a motel and at least having a comfortable night, but I kept putting off the decision, and eventually it seemed too late.

  Dave called me back at eleven thirty. “Bloody hell, mate,” he said, “you do get yourself into some weird situations, don’t you?”

  He told me he’d been out at
the cinema with Suzy. “Otherwise I would have called you back sooner.”

  I explained briefly what had been happening, describing how we’d found potentially compromising documents in Nick’s flat. “If he’s seriously alarmed that we know about them, who knows what he might do?”

  He told me I’d made the right moves. “I don’t know any cops in the South Midlands, but they’ll know how to deal with this. Just let them get on with it.”

  “I don’t think they’re treating it as urgently as they should.”

  He sighed. “If you haven’t heard any more by lunchtime tomorrow, let me know and I’ll see if I can do anything.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “But not tonight! You should get yourself back to London. You’re not doing any good to yourself or your girlfriend by prowling around the by-roads of Banbury.”

  I could see the logic, but I wasn’t going to take any notice. I had to stay at the centre of the action. After we ended the call I pulled my car forward into the shadows. I didn’t want some policeman spotting me and questioning my presence there in the middle of the night. Then I lowered the back of the driving seat and stretched out as best I could under my anorak, and eventually I fell into a troubled sleep.

  * * *

  I slept fitfully, waking several times. Each time I felt increasingly cold and stiff. Finally I woke again around seven thirty – chilled to the core, ravenously hungry, and desperate to relieve myself. I tipped myself into a more upright position and checked my phone: no missed calls, which meant Sam hadn’t resurfaced. I called her number anyway. The call went to voicemail.

  I climbed painfully out of the car and stretched. My mouth was dry and my clothes were clammy. An overcast sky hung over Banbury. I went over to check the house again. No answer to the doorbell.

  I returned to the car and drove slowly down the road, looking for somewhere to eat. A garage delivered what I needed – snacks and bottled water – and also gave me the chance to splash water on my face and use its facilities. Returning to my car, I headed back to the house. No point in driving around at random.