The Concrete Ceiling

by Peter Rowlands

  Then again, there had been explosives in the cellar next to ours. We would have been more or less in the front line. Maybe we really would have been blasted to fragments. In a way it was pointless to speculate. Nick had been hoping for the best, and if we hadn’t spotted that shard of light he just might conceivably have got away with it.

  Chapter 78

  An insistent buzzing on my entry phone woke me early next morning. I groped my way over to the door and picked up the handset, only to find it was a reporter from a daily newspaper, wanting my comments on the explosion. I told him I had nothing to say.

  I heard chatter in the street, and when I peered down from the front window I could just see a couple more press people hanging around in the street. What was that comment Guy Dereham had made? I was supposed to report the news, not make it. Yet the incident had done me a favour; it had reminded me to contact Phil Reynolds at Seismic Scene.

  “Remember I told you I might have a big story for you? I can’t give you the whole thing yet, but I’ve got a good starter for you. ‘Captives escape as killer blown up in explosion’. How does that sound?”

  “Are you talking about the story that broke last night? Man dies in cave-in at some old cement works? We’ve already covered that.”

  “I bet you didn’t have an exclusive from someone in the middle of it.”

  “And that would be you?” I could hear new interest in his voice.

  “Precisely.”

  I hinted that there were more revelations to come, and after we’d chatted for a while he agreed to let me become part of the team reporting the story. “But I can’t give you a by-line – you’re one of the participants. You’ll have to write it in the third person. I’ll call you a special reporter.”

  It felt like one in the eye to Guy Dereham – though in fairness to the man, he’d given me the Seismic Scene contact in the first place. But as soon as we’d disconnected I realised I couldn’t do anything without Sam’s agreement. It would be too much of a breach of trust.

  She was unexpectedly sanguine. “I don’t really know why you’re asking me this,” she said when I phoned her.

  “The problem is that I can’t avoid including you in the story. Even if I don’t mention you, the other journalists are bound to. You’ll have your name and face plastered all over the internet.”

  “But that’ll happen anyway, whether you get involved or not. At least you can tell a straight story, and avoid sensationalising it.”

  “I think you’re being generous.”

  “Just make sure you put in a plug for our jewellery business.”

  Somewhat reassured, I opened my laptop and started on my piece for Seismic Scene. There was no point in writing a complete article because they would edit it into something broader, but I could at least round it out as far as possible.

  I couple of hours later I winged it off to Seismic Scene, then turned my attention to Smart Headings. This time I had to emphasise the logistics angle. I was still missing some of the elements, but I decided there was enough to build a story round the warehousing angle. Nick and Dan were now both dead, so I was hoping there would be no problem with contempt of court.

  Guy Dereham texted me shortly after I’d uploaded the story. His message simply read, “Wow!”

  * * *

  Two detectives arrived from the South Midlands to take a statement from me. I talked them through the whole sequence of events, and when it came to Nick’s motivation I outlined the elements I’d pieced together: Nick’s investment in the retail development, his plan to expand it, his plotting to take control of the two warehouses and demolish them, Dan’s decision to obstruct him. They listened with increasing amazement but without comment.

  I progressed to the part I couldn’t prove – Nick’s possible hand in Dan Risby’s death. One of the detectives said mildly, “You think my colleagues failed to investigate the incident properly?”

  “They probably didn’t think there was anything to investigate. But when you look at it in context, it takes on a different complexion.”

  He nodded. “I’ll pass on your comments to the appropriate people.”

  As they was preparing to leave he said, “Maybe you could resolve something else for us? Can you explain how we came to find outgoing emails on Mr Hathaway’s computer that had apparently been sent by you, rather than him?”

  For a moment I couldn’t work out what he was talking about, then I had a sudden dawning. I said, “Do you mean emails addressed to a man named Rob Openshaw?”

  “Those are the ones, yes.”

  “Ha!” I stared at him in wonder. “I don’t believe this! This is amazing.”

  “Would you care to explain?”

  “A few months ago I was accused of murdering this man.”

  He nodded. “We’re aware of that.”

  “Right, so you’ll also know I was taken off the suspect list. But while I was under investigation those emails turned up on a computer in my flat, even though I’d never seen them before. The investigation team eventually accepted that I hadn’t written them, but nobody knew who did.”

  “So do you know why Nick Hathaway would have forged them and put them on your computer?”

  “Why? For the same reason he did a lot of this other stuff. Sam Adams and I were once nearly an item, and I think Nick was profoundly jealous of me. He made a show of helping me while I was under investigation – he even lined up a solicitor for me – but at the same time he must have wanted to see me put away.”

  “And did he have the opportunity to plant these emails?”

  “Oh yes.” My mind flashed back to the day Nick and Sam had met me in the police station. We’d driven over to my flat, and at one point Nick had been left alone in my lounge. Sam had gone out to buy an Indian meal and I was taking a shower. I said, “He came here one day. He must have brought the emails with him on a flash drive or something.”

  “But how could he know he would get the chance to copy them to your computer?”

  I shrugged. “He wouldn’t know. But if that hadn’t worked, presumably he would have come up with something else. He was very good at improvising.”

  After the detectives left I thought again about those emails. I understood Nick’s thinking in planting them, but I couldn’t see how he could have known about the hidden computer under the desk – the one to which he’d copied them.

  Then I remembered his restlessness – the way his foot constantly tapped when he was sitting down. He’d probably found Joe’s old computer purely by accident. I went over to the desk and kicked the hidden door panel lightly with my foot. It immediately sprang open. That seemed to be my answer. He’d probably intended to plant the emails on my laptop if the chance presented itself. Then he must have happened on the hidden computer, and realised that using it would make them look even more suspicious.

  Having successfully planted the emails, he must have made an anonymous phone call to the police station in north London, pointing out that they were there. The police had assumed the call was from Graham Bulwell because it was the only explanation that made sense.

  I wondered for a moment how Nick had acquired the computer expertise to construct emails that would pass a basic forensic test in the first place – but then I decided I had the answer. Someone had told me he’d once done a computer course. Quick, keen and obsessive over detail, he could have learned enough there to point him in the right direction. If he’d kept up his interest in the subject, he could well have had enough insight to know what he had to do to make those emails convincing.

  Chapter 79

  “Mike Stanhope? I don’t know if you remember me? It’s Jane Caldwell, from Islington. I live in the house next to Rob Openshaw’s.”

  The call came the day after the detectives’ visit. I said, “Of course. It’s good to hear from you again.”

  “Can I ask what happened about his murder? Are you still a suspect?”

  “No I’m not, thank god. They’ve told me I’m off t
he hook.”

  “I’m very pleased for you. So did they catch the real killer?”

  I hesitated. “Unofficially, I can tell you who probably did it, but you’d have to keep it to yourself.”

  “I think you can trust me.” I could hear faint amusement in her voice.

  “OK, well it looks as if his daughter Ellie might have killed him. Possibly not on purpose, but that’s not really clear.”

  “I see. Why am I not surprised?” She clicked her tongue. “So perhaps there’s no point in this call after all.”

  “Why – what were you going to say?”

  “Well, it’s just that I’ve remembered something I thought might be significant. It happened the day before Rob was killed. He was visited by some man, and while he was there I heard shouting and an enormous crash – like a cupboard falling over or something.”

  “Did you tell the police about this?”

  She gave a dismissive sigh. “I tried to.” An indignant laugh. “I could see they weren’t impressed. They’d decided they already knew what had happened to Rob, so what I was telling them was irrelevant. They made a show of hearing me out, but they didn’t seem to make a note of anything.”

  “So much for checking all the angles.”

  “Well, in some ways I can understand their point of view. After all, Rob was alive and well that evening. We chatted on the doorstep, and he was fine. Once I told the police that, I could see them losing interest.”

  “Apparently the original investigating team has been taken off the case for cocking it up.”

  “Huh! Well that speaks volumes.”

  “So did you see this man?”

  “Briefly. I was working upstairs in my office, and I glanced down when he left. I would say he was in his thirties, and he was wearing a dark suit. I didn’t get much of a look at his face.”

  “And you hadn’t seen him there before?”

  “No, not at all. Rob hardly ever had any visitors.”

  After we’d ended the call I sat staring into space, trying to work out how this information fitted into anything I knew. If it was relevant, it appeared to open a whole new angle on what had happened to Rob. But maybe it wasn’t.

  I phoned Dave and left a message.

  “So you nearly blew yourself up,” he began when he called me back. “This must be your most impressive feat to date. Next time you’ll probably succeed.”

  I gave him an abbreviated account of the events in Rugby, then worked round to my question. “You remember how the police found a webcam in a house opposite Rob Openshaw’s? Do you think they’d let me view the footage?”

  “Highly unlikely. Why?”

  I explained what Jane Caldwell had told me. “She told them about this, but they didn’t seem to show any interest.”

  “No surprise there.”

  “Anyway, this unknown guy might have been involved in the killing. And presumably they’ve got him on webcam.”

  “He would only be a suspect if he’d come back the next day.”

  “Well maybe he did, and somehow he got past the webcam. It’s worth thinking about, isn’t it?”

  He gave one of his customary sighs. “Pat Evans must be fed up with the sound of my voice.”

  “So you’ll give it a go?”

  * * *

  Dave called me back early that evening.

  “Interesting,” he said. “They did have webcam footage of that guy. While Andy Ratcliffe was still on the case they tried to work him into a murder scenario, but it didn’t stack up. He only appeared that one time, and it was on the wrong day. In any case, they had better suspects – Graham Bulwell, then Ellie Openshaw. He just remained a mystery man.”

  “So any chance I could get a look at the footage?”

  “None at all. It’s considered evidence.” He paused. “Anyway, why do you want it?”

  “I don’t know really. Just to find out if for some reason I know this guy.”

  “But why would you?”

  “Pass.”

  He chuckled, then said, “You might be interested to know that the footage for that day wasn’t seized from the people who owned the webcam, it was just copied.”

  “You’re saying the owners still have the original recording?”

  “I’m saying you could take a wild guess that they might have it.”

  “Do we know which house it was?”

  “As a matter of fact yes. Number eleven.”

  I wasn’t altogether clear why I was pursuing this. Probably I was simply harbouring the forlorn hope of proving that Graham had had no part in the killing – and perhaps Ellie hadn’t either, though I felt no special loyalty to her. The man’s visit in itself didn’t strike me as suspicious, but the crash of furniture might be.

  I phoned Jane Caldwell back.

  “Do you know the people who live across the square from you at number eleven?”

  “Slightly, why?”

  I explained about the webcam footage. “I know you don’t owe me any favours, but I was wondering if you could possibly sound them out and see if they would let me have a copy of the sequence with that man in it?”

  “You don’t ask much, do you?”

  “It’s just that if I approach them direct, I’ll be coming to them cold. I’ll have to establish my good faith from scratch. You already know them.”

  “I’m not sure that I want to!”

  “But you’ll give it a go?”

  “No promises.”

  She phoned me back a couple of hours later. “I don’t know why I’m doing this for you. You owe me big time.”

  “So they’re going to let you have it?”

  “Better. I’ve already got it here on my laptop. Give me your email address and I’ll wing it over to you now.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later I was playing back a murky black and white video of the square where Rob Openshaw had lived. The people who had made the recording hadn’t cut out the section I wanted – they’d simply provided Jane Caldwell with a large chunk, which she’d sent to me via a file transfer web site. I set my media player software to fast forward and watched the world in Islington rushing by. Pedestrian speed-walkers hurried jerkily past, vehicles flitted across the screen, the trees wavered in the middle of the square.

  Finally a man fetched up on Rob Openshaw’s steps. I backed up the video and set it to normal play. The suited figure stopped in front of the house and looked up at it. He checked the address against a piece of paper he was holding, then hesitantly climbed the three steps to the front door. Rob Openshaw appeared and welcomed him in. I still hadn’t had a clear view of his face.

  Around fifteen minutes passed, then the front door opened again and the man reappeared. There was no sign of Rob. The man looked back over his shoulder as he shut the door, then raised his head and peered a little warily round the square before descending to the street and walking off briskly.

  I’d never seen him before in my life.

  Chapter 80

  “Here’s to better times.” Ronnie raised her wine glass.

  She and Sam were sitting in my flat, preparing to go out. A week had passed since the events at the cement works, and Sam had come down to London a couple of days before to catch up with Ronnie. They’d suggested we all meet for a drink, and the idea had expanded to a curry in Camden Town

  Sam clinked her glass against Ronnie’s. “I’ll second that.”

  I wondered for a while if Ronnie felt her role today was to protect Sam from me, but for once I was wrong. At one point she actually asked, “So when are you guys making it official?”

  “For god’s sake, Ronnie!” Sam gave me an embarrassed look. “Give me a bit of breathing space, will you? And Mike might have a view too.”

  “Just checking.”

  Soon we were picking over Nick’s death. “The police are still getting their heads round everything,” Sam said. “Personally, I’m certain you were right about that survey report, Mike. When Nick realised we kne
w about it, he went into panic mode.”

  I asked, “What about those press cuttings about us?”

  “I think it was those that actually pushed him over the edge.” She frowned. “They’re seriously weird, aren’t they?”

  “Have you come to a conclusion about them yet?”

  She nodded reflectively. “I think this must go back to when Alan Treadwell shot me last year, and then my dad shot him. There were loads of press reports about it, some with big pictures of me. Nick must have seen them and kept them, and …” She trailed off and cleared her throat. “Well, he must have become obsessed with me.”

  Ronnie said, “Then he contrived to meet you at Covent Garden, and pretended he was buying a necklace for his girlfriend.” She gave an ironic laugh. “I don’t believe there ever was a girlfriend. After all, he still had the necklace in a drawer.”

  “She’s right.” Sam turned to me. “I asked Nick’s sister about that a few days ago, and she said he broke up with his last girlfriend months before he turned up at the market that day.”

  “So his entire relationship with you was like a finely-executed campaign.”

  Sam looked down. “Apparently.”

  “Sorry – I didn’t mean to get at you. I know it was more complicated than that. For a while things must have worked out. I’m not passing judgement.”

  She looked up, ignoring what I’d said. “For a while I did think things were working out, but I was deluding myself. I had my eyes shut.” She gave a deep sigh. “Fancy being taken in by a machiavellian arsehole like that. I never would have believed it of myself, yet it happened.” She shuddered.

  Ronnie quickly said, “Nick was charming. I enjoyed his company at first – and you know how fussy I am. He was easy to like.” She glanced over at me. “Don’t you agree, Mike?”