Gatecrasher

by Robert Young

  Horner sat enjoying the peaceful silence of the room and watched the city relax into its evening routine beneath him, taking time to think everything through as he sipped the Bordeaux.

  In addition to his costly, short-sighted reaction Griffin had failed to see that there would of course be other consequences.

  He had never intended to involve Griffin to this degree but when the call had come from Griffin's office requesting a meeting to discuss a personal and sensitive matter Horner had agreed to it with a sense of suspicion and caution. Things had already been allowed to go wrong, mistakes made and made again. But not this time. Not where he was personally in charge. The business with the young man in Fulham and his persistently slippery behaviour had worried him. What ought to have been a watertight operation had sprung a number of leaks and Horner had determined to plug them. When he heard that Griffin wanted to talk he decided that he would pre-empt the man and head off any further problems. He was surprised the other man had rejected him and stormed out with his wounded pride.

  Now he would have to try something different. He could probably find some dirt on Griffin somewhere and if not, he could have it fabricated. Otherwise a simple threat or two might be more effective than appealing to the man's wallet. A few photographs of his wife and child. Nothing nasty, just engaged in normal activities, but the suggestion would be enough. This time we were only pointing a camera at them Andrew.

  That could wait though, for the time being. He'd talk about that with Drennan once the data was handed over. Horner was fed up waiting and once Drennan had paid the useless rabble - something he'd had to think twice about approving given their incompetence - he would set about upping the pressure on Asquith a little, just as a reminder.

  The old man was principled but he would not be stupid enough to risk everything for those principles. Standing up to Horner's 'blackmailers' would be precisely the sort of thing he'd want to do but faced with this sort of leverage the old man would buckle, not least because he wouldn't want to betray an old friend despite what mistakes that old friend might have made.

  Horner tipped the glass up to his nose and took in a deep breath though his nostrils. It was almost done now, he thought to himself, almost finished. Two years in planning and execution and once Asquith announced the contracts Horner would reap what he had sown.

  67

  Thursday. 5 pm.

  The two men sat on either side of a dark stained wooden table with a nondescript glass ashtray in the centre and two cardboard beer mats with the pictures half peeled off.

  Slater was hunched over his pint of lager, arms folded, jacket still on. His face was blank and his expression did not betray the crackling rage he felt underneath. He had been given a real run around in the past week and a half, made a fool of at every turn and he had probably dropped in his boss's estimation as a result. It was, in all honesty, attributable to the man sitting opposite him.

  Well dressed and looking faintly self-satisfied for reasons not apparent to Slater, Drennan sat rolling the long neck of a beer bottle between thumb and forefinger. Even his choice of drink riled Slater. Poncy Italian lager, why couldn't the prick just have a pint? But he knew he had to play nice. He was here for a simple job and once it was done they could all relax again, in the clear and in the cash.

  That was, of course, provided Campbell was right. Gresham had been reluctant to trust him at first although the man clearly seemed to know what he was talking about. But in the end the promise of further riches, not to mention the debt of gratitude for getting Angie back had swung it. Slater himself was far more cynical. The guy was as slippery as soap and Slater thought it was madness to listen to him, although his own pride had been wounded more than the others by Campbell's best efforts. Though he had begun to feel a grudging respect for Campbell as a worthy opponent; a stubborn, determined and resilient man, he still wanted to knock his lights out.

  But sat here looking at Drennan trying to catch his own reflection, or self-consciously watching every other passer by with theatrical suspicion, Slater had a new target for his fury. When this was done, he thought, Drennan might come after them. Drennan and his boss and whoever else they could muster.

  For all Campbell's tales of shadowy figures and men of great wealth and long reach, Slater didn't feel in the slightest bit perturbed now. With Walker gone he feared no one and the prospect of being able to vent some of the brewing frustration was delicious.

  He was picturing Drennan's nose broken and blood gushing from his shattered gums when the other man spoke.

  'You know for a while we thought you lot had screwed the whole thing. I mean, you only had to follow instructions and Tony made a right mess of that. And I had my suspicions you'd lost the stick too. This Campbell bloke, wherever the hell he's vanished to, I thought he had it. Couldn't figure out why you lot were so keen to follow him around when we said that we'd sort it out. I mean, Tony probably told him nothing after Warren got at him but still.'

  Slater's face didn't shift. He shrugged.

  'What got me though wasn't all that. I suppose you wanted to tidy up after yourselves after what happened but it was that other lot. The ones that dragged him off the other night?'

  Slater stared back at him for long moments. Drennan was fishing. After a while, Slater dropped his gaze to the table and picked up his pint of London Pride, taking a long, deep drink.

  'You got what I want?' he said as he set down the glass.

  Drennan stayed silent, trying to play Slater at his own game, but failed. Giving up quickly he said 'No flirting Keith?'

  Slater went back to staring through Drennan.

  'Please yourself big man. I have it. You?'

  Slater reached into the pocket of his jacket and slipped a small, plain memory stick across the table. Drennan looked at it and picked it up.

  'It has been such a pleasure,' Drennan said with a smug wink and then he stood up, placed a hand on Slater's shoulder as he passed, and walked away.

  Slater had been sorely tempted to grab the hand on his shoulder, to twist it round and up Drennan's back but he sat still, his eyes fixed on the spot where Drennan's face had been as Slater had pictured smashing the beer bottle into it a few times.

  Distracted by a young girl asking if the other seat was free Slater looked at her, nodded and then finished his beer. Then he reached under the table for the small backpack that had been left there and, swinging it onto his shoulder, he made for the door, smiling at the doorman on the way out.

  68

  Thursday. 7pm.

  As Campbell approached his front door he noticed that Warren's car had gone. Without even bothering to feign nonchalance he looked up and down the road and he kept walking, right past the flat and to the end of the street. At the corner he looked along the roads branching left and right and then he turned and walked back to his front door again. Nope. Definitely gone.

  Smiling, he twisted his key in the lock and moved inside. It looked different in his flat, cleaner and fresher than it had looked in weeks. He could feel the approaching return of normality - not that he was out of the woods yet. Campbell was pessimistic enough after what he had been through to realise that everything could still come totally unstitched, could yet come smashing down again.

  Not out of the woods yet then, but the trees were thinning now.

  There remained only one more thing for him to do to set himself back on track, to be rid of all that had happened. Everything else was in place. Gresham and Slater had followed his instructions to the letter, grumbling at the last minute adjustment he had made but then silenced when he told them how much better it would actually work out for them all.

  He too had ensured that in addition to the insurance he had put in place to ensure his own safety that there would be compensation as well. His own reward was less lucrative than the others could expect but it was untainted and that felt more important than anything else.

  'Ten per cent?' Gresham had said to him down the phone, his tone to
o surprised and disbelieving to be angry. 'You really are pushing it now sunshine.'

  'Look George, if you do everything I've told you you'll all be even better off than I when I explained it to you the other day.'

  'Then do the same as us with your own cash. That's my money.'

  'No. I was nearly killed because of that stick George and I deserve a share. Ten per cent. That's all. You'll have the ninety left.'

  Gresham had been stubborn at first but eventually relented and agreed. Campbell had stopped short of telling him what he really thought. The idea that he could put his savings into buying shares that he knew would rocket in price had never really crossed his mind as a realistic prospect. When he thought about it he couldn't get past the fact the that not only was it illegal, that he would be knowingly breaking the law to make money, but worse; that it would make him the same as Horner.

  Horner's whole plan had been to make a bundle of cash by manipulating the market and the share price. How could Campbell do the same? How could he even think about doing anything remotely similar in nature to Horner? As much as he might have told himself that he could get away with it, make a lot of money and leave no trace, he could not escape the fact that his conscience would never allow it. He simply couldn't bring himself to do it.

  At the end of the day he knew that all he really wanted was his life back.

  Of course a nice holiday wouldn't hurt. Perhaps a new car. And though he couldn't face the idea of becoming like Horner in some tiny way by just hijacking his scam, he had no such qualms about taking a little of the man's money. He was owed something at least.

  So Gresham had finally surrendered to Campbell's insistence though he loudly protested that he did not understand it. Campbell didn't think that the man could understand.

  The doorbell rang. The end was coming.

  69

  Thursday. 9.30pm.

  None of it had seemed to fit together at the time. Even now it didn't seem real.

  The meeting with Griffin had been odd given that the other man had set it up, or his secretary at least. But when he'd got there Griffin had seemed more inclined to let Horner take the lead. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps once he'd got going and made his offer he had knocked Griffin off his stride. The man was so full of self-righteous indignation at the time it would be no surprise to imagine that he'd abandoned whatever it was he had come to say. But now it seemed obvious that it had all been set up, perhaps to keep Horner busy and distracted whilst Campbell got to Asquith.

  The data too had confounded him at first after Drennan had dropped it off earlier in the evening. Not what he had expected to see; no data on his west African venture but instead a detailed spreadsheet giving the various transactions that his three investment companies had made, or some of them at least. It wasn't subtle particularly but it told him that Campbell knew what he was trying to do. Too late of course had he realised this.

  Now finally, with the news announcement echoing in his head it fell into place. He had been outmanoeuvred. Beaten. Asquith had of course called his bluff, and ignored the threat, convinced no doubt by Campbell that Horner would never dare be so foolish as to actually expose the both of them. Spiteful and vengeful though he felt now, even he knew that he would never inflict such damage on himself.

  Horner was sitting in the living room of his home. A broad, sumptuous leather sofa sat squarely in the centre of the room facing a large wide-screen television. Beneath it a number of electronic units flickered with LED displays. The lights were dimmed soft and the heavy drapes were drawn across the large picture window that looked out over landscaped gardens. The sound of the television, filtered through five separate speaker channels by a home-cinema amplifier, filled the room. Horner heard nothing.

  His thoughts wandered. He wondered at what point he had let it get out of his control. Should he have taken greater charge over things rather than let Drennan do so much legwork? How on earth had this Daniel Campbell, this random stranger, inflicted such terminal damage to his best-conceived plans?

  None of it meant anything now of course. Campbell, through his scheming and his desperate gamble, had backed him right into a corner. It wasn't the financial damage, the losses he would make on the stock investments. Their already low price would probably fall further in the wake of the announcement.

  What he also knew, though Horner could not imagine how, was that the decision would affect not only Horner's investments. Others too would suffer the consequences, others who had made investments based on Horner's own confident and self-conscious bragging. Here's a tip. Trust me, can't fail.

  A further spread sheet of data on the stick gave detailed accounts and established otherwise murky links between Horner, his business interests with individuals, groups and companies with numerous well known and acknowledged associations with organised crime. Some of these connections were tenuous. But Campbell had put them together nonetheless, spotting the patterns, perhaps recognising names. He had been nothing if not thorough.

  Without saying it he knew what Campbell was telling him. That Horner had his own problems now, too big and too immediate for him to be able to spare any time coming after Campbell. He would be a marked man, deeply out of favour with those powerful and dangerous men with whom he had nurtured relationships down the years. They would not take kindly to being made fools of. The loss of face that went with the loss of money would be the worst thing for them. He would have to pay for that and dearly.

  He walked slowly through his home toward his bedroom, clutching a cordless telephone. He wasn't sure which call to make first, where to start. But he had to begin making plans now. Had to stay a step or two ahead. Campbell had given him a head start through his thinly veiled warning. It was up to him now how he used it.

  Placing a suitcase on his bed he unzipped it, throwing back the lid. He pulled open the large doors of his wardrobe and stared at the contents. There were rows of suits and shirts, tidy stacks of folded sweaters and a neatly arranged line of shoes at the bottom. It would be some time before his life would again have this sort of order. If ever.

  He was vaguely aware of the calm resignation with which he had greeted his defeat. There was no panic or alarm with the dawning realisation of the predicament he was now in. He wondered idly where he would go next, what he would do. He thought about what life would bring next for him, the people he would meet, reflecting bitterly that he would probably need some of the guile and resolve that Campbell had demonstrated since Horner had burst so violently into his life.

  One thing he knew for certain, he would not forget Daniel Campbell.

  70

  Thursday. 9.30pm.

  At first she had seemed oblivious to it, asking excitedly about what he had said in his meeting with Asquith, what the future held. But Campbell had not been able to maintain the charade convincingly and he could see that the doubt had crept into her eyes.

  No matter now though. The short slot on the News had finished and she had not turned her head from the screen yet though minutes had passed.

  Asquith had contacted him earlier in the day to tell him what time to switch on his television and to inform him, almost apologetically Campbell had thought, that with the pulling of a few strings, the item had been tucked quietly away in the middle of the programme.

  'In what has been described as a significant policy-shift, the Foreign Office and the Department for International Development today announced that they had awarded three major engineering and construction contracts to local Malaysian firms for a controversial Dam Project in that country. The contracts, worth in the region of ?75 million, had been expected to go to a number of more well-established British based firms tendering and who had undertaken such projects in the past. The Minister for the Department of International Development Geoffrey Asquith said earlier this evening, that this decision will allow the full benefits of the project to be felt at every level of the local community.'

  After another minute had passed and Sarah's eyes re
main fixed ahead of her, Campbell jabbed the remote toward the TV set and silenced it.

  'How long would you have kept it up?' he asked quietly. 'What was the plan?'

  Sarah turned and looked at him. Her smile was uncertain and her eyes did little to mask what was going on behind them. 'I- I can't believe you pulled it off!' she said and then swallowed. 'Change-'

  Campbell waited for her to go on but she seemed to have choked on the words.

  'Change of plan? Tack? Direction?' he suggested for her. 'Little bit yeah. I had a real bolt of inspiration at the last minute.'

  Sarah nodded at him, her eyes still wide, smile still fixed in place.

  'How long then?'

  'Daniel, what-,' but he cut her off dead in mid-sentence with a look of cold, naked contempt.

  'How long Sarah? Couple of weeks? Months? What? I figured you'd string it out for a bit, all hugs and eyelashes and then maybe play the you-remind-me-too-much-of-what-happened-card. Something like that? Too traumatised by what we went through to be able to keep seeing me.'

  The smile was gone now and her mouth hung open. Campbell had to break his gaze off then and he stood and stalked across to the other side of the room.

  'It was an accident you know. How I found out. A fluke. I'd heard the name before of course. I mean, he's a bit of a name these days in the industry and, well you know, it's my job. I think I missed it the first time, just skimmed straight past. But it was the stuff that George and Slater got for me that did it. I needed something to convince Asquith that I wasn't mad - stop me if this is familiar - so the job I asked them to do, the documents that those boys stole were exactly what I needed. But his name was all over them too. I mean, not just his of course. But Ben Wishart just stood out.' Campbell paused and looked at her but her eyes were not on him but fixed somewhere in the middle distance.