by Andy Bailey
“And you were calling after him. What were you going to say to him?”
“I don’t know. I think both of us may have changed our minds half way up the steps – he was coming after me and then decided to run and I was running away and then decided to go after him.”
“Well, how did it end up in Lewes – I mean, did he stop the harassment or what?”
“I left. I had nothing keeping me there really and I was always looking round every corner to see if Michael was there. It was intolerable. I left.”
“But now he’s here. Did you know he’s in London?”
“I had no idea, no. That’s why I looked so . . . surprised when I saw him.”
“I’ll bet.”
Susan surveyed this strange person before her and considered the 'facts'. He looks like a latter day James Dean but prettier. He has an illness than deprives him of the fundamental traits that make a human, apparently. He takes on the sharpest, roughest commercial lawyers in the capital and runs rings round them. He comes with no family or back story whatsoever, except bullshit. And now he produces some evil sex predator who can make him sprint out of a crowded Tube station just by looking at him, or the other way round . . .
Martin must have been reading Susan’s mind.
“It all sounds a bit mad doesn’t it?” was all he could say, with another wan smile.
“Martin, it sounds tragic . . . if only it were true ! I’ve never heard anything like it – not, in fact, since the last bloody line you spun me,” she could suddenly feel that the brakes had come off and the train was starting to pick up speed rolling down the hill.
“Mate, I’ve stuck by you over these last few months when the knives have come out for you.” That made him sit up and take notice.
“Ah, yes – you didn’t know that, did you? I know it’s mostly professional envy but the fact is you have riled quite a few of them over at Stone Rose and they’re saying it’s not right and there’s something creepy about you but, oh no, faithful little girl scout Susan defends you to the hilt. Even though I then get ridiculed along with you. 'Oh no,' I say, 'You don’t know what he’s been through.' But neither do I ! Because you don’t tell me anything, do you, Martin? I’ve told you everything about me; I’ve given myself up to you; and I know you’ve got this . . . illness . . . but you could at least tell me a bit more. I know you’re keeping something from me. Don’t ask me how but I know you are.”
By now she was pretty much shouting and, as she paused for breath, she realised that no-one else in the restaurant was talking and everyone else was either looking directly at their table or, at least, listening in, surreptitiously. As soon as they realised that she had realised, they all jumped back into what they’d been doing before Susan’s histrionics had overborne them.
All the time Martin’s eyes had been fixed on the condiments that sat on the table, like a battle line between them. And as she looked at him again, through the fading smoke of that fiery exchange, she thought she saw definite signs of anguish. Not that she was cheered by this. Oh no, for that would be mean. But still, there seemed to be a hint of misery in that otherwise impassive demeanour that suggested that he might be feeling an emotion. And that would be progress, wouldn’t it?
And then he said: “You don’t understand Susan – Michael Broad is a dangerous, evil man,” and, at this, he was staring at her, a picture of misery, his eyes edged with red and she thought he was going to cry.
“I thought you said his name was Green?”
The conversation stopped.
And then he came round – “What?”
“His name – you said he was called Michael Green.”
This threw him but he recovered.
“Michael Green. Yes it’s Michael Green”.
“So who is Michael Broad?”
“Nobody, that was just a slip,” and he suddenly seemed back to himself. He picked up his napkin, flicked it open, placed it on his lap and cast a determinedly casual look about the restaurant.
Susan sighed “OK, Martin. Have it your way. But just be aware – now I know there’s something going on with you and if you think you can’t trust me with it, you’re wrong. But you’ll find all that out in due course. I’ll give you time.”
And with that she smiled, flicked open her napkin and cast a determined casual look about the restaurant. Martin could only stare in wonderment and an involuntary smile snuck along his lips.
“So what’s with the mufti?” she asked breezily.
“What?”
“You’re in mufti: non-uniform,” and nodded at his shirt.
“Oh, yes. Sorry. I’ve been over at Barry’s.”
“Oh?” Susan raised her eyebrows.
“Yes, a few . . . things to discuss . . . about Crack Harbour.”
“Oh really?” Susan waited for some further information to be offered up but just got “Hmm . . .” as Martin scanned the restaurant, again.
“I thought that was all done and dusted, re-financing completed. Wasn’t it?”
“Yes – yes, it was but there’s a few loose ends to tie up, you know.”
“That require you to go over to Barry’s house of a morning. In disguise?”
Martin was actually looking sheepish now. Out of his comfort zone. Again.
“Well . . .”
“Oh, fucking hell Martin; I’m getting a bit tired of this – and this is work. I’m not the fucking enemy you know – we’re actually on the same side on this !”
Their fellow diners were, again, cocking an ear, gleefully – a double show !
Martin brought his head forward closer to hers and spoke more quietly: “I’m actually thinking more of your father, Susan.”
Now it was Susan’s turn to be taken aback.
“What?”
But Martin didn’t get the chance to explain.
“Mr Dash? Martin Dash?” came an authoritative voice behind Susan. She spun her head round to see three men stood in an arc behind her. Two of them wore suits, very like the men back at the office, but the other was a uniformed police officer and he took a step towards Martin.
Susan felt disorientated, as though she’d slipped into some sort of bizarre dream sequence. She spun back round to face Martin, who had simply raised his eyes to look at the suit immediately behind Susan, evidently the one who had spoken the question.
“Yes.”
Susan back to looking behind her – she was now in danger of inflicting irreparable damage to her neck. This man – tallish, 40s, with thinning black hair, combed back, a strong smell of a particular aftershave and (she noticed) short black hairs along the top of his hands and fingers – had now fished into his jacket breast pocket and produced a black card holder that he flicked open to reveal a picture of himself and an official crest.
“Detective Fallon, Mr Dash, from the Serious Organised Crime Agency. I’m sorry to be interrupting your lunch” – he looked down at Susan and back again at Martin – “but we’ve been trying to get hold of you and this is the first time we’ve spotted you. We need you to come with us, please.”
Martin appeared momentarily to be looking for an escape route but the uniform and the other plain clothes were standing either side of the table. Those who had been earwigging Martin and Susan’s earlier row quickly concluded that they had never before been treated to such entertaining fellow diners.
“Martin, what the hell is this?” Susan demanded.
Martin looked as if he knew, shook his head and shut his eyes to indicate that she should enquire no further.
“I don’t think Mr Dash would like us to elaborate . . . here.” Detective Fallon looked around the restaurant as he said this.
Martin began to stand and simply said (remarkably calmly, as Susan later recalled): “OK, let’s go.”
“Well, I’ll come with you,” Susan made to get up but Martin made with his hand to tell her to sit down.
“No, no – I’ll get in touch. Don’t worry.”
“That’s right, Miss – you’ll
not be needed, thank you.” Detective Fallon couldn’t help but sound condescending so, inevitably, he got a glare from Susan, which made him involuntarily shrug in apology.
As Martin walked away from the table with the officers, he looked into Susan’s eyes and smiled and she suddenly felt that was the first natural look he had given her, that the wee person inside that strange carapace had just appeared at the window of his eyes and waved: ‘Hello.’
As Martin was led out of the restaurant (and she saw for the first time that there had been a car waiting for them outside) Susan stood open-mouthed by their former table. She couldn’t quite believe this – in the space of four days, Martin had gone from Mr. No-Personality to gangland fugitive cum racketeer with barely a pause for breath. Susan, being the girl she was, had to admit that she felt a distinct frisson of excitement but then her mind was suddenly cast back to what Martin had said – he was thinking of her father . . .
Shit. Her father was Secretary of State and her so-called boyfriend had just been arrested in a public venue, frequented by the sort of people who probably knew who she was. As this thought occurred to her, she looked around to see that a number of the diners were now tapping on their mobiles and she could have sworn that one was surreptitiously videoing the scene.
Double shit.
But her father had something to do with this, anyway? She grabbed her coat, suddenly thought of the bill, realised they’d not actually got round to ordering anything and looked at the waiter who, however, put his hands up in front of him and shook his head, indulgently, as if to say: 'God no, you’ve nothing to pay – you’ve been worth it !'
Something told her to go to the office first.
17.
On the walk back to Stone Rose, Susan began to think about what to do. She realised that it might not actually be the best idea to walk into their employers to advise that Martin had just been arrested – and by SOCA, who were all about serious financial impropriety. It had been lurking in the back of her mind and she’d probably not really wanted to look at it but now she had to bring herself to rest on the thought: Barry Rogers. Barry fucking Rogers. It bloody well would be, wouldn’t it?
And one ugly thought sparked another – that was the link with her father. She’d never really known exactly what Jimmy’s dealings with Barry entailed; she only knew, instinctively, that they wouldn’t have been a good idea. And she’d tried to tell her father this a couple of times but he pretty much did as he wanted to, didn’t he? And, while she knew he loved her dearly, she also knew that she wasn’t going to succeed in persuading him out of misadventures when many others – rather more senior than she – had failed on numerous occasions. With this thought in mind, she was even less sure that it was the right thing to start interrogating Gerry Bild as to whether one of their clients had just landed Martin in chokey. She decided to simply go back to work, play it by ear at first and wait to see what she might glean.
She didn’t have to wait long as, five minutes after she had plonked herself down at the desk in her room and commenced to stare glumly at her computer screen, Gerry appeared at the door, red faced and looking distinctly out of sorts. In fact, his appearance suggested he was about to burst into tears. He shut the door behind him and she noticed that many of the staff outside were looking through the glass partitioning into her room, rapt in attention.
The thought occurred to her that the police may have been here first. And someone had told them where they were. Her eyes fell on Maisie – her secretary. Who had booked the table for her. And who now flipped sheepishly back to her filing when their eyes met.
“Have you seen Martin, Susan?” Gerry blurted out. He didn’t seem very composed.
“Err . . . yes, why?” Play it by ear.
Gerry stood for a moment, apparently unsure of what to say next. His fingers were limbering up as though they were about to have a crack at Chopin’s second sonata.
Finally, he spluttered: “The police have been here for him.”
OK, forget playing it by ear.
“They’ve just arrested him at the restaurant, Gerry.”
Gerry’s face went from red to white in an instant and it seemed that, suddenly, his bones must have turned to string, as he slumped into the chair by the door, rested his head on one hand and shut his eyes.
“Oh God.”
And then: “Did they say why?”
“No, I don’t know why. Do you, Gerry?”
Gerry opened his eyes and realised that Susan was scrutinising him. Something of the seasoned commercial lawyer came back to him and she could see him thinking now.
“They’re raising some questions about the Crack Harbour development.”
“Barry Rogers?”
Gerry looked at her again, uneasily “Hmm . . .”
“What questions?”
“I . . . I don’t know exactly . . . that’s . . . what I wanted to ask . . . Martin.”
Susan thought about this.
“Why? – what does Martin know that you don’t?”
No answer.
“Gerry?”
A moment or two passed. Gerry seemed to be steeling himself. “Well . . . I don’t know . . . that’s why I wanted to talk . . . to Martin.”
“But you must know something of what’s going on – Barry’s your client, after all.”
Gerry gave out a short, desperate laugh at this as he stood up and started shuffling against the filing cabinets. “Well, he’s . . . he’s rather more Martin’s . . . client . . . nowadays. Isn’t he?” A weak smile.
Susan could feel the brakes coming off again and fought to retain her composure but the sight of Gerry Bild in front of her fidgeting and squirming up against her filing cabinets, avoiding eye contact and clearly scrabbling for a way to save his own miserable freckled skin was just about beyond what she could bear.
She’d never had any real problems with Gerry and, to be fair, he’d always given her credit for work that she’d done but she’d always known, deep down, that he was ultimately the same as the rest of his ilk – basically interested only in number one, heedless of the collateral waste that fell by the wayside: spouses, children, subordinates and now Martin – her Martin – was to be cast onto the sacrificial bonfire.
Well, not if she could help it, he wasn’t.
“Martin’s not going to be hung out to dry on this – whatever it is – is he, Gerry?”
Absolute silence in the room. And what they didn’t know – hadn’t noticed, really – was that, outside of the room also, all conversation had stopped as everyone was straining to divine exactly what was going on.
“I don’t know what you mean, Susan.” Gerry was trying his best to look indignant but it came out rather more at the pompous end of the scale.
“I think you do, Gerry . . .” She stood up, wheels screaming down the track now, wind whistling through her hair. “You know who my father is." (Good God ! She never thought she’d hear herself saying that !) "I’m my father’s daughter and I will not stand by and watch my friend being sacrificed for the likes of Barry Rogers . . . and you !”
Suddenly Gerry was steely now. And cold. And he looked her straight in the eye when he said: “Yes, well I think you’d better have a word with your father before you go and do anything rash . . . for your Mr Dash.”
18.
That was twice her father had been brought up. She had to speak to him, so she excused herself from the office and, out on the street, phoned the private number that Jimmy had given to both of his daughters for when they needed to get him urgently.
As she stood on the pavement in the bright afternoon sun, waiting while the call rang, she looked every inch the professional young modern woman in her smart pencil skirt suit, black high heels and the large Jackie Onassis sunglasses she had slipped on. She could have been the typical high-flying young executive, beloved of glossy TV adverts across the western world, unburdened by the old traditional obligations of marriage and childbirth, confidently making a deal, tough
ing it out with the boys (being harder than the boys in fact).
But she felt vulnerable now. As the child of an eminent politician, she had become accustomed to the idea of actions having consequences, of being under scrutiny, and being judged – in fact her father’s robust attitude to adverse publicity generally had endowed all the family with a degree of nonchalance in matters of scandal and hype. However, Susan found herself disorientated in these circumstances – true, she’d never before been that close to an actual arrest by the Serious Organised Crime Agency and this felt like the sort of scandal that could bring down the final curtain on Jimmy’s tumultuous career, but she rather felt that her heightened anxiety was probably more closely associated with the Martin factor.
Her dad would survive (naturally) and she didn’t give a shit what happened to Barry – but she feared for Martin.
“Hello, Darling.”
Her father’s voice came through on the phone.
“Dad, can I see you?”
“Of course – when?”
“As soon as possible – now really.”
“Well . . . sure. But what’s up?”
“Not sure I should say on the phone.”
Some hesitation on the other end.
“Well, this line’s safe – just give me the gist.”
“It’s Martin. And Barry Rogers.”
Bigger hesitation.
“Listen, I was about to finish up here shortly anyway. I’ll give you an address – meet me there in about half an hour.”
Address, what address?
“Address? What address?”
“It’s a spare flat, not far from where you are. One of the perks of the job, you know.”
Susan could hear the smirk in his voice.
“Bloody hell, Dad.”
“What?” All innocence.
“Give me the address then.”
“23 Benbow Square. It’s just round the corner from Marble Arch Tube. A black cab will find it. Just ring the bell and I’ll be there as long as you arrive after, say, 2.30?”
“OK, see you there.”
