“What kind of gift is this?” he muttered to himself, grumpy and full of self-pity, as he looked around the room in the pre-dawn darkness. But this thing drove him now. He went into the study, and closed the door behind himself.
“Deliver the warning.”
It was five thirty-eight in the morning.
He wrestled and struggled with this thing in his prayers for about twenty minutes, all that time spent on his knees. It took him several minutes to get up and walk off the fierce tingling in his legs as he limped into, and around, the kitchen. By six he was back in his study.
Taking a fresh sheet of paper he drew out a series of circles, and in each one he wrote a name: Alex, Conner, Daisy, Poppy, Lewis, Aiden, finally his own name. Spinning out from the circles were other names; “the Assassin”, the man who had murdered Bridget; “Martin”, Alex’s hapless colleague, and “the adversary” as Caleb chose to call him. Here was a man who had wreaked havoc two years ago and seemed to be doing the same thing again.
Alex had decided not to call the police after Josef had visited her, but she had called Caleb and told him her suspicions about Bernice, and the visit from Joseph who, by accident or more probably design, had spoken the name that she thought sounded like “Darius Lynch” during their conversation.
“Who are you, Mr Lynch?” he whispered. “And why don’t you want to be disturbed in the morning?”
He remembered Aiden’s comment: “Perhaps he’s a market maker of some kind…”
In Caleb’s imagination market makers were young men in their mid-20s with loud voices and even louder jackets. Could this man be like that? He also had a vague idea that the image was now dated, that computers managed all of these markets now, twenty-four hours a day.
So did the market still rely on people to fix prices at certain times of the day?
The alarm went off in the bedroom and he heard Mrs Wicks stir. It was seven o’clock in the morning. He was still no further forward in his thinking, and Dora’s appearance at his study door was a welcome distraction.
“Do you want a cup of tea, dear?” she said with a sweet smile and a knowing look in her eye, really she was much better than he was at mornings.
“Yes please, that would be lovely,” he said. “I need any kind of inspiration I can get to try to track this fellow down.”
“Have you tried doing a search on the internet for him?”
Caleb Wicks looked at his wife and smiled.
“Well?” she said.
“You know,” he said, “that was the very next thing I was going to try.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “I’ll get you a cup of tea.”
He fired up the computer and tapped “Darius Lynch” into the search engine, but nothing came back from that.
He tried all kinds of combinations of words like “banker”, “market maker”, “City”, “Lynch”, “Lynche”.
“Traders,” he mumbled. “Surely it’s all done with computers now, twenty-four hours a day.”
He tried putting in “daily price setting” and stared at the results.
“Gold,” he whispered, “of course.”
He tapped in another couple of searches and then he sat slowly back in his chair.
“Oh my Lord!” he shouted and leant back in his chair. “Oh my Lord!”
His outburst was enough to bring Mrs Wicks running to his study again, dressing gown flapping at her sides.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He waved at her without looking up, scribbling on another sheet of paper. Then he turned to her and smiled.
“I think I’ve finally tracked down our friend Mr Lench.”
“Really? Well, I’m very pleased to hear it,” she said. “Do you want another cup of tea?”
“Thank you, my dear. Oh, one more thing,” he said, “I am afraid I am going to have to drive into London today. I hope that when I come back we shall be able to do a bit of gardening.”
“Drive into London?” she said, staring at him. “Whatever for?”
“I don’t think I’ll really know until I get there,” he said.
“Oh I see,” she said, “it’s one of those trips, is it?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “I’ll get back as soon as I can.”
“I should think so too, Caleb, you did say you were going to help me in the garden today.”
“Nothing but this would stop me,” he said. “I have a little bit of business to attend to and then when I get back we can really get down to it.” He scribbled some addresses down on a sheet of paper in front of him.
“I really would rather stay here,” he said, “if I could.”
“I know you would,” she said. “But go and do what you have to.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Do you think it’s nearly finished now?” she said with a sigh. “All this present trouble?”
“I think so,” he said. “I think we’re coming to the end game now, but please do pray for me, I have one more challenge to face.”
She came to him and kissed him on the forehead. “Of course I will,” she said. “I always do.”
Caleb crawled through the traffic into London. It was an unpleasant trip ahead of what was likely to be an unpleasant encounter. He fell foul of the rush hour and the congestion charge, and halfway in, he witnessed a minor accident on the other side of the road. One vehicle bumped into the back of another, and the ensuing argument made the situation worse than it would otherwise have been.
As he approached the centre of the city the traffic slowed even more. It took him half an hour to drive the final mile to his destination, the London offices of Stern, Shearman and Partners, one of the constituent members of the group of organizations that fix the price of gold twice a day.
When he did find their office, he paid for and parked in a space some distance from the entrance before walking back to the small forecourt in front of the building. Two vehicles were parked in a small space at the front of the building.
One was a stationery supplier’s van, but the other was a Mercedes Benz SLK 350, and when he looked at it, he felt the hairs at the back of his neck prickling. This was it; this vehicle belonged to his adversary, and all he had to do now was get to this man, meet him alone and confront him with everything.
He had to face this man, to get his attention. He didn’t want to just walk into the building and broadcast his presence, and the best alternative he could think of was quite reckless and, for a man like Caleb Wicks, almost offensive. But perhaps, he thought, this was a moment for recklessness.
He walked back to his own car, and got into the driver’s seat.
There was no barrier to the car park but the reception door was clearly visible with an intercom system for visitors. Caleb crawled back up a narrow street towards the front of the office, then he swung the car gently into the parking area so that his bumper was pointing at the Mercedes, and then he pulled on the handbrake. His insurance documents were in the glove compartment where he always kept them. He said one final simple prayer and watched as the light of the morning sun shone on all of the expensive cars parked in front of him.
“God forgive me, and protect me,” he whispered. “Father in heaven, may your Name be glorified, may your kingdom come here on earth…”
He slowly released the handbrake.
“…may your will be done here on earth as it is in heaven. Give me today every resource that we may need…”
He put his car into reverse.
“…and forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who might sin against us. And lead us not in to temptation…”
He eased the car back, inch by inch, until his bumper nudged the bumper of the Mercedes. He thought he noticed the other car move very slightly, but it may have been his imagination. Immediately the world was filled with the urgent warble of a car alarm. The indicators on the Mercedes flashed, and Caleb knew that he was now committed.
“But deliver us from every kind of e
vil, for yours is the kingdom, the power and the glory now and forever; amen.”
Caleb moved his car forward so that, when this was over, he would be able to get away quickly, and he made a point of not looking at the building, he didn’t want to see if anyone was watching him. He got out of the car and went to the intercom at the front door. The Mercedes’ alarm had stopped. He found a small button on the grille at the front and pressed it.
“Hello?”
“Hello, can I help you?” said a distant crackling voice from the loudspeaker.
“Hello there. I am afraid I seem to have had a bit of an accident with the Mercedes in the car park. Is the owner there?”
“Who did you say you were?” asked the distant voice.
Caleb repeated his story, and waited. There was evidently some conversation going on within the office.
“I think that’s Mr Lench’s car. I will tell him what has happened. Were you here to see someone?”
If he still had any doubts they were now dispelled.
“In fact it was Mr Lench that I was here to see.”
“He usually has no appointments before eleven” came back the voice.
“Can you tell him that I represent a company called SLaM. I think he will be happy to see me; and he does need to see if there is any damage to his car.”
The intercom went silent. Caleb Wicks waited, fidgeting with his car keys as the minutes passed by.
Just as the whole exercise was becoming embarrassing, he saw a figure striding towards the door.
This was him, he knew it. Lench was lean, with the look of a man who was aging well. Caleb studied the steel blue-grey eyes, revealing nothing, the immaculate hair, just beginning to silver at the temples, and a kind of aggressive formality that would have intimidated lesser men.
Darius Lench walked up and looked at his car and then he looked down at Caleb.
“Who the hell are you?” said Lench. “And what did you do to my car?”
“I am the legal representative of SUMMER,” said Caleb.
Lench paused, and then looked at his car again, and then back at Caleb. His arm twitched as he tried to suppress a twinge in one of the muscles.
“Perhaps the name SLaM might mean more to you,” said Caleb. “We were called that once.”
Lench looked at his car again, weighing up the situation in his mind. “You have not damaged my car, so I think we can consider this matter closed.”
He turned and walked back to the office building. He’d gone four paces when Caleb spoke again.
“I am also here as a representative of Bridget Larson’s estate.”
With some considerable exercise of will, Lench continued to walk back to the office. Bridget Larson was history, officially he had never heard of her, and there was nothing to connect him to her murder. Again he heard the old man’s voice.
“And I am also here to represent Conner Masters.”
Still Lench walked on. Let this man throw as many names at him as he wanted, he did not believe there was anything to connect him to any of them. The mobile phone he had used to call Conner Masters was gone, and there was no CCTV at Conner Masters’ flat, so his visit remained unrecorded.
He was at the door when the voice came again from behind, one last time:
“I also represent Miss Alex Masters, the lady you assaulted in the car park of her apartment block eighteen month ago. I have to tell you that she is now thinking of pressing charges for assault. I understand you got a parking ticket for your troubles that day as well.”
Lench actually had his hand on the door, but now he stopped. This man knew about the parking ticket and his meeting with the two women. That was more complex, that would need some management. The time was twenty minutes to ten. He had maybe five minutes to conclude this matter before he needed to prepare for the price-fixing meeting.
“What did you say your name was?” said Lench, as he turned back towards this man who had hit his car.
They faced each other again; and in that moment Lench remembered the dream, he remembered the surgeon’s table and that the growth on his stomach had contained the faces of his enemies. He recognized one of those faces, looking at him right now.
“Caleb Wicks, director and legal adviser to SUMMER.” There was no offer of a handshake.
“Why don’t we sit in my car, Mr Wicks,” he said. “We can talk privately there.”
Lench fished out his keys and with a gentle “pop” the automatic locking jumped. Lench opened the driver side door and got in. After a moment of hesitation Caleb got in on the passenger side, and shut the door.
“Are you recording this?” said Lench before Caleb could say anything.
Caleb found this almost amusing. He wasn’t that much of a secret agent. It also occurred to him that his adversary, sitting just inches from him now, had an interesting smell about him, a blend of cigar, expensive cologne and something else, something just about to go rotten.
“No, no, Mr Lench,” he said, “this meeting is very much off the record. I shall not be relying on recordings for what I have to say to you. I will be brief because I know you are a busy man, and today’s gold prices will require your attention. What I want is for you to leave us all alone, and by ‘us’ I mean those associated with SUMMER, particularly my clients: Alex Masters, Daisy Masters, Conner Adams, Aiden Kennedy and Lewis Ashbury. Whatever you are doing please stop it, immediately.”
Lench burst out laughing and shook his head.
“I really have no idea what you’re on about,” he said.
“Let me tell see if I can convince you otherwise,” said Caleb. “Firstly, we know that about a year and a half ago you were involved in an incident in which you assaulted Alex Masters outside her home. We have two witnesses who will testify that you did this, including the traffic warden who gave you the parking ticket.”
Lench listened in silence, thinking about the time, thinking about the cost of the barrister he would use to minimize the fallout if these people chose to take him to court. Caleb went on.
“Secondly, we have this very unpleasant business with my client Conner Masters. Now I shan’t insult your intelligence by pretending that I can link you to the young lady who so meticulously abused Conner, and perhaps,” he continued, “in return you will spare me your denials.”
Lench regarded him impassively. The old man hadn’t really said anything to worry him yet.
“And then there was your own visit to see Conner,” continued Caleb. “Did you really think you could go and see Conner and remain completely undetected? In a way you were, there is no visual evidence that you were there, no one got a clear sight of you, the CCTV is going to see how an anonymous bearded figure in a coat and sunglasses, and even if we could prove your presence there, and make a case against you, I wouldn’t want to throw poor Conner to the wolves of your defence team.”
Lench could not resist a smile. It was true that the barrister he would use, if that became necessary, would tie young Conner in knots. The old man carried on chattering away:
“No, there’s no evidence that you were there at all,” said Caleb, “except for one crucial detail. All your planning, Mr Lench, was perfect, of course, but you took one action while you were there that you had not planned, allowed yourself one simple indulgence.”
“Your little games are boring me, Mr Wicks,” interrupted Lench. “Say what you have to say and be done with it.”
“It was the guitar, Mr Lench,” said Caleb immediately. “The very thing that you hoped would bring Conner down was, in fact, your undoing. Oh what a history that instrument has had! I understand you play a little yourself.”
“I am really not sure what you are talking about,” said Lench.
“Oh, I think you do,” said Caleb. The smell of the cologne was really beginning to irritate his sinuses.
“Somehow you knew that the guitar had compromised the boy,” said Caleb. “I have no idea how you found out, and it doesn’t really matter now, but I have to hand
it to you, you really did try to make the best of that information. For a while it looked like you really had broken the boy; and you quite rightly guessed that that would have been the end of SUMMER.”
“Really? I’m sorry to hear that,” said Lench, smiling slightly again. “So is that all you have to say, Mr Wicks?”
Caleb sat back away from the smell. At least the seats were really comfortable, much more so than the ones in his car.
“Not quite,” he said. “I think I need to tell you just a couple more things about that guitar; as I said, it’s had quite a history. You may not be aware that Conner took the instrument back to the shop he stole it from. Funnily enough he had just finished cleaning it before you arrived. The owners decided to get young Conner to sign the instrument and then they added it to a charity auction. With Conner’s signature on it, they were able to raise a good price for it, since Conner’s band are doing rather well, in fact their album is in the charts at the moment, and apparently it’s all over social media. It’s not my taste in music of course, but good luck to them.”
Caleb paused, he wanted this to sink in, and he wanted Lench to realize what he was saying here.
“Now you have seen this instrument. In fact, I understand from Conner that you even tried to take it from him. Do you remember? I was so intrigued by the story that I ended up buying it at the auction myself. An expensive purchase, but as I said, the money went to a good cause, and of course I wasn’t just buying a good guitar, I also bought a little bit of you, Mr Lench.” He leant forward, lowering his voice.
“The boy, Conner, had just cleaned it, and there were only two sets of fingerprints anywhere on it. An acquaintance of mine has taken a copies of them for me. I am sure one set will be Conner’s but I think the other set, taken from the bridge stock will be yours.”
Lench looked like he might deny the suggestion but remained silent.
“Under the circumstances,” said Caleb, “I consider that purchase to have been a bit of a bargain. I am sure you can see why.”
Lench stopped smiling and glanced at the dashboard clock.
“Do you have any more to say, Mr Wicks? Because your time is up.”
Cain's Redemption Page 26
