Beyond Belief

by Mark Lingane

  “If you look here you can see some marks made on the edge of the safe. By the looks of it you, I mean I, would guess that it was a standard four-point diamond drill. But you would know that already, of course.”

  “Ah, yes. Standard four-point drill. Yes. That’s definitely the one.” Joshua peered in a detective kind of way at what he hoped were a set of marks made by a standard four-point diamond drill.

  “And of course you know what that means,” Na’hash said.

  Joshua didn’t know where Jeff Na’hash got his ideas about detectives from but they were obviously out of a book that mentioned creating the sun and earth and on the seventh day resting. Na’hash was the one paying, though, so Joshua tried his divine best.

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Hardly needs to be said.” Joshua laughed.

  “That’s amazing. It took me an age to work out that they were testing the depth of the metal on the door. And you walk in here and know it instantly. My, you detectives are amazing. Simply amazing.”

  “Well, we do our best.” Joshua decided to push his luck. “You can always tell these things by the angle of the cut. Trying to set up the resonant frequency of the metal so as to test oscillation depth. Quite a simple operation, really.”

  “Wow, that really is amazing. I just thought they would try and drill a hole and shove a small tape measure down it. Amazing.”

  “Well, yes. You can do it that way, too.”

  “And if you look here at the window ledge.” Na’hash motioned to the open window. “When I got here in the morning I found it open. I’d like to know how they got up here.”

  On cue they both looked out the window down to the busy street below. There were no nearby ledges to climb from, or along, to get to this window. There was another building across the road but Joshua thought it would take one hell of a tightrope walker to get over the distance. He looked up. There wasn’t even a gutter to climb down from. He was either missing something very obvious or a truly spectacular burglar, and part-time circus performer, had entered via the window.

  That was it. Obvious.

  Joshua extracted himself from the window and examined the entrance to the office. On the doorframe there were signs of entry other than key. Small scratches were plain to the trained eye. He walked back to Jeff.

  “Well, there’s your answer. They came in the front door and opened the window to make you think they’d come in that way. It must be someone who knows what goes on in this office. It’s quite unlikely anyone would break into an office on the off chance that something of value was here.” He remembered where he was. “Not much chance, that is,” he quickly added.

  Na’hash sat down behind his desk and rested his head thoughtfully on his hands. Joshua sat down on the other side of the table and relaxed.

  “I’m not sure what to do now. Not sure,” Na’hash said.

  “All I can suggest is you go ahead with your daily operations and my team will keep an eye on anyone behaving in a suspicious manner around the premises. I’ll set up some surveillance equipment and … things … and we’ll see what happens.”

  “But I’m expecting a big delivery in two nights. It’s worth millions. I can’t have it stolen. From my own safe, too. My own safe!” cried Na’hash.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that sooner? That’s what this is all about. They’ve come in to have a look around and find out what they’re going to need to rob the place. They were casing the joint. Now, that makes sense.”

  “Yes. I see what you mean. So if we’re prepared to defend the diamonds when the robbers come then we shall win and the jewels will be saved. Saved.”

  “We could do that.” Joshua felt uncomfortable with the word “defend.” It sounded too much like guns and shootouts. “Can’t we arrange for the diamond to be delivered elsewhere? Somewhere safer?”

  “Oh no. They must come here. They’re always brought here. The delivery people will think something’s up and not deliver them and then they won’t be very happy about that. Not at all.”

  Joshua thought for a minute, which was quite a long time for him. “Tell me, Jeff, where do you get your diamonds from? No, on second thoughts don’t tell me. I don’t think I want to know.”

  “I’m expecting the delivery in two nights at eight in the evening. If we meet here at seven-thirty we could defend them.”

  “Defend” was definitely looking a bit chancy, but there seemed no other way. Joshua agreed to the meeting time and rose to leave. As he was reaching for the door he stopped and turned.

  “Just before I go, Mr. Na’hash.”

  “Yes, Mr. Richards?” Na’hash looked up in a concerned manner.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know a Jude Kilby, would you?”

  Na’hash shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Should I?”

  “Not if you wanted to stay healthy.”

  Na’hash looked at him quizzically.

  “It’s nothing,” Joshua said and closed the door behind him.

  Nothing made sense. He needed more information. At the moment The Phone Company still seemed like the best bet and he needed a disguise.

  The phone company was located on the unfashionable side of town. It may have been fashionable once, but since that time they had built a dirty great monstrosity called The Phone Company, and that had been that. The only people who dared live near it were out-of-work musicians and those who had had their sense of style removed at birth. Mainly people like Damien, Joshua thought. There were a depressingly large number of them. The actual Phone Company was located on Stibble Road, one of the major streets in the city that had once commanded panoramic views of the countryside. Then someone went and built a great big dirty city in the way, but bit by bit so no one would notice.

  The front of the building was all glass and very impressive. So impressive, in fact, that it was meant to make anyone walking into it feel a mere barbarian. Its splendor and extravagance flowed over every surface, from the marble desks to the slate floors. Exotic paintings lined the walls and rare rugs covered the floors. Someone had sat down and said to the designer, “We want something big and impressive. No, bigger and more impressive. No, bigger and … Wait. Give it here. Like this.”

  Majesty and opulence felt humbled. Taste, subtlety and style had given up and left long ago. The reception was made to make you feel like a barbarian. To reinforce this, the receptionist also treated you like one.

  The modern pink sculptures adorned the rustic antiques. Monitors announcing the benefits of having a phone hidden beneath bunches of rare dried flowers rotated on pedestals decorated in the company colors. High arches were illustrated with, instead of the usual cupids, an array of company logos. Ancient banners hung from the ceiling at the far end of the entrance hall displaying the company motto: Communicatum est par populace. No one knew what it meant. Some of the more enlightened employees thought it might be some ancient language, long forgotten by a progressive society, such as Cobol. Fluorescent crossed swords hung all along the sidewalls, symbolizing the company’s promise to a better society.

  Many people had speculated about the reason The Phone Company was so designed. The only feasible response anyone ever came up with was that the only people who went in the front door were those who wanted to complain. The sheer impressiveness of the place was to make them feel humble, or possibly ill, and forget why they came there in the first place. No one else went through the front door. All those who worked there entered via a work entrance around the back.

  Joshua found himself approaching the service entrance in one of the nearby back streets. It was far too open for such close surveillance, so he went back to the alley entrance in search of a hiding place. He looked at the entrance for some time from the safety of a cafe across the road, and noted that it had a guard.

  A waitress sidled up to his table. “What would you like, sir?”

  Joshua looked up. “I’ll just have a coffee, thanks.” He looked at her nametag and added, “Ms. Conner.” He reached
over and picked up a paper from an unoccupied neighboring table, and returned his gaze to across the street.

  Another waitress called out to Ms. Conner, who was taking Joshua’s order. “Sarah.”

  Sarah looked up. The other woman was waving a phone at her. “Phone call for you. It’s your dream therapist.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be over in a minute.” Sarah turned and bustled her way over to the phone, wiping some tables on the way.

  Joshua turned the page. His coffee arrived and he took a sip. He peered over the newspaper he was using as cover and took in the sight of the monstrosity. An idea struck him. He put down the paper, stood up and took another swig, pulling a face in disgust. He walked out, muttering about the lack of good coffee makers in the city, and went back to the front of The Phone Company building. He strode forthrightly into the foyer, quelling his urge to scream and take up knitting. The receptionist was filing her nails as he charged toward the counter.

  “I demand to see the manager in charge of consumer affairs.” He stood impassively as he waited for her to reply.

  “Sorry. He’s not in,” the receptionist said without looking up.

  “Damn it. I have a complaint to make and I want to see him now.”

  “All complaints will be dealt with only if produced in written form.”

  “Well, who do I write to?” he said, putting a slight sarcastic tone in his voice.

  “The Phone Company.”

  “Would you listen, woman? I said who, not what. I demand to know who I can correspond with here.” He pounded his fist on her desk.

  With what looked like an almost superhuman effort, the receptionist put down her nail file. She gave Joshua a look she must have been sent away for a long time to learn. “I said write to The Phone Company and it will be dealt with in due course.”

  “Listen, lady, I will not leave this spot unless you give me a name.”

  The receptionist threw her hands into the air and let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know what you think we’re here for, but if it will get rid of you …”

  She picked up an internal directory card and waved it over her reader. The employee list appeared, hovering in front of her. She flicked through a few pages until she found what she was looking for.

  “All right. Rob Grim’s in charge of Consumer Affairs or, as we call it here, Customer Satisfaction Branch. Happy now?” She put the directory down, folded her arms, and glared at him.

  He smiled sweetly and said, “Thank you. You have been most helpful.” With that he stormed out of the building.

  Several hours later he knocked on the back door of The Phone Company’s service department. It was just the same as all the other government department buildings. Somewhere along the line some poor soul desperate for promotion had come up with the idea that this government department should be “vibrant,” “out there” and “in your face” so everyone could appreciate the effort the only company on the market was making in the face of negative apathy from the general public. The best way of doing this was to paint the building in some new, vibrant and out-there colors. This principally involved getting two violently clashing colors and painting lines around the edges of the building.

  Joshua knocked on the service entrance door.

  A face appeared at the door. It looked to Joshua as though the painter hadn’t quite worked out when or where to stop and had carried on to the man’s clothes. The man was in his fifties and looked upset about it. A badge sewn onto his uniform announced that he was, in fact, Arnie. He didn’t look happy about that either.

  Joshua had tried to look as artist-like as he could. He had donned a bright yellow shirt and bright purple trousers held up by vivid blue braces. Everything was splashed with other violent colors. He had a smock tucked under one arm, a clipboard in the other, and a paintbrush in his top pocket.

  “Hi, it’s me, Sam from the internal design department.”

  “Jeez, don’t you guys ever give us some notice when you’re coming down here? I don’t know. Just once can’t you lot follow procedures?”

  “I’m sorry, Arnie, but you know how it is. One of the big brass gets a bright idea for once and wants to see it done before he dies, which could be any moment by the looks of some of them. Rob Grim thought it was time for a new design for the building. So here I am bounding around trying to look interested.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. These old geezers sit around all day for years doing nothing and then they get some flash of inspiration, probably from sitting on the can with constipation from all those executive meals they have to consume.”

  They both laughed in the communicated understanding of the downtrodden and unappreciated working class.

  Joshua wiped a tear from his eye. “And then they expect everyone to just change, like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  They both look around hesitantly to see if anything had happened.

  “You’d better come in,” Arnie said, and opened the door the rest of the way.

  Joshua entered into the small service room, which owed a fair deal of inspiration to Damien’s apartment.

  “I can’t believe it’s another paint job,” Arnie groaned. “At least it’ll be better than the last one. Won’t it?”

  “It will indelibly be so,” Joshua replied.

  He flounced around looking arty and terminally creative. “I was thinking that if we could paint the building gray then we could draw some green and pink squares on it.” He waved his pencil wildly, and as casually as possible brought it down with pinpoint accuracy on the play button of the nearest tape machine. Its monolithic motors ground into operation and out churned the unmistakable voices of those working at True Shot.

  The tech leaped at the machine and pressed the stop button before it went any further.

  “Sorry.” Joshua did his best to look sheepish.

  “Oh, it’s all right. These things go off all the time. Strange,” said the tech, looking thoughtful.

  “What?”

  “Usually they only record an oscillating tone on these things. It’s odd that someone should record a whole conversation on one. Especially ten hours’ worth,” he added, looking at the length of the tape.

  “You know,” said Joshua, “this stuff has always fascinated me. Actually, it’s a bit of a hobby. We try all kinds of stuff down at the AmDram Club. We have to go to special studios down at the government station, but it never ends up that good. Where would something this impressive have been recorded?”

  “Hah! You think this is impressive? This is nothing. In the old days we could’ve produced whole radio series in here. Ah, those were good days. It just hasn’t been the same since we got that awful paint job.” The tech scratched his head and looked thoughtful. “Mind you, I don’t know where this was done. We don’t have the equipment here to do it any more so it must’ve come from outside.”

  “Is there any way we can tell who asked for it to be done?”

  “Well, it should be on the paperwork above the machine here.” The tech reached up and took down a manila folder. “It’s only got initials: D.R. That means it was done by one of the big guys upstairs. Those guys don’t have to sign for anything. They put down their initials and it’s done, just like that. I mean, we try to set up procedures around here and look what happens. You get these old geezers who’ve been here forever and who think they’re too good for the likes of us workers, you know, people who actually do things, and just expect to get away with this.”

  He threw the folder on top of the tap machine in disgust at the whole bourgeois class and the infinitely unfair class structure of society. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Mind you, I can’t recall any D.R.s, unless he’s a new old geezer.”

  Joshua looked at the tape recorder. It looked rather pathetic in an ancient kind of way. It almost belonged in Damien’s flat but only almost. Of course, it would have to stop working first. He peeked up so he could look at the folder. The initials were D.R. It couldn’t be Reaper. That
would make everything very confused.

  “When you say pink squares, how big are you talking?” the tech asked.

  “Oh, not that big at all really,” Joshua replied, distracted by his thoughts.

  “What about uniforms? Will there be pink squares on them?”

  “I should think so. I was thinking we could reverse the design and have gray and green squares on pink bands.”

  “Pink bands!” Arnie looked horrified.

  “Oh, don’t be a silly. That’s only for the girls.”

  “That’s all right then.”

  “For the boys I think we’ll have the same gray and green design on pink overalls.”

  Arnie looked skywards, sighed and passed out. Joshua made the most of the opportunity to have another look over the file on top of the tape machine and then made a hasty getaway.

  13

  JUDY HAD A PROBLEM. She sat looking out her window over the grand gardens of her estate home. It was very quiet in the house, the staff having been given the day off, and she was making the most of the opportunity to do some thinking. She knew Damien loved her and had never had as much as a single look returned.

  How could she go and ask him for his prized possession? Not only was it the only one in town but it also seemed to be his sole comfort. But how could she seek to deprive an old man of the one joy left to him?

  The rain fell, beating the occasional autumn-colored leaf from the grand trees and adding a patchwork quilt to the ground. Someone, the gardener presumably, Judy thought, had been raking the leaves and there were small piles scattered beneath the branches. The silence was broken by the occasional breeze that unsettled a few errant leaves, sending them cartwheeling across the grounds. Judy sat looking out of the great French windows and at length made up her mind with the help of the love for an old man and his happiness. She hopped up and went to the study to make a call.

  Damien reached across his desk and picked up the receiver.

  “Damien? It’s Judy here.”