by Nick Stone
‘What did you want with Dave Stratten?’ He had a Scottish accent, shorn of its thickness and much of its burr, yet still berthed in the Glens.
‘Didn’t he tell you?’
‘He said you asked about the Quaker building.’
‘That wasn’t what I was seeing him about,’ I said.
He waited for me to continue, but I didn’t know how to proceed. I’d answered without thinking. I should’ve lied.
If I told him the truth, it would look beyond bad. Here I was, wasting critical time playing petty office politics, while his good friend and top client was in prison. No way.
‘This a bit embarrassing…’ I began.
Now his eyes stopped moving and fixed on mine. I was staring into twin sinkholes to oblivion. The rest of him was utterly still too, not a twitch.
‘I was helping out a colleague,’ I said. ‘We’re a pretty solid team, the clerks. We always look out for one another. If someone’s overworked or on a tight deadline, we pitch in. A colleague of mine is working on a case, and David Stratten’s name cropped up. She needed to know more about him. I was curious myself, and I offered to check him out for her.’
I’d left myself open to questions, but I was on fairly safe ground. It was the truth, give or take quite a bit.
Sihl glanced over at the grey phone on his desk. He reached for it, then hesitated and withdrew his hand.
‘Do you know what KRP stands for?’ he asked.
‘Kopf-Randall-Purdom?’
He shook his head.
‘Kill-Rape-Plunder. As in: Kill your parents-Rape your friends-Plunder their pockets. That’s your firm in a nutshell. That’s its ethos,’ he said. ‘So you weren’t “helping out a colleague”, Terry. That’s bullshit. Because, if it even occurred to you to help out a colleague at KRP, you wouldn’t be working there. You’d be somewhere else entirely. The Samaritans, Amnesty International, Save the fucking Whale and Bring Back the Honey Bees while you’re at it. That kind of place.
‘So, let me ask again: what did you want with David Stratten?’
It was too late to come clean, and anyway, I’d look pathetic doing it.
‘A colleague is working on a case indirectly related to something Stratten did for the Daily Chronicle.’
‘This to do with Pepe Regan, the footballer?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So?’
‘We’re in the process of putting together Vernon’s defence,’ I said. ‘If things go our way in court, this trial could come down to brass tacks. Vernon’s character will come into play. The prosecutor has a reputation for curveballing. He’ll look at everything and everyone from Vernon’s past – especially dodgy associates with any connection to sex and sleaze. Stratten was a tabloid investigator.’
I paused to check how I was doing. I hadn’t lost him so far. Even though I was winging it, making it up as I went along. Even my vocabulary. Curveballing?
‘In order to avoid surprises, I decided to check Stratten out, to assess his character. You have to anticipate everything, no matter how small,’ I said.
Sihl rolled his chair back a little, folded his hands on his stomach.
‘There’s nothing linking him to Vernon,’ he said. ‘I employed Dave. And it’s all legit.’
‘I didn’t know that until this morning,’ I said.
He considered that a second.
‘Either way it’s beyond irrelevant. Christine Devereaux would squash that one dead.’
Sihl rolled himself towards the desk.
‘Stratten could’ve been the loose end that tripped us up. He turned out not to be, but better safe than sorry, right?’ I said.
That worked. Back he rolled again.
‘What did you make of Dave?’
‘Tosser,’ I said.
Sihl laughed. ‘That he is.’
I waited for the jolly cloud to pass. I glanced past him and took a hit of the view. It was a lovely afternoon outside. Blue skies, bright sun. This was my favourite time of all in London, not too hot, but far from cold, the sun out and people comparatively pleasant and laid-back.
‘Why did you bullshit me, Terry?’
Now I could tell the truth.
‘I was afraid this would look trivial to you – a waste of precious time, and our client’s money.’
‘It is,’ he said.
‘No, it wasn’t.’
I needed to salvage a little of my reputation. I couldn’t leave him thinking I was the weak link in the defence team, the inexperienced clerk who’d spent three billable hours on a wild goose chase for next to no reason.
‘Didn’t you find it odd that Stratten got robbed the day he was coming to see you?’ I asked.
‘That didn’t even surprise me,’ he said. ‘Dave’s burned more bridges than he’s crossed. He’s got so many enemies they’ve probably got a union. He’s lucky it was just his equipment they took this time.’
‘This time?’
‘He’s been beaten up, had guns pulled on him, axes aimed at his head. He’s been hit by cars, even hung off a bridge. I’m sure he deserved all of it. Like you said, he’s a tosser.’
‘Why d’you employ him?’
‘He gets the job done. And he’s loyal to a fault – as long as you’re paying.’
I thought of Swayne for a moment. I was seeing him tomorrow. Hotel staff interviews.
‘Stratten had information for you, about the Quaker deal,’ I said.
‘That’s right. But that was also the first thing Vernon crossed off the likely suspects list.’
‘Why?’
‘It wasn’t a high-value deal,’ he said.
‘It’s right next to the Olympic Village.’
‘And Vernon owns all the surrounding land,’ Sihl smiled. ‘That doesn’t mean he wasn’t interested in buying the Quaker plot. Of course he was. Always has been. He’s spent the last couple of years getting close and cosy with the Quakers. He’s been very generous to the hostel they run there.’
‘Buttering them up?’ I suggested.
‘Of course. Why else?’ Sihl said. ‘He knew that sooner or later they’d have to sell up. The building’s close to being condemned. Unfortunately, the Quakers aren’t just about money. They wanted the buyer to honour their legacy in the area, in some way.’
‘Someone of proven ethical character?’ I suggested.
Sihl grinned. ‘You’re a sharp one, Terry.’
What had I just said to deserve that?
I let him think I was as perceptive as he thought I was.
‘Vernon should’ve been a shoe-in for the Friends House,’ Sihl said. ‘Except they had an offer on the table from a man called Hal Peterson. A Canadian property developer. He’s what’s called a “flipper”. He’ll buy up a property, improve it in some way, and then sell it on for a profit.’
‘Exactly the kind of buyer the Quakers don’t want,’ I said.
‘Technically, yes. Except Dave found out that Peterson is a Quaker. He went to a Quaker school here in England. He was classmates with one of the board. His offer was £3.5 million, and he guaranteed he’d build a dozen affordable homes. If you ask me, the offer was way too high.’
‘What was Vernon going to offer?’
‘He wasn’t going to pay above 1.75. But he was going to meet the board in person and guarantee to build a new Friends House. Much smaller than the existing one, but they were going to have it completely free, right down to the bills.’
‘Very generous of him,’ I said.
‘Very smart too,’ Sihl said. ‘The Quakers aren’t naive. They know they’re dealing with sharks. But the hostel’d work out cheaper than a bunch of affordable homes.’
‘In other words, there’s more likelihood of it actually being built.’
‘Exactly… Well, assuming it was ever going to be built…’
‘Vernon was really going to sell the land on?’
‘Of course,’ Sihl said. ‘His share of the Kite is currently worth twenty times w
hat he paid for it.’
‘He was going to sit on it until the price was right?’
‘Yes.’
I wondered what Fiona Grant would think if she could hear this.
Bastards together, I thought. VJ the manipulator, Sihl the facilitator. What a pair. They truly deserved each other.
I kept my thoughts from showing, and just smiled and nodded.
I thought back to what Stratten had said to me before I’d left his house – that VJ was guilty, and Sihl knew it. I could’ve raised that now, but it wouldn’t have been the right thing to do. It would have prompted Sihl to ask if I agreed. He’d have been watching my every facial twitch for a tell as I answered – and he’d have read my mind; he’d have known.
Sihl looked at his watch.
‘I’ve got a meeting now. But thanks again for coming in.’
‘Pleasure,’ I said.
Well, the view had been.
He stood up to signal we were through. He walked me to the office door, making more smalltalk as we went. Where did I live? Did I go for river walks along Battersea Embankment? He had when he’d lived there, many years ago.
Then, as I was about to step out he clapped a fleshy hand on my shoulder.
‘One more thing…’
I turned round.
‘What was Vernon like, back then?’
‘When?’
‘In Stevenage.’
I’d been expecting a variation of this from the moment I walked into his office. I knew VJ had told him about me. Sihl hadn’t called me here because of Stratten. He wanted to check me out, to see if I wasn’t a serious liability.
‘He was my best friend,’ I replied.
39
Home, well in time for dinner.
I should’ve been happy, here with my family, but I was too knackered to appreciate it. The traipsing around had worn me out, and all I had to show for my efforts were more unanswered questions, a fresh barrel of doubts, and a blockbuster headache.
The kids were doing all the talking. Usually Karen and I took it in turns to referee the conversation, keep the volume down and the babble manageable and civil, but today they had free rein. They were going to be on their Easter holidays next week and they were excited.
Karen was as tired as I was. She’d had a hard day, getting the company accounts together for the annual tax audit. After the run-up to Christmas, it was her most frantic, stressful time at work, because books had to be balanced and bank accounts reconciled. I thought of Stratten being ripped off by those phoney tax inspectors and nearly told her about it – the ingenuousness of it – but I didn’t want to cut into what she was saying.
Dinner was one of the microwavable ready meals we kept handy in the freezer for when neither of us were up to cooking. This evening’s pre-cooked delight was shepherd’s pie with mixed veg, and a sachet of thaw-’n’ pour gravy.
Amy was holding court at table. She was at that stage in life when everything she said was a question. She wanted to know why things were the way they were in the world; how they worked, why we needed them, how we lived before they existed.
Our answers always had to be on point. She wouldn’t accept fob-offs or shortcuts, and woe betide you if your reply was patronising. I suspected she’d be a lawyer one day, or failing that a cop.
‘Daddy? Daaad?’
Amy was talking to me.
What had I just missed? I looked at Karen, who was looking at me. Amy had obviously asked her for something and Karen had deflected the request to me, as she always did when she didn’t want to be the one saying no.
‘Can I have an iPhone?’ Amy asked.
‘What d’you want one of those for?’
‘To talk to my friends.’
‘Don’t you talk to them at school?’
‘I’m not in school now.’
‘We’ve got a phone here. Call them after dinner,’ I said.
‘How can I do that when I don’t have their numbers?’
‘Don’t you have them written down?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’ve got nowhere to keep them. If I had an iPhone, I’d have somewhere to keep them.’
Karen and I exchanged a grin at our daughter’s logic.
‘Why does it have to be an iPhone?’ Karen asked.
‘Sophie’s got one.’
That figured. Sophie Colvin was Amy’s best friend. Her parents spoiled her rotten.
‘We’ll get you a phone, Amy,’ I said. ‘But not now. You don’t need one.’
‘Yes, I do,’ she said.
‘No, you don’t. And you definitely don’t need an iPhone,’ I said. ‘I don’t have an iPhone, and neither does your mum.’
‘But you’re not on Facebook, are you?’ she said.
‘Facebook? What’s that got to do with an iPhone?’
‘If I had an iPhone, I could be on Facebook.’
‘You can’t be on Facebook until you’re thirteen.’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘How?’
‘I can pretend.’
Karen suppressed a giggle. I didn’t find it funny.
‘Now, Amy, you mustn’t lie. You know that. It’s bad.’
‘But Ray’s on Facebook!’
Karen and I looked at Ray. He was the perfect picture of red-handed surprise.
‘Is that true?’ Karen asked him.
He couldn’t look at her or me. He lowered his head and scrunched up his brow, thinking.
‘How long have you been on Facebook?’ I asked him.
Ray stared at his plate and said nothing.
‘Answer your dad, Ray,’ Karen said.
‘About a year,’ he said, sheepishly.
In other words, for about the same time he’d had his computer.
When had he started becoming sneaky? And why hadn’t he asked us if he could go on Facebook?
I was angry at him, but not as much as I was surprised and hurt. I thought we were liberal, tolerant parents – the kind he could come to, talk to, be honest with.
‘All my Facebook friends are real. From school,’ Ray said. ‘I know all about the danger of paedophiles pretending to be teenagers, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
There goes our every notion of protective parenting, I thought.
Karen was dumbstruck.
Thankfully that part of the conversation was lost on Amy. Not that she wasn’t listening and trying to understand.
‘We’ll talk about this later, Ray,’ I said. ‘Finish your dinner and go to your room.’
Ray gave Amy an angry look and went back to his shepherd’s pie.
We ate on in silence for a moment.
‘So can I have an iPhone?’ Amy said.
Karen let out a short laugh.
‘The only reason you want one is because Sophie’s got one, right?’ I said.
She nodded.
‘Well, that’s the worst reason to want something, Amy – because someone else has got it,’ I said. ‘Besides, Sophie’s not going to be your friend for ever. In fact, the friends you have now you won’t have in a couple of years. None of them. You know why? Because friendships never last. OK?’
Amy didn’t answer. She stared at me across the table, looked into me without blinking.
Her eyes slowly silvered and her face reddened from the cheeks out. Then her face crumpled and creased and she closed her eyes and let out a long, braying sob. Moments later she was bawling loudly and uncontrollably.
Karen got up and led her out of the room, turning back to glower at me as she left.
Ray quickly finished his dinner and went to his room without a word.
I sat at the table with the dirty plates. Amy was still crying.
I hadn’t meant to hurt her. I felt terrible.
But I’d meant every word of it, just the same.
40
The next morning I met Andy Swayne in the lobby of the Blenheim-Strand. He was sitting at a table close to the r
eception desk, halfway through a family-sized coffee pot.
Though we were here officially and legally this time, he hadn’t got the memo. He was dressed in yet another of his off-the-peg combos – three different shades of man-made blue, his tie a striped medley of the same.
He flashed a supercilious grin when he saw me.
First things first.
‘So you know about Cambridge?’ I said.
‘And a very good morning to you too,’ he said.
I’d considered avoiding the subject altogether, but I knew Swayne had an agenda and I wanted to know what it was.
‘Are you going to make this a problem?’ I asked him.
‘No more than you already have.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Give someone your National Insurance number, you hand them your life on a plate.’
‘So they know at KRP?’
‘You think a company like that doesn’t do background checks?’ he said. ‘Usually happens between first and second interview.’
I’d never had a second interview, let alone a first – at least not a formal one. I’d come in as a temp. I’d met Janet, talked over the basics of the job and that was it. No tough questions. A handshake and I was straight in, started the same morning.
Swayne had been fishing. No more than that.
‘Did Sid Kopf get you to investigate me?’ I asked him.
‘No. But be sure he has.’
‘Why am I still here, then?’
‘Must be your charming personality,’ Swayne said and flashed me a punch-magnet of a smirk.
We were here to interview staff who’d given witness statements, and to tour all the places VJ had been, starting with Suite 18 and finishing at the Circle bar on the eleventh floor. This was standard practice for defence and prosecution, getting a feel for the crime scene, visualising their respective cases.
Our guide would be the hotel’s head of security. He’d been the third person to see the body, after the maids. And he’d called the police.
He arrived on time, greeting Swayne first.
‘Hola, Andy. ¿Cómo estás?’
‘Muy bien, Albert,’ Swayne smiled, standing up to shake his hand.
Swayne then introduced us. His name was Albert Torena.
‘Thank you very much for your help, Mr Torena,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘I know you’re very busy, so we’ll try and get this done as quickly as possible.’
