Philian Gregory

by Simon J. Stephens

  “Welcome back, gentlemen.”, Carrington spoke softly to the two, “And, first of all, may I apologise for our crude methods. Isolated as we are, the equipment on hand is not as sophisticated as we’d like, although I must thank you for providing us with something a little better.”

  As he said this, he held up the pistols that had been retrieved from their visitors. They’d been marked by the acid but were in sound working condition. Something Carrington demonstrated to Hendricks and Powell by shooting a silenced round into each of the captive’s legs.

  “Sorry.”, he said, “Just checking they still work. Who knows, I may even have another shot later. That is, if you’re good. You see, I can just about get a feel for the pain you are in now. It must be agonising. So mind-numbingly agonising, in fact, that you’ll welcome that final shot to the temple. Meanwhile, let me cut to the chase. You won’t be leaving here alive. If the wounds that you are currently carrying don’t shut your hearts down themselves, I can assure you that I will be killing you shortly. Make peace now, if you think it’s worth it, because I promise you, I won’t change my mind.”

  Gagged as they were, Hendricks and Powell could do little but stifle the agony they felt, although hints of curses filtered through the filthy rags that filled their mouths.

  “I can offer you morphine.”, Carrington continued, “But I can only do that if you help my friend Philian here out. You see, I know that you killed Amanda. He certainly suspects it, but he is a tad more moral than most and I think it fair that you offer him closure. A confession gets you the painkiller. Were you the ones that did it?”

  Philian watched intently as their captives remained stock still. Then Hendricks broke and gave an emphatic nod that sent a jolt of pain through his body as his wasted neck split open some more. Powell nodded as well. Philian was satisfied at their guilt and turned away again.

  “That really is all I needed.”, Carrington sighed, “Although, I must say that there is a huge temptation to stretch this one out. Fortunately, Philian is a little more compassionate than I am. And a little more honest. You see, there isn’t any morphine. You won’t be needing it anyway. Philian?”

  The sound of two muffled shots echoed through the boat. The plastic sheets that had been strategically placed earlier caught most of the bone and brains that the shots caused to separate from their hosts. Carrington had offered to clean everything up. He’d also offered to perform that last act, but it was too personal for Philian to abdicate. Avenging Amanda was a part of it. It didn’t make him feel happy but it did feel right somehow. Carrington had been there before. For Philian, murder was new territory. If murder it was. He preferred to think of it as justice.

  Part Two:

  Chapter Sixteen

  The last of the apartments had taken longer than expected to sell. The market was struggling and financial caution was preventing many would-be buyers from securing the funds they needed to make the type of purchase that, not so long ago, had guaranteed a one-way return. In the end, a small price reduction and a series of serendipitous coincidences combined to finally allow the transaction to complete. As with all his developments, Bob Dexter attended in person when the new owner took possession. This was the flat that Philian Gregory had occupied. When he’d left, he’d made sure that Dexter was paid what he was due, but there remained a degree of mystery surrounding his departure. Not only had it been immediate and without notice, but Gregory had left behind all of his furniture with the specific instruction that this be included with any sale, should the buyer want it.

  Taking a last walk through the property, Dexter allowed his hands to roam across the residue of this life left behind. He touched the back of the sofa and imagined Philian Gregory resting there after a day’s trading. He sat on the edge of the bed, trying to get a sense of the peacefulness of Gregory’s sleep. That was what made it so hard to understand. Philian Gregory seemed so comfortable within himself. His hadn’t been a life of endless joy and easy success, but neither was it one of tragedy and despair. Dexter was fully aware of the wobble that had threatened Gregory’s career. He had to know about that period because full disclosure was the way that he operated and he had demanded the information from Sheridan Harper before letting LMBA have a chunk of his business. We all went through sticky patches. Breakups were never easy to deal with. Still, there had been something about Philian that had reassured him and he hadn’t suffered for making his choice.

  As he continued through to the kitchen and tidied away the last of the glassware that had been polished and shined by the agency who’d recently scrubbed the place clean, he ran his finger around a crystal flute and listened to its gentle singing. The bigger mystery surrounding Gregory’s disappearance was the subsequent news that he was being sought in connection with the death of Amanda Courtney. Dexter had attended the funeral, having been made aware of the incident via the local news. Not that he’d known her. His connection was tangential.

  It had been a grand affair, its attendance swelled by the ranks of journalists and those members of the public who wanted to share in the event and who were able to swing time off work to do so. Throughout the service, Dexter had repeatedly checked every entrance and exit, searching for a familiar face. He didn’t suspect Gregory for one minute. That might be a misplaced judgement, yet it seemed to him to be the right one. For which reason, he genuinely believed that the missing banker would be there. When the last of the mourners had departed and he himself had begun the journey home, Dexter’s disappointment at not seeing Gregory changed into a concern that the man might not even know that his ex-partner was dead. That thought disappeared when he caught wind of certain people in certain places who were seeking to make Amanda’s death more public. It made sense. This was a tragic and unjust situation, but it was also sufficiently senseless and violent to make good television. Still, the appeals seemed to yield no further results and now, as the Summer returned with a welcome, if unexpected, warmth, the public’s mind was on the more immediate concerns that the season of long days and cheering sun brought with it.

  The doorbell snapped Dexter out of his reminiscing. This was the part of his work that he enjoyed the most. He’d made a fortune out of developing properties, but he could easily have made a lot more. His work ethic was one of zero compromise. He was more than happy to eschew a little extra financial gain in return for offering a product that could fairly be described as being faultless. The approach worked. Not only was he able to command higher prices for his developments, but his reputation had become one of trust. That was more important to him than any quick-buck he might be tempted to make.

  “Mr Wan.”, Dexter smiled his widest smile as he admitted the new occupier, “Please, do come in.”

  Wan was an ex-pat Hong Kong businessman who had paid cash for the property. His full figure was testimony to a life of cultured excess and the pungent odour that followed him in was one of carefree tobacco abuse with just a hint of alcoholic overindulgence thrown in.

  “Thank you, Mr Dexter,”, Wan grabbed the proffered hand and shook it enthusiastically, “and thank you for being here to see me into my new home. I take great comfort in that.”

  The visitor was asked how he’d prefer to proceed, in response to which, Dexter and Wan walked through to the kitchen and allowed the built-in coffee machine to deliver a near-perfect Cappuccino followed by a flawless Latte. Everything about this apartment was about delivering the best. Only the furniture was something of a compromise but that would change once Wan was settled and Philian Gregory’s leftovers were moved out. They would stay for now. They were more than adequate and their presence suited the new owner’s needs for the time being.

  Several more coffees were created and consumed in the hour that it took for Dexter to run through the comprehensive folder that contained every conceivable detail about the property, its equipment and services and the detail of the surrounding area. Wan listened carefully and allowed the informatio
n to sink in. His wife would be following later in the year, leaving him alone to do something that he hadn’t done since his student days. Looking after himself was a surprisingly daunting prospect for this extremely confident and successful man. He’d need as much help as possible.

  “I trust that explains everything?”, Dexter closed the folder and slid it across to Wan.

  “I think so,”, he replied, “and again, I thank you for thinking of everything. This has all been a bit rushed on my part and I greatly appreciate your help.”

  “And don’t forget,”, Dexter rose and beckoned Wan to follow him on a tour of the apartment, “we offer a 24-hour concierge service, so if you need anything, simply call them and they will help you out.”

  It took another hour or so for them to complete the handover. Dexter used a Dictaphone to make notes of every request from Wan and assured him that these would be dealt with by the end of the day. They concluded the tour in the small, private office that had been formed out of an old utility cupboard and which was now filled to overflowing with state-of-the-art communications and computing equipment. It had been sparsely furnished when Philian Gregory was in occupation, but adding such equipment had helped secure the deal with Wan.

  “Everything seems to be in order.”, Wan concluded, “Although you can take this with you. I am a bit of a stickler when it comes to writing and I still can’t get to grips with these yellow legal pads. So very American and always too flimsy for a proper pen.”

  He reached across to the desk and handed the three seemingly unused pads to Dexter. He’d left them there thinking that they added that extra touch of professionalism to the images that had been used in the sales brochure. Mind you, if that was all that Wan had an issue with, then this would prove to be the smoothest handover he’d ever done.

  “No worries.”, Dexter took the pads, “I’m sure I can find somebody who can use them. Meanwhile, I’ll have our supplies team courier across something more suitable. Would a hundred-gram Conqueror be more suitable?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Good. Consider it done. Now, if you are happy with everything, I’ll leave you to it and wish you all the best in your new home.”

  They shook hands and Dexter let himself out. He was pleased that the apartment was finally sold and that it had gone to someone like Wan. Word of mouth was priceless in his business and Wan didn’t seem to be the sort of person who kept quiet about the most frustrating negatives nor the most uplifting positives. More business would come from him, of that, Dexter was sure.

  Later that evening, having confirmed that all of Mr Wan’s immediate needs had been met, Dexter poured himself a generous Scotch and settled in for a catch-up session in the oak-lined library that he referred to as his den. Since his divorce, he’d taken up British residency and had no intention of returning to live in the country of his birth. The kids were old enough to travel over when they wanted to and his ex-wife wasn’t somebody that he wanted to try and form a friendship with. His new home had been a secondary part of a much larger scheme that he’d been fortunate enough to buy into. It had been set for demolition until he’d set foot across the threshold and felt the residual peace that seemed to have become a part of the structure of the mini-convent that had stood anonymously for two centuries. He’d made the decision immediately and adjusted the proposed development to retain the building.

  Whenever possible, Dexter stayed close to home. His business interests necessitated too much travel and the inevitable chain hotels that this led to. He worked better in the anonymous solitude of his home. Everything he wanted at hand was there, books, a library of DVDs and a collection of old vinyl that was, bizarrely, growing in value every day. There were temptations to switch off as soon as he arrived home. He usually resisted these and forced himself to tackle at least a hundred e-mails every evening. What sounded like a daunting task wasn’t anywhere near as challenging in reality. Dexter’s experience was that the five-percent rule remained reliable. Of all the e-mails he received, the majority were unnecessary copies of copies of copies, that he simply had to scan before deleting. Then there were the ones that he called ‘closures’. They usually consisted of one-word replies of the ‘thanks’, ‘will do’, ‘ok’ variety that the senders seemed compelled to send to have the last word on a topic. They all went into the junk folder too. That left only a handful which required some thought and which were best dealt with promptly rather than allowing them to build up. His business empire was diverse and difficult enough to stay on top of without the threat of his being swamped by a build-up of electronic missives.

  Having completed the task for that night, he settled back in his chair and thought again about Philian Gregory and the mystery of his disappearance. Something wasn’t right about it but, with the flat now sold, maybe it was time to move on. The yellow legal pads were the only link to that distant relationship and they would soon be filled with the jottings of another person. He’d already checked them for any evidence, but he picked them up again and flicked through the pages to see if there were any trace of their previous user. There still wasn’t, of course, so he pushed the pile out of the way and prepared to sign off a couple of urgent memos that his secretary had left for him. Those memos remained unsigned. Coincidence and serendipity intruded once again into his life.

  The indentations left on the cover of the first legal pad hadn’t been visible before. As he’d pushed them away, the green-shaded desk lamp caught the pad in such a way that the faintest trace of writing became visible. He’d looked for this sort of ‘ghost-writing’ before but hadn’t considered that it might be impressed on the cover rather than the rest of the pad. It made sense. He’d done it himself so many times when he hadn’t wanted to leave a record behind. You removed the page you were writing on and used the cover as a desk. That was what he was seeing now and what he read after sketching over the cover with a soft pencil was both mysterious and worth further investigation. It didn’t really make sense, but it was definitely the work of Philian Gregory as it concluded with a calculation that equated the exact amount of cash that Dexter had been owed and which had been left behind in the apartment for him. He picked up the phone.

  “This is Bob D.”, he spoke to an answering machine, “Please call when possible to discuss a project. Any time, don’t worry about the hour.”

  That was all he could say. The protocol had been set in stone by the recipient of the message and any variance from it was frowned upon. The number would never be answered on the first call. That would have been impossible in the circumstances. The recipient was a man called Dave, no surname, and each of his clients had a unique telephone number by which they could reach him. That number was an anonymous mobile account, unregistered to any user, and attached to the cheapest of mobile handsets. Those handsets sat on charge in a secret location. There were fifty or more of them. You rang and then you waited for the call back. Sometimes it took hours, sometimes it took days. You didn’t mind though, because Dave got results. And being on Dave’s client list was a privilege that made Wimbledon debentures seem very run-of-the-mill.

  The call came back that same evening. Sometimes it worked like that.

  “Mr D, nice to hear from you.”, Dave was always cheery, even when the news he imparted would drive others to tears, “It’s been a while. So, what can I do you for?”

  “It’s something personal this time.”, Dexter told him, “May be nothing, but may help me find a friend. How’s your scheduling just now?”

  “Your timing’s good.”, Dave replied, his accent carrying just a hint of his East London beginnings, “I’ve just finished up on a big contract and I’ve been keeping the slate clean to be certain that it went off smoothly. Needless to say, it did. Nice little earner actually and enough of an excuse for me to have a bit of a mid-year break. Don’t mind knocking a quick one off for you though. We’ve had a busy and productive year together so far, haven’t we? I owe you for
the apartment in Marbella. You see, I do take your advice and don’t burn all my earnings on the nags.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”, Dexter laughed, “And I’m glad you’re free. Look, the thing is, this may be something and nothing, but if I give you a list of names, can you have a sniff around? See if there’s a connection at all and get back to me.”

  “Sounds straightforward enough. Anything else?”

  “Not for now. I’d rather give this to you raw. I don’t want to lead you in any way. You got a pen?”

  He read out the bare bones of the information that he was able to read from the cover of the notepad. They agreed to catch up exactly a week to the minute if nothing else came up and the call was ended. Dave had never let Dexter down but this was less specific than the usual work he tasked him with. You didn’t become a client of Dave by asking him to represent you. It worked the other way around. You were recommended by colleagues and Dave vetted you before offering you a contract. The monthly fees that were paid into an offshore account were enough to ensure that Dave could keep his client list down, but when you called on his services, he delivered.

  All that anyone knew about Dave was that he was ex-Metropolitan Police, had been injured in the line of duty and pensioned off unnecessarily when he should have been signed back to work on his recovery. The injury he received was more than physical. The bullet had hurt like hell and caused extensive damage, but none of that compared to the suffering he endured when he tracked the perpetrators back to people in his own office. They had enough on him to silence him. He had enough on them to finish them off. The compromise was agreed and he was given an honourable discharge with full benefits and an irresistible lump sum. When it all cooled down, he’d go back to get them. Meanwhile, he’d use the skills they’d given him for his own purposes. Yes, he worked illegally. That was for him to balance with his own conscience. His clients never asked and he never told. All they wanted and all they got was results.