by Philip Cox
‘Let me see,’ Tom said, kneeling down to look behind the desk. Sure enough, he could see a pair of glasses on the floor behind it.
‘May not need to pull it out,’ he said, leaning back against the wall and stretching his arm behind the bureau. His fingertips felt one of the glasses’ arms. He pushed his shoulder right up against the bureau, and stretched again.
‘Bingo,’ he said, as he caught them, and pulled them out.
‘Why, thank you so much,’ Mrs da Costa said, as he handed her the spectacles. ‘I am so grateful. You’re not in a hurry are you? Let me get you something for your trouble.’
‘No, no, no - thanks,’ said Tom. He was not looking for any reward; in any case, he had less than an hour now to get down to Balham.
‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘I’m cooking a pan of spaghetti bolognaise. I always cook a large amount and freeze some. Why don’t I freeze some for you, and drop it in later?’
‘Mrs da Costa, that would be brilliant. But you don’t need to.’
‘Let’s hear no more about it. I’ll freeze an extra bowl.’
She followed him out to the front door. ‘In any case,’ she said, as she held the front door open, ‘we’ve got cause to celebrate now.’ As she said this, she inclined her head up the stairs.
‘Have we?’ Tom asked, puzzled.
‘Haven’t you heard? Those deadbeats upstairs. They’ve gone.’
‘Gone?’
She nodded. ‘This morning. I heard a lot of banging and activity up there and on the stairs. I looked out and saw him - don’t even know his name - carrying boxes downstairs. Later on, I could hear a drill, and saw Mr Chin and another man working on the landing.’
Mr Chin was the owner of the building and their landlord.
‘I asked Mr Chin what was going on, and he said they had been evicted. Hadn’t paid their rent in months.’
‘So he was changing the locks, presumably.’
‘That’s right. Mr Chin said now he has to advertise for a new tenant.’
‘Hm. Interesting,’ Tom said. ‘Let’s hope he can find someone better than the two of them. Quieter at least.’
‘You’re not joking, Tom boy.’
‘Anyway, that’s good news. Sorry, Mrs da Costa, have to get off now. Have to go out later.’
‘Oh, right. Off to meet a girlfriend, are we?’
He smiled as he walked over to his door. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not exactly.’
As he shut the front door behind him, Tom checked the time. Six ten. Time to rush. He sent Amy a quick text to say he may be ten minutes late or so.
*****
At the CitiMarket building, Sebastian Fleming was standing in his office, looking out of his large windows. The offices outside were quiet. Most of the staff left at five, or just after. Carol said goodbye just before six. Very reliable and conscientious was Carol. An asset to the firm, and to him, personally. If only...
It was dark, and he watched the endless trail of head and tail lights out in the darkness. The A1206 encircled the Isle of Dogs like a giant letter U, and in the darkness it surrounded his building like a red and white ribbon, twinkling in the night. Over to the east - his left - he could see the illuminated dome of the O2 Centre. In the dark, he could make out the lights from the numerous boats sailing to and fro along the river, alongside his giant U. Up in the night sky, he could see lights from at least three aircraft. He gave a satisfied sigh: this was why he loved this view.
He turned and walked back to his desk. Picked up the phone and speed dialled 1.
*****
Following the London Underground escalator convention, at one minute after seven, Tom ran up the left hand side of the up escalator. Two schoolgirls were both occupying one step near the top, and Tom had to get past them.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, as he squeezed by. The one on the left reluctantly moved over.
Once out of the station, he looked round, and saw Costas a hundred yards or so to his left. He hurried across the A24 Balham High Road and up the road to the coffee shop. He looked in the shop front window, and saw her sitting alone at a table. Amy saw him arrive, and sat up. Tom got himself a latte and sat down with her.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘How are you?’ he answered. ‘How did it go?’
‘Seemed to go okay,’ she said.
‘Seemed? Go on.’
‘Well, I waited until the lunch hour when anybody who is anybody is out for a couple of hours,’ she said.
‘Wining and dining? Or just a liquid lunch?’
She paused. ‘Either. Anyhow, there were only three or four of us left in the office. A couple of them were on the phone. As far as I could make out, Lisa’s desk hadn’t been touched since - well, you know.’
He nodded. ‘I know, go on.’
‘I went over to it on the pretext of looking for some paperwork, and...’
‘And?’
‘And it was empty.’
‘Empty of what? Of what she was working on?’
‘Of everything. Except for pens, staples, that kind of thing. Oh, and a birthday card for you.’
‘A birthday card?’
‘That’s right. When’s your birthday?’
‘Well, not until February. Why?’
‘She had a sort of perpetual diary thing - you know, one of those concertina binders you can get. Under T was an envelope addressed Tom and a card inside. It wasn’t signed, though.’
Tom shrugged. ‘Weird. I’m sure she didn’t send one since we split up. Anything else?’
‘That was it. Apart from two keys.’
‘Keys?’
‘Yeah. One was a key to her work locker -’
‘Wouldn’t she have taken that with her?’
‘That’s what I thought. Maybe she had a spare. I don’t, but....’
‘What was in the locker?’
‘Nothing really. An old umbrella and a paperback book.’
‘And the other key?’
‘The other key! That was for a filing cabinet. As it was quiet, I was able to go round the offices checking the other cabinets. Checking the serial numbers on the locks to see if they matched the one on the key.’
‘Did you find one?’
‘I did - eventually. We’ve got a store room, an archive room, it’s called. It’s where we store all the paperwork for old campaigns. Ones that never got off the ground, or which have finished.’
‘Was it in there?’
‘That’s the weirdest thing. I found the cabinet. Just then I heard some noises outside - someone was getting out of the lift. So I had to get out of the room and walked slap bang into Fleming.’
‘Fleming? Who’s he?’
‘Sebastian Fleming. He’s the - the CEO, I guess you’d call him. Older guy, the top man. Only spoken to him a couple of times since I started there.’
‘Shit. What happened?’
‘Well, he said something like, “You seem to be in a hurry. Are you looking for something?” I said, “I was, yes, Mr Fleming. I was doing some research for the toothpaste campaign.”’
‘Toothpaste campaign?’ asked Tom.
Amy waved the question aside. ‘Just one project I’m involved with. You know, what flavour people like their toothpaste to be.’
‘Sorry to interrupt. Go on.’
‘I said somebody had told me there was a similar campaign a few years back, and I thought it might be an idea to look over the details of that.’
‘Did he buy it?’
‘Seemed to. He said old campaign details weren’t kept there, and to try the company intranet. Suggested I had a word with Gerald Smythe; he could steer me in the right direction.’
‘Who’s Gerald Smythe?’
‘Oh, one of the supervisors there. Wanker.’ She made a corresponding hand gesture.
Tom laughed; said, ‘And that was it?’
‘U-huh. I went back to my desk, and he shut the archive room door.’
‘So you didn’t get a chance to
look in the cabinet.’
‘Well that was the other weird thing. It was locked, but all the drawers were empty.’
‘Like Lisa’s desk?’
‘Like her desk. On the face of it, it looks as if all her things are still untouched. But in fact somebody had gone through all her stuff and taken everything away.’
She took a mouthful of her drink and looked up at Tom.
‘Everything’s gone. Like someone’s trying to hide something.’
Chapter Eighteen
Sebastian Fleming put down the phone. Thoughtfully rubbing his chin, he wandered back to the window. Looked round at the phone on his desk. Checked his watch. Thought for a moment. Then walked back to his desk chair, over which he had left his jacket. He reached down to his jacket pocket and took out his mobile phone. He sat on the chair and speed dialled.
‘John, have my car ready to go in ten minutes, will you?’
‘..........’
‘No, I’m not going home. I want to pay a visit to the facility.’
‘..........’
‘Yes, I know you did. I just want to check things myself.’
‘..........’
‘I’m sure they are, but I want to go nevertheless. Ten minutes, right?’
Somewhat irritated, he disconnected the call, then flung the phone down on the desk. Sebastian Fleming was not used to being questioned.
At six forty, the sleek black BMW pulled up outside the building. Smartly dressed in his driver’s uniform, John got out and opened Fleming’s door. Without saying anything, or even looking at John, Fleming stepped into the car. John slammed the door shut and returned to his seat.
The BMW purred away and headed for the A1206. After five short minutes they were in gridlock, at the point where their road is joined by the traffic leaving the northbound Blackwall Tunnel. Fleming looked out at the traffic, shook his head and clucked irritably.
By seven they had reached the junction where the A13 East India Dock Road joins the A12 Tunnel Approach and headed north on the latter road. Traffic was slow as they progressed through Hackney, Leytonstone and they were unable to exceed twenty-five until well past Chadwell Heath. Fleming checked his watch and clucked again: seven forty-five already.
Once they had got past the M25 the road got much clearer, and John accelerated to ninety. Fleming looked up from the papers he was studying.
‘Don’t go too fast, John. We don’t want to get stopped for speeding, do we?’
‘Right you are, Mr Fleming,’ said John as he dropped down to eighty and glimpsed Fleming in his rear view mirror. ‘Just want to make up some of that lost time, that’s all.’
Fleming grunted and returned to his paperwork.
At just after nine, John turned off the A12 and onto an unlit country road. He drove for five or six miles along a narrow, twisting route, only passing two or three vehicles travelling in the opposite direction. Soon he saw up ahead the sign he was looking for.
‘Here we are, Mr Fleming,’ he said, cheerfully.
Fleming looked up and grunted.
‘Miserable old bastard,’ John muttered through clenched teeth as he turned right off the road and pulled up at the wrought iron gate. He wound down his window and keyed in a four digit code on the keypad by the side of the driveway. The little red light on the keypad turned green and with a click and a whirr the gates slid open. John wound the window up and proceeded up the short driveway, turned left at a junction and pulled up outside a flat roofed, two storey building, the architecture of which John had put in the fifties.
John got out, pulled his jacket tighter against the cold and opened Fleming’s door. Fleming got out and walked up to the facility door. Then he turned to a keypad on the right of the door and keyed in another four digit code. With a click, the steel door unlocked. Fleming pushed it open and he and John stepped in.
The steel door opened into a long, corridor. It was pitch dark inside, but the lighting system was motion sensitive, so as Fleming and John walked along the corridor, bright fluorescent lights flickered and switched on, illuminating the corridor so that it resembled a hospital thoroughfare.
At the end of the corridor, they came to a large room, a kind of meeting room. The end wall of the room was filled with drawers, resembling a bank safety deposit box vault, only the drawers were much larger, around two feet square.
Fleming looked around the room, then back at the end wall.
‘Let’s just have a look at one of them,’ he said.
Thank God for that, thought John. Otherwise we’d be here all bloody night.
Fleming pulled one of the drawers open, and pulled out a large, square, grey metal case. The case resembled a toolbox. He put the box on the table in the middle of the room and opened it. Examined the contents, and gave a satisfied nod.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’
Fleming shut the box, replaced it in the drawer, and slammed the door shut.
‘Very good,’ he repeated and strode out of the room.
John looked after him, part bewildered, part relieved, part furious. What are you playing at, you old fool? You had me drive you all this way just for that?
John followed Fleming back down the corridor. Fleming locked the steel doors, and climbed into the car, this time without waiting for John to open the door.
John wasted no time in getting back to the A12 and sped southbound. An hour into the return journey, he pulled off. Fleming looked up from his paperwork.
‘Just need to fill up, Mr Fleming,’ he said as he pulled up at a service station. He filled up and leaned back into the car.
‘I was going to get myself a Mars bar or something, sir,’ he said to Fleming. ‘Can I get you anything?’
Fleming looked up and said nothing. The expression on his face gave John his reply.
Fleming looked up again as John returned to the car, finishing off his Mars bar. Shook his head. John started the engine and returned to the A12.
After a few miles, Fleming spoke. ‘I appreciate you taking me all this way tonight, John. Especially at such short notice.’
John glanced at the rear view mirror. ‘No problem, sir.’
‘I didn’t spoil any plans you might have had for the evening, did I?’
‘No, not tonight, Mr Fleming,’ John lied, thinking of Sheila, the little redhead at his local he was planning on getting personal with tonight.
‘Well, I do appreciate it. You’ve missed your dinner, after all.’
‘I’m surprised you’re not hungry yourself, sir.’
‘Mmm? Oh, I had a late lunch, and I should be home by eleven. Will have something then.’
John and Fleming said nothing else as they drove southbound back to London.
*****
Tom drummed his fingers on the table and looked out of the coffee shop window.
‘So what now?’ Amy asked.
Tom looked back at her and shrugged.
‘I’ve no idea,’ he said as he took a mouthful of latte. ‘Not at the moment, anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I think we’d best sleep on it. Separately, I mean. Oh, you know what I mean,’ he added, blushing slightly.
Amy nodded and finished her drink. ‘But you’re not giving up?’ she asked.
‘No way. For a start, the police theory and the inquest verdict were bullshit, as far as I’m concerned. I knew Lisa: I was married to her, for Chrissake. No way did she jump in front of that train. And she was definitely worried about something when she called me. Or at least had something on her mind. Something big. And now you tell me all her stuff has gone. All of it? I’ve worked in offices where people have left. Of course someone has to take over the job they were doing but there’s always something left. Not just an empty desk.’
‘No,’ Amy agreed.
‘It might be an idea,’ Tom carried on, slowly, ‘if I spoke with her sister, Jane. She’s got access to Lisa’s place. There might be something there.’
&nbs
p; Amy nodded.
‘Anyway,’ said Tom. ‘It’s getting late. Let’s call it a night. Like I say, let’s sleep on it, and talk tactics tomorrow.’
‘Okay,’ Amy said, picking up her bag.
‘Do you live far from here?’ Tom asked. ‘I’ll walk you home.’
‘There’s no need,’ she said as they walked to the coffee shop door. ‘I’m only five minutes away.’
‘If you say so,’ replied Tom. ‘Take it easy, and I’ll call you tomorrow. Evening, is that all right?’
‘That’s fine. Good night. Sorry to drag you all this way - for nothing.’
‘No problem. Oyster card.’
They looked at each other for a second, saying nothing.
‘Night, then,’ said Tom, as he turned and walked back to the tube station.
He crossed over the High Road again. As he got to the tube station entrance a police car pulled up sharply outside, its blue lights flashing and siren wailing. Two uniformed officers got out and ran into a newsagent's next door to the station. Tom, and a group of five or six others, stopped and waited. After a minute or so, the two officers came out of the shop, dragging a young West Indian youth back to their car. He was screaming something at them; Tom could not make out what. They bundled the man into the police car, and drove off, without the siren and blue lights.
Tom shrugged and walked into the station. Just as he got to the top of the escalator his phone rang. He looked at the screen: it was Amy. He stood to one side to let the people behind him get onto the escalator, and answered.
‘Hello? Amy?’ He had to shout as the noise from the street and of a train below made it difficult to hear.
‘Tom, can you come round? Now?’
‘I can. What’s wrong?’
She replied but he couldn’t make out what.
‘What’s your address?’ he shouted, walking back to the street. The signal got a little better.
‘One five six Devonshire Road,’ she said, and hung up.
Tom looked at the phone, then around the station entrance. Devonshire Road - where the hell’s that?
There was a bus stop just outside the station. He ran over to it, and fought his way through the people waiting inside the shelter to get to the route map. Fortunately the map showed the names of the streets. He looked frantically for a Devonshire Road. All he could see was an Old Devonshire Road. It must be that: it looked about five minutes away.
