by Kevin Brooks
‘Perhaps they called in here first. I would have gone home by then. They might have forgotten some paperwork or something, called in here to pick it up, got delayed by a phone call . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe they were turning off the A12 to find a service station. I know it doesn’t sound very likely, but unlikely things happen, Travis.’
I nodded, accepting her point. But I still wasn’t convinced. And I didn’t think she was either.
‘What about the man at the funeral?’ I said.
‘Let me see the picture you took of him.’
I took out my mobile, found the photograph, and passed the phone to Courtney. She studied the man in the picture.
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘I remember seeing him. I wondered who he was. I thought he might be one of your grandad’s old friends.’
‘What made you think that?’
‘I don’t know . . . he just had that look about him, you know. Like he was ex-military or secret services or something. Did you ask your grandad about him?’
I shook my head. ‘He’s not feeling too good at the moment. I didn’t want to bother him.’
‘Is he going through one of his bad patches again?’
I nodded. ‘I’m sure he didn’t know the man though. He didn’t talk to him or anything. Didn’t even look at him, as far as I know.’
Courtney glanced at the photograph again. ‘Are you sure he was wearing a hidden camera?’
‘Fairly sure.’
‘Why would anyone want to film your parents’ funeral?’
‘I don’t know. If we knew who he was, we could ask him.’
‘But we don’t know who he is.’
‘We know his car registration number.’
Courtney’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’
I smiled at her.
She shook her head. ‘It’s illegal, Travis. Even if I could do it, and I’m not saying I can, unauthorised access to the DVLA database is against the law.’
‘It wouldn’t hurt anyone though, would it?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘No one would have to know.’
‘I’d know. And so would you.’
‘I can keep a secret.’
She sighed. ‘You’re not going to let this go, are you?’
‘No.’
She pulled out her mobile. ‘You don’t know I’m doing this, OK?’ she said, keying in a number.
‘Right.’
She stared at me, apparently waiting for something.
‘What?’ I said.
‘How are you going to not know what I’m doing if you carry on sitting there?’
‘You want me to leave you alone?’
She smiled. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ I said, standing up. ‘I’ll be in the other office if you need me.’
She watched me as I crossed over to Mum and Dad’s private office, and she waited until I’d gone inside and shut the door before getting on with her phone call. I didn’t know who she was calling, but I’d heard her talking to Dad once about a police officer she knew who owed her a big favour. But like she’d said, it was best if I didn’t know.
I looked around Mum and Dad’s office, remembering how it used to be, how it was supposed to be. Dad’s desk against one wall, Mum’s on the other side of the room. Dad’s desk neat and tidy, everything in its place, Mum’s a complete mess, everything piled up in random heaps. The window looking out into an alleyway at the back, the pictures on the walls – framed photos of Mum and Dad and me, a Picasso print, a picture of Millwall FC’s 2004 FA Cup Final team. I could see it all in my mind, but now it was all gone – either smashed up and broken, lying in bits on the floor, or just not there any more. Dad’s PC was missing, Mum’s laptop was nowhere to be seen, the desk drawers had all been emptied.
I could hear Courtney talking on the phone now. I listened hard, trying to make out what she was saying, but she was speaking too softly for me to hear anything. I looked over towards the window. The small wooden table that should have been standing in the corner beneath the window had been kicked across the room. The aspidistra in the brass pot that should have been on the table was lying on the floor, the soil scattered all over the place, the plant itself stomped into the carpet.
I went over to the window, stood there for a moment, then crouched down and pulled back the carpet from the corner. I paused again, listening to the murmur of Courtney’s voice, then I reached down and pulled up a hinged section of floorboard. As I’d hoped, the hidden safe beneath the floorboards hadn’t been touched. It was still locked, still safe. I stared at it, remembering the day I’d come across Dad opening it up.
‘There’s nothing exciting in it,’ he’d said, smiling at me. ‘It’s just boring old business papers – insurance documents, contracts, stuff like that.’ He grinned. ‘I told Mum it was a waste of money, but you know what she’s like. Always worrying about something.’ He winked at me. ‘Don’t tell her I said that.’
I wasn’t sure I’d believed him at the time, and I’d always wondered what was really in the safe. But although I knew the code – I’d seen Dad keying it in – I’d never actually looked inside. I’d been tempted a couple of times, but it just hadn’t felt like the right thing to do. Even now, as I leaned down and began entering the code, it still didn’t feel quite right.
But that didn’t stop me.
The four-digit code was the date of my birthday: 3008.
When I punched in the code, the lock beeped and a green light came on. I took hold of the handle, turned it, and pulled. The steel door opened easily. There wasn’t much in there – a couple of cardboard files, some A4 envelopes, a handful of papers. I reached in and pulled everything out, then sat down on the floor and began leafing through it all.
It didn’t take me long to realise that Dad had been telling the truth about the boring old business papers. The files were crammed with invoices and contracts, the envelopes were stuffed full of insurance papers. There didn’t seem to be any case notes. No clues, no secrets. It wasn’t until I’d almost reached the bottom of the pile, and almost given up hope, that I came across the photograph.
It wasn’t an original, just a computer printout on plain A4 paper. The picture quality wasn’t very good either. It looked as if it had been printed off in a hurry. But there was still no mistaking what the photograph showed.
I put the rest of the papers to one side, breathed out slowly, and took a closer look at the picture.
It showed three men standing together outside a building. They were all wearing suits, and it looked as if they were discussing something. One of them had short dark hair and a goatee beard, another one had a shaved head, and the third one was the man from the funeral. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind it was him. He had the grey eyes, the short grey hair, and – Courtney had been right – he did have that ex-military look to him. There were two vehicles parked behind the three men – a black BMW and a black Mercedes van. The registration plates weren’t visible. The building in the background was some kind of industrial warehouse. It didn’t look as if it was in use, but it didn’t look abandoned either. Grey brick walls, blinds in the windows, solid-looking doors. Locked double gates led into a small car park at the front of the warehouse, and the whole place was enclosed behind a high wire-mesh fence.
The time and date was printed in the bottom right-hand corner of the photograph:
16:08 15/07/13
Eight minutes past four, 15 July.
The day before Mum and Dad died.
I sat there studying the picture, trying to work out what it meant. I was fairly sure that either Mum or Dad had taken it – why else would it be in their office safe? – and I was equally sure that it was a surveillance photograph. And that had to mean that the grey-eyed man had something to do with a case that Mum and Dad were investigating.
I looked down at the pile of business papers on the floor, suddenly realising that when
I’d taken them out of the safe, I’d inadvertently turned the pile upside down. So the photograph hadn’t been at the bottom of the pile after all, it had been at the top. I thought about that, imagining Mum or Dad coming into the office the day before they died, opening the safe and putting the photo inside . . .
Why would they have done that?
There was nothing else in the safe that had anything to do with this or any other investigation. So what was so special about this photograph? Why was it so important?
I turned it over and looked at the back. There was a note scribbled in pencil in the top right-hand corner.
dem 5/8
last day 4th?
There was no doubt it was Dad’s handwriting – I’d recognise his spidery scrawl anywhere – but what did it mean? 5/8 could be the fifth of August, and 4th the day before? But what about dem and last day? Was dem short for something? Demonstration, perhaps? Demand? Or someone’s name – Dempster, Dempsey? And what did last day mean? The last day of what? Or the last day for what?
I took out my mobile and checked the date. Today was the second of August. So if I was right, and the 4th was the fourth of August, that meant there were only two days to go before the last day.
I put the rest of the papers back in the safe, locked it back up, and closed the hinged section of floorboard. I got to my feet, and was just about to go back into the main office to show the picture to Courtney, when I heard her say, quite loudly, ‘Who the hell are you?’
I froze, wondering who she was talking to, and then almost immediately I heard another voice, a man’s voice.
‘Ah, good morning,’ I heard him say, his voice deep and confident. ‘My name’s Owen Smith, I’m here about the insurance. And who might you be, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Have you got some ID?’ Courtney said.
‘Of course, just one moment.’
I folded the printout into my pocket and went through into the office. The man was standing just inside the doorway, and as I entered the office he was taking a business card from his wallet. He looked over at me, blinked once, then went over to Courtney and passed her his card. I’d never seen him in person before, but there was no mistaking who he was. I’d spent the last few minutes staring at a picture of him with two other men.
The man who called himself Owen Smith was the man with the shaved head from the photograph.
8
My mum once told me that you have to be very careful about judging people by their appearance. ‘For example,’ she’d said, ‘just because the man at your front door is carrying a clipboard and wearing a high-visibility vest and a name badge, that doesn’t necessarily mean you can trust him. Anyone can buy a clipboard and a high-visibility vest. And even if someone isn’t trying to trick you, it’s not always possible to judge their character based on physical appearance alone.’ She’d smiled mischievously at me then. ‘You only have to look at Courtney to know that.’
There was nothing remotely insulting about what she’d said. In fact, Courtney herself had said much the same thing on countless occasions. All Mum had meant was that because of the way Courtney looked and dressed, a lot of people – especially men – tended to assume she was some kind of brainless bimbo, just a pretty face and a curvy body. And Courtney was quite often happy to let them think that.
‘If they think I’m dumb,’ she explained, ‘I’m already two steps ahead of them. By the time they find out I’m not so dumb, it’s already too late for them to do anything about it.’
Courtney Lane wasn’t dumb.
She had a first-class degree in mathematics and philosophy from Oxford University, she was fluent in at least four foreign languages, and she knew more about almost everything than anyone I’d ever met. She’d also competed at Under-23 level for the England Athletics Team, running the 200 and 400 metres and the 400-metre relay, and according to Dad she was an absolute genius on the pool table. And that was just the stuff I knew about her. Courtney’s one of those people who constantly amaze you with the depth of their hidden talents.
It might seem strange that someone with so much going for them would work as an assistant for a small private investigation company, but Courtney didn’t define herself by what she did for a living. Working for Mum and Dad suited her perfectly. Her mother had been the assistant at Delaney & Co for years, and when she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, and it got too bad for her to carry on working, Courtney had not only made the decision to stay at home and look after her, she’d also accepted Mum and Dad’s offer to take over her mum’s job. It didn’t pay very much, but it was interesting work, and Mum and Dad let her take as much time off as she needed, plus the office was only five minutes’ walk from her house.
In the two years she’d worked for Delaney & Co, Courtney had become very close to my parents, and she was fiercely protective of both them and the company. So when the man with the shaved head began patronising her that morning, talking to her as if she was nothing, I knew he was heading for trouble.
I leaned against the wall, put my hands in my pockets, and settled down to watch the show.
‘I need to speak to whoever’s in charge here,’ he said to her as she studied his business card. ‘So if you wouldn’t mind—’
‘It says here you work for M & G Commercial,’ she said, looking up from the card.
‘That’s right.’
‘Who called you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Who called your company about the insurance claim?’ He hesitated. ‘No one called us. We pride ourselves on being proactive in situations such as this.’
Courtney grinned. ‘Proactive?’
He gave her a condescending smile. ‘It means—’
‘I know what it means, Mr Smith. It’s just that I’ve never come across a proactive insurance company before.’ She smiled at him. ‘No offence, but in my experience it’s difficult enough to get a reactive response from an insurance company.’
‘Well, that’s as maybe—’
‘What position do you hold with M & G?’
He stared hard at her, trying to stay calm. ‘I think it’s probably best if I speak to someone else about this. Is your manager available?’
‘What makes you think I’m not the manager?’
‘Are you?’
She stared back at him. ‘Your business card doesn’t state what position you hold. Are you a loss adjuster?’
He sighed. ‘Perhaps it’d be better if I came back another time.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘That sounds like a good idea. Let me give you a bit of advice though. Before you come back, you might want to check to see who Delaney & Co are actually insured with first.’ She passed him back his business card. ‘Or at least come up with something better than “M & G Commercial”.’ She smiled at him. ‘I mean, I’m no expert, of course, but if I wanted someone to think that I worked for an insurance company, I’d pick one that actually existed.’
The man glared at her for a moment or two, then he put the business card back in his wallet and said, ‘I’ll bear that in mind, Ms Lane.’ He looked over at me, held my gaze for a second, then turned round and walked out.
‘Well, that was interesting,’ Courtney said when he’d gone.
‘Very interesting,’ I agreed, taking the printout from my pocket.
‘What have you got there?’ she asked.
I went over and gave her the picture. She didn’t say anything at first, just quietly studied the photograph, and after a few seconds I saw her raise her eyebrows in surprise.
‘That’s our friend Mr Smith,’ she said, still looking at the picture.
‘Exactly.’
‘Where did you find this, Trav?’
‘It was in Mum and Dad’s safe.’
She nodded thoughtfully, then looked at me. ‘They were investigating him.’
‘And the man with the hidden camera.’
‘Do you recognise the other one?’
I shook my head.
She said, ‘Smith called me Ms Lane. I didn’t tell him my name.’
‘I know.’
She sighed. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’
‘There’s a note on the back of the photograph,’ I told her.
She turned it over and read the scribbled note.
‘Your dad wrote this,’ she said.
‘I know. What do you think it means?’
‘Fifth of August . . . the fourth . . .’ She scratched her head. ‘I don’t know . . . “dem” could be an abbreviation.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Or an acronym. D.E.M. – Department of Energy and . . . something? Drug Enforcement Management? It could be anything. And “last day” . . . ?’ She shrugged.
‘Who knows?’
‘Did you get anywhere with the BMW’s registration number?’ I asked her.
‘It’s registered to a company called Smith & Co Digital Holdings Ltd.’
‘Smith?’
She nodded. ‘The company’s based in Dundee. I googled them on my mobile but I couldn’t find anything.’
‘Nothing at all?’
She shook her head, looking concerned. ‘Maybe it’d be better if we got in touch with the police about this. There’s obviously something going on.’
‘The police won’t do anything unless a crime’s been committed.’
‘Well, strictly speaking, Mr Smith is guilty of fraud by false representation. But as he didn’t actually try to get anything out of us, I doubt if the police would be interested.’
‘So what do we do?’ I said.
‘We don’t do anything,’ she replied. ‘I’ll see what else I can find out, and if I come up with anything definite . . . well, we’ll deal with that if it happens. But in the meantime, you don’t do anything, Travis, OK?’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not.’
‘Because I’m just a kid, I suppose?’
‘You are just a kid.’
‘That doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.’
‘Yes, it does,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘All kids are idiots. That’s their job.’