The Concrete Ceiling

by Peter Rowlands

  I set about the task with a sigh.

  * * *

  Given that Graham Bulwell, like me, had been questioned in connection with Rob Openshaw’s murder, I wondered if his book had been suspended in the same way as mine. I opened his Endpaper book page, and there was his book, with its irritating front cover still beaming out at me.

  All the same, he might do something that would invoke a ban. I thought I should warn him, so I gave him a call. The next thing I knew, I found myself being talked into visiting him in Clapham.

  I’d half-expected him to be celebrating his release from custody, but in fact he was looking decidedly grim. Ushering me into his lounge, he said, “So we’ve both been arrested and lived to tell the tale.”

  “You don’t seem very happy about being out again.”

  “I’m not. I can’t have this kind of thing hanging over my head.”

  “You couldn’t have done this. They’ll work it out for themselves in the end.”

  “I appreciate your vote of confidence.” He surprised me with a smile – hesitant, yet remarkably warm. It made me feel guilty about my reluctance to come over to his house. I wondered how I’d managed to miss it on the occasions when we’d met before.

  I asked him, “How did it go with you?”

  He waved me over to an armchair and sat down opposite me with a sigh. “The police were determined that I’d killed that man,” he said disconsolately. “They only let me go because they couldn’t find enough evidence.”

  Cautiously I said, “You went to confront Rob Openshaw at his house. You never told me that. And you didn’t tell the police about it either. It can’t have inspired much confidence.”

  He gave me an apologetic glance. “I know, Mike, and I’m sorry. But you were very insistent that I shouldn’t approach our Mr Openshaw. I didn’t want you to think I was going behind your back.”

  “But then you lied to the police. You told them you were at a reading group meeting when you were actually on your way to Islington.”

  He raised his hands in appeal. “I know I did. It was instinctive. I just didn’t want them getting the wrong idea.”

  “But how did you know the woman running that reading group meeting would back you up?”

  He looked embarrassed. “It was a lucky coincidence. I’d arranged to meet Matilda for coffee in town on the day the police interviewed me. So I was able to speak to her before they did. I simply asked her if she could be a bit vague about which day I was with her.”

  “And she was willing to go along with that?”

  “She’s become a good friend.”

  I nodded as comprehension dawned.

  He went on, “I knew the police might eventually pick me up in Islington on CCTV, but I was hoping I could head them off before they became interested enough to look.”

  There seemed to be a subtext here. I said, “If you had nothing to hide, why did you need to head them off? What difference did it make?”

  He glanced around the room as if suddenly cornered, then seemed to realise there was no escaping the question. He drew a deep breath, then blew out his cheeks. He said, “OK. I was in trouble with the police once before, many years ago. It wasn’t in relation to a murder or anything like that, but I knew they’d jump in with both feet as soon as they made the connection. I was hoping I could avoid all that.” He shrugged. “And if my story was blown, at least I’d bought myself some breathing space to line up my solicitor and find out where I stood.”

  “I would imagine that lying to the police didn’t go down too well with them.”

  He gave a bleak laugh. “Not lying, just having a lapse of memory. Quite different.”

  I nodded and gave him a quizzical look. “Dare I ask what that other police business was about?”

  “If you don’t mind, Mike, I really don’t want to go into the details. It’s water under the bridge, and it had nothing to do with anything that’s come up in regard to Rob Openshaw, I promise you.”

  “Fair enough. I won’t pry.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  He asked me if I thought I would be able to get Endpaper to revoke the ban on my book.

  “I’m submitting an appeal. I just have to hope they agree that I’m a reformed character.”

  “They shouldn’t have such power over authors. It’s not fair.”

  I agreed with him, but I merely shrugged. “Online publishers offer people like us enormous opportunities. We can take advantage, but I guess we have to play by their rules.”

  Part 2

  Los Angeles

  Chapter 41

  A hazy afternoon sun hung over LA International Airport as my plane completed its descent. I felt a surge of anticipation. This trip was almost like a holiday. Anxieties about Rob Openshaw had lost their grip with each passing mile. So had the antics of Nick Hathaway. As for my thwarted pursuit of an exposé on Antler Logistics, it seemed much more trivial from this distance. At seven miles high, the terrestrial world had taken on a dreamlike quality, and the jolt of touching down seemed to herald a new reality.

  But as I navigated my way through immigration control and baggage reclaim, a different kind of nervousness took hold. I was about to see Ashley for the first time in many months, and try as I might, I couldn’t conjure up the spirit of our relationship from before. Our time together seemed like something from long ago.

  Almost before I was prepared, there she was – waiting for me at the exit from the customs area, wearing a shapely jade-green knee-length skirt and a sculpted white top. Her face glowed with a deep tan.

  “Mr Stanhope!” She gave me a confident smile, and we nearly collided as she reached out to help me with my baggage. In the kerfuffle, the opportunity for a hug or a kiss was lost, and instead I found myself following her on the trek to the short-term car park.

  She paused at the car, put down my cabin bag, pulled me towards her and gave me a brief kiss on the lips. She said, “Welcome to LA, Mr Stanhope!”

  I smiled. “Thank you kindly.”

  Her briskly confident driving was impressive. Once we’d hit the freeway I said, “This is the girl who never wanted to move away from Cornwall? You’re driving as if you were born here. What have you done with the real Ashley Renwick?”

  She gave me an easy smile. “There’s a steep learning curve at the beginning, but then everything starts to fall into place. Once you get the hang of this place, the lifestyle is great.”

  It suddenly struck me that her slight Cornish accent had been overlaid with hints of American. I must have been ignoring this during our Skype calls, or filtering it out. Here in person, it was unmistakable. Could such a thing really have happened in barely nine months?

  The traffic increased in density as we headed in towards Los Angeles, and we gradually slowed to a crawl. Ashley turned to me. “I’m afraid Uncle Bob screwed up the timing of your trip. Did he tell you?”

  “Uncle Bob” was her familiar way of referring to Bob Latimer, her boss back in Cornwall and the man who had sent me here. I said, “No, what do you mean?”

  “I can only spend one day with you, then I have to fly to Chicago for four days. There’s a big national logistics convention happening there. He knows about it.”

  “Oh.” I did some fast thinking. “Couldn’t you have told me this sooner? Maybe I could have re-timed my visit.”

  “It was only decided yesterday. One of my colleagues is off sick.”

  “You could have called me or texted me.”

  “I didn’t want to throw a dampener on your trip.”

  I turned to look at her, reflecting that she’d just done precisely that. A little half-heartedly I said, “Maybe I could come with you?”

  She shook her head. “Doesn’t work. Your return flight is in four days’ time. You’d spend half a day flying to Chicago, then another half-day flying back here, and I’d be busy for the one day you were there.”

  I knew Ashley well enough to read her intentions, and I could see that she’d alr
eady ruled out any possibility of changing our plans. All the same, I felt I had to show willing. I said, “Maybe I could alter my return flight? Catch a plane back to the UK from Chicago?”

  “It’s a nice idea, Mike, but it still doesn’t work. You’d have to pick up the extra cost yourself. It would be like paying for your whole round trip to the US. And I wouldn’t really be around, so what would be the point?”

  She had an answer for everything. I couldn’t fault her, yet in an uncharitable corner of my mind I felt she was slightly relieved to be limiting the time she would spend in my company. It wasn’t a good start.

  * * *

  That evening we went out to a restaurant in downtown Pasadena. Jet lag was kicking in, but the lively atmosphere of the place kept me awake. While we were waiting for our fillet steaks Ashley said, “How’s the Smart Headings work coming along?”

  “It keeps me busy.”

  “So you haven’t started enjoying it a bit more, now that you’ve got stuck into it?”

  I smiled. “You know me too well.”

  She looked at me judiciously. “Bob Latimer would have given you a full-time management job long ago if you’d pushed him on it.” I saw both reproach and a challenge in her face.

  This possibility had been a bone of contention between us. I knew Bob liked me, but we’d had our ups and downs, and in any case I wasn’t ready to abandon the freedom of my journalistic life and accept a full-time job in Cornwall. I said, “Maybe, but I’m not sure if it would have worked out.”

  “I know that.” She looked down for a moment, then brightened. “I should have asked about this business with the police. What’s the latest?”

  “For the time being I’m in the clear. They arrested that other writer I told you about, Graham Bulwell, but then they let him go as well. I think we’re both still regarded as suspects, but for now the investigation seems to have stalled.”

  “So what you need is for them to find out who really did it.”

  “That would certainly help.”

  She said, “It’s a miracle that you’ve been admitted to the US at all after that business. I’ve heard of people being turned away if they’ve ever been arrested, even if they weren’t charged with anything.”

  “The gods must be smiling on me.”

  “And how.”

  “To be truthful, I had a very wise lawyer on my side. He helped me through the bureaucracy. Just don’t ask me how I’m ever going to afford to pay him.”

  Our steaks arrived. As we ate, Ashley asked, “What will you do while you’re here? You could fit in some serious sightseeing.”

  “Not so much fun on my own.” I heard the disconsolate tone in my voice, so I quickly added, “Anyway, tomorrow I need to come in to Maintown Logistics with you and do some interviews and photography. That’s the whole point of the trip.”

  “All organised. I’ll be doing the introductions.” She put down her knife and fork with emphasis, then gave me a wry look. “That still leaves you plenty of time for a visit to Disneyland.”

  Chapter 42

  Maintown’s headquarters were in an industrial area off the San Gabriel freeway, east of downtown Los Angeles. I had to defy jet lag and get up soon after six in the morning in order to accompany Ashley to work.

  The depot turned out to be a small one. A few trucks and trailers were based there, but I discovered it was mainly an administration centre. The company had other, much more extensive premises elsewhere in the area and in other states.

  I was greeted warmly by everyone I met, and I soon realised Ashley was a popular figure in the office, just as she was in Cornwall. I asked a lot of questions, wrote down a lot of answers, and shot a lot of photographs indoors and out. I felt I was getting the measure of the company, which did the same kind of work as Latimer Logistics did in the UK – warehousing and general transportation, plus home shopping deliveries.

  At lunchtime we broke for sandwiches in the board room, where we were joined by Sal Rodriguez, Ashley’s immediate boss. He was a stocky, olive-skinned man in his early forties with curly black hair and a surprisingly smooth complexion.

  “Home shopping isn’t helping our small towns,” he said. “Some of them were dying on their feet even before the internet came along. In a lot of places, the ‘buy’ button put the final nail in their coffin.”

  “The same thing is happening in the UK.”

  “So I hear.”

  “But it hasn’t hurt you at Maintown?”

  “Quite the opposite. Our home shopping fulfilment division is growing every month.”

  As we chatted, I picked up more details of how it was that Ashley’s stay here had been extended for so long. “It was originally planned as a three-month gig,” Sal explained. “Our own marketing guy was going to take a short-term sabbatical – do you have that word in England?”

  I nodded.

  “But just before Ashley arrived he told us he had some health issues, and it was clear he would never come back. We extended her stay to six months – ” he swivelled round to grin at her – “and six months turned into a year. In short, she made herself indispensable.”

  “It’s helped Bob Latimer to have me here,” she added. “I’m his feet on the ground, so I do two jobs really – marketing for Maintown, and liaison for Latimers.”

  “Very versatile lady,” Sal commented.

  “I can stay into next year, but eventually my visa will run out and I’ll have to come back to the UK.”

  “Unless some guy persuades you to marry him.” Sal accompanied this with another grin.

  “Well it certainly won’t be you.” She gave him an ironic look. “I think your wife might have something to say about that.”

  Their easy familiarity was engaging, but I felt like an outsider looking in. I had no sense of any romantic attachment between them, but it was increasingly clear to me just how well Ashley fitted in here.

  * * *

  Sitting in Ashley’s small apartment that evening, I said, “You’ll be sad when you have to leave this place.”

  “I know. Of course, in theory I might be able to get a visa extension. It’s a complicated subject.”

  I shot her a questioning look. “Is that what you want? You’ve never said anything about that before.”

  She seemed embarrassed. “I’m only talking hypothetically,” she said quickly. “That’s what I’ve heard that other Brits have done.”

  “So Bob Latimer doesn’t need to recruit a new marketing executive to replace you in Cornwall just yet?”

  “Of course not.”

  As she prepared for her trip to Chicago she said, “If you want to use my car while I’m away, you’re welcome. I’ve fixed it so the insurance covers you. You’ll find the GPS really useful.”

  “Thanks. I might just do that.”

  Flopping down on the sofa, she said, “And if you need help from someone on the ground, you could call Filipe. You met him this morning. He lives ten minutes away from here, and I’ve arranged with Sal that he can take time out to be your guide if you need him. Don’t be afraid to ask. I’ll text you his number.”

  I immediately remembered the personable Hispanic man I’d been introduced to in the warehouse. I said, “You’re certainly doing your best to keep me entertained.”

  “I feel guilty about leaving almost as soon as you’ve arrived. This is the least I can do.”

  We were both sleeping in Ashley’s rather narrow double bed, but last night I’d been out for the count as soon as my head hit the pillow. Tonight we lay chatting for a while, but despite our long separation, intimacy was nowhere on the horizon. We were more like old friends meeting up than a couple reunited. Eventually Ashley fell asleep, but I stayed awake for a long time, still in a different time zone and in a headspace I barely recognised.

  * * *

  Ashley crept out in the morning before I was fully awake. I showered, made myself a coffee, and sat in the lounge, considering my options. Sunshine was streaming in throug
h the window, and a DJ on the tinny radio was telling me it was a beautiful day. I felt unaccountably cheerful.

  So here I was in southern California with two empty days to play with. What should I do? The obvious answer was be a tourist – perhaps head for downtown Los Angeles, or make my way to the coast. But another agenda was forming itself in my mind. Those London policemen investigating Rob Openshaw’s death would presumably never go to the lengths of coming here in person to look into his previous life, but I was here now. Maybe I could find out things they never would.

  The natural place to start seemed to be The Spine, the book promotion web site. It was the last place where Openshaw had worked before setting up on his own, so some of the people there might remember him. Whether I could persuade any of them to speak to me was quite another question, but at least the company published a telephone number that someone might actually answer, and it also listed a physical street address.

  I opened my laptop and called up its web site.

  Chapter 43

  The Spine’s office was south of Los Angeles, on the route towards Long Beach. I thought it might make an interesting drive, though in fact I found the multi-lane freeways daunting. However, the automatic transmission of Ashley’s Ford took some of the effort out of the journey, and the satnav guided me faultlessly through a succession of complex intersections. As I drove I exulted in the gleaming openness of it all – the swooping, curving, interweaving freeways, the clusters of tall buildings, the sheer scale of everything.

  I’d debated phoning ahead, but in the end decided I might have a better chance of connecting with someone if I turned up in person. More than an hour after leaving the apartment I was searching the side streets of Compton for somewhere to park.

  The office turned out to be in a smart inter-war building on the fringes of a modern industrial area. Its token art deco flourishes gave it a kind of retro charm. There was no concierge – merely a door entry phone with multiple companies listed on it. I buzzed it and stood back facing the door camera.