The Concrete Ceiling

by Peter Rowlands

  “Of course not. I’m sure you wouldn’t do anything like that.” But there was now a coldness in his tone.

  By this stage I felt I’d completely lost control of the conversation. In a bid to regain it, I said, “Surely you don’t think there would be anything improper if I did have a drink with Sam?”

  He suddenly stretched, giving me a chagrined smile. “Where Samantha is concerned, I came late to the show. Sometimes I find it hard to know what she’s thinking.”

  “From what I’ve seen, she’s very loyal.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. I’m just trying to avoid making her life more complicated than it needs to be. She’s given up a lot for me. I don’t want her to regret it.” This seemed unexpectedly honest, yet somehow Nick made it sound like a threat.

  I said, “So you’re asking me to stay away from her?”

  He gave me a pained look. “No, of course not, Mike. What kind of person do you think I am? I’m just suggesting you should tread delicately.”

  “Maybe you’re underestimating her.”

  “Possibly so. I’m just covering all bases.”

  For a long moment neither of us spoke. I felt I was still fast-forwarding to catch the drift of the conversation. What did this man actually want from me?

  He took a sip of his beer, then put his glass down decisively. “You know of a Banbury firm called Landsholme Surveyors, I believe?”

  I nodded warily.

  “In fact you might be acquainted with a guy who works there – Neil Wardell?”

  “Clearly you know I am.”

  “Right.” He nodded to himself again. “My firm has given them a lot of business over the years. A hell of a lot.” He paused dramatically. “We won’t be working with them ever again. I just thought that might interest you.” He watched for my reaction, then added, “Oh, and I believe they’re reviewing Mr Wardell’s contract of employment.”

  I listened to this in amazement. He was telling me he knew about my conversations with Neil Wardell, and was trying to get the man fired simply for talking to me. For a moment I was speechless, and before I could think of a reply he looked at his watch and announced, “I need to catch my train.”

  I said, “I’m not quite sure why we’re having this conversation.”

  He stood up, pushed his chair tidily under the table, then straightened and glared at me, brushing his hands together. “I’m just pointing out that actions have consequences. But I’m sure you know that already.”

  A wave of anger ran through me. I said, “Why don’t you spell it out?”

  “I think you know what I mean.” He gave me a fleeting smile. “Nice to see you, Mike. Thanks for coming over. I’ll give your love to Sam.”

  Chapter 55

  “Bad news about your mate Graham. He’s confessed.”

  I stared at Dave across the restaurant table, astonished. He’d called me to tell me he had some information that would interest me. “Why not come down for a curry this evening? It’s been too long since the last time. I can fill you in when I see you.”

  Dave lived in the south of south London – a long train trip from Camden Town – but visiting him there was a welcome blast from the old days, when I’d lived in Thornton Heath, a densely-packed south London suburb. Dave’s partner Suzy joined us, and as we headed off for the restaurant I felt the pressure of recent weeks lifting from my shoulders.

  Then he landed his bombshell about Graham, and I was forced to rewind the events of the past few days. I’d convinced myself that Openshaw’s daughter Ellie had been involved in his death, and that her friend Chico might have had a hand in it too. Now I was hearing that the explanation was much simpler.

  I said, “What exactly has Graham said?”

  Suzy turned to him. “Yes, go on, tell us, Dave. After all, you were a fly on that wall, weren’t you?”

  She shot me a fleeting look to show me her irony was directed at me. He glanced between us, then said, “Give me some credit here. I ask questions, I listen to the answers, I report them if I think it’s appropriate.”

  Suzy winked at me, then turned back to Dave. “Sorry, sorry. Fire away then.”

  “OK. Well it sounds as if things played out more or less the way everyone thought. Bulwell turns up at Openshaw’s house, demands his money back, and more or less forces Openshaw to make a computer bank transfer while he waits. That should be the end of it, but there are more angry words. Openshaw backs off to the kitchen, but Bulwell follows him and things get physical. Openshaw falls and cracks open his skull, and Bulwell hightails it out of there.”

  “But why would he confess to this if they didn’t have any real evidence?”

  “I think you can assume they were piling on the pressure, and he felt cornered. It’s a classic technique. They will have told him the evidence was damning, but they would go easier on him if he put his hand up to what happened. I’ve no doubt he felt it would be a lost cause to keep on denying it.”

  “So he could be looking at a manslaughter charge, not murder?”

  Dave gave an ironic laugh. “You’re a legal expert now, are you?”

  “I’m only trying to look on the bright side.”

  “I don’t see much of a bright side here, to be honest. Just be glad it’ll be him in the dock and not you.”

  The conversation ranged on to other things, but something was nagging at me, and eventually I worked out what it was. I said, “Do you remember those threatening emails that were found in my flat in Camden Town? Supposedly I sent them to Rob Openshaw demanding my money back. What were they about? You don’t think Graham could have put them there to shift the blame for the killing on to me?”

  Dave wrinkled his nose in one his most characteristic expressions: quizzical bafflement. “What do you think? Would he be capable of something as sophisticated as that? Could he have got into your flat? Is he really cold-blooded enough?”

  “I can’t answer any of that, but overall I think it’s pretty unlikely.”

  “There must be some other explanation, then.” He frowned. “And before you ask, my mate Pat is away on leave for a couple of weeks, so I can’t get any more intel from him at the moment.”

  I thought for a moment. “Is there any way I can get my hands on those emails? After all, supposedly I sent them. Surely I have a right to know exactly what I’m alleged to have said?”

  “I can’t help you, but your solicitor might be able to get hold of them for you. You should ask him. In fact if you’re not in the frame for this any more, they should let you have that computer back.”

  * * *

  Next morning I left a message about the emails with Bernard Croft’s assistant. As I ended the call, it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen a bill from him yet. I had a feeling I would be horrified by the amount when I did.

  Ironically, another bill caught my attention when I checked my inbox later that morning. It was from Noel Valence, and the amount was higher than I expected: eight hundred pounds. But I’d urged him to charge me a proper fee for his web research, so presumably I had to live with this. In reality, it should probably have been a lot higher. Then I read the accompanying message: “Call me when you pick this up.”

  He sounded cheerfully upbeat when he answered. He said, “Guess what – I’ve got a bead on your friend Chico. If you want to contact him, I know how you can do it.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “I put a flag on some of his friends, and he’s used a pay-as-you-go phone to text one of them. He’s being very cautious. He’s obviously determined to keep his head down.”

  “I can’t believe you’re able to find out all this stuff so easily.”

  “It’s not easy, but I’m part of a network. We help each other out. Very low key, very off the radar.”

  On the face of it there was an irony about receiving this information. I now had the means to contact Chico, but there was no longer any need. Graham had confessed to killing Rob Openshaw, so unless he was lying about it, no one else was i
nvolved. And what possible reason could he have for lying?

  I understood the logic of this, but something in my head refused to accept it. I needed to contact Chico to convince myself once and for all that he and Ellie hadn’t been involved in Openshaw’s death– and now I could. But he was unlikely to respond to a phone call from me, and even a text message might alarm him.

  I surprised myself in the end with my own deviousness. I’d made some inspired guesses in recent months – some right, some wrong. Now was the time for another. I sent off a text message reading, “I know what happened to Rob Openshaw. Can we talk?”

  In reality I had no idea what had happened to him, unless it was exactly what Dave had described. But if there was more to it than that, and Chico really had been involved, I was guessing he might take the bait.

  Ten minutes later I decided my initial message was too vague, and might sound threatening. I sent off another reading, “I think I can help.”

  The only reply was a deafening silence.

  Chapter 56

  The one piece of good news I’d heard in the past couple of days was that my appeal against my ban by my online book publisher “was being considered.” According to the Endpaper web site, forty per cent of appeals that reached this stage were upheld. I wasn’t sure I liked the odds, but they could have been a lot worse. I was told that I should expect a judgement within ten days.

  The less good news was that I had no editorial scoop to offer either the Smart Headings web site or the rather more illustrious Seismic Scene.

  In theory, I’d learned enough about Rob Openshaw’s ill-fated book promotion scheme to write a pretty convincing article about it for Seismic Scene, but while I was in California I’d promised Toni Harper I wouldn’t go public with what she’d told me. This pretty much kicked any proposed article into touch.

  As for Smart Headings, the article I’d planned for Guy Dereham had been built round the contract that Antler Logistics had stolen from Vantage Express, but this now seemed like ancient news. I couldn’t see how I would ever find any evidence of it.

  The retail development at Chilworth Fields was something else. If Nick Hathaway really was involved in some dubious plot to force through the project against the interest of investors, this was surely of national interest. I was tempted to contact Seismic Scene again, and ask if I could switch my proposed article from self-publishing to the property world.

  But it wasn’t as simple as that. All along, my pursuit of Nick Hathaway had been prompted by a desire to reveal him to Sam in his true colours. I’d already found out plenty that I could tell her, and my strange meeting with Nick at Marylebone station the other day had given me a pretty good clue that I was on the right lines about him. The trouble was that I couldn’t work out how to convey what I knew to her without appearing either critical or patronising.

  While I was dithering about this, I was evidently pursuing a parallel plan to write about what I knew, but if I did end up putting it all in an article, I would be switching targets – placing my career interests above Sam’s. Not only that, but any adverse publicity arising from the story would surely throw the public spotlight on her as well as him. Was that how I wanted this to end up?

  * * *

  That afternoon I heard from Bernard Croft. “If you want those email messages from that old computer, just go along to the police station and ask for them.” Simple and to the point. The trip would involve a Tube journey and a bus ride or a long walk, but I headed off straight away. The sooner I had them, the sooner Noel could take a look at them.

  At the police station I was handed a large brown envelope containing a slim bundle of printouts. I couldn’t email these to Noel after all; I would have to send them by post. Or maybe I would scan them. No mention was made of any offer to return the old computer the police had found hidden in the desk, but I wasn’t especially keen to have it back, and in any case it would have been too heavy to carry.

  As I arrived back at my building in Camden Town I bumped into Amanda from the top flat.

  “Mike!” she greeted me at the door into the street. “I haven’t seen you for weeks.”

  “I’ve been in and out.”

  I stood aside to let her pass, but she seemed inclined to linger. She said, “I’ve been promising myself to ask you next time I saw you – what was going on when the police carted off those computers from your flat?”

  That day seemed a long time ago, and I was in no mood to pick it over with Amanda. I said, “It was all a misunderstanding. I’ve sorted it out now.” I held up the envelope I was carrying. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got some stuff from one of the computers in here.”

  She glanced vaguely at the envelope, clearly uninterested. She said, “I just wondered why they brought back the guy who broke in. Was it something about confronting the thief with his misdeeds?”

  Now I was baffled. I said, “Sorry, you’ve completely lost me. What do you mean?”

  “One of the men who came round that day was the same one I buzzed in when you were out. I thought you knew that.”

  I was struggling to take this in. I said, “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely positive.” She gave me an indignant look. “He had a really strong Nottingham accent. I come from up that way, so I always notice it when I hear it.”

  “So you’re saying the guy who broke into my flat came back with the cops when they took my computers away?”

  “Precisely.” She gave me a slightly awkward smile. “I was listening from up on my landing. I couldn’t resist.”

  As I continued upstairs, I reflected that the man she was talking about couldn’t have been with the police who had descended on me that day. He must be one of them.

  Chapter 57

  The entry phone to my flat sounded as I was starting work next morning. Normally the only callers at that time of day were delivery drivers, and I hadn’t ordered anything. I lifted the receiver without any particular expectation.

  “Mike? Surprise, surprise. It’s me.”

  Immediately my pulse sped up a notch. What could Sam possibly be doing here? I buzzed her in, and a few moments later there she was, dressed much as when I’d seen her the other night. This time the faded jeans and pink and magenta top were augmented by a light off-white jacket. She stood a little awkwardly in the doorway. “Sorry to turn up unannounced.”

  “Don’t apologise. It’s brilliant to see you! Come on in. I’ll put the coffee on.”

  She glanced around the room, then went over to the table and put her canvas bag down on it. “The coffee sounds wonderful.” She sat down decisively on one of the upright chairs.

  “It’s only instant.” I felt childishly nervous. “I can’t remember if you take sugar.”

  “God, no.”

  I filled the kettle, then stood at the doorway into the lounge and smiled at her again. I said, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’ve just come down from Banbury on the train. I was going to catch up with Ronnie, but I’d forgotten she was going off to Ramsgate today. She’s checking out a new market opportunity. She’ll be somewhere on the M2 by now.”

  “I see.”

  “So here I am with a day to spare and nothing to do.”

  I made the coffees, then sat down at the desk and turned to face her. She seemed to study me for a moment, then said, “We don’t know each other very well, do we?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We’ve talked a lot in the past few months, like old friends.” She wrinkled her nose. “But we’re not old friends, are we? We only met a few times last year. Somehow we’ve built this mythology about ourselves. We’ve invented an imaginary past.”

  “So in this mythology, what was going on?”

  She looked at me levelly. “You know – stuff that might have happened, but didn’t.”

  Suddenly the silence of the room seemed intense. Before I had time to stop myself I said, “I wish it had.”

  “Yeah, well.” She looked down.<
br />
  Clearly she had more to say. I waited.

  “I wish I could explain about Nick,” she said abruptly. “You must have thought I was mad, deciding I wanted to marry him.”

  She’d used the past tense. I wondered how significant that was. I said nothing, and she commented, “Eloquent silence, I think.”

  “I was surprised. I won’t deny it.”

  “Me too.” She gave an ironic laugh. “Not my kind of thing.”

  “But?”

  “When I met him I found a lot to like. He was considerate, self-effacing, funny. He could seem like a little boy lost, and yet he had a kind of inner strength.”

  More past tense. Again I said nothing.

  “Come on! You must have seen some of this. It’s not as if I ever thought he was perfect. I threw my rose-tinted lenses away a long time ago. But I can’t be the only person in the world who was willing to see the good side of him.”

  “I’m probably not the best person to ask.”

  “And why is that, Mike?”

  “Aarrgh!” I swivelled all the way round in my office chair, stopping myself with my feet when I was facing her again. “Jealousy. Why do you think?”

  “You don’t need to be jealous of Nick. You have qualities he could never have.”

  “No! I mean jealousy over you.”

  She said nothing, and for a moment I wondered if I’d said too much. Then she cleared her throat emphatically. “Any chance of some more coffee?”

  * * *

  We shifted to the sofa and chatted for a while like the old friends we apparently weren’t. She told me about the latest successes and failures of her jewellery business, I told her about my ongoing battle to please Guy Dereham.

  Inevitably the conversation moved on to Graham’s confession to the killing of Rob Openshaw. “I’d never have thought he had it in him,” Sam said. “But I talked to his ex-wife the other day. She went to see him on remand, and she says he definitely put his hand up to it. He’s preparing himself for the consequences.”