The Concrete Ceiling

by Peter Rowlands

  * * *

  It all came back to Nick Hathaway. That was the long and the short of it. I’d been pursuing things from the wrong end – following up clues about outcomes instead of going back to the beginning. Once I did that, everything else started to make sense; and to my mind everything pointed to Nick.

  However, there were still gaps in my knowledge. I needed to know more about his investment history – to gain more of an insight into his life. I could probably find a lot of what I wanted from the internet, but there was a better way. Sam could help me.

  I hesitated before calling her. After her surprise encounter with Ashley the other day I wasn’t sure how she would react. She might want time to herself to adjust to her split with Nick. If I reached out to her, it ought to be about her and me, not about me and my pursuit of some hypothetical article for Smart Headings.

  I understood all this, but it didn’t stop me calling her anyway. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed when the call went to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. Instead I waited a couple of hours and called her again. Again the call went to voicemail. Now what?

  Where was she? Had she left the house in Banbury? It occurred to me to call her partner Ronnie. She might give me a clue to Sam’s state of mind.

  Ronnie answered quickly. “You heard about Sam and Nick then? I expect you’re cheering, aren’t you?” I never knew what to expect from Ronnie, but as often seemed to be the case, she sounded suspicious of me.

  I said, “Of course I’m cheering. I think Nick would have been seriously bad for her, and she’s well out of it.”

  “I won’t disagree with you there.”

  I sighed. “Look, for what it’s worth, I’ve broken up with Ashley, my girlfriend. Permanently. I’m not saying that’s any reason why Sam and I should suddenly get together, but it would be nice if you could cut me some slack.”

  “Does Sam know about this?”

  “I don’t know. She probably has a good idea, but I haven’t spoken to her since it happened. I’m not sure what kind of welcome I’ll get.”

  “So I suppose you’d like me to pass on the good news if I see her?”

  “That’s not why I called. I just wondered if you knew where she was.”

  “Still in Banbury, as far as I know. She’s ducked out of the week she was due to spend with me down here, but I can’t blame her for that.”

  “I can’t decide if I should contact her.”

  I could hardly believe I’d just said that. Ronnie was the last person I would normally look to for advice. However, her response surprised me. She said, “She wants to see you, but if I were you I wouldn’t rush it. Just give her a bit of time to take stock.”

  A new thought occurred to me. I said, “I suppose you’re worried about your business now, seeing as how Nick is still a significant shareholder.”

  “That thought does not exactly fill me with joy. I was unhappy about Nick’s involvement right from the start, but Sam was so keen.”

  “Could you afford to buy out his stake?”

  “Sam’s dad says he would come up with the money, but I don’t know if Nick will sell.”

  “Surely he wouldn’t want to stay involved, unless it was out of perversity?”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  The conversation seemed to be running down, but then Ronnie surprised me again. “Hey, here’s something that might interest you. You remember you once asked me about the necklace that Nick bought from us on the day he first met Sam at Covent Garden? You wanted to know what happened to the girlfriend he bought it for.”

  “I do remember, yes.”

  “Well, it turns out that the answer is nothing. Sam has found the necklace hidden at the bottom of a drawer in the house in Banbury. He never gave it to her.”

  “You think he was so smitten with Sam that he decided not to hand it over?”

  “Possibly, but Sam says she’s sure he told her the girlfriend loved it.”

  “That’s a bit weird. Maybe he kept it back, but told Sam that story just to impress her.”

  “Or maybe the girlfriend never existed in the first place.”

  Chapter 65

  The muddied tides of my existence kept washing over each other. I was lost in thought about Sam and Nick when Dave called me the following afternoon on a very different subject.

  “Listen, there’s been movement on the Openshaw case. You’d better hold on to your hat.”

  “Go on.”

  “First off, they still haven’t located that lad who witnessed the killing. He wasn’t in the squat where they thought they’d find him, and he’s managed to keep his head down since then. They’ll find him eventually, but at the moment he’s still out there.”

  “OK. With you so far.”

  “Next, Ratcliffe and Baird are off the case, pending an investigation into the way they’ve conducted it.”

  “What?”

  “I trekked all the way up to north London yet again two days ago, and had a long conversation with Pat Evans. To cut a long story short, he’s taken over.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s mainly down to your neighbour in the top flat. Pat sent someone round to take a statement from her – not Ratcliffe or Baird, I should say – and she identified Baird as the man she buzzed in.”

  “Ha! And do we know why he did it? Was it to plant those fake emails?”

  “Ah, no. This is where it gets complicated. Baird has come clean about the break-in, but says he didn’t plant the emails, he just wanted to check that they were there.”

  This seemed to be turning surreal. I said, “You’d better run that past me again.”

  “Remember, at this point in time they had you pegged as the killer, but they were short on evidence.”

  “Yup.”

  “Then they got an anonymous phone call saying there were incriminating emails on your computer. Needless to say, they were over the moon.”

  “A call from who?”

  “They didn’t know, but they assumed it was Graham Bulwell.”

  “But why the hell did they need to break in?”

  Dave sighed. “They needed a search warrant, right? But seemingly these two guys have a track record of fucking up investigations – skimping on evidence, faking reasons for warrants, you name it. In this case, they were nervous about asking for a warrant in case they ended up finding nothing. They were already on notice that this was the last time they would get away with it. They’d used up their ninth life. So they wanted to be absolutely certain the evidence was there before they went in to look for it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  I thought about this for a moment. “Haven’t they ever heard of video entry phones? Why did Baird risk being identified?”

  “Don’t ask me. Looks like he was just hoping for the best.”

  “Huh! And how did he get into my flat?”

  “Old lock – easy to pick. Not that cops know how to do that kind of thing, of course.”

  I had a sudden memory of a legal nicety that had come up in a story I once read. I said, “Hang on – why did those cops need a warrant at all? Once they found those emails, did it really matter how they knew about them? I mean, we’re not like the Americans on this subject, are we? We don’t throw out evidence automatically if it’s the fruit of the poisoned tree.”

  Dave said, “Don’t ask me to read the minds of these buffoons. I assume they were dead set on appearing to do things by the book, and breaking into your flat to look for evidence wouldn’t have gone down well.”

  “But if this guy Baird didn’t plant those emails, who did?”

  “I was hoping you might have some ideas.”

  “Well, I suppose it really might have been Graham Bulwell. He seems quite computer-savvy. But faking emails convincingly is pretty specialist stuff, isn’t it? Would he actually know how to do it? And would he know how to break into my flat?”

  “Can’t help you there.”
>
  “More to the point, would he really be so mean-spirited, even to save his own neck? He’s always seemed friendly enough towards me.”

  “You never know what people are capable of when they’re up against it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Anyway, it’s a side issue now. Pat Evans’s tecchies re-checked the emails, and they accept now that you didn’t write them.”

  “Hurrah to that!”

  “So about this lad Chico.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, Pat Evans is in the driving seat now, and he’s not going to push for action to be taken against him. In a nutshell, you’ve got what you wanted. They’ll treat him with a light touch if he tells them everything he knows.”

  “Do I sense a catch?”

  “Not really, but of course they haven’t found the lad yet. We’re wondering if you have any ideas?”

  “Me?”

  “I’m just putting the thought out there.”

  I mulled over that for a while, but no immediate inspiration came to me. I said, “What about his sister? She gave Ellie an alibi. Will they let her off too?”

  “You can’t save everyone in the world, Mike. Take the wins and be thankful.”

  “Sorry, you’re right.”

  He sighed. “Look, the sister has already retracted her alibi. I don’t think they’ll do much more than slap her on the wrist. They weren’t seriously looking at Ellie at the time. A lawyer could argue that she made a mistake, or didn’t realise the gravity of what she told them.”

  After I’d thanked him for everything he’d done, he said, “Of course, you realise Ellie Openshaw might never be convicted of any crime?”

  “Why not?”

  “Theoretically, if the Crown Prosecution Service thinks it can build a convincing case, we could apply to the US authorities for her extradition. But how long do you think that would take? Apparently the man her mother married is rolling in it. They’ll hire expensive lawyers to fight the application. They’ll argue that she needs anger management therapy, not detention in a foreign country. She’s a problem child, and she needs help.”

  “Huh.”

  “Fifteen is well over the age of criminal responsibility in both countries, but I’m not sure how that squares with the extradition treaty. The case could go on for years. Or else our people might conclude that there’s no point in pursuing it. They might just turn the case notes over to their counterparts over there, and let them come up with some ideas of their own. At this point everything is up in the air.”

  “From what I’ve heard, her mother was glad to be rid of her when her father brought her over to London.”

  “But blood is thicker than water. You wait.”

  “And yet Graham Bulwell will still go to prison for assault. Where’s the justice in that?”

  * * *

  Had Dave been serious when he’d suggested that I might help the police find Chico? If so, it must be almost a first. In circumstances like this, Dave’s clarion call was usually for me to butt out and leave them to do their job.

  I picked up my phone and scrolled back through my text messages to find my exchange with Chico. I knew his number was there; the police had made a note of it when I was talking to them. Without much hope I phoned it.

  Unobtainable.

  What else could I do? I could try to contact his sister, but I could see a hundred reasons why that would be an extremely bad idea. I could ask Noel to do more hunting, but I felt we’d done enough of that. Maybe I should just let matters lie. As Dave had said, eventually the police would find him, and he would discover he was off the hook.

  Then I thought of something I could do that might help. I grabbed my jacket and headed out of the flat.

  Dusk was falling as I walked up Camden High Street. The throngs of tourists had been reduced to an autumnal trickle, but many of the shop fronts were brightly lit, and the place still had its characteristic buzz.

  The question now was whether I could identify the shop where Chico had taken me. A lot of the premises looked more or less alike. I walked up and down the stretch near Camden Lock several times before I decided I’d found the right place. The alley at the side seemed to clinch it.

  There was apparently no one inside – not even a shopkeeper. I waved aside a swathe of hanging garments, and suddenly a voice with a Middle Eastern accent said, “Can I help you, sir?” It was the balding man I’d seen here before.

  A little hesitantly I said, “I was in here a few weeks ago with a lad called Chico. He told me he used to work here.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Yes, we went through to the back room to talk. You must remember. His real name is Christopher Lawler.” I tried a smile. “A nice young man.”

  He was looking at me with a deadpan expression. “What is it that you want?”

  “Look, I don’t know if you’ve seen him since that day, but I’m trying to get a message to him. He thinks the police want to arrest him. I just want him to know for a fact that they won’t.”

  He glanced around warily. “May I ask who you are? Are you police?”

  “No! I’m … I’m on his side. But I know people in the police. That’s how I know he’s not in trouble. I just want to tell him that. He doesn’t need to hide. He can go home, and back to his normal life.” I paused and gestured round the shop. “He can come and work here again, if he wants to.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Mike Stanhope.” I started to reach for a business card, then realised that the word “journalist” on it might alarm the man. I said, “He may not know my name, but I hope you can see that he can trust me. And tell him to ask for a detective called Evans.”

  He seemed to be weighing me up. Finally he came to a decision. He gave a fleeting but perhaps meaningful glance upwards, perhaps towards the room above, and said, “If I see him I will tell him.”

  Chapter 66

  I wanted to talk to Samantha, but I was still wary of making a wrong move. I couldn’t be sure she was convinced about my break-up with Ashley. She might be resentful over the fact that I’d let her think it was already a done deal. I was inclined to agree with Ronnie that she needed space, so for a while I kept my head down.

  Then an unexpected opportunity came up. Guy Dereham asked me to visit a company in Leicester. In other circumstances I would probably have resisted yet another long trip, but it occurred to me that it wouldn’t be much of a diversion to call in at Banbury on the way back. No need to make a big deal of it – I could let matters fall as they would.

  The hundred-mile drive up the M1 was slow, and the visit seemed to go on forever. I finally got away at four o’clock, and phoned Sam from the factory car park.

  “You’re keeping a very low profile,” she said.

  Her tone was encouraging. I said, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of tea?”

  She chuckled. “You just happen to be passing by?”

  “As a matter of fact I am, assuming you’re in Banbury.”

  “Yup, I’m here, but the place is a mess. I’m trying to sort out the things that are mine and the things that are Nick’s. But tea shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

  An hour later I was weaving my way round the back roads of Banbury. Sam greeted me at the front door of the cottage with a twisted smile. “We can’t go on meeting like this.”

  “I don’t need to stay long.”

  “Don’t be daft. Come on in.”

  She led me through to the lounge. The place wasn’t a mess to my eyes, though the dining table was strewn with paperwork and there were neat piles of clothes on some of the chairs. She disappeared to make the tea, then returned and sat down opposite me. I said, “So you’re getting ready to leave this place?”

  “I have to be out by the end of the month, and in any case I’ve had enough of it. I’m going to base myself at my dad’s again, for a while anyway.” She gave me a wry look. “That’s assuming he agrees to stop treating me
like a teenager. He needs to understand that I make my own choices.”

  “He knows that really.”

  “He sometimes has a funny way of showing it.”

  For a moment neither of us spoke. Eventually I said, “Ashley and I broke up.”

  “So I heard. But I thought you’d done that a long time ago.”

  “We did, but we never said it out loud. Now we have.”

  “She seems nice.”

  “She is.”

  Another silence. I broke it by asking, “How are things with Nick now?”

  “Oh, he’s gone to ground. I haven’t heard a single word from him since I told him everything was off.”

  “He’s gone back to living in his flat?”

  “Yup – his bolt hole. It’s just round the corner from his office. He sometimes used to stay behind there and sleep over when he’d been working late. You’d have thought we were living in a big city and the cottage was miles away, not ten minutes down the road. I think it made him feel like a tycoon.”

  “Do I detect a note of bitterness?”

  She said, “Is that what you want to hear? That I was a foolish maiden, blinded by Nick’s charms, and now I’m finally recognising him for the bounder that he is?” She lifted her hands in defeat. “OK, you’ve got me bang to rights.”

  I was worried for a moment that I’d gone too far, but then she suggested more tea. “Or I could offer you something stronger. But you’re driving, of course …”

  We glanced awkwardly at each other. We could both see where that line of thinking might lead, and I felt I should deflect the thought before it became an issue. I said, “Tea is fine.”

  She went back to the kitchen to make it. As she sat down again she said, “I was looking into that stuff you told me about Nick’s retail project. He left some of the paperwork here.”

  Suddenly I was alert. I said, “Oh, yes?”

  “What you told me was right. It seems he’s a partner in a project called Chilworth Modern Retail Investments. They’re going to redevelop and expand the Chilworth Fields retail park near Rugby. Dan Risby was involved too.”