Agency O

by Tor Fleck

  ‘No idea, mate,’ said Richard. ‘Why don’t you ask that lot next door?’

  ‘Or …’ said Paul. ‘… we could go back ourselves and find out.’

  ‘Break in, you mean?’

  ‘We could try round the back, see if there’s an easy way in through the basement.’

  ‘Since when did you become the gung-ho member of this franchise?’

  ‘We’ll wait until dark, then go have a recce. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’ve lost it, mate,’ said Richard. ‘I was happy to help you out with the mail guy, but this? This is breaking the law. And they’re a multinational organisation, for fuck’s sake! They’re not just going to leave the back door open.’

  ‘You’ve seen how run down it is,’ said Paul. ‘Security might not be as tight as you think.’

  Richard stood up. ‘Sorry. You’re on your own on this one.’

  ‘So you’re not going to help me?’

  Richard held Paul’s gaze. ‘I’ve done more than enough to appease your madness,’ he said. ‘Because that’s what this is. Madness.’ He picked up his bag. ‘See you in Barlinnie.’ For a moment Paul considered following him out. Instead, he crossed to the bar and ordered another pint, this time with a whisky chaser. He was going to need it.

  It was dark by the time Paul left the pub. He crossed the road and slipped into the lane behind the terrace, counting the walled back entrances until he got to 22. Tor-izon’s. The door was locked, so he wheeled a bin over and climbed up onto it. There were no security cameras on the building, and the yard itself was empty. Paul waved an arm back and forth, but no light came on. Perfect. He was over the wall in seconds, careful not to slip on the grimy concrete. The back door had been bricked up, but there was a small window at ground level. He knelt in front of it and peered through the filth. A myriad of coloured lights flickered in the darkness: racks of electronic equipment, hard drives stacked to the ceiling. The sudden slamming of a car door made him turn. An engine purred and slowly faded away. Did someone just get in, or did someone just get out? Paul ran back to the wall and listened. Nothing. But the incident had him spooked. He clambered back over the wall, but lost his footing on the bin and crashed to the ground.

  A voice roared through the dark. ‘Oy! Stop!’

  Paul had no intention of stopping. He hauled himself up and limped back along the lane. When he got to the main road he shot a look over his shoulder. Two men in dark suits were running after him. Fuck! He crossed the road and took a quick right and then a left. His ankle was killing him and his lungs felt on fire. Hard-soled shoes pounded the pavement behind him, closing in. Jumping a low hedge, Paul cut through a front garden and up a lane, praying it wasn’t a dead end. Halfway up, he tripped over a bin bag and fell flat, scraping and bloodying his palms in an effort to protect his face. Scrabbling to his feet, he stumbled on.

  By the time he’d got to Waverley Paul was sure he’d given his pursuers the slip. But he wasn’t taking any chances. He leapt off the escalator and made a limped dash for the loos, kicking open a cubicle door and crawling up onto the seat. He sat like that for a full five minutes, a bloodied hand pressed against his mouth, stifling his fractured breathing. When the outer door suddenly burst open he gasped and held his breath, his heart in overdrive.

  A pair of polished black brogues appeared beneath the door of the cubicle. THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP! Paul was convinced his heart would give him away. Either that or explode. He backed up against the loo seat, trying to make himself smaller. THUMP-THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP-THUMP! The brogues retreated. Paul’s relief was palpable, until … PING! A notification came through on his phone. THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP! The brogues ran back to the cubicle door. The handle rattled and shook and …

  A couple of drunks stumbled into the loo, laughing and swearing. The brogues backed away, and a second later were gone. Paul waited until the drunks had left before sliding off the seat and easing the door open. All clear. Jesus. He stumbled to the sink and retched violently. He thought he was going to pass out, but splashed water on his face and that seemed to do the trick. He checked his phone. The ping had been a text from Alice. It read:

  Hope you are okay. What did the police say? Missing you x

  Whatever suspicions Paul had about Alice’s motives, the kiss at the end of the text felt very comforting, and he had a sudden pang of longing for her bed. No, he thought. Police first, bed later, and pushed open the door.

  18

  The desk sergeant looked up from his Racing Post. ‘You want to do what?’

  ‘Report an attempted murder, an assault, stalking, death threats, and intent to cause physical and psychological torment,’ said Paul.

  The sergeant sighed. ‘And your name, sir?’

  ‘Paul Grant. We had a break-in a couple of weeks ago. I spoke to a PC Green.’

  ‘Just a moment, sir.’ The sergeant rolled off his seat and disappeared into the depths of the station. He returned moments later with three police officers, but no PC Green. One of the officers walked up to Paul and held out his hand. ‘Mr Grant?’ Paul reached out to shake it. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I’m arresting you – ’

  ‘What?’ The officer grabbed Paul’s arm and twisted it behind his back. The two other officers moved to the door, blocking it and making escape impossible.

  ‘I’m arresting you,’ the officer continued, ‘on suspicion of stalking, harassment, intimidation, and intent to cause grievous bodily harm to a number of individuals.’

  ‘But that’s what’s happening to me!’ Paul protested, trying to pull his arm away. ‘I’ve just come in to report it.’

  ‘You do not have to say anything, but if you do so it may be used in evidence against you. Do you understand?’

  ‘No, I don’t fucking understand,’ said Paul. ‘I’m the victim here. Someone tried to run me down last night. I was attacked in my own home. You lot even came to the flat!’ The arresting officer pushed him towards a set of double doors leading to a stairwell. ‘Please don’t make things worse for yourself, Mr Grant,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t want you to get hurt.’ Paul took the hint and let himself be navigated to wherever it was he was being taken.

  The cell door slammed shut behind him. Paul stood motionless in the centre of the bare room. How could this happen? How is this justice? He turned and battered on the door.

  ‘Let me out! I need to speak to somebody!’ The slat in the door slid open, and a pair of eyes appeared. ‘Calm down,’ the disembodied voice said.

  ‘Get Detective Quinn,’ pleaded Paul. ‘He knows what’s going on. They’ve set me up!’ The slat snapped shut. Paul banged on the door again. ‘You can’t just lock me up for nothing! I have rights! I want to make a phone call. Give me my one phone call!’ He continued hammering at the door until his arms got tired. Giving up, he slumped onto the hard narrow bench and held his head in his hands. He felt as though his world was spiralling deeper into the darkest of sinkholes with no way out. Panic gripped his throat and he began to choke. No fucking way! he thought. I’m not dying in a prison cell! He grabbed his coat, held it up to his nose and mouth, and breathed in hard. The world swam in shades of black and grey, stars winking in the corners of his vision. He lunged for the door, but fell forward onto the floor and passed out.

  When he came to he was no longer in the cell. He was seated at a table, in what appeared to be an interview room. The same burly officer from before was kneeling by Paul’s side. ‘Are you okay now, Mr Grant?’ he asked. ‘You had a panic attack and passed out.’

  Paul’s lips moved, but all he managed was an indecipherable slurring.

  ‘Shh.’ The officer held up a plastic cup of water. ‘Drink this.’

  Paul gulped the water down. It felt good. His surroundings were starting to make sense now.

  ‘Your solicitor is here,’ said the PC. ‘We’d like to conduct a formal interview with you.’

  ‘My solicitor?’

 
A figure to the right of Paul leaned over. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Grant. I’m Brendan Cole, the duty solicitor.’ Cole wore a moth-eaten suit and the hand he offered resembled a rancid kipper. Paul declined to shake it. ‘I don’t need a solicitor,’ he said. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  The PC stood up. ‘And yet you asked for one.’ He crossed back to the table. ‘I strongly recommend you have a solicitor present with you today, Mr Grant.’

  ‘No, listen,’ said Paul. ‘I’m the one being stalked and harassed and threatened and assaulted. I need the police to help me, not arrest me.’

  The PC sat down. ‘So you do not wish your solicitor to be present, is that correct?’

  Paul felt his anger rising. ‘Did you hear what I just said? I don’t need a bloody solicitor!’

  Cole leaned over. ‘Mr Grant, I really – ’

  ‘Fuck off!’ snapped Paul. ‘Just … fuck off!’

  An aggrieved Cole grabbed his briefcase and left. The burly PC stared at Paul across the table for a second, and then rose and followed Cole out.

  A moment later the PC was back, along with two men in matching dark suits, who sat down opposite Paul. Registering the skeletal thinness of one of them and the borderline obesity of the other, Paul immediately dubbed them the Twin Peaks Laurel and Hardy.

  Twin Peaks Hardy spoke first. ‘This is Detective Inspector Marks,’ he said, nodding to Twin Peaks Laurel, ‘and I’m Detective Superintendent Burroughs. Before we commence the interview, could we get you a tea or a coffee?’

  ‘I just want to leave,’ said Paul. ‘I don’t know what this is about, but I came in today to report an attempted murder.’

  Twin Peaks Laurel bared his teeth. They looked like talons, barely held in place by sunken, emaciated skin.

  ‘For your own protection,’ said Twin Peaks Hardy, ‘we’ll be recording this interview.’

  ‘Are you deaf?’ asked Paul. ‘I was almost killed. Go find the bastard.’

  Hardy switched on the cassette recorder. ‘Interview commencing at 12.34pm,’ he said, ‘conducted by detectives Burroughs and Marks, with PC Fields also in attendance.’

  Paul shook his head in disbelief. What a fucking farce.

  ‘For the purpose of the tape,’ Hardy continued, ‘can you please state your full name?’

  ‘Paul Grant. Victim of stalking.’

  ‘Okay, Mr Grant,’ said Hardy, looking Paul in the eye. ‘We’ve received a number of complaints recently, from various individuals, alleging harassment, intimidation, and death threats via text, email, and online social media. All from you.’

  ‘Who are these individuals?’ asked Paul sarcastically. ‘The fucking seven dwarves?’

  ‘The perpetrator goes by the name of Tor Fleck.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ exclaimed Paul.

  Hardy shot Paul a look of disgust. ‘May I remind you that this interview is being recorded?’

  Paul rubbed at his chin. ‘Tor Fleck is a completely fictitious name.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What I mean is … my flatmate and I came up with a fictional author for a film script we were writing. We called him Tor Fleck.’

  Hardy leaned in closer to Paul. ‘Tor Fleck is a fictional character?’

  Twin Peaks Laurel, his arms crossed, sneered at the thought.

  ‘Can you explain, then,’ Hardy continued, ‘how these threatening messages, these physical messages, came to be signed off by a fictional character?’

  ‘Look,’ said Paul, ‘we’ve been getting harassed for weeks. Our flat’s been broken into, we’ve had death threats, and last night somebody tried to run me and my flatmate over. I can show you the texts, if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘It seems rather a wild coincidence,’ said Hardy, ‘that these messages would be coming from a man that you appear to have “invented”?’ Laurel nodded solemnly in agreement.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Paul. ‘It’s so obviously a set up. If I were a troll, I wouldn’t be daft enough to use the name of a fictional character I’d just created, would I?’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ agreed Laurel, speaking for the first time. Hardy shot him a stern look.

  ‘Speak to Detective Quinn,’ said Paul. ‘He’ll back up what I’m saying.’

  Hardy shrugged. ‘Who the hell’s Detective Quinn?’

  ‘You know,’ said Paul. ‘Quinn. Big bloke. Bigger than you, even. American. Smells a bit.’

  Hardy shook his head. ‘From this station?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Paul. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’ll check it out,’ said Hardy, writing down Quinn’s details. He looked back up. ‘Why did you say you’ve been set up?’

  ‘Well, it’s the same lunatics that are stalking us, isn’t it? They’re trying to frame me.’

  ‘An interesting theory,’ said Hardy, opening the folder in front of him. It was empty. He closed it gently and snatched Laurel’s folder from him. Laurel tried to wrestle it back. ‘Could you confirm,’ grunted Hardy, finally yanking the file free from Laurel’s clutches, ‘that your address is Top Flat, 33 Bale Street, Glasgow?’ Laurel sat back, exhausted from the tussle, and scratched his head.

  Paul nodded.

  ‘For the purpose of the tape,’ said Hardy, ‘the suspect has indicated that the address is correct.’ He leaned across the table. ‘How do you explain the fact that the emails were traced to various social media accounts set up in your name, and sent from a computer registered to you?’

  ‘I thought you said they were sent by Tor Fleck?’

  Hardy checked his papers.

  ‘When were these messages sent?’ asked Paul.

  Hardy was flustered. He rustled through the folder looking for details. ‘There,’ said Laurel, reaching out and pointing to a page. Hardy snapped the folder shut on his colleague’s hand, causing him to wince and slowly withdraw his fingers. ‘I’ve got this, thanks,’ sniped Hardy, and turned his attention back to Paul. ‘Approximately thirty-six threatening texts, as well as a series of emails, all sent between 6th and 8th of October, to various individuals, from a source traced to your home computer,’ he said triumphantly. ‘How do you explain that?’

  ‘Can you actually do that?’ asked Paul. ‘I mean, are you allowed?’

  ‘We are allowed to do many things, Mr Grant,’ replied Hardy.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘What were those dates again?’ asked Paul.

  ‘The 6th to the 8th of October.’

  ‘I didn’t have my laptop then,’ said Paul. ‘It was at the repair shop.’

  ‘How very convenient.’

  ‘You can check if you like. I handed it in to Crash Test Computers, on Byers Road, last Friday. That was …’ Paul counted back in his head. ‘… the 7th of October. Go ask Axel, the owner. He was going to do the repair.’

  ‘We’ll investigate that in due course,’ muttered Hardy, ‘but in the meantime – ’

  ‘He’s right though,’ interrupted Laurel. ‘He did have a break-in four weeks ago.’

  Hardy looked at his colleague incredulously. ‘You want to swap places with him?’ he asked.

  ‘And PC Green attended.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Paul.

  ‘Our PC Green?’ asked Hardy. Suddenly he was interviewing his colleague, not Paul.

  Laurel nodded. ‘His flatmate suffered an alleged assault. I had to sign off on the paperwork.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you – ?’ Hardy stopped himself and sighed.

  ‘Fucking amateurs,’ mumbled Paul.

  Hardy slammed his fist on the table. ‘I’d be very careful if I was you, Mr Grant. Very careful. Bad things happen to bad people all the time.’

  ‘I didn’t mean you,’ said Paul. ‘I meant the people trying to frame me.’

  ‘The interview is suspended at 12.48pm.’ Hardy switched off the tape recorder and stood up. ‘A word, detective, please.’ Laurel followed Hardy out. Paul could hear muffled shouting i
n the corridor. Idiots. Even PC Fields was trying hard not to laugh.

  Returned back to his cell, Paul didn’t have the strength to bang on the door again. Fear and fury had exhausted him. Slumping onto the bare wooden bench, he resolved to wait it out until Quinn arrived, and he got released. But as minutes turned into an hour, and beyond, Paul’s paranoia escalated. Who was behind these attacks? Why did Alice feign ignorance about Tor-izon? Is Quinn even a real detective? Christ, is Richard involved in any of this? Has his obsession with the script driven him beyond all reason? If so, why? For sole ownership of Agency O? As the questions continued to spiral, Paul’s trust in those closest to him faded like morning mist.

  ‘Stop!’ he cried, his voice bouncing off the six by eight concrete walls. He stood up and crossed to the door, thumping at it with what little strength he had left.

  ‘Let me out!’ he yelled. ‘Let me out!’ To his surprise, the small hatch was pulled open. ‘At last,’ he said. ‘Is Detective Quinn here?’ In response, a small tray was shoved at him. On it sat a plastic cup and a small digestive biscuit. ‘I don’t fucking want tea!’ Paul hollered. ‘I want out of here!’ But hunger and thirst sometimes get the better of protest, and this was one of those times. Reluctantly, Paul lifted the tray away and took it over to the bench. The over-brewed tea swirled in the polystyrene cup like murky effluent. He broke the biscuit in two and dunked it in, but it crumbled into the slurry. Fuck sake! Holding his nose, he downed the lukewarm liquid in a single gulp, leaving a brown, biscuity sludge at the bottom. He yawned. He was knackered. He lay down on his side, the least uncomfortable position he could find, and pulled his coat over his shoulder. It wasn’t long before he fell into a restless, semi-conscious state. It was a prod to the kidneys that eventually woke him.

  ‘Mr Grant?’

  Paul rolled over and squinted up through the glare of the strip-light. Twin Peaks Oliver Hardy hovered over him, flanked by two uniformed officers. Uh-oh. ‘Some new evidence has come to light,’ said Hardy. ‘We’re releasing you without charge. You’re free to go.’ What?

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Paul, hauling himself off the bench and gathering up his things. ‘Common sense prevails at last. Did you speak to Quinn?’