by Jac Wright
Sean had scheduled four interviews for the day. Jeremy had arranged them in two groups of two; one group for the morning, the other for the afternoon. He had Sean administer the technical test for each pair of candidates while he reviewed their resumes and did some background checks. For the second part of the interview Jeremy had Sean take them through some questions with one candidate, while he interviewed the other for about an hour. One of the candidates, Anila (or Ani pronounced like “honey”) an Asian girl educated in Sri Lanka with a PhD in Electronic Engineering from Queen Mary College, University of London, was a great match for his work. She had done two years of postdoctoral research in the Antennas and Electromagnetics group at Queen Mary and following that three years of work at British Telecom. He made her an offer on the spot, which was gracefully accepted. The other candidates were a long shot. Oh well, there was a second round of interviews scheduled for Friday.
By the time Jeremy finished his interviews Caitlin’s hard disk and several batches of letters from her handyman lay burning a hole in his case. He laid out the four bundles of letters on his desk first and started browsing through each of them one by one.
The majority of the letters were addressed to Cyrus and Esther Levent at 27 Cranford Road, Petersfield. The Eastern European man was not K.C. after all. He set the household bills and domestic letters aside and scanned the remainder. Most of them were letters and receipts from odd jobs—moving household goods for a man-and-a-van service, loading and unloading containers for a shipping company and a container yard, various jobs in about five warehouses etc. He was about halfway through the first bundle when a name caught his eye. It was a copy receipt for a cash payment from one Kevin Cossack.
K.C.!
From the remainder of the bundles he got two addresses associated with K.C.: one in Petersfield, and the second in Fratton, Portsmouth. It was apparent that K.C. lived in Petersfield and ran a business from Fratton that Cyrus Levent did jobs for at frequent intervals. Several Internet searches failed to surrender the name of the business at the Fratton address. No matter. He would make a trip to Fratton in person the first opportunity he had.
This was bloody good stuff! He clasped his fingers with his hands behind his head and leaned back in his seat. It had been a good day, a very good day indeed.
Jeremy turned his attention to Caitlin’s hard-disk. He moved one of his Linux workstations from the lab to his desk. Taking off the side-panel of the base unit, he connected the disk to the second bay on the peripheral back pane and powered up the PC; then he booted Linux and mounted Caitlin’s hard disk.
After an hour of scanning through the material on the disk Jeremy had a name and a phone number for Kevin Cossack’s business: GrayHounds Limited. An Internet search on the business yielded a website that offered private investigation services for tracking and tracing individuals and goods, managing change of identity and facilitating individuals to hide their assets and disappear, tracing children in marriage break-ups, tracing debtors, surveillance jobs, honey-traps, et cetera, with the “et cetera” highlighted. The company also sold imported surveillance equipment and provided training on “Going Gray: the art of blending into the background” for surveillance professionals. The pages gave descriptions of some past operations successfully carried out and alluded to having completed various other kinds of operations not mentioned on the site. The business had a branch in North London and boasted of no client being turned away, one hundred per cent success in its past operations, and a motto: “No stone unturned.” Definitely a shady outfit!
Was someone getting ready to disappear in the event of the police finding out about their role in the murder?
Caitlin had made quite a few payments of large cash amounts to Kevin Cossack and GrayHounds over the past three months or so. A scan through her emails, however, did not reveal the exact nature of the work she had had GrayHounds do for her. She had taken care to refer to Cossack as “K.C.” only and to whatever work she was getting done as “the job” always. Another half hour of searching yielded a secret accounting log for the cash she had taken out of BlackGold’s accounts, disguising the transactions as fake business expenses, but nothing more.
Jeremy was about to conclude his search when another name in her incoming email files caught his eye. On second glance there were several email exchanges back and forth with the same man. Love letters! Caitlin was secretly seeing Gavin Hunter, Gillian McAllen-Hunter’s father!
CHAPTER 19
Wednesday, October 20 — Five Days Later
‘Hullo?’
A gruff male voice answered Jeremy’s call to GrayHounds.
‘Er, I, . . . Well, I’m looking for a private investigator. I read your ad in the Yellow Pages and I understand from your Internet site you do, er, that sort of thing?’
‘You have come to the right place Mr. . . .?’
‘Brown, Charles Brown.’
‘I’m Kevin Cossack.’
He had struck gold right away.
‘You have come to the right place, Mr. Brown. We turn no one away, and we have one hundred per cent success in meeting our clients’ requirements. What kind of work do you need done?’
‘Well, this is very embarrassing. First, what about privacy? I need extreme privacy. No one else should know I have ever come to you. I do not want even my name mentioned to anybody.’
‘I can guarantee you one hundred per cent privacy, Mr. Brown. Everything on your account goes under your initials only—CB. You pay us in cash, and we give you a disposable pay-as-you-go mobile phone for your communications. I hope that reassures you. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘It’s a girl, a woman. I met her here in London and we have been out a few times when she was here in the City. Things are getting a bit serious now. She lives in Southampton and I live in London, for now. I get the feeling she is still involved with someone. Well, there’s something going on that she’s not telling me. I want you to track her and check out what she does, who she sees, check out her background, that sort of thing.’
‘That is the kind of work that we are most in demand for and we are experts at it. Can you come to our offices to get the investigation started? Or I could drive up to meet you in London.’
‘I can come to your offices. I am often in Southampton and it’s a short drive to Portsmouth from there. How about Saturday, say 2 p.m.?’
‘Let me check my calendar. Saturday. Yes, I can make myself free. I shall expect you on Saturday then. Could you bring a recent photograph of your girlfriend?’
‘Yes, I have several. I shall see you on Saturday then. Thank you, Mr. Cossack.’
The phone felt like a two stone dumbbell in his hand as he set it back in its cradle. Phew! He had called GrayHounds’ number intending merely to get some information on the phone. And now he had got himself into a meeting with Cossack himself. None of this was planned. He had played it all by ear, thinking of everything he had said on the spur-of-the-moment. He congratulated himself on having become a great liar.
Jeremy realized, however, that he had got himself into three major difficulties in the process. Firstly, Maggie was not going to be thrilled about being “investigated” by him. For one thing, he had no idea why the thought of investigating Maggie and her posh toff boss Greg—the super successful and brilliant Gregory—had been the first thing that had come to his mind. Maggie hadn’t made any effort to see him in months, not since it had become apparent that Radio Silicon was struggling . . . failing. He could not keep the image of Maggie locked in a naked embrace with Gregory out of his head. It made him ache even after all this time. That rich toff was always there, taunting him with his power and his bloody success, compounding his loss; for with every loss he made with Radio Silicon, Maggie slipped a bit more out of reach.
He had success on his hands now. He could fight back. Yes, he could fight for Maggie now. He made a fist and thudded his desk with the back of it.
To turn back to the matter at hand, his second problem was
that Cossack was going to be led right back to his true identity when he “investigates” Maggie. Thirdly, Cossack was going to recognize him at first sight anyway because his face had been splashed by Jack’s side all over the newspapers and TV screens around the country.
Jeremy had a difficult talk to handle with Maggie, but it also gave him a valid excuse to see her—a chance to tell Maggie how well he and his company were doing again. She had reached the same attitude about the “scrapes” that he got into that Harry had. She was going to yell at him about it, but she was eventually going to play along.
However, first Jeremy had to get himself some disguise. Early tomorrow he was going have his dark sandy blonde hair cut short down to a military crop. He would stop shaving over the next few days. He always left a bit of stubble on him and his facial hair grew fast; he would have about six days’ growth by Saturday. Then he had to shop for a dark brown wig and a matching moustache with a touch of grey to age him. His eyebrows and facial hair had to be dyed darker to match. Jeremy was also going to acquire a mini Magnus-beer-belly overnight, and put on some weight with a few extra layers of clothes. Jeremy had known how to do all this when he took drama at Stanford and Berkeley where he had played parts in backstage drama production as often as on stage. It looked like he was going to be reacquainted with some old friends in London West End production and visit some interesting shops over the next few days.
Well, why not start tonight? Harry had some friends and clients in the West End from the many cases he had handled over the years. Harry was popular among celebrities and artists. Whenever they got into trouble—with drug use, diva brawls getting out of hand, drunk driving, and other excesses in life—they ran to Harry, and he never failed them. To keep his clients happy Harry offered them a full service package, advising on and negotiating various show business contracts. He also handled messy celebrity divorces, previously with the help of the former third partner of Barrett Stavers who had now been replaced by the new associate, Jake Freeman, specializing in family law. Harry had taken Jeremy along to many of his very entertaining meetings and dinners with his clients and friends and had introduced him to some larger-than-life characters.
Jeremy went through Harry’s Filofax, found the names he was looking for, and made a couple of phone calls. It was 6:15 p.m. He closed the office and, once on Fleet Street, hailed a black cab heading towards the colourful nightlife in the London West End.
Otter had debuted his West End career performing with a modern dance company and had aptly acquired his stage name in the early days from his graceful dance moves on the stage. That, however, was not the only reason for his name. Otter was clearly gay and proudly and loudly carried his gracefulness on stage into real life. There wasn’t a movement that he made where his hands and other parts of his body did not make an elaborately graceful bend, wave, zigzag, or twirl. He had a black grandmother of whom he spoke often with great affection and the combination of genes gave him golden skin, freckles on his nose and cheekbones, and a pile of long golden-brown ringlets at the top of his head that spread in every direction and bounced and danced as fluidly as his body and limbs with every movement. He always wore a trademark tank-top showcasing his toned, muscular, and lithe body whenever he was working, accessorized with a glittery black cardigan on colder days.
Otter had nowadays moved into acting and backstage production and was today doing the costumes for the stage adaptation of the acclaimed Ealing comedy The Ladykillers at the Gielgud Theatre.
Jeremy got off the taxi at Piccadilly Circus and picked up the ticket he had booked on the phone. The show was due to start at 7:45 p.m. He presented his ticket at the entrance. Then he jotted his name down on the back of a Barrett Stavers business card, handed it to one of the ushers, and asked for Otter. A few minutes later he was led backstage where he was greeted with screams of delight by the man in person.
‘O. M. G., Jeremy! Welcome, welcome to my parlour baby boy. How is Harry? I was gonna give him a call soon anyways because . . .’ He lowered his voice into a whisper, bringing his mouth next to Jeremy’s ear and covering it with his hand: ‘. . . I have an offer from a Broadway producer to join a gig in New York for a spell.’ Otter withdrew from his ear. ‘Yeah? So how exciting is that? My black grandma would have been thrilled if only she were here, bless her soul.’
He winked and clapped his hands.
‘Come, come this way.’ Otter took Jeremy’s hand in his and led him to an empty dressing room lit with dim yellowish-white lights that looked like a dungeon full of colourful costumes, makeup, props and chests of showbiz treasures, the door of which he carefully closed and locked behind them.
‘I need to get Harry to look at this contract of mine and see how soon I can get out of this one without badly riling somebody’s feathers.’
Otter pulled out an old brown wooden suitcase from under a desk, its exterior covered with badges of West End shows stuck onto it. He dug into it through a pile of costumes, masks and other props and pulled out a cardboard folder.
‘Take a look at this. What do you think?’
He pushed Jeremy onto the sofa covered with costumes, tossed the file onto his lap, and stood expectantly with one hand on his hip jutted out sideways.
Jeremy turned the pages, pretending to read through and understand it all.
‘I’m going to have to get our expert, Harry, to take a look at this also, Otter. Why don’t I take a photocopy with me tonight?’
‘A photocopy, yes. Well, there’s no copier in here, Gem. I don’t want any of these bitches to see me doing this because you know they are fucking gossips.’
‘There are several newsagents outside. Why don’t I find a copier and make a copy? I can bring this back to you in ten minutes,’ Jeremy suggested.
Otter sat up next to him and put a hand on his knee.
‘You are a lifesaver, darling. But guard that with your life. Now what can I do for you?’
Jeremy slid the contract under his Jacket.
‘Well, I need someone who has seen photographs of me not to recognize me, Otter. Darker hair, maybe a moustache, slightly more aged and greying? A few extra pounds of weight perhaps? We can keep it light because these men have only seen my pictures on the newspapers and possibly on TV. I need it on me for Saturday.’
‘Of course, leave it to Otter. When I’m done with you your mamma won’t recognize you, Gem. Your mamma will say, whozaaatt?’
Otter got back up and gave him a hand up. Otter often shortened his name to Gem. Jeremy liked it. If he ever got into a stage career he would call himself Gem, he thought.
‘You can visit a couple of old shops in Soho with Otter tomorrow, right? I’ll do the makeup on you after my Friday night show and I’ll train you how to do the work on yourself after that. I have two stalls tickets for the Friday night show, for Harry and yourself, Gem, courtesy of Otter. Now let’s get back to work, and you can watch me in action while I get this show on stage tonight in another, ah, forty eight minutes.’
Otter clapped his hands and led them back out to the colourful backstage hustle and bustle of the Gielgud.
CHAPTER 20
Saturday, October 23 — Eight Days Later
GrayHounds offices were located above a greasy café close to the Fratton train station. Jeremy parked on a side street a few blocks down and walked to the address. The door next to the café was unlocked. He opened it cautiously and made his way up the narrow stairwell with slow and measured steps in keeping with the older, hairier, and heavier character that Otter had transformed him into the night before.
His knocks on the door at the top of the stairs having gone unanswered, Jeremy pushed the door open and stepped into a large reception room packed with an unmanned desk, two armchairs for visitors to the right of the entrance, a large printer-copier, a mineral water dispenser, and rows of metal filing cabinets of varying height stuck in every available space with piles of files stacked on top. The room was brightly sunlit through the large windows.
The carpets were new, the furniture was comfortable, the décor had a hint of expensive taste, and the space was cluttered with piles of paperwork but clean. GrayHounds was very busy and was doing well with its business.
On the wall behind the desk two doors, each with an opaque glass etched with a pattern fitted into the wooden frame of the top half, led to two rooms, one of which smoked! The door on the right had what smelled like heavy-duty tobacco smoke, almost as thick as that from one of Otter’s on-stage smoke machines, escaping through the gap between the door and the carpet and filling out the whole office. GrayHounds obviously ignored the laws banning smoking in offices and, if the information Jeremy had thus far was anything to go by, probably many other laws.
The pungent smoke filled his lungs. He coughed and rang the bell on the desk.
Presently the door opened and a man emerged from the smoke like an angel through the clouds.
‘Mr. Brown? Kevin Cossack. My secretary does not work on Saturdays. Please come in. You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?’
Kevin Cossack spoke with a nasal drawl through his teeth, which were biting (judging by the smell of the smoke) a good quality Cuban cigar jutting out from the right corner of his mouth. The question was clearly merely a gesture. The smoke already filling the office looked right out of Otter’s early music videos, and to clear it one needed something like a few powerful stage fans if not a Boeing jet engine Jeremy had worked on while at British Aerospace.
‘Not at all. Pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Cossack.’
Everything about Kevin Cossack was average and grey. He wore grey trousers and a white shirt slightly greying from use. He was of average height (about 5’ 9” tall), with an average frame, and he was of average weight. He had dark brown hair of a normal length and an average face that was neither unpleasant nor especially good looking. The only remarkable features about Kevin Cossack, not counting his unusual profession, were his somewhat unusual name and the fact that he smoked Cuban cigars.