by J. D. Weston
“Well? What do you want me to do? Send a bottle of champagne?”
“And your name was on the guest list.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The office where Donny worked was inside a dull 1970s office block. It was a grey building that offered little motivation or inspiration. It was the type of building Harvey assumed to be full of administrators and back office clerks. It was a place of watched clocks. It was also a place for John Cartwright to house his more legitimate dealings and keep an eye on his less-than-trustworthy son at zero cost.
The building belonged to John, the security worked for John, and all the business owners who occupied the commercial spaces inside owed John a favour in one way or another.
The building was set back from the main road in Chigwell, a few miles from John’s house. There was a car park at the front and to one side, but few cars parked there on Saturdays.
Harvey parked his motorbike far from the entrance, stowed his helmet in the back box, and walked. The car park appeared normal. There were no unmarked vans parked up and none of the cars had occupants.
The security efforts matched the building’s drab look. The door opened without a lock, key, or card reader and closed behind him with a lazy sigh. The sound of the road was cut off and all that remained was the dull hum of an air conditioning unit regurgitating the stale air. There was a small security desk to one side of the reception room. The desk was unmanned but there was a jacket hanging over the seat and an old rucksack on the floor. There were several small CCTV monitors on the desk showing black and white representations of various parts of the building, two for the elevators and four more that showed areas of the car park, the entrance, and the public spaces in sequence. He watched them for a minute, allowing for a full cycle. None of the monitors showed the fire escape, so that was the route Harvey took.
He opened the door and listened for movement above him. The stone-coloured painted walls were duller than white yet brighter than the heavy blues that had been used in the reception. Sounds echoed off the hard surfaces. The steps, which were concrete tipped with an aluminium grip, offered little chance of stealth unless the individual stepped over the metal strips, which felt unnatural, but Harvey did it anyway. He didn’t like to announce his arrival, but was sure that, should someone pursue him, they wouldn’t have the patience to do so. The sound of somebody climbing the stairs would be heard all the way up on the top floor.
There were only five floors, each with six or more office spaces partitioned off. Harvey stopped on each landing and peered through the small window in the fire escape door. As the car park conveyed, there were few people working on a Saturday afternoon.
Donny’s office was on the fifth floor. Harvey had been there once before and had been far from impressed. He turned right out of the fire escape and walked to the far end of the corridor, glancing through the mesh-lined windows of the other spaces as he passed, until he reached the very end of the building, and the corner office.
The door to Donny’s office was as insecure as the others in the building. Applying a little pressure at the top and bottom offered enough of a space for Harvey to wedge the back of his knife in the gap. He eased the wood back, pulling the lock from the door jamb, and with some gentle persuasion from his knee, he popped the door open without leaving any sign of a break in.
Using a spare key from the filing cabinet, he twisted the lock and closed the door. If anything, Donny would think he had just forgotten to lock it when he returned.
It was a large space for such a small and feeble man. Dual aspect windows offered plenty of natural light and the vertical blinds had been opened to reveal a view over the rooftops of the picturesque town of Chigwell.
But Harvey wasn’t there for the view.
Harvey was there because Donny had been lying and his office was the only place that would offer an insight into his wretched foster-brother’s world.
Beside the windows were three armchairs, which the interior designers had clearly chosen for style over comfort, considering how sleek and futuristic they looked. They were arranged in a half-circle with a coffee table in the centre. There was another door behind the chairs which Harvey opened to find a large storage space full of stationery, boxes of files, and the junk Donny had collected over the years. He switched on the light and saw the dust that had been disturbed by the door opening hang in the air. The space was rarely used.
He moved to Donny’s desk. It was as Harvey had imagined, littered with papers. The man lacked discipline. Harvey had never owned a desk, nor had he ever felt the need for one. But if he did have one, he was sure it would be kept in order. There seemed to be two piles of paper. Forms of some kind. They were spread out as if Donny had been looking for one in particular.
Harvey studied the topmost form. It bore the company name on the top left-hand corner and had boxes for the relevant information. They were import documents and the pile on the left had been stamped with the words DUTY PAID in red ink along with the seal of the UK Customs and Excise. To a man more familiar with paperwork, the forms may have meant something. But to Harvey, they were just import papers for the alcohol that was served in John’s establishments. He tossed them to one side and opened the top drawer. Inside the drawer, he found nothing of use. Some papers, pens, and takeaway menus. He tried the second drawer and found an envelope full of photos. They showed Donny at a party with friends. It appeared to be a red carpet event. The men wore tuxedos and the ladies wore ball gowns. Harvey recognised some of their faces from the wedding. Donny’s friends. Others, he had never seen before. But the last photo caught Harvey’s attention. It showed Donny and a friend posing for the photo against a sponsored backdrop that was adorned with the names of high-profile brands. Harvey imagined the highest bidding brand would have the company name in the most prominent spot. But in this particular photo, the most prominent spot was obscured by a woman.
She was elegant, long-legged, and her hair rested on her shoulders. Her dress appeared expensive. It concealed enough to remain tasteful yet revealed sufficient skin to stir the memory in Harvey’s mind.
It was the girl. Harvey hadn’t caught her name. He hadn’t even thought of her since he’d heard the gunshot ring out. He’d left her lying in the long grass and she hadn’t crossed his mind once since.
She was staring at Donny and his friend with the type of smile a person adopts on occasions such as high-profile events. It was the always-happy expression, the carefree, fun-loving gaze that hid all those things that Harvey had read in her eyes a few hours before. She had appeared lonely behind a mask of confidence. Seductive and powerful yet fragile and tender. He gave her some thought, then dropped the images into the envelope and tossed them back into the drawer. He closed it and was about to open the third drawer when a dull and muted ping announced the arrival of the elevator along the corridor. He glanced around the room looking for a place to hide. His eyes settled on the stationery cupboard just as he heard the grumble of a man's voice outside.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I’m not sure that Mr Cartwright would appreciate you in his office without him being here,” said the guard.
He had a northern accent that Myers placed on the outskirts of Manchester. He wore a pair of plain, black trousers, unpolished shoes, and, judging by the state of his shirt, he was due a laundry day.
“I’m not sure that Mr Cartwright would appreciate a visitor having to spend ten minutes looking for the security guard,” said Myers. “So, what do you want to do? Let us in or make a call to see what he says?”
The guard stared between Myers and Fox. His expression wrote cheques that his size and physique couldn’t cash. There was a weakness in his eyes that gave him the appearance of being sly and underhanded.
“Five minutes,” he said, and he pulled a big bunch of keys from his pocket. Each of the keys were marked with various colour tabs which Myers presumed to relate to each floor. A number was also inscribed on each key and he found the correc
t one. He inserted the key and tried to turn it, but it was already unlocked. He glanced back at Myers then tried the door handle. “He must have left it unlocked.”
“Perhaps I didn’t need to disturb you from your extended toilet break after all,” said Myers, and he moved past the man into the space.
“It’s nicer than I thought it would be,” said Fox, as she followed Myers and began studying the shelves of files.
She raised her hand to pull a folder from the shelf.
“Don’t touch anything, Fox.”
She paused and glanced at him.
“Nothing is to be moved,” he said. “We don’t want your grubby prints on anything we may need later.”
The guard was leaning on the door frame, watching with interest as they made their way through the office.
“I suppose you’ll want to be getting back to whatever it was you were doing?” said Myers without looking at him.
The man said nothing, then raised his eyebrows when Myers eventually looked his way.
“You must be busy?” said Myers, inviting him to leave them to it.
“Not really,” the man said, and shook his head. He checked his watch and slid his hand back into his pocket. “No, nothing to do for an hour or so.”
He wasn’t going to leave.
“What is it you’re looking for?” asked the man.
“I’ll know when I see it,” said Myers, as he flicked through the papers on the desk.
“You said Mr Cartwright owns several drinking establishments, sir?” said Fox. She had followed Myers to the desk and was eyeing the papers that were sprawled out.
“He doesn’t own them, his father does. Donald just runs them,” said Myers. She was irritating him. The office was large, and they didn’t need two people to look at the same desk. He moved across to one of the large windows that looked out over Chigwell.
“So that’s what all these import certificates are for. There are a lot of them. How many establishments does he run?” asked Fox.
“I don’t know how many exactly he runs, but his father has bars and clubs all over East London.”
“But why does he import the alcohol?”
She was a distraction and he let her know it with a heavy sigh.
“I guess he saves money by importing it, Fox. Is this relevant to…”
He stopped himself from saying too much in front of the guard. Fox looked up from the papers and seemed to understand.
“Why don’t you tell us what you know about Donald Cartwright?” said Myers, and the guard lost his carefree demeanour. He pushed off the door frame and jingled his keys in his pocket.
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“I don’t know anything about him.”
“You know who he is?”
“He’s the boss’ son.”
“So, you work for John Cartwright?”
“Yeah. But listen, I don’t know anything about anything. I’m not getting involved.”
“What’s your name, son?” said Myers.
And the man silenced. Myers waited a moment. He would talk. It was just a matter of time.
“Charlie,” said the guard.
“Okay then, Charlie,” said Myers, knowing full well that Charlie was the first name he had thought of. “Just relax. You’re not in any trouble. I just want to know a little bit more about Mr Cartwright.”
“Which one?” said Charlie, and Myers knew he would talk.
“The younger one.”
“Donny? He’s a nice guy. Doesn’t say much to me.”
“Have you ever tried to talk to him?”
“Well, once, yeah. But he didn’t seem to be in the talking mood.”
“Do you work the desk every day?” said Fox. She was still at the desk studying the papers. Her interruption irritated Myers but he let it go. It was a good question and he could see where she was going.
“Well, no. We do shifts. Me and others. It rotates.”
“So some weeks you do mornings and then other weeks you work the afternoons?” said Fox.
“Yeah, and the evenings. I do the mornings every three weeks.”
“So you see Mr Cartwright coming in and out of the building?” said Myers.
“Yeah. Every three weeks.”
“Do you say good morning, Charlie?” said Fox.
“Eh?”
“Good morning. Do you tell him good morning when you do see him? He is your boss, after all.”
“Oh, no, he’s not my boss. His dad’s my boss.”
“So you don’t say good morning to him?” said Fox.
“Well, no. Not really,” said Charlie, and he checked over his shoulder. “He’s not very friendly. A few of the other guys have had run ins with him.”
“Have you?” said Myers, standing with his back to the large window.
“No, not me. I prefer to keep my nose clean.”
“How long did you get?” said Fox, and the question caught Myers off-guard.
“Eh?” said Charlie.
“How long did you get?” repeated Fox. “In prison. The tattoo on your neck. It’s a prison tat.”
Charlie pulled his collar up to hide the tattoo.
“Two years. But that was a long time ago, mind. I don’t do any of that stuff anymore.”
“What stuff?” asked Myers. The man named Charlie who Myers was sure was not named Charlie had become interesting. What started out as an innocent probe to get an insight into Donald Cartwright had developed into something more.
Charlie squirmed.
“Ah, look, I should get back to my desk.”
“You’ll stay right there, or I’ll get John Cartwright on the phone right now and I’ll tell him that his security guard opened the door to his son’s office without even looking at our IDs.”
Charlie sighed and realised his mistake.
“What was your crime?” asked Myers.
“Armed robbery,” said Charlie, and Myers smiled at having broken such a man with relative ease.
“Guilty?” said Fox.
He nodded.
“Two years for armed robbery. Did it pay well?”
Charlie said nothing.
“I thought the going rate for armed robbery these days was seven years. Is that right, sir?”
“Unless the prisoner decides to relay a little more information than what he gave in court,” continued Myers.
“Hey, I’m not a grass,” said Charlie. “I just…”
“Go on,” said Myers. “You just what?”
“I did what I had to do. I never grassed on anyone that didn’t deserve it.”
“I see,” said Fox, and she smiled at Myers. Myers didn’t smile back.
“Seems funny to me that a convicted armed robber would be working as a security guard,” said Myers.
“Mr Cartwright is alright. He’s a hard bastard sometimes. But he’s fair. He sees me alright and I’ll not say anything against him.”
“You’re referring to the older of the two Mr Cartwrights?” said Fox.
“Eh? Yeah. Of course. John Cartwright. He’s okay in my books. Gave me a second chance, he did.”
“But you don’t have the same affection for his son?”
Charlie shook his head.
“Charlie, tell me something. Does Donald Cartwright have many visitors here?” said Fox, and again, Myers was pleasantly surprised at her line of questioning.
“Yeah. Sometimes.”
“Do you know them? Are there any records?” asked Fox.
“Well, they’re supposed to fill in the form. It’s for health and safety and all, but…”
“But what, Charlie?”
“I don’t like to ask him. He’s the boss’ son and all.”
“So he has guests here but you don’t register them?”
“What am I supposed to do? He could fire me like that.” Charlie snapped his fingers as if to accentuate his point.
“Do you remember any of them?” asked Myers, and he moved to sit on
the back of a stylish looking armchair.
“Maybe. But I don’t know their names.”
“A description will do.”
“It’s girls, usually.”
“Girls?” said Fox. “You mean women? Businesswomen?”
“No, girls,” said Charlie, and he laughed. “You could call them businesswomen, but I doubt they’d take a credit card, if you know what I mean.” His smile faded.
“Anybody else?” asked Myers, keen to move on from Donald Cartwright’s lewd goings on. He stood from the chair with a sudden awareness of how tainted everything must be in the room.
“Some men. I can’t remember them. It was weeks ago.”
“Businessmen?” said Myers.
“Yeah. There was some men. Asian fellas. They had a woman with them.”
“A businesswoman?” asked Fox.
“Yeah, she wasn’t a call girl. She had eyes that would tear you apart just by looking at her. Posh tart, she was. But that’s all I remember. They got in the lift and that’s all I saw.”
“You didn’t see them come back down?” asked Fox.
The lead was going nowhere. Some men that he didn’t remember visited Donald Cartwright a few weeks ago. Myers shuffled across the room to a doorway. He hadn’t noticed it before.
“My shift was over by the time they were done. One of the other guys must have seen them leave. It was probably Joey. You should talk to Joey.”
Myers opened the door and stirred the dust. He peered into the darkness and fumbled for a light switch.
“Sir?” said Fox, and Myers peered out of the cupboard with his eyebrows raised. “I’ve got something.”
Myers closed the door and Fox met him halfway across the room. For the first time, he noticed the scent she was wearing. It was nice. It was sweet and smelled of innocence.
She unfurled a balled piece of paper and flattened it out.
“This was in the bin, sir.”
“In the bin? So?”
“It’s been stamped, sir. Why would he throw away a consignment and keep the rest? Surely he’d need this for accounting purposes.”
“Maybe it’s a duplicate?”