The Path of the Bullet

by M C Jacques

  42

  Multiplex Printing and Distribution Services Ltd

  Although McKay admitted to himself that he had perhaps left Max Fothergill’s office rather peremptorily, he really needed to visit a certain Charles A Dickinson ACII, FCII, whose reputable company handled insurance and investments, including the offshore variety. The light was beginning to fade as the Scimitar skimmed off onto the A11’s slip road toward Six Mile Bottom, the latent surface water being splattered and scattered across the sometimes muddy, sometimes verdant, roadside.

  The last couple of miles had taken a ridiculous length of time. First a delay on the A11 caused by a tractor and a lorry; the cab of the latter or, more accurately, the remains of the lorry’s insubstantial fibreglass cab had been flung about, one section being suspended in some type of hawthorn a couple of metres above the verge.

  Once off the dual-carriageway, McKay had pulled over and attempted to call Mr Dickinson’s office, only to hear the friendly female voice of a receptionist, or telephonist pronounce warmly, “Multiplex Duplication and Distribution.” She then went on to ask, “How may I help you?” McKay had bid his apologies and finished the call politely but swiftly, before reprimanding himself for having either misdialled or erroneously recorded the number for Charles A Dickinson & Co, Financial & Insurance Services. A cross-checking of the ‘recent calls’ list confirmed that he had, at least, dialled the number he had written down.

  Blue lights, nosey drivers and the resultant crawling traffic had abounded in all directions, and by the time McKay eased the old Scimitar across the bendy, crackly gravel drive which led up to the offices, he saw it was very nearly seven o’clock.

  He was relieved, therefore, to observe that Charles A Dickinson & Co was still, patently, in full swing. Lights beamed out through the beige curtains and through the rectangular panelling of the main door. As he strolled towards the building, the audible clamour of energetic human and electrical activity actually permeated the part wooden, part brick constructed office, perhaps once a stable, or perhaps an old milking parlour, thought McKay. He pressed the clearly labelled and illuminated outside bell, immediately above which was a ‘RING and ENTER’ sign, both injunctions being bidden by a bright, laminated sheet of A5 card.

  Two women, one slim blonde on the phone, the other, not quite so slim brunette, paying rather close attention to a humming photocopier – of the sophisticated variety, which appeared to be performing a variety of tasks as the paper swished from tray to tray – eyed McKay sharply as he closed the door. In the first instance both their expressions were aghast followed close on by a second expression: relief.

  “Hello!” called out McKay, considerably louder than he would have done normally. The ever so slightly larger of the two ladies approached him.

  “Good evening, sir, can I help you? Have you lost your way? Many people do round here – it’s a bit off the beaten track, isn’t it?” Her head lilted slightly and her words were augmented by a friendly, but searching, smile.

  “No. At least, I don’t think I’ve lost my way. Is Mr Dickinson here? It is Charles A Dickenson & Co, isn’t it?”

  The ruddy brunette’s facial expression stiffened as she looked round over her left shoulder. “Erm, I suppose you’d better speak with Quincy, the manager.” She turned towards a corner office partly shrouded by multitudinous stacks of what appeared to be a compendious assortment of recently printed, richly coloured, display materials: posters, leaflets, flyers, even substantial brochures and the like.

  Within seconds a late middle-aged gentlemen, of medium height and similarly average build, was weaving and skirting around the heavily burdened office desks towards McKay with considerable haste. He looked up at McKay. “Quincy Roberts. Please call me Quincy. How can I help you?” He held out his hand which was shaken by McKay without delay.

  “Mark McKay. Quincy, as in Jones, the music producer?”

  He nodded. “Yes, Dad was in the US Air Force as were many in this region. 86th Bombardment Group.” There was most definitely something familiar about the man’s face. McKay felt a familiarity calling to him from the past as he nodded and then went on.

  “I’m hoping to speak with Mr Dickinson. Is he around?” Just as he had begun to speak, the interminable rasping of the copier and a nearby laser printer in full flow was augmented by an inkjet printer commencing another printing run; bright, photo-quality leaflets on a substantial and shiny grade of A4 card shot out of it in rapid succession, settling patiently in the tray, awaiting their tripartite folding.

  At once, the office manager’s eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, and moved from side to side with considerable rapidity. He took a step closer to McKay. “Well, no. CA’s not here now. Not at this precise moment in time… Sorry about that.”

  “Is Mr Dickinson likely to be returning this evening, Mr Roberts?” McKay consciously aimed his words in the direction of his opposite’s ears.

  “Oh no!” He grinned. “No chance of that, no chance at all. Ha! Well, let’s just say that it’s highly, highly unlikely, Mr McKay. CA usually shoots off soon after I return from the post run in the late afternoon.” Upon hearing his own assertion, Quincy Roberts seemed to have set himself at ease somewhat.

  “So Mr Dickinson, ‘CA’ will definitely be here in the morning?”

  “Oh yes, of course. It’s quite a morning, actually. There’s some big business in the offing! He’s got to call in at GR7 at around eleven, I think. We’ve picked up a new client there who’s keeping us rather busy; Lichtenstein, Swiss accounts, that sort of thing, all perfectly legit’, of course. Just hold on.” The dark haired, grey suited man turned towards the hitherto quiescent, slender blonde lady to the rear of the office, aside the door to Roberts’ own office. He shouted across to her, “Christina, dear; what is Charles up to tomorrow morning?”

  Following three or four furtive taps on her keyboard, Christina called back delicately, faintly, “He’s meeting a Mr Saleh-al-Khali at eleven at GR7, although there’s a note saying that’s yet to be confirmed – I think he’s a recent client, a very lucrative one – so he’ll probably leave here at about ten-thirty. Then he’s calling in on Mr Stebbings, a farmer client who’s about to retire, and after that, he’s in London for the rest of the day.” Most of this was inaudible to McKay who looked directly at Roberts, optically quizzing him.

  “He’s…”

  “He?”

  “Ah, yes. He, not Sally, Saleh, it’s a he – an Arabic name; he’s from Saudi Arabia apparently. CA was explaining to me. Anyway, he’s seeing him at eleven, a farmer after that and then he’s off to the Smoke! Back to Mr Khali, he, CA, that is, mentioned that although he seemed to recognise the voice on the ‘phone, he certainly did not recognise the client’s name. And, erm, it’s Joppa. Joppa in Saudi Arabia, that’s where he’s from. We have to be quite careful nowadays with the new EU regulations.”

  “I’m sure that you do. I’m quite sure that you are, too,” beamed McKay. “It’s a busy place, Quincy. Is this a sideline to the main financial and insurance business?”

  Roberts took a deep breath and rotated his head ever so slowly. “Well, not exactly. We sort of, well, you know, we lease the office premises from CA during the evenings – sometimes at weekends when we’ve got a lot on, you know. As Arthur Daley would’ve said ‘It’s a nice little earner’!”

  As McKay left the premises, having declined the offer of a coffee from the cordial Quincy Roberts, he soon heard the snapping of locks and the clunking of bolts on the door, punctuating the rhythmic somnolent pattern of the various printers and copiers within. Outside, though, the East Anglian night was now dark and quiet; ‘Humming voices murmur ‘Hush’’, as the poet says, and McKay almost felt a hint of repentance as the Scimitar’s V8 engine disturbed the peace of it all, as it hummed into its own eerily quiet life, the wide tyres crackling their ‘farewell’ across the gravel drive. Actually, thought McKay, all
owing himself a rare smirk, it is Arthur Daley who Quincy Roberts reminds me of!

  “We might have stumbled across the link we need here, Paul; the link with our would-be terrorist friend.” McKay was conscious of being more confident than he had been usually of late and Burrows, for one, certainly welcomed the update.

  “Well, now, I’m pleased you’ve said that because our voices are hoarse from barking up wrong trees!” announced the DI, his voice rich in audible relief and hope. “I’ve never clutched at so many hopeless bloomin’ straws in me life!” stated the hitherto disillusioned Detective Inspector, his newfound sprightliness lapsing momentarily.

  “Let’s see what happens, but if John Foote’s picture of this guy is accurate, he’s another one of that cadre who hangs around with our all too enigmatic Miss Millar!”

  “Oh yes, and I’ve had your friend Fothergill, from the museum, bellowing at me about her. ‘Can’t you find her? What are you doing to find her? Why are you’… at me, this is, at me! ‘Why are you always sitting behind a desk?’, etcetera, etcetera. Quite rude he was. I’ve a good mind to sort him out and have a poke around his private affairs when all this is through. And, as I trust you’ve noticed, Mark, I’m not a vindictive man, but he gets right up my nose! Anyway, call round and see him when you can. Thanks.”

  “Well, you could begin by checking out his gun cabinet again, Paul!”

  “What?”

  43

  Charles A Dickinson, ACII, FCII & Co, Financial & Insurance Services

  It was around nine-fifteen on the following morning when an uneasy and unusually cautious McKay rang the bell and entered the offices of Charles A Dickinson for the second time and on this occasion it was he who was to be rendered aghast.

  Not a trace, not a particle of the frantic nocturnal industry he had witnessed the previous night remained extant. No heaps of invoices and receipts. No neatly stacked piles of posters for the next M11 Truck Fest in February 2002, which he had noticed. No floral calendars for the Soham Horticultural Trust. Even a considerable stack of A5 flyers for the Wortham & Gislingham Women’s Cricket Eleven, tightly bound by elastic bands in packs of a hundred (McKay had approximated), were all gone; vanished entirely!

  A tall gentleman, probably of similar age to Quincy Roberts, McKay guessed, emerged from the direction of the corner office which his deputy had appeared from on the previous eve, and strode across and greeted him warmly.

  “Mark McKay? Very nice to meet you. Bertie, as we call him, told me you called in yesterday afternoon. Sorry I missed you, but I’m here quite early each day and like to get away around five. These guys are the salt of the earth.” He glanced around nodding his approval and esteem to Quincy, Christina and to the other unnamed blonde individually. “They really are the salt of the earth, Mr McKay. They work all hours for me – all for the good of the company, you understand – tirelessly and selflessly! Dickinson and Co has always been a client-centred company and my staff epitomise that! So, how exactly can I help you? Let’s go to my office and sort out some coffee.” Curiously, McKay was led into precisely the same office from which Quincy Roberts had emerged on the previous evening.

  “What can you tell me about Saleh-al-Khali? How did he contact you?”

  “Thank you, Elena.” A generous cafétiere of freshly brewed coffee with condiments, on a mahogany tray, possibly oriental, momentarily distracted both of the men.

  At first, Mr Dickinson looked uncomfortable at the nature of McKay’s questions, and fidgeted, delaying any verbal response.

  An honest man, thought McKay, patently so; unable to conceal his disquiet. “It’s quite all right, Mr Dickinson,” McKay assured the older man. “I’m here with the blessing of DI Burrows, whom I understand you know from the Rotary Club! We’re all on the same side. We know you’re kosher, as they say these days; it’s purely some information we need.”

  “Well, I suppose it will be okay… I suppose that it will have to be!”

  “Please call Paul Burrows, if you’re in any doubt whatsoever about my integrity or credibility.” McKay sat, looking at Mr Dickinson, deadpan.

  “No need. No, no need for that!” He sat upright, his long back easing the spine of the leather chair backwards against an elegant set of shelves, once a bookcase, once again possibly oriental, now used to store client files alphabetically. “So, well, it was about eight weeks ago, I suppose, let’s see...” He turned to his left and steadily – almost reverentially – lifted a file labelled ‘J,K,L’ from the shelf. The paperwork pertaining to the company’s individual clients was retained by separate plastic wallets and from one of these, Mr Dickinson solicitously prised a slim wad of three or four sheets of variously sized paper.

  “Now, yes, it was in early September, must’ve been, that he called us, Mr Saleh-al-Khali. Elena took the call I think; yes, she did. I remember it well because, once the call had been transferred through to me, I thought that I recognised the voice. In fact, I’d almost go as far as to say that I’m certain I have heard that voice before.”

  “But you did not and you do not recall the name.”

  “Absolutely not! Never heard that name before; as I said to Bertie, it sounds like a girl’s name to the Saxon ear!”

  “Anything you are able to tell us, Mr Dickinson, about Mr Al-Khali would be extremely helpful.” McKay viewed the tall elegantly set man intently who, upon noting those last words, leaned forward.

  “Well, I am able to tell you this much. The impression we’ve been given is that there’s a tidy old sum involved. You develop a sort of feel for that sort of thing in this business and…” McKay indicated his interest at this point by raising his eyebrows slightly. “… and because he wants to make a considerable cash investment – that’s what he said over the phone, at least – and he wants me to go to him. He’s a Cambridge Examiner on the International Examination Syndicate and he wants to meet me at eleven, sorry, at twelve, in a couple of hours, at GR7, the conference facility across the roundabout at Tuxford. He said a cheque was out of the question and it’s got to be invested ‘offshore’. We, the company that is, will receive a very small consultancy fee in the first instance – one has to be so competitive these days –and then an ongoing commission-related fee thereafter.’”

  “So you are convinced that it is, potentially, a long-term investment, Mr Dickinson?”

  “They generally are, yes. There are exceptions, of course, as there are to all generalisations but, by and large, this sort of investor tends to go for the long haul. Besides, what seems like a colossal amount of money to you or me could simply be loose change to these guys. There’s a lot of Arabic-owned fixed assets in Cambridge, and around here in Newmarket, you know, Mr McKay. This sort of thing isn’t as unusual to us as it might well appear to be to you!” Brimful with integrity, he paused, took a sip of his black coffee and looked across at McKay over the rim of his varifocals. Even then, there was a further pause. “There is perhaps one slightly strange thing about this client which I should mention.” A mild grimace appeared across his face, as if to usher in what he was about to say with a modicum of dubiousness.

  “Fine, please do; anything at all.”

  “Well, somewhat unusually, I have to say, all of our dealings thus far have been conducted through email, telephone or through the post – when he’s sent his passport and other official documents pertaining to nationality or to status, they’ve been posted here and returned to Mr Khali in kind.”

  “So tomorrow will be the first time you’ve met him, face to face? And at this stage, that’s atypical?”

  “Absolutely. Yes. He’s an examiner for the university, as I think I said. A setter or whatever they’re called and, apparently, there’s a meeting of the exam board, or some conference at GR7 today. As I said, I’m meeting him at twelve noon; it was to have been eleven but his secretary telephoned Christina first thing today.”

  “Are there a
ny further details regarding the conference centre?” McKay frowned with a narrow inquisitiveness.

  “Oh yes, absolutely! Mr Al-Khali is going to be in Conference Suite – or was it Room – Number 8. I almost forgot that!”

  McKay smiled. “And the only image, the only picture, you’ve seen of this man, Saleh Al-Khali, hitherto, is that one used in his passport?”

  Mr Dickinson nodded without hesitation. “Absolutely. Yes.” He pressed a button on the sleek, cream telephone before him. “Christina, a couple of enlarged copies of Mr Al-Khali’s passport photograph, if you please!”

  These were delivered with remarkable promptitude by the nimble, lithe, even smiling, Christina! “Ah, good, the machine must still have been warm! Thank you; what an angel you are!”

  McKay rose to his feet briskly, preventing himself from reaching for his mobile phone prematurely and impolitely. He bid a hasty farewell and thanked his host for his considerable assistance, seconds before closing the wooden door to Mr Dickinson’s pleasantly distinctive, even rustic office.

  Looking all about him, McKay mentally urged Jay Gould to answer his mobile. When at last he did, McKay, almost at a whisper, questioned, “Jay, how quickly can you get to Tuxford, to the GR7 Conference Centre to be precise? Yes, now! Good, right; you’ll need to bring your monitoring kit with you. This is what we’re going to need to do…” McKay ended the rather nervy call a minute or so later with both a disclosure and an injunction. “Oh, and Jay, I suspect that I may very well have been followed here. So you be on your lookout, too! Keep looking over your shoulder; I suspect they know we may be closing in on them! Please don’t forget to call the Old Native! Thanks. Sure. See you there.”

  44