by Simon Brooke
“Oi,” he says.
My heart is pounding with shock as well as the impact. “Oh, fuck! Who are you? What do you want?” I gasp, trying to get my breath back.
“Oi,” he says again.
“What do you mean?” I’m suddenly offended as well as frightened. Who the hell does he think he is?
“I mean some of your creditors want their money and they’re not going to wait for it.”
“All right, all right. We’ll pay everyone as soon as we can. Just bear with us.”
“Yeah, well, listen, some of them aren’t going to just hang around, see?” He moves towards me menacingly. “Ow!” He’s managed to walk into the desk in the semi-darkness of the office, made more obscure by his helmet. “Aw, fuck that hurt,” he says, holding his thigh.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Shut up!” he bellows, still nursing his upper leg and limping around on it. “Anyway, yeah, er, right. Like I said, some of your creditors aren’t going to wait for their money, okay?” he snaps, pointing a gloved finger at me.
“Well, tell me who they are and we’ll make sure they’re on the list.”
“What? I’m not telling you who they are, am I? Just make sure you pay up—and fast. Got it?”
He goes to thump me again but I step back quickly and he half-misses so his intended assault ends up as a sort of tap on the shoulder as if we were playing tag. Looks like I’m it now.
“Remember what I said.”
On his way out he glances around for something to smash up to make his point but, with nothing to hand, he ends up just tossing some invoices on to the floor. Then he turns back to leave but walks into the half-open door. “Ow, fuck!” He stumbles back, stunned. Then he leaves and slams it behind him.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, telling myself I’m okay. I’m not hurt, just a bit shocked.
But then suddenly there is a terrible thumping, followed by a crashing sound and a voice roaring in anger. For a moment I think he must have smashed up something in the stairwell as a final act of intimidation. Then I realise that there really isn’t anything much you could damage out there. I open the office door a crack and peep out. Nothing. I look further out and realise that he’s fallen downstairs.
Chapter
17
I leave the office shortly afterwards and take a taxi home, where I have a large drink. Whisky for a change. As far as gangland muscle goes, my assailant was pretty incompetent. Poor bugger, he’s going to have a horrible bruise on his leg tomorrow. Perhaps I should tell the police now? I laugh sadly at the idea that they’d easily be able to identify the man. Just round up the usual suspects and check their legs for nasty contusions.
I don’t hear Lauren come in.
“Hi,” she says. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”
Am I? I must have forgotten to put the lights on. Perhaps I don’t want anyone to know I’m at home.
“Sorry, I didn’t notice.”
She switches them on and closes the curtains. “Are you all right?” She sits down on the settee next to me and gives me a peck on the cheek.
“I was working late tonight, like I said, and this bloke came in and tried to beat me up.”
“What?” She sits up and looks at me. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no. I’m fine.” Casually my hand wanders up to my chest where he shoved me. I can hardly feel anything there at all. “He’s in a worse state than I am, I think.”
“What? You’re kidding. You attacked him back?”
I laugh. “I didn’t have to. He walked into a desk and then into the door—and then he fell downstairs.” Relief and delayed shock makes me laugh even more.
Lauren is deadly serious. “Charlie, this is awful. You’ve got to get out of this. Let’s call the police and tell them. I don’t want you going to that office tomorrow. It’s not safe.” She stops for a moment. “This puts a whole new perspective on the Guy and Piers thing, doesn’t it? Perhaps they’ve been…”
“Murdered?” I say. And then I burst out laughing.
“What’s the matter with you? It’s not funny.”
“No, sorry, it’s not. Perhaps I’m still in shock or something.”
She stands up and looks thoughtful. “I think you should keep away from this whole thing. It’s doing you no good.”
“I just want to try and sort it out.”
“Charlie, it’s beyond that. Can’t you see? Look what it’s doing to your image. Who’s going to employ you as a model, or anything else, after this publicity?”
She’s right in a way. As always. But there is one very strong argument against her.
“Babe, I’m a director. I’ve signed cheques. My dad says…my dad says that if someone could prove that I was negligent or dishonest I could be prosecuted. I could be in deep shit.”
She looks horrified. “But you haven’t done anything wrong, have you? Have you?”
“No, of course not. Well, I’ve been spending money, but we all have. Piers and Guy told us to.” I wonder how that would stand up in court. I’m sick of thinking about it, so I ask, “How did it go with Peter tonight?”
Lauren is still staring intently at me. “Peter?” she says. “Okay. Yeah, fine. There’s a new proposal he’s got in with the At Home channel for a DIY makeover thing.”
“Sounds interesting,” I say, staring at the fireplace.
“Should be.”
“Tell me about it.”
“The idea is that a decorator does over someone’s house while a celebrity chef cooks them dinner.”
I smile. “Great. And what did you do tonight?”
“We went to the studio again. Peter wanted me to work on my technique.”
I smirk. “And is he pleased with your technique?”
“Yes.” She pauses. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing.” I feel her watching me. “Why don’t you show me your technique?”
There is another pause and she says, “I just don’t understand you anymore, Charlie.”
A few moments later the spare duvet and a couple of pillows are delivered in silence.
I sleep fitfully on the settee. The Couch of Correction, as Sarah calls it when she makes Mark sleep on theirs. I don’t feel particularly redeemed the next morning, though. I finally get up about seven, have a quick wash and shave and get the tube back to the office, taking in a cappuccino and an almond croissant from the café next door.
I let myself in and stare at the spreadsheets again. Lauren’s right. It’s hopeless. Names, amounts and dates are all neatly laid out. I recognise quite a few of them. Sir Josh Langdon, of course, and some other pop stars, plus some big names from the City, some designers and theatre people, but so what? It doesn’t explain where the money actually is, does it? When the post arrives, as well as the usual final demands and invitations to luxury-goods launches there are two bank statements: one from a bank in Monaco (overdrawn to the tune of a few hundred thou), the other from a bank in the Cayman Islands (in credit, whoopee, £13.47).
I’m just putting these on a pile when the phone rings.
“Could I speak to Mr. Barrett, please?” says a gruff male voice. I curse myself for picking it up.
“Speaking.”
“Oh, good morning, Mr. Barrett, this is Detective Inspector Slapton from the Metropolitan Police. I wondered if I could talk to you about the disappearance of your colleagues.”
“Yes, of course. I’m around at the office all of today.”
“Okay, shall we make it, let me see, eleven?”
“That’s fine with me.” I give them the address. “Have you got any news about them, then?”
“About their whereabouts? No.”
“Oh, I’ve also already spoken to someone in your office.”
“Have you? Which office?”
“Missing Persons.”
“Eh? Oh, sorry, no, I’m not Missing Persons,” he says. “I’m from the Fraud Squad.”
I’ve warned Sca
rlett and Zac that the police will be coming over and might want to talk to them. Zac shrugs and nods. Scarlett says, “Oh, okay,” and then takes something out of her desk, leaves the room with it and a few moments later we hear the lavatory flushing.
Somehow that would have been the least of our worries.
I also tell them about being attacked. “I think none of us should be in the office on our own, well, neither of you,” I say, hoping I sound braver than I feel.
Scarlett is looking at my face. “What did he do then?”
“He didn’t hit me in the face but he punched me in the chest.”
“Break any ribs?”
“No, well, I don’t think so.”
“Oh, not serious then.”
“Scarlett, I wasn’t actually beaten to a pulp,” I say. My masculine pride seems to be getting roughed over worse now than last night.
“But they might come back for more. That was obviously just a warning.”
“Okay,” she says, clearly unimpressed. “Gonna tell the cops?”
Detective Inspector Slapton and a younger colleague, Police Constable Newton, arrive dead on 11 A.M. We shake hands and I suggest that we sit at the settee and armchairs in one corner of the office. Scarlett offers to make us some coffee. The older policeman can’t hide his disdain for her red dreadlocks, purple shades and leopardskin miniskirt, while his colleague looks at her in awe.
“Thanks very much for taking the time to see us,” says Slapton.
“No problem. Glad to help if we can.” I suddenly wonder if I should have a solicitor present or something.
As if he has read my thoughts Slapton says, “Just some general questions to help us with our investigation. Nothing to worry about.”
“Sure,” I say.
He asks about how I met Piers and Guy, how I came to work for them, what the site does, about the launch party, about what I do at 2cool, and Scarlett’s and Zac’s roles. When we come onto the financial element, which is obviously what he is really interested in, my total ignorance saves me. To almost every question I can truthfully answer, “I don’t know,” or “I was never involved in that.”
“But you are a director,” says Slapton at one point.
“Er, yes, but obviously I concentrated on the marketing and presentation.”
“What about board meetings?” asks Slapton. A look in his eye suggests that he knows the answer to this one.
A look of panic, which must have flitted across my face in response, confirms it. “We didn’t really have any, not formal ones, anyway. Things have been moving too fast.”
I just hope they believe me.
Slapton lets the information sink in and then asks, “And the site’s still up and running isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes it is.” Remembering my job description, as if it still mattered, I say to him, “Would you like to have a look?”
“Why not. We haven’t really had a chance to see what all the fuss is about.”
I lead them over to Zac’s desk. We catch him slightly unawares and it takes him a moment to get out of a war game he is playing but he gives the two policemen a guided tour of 2cool2btrue.com—avoiding the porn pages. They seem slightly bemused for most of the time but suitably impressed with the graphics and the funky tricks that Zac shows them. For some reason they end up reading an article about champagne glasses.
“Here’s one for you, sir,” says Newton to Slapton. “Apparently flutes are out for drinking champagne; we’ll all be sipping from saucers this season. Just your sort of thing.”
“I think we’ve still got the saucer kind from the first time around, a wedding present or something,” says Slapton.
“You’re all right then,” laughs Newton.
It’s supposed to be tongue in cheek, you doofuses, I think. We’re not really suggesting it’s a serious issue. Well, I’m not anyway.
They also laugh at our survey about men spending more on clothes than their female partners.
“Not in our house they don’t,” says DI Slapton.
As Zac takes them around the site, there are some gratuitous shots of the police shooting protesters at Penn State University, the significance of which is clearly not lost on our visitors.
“Very impressive,” says Slapton. “I leave all this computer stuff to my son. He’s a real whiz at it. Personally, I can’t do much more than look at my files. Isn’t that right?” he asks his sidekick.
“Yes,” says Newton.
“I’d be quite happy to stick with a typewriter.”
“He can’t even get his emails half the time,” says Newton. “Usually the whole office gets involved. In fact, he doesn’t even know—”
“Er, thank you,” says his superior pointedly. The younger policeman falls silent and looks at the ground.
“I hope I’ve been helpful,” I say, pretty convinced that I haven’t.
“Oh, yes. Either myself or my colleague,” he says, shooting Newton another withering look, “will be in touch if we have any more questions.”
“Sure. I’m around.”
I lead them to the door, suddenly aware of how desperate I am for them to leave so that I can relax.
“So, from male model to computer whiz,” says Slapton as we stand in the open doorway.
“Hardly,” I laugh. He nods thoughtfully, looking at me hard, eyes boring into me so that I have to look away.
“Perhaps myself and PC Newton here should set ourselves up as models—call ourselves Ugly Bastards Incorporated or something.”
I laugh again. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? I’ve already clocked Slapton’s face with its broken veins, the cuts and stray hairs where he hasn’t shaved properly, his bloodshot eyes, the chest hair poking up over the top of his collar, and his stomach bulging through his cheap shirt. Call me vain but how can anyone let themselves go like that?
“Oh, no, modelling isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, believe me,” I mutter, opening the door. “That’s why I got out of it.”
“Spending a whole day doing nothing except hanging around with beautiful women?” he says. “Eh? Can’t be bad.”
“Well, it does have its good points,” I laugh. “Anyway, great, thanks very much. Bye.”
I close the door and rest my head on it for a moment, at which point a voice from across the room snorts sarcastically, “Well, it does have its good points, fnurr, fnurr.”
“Oh, fucking hell, Scarlett, what else was I supposed to say? At least we haven’t been arrested.”
“I know,” she says. “What a fucking waste of gear. They didn’t even search me this time.”
Chapter
18
It’s black tie, this do at Sir James Huntsman’s, as if it wasn’t a pain in the arse enough already. Usually Lauren ties my bow tie for me after I’ve cursed and sworn for a while but this time I don’t want to even ask her. She’s cooking herself an omelette in the kitchen and I leave her to it.
The final attempt looks like I’ve at least made an effort although the breeze from a butterfly wing in South America will probably cause it to unfurl again.
“Bye, then,” I tell her. “I won’t be back too late.”
“Okay,” she says without looking round, her fork suspended in midair and her legs crossed as she sits at a stool by the breakfast bar, reading a magazine while she eats. That I’m going to this thing with Nora hasn’t helped relations between us. Added to which is the fact that instead of getting out of the whole 2cool mess, I seem to be wading in even deeper.
Even though it’s warm outside I’m wearing a mac so that I don’t look too conspicuous. I’m five minutes early at the pub and I order a whisky for my nerves. Then another. The jukebox comes on and a bloke begins to sing in a thin, tremulous voice:
It’s truth, yeah, yeah, that has to be repeated:
Our love united, yeah, babe, can never be defeated.
Nora, funnily enough, is late.
“Sorry,” she says, spotting me at the bar. “We had a
bit of a crisis at work. Hey, you look great.”
“Thanks, so do you.”
She’s wearing a black lacy dress, sort of Edwardian, with some heavy costume jewellery and dark red lipstick.
“We’re running a little news piece on your survey about men spending more on clothes than women, you’ll be glad to hear. Editor loves it.”
“Great,” I say. I suppose 2cool might as well carry on generating news—perhaps even positive stuff—until it is finally closed down for good. I’ve decided to say nothing to Nora about the Fraud Squad visit.
“I think it’s a crap story, so obviously my editor loves 2cool, which is good for you, and for me, I suppose.”
“I suppose so.”
“Now, tactics for tonight. Let’s start with a large G and T.”
I call the barman over and give her order plus another whisky for myself.
“So what are the tactics, beyond a large gin and tonic?” I ask.
“Well, I say we mingle, okay? We’ve been invited by a friend of mine called Anna. She’ll be there so we’ll say hello to her and she’ll introduce us to Huntsman’s children and, hopefully, some other friends of Piers, and we’ll chat ’em up and see what we can find out.”
“Sounds simple enough. So who’s this Huntsman geezer, then? His name’s familiar.”
“He’s a financier. Mainly property but also a bit in oil and airlines. Came to Britain as a kid from Poland or somewhere. You know the story—no money, name like a bad hand at Scrabble. Got a job in the post room of a bank or something, changed his original name to Huntsman and built it up from there.”
“I see.”
She clinks her glass against mine and then starts off again. “Incidentally I’ve found out a little bit more about Piers’s past business activities.”
“Dodgy?”
“A bit.”
“Oh, God, like what?”