by James Hazel
‘They make antidepressants, mostly,’ said Okoro. ‘I hear there’s a lot of money in drugs and a lot of money floating around the Ellinder family, too. As you might imagine.’
‘Ellinder,’ Georgie mused. ‘Ellinder.’ She produced an iPhone from her pocket and started playing with the screen.
Priest waited patiently for her to find whatever it was she was looking for. His head was still pounding but at least his thoughts were beginning to order themselves.
Finally, she looked up, evidently pleased with what she had found.
‘There was a Competition Appeal Tribunal case in 2011 involving the Ellinder Group of companies. They had discovered an antidepressant called Meilopain, which they had packaged and branded and sold to the NHS for tens of millions. The patent was due to run out after fifteen years. After that, the other drug companies would start to make their own Meilopain much cheaper. It’s not an unusual cycle because, after all, the drug is just the drug. Ellinder’s version of Meilopain was no more effective than the cheaper versions, except it cost six times more. Flooding the market with cheap Meilopain would cut Ellinder’s margins by anything up to seventy-five per cent, so the Ellinder parent company paid the other drug companies to delay release of their cheaper versions by a few years so Ellinder could milk the NHS a little longer.’
‘What happened?’ asked Priest.
‘They were fined fifteen million pounds.’
‘Did the family feature in the case?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve got the transcript here so I’ll look it over and find out.’
‘Good. Have we been paid yet by Theramere?’ Priest addressed Okoro.
‘We had a tranche of a hundred yesterday and we’re due a final payment of two fifty at the end of the month.’
The total fees were close to a million. Not bad for two years’ work. The rogue CEO had been ordered to pay most of Theramere’s costs but Priest & Co’s terms had allowed them to recover their fees from the company directly. There was no way Priest would have wanted to try to enforce his bill against an individual whose assets were hidden offshore.
‘Shall I go now?’ asked Georgie.
‘Yes. And, Georgie, McEwen mentioned something about mayflies.’
‘What about mayflies?’
‘They feature in this. Somehow. General research, please.’
‘OK. Got it.’ She smiled broadly.
Priest waited until she had left before releasing a long and heavy alcohol-laced breath. I can trust her. He looked over at Okoro who had also risen and was standing with his arms folded, looming over the desk.
‘Are you sure she can handle this?’ Okoro asked.
Priest waved his hand dismissively. ‘Georgie? Not an issue. She’s the best.’
‘She’s pretty, too.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’
Okoro chuckled. ‘Of course. So, what’s your next move?’
Priest sat back and looked at the ceiling. It seemed to be slowly spinning around. ‘Sit here and think for a bit,’ he said at last.
‘OK. That’s healthy. Then what?’
Priest considered this. ‘Let’s assume for now that McEwen was telling us the truth. That leaves us with me having been visited by a deranged but clearly desperate individual who believed I have in my possession a flash drive containing data of an unknown nature. Said deranged individual is later tortured and killed in a grotesque and theatrical way. So, why was he killed?’
‘Maybe because he failed to dispossess you of the data, or because he lost it in the first place.’
‘Both admirable suggestions but I sense a more Byzantine plot, Okoro.’
‘What do you mean?’
Priest opened his mouth but found himself unable to answer. He looked at his hand. It didn’t seem to belong to him. So it begins. He was conscious that Okoro was looking at him but he seemed out of focus and blurred. Inside his head, a familiar conversation was playing out.
‘Did you feel it?’
‘Feel what?’
‘The disconnection, Charlie.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Wills.’
‘I doubt that. You are my brother, my blood. When I see you staring vacantly into a mirror I know it’s hardly a daydream you’re experiencing.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘We are the same, Charlie. I know what you’re thinking when you look into the mirror.’
‘Stop it, William.’
‘You’re thinking, who the fuck is that staring back at me?’
Priest understood perfectly what was wrong with him. Most of the time, he functioned as an ordinary human being. The remainder of his time was spent in a different world. Derealisation – an alternative manifestation of dissociative disorder – occurred when Priest’s perception distorted and he existed in a foggy parody of his usual perception. Such episodes, or disconnections, could last anywhere from a few moments to a number of days.
‘Priest?’ He suddenly became aware of Okoro’s concerned face. ‘Are you having one of your . . . special moments?’
Priest shook his head. ‘No. I’m fine.’
‘As usual, your inability to lie is quite striking.’ Okoro sighed heavily. ‘I’m going to make some discreet enquiries on your behalf. In the meantime, go home and sort yourself out, OK?’
Priest nodded and Okoro left. There was a dripping noise, like a leaking tap. Priest looked down and saw a small splatter of sticky, dark liquid on the desk in front of him.
His nose was bleeding again.
8
It was still cold. The fog was heavier now – a damp shroud hanging in the air – but it didn’t deter Priest from walking the two and a half miles to Sarah’s house. There were joggers out – health freaks doing their lungs more damage by breathing in the smog than the exercise was benefiting them. Priest checked their faces carefully. Miles’s death didn’t mean he was no longer in danger. The fresh air helped clear his head a little but he didn’t enjoy the walk.
The photograph of Miles Ellinder stuck on a pole was nightmarish. He hadn’t had the opportunity to study it closely but he had registered the network of rigging on the warehouse ceiling that must have been used somehow to restrain Ellinder while they forced his contorting body down over the greasy shaft. He shuddered.
And yet something troubled him about the picture that went beyond the horror of the image. Something he couldn’t quite place.
He tried to think rationally; to break the questions down to their simplest forms. What was on the flash drive that Miles Ellinder was looking for? It’s important, clearly. Important enough to kill for. Who had suggested to him that Priest had it? Ellinder had said ‘he would have sent it to you’. Who would have sent it to me and why? Why was Ellinder subsequently tortured and ritualistically killed? What was the purpose of such an elaborate murder? What were the killers trying to say? Who killed him? There must have been more than one person involved to pull off that stunt. And finally, why would my ex-wife turn up again now?
Priest rounded a corner of a residential street lined with cars on one side. The road was bordered by Victorian terraces with black iron railings and half a floor below pavement level. The house was rented and Sarah’s landlord was a profiteer of the vilest kind. Priest had offered on countless occasions to foot the cost of a deposit somewhere else but she always declined, with genuine appreciation and dignity in equal amounts. Matters were complicated by Sarah’s husband. Ryan Boatman was still unemployed and, in all likelihood, would remain so for the foreseeable future. His latest get-rich-quick scheme had recently flopped as spectacularly as Priest had predicted. All in all, Priest regarded his brother-in-law with the same level of affection as he might have regarded a stomach ulcer, and although he hoped that didn’t affect his relationship with his sister, he knew that it did.
Priest knocked and, shortly afterwards, Sarah opened the door. A look of pleasant surprise flashed in the family blue eyes.
‘This is a little
spontaneous for you,’ she remarked.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You know very well what I mean. Do you need money?’ She laughed and kissed him on the cheek as he walked into the hallway. Priest considered that the house was too small but it was pristinely kept. Shoes were neatly arranged underneath coats on pegs labelled for each family member, the carpet had recently been vacuumed, but there was a scent of something artificial in the air. Hiding the smell of the idiot husband, maybe.
‘Ryan’s out.’
‘Oh, right. Another long board meeting, eh?’
‘That was low,’ she said, showing him through to the kitchen where a percolator was bubbling in the corner. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any of that weird tea you drink.’
‘Coffee’s fine, Sarah.’
He took the mug she handed him and sat at the breakfast bar. Watched her for a moment or two while she cleared away Tilly’s drawings from the worktop and bundled them into a folder she kept of her daughter’s creations. He smiled inwardly – everything had its place in Sarah’s world. Priest had always admired his sister’s sense of style, her smart suit and blonde hair short and ruffled. Sarah co-managed a newly established city PR company which specialised in disaster management. Her work ranged from copywriting statements for adulterous boy band members to planning comeback campaigns for discredited businesses. Being the boss gave her the freedom to work from home, too, whenever it suited.
‘So why the impromptu visit?’ she asked, taking the seat opposite him.
‘Just making sure you’re OK.’
‘The great Charlie Priest doesn’t just drop by to see if people are OK. Even if it is his sister. Anyway, it happens to be quite fortuitous that my single, older brother visits me upon this day.’ She smiled mischievously.
He didn’t reply but raised an eyebrow in mock curiosity. He knew what was coming.
‘I’ve got this friend . . .’
‘Oh, Sarah, not this again.’
‘No, hear me out.’
‘Sarah –’
‘No, you’ll like this, I’m sure. She’s right up your street.’ It was a familiar routine that usually ended with Priest telling her he was fine and she should stop fussing, but right now he was too exhausted to argue.
‘So,’ she was carrying on despite his pleading look, ‘She’s thirty-six, single, obviously. A messy divorce a couple of years ago. She’s an accountant, partner in a good firm. Likes tennis, films, indie music, theatre. Very cultured. Like you, really.’
‘I’m not cultured. I like zombie films.’
‘She’s a great cook.’
‘Which I’m not.’
‘Precisely. You’re a complementary match.’
‘I can watch zombie films while she cooks me dinner.’
Sarah sighed. ‘You’re really not entering into the spirit of this, are you?’
He smiled as best he could, but he couldn’t hide the feeling of unease.
‘What’s bothering you, Charlie?’ she said, narrowing her eyes. She saw everything, of course, just like their late mother.
‘This idea of yours, Sarah. This match dating thing that I don’t understand. Why don’t you just do it?’
She looked at him, puzzled for a moment. ‘You’ve changed your tune.’
‘Well, you know. Come on, it’s a great idea.’
‘Last time we spoke about it you said it was – what was it now? – ill-conceived, over-romantic poppycock,’ Sarah chided.
Priest cringed. I did say that. ‘Yeah, yeah. But you could make it work.’ Sarah had floated the idea of a new dating website a few months earlier. There was a twist to it, although, to his shame, Priest couldn’t remember what it was. All he could remember was his unenthusiastic reaction. In light of recent events, he felt compelled to try to correct it. Another response to a near-death experience. First there was self-indulgence, now atonement. Perhaps there’s a third stage. Enlightenment, maybe, although that seems a very elusive notion right now.
‘You said you should never try and turn a hobby into a business,’ Sarah pointed out.
‘OK, maybe I was a little rash,’ he admitted.
‘And harsh, too.’
‘Perhaps. But what was it? Ten per cent of all relationships start online?’
‘Twenty.’
‘OK, twenty. So you have a captive market, a bespoke service that people want. And you have you.’
‘Wow, you’re complimenting me! Are you ill?’
‘I have a bit of a headache.’
She shook her head and got up to pour more coffee. The sound of some cartoon channel was coming from upstairs. He assumed Tilly was up there.
‘You’re looking after yourself, Charlie, aren’t you? You know what happens if -–’
‘I’ll fund it,’ he interrupted.
‘Charlie –’
‘No. I’ll fund it. What do you need to start it? You can build the website but you’ll need some help with the coding and the search engine optimisation. You’ll need a marketing guy. We’ll do the legals. A little office somewhere in town. A hundred thousand enough for the first year?’
‘Charlie, it’s not that I’m not grateful. Really. But that’s a lot of money.’
‘A hundred and fifty?’
She looked down, reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. Suddenly she had morphed into their mother again.
‘Ryan isn’t so keen,’ she explained.
‘So?’
‘So? So, we make decisions like that together.’ She folded her arms defensively.
‘You’re the breadwinner. You call the shots.’
‘That’s not how a marriage works, Charlie. You should know that. It’s why your first one failed.’
‘What’s his problem with it?’
‘He has his reasons.’
They were silent for a while. Priest’s head was still pounding. He thought about recounting the last twenty-four hours to Sarah, unburdening himself, but it wasn’t fair on her. So he swallowed the thought back and channelled his anger towards Ryan, whose reasons for not wanting Sarah to give up her well-paid job were obvious. He spent the money she made on what he called corporate hospitality. In truth it amounted to betting and drinking with his halfwit mates. He wouldn’t want that income risked by a start-up business.
‘You know what, Sarah? This isn’t about him. It’s about you.’
‘It’s about us. It’s our decision,’ she protested.
‘It’s some stupid control thing.’
‘No . . .’ She faltered. ‘You just . . . just leave it, Charlie. Please.’
‘Well maybe if he didn’t need your income to feed his gambling habits . . .’
‘Please, Charlie.’
‘I’m just making sure you’re OK.’
‘And how do you think that makes me feel?’ Sarah demanded.
‘What?’
‘The “I’m only making sure you’re OK” bullshit.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes, you do. I don’t need protecting and your obvious dislike of Ryan – actually, Charlie – really upsets me. Did you ever think about that? What it does to me to have my brother constantly slag off my husband?’
‘Well, if he wasn’t an arsehole . . .’
‘He looks after us.’
‘He looks after himself, Sarah. Always has.’
‘You don’t have to do this, Charlie.’
‘What?’
‘Act out the part of father.’
‘I’m not. I’m just saying your husband is an arsehole.’
‘Charlie –’
‘And a drunk and a layabout.’
‘Charlie –’
‘With less charisma than a vegetable.’
‘Charlie!’
She slammed her cup down and stared at him with a mixture of amazement and anger. She nodded at the doorway. Priest followed her motion and his shoulders sank. Tilly stood staring at him. She looked confuse
d underneath her mass of tangled, ungovernable hair.
Priest made to say something but it came out as a barely audible noise. At least the tone was apologetic.
‘Uncle Charlie’s here, sweetheart,’ Sarah said, forcing a smile. ‘He doesn’t normally come round on a school night, does he? Say hi.’
‘Hi, Uncle Charlie.’
‘Hi, Tilly. Did you have a good day at school?’
She trotted over to him and put some pictures on the table for him to look at. He picked them up carefully, as though they might crumble to dust in his hand.
‘Wow, these are great,’ he said to Tilly as he helped her climb on to his knee. Sarah mumbled something about some washing that needed attention and disappeared out of the kitchen. Priest hoped she wouldn’t be long. He needed to apologise. Suddenly, he felt very stupid.
‘That’s Mummy.’ Tilly pointed to what appeared to be an assortment of arbitrarily chosen colours layered on top of each other.
‘Yes, I can see that. Isn’t Mummy pretty?’
‘Mmm. Yes.’ Tilly took out a set of colouring pens from a Hello Kitty pencil case and started working on the picture some more, gently humming to herself. Priest watched over her shoulder.
‘Are these clouds?’ he asked.
‘They’re birds, silly.’
‘Oh.’
He was pleased Ryan wasn’t around. He wouldn’t have let Tilly sit on his knee. Ryan would have scooped her up quickly and ushered her out of the room as if Priest posed some sort of threat to her. He supposed making Priest out to be inadequate with children was Ryan’s way of asserting what little control he had over him. Probably something to do with his limited understanding of dissociation disorder. ‘That thing that William the Ripper has’, as he was fond of saying.
‘And what about this? Is this a scarecrow?’
‘No, that’s Mummy.’
She giggled and he laughed, too.
‘I like Mummy’s hair,’ he remarked. ‘Can I help colour with you?’
She nodded and passed him a blue crayon, and then indicated that he should start work on the sky.
‘Mummy says we should all have a blue sky,’ Tilly sang, while she started to draw red apples on one of the trees.