The Guest stared at this man and the voice of the Spirit came to him:
“This is the one.”
* * *
Caleb stood close by one of the heaters, and looked across the river to the lights of St Thomas’ Hospital. He was questioning the wisdom of standing outside, and thought about making a retreat to the bar when he felt a compulsion instead, to move to the edge of the terrace, to the railing that overlooked the river. Slightly puzzled by this desire to be even colder than he already was, he nevertheless shuffled over and gazed down into the dark and murmuring Thames. The bitter wind made his eyes water.
At once the angel moved with athletic speed along the railing to where Caleb was lost in thought and in one graceful movement he bent slowly so that his lips were a few inches from Caleb‘s left ear:
“You will meet a man here called Orlando Shand. You must speak with him.”
Caleb started from his reflections as the sound floated through his mind. He looked around to see whether anyone had walked up to him unnoticed, but there was nobody.
He had never heard of anyone called Orlando Shand, and he did what he always did in situations like this by keeping the name in mind and then going about his business. On this occasion his business was getting back into the warmth, and he was pleased to see someone waving to him from the entrance to the marquee.
It was David Maples, another of Caleb’s colleagues and the main instigator of this event.
If the firm had a social secretary, David was it. He’d suggested the House of Commons Terrace as it was, in his words: “a fitting tribute to Adam Bresco’s manifold and diverse contributions to the firm.” David, who was even better connected than Adam Bresco, always spoke like this. Caleb had never been able to work out how his colleagues managed to cultivate so many friendships in so many areas of society; but then they were the ones who went to clubs and played golf.
David Maples bounded up to him, full of his usual loud familiarity.
“Ready to deliver a fitting panegyric then, Caleb?”
“A what?” said Caleb.
“A few complimentary words about the old man.” David waved his glass in the air. “Something fitting to express our affections.”
Caleb smiled. “I have prepared a little speech, yes.” He patted his top pocket.
“That’s excellent,” replied David, then he leant in towards Caleb. “Don’t make it too long, old chap, or our guests will start to get restless.” He followed this remark with a conspiratorial wink.
“Anyway,” he continued, “how are you getting on with your pop stars and media celebrities? SLaM, is that their name? Adam tells me you are an indispensable part of the business now. Quite the adventure for you I would have thought.”
“Well, yes it is,” said Caleb, “hobnobbing with the stars, I feel quite giddy sometimes. It’s now called Summer Media and Entertainment, and we are all doing fine at the moment.”
“Very exciting I am sure, so how’s the remuneration?” said David.
“Well it’s a bit of a labour of love at the moment,” said Caleb, “but when some of our young talent goes viral, we’ll all do very well; and honestly, I do find it quite invigorating being around these young people. We have retained the old CEO, but we did need to change the company name.”
“I should think you did after all the nonsense with that drugs raid. I remember the news stories at the time, weren’t their ecstasy tablets all over the place when the police raided their offices?”
“I think the tabloids might have embellished that part of story to give it a bit of edge,” said Caleb with a pained smile.
“Well I dare say,” said David, “but still, it’s a good job they have you there to keep things on an even keel.”
“Of course,” said Caleb, mildly surprised that his colleague remembered the story from so long ago. “Water under the bridge now though; I think most people have forgotten about it.”
“Oh I am sure they have, Caleb, and I expect you make sure these youngsters are behaving themselves, not too much alcohol and early nights all round. Speaking of booze, do you want to come in for a drink? I’m fairly near frozen here.”
David Maples turned on his heels and headed towards the scrum at the bar, with Caleb following on. At his shoulder the Uninvited Guest pierced his mind again:
“Orlando Shand, ask about Orlando, now.” The voice was urgent, insistent on compliance, now.
“I say, David!” said Caleb, almost shouting above the noise of the crowd. “I don’t suppose you know a chap called Shand, do you? Orlando Shand?”
David stopped and looked back at his friend.
“Oh yes, dear old Orlando, one of Adam’s chums from way back. He’s here this evening actually. A friend of yours?”
“No, I just want to make his acquaintance.”
David thought for a moment. “Do you know what,” he said, “I think you two might get on well together. He looks after one or two of the beautiful people himself; it’s certainly his line of trade. Let’s get a drink and then I’ll introduce you.”
David refreshed his own drink and furnished Caleb with his requested lime and soda, and then led the way to a corner of the marquee where a small insignificant looking man was tapping at his phone.
Orlando Shand was slightly startled as David burst in on him:
“Orlando! Glad you could make it! There’s someone I want you to meet; let me introduce my friend Caleb Wicks. Caleb is currently legal adviser to some entertainment company, sex and drugs and rock and roll, all that sort of thing, but without the drugs and possibly without the sex.” He chuckled. “Anyway, it should give you two something to talk about, shouldn’t it? See you later. Remember, old boy,” he nodded at Caleb, “brief is beautiful.” He winked at both of them and bowled away towards another little knot of guests.
Orlando Shand stared at Caleb, as if trying to work out if they had met before.
“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Orlando extended a small, smooth, hand.
“A pleasure to meet you too, Mr Shand,” said Caleb.
“Please, call me Orlando. So you are legal counsel to an entertainment company?” said Shand.
“Yes, the board has appointed me as Company Secretary,” said Caleb. “A bit outside my area really, I focus on commercial property normally, still one does what one can for a favoured client.”
“Indeed one does, Caleb.” Shand nodded vigorously, as if the comment contained some hidden meaning for him.
“Quite an infamous outfit in its day,” continued Caleb, remembering the divine nudge he’d received just a few minutes before. “They’re called ‘Summer’ now but their previous name was SLaM.”
Orlando stared at him for a long moment.
“Your client now owns what is left of SLaM?” he said.
“Yes,” said Caleb, “have you heard of it?”
Orlando Shand stared at him again for so long that Caleb said, “Are you feeling okay, you look rather distracted.”
“I wonder,” said Orlando, “did David tell you that I once advised the late Bridget Larson, a former director at SLaM.”
“He did mention that you had some connection with SLaM,” said Caleb, “but he did not tell me the nature of it.”
“Bridget was a personal client; I never represented the company itself. I assume you are advising the business rather than any of its officers.”
“I act for the business and I advise one of its directors on an informal basis.”
“Really,” said Shand, again he was lost in thought.
“What a coincidence,” said Caleb, certain that this was the kind of conversation he was here to have. “I am sure my client has mentioned Bridget, I expect she worked with her. I understand the police never traced her killer. It was an outrageous act.”
Shand’s thin eyebrows converged and he gazed out into space; clearly some strong emotion churned within him. He stuffed the phone into his pocket and looked straight at Caleb.
“Absolutely outrageou
s, a despicable act.” He was whispering but Caleb heard every single word. “A heinous crime perpetrated against my client. The police have released photo-fit pictures of a man they wish to question, a window cleaner apparently, seen near the building at the time of her death, but I do not believe that they will ever catch him.”
“Why do you say that?” said Caleb. There was something here, he felt this man needed to tell him something, and he did not know what it was.
“There has been no progress with the enquiry in the last year, they have nothing further to work with.”
“And do you have any ideas? Not that I wish to pry or encroach on confidential matters, you understand.”
“I have precious little in the way of ideas,” said Orlando, placing a hand on Caleb’s arm, “but I do have a warning. Perhaps we could step out onto the terrace for a moment.”
“A warning?” said Caleb, frowning.
“Could we speak outside?” Orlando walked towards the fluttering canvas of the marquee entrance.
Caleb followed him, and they left the warm moist atmosphere of PVC plastic and alcohol and stepped out into the cold river breeze. Following Shand’s lead, Caleb moved across the terrace to the railing and looked out over the dark waters.
Orlando Shand stood next to him and they were both silent for a few moments before he spoke. His voice wavered, he seemed to be engaged in a struggle to contain himself.
“I should tell you now that my client left explicit instructions with me in the event of her death, and I am resolved to follow them to the best of my ability.”
“Of course,” said Caleb.
“She left a will and appointed me executor. It was a modest estate; you see, she was not a woman of permanent possessions.”
Caleb nodded and shivered involuntarily.
“Now I have carried out her wishes as best I can, as many of them as I have been able to,” he hesitated, “but not long before she was murdered she sent me some additional documentation with a covering note, detailing some action I should take in the event of her demise.”
Caleb frowned.
“Can you tell me about this documentation?” he said.
“Oh, it wasn’t the documentation that was so damning,” said Orlando, “I shared that with the police. It was just some reports written by a previous director of SLaM, implying that the company should cash in on the drug scene, take advantage of the misery being caused by these drugs to young people. The reports were embarrassing for the company, damning even, but it didn’t cast much light on her subsequent murder, and the police didn’t pursue it to prosecution.”
“But these reports contained something that you wanted to warn me about?” said Caleb.
“She sent a note with the reports,” said Orlando, “and at her specific request I didn’t share it with the police, but I think it is right that I share its contents with you. In fact, I think I am bound to, for your sake and the sake of those remaining at SLaM.”
“What did it say?” said Caleb, frowning.
Orlando leant in towards him and spoke, quite quietly, above the murmur of the river.
“Two things, Caleb,” he said, “but first a little context. My client had been conducting an affair with a member of staff at SLaM; his name was Martin Massey. She told me she thought Mr Massey’s character had changed, for the worse, and that the relationship was now finished. It had not ended well.”
Caleb nodded. From within the tent the sounds of happy chatter died down, and a single human voice could be heard. The speeches would be starting soon, and he didn’t have much time left.
“The two things I want to say to you now are these,” said Shand. “First, my client told me she thought she was in some danger, she drew my attention to an incident that occurred some weeks before. She happened to be passing Martin Massey’s office and he was on the phone. Evidently, whoever he had been speaking to was angry, possibly with him. She heard the voice of the man Massey spoke to; he must have been shouting down the phone. Apparently, he told Massey only to call in future well after ten thirty in the morning. My client recalls looking up at the clock; it was ten minutes past ten in the morning.”
Orlando knitted his brow into a frown, unsure whether it would be wise to say any more.
“And the second thing?” said Caleb.
“Oh yes,” said Orlando, “well you can read it for yourself, but I’ll tell you now, my client thought that Martin Massey had got mixed up with some cult, some violent group whose existence was a threat to anyone connected to SLaM, including herself. I believe that the existence of this group is connected to her murder, and that they might represent a threat to your client still.”
“Did she say any more about this cult?” said Caleb.
“Not really.” Orlando rummaged in his pocket. “Look, here’s my card, email me and I’ll send you a copy of the note, there’s also a photo-fit picture of the murderer.”
“I think the police showed me that at the time,” said Caleb.
“I expect they did,” said Orlando, “but what they won’t have shown you are the CCTV images I obtained some months after my client’s murder.”
“I contacted the owners of every building within half a kilometre of Bridget’s apartment block,” said Orlando. “I pestered every security company, every property management company, every residents committee, and finally after three months I received a few images that I am convinced show Bridget’s murderer.”
“Did you take these to the police?” said Caleb.
“Of course!” said Orlando. “To their credit they were most grateful, but this extra evidence did not help them to identify any suspects.”
“I am not sure what I can do with these images, but I’d be grateful to see them,” said Caleb.
“What you can do,” said Orlando, leaning forward, “is look at them, study them. I believe that they show the murderer before and after he committed the act. I have studied them carefully, and in the images from after the murder I think there is just a trace of a scar on the man’s right cheek.”
Orlando pressed some well-thumbed photos into Caleb’s hand.
“Look at these,” he said, “these are CCTV images from the cameras in the building opposite the block where my client lived. I obtained these through my own enquiries and shared them with the police. Admittedly they are not very clear at all, you couldn’t identify someone from them, and the police didn’t feel it was much more to go on, but I’ll share them with you.”
“The scarred man,” said Caleb suddenly.
“Yes,” said Orlando. “The scarred man. Look at these images when I send them to you, use them, find him.”
“Thank you,” said Caleb, “please send me anything you can.”
“In truth, I wish I could be more helpful.” Shand sighed. “Nothing can bring my client back, and maybe she won’t get the justice she deserves, but if I can stop others getting hurt.” He stopped and stared out at the river. “Write to me, Caleb.”
“I will,” said Caleb. “This week, I’ll send you an email and…” His sentence was curtailed as the hulking figure of David Maples loomed towards them from the marquee. He was sweating slightly and clutching a drink.
“Gentlemen, the speeches have started, do come and join us! Come along, Caleb, somebody’s got to give the old man that watch.”
David Maples led them back to the tent at a brisk pace. They found a place towards the back and Caleb listened to the banter and anecdotes of his colleagues. He was glad that he would not have to say much at the end of it all.
He dug around in his pocket for the package containing the rather elegant gold pocket watch that the partners had bought for Adam. On the back, engraved in delicate lettering, were the significant dates in Bresco’s career; his arrival at the firm, then his appointment as partner, and managing partner, and finally today, his retirement.
Caleb wanted to rehearse his speech in his mind, but instead his thoughts were on the information Orlando Shand had given him. Wh
o was the man who shouted at Massey, and why would he only want to receive calls after ten thirty? He sensed not just a threat, but something spiritually poisonous in this information.
He turned to Orlando who had walked into the tent behind him, wanting to ask one more question, but the man had quietly slipped out of the marquee and was now gone.
Caleb sighed, and forced his mind to think about the speech he was about to make. He heard David Maples’ voice call out his name:
“…and finally, ladies and gentlemen, I want to ask the other grand old man of Fenton and Fenton, to say a few words; Caleb, come up and join us.”
There was a ripple of laughter and applause as Caleb stepped up onto the raised platform.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Caleb, nodding to David Maples, “please excuse this ‘grand old man’ whilst he finds his glasses and his notes.”
More laughter rippled through the crowd, and with exaggerated care Caleb put on his glasses, rustled a small piece of paper with a few scribbled lines on it, and began.
6
Conner tucked himself into a corner of Les Deux Magots and watched the crowds outside as they passed the café windows. His eyes flicked to the door and away again, and he tried not to show his impatience. He took it all in, fascinated by this enticing tableaux of another country and another life. Here was Paris on a plate with all of the delightful sights and aromas that the city offered. He felt the prickling of shame as he found himself trying to listen in on conversations that he could not understand.
Poppy Martinez was three minutes late.
He decided that this was, after all, an appropriate place to meet a lady, and this was the table to sit at with her in the privacy of a corner, and positioned next to a stand of graceful white lilies. He glanced up at one of the Magots, the Chinese dignitaries who had given the café its name, the little figure brooding over his box of money. Overhead, he could see the details of the petals and exotic birds carved into antique stone tiles.
In the midst of all this metropolitan energy, he was still able to discern a kind of sadness, an undefined sense of regret. Great writers and artists from the past had been here. He could imagine Hemmingway and Picasso sipping their coffee, and he fancied he sensed some of their intensity, some of the urgency that drove them as they sought to express themselves in their art, hunting the elusive quarry: purpose, joy and peace.
Cain's Redemption Page 7