The intercom buzzed again.
“Do you want this brief case or not?” said Lewis.
Martin took a deep breath, and reminded himself that he was not now the man who was scared of people like Lewis Ashbury or Darius Lench. He released the lock and moved over to his front door, resolving to take back his case without asking Lewis to come in.
He heard his old boss, striding up the stairs, and then there he was, a little older, a little greyer but still unmistakably Lewis.
“Hello, Martin,” said Lewis, “you’re looking very tanned.”
“Hello, Lewis,” said Martin, “I wish I could say the same of you.”
“And I’m very pleased to see you too,” said Lewis, making no attempt to hand over the case.
“I see you’ve brought my briefcase back,” said Martin. “Thanks for that.”
He stepped forward and reached out his hand.
Lewis moved back slightly, still clutching the briefcase.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he said.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Martin.
“We do need to have a chat, you know,” said Lewis.
“Do we?”
“I think so, just for old time’s sake,” replied Lewis, still holding the case.
They stood at the top of the stairs like a pair of lovers having rather public tiff.
Martin began to feel embarrassed, eventually he mumbled, “Just give me the briefcase and then come in.”
Lewis paused before handing it over, waiting a second before releasing his grip.
They walked into a spacious lounge; the furniture, all oak and leather, had the clean, confident look that comes with recent purchases on a generous budget.
“Looks like you’ve done alright for yourself,” said Lewis, looking around.
“I’ve been abroad making money,” said Martin, “quite a lot of money actually.” They both smiled. Everyone at SLaM had always been able to agree on the importance of making money. Martin poured them both a generous slug of whisky.
“Not too much for me, I’m driving.” Lewis took the glass and sat down. “So are you working in the media again?”
“Just a bit of freelancing,” said Martin. “Jingles for social media videos, it sounds niche but there’s a lot of money in it right now.”
Lewis eased himself onto Martin’s smart new sofa; the cushions were broad and firm and they made his coat look scruffy and out of place. He didn’t care, he wasn’t going anywhere for a while yet. Martin sat in the armchair opposite him.
“So, what are you up to now?” asked Martin.
“Oh I’m working with Alex Masters again. You remember Alex, my PA? She’s got her own little company going and she asked me to help out.”
“Of course,” said Martin, “you always did have a soft spot for her, didn’t you.” He had a sly smile on his face, and he couldn’t resist teasing his old boss.
“So are you sleeping with her?”
Lewis was surprised at his own sense of indignation.
“No I am not,” he said, trying not to sound too offended, knowing it would just play into Martin’s hands. “You always were a cynic, Martin.”
“Oh come on, Lewis,” said Martin, “don’t play the offended innocent with me, you would have her if you could, and you know it.”
“It’s just professional,” said Lewis impatiently. “I’m doing some work for her company, that’s all.” He wasn’t going to mention that that company was the remnants of SLaM.
Martin swallowed his whisky. “So what is she doing that requires your help?”
“She’s setting up her own media business – music, fashion, cafés – she has all kinds of ideas. It’s small at the moment but it will grow. I’m helping her with the marketing.”
“Wasn’t she religious?” said Martin, frowning. “Is this some kind of Christian media outfit?”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Lewis daring Martin to make another snide comment, which, of course, he did.
“I bet you stick out like a sore thumb amongst the righteous, don’t you?” said Martin beginning to enjoy himself. He had been right all along, there really was no reason for him to be afraid of Lewis Ashbury at all.
“I’m not the only heathen they’ve employed,” said Lewis, “and Alex knows what I’m like.”
“I bet she does,” said Martin, sipping his whisky. “So, what did you want to talk about, apart from your latest career move?”
“Do you keep in touch with any of the old crew from SLaM?” said Lewis softly.
“No.” Martin shook his head. “Why should I? I mean, there really was only you, me, that idiot Somerville…”
“And Bridget,” said Lewis.
“Yes, well Bridget’s dead, isn’t she.” Martin took another gulp of whisky, and then he realized that he shouldn’t drink too much while Lewis was still here.
“Yes, Bridget is dead,” said Lewis.
“So is this what you really came round for,” said Martin, “to talk about Bridget?”
“I came to return your briefcase,” said Lewis, “and talk about old times.”
“You,” said Martin, “you want to talk about the past? That’s not you at all. So what about Bridget though, are you missing her?”
He was speaking quietly now, in a tone that sounded almost like sympathy.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” said Lewis. “And I mean to catch whoever killed her, and I want you to help me.”
Martin sniggered and then shook his head.
“I can’t help you there,” he said, “I don’t know anything about it, and I don’t know why you would think that I do.”
“Really?” Lewis leant forward. “Is that really true? Do you really have no idea who might have killed her?”
“Lewis,” said Martin, fidgeting, “look, I am grateful to you for bringing my case back, but maybe now you need to go before you say something really stupid.”
“I thought you might know who killed her,” said Lewis, still seated and staring up from the sofa; there was silence between them.
“Well, you thought wrong then, didn’t you,” said Martin.
“I think you do know, Martin. And you are going to tell me.” Lewis’ eyes were glazing over, as if some great emotion were passing through him.
“And I think you had better leave.” Martin stood up. “If you know something about Bridget’s death I suggest you go and tell the police about it.”
Lewis stood up and took a step towards Martin, who appeared to be swaying slightly. They faced each other, just a few inches apart.
“I wanted to tell you about it first,” said Lewis.
“Tell me about it?” said Martin, frowning. “What more is there to tell?”
“I think there is plenty more to say,” said Lewis.
“She’s dead, Lewis,” said Martin softly. “Some burglar broke into her flat, and she surprised them, and they shot her; and now she is dead. She’s been dead for over a year, and you’re carrying her memory around like a ball and chain. You need to let her go.”
“No.” Lewis shook his head slowly. “I will not let it go.”
The two of them were eye to eye now; the only noise their breathing in the silence.
“I can’t let her go, Martin,” said Lewis. “I still love her, and I won’t let this go.”
“Then grieve for her,” said Martin. “Grieve for her and allow yourself to be upset, but face the truth that she is not going to come back, and nothing is going to bring her back. I’m sorry, I really am, but that’s it.”
“You’re sorry, are you?” asked Lewis, acid creeping into his voice.
“I’ve got nothing more to say to you, Lewis. You had better go.”
Martin moved towards the front door; it was time to see this guest off the premises. He attempted to move past Lewis, who at that moment reached out both arms and pushed him, hard. Taken by surprise, Martin toppled over onto the couch, the remains of the whisky splashing over the
sofa cushions.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” shouted Martin.
“I want to talk to you, Martin, so don’t be an ungracious host. I want you to tell me who killed Bridget.”
Martin scrambled back to his feet, his anger sobering him.
“You had better get out, before I throw you out.”
Lewis stared at him.
“Okay, Martin,” he said, “okay, I’m going. But while I am gone, I want you to have a long hard think about Bridget, and who might have wanted to kill her.”
He placed his own glass in Martin’s other hand, turned and headed to the door, letting himself out. Martin followed him to the door.
“I don’t need to do anything for you,” said Martin to Lewis’ back, “but let me give you something to think about; if you pursue this thing, it’s not me you’ll need to deal with. Who knows who did it, but if they had a gun they won’t be afraid to shoot you either.”
Lewis looked back at him. Martin’s face was red, his breathing laboured. He looked angry and scared.
“Goodbye, Martin. I’m glad we’ve had this chat, perhaps we’ll do it again some time.”
Martin listened for the faint boom of the main reception door to the apartment block closing behind Lewis Ashbury. He drew great comfort from that sound and began to count, one, two…God but Ashbury had a nerve coming here tonight… four, five, six…he looked over at the sofa, now standing at an odd angle. He looked at the dark stain of the alcohol, the smell filling the room…eight, nine.
He moved to the curtain; and watched his visitor walking away down the road, and then he heaved the sofa back into position.
After that he took a long deep breath and picked up the case.
“Well at least I’ve got you back,” he said, smiling at the case. The irony was that in bringing this back, Lewis was helping Martin to distance himself still further from Bridget, and her death, and the group he used to belong to.
He topped up his whisky, and took the case into his study. He remembered the combination immediately, it was her birthday, and even though he’d cast her off in the end, there were some things he did not forget.
He spun the numbers and slid the catches across. The flaps at the front of the case popped open with a small “click”, and he lifted the lid and stared at the contents.
It all still seemed to be there, the papers and folders, and the data tag. He picked up the tag, plugged it into his laptop, and switched the machine on.
The machine ticked and hummed as it roused itself.
“Come on, come on!” He slapped the keyboard, which continued to whine, ignoring his petulance. His mobile rang, and he ignored it. It stopped ringing as the machine recognized the tag and opened the file directory.
There was just one file on the disk. Martin clicked on it and some text appeared before him.
Bridget,
I am not sure I will even give you this note, but if you do get it, treat it seriously, and then destroy it, properly. If knowledge of its existence is discovered then I will be dead. So I ask you first of all to get rid of this, the only copy that will ever be made, for your sake and mine.
This is not about our relationship, this is about your life. You must understand that some people are not motivated by money or status. I belong to a group who have an interest in seeing the SEEKA project succeed as I do. They will let no one stand in the way of the success of SEEKA but they have decided that someone within SLaM poses a threat to the project. That someone is you. Because of this they…
Rereading it now, he remembered how glad he was that he had not finished this note. This tag held the only copy of the message, he’d deleted it on his PC long before the police took any interest in SLaM. He didn’t know why he had still kept this copy, it had been a stupid idea to do so, but he would not be keeping it for much longer. He was formatting the tag, wiping it clean when his mobile rang again. On instinct he picked it up and answered it.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t run out on me, Martin.” It was Lewis’ voice. “I’ll be back soon.”
Martin just laughed, and the phone went dead. He tossed it over his desk, and it skittered over the edge and on to the floor; and then his computer told him that the data tag was clear. Another little piece of the past had gone, and the papers he’d kept from his previous life would be soon to follow. He now felt confident that he, and his former associates, were free of any connection with Bridget’s murder.
Several miles to the north, on the other side of the city, Orlando Shand sat at his desk and scanned the short email he’d received from his new acquaintance, Caleb Wicks. He hadn’t answered it straight away, and was still struggling with his decision to share his findings.
He had taken digital copies of all of the files, and all of the images, although it was probably only the CCTV footage that his new acquaintance would not have seen before. His finger hovered over the send button, and he tapped it gently.
Then he thought of Bridget, his client, murdered in her own flat and the familiar indignation shook him. He hit the send button with some purpose and muttered to himself.
“There,” he said, “it’s done, it’s done.”
10
Conner stepped down from the train and stared at the little pot plants neatly placed along the back of the station platform. Alex had told him to be careful and for once he hadn’t laughed at her; the recent prank calls and text messages had spooked him, and for the first time in his life, he was feeling vulnerable.
But he was not going to submit to fear, and he’d told the others he was fine to do this, and now that he’d arrived he was looking forward to it.
“Just enjoy it,” he told himself, “and think about the money.”
The weather was mild for late March, heralding the coming spring, and Conner took a moment to look around.
“Quaint,” he murmured, under his breath. This was the kind of place that might still have its very own Station Master, equipped with a bright red flag, a peaked cap and a very loud whistle.
He tried to relax, and thought about the set he’d be playing for this gig. This girl, Jessica Smith, his adoring, fee-paying fan, had sent him a deposit, which meant they were serious, and now he felt very good about how this was going to go.
As he walked out of the station he sent Alex a quick text to reassure her that he’d arrived.
“Mr Adams?”
A voice called to him as he emerged onto the station forecourt. He looked up to see a bearded man with a khaki jacket and a flat cap, driving gloves, and sunglasses. The guy was waving at him from beside a black Volvo estate.
“Mr Adams?” the man repeated; there was something about him that confused Conner, as if looking at the guy for too long would give him a headache.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Conner, smiling and lifting his guitar slightly.
“Jessica has sent me to collect you.”
The driver opened the rear passenger side door, and Conner slid his guitar in and then sat down, buckling the seat belt across himself.
“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” said the driver as they pulled out of the station car park.
Conner frowned as he tried to place the man’s accent, he was about to ask where the guy was from but decided that this might be rude, and so he kept quiet.
They were soon out of the village and heading west into the countryside. Conner tried to keep his bearings, but he wasn’t brilliant with directions and after about fifteen minutes he was hopelessly lost.
They drove on and a few village names slipped into and out of Conner’s mind. The driver had the radio on quite loud, so conversation with him was impossible.
Eventually there weren’t even any village names, just meandering country lanes, one after another. Hedgerows streamed past him, fields like great patchwork quilt squares. Conner’s eyelids began to droop and he felt himself drifting away.
He woke with a jolt as the car swung into a small driveway that led to a cottage,
where a couple of balloons hung limply from the front gate, suggesting that some kind of event was due here.
The driver opened the car door for him without comment and led him to the front of the cottage; somewhere inside there was music playing.
The front door was open, and Conner walked into a narrow hallway. The place looked empty, and smelt clean, even sterile. The music was louder now but Conner could not recognize it. The sound was atonal and brutal, and it made him nervous.
“This way,” said Josef, and led him down a bare hallway and into a room at the back of the cottage. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. The windows of the room looked out onto a garden, where Conner could see the grass had recently been cut, but the surrounding beds were given over to a competing environment of weeds. Josef’s voice caught him again.
“The guests will be here soon,” he said. “We have somewhere for you to get changed and freshen up a bit.”
Conner tried and failed, again, to place the accent.
“The birthday girl may want to come in and see you for a few moments,” said Josef. “Humour her if you would, please.” He smiled crookedly and Conner smiled back.
“Sure,” he said.
Josef nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him. The music that had resonated around the cottage stopped playing, and Conner found the silence more unnerving than the noise. He suppressed the urge to pick up his guitar and just leave.
Conner looked around the room he’d been left in. It looked like it should be a living room of some kind, but there wasn’t much furniture; just a rather incongruous chaise longue standing against one bare wall, its surface covered with blankets and drapes. The floor was boarded and not even covered by a rug. On a laminated table in one corner he could see a large bottle of mineral water that looked as if it had just been taken from the fridge, and some glasses. The air had a faint odour; it reminded him of the incense sticks that Daisy sometimes used. He frowned as he looked around the room; something about this place made him feel uncomfortable, and he couldn’t work out why.
“Oh come on, Conner, get a grip,” he said and busied himself with getting his guitar out and reviewing his set in his mind. The girl had specifically asked for a couple of his songs, and he was confident he could give a good rendition of them, but one more practice would not go amiss. He didn’t touch the water.
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