by D J Harrison
My heart opens to the poor girl, no wonder she can’t look me in the eye.
‘You do know why I did that to Justin, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes, as I say we took the cameras, I watched the video, you showed real guts.’
A flush of blood suffuses my cheeks as I think of Gary being witness to my humiliation. But better Gary sees me than I am filmed being sliced to pieces. As I trail mud into the kitchen, I see Doreen clearing up and the children clustered around the TV. Carrie is among them, kneeling small and child-like. I sit beside her and hold her in my arms. She begins to sob her apology to me. There’s no need for words, she can feel my love for her.
61
It’s cold and wet; the smell from the landfill site is almost sick-making. I can’t help but smile to myself at the thought that according to my accounts I have forty-two happy holiday-makers frolicking here. Understandably, none of them is in view as my quasi-presidential cavalcade comes to rest outside my chalet. Gary insists I go mob-handed to retrieve my belongings, although nothing untoward has happened since my abduction and rescue.
The more the merrier when it comes to moving house. I decide to keep watch while burly men labour over transferring everything I own into a big white van. Better this than the way they probably expect, me labouring and them watching over me. Gerard ambles across from the office, face densely creased with concern and a desperate need to find out what is going on.
‘Mrs Parker,’ he greets. ‘Very glad to see you’re all right. So, are you moving out, you leaving us?’
‘It was only ever going to be temporary, Gerard. I need to be in Manchester, close to the office.’
‘So,’ he asks, ‘what’s your new address?’
Alarm bells go off inside my head at his intrusive questioning. My paranoia decides he’s in league with my assassins and I feel myself begin to bristle.
‘Hope it’s as nice as here,’ he continues without any trace of irony in his voice.
I look at this kind old gentleman and decide that he has only good, honest intentions, that I’m wrong to doubt him. My smile returns as I answer.
‘How could anywhere be better than this?’ I’m certain that my sarcasm would be transparent to most, but not to honest Gerard. He beams with satisfaction, God help him; he adores this rat-infested stink hole.
There are some mumblings of discontent when I announce that I’m walking over to the office.
‘We should come with you,’ they protest.
‘Get on with the loading. Gerard will look after me, won’t you, Gerard?’ Gerard looks puzzled for a moment then nods vigorously.
Everything is where I left it, including the stapler and my old phone lying in the doorway. Whether Gerard left them there out of laziness or reluctance to disturb a crime scene I’m not interested enough to ask, preferring to be left alone to collect my files and papers. The computer churns into life, slowly and painfully performing all the arcane functions it deems necessary before it becomes responsive. I’ve found by bitter experience that clicking away too soon at it only makes things worse. If I bother it before it’s ready, it recedes into a frozen sulk.
Of the eighty-four unopened emails displayed, I judge none of them to be of any relevance or interest. I see the one I was engaged with before my abduction and open the voice file again, scrolling through to where I left off.
‘It’s important for the family. Look, I’ll make sure she never bothers you again, you have my word.’ As I listen to the voice of that evil, wizened old bastard I remember the man with the knife telling me ‘he’ wanted to see me suffer. Well I have one or two ideas about whose turn it is to feel the pain. I’ve worked out a plan to expose Wallace and WOS as criminals without having to include myself in the proceedings. When I’m finished with them, they’ll think that an OFT investigation is the least of their worries.
The van appears by the window. I’m being waved at to join the merry throng of men in the front. There’s still ten minutes to go before the end of the recording, and I need to unplug the web of wires before I can extract the computer and take it with me. The cheeky beggars start beeping the horn to hurry me up. They do have a point, they have work to go to, paying work, not like the babysitting they’re engaged in at present. I can get back to this later when I have peace and quiet. But I need to know…
They’re calling me from the loaded van.
‘Be out in a minute, need to make a call, won’t be long.’ I shout back. A door closes.
More honking outside. I wave them away, hold up five fingers, shake my head at them.
‘Hello.’ Miriam’s father is speaking. ‘Sorry to bother you so late, I’m a bit concerned about this Composites business.’
His voice has taken on a surprisingly hesitant quality.
‘Yes, yes I know that. It’s just that Miriam and I have been speaking to Jenny Parker…’
It goes quiet.
‘I know, I understand, she met us here, spoke about a man called Casagrande, accused us of being in league with him, said he was a murderer, that he killed poor Martin.’
A long silence.
‘No, don’t get me wrong, I accept your reassurances, no, not a bit of it, I’ll leave it with you. Speak to her yourself if you like, after all she is one of yours, even if she has gone off the rails. No, no, keep me posted. If you find out anything about this Casagrande, let me know.’
It’s not Casagrande, then. I’ve been barking up the wrong tree, planning revenge on the wrong people. My anger begins to overwhelm me, anger at my blindness, my stupidity, but most of all my anger is directed towards whoever is trying to kill me. I might not know who that is, but at least now I know where I might find him.
62
Knotted with excitement and fear of discovery, I sit half crouched behind the reception desk at the Landers Hoffman offices. At this late hour the building is silent and empty. The alarms and cameras confirm that the only other occupants are Ian who is lurking by the entrance and Chris, the man next to me. Ian is the only legitimate inhabitant, Chris and I are both illicit interlopers, allowed in only through the laxity of the security firm paid to guard the place. Looking at the situation more positively, GOD Security is tripling its cover for no extra cost.
Chris is an older man than I expected from Gary’s description. ‘A high tech computer whiz kid,’ Gary said. The languorous movements and receding hairline belie that epithet. At least he’s wearing brown corduroy trousers so he ticks that box. He also has the scent of a man who lives alone, takes few showers and changes his clothes infrequently. He’s no worse than most of the O’Donnell employees, though I’m desensitised enough by now to pull up a chair and sit close enough to view his computer screen as he works. My excitement is intense. Here I am at the heart of Landers Hoffman, hacking into their most closely guarded secrets, or at least that’s what Chris is up to. I’m only sitting here watching his handiwork.
He assures me that he will extract the information I require whatever security measures might be in place. He also says that any mention of Casagrande will be picked up, whatever form it might take, and that another search is in progress looking for any mention of my name. Half an hour has passed like a flash, Chris is getting up to leave without offering me anything to look at.
‘Where are you going?’ I ask.
He turns his head reluctantly to answer.
‘Home.’
‘But we’re not finished,’ I complain.
‘Obviously not. But I don’t have to be here. Any results will come through to this.’ He brandishes a small hand-held device. ‘Could take several hours to get through everything. I’ve set it to be very thorough. You’ll have everything you need by tomorrow. I suggest you go home and get some sleep.’
‘Wait.’ I feel flat, deflated. I want to see the evidence flashing onto the screen. I need to be here, to feel excited, busy, clandestine, surreptitious.
‘What?’ He looks irritated now.
‘You can’t be sure we’l
l search every computer, can you?’
‘That’s what we’re doing,’ he protests.
‘What about the files on local hard drives, on laptops for example?’
‘As long as they’re connected to the network, we’ll see them.’
‘What if they’re switched off?’
‘Oh, I see, not then. Can’t see them if they’re off. Obviously not.’
‘Then come on. Let’s go and turn them all on, make sure.’
‘Isn’t that a bit risky? Someone might find out.’ Chris looks around nervously.
‘Let them, all I want is the evidence. Are you coming or do I have to do it on my own?’
He follows me to the lifts. I wave to Ian and he nods his acquiescence.
Most of the machines are on, but there are some that aren’t. Chris finds a laptop in a bag and takes it out and turns it on. He grins at me, embarrassed that I was right all along. Some of the offices are locked, but I have Ian’s full set of keys. Chris has no problem getting into any computer. When I switch one on, it immediately asks me for a password and I’m completely at a loss. Chris has a knack of quickly by-passing that procedure by jabbing a memory stick into it and pressing a few keys.
This is more like it. I’m enjoying the thrill of burglary and snooping around. While Chris works I have fun looking through desk drawers and peeping into filing cabinets.
‘Bingo.’
The sudden shout shocks me and I quickly find Chris hunched over a laptop in the general office.
‘Here’s something with your name on it,’ he announces. I watch over his smelly shoulder as he clicks away. A video flashes onto the screen. ‘Oh shit, sorry…’ Chris fumbles to close down the offending images. ‘Sorry, it’s porn.’
‘Wait,’ I instruct. ‘Leave it on.’ He does. I watch with disgust and horror. It’s got my name on it because it’s me. My video, the film of me being raped by grinning men. Numb, saddened and confused I sit and survey the office. My old seat is only a few feet away. I don’t need the confirmation of the payslips in the desk drawer, I already know whose place this is. It belongs to Roger, that smelly creep who was always leering at me, the man who lectured me about money laundering and mauled me in the pub after Martin’s funeral.
So it wasn’t Wallace, nor anyone else. Roger, that’s who spiked my drink and abused me. Now I know.
Chris announces his work is complete at 3 a.m. He projects an air of pride at a job well done and speedily carried out. My only disappointment is that there’s no mention of Casagrande, at least none that he’s picked up.
‘That can’t be right,’ I protest. ‘For a start I wrote a report that had his name in it.’
‘Well, it’s not there now,’ Chris insists.
‘I don’t think your scan worked properly.’
He looks distressed.
‘Well I’m sure it did. I know what I’m doing.’
‘Then we’ll try again tomorrow night, I need to know for sure.’
‘Look Jenny, I’ve been thorough, honest I have.’
I have a hollow feeling. I didn’t expect to discover what I have about Roger, but he’s not the one I’m concerned with just now. I need to get to the man who is hell bent on having me tortured and killed and I doubt very much that Roger is that man.
‘Before you go,’ I turn to Chris, ‘one more try.’
Ian hoves into view; long, pale and looking unwell, as always. The poor guy never sees the sun, I guess.
‘Look,’ Chris says, ‘I’ve done all I can.’
‘It’s important,’ I say, ‘life-or-death-important. My life or my death.’
He frowns, not in annoyance; more like deep thought.
‘How about calendars, diaries, appointments?’ he asks. ‘Anything like that of interest?’
‘Yes.’ My heart leaps and I grasp this second chance. ‘Can you search in people’s diaries?’
‘Well yes, it’s more difficult, the files are in a difficult format. But I can do it.’ He begins to clatter away on the reception computer keyboard. Twenty minutes later he whoops and calls me away from a magazine I’m thumbing aimlessly through.
‘Casagrande!’ He is speaking with a hushed whisper. ‘One entry, it’s for the twenty-first of October a couple of years ago. It reads: Dinner with MY, MS and OR at Casagrande’s house.’
‘Who?’ I ask. ‘Whose diary is that?’
Chris fiddles about while I feel I’m falling through air without a parachute.
‘Okay, got it. Does the name Eric Knowles ring a bell?’
Of course Eric, it has to be him and I should have known that all along. He’s the one who set me up, sent me to prison; he’s the one who gave me Martin’s job so that I could take the blame for any problems with WOS. He’s the one who killed Martin.
63
The annoying sound of a klaxon announces the arrival of a text. I regret letting Carrie fiddle with my phone yesterday. She thinks both the noise and my normal reaction to it hilarious. There’s no point looking at it. It’s 5.30 a.m. and I’m heading back to Gary’s house with my head full of plans. At this time of night, I presume it must be my phone provider offering me some additional services. In any case my phone is buried in my bag and my bag is in the passenger footwell where I can’t reach it without stopping the car.
The more I think about Eric Knowles the more I hate him. Everything he said, everything he did takes on a new meaning. How could I have been so vain as to think I merited Martin’s job? Eric made me believe I was the star candidate when really he just needed me for cover. At the first sign of trouble he could make sure that everyone knew it was Jenny Parker who had the job of overseeing the WOS account, she’s the one who takes bribes. In the event, he made sure I couldn’t make my stand over the Associated Composites irregularities by having me arrested. A grim thought that I was too conscientious for my own good comes to mind. Maybe I should have buried my misgivings, signed off the accounts and started using Casagrande’s money to buy my expensive knickers.
Those bastards had me where they wanted me right from the start. From the moment I let Paul drag me down to Northamptonshire I was heading for prison and ruin. First Eric took away my lover, then my child. Now he is hell bent on finishing me off, cutting me up and watching it on film.
Since Chris found the diary entry for Eric’s dinner with Casagrande my mind has been churning with ideas for revenge. My problem is one of credibility. Mine versus his. I need to find some way to get to Eric, and I need to do it quickly, before he makes a successful attempt on my life.
There are lights on at Gary’s house, but he’s always been an early bird. Maybe Ian has already rung him and told him of our success. As I pull into the yard, I get a stab of disappointment when I realise his car is gone. I feel a little bit cheated that I won’t have the immediate satisfaction of telling him what we found and how I’m going to nail the bastard that caused me all that grief.
The final details of what I need to do are still whirring around in my head. I need to discuss them with Gary, to enlist his help. I have to find a way to get the contract he has put out on my life cancelled so that we can all sleep easily in our beds.
As I bend down to retrieve my handbag from the passenger footwell, the car shudders slightly. A neat hole appears in the windscreen and tiny cracks begin to radiate out from it. Somewhere in the distance a door slams. Before I can sit back up to look out at what’s going on, a second door closes with a loud thump. I can feel the vibration it makes. Another hole appears briefly then my poor windscreen decides it can take no more and rains shards of glass down onto my head.
As I rise, brushing the debris off as carefully as I can, two men come out of Gary’s house and run towards me. The nearest one is Gary. He is waving wildly, shouting. The man behind him stops his chase, raises a handgun and fires. Gary stops waving, takes two more uncertain steps then pitches forward onto his face. The man calmly points his gun at me and fires again.
Ducking, I turn the ignition
keys, fire up the engine and drive blindly forward. There’s another gunshot and my Corsa strikes an obstruction, deflects off it, but keeps powering forward. The engine is screaming even louder than I am. I sit up and look where I’m heading only just in time to yank the wheel to the right so that I manage to career across Gary’s lawn instead of diving into his ornamental pond.
I drive right around the house, onto the drive again and away. The wind buffets my face and hair, freeze-drying my tears even as they fall. There are headlights in my mirror now, they’re following me…
At the motorway roundabout I have my doubts that I’ll be able to drive fast enough for it to be a good choice but I take it anyway. The motorway is the only road likely to have other traffic for me to blend into.
Opening all the windows seems to help a little. That horrible booming noise is reduced. My hair is in rats’ tails, whipping around my face, damaging me, hurting me. Apart from the odd lorry and occasional car there is nothing on the road. I have half a tank of fuel, can manage to keep up an eye-watering fifty-five miles per hour and now have several sets of headlights behind me.
As one draws close then pulls alongside, I glance fearfully to my right. One man, eyes forward, mobile phone to his ear, oblivious of me, of everything around him. I wonder who he’s talking to at this hour and breathe again, waiting for the next candidate to whoosh alongside. This time with a leer and a weapon.
The services are one mile ahead. It’s fully light now and I need to stop to pee, to get some respite from the hurricane blast. I have no idea if they’re still following me. It’s such a relief to stop, to get out of the freezing wind. I’m so cold I can hardly open the car door. My legs are shaking when I try to stand.
It’s warm inside the building where a thin trickle of clientele shuffles wearily about, zombified by the early hour. The mirror in the toilets reveals a scared witch with a red face and streaming eyes. My efforts to repair the damage are feeble and ineffective. I leave the washroom almost as dishevelled as I entered it. I am cold, tired, hungry, scared for my life. When I think about Gary I’m filled with a desperate sadness that makes me feel like throwing up. The need to flee is uppermost in my mind. I know I have to keep moving, that they’ll get me if I don’t, but my body is incapable of complying with this imperative and curls up on a settee in the coffee shop and defiantly falls asleep.