by Gary Tulley
Having now disengaged his brain, an injection of protocol somehow filtered through by way of an appeasement. “I guess I’m becoming a martyr to apologies just lately as far as you’re concerned Mike. But, if it makes you any happier, it’s not all doom and gloom.”
“Meaning what exactly?” Eastern fired back with a hint of reservation.
“Your failed car accident. You need to know that it hadn’t gone unnoticed. In fact, it’s fair to say, that the bogus driver has now been removed from the equation.”
“Removed?” You could almost hear the clash of Eastern’s eyebrows meeting up as his face distorted from Rogon’s well timed and relaxed implication. “You could have said assassinated and saved me the bother. But thanks anyway.”
The advantage of inbred diplomacy then reigned supreme as Rogon put his claim into perspective by stating in a sardonic manner: “We prefer to use the term ‘eliminated from our enquiries’.”
“Yeah I bet you do,” Eastern muttered under his breath, but was forced to smile at the same time. “Incidentally, do I get to know the detail?”
“You know better than to ask Mike. I can only add that an unidentified body has been retrieved from the water at ‘dock’ in Shoreham Harbour in the early hours of this morning. Forensics are carrying out a full PM on the perpetrator’s body as we speak. That way, we avoid the grief surrounding a cover up.” If smiling ever became a criminal act then Eastern could possibly be looking at a 10 year stretch at Rogon’s verbal coup de grace.
“I would have put you in the picture earlier, given the chance,” Rogon added ruefully and continued, “For what it’s worth, we found sufficient evidence on the body to support our claim in linking him as a member of the same firm accredited to the security guard on remand and the recent gun victim that I was forced to deal with myself recently.”
“At least there’s some form of light beginning to show at the end of the tunnel at last.” Eastern commented. “And a lead as to who’s pulling their strings would be the ultimate, wouldn’t you say?” Whatever their love/hate relationship afforded, there was no room left for doubt as to where their role in commitment lay.
“Amen to that!” Rogon exclaimed. Their enlightening conversation soon came to a close with Rogon reminding him that the trial was due to start in two days’ time, that being the forthcoming Monday. With that in mind, and confident in the knowledge that any further business allayed to Carter had been put to rest, the likelihood emerging from a relaxing weekend seemed like a good enough welcome reprieve.
CHAPTER XV…Trial and error
On reflection the last few months had been a catastrophic roller coaster, graduating to a fear of uncertainty, stark terror and back again. Sooner or later, something was bound to give, and it wasn’t so much a question of how, but when. Intensely preoccupied as he was, Eastern glanced up warily from his laptop as Joan approached him. Almost at once, a foreboding sense that something was amiss kicked in as their eyes met. In a split second, his congested mind had crossed over one parallel to form a new one and, in doing so, allowed him to reach deep into her mind.
As he suspected, it became evident there was a problem that had been festering for some time. Having said that, he then needed to reassure himself, “It could be my imagination…” he broke off suddenly, as she made to speak.
“I’m sorry Mike, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Lowering his gaze, he sighed deeply and closed his laptop. “No that’s fine Joan, don’t apologise on my account. Although God knows I could use a break, and it goes without saying that you could use one too.”
“A drink? I’ll fix you a Scotch…yes, that’s what I’ll do.” Oblivious to any notion he may have held, she headed off towards the drinks cabinet in a robotic fashion.
“Joan!” he wasn’t even aware that he was shouting at her. “For Christ’s sake it’s not even 10am…” pausing, he slowly lowered his voice, “Just, just leave it please.” Her eyes took on a vacant look as he claimed her hand and guided her towards the nearest chair. “We really do need to talk Joan. These mood swings of late can’t be allowed to continue. You have to get a grip on life, don’t let go now,” he implored. “You owe it to yourself Joan. You’ve been systematically put through the ringer these past few weeks. So I can well understand how you’re feeling.”
She studied his face momentarily, searching desperately for an answer. “You do?”
It was almost as if she was pleading for confirmation. His face screwed up in sympathetic rage at her self imposed demeanour. “Poor bitch, she doesn’t even know what’s hit her,” he told himself reluctantly. “Not only that, there’s the trial to contend with as well…” He spoke out loud, “Joan, I’ve been thinking, how do you feel about taking some leisure time out, even if it’s only for a few days?”
Her face remained impassive, even her mind became set on auto as she replied in a blasé manner: “You mean Framfield and my parents don’t you?”
A wave of relief surged through Eastern’s body as she coincided with the crux of the matter. “As things stand it could be the ideal solution Joan. As from Monday, life around here could be hell. Besides, it’s not as if you will be miles away. Plus, of course, you’ll benefit security wise. So, what do you say?”
Once again her commitment to non aggression, common sense attitude, rose to his proposal and she nodded brusquely in a positive manner. “I’ll phone home shortly to make some arrangements, and leave first thing in the morning.”
“Great. In the meantime, I’ll contact Rogon and put him in the picture.” Breaking off momentarily, his shoulders rose and fell as he laughed outwardly. “That’ll piss him off for a start, knowing that we’ve got plans of our own.”
In return, Joan smiled for England, before speaking: “On reflection, your suggestion is a good idea Mike. I’m beginning to feel better already.”
“In that case, I will have a Scotch after all darling.” He was chuckling to himself as she handed him a small Scotch.
“I know it’s a cliché Mike but what shall we drink to?”
Eastern retaliated almost immediately, “That has got to be the easiest question I’ve had to deal with all week…” Raising his glass, he exclaimed loudly, “To absent spooks, everywhere.”
The following morning Eastern stood and watched until Joan’s car disappeared out of sight. The look of satisfaction that masked his face became clear evidence, even at a distance as he cast his eye around the periphery of the square. He then waited a few seconds or so before announcing to the World at Large “I know you’re out there Rogon. So just make sure you keep up your end of the bargain. And I’ll do likewise.”
Later on that morning, a fully relaxed and contented Eastern manoeuvred himself into the depths of a leather upholstered armchair and allowed his body language to do the talking for him. In spite of Joan’s absence, he wasn’t to be found alone. The token bottle of his favourite poison and resident ice bucket ensured him the option of being in good company. Maybe the video he’d attempted to view had lost its appeal or maybe his Scotch had inadvertently developed a hidden talent. He was in a semi comatose state one minute and then subjected to what reality had to offer the next. “A baptism of fire,” he thought as he fought to shrug off the relentless tone now sounding off from his landline expressing a desire to be part of his world.
“Please God that’s Joan and not bleedin’ Rogon,” he remarked selfishly. “She’s probably called to let me know that she’s arrived and settled in okay.” Any other thoughts that he may have held bearing on anticipation disintegrated as the familiar unfeeling tones issuing from Rogon’s voice invaded his space.
“Mike? Yes, you’ve guessed it’s me. And before you say anything, you need to know that minutes after leaving Brunswick Square I had a security guard positioned on Joan’s case. Basically, I need to know whether or not she has made contact with you say, in the last hour or so?” An uneasy silence reigned as Eastern’s fuddled brain became swamped with opposin
g scenarios. It became clear to him that Rogon’s leading omission stank of a personal guilt trip. Leaving himself desperately seeking some solid answers in lieu of a debate on Rogon’s security priorities.
“You’ve got some bleedin’ nerve Rogon! It’s a Saturday night for fucksake! So I’m not in the market for your poxy mind games. Forget the verbal crap and get straight to the point. Oh, while you were at it, and just for the record, I haven’t received a call all day. The only contact I’ve had concerned you this morning over security.”
If Rogon was anticipating something more positive out of Eastern’s backlash then he was quick to realise that he was on a hiding to nothing. The only bullet he had left to fire was now saturated with the truth of the matter as he pulled the verbal trigger to expose the real meaning relating to his call. His curt reply, when it came, was brief and cut to the chase: “In that case, I fear we have a problem Mike.”
Eastern’s brain immediately switched to red alert as Rogon’s suspect omission concerning security came back to haunt him, only this time with a vengeance as Joan channelled into his thoughts. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re about to piss me right off? If anything untoward has happened to her I’m holding you personally responsible Rogon. So I strongly advise you to offload what SP you have got on your mind right now!” As requests go, it wasn’t worth the air space as Rogon picked up from where he left off.
“The crux of the matter is, I’m not in a position to do that Mike. As I said before, I’m rather hoping that you know something I don’t. Frankly, unintentionally or otherwise, she has given my man the slip. Hence the call.” Patience was at a premium, and Eastern had enough to convince himself that their conversation had now run dry.
“I suggest you hang up Rogon, I’ll take over from here. Please God she’s in control of the situation. Joan’s had her fair share of grief just lately. Incidentally, you might as well contact your man and tell him to back off, seeing as I intend taking over from here. One other thing before you go… Where was the last sighting of her that we can be sure of?”
“Apparently going into a Superstore, for whatever reason, situated on the edge of the city in the Hollingbury locale, according to my man. Unfortunately, that’s where the surveillance all fell apart.” With nothing more to add, their speculative conversation folded forthwith. Anxious as he was to unravel the sudden disappearance of Joan, the notion that a possible abduction could have taken place was never far away in Eastern’s mind.”
“Mind you,” he quickly reminded himself. “The fact that Joan wasn’t even a witness in the forthcoming trial would mean she would serve no beneficial purpose, should it happen, thus rendering any ulterior motive as being as misguided action.” His next impulse was to contact Joan’s parents on a pretext that she may have been in touch or indeed arrived at Framfield. From the moment that his call was acknowledged he sensed that his timing, giving further consideration could have been handled more effectively, in knowing that their relationship had moved on somewhat surpassing a client status.
Drumming his fingers on a nearby coffee table in a gesture of impatience unexpectedly caught him on the back foot in dealing with the dulcet tones of protocol colliding with his own disposition. Mrs Travers’ opening enquiry came to an abrupt end, consequently placing her on the receiving end, as Eastern cut in: “Is Joan there with you? If she is, I really need to talk to her, it’s important. Oh, and in case you hadn’t guessed already this is Mike Eastern speaking and concerned about Joan’s present wellbeing.”
Fortunately for him, class will always out, forcing Eastern into humble submission. As Mrs Travers retaliated, echoing her own thoughts on the situation. She made it quite clear that no contact had been made at that point and should it arise, he would be the first to be made aware. Eastern then apologised for this openness and stated he would endeavour to contact Joan post haste. They hung up.
To the best of his knowledge, Eastern estimated that Joan was about an hour overdue from her expected arrival from Framfield which, on reflection, caused him to doubt his mother’s somewhat carefree attitude allayed to her absence. Two outgoing calls inside of fifteen minutes and a stored message in reply to nothing began to eat away at his frustration. “It’s the poxy not knowing that makes it worse. Just what the hell is stopping her from making contact? It’s totally out of character and the relevance is pissing me off!” Even Rogon, for reasons of his own, seemed impervious to his plight, by keeping his own exclusive distance.
The breakthrough to his problem when it materialised proved to be totally unexpected. Later on that evening, and by way of a third party source, Eastern discovered an envelope lying on his doormat prior to locking up for the night. It was simply addressed ‘MIKE’, set in capitals, thus making the handwriting unrecognisable. His initial reaction, conjecture apart, was one of overwhelming relief. Feverishly, he tore the flap open and hastily removed the contents. Subsequently, his worst fears were dispelled, as the type of handwriting, and the message it signified became apparent.
Dear Mike,
First and foremost I feel I have to apologise for my actions, including the stress that this must have caused you. Please believe me when I say that I never set out to upset our personal arrangement, and that the present outcome has no bearing on our private life, which I cherish dearly. At this point, you will be pleased to know, that I am safe and well and able to relax in a convenient atmosphere of my own choice. The decision confronting me didn’t come easy, although, under the circumstances, it was a necessary one. (I refer to the trial and the added grief we have shared.) It was heartbreaking not being able to return your call in knowing that Rogon and his damn spooks were never far away. Just for once, my present address is our secret, and ours alone! I’ve included a contact number for you as well. We can talk some more tomorrow, say at 10 o clock in the morning. I have also been in touch with my parents, so they are fully aware of my position and I have their overwhelming backing. Things will become clearer tomorrow my darling, trust me?
Until then, all my love, Joan x
Mike Eastern now had a problem. But hell! He wasn’t about to complain. The expression registered on his face evoked more depth from inner feeling than the contents emerging from the letter he was holding. For the second time, he felt compelled to absorb the genuine rights to Joan’s written confessional, while attempting to make a case for her for displaying the obvious strength of affection that she indubitably felt toward him. Needless to say, he failed miserably, but felt good in doing so all the same. In the time it had taken him to grasp the situation, his whole world had suddenly turned on its axis and, in doing so, unleashed other hidden worlds to spin out of control in his head, each individual one then colliding and harmlessly exploding on impact while in unison to a new and updated heartbeat. Without realising it, an abandoned motive suddenly found a voice.
“God! I haven’t felt this way in years.” He exclaimed loudly. “I guess I get the chance for another bite of the proverbial apple…yeah, why not?” if he’d thought for a minute that he could well be in for a sleepless night, it would have been the one remaining factor he could have banked on. In spite of everything, he did manage to grab a couple of hours even though they were systematically tainted with bias dreams.
Western Road Brighton on a Sunday morning is no different to the low lane of the M25 on any given weekday, bodies apart that is. Having just exited a newsagents, Eastern glanced across the road and made an immediate beeline to the one remaining empty telephone booth situated at the top of Russell Square. His watch was saying 9.55am but his thoughts were somewhere else. Even the dialling tone became music to his ears long before the familiar sound of Joan’s voice came into play.
“Hi Mike, I guessed it had to be you by your timing alone. You obviously found my letter.”
“You bet I did Joan. But what the hell is going on? I didn’t know what to think. I can only presume that you’re staying in London, going by the number you enclosed.”
“That’s right,” she echoed. “In fact I’m staying at Julie’s flat in Bloomsbury, would you believe? I contacted her last night after having made my decision to give Framfield a miss. Luckily for me, it turned out, that she was in Hove for a couple of days, covering an assignment for a magazine.”
“So you obviously met up at some point then, before heading on to London?” He swore that he could hear Joan laugh in the background, before replying.
“Always the PI, Mike? I need to teach you how to relax more often. Having said that, you’re right of course. I contacted Julie, minutes after having the pleasure of ditching Rogon’s security spook. After which, I drove back to her place in Hove, where I wrote the letter explaining my sudden turnaround. Julie then gave me a spare key to her Bloomsbury flat. Shortly after that, I left knowing that she would deliver the letter for me, as I instructed.” Together they continued to talk at length on various aspects which included Eastern’s insistence that any foreseeable planning would become a joint venture.
From the short time that he’d taken to hang up and exit the booth the sun had decided on making a guest appearance, breaking through the overhead cloud. The immediate effect became all the impetus that he needed as he turned on his heel and headed back the opposite way to Churchill Square via a particular ‘brunch bar; to relax over a coffee…or so he thought. Having selected a prime viewing window table encompassing the full vista in sight, it was left to the impromptu and melodic tones from his mobile to crash his private space.
He didn’t require a second glance at the name occupying his screen to confirm that the symbol 24/7 was etched in granite and went hand in hand with a public health warning. Grudgingly he made the contact, but ensured that he held the rights to any verbal pecking order. “Where the hell do you get off Rogon? It’s fucking Sunday morning for Christ sake. You need to get yourself a life moron.” His outburst was breath wasted on Rogon’s Government emotional implants.