The Purple Contract

by Robin Flett

  He dumped his jacket beside the duffle bag and headed rapidly out on to the balcony, taking the stairs two at a time in the light of the torch.

  From the workshop below he quickly gathered the few things he would need: a padsaw, a tall stool from a workbench, and a length of cord he found draped across an empty cardboard box. On his way out he noticed and lifted a brown plastic tray, transferring the coffee mugs neatly to a shelf.

  Back in the ladies washroom he pushed open the door to one of the three cubicles and placed the stool in the small floor area that was the only free space. Standing on it he could easily push up on the ceiling tile immediately over his head. It lifted away easily and he lowered it safely on to the wash basin. Now he could reach the real plasterboard ceiling above. The plastic tea-tray he jammed half across the opening and, reaching awkwardly past it, he pushed the sharp point of the padsaw through the plasterboard and began to saw gently.

  Rather than cut out a large segment in one piece, he elected to remove smaller chunks, catching the dust and other debris on the tray so as to leave no traces on the floor below. The saw cut easily through the twelve millimetre thick plasterboard and in just a few minutes Hollis had exposed one of the roof joists and opened up a significant hole between it and its neighbour. The tray was piled high by this time and he started worrying about dropping the damned thing. As a safety measure he pushed the larger pieces up into the attic out of the way, reducing the weight on the tray considerably. Then he finished enlarging the hole to an extent which would allow his shoulders to pass through.

  Enough.

  Time check: eight minutes to two o'clock.

  The tray followed the broken pieces of ceiling up into the attic. Then the original ceiling tile. No telltale marks left? Good.

  Outside the cubical again, Hollis gathered up the bag and his jacket before double-checking that he had left no traces of his presence. The bag and jacket went up into the darkness. The length of blue cord he tied securely to the top of the stool and tossed the loose end up to join everything else.

  Now the tricky bit.

  As he switched off the light, Hollis heard the unmistakable sound of the main door opening and closing. The bastard was early!

  Working by torchlight, Hollis balanced precariously on the stool, reaching up in the gloom to grip the joists on either side of his entry hole. Pushing off with his legs, he hauled himself up with considerable difficulty. Finally getting a knee across one joist to free one hand long enough to grab a new hold further up on the roof truss. He settled himself as best he could, squatting painfully across the pair of joists, and began to pull the stool up on its cord. It swung off-centre as the legs left the floor but he manoeuvred it through the hole easily enough and set it to one side. He would need it to get safely back down. The ceiling tile he lowered very carefully back into place. 'God's sake don't drop the stupid thing!' he muttered.

  Shining the torch around his new home he decided it wasn't going to be a very comfortable night. The roof lining wasn't far above his head and the braces across the trusses were awkwardly spaced. A length of old plank would at least give him something to sit or lie on, but home comforts were in short supply.

  With only the thin polystyrene tile between him and the room below, Hollis clearly heard the washroom door open, followed by the cubicle door directly below him. He froze, horrified.

  What did I leave behind?

  His principal awareness was of a crushing mixture of defeat and disappointment. In the fractions of a second left to him his mind raced over the days and weeks past, trying to identify the mistake, the giveaway. If the leak had been in the south they wouldn't have let him get this far, would they?

  What the hell had he done in Orkney to give the whole project away? It was unbelievable. Must have seen me outside on that bloody road. But of course that made no sense either; it wouldn't take them two hours to get around to raising hell. Were there cameras in this damned building after all? He had seen nothing, despite careful scrutiny.

  There's got to be a reason!

  Then he heard the tinkle of liquid in the WC.

  His sense of relief easily outweighed that of the man below. The euphoria swept through his entire body, an emotional tidal wave. F’r Chrissake! Hollis raged silently to himself, as he realised that the guard was simply having a pee and had deliberately picked the women’s toilet to do it,

  Nearly gave me a heart attack, you kinky son-of-a-bitch!

  21

  Saturday 24 August, 2013

  The sound of voices and the slam of a car door wakened him from a fitful doze, curled stiffly on the plank. It was quarter past eight. The presentation was scheduled for nine thirty. Time he got himself down out of here and rejoined civilized society.

  The low attic was surprisingly light and Hollis saw that every ten metres or so a translucent panel was built in to the roof. They seemed a waste of time and money, but he supposed these factory units were built to a standard design. No doubt in other circumstances this limited attic area would be used as storage space.

  He stretched as best he could and began the awkward performance of getting changed with falling through the floor of the attic. Fortunately, he had made allowances for the possibility of becoming dirty and unkempt in the process of gaining entry to NorthTek. In fact his overnight hideaway was dusty but not dirty as such. Having changed, with difficulty in the confined space, his trousers and shirt and added a tie, he dug into the bag and fetched out the remote radio trigger and the portable electric shaver. These went into his jacket pockets. Everything else would be abandoned up here––as good a place as any.

  Hollis spent several minutes listening warily above the ceiling tile blocking off his entry hole. He wanted out of here before the factory got any busier, there wouldn’t be many women here today but sooner or later one of them would decide to visit the toilet.

  There wasn’t a sound to be heard below and no reason to delay any further. Hollis lifted out the polystyrene tile and placed it to one side. Then he lowered the stool on its cord, having to jiggle it back and forth several times before the legs would sit squarely on the floor. A few seconds later he was down, reaching up for the tile and dropping it into position above him.

  Outside in the washroom, Hollis placed the stool in a corner against the wall, where hopefully it wouldn't look out of place. The blue cord went into the waste paper basket with a couple of crumpled paper towels on top. An ear to the door revealed nothing untoward so Hollis pulled open the door and walked out. The mens room was just a few steps away––Hollis pushed the door open and went in.

  After a wash and shave, he used a handful of the paper towels to wipe down his jacket and remove the last traces of his night in the attic. Digging inside the garment, Hollis found his fake NUJ identity card and transferred it to a trouser pocket. With a final check of his appearance in the mirror, William Cunliffe, freelance journalist emerged from the washroom and strode purposefully down the corridor.

  'But it wasn't the camerman's fault, don't you see? Bloody director wanted an action shot from on top of the wretched animal's back, and he never thought to ask if the cameraman liked heights!'

  Laughter.

  'Anyway, when the elephant got to its feet the jerk almost threw the poor sod right off and he grabbed hold with both hands. Completely forgot about the bloody camera and down it went!'

  Hollis walked unhurriedly out into the foyer where the three men stood together, still grinning.

  'Hello, here's another one if I'm not mistaken.' The barrel-chested man in his fifties looked round at Hollis. 'Didn't see you come in, old son, where're you from?'

  Meaning which publication did he work for.

  Hollis nodded to the group. 'Got fed up trying to keep editors happy, nowadays I work for myself,' he stretched out a hand. 'Bill Cunliffe.'

  'A man after my own heart!' The three introduced themselves and they all shook hands politely with the newcomer. Within the next few minutes at least a doze
n other media types wandered in the door, a BBC camera crew among them. Two shirt-sleeved individuals whom Hollis took to be NorthTek management came and went at irregular intervals. Sometimes exchanging a few words here and there with a recognised face.

  The phone at the reception desk bleeped plaintively and one of the two girls picked it up, inclining her head to one side as she tried to tune out the rising tide of voices in the room. Hollis stood with his group of three, half-listening to their conversation and putting in the occasional remark for appearances sake. It was good cover, but his mind was elsewhere.

  The BBC crew were fussing with lights, shooting some stock footage of the plinth with its uninspiring occupant. One of them with a cellular phone jammed to his ear. Through the windows, Hollis could see the security guards checking someone's credentials at the gate, three of them now. And beyond, in the roadway, police uniforms were visible in a small group, receiving instructions from a senior officer. More than ever, Hollis was glad he had decided to get in here quietly last night. He fingered the plastic case of the radio trigger in his pocket. Not long now.

  'Listen up, please!'

  The hubbub of voices diminished somewhat.

  'Quiet, please!' One of the shirt-sleeved NorthTek management folk stood with his arms raised, trying to get their attention. 'As I'm sure you know, the Prince won't be arriving until nine thirty, and the presentation will take place more or less immediately.’ He paused and glanced round the room. ‘Afterwards we'll be taking him on a tour of the factory and I'm sure he won't want the world's press looking over his shoulder all the way, so that will be private. As you all know, his damaged arm is not one hundred percent as yet, so he has asked that the visit be kept short.'

  Groans filled the room. 'Come on willya ... photographs ... historical occasion ... need some background ... bloody editor told me ...'

  'I'm sorry, but that's the way it is! If it will be of any assistance to some or all of you, we can give you a short tour on your own right now, before things get complicated. Would that be of help?'

  'Better than nothing,' grumbled one of Hollis' companions, 'can you believe these guys? Whole fuckin’ place is built with taxpayer’s money.’

  About half of the assembled press elected to follow the tour. The rest stayed put and were pleased to note the arrival of several pots of coffee and two large plates of biscuits. Never ones to miss an opportunity, they crowded round immediately, intent on decimating the supplies before their colleagues reappeared.

  The media crocodile stopped twice in the main corridor while photographs of immense oil drilling rigs and refineries were pointed out and explained. The six draughtsmen in the drawing office gave the impression of being faintly horrified at having their domain invaded by, and exposed to, the national press. Hollis tagged along in the middle of the group, more to stay in character than from any particular interest.

  They passed through a doorway Hollis had completely missed during the night and emerged into the adjoining half of the building. The tour continued through a dozen different departments and workshops, finally emerging at the far end of the factory into the machine-shop where Hollis had concealed himself from the guard in the early hours. The guide was anxiously checking his watch every few minutes now and it was clear that time was pressing. The loose group stood among the machine tools, some paying close attention and others idly watching the work going on around them.

  Hollis was getting fidgety, as he always did when zero hour approached, and he wasn't the slightest bit interested in the guide wittering on about "temperature coefficients". He let his eyes wander around the room while he concentrated on controlling the butterflies in his stomach.

  It was the twinkling legs that caught his attention.

  One of the girls from the reception desk had walked out from the upper corridor behind the open balcony rail, heading for the ladies toilet. From his lower angle, the long legs and short skirt presented Hollis with an enticing view and his head turned to follow her.

  The heavy-set man wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, who was standing on the balcony with his hands in his pockets, flinched perceptibly as Hollis' face looked up at the girl passing behind him. He had thought this trip a waste of time and taxpayers’ money, but he couldn’t make himself stay away.

  Frank Wedderman swore afterwards that he actually felt his heart miss a beat with the almost electric shock that coursed through him. 'Oh, my God!' he exclaimed out loud. He didn't need to take the crumpled photograph out of his wallet to be sure: he would never forget that face!

  Without conscious volition, he was gripping the balcony rail so hard that his fingernails left permanent grooves in the wood. 'Security!' he shouted, one arm stabbing downwards now. 'Security, arrest that man! That one, with the waxed jacket! Security!'

  In that half-second Hollis knew that he had finally pushed his luck once too often and he instinctively turned to run. As he crashed out the workshop door and down the hallway he wondered who that bastard was and how he knew! But there would be time enough to think about that later––if he could get clear of this bloody place.

  A door opened and a man looked out to see what all the fuss was about. Hollis shoulder-charged him without slowing down. Throwing the man violently back into his office and sending him sprawling across his own desk. In the deeper recesses of his mind Hollis knew that at this point he hadn't actually done anything terribly illegal. Breaking and entering for sure, and now minor assault, but he had no means of guessing just how much the authorities knew––what else they could pin on him. He was blown, that was all that mattered.

  In the foyer, the remaining journalists had finished the coffee and were waiting impatiently for the action to start. This wasn't proving to be the most absorbing story they had ever covered, and Royal stories, anyway, were not the draw they had once been. However, they were about to get more action than they bargained for.

  Hollis erupted into the foyer, chopping viciously with the edge of his hand at one of the BBC crew who made a half-hearted attempt to block his path. The man went down with a muffled cry.

  Frank Wedderman had made good time back along the first floor corridor and he threw himself down the flight of stairs at the front of the building with reckless abandon. Uttering an involuntary 'Uh!' as his left hip took a painful knock from the bannister rail where the stairway took a sharp turn near the bottom. He was two seconds behind Hollis across the foyer, scattering the now-excited pressmen once again.

  The three security guards heard the door bang open and turned in some surprise. They were shocked to have the hurtling figure of Mike Hollis suddenly among them, one guard sent flying, rolling over and over across the gravel and fetching up against the wire fence. Both the other men shouted after him, but Hollis was already out on the road.

  Sergeant Stewart was ready for his breakfast, despite the fact that he had already eaten it. But that had been nearly three hours ago. At just after nine in the morning his stomach was telling him it was lunchtime. He turned when he heard the shouts from inside the compound, just in time to see one of his local constables go down under a swinging fist, his hat rolling and bouncing over the pavement before coming to rest in the gutter.

  John Stewart was in his late thirties and still kept himself in peak condition physically. Years of playing rugby virtually every week, a passion from his school days, had left him with no fear of physical contact with a rapidly moving human body. The sharp voice of Wedderman, pounding along thirty metres or more behind his quarry, galvanised him into action.

  'Stop that man! For God's sake catch him!' Wedderman knew he couldn't keep up this pace for much longer. Hollis appeared to be in no great distress from his exertions and if these dozy buggers didn't get hold of him soon...

  Stewart ran hard, not wasting time with orders to his men: they had eyes in their heads didn't they? He ran at a tangent to Hollis' path, putting a lot of effort into his stride now and feeling the satisfaction of narrowing the gap. Like Wedderman, he knew
he couldn't keep this going very long, but that was all right. Just a few more seconds...

  Hollis saw the dark-suited figure coming out the corner of his eye and tried to evade, but the closing speed was too great. He glanced up and saw that he was heading for the pier! Desperately, he swerved to one side, angling for the corner close to where he had parked the Range Rover earlier that week, hoping to get clear long enough to conceal himself somewhere.

  Stewart dived forward in what he later declared was the best flying tackle he could remember executing. His arm circled Hollis' waist at the same instant as his shoulder impacted the small of his back. The two men sprawled in an untidy heap onto the roadway, Hollis catching his forehead a glancing blow on the road surface and opening up a ragged gash. His attacker's body slammed the breath of out him, followed immediately by further blows as two other police officers leapt on top.

  'Durafin!' a muffled voice muttered. 'Dun durfin.'

  Sergeant Stewart heaved upwards with his shoulders. 'Get off me, for God’s sake!'

  Grinning, the two constables got to their feet and stood watchfully by. Frank Wedderman, breathing heavily, his chest heaving, came to an unsteady halt alongside.

  'What was that you said?' Stewart took some of his weight off Hollis' back.

  'I haven't done anything!' repeated Hollis indistinctly, his face still pressed against the rough road surface.

  'Well, I don't know about that,' Stewart grunted. 'I saw you assault a police officer in the execution of his duty. That'll do for a start!’ He pulled handcuffs from his belt and snicked them closed around Hollis’ wrists. ‘You, my son, are under arrest. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”