They continued pulling the computer’s findings apart long into the night. When Dexter walked by torchlight back to his camper van, he’d left them still debating the validity of the program’s findings. He couldn’t convince himself that it had lived up to its promises. In fact, he was a little bit disappointed. They needed some help here and what had been promised as the ultimate helper hadn’t given them anything. He’d decide tomorrow on his approach. For now, he was tired, disillusioned and confused. Sleep might help clarify things. If it didn’t, he was lost as to his next move.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Having decided on a fairly direct and unsubtle approach, Dexter parked his motorhome in an open-air car park, only a short walk from the address that they had secured for Walt Farnham. It was a two-bedroomed apartment on one of the middle floors of a recently converted sixties block of flats, too architecturally important to be demolished and yet, far too well located to remain as social housing. Access was officially via only one, secure front entrance, but Dexter was well-versed enough in property development to know that other, less well guarded, entrances would have been planned for.
He found the service doors behind the walled-in coral that hid the refuse disposal facilities from the occupants. Those doors were propped open. He hadn’t expected anything less once he’d noticed the pile of cigarette butts on the floor. People could always be relied on to be the weakest link in any line of defence. Where service yards existed, so did those minimum-wage employees who liked to smoke. They would have established the best spot early on in their careers. Out of sight of CCTV cameras, and yet, near enough to the doors to ensure that they could nonchalantly stroll back into the building should a supervisor appear. That said, the supervisor was probably joining them in the unofficial break.
Timing was important. The route into the building and up to Farnham’s flat was clear in Dexter’s mind, but he had to reach his required starting point first. He took up a position behind the cardboard recycling skip which was by far the biggest of them all and which gave off a slightly less repugnant smell. He heard the laughter first, then he saw the mix of characters push the door wide open and begin the process of lighting their cigarettes. The clothes they wore told Dexter that these were maintenance staff, cleaners and security guards. Given that mix, he knew they wouldn’t be out for long. This wasn’t a nicotine only break. It was one of those ‘quiet word’ moments when they’d use the cigarettes to impart the latest gossip, away from the ears of the subject of their interest. They were all on duty and were more likely to be caught in their absence as they were dodging three managers. It was promising for Dexter. Clearly the advertised standards of security in this block were much less solid in practice.
He slipped out from behind the skip just as he saw the last of the skivers return into the building, the door still swinging gently towards the brick that was being used to prop it open. He moved quickly, got behind the door unseen, then turned sharply to his right and off the main service corridor. There would be a chute for refuse. That chute would need clearing regularly, usually by somebody on a pay-scale that denied them access to keys. Beside the chute would be an unlocked door, through which he could enter the building proper and begin the steady climb up to the floor he needed. It all proved to be exactly as he’d expected. The cameras might prove to be an issue, but that was something he had to live with. He was wearing a yellow tabard that had enough reflective stripes on to blur the images being captured and which would make him look like another honest Joe diligently going about his business.
The tabard was scrunched in his pocket by the time he’d reached Farnham’s front door, at which point he looked a little more respectable in suit and tie. He didn’t bother knocking. Farnham’s arrival at work had been confirmed by Gregory. Instead, he removed the bunch of master keys from his pocket whilst checking the type of lock that had been fitted. It was standard issue. It was the sort of lock that gave a solid enough impression but which was so standard across the numerous properties in the block that it had to flexible enough that the loss of one resident’s key didn’t entail changing everybody else’s lock. That standardisation meant that a standard master key existed and one of those master keys from all the major manufacturers was just the sort of thing that a busy property developer like Dexter always carried with him.
As the door opened, he prepared to run at the sound of any alarms, but Farnham hadn’t set his on departure. That told Dexter two things: one, that Farnham was no more cautious than the majority and two, that such nonchalance probably meant there was little of value in the flat. The latter proved correct.
Working through each of the sparsely-furnished rooms wasn’t a difficult process. The minimalist lines and décor of the place were more a function of the occupants, only having lived there for a short time, but they meant that there were few cluttered areas promising hidden secrets. The second bedroom had been converted into a small office. Drawers weren’t locked and those few papers that were on show revealed little of interest. Dexter photographed everything as it was, took as much time as necessary to explore waste bins, toilet cisterns and other possible sources of bounty, but was still out of the place in less than ten minutes. As the door swung shut, he slipped back into the service stairwell and walked slowly out of the building through an alternative service entrance that led off the underground garage. A successful trip, in that he hadn’t been caught. Not so successful in the results it had yielded though.
Philian Gregory had kept himself occupied whilst waiting for Dexter to return to the coffee shop from which he had been watching Walt Farnham doing whatever he did in his second-floor office with windows that fronted the street. He seemed to be the sort of person whose passion and enthusiasm had earned him his position. As he spoke on the phone, his arms waved, he gesticulated to the unseeing recipient of his words and he kept moving, as if sitting down would show weakness. It was a gift for Gregory who only had to glance up every few minutes to confirm that he was there, and who had been able to use the time to study a number of other names that Carrington’s system had come up with. He remained sceptical about the project. The chances were, they’d done all they could and things had reached a natural conclusion. Their targets to now had been obvious and known. Digging for others was a valid short-term project, but it was a different thing altogether. He’d run with it for a while, not least because he wanted to be sure that Carrington had avenged his family’s death to the best degree possible. He wouldn’t make it his life though. He hadn’t changed that much.
“Dead end.”, Dexter spoke quietly as he joined his friend in the café, “We can review the photographs later, but the guy doesn’t have anything you wouldn’t expect from a young, single man of his age. The porn stash is mainstream and minimal, there are no secret closets full of women’s clothing and he drinks premium-brand spirits, but only small amounts of each. What more can I tell you?”
“It doesn’t surprise me.”, Philian Gregory sighed as he spoke, “Although, it’s disappointing. I’m trying to find something in the other names that Nathan’s pulled out, but I’m not seeing anything.”
“You think he’s onto something?”, Dexter asked, “Or do you think he’s tilting at windmills?”
Gregory didn’t reply straightaway. He finished his coffee and looked closely out of the window. Dexter withdrew quietly and returned with fresh drinks for them both.
“Well?”
“Nathan’s a complex character.”, Gregory’s voice was soft and measured, “Intellectually, he’s brilliant and gifted in ways that you or I can barely understand. That intellect isn’t only abstract, it’s also capable of seeing patterns that few others would ever recognise. You know how he’s kept us financed to date. But horse racing is only one application of his abilities. He helped me when I was a trader, and he continues to maintain a fantasy portfolio that hits massive gains twice as often as it takes heavy losses. If we could get the banking access
, we’d be multi-millionaires by now.”
“But?”
“You know his past. The alcohol and the mental suffering he’s endured can’t have left him unaffected. How much of what he sees is a product of his genius and how much is warped fantasy? That’s my worry. Of course, I trust him. I’ll trust him until he proves to be untrustworthy. You can’t begin to imagine what it’s like working with him. But, just now, this pursuit of the vaguest of notions…well, I just wonder…is he starting to clutch at straws, or, as you said, tilt at windmills?”
Dexter didn’t know what to say in reply, choosing instead to sit in silence. Philian Gregory came out of his reflective mood slowly, gradually turning away from the window and focusing on Dexter instead.
“So, let’s have a look at those photos then,”, he said, lifting his laptop from the seat next to him, “maybe they’ll help me decide.”
The images were pretty much as Dexter had outlined. The shots showed nothing of real interest, although Farnham’s desktop gave Gregory pause for thought.
“These flyers,”, he said as he manipulated the image to enhance the leaflets that had been the only paperwork on display, “are they the only ones he had? No stacks of them or evidence that he had them printed?”
“Nothing.”, Dexter replied, “I put it down to his work. Seems the sort of group who’d call on his expertise.”
“Makes sense. And it’s no secret either. I checked out his recent activities on the think-tank’s website and they attribute the acquisition of this group as a client to Farnham. You know anything about them?”
“Only what we all hear on the news. I’ve never given them much thought though. I’m not what you would call a political beast, but, from the little I know, the New Progressives are more a movement than a political party. They make a lot of noise but don’t seem to do much else. Their gripe is with the older generation and the unfairness of the wealth that isn’t trickling down. Sound more like moody teenagers to me than a genuine force for change.”
“And yet, they can afford to engage the likes of Farnham?”
“Probably trying to put some flesh on the bones of their ideology. And if their targeting youngsters, they ain’t going to struggle for money. They may think the oldies have an unfair chunk of the nation’s wealth, but I see very few poor youths these days. You think this is relevant?”
“Hardly seems likely.”, Gregory sighed, closing down the computer, “We’ll see if Carrington comes up with anything when he sees it, but no, it’s just the guy doing what he does for a living. Must be nice. You go where the money calls you and you’re not constrained by politics. That fits with what we know about Farnham. So, let’s have a look at some of the others.”
They ate lunch at the café whilst they used the free Wi-Fi to gain as much information as they could on the other names that Carrington’s algorithm had thrown up. They approached the whole thing with an open mind and a desire to gather as much data as possible, letting any patterns and links form themselves. It was productive in that it kept them busy and yielded much information. It wasn’t such a productive exercise in helping them move forward. Still, they didn’t have anything else planned for the day.
They drove back to the canal junction in the late afternoon, having tried to contact Carrington by phone to confirm that it was still moored where it was. He’d made some noises about it being time that they moved on a little, but he’d been vague about it. Every time they called, the phone went to answering machine. To Dexter, that was absolutely normal. There were times when he wanted to be out of the loop. To Gregory, it was a little more concerning. He’d known Nathan long enough to know that when the darkness descended, the phone went off and the bottle came out. When they pulled up and saw the boat in the same position, he was convinced that this would be one of those challenging nights.
“Tell you what, Bob.”, he placed a hand on Dexter’s shoulder, “Why don’t you book in here again for another night and we’ll catch up tomorrow. You know where the pub is. I’ll grab something on the boat.”
“You sure?”
“Probably best. If we need to, we’ll knock on the van or catch up with you at the pub, but I think Nathan might be better with just me. It’ll be alright. We’ll meet for breakfast tomorrow.”
Without waiting for an answer, Philian Gregory slid out of the van and made his way cautiously to the boat. He wasn’t afraid of any danger from outside. They were sufficiently off the radar now that such threats just didn’t exist. What concerned him was the enemy within. It had been a while since Carrington had slipped. That had been a tough night. This one promised to be equally as tough. Being Sancho to a, sometimes challenging, Don Quixote had its fair share of ups and more than its fair share of downs.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
After the briefest of pre-breakfast coffees, extended only by the news headlines that were currently shocking the nation and which delayed his visit to the boat, Dexter knocked gently on the door before letting himself in. All was quiet inside. The usual chatter between the occupants was absent, which told Dexter that something wasn’t quite right, although Philian Gregory seemed in reasonable spirits as he brewed a pot of coffee.
“Morning.”, Dexter ventured, “Everything okay?”
“It’s fine.”, Gregory replied with a sigh, “At least it is now. Nathan had a bad night. It happens occasionally. He’ll be alright once he’s slept it off.”
“Any particular reason?”
“You’ve seen the news I presume?”
“Can’t miss it.”, Dexter wondered what it had to do with Carrington, “And we won’t be allowed to miss it for a while, I guess. It’s unimaginable. Imagine how the patients feel?”
“Doesn’t bear thinking about. And no signs of a reversal either. There but for the grace of God.”
“And that’s why Carrington went on a bender?”, the visitor asked, “Seems to be something of an overreaction. I didn’t think he had any relatives, let alone any who might be tied up in this.”
“It’s ridiculous really.”, Philian Gregory ushered Dexter to a seat in the dinette and poured him a coffee, “The nation’s just trying to come to terms with what’s happening. The forecasts are that up to half a million people might be affected by the problem, and Nathan goes off on one because of the effect it’s all having on his imaginary share portfolio.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. At least, that’s the gist of what I got out of him last night. On paper, he lost millions. Galen Pharma was one of his bankers and he’d moved a lot of money into it. But don’t forget, it was never real money in the first place. I told you yesterday, I’m worried about him. We should all take the news badly, but not for the reasons he did. It was a failure in his thinking and he doesn’t deal well with that sort of thing. I think it made him doubt his abilities with regard to our project. And making no headway with Farnham doesn’t help either.”
The news that they were discussing and which had had such an impact on Nathan Carrington was the only subject dominating the press and social media at the time. It was the news of a tragedy unfolding in slow motion that nobody was able to prevent. The death toll that was anticipated was actually over and above the figure that Gregory was working to. In the event, it would head towards, and then surpass, the million-victim mark. But what was most shocking to the nation was that this tragedy had emerged out of what everyone had believed was a triumph of human ingenuity.
Galen Pharma had kept their revolutionary dementia treatment under wraps for the whole period of its clinical trials. Carrington had begun to sense something in the wind and had started to build his fantasy shares in this business well before the press announcement that caused them to multiply in value ten-fold overnight. Dementia was the price that the nation was paying for improved health and mortality rates. It was heading up the healthcare cost tables at a rapid rate and there were huge efforts to s
tem its advance. Galen had done what no other company was able to do. They’d found not only a cure but also a means of reversing the damage that the disease did. In a massive roll-out, the drug, Reforgin, had been administered to as many dementia sufferers as required it, and the results had been amazing. Previously mute, confused and wholly dependent sufferers had begun to recover. They remembered nothing of their lost years, but they spoke glowingly about the new opportunity that Galen’s drug had given them. That was until the first signs of an unexpected side-effect.
Reforgin worked by speeding up the brain’s self-healing properties, targeting those cells that caused dementia and causing them to heal and reconstitute themselves as new and heathy brain tissue. That process had been monitored throughout clinical trials, with patients suffering no ill-effects, until, at last, the drug received approval for use on multiple patients. The miraculous changes that had been seen in the control group were replicated across all who received the treatment and dementia was being talked about as a disease of the past. Recently though, and for reasons that were, as yet unexplained, those who had been saved by Reforgin were beginning to come back into the healthcare system with virulent and untreatable brain tumours. It was a form of cancer that hadn’t been seen before. A mutation that utilised Reforgin’s regenerative qualities to reproduce itself at a phenomenal rate.
Hence the news. Hundreds of thousands of people living under a new death sentence that, ironically, they were now able to understand as well as anyone else. The numbers were rising every day and shares in Galen Pharma were almost worthless.
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