The Dead Lie Down (Adam Lennox Thrillers: Book One)

by G I Tulloch

  "Mark you, I've rarely seen a photo shoot as entertaining as this."

  Stan Hollis considered a retort but the elephant was gaining ground on him and he beat a hasty retreat to his car parked nearby.

  Since starting his Advertising Consultancy and Publicity firm (cunningly styled JAM PUBLICITY), Adam had always maintained that outdoor publicity shoots should be scheduled during the summer months, preferably somewhere warm in the Mediterranean or the Caribbean, and it was days like today that cemented that view firmly in his mind.

  He turned to his still grinning, but so far mute, partner whose thinning hair was blowing in the breeze, giving the impression that his head was about to burst into flames.

  "Consider this Gerry. One must always expect the unexpected." He stopped Gerry as he went to say something. "And I don't mean Monty Python's Spanish Inquisition either." Gerry looked somewhat crestfallen.

  Adam continued. "This morning when we got up we assumed that we were in for a run of the mill photo shoot, in the cold of an April morning. Instead we have been entertained by a fine display of Nature's ability to take Man to the cleaners with a vengeance."

  "It's still friggin' cold though," protested Gerry.

  Adam grinned. "Gerry, coffee".

  Adam having been in the Army managed to carry the air about him of someone in command, something which Gerry found necessary to deflate occasionally in their egalitarian partnership. However on this occasion he was happy to acquiesce as he had virtually lost all feeling in several fingers.

  "Coffee it is."

  Gerry Grant, three years older than Adam, was more or less the same height (depending on what shoes he was wearing), however, where Adam was lean Gerry was generous, something to do with a penchant for cream buns and real ale, not necessarily together. His wife couldn't understand it as she continually supplied him with nutritionally balanced meals at home and still wondered why he put on weight. He generally put on an air of surprise when asked and declared it to be a mystery. Gerry was deluded.

  The two of them adjourned to one of those coffee shops so beloved of British tourist attractions that seem to do their level best to keep you out. The 50's decor of special peeling paint and Formica. To be fair many of these refreshment houses had come a long way since the 'bad old days', but this one appeared to have lost the map some time ago. Out of curiosity and the yearning for free entertainment they took a window table with a view over to the tigers' enclosure, where the still irate photographer was remonstrating with a keeper and threatening all sorts of law suits if the powers that be didn't do something to recover his camera. The keeper appeared unmoved by his remonstrations.

  Gerry gazed in appreciation at the scene. In his newspaper days this was the wonderful sort of occasion for filling in the funny little paragraphs that amused the readers of the weekend editions.

  They re-enacted El Alamein with salt, pepper and sugar bowl whilst waiting for the coffee to arrive. Gerry was two-nil up at half time when it arrived and the game was abandoned through lack of interest. The coffee itself had the appearance of something you were more likely to employ as a preservative on your garden fence than drink, but it was hot and wet and in the circumstances beggars couldn't be choosers. Adam was still slightly concerned, nevertheless, that his stomach might rebel at some later and inconvenient time, and made a mental note to give up begging.

  "I suppose we'll have to find ourselves another photographer then?" mused Gerry.

  "I rather suspect you're right," Adam agreed reluctantly, looking over at him and smiling wryly.

  Gerry the ex newspaperman with contacts everywhere was the perfect foil to Adam's suave sophisticated and debonair leadership, at least that's what Adam considered an objective appreciation of the partnership. They had met four years ago when, starting a publicity consultancy, Adam had been pilloried by the tabloid press because of his silver spoon background. In the ensuing furore, Gerry, assistant editor of one of those tabloids had decided that there was a limit to how low he was prepared to stoop, and the limbo bar had just gone too far. He quit. As it happened a newly formed Publicity Consultancy had a vacancy for someone with contacts everywhere, and so what was to become a lucrative partnership was born.

  "Oi, you're doing it again" interrupted Gerry.

  "Doing what?"

  "That misty eyed dreamy look that says you're not in touch with reality."

  "My creative and philosophical nature coming out you mean."

  "Yeah just before you have to unblock the toilet because the plumbing's up the creek again."

  Adam shook his head in wonder. "Gerry, you are living proof that God has a sense of humour. That's what I like about you. You have the knack of bringing everything back to the lowest common denominator. I can always rely on you to bring me back to earth with a thump hard enough to put both legs in plaster."

  "My pleasure Guv'nor."

  "But if you start calling me guv'nor I may have to break both your arms."

  Gerry tried to look scared and missed.

  "In that case what would you recommend for the 2.30 at Kempton Park?" he demanded.

  Adam leant back in his chair. "'Begging Your Pardon' to win or 'Generation Gap' for a place. The ground suits them both."

  "Thankee kindly squire." Gerry doffed an imaginary cap to the fount of all racing knowledge. Adam in his past life had developed a penchant for the horses. Not betting on them you understand, just predicting the results, accurately more often than not. Gerry found it very useful, and the form books removed the need for coffee mats around the office. Adam Lennox was not one of the bookies favourite people.

  At this point the conversation could have descended into derogatory repartee had Adam's mobile not rung and saved the café's occupants from torture outlawed by the Geneva Convention.

  Adam fished in a pocket, pulled out his mobile and hit the green button.

  "Adam Lennox."

  "Adam, it's John". The agitated voice of John Bartlett, chairman and owner of Bartlett International Shipping Ltd, a lucrative account gained on the basis of being at school together. The fact that Adam had been two years below John appeared to give John the right to continue the Prefect's role. Sometimes Adam felt that the account was not worth the profit it brought, but business was not yet good enough to turn away clients, however much they got right up your nose.

  "John, what's the problem?" asked Adam.

  "I need you here at the office now."

  "What's the rush?"

  "I have the police with me and they're saying that I've killed a man."

  Chapter 3

  The brisk walk through Regents Park aided by a weak mid-day sun helped to warm Adam up. He rarely drove in London if he could avoid it. At Great Portland St. he managed to jump on a Circle Line underground as the doors were closing, something that always gave him a ridiculous amount of satisfaction. The fifteen minute journey to the Bartlett building in the City gave Adam plenty of opportunity to conjure up possible scenarios that would have caused John Bartlett to have called him in. Adam was always ambivalent about his working relationship with John Bartlett. Despite their schooling together their backgrounds were worlds apart and they had never quite felt at ease with each other. John Bartlett now headed up a major corporation, a multinational company founded by his grandfather and built up by his father, a classic case of the self made success, the underclass coming good and winning through. It was something that John never let Adam forget.

  Adam on the other hand came from a background of substantial wealth, from generations of major landowners and titled forebears most of whom had never actually had to work at all. Now he and John met in the middle somewhere, in an uneasy alliance of the employer and employed, and yet, despite all that, John displayed an undeniable dependence, quick to call, on what often seemed to be the slightest pretext.

  So now what, Adam wondered? What mess required resolving this time?

  He came up out of Bank Underground station onto Threadneedle Street and, ig
noring the Bank of England made his way along the narrow pavements into Bishopsgate. He loved the jostling City with its strange mixture of ancient decaying buildings and renovated architecture, the ruins of of the Roman London Wall cheek by jowl with the modern skyscrapers of the commercial city.

  Across Bishopsgate he scampered through a split-second gap in the traffic, dodging a red Routemaster bus, oblivious of its imminent demise, black cabs, masters of the London streets. Finally he made it onto the wide pavements where Georgian gave way to tower block and cobbles gave way to the broad expanse of mock-granite forecourt of the Bartlett building.

  He approached the wide steps with a mental girding of the loins, quickening concentration as if anticipating trouble, recalling situations in the past on the streets where trouble had loomed out of dark shadows, where your wits and your speed were the difference between life and death. Looking back later he was to wonder if somehow he knew what was coming and the impact it was to have on his life.

  He stopped momentarily, looking out over the expanse of forecourt to the road beyond. His gaze focussed briefly on something that wasn't there before it broke and turning he continued on his course.

  Through the main doors of the Bartlett building, an all glass and polished steel affair, courting an atrium with such a high ceiling that you hurt your neck trying to establish where it finished. Not Adam's choice of architecture but he was relieved as always that the building's lifts were not the external glass wall crawlers that made you feel like one of the tigers on display in the zoo.

  As he approached the lifts a young woman joined him. Silk shirt, pencil skirt, medium heels, very light make-up, lavender scent. Adam excelled in Army observation training. Bel Trent, best friend of his late wife. Adam always felt that Bel never forgave him for stealing her best friend. She was always very stand offish - shame, nice girl, good figure, great skin, to the average man, drop dead gorgeous.

  Belinda Trent generally turned heads wherever she went. A neat head of dark hair, carefully managed, on a figure that could easily have graced a catwalk, but what always caught the eye was her face. The proportions, the cheekbones, the skin and the eyes all cried out to be admired. Make-up commercials would never be the same again.

  They stood facing the lifts, playing 'guess which lift comes first', jockeying for position like the start of The Grand National. A knot formed in his stomach. He always found it difficult around Bel. Not that it was her fault, she just reminded him how much he missed Fran.

  Adam stared at the wall. He could command a battle-tank in enemy territory, he could cope with hand to hand combat in the middle of the desert or in street fighting, but his mouth always went dry around Bel.

  He was going to have to cough, he knew it, so he spoke first.

  "Bel, how are you?"

  Bel, seeming to sense the mood, maintained the emotional distance.

  "I'm good Adam. How are you keeping?"

  "Busy as usual. Listen, we missed each other last time I was here. It's high time you came round for dinner." And high time the lift came, he decided.

  "Sure," she replied quickly, and they both knew it would never happen, like all the other times.

  "Good." He examined the wall, counting the number of studs holding the panels together, and then mentally tried to speed up the lift using will-power and auto-suggestion. It had never worked before and it didn't work now.

  What's John's problem? He said something on the phone about police?" Business, safe ground.

  Bel shook her head and turned to him for the first time.

  "I don't know what's going on. Apparently he arrived early this morning in a foul mood. The police have been talking to him ever since. He's still with them now. For some reason he seems to have travelled over from Holland last night on one of the freighters."

  Adam turned and made eye contact with a raised eyebrow. "John? Travelling on a freighter? No. He never uses anything less than First Class."

  "You tell me. Maybe we'll find out in a minute. Come into my office whilst he finishes with the police."

  By now the lift had reached the 21st floor and the suite of offices that served the Directors. The plush surroundings emphasised the size and success of the company, as did the size of the secretary's desk.

  Bel's office did justice to her position as the chairman's PA. A desk the size of the average family dining table traversed one corner opposite the door, leaving an area big enough to use for putting practise. Despite that, Adam had only seen John use it occasionally for pacing up and down in difficult situations. The desk was busy without being cluttered, but not over tidy. The effect was of an efficient mind with its finger on the pulse. A floor-to-ceiling dark wood bookcase full of directories covered the only wall that wasn't glass. A walk in cupboard doubled as coat rack and drink bar, for entertaining waiting clients if necessary, or perhaps at the end of a hard day thought Adam wryly. The overall impression was of someone self-sufficient who could find or organise anything at the drop of a hat.

  He stood and looked out over the river, or what you could see of it sandwiched between the Nat West Tower and the Lloyds Building. He looked around the familiar surroundings of the office and thought yet again that you could get a decent sized table tennis table in here....

  There was still the residue of awkwardness, which Bel was first to try and break. She sat relaxed behind her desk, the executive leather armchair creaking as she rocked it slightly.

  "How is the publicity business?" An opener on a par with 'how's the weather in the Sahara?' but it seemed to break the tension. Safe ground.

  Adam, hands in pockets grimaced slightly and avoided eye contact. "Business is good, if suffering a little from the children and animals syndrome."

  Bel looked somewhat puzzled and Adam explained.

  "Never act with children or animals. Or do a publicity shoot for that matter." He related the happenings at the zoo for her entertainment.

  Her laughter was a bright ripple in the current circumstances and Adam forced a smile. "How are things with you?"

  She stopped laughing and considered whether flippancy was appropriate. No.

  "I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm busy. Taking night classes in photography, doing a little flying to keep my hand in." Great throwaway line that, letting anyone at a cocktail party know that she was a qualified pilot. Fortunately she never said it just for effect and so always got away with it. What she didn't let on was that she had been a career Royal Navy fighter pilot and had a full commercial pilot's license to boot.

  "What about the dogs? They still driving you up the wall?" prompted Adam, recollecting hounds the size of a small pony that liked nothing better than resting their forepaws on your shoulders.

  "No. I had to take them to my parents in the end. They just couldn't cope with the lack of space in the flat."

  At this point polite conversation seemed to dry up.

  Adam's eyes drifted to a photograph of Bel and Fran standing together, receiving some sort of certificate, award for bravery, a high ranking policeman stood behind them, wishing he wasn't there.

  Bel moved so that she could see Adam's face. She hesitated and bit her lip before speaking. Her voice when it came was quiet and earnest.

  "Adam. It's time you moved on. She's gone. She left a huge hole but you need to park your grief somewhere and move on. It's been three years. You can't live your future in the past."

  Adam felt something in him break and became very still. "I don't think this is the time or place, do you?"

  Emotion stirred in Bel's face. "When is the right time Adam?"

  His face contorted in a mixture of grief and anger as he turned to look at her. "You know, I don't know. Do you? Just how am I supposed to move on exactly? Hearts don't mend like bicycle punctures." He paused, knowing there would be no reply, then added "Are you 'moving on'? I hadn't noticed."

  There was no response from Bel. This was a scene that they had played out a number of times, using different words but similar sentiments,
not intending to hurt but so often ending in tears.

  A cold silence descended on the room, each feeling guilty at their mishandling, each wishing it was different.

  The silence was broken when two cups of coffee appeared as if by magic, delivered by the modern equivalent of the tea-lady, and an unspoken truce was declared.

  Eventually loud voices broke into their private world and they realised that two policeman (they had to be policeman despite their plain clothes) were being escorted into the lifts.

  Bel and Adam moved out into the Directors' reception area that surrounded the secretary's vast desk.

  Bel spoke to the occupant who appeared to welcome outside intervention.

  "Safe to go in?"

  Her 'Yes' seemed to be contradicted by the raised voices coming from behind the double doors marked 'Chairman' but Bel seemed unfazed and knocking briefly, stepped through the doorway without waiting for a reply.

  Chapter 4

  It was a cross between the set of 'Dallas' and the stage of a theatre bedroom farce. The half-acre office (well, big enough for two badminton courts at any rate) was dominated by John's desk and the conference table, but whereas the eyes were tuned to expect the traditional mahogany surroundings, the maple furniture gave the room the air of a kitchen display at IKEA.

  The figure at the far end of the room paced left and right behind the expansive desk and only stopped when he registered their presence. John Bartlett did not appear a tall man but his height was deceptive due to his broad build. His short neck added to the effect, completed by his round head. The thinning hair belied his age and the steel rim spectacles finished the ensemble. The shirt jacket and trousers, which had all the hallmarks of quality, looked as if they had been slept in, which they had.

  He leaned on the desk and watched them as they approached the desk.

  "You remember at school when I locked the headmaster's dog in the groundsman's shed for a prank one afternoon?"