by G I Tulloch
Adam did a double take. "Yes."
"And when they came to the dorm and accused me of being involved, you insisted that I had been there all afternoon and couldn't have done it."
"Yes."
John slumped into his chair. "Well you're going to have to do the same again. I'm in deep shit Adam."
This was a reaction that Adam wasn't used to. This man could negotiate in front of governments without giving way.
He sat in the visitor's chair. "What did the police want?"
"I reported a suspicious death to the police. They wanted to know what my involvement was."
"So you want to tell me the background?"
There was brief delay whilst John felt the need to fortify himself from the bar that filled an alcove big enough to house a family of six (am I getting the message across here?). Adam got the distinct impression of a story being rehearsed and a faint alarm bell started to ring. Meanwhile the delay gave him an opportunity to take in John's dishevelled appearance, the crumpled suit, lack of tie and stained shirt, any of which would normally have prevented him from appearing in public on any other day than this. He was definitely in trouble.
John returned from the bar and slumped once again into the chair. He couldn't meet Adam's eye but stared out of the window at the view across Docklands and the river Thames.
"I came back from Holland on the Hermes last night."
He paused.
"Can I ask why?" probed Adam.
"Why isn't important," came the reply, very quick and very definite. The kind of reply that's the exact opposite of the truth, thought Adam, and waited for him to continue.
"In the middle of the night I went for a walk because I couldn't sleep." He hesitated.
"And?" enquired Adam.
"I lost my way, found myself down on a lower deck near the hatchways into the holds....." He broke off as if his thought process had become detached from the words coming out of his mouth.
He turned to Adam and spoke with a depth of feeling that Adam hadn't encountered before. "It was horrible. Totally grotesque. It was so revolting that I threw up over the decking."
"What was revolting?"
"The body."
"And?"
"And the police are convinced I had something to do with the death."
"And did you?"
John hesitated, a confused expression on his unshaven face, as if an internal argument was raging. Finally he looked across at Bel and then back to Adam.
"Can I trust you both?"
Before they had time to respond in any form, the door burst open and a tall figure strode into the room, an imposing figure that might have been more at home in an AFL linebacker's uniform than the business suit he was wearing.
Brad Wilding, Chief Operating Officer for Bartlett International Shipping, had the look of the archetypal all-American boy grown up, which is exactly what he was. Six-foot four with a shock of red hair, the only fault in his appearance was the once broken nose, courtesy of a college football game. In the five years he had spent with Bartlett he had succeeded in achieving the impossible, making Bartletts even bigger.
"What's going on John? What did the police want? I heard rumours about a body on one of the ships?"
John glanced at Adam. "It's true. One of the crew appears to have slipped down a companionway and broken his neck."
"Shit. We'll have Health and Safety all over us. Why did police want to speak to you?"
Again John hesitated, and Adam got the distinct impression that the story was now being carefully rearranged.
"I reported the death."
Brad did a double take. "Why did you report it, surely the captain should have done it?"
John seemed to make a measured response. "He did, but I was also on board at the time. It was me that found the body."
Brad seemed to go very still and Adam got the impression that John was watching Brad very carefully. Adam wondered what was going on. It was as if there was a sub-plot being played out on stage in front of them.
"Tell me what happened." demanded Brad. Adam thought he could see John's face go rigid momentarily.
"I came over from Holland with the Hermes. During the night I couldn't sleep and left my cabin at around two to have a look around and stretch my legs. I was passing through one of the lower decks when I heard a loud crash and went to investigate."
There was a hesitation whilst a mouthful of brandy was dispatched.
"I eventually found a companionway door swinging loose at one of the forward hold steps. I couldn't see very well but I could make out a body at the foot of the companionway. I went to see if I could do anything but the light was out on the stairs. I called the captain and we went down with a flash-light."
He paused long enough for Brad to prompt him. "And?"
"Man was dead as a doornail. His neck was at a ridiculous angle and his eyes had a look of death about them."
He hesitated, trying to gauge his audience's reaction of which there was little, which seemed to disappoint him.
He then continued to recount raising the radio-operator and insisting that he radio the port authorities in Harwich. When they had arrived in Harwich he had been questioned at length before being allowed to return to London.
"And to cap it all when I arrive here the police are waiting, ready to accuse me of murdering the man," he finished.
Something grated in Adam's brain but he couldn't decide what it was. He examined a fingernail closely.
"Have they actually accused you?"
"No."
"That's a good sign. Did they actually say that they suspected foul play?"
"They said they're still investigating."
Adam hesitated. "Do you suspect foul play?"
John sat, mouth open, as if the words wouldn't come. "I don't know." Something in expression worried Adam. he turned to Bel who had been standing quietly keeping a low profile.
"Any thoughts?"
Bel, arms folded, almost made a face at being put on the spot. She shook her head instead.
"On the face of it I don't see what the police have got to go on, so maybe they were on a fishing expedition." She hesitated before continuing. "What worries me is the speed of their reaction. Even if there was foul play, for the Harwich authorities to contact the Met. and for them to approach John in such a public manner and so soon seems an over-the-top reaction to me."
"Which means?" prompted Adam.
"Which means that they know something we don't," replied Bel.
They both turned to Bartlett, and Adam voiced their thoughts.
"I think you're right. It sounds like there's something going on that we don't know about." He looked at John Bartlett and continued, "but unless there's something that you're not telling me then as far as I can see you're in no danger from the police. It's not as if you're without influence and they would have to have a cast iron case to risk attempting to make an accusation stick to such a high profile individual."
There was no response from John so Adam stood up. "If you want my advice then co-operate with the police as much as possible. It'll count against you if you seem to be holding something back. If they get around to formal accusations then we'll deal with the adverse publicity as it happens."
They looked at each other for a moment before Brad's voice burst into the silence.
"Don't get involved with the cops any more than you have to. The cops have nothing on you but you should still keep out of their way for a while until it blows over. Take a vacation, or even a business trip overseas. These cops get their claws into you and they'll try to make something stick. Whatever, it won't be good for the company."
Brad looked over at Adam, inviting him to contradict and Adam's instincts gave in to his imagination. Something was going on here that he didn't like and that he didn't want to be part of. He looked at Bel and then back to John.
"John, if there is something that you're not telling me, and something you don't want to tell me then I can't help yo
u. My advice is to tell the police anything you know that might come out anyway."
John uncharacteristically looked unhappily at his feet and wouldn't meet Adam's gaze. "I have nothing that will help them," he maintained.
"Tell it to the police anyway." The challenge in Adam's voice was unmistakable but he was beginning to lose patience.
Now John looked up with an expression that reflected the weight of the world on his shoulders and pleaded for help that he couldn't accept. "I can't."
Brad broke in, standing between them and facing John. "And you don't have to. It wouldn't help anyway."
Adam's exasperation got the better of him. He met Brad's eyes but spoke to John, quietly and evenly. "John. You can't run from this whatever it is. If you won't play straight and face the consequences then I repeat, I can't help you."
John's face struggled with indecision and then he appeared to finally settle his mind. He stood up.
"Then there is nothing more to say."
In that instant Adam made the decision.
"Fine."
He took one long look at John, trying to read his face, and then finally strode out of the room slamming the door, which by good fortune was solidly built and stayed on its hinges after all.
Waiting for the lift to come and for his blood pressure to drop he discovered Bel at his side.
"John said to tell you to remember the dorm." She caught his sleeve. "Adam, what did he mean? What's going on?"
Adam continued to watch the lift floor indicator. "To tell you the truth Bel, I don't know, and you know something? I'm not sure I care."
He took a deep breath and turned to her as the lift arrived. "I'll be in touch."
And with that he left the building.
Chapter 5
Gerry was on the phone dealing with a client when Adam arrived in the office. Converted from an old laundrette it provided office space for Gerry, Adam and their secretary/mother figure Clare, with enough room left over for some client hospitality. There was even a small (emphasis on the small) studio where, push come to shove, they could handle some simple photo shoots.
The decor, smart and simple, attempted to be fashionable if you didn't look too closely. It was rather like a film set, which was as authentic as possible until you went behind the facade. If you sniffed carefully you could still smell damp laundry. As a business their only way was up.
Clare was at her desk, diet milk shake half empty, 'in lieu of lunch you understand'. She was retired from a civilian job with the police. No-one had ever managed to uncover exactly what she did with the police, but as she was a very amply proportioned lady and she made the coffee, nobody pushed it. It wasn't worth the risk in Adam's view. You never know what you might get in your mug. Behind her the wall was covered with certificates for rifle shooting and dog-training. When Adam had enquired at the original interview about her hobbies he had been amused by the combination until she revealed that the rifles were high velocity marksman and the dogs were Dobermans and Alsatians. He sat up and took notice. This was not a lady to be messed with.
Clare looked up over the rim of her reading glasses. "What was JB's problem then?" Clare had a habit of calling everyone by initials. Probably an equality thing but it made for some interesting faux pas and turned some conversations into guessing games.
Adam made a face. "I don't know. For some reason he wouldn't tell me the real cause."
"That sounds like JB." She hesitated. "Bump into Bel by any chance?"
"Yes."
"How are things between you two."
Adam stopped flipping through the pile of mail he was holding and looked up. "Still awkward. She still hates me you know. She's never forgiven me for taking away her best friend."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Sure I'm sure. She gave me the cold shoulder as soon as I started going out with Fran. We'd been good friends up until then."
"And after Fran died?"
"I suppose things eased up a tad. There still seems to be a common bond in Fran's memory, as if our contact is somehow keeping her alive in some way, but every time we meet it's painful." Adam Lennox, psychoanalyst extraordinaire. He recounted to Clare the conversation in Bel's office.
"Ouch." Clare paused. "She's right you know."
Adam raised a finger. "Don't you start."
Clare raised her arms in mock surrender. "Okay, turn into a martyr, see if I care, just don't do the long face thing, it doesn't suit you."
She returned to the computer, leaving Adam slouching in the guest chair, fingers steepled in front of his face, lost in thought but ill at ease.
His meditation was broken when Gerry's head appeared round the door of his office waving his hand for attention.
"I've got 'Houses for the Homeless' on the phone, wanting to know if we can set up a charity parachute jump to raise funds and create some publicity."
"When do they want it arranged for?" asked Adam.
"Third weekend in September," replied Gerry.
Adam thought briefly. "Tell them we'll do it."
Gerry hesitated. "We do it for free again?"
Adam nodded. "It's the least we can do."
Clare and Gerry exchanged glances before Gerry disappeared briefly to give their answer. When he reappeared in the main office Adam went into business mode.
"Clare, who did we use last time?" he asked.
A swift reference to a vast desk diary provided the answer.
"We used North Weald last time. I'll ring them in the morning and see if they're available."
"Make sure that they get the landing zone right this time," said Gerry. "Last time they landed somewhere where the photographers couldn't get at and caused us no end of aggro."
Clare grinned. "I'll check it out. Who's going to do advertising?"
Gerry raised a hand. "I'll sort that. Who's going to cover it on the day?"
Adam cast a look around the assembled company.
"Don't look at me," protested Gerry, shaking his head with enthusiasm. "I'm taking Joan to Paris that weekend."
Adam did an impersonation of a fish out of water as his jaw dropped to floor.
"Gerry. You're frightening me. What have you done with the selfish partner I had who needed a map to get to the kitchen sink."
"Wiseass," replied Gerry in his worst American accent.
"Seriously Gerry," said Clare in disbelief. "You're taking your wife to Paris?"
Gerry raised his hands in surrender. "Okay. Okay. I give in. She threatened to throw out my 70's Rock collection."
Adam adopted a look of abject horror. "Not the Cream and Zeppelin?"
Gerry looked downcast. "Tull, Genesis, Floyd, the lot."
Adam, with a great deal of dramatic flair got up and put his arm around Gerry, and attempted to maintain a serious face with mounting difficulty.
"You're obviously under a great deal of stress and I understand entirely. Consider yourself out of the running."
He turned to Clare who was already shaking her head. It was unclear whether it was in pity at the charades going on in front of her or not.
She held up the diary in her hands. "That weekend I'm at Bisley for the Olympic trials."
Adam looked crestfallen and put on his best game-show host voice.
"Can I tempt you with double time?"
"No."
" A cheese grater with juicer attachment?"
"Uh uh." A firm shake of the head.
"A four burner barbecue with spit roast?"
Clare entered into it. "Golly Adam that's so tempting." She chewed a fingernail to give the impression she was actually considering it.
There was a long pause.
"Do you want to phone a friend?" enquired Adam. "Perhaps even ask the studio audience? I'm going to have to hurry you now."
Clare, in danger of getting the giggles shook her head. "No."
Adam, disappointed that his fine acting skills hadn't had the desired effect, adopted funereal tones. "Can I take that as your final
answer?"
Clare replied with an emphatic "Yes".
Adam folded his arms in resignation. "Then I guess it's me," he conceded.
Hey. It wasn't as if he had a social life anyway, he decided. Not since Fran died anyway.
She was gone. He slumped on the stairs. His hoarse voice crying out her name. But there would never be an answer. The distant echoing voice from the man in blue...'didn't suffer......driver didn't stop......ambulance called from offices' but the words failed to penetrate the shell of grief. Pulse raced, brain stalled, pain engulfed him as he fell into an abyss of emotional despair.
Her coat on the peg, her shoes by the door, but her sound, her touch, her smell, her presence were all gone. For the second time in his life he wished he had died as well.
Life, frozen before him, the past precious and the future empty. Missed 'Goodbyes', lost 'I love you's. The grief closed around him like fog, swirling, cold, blocking out everything beyond it. He cried out her name again and again, an appeal to the gods to rewind time.
But instead the hours passed, the house grew cold and the grief remained.
His blood still ran cold when he recalled the policeman on the doorstep, with the classic harbinger of doom. "Are you Adam Lennox? Husband of Fran Lennox?" He still remembered the sudden cold clamminess, the racing heartbeat and the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, and knowing that his life would never be the same again.
Two years of intense happiness and contentment they'd had, he and Fran, until one night a hit and run driver robbed Adam's wife of her life and extinguished his.
There had been something mysterious and alive about Fran that attracted him initially and which made her fun to be around. Often unpredictable but never boring, her thirst for life had been as infectious as her laugh.
For months survival was all he could manage, as the grief took hold and worked its course. As he remembered it, Tom Hank's line from 'Sleepless in Seattle' came back to him, 'getting out of bed each day and remembering to breathe in and out'. After Fran's death their friends had rallied around but struggled to know what to do with Adam. He withdrew, struggling internally to make sense of things whilst life around him fell apart. Eventually he started to look again to the future but saw only a bleak empty landscape.