Vanishing Point

by J G Alva

  And just like that, he hung up.

  ◆◆◆

  Elemental Distribution was a behemoth amongst the factories and warehouses in Avonmouth: a large building, as big as a football field and as high as an ocean going liner, it dwarfed all the competition around it…but even that was nothing compared to the large expanse of concrete surrounding it, and the impressively high ten foot tall chain link fence.

  There was a gatehouse but it was empty. Sutton had to speak into a box in front of the barrier before it was raised. He then had to drive across this desert of tarmac to get to a service entrance at the side. A man was waiting for him, and opened the door when he approached…but not before inspecting him thoroughly. Sutton didn’t object to the pilfering of his pockets, and the subsequent patting down; the man responsible for such physical intimacy was huge. He was almost a foot taller than Sutton, with a face like the front end of an old battered Artic. His nose might have been broken a dozen times. Eyes, the colour of rainwater, were almost hidden under a Neanderthal brow. It seemed as if, at any moment, his suit might split, that every flex of his arms must push the stitches to breaking point…but of course didn’t.

  “It’s Sunday,” Sutton said. “You better be getting double time for this.”

  He didn’t even bother to acknowledge that he had been spoken to. He simply turned and opened the door for him.

  A narrow staircase led up to a mezzanine floor, and a row of offices that looked out on to the expansive warehouse floor. Sutton observed a skeleton crew at work, a forklift ferrying pallets to six vans parked next to large roller doors at the far end. Racking almost three stories high stood ten feet short of the flat tin roof. Ninety percent of the racking was filled with unidentifiable boxes vacuum sealed in cling film.

  “Mr Mills.”

  A slim young man in a suit had appeared at Sutton’s elbow silently. Stubble covered the majority of the surface area of his head. An unpleasant scar bisected one eyebrow. He had the light footed, physical competence of an athlete.

  Or a highly proficient soldier.

  He indicated a door at the back of the room.

  “This way, please.”

  The office was orange. It turned out they all were. Sutton crossed the room and opened the door into another, slightly larger, office. A long mahogany table had been put in front of the large interior window. Three people sat on chairs around the far end of it.

  Sutton guessed Dunbar to be the oldest of the three. It was no hard task; he was the only man. He was shrunken, wrinkled, and looked frail. His white hair sat on his head like a thin atmosphere around an asteroid. The natural lines of his face were not friendly. He wore a navy suit that seemed a size too big for him, and held on to a cane with his right hand. The cane was black, with a silver grip. He looked to be about seventy.

  To his left, a woman in her sixties, with a pinched face made all the more prominent by grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a grey suit, a white blouse with a frilly collar, and a silver broach on her lapel.

  To Dunbar’s right, a young woman of African descent sat holding files and papers to her breast. Her skin was light for a black woman; a delicious cream coffee. She was absolutely beautiful: her mouth was wide, the lips perfectly formed; her eyes were large, black, and tilted up slightly at the corners. She could have been a real life depiction of an African queen. Her cheekbones might have been borrowed from a fashion model. She had a long, austere neck. The PA? Sutton wondered.

  “Mr Mills, sit,” Dunbar commanded.

  He pointed to the chair at the opposite end of the table with his cane. His voice was weak, but it seemed like he had a strong will. He would have to, to run all this.

  Sutton sat as directed. They didn’t want him to get too close to them. After all, he was an unknown quantity.

  The slim young man with a head like a tennis ball went and stood ten feet behind Dunbar, cupping his hands in front of his waist as if he was about to start squatting. Jiu-jitsu, Sutton thought, for no other reason than the way the young man held himself. Or some kind of practised hand-to-hand fighting anyway.

  Why did Dunbar need a bodyguard?

  Unless this security was part of the Dunbar Group.

  A civilian working group with hired muscle? That didn’t bode well. He’d have to be careful.

  “Before we begin,” Dunbar said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to tell us who gave you my number. Loyalty is commendable, but this meeting won’t proceed any further without confirmation. I can’t spare the time to talk to just anybody.”

  He doubted he was throwing Altman under the bus…

  Still, he didn’t like to give it.

  But in the end, he told them.

  As Dunbar said, they wouldn’t proceed without it.

  “Altman?” Dunbar said, momentarily confused.

  The PA leaned over and whispered to Dunbar.

  He nodded then.

  “Oh yes. Yes. And what led you to Altman?”

  “Expedience,” Sutton said.

  “What?”

  “He was the only known victim of an online blackmailer that fit The Rumbler’s modus operandi. And he was nearby.”

  The older woman said, “who is The Rumbler, Mr Mills?”

  “And risk you slamming the door in my face? No. You’ll get that when I know what you know.”

  Sutton leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. The message was clear, he hoped. I’m here to stay.

  “And what would you like to know?” The older woman asked.

  Sutton smiled.

  “Your name might be a good place to start.”

  “Of course.” She nodded her head. “My name is Phyllis Steadman. You might already have ascertained that this is Mr Dunbar. On the far right is Miss Julia Eaves. She’s our…Treasurer, if you will.”

  “For the group?”

  “Of course.”

  “And your interest in The Rumbler?”

  “With Dunbar’s help, the formation of this group was my project.”

  “You haven’t answered the question.”

  “Quite right.” She smiled thinly. “My daughter committed suicide because of The Rumbler’s…attentions. So I have a vested interest.”

  “In revenge?”

  “In justice. For my daughter.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I suppose the first thing I’d like to know is if you’ve ascertained how The Rumbler selects his victims?”

  All three heads turned to each other.

  It was Julia that answered though.

  “We believe it is purely random. A product of opportunity.”

  “Opportunity?”

  “If he can hack their systems – and if he finds sufficient leverage once he is inside – then he’ll make a go of it.”

  “Right. How many victims are we talking about?”

  Dunbar made a face and then reluctantly admitted, “fourteen. That we’re aware of. There may be more.”

  “And you represent the interests of how many?”

  “Eleven. Seven in this country. Another four in other countries.”

  “Could I have a copy of that list?”

  Phyllis Steadman said, “permission will have to be sought if we are to release these details.”

  “Of course.”

  “Depending on the…value of your contribution, I can arrange to have this sent to you at a later date.”

  Sutton nodded.

  The next question might be tricky…but it was why he was here.

  “And could you furnish me with a list of potential suspects?”

  Dunbar made a strange grunting sound. Angry, Sutton thought.

  “What is this?” He said. “This meeting was agreed on the condition that you had knowledge of The Rumbler’s identity.”

  “I do.”

  “Damn it, you don’t need suspects if you know who he is!” Dunbar turned to the young man in the suit. “Robert, get him out of here. It’s a
total waste of my time. Get rid of him.”

  Robert bounced off the wall and made a beeline for Sutton.

  As he passed Phyllis, Sutton said, “The Rumbler isn’t just one man.”

  Phyllis stopped Robert with a hand.

  She whispered to him, and he returned to his place against the wall.

  Dunbar barked, “what?”

  “Christopher Masters,” Sutton said.

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s The Rumbler,” Sutton said. “Or at least, he’s part of The Rumbler.”

  Phyllis said, “and you have evidence to back this up?”

  Sutton nodded.

  “Lists of bank accounts and security information. And computer code. Which I am assured is very similar to Trojan Horses used by The Rumbler.”

  The heads once more turned to each other.

  “And who is he?” Phyllis asked. “This Christopher Masters?”

  Sutton shrugged.

  “Nobody.”

  “What?”

  “Twenty five. Unmarried. Worked at Busbar as an admin assistant.”

  “Worked?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, he’s dead.”

  He saw Phyllis slowly close her eyes. As if everything suddenly made sense.

  “Thank you, Mr Mills,” she intoned.

  “What!” Dunbar barked. “When did this happen?”

  “Just over a month ago.”

  Julia said, “that’s why the trail went cold.”

  Dunbar said, “Julia, start proceedings. Find out everything you can on this Masters. If funds are in his accounts, I want them seized –“

  “They’re not,” Sutton said. “Chris Masters died broke.”

  Dunbar’s mouth hung open for a moment. It was suddenly clear what he would look like when he was dead.

  “But…that’s not possible.” Dunbar blinked, like a lizard. Then he barked, “I don’t believe it!”

  “Believe it, Mr Dunbar,” Sutton said. “Somebody killed him, in a hit and run. It was ruled as an accident by the police, but after looking into it in more detail, I believe it was intentional. Whoever helped him be The Rumbler might also have killed him, and they are the ones who have the money right now.”

  Phyllis said, “they?”

  “It’s possible that there is more than one.” Sutton indicated his eye. “Three people attacked me yesterday. I’m not sure if it’s coincidence or not…but I’m not ruling it out. So there could be one…or there could be three. Or more. I just don’t know.”

  They were silent in contemplation for a time.

  Sutton caught Julia looking at him. When their eyes met, she immediately looked away.

  Phyllis said, “cross check our suspect list against this Masters person. See if there is any overlap.”

  “Yes, Mrs Steadman,” Julia said, making a note.

  “And get a copy to Mr Mills as soon as you are able. I think we might need his help.”

  “Yes, Mrs Steadman.”

  Julia made another note.

  Sutton said, “is there some potential for reimbursement?”

  Phyllis said, “reimbursement?”

  “Maybe just imbursement then. But I am here on my free time, when I could be getting paid for doing something else.”

  “You already have a client,” Phyllis pointed out.

  “This would be a divergence from my original remit. And I can’t live on fresh air and feelings.”

  Dunbar nodded. He was a businessman; he could understand a deal. In fact, asking for money probably made him feel easier. At least, if he paid, he’d have some measure of control.

  “What do you want?” He asked.

  “An agreed bonus. If and when I deliver the remaining members of The Rumbler to you.”

  Phyllis said, “we’ll want you to update us on your investigation.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then make sure you give your contact details to Miss Eaves. She’ll be your liaison.”

  Julia nodded at him, an amused glint in her eye.

  “How about an incentive?” Sutton suggested.

  “The nerve!” Dunbar remarked, but he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  Phyllis said, “additional motivation couldn’t hurt, Michael. Julia, make a cheque out to Mr Mills for £8,000 please.” She turned to him. “Is that motivation enough, Mr Mills?”

  “I certainly feel more motivated, Mrs Steadman.”

  “Good. We require regular reports please. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must break this news to the other members of the group. Good day, Mr Mills. And a pleasure to have met you.”

  She got up but Sutton stopped her.

  “I’ll need the list of your clients. The other victims of The Rumbler.”

  They all stared at him as if he had gone mad.

  Phyllis said, “I can give you redacted transcripts of our interviews with them if you’d like. But I doubt very much whether any of them will agree to passing over their identities to an unknown third party.”

  “I wouldn’t bother to ask them.”

  Phyllis looked at Dunbar, and then back to Sutton.

  “Mr Mills, I don’t understand –“

  “Here’s a thought for you. The people in the best position to discover The Rumbler’s identity are the people in the Dunbar Group. I am assuming you share your findings with these victims? As I am assuming they contribute to the investigation. Sort of like stockholders, I would imagine.”

  Phyllis said, “it’s true that we provide regular updates on our progress, but if you are suggesting that one of them –“

  “What I’m suggesting is that we can’t rule them out. As unpalatable as that may be. I’m reasonably competent at what I do. Part of that stems from a certain type of…imagination. My mind automatically goes to the worst case scenario…call it paranoia, but it helps me cover otherwise unthought-of contingencies. If there was something in a progress report that meant more to one of the victims than it did any of the others, and they got to him first…Let me ask you, how much money did you lose? Collectively?”

  They didn’t answer, but he could tell by their expressions that it was a considerable sum. Enough to leave a bruise.

  “They would stand to gain so much,” he continued. “Revenge…and restitution.”

  Phyllis Steadman’s face went hard. Sutton decided, there and then, that he would not like to get on the wrong side of Phyllis Steadman; it would be detrimental to his wellbeing.

  “You’ll have your list, Mr Mills. But I hope to God you are wrong.”

  She turned and walked out of the room.

  There was another thought that they had not considered, and Sutton was loathe to bring it up…and so did not. It was that The Rumbler himself – or one of the people that made up The Rumbler – might have insinuated themselves inside the Dunbar Group just to derail it. It would be easy enough to fake a blackmail attack, if they themselves were The Rumbler. And if they were concerned that the Dunbar Group was getting too close, then this would be the perfect remedy for that.

  But perhaps that was too paranoid…

  Still. Where there’s money, there’s intrigue, so Sutton ruminated on it anyway.

  ◆◆◆

  Julia Eaves seemed shorter standing up.

  Dunbar had left the room shortly after Steadman, hobbling through the same door at the back of the room. He leant on his cane heavily, Sutton thought, as he watched him. Maybe he wasn’t well. The bodyguard went with him, but not before bestowing a completely false smile on Sutton. He wasn’t sure what the man was conveying, but he didn’t think it was good, whatever it was.

  And he didn’t look like the type to get on the wrong side of either.

  So that left the two of them alone together.

  Up close, her skin was flawless. It demanded to be touched. He looked down on her bent head, at the incredible cheekbones.

  What would a man do to get this woman into his bed?

  A lot.

  And yet…she was here, working
for the Dunbar Group. Whose morality was ambiguous to say the least. He thought it might be wise to tread cautiously with this one.

  Still, those eyes…

  She made a note of his account details, and then took the card Altman had given him and wrote a phone number on it.

  “You can contact me at any time,” she said.

  She seemed amused. As if she were gently mocking him.

  “Is this your personal number?”

  Instead of answering, she said, “Mrs Steadman will expect to be updated twice a day.”

  Sutton made a face.

  “I’m not very good at following orders.”

  “I could tell. You weren’t intimidated by them.”

  “By who?”

  “By Mr Dunbar and Mrs Steadman. It was…impressive.”

  “Really?”

  She smiled in reply.

  “Still, I feel I have to tell you that Mrs Steadman can be very generous if you do what she asks. So I would advise you to comply with her demands. For your own sake.”

  “Hm. Well. Money isn’t everything.”

  “And yet without it we have nothing.”

  Something in her voice told him she knew very well what that felt like.

  “That still doesn’t change the fact that I’m not very good at taking orders.”

  She raised her perfect black eyebrows.

  “Out of practice?” She asked.

  “Never in practice.”

  “You’re your own man.”

  “As much as I can be.”

  She smiled. Her teeth were very white. Her mouth was wide and pleasantly expressive. She put some things away, and then gathered up her paperwork.

  “Ironic then, that you now have two bosses: your client, and the Dunbar Group. Here is a summary of potential suspects as determined by the Group.” She handed him a file folder, and he took it. “I’ll send you a more detailed list later this afternoon. And I will also send you the list of victims. I hope to speak to you very soon, Mr Mills. Be safe.”

  He watched her walk out of the room.

  She knew he was watching her.

  She couldn’t help but give her walk a little extra, a little more swing. Because she knew he was watching. It was her basic female prerogative.

  Sutton appreciated the effort. And that was his basic male prerogative.

  ◆◆◆