by J G Alva
“Are you starting to doubt that he’s your man?” Sutton asked.
“Well,” Steadman said, walking back to stand beside Dunbar. “We know he was involved. We’ve researched him thoroughly. His various articles hint at his motive…if a thief needs to have a motive to steal. And we know he had contact with Chris Masters. And we know Chris Masters was the key player, thanks to the files you provided. So I believe he is at least partially responsible for the terrible things The Rumbler has done. No. My problem – our problem – is that we need to have a…a smoking gun, if you will. To be convinced.”
They wanted the money. The money that had been stolen.
And with sudden insight, Sutton knew where it was.
No overt threat had been made, but there was certainly menace in the air. The insinuation was that, if she didn’t get what she wanted, then Mrs Steadman would be unhappy. And nobody should want that, least of all Sutton.
He was all set to them where it was. It was their money after all.
But the oblique threat rankled Sutton. It insinuated a pecking order, in which he inhabited a lower rung. This was the baker throwing the village pie dog left over scraps, and then expecting him to herd the sheep. When he had told Julia he wasn’t good at following orders, that hadn’t been completely true.
The real truth was that he couldn’t follow orders. It was an impossibility. Some part of him wouldn’t allow it. Some part of him rebelled. Call it stubborn pride. Call it arrogance. Call it an exaggerated sense of self. But in his mind he was not their underling. All that elevated them above him was an ability to make money, and he did not measure a person on that scale. It was a knack, nothing more. You might just as well attribute social status to a dog that can catch a Frisbee; that was a knack too.
No, his metric was much more complex…and certainly more accurate.
But status had to be given (or taken)…it was part of the human condition. That he held on to his own set of standards was his problem, not theirs.
Anyway. If his plan went as he hoped, he wouldn’t have to keep them busy for long.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have no idea where the money is.”
Steadman and Dunbar exchanged a look one more time.
“Then perhaps your computer friend does,” she suggested. “Mr Henk, I believe his name is?”
Sutton shrugged.
“He doesn’t know either. Not for want of trying, mind. You can ask him, if you like. His number’s on my phone.” He pointed to Robert’s pocket, into which Sutton’s phone had been deposited. “Go ahead. Call him up. He’s usually awake at this hour. Probably playing some online game. You know what these kids are like.”
Steadman was staring at him. Evaluating him. He kept his expression as amiable, and as open, as he could. It hung on this moment: convincing them that there was no deception on his part. If they believed he was keeping the money for himself, then things might get…tricky.
He might not even walk out of this warehouse alive.
“May I make a suggestion?” Sutton offered.
Steadman and Dunbar didn’t look happy about any suggestions he might make. He wondered why that was.
Were they convinced that Sutton might make a fool of them once again?
“What?” Dunbar barked.
Sutton indicated the bound and trussed Head of Social Sciences.
“You know what these hippy anarchists are like. These daydreamers. If I were you, I’d contact some of the charities that dealt with the issues he was interested in. You know. Crisis. Triodos. Redcross. Scope. My bet is he gave most of it away to them. There might be a small amount left somewhere, to keep him afloat, but not the numbers you’re looking for. Contact them and see if they’ve had any large anonymous donations in the past twelve months. I bet that’s where your money’s gone. Into the pocket of the poor.”
Dunbar’s expression seemed to echo this; as if he had suspected all along that this was indeed what had happened. The hippies had done it. He grumbled something under his breath and turned away, the cane hitting the concrete floor with a loud clack. Angry. Steadman went to him, and they conferred for some moments in muted voices. Sutton chanced to look over at Julia. Her furtive eyes only met his for a moment. So it wasn’t over yet. There was more to come.
Where the hell was he?
Steadman patted Dunbar reassuringly on the shoulder, and then they both turned back toward him.
“If you’ll indulge me, Mr Mills,” Steadman said. “We have one last request.”
He wasn’t going to like this.
“Alright.”
“Without a…smoking gun, there’s something of a question mark about the level of Mr Mackenzie’s involvement in the whole enterprise. You’ll agree?”
“Not on my part.”
“No. But can you see it from our perspective? You give us a name, are we then to take your word for it that this is the man we’re after?”
Sutton looked at Mackenzie.
The man’s eyes pleaded silently for help.
“I’m sure you’ll get the information out of him sooner or later.”
“No doubt,” Steadman said, walking towards Sutton. “Robert’s methods can be particularly effective. That’s why we hired him. But I want something else. From you.”
Sutton eyed her warily as she approached.
She continued, “I want a test. Of your convictions. Do you believe this man’s responsible? How certain are you that you are correct?”
“How am I to do that?”
Steadman smiled. It was a cruel smile.
“I want you to continue the interrogation,” she said. “In whatever way you deem necessary.” She went and stood beside Julia. “Miss Eaves will record it. For insurance purposes.”
“Insurance?”
Julia retrieved a mobile phone from a pocket in her jacket and held it up.
“In case of any unforeseen…complications that might arise from Mr Mackenzie’s disappearance.”
They were going to kill him.
It was hardly surprising.
But they wanted Sutton on film giving him a few licks in the meantime, and that was surprising. And not a particularly welcome surprise.
If he allowed them to do that, then they would own him. He would always be following orders. And it wouldn’t stop with this situation. Rich people always had problems. They would be calling him up for every little thing.
And because of the footage, he would always have to answer.
“No,” Sutton said.
“You can be assured, the footage will be kept in a very safe location –“
“No, I said. I won’t be saying it again.”
Steadman shook her head, amused.
Patronising bitch.
“Mr Mills, I don’t think you understand –“
A sound made Steadman fall silent.
It was coming from somewhere behind Sutton. All eyes were on something over his shoulder.
It was whistling. A familiar tune.
Worn out places, worn out face-ee-ee-is…
Appropriate.
Sutton turned.
Chip was strolling nonchalantly into the warehouse, a hand rolled cigarette in his mouth. He looked at his surroundings with active interest. Behind him, the small door stood open, and Sutton could just make out the gorilla in the suit lying on the concrete on his back.
Chip took the cigarette out of his mouth. He coughed. He spat. Slowly, he walked until he was almost level with Sutton.
But he didn’t acknowledge him. Which was appreciated.
“Who are you?” Steadman demanded stridently.
“Get out!” Dunbar shouted, banging his cane on the floor. “This is private property!”
“It’s fucking big, is what it is,” Chip said, looking around once more.
“Robert,” Steadman ordered, “show this gentleman the door.”
Robert had already come to attention, like a hound responding to his master’s whistle. He walked s
lowly, carefully, around Mackenzie and stood in front of him, facing Chip, his arms elevated away from his sides in some kind of karate fighting stance, his left foot forward, his shoulders up.
Faster than Sutton would have believed, Chip pulled a gun from an inside holster and shot Robert in the leg.
The sound was incredible, and bounced up and down the racking. The bullet went in above the knee. It ripped out the material, and dug a hole into the flesh. There was blood, but it didn’t look serious. Robert screamed and collapsed to the floor.
“You fuck!” He shouted at Chip, his voice under tension as high as a young girl’s. His hands hovered around the wound as if he were afraid to touch it.
“Chill out, mate, for fuck’s sake,” Chip said, looking disgusted. He lit his cigarette and took a long drag from it. He waved the gun toward Dunbar, Steadman and Julia. They flinched. “I’m the police. And you’re all under arrest. Alright?”
◆◆◆
CHAPTER 21
Tuesday, 7th June
Sutton waited in the warehouse for it to be done.
They had handcuffed him – for which he was once again appreciative – in full view of the Dunbar Group, before Dunbar, Steadman and Julia were themselves handcuffed and led from the building by officers in uniform. Steadman and Dunbar looked unperturbed, obstinate and indignant with suffering. Sutton assumed high priced solicitors would soon be getting angry phone calls. Only Julia looked afraid. She looked a question at him, but he refused to acknowledge it. It was better that she know nothing; that way, if she was asked, she wouldn’t have to lie.
Robert had been put on a stretcher and wheeled out of the warehouse, all the while cursing and moaning. Sutton didn’t see what happened to the gorilla in the suit. Medical men and women attended to Mackenzie, but not before he too was put in handcuffs. He didn’t look at Sutton. He didn’t look at anyone. Was he calculating his next move? Did he think he had gotten away with it? Then he was an idiot. But Sutton supposed he had always been an idiot. Or perhaps a daydreamer…which, in its way, was just as bad: both an idiot and a daydreamer had very little cognisance of the world around them.
When there was only Sutton left, Chip came back into the warehouse to talk to him. He stood with his back to him, staring up at the tall racking, a cigarette in his mouth, a hand on each hip. He was very tall, Sutton thought; certainly taller than he was himself. But he was leaner than Sutton; more like a long distance runner. But unlike a long distance runner, he was slightly stooped.
Eventually, he took his cigarette out of his mouth and said, “you took a risk.”
“These handcuffs are tight.”
Chip turned to him, amused. He nodded.
He went around behind Sutton and unlocked them.
“I knew you couldn’t resist,” Sutton said, massaging his wrists once they were free.
“Alright, mate,” the detective said, as if he didn’t believe him.
“Did you get my phone?”
Chip pulled out it out of a trouser pocket.
“Here.”
He passed it to Sutton.
“I didn’t think you’d turn up so late though,” Sutton said, checking that the phone was working. It was fine.
Chip took a drag.
“I thought about not coming,” he admitted.
“I’m sure you did.”
“Then I thought…hey. It’s my old buddy Sutton. And it might be fun. So why not?”
“You need to go easy on the woman. Julia Eaves. She’s not involved in this.”
Chip went and observed the chair that Mackenzie had been tied to. There were small splashes of blood on it.
He said, “and yet, she just stood by and watched.”
Sutton said, “hardly a crime.”
“Maybe it should be.” He straightened up. “Is she the good looking black one?”
Sutton ignored that.
“And you need to tell the sister,” he said.
Chip nodded.
“If it pans out. If the paint fragments on the body match his car.”
“They will. What about the Dunbar Group?”
“Fuck. I don’t know.” Chip didn’t look happy. “It’ll be like wading through stinging nettles to find a fiver: you know it’s there, you know it’s worth it, but you also know you’re going to get stung. What would you do?”
“The guy you shot in the leg. His name’s Robert. I’m assuming he’s ex-military.”
“A mercenary?”
“Maybe. Either way, the Dunbar Group have been working on this problem for almost two years. I got the impression they weren’t particularly impressed with Robert’s performance.”
“A disgruntled employee,” Chip said, nodding. “Nice.”
“You’ve then got to weigh what he’s done – and I expect he’s been responsible for all the violent acts the group have sanctioned – against prosecuting the other members of the group. And believe me, they all knew about what was going on here – Steadman wouldn’t have been able to stop from passing on the good news. But…I’ll leave all that to you.”
“You stumbled on to a fucking doozy here,” Chip remarked, looking around again.
“You might want to look at the son too,” he said.
Chip’s attention came back to him.
“What?”
“The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. Not from what I’ve heard.”
“Fuck it,” Chip said, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out under his foot. He stared at Sutton. “Didn’t I tell you to stop doing what you were doing?”
“I can’t remember.”
“It still stands. So do it. That way, we can still be mates.”
“Are we mates?”
Chip’s expression was stony.
“For now. How long that lasts is up to you.”
◆◆◆
It was passed one in the morning when he finally made it home.
He had a shower and then went to bed, but was up early, depositing the cheque at his local branch. It took three days to clear. He just hoped they didn’t think to cancel it before then.
When he returned to his flat, he found a large brown envelope in his post box.
The file on the death of Liam Casey.
He had almost forgotten about it.
◆◆◆
“Have you heard of this word parvenu?” Fin asked, when Sutton let him in.
“Good morning.”
“It means a person from a humble origin that’s gotten wealthy, or powerful, or is a celebrity,” Fin said, his hands full of files and folders, and his backpack with his laptop over his shoulder. He passed some of the files to Sutton and then walked down the hall into the living room. Sutton followed. “That’s us.”
“Is it?”
“Well. Sort of.”
Fin pulled the laptop out of the bag.
“You’re odd.”
“I’ve had a lot of coffee. I’ve been up half the night, working on this.”
He held the laptop up like a trophy and then sat on the sofa. He set the computer up on the coffee table.
“And what have you found?”
“More coffee first.” Fin searched the flat. “Is Lucia not here?”
“No.”
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed.
“Why?”
Fin shrugged.
“No reason. What did you do?”
Sutton smiled.
“Why would you assume I’ve done something?”
“Because a beautiful woman like that, you wouldn’t intentionally kick her out. She’d have to leave of her own accord.”
Sutton conceded that nugget of wisdom with a reluctant nod. Not bad.
He placed the files and folders on the coffee table next to the laptop.
“I don’t think she’ll be back. Last time we spoke…it wasn’t a happy conversation.”
“That’s a shame.” Fin turned on the laptop and then looked up at Sutton. “Coffee?” He asked hopefully.
Sutton had a lot to tell him, and the young man with the impossibly thick mop of dark hair was on his third cup of coffee by the time he finished.
Fin’s mouth hung open for a moment before he spoke.
“Holy fuck. So…we’re done?”
Sutton nodded.
“It would seem so. And if the cheque clears, you’re on to an unexpected bonus of £25,000. Which should cheer you up.”
Fin grinned.
“I’m always cheery. That’s part of my problem. I’d still be cracking jokes if they put me in front of a firing squad. I’m sure there’s a technical term for it. A tenacious subjugation of the subject’s depressing external reality. Or something like that.”
“An essential trait for a parvenu,” Sutton said. “Or so I’ve heard.”
Fin smiled. He searched for a folder amongst the paraphernalia on the coffee table. He found one and held it up.
“So I went through this last night for nothing,” he said.
“Is that the suspect list from the Dunbar Group?” Sutton asked, reaching for it.
Fin nodded and passed it to him.
“Yep. All twenty four pages of it.”
Sutton flicked through it.
“Twenty four?”
“The first page is the list of names. The subsequent pages are what they found out about each name. You won’t be surprised to hear that Chris Masters’ name isn’t in there. Kind of makes me laugh.”
Sutton flicked back to the list of names, and carefully read through them. He didn’t recognise a single one.
“Nor William Mackenzie,” he remarked.
“It makes you wonder what they were doing with all that time and money.”
“Hm. Desperation provides an opportunity for exploitation.”
“What?”
“Maybe the Dunbar Group were getting fleeced. It looked like they were getting what they were paying for, but in truth it was junk.”
“Well. Buyer beware. That’s what I always say.”
“Take a look at this,” Sutton said, dropping the list back on the table and passing the thick envelope that had arrived that morning to him.
Fin took it.
“It’s heavy,” he remarked, pulling back the flap and tugging out the thickly packed sheets of paper.