I wondered if I could have improvised some tale in order to get them off my back. Possibly, but I had a strong feeling it would only have bought me a respite, not release. And what kind of fury would I have unleashed when they’d realised I’d misled them?
As I thought through these events yet another time, I remembered the question I’d asked the ringleader as he left. Where had he heard about my book? From his nephew, he’d said. Was that significant? Was it a lapse on his part? Who could his nephew be?
I opened the publishing web site and checked my account. Twenty-three copies of my book had now been sold. I suspected that at least half of these were sales to my friends, and probably a lot of the others were recommendations by my friends to their friends. That just left a handful of sales to unknown people.
Who were these? I checked the small print, which confirmed that the publisher was not willing to provide me with that information, though presumably Dave Matthews and his team could demand it as part of their investigation – assuming they saw this as a genuine lead.
My mind flicked back to the last visit I’d paid to the Park Reading Group. Amelia had told me Harry had bought my book as soon as it was published. Could he be the nephew? He was probably the right sort of age and he came from the East End, though that seemed pretty thin evidence. Not much to go on, but something.
I didn’t know Harry’s surname, but presumably Eric, the reading group chairman, must have it somewhere. I scrolled through my contact list and dialled his number. No answer. I’d have to try again later.
Chapter 53
“Michael How do you fancy a day out in the country?”
Phone calls from the head of a national parcels company, previously a rarity, these days seemed a regular occurrence, but each one held its own agenda. What was it this time?
Cautiously I told Rick, “Sounds intriguing. What’s the deal?”
“Martha and I are holding a little party. Just a few selected guests. Since you and I have been so much in touch lately, I thought you might enjoy it.” He hesitated. “Annette Braddock will be there, so you could hook up with her again too.”
Journalists simply didn’t get invited to top men’s private events – not unless they were also personal friends, which clearly I wasn’t. Presumably Rick saw it as a way to keep me on side. His hint of further contact with Annette Braddock underlined this. Presumably she wasn’t a close friend of his either, so he must have invited her specifically to orchestrate a meeting between us. I was tempted to decline, but I was too intrigued.
“Sounds fun. Where and when?”
Rick explained that he lived in rural Oxfordshire, and the party would take place there the following Saturday. He gave me his address. “Bring your wife or partner,” he said fulsomely.
After the excitements of the last few of days I’d neglected to follow up either the Vantage Express story or my would-be book contract. Keeping safe and intact seemed higher priorities. But life went on, and one way or another this trip might move things forward.
* * *
I rang Eric at the reading group again, and this time he answered. I asked if he knew Harry’s surname, and he told me it was Slater.
The name meant nothing to me, but I decided to check back on the security van story. Maybe one of the people involved was called Slater. I opened my browser and pored over facsimile news reports from the period, blogs about the theft, mentions in forums. The name Slater didn’t come up in any of them. None of the convicted robbers had that name; nor did any named investigating officers, suspects or hangers-on.
All the same, I thought it might be a clue, so I rang Dave Matthews and ran it past him. It seemed he was maintaining his non-sarcastic tone. He just said, “Could be useful. Leave it with me.”
Who else had read my book? Well, of course Amelia had. Could she be connected to all this? In theory yes, but it seemed unlikely.
And two dozen literary agencies had read it – or at least had read the synopsis and sample chapters I’d sent them. Or they claimed to have done. But it was plain that they wouldn’t tell me the names of their readers. Even asking them all would be a task beyond anything I could attempt. I wondered if I should raise this aspect with Dave, but it seemed too fanciful to contemplate.
The trouble was that once you accepted the hypothesis about someone connecting my book to the real robbery, the ripples extended far and wide. And this was before even two dozen electronic copies had been sold.
* * *
Then Ashley rang me. “I can’t speak for long. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve broken it off with Jack.”
“What?”
“I’ve told him I don’t want to marry him.”
A jolt ran through me. What did I feel? Relief? Elation? Fear? Whatever it was, I was aware that nothing could be quite the same now.
“What did you tell him?”
“I just said I didn’t think it was going to work. It was the safe option, not the right option.” She was speaking in a low voice, perhaps aware of others in the office around her. “I just thought you should know.”
“How did he react?”
“He said he already knew what I was going to say.”
“How come?”
“Oh, he’s been picking up the vibes for a year at least. We just haven’t been facing up to it.” She paused. “I haven’t, anyway.”
“I see.”
She seemed to be considering something, then said, “I also think he knew you were on the scene. Patrick or my mum must have mentioned it.”
“Charming.”
“Living here is like living in a goldfish bowl. Did I not mention that?”
“I hope …” I hesitated, measuring my words. “I hope he realised nothing had actually happened between us?”
This immediately seemed to annoy her. “For god’s sake Mike! That’s hardly the point, is it?”
“No!” I cursed myself silently. “Of course it isn’t.”
There was a silence, then I said, “So how has this left things?”
“Well, I’m staying on at Jack’s for a few weeks. I promised him I’d see him through this injury of his, and I don’t see any reason not to. It’s the least he deserves.”
“And he’s OK with that, is he?”
“I don’t know. He says he is. Anyway, that’s what I’m doing.”
“I’d like to see you.”
“Well, you’re due over here at Latimers’ in a few weeks’ time. Shall we leave it at that?”
I should have been ecstatic, but instead I felt deflated. Somehow I’d managed to play this wrongly. Was I never going to learn how to handle relationships? In theory Ashley was now free to pursue her involvement with me, yet the first thing I’d done in this new phase of her life was irritate her.
I hadn’t even found the opportunity to tell her about my latest kidnapping experience, which I knew would fascinate her. As for the pipe dream of taking her to Rick Ashton’s party as my partner, it wasn’t going to happen. Not that I’d seriously expected it.
Chapter 54
I walked cautiously to my car on Saturday morning, peering around in search of kidnappers in the late summer sun. None in sight; nothing out of the ordinary.
I’d spent the past few days in a frenzy of activity, trying to catch up with work I’d neglected. I’d dismissed phone calls and ignored the usual torrent of incoming emails. I’d learned from long experience that this was the only way to maintain any sense of control. At the end of the week I had completed an article and I was all set to write up another. I felt I’d earned myself a day out.
I navigated my way across south London to the M25, then headed north up to the M40. Rick Ashton lived in a small village north of Oxford, and the journey took well over two and a half hours.
His house was a rambling stone-built period property with a semi-circular driveway in front of it, surrounded by trees and fields. I was expecting to see a clutch of guests’ cars, but in fact there was just a solitary Jaguar in
front of the double garage – no doubt Rick’s own car. Puzzled, I drew up next to it and scrunched my way over the gravel to the front door.
Rick answered the door in person, dressed in white shirtsleeves and clearly not in party mood. He looked surprised and faintly annoyed. “Michael – what are you doing here? Didn’t you get my messages?”
“Oh god – you cancelled.”
“Yes, I sent you a couple of emails and left you a voicemail as well. Don’t you pay attention to any of this stuff?”
“I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t really see why I should be apologising – I was the one who’d just driven eighty pointless miles and used up half my Saturday in the process. But he looked so aggrieved that I couldn’t stop myself.
He seemed to reflect for a moment, then said, “You’d better come in.” He waved me up the step and patted me on the back as I passed, apparently trying to recover his usual avuncular style.
“Through here.” He directed me into a large sitting room decorated in a comfortable period style. “Can I get you a drink or something?”
I shook my head. “Don’t worry. I’m sorry to intrude.” I looked at him for some cue, but saw nothing. I said, “Do you mind me asking what happened?”
“What happened?” He frowned, then seemed to reach a decision. “The bank’s going to pull the plug on Monday, unless I can whistle up some funding mighty quick. I’m damned nearly out of options, mate. I’ve been on the phone all the morning with backers and advisors and the other directors – you know the kind of thing. I’m going off to a meeting in Birmingham in a minute.”
He ran his fingers through his hair, then added, “I don’t care what you write in your paper, but just do me a favour and leave it till Monday afternoon. By then we’ll have a decision one way or the other.” He thought some more. “I don’t know if you realise this, but I’ve got a lot of my own money tied up in Vantage. If the company goes down, I’m fucked.”
A phone rang in another room. “Bear with me, I need to take that.” He hurried out.
I glanced around, waiting. I could vaguely hear Rick’s voice, and the call showed no sign of ending. I sat down in a large winged armchair facing the window, and picked up a picture book from the coffee table next to it. Britain from the skies.
* * *
The doorbell jangled, and I heard Rick mutter his apologies on the phone and stride through to the front.
“Andy! What are you doing here?”
From the outside I heard the visitor saying, “I’ve had enough of all this, Rick. I want that tape.”
“Come on, mate …”
“Don’t ‘come on mate’ me. I’ve had enough of this bullshit.” The visitor’s voice grew louder as he strode into the hall: not a voice I recognised. It had a faintly Australian twang, but not as strong as Rick’s. He came to a stop outside the room where I was sitting. “I don’t know why this didn’t occur to me before.”
Rick said, “What didn’t occur to you?” There was a pause, then he said, “Oh.” In that single word I heard a whole world of enlightenment.
“Just get the tape, and then I’ll get out of your hair.”
I heard Rick shut the front door. “There’s no need for this kind of thing, mate. Let’s just talk like civilised people.”
“Civilised people? You call it civilised to demand a million pounds from me?” I could feel the fury in the voice. “I call that fucking extortion on a grand scale. I’ve had enough of it.”
“It’s just a loan, mate. I told you that.”
“And I told you I couldn’t find the money for that kind of loan. You must live in cloud cuckoo land.”
Rick said nothing for a moment, then, “I think we could have a more rational conversation if you would stop pointing that gun at me.” He said this in a slightly louder voice than before, no doubt to ensure that I heard it.
“Just get the tape and I will.”
I didn’t know what to do. If I showed myself, I would find myself at gunpoint alongside Rick. If I tried to creep out I might be spotted – and in any case there didn’t appear to be any other exit. Would the man back off if he realised there were two of us instead of one? Knowing nothing about him, I had no idea.
Before I’d reached any conclusion Rick said, “The tape isn’t here.”
“Why not?”
He hesitated. “My wife …”
“Your wife what?” A sharp burst of laugher. “You mean she really doesn’t know about your little peccadilloes?”
“Of course not. I told you.”
“Is she here now? I could put her in the picture.”
“She’s out for the day.”
“Maybe I’ll send her a copy of the tape.”
There was a pause. I could imagine Rick looking aghast, but the voice said, “Don’t worry, I won’t. I just want it for myself, then we can call it quits.”
Even under this threat, Rick clearly wasn’t ready to give in. “Mate, I really need that money. Just for a week, if you like. It’ll give my backers confidence.”
“I don’t care about your fucking backers, Rick. I’ve had enough of this. If the tape isn’t here, where is it?”
Rick hesitated. “It’s at my new office.”
“And there are no copies?”
“I told you that. I don’t even have a player to copy it to.”
“Right, let’s go and get it then.”
In a slightly self-pitying voice Rick said, “I’ve got meetings set up, people to see. I really need to make this happen.”
“Not my problem. If you get a move on, maybe you can do it later.”
I heard the front door open and then slam shut. I crossed warily to the window, and in the driveway I saw the visitor usher Rick into the driving seat of a large black BMW car, then climb into the back seat. The engine started and the car circled round to the exit, then turned left on to the road and disappeared.
It was only then that I realised I hadn’t made a note of the registration number.
Chapter 55
What the hell was I to make of all this? So much information to take in, and so much of it incomplete. And apparently I now had to contend with someone wielding a gun for the second time in a week. It was something I’d never expected to do even once in a lifetime.
What should I do? Call the police? Would Rick thank me if this tape of his came to light? He’d obviously wanted me to know what was happening, but what would he actually expect?
I hurried out of the house, slamming the front door behind me, and got into my car. Now what? I wondered about phoning Dave Matthews. At least he would trust me, though he knew nothing about Rick Ashton, so I’d have to explain that aspect to him from scratch.
Then it occurred to me that I hadn’t yet got round to transferring my contact list to my cheap new phone, so I didn’t have Dave’s mobile number. I could call his police station, and they might or might not give it to me, depending on who answered. If they did, I would then have to hope he would pick up.
I could call 999, but what on earth would I say? A man in an unspecified black BMW is currently driving from somewhere to somewhere else at gunpoint? It sounded ridiculous.
I wondered wildly about following the BMW, but I’d already delayed too long. It could be at least a mile ahead of me by now, and I might head off in the wrong direction.
Where was Rick Ashton’s office? I actually didn’t know. His company’s headquarters were in a small town somewhere north of London. Was it Hemel Hempstead? Beaconsfield? That was where he must theoretically be based. But I’d noticed him saying just now that the tape was in his new office. That seemed significant.
I decided to take a punt. I would go to the new Vantage hub outside Rugby. It wasn’t a million miles from where I was now, and I knew Rick had an office there because we’d been shown it during the press visit.
I glanced at my fuel gauge as I pulled off. Probably just enough petrol to get me there. Then I wrangled my phone into my hands-free device. I might try c
ontacting Dave Matthews on the way.
* * *
The route was oblique to say the least. I had to negotiate a series of meandering country lanes before emerging on anything like a decent road, and then I found myself having to drive right through the centre of Banbury. Happily the traffic was light, and finally I was able to make up some ground on the A423 towards Coventry.
I drove as fast as I dared, but managed to call up directory enquiries along the way. I got hold of the number for Dave’s police station and spoke to a woman who knew me vaguely, and she proved willing to give me Dave’s mobile number. But when I rang it my call was diverted to voicemail. I left what was probably a pretty incoherent message. And hoped for the best.
It was nearly an hour before I finally pulled up outside the new Vantage sortation hub, a giant facility in glass and gunmetal grey, trying without much success to hide itself against the sky. Tall grey metallic railings surrounded the site and a new concrete service road ran along the periphery, disappearing at the far end into a field. Grass was just beginning to shoot up in the unmade plot opposite, which had evidently been turned over during construction.
This was the place I’d visited as a journalist weeks before – the new beating heart of the Vantage operation, where parcels from all over the country were consolidated and sorted for onward delivery. But there was no host to shepherd me around today – I was on my own.
I pulled into the entrance bay and stopped at the barrier next to the security booth. A uniformed man leaned out.
I now had a decision to make. Did I sound the alarm to this man, hoping I had the patience and articulacy to convince him what I believed was happening? Or did I attempt to deal with matters on my own?
I tried to peer past the barrier, hoping to see if the black BMW was anywhere in sight. There was no sign of it, but in a place this size that probably meant little.
Alternative outcome Page 24