Neil drummed his fingers against the polished table, occasionally stopping and filing a stray edge as his nervous energy sent his compulsions into overdrive.
Around him, people chatted away a quiet Monday, discussing the previous day and what their plans were for the week ahead.
Neil did not want to hear any of it. He wanted Artimus sitting opposite him. He wanted to grab him and shout at him.
Possibility Four! He would scream, throwing a piping hot coffee in his face. What is possibility four you old bastard, and why are you so scared of it!
To his side, he never noticed George arrive, order his coffee, and sit at the table. “Well, you have the bearing of a man two wrong words from forming a posse.” he said, crossing his legs casually as Neil’s bloodshot eyes met his.
“Where is he?”
“You said we could meet and discuss this like gentlemen.” said George, unflustered by Neil’s demeanour. “Are you a man of your word or am I to assume I can leave?”
“I’m not playing games George.” said Neil, with a snarl.
“Please.” said George, completely blasé to Neil’s ire. “Artimus kicked your backside, so don’t think I won’t follow suit. Calm down or I leave. I will not be saying that again.”
Neil drew a deep breath and forced his anger down deep inside. He needed to stay calm and focussed.
“Thank you.” said George, noting the change. “So, what can I tell you?”
“You can start with what Artimus was talking to you about in the Cittie last night.”
“Not a great deal to begin with.” said George, looking around. “However, as soon as Banco Crankander opened for business, I knew something was wrong.”
“So…” said Neil, wafting a hand.
“This is where I am down to conjecture. By the time he began to open up about the issue, Cranky, Cyril, and me had probably imbibed the better part of a barrel. In fact, when he told Cyril and I what the issue was, Cyril came over like he had seen a ghost, and Cranky stopped talking.”
“What did he say?” said Neil, edging forward.
“No idea.” said George, apologetically. “Too inebriated to hear most of it. Cyril falls asleep, Cranky loses his ability to walk, and my hearing vanishes. It’s strange how alcohol consumption affects people differently.”
“So,” said Neil, scrunching his eyes tight and trying to keep the despair from his voice. “You’ve dragged me half way across central London to tell me you know nothing.”
“Actually,” said George, shrugging. “You chose the location for our rendezvous.”
Neil tried to quell his growing ire. Was everyone associated with Artimus this difficult to converse with? “You said you were down to conjecture. Conject.”
“You do realise conject is not a word?” said George, frowning.
“Just tell me what you are thinking!” shouted Neil, turning the heads of everyone in the shop and casting a deathly silence over the room.
“Charming.” said George, holding up a hand and speaking to the room. “I apologise for the outburst. He has Tourette’s and is on day release. I promise to try to get him to behave from now on.”
Placated in part, the people around them slowly returned to their conversations.
“Thanks for that.” said Neil, condescendingly.
“No need for gratitude.” said George, raising an eyebrow. “My initial grasp was going to be ‘Excuse my friend. He cannot help how much of a complete bell-end he is. If he annoys you again, I promise to staple his testes to the chair he is occupying and then stamp on his foot.’, but I went for something punchier, much as I will if you disrespect me again.”
“Can you please just tell me what your conjecture might be?”
George took a swig of coffee, eyeing Neil thoughtfully before clearing his throat. “Cranky does not get like that. He is a man of strong morals and even stronger pride. The only time I have ever seen him close to the state he was in was after the Blackfriars debacle that cost him his seat in the masonic council; the day after he helped Interpol put many of his old colleagues and mentors behind bars. That day, all those years ago in the eighties, it was as if part of his soul died. Like he was drifting, almost carrying his burden of loss. My guess would be he feels hurt, but what for I do not know.”
“Then we should call Bancombe.” said Neil, retrieving his phone. “I’ll assume you have his number.”
“I have already tried to contact Cyril,” said George, unmoved, “both at home and at the Yard. Henry informed me he took a leave of absence; rang him this morning to request it. He is now as concerned as I am.”
Neil stared at the table. What the hell was Artimus thinking? Where was he? What would you do if you were in the pits of self-pity, were a billionaire, and your favourite pub was closed?
Neil smiled, he did not need to guess at what Artimus’ thoughts were. “I know where he might have left me what I need.” he said, distantly, pulling on his jacket.
“And where pray-tell might that be?”
“We’re going to have to work on our information sharing George,” said Neil, moving toward the door, “but not today.”
Neil did not wait to hear what George had to say. Besides, Artimus and his crew had given him an effective run-around for three whole days. It was time he took matters into his own hands.
Jumping back into his car, he raced across London, arriving at the Norman Shaw buildings in record time. Practically leaping from his car, he tore through the structure, pushing the door to Artimus’ office open no more than ten minutes after leaving Kaffeine.
Walking into the musky-smelling interior, he instantly noticed the mess. The files under the sheets above the table to his left were emptied, their guts scattered all over the floor between the wall and the cabinets. Two empty whisky bottles lay strewn atop the pages, the liquid long since devoured.
Neil fought off his urge to tidy the room, making his way over to the three large sheets. Remembering his previous visits, he quickly found all the additional information points and began to review them.
He looked at possibility one, running his fingers along the coarse thread linking the notes interspersed there; the rough edges of the chord, wiry like three-day stubble, firing his nerve endings and sparking memories.
He could see Artimus teasing him as he re-wrote the notes, smell the whisky as it swirled in his tumbler, the light clinking of the ice cubes as his supposed ignorance was lambasted the only calming moments to be found.
He plucked one of the notes from the sheet; Harriet Grayson. Underneath the name in practically illegible scrawl, Artimus appeared to have written - ‘Stick up her butt. However, too stupid to realise everyone can tell. Has not planned this’.
Neil let out an involuntary snigger. That pretty much summed up Missus Grayson, as it did the Artimus’ thought processes.
Looking across the sheet, he traced the pink line from the note to Alanis Grayson. He looked at the post-it underneath, stating that both the daughter and the mother changed their stories when re-questioned about the events on the morning the bodies were found. First, they were both in the cellar, and then only Alanis went down there.
Again, Artimus had written something over Neil’s original description. Did it say ‘Potential First Occurrence’? Neil could not say for certain.
Moving to the second sheet, he traced all the points to their terminators. Artimus had made several notes, but it was clear that the stirrings of inebriation were already taking hold, the characters increasingly unkempt and lopsided. Did one say ‘Second Occurrence’? His eyes followed the spider web to its source; the second purchase of the Grayson property. Changed statements from the Grayson girls, and the second sale of a house. How were they linked, and what does the term occurrence mean?
Neil began to flick from note to note, trying his best to decipher the disintegrating scribble of Artimus as he searched for another repetition of the word. Eventually, just as his examination of the sheets became frantic, he found one.
> Hidden on one edge of sheet three, almost out of sight and under a heading of ‘No Significance’, there was a name and a single post-it. Hand trembling slightly, he removed it, holding it only inches from his face as he poured over the meagre contents. Swallowing hard, he spun, stumbling over the chair to his side and narrowly avoiding collapsing onto an empty bottle. Sweat forming on his brow as his mind processed the information, he bolted from the office toward his car.
Chapter 35
Fall from Grace
Out of Time Page 34