by C J Carver
What had Rob been doing there?
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the image of the building. Anthony Abbott, the Saint’s son, had founded the company. With Daddy’s money? My mind snaked onwards. Property development could be an easy way of laundering Daddy’s dirty money as well. I trawled around the site but couldn’t find any further reference to Anthony Abbott so I put his name into Google.
Instantly six images appeared of the man, all of him in a suit, all of him looking serious and businesslike.
The next reference was Wikipedia. I read that Anthony “Tony” Abbott was born on 5 December 1976 and was a property developer who’d won the Property Entrepreneur of the Year Award when he turned thirty-one. Most of the text was a plug for his business, but then I came to the last line.
Abbott was shot to death aged 32. He was buried in East Finchley Cemetery.
My eyes flew to the top of the page. I hadn’t taken in the dates. He’d apparently died on Friday twenty-third August. Twelve years earlier.
My stomach rolled in ice.
Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. Please no, no, no no no.
Tony Abbott had been shot twice. Once in the chest, and then another bullet had been fired into the back of his head. Execution style. To make sure he was dead.
He’d been murdered in his office, on the third floor overlooking the park. He’d been murdered in the same offices on the same day my brother had been videoed arriving and then leaving at a run with a gun in hand. There were no witnesses and nobody knew who had done it.
Oh, dear God.
I felt shaky and sick.
I got to my feet, sat back down. Put my head in my hands. Tried to think. Had Rob killed the Saint’s son? If so, it would make sense that the Saint had come looking for Rob. He’d want vengeance for Tony. Had it been a hit? Had MI5 told Rob to take Tony out for some reason? Or had Rob’s cover been blown and he’d been forced to silence Tony? And then there was DI Gilder, also looking for Rob. Did he suspect Rob was the killer?
I thought of my brother, his love of the sea, his generous and compassionate spirit. Yes, he was independent and fun-loving, ebullient, but I would never have perceived him to be a killer. He didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. He wasn’t violent. He’d put spiders outside the house, rescued bugs and flies from the swimming pool, and once he’d come home with a kitten that someone had put in a sack at the side of the road to die. He called it Nelson even though it was female. The cat lived for another eighteen years. But then I recalled the CCTV film of Rob taking down the gunman in the restaurant, the efficiency and proficiency of his blows. Had he been trained to attack and kill? Or had it always been in him?
And what about me? Did I have that killer instinct too?
For the first time in my life, I felt my foundations shake.
I closed my eyes. Turned my mind to the police. If Rob had murdered Tony Abbott, why hadn’t the police arrested him? That had to be why he’d vanished. Because he was wanted for murder.
Chapter 22
I went back online. Found several newspaper reports. The one in The Evening Standard pretty much said it all:
BUSINESSMAN FOUND SHOT TO DEATH IN MAYFAIR OFFICE
by Geoff Leipzig
Tony Abbott, a property developer, was found fatally shot in his office last night, and authorities say they are investigating the death as a homicide.
DI David Gilder of the Metropolitan Police reported they responded at 8pm to a report of a suspected gunman running out of the office building and onto Piccadilly. A caretaker told officers that the man was holding a gun, DI Gilder said. Police searched the building and found thirty-two-year-old Abbott dead behind his desk. He had been shot.
DI Gilder said there were no signs of a fight or altercation, and that nothing has been reported missing. Detectives have not recovered a weapon.
‘We don’t believe the people in the community should be concerned about this being a random act,’ DI Gilder said. ‘The fact the victim had no defensive wounds and hadn’t even risen from behind his desk, means the victim probably knew the suspect.’
‘Our detectives are busy speaking with family, friends and associates to try to determine any possible motivation for someone to take this man’s life,’ he said. ‘Whoever it was is pretty cold-blooded. We owe it to the victim to find out who did this and make them answer for it. We will use all of our resources to do exactly that.’
DI David Gilder. I felt dizzy and shook my head to clear it. I’d brought the CCTV video with me, and I replayed it. This time I paused the video when the policeman took photos of the reception folder. No wonder I thought I’d recognised him. Same strong body, hard jawline, cropped pale hair. But it wasn’t Barry Gilder I’d recognised, it was his father.
I searched for further stories about Tony Abbott’s murder, but the few that were around – and there weren’t that many – quickly dwindled to nothing. The last, dated two weeks after Tony’s death, was also written by Geoff Leipzig. Why weren’t there more? Usually the media hounded the police for weeks, wanting snippets and titbits to report as well as demanding why nobody had been arrested, but the investigation into Tony’s death appeared to have been abandoned with an almost unseemly haste. Why?
Also, why did David Gilder give 8pm as the time the police received the report of a suspected gunman running through the building? The CCTV showed them arriving at 1837. If the reporter hadn’t made a mistake, then what had happened in that hour and twenty-three minutes?
I picked up the phone. Dialled The Evening Standard and with little hope of success, asked for Geoff Leipzig.
‘Who?’
‘He was on your staff twelve years ago. He wrote a piece on Tony Abbott’s murder.’
‘Who did you want again?’
Hope dwindling, I repeated myself.
‘Only person who’s been around that long’s Fredericka but she’s in a meeting right now, can I get her to call you back?’
Without much confidence, I left my name and number and hung up. Then I rang DI Gilder. I said, ‘I want to see you.’
‘Has he contacted you?’ Fervent, eager.
‘No.’
‘Then what–’
‘Someone gave me a video,’ I cut over him. ‘I’d like you to see it.’
‘I see.’ He was cautious. ‘Could you give me a hint as to what’s on it?’
‘I think you should see for yourself. I don’t want you making any assumptions.’ I also wanted to watch his expression, his body language, to see if he gave anything away. Whether he knew the full story or not.
‘Can’t you put it in the mail?’
‘No.’ I made a snap decision. ‘I’m in London later today. You’re in the City of Westminster, so what if I–’
‘Don’t come to the station,’ he interjected sharply. ‘I’ll meet you at The Lord Moon pub on Whitehall. After work.’
‘What time?’
‘Seven o’clock.’
He hung up without saying goodbye.
I looked at my watch and did some calculations. Before I headed to the railway station, I texted Susie and told her about my evening meeting, suggesting we stay at her flat that night.
She texted by return, asking me to meet her outside the Office at five thirty. She had some news for me.
Spirits raised, I zipped back home to find Seb with his head buried in our little hallway cupboard, a toolbox at his feet.
‘I’m away until tomorrow,’ I told him. ‘How are we going to arrange things?’
He showed me the alarm panel, already connected. ‘What code do you want to use?’
‘One, nine, four, seven,’ I said. 1947. The year Thor Heyerdahl set out from South America on a 4,300 nautical mile journey across the Pacific Ocean in a hand-built raft, Kon Tiki. My hero ever since I’d received his book for Christmas when I was a boy.
Seb punched in the number. ‘Just until you’re back, mind. You change it afterwards.’ He showed me how, then talked me quickly throug
h the rest of the kit. ‘If it goes off, it’ll come through to your mobile, alerting you.’
‘Useful,’ I said drily. ‘I wouldn’t want to interrupt them.’
‘Hopefully they’ll see the box outside and not bother. It’s all about a visual deterrent.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
I packed some overnight things into my satchel, grabbed my laptop, thanked Seb again, and caught the next train to London.
I love London. The bustle and energy, the smell of exhaust, of cooking, coffee. People striding everywhere, strolling, meandering. Tourists, businessmen, lovers, students. Black, white and brown, a melting pot of every race and culture. I love Bosham too, don’t get me wrong, but it’s like comparing a rowing boat with a cruise liner, they’re so different.
I headed to Piccadilly, wanting to see where the Mayfair Group was housed. One stop on the Victoria line and I was exiting Green Park tube station. Immediately the atmosphere became more rarefied. It wasn’t just the breadth of the street and the broadness of sky giving the sensation of grandness and space, but the majesty of the buildings and the height of the ancient plane trees. Men were dressed in smart woollen coats over suits. Women wore cashmere, leopard print and leather. Taxis jostled alongside Ferraris and Bentleys, every other car worth more than I could earn in three or four years. I even saw a shimmery purple Lamborghini. I was in one of the most affluent areas in the world and I was glad I’d changed out of my usual uniform of jeans and fleece and pulled on a decent pair of trousers and jacket, and my best leather shoes. Oh, and I’d shaved too.
When I passed through the automatic doors into the Mayfair Group’s building, I felt a wave of déjà vu. Everything was familiar to me, but not known. The wrap-around desk appeared to be the same as the one on the CCTV tape, with its logo proud on the front. Same acres of floor space, but this time I could see straight ahead and to the bank of lifts and emergency staircase.
‘Can I help you?’
I shifted my satchel on my shoulder and approached the desk where a smart whippet-thin woman sat, alert and expectant. Her name tag read Gillian Wade.
‘Hi, Gillian,’ I said. ‘My name’s Nick.’ I glanced down at the reception folder. It looked as though it could be the same one from twelve years earlier, a ring binder with loose leafed photocopied pages punched through. Name. Company. Visiting. Time In. Time Out.
‘Hello, Nick,’ Gillian said.
I’d rehearsed what to say several times, but everything went out of the window. I decided to be up front.
I said, ‘It may seem a bit out of left field, but I wanted to speak to the caretaker who was on duty when Tony Abbott died. Do you know who that was?’
She stared at me. She didn’t blink. ‘Why do you want him?’
‘It’s a personal matter.’
‘I’m sorry, but we don’t give out details of employees to the general public.’
‘Does he still work here?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Look…’ I turned my head as a man arrived, signed himself out. I watched him leave before glancing at the folder. Edward Lilley. Jacobsen Co. Visiting Brian Armstrong. In at 1425. Out at 1510.
Rob had signed in all those years earlier and so had the middle-aged woman he’d chased outside. Who was she? What had she witnessed? She hadn’t been mentioned once, not in the newspaper reports, not anywhere. Why?
‘I’m trying to answer a couple of questions for someone close to me,’ I told Gillian. ‘It won’t take long and I’ll pay him for his time.’
She considered me at length. Seemed to come to a decision. ‘You’re talking to the wrong person. I don’t know who was on duty then. You’ll need to talk to HR. They’ll have the files.’
‘HR it is. Who do you think would be the best person?’
She mulled a bit, then said, ‘I think Helen might be the most receptive. I wouldn’t see Sara, she’s a bit of a dragon.’
‘Helen then,’ I agreed. ‘Is she available now?’
Gillian made a couple of calls. ‘She’s free in ten minutes. Would you mind waiting over there?’ She pointed at two leather chairs tucked to one side, with a table in between covered in property magazines.
‘Sure.’ I gave her a smile. ‘Thanks.’
She returned the smile with a nod. All very polite and accommodating. So far, so good.
I flipped through Mayfair’s International Luxury Collection catalogue, where every other page depicted tropical villas with infinity pools and endless views of palm trees fringing achingly gorgeous ocean fronts. It made me want to grab Susie and head straight for Heathrow, jump onto a plane to the Caribbean and forget all about everything that was going on. I’d never been to the Caribbean but of course Rob had. He’d said the sailing was fantastic, the rum cocktails even better.
‘You can go up,’ Gillian called. ‘Third floor.’
I had exited the lift and was following the arrows to HR along a plush royal-blue carpeted corridor, when a group of men came around the corner and walked towards me. Four of them. Three of them were listening to the one in the front who was speaking. The boss. For a moment I couldn’t believe my eyes. What the hell…?
Then my adrenaline kicked in and my heart banged like a great big drum. Bang-bang-bang. It was thumping so hard I wondered why I didn’t faint. I was about to walk away – God knew where, all I knew was that I had to leave fast and without being seen – when he looked straight at me and said, ‘Well, well. If it isn’t the artist.’
Chapter 23
‘Hi,’ I said, my voice a croak.
The men with the Saint spread out slightly in a defensive half-circle but he waved a hand at them. ‘It’s okay. He’s a comic book artist.’
The men relaxed. I didn’t.
He came and stood in front of me. He wore a camel coat, flung casually over his shoulders. Sharp suit, immaculate shoes. A silk tie with little white dogs dotted all over it. He saw me looking. ‘My niece gave it to me.’
‘Nice,’ I managed.
‘She thought it was cute.’
Inside, an endless stream of swear words shrieked through my mind. Fuck fuck fuck.
He said, ‘What are you doing here?’
I licked my lips. ‘Trying to find my brother.’
‘I see. And how do you plan to do that?’ He looked genuinely interested, not surprising since he wanted to get his hands on Rob to kill him for killing his son. If that’s what had happened of course and if not, I wanted to find out the true story so I could prove Rob innocent and he could come home.
‘I was going to talk to the caretaker who was here the day…’ I cleared my throat. ‘Er, your, er…’ I didn’t dare say the word son, let alone the word died. I didn’t know how he’d react.
For a moment he looked stunned. Then he caught my upper arm and twisted me aside, away from the men. His grip was so strong I could feel the bruises forming but I didn’t protest. I didn’t dare.
‘So now you know why I want your fuck of a brother,’ he hissed.
I gulped.
‘He ripped out the heart of me.’ The hiss was low and vicious, laden with venom. ‘He stole the best thing in my life, do you understand?’
I gave a jerky nod.
‘I thought he was fucking dead, you get it? And then there he is on my fucking TV screen having fucking lunch in the same fucking city as though nothing’s fucking happened, the fuck.’
He pushed me hard, away from him. I knocked into the wall. He stood there motionless, gazing at me, his expression cold.
He said, ‘Call me when you get any information on him. Anything. Understood?’
He clicked his fingers at one of his goons who reached into a pocket and withdrew a business card. Handed it to me. I didn’t look at it. Just stood there until they’d vanished inside the lift and the door had closed. I was trembling and felt chilled to my core. I hadn’t considered the Saint might be here, but of course he’d be involved in the company. He was Tony’s father.
Shit,
shit, shit.
Did it matter that he knew I knew the story? I didn’t think so. He’d want me to find Rob of course. No wonder he hadn’t thrown me out of the building, which at first I thought he might.
I just about jumped out of my skin when a voice said, ‘Nick?’
A sweet-faced young brunette was walking towards me.
‘It is Nick, isn’t it?’
I unstuck my tongue from the roof of my mouth. Managed a hoarse, ‘Yes.’
‘You know Mr Abbott?’ She was looking at where the Saint had disappeared into the lift.
‘Oh, yes.’ My tone was slightly dry as I recovered a fraction of equilibrium, rather like a minnow that had just escaped the jaws of a barracuda.
‘Great,’ she said. Obviously the exchange between Abbott and me hadn’t triggered anything to alarm her because she smiled at me. ‘I’m Helen.’ She put out a hand. ‘How can I help?’
I cringed as we shook because my hand was horribly sweaty but she was polite enough not to wipe it on her skirt immediately, but waited until we were in her office and she thought I wasn’t looking. Bless her.
‘I want to speak to the caretaker who was on duty when Mr Abbott’s son was, er… died.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh.’
‘I assume you keep a record of your employees?’
‘Oh,’ she said again. She looked flummoxed.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘It’s just that we never mention it. That day. I mean, ever.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I see.’
‘But if Mr Abbott has given you the go-ahead, then I will do everything I can to help.’
‘Thank you.’
She wheeled her chair closer to her desk. ‘When was it? The day, er… I’m afraid it was well before my time.’
I gave her the date. Watched her tap away.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have a record of who was on duty that day. We don’t keep rosters for more than a year at a time.’