Over Your Shoulder

by C J Carver

  When Susie looked at me the next morning I knew I looked bad. Cupping my face she tenderly kissed my bruised jaw, the bruise beneath my right eye, high on my cheekbone. She applied more arnica. I didn’t bother shaving. Too tender, and there seemed little point.

  Just past seven o’clock, Susie and I took a number eleven bus to Victoria Station. From there, we walked to Pimlico. It was raining again; dank and grey with people hunched under endless mushrooms of umbrellas.

  The Regency Café stood on the corner of Regency and Page Street, and was one of those places that if we’d had one in Bosham, I’d be there every day. With its tiled walls, linoleum floor, gingham curtains and boxing photographs on the walls, the English diner looked as though it hadn’t changed since the 1950s. It was also packed: brickies, lawyers, city construction workers, a couple of Japanese tourists. Suits and coveralls jostled noisily together and the food smelled fantastic.

  I followed Susie as she weaved her way to a window table where a man in a suit sat with a large glass of orange juice and a copy of The Times. Fifties, gold-rimmed spectacles, soft grey hair, paunchy jowls. Skin as pale as the underbelly of a fish.

  He half-rose from his seat when she approached but sank back when she waved him down. She gestured for me to shuffle along the bench and, ever cautious, leaned past me to make sure the curtains, covering the bottom third of the window and giving diners privacy from the street, were pulled tight. Susie sat next to me. She made the introductions.

  Mark Felton offered his hand and we shook. His grip was damp, surprisingly weak. A pair of level grey eyes surveyed me. Not a flicker of reaction over my bruised face.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘You’re Rob’s brother.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Susie’s filled me in.’ He glanced at Susie over his spectacles. ‘While she gets us breakfast – set breakfast deal for all of us, perhaps? – you can start asking your questions, but please remember that I may not be able to answer them fully, if at all. A lot of your brother’s work was very sensitive.’

  Susie rested her hand on my thigh for a moment before she rose and joined the queue at the counter.

  I cleared my throat, trying to get my thoughts in order.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me,’ I started.

  A brief nod, but there was a twitch of impatience that told me I shouldn’t waste any more time and that I should dive in with the most important questions first.

  ‘How long did he work for you?’ I asked.

  ‘Just over a year.’

  I leaned forward, lowering my voice despite the echoing din. ‘Was he involved in trying to bring George Abbott to justice?’

  ‘Not directly. But he had some dealings with his organisation.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He was undercover.’

  I felt a hop of excitement. I knew it!

  ‘In Ibiza?’ I asked.

  He expression turned neutral.

  ‘He was there before he disappeared,’ I added. ‘His sailing friend told me he took a boat from Port de Sant Antoni back to the UK.’

  ‘What friend?’

  I could see no reason not to tell him. ‘Etienne Dupont.’

  Still, the neutral look. Did this mean I’d touched on a very sensitive part of Rob’s job?

  ‘I spoke to Etienne yesterday,’ I told him. ‘He said Rob owed some people money. They sounded Spanish. They wanted to know where Rob was.’

  And they didn’t particularly sound nice, either, I wanted to add, but didn’t. I recalled Etienne’s voice, filled with fear. Tell Robert to help me. Please.

  ‘How much money?’ Mark Felton asked.

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  At that moment, Susie returned. ‘What money?’ she asked.

  ‘The money Etienne mentioned,’ I told her.

  Felton looked at Susie while she looked back. ‘Was it a sting?’ she asked him.

  When he didn’t respond, she added, ‘Was it an investiture?’

  Although he didn’t move a single facial muscle, approbation gleamed in the back of his eyes.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. She leaned forward. Spread her hands on the tabletop. ‘Now everything is beginning to make sense.’

  Chapter 31

  Susie spoke softly. I leaned close to listen but Felton stayed where he was. He obviously had better hearing than me.

  ‘Rob had massive sailing experience,’ said Susie. ‘I’m thinking this could have been his inauguration into the organisation. Doing a drug run. Or maybe carrying money.’

  Felton said neutrally, ‘It would be a good way of inserting him into the thick of it. Gain everyone’s trust.’

  ‘Is that why he was at the Mayfair Group the day before he disappeared?’ I asked.

  Felton didn’t make any movement or gesture that could have been taken for an answer, so I ploughed on. ‘Was he delivering cash to Tony Abbott? Drugs?’

  ‘And something went wrong?’ Susie suggested.

  ‘Very wrong,’ Felton agreed.

  I took a deep breath. Felt as though I was standing on a beach about to plunge into a huge wave, cresting over me, ready to crush the life out of me.

  ‘Did he kill Tony?’

  No response. Nothing. Not a glimmer, not a spark.

  ‘What happened?’ I meant the question to sound neutral but it came out harsher than I wanted. ‘Please, tell me. I’ve seen the CCTV tape. Who was the middle-aged woman? Why was Rob chasing her? Who was–?’

  Susie put a hand on my arm. Our breakfast had arrived. Egg, bacon, sausage, beans, tomato, toast and tea. Momentarily frustrated at being interrupted, I held my tongue, watching Susie and Felton tuck in with gusto. Spook food, obviously. I, however, had no appetite against the questions burning inside me, and struggled to take a bite of anything.

  ‘Please,’ I said again. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Felton shot Susie a look. Shook his head.

  ‘Sorry,’ she murmured. She squeezed my thigh. ‘Try another angle.’

  I took a breath. ‘Was David Gilder involved?’

  Nothing.

  ‘At the time he was a DI,’ I added. ‘He became Assistant Commissioner Specialist Operations. He’s now retired.’

  Felton returned his attention to his breakfast. Like Susie, he was a fast eater. They probably had to be in their line of business – not much time to dawdle over meals when there was more important stuff to be doing – but their insouciance was doing my head in.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, unable to stop the anger rising. ‘You must be able to give me something more.’

  ‘Nick…’ Susie’s voice was warning.

  I leaned forward, getting in Felton’s face, interrupting him mopping up the last of his egg.

  ‘Did you help him disappear?’

  He looked at Susie. Picked up his mug of tea and drank it straight down as though it was a glass of water.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘Join me?’ He was looking at Susie. I no longer existed to him.

  He began to rise.

  ‘Wait.’ I wanted to rise too, but I couldn’t push back because the table and bench were affixed to the floor and Susie was blocking me in. ‘Where did Rob go? What’s he been doing? Is he still working for you?’ My heart was beating hard and I pushed against Susie, willing her to move. ‘Where does he live? I want to see him, dammit, just fucking tell me, or I’ll–’

  ‘Nick,’ Susie snapped. ‘Shut it.’

  She was holding my arm, gripping it with a strength I hadn’t felt before and reminding me of the Saint, the bruises his fingers had left.

  ‘And don’t move,’ she added in the same commanding tone. ‘Or I swear I will plug my fingers into your carotid artery and disable you in such a way you may never speak to me again.’

  Her words were like ice daggers in my consciousness. Mouth dry, I stopped fighting.

  Without so much as another look in my direction, Felton left the café. I craned my head over the curtain to see him vanish fast down Page Street. />
  ‘Fuck,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks a bunch.’ Susie still held my arm in her death grip to stop me bolting after him. ‘You’ve really pissed him off.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do?’ I jerked my arm free. ‘Sit here and watch him hoover up his fucking breakfast? Jesus Christ. What a waste of time.’

  ‘No it wasn’t. And once you’ve calmed down, you’ll see you’ve got far more than you thought. Okay?’

  No, I thought. Not okay. Mark bloody Felton knows everything but he’s not willing to tell me. For a wild moment I pictured waiting outside the MI5 building and kidnapping him, forcing him to tell me the whole story. As if that was going to happen. I’d put a single finger on him and a dozen agents would drill me with a dozen bullet holes.

  ‘I’m going to catch him up,’ Susie told me. ‘Do not follow me. Do not embarrass me any further.’

  I stared at her. I’d embarrassed her?

  ‘Fuck you,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll continue this conversation at home,’ she said icily and, after picking up her handbag, she slipped away.

  I was sliding after her, fully intending to follow, catch her and Mark Felton up and confront him, when a waitress stood right in my path, blocking me. Fat, dressed in pink and white tiers like she was a sandwich cake. ‘You haven’t paid.’

  ‘I’ll be back in a flash,’ I told her. ‘My wife’s left her phone behind and–’

  ‘Whoa, there. Do I look like an idiot?’ She folded her pudgy arms over a wobbly layer of pink frills.

  ‘God no. Of course not.’ I tried to step around her but she moved fast, blocking me. ‘It’s just that her phone’s incredibly–’

  ‘The quicker you pay me, the quicker you can get after her.’ Thin smile. A glint in the eye that told me she wasn’t going to budge an inch.

  I scrabbled in my pocket for my wallet. Shit, fuck. It had been stolen the previous night. Then I remembered the loan Susie had given me that morning and delved into my inner jacket pocket, pulled out two twenty pound notes, shoved them at the waitress.

  ‘Keep the change,’ I snapped.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the waitress, her stubby fingers grabbing the money.

  Chapter 32

  Even though I knew there was little chance of catching them up, I still tore outside. Jogged down the street – the Office was only half a mile away – but I didn’t see them. They could have taken any myriad of routes, and considering how furious Susie had been with me, she’d probably chosen one I didn’t know specifically to avoid me catching up with them and embarrassing her further.

  Infuriation dogging every step, I changed direction. Made my way to Victoria station and a mobile phone shop. Fortunately, Susie had loaned me her card to our shared credit card account as well as giving me some life-saving cash, and with my contacts backed up on iCloud, I was soon back in business. This time I was tucked right at the back of a nice quiet Caffè Nero.

  First, I called the lovely Helen at the Mayfair Group. Since I didn’t have her direct line, I had to go via the receptionist, who put me through. When Helen picked up, she sounded bright and cheerful.

  ‘Helen Flynn,’ she sang.

  ‘Hi, Helen. It’s Nick Ashdown here. You were kind enough to help me yesterday with some lists.’

  There was such a long silence I thought for a moment we’d been cut off.

  ‘Helen?’ I said. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Er… I – I… I mean, yes I am.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, but I’ve mislaid the lists. I didn’t have time to make a copy and I was wondering if I could beg you to print them off for me again.’

  ‘I… I… n-no. I d-don’t think so. No. Sorry.’

  Gone was the helpful nice young woman and in her place was a stammering nervous wreck.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘I shouldn’t have given y-you those papers yesterday. I’m s-sorry.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Two men,’ she said. Her voice was trembling. ‘They c-came and saw me last night. At home. They t-told me not to help you again. Not under any circumstances.’

  ‘Oh, Helen.’ I pushed my forehead into my hand. ‘I’m so sorry. If I thought this was going to happen I would never have asked you.’

  ‘P-please,’ she said. ‘Don’t contact me again.’

  She hung up.

  It took me a little while to gather my nerve to ring The Evening Standard in case they had also had a threatening visit, but I needn’t have worried. I was put straight through to Fredericka, who hadn’t a clue who I was.

  ‘You want to talk about the Tony Abbott case?’ Surprise threaded her tone. ‘That was years ago.’

  ‘Twelve,’ I agreed.

  ‘What’s your name again?’

  ‘Nick Ashdown.’

  ‘And your interest in the case?’

  ‘I’ve got a few questions.’

  ‘In that case, try Wikipedia, Mr Ashdown. I’m not a help desk.’

  ‘No, please wait. I’m really curious as to why there was so little coverage of Tony’s murder. I saw Geoff Leipzig did a big splash to start with, but he never followed up.’

  ‘I’ll ask the same question again. What’s your interest in the Abbott case?’

  I watched a businessman settle at a table nearby with his coffee. I said, ‘I have new information.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’m trying to find Tony Abbott’s killer. And I’ve uncovered some stuff. I can’t say what, right now. But let’s say it’s significant.’

  ‘Significant. I like that. Geoff would have liked that. Except he’s now working in the Far East for another publication.’

  ‘Oh.’ I rubbed my forehead. ‘I don’t suppose you have a contact number for him?’

  ‘No.’

  Brief silence.

  Then she said, ‘Does this have anything to do with your brother?’

  For a moment I froze. What?

  ‘While we were chatting, I looked you up on the internet, Nick. Brother to Kensington Superhero, whereabouts currently unknown. You’re his brother, right?’

  I let out a sigh. ‘Yes,’ I confessed. I felt like a complete idiot for giving her my real name. I had to sharpen up.

  ‘Let’s talk.’ She suddenly sounded cheerful.

  ‘My family and I have signed an exclusive,’ I warned her. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘But that’s over your brother,’ she said. ‘Not about you and Tony Abbott’s murder.’

  ‘True,’ I admitted cautiously.

  ‘So we can do business.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Come on, Nick. I need more than that.’

  ‘If you help me, I’ll try to help you.’

  ‘Try?’ There was exasperation in her tone but it wasn’t nasty, more like wearily resigned.

  ‘Yes, try.’ My tone was wry.

  ‘Okay then. With regard to your initial question, about why there was so little press coverage, the answer is that we were warned off.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We heard about the murder late Friday night and Geoff managed to scramble something together for the weekend papers – it was a huge story, crime boss’s son shot dead in his office – but the papers had barely hit the shops before the police were in our faces, trying to shut us up.’

  ‘Can they do that?’

  ‘No, but they went to our boss who told Geoff to drop it. Geoff dug a bit more on his own, but he was warned off by a couple of thugs waiting for him on his doorstep. Really nasty types too.’

  ‘Abbott’s men?’

  ‘We assumed so.’

  ‘Did they threaten your boss?’

  ‘Jury’s out on that one, but let’s just say it was obviously a bigger story than just Tony’s murder. Any idea what?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I said, grateful she couldn’t see me and spot the lie.

  ‘Come on,’ she cajoled me. ‘I’ve shown you mine. Now you show me yours.’

  The businessman
sitting near me had finished his coffee and was absorbed with his phone. I kept my voice down as I spoke. ‘I’m trying to find out why there’s a time discrepancy between the police arriving at the murder scene, and the time the police actually said they turned up. There’s an hour and twenty-three minutes unaccounted for.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Her voice was sharp.

  ‘CCTV.’

  ‘You’ve got footage of that night?’ Her voice went up an octave.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sweet mother Mary of God,’ she breathed. ‘Any chance I could see it?’

  I didn’t want to say a flat no and antagonise her so I batted another question right back. ‘Did you or Geoff have any idea who might have killed Tony?’

  ‘The field was wide open from an inter-gang hit to some poor sap looking to avenge someone The Saint had killed. Greed, lust, envy, hatred – take your pick. That family is immersed in all that shit up to their ears. Why is your brother involved?’

  ‘He isn’t,’ I said quickly. ‘He’s got nothing to do with any of this. This is personal, to me.’

  ‘Why? You’re a graphic designer, not some corrupt town planner or drug dealer.’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m trying to help someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Did Geoff have a file on the case?’ I asked. I needed another lead. Another angle to follow.

  ‘I’d like to say yes, so we could do an exchange – CCTV tape for Geoff’s file – but I’d be lying. I do, however–’ her voice turned sly ‘have his email address.’

  ‘If you get me a good lead,’ I told her sincerely, ‘and I get a good story from it, you can have an exclusive.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Chapter 33

  It was just after six thirty by the time I got to Ealing, and Arun Choudhuri’s street. Houses were being lit from inside, cars parked in the resident zones as people returned home from work. Smells of cooking drifted, making me salivate. I hadn’t had much to eat since the previous night’s curry. A mouthful of fried egg at breakfast, then a supermarket-bought ham sandwich for lunch, half of which I binned. The bread had been dry and tasteless, the ham slimy. I’d been happy to go hungry.