Out of control

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places and incidents are products of the 
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, 
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by John Dysart

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any 
means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or any information storage or 
retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

The right of John Dysart to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in 
accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

John Dysart was born in Scotland. He pursued an international career in Europe, working both as an 
executive for various multi-nationals and as an independent consultant before turning to writing. He 
currently lives in France.

Trail of Greed

Pursuit

Theft is something which is anathema to me.

Whether it’s the theft of a bar of chocolate from the local newsagent or the great train robbery, it’s all the same to me. It’s ‘taking something which belongs to someone else’. The trouble is that when it comes to the business world there are people who have difficulty in defining the concept. ‘Fair game’ doesn’t wash with me.

So when someone stole an idea that was potentially worth millions and which resulted in death, affected my family and damned near cost me my life, I got pretty riled up.

*

The telephone shrieked out mercilessly, waking me up from a pleasant snooze after my morning round of golf. I cursed and reached for receiver. It’s difficult not to answer it even if you do suspect that it’s probably another one of these damned call centres invading your privacy.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly grumpy, I pick up the receiver and reply politely “Yes?”, put it down softly on a cushion and walk away leaving the poor caller blethering on into the void. A few minutes later, when they have eventually realised that there is no one there and hung up, I replace the receiver. I suppose it’s not really fair on the poor girl in the call centre. She’s only doing her job but, as far as I’m concerned, unsolicited calls should be banned.

On this particular occasion, however, I listened for a second or two and immediately discovered that this was a genuine call.

“Mr. Bruce? Mr. Robert Bruce?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“Good morning, sir. This is the Accommodation Office at Stirling University. We have your name and telephone number listed as the nearest relative for Mr. Liam Bruce, one of our residents.”

‘Nearest relative’ was an expression that you automatically associate with very bad news. I could feel my pulse quicken.

“That’s correct. What’s the matter?”

She must have realised how her introduction might have sounded. “Don’t worry, sir. Your grandson has not been injured or anything like that, as far as we know. But we do have a bit of a problem.”

I relaxed a little.

“Yes. Go on.” “I’m afraid that he will have to vacate his room here as soon as possible. “

“Why?”

“If you remember we exceptionally granted him accommodation on the basis that he was working for Bioscope, one of the start-up companies here on our campus, and they have been paying his rent. Well, now that he is no longer employed there, we can no longer accommodate him.”

“What do you mean ‘no longer employed’?”

The girl hesitated for a moment then went on. “You haven’t been informed? Mrs. Mackie has told us that she has had to terminate his employment with immediate effect and she’s stopped the rent payments as of the end of this week.”

“She what?” I was completely mystified. “Do you know why?”

“I’m sorry but I’m afraid I don’t know the reason.”

“Hold on a minute. Are you telling me that Liam has been fired … just like that?”

To say that I was surprised would be understating it. I couldn’t imagine why Liam would have been fired on the spot. It didn’t make sense. There could be all sorts of reasons why he might leave the company but the idea of instant dismissal sounded pretty dramatic.

“That seems to be the case. I’m afraid I don’t know any of the details but what I can tell you is that when I tried to contact him to tell him that he would have to give up his room I couldn’t find him. He seems to have disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

Now I was distinctly worried. How could he have gone missing? What in the hell could have happened?

A few months ago I had managed to fix up a job for Liam, my son Callum’s eldest, with a small scientific start-up company which was based in the Innovation Park on the campus at Stirling University.

Callum had emigrated to Australia years ago and Liam had been born and brought up out there. He had just finished school with excellent results and was envisaging a career in scientific research. However, as many Australians do, he wanted to take a year out and come to Europe before continuing with his studies.

I had managed to find him this job and had more or less been keeping an eye on him while he was here.

And now he had disappeared?

The girl went on. “We’ve tried to get in touch with him but nobody that we know can trace him. I’m sorry but we have to empty his room. There’s another student needing it.”

All thoughts of a quiet afternoon had evaporated. I tried to convince myself that there must be a simple explanation and nothing to worry too much about; why he had lost his job was of lesser importance. I had no alternative but to get through there as quickly as possible.

“OK. Listen, I’ll come through and fetch his things. But, as you can imagine, I’ve got to find out what’s happened to him. Will tomorrow be alright? I’ll come round to the Accommodation Office and see you around nine.”

“Yes. That’ll be fine. Thank you, sir, and I hope he gets in touch with you and that he’s alright. I’ll let you know if he contacts us or if we have any news.”

I 
put the receiver back slowly on its rest and immediately reached for my mobile. There was no answer when I tried Liam’s number, so I left a message telling him about the phone call I had just received and asking him to get in touch with me right away. I also told him that I was coming straight through to Stirling.

I sprang into action – or rather I levered myself out of my chair. You don’t ‘spring into action’ any more at sixty seven years old.

What in the hell could have happened? I thought. People don’t disappear. But then he hadn’t answered his phone. My brain started to think the worst. Being imaginative and a natural worrier is a nasty combination. A car accident? Gone off the rails because he had been fired and …?

Better not react hastily, I said to myself. There must be an explanation for this.

There was but it wasn’t one that I would ever have imagined.

*

I phoned my sister Heather who lives with her husband, Oliver, on a farm outside Doune, only a few miles from Stirling.

“Hi, Heather. It’s Bob. Any chance of a bed for the night?”

“Well, I …”

“Tonight? Something’s cropped up and I have to be in Stirling tomorrow morning early.”

I gave no further explanation. I would tell her when I saw her rather than have an involved and complicated phone call. Loveable as she is, Heather has a tendency to want to know chapter and verse and I couldn’t supply that. It would worry her unnecessarily anyway.

Having been assured it would be OK, I hastily packed an overnight bag, locked up the house, got into my recently acquired bright blue Mercedes and got on the road. The quickest route would be round Lindores loch, up to Perth and down the A9. Fortunately there was no traffic on the narrow road round the loch because I was definitely driving too fast but I was soon steaming down the Baiglie Strait towards Perth.

‘Probably staying with a friend’, ‘He’ll be fine’, ‘This car isn’t going to take all his stuff.’ ‘We can always hire a van and take it up to the farm.’ - all sorts of thoughts were going through my mind as I skirted Perth and thundered down the dual carriageway.

I was three or four miles short of Dunblane, when my mobile phone rang. I lunged for it but when I glanced at the number I saw that it wasn’t Liam. It was a number I didn’t recognize. When I answered it a deep local voice came out of the speakers. ”Mr. Bruce?” it said.

“Yes?”

“Good afternoon, sir. This is the Stirling Police, Sergeant MacLean.” The police? My first thought was that Liam had been in an accident. “Yes, sergeant, what can I do for you?” I responded, very nervously.

“It’s about your grandson, sir. We have a Mr. Liam Bruce here at the station. He told us you were his grandfather and gave us this number.”

A flood of relief flowed through me. ‘Here at the station’ meant that he was alive and, presumably uninjured. The call at least hadn’t been from a hospital. But the police? That could be almost as bad.

“What’s happened? Is he alright? Why is he in a police station?”

“He is alright sir and he’s not in any trouble,” the voice said reassuringly.

The calmness in his voice soothed my worries and I eased off on the accelerator to pull off into a side road. Shouldn’t have answered the phone whilst driving I reminded myself.

Sergeant MacLean went on. “The laddie’s just got a damned great hangover and is feeling a wee bit sorry for himself. There’s no harm done.” Did I detect a hint of a smile in his voice? “One of our patrol cars found him about four o’clock this morning in town, completely incapable, and we thought it best to bring him in for the night to let him sleep it off and sober up. He’s only just woken up and he gave us your name and number.”

“Thank you very much for calling me, Sergeant. As it happens I’m just on my way through to Stirling from Fife. Apparently something happened to him which will probably explain the state you found him in and I am coming through to try and sort it out. Can I come and collect him?”

“No problem, sir. He won’t be charged with anything and you’re free to pick him up.”

“Fine. I’ll be with you in about half an hour.”

“Very good, sir.” And he hung up.

Bloody idiot, I thought but the relief was immense. I would go and pick him up, take him back to Heather’s and find out what this business was all about. I sent a quick text to Heather to tell her she’d be having two guests and proceeded to the police station where a rather sheepish and ill-looking Liam was safely handed over into my custody.

Liam thanked me for coming to get him and apologised. Whatever the explanation was I decided to wait until we got to Heather’s and he had recovered.

As soon as we arrived at the farm after a silent car journey I took Liam into the living room and made him sit down. I turned to my sister and said “Two paracetamol and an armchair for half an hour I think.” I got a disapproving look in reply but she dutifully supplied the remedy and we left him and went into the kitchen - Heather, mystified, and me, not yet worried, but damned curious.

“The police station! Good God, what’s he been up to?”

My sister had watched both me and our brother, Mike, growing up so there wasn’t really a lot that would surprise her, but ‘the police’ seemed to her to be pretty serious.

I 
told her how the sergeant had called me and told me when, where and in what state they had found him.

“Humph!” disapprovingly.

“But I think there are some mitigating circumstances,” I added, accepting the cup of coffee she had rustled up.

“What do you mean?”

I then recounted the other phone call I had had from the Accommodation Office.

“Fired? Why?”

My sister is one of these people who have the habit of asking the obvious question even when she knows that the person doesn’t have the answer. I think it’s something to do with thinking out loud. It seems to help some people get their thoughts in logical order rather than having them running around all jumbled up inside their heads.