The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) (22 page)

‘It’s such a shame that they are so unfashionable - if they weren’t, I’d have retired years ago, and this conversation would be a lot different, that’s for sure,’ Felix says, still grinning. He is clearly enjoying this explanation of the empire he has built, reveling in it’s journey, it’s highs and lows, but primarily it’s reach and strength. It does indeed sound formidable to the ears, and this offer of work would have many lesser men agog at the prospect.

‘You... make a compelling case,’ I say. I need to buy some time. Christ knows how these things work. Either way, my intention to take them down remains. But not yet. I need to squeeze more juice out of this one first, and learn all I can about other people of interest - not least of all the true identity of Royston’s killer. But if I say ‘yes’, they might take me out right now into the field and order me into doing something compromising, and earn my take-home from this very moment forward. I don’t want that. But if I say ‘no’, they might decide I know too much, and find a quiet hillside upon which to silence me for good.

‘It’s an offer that I view with a great deal of flattery,’ I begin, ‘and one I’d like to take very seriously.’

‘But...’ Leonard says, guessing a conjoining word but not much else.

‘No buts. I would like to sleep on it. Is that a possibility?’

No answer there, and it very much seems like I have liberally pissed on their parade. I get the feeling they don’t hear the word ‘no’ very often.

‘Look, I had designs on things I wanted to do, things I promised to do when I came back to Manchester.’ I’m lying through my teeth here, making it up as I go along. ‘I found myself helping Jack as an old friend who was in need of some help, but now, I... I don’t want any loose ends before I start the next thing. When I work out my next move, I want to commit to it.’ What an epic plate of vague bullshit. I can scarcely believe they will remotely think about buying it, let alone contemplate it.

I want out of here, just for now. Why didn’t I pick a seat at the end of the table? That’s exactly what the old me would have done. Sat there, nose, eyes and ears alert like a hunting dog, absolutely bristling with readiness. But nope, I was a typical boorish no-hoper, seduced into the deepest crevice of the booth by pretty ladies and their promises of champagne. What a sucker. I bet this was the plan all along.

I knew that when I got out I would enjoy certain elements of a normal life, and the little perks that being a regular joe can bring. That has clouded my judgement a little, and has hazed my ability to pursue my objective in a professional way. My subconscious is positively drunk on freedom that it is forgetting purpose and objectives. I keep getting sidetracked with the nuances my senses had been deprived of but somehow need.

I must remember - I am no regular joe. If I’m getting out this situation alive, which is unveiling ever more sinister, I need to be single-minded, cool, unbending and without hesitation. I put my champagne down, supposing that that’s a start.

‘I am very flattered, and I can almost certainly say that my answer will be yes. But my father always taught me to sleep on big decisions before I make them, even if my heart is set on it and there is no chance of it changing. Felix, will you grant me that tonight, in good faith?’

I’m gambling here that Felix is as much of a sucker of honor, respect and the romance of both of those things as he seems to be, and sure enough he begins to smile softly and nod.

‘Of course. Your clear-headedness and calmness is something I admire, and one of the many reasons I open the door to you in this way,’ says Felix. If only he knew about the backflips that are in such constant rotation in my stomach. I really want out now, and I stumble across an idea, which sees me rise.

‘Thank you, very much indeed. For the offer and the grace of a more considered response,’ I say. ‘I would like to buy everyone here a drink, as a small token of my own thanks, and there is to be no argument in the matter.’

If in doubt, ply with booze. Nobody can turn down a free drink. Nobody at all. Everyone smiles, even Leonard elicits a small cheer, and I slide out with the helpful movement of Michael and Felix. That has bought me some time, but how much remains to be seen.

‘May I come to the house tomorrow, to see you?’ I whisper to Felix as I go past him.

Felix likes that - that I have such respect for him already that I would seek a more private audience with himself. The man has hankerings for more archaic ways of doing business, and if I can massage such cliches to my advantage, I can keep everything copacetic for a bit longer.

‘Of course. Let’s aim for the afternoon,’ he says, patting me on the arm. I feel his fatherly pull, despite my mental discomfort in all other areas.

‘Thank you,’ I reply, ‘and thanks again. I’m a bit gob-smacked.’

Felix winks at me, a craggy eyelid flopping closed and open again, slow like a Basset Hound, his cheeks still the home of a languid grin.

‘Is it the same again for everybody?’ I ask out loud, hoping that it is, because I don’t know whether I could remember anything of an incoming order, and hope that the barman will already know. My question is greeted with affirmatives. Thank God.

I head for the bar, and take a deep breath. And another. And another, allowing the oxygen to reinvigorate me like smelling salts. It was like being in a shark cage back over there, except the sharks were actually in the cage with you, probing you, and trying to decide what they were going to do with you.

I arrive at the bar, and the barman approaches.

‘Same again,’ I say, hopefully.

‘No problem,’ he says. I have no idea how much that will cost me, but I don’t care. I’m just happy to be out of the booth.

As I stand and wait, I think of the goldmine of potential evidence I just have heard, and hope in the name of everything and anything Holy that the microphone in my inner jacket pocket has picked all that up. The small flash memory dictaphone feels OK in my underwear (kind of - although it does feel like I have an extra metallic testicle) and the wire seems intact. I ratcheted up the sensitivity of the mic as far as I could take it, so there may be a fair amount of static and rustle from my movements but that should be fine to get a decent enough recording.

It’s amazing what a trip to Argos will get you. I have tried this one once before, when I tried to rumble that loathsome waste Terry Masters. He spotted it a mile off, and made me pay for it big time. This time, I thought it would be worth another shot, considering I’m already classed as an insider, and last time I didn’t buy a dictaphone small enough to fit neatly alongside my nuts. I’ll send the whole lot to Jeremiah Salix, first thing in the morning, with a note detailing how to reach me.

My senses tingle momentarily, and I feel an approach from directly behind me.

‘That’s quite the offer, isn’t it?’ says the low female voice, and I glance left to see Carolyn join me at the bar, coming from the direction of the bathrooms. Instinctively, I look back to the booth, but everyone is engrossed in conversation. I turn back to her. The pensive apprehension is still there, and she seems wracked with nerves of her own.

‘I seem to have done something he approves of,’ I reply. I am suspicious of her, as I am suspicious of all of them. But there is something about her that I can’t pinpoint, a side to her that is buried beyond skin deep. She must have seen some things, as Michael Davison’s wife. I wonder what she used to be like, in the days before all this. Before Felix came along with all his trappings.

‘You are certainly flavor of the month,’ she says. ‘Keep it up, golden boy.’ Her words could be flirtatious, but her body language is anything but. She turns to go, and trips, loosing her heel in the process. I reach out to steady her, amazed that she is this tipsy already, but then I remember that her and Tina may have been here a while. She reaches for my outstretched hand, and bends to put her shoe back on.

‘Whoops! The bubbles, you... know how it gets...’ she says, but I feel it immediately. In my hand, between mine and hers. It is revealed by a tickle on my palm, then a dullness of my nerve endings across a small section of the skin, as something presses on them. A sliver of paper, or something similar. A ruse.

‘No, of course, it’s ok,’ I say, supporting her, while playing along. She corrects herself, and makes her way back to the table, suddenly surefooted.

I turn back to the bar, as my heart thumps in my chest. The drinks have started to arrive and I take my wallet out of my pocket, to get cash ready. I open it up, and reach in with my right hand - and drop a ripped-off corner of paper towel in alongside the notes. As I take out a sheaf of twenties, just before I close it, I see on the napkin, written hastily in biro:

‘Please help me’

20

I don’t sleep. Not a wink, all night. So much to do. A Santa Claus of preparation.

It’s 6.30am, and I am sitting in the Lexus at an unassuming office complex in Birchwood, watching a low mist rise spectral off a pond in front of the complex front door. Birchwood itself, on driving in, seems to be nothing more than a few blocks of houses interconnected by a series of roundabouts, all of which are completely dominated by the huge office centers that line the circular ring roads.

I’m waiting for the arrival of, well, anybody. I have placed a brown manilla envelope by the front door, labelled ‘F.A.O. Officer Jeremiah Salix’, for whoever next arrives to take in. It will probably go through the usual checks that packages at all governmental buildings go through, but it will pass with flying colors. Unlike myself - if I were to appear at the offices of a UK-based central intelligence network, the digital flags would certainly start waving. A residue of my previous life of associated misbehavior.

The night has been so fitful, and today has emerged as one that is so chock full of activity, that I need to be on it from the first moment. I would feel tired, but I’m too wired by the crackling charge of the impending figurative storm. Today is make or break, and I don’t want to mess nor miss anything.

My itinerary looks a little like this, although this is all subject to change. Now, it’s make sure the package gets inside. Next, I’ll head over to Jack’s to discuss the night before and the offer. Then, it’s Piccadilly Gardens to catch up with this Nigel guy, and find out what the skinny is there. If he’s the killer - and I will know, I’ll take him to Jack. Then Jack can decide what to do, as per his wishes. From there, it’s Zoe. Jack won’t like it, but I need to know what the deal is with her, and I need her to empty her brain into something I can use... for Jeremiah. By this point, he will have worked out whether I am genuine or not.

And then, of course, there is this seriously tricky issue with Carolyn Davison. No amount of staying awake could help me sort that one out, but it was the one that kept me awake and prickling lucid the most.

It could be so many things and I mull them over as I sit and watch the package on the office doorstep. It could be a ploy, a scheme to test my honesty and integrity. If I come to her all guns of chivalry blazing, they could tear me limb from limb for being swayed by fluttering eyelashes, and worse - one of their wives. If it’s not a ploy, and this woman has seen me has a beacon of hope, then that is just as dangerous. If I help her, and get caught doing so, I’m a traitor to the team before I even joined it. Retribution is sure to follow.

Whatever it is I decide to do, I must commit to it. I have no contingency for this, but my sense of duty precludes me from simply turning my back on her. If an innocent woman has been sucked into a situation that she can no longer see escape from, who am I to reject her?

But she may know something. Something valuable, juicy, and above all incriminating. She might know more than Zoe. And that unsettling situation with Zoe might be averted.

Everything is coming to a head. The Berg are waiting for an answer from me, the killer will get identified today, and this situation is fast approaching boiling point.

A security guard slowly opens the front door to the office complex, looking scruffily like an overnight shift is just coming to an end. He has an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth like a cancerous stalactite. The door is opened, and in flops the package at his feet. He takes it, shakes it, eyes it, then takes it inside.

I start the car, knowing that this day of days is properly underway. No turning back now.

*

The drive to Worsley is short, and almost pleasant, with the roads lightly frosted and empty. I listen to the radio for about a second, on Christ knows what station, but after a lengthy discussion about various celebrity’s Twitter feeds, none of whom I have heard of, followed by whatever happened on last night’s episode of Celebrity Love Triangle or something, I turn it off. Celebrity. Since when did everybody want to be so famous for doing so little?

I arrive in the cul-de-sac where the Brooker’s house is, and crawl to the end. There is a little monday morning activity, but not much. It feels alive here rather than looks it, with nice Sundays to get underway, families to visit, parties to begin, comfortable lives to lead. I park outside the house I am beginning to know rather well, and head up to the door and knock.

I don’t think Jack is going to like my being here so early. Maybe I should have bought him another domineering McDonald’s platter. I knock louder. Still nothing. I head around the back, wondering if gin and juice wake-up calls are part of some ill-advised daily routine. The back porch is empty. I peak through the kitchen windows. No lights on, nothing amiss. The fridge is back in place, in fact everything is in place.

The house is lifeless. Where could he be? I know I didn’t tell him to stay put or anything, but I thought that that would be a fairly logical assumption? Perhaps not. I hope he’s not got himself into trouble.

I begin worrying about Sparkles. About where Sparkles might be, and in turn, where Jack might be. I need some answers now.

*

I’m driving, arrowing into the city centre. I need to be here eventually anyway to see Nigel, but I want to head to the site of the Floating Far East to see if there is anything there at all to suggest Sparkles’ whereabouts, dead or otherwise. On the pavement as I enter the city, I see a grimy old BT pay phone and pull over. I am relieved to see that it is still working, and pop in a couple of fifty pence pieces. I enter the number that I have committed to memory only a few hours before - the NCA central switchboard, and the line is picked up almost immediately.