The Dead Lie Down (Adam Lennox Thrillers: Book One) (4 page)

"What's going on John? What did the police want? I heard rumours about a body on
one of the ships?"

John glanced at Adam. "It's true. One of the crew appears to have slipped down a
companionway and broken his neck."

"Shit. We'll have Health and Safety all over us. Why did police want to speak to
you?"

Again John hesitated, and Adam got the distinct impression that the story was now
being carefully rearranged.

"I reported the death."

Brad
did a double take. "Why did you report it, surely the captain should have done
it?"

John seemed to make a measured response. "He did, but I was also on board at the
time. It was me that found the body."

Brad seemed to go very still and Adam got the impression that John was watching
Brad very carefully. Adam wondered what was going on. It was as if there was a
sub-plot being played out on stage in front of them.

"Tell me what happened." demanded Brad. Adam thought he could see John's face go
rigid momentarily.

"I came over from Holland with the Hermes. During the night I couldn't sleep and
left my cabin at around two to have a look around and stretch my legs. I was
passing through one of the lower decks when I heard a loud crash and went to
investigate."

There was a hesitation whilst a mouthful of brandy was dispatched.

"I eventually found a companionway door swinging loose at one of the forward
hold steps. I couldn't see very well but I could make out a body at the foot of
the companionway. I went to see if I could do anything but the light was out on
the stairs. I called the captain and we went down with a flash-light."

He paused long enough for Brad to prompt him. "And?"

"Man
was dead as a doornail. His neck was at a ridiculous angle and his eyes had a
look of death about them."

He hesitated, trying to gauge his audience's reaction of which there was little,
which seemed to disappoint him.

He then continued to recount raising the radio-operator and insisting that he
radio the port authorities in Harwich. When they had arrived in Harwich he had
been questioned at length before being allowed to return to London.

"And to cap it all when I arrive here the police are waiting, ready to accuse me
of murdering the man," he finished.

Something grated in Adam's brain but he couldn't decide what it was. He examined
a fingernail closely.

"Have they actually accused you?"

"No."

"That's a good sign. Did they actually say that they suspected foul play?"

"They said they're still investigating."

Adam hesitated. "Do you suspect foul play?"

John sat, mouth open, as if the words wouldn't come. "I don't know." Something
in expression worried Adam. he turned to Bel who had been standing quietly
keeping a low profile.

"Any thoughts?"

Bel, arms folded, almost made a face at being put on the spot. She shook her
head instead.

"On the face of it I don't see what the police have got to go on, so maybe they
were on a fishing expedition." She hesitated before continuing. "What worries me
is the speed of their reaction. Even if there was foul play, for the Harwich
authorities to contact the Met. and for them to approach John in such a public
manner and so soon seems an over-the-top reaction to me."

"Which means?" prompted Adam.

"Which means that they know something we don't," replied Bel.

They both turned to Bartlett, and Adam voiced their thoughts.

"I think you're right. It sounds like there's something going on that we don't
know about." He looked at John Bartlett and continued, "but unless there's
something that you're not telling me then as far as I can see you're in no
danger from the police. It's not as if you're without influence and they would
have to have a cast iron case to risk attempting to make an accusation stick to
such a high profile individual."

There was no response from John so Adam stood up. "If you want my advice then
co-operate with the police as much as possible. It'll count against you if you
seem to be holding something back. If they get around to formal accusations then
we'll deal with the adverse publicity as it happens."

They looked at each other for a moment before Brad's voice burst into the
silence.

"Don't get involved with the cops any more than you have to. The cops have
nothing on you but you should still keep out of their way for a while until it
blows over. Take a vacation, or even a business trip overseas. These cops get
their claws into you and they'll try to make something stick. Whatever, it won't
be good for the company."

Brad looked over at Adam, inviting him to contradict and Adam's instincts gave
in to his imagination. Something was going on here that he didn't like and that
he didn't want to be part of. He looked at Bel and then back to John.

"John, if there is something that you're not telling me, and something you don't
want to tell me then I can't help you. My advice is to tell the police anything
you know that might come out anyway."

John uncharacteristically looked unhappily at his feet and wouldn't meet Adam's
gaze. "I have nothing that will help them," he maintained.

"Tell it to the police anyway." The challenge in Adam's voice was unmistakable
but he was beginning to lose patience.

Now John looked up with an expression that reflected the weight of the world on
his shoulders and pleaded for help that he couldn't accept. "I can't."

Brad broke in, standing between them and facing John. "And you don't have to. It
wouldn't help anyway."

Adam's exasperation got the better of him. He met Brad's eyes but spoke to John,
quietly and evenly. "John. You can't run from this whatever it is. If you won't
play straight and face the consequences then I repeat, I can't help you."

John's face struggled with indecision and then he appeared to finally settle his
mind. He stood up.

"Then there is nothing more to say."

In that instant Adam made the decision.

"Fine."

He took one long look at John, trying to read his face, and then finally strode
out of the room slamming the door, which by good fortune was solidly built and
stayed on its hinges after all.

Waiting for the lift to come and for his blood pressure to drop he discovered
Bel at his side.

"John said to tell you to remember the dorm." She caught his sleeve. "Adam, what
did he mean? What's going on?"

Adam continued to watch the lift floor indicator. "To tell you the truth Bel, I
don't know, and you know something? I'm not sure I care."

He took a deep breath and turned to her as the lift arrived. "I'll be in
touch."

And with that he left the building.

Chapter 5

Gerry was on the phone dealing with a client when Adam arrived in the office.
Converted from an old laundrette it provided office space for Gerry, Adam and
their secretary/mother figure Clare, with enough room left over for some client
hospitality. There was even a small (emphasis on the small) studio where, push
come to shove, they could handle some simple photo shoots.

The decor, smart and simple, attempted to be fashionable if you didn't look too
closely. It was rather like a film set, which was as authentic as possible until
you went behind the facade. If you sniffed carefully you could still smell damp
laundry. As a business their only way was up.

Clare
was at her desk, diet milk shake half empty, 'in lieu of lunch you understand'.
She was retired from a civilian job with the police. No-one had ever managed to
uncover exactly what she did with the police, but as she was a very amply
proportioned lady and she made the coffee, nobody pushed it. It wasn't worth the
risk in Adam's view. You never know what you might get in your mug. Behind her
the wall was covered with certificates for rifle shooting and dog-training. When
Adam had enquired at the original interview about her hobbies he had been amused
by the combination until she revealed that the rifles were high velocity
marksman and the dogs were Dobermans and Alsatians. He sat up and took notice.
This was not a lady to be messed with.

Clare looked up over the rim of her reading glasses. "What was JB's problem
then?" Clare had a habit of calling everyone by initials. Probably an equality
thing but it made for some interesting faux pas and turned some conversations
into guessing games.

Adam made a face. "I don't know. For some reason he wouldn't tell me the real
cause."

"That sounds like JB." She hesitated. "Bump into Bel by any chance?"

"Yes."

"How are things between you two."

Adam stopped flipping through the pile of mail he was holding and looked
up. "Still awkward. She still hates me you know.
She's never forgiven me for taking away her best friend."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Sure I'm sure. She gave me the cold shoulder as soon as I started going out
with Fran. We'd been good friends up until then."

"And after Fran died?"

"I
suppose things eased up a tad. There still seems to be a common bond in Fran's
memory, as if our contact is somehow keeping her alive in some way, but every
time we meet it's painful." Adam Lennox, psychoanalyst extraordinaire. He
recounted to Clare the conversation in Bel's office.

"Ouch." Clare paused. "She's right you know."

Adam raised a finger. "Don't you start."

Clare raised her arms in mock surrender. "Okay, turn into a martyr, see if I
care, just don't do the long face thing, it doesn't suit you."

She returned to the computer, leaving Adam slouching in the guest chair, fingers
steepled in front of his face, lost in thought but ill at ease.

His meditation was broken when Gerry's head appeared round the door of his
office waving his hand for attention.

"I've got 'Houses for the Homeless' on the phone, wanting to know if we can set
up a charity parachute jump to raise funds and create some publicity."

"When do they want it arranged for?" asked Adam.

"Third weekend in September," replied Gerry.

Adam thought briefly. "Tell them we'll do it."

Gerry hesitated. "We do it for free again?"

Adam nodded. "It's the least we can do."

Clare
and Gerry exchanged glances before Gerry disappeared briefly to give their
answer. When he reappeared in the main office Adam went into business
mode.

"Clare, who did we use last time?" he asked.

A
swift reference to a vast desk diary provided the answer.

"We used North Weald last time. I'll ring them in the morning and see if they're
available."

"Make sure that they get the landing zone right this time," said Gerry. "Last
time they landed somewhere where the photographers couldn't get at and caused us
no end of aggro."

Clare grinned. "I'll check it out. Who's going to do advertising?"

Gerry raised a hand. "I'll sort that. Who's going to cover it on the day?"

Adam cast a look around the assembled company.

"Don't look at me," protested Gerry, shaking his head with enthusiasm. "I'm
taking Joan to Paris that weekend."

Adam did an impersonation of a fish out of water as his jaw dropped to
floor.

"Gerry. You're frightening me. What have you done with the selfish partner I had
who needed a map to get to the kitchen sink."

"Wiseass," replied Gerry in his worst American accent.

"Seriously Gerry," said Clare in disbelief. "You're taking your wife to
Paris?"

Gerry raised his hands in surrender. "Okay. Okay. I give in. She threatened to
throw out my 70's Rock collection."

Adam adopted a look of abject horror. "Not the Cream and Zeppelin?"

Gerry looked downcast. "Tull, Genesis, Floyd, the lot."

Adam, with a great deal of dramatic flair got up and put his arm around Gerry,
and attempted to maintain a serious face with mounting difficulty.

"You're obviously under a great deal of stress and I understand entirely.
Consider yourself out of the running."

He turned to Clare who was already shaking her head. It was unclear whether it
was in pity at the charades going on in front of her or not.

She held up the diary in her hands. "That weekend I'm at Bisley for the Olympic
trials."

Adam looked crestfallen and put on his best game-show host voice.

"Can I tempt you with double time?"

"No."

"
A cheese grater with juicer attachment?"

"Uh uh." A firm shake of the head.

"A four burner barbecue with spit roast?"

Clare
entered into it. "Golly Adam that's so tempting." She chewed a fingernail to
give the impression she was actually considering it.

There was a long pause.

"Do you want to phone a friend?" enquired Adam. "Perhaps even ask the studio
audience? I'm going to have to hurry you now."

Clare, in danger of getting the giggles shook her head. "No."

Adam, disappointed that his fine acting skills hadn't had the desired effect,
adopted funereal tones. "Can I take that as your final answer?"

Clare replied with an emphatic "Yes".

Adam folded his arms in resignation. "Then I guess it's me," he conceded.

Hey. It wasn't as if he had a social life anyway, he decided. Not since Fran
died anyway.

She was gone. He slumped on
the stairs. His hoarse voice crying out her name. But there would never be an
answer. The distant echoing voice from the man in blue...'didn't
suffer......driver didn't stop......ambulance called from offices' but the words
failed to penetrate the shell of grief. Pulse raced, brain stalled, pain
engulfed him as he fell into an abyss of emotional despair.

Her
coat on the peg, her shoes by the door, but her sound, her touch, her smell,
her presence were all gone. For the second time in his life he wished he had
died as well.