Authors: Gordon Brown
I took the tube across town - still busy with late
workers and night shoppers - before exiting at Bank. This afternoon I had
turned left at the top of the exit - this time I turned right. The light was
fading and the streets were quiet. Office lights were on all around me and the
bulk of the city work force had split for the day.
I found
Lloyds
Avenue
. It was short and unobtrusive.
Not off the beaten path but certainly near the verge. I walked down the right
hand side and scanned the few doors that there were. I completed the trip and
repeated the walk, scanning the other side. I came up blank. I started again
but this time I walked up to each door regardless of what the wall plaque, or
sign outside, read.
About half way down there was a double door entrance. The
reception area beyond was small and functional but the building had the feel of
quality. The sign outside read ‘Cranchester Aggregates plc’.
At the back of the reception, unmanned, was a list of
the divisions and which floor they occupied. Most were a variation on Cranchester
- Cranchester Equipment, Cranchester Haulage and so on. Right at the top, the
style of sign writing changed.
All the bottom floors were written in simple capital
letters - each in the same typeface. The top one differed in two ways. Firstly
there was no letters and secondly there was a picture of the King of Hearts and
the Ace of Clubs.
I pushed at the door and found it locked. There was a
buzzer on the wall but I left it be. I placed my face up against the glass and
squinted to get a better view of the sign but at this distance my eyes couldn’t
focus. Even so I was sure I had found the office. Now I just had to get in.
I stepped down the stairs and ducked out of sight from
the reception. There was a CCTV in the lobby pointing at the door and I didn’t
need to advertise my presence anymore than I had to. I waited on the off chance
that some one was working late.
I heard footsteps behind me and I ducked down,
pretending to tie my shoe laces.
A pair of shapely legs glided by and turned up the
stairs. I stood up and walked behind the owner of the legs. She took out a
plastic fob and waved it below the buzzer; there was a click and she pushed the
door open. I stepped forward and held it open for her. She stopped and looked
at me.
‘I’m looking for King to Ace? Is this the right
building?’
‘Top floor but you are supposed to use the buzzer.’
‘Sorry I didn’t know.’
‘There’s another buzzer on the reception desk. Donald
is on night duty. If you press it he’ll come. He might take a while but he will
come - the buzzer is linked to his walkie talkie.’
‘Can’t I just go up and see them?’ I said pointing at
the sign on the top of the board.
‘No. They have a key for their floor. Without it the
lift won’t go up that far.’
‘Thanks.’
She walked to the lifts and I stopped at the
reception. I waited while she got in and, as the doors closed, I walked towards
the fire stairs at the rear of the lobby. I had no intention of calling Donald.
A quick look at the board confirmed King to Ace were
on the seventh floor. I pushed open the door to the stairs and began to climb.
I was certain that the fire exit to the seventh floor
would not open from the outside but with a bit of manipulation fire doors can
be opened.
Six floors later and I was breathing heavily. I had
met no one on the staircase and now a pair of fire doors lay between me and the
next flight of stairs. It didn’t look too legal to me. Why place a set of doors
on the fire escape? To my left was the exit to the sixth floor. I opened it and
looked in.
The whole floor was carpeted in thick wool - not cheap
and not very practical. I suspected the sixth floor was the domain of the
privileged few that ran Cranchester Aggregates plc.
Beside the lift doors there was a glass panel and
glass door. Beyond this was a series of doors running off a corridor. The
corridor was dark and there were no lights from the offices. I closed the door
and turned my attention to the double doors that blocked my way to the next
floor.
The fire doors had no handles and I suspected they had
push bars on the other side to allow people out in an emergency. I tried to
prise my fingers into the gap between the doors but they were tight to each
other and a metal plate, that ran from floor to ceiling, covered the gap
between the doors. The locking mechanism that sprang the doors when you pushed
the bar was hidden from sight behind the metal plate.
I took out my tool kit and selected a small strip of
metal that had a bend at right angles about two inches from the end. I slid the
bent part behind the metal plate and ran it down until it met resistance. I
left it hanging there and took out another strip of metal - this time with no
bend - and inserted it below the bent piece of metal and pushed up until it
stopped. Holding the straight piece steady I pulled down sharply on the bent
strip and there was a click. I pulled at the door with the bent metal strip and
it opened.
Grabbing the door I pocketed the two small jimmies and
slipped through the gap, pulling the door behind me.
As expected the stairs continued up and, two flights
later, I was faced with a gunmetal grey door. I turned the handle and the door
gave. Beyond the door lay the lobby that serviced the solitary lift and beyond
this there was another door.
This time the door was a solid wood affair polished to
within an inch of its life. The wooden door sat in a large panelled frame and
there was no way to tell if there were lights on beyond it.
I crossed the lobby and glanced at the numbers that
sat above the lift door. Fortunately the letter G was lit. No one was on the
way up.
Surprisingly the wooden door was unlocked and I pushed
it open to find a narrow corridor that opened into a small vestibule. To the
left of the vestibule sat a desk. Behind it two glass doors dominated the wall.
I entered the corridor and crossed to the desk. Apart
from a phone and a computer terminal it was bare and I turned my attention to
the doors.
The darkness suggested there was no life and my
planned encounter with Dupree was looking like a busted flush. I tried the
glass doors and they opened.
The lack of security spoke of confidence or stupidity
or…
Light flooded around me and a hand from behind pushed
me into the room. I went flying across the floor and fell to the ground. Before
I could react someone dropped on me from on high and the wind rushed from my
lungs. My arms were pulled behind my back and I was lifted up and pressed
against the far wall. Hands searched me and pulled out the small knife I had
hidden in my socks. My tool kit was extracted and both were tossed to one side.
Next I was thrust sideways and down into a chair.
The attacker stayed behind me the whole time. Once in
the chair he reached round my neck with his forearm, pulled back and my throat
started to close up. I tried to struggle but the attacker was strong as an ox
and held firm. I felt panic set in just before he eased off and I sucked like a
good one. He paused for a second and then repeated the treatment.
A door at the other end of the room opened and one of
the men from the photo in Inca walked in.
‘The boss will see you shortly.’
With this he turned heel and left. My attacker eased
off but kept a firm grip and there was little I could do but wait.
Ten minutes later the door opened again and the photo
man appeared again.
‘Bring him.’
The arm around my throat was removed and my left arm
was pushed up my back - forcing me to stand up. The attacker frog marched me to
the door and through.
The light in the room was dim and the atmosphere
carried a faint scent of something sweet. The decor was lavish and some
familiar objects littered the space. I spotted the globe that Giles had been on
about and I wondered how it had got here. There was a painting on the wall of a
man in full military parade uniform standing in front of a set of iron gates
that guarded a large stately house in the distance.
To my left there was a long sleek marble table and at
the end was a man sitting in a high-backed leather chair. The chair was turned
away from me and I could hear the sounds of fingers on keys. The glow of a
computer screen leaked from around the chair.
The attacker walked me to the other end of the marble
table and sat me in the only other chair in the room.
‘It’s ok you can leave,’ said the voice from behind
the leather chair.
The men left - my mouth opening wide as the chair
turned and the voice and the face came together.
‘Martin?’
He smiled and pushed back in the chair.
‘What the hell are you doing here? Where is Dupree?’ I
said.
He smiled again.
My head went into carnival mode as I tried to figure
out what the hell was going on. Martin just kept grinning. Like the cat that
got the cream AND the fish from the fish tank AND the bird that had always got
away.
‘What…’
I trailed off.
Martin sat forward.
‘Drink?’ he said.
I didn’t respond but he still got up and pressed at a
panel in the wall. A door popped open revealing a well stocked drinks cabinet.
He poured two large measures of Ardbeg 18 year old into two odd shaped glasses.
He handed me one glass.
‘The Glencairn Glass’ he said, pointing to the glass
in my hand. ‘Odd that no-one ever thought to design a glass for whisky over the
centuries. Brandy has its balloon, wine a goblet, sherry a sherry glass,
champagne a flute but whisky never has had a glass designed to bring out the
best in the liquid.
A small company in
Scotland
hit on the idea and created the glass in your hand. A
small base to keep your hand away from the whisky - that stops you heating it
up, it’s made of crystal so you can hold it up in to the light and see the
colour of the liquid and it has a tapered mouth to focus the aroma. Clever
really - a bit odd looking but a smart piece of thinking.’
He returned to his seat and began sipping at the
whisky.
I was still speechless.
‘Not like you to be so quiet,’ he said.
‘Martin what the fuck is going on? Is this not
Dupree’s office?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘So where is he?’
That stupid grin reappeared.
‘Bloody stop that and tell me what’s going on?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. Where is Dupree?’
‘Have you ever seen Dupree?’
‘Of course I have. Now where is he?’
‘Have you ever talked to him?’
‘Not as such.’
‘Do you know much about him?’
‘What is this? Twenty questions? Where is he?’
‘Dead.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Dead.’
‘When?’
‘Fourteen years ago - give or take.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘Cross my heart.’
The bastard couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be dead for
two good reasons.
Firstly he had been running the show since I was put
in prison and secondly no bastard that I wanted that much dies on me before I
could kill him. Christ, he had been keeping me in check since I got out. He
had…
I looked at Martin and things became a little clearer.
‘There never was a man called Carl Dupree,’ I said.
The smile was back.
‘Go on,’ he said
I shuffled uneasily.
‘There was never a Carl Dupree? Is that right?’
‘Not quite, but you are on the right track.’
‘You?’
A smile.
‘You.’ I said again. ‘There is no Dupree and you are
sitting here. You are sitting in Dupree’s seat.’
‘Keep going.’
‘No Dupree. Then it was you…’
‘Keep going.’
The bastard was going to split his cheeks if he
grinned any harder.
‘It was you all along?’
‘Well done. Give the man a cigar.’
The floor seemed to slip and I had to grab the table to
stop falling to the floor. Martin was behind it. Behind it all. I felt sick -
deep down sick.
I stared at the table trying to get my thoughts in
order.
‘Why?’ I stammered.
His smile widened. I didn’t think it was possible, but
he found a few more millimetres of curl in his lips.
‘You figure it.’
I had a feeling that the last thing I wanted to do was
figure it all out. I tried to unscramble my head and what emerged was not a
sweet place in anyone’s language.
‘You ran the whole show?’ I said. ‘You did it all?’