ALTERED LIFE
KEITH DIXON
Semiologic Ltd
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“Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life!”
Dickens, A Christmas Carol.
CHAPTER ONE
I WISH I COULD say that the first time I met Rory Brand I knew he was a dead man walking.
But I can’t.
At that moment he was just another client eager to get me on his side.
‘Dyke, thanks for coming,’ he said, pumping my arm vigorously. I didn’t want to be outdone, so I matched the strength of his grip and watched him react with a swift competitive grin.
‘Nice grip,’ he said.
‘Call me Sam,’ I said.
He was a stocky man a head shorter than me with cropped dark hair peppered with grey. His actions were purposeful and confident, his body language practised at being in charge. He had vitality and life, like most entrepreneurs I’d met. He closed the door behind me with a casual swipe of his arm, then directed me into the room, a small airless office with two large windows and chairs either side of a wooden table. I had the sense that he was used to people doing what he wanted. Well that wasn’t going to work with me—not without a good retainer anyway. ‘I hope we can get one thing straight right now,’ he said. ‘Rumour’s a bastard in this business so nobody else is to find out we talked, is that clear?’
‘I agreed to that yesterday,’ I said.
‘So call me paranoid. I don’t care. You obviously have more faith in people than I do.’
His manner suggested that my opinions of humankind were in fact of no interest to someone as important as he was. So I said nothing. I looked out of the window at the blue rooftops of Waverley, wondering what it must be like to live in a place where your only concern was which colour carpet to lay in the loft.
‘Did Carol offer you a drink?’ Brand asked.
‘I’ve drunk enough coffee to float a yacht, Mr Brand,’ I said. ‘Before I sit down, I should tell you how it works. I ask for four hundred a day, plus expenses, with a non-returnable advance of two thousand. I have a standard contract we can work to, but I’ll understand if you don’t want to put anything in writing. I can give you a full receipt at the end of the assignment.’
He laughed, an open-mouthed and full-chested affair, his eyes turning up slightly at the corners as if astonished by his own response.
‘Four hundred a day?’ he said. ‘You’re joking. I’m a management consultant. I wouldn’t get out of bed for that. Here’s some consultancy for free—put up your rates or people will think you’re crap.’
‘They’ve had nothing to complain about so far,’ I said.
He looked interested. ‘I asked around but nobody knew how to get hold of a private investigator. I had to find you in the phone book. Struck me we could help you with some marketing. That box in the Yellow Pages can’t get you much business.’
‘It got you,’ I said stiffly.
‘Christ on a bike,’ he said. ‘Where’s your ambition? I’d never have built up this business with that attitude. You’ve got to think big just to stand still in my line of work.’
Irritated by his willingness to tell me exactly where I was going wrong with my life, I took out my notebook and headed a fresh page. I don’t know whether it’s their own guilt or a belief that in some way they’re morally superior, but some clients try to pull rank. I gave a mental sigh and hoped that Rory Brand wasn’t going to be one of those difficult customers who wanted me to do something he didn’t have the guts to do himself, then give me a hard time for not doing it properly.
I said, ‘I’m flattered by your interest in my career prospects, but that’s not why I’m here, is it? You wouldn’t tell me what you wanted on the phone. So how about we get down to it now?’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Fair enough. This company is mine. Named after me. You know what it’s like – you have to call your company something, don’t you?’
‘It helps people find you in the Yellow Pages.’
‘Good point, well made. I set it up with my first wife, Gill, seven years ago. We started in north Manchester then moved here shortly afterwards. Hey – is this what I’m supposed to do?’
‘What?’
‘Spill my guts while you write it down.’
‘It’s traditional.’
‘OK. So what else can I tell you? We’re in management consultancy. Rather like your line of business—helping people who can’t deal with things by themselves. As you can tell, I’m quite passionate about my business. Can you understand that, Sam?’
‘You don’t have to sell to me, Mr Brand.’
‘Oh that’s right. You need to keep a professional distance, don’t you? Well the end of that particular story is that out of the blue, Gill left me for Australia and the sunshine of Bondi Beach and I haven’t seen her since. I can’t tell you what a blow that was. She’d been shoulder to shoulder with me and I just didn’t understand what went wrong. Still don’t.’
‘Divorced yet? Or just long-distance lawyering?’
‘The whole hog. Divorce with a bullet. A year after she left I married Tara. Lovely girl. Could sell teeth to crocodiles. Works with me in the business as sales director. I know what you’re going to say—there was only a year between Gill leaving me and Tara coming on board, but I don’t like living alone. I’m a gregarious person, Sam. I don’t like going home to an empty house. You don’t have to write that bit down.’
First rule they teach you in private eye school: Clients always want to give you context. Usually more than you need at the first stage. And I’d met enough of Brand’s type to guess what was coming—something about a pre-nup, or perhaps he wanted me to talk to some woman who was giving him grief, perhaps an old flame who was on the verge of self-combusting and ruining his new marriage with tiresome revelations about his sexual proclivities. To some people in my line of work, rich businessmen were a never-ending source of funds based on marital distress. Personally, and despite the potential increase in my cash flow, I couldn’t take the work, but for the moment I was here and, almost despite myself, listening.
‘So you’ve got a good business,’ I said. ‘You’re making loads of money and don’t get out of bed for less than four hundred a day. What do you need me for? I told you on the phone that I don’t bodyguard the rich and famous.’
He leaned over the table and stared at me with eyes that were as still as a hawk’s, and about as friendly. ‘Consultancy’s a dog-eat-dog business, Sam, with everyone scrabbling for money from the same pot. The competition fries your eyeballs after a while. Gotta win, just to pay the rent and the photocopying bills.’
‘I only had to look around here to see your life was tough.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I love it. Gets my juices going when we win a bid. Nearly better than sex.’ He stood up, as if he couldn’t bear to be imprisoned by gravity. Then he turned and leaned over the desk again and his eyes darkened. ‘But we’re developing a secret weapon,’ he said. ‘And there are some people who can’t stand that. They’re coming after me and my business. They’re trying to steal it—with both hands.’