CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
DOMINIC MICHAELS RAN a recruitment advertising agency from offices located in a large Victorian pile in the centre of Manchester. The building had been recently renovated and the fresh paintwork and replastered colonnades suggested a wealth and stability rooted in history and the triumphs of Empire, though these days most of the companies renting offices had Arabic or Asian names. A board in the echoing marble foyer listed these companies and the floors they occupied. I rode up in a futuristic lift that announced my floor and swished open with a sound that wouldn’t have been out of place in Star Trek.
When I was shown into Dominic Michaels’ office it was getting dark outside; he was standing by a large window looking down on one of Manchester’s wide streets packed with slow-moving cars and buses. I wondered if he was one of those people who consciously made gestures that demonstrated their importance: here he was, the captain of industry, looking down on the struggling masses. I’d once had a boss who constantly pulled out his shirt cuffs below the length of his jacket sleeves, straightening them out. He seemed to think it made him appear smart in more ways than one.
Michaels was younger than either Rory or me, somewhere in his early thirties, and wore a dark pinstriped suit that seemed to flare out at the wrists and waist like something that might have been worn by an actor in a sixties TV show. It was probably a new Mancunian fashion that I hadn’t caught up with yet. He had a full head of elaborately sculpted black hair that sat above a relaxed and supercilious face that was almost handsome but not quite. He spoke with a London accent that was similar to Rory’s. I wondered whether they’d known each other when younger, in the wilds of south London.
Like many entrepreneurs I’d met, his listening skills were terrible. He’d forgotten nearly everything I’d said to him over the phone, so I had to go through it again. When I finished, he looked at me and said nothing for a while. He was jowly for someone so young, and his mouth hung slightly open when he wasn’t speaking, as though there were a half-chewed stick of gum occupying his lower jaw. He sat down behind a rosewood desk.
‘So tell me again who you’re working for,’ he said when I’d finished explaining myself. His eyes were steady as he scrutinized my face. He had a laptop open on the desk and he typed into it without looking at the keyboard. I felt myself become guarded.
I told him Brands had hired me but neglected to mention that I’d been replaced by a more expensive outfit. I got the long stare once more. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to work out what’s going on here. Rory is murdered and Tara is missing, and their company hires an investigator who’s then arrested himself for kidnapping her. I’m your average man in the street when it comes to these things, but it seems odd to me. Do you get my point?’
‘The police were following up what they thought were clues. They asked me a few questions and let me go. We’re on very friendly terms.’
‘I doubt that very much.’
I shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t you like to find out who murdered your friend?’
‘And you’re saying I should put money on you to do that before the police. Look at it from my perspective. Is that likely?’
‘Point taken, but it wouldn’t do any harm to talk to me, would it? I’m not asking you to say anything you wouldn’t say to the police.’
Now he lifted his arms, honest John, showing he had nothing to hide. I had a sudden vision of him standing on a stall and selling plates in a Saturday morning market.
‘You’ve got to understand where I’m coming from,’ he said. ‘My job here is to match people up with what they want. Clients tell me who they’re looking for. I go out and find them. I take a fifteen percent cut. It’s a straightforward transaction. Now this situation between you and me is just the same. At the end of the day, I’m giving you something for free and I need to know how you’re going to use it.’
‘So you want cash in return for what you know? That’s very cheap.’
He held up a hand, keeping at bay such a harsh and commercial thought. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea. At the end of the day, information is only worth what someone will pay for it—that’s true. But I’m not a mercenary man. I just want to understand what you get from this.’
‘A fee. Satisfaction in a job well done.’
‘Now you see, I understand that. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Getting paid for what you do in fair exchange. And, of course, doing a good job. My philosophy is that you can’t do better than that.’
‘Seems to me you’re trying to work out what commercial value the life of your dead friend has. Not much of a philosophy.’
‘That’s a bit harsh. At the end of the day you and me are going to have a conversation, aren’t we? I know that. You know that. I just need to get the rules of the road laid out so we both know where we’re coming from. When you’ve been in business as long as I have, you’ve got to make sure both parties to the deal know what they’re signing up for. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘If you say so. I just want to ask you some questions about Rory. I don’t want to enter a contractual arrangement with the party of the first part.’
He sat back, closing the lid of his laptop, and I suppose the look that passed across his face was dismay, as though I’d contravened some unspoken negotiating regulation. He appeared to give up on me.
‘Ask your questions,’ he said. ‘This is about trust, and if you don’t trust me we might as well do it and get it over with.’
I was too irritated to get into an argument with him. It was better to get what I needed and leave.
‘Did you see Rory in the last six months?’ I said. I had my notebook out to give the questions and answers a level of formality.
‘Three or four times,’ Michaels said. ‘He used to come in and we’d go out to Rusholme for a curry. He liked to try different places. And he liked the buzz. You know those places out there—neon paradise. Always heaving. If it was midweek we’d try to arrange it so we’d go to a match afterwards.’
‘Did he ever talk about business?’
‘Of course. Practically nothing else. We nearly worked together at one point. His consultants often helped companies to recruit. As I might have mentioned, that’s what we do here. But we couldn’t sort it out. At the end of the day, we place recruitment ads in the papers and do the occasional piece of executive placement. His consultants were working at a different level. Expensive level. His charge-out rates were phenomenal. My clients wouldn’t wear it.’
I wondered if this made him envious. ‘And what about Tara?’ I asked. ‘Did he ever talk about her?’
Michaels’ face took on a cunning look, as though he knew this was the vital fact and there should be some way of realising its value. The cool air in the room suddenly seemed quiet and tense. I saw calculations passing behind his eyes. But after a moment he breathed out and let his shoulders sag. He looked moodily towards the big office windows. ‘He was giving up on her,’ he said. ‘He hardly saw her. She was away as much as he was. It wasn’t a marriage—more of a joint venture. Right from the beginning. At the end of the day, they were both getting something from it, but it wasn’t romance, was it? They had their own ways of getting their jollies, you know. The relationship was all about winning. They both liked to win. I think romance was too ... out of control.’
‘Were they going to split up?’
‘Let’s face it, they already had. It started as a business relationship and they always go sour, don’t they? And as for the other side—Rory was pretty certain she had someone else tagging along in the background. And for all I know, so did he. He never said.’ For once he closed his mouth fully and edged a little closer across the table that separated us. ‘He thought he was being followed, you know. He hadn’t seen anyone, up close, but he knew they were there. He told me he felt the eyes. Looking straight through him. I know what he meant.’ He raised his heavy eyebrows, as though trying to astonish me with his insight. ‘It was true in his case, though, wasn’t it?’
/> ‘Do you think someone’s following you?’
‘For ages. Not everyone’s as trustworthy as I am, so I take care. The world of commerce is a jungle, you know. And that’s not just a fancy what-do-you-call-it, metaphor. There are predators, traps, slimy creatures and rats out there. You’ve got to keep your eyes open.’
I suddenly understood why he looked out of his office windows onto the streets below. He was Tarzan, safe in a tree house, safe from the dangers which bothered the rest of us. He must have led a very interesting life. In his head.
I asked him if he knew anyone who’d want to kill Rory Brand. He surprised me by giving it some thought.
‘Manchester’s a rough town,’ he said. ‘It was going to spill over to Waverley eventually. They can pull their lace curtains together but they can’t keep out the jungle.’
‘I’ll take that as a no.’
Michaels lifted both hands from the desk, raised them to his face and rubbed the flesh of his cheeks until they were red. He suddenly had the air of someone who was drained of ambition and bereft of answers to any of life’s questions.
‘In my experience, you don’t have to go far when there’s a big crime like this.’
‘In your experience?’
He shrugged, as though making reference to a hinterland of involvement in crime and illegality that I could never comprehend. ‘The police will tell you the same.’
‘You don’t sound hopeful.’
‘If that means I don’t trust people, you’re right,’ he said. A dark energy entered the corner of his eyes. ‘Knowing Rory, your best bet is to find the women. He was never discreet. They’ll know something.’
‘Is that true?’
‘As true as the fact that I’ve been taping this conversation. Just in case.’