His growing frustration was compounded by his inability to decide what else he might want to do with his life. The money was decent and the work well within his capability and it was all so? safe. He knew that was pathetic though and often he yearned to escape the tedium.
Turning on the television, he began to jump channels impatiently, finding nothing that held his interest for more than a few minutes. Then an advert for mobile phones caught his attention as he flicked channels again and he lazily placed the tea and the remote control down on the floor in front of him, looked around the room for his own mobile and spotted it across the room. Drawing himself up from the sofa he walked across to the corner of the room where his home telephone sat on a small stand and his mobile next to it.
Three missed calls.
His answerphone also displayed a large glowing red 1 on its tiny display.
First checking the mobile phone he found that two of the calls had been the automatic call-back function that let him know he had messages, of which, there was in fact just one.
'Mr Campbell. This is Michael Bellamy from the hospital. I'm just ringing this number too in case you missed the message on your home phone number but it is very, very important that you call me as soon as you can.' And he left a number.
Campbell slapped at the playback button on his answering machine, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands as he clenched them tight whilst the electronic voice crawled through the introduction and time of message.
Before the message finished playing, Campbell was already dashing through his flat to the toilet where finally he threw up and then threw up again, the hospital administrator's voice echoing through his head.
6
Monday. 7.30am.
Julius Warren picked up a paper napkin from the table and wiped the egg yolk from his chin. Across the table Keith Slater sat quietly finishing his own breakfast.
Warren placed a crisp ten pound note on the table and then found a five in his wallet and placed that on top.
'I've got these,' he said, his voice noticeably deeper than its usual pitch.
'Cheers,' said Slater. 'What's the time?' he asked as he belched quietly into his hand.
The polite gesture seemed out of place from a man whom Warren knew to be a very dangerous individual in the right - or wrong - circumstances. The man was full of contradictions.
'Far too early,' said Warren.
Slater regarded him coldly. He had made no secret of his contempt for the way Warren had handled the situation on Saturday night.
'It's half seven,' Warren said as he tugged his sleeve back over his wrist. 'Guess we should get cracking on round two.'
Slater was nodding his head. 'Yeah. Reckon George was right about leaving it last night. It would've looked too dodgy to keep snooping around on a Sunday, especially once the rain started like that. We aren't going to find him today, but we need to find out where he got to.'
'I s'pose. So where do we kick off then?' said Warren.
He already knew what they would be doing but he was trying to sound breezy, as if he wasn't bothered by Slater's sneering, as if he wasn't going to blame himself for the situation even if the others did. He ignored another look from Slater although Warren could feel his irritation rising already.
'Back to where we left him,' Slater said. 'Back to square one.'
An hour later they stood in a small alleyway staring at a section of the wall. Blood streaked across the top of the wall and splashed around the floor at their feet had caught their attention. Warren insisted that there had been much more, that the downpour the day before must have washed it away but Slater was nonplussed.
They all stood peering over the wall into the garden beyond.
'He went in there. Must have,' said Slater trying to see between the small gap in the curtains of the nearest window.
'Yeah but to get help? Call the Bill? Hide?' said Warren.
'Not the Bill or we'd have heard by now. Maybe to get help but that would probably have meant Old Bill again so probably to hide. In which case we may never hear from him again,' reasoned Slater. 'In which case, we'd better get moving. Make sure whoever lives here is at work or whatever and check the place out.'
'What if they aren't at work?' asked Warren.
Slater turned back and stared over the wall but he didn't say anything and Warren didn't press him.
7
Monday. 9.30am.
The offices of Griffin Holdings Ltd stand gleaming in glass and steel alongside The Great West Road in Hammersmith. Ten stories high, it stood not much taller than the small church next door but still made the older building look quaint and out of place in the changing environment.
Griffin Holdings Ltd occupied the top three floors of the building and had done so for almost four years. In that time, its Chief Executive, Andrew Griffin, had carefully rebuilt the company from the floundering mess he had found it in, back into a formidable reflection of its former glory. It traded now on the slogan that reflected its, long-known and hard-earned reputation: "anything, anytime, anywhere".
When he had assumed control of the operation it had just lost its two founding partners and figureheads, and with it its name and thus its identity. Griffin had been forced to take a robust approach to restructuring the company - with the departure of the previous owners contracts had been lost and as a result income was a dwindling commodity. Parts of the operation had become redundant and were starting to make losses rather than profit.
He had made difficult, unpleasant decisions that put men out of jobs; men who had been loyal to the company for many years and who left behind them close friends with whom Griffin knew he would still have to work and would have much to do to win over.
Property had been sold to raise cash but this had proved the easiest part of the rebuilding process as the property market remained high and they were able to realise some excellent returns on holdings that had been bought near the bottom of the market. Griffin had been lauded for this move which had at once streamlined an operation that was beginning to look decidedly flabby and inefficient and placed the balance sheet firmly back in the black.
That had been a simple way to finish his first year at the helm with the accounts looking deceptively favourable but the second year had been the struggle. The long hours and hard slog to win contracts against the fiercest of competition in a tightening marketplace, watching some of that effort come to nothing when they were awarded elsewhere. Trying hard to motivate an increasingly demoralised workforce with little cause for optimism. Griffin had had to take a very public pay cut in order to force through a salary freeze that year.
But now, after several years, Griffin Holdings Ltd was a name to be respected in the import and export industry. Which made the latest incident all the more frustrating for the CEO who stood now in his office, pacing the carpet and chewing his fingernails anxiously. No matter how often he turned to look at the telephone on his desk it staunchly refused to ring.
He was waiting for a phone call to report on exactly what it was that had happened that weekend. At three o'clock on the previous Saturday morning he had been roused from his bed by a telephone call telling him that there had been a break in at the company headquarters. From the soft warmth of his bed and his wife there in his Berkshire home the decision to stay put and deal with it later had appeared perfectly sensible. Burglars and stolen computers were an irritation, particularly in the middle of the night, but little more and in any case, they were insured.
He had made a cursory visit during the daylight hours the following day but he made it obvious that there was little that he could do and he contented himself with growling at the security people to make sure they locked up properly tonight.
Whether that decision would have changed anything there was no way of knowing. But it was becoming clear now that nothing so simple as a broken window and a few snatched PCs had gone on that weekend. There was precious little damage done and more ominously, nothing seemed t
o have been taken. Nothing tangible at least, nothing physical.
He had ordered that a quick inventory be done to see what had gone - was it computers they were after? Or had they come for the more valuable servers perhaps? Something else? So far, his staff told him, it seemed like nothing had been taken. Many of his subordinates, now frantically
checking through the offices and delegating his instructions down the line were optimistically chirping that perhaps they had been scared away somehow - by the alarm or the security people - before they could take anything.
Griffin had nodded his agreement with cheery positivity but was sure that wasn't true and the knot of tension twisting in his stomach was getting worse every minute that he waited and his phone remained silent.
Computers and furniture and other fixed assets were not the only saleable commodities to be found within the walls of Griffin Holdings Ltd.
Any idiot will tell you, Andrew Griffin thought to himself as he began to chew on a fingernail, that information is power.
8
Monday. 10am.
His weekend had taken a catastrophic turn at the halfway point, and things were not improving now. Ordinarily, a Monday out of the office would give cause for celebration, but so far he had spent an awkward hour in a police station, sweating his way through a statement, followed by an even more awkward ride back to his flat in a police car, to check the place out, and now this.
The two men who had dealt with him had done their best to deal with what they appeared to consider little more than an unfortunate accident in as swift and unflustered a manner as possible. It was clear enough that neither the Constable that had taken the statement nor the Detective Constable who'd driven Campbell back to the flat had wanted to make this into anything more significant. Campbell supposed that anything more sinister than an accident would be recorded as violent crime and nobody in authority would be keen to increase those statistics.
So he'd stumbled his way through the story, or what fragments he could recall. There was nothing in it that could imply or suggest any foul play, any dark motives, but he felt nervous and paranoid all the same. He worried that he was over-emphasising the point about not knowing the unfortunate gatecrasher, that he was protesting too much. But the other man seemed uninterested. He had paperwork that needed doing and he just wanted it done. He wasn't Moriarty and this wasn't Holmes. It was just a man doing a job that put a roof over his kids heads and food in their bellies.
The car ride made him doubt himself all over again. Repeating the story to the DC had him fretting over how he told it, like the man was subtly searching his account for inconsistencies.
When he opened the door to the flat he'd needed a moment to register what he was seeing.
Across his hallway lay a navy blue fleece sweater and a jacket, the lining torn.
His three foot tall yucca plant lay lengthways on the carpet beyond that, soil scattered around the broken pot it had once stood in, almost as if the fired clay had simply burst. The long thin leaves splayed out on the carpet, pointing like fingers to the living room at the far end of the hall.
It was there that most of his possessions were tossed and scattered about the floor.
A cold, cold breeze nipped at Campbell through the broken window at the far end of his home. He stepped slowly inside.
9
Monday. 10.30am.
Keith Slater was a heftily built man who stood six foot two in his socks and had a neck like a normal man's thigh. He was quiet and thoughtful a lot of the time, an extremely cold and efficient professional others and was exceptionally gentle with his own children of which there were four.
Aside from his imposing physique he had a soft face, pale blue eyes and sandy hair which he kept short, but not so short that it didn't need the attention of a comb each morning. He had a small tidy beard, was well groomed and never, ever wore anything other than jeans, except to funerals or court.
He had been married for nearly twenty years to a loving wife who made every effort to steer their children away from the same path their father had taken. Something that he himself actively approved of.
He was solid, dependable, loyal and occasionally very considerate. Which was why George Gresham liked him so much and why he was Gresham's number two. He was also a vicious, merciless individual when called upon and stood responsible for the deaths of several men, which was another reason Gresham liked him.
The two of them strolled together through a small park near Gresham's home sipping take-away coffee from a local caf?. Neither man was smiling.
'Nothing. At all. We never had too much time of course. That time of the morning, we had to get in and out quick,' Slater told his boss.
Gresham nodded. 'Fair enough. Not the ideal time to go kicking someone's door in really. Long as none of the neighbours clocked anything.'
'Nah. It's all bankers and their secretary girlfriends in Fulham and all wedged safely onto a tube or an office by that time. Anyway, we found sod all. There was blood on the wall where Jools says he did him, and we saw some blood on the steps by the back door. But frankly it could have been anything if you ask me. Nothing inside.'
'It wasn't an empty flat was it though Keith? I mean someone lived there?'
'Oh yeah. Jools had the DVD player away - make it look kosher. But no sign of what we were looking for.'
'And you were thorough?'
'Like I said, much as we could be.'
'Christ. Which means 'Not really George.' Was there an alley onto the street? A way past the house?'
Slater shook his head. 'No. Terraced houses. Just the back of the house and the neighbours gardens either side.'
Gresham looked his subordinate in the eye. 'He went in that house Slater. He knocked on the door and went right in that house. Whoever lives there knows something that we don't. And right now I'm not very comfortable with other people knowing more than me about my business.' Slater was nodding as his boss spoke. 'Keith, I think I'd like to have a few words with whoever it is lives there. I wonder if you'd arrange something?'
Slater's smile almost scared Gresham.
10
Monday 11am
After the initial shock and the effort to keep his composure in front of the policemen Campbell had walked through the flat, stepping over the mess, checking each room carefully before pointing dumbly to the large dust-free patch on the TV unit where his DVD player used to be.
'Mmn. Well sometimes they just grab what's easiest to carry off. No cash taken? Jewellery?' said DC Samuel, one of the officers who had accompanied him home to take a cursory look around.
Campbell shook his head. The policeman was not being condescending at all but he still felt like a child who'd lost a favourite toy getting a sympathetic word from an adult. 'Don't keep cash about the place,' he said and tapped his trouser pocket. 'Wallet.'
Making their way to the kitchen Campbell filled the kettle and pulled three mugs from the drainage board and dropped teabags into them. Scott, the other officer, asked Campbell if the man had been seen anywhere else that night. He shrugged as he struggled to remember.
'Like I said, just in here. I mean, someone said they saw him in here when they came to get a drink but not everybody knew each other. They paid him no attention. Then we heard the noise. You know...' He winced involuntarily as he heard it again, all too clear in his mind.
'Mm-hm. And no-one remembers letting him in then?' Scott asked.
Campbell shook his head silently.
'So I guess he must have come in this way?' the policeman went on, pointing at the door at the end of the kitchen that led to the garden.
'I guess.', he replied but he was distracted. 'Look, you don't think this has anything to do with?' he said and gestured with a slight nod at the mess of the break in.
Scott deferred to the senior man who paused for a moment and then shook his head. 'Bad coincidence I'd say on the face of it. They took the DVD, made a big bloody mess looking for cash, or just for a l
augh. It happens. But a nasty accident on Saturday night at your party and then you get burgled Monday morning during work hours? I think it's a long shot Mr Campbell. I wouldn't go looking for any conspiracy theories. I'd say you'd had enough worries to be going on with without creating all new ones. Now, mind if we have a peek at the garden?'
Soon afterward they had found a wallet; thirty pounds in tens, a Blockbuster card, various receipts, a ticket stub from the Chelsea match the Saturday just gone. And a driving licence. It had been in the bushes at the rear of the garden, up against the wall, hidden until a policeman's toecap had nudged the foliage aside in an almost token gesture at searching.
DC Samuel peered at the document as if it were some rare and ancient artefact. 'Anthony Cooper,' he read the name, enunciating carefully as if this was significant and Campbell looked from one policeman to the other trying to figure out if he ought to know who Anthony Cooper was.
Campbell had felt slightly panicked at the appearance of the wallet, suddenly fearing the focus of suspicion falling again on him but soon reason returned and was confirmed by the idle musing of the policemen.
'Drunk Chelsea fan hears party, climbs over wall, drops wallet in garden and can't find it in the dark...' Samuel had a distant look on his face like he was picturing it all.
'Or is too pissed to find it,' offered Scott.
'Mmm. Gives up looking, gets cold, gatecrashes party,' finished Samuel.
'?nicks more booze in kitchen, falls down drunk and gets a wine glass in the neck for his trouble. But of an overdose of karma,' Scott went on but quickly stopped himself when he saw Campbell wince once more.
'Mr Campbell, what happened here on Saturday was probably just a terrible accident and I am sorry you were involved. We had to come and have a look around as you can appreciate; someone has died.' DC Samuel spoke the words softly. 'But on the face of it?' the policeman shrugged. 'Accidents like this happen you know. I've seen plenty stranger than this. Plenty. Take comfort from the fact that you did all you could.'