OUT OF TIME
Artimus Crane (Book #1)
By
Steven Allinson
Copyright © Steven Allinson 2015
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Original publication date – 7st June 2015
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To find out more about the author and his upcoming works, please visit
www.stevenallinson.co.uk
Chapter 1
Ode to Him
St. James’ Park underground station heaved with the flowing masses of commuters another day in London brought, as Neil Townsend made his way into the early spring haze.
Neil’s mind was elsewhere as he crossed Broadway, shuffling inside the Starbucks on the corner. He checked his watch as he waited for his latte, the interview still forty-five minutes away.
Locating the only free chair in the building, he took up a seat against the window, folding the tabloid lingering there neatly in half and rubbing his hand softly over the delicately placed pages to straighten the top.
Neil loathed disorderliness, and sitting in a crowded coffee shop did nothing for his OCD. As he sipped at his beverage, turning the cardboard heat cover so the glued edge was perpendicular to the spout, he absently checked the edge of his nails.
Removing his file from his pocket, he proceeded to remove an irritating imperfection in the graceful arc of one, careful not to reduce the nail’s length too much to achieve the desired curve.
Satisfied with his work, he placed the file back in its holder. The last thing he needed was an annoyance like that bothering him.
Today, more than any day of his life, what he really needed to do was remain calm. Moreover, he needed to distance himself from the events that had conspired to deposit him in his current situation, and forget who had put him here.
Born in the late seventies, and being half-Caucasian and half Afro-Caribbean, Neil’s childhood was not easy; especially against the backdrop of the riots that plagued where he lived during his early life. Racism was rife, and the abuse that rained down from both sides due to his mixed ethnicity was a constant source of worry for both his father and his mother.
Neil’s mother came to the UK in the sixties. Born and raised outside Bridgetown in Barbados, her family moved lock-stock-and-barrel to Brixton, back when the area still held the promise of opportunity. His father ran a stall in the local market and his mother met him on her many trips there for the family shopping.
Schooling in Brixton was not what anyone could call extensive and soon his studies began to suffer. However, through it all, his parents stood by him; spurring him on to achieve his dreams and achieve them, he had. It was their steadfast devotion to his wants, no matter the turmoil around him, which made him the man he was today. If they were still alive, he could only imagine their disappointment. Everything was about to come crashing down, and all because of the actions of another.
Neil drove the thoughts from his mind as he took another gulp of coffee. The past was the past and there was nothing anyone could do to change it. He smiled as he replaced his drink back on the counter. That statement, as he now knew all too well, was almost correct.
As if challenging his need for peace, a young woman to his left began to argue with a man at least ten years her senior. Try as he might, Neil’s instincts would not let him ignore the voices, and he impulsively began to filter out the background chatter.
It appeared the man had been out of town on business for some time and had once again failed to ring the woman whilst he was away. The young girl, probably only just out of university, said it was the last time she would be putting up with his ignorance. The man, in deference to his situation shrugged as the woman lambasted his apathy.
Interest piqued, Neil turned and looked the man over. He was relatively handsome, with a wide jaw and light stubble counterpointing his blue eyes. His choice of wardrobe was casual, but it was clear it was specifically chosen to look that way. He wore blue jeans with a tight-fitting cotton T-shirt to throw his muscular frame into sharp relief, and on his feet were a pair of relatively new trainers that were conspicuously youthful for a man in his early thirties. His hands, although stained around the left index finger with what looked like creosote, were relatively free from scars, so a professional job, rather than a mechanical or decorative one would be probable. That also explained the man’s physique.
In Neil’s experience, a person who laboured in their working life tended to carry upper body strength, but eat poorly meaning a six-pack was unlikely. This man’s physique was therefore derived from sessions in the gym. He looked at his eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of dull reflection; there was none. Thus, no contact lenses.
Neil tried to turn away, to leave behind the incessant teachings he had poured forth, but found he could not. Whatever malady he managed to produce could no longer be controlled.
Neil returned to gazing out of the window. He put no effort into the act, but used the switch in focus to zone out; to grant his mind the chance to review the information collected. Free money for relatively expensive clothes, job that requires lots of travel, gym membership presumably used whilst away, and a want to look younger than you are. This was a tricky one.
Neil tried to pick out labels on the clothes: Armani shirt, Hilfiger jeans, and Von-Dutch trainers. These were not just moderately expensive items they were premium ticket. No visual impairment took the chances away from IT consultant, and probably left the man in banking, maybe even one of the big three. On top of this, the man’s actions were relaxed, especially for such an ear bashing; many of the patrons around the pair beginning to throw disdainful looks in their direction as the accusations continued. Therefore, he was used to pressure and being able to coerce people to his desires. That left stock trader, or financial consultant.
Happy with his deductions, Neil continued to listen as the woman’s ire continued to rise in intensity.
The young woman delivering the accusations was probably twenty-two, with clean skin, fresh make-up, short skirt trailing to firm legs, flowing blonde hair, and a pink shirt tied across the waist to show off both her slim waistline and ample bosom. Neil glanced at her hands, each nail a perfection of colour and design. She was a beautician, no doubt about it.
What was a thirty-something stock market analyst doing with a beautician? Sure, those sorts of men slept with these girls, who would turn the opportunity down, but to date one? What sort of conversations would they have? The woman was good looking, but she was not outstanding. So, why would he waste his money? His actions were not those of a man in love, they were of a man who was using someone. For what? Sex? A single man of his age and wealth could have any number of one-night stands and…
Neil grinned knowingly, sipping the last of his coffee and checking his watch; it was time to leave. He stood, glancing at the man once more to confirm his suspicions, before purposefully nudging into him.
“Oh, please accept my apologies. I hope you didn’t spill your drink.” said Neil, smiling as inanely as he could.
“Just watch where you’re going jackass.” said the man, almost growling.
“Calm down Tom.” said the woman, placing a comforting hand on his thigh. “No harm done.” she continued, smiling back at Neil.
“It’s fine. I imagine it must be difficult for you at the moment, what with the divorce.” said Neil.
“We’re not divorced.” said the woman, laughing nervously and blushing.
“Oh,” said Neil, not taking his eyes from the man, “I know you’re not, but he is.”
The man’s scowl deepened at the comme
nt, his fists clenching.
“He’s not divorced either.” said the woman, casting a worried glance in the man’s direction. “Are you Tom?”
“No.” said the man, not moving his glare from Neil.
“That answers that then.” said Neil, nodding. “Your left hand’s ring finger looks like it has a creosote stain on it, but now I know it’s actually been deliberately placed there to cover where a wedding band usually sits, to hide any visible change in skin tone. If you’re not divorced I’d therefore assume that those shoes, which no sane heterosexual man would ever buy himself, were a present from somebody within the last month or so.” Neil turned to the woman. “When is Tom’s birthday by the way?”
“It was last week.” the woman stumbled, shock beginning to creep across her face.
“Nobody buys someone a pair of trainers for their birthday, especially that particular brand, unless they are a close family member and have a want to see someone dress younger. It makes sense therefore, that we are talking about someone with a keen eye that knows Tom well and has a desire to see him looking good. If you didn’t buy them, and what self-respecting girlfriend buys her lover Nazi trainers, then we are talking about a spouse.” Neil allowed his smile to spread as wide as it could, as he watched the colour drain from the woman’s face. “He’s not away at work four nights a week, I’m afraid. He’s at home with the wife and kids. He can’t risk having a string of affairs because eventually he might piss the wrong woman off and she might track his family down. Therefore, he chose a single target carefully, someone whom he thought would be happy to be treated like shit. This isn’t your first crap boyfriend is it?” When no response was forthcoming, Neil nodded to the pair, the man’s rage visible in his red cheeks and narrowed eyes. “I’ll leave you to finish your chat in peace then.”
Without another word and with most of the surrounding tables now in stunned silence, Neil exited the building and dodged his way across the street.
Reaching the far side, his brisk walk began to slow as the dawning realisation of what he had just done hit home. He stopped, catching himself with a grimace. What had he done to him? There was a time he would only notice things when he wanted to. Now, his mind flitted constantly, taking in every drop of every situation, and impulses, things he would never have allowed to control him, now plagued his every act. He would never have humiliated anyone in that manner if it were not for him. That was exactly the sort of thing that had brought him to today and he was responsible for all of it.
As he approached the large, security-patrolled gate that led to his office, he could hear a raised voice approaching from his rear.
“Oi!” the voice bellowed. It was the man from the shop. “Oi, dick-head! I want a word with you.”
Neil stopped before the security barrier, as the man stomped up to confront him.
“You smug git!” the man shouted, stepping to face Neil toe-to-toe. “I’m going to wipe the stupid bloody smile of your smarmy bloody face!”
The man reached forward and grabbed a handful of Neil’s suit jacket, extending his other arm out and preparing to strike.
Before the fist could be launched, the sound of safeties being released and the scream of angry voices to ‘cease and desist immediately’ bellowed out to their side.
The man spun, as three guards in flak jackets and helmets, dressed head to foot in black and carrying assault rifles, marched toward him.
“Let go of that man and step away!” said the lead guard, as he stepped forward with rifle pointed.
The man instantly released Neil, raising his hands above his head.
“Down on the ground now!” the guard yelled, continuing his advance. “Hands behind your head!”
In a flash, another of the guards stepped forward and handcuffed him, pulling him by the wrists to his feet, and eliciting a growl of pain and frustration.
“Are you alright, Detective Townsend?” asked the lead guard, as he lowered his weapon.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle, but thanks for the support.” said Neil, feeling partially responsible for what was going on.
The man snarled; attempting to spit at Neil, as the guards dragged him away. “Fucking pig!”
As the man, still kicking and screaming, was led into the immense building beyond the barrier, Neil looked up and smiled. Forcing a philandering idiot into assaulting an officer of the law outside Scotland Yard? Maybe his influence was not as bad as he thought.
Chapter 2
Internal Affairs