Chris Collett - [Tom Mariner 01] (14 page)

‘Like who?’

‘Was it the kind of thing Eddie could have syndicated to the nationals?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so. It was a local story, pretty shocking at the time, but every city has a similar tale to tell.

It wouldn’t have been anything that unusual.’

Besides, thought Mariner, it was old news. So why would anyone have been interested in it as recently as three months ago?

‘Though, as a matter of fact, he did come back to me on that with a proposal for a follow-up story,’ Moloney added.

‘When was that?’

‘About six months ago.’

‘And?’

‘I nixed it. The world isn’t ready for another expose yet.’

Mariner wondered if Eddie Barham would have agreed with that.

They had come to the corner of an expansive open-plan office. Islands of desks were randomly scattered, many topped with flickering flat-screen monitors, and the room hummed to the tune of phones and fax machines. That none of the handful of staff present gave them a second glance told Mariner that Moloney’s approach was hands-on. They were used to the boss wandering in.

Eddie Barham had created himself a small zone of tranquillity in one corner, by blocking off a section of the room with tall filing cabinets.

‘Eddie liked his own space,’ confirmed Moloney.

‘Sensible man,’ said Mariner.

It was an orderly workspace, everything left neat and tidy, the way it might have been left by a man who knew he may not be returning. Moloney called over someone called Phil who logged Mariner on to Eddie’s computer, then they both left him to it. But Mariner already had a feeling that he wouldn’t find much here. The virus on Eddie’s home computer was a clear sign that anything important had been stored there, which is why he, or someone else, had taken steps to eliminate it. The only documents they’d so far managed to salvage from it were a few fairly low-key stories and the remains of a database, the meaning of which they had yet to fathom. Eddie’s work computer was networked, meaning that practically anyone could gain access to his files. If he really was on to something big it was unlikely that he’d leave key information here.

Eddie Barham’s particular little obsession appeared to be databases, which he kept for everything. His file management system was a detective’s dream: methodical and transparent, electronic documents arranged as neatly as the hard copies. The first thing Mariner did was a search for Sally-Ann and all other possible permutations of the name but, unsurprisingly, it yielded a nil return.

Eddie’s diary and work-log in the weeks prior to his death revealed nothing that particularly stood out, either.

Specific assignments were coded and most of the items on the work log tallied with his computer files, the stories he’d been working on. True to Darren’s word, it was pretty mundane stuff and nothing to get Mariner’s pulse racing or to justify any five-thousand-pound payouts. There were one or two blank spaces, but cross-referencing with Eddie’s diary explained some of these as meetings at Greencote, and on one occasion at Oakwood, along with routine medical appointments. For now, Mariner noted the few slots that were unaccounted for, like half a morning on 14 November with only a telephone number occupying the space.

Out of curiosity, Mariner picked up the receiver by Eddie’s desk and tapped in the number. As he picked up the receiver he heard a click echo somewhere down the line.

Ken Moloney keeping track of the calls made by his staff?

It seemed a bit excessive. The ring tone sounded.

‘Charles Hanover and Associates,’ said an efficient PA, announcing one of the largest law firms in the city.

Mariner identified himself. ‘I’m trying to trace the last known movements of an Edward Barham,’ he said. ‘And on the morning of November the fourteenth I see that he had an appointment with someone at your firm. I wonder if you could check that for me.’

‘One moment please.’

She returned quickly. ‘That’s right sir. The appointment was with Mr Lloyd.’

‘Could I speak to Mr Lloyd?’

‘I’m afraid he’s away on holiday at present. He won’t be back until the twenty-first.’ Almost a week away.

‘Is there any indication of what this meeting was about?’

Mariner asked.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t access Mr Lloyd’s files, they’re confidential.

We’d have to wait until he returns.’

As an afterthought Mariner asked, ‘Does Mr Lloyd have any kind of specialism?’

‘He’s one of our best compensation lawyers,’ she said, with such pride that Mariner wondered if Lloyd’s PA perhaps had the tiniest crush on her boss.

With luck, Darren would be able to shed some light on that.

The remainder of the system revealed Eddie Barham as a journalist of eclectic interests. Other computer files were given over to the copy for old news stories and some reference material, some of it dating back years and covering a huge range of topics. Even during the last few months he’d been researching variously the National Front, GM foods and something called Foetal Valproate syndrome. Mariner didn’t even pause to speculate on what that may be. It sounded vaguely medical but a check on the date revealed that it had come to Eddie’s attention only after the appointment with Lloyd, so was unlikely to be related. It was impossible to pick out any single project that may have contributed to his death, unless size was the criterion.

By far the largest folder was one dedicated to Frank Crosby. According to the machine the file had last been modified four years ago, but that wouldn’t have prevented Eddie Barham from using it for reference or from putting fresh material on his home computer. Out of curiosity, Mariner glanced through some of the notes, which began with records of interviews with the street kids. For Mariner they made uncomfortable reading.

‘How’s it going?’ Darren’s sudden appearance startled Mariner into minimising the file, but not before noting the occurrence of Doug Lowry’s name, which he stored in his head for later use. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Though there are a couple of things you can help me with.’

‘Sure.’ Darren pulled up a chair.

‘There are some gaps in Eddie’s diary, I noticed. Would these be the sort of occasions where Eddie was pursuing his own lines?’

‘They might be.’ Darren dug into a filthy khaki rucksack, one of the army surplus store’s best, and produced a dog-eared diary. ‘What have you got?’

Mariner flicked back through Eddie’s notebook. ‘The twelfth of January, PM,’ he said Darren looked it up. ‘That afternoon we had a union meeting.’

And the fourteenth November. This appointment. He’s got a telephone number that belongs to a compensation lawyer. Any idea what that would have been about?’

Darren thought for a couple of minutes, flicked idly through the diary. Stopped at one particular page. ‘The only story I can think of was this couple we went to see.

They’d already got four kids and they weren’t supposed to have any more, the woman had been sterilised, but then she got pregnant again. They were suing the health authority.’

‘Do you remember the name of this couple?’

Darren thought for a minute. ‘Powell, I think. Yeah, I’m sure of it, Mr and Mrs Powell.’

‘Thanks.’ Mariner checked and sure enough the name and number of Mr and Mrs Stephen Powell were recorded on one of Eddie’s databases. When Darren had gone, Mariner called them up but the line was engaged. The STD code was for an area Mariner would pass through on his way home. Perhaps he’d stop by and talk to them instead.

Finally he rang Knox to see if there had been any progress on tracing those bank accounts.

‘Sweet FA,’ was the concise response. ‘We’ve narrowed it down though; it’s a foreign bank offshore, we’re trying to identify which one. We’ll probably need an access warrant to get anywhere near.’

‘Well, start…’

‘I already have, boss.’

Back home, Anna made coffee and took out the list of residential accommodation that Dr Payne had given her. At first glance there seemed to be half a dozen possibilities, all within a radius of about twenty miles. She chose the most attractive-sounding one, middle-distance, and picked up the phone.

A woman answered her call almost immediately. ‘Hello, The Limes.’

It was a jolly voice, and Anna tried to reciprocate.

‘Hello, I’m looking for residential care for my brother,’ she began.

‘I see. Is he an older gentleman?’ asked the woman.

The question threw Anna. ‘No, he’s twenty-nine, but he’s…’

‘I’m sorry,’ the woman cut in. ‘This is a retirement home.’ Brilliant. She terminated the call. The next was more promising. It was, as Anna established straight away, a home for adults with learning difficulties of all ages, but there was a hitch.

‘We don’t have any vacancies at present,’ a woman with an equally merry voice told her. But there was hope, ‘We operate a waiting list and you’re welcome to come and have a look. How about next Monday? Around two o’clock?’ It was a start.

‘I’ll do that. Thank you.’ Leaving her name, Anna replaced the phone, punching the air with a triumphant, ‘Yes!’ It was a foot in the door. Once she was there she might be able to persuade them to take Jamie anyway, especially as she could pay. She could be very persuasive.

At the thought of Jamie being taken care of by someone else again, her depression lifted, slightly. Their relationship could be restored to a safe distance and her life returned to normal. Anna felt a sudden ache for Jonathan, the touch of him, the smell of him. Something else she was learning from Jamie; celibacy didn’t suit her.

To avoid being late in fetching Jamie from the centre she’d set her alarm, but halfway there, realised she hadn’t done any shopping. They’d have to do it on the way home, she decided, dismissing nagging memories of Jamie as a boy, throwing himself on shop floors and screaming if he couldn’t have or do what he wanted.

Fortunately Francine had given her an envelope of photographs, duplicates of the ones Eddie had been using at home, so that consistency could be maintained between home and the day centre. As Francine had suggested, she prepared the ground first. ‘Going shopping,’ she said, thrusting a snapshot of Sainsbury’s in front of Jamie.

‘We’ll get you some Hula Hoops.’ Even though her cupboard at home was bursting with them. It was unashamed bribery.

Jamie didn’t care. ‘Loops,’ he echoed, contentedly.

The expedition went reasonably smoothly, if painfully slowly and Jamie for his part appeared to enjoy it. Being one of the busiest times of the week, the store was crowded. But after an initial wariness, Jamie developed a profound interest in the tiny numbers written on packets and tins, in fact so much so that he wanted to stand and examine each one for several minutes.

Anna reminded herself to be patient, especially when Jamie selected items that caught his attention, sniffing, shaking and squeezing them, before absently dropping them on the floor. Anna simply replaced them. No problem.

They spent a good five minutes at the display of pay as you talk mobile phones while Jamie recited the brand names one after the other, touching the appropriate box as he spoke, until Anna could move him on. They were awarded some funny looks, that was all.

En route Anna grabbed what she needed as quickly as she could. Decisions that in other circumstances she would have agonised about were made in an instant. For once she didn’t care whether the chicken was free range or battery farmed, the coffee decaffeinated or packed with stimulants, she just hurled it in the trolley and kept on moving, dragging Jamie along behind her. They’d made it to the last aisle, frozen vegetables, the end in sight, when Anna spotted a new and exotic stir-fry mix. Jonathan was passionate about Thai food, well, that and other things, and right now she could do with topping up the brownie points.

She stopped to study it for a few minutes. It was expensive.

Should she get it?

A child’s shrill voice pierced her consciousness.

‘Mummy, what’s the man doing?’ and something made her look up. For a few seconds she couldn’t see Jamie and began to panic that he had run off. Then she caught sight of his rear end. He was leaning so far into one of the vast chest freezers that he was almost in it.

‘Jamie, what are you—?’ Anna walked over to see what was so compelling and froze with horror. With consummate skill, Jamie was systematically prising the lids from the cartons of chocolate ice cream, before plunging his hands into the soft, icy mass and scooping out handfuls to shovel into his mouth.

‘Jamie!’ Anna dragged him out of the freezer. He had chocolate ice cream up to his sleeves and his face was Coco the clown on a bad day.

Tee ‘ream,’ he said, beaming at Anna, as a blob of melted chocolate dripped off his chin and on to his sweater.

‘I’ll give you bloody ice cream!’ hissed Anna. ‘You can’t just eat it. We have to pay for it!’ Holding him at arm’s length, she ran a quick visual inventory. Shit. He’d despoiled at least five cartons that Anna could see.

Fortunately there was now no one else nearby, and for several seconds Anna was tempted to replace the lids on the tubs and bury them. But her conscience got the better of her, so abandoning the rest of the shopping she stacked the cartons one on top of the other and headed for the checkout, Jamie trailing along behind.

‘Somebody couldn’t wait then,’ commented the checkout girl helpfully, giving Anna a very dubious look. ‘Did you want school computer vouchers with these?’

Anna gave her an icy glare, fumbling for cash with one hand while using the other to fend off Jamie’s sticky hands.

Ignoring the fascinated stares of other shoppers, she re stacked the ice cream and strode out of the supermarket.

In the car park she strapped Jamie into the car before gingerly loading the rapidly thawing ice cream into her boot, noting the interesting stains that were being added to the upholstery. Jamie, sensing her anger, was uncharacteristically quiet and subdued.

Rarely had Anna been so relieved to retreat to the safety of her own home. Hurrying inside, she began stuffing what she could of the ice cream into the freezer. The buzz of the intercom startled her, and Anna half expected to find the supermarket manager at her door with a policeman, accusing them of product abuse. But it wasn’t.