Unit 29 was a warehouse with a deserted air, no name above the entrance, nor any evidence of any manufacturing or processing activity. Nervousness inhibited me from trying the handle of the roll-top door or ringing the bell. Anyway—it was too early. By calling Evans Haulage and pretending to be from Parallax, I’d found out that the delivery wasn’t due for another half an hour.
I waited in the bushes at the edge of the business park, racking my brains for a reason to justify my presence if someone challenged me. I would have asked Little Amy, but she’d gone silent on me, as though having spurred me on she now wished to distance herself from the project. Typical.
After nearly an hour, my feet had numbed from inactivity, and still there’d been no delivery. How silly—I couldn’t wait all night—five more minutes, and I’d abort the mission.
I was on the verge of leaving when the Evans truck turned in and stopped outside unit 29. The driver climbed out and rang the bell I’d declined to press when I’d arrived. Up went the roller door. I moved in closer, hidden by the shadow of an adjoining building. Shaking with fear, I slipped unnoticed inside while the truck driver talked to the man helping to unload the crates. I hid in the corner, my heart thumping.
They finished the job quickly. I stayed in place, listening for any clue as to the contents of the boxes. But all I heard was some banter between the men, and a discussion about what they should watch on TV later.
Ultimately, the roller door went down and the truck departed.
And then silence.
I waited, unsure if I was alone, far longer than necessary. Then I moved towards the stack of crates.
A hideous wailing began. I cursed myself—how could I have been dumb enough not to foresee that the warehouse might be alarmed?
I thought fast. How long before someone came? Without question, the system would be wired to a security company. They would notify the key-holders, possibly the guys who’d just left. That gave a matter of minutes to achieve my goal. But I only needed minutes. Using a screwdriver as leverage I prised open the top of a crate.
Empty.
Another one.
Empty.
I couldn’t check them all—I had to leave.
But there was one small difficulty—I was locked in.
What an idiot. I’d embarked on this wild goose chase for nothing. The goods being delivered appeared to be exactly as claimed and I was about to be discovered somewhere I had no business to be. Either my judgment had deserted me or I truly had lost my mind.
I heard voices, which I recognised as belonging to the men from before. I scurried back to my original hiding place and held my breath.
I was far from ideally positioned, but I couldn’t change that now. I waited until they were at the opposite end of the warehouse and sprang out from my lair.
For an instant I believed I’d got away with it—but no.
‘Oi, you—what are you doing here?’
As if propelled by a powerful force, I bolted.
A shot rang out. I figured it must be simple to hit a target at this range, and they were gaining on me. I tripped, skidding along the tarmac and skinning my knees through my jeans. Without checking for damage, I pulled myself upright. A bullet whistled past me—they were closing fast.
I charged out of the estate into the road and narrowly avoided being knocked over by a white van. The driver opened the window.
‘Alright, love?’
‘Those men are after me,’ I said, gesticulating wildly before pulling open the door and leaping into the passenger seat. I had no clue who this guy was—he might even be a member of the gang, or a random serial killer. But for the moment he represented my best means of escape.
The driver didn’t wait for any further explanation but floored the accelerator and squealed off into the darkness.
My heart pounded like a sledgehammer.
‘Police station for you,’ he pronounced, taking in my dishevelled state.
‘No—it’s a private matter. My car’s down the road, can you drop me there?’
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Certain,’ I said, endeavouring to sound normal. ‘And thanks.’
My Good Samaritan wished me all the best. Who was he and what must he be thinking? Certainly, he’d asked fewer questions than I’d expected. But what did it matter? I was safe.
‘
That went well, didn’t it?’
Typical—now the danger was past, Little Amy had chosen to reappear.
‘Hoped you’d gone for ever.’
‘
Oh no—I’m always here, whether you realise it or not.’
And whether I liked or not, it seemed.
Weary with relief, I started the ignition.
The physical aftermath was bad enough. Embryonic scabs on my knees cracked open with every step and discharged a clear liquid that soaked straight through the dressings I’d applied. My shins throbbed insanely.
Worse was the self-loathing and disgust at my own stupidity. Last night the relief at having escaped in one piece had trumped every other emotion. Now, I realised the ordeal was far from over. If the delivery was innocuous, they’d report the incident to the police. It wouldn’t take much to track me down—my car registration would have been caught on CCTV somewhere. But if the crates I hadn’t opened contained drugs, those bad guys would pursue me, perhaps with greater zeal than the Sussex police. And thinking about it, why would they have shot at me if they had nothing to hide?
I would have rung in sick, but as Lisa’s sponsoring partner I was supposed to collect the result of her assessment with her. She’d think even worse of me if let her down.
As she bounded into my office I didn’t need to ask how it had gone—she radiated optimism.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Tried to call you yesterday.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Went out and got blind drunk.’
Who with
, I asked myself.
‘Oh, that’s good.’
‘Amy, you look awful,’ she said with warm-hearted malice as I hobbled along beside her en route to the meeting. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘I hurt my knee,’ I replied, in a statement as true as it was incomplete.
‘Fell down pissed somewhere, eh?’
Even a month ago, I would have taken this remark as friendly teasing and given a flip response back. Now I suspected this was no joke. The balance of power in our relationship had shifted.
‘No, actually. Anyway, you’re in fine shape after your big night out, and I’m assuming you’re quietly confident?’
‘Yep,’ she said. ‘Went amazingly.’
Instead of expanding on this she remained silent as we walked to the meeting room.
On entering, I drew back as I spotted Greg sitting at the other side of the table.
‘Uh—uh—wrong meeting.’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Didn’t Lisa tell you I was her lead assessing partner at the centre?’
‘No,’ I said with barely suppressed umbrage. ‘She didn’t.’
Despite Lisa’s recent coolness towards me, I hoped she’d pass, but Greg’s involvement surely didn’t help her chances. Smithies had to have nobbled him beforehand.
‘Your secretary told me you were on holiday.’
‘I was until Monday, but I came back to sit on the assessment panel. Why did you want me?’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Only checking how you were after the funeral.’
There was no point in discussing JJ with Greg now, useless to take any action. I’d swung back from a determination to sort things out to a weary apathy. From the moment I’d become involved in JJ, my life had fallen apart. It had to stop.
‘That was thoughtful. I’m OK, I think. Nothing beats work for taking your mind off your problems.’
Except when your problems began and ended at work.
‘You’re not in great shape,’ he observed, eyeing me with sympathy as I winced from the pain when I bent my knees to sit down.
‘Minor knee injury.’
And I could somehow tell he thought I’d fallen down drunk too.
Undeniably, Greg possessed all the gravitas needed in an assessing partner. His face gave nothing away, as he went through the exercises one by one, picking holes. By contrast, Lisa’s crestfallen expression suggested she’d been blithely unaware of these perceived weaknesses. Her interaction with the others in the team exercise had been “borderline acceptable”. Why? Because she hadn’t attempted to conceal her impatience with the other candidates. Greg didn’t reveal which side of the border she’d fallen—he seemed to relish putting her through the wringer, and continued with his litany of complaint. On finding out in the in-tray assignment that that her secretary planned to be on holiday the next week, she’d responded with a pithy ‘bloody typical’. This had not met with the assessors’ approval. I thought of the ice melting in the champagne bucket back in my office. By the sound of it, we wouldn’t have anything to celebrate today after all. I glanced at Lisa, still able to empathise with her even though she’d cast me aside—why didn’t Greg just put her out of her misery?
But unexpectedly the tenor of his comments changed. Lisa had demonstrated a formidable intellect, with incisive analysis of the hypothetical client situation and she’d handled the role-play meeting with poise. There’d been some doubts about her judgement on the risk management exercise but unlike some of the other candidates, at least she’d reached a decision.
All in all, he said, it had been a tough call, but they’d passed Lisa, subject to her having individual coaching in the weaker areas after appointment. And, as with everyone else, provided she passed the final interview with Pearson Malone’s Executive Board.
‘Well whoop de doo!’ said Lisa as we emerged from the meeting, but with a strange note of sarcasm in her voice.
‘I’ve got some champagne in my office for you.’
She shook her head.
‘Nah—not right now. Got stuff to do, but cheers anyway.’
She walked off purposefully, as though in a hurry to get somewhere else. How on earth had our friendship deteriorated so fast?
***
Smithies did one aspect of his job magnificently—he sure as hell knew how to celebrate a success. As soon as he’d heard Lisa’s news, he’d thrown himself enthusiastically into organising an impromptu champagne knees-up downstairs in Daly’s. I’d seldom been in a less celebratory mood, but to duck out would be unsupportive of Lisa. Although she had a down on me, or even especially if she had a down on me, I didn’t want people thinking I resented her achievements.
A champagne drunk is a happy drunk. After I’d downed the first two glasses, I felt appreciably better. I decided I should drink it more often, instead of the gin that stoked my paranoia and deepened my depression.
I’d been watching Smithies carefully as he’d worked the room, full of sham bonhomie and sipping daintily at his glass. The man was a chameleon, charming one moment, venomous the next, and someone so duplicitous could easily be a killer.
But I’d resolved not to involve myself with any of this. Sure, one of my clients might be running a cannabis farm on the side, which might be connected with a colleague’s death, but how was that my business? Let some other bugger sort it out. I’d gone way beyond the call of duty already.
Little Amy was disappointed by my devil-may-care attitude.
‘
You’re drunk again,’
she told me severely as I paid a visit to the Ladies.
‘Since when were you such a Puritan?’ I hissed. ‘What about the time you drank five pints of cider and puked all over Miss Hope’s doorstep?’
‘
That was you, not me.’
I despaired of the kid—she attributed all her mistakes to me, and took no responsibility for mine. I so wished she’d piss off back to the hoard house—it was all she deserved.
Champagne happiness comes at the price of suspending judgement. Consequently, I left Daly’s with no sense of danger, even when my phone rang and JJ’s personal number showed up.
‘
Go on then—answer it.’
You should never speak to a client when drunk, unless he’s drunk too, but I kidded myself I could handle it. I wasn’t a lightweight like Little Amy, vomiting after a few pints of cider. I was a mature woman who invariably remained firmly in control—especially after champagne.
‘Amy?’ said JJ. I wondered who else he might be expecting to answer my phone.
‘JJ, how are you?’ I tried hard not to slur my words.
‘Fine,’ he replied, sounding doubtful. ‘And you?’
‘Great, thanks.’
That was the champagne talking.
‘Can you come over tomorrow afternoon? Something’s cropped up that I want to run by you.’
His casual tone suggested it was nothing important. And at least he’d not sprung some technical question on me without warning, as he was prone to.
‘
He’s going to kill you.’
There was a note of glee in Little Amy’s voice. ‘
He’s found out you’re onto him.’
How was that possible? Would he really invite me to his offices to bump me off? Paranoid as I was, the idea seemed farfetched.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘What time?’
‘About three?’
‘Let me double-check my diary…’
‘
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Distracted by my calendar, I disregarded the roar of the car coming up behind me, until it was almost too late. At the last minute a primal instinct kicked in and I threw myself into a nearby doorway. The car mounted the pavement, missing me by inches, before swerving back onto the road and screeching off into the distance. I lay on the ground, shaken, bruised and no doubt resembling a homeless wino. Amazingly though, I still held my phone and JJ was still at the other end of it.
‘Hello.’
‘Amy—are you OK?’
He sounded surprised to hear my voice.
‘Yes, thanks,’ I said, breathless and stunned by the brutal jar of the attack. ‘I must have tripped over something.’
I staggered to my feet and dusted myself down—my knees smarting badly. Surely, he couldn’t be responsible for my mishap from the other end of a telephone line?
‘
Come on—JJ has people to do whatever he wants. They followed you and arranged for JJ to distract you at the crucial moment.’
On reflection, she could be right. Funny, wasn’t it, how the call had come as I walked down Arundel Street to the Tube, a street where there wouldn’t be many eyewitnesses?