Dark Eyes of London (7 page)

Chapter Thirteen

The streets were quiet that night. Very little traffic, even for this late hour. A faint rumble of traffic from the main road half a mile away.  A taxi pulled up a hundred yards or so up the road; a faint bang as the fare shut the door. A night bus passed the intersection a little further up. There was the sound of a dustbin lid falling on the ground: probably a fox.  The sky was almost clear: a few wisps of cloud, the flashing lights of an aircraft as it made its approach to Gatwick.

Apart from two or three windows dotted about the streets, all the buildings, residential and commercial were in darkness.  Two figures walked down the street, arm in arm, stopping occasionally.

On the third floor of one of the buildings, a digital alarm clock showed 01:05.  The light from the clock was the only illumination in this bedroom, except for that from the street lamps.

Jane Kennedy looked over at the clock as Sully rolled off her with a satisfied grunt. She wriggled around under the sheet and pulled her nightshirt back down. She turned the other way: Sully had fallen asleep straight away. She lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling. Now the clock said 01:07.

At 01:09 she heard some talking from the street below. Not shouting: just ordinary conversation.  She strained to hear what was being said, but the voices were too soft. She contemplated getting up to look out the window, but the people below moved on, still talking.

She turned and lay on her side and tried to get back to sleep. 01:12.

01:16. No good. She got up and sat on the bed. Sully murmured something in his sleep, moved around a bit, and then ripped off a fart.

Jane was about to say something to him, or hit him, but decided she wanted him asleep. She stood up, and padded into the bathroom. Then into the kitchen, where the oven clock read 01:23.

She reached into her bag which was hanging on the back of a chair, and fished out a pack of Lambert & Butler, and a lighter. She lit up, and sat down on the chair. Picked up the little black lighter and studied it. It had Antigua engraved on it, in elegant gold lettering. She snorted: it had been a present from Sully, on their first holiday together.

That day’s
Daily Mail
was resting on the table.  She reached over and pulled it over.  She glanced at the front page, and then started to browse through the paper.  Got bored by the time she reached page 7, so closed the paper again.

She looked at the clock - 01:34 - and took a long drag from her cigarette. Stubbed it out in the terracotta ashtray.

She wandered down the hallway, and stood in the bedroom doorway for a moment.  Then padded over to Sully’s side of the bed. Stood two feet away from the bed and watched him for a full minute.

Satisfied he was soundly asleep she went into the spare room. Ostensibly a second bedroom, as only the two of them lived in the flat, they used it as an overflow wardrobe come dressing room and storeroom. There was also a small desk and chair which Sully used when he was working from home.

Jane slowly slid open one of the white cupboard doors and knelt down.  She moved three pairs of shoes off a pile of magazines. Lifted the magazines to reveal a small black box, A4 size, three or four inches deep. She paused, looked around and listened: she could just about hear Sully snoring.  She pulled the cord which switched on the cupboard light. Sat down on the floor and lifted the box onto her lap. She nibbled a thumbnail and opened the box.

She quietly and slowly flicked through the documents in the box. She paused as she came across an old photograph. A photograph of her and Lisa, with their parents. It was taken some ten or fifteen years ago somewhere in France; she couldn’t remember where. A family holiday. Family holiday: how ironic.

She looked closer at the photograph: she and Lisa, arms around each other, laughing hysterically at something.

Jane heard a murmur and some movement from the bedroom. She looked up, and listened out again. Slowly put the photographs back in the box. Closed the box, replaced it, replaced the magazines and shoes, switched off the light, and slowly slid the wardrobe closed.

She walked over the window and stared out. As she looked out over the darkened rooftops, her eyes began to fill.

Chapter Fourteen

Some miles away, the night was anything but still and peaceful. Not in this particular building anyway. Outside the single storey storage building, two white transit vans were backed up to the open doorway, their own rear doors open. Inside, three men were packing goods into cardboard storage boxes, and then sealing the boxes.

A fourth man was standing in the doorway.  He was tall, dark haired, with heavy shadow on his face. He wore a dark suit and white shirt, top two buttons undone.  No tie. He was smoking a cigarette. His attention was divided between what was going on in the building, and the fifty yard roadway to the main street, which was quiet, except for the occasional car passing by.

‘Are we all clear still, John?’ asked one of the men packing, looking up from the boxes.

John puffed on the cigarette and nodded.  ‘So far, so good.  Hey, you just worry about the damn boxes.’

‘Nearly done,’ the packer replied. ‘The first van’s almost full; this lot can go in the second. Then we’re through.’

John stood aside while the man loaded boxes into the van. Then he heard something.

‘Wait,’ he said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. The roadway was lit up by the headlamps as a car turned into the street.

‘It’s not the police, is it?’ the packer whispered nervously.

John peered into the night mist. ‘Don’t think so,’ he whispered back, ‘Oh shit; what does she want?’

The Honda CR-Z pulled up alongside the transit van.  Ashley Merchant killed the engine and stepped out.

‘Christ,’ John muttered. ‘Three in the morning and she’s still wearing tweeds.’

The packer sniggered.

‘Carry on,’ John said. ‘I’ll deal with her.’

Still wearing her normal office dress, Merchant marched up to John. ‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

John looked around: at the interior of the vans; at the almost empty storage area. ‘Seems to be going fine, thanks. Have you come to help?’

Merchant ignored the question. She leaned into one of the vans and ran a hand over some of the boxes. Then walked into the building and looked around.

‘Everything all packed up, then?’ she said to John.

John did not reply. Just stared at her.

She waited a moment, then asked, ‘And they all know the route, and what to do at the other end?’

John took another drag. Slowly. ‘Everybody knows what to do,’ he answered firmly, still staring at her.

She looked around again, and brushed some imaginary dust off her jacket. ‘Well, there’s nothing else I can do here,’ she said, and walked back to the Honda. She stopped as she passed John. ‘Call me when it’s all finished,’ she snapped.

‘Fuck you,’ John replied. ‘I report direct to Mr Fleming.  Not you.’

Merchant glared at him for a moment, then climbed into the car. Started the engine, and switched on the headlamps. She reversed a few feet to clear the transit vans, then attempted a three point turn. The roadway, however, was too narrow, probably one and a half standard lanes, and she was unable to make the turn in three manoeuvres. Instead, it took five or six.  Because it was dark, John was unable to see but to his amusement he could visualize her frantically turning the steering wheel. He hoped she could see him laughing.

‘Stupid cow,’ he said, to the amusement of the others.

He watched as Merchant’s tail lights disappeared round the corner. Lifted the last box himself and loaded it into one of the vans.

He made one final check of the building. Two of the men got into the first van; John closed the building doors, and padlocked them. Then got into the other van with the third packer. Looked at his watch: it was three twenty-five.

‘Almost half three, Roy,’ he said. We should get to the A12 by four. Then another couple of hours.’

‘Couple of hours easy,’ said Roy, starting the engine. ‘Especially at this time of night.’

‘Yeah, but take care,’ John said. ‘Keep to the speed limits. We can’t afford to draw attention to ourselves.’

The two vans drove slowly out of the side street onto the main road and started their journey.

*****

Just before dawn the two vans arrived at their final destination.

‘Think Ms Merchant will be here to supervise us again?’ asked Roy as they pulled up.

John laughed. ‘Do you know, it wouldn’t surprise me.’

She was not there.

The four of them opened the building doors, opened the vans’ doors, and transferred the packages. This was a similar storage facility to the one they had left, containing many more packages than the ones they had brought. Once done, they locked up.

‘Thanks, guys,’ John said. ‘I’ll just report in, then we can go get some breakfast.’

The three men commented how this was a good idea, and returned to their vans. John paused outside and took out his phone. Speed dialled a number, then waited half a minute.

‘Mr Fleming, sir, we’ve just completed the transfer.’

‘..........’

‘No, no hitches.’

‘..........’

‘Thank you very much, sir.  Everything is now in place.’

Chapter Fifteen

Monday morning saw Tom back at work at his job at the local library. His branch had recently had self-service kiosks installed for readers borrowing and returning items. In theory a good idea, and much quicker than a librarian scanning bar codes on returned books or date stamping due by dates in the front of books. However, that was assuming the machines worked properly one hundred percent of the time, and assuming the readership, many of whom were elderly, understood how to use them.

Tom’s role today, therefore, was to stand by the bank of kiosks for the entire day, supervising the machines, dealing with any faults, and helping the customers if they had a problem. Always mind-numbingly boring, Tom felt; he would rather be stacking the bookshelves than this. However, as it was his turn on the rota, so be it.

He had sent Amy a short text first thing that morning:
good luck, speak later, tom
. She in turn had sent a brief sms:
ok tnx
.
Okay, thanks
, he assumed.

He had just had a problem with one kiosk where it had failed to read the encoding strip on the book, and Tom had to manually override the system. Bidding the customer goodbye after her profuse thanks, he looked at his watch: it was a quarter to twelve.  Only fifteen minutes to go before his lunch break.   He took his phone off the belt clip he was wearing, and checked for messages or missed calls.  There were none. He wondered how Amy was getting on.

*****

Amy’s morning was not quite so boring; however, like Tom, she wished the day could be over.  At eleven forty-five, she had emerged from a team meeting. Her team was responsible for a research campaign on behalf of a major high street chain to determine the population’s favourite flavour of toothpaste. There were four others in her team, and at this meeting, they all had to report in the findings of the survey, based on geographical location.  Amy’s was the south-west of England.

At her turn to report and go through the figures, she appeared nervous and hesitant. ‘Er,’ she began, her eyes not moving from her spreadsheet. ‘In the Cornwall region -’

‘The region is South West England,’ interrupted Gerald, Amy’s team leader. Gerald was in his early twenties, and was what one could term a real high-flyer. Clearly had ambitions to rise very high in the company. Great asset to the firm, Senior Management had said. Supercilious prick, his colleagues felt. The problem was that many of them, Amy included, let him get to them: if he was in one of his pedantic moments, like now, rather than telling him where to get off, she would get flustered.

Amy stammered, ‘Well, I mean...’ Then had a fit of coughing which made her go even redder.

‘You mean?’ enquired Gerald, sarcastically.

‘I mean, I know what my region is,’ Amy said. ‘I mean, in the county of Cornwall sixty percent of those surveyed said they preferred light mint flavour; er, twenty-three said vanilla; twelve percent said raspberry.’

‘That’s Cornwall, then?’ Gerald asked.

‘Yes. In Devon -’

‘Hold on. Sixty percent light mint; twenty-three percent vanilla; twelve percent raspberry?’

‘Y-yes, that’s right,’ she stammered.

Gerald gave her one of his smug smiles. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ he said slowly, ‘but sixty plus twenty-three plus twelve equals ninety-five. Hmm?’

Shit.

She looked down at her spreadsheet again.  Looked over the Cornwall figures, and then saw her mistake. She had misread a figure.

‘Seventeen. Seventeen percent.  Sorry. Seventeen percent said raspberry.’

Gerald theatrically punched these figures into a calculator, then looked up. ‘Yes, that makes a hundred.  Well done, Amy. Glad to see you’re on top of your brief.  And that you can add up.’

Embarrassed, Amy looked round the table, silently asking for support. Two of the others stared at their own spreadsheets; one other gave her a brief smile, then her eyes returned to her own statistics.

Thanks for the support, guys.

The rest of the morning went in the same way.  When the meeting was wound up at eleven forty-five, she breathed a sigh of relief. She packed up her papers, and returned to her desk. On the way back there, the woman who had smiled at her briefly put her hand on Amy's shoulder.

‘Don’t worry, Amy,’ she said. ‘We all get off days.  Take no notice of Gerald.’

Amy nodded. 
Easier said than done
.

One aspect of the firm which had not changed since the onset of the recession was the tendency of the senior members of the firm to take two hour lunch breaks. She could understand people like Mr Fleming or Ms Merchant having clients to wine and dine, but people like Gerald and even those junior to him enjoyed this practice.  This could be an advantage to her: between twelve and two anybody who was anybody was out of the office.  Factor in those who just took an hour for lunch, and for the next one hundred and twenty minutes the place would be deserted. Those who were left wouldn’t care what she was doing anyway.

She waited until ten past twelve, and made her move. She got up and walked over to the desk Lisa Kennedy had used. It had been untouched as far as she could tell since Lisa’s last day - the day she was so keen to leave on time. She decided not to be furtive; that would arouse suspicion. She would act as if she was genuinely looking for something. She opened the top drawers, and gasped at what she found.

*****

It was Tom’s lunch break, and he wandered down the street. He continually checked his phone for messages or missed calls, even though the phone was not on silent, had never left his side, and he had checked it five minutes before. In any case, hadn’t he told Amy to contact him
tonight
, after work? He considered contacting her, but decided against it.  Didn’t want to compromise her.  He would just have to go through five more hours of standing by those bloody machines, and wait to hear from her tonight.

*****

As far as Amy could tell, Lisa’s desk had been left untouched since her last day.  In reality, that was not the case. Both Lisa’s top drawers, which would normally be filled with paperwork, were empty.  Except for a pen, a pencil, and a pencil sharpener.  The two lower drawers in the left pedestal were also empty; the larger drawer on the other side contained a large concertina binder. Now that’s more like it.  She leaned down and looked through the compartments of the binder.  Each pocket was set out alphabetically: the first A-F, the second G-K, and so on. Each one was empty, except T-Z. She fished out an envelope: it contained an unsigned birthday card; the envelope had
Tom
scribbled on it.  She exhaled deeply, and replaced the binder, still containing the card.

She looked around the desk: nothing stored on the floor underneath the pedestals.  Each of the pedestals contained a pull-out flap at the top, to store pencils, paperclips and other small items.  The right hand one just contained paperclips, loose staples, three five pence pieces; the left hand one held two keys.

Two keys!

She carefully took them out.  One was clearly a key to a locker: Lisa’s presumably, but why didn’t she take it with her? The other seemed like one to a filing cabinet.

Picking up the keys, she walked out to the area outside the ladies’ toilets, where the female lockers were kept.  She found Lisa’s, and tried the key. It worked. She looked around: it was all clear. Apart from an old photograph of Tom on the inside of the door, a rolled umbrella and a Danielle Steele paperback, the locker was empty. 

She carefully shut and locked the locker. Looked round again: still all clear.  Now, this other key.

She studied it for a moment. She noticed a serial number engraved on it.  It seemed pretty standard: 97134.  She recalled that all office cabinet keys, and the corresponding locks, had a number engraved on it.  Made the process of replacing lost or damaged keys much easier. Would make her job easier too.

She had a pretty good idea of where all the various filing cabinets were kept in the offices.  She found one: a four drawer gun metal drawer, with serial number 97146 engraved on the lock.  Hopefully, 97134 was a similar cabinet.

She casually walked past all the cabinets in the main office with no success. There were also some in the Senior Management offices, near where Carol, Mr Fleming’s PA, sat. She carefully walked down the thickly carpeted corridor, thinking through what she would say if she came across anybody.

Just past Carol’s desk, there was a small room marked
ARCHIVE
. Looking round again, she gently pushed the door open.  The room was empty.  She took a deep breath and went in.

The room was full of four and five drawer cabinets, about twenty in all.  She quickly walked down one side, checking the lock numbers.  No luck.

She let out a gasp as she came to the third cabinet on the other side. 97134.

Her hand shaking, she inserted the key - it worked! She looked through the drawers.

Down the corridor, then to the left, was the bank of four lifts.  She heard lift doors opening, and men’s voices.  Time to get out. She shut and relocked the cabinet, and quickly walked over to the door. Opened it.

And walked straight into the arms of Sebastian Fleming.