Insequor (12 page)

As Daniel trotted up the steps he smiled to himself before ducking his head under the doorway and stepping onto the thick cream carpet of his private jet. Relieving a stewardess of a drink he hopped through to the cabin. There, sat at a table reading a magazine, was Jones.

“Daniel,” he said, looking up from a copy of News Weekly, “How are you doing?”

“I’m good. How are you detective?”

They shook hands, and smiled fondly at each other.

“Please, we’ve known each other long enough now, just call me Jones; everyone else does.” As they both took their seats he couldn’t help noticing the back of the magazine. It was a picture of the robot holding a bottle of beer. ‘
It’s here for Miller Time!
’

“Sure,” said Daniel, flopping himself into the soft leather seat; he couldn’t help but breathe a sigh.

“You sound tired.”

“I am, but in a good way. Life is busy.”

“You’ve taken to this whole business pretty well. You seem to be surviving.” Jones laid the journal down on the table. Daniel was on the cover.

He picked it up and vaguely he recalled the photoshoot sometime last week in New York. The interview had been done in advance over the telephone with his media team sat beside him; often either shaking their heads at questions or writing an answer for him on the whiteboard.

“You think what I did was wrong?”

“Not at all”, said Jones, “You’re a man in command of your own destiny now. An entrepreneur.”

“Things have moved pretty fast; I had to take control. I guess managing all this was always in me, but I never knew. Untapped potential.” Daniel smiled and raised his glass; Jones joined him with a soda.

For a few brief moments they looked at each other across the small table. The plane’s engines started to whine and the cabin crew shut the door. It felt like they were back there; those first few days after it had arrived. The flights, the journeys in army trucks and cars, helicopter rides. Daniel alone and frightened, but Jones with him. Supporting him.

“How was the vacation?” said Daniel.

“It was great,” said Jones, “Thank you, by the way. Here, I got you a little something.” He produced a box from the side of his chair. It was orange with a bright yellow ribbon. Daniel opened it and held out a bottle at arm’s length, his eyes momentarily scanning the label.

“Champagne. What are we celebrating?”

“Nothing, yet. It’s for the end. When they finally stop it.”

He felt a warmth creep across his face. “Thank you.” They caught each other’s gaze again before he turned to place the bottle away.

“So,” said Jones, “how you doing? Handling it all, I mean.”

“It’s not too bad.” As if on cue a stewardess brought in a tray of delicacies. He helped himself whilst Jones stared cautiously at the tray of pink and cream treats.

“It’s tiring,” said Daniel. “More tiring than I thought it would be. All these people, having to move around, never in one place. But I guess that’s how a famous person feels, right?”

“I guess so,” said Jones, stuffing something down his throat so it didn’t touch the sides. “But they can take a break if they want to.”

“Maybe,” said Daniel, as he stared out at the clouds floating by.

“Let’s hope so. Anyway, I have some news.”

“News?” Daniel sipped at his drink.

“I’m officially off the case, your case.” Jones gave a half smile and Daniel for a moment felt hurt. This was distressing. Jones had been more than a policeman through all of this, and they both knew it. Now he was being taken away.

“I’m sorry to hear that. You’ve been a real friend to me.” He looked down at his glass as he spoke. The words trickled out but seemed to be frail and lost.

“Likewise, but this isn’t a police matter anymore; I’m not sure it ever even was. I’ve been re-assigned back to my home town.”

He continued to stare at his drink. His mind turned over options until he finally settled on something.

“It’s quiet,” said Jones, “but I’ll be busy. Tell the truth I’m a bit of a celebrity. Everyone knows what I’ve been up to and you know what small towns are like for talk.”

Daniel stretched and adjusted his posture, bringing himself upright. His fingers carefully spun a phone around on the table in front of him. Things were very different now; decisions could be made, action could be taken. The old Daniel may well have crumped away quietly to reflect on being irked by life’s problems. Maybe that was how everybody felt?

“Celebrity can be a burden,” he said. They both raised their glasses and drank. “There’s a group calling themselves the ‘Interstellar Church of Truth and Fate.’ They’re building a chapel in the robot’s image and want me to open it. They think it’s some sort of messiah.”

Jones chuckled and had to wipe his lips. “What are you going to tell them?”

“Tell them? Nothing. I said I’d do it. I figure it’ll keep them happy and at least a few of them have to be complete psychos so I’ll pop along and cut the ribbon, or whatever they want me to do.”

Jones, perched on the edge of his seat, looked a little troubled but said nothing. Maybe he wanted to advise him against his course of action; maybe he thought it was not his concern anymore, but part of Daniel wanted to hear something from him. Anything.

He pressed on with his game plan. “So what about you? Back to catching crooks?”

“I guess so.” Jones sat back. “But if you ever need anything, any advice or help, or even just a friend. You know you can call me.”

“That means a lot.” Daniel stared straight at him, a small smile rising at the edge of his mouth. “But how would you like to work for me permanently?”

“What?”

“Head of Security.”

“Head of Security?”

“You’re a policeman, you can organise security. Review procedures. Tighten things up, make sure I’m safe. I need someone like you.”

He had to say yes. Somewhere, deep inside him Daniel already knew he would. He just wanted to hear that one word. Everything would be alright then, he’d feel safe.

“Well, Daniel…”

“You can organise security, right?” It needed to seem like the thought had just occurred. He wanted him to feel excited, not to really know the desperation behind his words. “Like at this church. Check for snipers, sweeps and all that hand inside the jacket walkie-talkie stuff. I need that. And I need it to be someone I trust. I’ll double your salary, match your pension. Name your terms.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Yes I do,” said Daniel. His face was serious now, harder. “You looked out for me.”

“I was just doing my job.” Jones gazed down and rubbed his neck; he wasn’t used to being paid compliments. Maybe it was his tough outer shell; that skin of a policeman.

Daniel extended his hand, “Have we got a deal?”

Jones was still sat back in the chair. “My Chief will lose his nut.”

“You’ll have everything you need.”

Eventually, the face cracked a grin and Jones leaned forward and they shook hands. His, massive and coarse. Daniel’s, soft and thin.

“Head of Security it is.”

He felt his shoulders sag. He’d got him. “I run a tight ship,” he said, with no change in tone. “Places, schedules. We have the robot’s details tracked on a computer now, but I need someone to manage my safety. My team need to stay one step ahead. Can you do it, detective?”

“Yes, but let’s drop the ‘detective.’”

Zak Goldring had tanned skin and white teeth; Daniel had always seemed to have white skin and tanned teeth. Wealth oozed from every orifice of the man’s body; the expensive suit, the golden shades, the rings, the shoes.

“It’s an amazing story,” said the producer, “one that needs to be told and
we
want to tell it. This is possibly the biggest event in human history.”

He thanked the waiter for his coffee and took a sip. It was early on a hot July afternoon and they were sat in one of Los Angeles’s most fashionable restaurants. Around them people were hustled in pairs doing business; Hollywood business. He’d already spotted a couple of famous stars, one of them cuddling up with someone who was definitely not his wife…or a woman for that matter.

Zak was the head of one of the biggest studios, Monarch. Daniel had already rejected calls from TV companies and smaller studios who made films like ‘Robot Crocodile versus Monster Octopus’ figuring it wouldn’t be long before one of the big names came along and wanted to do it properly.

He’d come to accept that the movie of his life with the robot was inevitable. But he wanted to make sure that, if it was done, it wasn’t a low budget affair with a man wrapped in tin foil chasing someone with a golden mullet on their head.

They didn’t get much bigger than Monarch Studios who regularly created the biggest blockbusters with the biggest stars. The decision had been pretty easy. Now they just had to work through the details; of which there were many.

Subject matter was the first one. Goldring sought to create a documentary; actually have cameras following Daniel as they documented his life. He instantly refused; it was the last thing he wanted. So they’d settled on a fictional account of his life from his late teens and the death of his parents to the current day – although there was an option to change the ending depending on what happened with the robot during the shoot.

Goldring had insisted on a love interest, even though there wasn’t one; Daniel had never mentioned his feelings for Veronica to anyone. As Goldring rattled off a list of Hollywood leading ladies he thought about her back in his home town. What would she be doing right now? Who was she with?

“So we think we’ve got Marco and Julia lined up for the leads. What do you think?” Goldring took a sip from his elderflower and asparagus juice.

He smiled and nodded knowing Goldring didn’t care what he thought, only that it was contractual that Daniel had ‘artistic control’ - whatever that meant. His own lawyers said they didn’t actually believe the term existed in the eyes of the law but he wasn’t too concerned because, at the end of the day and through a series of holding companies, he was funding the whole thing anyway. And money talked; certainly in a language Goldring could relate to. He could pull the plug any time he wanted.

With a snap something Goldring had said though made him sit up. “Marco? Marco Lowe?”

“Yes, are you are you familiar with his work?”

The name rang around the restaurant like the sound of a bell. Marco Lowe. After what Jones had told him he suddenly felt nausea at the mention of one of Hollywood’s household names.

Over the past few months he’d met all kinds of stars and celebrities. Some on the way up and some on the way down. The ones at the top were often the strangest; they were aloof but not impolite. You got the impression, when you shook their hand, that you were probably one of a thousand people with whom they’d met that day. You looked at the painted expressions and asked yourself,
Inside are they screaming?

But lately he understood why and it was difficult to explain the very nature of that existence. Unless you’ve ever walked around a shopping mall where everyone is staring at you, or had perfect strangers stumble over each other in the street to tell you how much you mean to them you could never understand.

At first it was exciting, flattering. People were generally nice and either wanted an autograph, a picture or both. But after a while it got inconvenient. You had to plan it in to any activity you did. A simple trip to a bank became a logistical exercise. You couldn’t have a quiet drink anymore or sit down to eat in a restaurant; everybody was looking at you.

After the frustration came the weirdness. Someone would step over a line. For Daniel, it had been a girl pestering him whilst he was on the toilet in a hotel. There he was, trying to take a dump, when outside, banging on the door was a lovesick teenager who was screaming at him that she wanted to have his babies. Security had got rid of her. But not after Daniel, pants around his ankles, had time to ask himself,
“When did it come to this?”

That’s when you lost your sense of trust; in human nature, in people. From then on every encounter and introduction became a professional activity with a beginning, middle and an end. All scripted out in your head and managed.

Maybe that’s what happened to Marco Lowe. Maybe he was screaming on the inside. And maybe the screams got too loud.

“I guess I‘ve seen a few of his movies. I don’t like his earlier stuff.”

Goldring nodded. “I know what you mean, but he’s a big star now. Very bankable.”

“Would he have to audition?”

The producer shrugged, “It’s not usual with a name like his, but we could certainly get him in to do a reading if you’d like?”

What if he could look into those eyes? What if he could help Jones close his case?

“Yes, if you could. I’d like to him to meet an associate of mine and then we could see if it works.”

“Sure, sure.” Goldring nodded. “I’ll make a call this afternoon. He’s already excited at the prospect of being involved and I’m sure he’d agree to a reading. By the way, have you had a chance to look at the script yet?”

He shook his head. “Can you get it sent over to my office? I’ll need two copies.”

“Not a problem,” said Goldring.

Over the producer’s shoulder he noticed the unmistakable non-Hollywood gait of Jones. The Maître d’ was clearly suspicious but when he pointed across to Daniel, who returned a wave, the commotion was resolved and Jones found himself seated at the table.

“Zak, can I introduce you to Mr Jones, my Image Consultant. Mr Jones, this is Zak Goldring of Monarch Pictures; they’re going to be making the movie we talked about.”

Jones looked quizzically at Daniel who gave him a quick wink.

“He’ll be sitting with me for Marco’s read-through.”

“Hi,” said Goldring offering a hand, “I hope you’re going to enjoy what you see. Marco is really pumped.”

“Marco?” Jones stared at Daniel.

“Yes, Marco Lowe. Do you know his work?”

“Some of it,” said Jones, before looking across at Goldring, “I don’t like his earlier stuff.”

“Funny, that’s just what he said. I guess he’s someone who’s only lately found their feet in the industry. He got an Oscar nomination last year, you know?”

“I was not aware of that,” said Jones.

Goldring looked at his watch and started to check his phone. “Listen, I’ve got to get to another meeting, but it was great meeting you Daniel, Mr Jones.” He nodded, got up and shook hands before settling the bill and leaving.

Jones fished around the table for a cup and poured himself a coffee. “Do you mind telling me what that was all about?”

“They’re making a film of my life. Monarch studios are – “

“You know what I’m talking about,” said Jones, his mouth hidden behind the coffee.

“You mean Marco Lowe?”

“Yes.”

“They suggested him, not me.”

“I get that. But what’s it got to do with me, your
Image Consultant.
I thought I was Head of Security?”

He nodded, “Of course you are, but I thought you might enjoy the chance to make Lowe feel uncomfortable. Let him know you still had his number.”

“What? Looking across the room at that scumbag? Think again, that’s not how I get my kicks.”

Jones shook his head and turned back to his coffee. His mouth turned down and his top lip stuck out. Daniel noticed his suit was shabby and his shoes worn.

He suddenly realised what he had just suggested. Was he really trying to dabble with this man’s life? His friend. The only person who he could count on at the moment and he’d thought it would be amusing, no, he thought he would be
grateful
for the chance to get one up on a murderer.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend. I just thought you’d enjoy it.”

“Enjoy it? Daniel, I can tell you this; in all my years in homicide I met a lot of sick people. Some of them honest to God evil. I never
enjoyed
meeting any of them. Truth be told I was afraid a lot of the time. There never was, and there never will be, any pleasure in sitting across the table from a man like Marco Lowe.”

“Understood,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

They sat in silence and finished their coffee. Jones swilling it around the cup and looking about the restaurant like a hawk, Daniel quickly sipping and trying to make eye contact. A call came in that there was a need for a meeting with his social media advisor, so the two left and headed uptown to a rented office space Monarch Pictures had given him the use of.

As the car drove them he mused on his foolishness but, thankfully, Jones changed the subject. “What is a social media advisor?”

“With all that’s going on I need someone to handle my online presence. People expect me to tweet and update my status; I’ve got blogs and websites – not just for the public but for my partners. She also helps monitor public opinion and feedback; which is really important to my sponsors.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever much cared for social media. Seems to be full of opinions.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not unless you back it up with action.”

The car pulled up outside the office. Jones and a guard stepped out to check the immediate vicinity before ushering him inside. Jones had implemented a lot of precautions and checks; he’d hired at least a dozen extra security staff and setup a few systems on Daniel’s intranet too. Every security incident was now recorded and monitored. Anything out of the ordinary was fully investigated and itinerary’s had to have Jones’s signature at the bottom so he could approve.

Inside the meeting room a young woman sat at a table checking her phone. She stood up when they entered and introduced herself to Jones. “Hi, I’m Jemma.”

There was brief, but sincere smile, before she switched her attention to Daniel. “We have a major issue with Twitter.”

Daniel sat down and gestured for Jones and Jemma to do the same. “Tell me more.”

“I’ve been looking at what’s been trending and hashtags such as ‘robot’; ‘the robot’; ‘robot man’ are showing way more activity than normal. There’s a lot of negative feeling out there. Especially around your opening of this church.”

Daniel sat back and flattened his suit jacket. “Look, these guys are just hippies. They’re harmless.”

“They are. But the Christian Right are not.”

“The Christian Right?” said Daniel. Jemma’s long nails rapped on the desk and she put her phone down before running her hand through her auburn hair.

“The Moral Majority, Christian Voice, Christian Coalition of America.”

“
Those
guys,” said Jones. “I still don’t get why they’re upset with him. It’s not his church.”

“But he’s sponsoring it. In their eyes he’s messianic. There have been a number of direct threats which we have the police looking at; Mr Jones I’ve raised security cases and emailed you the numbers. But there are also several online petitions which we can’t do anything about.”

“Online petitions?” said Jones. “These people sit at home spouting out their opinions to anyone who’ll read their bile believing they have a right to be heard. You know what? You don’t have a right to be
heard
. You have a right to an opinion; but no one has to listen to it.”

Jemma smiled. “You don’t think people have the right to express themselves? Social media has brought down governments, you know?”

“That’s as maybe,” said Jones, “but ninety-nine point nine present of it is frustrated people venting off about their first world problems. Like I said to Daniel before; an opinion isn’t anything without an action.”

Jemma looked long into Jones’s eyes. “I’ll make sure I remember that one. Tell me, who does your online presence?”

Jones laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. Daniel, it would be good for your right hand man to have a say. I’m happy to handle it as part of your account.”

Daniel shook his head. “No need.”

Jemma pulled her lips tight but made no sound. “Fine,” she said, eventually. “I’ll leave you with my briefing and be on my way. Are we meeting up Thursday at the opening?”

“Yes, I’ll need you running things for me.”

“I’ll be there. Gentlemen.” Jemma smiled and, with a swish of her hair, she strode out of the room and shut the door. Jones couldn’t help but follow her with his eyes.

“She’s quite something. Where did you find her?”

“Toby recommended her.”