Tedd and Todd's secret (12 page)

The man had hardly put a foot outside the courthouse door when the cameras began flashing. He covered his face with his hands instinctively, almost frightened, as if they were throwing stones at him.

"Enough!" a woman's voice screamed above the fracas. "It isn't him, you idiots."

The photographers put their cameras down, one after the other, and turned towards the woman.

Carol observed her workmates with an expression of pity. They were so anxious to get the photos that they'd forgotten who they were waiting for.

The stranger mumbled something to himself and continued on his way, sure that he'd never been harassed by so many journalists before.

Carol was calmer than everyone else, waiting for the other man to leave the court. There was no doubt that the case had no precedent, and was going to appear in every newspaper, on every TV and radio station. She'd met better people than Dylan Blair, the object of all this interest. She remembered Lance saying the night before that he had no problem with Dylan, which had surprised Carol because she'd thought the policeman had better judgement. And thinking about Lance, her thoughts were led to Aidan, but she checked them quickly. She was still angry about the way he'd left her the night before.

The photographers got it right the next time as the enormous glass doors opened and Dylan Blair appeared in his typical aura of arrogance. He stopped and opened his arms in a welcoming, almost messianic gesture, while the journalists flocked around him. Cameras flashed and reporters recited their rehearsed questions. Dylan's eyes were protected by designer sunglasses and he waited, smiling. He wasn't in any hurry. He waited until the din subsided.

"Gentlemen, please," he said, feigning irritation, as he stood there with his unruly hair and three-day growth of stubble. He seemed to always look like that. Not exactly what most would expect to see from a multimillionaire. "You know I'm willing to collaborate with you, but if you all ask questions at the same time, I won't understand anything."

The flurry of questions abated.

Dylan Blair had a history of involvement in scandals, but for one reason or another he always spoke to the press. But it wasn't only the respect that his availability engendered that tamed the crowd of journalists. His words, always carefully selected, were not those of an angry pop star, or a politician who'd rehearsed his post-judgement speech. Dylan Blair was different and whatever he chose to say was never boring.

Carol studied him with displeasure. She didn't want to be there. This wasn't the sort of journalism that she aspired to. She wondered if her fellow journalist had feigned illness to get out of it. Either way, it didn't matter. She was stuck where she was.

Dylan continued in the new silence. "Thanks for that. Now, let's have the questions. One after the other, please. If not, I'm off, gentlemen." He paused, pointing to a young-looking man in the front of the pack. "You first."

"Is it true your company has beaten all the predictions and doubled profit in the last twelve months?"

The question was off the mark and sounded as if it had come from a rookie reporter. Everyone knew that Dylan didn't like to talk about his finances. The eccentric millionaire had no qualms talking about his many affairs but he side-stepped anything to do with his business empire. That in itself was just one of Dylan's many contradictions.

He'd only been in the public eye for three and a half years. Before that, he'd been nothing more than an administrative clerk in a brick factory. He'd appeared suddenly in the media after making a fortune in less than two months, buying shares in a business on the verge of bankruptcy. That business merged with another that dominated the industry and the share values increased many times over. A short time later the new millionaire founded his own business. And by the time Dylan Blair had turned forty-two, he was one of the richest, most famous men in London.

Writing about him sold papers. The press started to hunt its new prey, curious about a success that was difficult to believe. There was no record of him having saved money, and as such, it was impossible to explain how he had established his business. The divorce from his wife had decimated what few assets he'd had at the time. Dylan had been in the same job since he'd started at the brick factory, watching others get promoted while he stayed where he was. His situation would have led many to believe that he'd spent what little money he had on anti-depressants. Yet, despite all that, Dylan got his first bundle of cash in the most unexpected way. He had a run of luck at a casino playing roulette, so much so that he'd been asked to leave, and from that moment on, luck didn't desert him in another series of amazing wins and small business speculations, that led to the share market deal which made him his fortune.

It had all been legal without any outside help. Other than luck on his side, that is.

Since becoming a famous millionaire he'd been involved in his fair share of scandals, to the delight of social columnists. He'd been seen nude, drunk, with prostitutes, and involved in practically every form of decadence that big money can buy. The latest incident had brought him to the courts that day and it wasn't the first time it had happened.

However, the reporter had preferred to ask him about his company's profits, which had the rest holding their breath and hoping that Dylan wouldn't refuse to answer any more questions.

"What a mistake I made in choosing you," Dylan said, sarcastically. "But looking at you now I can see you're a fool. If you ask any more questions, my young friend, I'll be forced to leave you and your mates here alone."

Someone dragged the young journalist back into the crowd.

"Have you got the verdict yet?" another asked.

"Well," Dylan explained excitedly, "that's more interesting, don't you think? No, not yet. Or at least, not as far as I know."

"Do you believe you're going to win the case?"

"It seems you are the second idiot this morning," Dylan answered, smiling. "I haven't got a chance in the world of winning this case."

The answer made the crowd laugh and several journalists started firing questions at Dylan at the same time, which had him frowning and putting a hand to one ear as if he couldn't hear.

"Don't you consider yourself a repulsive, vengeful individual for doing what you've done?" a voice demanded to know, yelling above the rest.

A hush came over the crowd as they tried to locate the speaker.

Dylan continued smiling, "At last. Someone with a sense of humour. Who might he be?" he asked, studying the faces before him.

"It was me," Carol answered, pushing her way through the crowd. "I haven't heard your answer yet. Are you going to refuse to answer because you find the question boring?"

"Of course not," he said, coolly. "You don't have to believe me, but I'm not vengeful. I wouldn't know how to prove that to you, so you'll just have to take my word for it. In reference to being repulsive, I would like to point out that it's a subjective term, not everyone is repulsed by the same thing. Although in my case, it seems an adequate description." Another journalist interrupted with a question meant to get them on another tack, but Dylan would have none of it. "No, no. I'm speaking with this young lady. Please, go on."

"At least we agree on one point," Carol informed him. "Do you expect us to believe that this case against your old boss isn't to seek revenge against someone who didn't promote you when you were a nobody?"

"Exactly. You've understood it to perfection. You're an excellent reporter. The rest of the herd here should take a leaf out of your book. "

"You spent twenty years in that company."

"Nineteen and a half."

"Excuse me."

"Excused." Dylan seemed to be enjoying himself as he watched Carol trying not to lose her temper. "Do you feel all right? We can continue this on another occasion, if you don't feel up to it."

She ignored this comment. "In all that time, your boss promoted many employees, several of whom had started working after you did. And that included the colleague your ex-wife left you for. And you're trying to tell us that this ridiculous claim hasn't been made out of revenge?"

"The claim isn't ridiculous," Dylan said, seemingly offended. "But the rest of your assertion is thoroughly correct."

"How can you deny that it isn't ridiculous?"

"It's a claim for damages. He punched me."

"You hit him first."

"He insulted me."

"That is the least important thing in this affair and you know it."

The conversation was turning vicious. Both of them were talking as if they were alone, ignoring the crowd of journalists around them, feverishly writing every word down.

"You caused the punch and the insults. You went to see your old boss with the intention of provoking a fight. Isn't that so?"

"Not at all," Dylan replied. "I only wanted to demonstrate, by giving him a present, what working for him for twenty years meant to me. I only wanted to deliver it with all my respect, but he took it the wrong way, lost his rag. When he insulted me, everything took a turn for the worse and now the judge will have to decide if my claim is justified or not."

"A present?" Carol said horrified. Dylan would have to be the devil himself to classify what he had given his ex-boss as a present. "Is that what you call it, a present?"

"At least that's how I would like it to appear in your articles. Gift would also be acceptable."

Carol couldn't believe what she was hearing, couldn't believe that someone like Dylan Blair really existed. "This is repulsive."

"Think it through," he advised her. "Everyone is aware of my fortune. If I wanted to hurt my ex-boss, I could have bought the company and fired him, for example."

"Just one more question," Carol said, keen to finish up. It was obvious that Dylan wasn't going to talk seriously. But first she wanted to find out the only thing that hadn't been explained about the whole pitiful affair. "Earlier, you said you had no chance of winning the case. You know you're going to lose. Then why go ahead with it?"

Dylan seemed surprised. "Really? You still don't understand, do you? I'm doing this for the millions of people who can't do the same. Those out there, trapped in their jobs, who can't fight back. At least, it will console them to know that someone can."

"In which case you could have just delivered the gift and not gone on with the claim. That way you wouldn't lose," she advised him.

"No, I can see you don't get it." He looked at her with pity. "I'm rich, the cost of the case doesn't matter to me. But tell me, dear, what good does it serve to shit on the table of my old boss, wipe my arse and punch him, if nobody hears about it?"

The memory of previous unpleasant visits made Lance Norwood smell the hostile stench of the mortuary a lot earlier than it actually penetrated his nasal cavity. The atmosphere was always heavy and he felt dizzy as soon as he set foot in that foul site. He'd been there on numerous occasions on police matters, but had managed to keep it to a minimum, delegating the work to others. This time, too, he'd tried to get out of it, but Aidan had sworn that he wouldn't tell him anything about the investigation if he waited in the car. Curiosity had triumphed.

"Did you have to bring him?" Fletcher protested. "I only called you."

"Equally pleased to see you, Fletcher," Lance concurred.

They were in a large room full of metal stretchers with black body bags on top. Each one had a zipper and, to Lance's horror, they were all open. One of the ceiling lights was flickering overhead.

Lance had no idea how anyone could work as a pathologist. It had to be the reason for Fletcher's bad moods. He'd spent half his life in this horrid place sticking his nose into rotting flesh.

"He wouldn't let me come alone. He gets scared without me. Don't worry about him." Aidan Zack stopped looking Lance's way. "Lance, stop being stupid and take that off."

"Not on your life," Lance informed him, hanging on to the face mask that covered his face. "If I breathe any more of this filthy air, I'll finish up as twisted as your old friend here. Keep back!" he yelled as Aidan tried to pull it off.

"Idiot," Aidan said, "frightened by a few little black bags."

"You should've left him in your car," Fletcher suggested. "He'd be more likely to pick up an infection there. I'll try and pretend he's not here."

Fletcher couldn't stomach Lance and had no trouble letting him know it, which didn't surprise Lance too much. No one hated this place as much as he did. Just like no one loved it as much as Fletcher. For him it was a temple.

"Aidan, I've analysed James White's blood, as you asked me to, and compared it with William Black's. Surprising result to say the least," he said, zipping up Black's bag.

"Are they brothers? Or related?"

"More than that," the pathologist answered. "They're identical."

"You mean they're twins?"

"No. Absolutely identical. More than twins are. Their DNA is an exact copy."

"Maybe Aidan's a bit thick," Lance said, his voice muffled under the face mask. "But I know twins have the same DNA. They come from the same egg, don't they?"