Falling (6 page)
I should phone the police - after
all I saw a man dangling forty floors up in the air. Even if the man is now
safe I should report it and then I can tell them about George and the push.
I hit 999 on the mobile. I ask
for police when the operator answers. The operator transfers me but stays on
the line to repeat my mobile number to the police.
I try and stay calm and explain
in simple terms what I’ve seen but it takes a while. I get George mixed up with
the falling man and at one point they think my boyfriend was trying to jump. I
correct them and once they have the address and the exact location they tell me
they will send someone to investigate and to stay where I am.
It doesn’t seem two minutes
before I hear a police siren and when I look down into the lane I see a police
car crawling along. A little further along the lane there is another policeman
bent over a figure on the ground next to a car that is gently pouring exhaust
fumes into the atmosphere.
I watch as the police car stops
and a policeman gets out. He looks up. I follow his gaze and I catch a glimpse
of someone disappearing behind the retaining wall above me. I look back down
and wave one hand at the policeman while pointing the other hand to the
opposite roof. He has turned his attention to the man in the lane.
What the hell is he doing down
there. He needs to be up here. Or better still on top of the other roof. I
shout but it is a long way down and my lungs were never the best and twenty a
day hasn’t helped. I want to scream
‘Hey shit-head - forget him, go do your
job.’
The two policemen meet up and
look down at the man on the ground.
For God’s sake get a move on.
Just get a move on.
I make a decision. I’m going to
see what is going on up on George’s roof. Police instruction or not, I’m not
waiting while they pass the time of day with some guy in a lane. I walk then
half run back to my floor and grab my coat. I make an excuse about needing to
go to the chemist and I’m off.
Chapter 11
Simon gets a lucky break.
‘OK sir let’s start at the
beginning.’
‘But officer…’
There was something going on
above me but then it’s gone. I’m sure I saw a man up there. But in my state it
could have been anything. The policeman is starting to ask a series of
questions. I can see this leading to the tricky issue of me, the car and
alcohol. I’m on a loser here. One breath test and I’ll turn the little crystals
a shade of green usually reserved for cow fields Then it’s back to the station,
Q & A, blood test, banged up and then charged. Day in court and goodbye
license. Shit.
I try the
‘It ain’t drink but
the flu routine.’
I claim I’ve not been well. I had to come into work. I
got caught short on the way out. Needed to vomit. Nice try but the smell of
booze is a bit of a living thing around me.
Second shot. The booze smell - now
noted by the officer - was here when I chucked up. Someone else must have
thrown up here last night. I had chosen, against all the odds, to vomit in
exactly the same spot. Incredible but hard to disprove. The officer’s stance
suggests that I’m not really treading virgin territory with my excuses.
Ok - third angle. I wasn’t
driving. When I needed to chuck up the man behind the wheel had nipped back in
to the office and left me. He will be back shortly. The policeman smiles. I
know I’m lost.
The radio on the officer’s tunic
crackles. A message is fed into his ear piece. He looks up and a police car
crawls into view with a whoop of its siren. Moments later there are two
policemen above me. My hope rises. They don’t seem to be that interested in me.
Something about someone falling from the roof. The name George is mentioned.
George? George our maintenance
man? George the maintenance has fallen off the roof. Tragic. I’m so sorry. I’m
sure you need to investigate. Can I go now? Brilliant.
I listen. Fuck, it seems no-one
has actually fallen. Just a report that someone saw someone hanging from the
roof. Not George though. Someone else. The first officer looks down at me.
‘Put the car back in the garage
and go home. I need to attend to this other matter.’
One nil. Final minute of extra
time. Back of the net. Last gasp. I’m off the hook. Y’dancer.
I ignore the hangover and take
the advice at speed. I jump into the car and reverse it back into the garage. I
clip one of the concrete posts on the way in. I don’t care. I see the two
policemen follow me in the garage. I start to panic again. Stay calm. They are
looking for the door that leads to the lifts. I feel magnanimous and decide to
show them the way.
Chapter 12
The penny drops with Simon.
Mistake. It was a mistake to ride
up in the lift with the policemen. The smell of booze is amplified in the small
space. I may just be giving them a reason to re-appraise my early release from
their custody. I try and hold my breath. This doesn’t mute the stink from my
clothes or my skin, my shoes, my… come on lift get a move on.
The first policeman turns to the
other. He holds his nose in his best Buster Keaton style. I smile weakly. The
second policeman listens to something on the radio. He crinkles his nose in sympathy.
The lift slides to a halt at my
floor. I pour out with relief. The door closes and I hear the words ‘Thrown not
jumped.’ I freeze. No context to the words. Except.
My blood temperature drops twenty
degrees.
‘Thrown not jumped.’
Breath catches in my throat. I
stare at the floor. My headache gone. Thoughts zip round my head like a fly on
steroids. No they couldn’t be that stupid. No-one could. Not from the roof of
our own office. That wasn’t the deal. That wasn’t the fucking deal.
I run to my office. I rifle
through my desk and grab a key. I pull back a panel in the wall. I reveal a
small wall safe. I insert the key in the lock. All the time I’m thinking no-one
could be that dumb. No-one.
I open the safe door. I pull out
one of the ‘Pay As You Go’ mobile phones lying there and power it up. It takes
a few seconds to get going. The provider flashes up on the screen. I pull out
my wallet and remove a battered business card. Scribbled across the face is a
mobile number.
I should really phone ‘the
Voice’. This call was supposed to happen only in emergencies. This is an
emergency. I dial the number. I wait for the connection. All the time I am
praying that no-one could be that dumb. I mean who would….
The phone rings in my ear. After
five rings the recipient picks up.
‘Tell me you didn’t throw our
friend off the roof of this fucking building,’ I shout.
The voice at the other end
hesitates. I hold my breath. Then he talks. He assures me that he has done no
such thing. Air rushes from my lungs. I fall into my seat. He tells me not to
phone this number again. I hang up.
I fiddle with the phone for a
second before deleting the outgoing call from the record. I remove the battery
and pull out the sim card. I place it on the floor and grind it with my heel. I
root in my drawer and pull out a cloth. A little more rooting and a roll of
plastic sandwich bags joins the cloth on my desk. I wipe the phone and battery
clean. I drop them along with the battered sim card into three separate bags.
I’ll dump them on the way home.
My headache returns. I welcome
it. For a moment I thought the man falling from the roof was Leonard Thwaite.
From our roof. From the same bloody roof that the two policemen are now heading
for. I am shaking. Not with fear. With anger. I reach into another drawer and
pop four more headache killers. I lean back hoping the pills work fast.
I fall asleep and I’m woken by a
knocking on my door. The tablets have kicked in. I open my eyes to see someone
standing in the door frame.
It’s Leonard Thwaite. I’m
slightly flustered and re-assured at the same time. Here is living proof that
Dumb and Dumber didn’t throw Leonard from the roof.
‘Didn’t think you would be in
today. Not after last night,’ he says.
Leonard had been at the party
last night. He left early. He is nothing if not a party pooper. That and a
fucking thief.
I say hello and ask what he
wants. He looks at me with a cockeyed leer. He tells me that he needs to run
over a few things. I tell him to go take a running jump. He shakes his head and
walks into my office. He closes the door behind him. He has an envelope in his
hand. He tells me he was going to leave it for me to read. I smile. He hands it
to me. I drop it on the desk.
I ask him what the hell he is on
about?
He slumps into the chair opposite
mine. He places his feet up on my desk. I throw him a look that says ‘get your
feet back on the fucking floor.’ He ignores it. Leonard is forgetting his
place. I stand up to swipe his feet from the desk. The hangover still has some
force and I drop back to the chair. I let rip with a mouthful instead. The
normally timid Leonard doesn’t flinch. He puts his feet back on the desk.
A little disconcerting I must
admit. I spit out a few more choice words. Leonard looks like he is on brave
pills - he smiles. I tell him to get to the point. He smiles again. I tell him
that I am going to come round and play squash with his balls. His smile wavers.
He nods at the envelope. I pick it up. It has my name and P&C written on it.
He’s an arse. In this office P&C is equivalent to CC All. I tear the
envelope open. There is a single typed sheet of paper inside. I pull it out and
begin reading.
Dear Simon
Having been your accountant
for some ten years now I am sensitive to your moods and I have noted a slight
change in your attitude of late. As such I’m fairly sure that you have
discovered the small discrepancy between the money in two of your bank accounts
and what you would expect to find there.
I look up at him. His feet are
waving nervously. Small. Yeah if you can call two hundred thousand small. I
return to the letter.
If you haven’t discovered
this yet then consider this letter a pre-emptive strike.
I’m fairly sure that you
are not going to take too kindly to such accounting discrepancies and as such I
have put a little insurance in place should you decide to pursue matters in an
inappropriate manner.
Inappropriate. What like a knife
in your fucking gut?
As of last week I have sent
several electronic copies of accounts concerning certain of your business
transactions to some key strategic locations.
I look up again. He has stopped
smiling. But his feet are still on the desk.
All the accounts are
strictly protected by a password. If the individuals are not given the correct
password when contacted, the accounts will be sent directly to the authorities.
If I die or vanish, the strategic locations have instructions to release the
accounts to the authorities within forty eight hours.
I have also taken the
liberty of confiding in a work colleague who has placed a hard copy set of the
same accounts in a place of his own choosing.
I have no intention of
facilitating the release of the accounts if we can both act in a reasonable
manner. After all as your accountant I will not be without blame and the
thought of prison terrifies me. Equally I do not want to die and if you take a
sensible approach to this little issue we can both live long and healthy lives.
Regards
Leonard
P.S. I hereby tender my
resignation as your accountant.
I finish reading. My brain is in
a flat spin. Leonard’s smile returns as he drops his feet from the desk. He
stands up. He turns and walks out of the office.
I pick up the letter and re-read
it several times. I shake my head. I never thought he had it in him.
Leonard has been our accountant
for ten years. He knows we have some dodgy business practices. But he is paid
well. Paid very well. A little extra compensatory payment on top of the
official Cheedle, Baker and Nudge fees. For this he is expected to turn a blind
eye at key moments.
Two days ago I discovered that he
had been dipping his fingers in the till. Sod it, he had been dipping his hands
and both bloody arms in the till. Hence the contract killing that Dumb and
Dumber were working on. Now things were a bit more complex.
Leonard is a clever swine. Over
the years, in an Enron inspired move he has created a number of so called tax
efficient vehicles to wash our cash through. Trouble was that with each rinse
cycle a little leaked out into his pockets. As far as I can work out he is more
than two hundred thousand to the good. And now the gormless fucker has set up
some Machiavellian scheme. A scheme to protect his fat backside.
I read the letter again and then
once more for luck. I push my chair away from my desk and lean back. I stretch
my legs out in front of me. I reach into my trouser pocket. I pull out a
cardboard tube and rob it of two pills. I pop them. Indigestion killers this
time. This needs thought.
This needs serious thought.
I pull open the fire door and
then Jim is through in front of me. Time is of the essence. The maintenance man
is unlikely to stay quiet for long and someone will find him when he starts banging
around. He might not know what is going on but he has seen us and he knows we
got the wrong man. He even knows the name of the right man.