Stark (20 page)

96: JUNK

C
hrissy wasn’t too bothered about the ‘stuff to do’ pile on the evening that she got the letter. Why, it was barely teetering yet, the venom that the monster spat was of little consequence whilst it had no final reminder to reproach her with. The pile could wait.

She tossed the junk mail in the bin, unopened. And in doing so, Chrissy unwittingly made a joke and a mockery of the lives, loves and endeavours of countless people whom she would never know. In that casual gesture she trampled upon an awesome human achievement and upon great sacrifices contributed by the natural world. Why didn’t she stop to think? Why didn’t she dare to care? What a bitch.

If only she could have seen them, seen their disappointment as she hurled their creation back in their honest faces. The person who cleared the land to plant the fir trees; the persons who planted and tore up the fir trees every second or third year; the drivers and the ships’ captains who got the trees to the mill; the thousands who work in the mills and in the huge pulping plants and paper factories — if only Chrissy could have seen them she would have wept bitter tears of self reproach to have dismissed their lives so casually.

The copywriter? Did Chrissy not care that he had spent so many lonely hours trying to think of a tempting way to get her to accept ten days free home perusal of a fifteen volume history of the Wild West? The printer and the four colour offset litho process of which he was so proud — was his life to be just a pointless joke because of Chrissy? The animals and insects that were wiped out when billions of acres of forest and moorland were turned over to single crop, factory, fir tree farming. Did they give their lives in vain?

One can only hope and pray that those involved never discover that after the monumental worldwide effort and the truly awesome consumption of natural resources that went into bringing a piece of junk mail to Chrissy’s door, she simply threw it away. Gone, gone, gone; all their hopes and dreams and sacrifices, rejected in that one contemptuous gesture. They must never know, for they would put up their arms in horror (or spindly leggy things in the case of the insects) and say, as Zimmerman would say, ‘What is the point!? No, I mean really, what is the point?’

Over a year, as a moderately high-earner in the US — the country which wrote the original handbook on pointless consumption — Chrissy would receive between five hundred and a thousand bits of junk mail. Plus over a hundred ‘free’ newspapers, perhaps fifty cab firm cards and fifty offers from local estate agents to dispose of her property. She, like most people, threw the lot away unopened.

97: LETTER FROM LONDON

H
er letter was from Linda Reeve in London. Linda did not often write but when she did it was normally something pretty good.

On glancing at the opening paragraph however, Chrissy felt a momentary irritation because it was immediately clear that Linda was still harping on about this business about Nagasyu and Tyron and Slampacker, and all the other assorted billionaires she was putting in her book. However, as Chrissy read on, despite herself, she began to wonder whether there might not be something in it. Linda had included a copy of the article which her editor had rejected, plus a series of less specific examples detailing withdrawals of smaller sums of money, or where some reinvestment had resulted. Chrissy had to admit that it read pretty well. Somewhere, somehow, in recent months, thirty billion US dollars worth of stock had been converted into cash by a smallish group of individuals and simply disappeared.

In her article, Linda seemed to be suggesting that perhaps a collective fear was sweeping the upper echelons of the financial world and that some of the big men wanted their money where they could see it. But could they see it? Linda couldn’t, and nor could Chrissy. It was unthinkable that they had simply put it in the bank. People used to watching their bucks divide and grow like amoeba were not going to put up with 7 per cent a year in a deposit account. And yet, none of those concerned had any major, high-profile project underway that would require heavy cash flow. Where had it gone?

Unlike Linda, who was deeply conservative, Chrissy was a bit of a radical. She did not have a very high opinion of the people she regularly studied and wrote about. Therefore, Chrissy did not have much time for Linda’s theory about paranoia. These guys’ religion was chasing money, they weren’t just going to pull out. They’d screw everyone else in the world before they’d do that. So what was it? It would be wonderful if there was something illegal going on. Drugs would be terrific, but reason told her that this was out of the question. The people Linda mentioned were too big to bother to take risks like that. Arms seemed a possibility. Perhaps it was a huge global arms syndicate! Linda had produced twenty-three names, that would be very big indeed for a syndicate, especially since all the people involved were big enough to play a lone hand.

It did look interesting, Chrissy couldn’t deny it…Maybe she should take a look? On the other hand, maybe she should finish the article that she was writing about the aftermath of the unprecedently hot northern summer (suntan lotion and ice-cream futures were very big). Then again, she was long overdue to write to her sister in Wisconsin. Maybe she should do that…And she hadn’t done her aerobic home workout in seven months — God she was definitely going to have a heart attack. Also, the toilet needed cleaning in the corner. The ‘stuff to do’ pile seemed to have grown, nothing had been added in the few minutes since she had last looked but it had definitely got bigger…

‘OK,’ it hissed at her maliciously, fluttering its papery arms, ‘So there ain’t no final bills, so what? How about that insurance form? Huh? And the new cheque card application? You still have that to do don’t ya? And the register of voters, that’s two weeks old already, do you want to get disenfranchised? You will be, if you don’t do it! Come on, Chrissy, look at me! There is so much stuff to do in the ‘stuff to do’ pile.’

98: THE HONEST, DEDICATED JOURNO IS A RARE AND ENDANGERED SPECIES

T
he next day, during her first cup of coffee, Chrissy thought she’d ring Linda to apologize for being so dismissive on the phone before and say that having read the letter she now thought that perhaps there might be something in it.

Chrissy was hoping that she could persuade Linda to send the programs she had used for her book on the rich guys, down the line so that Chrissy too could pick up quickly on their movements wherever they were dealing. This would be stretching a pen-pal friendship quite a long way. After all, it would have taken Linda a very long time to put those programs together. Still, if Linda wanted Chrissy’s help…

‘Hello, Linda Reeve’s phone,’ the voice said.

‘Hi, is Linda around?’

Looking back, Chrissy was sure that she had sensed something wrong even in that moment.

‘Uhm, might I ask your business?’

‘My name’s Chrissy Waldorf, I’m on the Wall Street Examiner, we’re friends.’

‘Uhm…well, she’s unavailable at the moment,’ the man replied.

‘Well, can you get her to call me?’

‘Look, I’m awfully sorry, we’re rather upset at this end, I’m afraid Linda’s dead…’

Chrissy ran cold. Maybe there is something in sixth-sense, she felt like she’d known even before she picked up the phone. She did not reply, her mind was racing. The man on the other end clearly felt obliged to offer some further explanation — he had been doing it all morning.

‘Dreadful business. It seems that she surprised a burglar and, well, uhm, he killed her…’

‘A burglar?’ said Chrissy, ‘in her apartment?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Did he get away with anything?’

The man at the other end was slightly put off that this was the American woman’s first consideration. But, there you go, that was Yanks for you.

‘I believe it was a very professional job. A great deal was —’

‘Listen, are you at her desk?’ Chrissy spoke urgently. Maybe poor Linda had been murdered coincidentally. First the letter, now this…

‘Well, as a matter of fact I am but —’

‘Will you do me a favour? Lock it, put everything inside and lock it right now and keep the key.’ The man at the other end explained that he would be happy to but that he saw no point as it had already been emptied and the top had been completely cleared. All that remained was a half-empty box of chocolates and he didn’t suppose that she wanted that. No, he didn’t know who had done it. It had certainly been done when he arrived that morning. Perhaps the police…

Chrissy checked with the police. Then, posing as a relative, she checked with the editor. Neither knew who had emptied the desk. The editor thought perhaps relatives or one of Linda’s colleagues, really he was very busy and everybody was very upset.

After that it was evening in Britain and Chrissy had to wait out the rest of the day and until early the next morning for London to wake up again. When it did she checked as best she could with the relatives, managing to contact Linda’s mother. Mrs Reeve was clearly strung-out but hanging on. She believed that it was important that one contained oneself. Refusing to break down she dealt politely and clearly with Chrissy, who claimed to be a closer friend than she was. Unfortunately, Mrs Reeve knew nothing of who had emptied the desk, nor did any of Linda’s colleagues that Chrissy managed to speak to. None of them were particularly interested either. It appeared that as far as anyone knew, Linda did not keep much of interest in her desk.

This was not the point as far as Chrissy was concerned. The point was that it had been emptied and nobody knew who had done it. Clearly a stranger had emptied it, hence obviously they thought she might have something of interest in it. Interesting enough to risk a search. Interesting enough, it seemed, to kill her.

The police report made it clear that the burglar was a professional. There had been a highly accomplished, no- nonsense entry, a swift, silent clear out, the lot. If that was the case, thought Chrissy, why had he killed her? Professional burglars are rarely murderers. You don’t last long in a job if you start killing people. It’s the one-off thug who normally panics and lashes out. The conviction was firmly growing in Chrissy’s mind that this fellow had killed first and burgled afterwards.

99: PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

100: DISCOVERING MURDER

L
inda’s last letter to Chrissy, those few pieces of paper that Chrissy held in her hand, was, it seemed, the single and only piece of Linda’s work left in existence. Chrissy felt cold even to think about it.

It had not been difficult to work this out. Chrissy had spoken a number of times to Linda’s parents who were kind, helpful people. They had found out what she asked them to. Linda’s flat, it seemed, still contained an awful lot of paper, love letters from Linda’s one affair, bills, her attempts at poetry, but there were no papers relating to any aspect of Linda’s work left whatsoever. Nothing, not a note, not an old article, not a floppy disc. Her entire career had disappeared.

‘But I really can’t see that it’s at all sinister,’ Linda’s father, a quiet, sad voiced, ex-army officer, said. ‘The police assure us that the burglars were very thorough. They really gutted and filleted the place. Even took the clocks, anything of value, the food mixer, the more expensive clothes, everything.’

Of course they did, Chrissy thought to herself. The only way to avoid arousing police suspicion was to make what was in fact a premeditated murder, appear to have been committed absolutely and indisputably for reasons of professional burglary.

Any burglar together enough to remove only the expensive clothes, is together enough to know that a girl’s journalistic research is worthless to him…Unless, of course, it isn’t.

That had been their mistake, that was what made Chrissy absolutely certain that something terribly wrong was going on. They had constructed the facade of a serious, tidy, professional burglary in order that the police would presume that they could see at a glance what had been stolen. There was no ransacking here, no shadowy motive. It was all very clear, the police would not think to start looking for scraps of paper and note books that they did not even know existed. But Chrissy knew they existed. They must do, Linda was a very conscientious journalist. It was unthinkable that she would not have research data at home. Therefore, this supposedly pragmatic and professional burglar had taken the trouble to sort out and steal something he could not possibly want. The burglary must be a front, and what’s more, a front based on the assumption that only the people who took out the contract on Linda were aware that her research was in some way compromising. This meant that Chrissy had a short start on the killers. Clearly they could not know that Linda had passed on the body of her research to Chrissy, or, Chrissy presumed, she would already be dead too. For the moment at least, although ‘they’ remained invisible to Chrissy, at least she was invisible to them.

Poor Colonel (retired) and Mrs Reeve were bewildered by Chrissy’s questions, but it was obvious to them that this strange American girl thought that something was wrong.

‘Look, if there’s anything we can do…‘ the Colonel said, having to make an effort to keep his voice steady. ‘Linda really was a marvellous sort, you know…terrific…really terrific. What I’m saying is, if you think that there’s something, well, uhm, fishy in all this…?’

Chrissy reminded herself that the enemy had already killed once, killed a girl for reading a computer screen. She did not wish to provoke further tragedy.

‘No, really, please forget it, Colonel. It’s nothing, just a little project Linda and I were working on…about beetroot,’ she added for some unknown reason. ‘I suppose it’s selfish of me, I just didn’t want to have to re-do her work, that’s all. Sorry…’

‘Beetroot you say?’ said Colonel Reeve absently,’…Linda never liked beetroot, but nobody does really, do they? I mean, not honestly. Stains the lettuce and puts you off…’

Chrissy excused herself as gently as she could and put the phone down, leaving the old Colonel thinking about beetroot and his dead daughter and trying not to cry.