The Dead Lie Down (Adam Lennox Thrillers: Book One) (20 page)

Before Adam got out, Anna leaned over to him.

"What I said to you at the cottage about showing gratitude for the rescue. The
offer still stands. Your car or mine." Whilst he hesitated, searching for a
suitable reply, she kissed him lightly.

Nonplussed, unsure what the magnetic attraction was, but making a mental note to
bottle it when he had identified it, he replied, "one way or another I think
we'll be meeting again".

He stood on the doorstep when she'd driven off, trying to find his key. He
needed to do a number of things, he thought, but first of all he badly needed to
talk again to Brad Wilding.

Chapter 27

"So where the hell is he?"

"How the hell should I know?"

Pause.

Adam and Bel stood facing each other across John Bartlett's, sorry, the late
John Bartlett's desk in accusatory posture. They had arrived to ask some very
hard questions of Brad Wilding only to discover that he hadn't been seen for two
days. On the way to Bartletts an increasingly acrimonious conversation had taken
place which had started with a question from Bel.

Rewind to the flat.

"So, Lennox, who was that?" inquired Bel, drying off a plate from the
dishwasher.

"Who?"

"The woman downstairs."

"That was Anna."

"Ah so that was Anna." With her vigorous rubbing, the plate was now perfectly
dry.

"What do you mean 'Ah so that was Anna'?"

"She kissed you. I saw her."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What is it to you Trent?"

Bel backed off, polishing the pattern off the plate. "Nothing. She looked
vaguely familiar that's all."

Adam shrugged. "You were the one who talked about moving on."

"I don't want to see you get hurt."

"You were the one who talked about moving on Trent." repeated Adam.

"I thought we had agreed not to talk about moving on." retorted Bel putting a
very high polish on the plate.

And so on and so forth.

So now 'Entente Cordiale' had broken down.

Fast forward back to Bartletts and Bel, having just announced that Brad is
missing.

"I don't think we should be doing this."

"What?"

"Going through a dead man's drawers."

Adam hesitated to let the double entendre sink in.

Bel thumped her fists on the table, peering at Adam through clenched eyebrows,
frustration written across her very attractive face, and leaned her drop dead
gorgeous body toward him. Adam struggled to maintain focus.

"Adam Lennox, you are the most impossible man," she retorted, and she stormed out
of the office to find Derek Travis before Adam could see the grin starting to
play across her mouth.

Women!

In the absence of Brad, Adam had decided to raid John Bartlett's office for
something that might shed light on anything. Adam was struggling. He had the
uncanny feeling that someone knew everything there was to know about what was
going on and was playing them like a fish on a hook. Whenever he lost something
important the recurring thought would come to him during his search that the
item was sitting in the shadows quietly watching him and laughing. He had that
same thought now and in his frustration he subconsciously snapped the pencil he
had been fiddling with.

John's office was scrupulously tidy, no filing cabinets bulging with records, no
piles of filing waiting the attentions of a careful individual with well worn
fingers, to carefully store them in a logical place never to see the light of
day again. Like junk in your attic, thought Adam, things that must come in
useful one day. He thought of the attics at his parents' pile. No let's not go
there shall we?

Where would John store something vital, where no office staff would stumble
across it?

Bel came back into the room at that point accompanied by Derek Travis. He had
the very sincere look of someone with no sense of humour. Oh well, Adam had no
intention of cracking any jokes anyway.

Bel went off to hunt through John's vast desk whilst Adam sat down at the
conference table with Derek. Adam leaned back in his chair just in case some
passing airliner should mistake the table for Heathrow's third runway. Not that
it was large you understand.

"Derek. I need you to tell me everything you know about what happened the night
my wife was...died." he posed.

Derek hesitated as if trying to remember a prepared speech.

"I've been thinking about that. From what I can remember there were quite a few
of us working late that night."

"Was that normal?" interrupted Adam.

"No. We were finishing a big bid for the shipping rights for a big industrial in
Antwerp. Just completing the final print before passing to the courier who was
waiting downstairs."

Adam leant forward. "Was Fran there?"

Derek licked his lips. "She was in and out. I think she was collecting papers
for the Chairman."

"John Bartlett."

"Yes."

"And did you see her finally go?"

"No, we were too busy double checking every bid document was complete."

Adam tapped the table with his finger, made a mental note to cut his finger
nails before one of them broke. Sad individual.

"But the CCTV saw her go." A statement not a question.

Derek scratched the back of his head, something he did regularly going by the
growing bald patch on his crown.

"Well that's where it gets intriguing."

"What do you mean?" asked Adam, eyebrows raised in questioning form.

Derek leaned forward conspiratorially and launched into his prepared speech.

"The tapes for that evening went missing." If he waited for the gasps of
amazement he was sorely disappointed.

"When were they missed, when the police asked for them?" asked Adam.

"The police never asked. No, the tapes went missing a little time later."

"So we don't know what they showed that night?"

"Oh yes we do."

Adam decided he should have taken up dentistry, this was like pulling teeth.

Derek must have sensed his frustration as he carried on without further
prompting.

"We kept backup copies in those days, stored in a fireproof safe in the
basement. Very hot on security we were."

Adam hesitated. "And what did the tapes show?"

"Your wife came out of the building and down the steps. She slowed for a few
seconds. It looked as if she was trying to make a phone call."

"Yes it was logged, that came out at the inquest. Was she carrying
anything?"

"The usual things. A handbag, gloves, and a file of papers as well."

Adam stopped him. "You're sure about the papers."

Derek nodded. "Oh yes clear it was, very clear."

"But Brad Wilding was adamant at the inquest that she had no papers."

"Then he was mistaken, or lying I suppose."

"Why would he lie?"

Derek shrugged, his bony shoulders rising subtly toward his ears.

Adam stopped to think. Brad had lied to gain what?

"There was no file found at the scene of the collision." he said, thinking out
loud.

"You think someone removed it?" interjected Bel.

Adam looked at her over his shoulder.

"I can't see any other explanation."

"Do you think Brad ran her down to recover the papers? Everyone seems to want
'papers'."

"He wouldn't have to go to those lengths to get them back, besides he's got an
alibi. Someone remembers him being in the room when they heard the crash. They
remember him running off to see what it was all about."

Bel tugged at her ear. "Was Brad first on the scene then?"

Adam turned and looked at her. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking? What was in
those papers?"

Her reply was interrupted by Adam's mobile vibrating on the table.

He hit the necessary button. "Yes?"

"You wanted to know what was going on in Ireland at the time of Granger's
death." Barry Sutton, news-hound, consumer of pints at other people's expense.
Knowledge is power or the price of a pint at least.

"Go on Sutton."

"Two weeks before Granger's death there was a major IRA roadside bomb went off
near Newry. It was aimed at an army patrol."

Adam's mouth went dry. "What happened?"

"It destroyed two Landrovers and killed seven soldiers. It marked a major
escalation of violence, but that's not what it's remembered for."

"What is it remembered for?"

"On patrol with the army was an American journalist, Melanie Kavanagh. Only
three people were killed by the bomb itself. My sources tell me that the other
five were shot, execution style as they lay injured, with a bullet to the back
of the head, including the American journalist."

"Wasn't she in civvies?" asked Adam.

"Apparently not. She was dressed in non-uniform fatigues and had been given a
flak jacket for protection. At first glance she may have looked like regular
army."

"Shit. That must have caused someone apoplexy."

"There was a major incident over it," agreed Sutton. "All sorts of harsh words
were fired both ways across the Atlantic like a flippin' game of tennis. The
government here used it as ammunition to criticise the American IRA support
machine."

"You think it had a bearing on Granger's death?"

"Rumours started going around that Granger was getting cold feet about his
support for the Republican cause. People were starting to suggest that he might
spill the beans."

"That would give the IRA good reason to eliminate him."

"Wouldn't it just?"

"Barry, I owe you another pint."

"Yeah. Line 'em up my son. Line 'em up." He rang off.

Adam looked over at Bel. "So that could explain Granger's murder. That just
leaves Fran's and John's to explain. Was John killed for the same reason? He
knew about the smuggling but was getting cold feet."

Bel looked up from the drawer she had been rifling through. "No he didn't."

Adam frowned. "No, he didn't what?"

She held up a sheet of paper. "He didn't know about the smuggling because this
letter is what told him about it."

"Tell all."

She read it out.

"Bartletts ships are being used to smuggle high tech weapons, The Hermes will
have a load on board on Wednesday night. Look for the German porcelain." She
handed the letter to Adam.

He scanned it. "That explains his sudden sea voyage."

"It also clears him of any involvement, Lennox." declared Bel.

"Granted Trent. It seems that way," he conceded, a little unwillingly.

Bel shuddered. "So he was murdered for what he found on board."

"Seems probable," agreed Adam, "but why not kill him at the time? Why wait until
he's had the chance to tell others and then kill him? It doesn't make
sense."

"No it doesn't," agreed Bel, "but this does." She handed an envelope to
Adam.

Adam took one look at the Sevenoak's postmark. "Me thinks we need to have
another chat with our Mister Kemp."

Chapter 28

The office was in full swing when they returned. Clare was deep in an analysis
of home shopping magazines and Gerry was studying a form-book, which he put down
as Adam and Bel entered.

"Three thirty at Worcester," he declared.

"Haven't a clue," replied Adam.

Gerry reacted as if struck by lightning. He took his feet off the desk and
rounded on Adam.

"Are you serious?"

"Completely."

"But you can't do this to me. I rely on you." His lip took on an imaginary
quiver as if he was a six-year-old suddenly denied a promised treat.

"And I on you," agreed Adam. "So get me a list of phone calls made from Kemp's
home over the last three months."

Gerry's mouth puckered and he folded his arms. "That's not legal." He hesitated
and looked down at his desk. "You want it chronologically or numerically?"

"I want to know who he phoned the most."

"In that case we will need to employ our trusty statistician," declared Gerry in
a loud voice.

The shopping magazine dropped to the desk and Clare's face appeared with a
resigned look on her face.

"You mean you want me to type endless numbers into a spreadsheet."

"You may get lucky," offered Adam, "he may get it in soft copy."

Clare gave him a look that implied he should go and refuel the pigs ready for
take-off.

"Gerry," Adam called across the office. "Three thirty, Worcester, 'Haven't a Clue' is a
three year old definitely worth a flutter if the going's good to soft." He got a
pencil thrown at him for his pains so he took the hint and retreated to his
office whilst Bel went in search of coffee and bagels for lunch.

Sitting at his desk he took a card out of his pocket and dialled the number.

The phone rang three or possibly four times before it picked up and a gruff
voice answered.

"Ford."

Adam smiled. "Ford? This is Lennox."

"Ah. Now my day is complete. I can sleep in peace tonight knowing my waking
hours have been fulfilled."

"Very good. Sarcasm becomes you," replied Adam, and proceeded to update him with
his latest knowledge of Granger Bartlett's background.

There was a pause when Adam finished.

"You just don't give up, do you Lennox?"

Adam tossed an imaginary coin and took it as a compliment. "That's very kind of
you. I'm certainly not going to let go until I get some answers." Okay so
perhaps best of three?

"Alright, alright, if it makes you happy. Meet me at Costa's on Brick Lane, in
half an hour."

Adam was not a fan of the modern trend of coffee shops. There was too much
politics involved. First you had to choose which of the eight types of coffee to
have. This always caused major consternation. Having elected for a cappuccino
there was the question of Regular or Grande, Caff or Decaff, Skinny or Fat, with
or without chocolate.

When you finally had your drink there was then the decision over whether to use
the comfy sofas or not. By the time he had sat down, Adam was a ball of nerves in
need of a sedative, not a double shot of caffeine to jangle his brain.