The Dead Lie Down (Adam Lennox Thrillers: Book One) (3 page)

Adam
on the other hand came from a background of substantial wealth, from
generations of major landowners and titled forebears most of whom had never
actually had to work at all. Now he and John met in the middle somewhere, in an
uneasy alliance of the employer and employed, and yet, despite all that, John
displayed an undeniable dependence, quick to call, on what often seemed to be
the slightest pretext.

So now what, Adam wondered? What mess required resolving this time?

He came up out of Bank Underground station onto Threadneedle Street and,
ignoring the Bank of England made his way along the narrow pavements into
Bishopsgate. He loved the jostling City with its strange mixture of ancient
decaying buildings and renovated architecture, the ruins of of the Roman London
Wall cheek by jowl with the modern skyscrapers of the commercial city.

Across Bishopsgate he scampered through a split-second gap in the traffic,
dodging a red Routemaster bus, oblivious of its imminent demise, black cabs,
masters of the London streets. Finally he made it onto the wide pavements where
Georgian gave way to tower block and cobbles gave way to the broad expanse of
mock-granite forecourt of the Bartlett building.

He
approached the wide steps with a mental girding of the loins, quickening
concentration as if anticipating trouble, recalling situations in the past on
the streets where trouble had loomed out of dark shadows, where your wits and
your speed were the difference between life and death. Looking back later he was
to wonder if somehow he knew what was coming and the impact it was to have on
his life.

He stopped momentarily, looking out over the expanse of forecourt to the road
beyond. His gaze focussed briefly on something that wasn't there before it broke
and turning he continued on his course.

Through the main doors of the Bartlett building, an all glass and polished steel
affair, courting an atrium with such a high ceiling that you hurt your neck trying to
establish where it finished. Not Adam's choice of architecture but he was
relieved as always that the building's lifts were not the external glass wall
crawlers that made you feel like one of the tigers on display in the zoo.

As he approached the lifts a young woman joined him. Silk shirt, pencil skirt,
medium heels, very light make-up, lavender scent. Adam excelled in Army
observation training. Bel Trent, best friend of his late wife. Adam always felt
that Bel never forgave him for stealing her best friend. She was always very
stand offish - shame, nice girl, good figure, great skin, to the average man,
drop dead gorgeous.

Belinda
Trent generally turned heads wherever she went. A neat head of dark hair,
carefully managed, on a figure that could easily have graced a catwalk, but what
always caught the eye was her face. The proportions, the cheekbones, the skin
and the eyes all cried out to be admired. Make-up commercials would never be the
same again.

They stood facing the lifts, playing 'guess which lift comes first', jockeying
for position like the start of The Grand National. A knot formed in his stomach.
He always found it difficult around Bel. Not that it was her fault, she just
reminded him how much he missed Fran.

Adam stared at the wall. He could command a battle-tank in enemy territory, he
could cope with hand to hand combat in the middle of the desert or in street
fighting, but his mouth always went dry around Bel.

He was going to have to cough, he knew it, so he spoke first.

"Bel, how are you?"

Bel, seeming to sense the mood, maintained the emotional distance.

"I'm good Adam. How are you keeping?"

"Busy as usual. Listen, we missed each other last time I was here. It's high
time you came round for dinner." And high time the lift came, he decided.

"Sure," she replied quickly, and they both knew it would never happen, like all
the other times.

"Good."
He examined the wall, counting the number of studs holding the panels together,
and then mentally tried to speed up the lift using will-power and
auto-suggestion. It had never worked before and it didn't work now.

What's John's problem? He said something on the phone about police?" Business,
safe ground.

Bel shook her head and turned to him for the first time.

"I don't know what's going on. Apparently he arrived early this morning in a
foul mood. The police have been talking to him ever since. He's still with them
now. For some reason he seems to have travelled over from Holland last night on
one of the freighters."

Adam turned and made eye contact with a raised eyebrow. "John? Travelling on a
freighter? No. He never uses anything less than First Class."

"You tell me. Maybe we'll find out in a minute. Come into my office whilst he
finishes with the police."

By now the lift had reached the 21st floor and the suite of offices that served
the Directors. The plush surroundings emphasised the size and success of the
company, as did the size of the secretary's desk.

Bel's
office did justice to her position as the chairman's PA. A desk the size of the
average family dining table traversed one corner opposite the door, leaving an
area big enough to use for putting practise. Despite that, Adam had only seen
John use it occasionally for pacing up and down in difficult situations. The
desk was busy without being cluttered, but not over tidy. The effect was of an
efficient mind with its finger on the pulse. A floor-to-ceiling dark wood
bookcase full of directories covered the only wall that wasn't glass. A walk in
cupboard doubled as coat rack and drink bar, for entertaining waiting clients if
necessary, or perhaps at the end of a hard day thought Adam wryly. The overall
impression was of someone self-sufficient who could find or organise anything at
the drop of a hat.

He stood and looked out over the river, or what you could see of it sandwiched
between the Nat West Tower and the Lloyds Building. He looked around the
familiar surroundings of the office and thought yet again that you could get a
decent sized table tennis table in here....

There was still the residue of awkwardness, which Bel was first to try and
break. She sat relaxed behind her desk, the executive leather armchair creaking
as she rocked it slightly.

"How is the publicity business?" An opener on a par with 'how's the weather in
the Sahara?' but it seemed to break the tension. Safe ground.

Adam, hands in pockets grimaced slightly and avoided eye contact. "Business is
good, if suffering a little from the children and animals syndrome."

Bel looked somewhat puzzled and Adam explained.

"Never
act with children or animals. Or do a publicity shoot for that matter." He
related the happenings at the zoo for her entertainment.

Her laughter was a bright ripple in the current circumstances and Adam forced a
smile. "How are things with you?"

She stopped laughing and considered whether flippancy was appropriate. No.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm busy. Taking night classes in photography, doing a
little flying to keep my hand in." Great throwaway line that, letting anyone at
a cocktail party know that she was a qualified pilot. Fortunately she never said
it just for effect and so always got away with it. What she didn't let on was
that she had been a career Royal Navy fighter pilot and had a full commercial
pilot's license to boot.

"What about the dogs? They still driving you up the wall?" prompted Adam,
recollecting hounds the size of a small pony that liked nothing better than
resting their forepaws on your shoulders.

"No. I had to take them to my parents in the end. They just couldn't cope with
the lack of space in the flat."

At this point polite conversation seemed to dry up.

Adam's
eyes drifted to a photograph of Bel and Fran standing together, receiving some
sort of certificate, award for bravery, a high ranking policeman stood behind
them, wishing he wasn't there.

Bel moved so that she could see Adam's face. She hesitated and bit her lip
before speaking. Her voice when it came was quiet and earnest.

"Adam. It's time you moved on. She's gone. She left a huge hole but you need to
park your grief somewhere and move on. It's been three years. You can't live
your future in the past."

Adam felt something in him break and became very still. "I don't think this is
the time or place, do you?"

Emotion stirred in Bel's face. "When is the right time Adam?"

His face contorted in a mixture of grief and anger as he turned to look at her.
"You know, I don't know. Do you? Just how am I supposed to move on exactly?
Hearts don't mend like bicycle punctures." He paused, knowing there would be no
reply, then added "Are you 'moving on'? I hadn't noticed."

There was no response from Bel. This was a scene that they had played out a
number of times, using different words but similar sentiments, not intending to
hurt but so often ending in tears.

A
cold silence descended on the room, each feeling guilty at their mishandling,
each wishing it was different.

The silence was broken when two cups of coffee appeared as if by magic,
delivered by the modern equivalent of the tea-lady, and an unspoken truce was
declared.

Eventually loud voices broke into their private world and they realised that two
policeman (they had to be policeman despite their plain clothes) were being
escorted into the lifts.

Bel and Adam moved out into the Directors' reception area that surrounded the
secretary's vast desk.

Bel spoke to the occupant who appeared to welcome outside intervention.

"Safe to go in?"

Her 'Yes' seemed to be contradicted by the raised voices coming from behind the
double doors marked 'Chairman' but Bel seemed unfazed and knocking briefly,
stepped through the doorway without waiting for a reply.

Chapter 4

It was a cross between the set of 'Dallas' and the stage of a theatre bedroom
farce. The half-acre office (well, big enough for two badminton courts at any
rate) was dominated by John's desk and the conference table, but whereas the
eyes were tuned to expect the traditional mahogany surroundings, the maple
furniture gave the room the air of a kitchen display at IKEA.

The figure at the far end of the room paced left and right behind the expansive
desk and only stopped when he registered their presence. John Bartlett did not
appear a tall man but his height was deceptive due to his broad build. His short
neck added to the effect, completed by his round head. The thinning hair belied
his age and the steel rim spectacles finished the ensemble. The shirt jacket and
trousers, which had all the hallmarks of quality, looked as if they had been
slept in, which they had.

He leaned on the desk and watched them as they approached the desk.

"You remember at school when I locked the headmaster's dog in the groundsman's
shed for a prank one afternoon?"

Adam did a double take. "Yes."

"And
when they came to the dorm and accused me of being involved, you insisted that
I had been there all afternoon and couldn't have done it."

"Yes."

John slumped into his chair. "Well you're going to have to do the same again.
I'm in deep shit Adam."

This was a reaction that Adam wasn't used to. This man could negotiate in front
of governments without giving way.

He sat in the visitor's chair. "What did the police want?"

"I reported a suspicious death to the police. They wanted to know what my
involvement was."

"So you want to tell me the background?"

There was brief delay whilst John felt the need to fortify himself from the bar
that filled an alcove big enough to house a family of six (am I getting the
message across here?). Adam got the distinct impression of a story being
rehearsed and a faint alarm bell started to ring. Meanwhile the delay gave him
an opportunity to take in John's dishevelled appearance, the crumpled suit, lack
of tie and stained shirt, any of which would normally have prevented him from
appearing in public on any other day than this. He was definitely in
trouble.

John returned from the bar and slumped once again into the chair. He couldn't
meet Adam's eye but stared out of the window at the view across Docklands and
the river Thames.

"I came back from Holland on the Hermes last night."

He paused.

"Can I ask why?" probed Adam.

"Why isn't important," came the reply, very quick and very definite. The kind of
reply that's the exact opposite of the truth, thought Adam, and waited for him
to continue.

"In the middle of the night I went for a walk because I couldn't sleep." He
hesitated.

"And?" enquired Adam.

"I lost my way, found myself down on a lower deck near the hatchways into the
holds....." He broke off as if his thought process had become detached from the
words coming out of his mouth.

He turned to Adam and spoke with a depth of feeling that Adam hadn't encountered
before. "It was horrible. Totally grotesque. It was so revolting that I threw up
over the decking."

"What was revolting?"

"The body."

"And?"

"And the police are convinced I had something to do with the death."

"And did you?"

John
hesitated, a confused expression on his unshaven face, as if an internal
argument was raging. Finally he looked across at Bel and then back to
Adam.

"Can I trust you both?"

Before they had time to respond in any form, the door burst open and a tall
figure strode into the room, an imposing figure that might have been more at
home in an AFL linebacker's uniform than the business suit he was wearing.

Brad Wilding, Chief Operating Officer for Bartlett International Shipping, had
the look of the archetypal all-American boy grown up, which is exactly what he
was. Six-foot four with a shock of red hair, the only fault in his appearance
was the once broken nose, courtesy of a college football game. In the five years
he had spent with Bartlett he had succeeded in achieving the impossible, making
Bartletts even bigger.