When Evil Wins (13 page)

Janus woke to the clanking of his letterbox and a heavy thump. He guessed his daily newspaper had arrived and was now on the floor. The thump told him that the newspaper contained its extra supplements. He got out of bed, walked to the front door and picked up the newspaper. Throwing all but the literary supplement on the coffee table he made his way to his kitchenette and put the kettle on; opening the only part of the paper delivery that he was interested in.

He glanced at the bestseller list and then glanced again. His book was listed just outside of the top fifteen. He couldn't believe it. At least there was some small part of his life he could begin to feel pleased about, but it was a muted pleasure; all the recent events in his life were tempering the feel good factor around his newly found recognition.

Reading further he discovered that even this newspaper's critic was not disparaging about his book. The glow from the review didn't last long as his mind was drawn back to Mandy and the police's conclusion that her death had been, ‘just another suicide’.

Janus struggled to make suicide and Mandy fit in the same sentence. He was becoming sure that he would have to investigate the events surrounding her death himself, if there was going to be any justice for Mandy at all. But how? All he knew were P.K. meters, instruments to measure E.M.F, thermometers and infrared cameras and, of course, the records offices; nothing to do with the here and now detective work.

If he was going to do anything he couldn't start and then be interrupted by the requirements of this part time job at the Sites and Monuments office in Chelmsford.

Janus picked up the phone and dialled his supervisor at the Chelmsford office. “Sarah, hi, it's Janus. Something's come up and I won't be in this week, probably not next week. If it goes on longer than that, I'll phone again; if that’s okay.”

“Okay, Janus, that’s no problem. Something interesting?” she asked.

Sarah was curious as she was used to calls of this nature, it normally meant that Janus was on or starting another paranormal investigation. She was well aware Janus needed to be away from the office on these occasions and knew he would make up the time as he had done so in the past.

“I'll tell you about it when I'm back.”

“Okay, Janus, but please keep me up to date. I do understand, but you must understand, also, that there is a job to do here.”

“Of course, Sarah. And thanks, I appreciate your flexibility,” Janus finished the conversation, putting the phone back in its cradle.

Janus was sure that, if and when, he got a call from Richard it would be to tell him that the case was now closed and Mandy's death was
just
a suicide, according to the police.

However, Janus had come to know, absolutely in himself, that Mandy's death had not been self-inflicted. He also knew his intuition was telling him that Chief Superintendent Harris was the type of person who would prefer not to dig too deeply if the outcome of an incident was seemingly apparent on the surface.

Janus didn’t doubt that the Superintendent had targets to meet and he had to make sure his service's crime resolutions rate was on the increase. This case, solved within twenty-four hours, would be good for morale and good for the statistics.

Although these certainties were not fact, Janus was well aware his intuition usually panned out. With this last thought he knew he was going to have to investigate Mandy's death for himself, also aware that he was not experienced nor equipped for matters of this seriousness.

Janus needed some guidance, but from whom? As with every investigation he had embarked upon as a paranormal investigator, when he came up against a brick wall, he turned to the spirit world for direction and in this way he made the decision to approach the death of his friend similarly.

He placed some plain paper on his writing desk and then closed the window blinds of his flat. Picking up an HB pencil he sat down in his chair holding the pencil loosely over the A4 sheet and shut his eyes, clearing his mind, waiting for the automatic writing to start.

His hand spasmed and then became calm as it started to write in a small spidery script on the blank page of A4. Within moments his hand had stopped moving and Janus knew this was all he was going to get for the session. Opening his eyes he looked at the page; there were now three names on the paper. He sat back in his chair, shocked at the result.

Naively he had assumed he would end up with a list of some well-known contemporary spiritualists, if anything, ones through whom he could contact open minded ex-police officers or some former professionals who had the expertise he required for his investigation but the spirit, the one who had guided his hand on this occasion, had led him elsewhere.

He looked at the list again, all the names he knew;
Helen Duncan
, a renowned physical medium who had died in 1956,
Robert James Lees
, royal psychic to Queen Victoria, and
Arthur Doyle
. His eyes lingered on the last name.
Arthur Doyle
, Janus muttered to himself, shaking his head, stunned.

He got up from his desk and turned on his radio, de-tuning it as he always did before attempting a connection with his spirit guide. A random hiss of static filled the room. He sat back down in his chair, relaxing and closing his eyes.

“
My guide of all guides,
” he thought. “
Can you hear me?
”

The static of the radio continued.

“
My guide of all guides, I need your help, if you will allow it.
”

“
You call me again, Janus, and I allow it.
” The hiss of the radio had turned into sibilant words once more.

“
My guide, there are problems I need to resolve, problems of this world, can you assist me?
”

“
I will help where I can,
” the spirit replied.

“
My guide, I would like to be in contact with the spirit of Arthur Doyle. Can you find his spirit on your plane?
”

“
The spirit of Arthur Conan Doyle has been at peace for many years.
” Janus was told.

Ordinary static punctuated the room suddenly. Janus knew his guide had left. He sighed heavily, just when he thought he might be able to start looking into the circumstances surrounding Mandy's death, his contact with his spirit and hopefully Conan Doyle's had been cut short prematurely.

There was nothing he could do, sometimes contacts with the spirit world were broken like this; it was never a certainty. He would have to try again at some other time.

The Jameson's nanny knocked at their front door and checked her watch as she did so. Good, she wasn't late this time, it was exactly 8.00 a.m.

Richard opened the door. “Ah, Natasha, good to see you're on time today.” Richard winked, all thought of the accident pushed from his mind as he focused on his next business venture. There would be time later on to consider that event. “Come in,” he said.

Richard bent over and picked up the milk bottles from his doorstep before following the nanny in. “As you know my wife and I will be in Scotland for the next four days or so, Edinburgh in fact, opening a book shop primarily for showcasing my authors' work. Everything you need should be here and all our contact numbers are on the pad next to the phone in the kitchen. The cab will be here in half an hour to take Liz and myself to the airport. So have a look around and if there's anything else you need to know please ask now.”

“Okay, Mr Jameson. Where's Stephanie?” Natasha said, grinning.

“She's in the conservatory. — Liz,” Richard called up the stairs. “Are you ready? The cab will be here shortly.”

“On my way down, Richard,” his wife answered.

Stephanie came running out of the conservatory. “Hi, Natasha,” she said as she launched herself at her nanny giving the twenty-one year old a big hug.

“Now, you be good for Natasha,” Liz said to her daughter, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. “We're only going to be away for a few days,” Stephanie’s mother instructed further.

“Of course I will, Mum,” Stephanie said.

“You know where our numbers are?” Liz asked.

“Yeah, of course I do,” Stephanie replied, sighing. She wasn’t a baby.

“Where are they then?” Liz asked, making sure Stephanie was not just saying it so she could start having some fun with her nanny. Liz was glad that Steph had taken to her nanny so completely.

“They’re on the kitchen table, Mum,” Liz’s long fair-haired daughter sighed once more, placing her hands on her hips and tilting her head to one side as she answered.

“I'll miss you,” Liz told her Stephanie.

“Don’t be silly, Mum. You’re only going for a few days.”

Sometimes Liz wondered how her only daughter had become so grown up at such a young age.

A car hooted from the private road outside of the Jameson’s house. Richard looked out through the front room window. “Right,” he said. “The cab's here.” He kissed his daughter on the cheek. “See you very soon, darling.”

“See you, Dad,” Stephanie responded.

Liz did the same.

“Bye, Mum,” Stephanie said.

Richard and Liz made their way to the waiting cab, waving to Stephanie and Natasha who were now standing on the front doorstep.

“Natasha, any problems whatsoever, call,” Richard instructed.

“Okay, Mr Jameson,” the nanny replied.

The cab driver put the Jameson's cases into the boot and opened the cab door for Liz and Richard to get in. Before Richard entered the cab he checked his pocket to make sure he had the airline tickets Amanda had organised for the journey, they were there, where he had put them the other day.

Amanda!
he thought momentarily before getting into the cab and closing the door behind him. The cabby started the car and drove up the lane leaving Stephanie and her nanny standing on the doorstep until the Liz and Richard were out of sight.

As the cab finally disappeared from the end of the lane, in the direction of London City Airport, the young girl and her nanny went back into the house.

Instead of hanging around his flat, waiting for an appropriate moment to attempt another contact with his guide, Janus decided to go to the publishing offices of Richard Jameson to have a look around. He hoped he might get a feeling as to what had really gone on at the anniversary bash; the elements he’d not been a party to. No one would be there as the offices were closed for the week, out of respect for Richard Jameson’s secretary cum PA.

On leaving his flat Janus grabbed the keys to the R.J.P. building from the hook in his kitchen.

Richard had given him the keys soon after the first time Janus had been invited to the Jameson's house for an evening meal. Richard had also given him the code to the building’s alarm system.

At the time the invitation had come out of the blue, and because it was so unexpected the day had remained firmly in his memory.

“Janus, I trust you,” Richard had said at the dinner table, in front of his wife and daughter, “because if I didn't I would not have invited you to our home. Not one author I know has been as open and as candid as you. To me you are a person without any hidden agenda and because of this I want to be the same. So here you are in my house and here are the keys to my building, my creation. And here’s the code to the alarm.” Richard had passed Janus a small piece of paper with some numbers on along with the keys. “Use these as you will. But don't abuse my trust; not that I think you would,” Richard had finished

Janus had taken the keys and the note, not wishing to upset his boss, and until this day he’d never used them. He'd had no need to. They'd remained on the hook where he’d placed them after returning home from the meal.

***

It was still early and by the time he’d got off the train at Fenchurch Street station he would be able to reach the offices by midday.

Janus walked slowly along Museum Street trying to formulate a strategy, some clear tack he could take once inside the building, but nothing would come to him. All he could do was stick to his plan and enter the building, hoping he would perceive, with some clarity, the circumstances surrounding Mandy's death.

He approached the side entrance of the building feeling despondent. What was he going to do once he was in? All that his plan had consisted of was gaining entrance and wandering around.

Was there really any point? Janus wondered.

On removing the key to the side door from his pocket a feeling of appropriateness came over him. The despondency he’d felt earlier, evaporating. Janus put the key in the lock and turned it. The lock clicked. Pulling the fire door open towards him, he entered the building, closing the door swiftly behind him.

Janus turned to the alarm panel on the wall next to the door, pulled the small piece of paper with the numbers on from his pocket and punched them in.

It was eerie inside the building; he was not used to it being devoid of all staff and visitors, and it was the first time he had entered the offices of R.J. Publishing through the side door — ever; he’d now taken its complete occupancy to a singular total of one and the whole situation didn’t feel quite right; the reason he was having to do this wasn’t right either.

Janus walked into the foyer stopping at Mandy's old desk; he paused for a moment remembering the girl with the straight, almost blonde, hair and blue eyes, his friend, before continuing with the task at hand.

Although all these thoughts played on his mind he began to feel confident in the decision he had made.

Walking towards the building’s lifts, along the short and dimly lit passageway from the foyer, he reached out and pressed the button summoning one of them. Once he got in it he would go to the third floor and the function room above. He waited in the building’s new cold and unlit silence. After a few seconds and a barely audible mechanical sound the lift door slid open and he entered.

Janus shuddered, the whole building was different; it wasn’t a building that should be empty and now he was the only person there, it felt as if the building had changed from a living breathing entity to a dead thing, something that symbolised the un-living, those that were no longer of this world, rather than the ones who were. The feelings he felt and the thoughts, stuck with him.

On reaching the third floor Janus stepped out of the lift and walked the short distance along the beige walled corridor to the Morecambe suite and pushed open its double doors. As soon as he’d entered he realised why he had come back to the offices of R.J. Publishing in the first place; it was to refresh his memory, but it was more than just that, it was to relive the evening as he had experienced it before.

Standing in the middle of the empty room he was surprised at how large it now seemed. There was nothing in it all; all tables and chairs from the anniversary do had been packed away, and this lent itself to the feeling that he’d just entered a huge void, something very lonely.

Janus glanced around the new space and saw the hatch where he’d been served drinks for that night. Instantly he knew he had to go and lean against the bar, as he had done so at the party, to recall every minutiae of the evening; the evening Mandy had decided to finish her life; if that’s what she had truly done.

He leant up against the now shuttered bar and slowly the details of the evening came back to him; replaying in his mind’s eye like a silent black and white movie.

There was Greg Dyke entering the suite, there was Gregory Smith and his three friends talking at the far side of the room, then Richard and Liz talking to him, then Mandy chatting in her usual way. The recollections came back thick and fast.

Janus recalled a point in the evening, when he'd been chatting to Greg Dyke's PA for a few moments, and of Mandy brushing against his back as she passed behind him, going to the bar to get another drink. He thought he remembered the barman pointing out a note to her.

Apart from the two seemingly extra memories all he could recall was the rest of the evening as it had unfolded.

He looked at his watch and was staggered by the time. Somehow he’d been there for six hours reminiscing, recalling, trying to access the essence of the evening and now it was just gone six o’clock and time to go.

Janus left the building disappointed. He’d believed in his heart there would be extra information to gain but nothing significant had been forthcoming. He made his way back to Fenchurch Street and the train journey home.

Although it was only just gone eight thirty, when he arrived back at his flat, he still felt wiped out by the ordeal of the reliving the awful night. He finished his evening with a decaffeinated coffee and then turned in.