Bad Intentions Page 11

  Jack was too tired to carry on working. Too tired to carry on thinking. His mind was scrambled. The neurones were not connecting. Everything felt loose, unconnected, as if the wires had been severed. Nothing made sense.

  The office had been awash with rumours, speculation and gossip. The bid for Ocher was now in full swing, and teams of people were huddled around the office fine-tuning the details of the offer. The clock was ticking. With the bid formally tabled there were now fewer than thirty days for shareholders to accept or reject the deal. Under a month. Already there was a whiff of victory in the air. A sense of expectancy. The prospect of the merger, no more than a wild pipe-dream when it had been floated, was now taking on a reality of its own. It had the feel of something that might happen. Positions were being staked. Territory surveyed. The size of the empire would double. There would be shake-ups, overhauls, restructurings. Most of all there would be opportunities. Opportunities for ambitious young executives to advance or retreat.

  For most of the people around the office, this was a banquet. A time for feasting and celebration. The place was cooking, and Jack knew he should be thriving on every minute of it. A full-scale take-over bid, with all the scope for corporate intrigue and infighting it implied. What more could a boy ask for?

  Peace of mind, Jack told himself. And some rest.

  'What kind of job do you think I might get in the combined Kizog/Ocher conglomerate?' Layla had asked on another brief foray into his office that afternoon.

  Jack had just peered up from papers he hadn't even begun to read.

  'There will be task forces,' she continued, unfazed by his lack of interest. 'To determine the structure of the new corporation. That will be the place to be. Get a position on one of the task forces, and you can design your own job.'

  She might well be right, thought Jack. Most probably was. Layla was a shrewd tactician of the company corridors; the perfect corporate tigress, working behind enemy lines, adopting seductive disguises, yet always masking her intentions. Normally Jack followed her advice. He enjoyed the playful cynicism of her careerism. But not today. Today was different. This was a day when his thoughts were shadowed by the realisation that he was a witness to murder. An accessory, even. An accessory before the fact; a criminal offence, carrying, no doubt, a substantial jail sentence. The thought of jail terrified Jack. A cramped cell, incarcerated with some vicious, psychotic yob, cloistered with men who would hate him, hate everything about him. There would be beatings. Rape even. It was more than he could handle.

  Despite the advice of the Chairman, he was still wondering whether to go to the police, but his mind was too disorganised to make any progress with the issue. In the moments when he could think straight he knew that the balance of probabilities lay on the side of lawlessness. What could I say to the police? That I have been present at a cold-blooded, meaningless execution. By a man I was trying to sell a secret to. And, no, I don't know who she was? Or who he was? Or where the body was? Nothing. It was not a very convincing story. In his darker moments Jack even had trouble convincing himself it was true.

  He knew it was, of course. Its memory clung to his mind, inhabiting, he was sure, a corner of every brain cell. He tried to close his eyes, hoping they would disappear. But, of course, they didn't. The slides were there still. Alive in the darkness. Brightly coloured, luminous, stark and real.

  Jack needed to talk, to unburden himself of the pictures, to diminish their force, diluting them through sharing the scenes with others. He had tried calling Fuller but could speak only to her answerphone; a disembodied voice, emptied of any sign of intimacy or emotion. He must have tried a dozen times. He had checked in with Finer, but the finance director was tied up at meetings with the bankers. He was ensnared in the City, and would not be returning today, his secretary said.

  He even called Tara, tapping out her extension on the internal phone system, but the people in the labs said that she had not come in today. No, they did not know where she was. He looked up her home number on the personnel file he had copied on to his hard disc, but she was not there either. Just the answering machine. He did not feel like leaving a message and hung up. After all, what would he say?

  Where was everyone today? Jack wondered.

  As he completed the drive home, Jack could feel a sense of resentment rising within him. Others had led him here. It was not his idea. And yet here he was, alone with his predicament, shadow boxing with his conscience.

  The phone rang when he entered the flat. He hurried to pick it up.

  'How did it go,' said Fuller.

  At last, thought Jack. 'I need to see you,' he replied instantly.

  'But I'm waiting for you,' she replied.

  The drive took the best part of thirty minutes; half an hour of sweat and anticipation. The radio hummed softly .throughout; an aural backdrop of relentless cheer. Jack paid no attention. His mind was already drifting on a tide of contradictions and confusions.

  He knew the address but he had not been there before. A mews house off Kensington High Street, a dinky little cottage, with window-boxes stacked up on the ledges, the flowers tumbling out over the pastel-shaded paintwork of the trim houses. A riot of colours. Cheaper than a hotel, she had explained, for a stay of uncertain duration.

  Fuller answered the door. Their conversation on the phone had been brief and to the point. Request. Answer. Jack had not elaborated, nor even hinted at the urgency of the visit, though he suspected his voice might have betrayed the immediacy of his desire. Jack stepped inside. He didn't feel like talking, not here in the hallway, and he wanted to get a drink in his hand before he unbuttoned himself. Fuller lived in the second-floor flat, and his eyes followed her as she led him upstairs; tracing the hemline of her short, black skirt, observing the smoothness of her skin, and listening for the rustle of the fabric as her legs moved in front of him.

  'You've met, haven't you,' said Fuller.

  Jack froze. Before him, sitting on a black leather sofa, his feet up on the wooden coffee-table, a Camel in one hand, a glass of whisky in the other, sat Angus Shane.

  Shane's eyes turned towards Jack, his look cold and threatening. 'Amateur hour,' he said. He laughed. He turned to Fuller, his look turning to a mixture of conspiracy and triumph. She laughed as well, throwing her blonde hair back, her lipstick pouting in a small, mirthless giggle.

  Jack was rooted to the spot. Temporarily he was unable to move. He felt disabled. It was as if he had been disconnected from reality. Unplugged. For a moment he turned slightly, swivelling his heels, preparing to leave. But his instincts pulled him back, kept his feet on the ground, and told him to stay. Flight was impossible. There was nowhere to run to. Nobody to turn to. No place to hide.

  Jack knew that now. The situation had incarcerated him. There was nothing to be done, except to drift with the tide. Like drowning, he thought to himself. After a while you stop struggling. And let the waters take you where they will. 'I think I'd better sit down,' he said. His knees, he found, felt weak, and his stomach winded, as though he had been punched. His senses were exhausted, and all that remained was a certain watchful curiosity.

  'Dani works with me,' said Shane.

  'I can see that,' replied Jack, his voice sounding hoarse.

  'We work quite closely with some of the regulators,' Shane continued. 'Or at least with elements within the regulatory agencies. Rogue elements. And closely with certain elements within the drugs companies.'

  'Rogue elements,' repeated Jack, his voice abstracted and uninterested. 'And I am to be an element within a drugs company?'

  'You'll be well looked after,' answered Shane.

  'But not following a path of my own choosing.'

  Shane shrugged. 'Who does? And who says your choices would be so great anyway.'

  'Why the charade?'

  Shane looked at him closely. 'People don't always come along willingly. They have to be encouraged.'

  'By force and intimidation?' asked Jack bitterly.

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sp; Shane smiled. 'I've always found it works pretty well,' he replied.

  'And what is to stop me just revealing all this to the company?' said Jack. 'Going to Kizog, to the Chairman, and telling them everything?'

  Shane shrugged, flicking the ash from his cigarette. 'I'm not bothered.'

  'I think I should go now.' Jack spoke out the words slowly, looking up as he did so. His sense of freedom had diminished already; he felt as though he needed to ask permission.

  Shane picked up the remote control resting on the coffee-table and pressed the button. The television sprang to life, and as the greyness faded to colour, Jack could make out the grainy, poorly lit film. He recognised himself, standing in the flat, putting his clothes back on, the woman lying on the sofa in front of him. There was no sound, but Jack could see the lips move, and he already knew what they were saying. His eyes flickered as he tried to make out the figures and their movements. He saw the woman bend over the table, and he could feel his stomach start to heave in anticipation of the next few moments. Shane had been right. From the angle of the camera, it was clear the woman had been murdered, but it was impossible to tell exactly where the blade had come from. Perhaps close analysis would reveal it was Shane who was guilty. Perhaps, and perhaps not. Right now, it was not a chance he felt like taking.

  Jack turned and walked towards the door. He held the doorknob and looked back to face Shane directly. Fuller was standing right next to him, and the pair seemed well matched now. Colleagues, perfectly at ease with one another. 'Welcome aboard,' said Shane as Jack departed.

  ELEVEN

  Tara appeared too wrapped up in her work to notice him. She was keying data into her computer, her fingers moving deftly over the keyboard. For a moment, he remained still, observing her, soaking up her presence. There was, he realised, an air of mystery about her which made him wonder whether she was part of the enigma that was descending upon him. Which side, he found himself asking, is she on?

  Turning away from her terminal, she finally noticed him, casting her eyes in his direction but remaining silent. 'I tried to reach you yesterday,' said Jack.

  'Busy,' she replied. Her tone was matter-of-fact, betraying nothing. 'Research.'

  'I thought we could talk,' said Jack hopefully.

  She brushed away a length of hair that was lying across her face. 'Too busy,' she replied. 'Deadlines to meet.'

  Jack turned to leave, a sense of disappointment overwhelming him, but as he did so, he saw that she was writing. He watched her walking towards him, smiling. She stopped two inches in front of him, and pressed a Post-it note into the palm of his hand. He looked down at the scrap of yellow paper. 'Not here. We'll talk at my house tomorrow night. Come after work.' He opened his mouth, and started to speak, but she raised her fingers to his lips to quieten him. 'Not now, later,' she whispered.

  Jack turned on his heels and left. She might well be right, he reflected. It might not be safe to talk in the labs. The thought made him shiver; only days ago he would have found the idea ridiculous. But now? he wondered. Who knows? So far he had trusted people. And he had been wrong to do so.

  His sleep the night before had been fitful and uneven; snatches of rest interrupted by bouts of cold sweat. How long he had slept he had no idea. No more than a couple of hours. Most of the night had been spent wrestling with the mass of unanswered questions that hovered uneasily in the centre of his mind, tussling with a queue of conflicting ideas and emotions. He knew neither what was happening to him, nor why he was involved. He was beset by riddles and mysteries and, try as he might, he could not begin to unravel them.

  He walked through the compound towards his office in a kind of daze. The neatly manicured lawns and the marbled foyer drifted past his eyes, not meriting a second glance. The people bustled by, carrying their briefcases and their floppy discs, but they might have been invisible for all he cared. His mind was too distracted to notice his surroundings.

  Aimlessly, Jack sat down behind his desk and began scrolling through his e-mail. There was nothing that caught his eye. Work seemed somehow pointless now. Too much of a distraction. And not worth the effort. Turning to look . through the plate-glass window, he allowed his eye to wander across the complex of laboratories and office buildings, each full of people, busily advancing their careers, and occasionally advancing the. interests of the company. He tried to ignore the details, focusing instead on the big picture.

  What am I missing? he asked himself.

  Jack picked himself out of the chair, killed the computer, and headed out into the corridor. A couple of people nodded at him, but he was in no mood to stop and chat. He took the lift to the fifth floor and walked straight towards Ralph Finer's office. He would speak to the Chairman later. He needed to speak to someone he counted as an ally first.

  Finer's secretary said he was busy on a call and asked Jack to wait a moment. He stood in the hallway, twisting nervously from foot to foot, trying to get his thoughts clear in his mind. Which is worse? he thought. Facing a possible murder charge? Working for Shane and his counterfeiters? Or being betrayed by the people I trusted.

  As he entered the room, Finer struck Jack as looking ill-at-ease. His features were strained and haggard. Not enough sleep, perhaps. 'You look rough,' commented Jack.

  'Too much work,' replied the finance director.

  Jack walked closer, standing at the edge of the desk, whilst Finer rolled back in his black leather chair. He glanced down at the desk. A mass of papers were strewn everywhere, but in the centre was the Ocher defence document, with scribbles in the margin, and rows of alternative calculations at the bottom of every page.

  'How's things?' Finer asked cautiously.

  'Awful,' Jack replied instinctively. He had not had time to think about the answer. Already Jack had decided to be honest, to tell Finer what had happened, and to ask him his advice on what to do next. In particular, his advice on whether he should talk to the Chairman.

  'Tell me about it,' said Finer sympathetically.

  Jack started to explain. He told him about the meeting with Shane and about the murder of the prostitute. He ran through the discussion with the Chairman. Jack paced around the office as he spoke, the words tumbling out in a great rush, words and sentences colliding into one another. He felt gradually better as the story unfolded. These events had been tormenting his mind, and merely sharing them softened their impact. He turned, close to the desk and looked directly down at Finer. 'So you see, Fuller was working directly with Shane all along. On the surface I was working on an investigation into counterfeiting. In reality, I am being sucked into a counterfeiting ring.'

  Finer leant back, his expression lost somewhere between sympathy and bafflement. 'And do you want to be sucked in?'

  'Of course not,' replied Jack.

  'Are you sure?' he asked slowly.

  Jack shook his head. 'A criminal enterprise? It's ridiculous. Why would I not be sure?'

  Finer shrugged, and his manner was somehow disinterested.

  'What do you want to do now?'

  'Extricate myself,' answered Jack firmly.

  'Well, I am sure you have the backing of the company.'

  Jack glared at the finance director. 'The company got me into this situation.'

  'It is not something we would do casually.'

  'Even the Chairman?'

  Finer nodded. 'Even the Chairman,' he answered firmly.

  'Should I speak to him?' asked Jack.

  'You already have.' Jack spun on his heels. But before he moved, he already knew what he would see. The voice, a low growl, mixing threat and promises, was unmistakable. The Chairman was standing in the doorway, his arms folded on his chest, stooping slightly, a thin smile playing on his lips. He remained silent, walking forward, stopping just beside Jack, leaning against the edge of the desk. He ran a hand through his white hair. 'You have much to learn.'

  Jack said nothing. For the moment he was too surprised to speak. And too unsure of what he should say. The Chai
rman edged forward slightly. The expression on his face was one of infinite kindness, tinged with a slight air of embarrassment, as though he had been caught out in a guilty secret. 'The finance director and the Chairman often need to speak,' he began. 'There is a speaker system connecting our offices. Ralph very kindly turned it on, so that I could hear what you were discussing.'

  The Chairman leant forward, tapping Jack just below the elbow. 'I'm hurt.'

  Jack recoiled slightly from his touch. He looked at the old man standing next to him, his small body tired and shrivelled, and found himself wondering once again what he should believe of him. 'That seems the least of my troubles right now,' he said.

  The Chairman stood up, and walked towards the window. 'I would have thought you would have trusted me,' he said, peering out of the window, avoiding the gaze of the two other men in the room.

  'I used to,' replied Jack.

  'Not any more?'

  'Not after what has happened.'

  The Chairman began walking towards him, stopping just behind Finer and leaning on the back of his chair, looking directly at Jack. 'What do you think is really going on here?'

  'Tell me!' Jack demanded.

  The Chairman shook his head, a look of sorrow passing across his face. 'Too easy,' he said. 'Why do you think I asked for your help on this mission?'

  Jack shrugged.

  'Because you're a smart young man,' the Chairman continued.

  'I don't think I have been that smart so far,' Jack replied anxiously.

  'Maybe not,' replied the Chairman softly. 'So start now.'

  Jack thought for a moment. 'It starts with you. You asked me to investigate.' Slowly the pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together in his mind; the picture was starting to take shape, and the jolt of recognition sent a shot of adrenalin to his head. 'There are two possibilities,' he said carefully. 'Either Fuller was deceiving you. Or she was deceiving me.'