Halfway down the corridor, the murmur of voices came to me. I stopped to listen.
Was it only one voice I could hear? I took a few more steps, Moker’s grubby sneakers scuffing the carpet. It sounded like one voice, a kind of monotonous low-key drone that now and again was interrupted by . . .? A groan? Somebody groaning? Had Guinane hurt Sydney Presswell? Was Sydney next on his hit list? With both partners gone, Guinane stood to make a lot more money and, if he had it in him to murder me, then Sydney would be no problem.
I edged further along the corridor, this time forcing myself not to hurry, afraid I’d be heard and so lose the element of surprise, which I would need if I were to get close enough to Guinane to push the needle into his chest. It’s funny how in zombie movies, the zombie is always endowed with superhuman strength, whereas in reality (if we can talk reality here) the undead’s muscles and sinews would have atrophied and lost most of their power. In Moker’s debilitated – debilitated by death – body, I was weak and becoming weaker by the moment. Soon, the body would collapse – just as earlier, in the police station, the woman had finally expired – and would be useless to me. I could not afford to let Guinane see me coming; I had to strike before he had a chance to defend himself. Carefully, I placed one foot in front of the other, waited a beat, did the same thing again, making my way down the carpeted corridor at snail’s pace, keeping as quiet as I possibly could.
The voice – and the groans – became louder as I approached the end offices. Soon I was able to make out the words being spoken.
42
Sydney Presswell’s office was empty, although the lights were on. As Moker, I was standing at the darkened corridor’s junction with another, shorter, corridor, and opposite, but a little to the right, was the open doorway into Sydney’s place of work, where company files and records were kept and where the agency’s financial accounts were balanced so diligently. It wasn’t unusual for our bookkeeper to be working late, although I could never quite understand his fascination for figures and balance sheets; mercifully I didn’t have to, nor did Guinane – Sydney relieved us of such stultifying but essential tedium and we were glad to let him. Oh yeah, that’s how stupid we both were.
The voices came from the large office next door, to the left of the junction, which Guinane and I, as copy-writer and art director, shared so that we could work on ideas together. The door to this was ajar so I couldn’t see much of the interior, the opening no more than a foot or so wide. Although the angle also meant that I could not easily be seen, I stepped back and pressed against the corridor’s wall so that the corner of the junction concealed me completely. Trying to keep those guttural noises I was making down to a minimum, I listened.
‘. . . pity you caught me searching through your desk when you showed up tonight, Oliver. Pity for you, that is, because as far as I’m concerned, it suits my plans very well. Jim was always a stumbling block, but you . . . well, you were just a bloody nuisance.’
A low murmuring then, almost a grumble. From Guinane? Had to be.
Then Sydney once more: ‘I must have hit you a little too hard – you’ve been out of it for some time. I did want to explain a few things to you before . . .’ His voice trailed off, leaving an implication hanging in the air.
I peered round the corner of the corridor in an attempt to see more through the partially open doorway and ducked back swiftly as a figure passed across the gap. It was Sydney, pacing the floor, something long and silvery gripped in one hand, its upper length resting in the open palm of his other hand. With my back braced against the corridor wall, I waited and tried to muffle the snuffling noise that came from the aperture of Moker’s face with my hands. Although I’d only caught a brief glimpse, I suddenly realized what the silvery thing he had been brandishing was; a three-foot long unmarked steel rule, the one I used for cutting card and paper. One side was flat, blunted, while the other was slightly angled to provide a keen cutting edge for a Stanley knife blade or scalpel. Although flat at each end of its length, it resembled – and I’m sure could be used as – a sabre or heavy sword. Whatever, I was always aware it could be a lethal weapon in the wrong hands.
‘You know what I was looking for, Oliver?’
Despite the circumstances, Sydney’s voice was modulated, restrained, the kind of monotonous tone that used to make my eyelids heavy the moment the first balance sheet figures were mentioned.
Only a mumble came from Guinane.
‘I was looking for more letters,’ Sydney went on. ‘Those very private letters Jim’s wife has been sending you over the years. I discovered the first one a long, long time ago and have kept tabs on them ever since. Rather a passionate lady, Andrea, although I could have done without the guilt trip she laid on you both. Tried to stop your affair many times, didn’t she? Only you wouldn’t let go. But why keep those letters in your locked drawer, Oliver? Oh, by the way, I have extra keys to every drawer, cupboard and filing cabinet in the place. Very handy for my kind of snooping. But why, Oliver, why keep the letters in the office? Tell you what I think. I think you got some kind of kick reading them while your friend and partner sat opposite you without a clue. Wasn’t that the reason? Yes, I really do believe so.’
‘Bastard!’
At least this was coherent, but Guinane failed to follow up with anything else.
‘You see, all those late nights I put in were not just spent doctoring the agency’s accounts. No, I was spying on you and Jim too. I can’t tell you how much I despised your cosy relationship. I was always the outsider, the boring bean counter, while you and he were the agency, you were the creative team that brought in all the suckers. I’ve always been in a weak position, which is why I had to watch you both constantly, make sure you weren’t conspiring against me.’
I almost banged the wall behind me with the heel of my fist. What was he on about? The company was called gtp, for Christ’s sake, Guinane True Presswell – he was always an equal partner. We never conspired against him, he was an important part of the team, the shrewd one that kept our feet on the ground, who dealt . . . with . . . all . . . the . . . agency’s financial affairs . . . The words slowed down in my mind. Apart from searching our desks and, no doubt, our files too, what else was Sydney involved in?
‘Oh yes, you were the glory boys, the winners of clients and awards. Me? Just a third party, nobody important. As I said, bean counter. Did either of you consider I had an outside life? Did you? Did you know I’ve been divorced twice, the third one on the way? And each divorce cost me dear, as the next one will. And did you know I gamble, Oliver? Oh, I love to gamble. Horses, casinos, even dog tracks – I love ’em all. Have you any idea what it costs to maintain such a lifestyle? And then there’s the cost of cocaine. That’s the great irony. Jim thought only you had a problem with drugs – we discussed it many times behind your back. How do we get you off them, would you agree to rehab? Should we even confront you with the issue, would it damage the partnership? In fact, I was the one who pointed out to Jim that you were back on the coke again. And all the time, neither of you realized I was a heavy user myself. Though, unlike you, I know how to control it. Question of metabolism, and you must have the wrong kind. An expensive habit, all the same.’
I heard a mirthless chuckle and it came from Sydney as he paced the floor. From Guinane there was only more mumbling, a weak kind of protest, I think. What the hell was wrong with him?
‘I could never let either of you know that I had financial difficulties, of course. If I had, the first thing you’d do is check the books, or have an independent auditor take a look at them, and no way could I allow that. I’m running too many scams with the company’s money, see? Couldn’t have some snooper inspecting the accounts. No, I’d probably end up in prison. Want to hear about some of my little deceptions, Oliver?’
If he didn’t, I certainly did. I peered around the corner again and looked towards the open door across the corridor. I didn’t know if it was his placid intonation, or the unexpected r
evelations, but I seemed to be fascinated with these revelations of Sydney’s. Why was he confessing these things to Guinane? And what had he done to him? Our financial director – our bean counter – passed the narrow gap in the doorway again and this time he slapped the steel rule against the palm of his hand in the way that teachers used to brandish their canes before the corporal punishment ban.
‘I hope you’re listening, Oliver. It’s a relief to get this off my chest after so long, so I’d appreciate it if you paid attention.’
He stopped his pacing for a moment and I could see most of him in the opening. The blunted steel blade flashed in the overhead lighting.
‘I had had money troubles since – and before – I met you and Jim True, but I kept them well hidden. Jim was easy to fool and you – you, Oliver, didn’t care anyway. You two left the financial side of the business entirely in my hands and accepted my word on everything. You were both too in love with your own creativity to bother about money. So long as it was coming in regularly, and the amounts afforded you grand lifestyles, you didn’t worry about boring things like balancing the books, checking invoices, chasing clients for money owed. I wasn’t complaining, because it allowed me so much leeway. I have deals with printers – and you know how much print work we put out each year – photosetters, art studios, even one or two photographers. They put in an inflated invoice and we share the difference between real costs and imagined costs. It’s worked out very nicely over the years and nobody has ever complained – least of all our clients who have no idea whatsoever about such charges. They’d be shocked if they knew the profit margin on all these services.’
He moved out of view again, resumed his pacing. By the way he tilted his head when speaking, I was aware that Guinane was not on his feet. Not even sitting in a chair.
‘Apart from travel, hotel, lunch and dinner expenditures, there was no end of ways I could milk the company. Entertainment, company cars – one for my soon-to-be ex-wife, incidentally – phone bills, all lost in the agency accounts. gtp even paid for my drug habit, how’s that grab you?’
Another mirthless chuckle. Another low groan from Guinane.
‘But the real kicker, the scam that brought in the most for me, was the setting up of another company, one that neither of you knew about. And it was so simple. All I had to do was add “Limited” to gtp. When certain cheques came in for gtp, I only had to write “Limited” after the name, and then pay the money into my own secret company bank account. I had to be cautious, naturally, couldn’t let huge amounts go missing, but over the years the scheme – sorry, the scam – has been highly profitable. Sweet, don’t you think? Actually, I’ve been quite brilliant. Never too greedy, you understand, always keeping within certain limits, but oh so lucrative.’
Slowly, creeping inch by inch, I made my way across the corridor’s junction, hoping I’d timed the move so Sydney wouldn’t pass the open doorway and see me. If I made a noise, a scuffing as I dragged Moker’s feet across the carpet, I don’t know; I think Sydney was too wrapped up in his boasts to hear anything beyond the room he was in. I could feel myself – I could feel Moker’s body – growing weaker by the second as vital functions within the flesh that were only kept going by my own will wound down.
‘And then Blake & Turnbrow, one of London and New York’s biggest and richest advertising agencies, came along with the intention of swallowing up gtp. Jim always knew in essence it would be a takeover, and you were in denial – or you had your own agenda. But you both thought it was Blake & Turnbrow’s idea, so impressed were they with our work and client list. Well, to tell you the truth, Oliver – and that is what I’m doing tonight, telling you nothing but the truth – it was I who put out the feelers initially, I was the one who approached them. In a surreptitious way, of course, through a contact I had there. I let them know we wouldn’t be averse to talks.’
A muted thwack as he slapped the steel rule against the palm of his hand again. From where I now stood, I couldn’t see Sydney anymore but I glimpsed Guinane. He was on one knee, a hand and elbow flat on the desktop, the knuckles of his other hand pressed against the floor for support. His head kept sagging as if too heavy to support. A trickle of blood ran from his hairline to his cheek.
‘A risk for me,’ Sydney continued, his shadow cast out into the corridor for a moment, ‘but the money we three would be paid makes all my cheating over the years seem petty, small change. Of course, because I’ll be the only one left of the partnership after tonight, my financial reward will be even greater. Are you interested in the risk the situation presented for me, Oliver? It doesn’t matter if you’re not, because I’m going to tell you anyway. I hope you’re not too groggy to take it all in. Did I hit you too hard when you surprised me at your desk? This piece of metal makes a dangerous weapon, wouldn’t you agree? I only used the blunt side so that there wouldn’t be too much damage, because that wouldn’t suit my purpose at all.’
I edged nearer to the open door, my legs beginning to droop under the weight they were carrying.
Sydney continued, ‘Now, where was I? Oh yes, the “merger”. Being one of the smartest agencies in town as well as the most profitable, Blake & Turnbrow would want to know exactly what they were getting and whether or not my forecasts for the next few years were exaggerated. “Due diligence” it’s called. They will send in forensic accountants to inspect our books and look at our cost structure to make sure we are already operating efficiently. They’ll search for skeletons in the cupboard, tax or VAT fraud, that sort of thing, of which, as a matter of fact, we’re entirely in the clear – I’m neither stupid nor so greedy as to take such risks.’
I heard him stop pacing.
‘It was bloody hard work,’ Sydney said, ‘and I’m sure you noticed that I’ve been putting in even more overtime and weekends lately. Tonight, I finally put everything in place and as long as I’m around to answer any queries their team might make, everything will be fine. Teeming and lading, the allocation of future money against old debts, will take care of any discrepancies, so the books will look up to date. They’re bound to find little things that are not quite right, but they’ll consider them unimportant in the grand scheme. Blake & Turnbrow is too eager to take possession to let slight errors affect the buyout.’
When he spoke, Guinane’s words were sluggish, slurred, but they could be understood. ‘Why, Sydney? Why did you do this to us?’
‘I’ve already explained. I’m in great need of money. The people I gamble with are a little impatient and a bit short on understanding; as are my ex-wives who are complaining about slow alimony payments. Buying cocaine in today’s over-inflated market doesn’t help the situation either. No, I’m rather desperate at the moment.’
He paused, as if reflecting on his next words.
‘That’s why Jim had to die. He was in the way, he wanted to block the takeover. Fortunately, I had an acquaintance in the police force who unwittingly gave me an idea. One that’s been working out rather well, as a matter of fact.’
‘You . . . you killed Jim?’ Guinane was obviously beginning to recover from the blow on the head. Sydney must have grabbed the first heavy object that came to hand when Guinane walked into our office – the steel rule sometimes kept on my desk.
‘Oh yes. I thought you’d realized that by now,’ I heard Sydney say. ‘Detective Constable Danny Coates is my second wife’s brother, now my ex-brother-in-law. We’d always got on despite the bitch his sister turned out to be, and we’ve kept in touch even after the divorce. Like me, he enjoys a flutter on the horses, as well as blackjack and roulette. We frequent the same gambling clubs, as a matter of fact. He’s also not averse to the occasional coke wrap I supply him with from time to time.’
‘Sydney . . . look, let me get up. Let’s stop . . . all this.’ Guinane’s speech was still slurred and he sounded as if he was in pain, maybe concussed.
‘I thought you wanted to hear? You know, it’s quite cathartic to get it off my chest, especially when
you won’t be able to repeat it to anyone.’
‘What do you mean?’
I heard noises as if Guinane was trying to get to his feet, but even as I peeked through the gap I saw him slump to the floor again, only saving himself from going all the way down by gripping the edge of the desk.
Sydney’s voice was soothing, yet it chilled me. ‘Hush, now. Be patient, Oliver. You want to hear the whole story, don’t you?’
Sydney appeared in the gap, his back to me. He was looming over Oliver, the metal rule held by his side, ready to strike.
‘Yes, my cop friend gambles too much and has a penchant for cocaine. Not a fine endorsement for law and order, is it? Unfortunately, that’s the world we live in nowadays. Nothing’s clean anymore.’
Satisfied that Guinane was still weak and too dazed to be a problem, Sydney walked away, out of my line of sight. I crept closer to the opening, aware that it was becoming more and more difficult to maintain control over the body I occupied. If I was going to make a move, it would have to be soon, yet I had to hear more; I was still absorbed in these revelations.
‘My ex-brother-in-law is chuffed to be detailed for such a high-profile case, the search for a serial killer who mutilates every victim. So much so, he can’t stop talking about it when we meet up for a spot of boozing and gambling. Bragging, I suppose you could say, because it made him look important. That’s why the plan to get rid of Jim True grew so easily in my mind. I could do the deed and make it look like the work of the serial killer. Jim would be put out of the way, no hindrance to the takeover. And who would suspect me of the crime? All I needed was the right opportunity, and you provided me with that, Oliver, when you rang me last Sunday night to tell me you and he had fallen out and you’d left the hotel. Leaving Jim alone. I was becoming pretty desperate by then, and your phone call was just the prompt I needed.’
‘You couldn’t have . . .’ There was shock and dismay in Guinane’s voice.