GHIGAU 31/32/33

Thursday 13th — Nikki

 

 

When faced with an impossible dilemma the human brain can sometimes virtually shut itself down. When neither fight nor flight are possible, it turns in on itself and rejects the reality of its situation. For Nikki Talbot that moment had come and gone.

        The room she had occupied for three days and nights now was compact but comfortable enough and adequately equipped. The walls were plain white and had been hung with prints of famous works of art; Nighthawks, McSorley’s Bar, Dempsey & Firpo. Anonymous grey carpet stretched from corner to corner.

    Someone likes American Realism, was her first vague thought on waking up there. 

It felt like a business hotel somewhere in middle England, but it wasn’t that — it was effectively a cell.  She slept on a wide single bed beside which stood a glass topped cabinet with a reading lamp and digital alarm clock. There was a computer desk, with a laptop that was not connected to the internet, and a small printer, stacked with paper. A glass-doored cooler that contained soft drinks, bottled water and fresh milk stood against one wall; on its surface, a bright-red coffee machine and pods of various hues. In a metal bookcase, by the desk, a selection of books with brightly coloured spines had been stacked in rows, all seemingly unread. A single armchair completed the furniture.

    The en-suite shower and toilet was well stocked with hotel-style miniatures and fluffy towels. One-size-fits-all pyjamas and loungewear had been waiting for her when she arrived and a pair of plastic wrapped towelling slippers. The whole set-up was utilitarian, basic even, but clean and tidy. The air in the room was warm, but not overly so. A fan whirred discreetly somewhere in the background. A wall mounted digital thermometer showed a steady twenty-two degrees. Nikki had no way of knowing whether it was hot or cold outside.    

    There was a small window, with no apparent opening mechanism, that afforded a partial view of a high-walled, whitewashed courtyard. Beyond its perimeter the tops of dark green conifers were visible. The sky above them was cloudless and blue. 

    Breakfast lunch and dinner were brought to her by a woman who apparently spoke no English. Nikki chose from the small menu that was left for her each evening. Meals arrived on a tray that was slipped through a custom-made, box-shaped opening in the door, rather like a night-pay counter at a 24 hour petrol station.  The door itself remained locked at all times.  The woman called out, ‘Ha-low’ when she was ready and Nikki had to slide the perspex lid of the box away from her so she could lift out the tray. Her dirty clothes went out the same way, and returned clean the next morning. She couldn’t determine the woman’s accent from that one word, although she guessed South-East Asia somewhere, and any attempt at conversation had been met with silence.

 

Thursday 20th — Hermione

 

 

    Hermione finally called the police. 

    “I’d like to report a crime,” she said. 

It took some time to get anyone on the line who was prepared to listen to what she had to say. She outlined the events of Monday evening, ending with the revelation that the charming and energetic Harry Gallo’s real name was ‘Compton-Wise’. She could have sworn she heard a snicker, before the officer who had taken her call said, in a matter-of-fact tone, that as far as he could tell no actual crime had been committed as the person being discussed had been invited into Hermione’s home, and had not actually removed anything from her files. Apparently there was no law against using a false name, or rifling through another person’s private files, which to Hermione, seemed absurd.

    She felt humiliated. The officer had somehow made her feel that it was her fault for having a fling with a much younger man. 

    If I was a man, she thought angrily, and the roles were reversed, you’d have been slapping me on the back, figuratively speaking.

    She was advised to change her passcodes and possibly even her front door locks and to suggest to Mr Gallo or Compton-Wise or whatever his real name was, to ‘Go back to his family’.

    Still Hermione felt uncomfortable about the whole thing. With Nikki still missing, any unusual occurrence took on greater significance. Was it coincidence that someone was trying to get information from her? And exactly what information and why? And if there was a connection between Nikki’s disappearance and the two-timing Mr Compton-Wise shouldn’t she tell Lenny? That was a prospect she didn’t relish. 

    In the light of her recent discovery, her affair with this younger man, which had once felt passionate and romantic, now seemed tawdry and lewd. What had she been thinking?

    She scolded herself for being weak and self critical; how was she to know that the so called Harry Gallo had a family? And why shouldn’t she have affairs? She was still attractive and had no husband or partner. 

    She took a tall glass from the drinks cabinet, added three ice cubes from the ice caddy and poured herself a large Gin & Tonic; it was, after all, past six o’clock. She should call Lenny though, it just felt like the right thing to do. She reached for her phone.

 

 

Thursday evening — Lenny

 

 

Lenny tapped the screen of his phone to end the call. He sat on the sofa for a minute or two, his mind turning over, as he tried to process what Hermione had told him.

    Justin Compton-Wise, the slick and smooth CEO of GREnergy, a new client of Talbot & Booth, was having an affair with Hermione Patterson, his missing wife’s business partner, and using a false name, and going through her private files? What on earth could that mean? Lenny just couldn’t make sense of the connection. Was it some kind of tactic to get leverage? But that made no sense. If anything, the terms of their agreement had been generous and undisputed. Both he and Jake had remarked how easy they were to deal with. What then? What could possibly be gleaned from Hermione Patterson’s private files that would benefit GREnergy? Could it be connected to Jake’s situation? One thing Lenny knew with certainty was that Jake wasn’t telling him everything. 

    Then something occurred to him, what if the connection wasn’t to do with business but Nikki? What if the whole deal was somehow connected to Nikki’s disappearance? A deal that was being backed by a man who had once dated Nikki; Aidan Hulme. Was that coincidence?

    Lenny stood and moved quickly across the room to grab his notepad and pen. He started scribbling.  He wrote down as many points as he could, in no particular order, whether they seemed connected or not…

 

    Justin Compton-Wise

    GREnergy 

    Aidan Hulme

    Jake - debts

    Timpson solicitors

    Exa - Artist

    Stalker - messages

    Mercedes Car

    Alan O’Donnell - alibi

    Rolls? Bentley? Jaguar? Meeting? Glamorous woman?                 Bodyguard?

    

He stared at the list. Nothing seemed to jump out at him.

    And what of the Mercedes? That was just the kind of car a billionaire might own he supposed. Lenny took the sheet of paper he’d obtained from Barnaby, feeling a wave of embarrassment as he recalled his uncharacteristic outburst of violence, and placed it beside the hastily scribbled list he had just made.

    Of the fifteen names on the printed sheet, most were companies; only one appeared to be a private name, and it didn’t mean anything to Lenny. Two more were large business organisations, household names, and one was an advertising company that he’d actually had had some dealings with over the years. That left eleven names. Lenny opened his laptop and went to the webpage of Companies House. He typed in the name Aidan Hulme under ‘PEOPLE’ and a long list of company names sprang up. He scrolled down them, looking to see if any of the names matched one of the eleven on the list. 

    When he came to the last-but-one name listed on Companies House as being associated with Aidan Hulme, Glencraig Estates Limited, he drew a sharp intake of breath; he compared the name to Barnaby’s list — there it was, on both lists, the same company exactly. He clicked on the company overview tab and read on; Glencraig Estates had been in business for three years; the last audited accounts showed a net value of nearly twenty million pounds, the majority of which was fixed assets. Lenny guessed this was probably property of some sort. The registered office was in Edinburgh. A quick Google search confirmed that the address was also the offices of Angus Cairns Solicitors LLP, specialists in property law. Lenny Googled Glencraig Estates and a webpage loaded for what looked like a hunting and shooting estate in the highlands of Scotland. The blurb boasted rolling hills of heather and crystal-clear rivers, spread over eight hundred acres. That explained the high value, an estate like that would be worth millions for sure.

    Lenny sat back and pondered this discovery. Ok, it was possible that this was all coincidence. Maybe the car wasn’t the same one, exactly. Aidan Hulme probably didn’t even know how many, or what type of cars he owned. Still it was a big coincidence that this company was on the list.

    Was Hulme involved somehow? Was he the connection? It seemed absurd that a billionaire who hadn’t had anything to do with Nikki since university, over twenty years ago, could have anything to do with her disappearance. But was it coincidence that his name had crossed Lenny’s path twice in a week?

    He had to let Sam Tate know, he realised. It could be important information. He just hoped that when it came to light exactly how he had obtained the list of buyers, he didn’t end up in trouble himself.