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“Why would he be taking it then? How could he even get hold of it?” Callan asked.
“Both questions – we don’t know yet. Second question – maybe he had been prescribed it some time ago but had decided not to take it, then for some reason had started taking it recently.”
“I see. So it could have sat in his bathroom cupboard for years?”
“This is all speculation, but something like that is likely. However, if he had required medical help for any reason, he should have informed us. Needless to say, he didn’t.”
“Should have, yes. But of course it would be like waving goodbye to his career.”
“But such cases are handled delicately to ensure people do volunteer this sort of information. We all know the rules.”
“Of course we do, yes,” Callan agreed.
“Hopefully, none here would hesitate to inform us if they required this sort of help.” Osbourne looked around defiantly and received a murmur of affirmation before continuing. “So we have to be aware that perhaps there is some sort of foul play involved.”
It took several uncomfortable seconds of grim silence for this information to be digested.
“If so, everything he was working on might be in jeopardy,” Callan remarked.
“Yes, it might be,” Osbourne agreed. “Bear that in mind when taking over his ongoing cases.”
This ruffled a few feathers. Jack Logan, in particular, looked agitated or even annoyed. He had apparently guessed what was coming next.
“On that note,” Osbourne continued, “Graham, Tom, I’m dividing the majority of Mitchell’s cases between you – except Winter. Jack, you’ll take over from Mitchell. It has to be you because of the aversion treatment. You’re the only spare resource. Put in an appearance at VirtuBank but keep a low profile.”
Dr Skinner broke in to say: “But Osbourne, Mitchell’s work there was finished. There’s nothing left to do.”
“We just want to keep an eye on things.”
“But how about Callan? Surely he can…”
“Can we just back up a bit?” Callan interrupted. “I have a question. How did he kill himself? Is it possible that someone killed him?”
“He threw himself under a train, Jim,” Osbourne replied.
“Possible then – it’s one of our favoured methods.”
“The platform looks virtually empty at the time, according to the CCTV. Of course CCTV too can be tampered with in various ways, as we know.”
“How many cases was he handling? Was he overworked?”
“No, definitely not. If anything, his workload was lighter than normal.”
“Also, we all get tested for drugs once a month. He couldn’t have been taking this drug for very long,” Callan suggested.
Osbourne contradicted him bluntly: “We don’t get tested for this stuff. It’s banned and it’s never been on the list.”
“So why did they test for it in the autopsy?”
“A jar of the stuff was found amongst the mess that the train left.”
“OK. But let’s not jump to conclusions. I presume we’re going to go ahead with a thorough investigation. Check for debts, mistresses, all the usual?”
“Of course,” Osbourne said with finality. He looked down at his laptop again to make it clear the discussion on this matter was closed and he wanted to move on. There was another period of gloomy silence in the room as he did so.
“So what went wrong in Helsinki?” Osbourne was looking at Dr Skinner.
“I don’t know. Everything went more or less to plan. Mitchell gave him the key and verbal instructions.”
“But is Winter up and running? Is anything happening?” “We don’t know. We haven’t heard anything yet.”
“So probably nothing is happening. Any idea why?”
Dr Skinner glanced nervously at the expectant faces around the table.
“I, I mean Mitchell followed the procedure to switch phases. He got a signature and he followed the procedure to flip him back.
Then he gave Snowman the key and told him what to do with it. Maybe he was confused and didn’t remember what the key was for. Phase transition is not easy.”
“Other possibilities?”
Skinner shrugged. “Maybe Snowman doesn’t want to do it.”
“After all these years, I think that’s unlikely.”
Jack Logan butted in, “Yes, but maybe this is too hot to handle. Experienced operatives like Mitchell don’t just top themselves for no reason.”
Callan spoke: “But there does seem to be a reason in Mitchell’s case: ChiroButyline-A. As for Snowman, the most likely explanation for his inactivity is that he couldn’t understand what to do because you guys had just turned his mind inside out. Or imagine if he was in the wrong state when you gave him the instructions – he would probably be completely unaware of them when he flipped back.”
Dr Skinner made a gesture as though he wanted to interrupt, but changed his mind. Graham Wood and Tom Brookes were looking bored now. All they knew about this was that they didn’t need to know anything.
Callan continued: “It could be that he simply had no idea what to do with this damned key he found in his possession. He probably threw it away. He might have handed it in to the hotel, thinking it belonged to someone else.”
“We could have that checked out,” Dr Skinner said. “We could phone the hotel.”
“I doubt if they keep records of people handing keys in to them, Skinner,” Osbourne said. “But I think you might be onto something, Callan. Let’s assume that it’s true that he was in no state to remember verbal instructions and he misplaced the key or threw it away – what can we do about it now?”
“Give him the whole package again in writing,” Callan said.
“But how?” Osbourne asked. “Mitchell gave him the instructions verbally in Helsinki and we expected him to cooperate. As far as Snowman is concerned, nobody else was involved. Dr Skinner wasn’t there and he was going to communicate only with Mitchell. So what are we going to do? How are we going to give him the instructions again?”
“Send them through the post anonymously,” Callan offered.
“Why would he swallow that?” said Osbourne. “What’s the scenario? Did Mitchell send them knowing he was about to…?”
“OK,” Callan agreed, “No, that won’t do.”
Osbourne said, “We need someone who was already involved for this to be credible to him. We’ve got no one.”
Dr Skinner hesitated and then said: “Apart from myself but, as we know, I’ve not been cleared to see him in any circumstances since the separation event, in case of fusion. So, yes, there’s no one suitable.”
“There is one other person,” Callan stated.
“Who?” Dr Skinner asked. He seemed both surprised and worried.
“Mitchell told me about a girl that he used for errands. He told me he intended to use her to try to keep an eye out – ”
“But this is completely irregular! How was he using this girl? Who the hell is she to – ”
“I gave him permission. As it turns out, she could be just the person to keep this project on track.”
“But, you’re hardly authorised to have given per…”
Now Osbourne interrupted: “Please, Dr Skinner, spare us. All is fair in love and war. Let’s consider this possibility.”
8. A Meeting In The Park
A week had passed since news of Mitchell’s suicide. Since then, Richard hadn’t had a lot to do – perhaps Mitchell had been more effective at delegating work than he had been given credit for. This afternoon he sat at his desk watching everyone else work. The integration team were not at their desks. It was Thursday; they must be in the main meeting room. Rayhaan from pre-sales was screwing his face up at his screen. No doubt there was something about his power-point presentation that was causing him some concern. In pre-sales, you had to be careful of exactly what you said, and how you said it.
Richard’s thoughts drifted back to Helsinki. That Helsinki trip had been quite a jaunt! He reminded himself of one particularly delightful event. A few days after meeting Mitchell, he had been sitting in the hotel bar minding his own business when some super-nice girl started chatting to him. They ended up getting blind drunk together. He recalled her showing him a tattoo on the top of her thigh, hitching up her skirt so he could read it (which was nice of her). He had a vague memory of rolling around in bed with her shortly afterwards. Unfortunately, he was so drunk he couldn’t remember any details. He had no idea if she was good in bed or not, and it was unlikely he had been, the state he was in. “Rolling around in bed” was probably an all-too-accurate description of what they’d done. All he could remember about her was she had long brown hair and green eyes. She had a name like Mandy, or Elaine, or Ella or Maureen, or something. Well, she had some sort of name. Most people do, especially girls. In the morning she was gone before he’d woken up. It was a shame. And it was also a shame he was stuck in London just now. When you were abroad, staying in a hotel and on decent expenses, things like that tended to happen. Well, maybe not quite like that; she really had been something.
Time dragged for Richard. There were only a few other people around, all busy looking at their terminals. There was no one to talk to; they were not exactly transfixed by their terminals, but it was clearly their preferred way of interfacing with reality. Talking to any of them would be considered an annoying distraction. Even those of them that had been emailing him today.
It was time to take another look at today’s emails. Nothing special there; the usual stuff about cakes in the kitchen for someone’s birthday. Richard knew the cakes were all gone by now. He had one himself just to be sociable, even though he didn’t know the person concerned. The core five lift was out of order… Don’t use the sales dept printer until further notice…
There was an email from Mitchell. For half a second, Richard truly believed it was from Mitchell. He opened it with a sense of dread, as though he really was going to be hearing from beyond the grave.
“Meet me at the bandstand in Hyde Park at three p.m. today.”
There was nothing else. Just that. It couldn’t be Mitchell, of course. It was someone else who had access to his email account. Who could that be? No one else should have access to Mitchell’s account. It was almost more likely it was Mitchell.
Richard looked at his phone to check the time – two p.m. He would need to hurry. Scrambling to get his laptop switched off and packed, then wriggling into his coat, he left the building, heading for Bank tube. Bank would be better than Tower Hill, though a longer walk; the Central Line was more reliable than the Circle Line. The Circle Line is often delayed because it’s the favourite one to commit suicide on.
Luckily, the tube was running well. Richard made it to Hyde Park Corner in plenty of time. He was waiting at the bandstand by 2:45. Who am I waiting for? he wondered.
It got to 3:05. No one had turned up. Richard had eagerly scrutinised every passer-by, trying to build a reason around that particular person; who they were, what their connection to Mitchell was, and why they would want to meet him. The girl in the mini-skirt who smiled at him would’ve been a particularly happy choice. Too good to be true.
A couple of squat, rough-looking Bulgarians had passed by too, giving his imagination a scenario that was less pleasant to contemplate. Richard told himself to keep a grip on his imagination as they passed him by without incident, spitting out their conversation in guttural tones, completely unaware of Richard and the wild speculation they had caused him.
Quite a lot of people passed by, with Richard’s imagination, now suppressed, failing to relieve the boredom of waiting. There were loads of people cycling in London these days. Richard knew he was not brave enough for anything like that. He was not courageous; not physically; most of the time not even mentally. If someone criticised his work as incorrectly documented or badly structured, he would agonise for ages. That was what made him a good techie – fear of doing something wrong – even something trivial.
The girl in the mini-skirt was coming back. She looked vaguely familiar somehow, unless his memory was playing tricks from having noticed her ten minutes ago. She was in her late twenties, quite smartly dressed, with lovely, long blonde hair. Her shoulder bag looked expensive. All her clothes did, in fact. He speculated that perhaps she was Mitchell’s daughter. She looked a little too cheerful and rather too well dressed, even glamorous, for that though.
“Hi,” she said. “ … Richard?”
“Yes.”
“Melanie. I sent the email from Andrew’s mobile. I didn’t know how else to get in touch.”
Richard was still slightly taken aback. In spite of his speculation, he hadn’t expected the girl in the mini-skirt to be the one. He couldn’t get over the impression that he’d seen her before somewhere.
“Have we met before?” he asked.
“Possibly,” she said, more shyly than he expected, given her confident demeanour. But she continued without further explanation, “I have something for you. It’s from Andrew.”
Richard realised the expression of doubt that had clouded the girl’s face must be a reflection of his own puzzlement.
“You did know Andrew, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Andrew, yes. We called him Mitchell though. Andy Mitchell. I didn’t know him all that well; only a few months. He was my boss.”
There was a slightly awkward pause.
“So who are you then?” Richard asked.
“I was his girlfriend.” The vague idea they had already met persisted, but it was suppressed by another idea – Richard seemed to remember Mitchell had a wife. Yes, of course he had a wife. Well, it seems he had a girlfriend too. A hell of a girlfriend, in fact.
“You seem quite cheerful for a girlfriend who’s just lost her nearest and dearest,” Richard said bluntly.
“Ah.” Her eyes looked down, showing that she was rather contrite after all. She hesitated a moment and then, after brushing her hand elegantly through her hair, the cheerful look returned to her face and her eyes looked directly up into his. “I was more of a girlfriend experience.”
“A girl…”
“I work at Aphrodite’s Secret.” She snapped open her shoulder bag and took out a glossy card.
“See,” she said, offering the card.
Richard took the card. Out of a vague sense of embarrassment, he didn’t look too closely at it, but a brief glance at the shiny black card with gold lettering was enough to let him know what kind of a girlfriend Mitchell had had.
“Anyway, take this too.” She handed him a padded envelope. “He told me not to open it, and I haven’t. He gave it to me with instructions to pass it on to you if anything happened to him. I had no idea that he had probably already decided to kill himself.”
“Thanks.” Richard felt slightly abashed. For some reason, it seemed like she had acted with the greatest kindness to give him the envelope. Still unopened, too. In fact, such was the level of altruism she had exhibited, it was Richard’s turn to feel contrite; he suddenly realised she needn’t have bothered. He wondered why she had, in fact. Was that suspicious? Am I being set up? he wanted to ask.
“So what’s in it for you? Why have you – ” he blurted out.
She interrupted before he finished asking. “Oh, it’s quite simple. When he gave me the envelope, it reminded me that he was pretty much irreplaceable as a customer. He gave me this.” She showed him her necklace.
“Very nice.” Richard was trying not to make it too obvious that his eyes had decided not to focus on the necklace but to look a little further down the top of her blouse. It wasn’t just his eyes that were enjoying themselves; his nose too was enthralled by her scent. No wonder the poor bastard was in debt.
He couldn’t get over the impression that he’d seen her before somewhere. “Did you say we’ve met before?”
“Yes, don’t you remember? I had dark hair then. I was staying in a hotel with Andrew and ended up in the cocktail bar being chatted up by some nice gentleman.”
Richard was still mystified.
“The Grand Sokos Hotel… I had green eyes too… contacts.”
“Oh my god! Oh it’s…” Richard was going to say “so nice to see you again”, but in the circumstances he wasn’t sure if he should.
