Gatecrasher (11 page)

Slater was finding himself growing increasingly frustrated with everyone.
Warren
, fucking Keane, this
Campbell
guy, bloody Cooper. Even
Gresham
.

Julius Warren had got them all into this through his contact with Drennan whom Slater hadn’t liked from the start and had told
Gresham
as much. The guy was a slimy bastard and though Slater didn’t have him pinned as a copper there was something about him that didn’t fit. He was too smooth but at the same time, there was no question the guy wasn’t a snake.

Stuart Keane had fucked the whole thing up for them just as badly as Cooper had the night before and Slater found himself wishing that he had taken care of Cooper himself and that he could do the same to Keane now.

And
Gresham
should know better too. He seemed to have been blinded by the pound signs in front of his eyes on this particular job and Slater couldn’t understand that. Still, he had decided that rather than leave them all to it he could at least make sure it got done properly even if he didn’t like it. So far though, he was loathe to admit, he hadn’t even been able to do that.

  And the key to this was locked up safe and warm in his flat right now not fifty yards from where Slater sat watching his breath turn cloudy and feeling his backside turn numb. Probably sat watching Eastenders with a cup of tea and some chocolate biscuits, slippers on, stomach full, leftovers tipped absently into the bin. Bastard, he thought to himself. You wait til I get my hands on you.

As he sat there chewing over his situation, the headlights of an approaching car lit up the inside of his own and flashed back at him from his rear-view mirror. Slater looked away from the glare and into the wing mirror and noted that the other car was drawing up very slowly behind him. Slater’s antennae was up now and he watched the wing mirror intently and fought the urge to turn and get a better view. The car stopped.

Slater was itching to turn round and see what was happening behind him. He knew there was no real reason that this should have anything to do with him but he’d been sitting for long boring hours watching Campbell’s home and he was keyed
up now for something to happen.

Was it the police? Had he been noticed sitting in the car? Or maybe
Warren
. Sent by
Gresham
to help out. No, he would have received a call about that. Who then? Somebody else after
Campbell
? Surely no-one else knew what they knew. But then… maybe someone had let something slip to Drennan and it was him turning up to nose around.

The car started up again and drew closer to and then alongside Slater’s car and he wiped a hand over his face as if he were yawning and totally indifferent to what was going on around him. He stole a glance at the driver as he passed; didn’t recognise him.

A few yards ahead the car stopped again. Slater watched the driver looking at the doors across the road and then give two quick honks on the horn.

Seconds later Slater watched frozen as a figure trotted out onto the pavement, made straight for the car and jumped in the back seat. In the gloom and despite the streetlights Slater was not sure whether the figure had been Campbell but as he watched the silhouette in the back seat gesticulate to the driver and then settle back before the car pulled away, a seed of doubt took root in his mind.

Had it been him?  Slater was rattled and jumpy and it was darker in the street now and the streetlights threw confusing glares and reflections off the glass and paintwork of his car and those around him.

For a moment he was torn and he held the keys in the ignition, ready to follow the car, thinking that perhaps it was
Campbell
after all. If he didn’t follow then he might lose him for good.

No.

Calm down, he thought. The figure he had seen climb into the cab had not carried a large bag with him to indicate that he was going anywhere for any length of time. And what if it wasn’t
Campbell
and Slater left his post and lost the chance to grab him tonight?

No.

If that was him then he would be back later. And if it had not been Campbell, then Slater would know soon enough anyway and would finally make his acquaintance.

Tuesday
.
9
pm
.

Campbell
drained the last lukewarm mouthful of tea from the mug and began rubbing his eyes, which were feeling sore from staring at the screen.

His head was hurting too.

For hours
Campbell
had sat and read through the corporate literature that he had collected from his little ‘undercover’ trip to
Griffin
. Thinking about the hastily stammered pseudonym he had offered he cringed; ‘Owen Michaels’ he had said as the photo of the ex-England footballer looked back at him from the newspaper on his desk. Still, at least it hadn’t been David Beckham, he thought. That would have been a little bit too obvious. As it was he wasn’t entirely convinced that the girl had believed him but she’d given him the benefit of the doubt at least.

Griffin Holdings was a company that did a little bit of everything it seemed. The glossy brochures and grand but vague language did not give
Campbell
much in the way of detail. Its reach was international, taking in countries across Europe, Africa and the
Middle East
as well as a fast expanding Asian operation. It appeared, in the main, that
Griffin
engaged in shipping goods of various types around the world both on a private client basis as well as in trading goods itself. This was achieved via different subsidiary companies with their own specific remits all run by one man, Andrew Griffin, the Chief Executive Officer, under the umbrella of Griffin Holdings Ltd.

Campbell
had begun to dig deeper than the surface that these brochures had allowed him to scratch. He was well versed with using the internet to research people and companies. It was what paid his wages and now he had plenty of motivation and a burning curiosity driving him.

Andrew Griffin had, it seemed, assumed control of the company some years previously and modernised and rebranded it pretty thoroughly such that it was now largely unrecognisable from its original incarnation.

Griffin
had focused on the existing company’s two strongest areas. It had begun in trading in rare and expensive goods, art and artefacts, which they would buy and sell or broker as middlemen. This in turn gave rise to an import/export business which had developed into something of a specialised skill through several years of trading in goods that they had found difficulty in moving via more traditional routes and carriers. With a burgeoning reputation of being able to move difficult items over long distances, clients included museums and art dealerships initially but as their expertise and contacts grew this developed into precious stones and even, occasionally, small arms.

Campbell
had seen no cause for alarm until this point but was naturally starting to worry about what he may have become embroiled in. Further investigation allayed his initial fears though as he looked up
Griffin
’s competitors. There seemed little untoward in this specialised and well-regulated industry and less still with regard to
Griffin
itself.

Next he looked at the company’s early history. It had been founded by two men in the mid-1980s. The elder of the two, Geoffrey Asquith, held a PhD in Art and Art History and had at the time of the company’s founding lectured on a part time basis at a leading
English
University
. The younger man, Michael Horner, held a postgraduate degree in Banking and Finance and had worked for two leading Investment Banks in the City before joining forces with Asquith in a trading venture that utilised both men's skills to the full, not to mention Horner's extensive book of contacts.

Success naturally led to growth and then specialising in different areas as the business developed. Eventually it seemed that the art expert and the banker had grown apart from the company they had created and sold it on at a handsome profit.

By now their contacts were considerable and not just limited to the world of art, arms and shipping. Both men had expanded their interests into other areas, taking directorships in offshore investment companies, consultancy work and eventually for Asquith, politics.

Resting his forehead on the heel of his hand,
Campbell
squeezed his eyes tight, trying to blink away the discomfort.

What did this all mean? What was the relevance to a break in at
Griffin
? Did it relate to these two older, more influential men, or was it some attempt at industrial espionage on the part of one of
Griffin
’s current competitors?

The answer, he knew, would be contained somewhere on the memory stick that nestled in his bag. He had not looked at it yet, had balked at examining its contents. He was, on the one hand, concerned that here was potentially confidential and sensitive company information and that he may in some way leave himself liable to legal action by the company if he accessed it. But that was an excuse really. It was a different fear that stayed his hand.
Campbell
was afraid of what he might find.

Given the circumstances of the stick's delivery, he figured that was only normal. Peeking at some private company records was one thing, but quite another when you knew that it was stolen and had arrived in the cold dead fingers of a stranger.

Slow down
Campbell
, he told himself. The guy wasn’t actually dead when he turned up.

The double ring of the doorbell jarred him from his thoughts and he looked up surprised and then checked his watch. It was late. Who was this? His nerves jangled but he sat motionless in the chair, suddenly alert.

It rang again. Two times, three.

Slater was grinding his teeth now, impatient and agitated. The creeping cold and long empty hours were winding him up like a watch spring.

‘Come on for fucks sake
,
’ he muttered through his teeth and watched the air cloud around him.

He stole a quick glance around but the street was quiet now and many lights in the surrounding windows were going out as people went to bed. The thought of crawling into his warm comfortable bed with his warm comfortable wife turned the tension up a notch and he turned and reached for the doorbell again.

‘Where are you then you bastard?’ he hissed, hitting the button on every other word.

He waited.

‘Ok, ok, buddy. I’m coming.’ His brother, Luke, appeared at the doorway with a smile but the surprise made
Campbell
start. ‘I rang for Pizza. How long are you going to be sat at that thing for anyway?’ he said pointing at the laptop.

‘Um. Nearly done,
’ he replied and pushed the chair back to stand
‘You… you need cash?’ he called after him but Luke waved a wordless dismissal over his shoulder.

‘Christ! No tip for you mate,
’ said Luke fishing a twenty from his wallet and opening the doo
r. ‘In a hurry
?’

Listening,
Campbell
cringed at his brother’s confrontational attitude. It had always been his way and not a trait that Daniel shared with him. Sometimes it had its virtues as Luke had always been more confident and assertive. But
Campbell
often felt that he would get himself into trouble one day.

The door slammed and
Campbell
stood, his knees popping and he rolled his shoulders and stretched the stiffness from his joints, peering through the doorway at the empty hall beyond.
. The memory stick would have to wait now. He was too tired to think straight, too hungry to care and
more than a little apprehensive
about the doorbell.
The
feeling of apprehension nagged at him. Silly, he thought.

‘Danny!’ Luke’s voiced called out.

‘What?’

‘Get two plates and two beers from the
fridge you lazy bastard,
’ Luke replied and appeared round the corner with a huge flat pizza box and a plain paper bag resting on top.

‘What’s that lot? We expecting guests?’

‘What sort of terrible fucker orders a massive mighty meaty without sides? Not in this h
ouse mate. Not on my watch. Now;
beers.'

The two of them moved into the lounge to tuck into their feast, laughing and rubbing their hands at the smell of hot food.
Campbell
’s tension lifted momentarily and he smiled at the way he had allowed his paranoia to get the better of him.