The Ultimate Truth (4 page)

But that didn’t stop me.

The four-digit code was the date of my birthday: 3008.

When I punched in the code, the lock beeped and a green light came on. I took hold of the handle, turned it, and pulled. The steel door opened easily. There wasn’t much in there – a
couple of cardboard files, some A4 envelopes, a handful of papers. I reached in and pulled everything out, then sat down on the floor and began leafing through it all.

It didn’t take me long to realise that Dad had been telling the truth about the boring old business papers. The files were crammed with invoices and contracts, the envelopes were stuffed
full of insurance papers. There didn’t seem to be any case notes. No clues, no secrets. It wasn’t until I’d almost reached the bottom of the pile, and almost given up hope, that I
came across the photograph.

It wasn’t an original, just a computer printout on plain A4 paper. The picture quality wasn’t very good either. It looked as if it had been printed off in a hurry. But there was
still no mistaking what the photograph showed.

I put the rest of the papers to one side, breathed out slowly, and took a closer look at the picture.

It showed three men standing together outside a building. They were all wearing suits, and it looked as if they were discussing something. One of them had short dark hair and a goatee beard,
another one had a shaved head, and the third one was the man from the funeral. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind it was him. He had the grey eyes, the short grey hair, and – Courtney
had been right – he did have that ex-military look to him. There were two vehicles parked behind the three men – a black BMW and a black Mercedes van. The registration plates
weren’t visible. The building in the background was some kind of industrial warehouse. It didn’t look as if it was in use, but it didn’t look abandoned either. Grey brick walls,
blinds in the windows, solid-looking doors. Locked double gates led into a small car park at the front of the warehouse, and the whole place was enclosed behind a high wire-mesh fence.

The time and date was printed in the bottom right-hand corner of the photograph:

Eight minutes past four, 15 July.

The day before Mum and Dad died.

I sat there studying the picture, trying to work out what it meant. I was fairly sure that either Mum or Dad had taken it – why else would it be in their office safe? – and I was
equally sure that it was a surveillance photograph. And that had to mean that the grey-eyed man had something to do with a case that Mum and Dad were investigating.

I looked down at the pile of business papers on the floor, suddenly realising that when I’d taken them out of the safe, I’d inadvertently turned the pile upside down. So the
photograph hadn’t been at the bottom of the pile after all, it had been at the top. I thought about that, imagining Mum or Dad coming into the office the day before they died, opening the
safe and putting the photo inside . . .

Why would they have done that?

There was nothing else in the safe that had anything to do with this or any other investigation. So what was so special about this photograph? Why was it so important?

I turned it over and looked at the back. There was a note scribbled in pencil in the top right-hand corner.

There was no doubt it was Dad’s handwriting – I’d recognise his spidery scrawl anywhere – but what did it mean?
5/8
could be the fifth of August,
and
4th
the day before? But what about
dem
and
last day
? Was
dem
short for something? Demonstration, perhaps? Demand? Or someone’s name – Dempster, Dempsey?
And what did
last day
mean? The last day of what? Or the last day
for
what?

I took out my mobile and checked the date. Today was the second of August. So if I was right, and the
4th
was the fourth of August, that meant there were only two days to go before the
last day
.

I put the rest of the papers back in the safe, locked it back up, and closed the hinged section of floorboard. I got to my feet, and was just about to go back into the main office to show the
picture to Courtney, when I heard her say, quite loudly, ‘Who the hell are you?’

I froze, wondering who she was talking to, and then almost immediately I heard another voice, a man’s voice.

‘Ah, good morning,’ I heard him say, his voice deep and confident. ‘My name’s Owen Smith, I’m here about the insurance. And who might you be, if you don’t
mind me asking?’

‘Have you got some ID?’ Courtney said.

‘Of course, just one moment.’

I folded the printout into my pocket and went through into the office. The man was standing just inside the doorway, and as I entered the office he was taking a business card from his wallet. He
looked over at me, blinked once, then went over to Courtney and passed her his card. I’d never seen him in person before, but there was no mistaking who he was. I’d spent the last few
minutes staring at a picture of him with two other men.

The man who called himself Owen Smith was the man with the shaved head from the photograph.

My mum once told me that you have to be very careful about judging people by their appearance. ‘For example,’ she’d said, ‘just because the man at your
front door is carrying a clipboard and wearing a high-visibility vest and a name badge, that doesn’t necessarily mean you can trust him. Anyone can buy a clipboard and a high-visibility vest.
And even if someone isn’t trying to trick you, it’s not always possible to judge their character based on physical appearance alone.’ She’d smiled mischievously at me then.
‘You only have to look at Courtney to know that.’

There was nothing remotely insulting about what she’d said. In fact, Courtney herself had said much the same thing on countless occasions. All Mum had meant was that because of the way
Courtney looked and dressed, a lot of people – especially men – tended to assume she was some kind of brainless bimbo, just a pretty face and a curvy body. And Courtney was quite often
happy to let them think that.

‘If they think I’m dumb,’ she explained, ‘I’m already two steps ahead of them. By the time they find out I’m not so dumb, it’s already too late for them
to do anything about it.’

Courtney Lane wasn’t dumb.

She had a first-class degree in mathematics and philosophy from Oxford University, she was fluent in at least four foreign languages, and she knew more about almost everything than anyone
I’d ever met. She’d also competed at Under-23 level for the England Athletics Team, running the 200 and 400 metres and the 400-metre relay, and according to Dad she was an absolute
genius on the pool table. And that was just the stuff I knew about her. Courtney’s one of those people who constantly amaze you with the depth of their hidden talents.

It might seem strange that someone with so much going for them would work as an assistant for a small private investigation company, but Courtney didn’t define herself by what she did for
a living. Working for Mum and Dad suited her perfectly. Her mother had been the assistant at Delaney & Co for years, and when she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, and it got too
bad for her to carry on working, Courtney had not only made the decision to stay at home and look after her, she’d also accepted Mum and Dad’s offer to take over her mum’s job. It
didn’t pay very much, but it was interesting work, and Mum and Dad let her take as much time off as she needed, plus the office was only five minutes’ walk from her house.

In the two years she’d worked for Delaney & Co, Courtney had become very close to my parents, and she was fiercely protective of both them and the company. So when the man with the
shaved head began patronising her that morning, talking to her as if she was nothing, I knew he was heading for trouble.

I leaned against the wall, put my hands in my pockets, and settled down to watch the show.

‘I need to speak to whoever’s in charge here,’ he said to her as she studied his business card. ‘So if you wouldn’t mind—’

‘It says here you work for M & G Commercial,’ she said, looking up from the card.

‘That’s right.’

‘Who called you?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Who called your company about the insurance claim?’ He hesitated. ‘No one called us. We pride ourselves on being proactive in situations such as this.’

Courtney grinned. ‘Proactive?’

He gave her a condescending smile. ‘It means—’

‘I know what it means, Mr Smith. It’s just that I’ve never come across a proactive insurance company before.’ She smiled at him. ‘No offence, but in my experience
it’s difficult enough to get a
re
active response from an insurance company.’

‘Well, that’s as maybe—’

‘What position do you hold with M & G?’

He stared hard at her, trying to stay calm. ‘I think it’s probably best if I speak to someone else about this. Is your manager available?’

‘What makes you think I’m not the manager?’

‘Are you?’

She stared back at him. ‘Your business card doesn’t state what position you hold. Are you a loss adjuster?’

He sighed. ‘Perhaps it’d be better if I came back another time.’

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘That sounds like a good idea. Let me give you a bit of advice though. Before you come back, you might want to check to see who Delaney & Co are actually
insured with first.’ She passed him back his business card. ‘Or at least come up with something better than “M & G Commercial”.’ She smiled at him. ‘I mean,
I’m no expert, of course, but if I wanted someone to think that I worked for an insurance company, I’d pick one that actually existed.’

The man glared at her for a moment or two, then he put the business card back in his wallet and said, ‘I’ll bear that in mind, Ms Lane.’ He looked over at me, held my gaze for
a second, then turned round and walked out.

‘Well, that was interesting,’ Courtney said when he’d gone.

‘Very interesting,’ I agreed, taking the printout from my pocket.

‘What have you got there?’ she asked.

I went over and gave her the picture. She didn’t say anything at first, just quietly studied the photograph, and after a few seconds I saw her raise her eyebrows in surprise.

‘That’s our friend Mr Smith,’ she said, still looking at the picture.

‘Exactly.’

‘Where did you find this, Trav?’

‘It was in Mum and Dad’s safe.’

She nodded thoughtfully, then looked at me. ‘They were investigating him.’

‘And the man with the hidden camera.’

‘Do you recognise the other one?’

I shook my head.

She said, ‘Smith called me Ms Lane. I didn’t tell him my name.’

‘I know.’

She sighed. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’

‘There’s a note on the back of the photograph,’ I told her.

She turned it over and read the scribbled note.

‘Your dad wrote this,’ she said.

‘I know. What do you think it means?’

‘Fifth of August . . . the fourth . . .’ She scratched her head. ‘I don’t know . . . “dem” could be an abbreviation.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Or an acronym. D.E.M. – Department of Energy and . . . something? Drug Enforcement Management? It could be anything. And “last day” . . . ?’ She shrugged.

‘Who knows?’

‘Did you get anywhere with the BMW’s registration number?’ I asked her.

‘It’s registered to a company called Smith & Co Digital Holdings Ltd.’

‘Smith?’

She nodded. ‘The company’s based in Dundee. I googled them on my mobile but I couldn’t find anything.’

‘Nothing at all?’

She shook her head, looking concerned. ‘Maybe it’d be better if we got in touch with the police about this. There’s obviously something going on.’

‘The police won’t do anything unless a crime’s been committed.’

‘Well, strictly speaking, Mr Smith is guilty of fraud by false representation. But as he didn’t actually try to get anything out of us, I doubt if the police would be
interested.’

‘So what do we do?’ I said.

‘
We
don’t do anything,’ she replied. ‘I’ll see what else I can find out, and if I come up with anything definite . . . well, we’ll deal with that if it
happens. But in the meantime,
you
don’t do anything, Travis, OK?’

‘Why not?’

‘You know why not.’

‘Because I’m just a kid, I suppose?’

‘You
are
just a kid.’

‘That doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.’

‘Yes, it does,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘All kids are idiots. That’s their job.’

I grinned.

‘I know you’re not stupid, Trav,’ she said seriously. ‘I know you’re perfectly capable of looking after yourself. But you need to let me look after you a bit too,
OK?’ She smiled again. ‘Just humour me, all right? Pretend I’m a responsible adult and I know what I’m talking about.’

I could see the sincerity and determination behind her smile, and I knew she wasn’t just thinking of me, she was thinking of Mum and Dad too. And that really meant a lot to me.

But sometimes, no matter how much you
want
to do what you’re told, you just can’t help yourself.

‘OK,’ I said.

‘OK what?’

‘OK, ma’am?’

She laughed.

I said, ‘Can I have the printout back?’

‘Why?’

‘I want to show it to Grandad.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t want to bother him with any of this?’

‘He’ll want to know about it when he’s feeling better.’ She kept her eyes on me for a while, trying to see into my mind, and then – seemingly satisfied that I was
telling the truth – she passed me the picture. ‘Promise me that you won’t do anything on your own, OK?’

‘I promise,’ I lied.

I don’t usually break my promises, and I felt really bad about lying to Courtney, but I would have felt a million times worse if I’d just gone home and done
nothing. If there
were
only two days to go before the last day, whatever that meant, I didn’t have time to do nothing. I had to find out what was going on. It was as simple as that. I
had
to know.