Chapter 16


July 2002

'Morning Sarah,' said Tom, trying to put a bounce in his step as he crossed reception, sunglasses on.

'Good morning, Tom. Popular as ever,' she said, holding up the pile of letters and phone messages.

Tom took it with a forced smile, went through to Ian's office, dropped them on the table and retreated straight to the single toilet on the ground floor. He locked the door behind him, then took the sunglasses off. Staring grimly at his ravaged face in the mirror, he reached into his pocket for the eye drops he'd just bought. He tipped his head back and, pulling his eyelids down, administered a drip of liquid into each. It was cold and tingled, making him blink rapidly. But the liquid closed up the spider's web of tiny veins, making his eyes look whiter and less hungover.

Next he took out the tube of concealer he'd taken from Charlotte's enormous make-up bag and applied a smear to the dark smudges of skin below each eye. Checking the mirror again, he saw that he looked a whole lot better — not like someone who had been to bed the wrong side of midnight for weeks on end.

Lastly he took the little bag of powder from his suit jacket. Holding it up, he noted that there was barely enough left to fill up its bottom corner and thought it was lucky he'd got the fresh bag from Brain. The moistened tip of his forefinger poked inside. He took a deep breath and dipped his finger in again: the drug seemed to be having less of an effect. Perhaps it lost its potency after a little while.

Ready to face the day, he went back through to Ian's office and started trying to prioritize his tasks for that morning. But the sheer number of things to do prevented him from starting anything. Half the letters were marked 'urgent' and the phone on his desk was already flashing with unanswered messages. Rubbing a hand over his chin, he turned on the computer and went to his Cornwall link.

Just a few days more to go, he told himself. The thought gave him enough strength to answer his ringing phone. 'Tom, hi. It's Sarah. There's a van here. A delivery of X-treme chewing gum, display cart and leaflets. Shall I get one of the boys in the studio to take it all upstairs?'

Tom knew that he couldn't afford to have the items hanging around in the office for long. He would have to get rid of it all. 'No, don't worry about it. It's going straight back out. I'll help him take it through to the store room at the back.'

He took his jacket off and walked through to reception. A man wearing green trousers, white polo shirt and a green baseball cap was placing several more boxes on to the stack piling up in front of Sarah's desk. Each one was labelled 'X-treme. Contents — 36 packets.'

'Cheers, mate. Could you give me a hand humping it through to the back?' asked Tom.

'Sorry pal,' he replied without a hint of apology in his voice. 'I'm a van driver, not a labourer. I just deliver the stuff to your premises.'

There wasn't time to argue. Tom crouched down and picked up the outermost column of boxes. By the time he got back to reception Creepy George was standing there. 'Sarah said you needed a hand.'

'Yeah, thanks,' said Tom, masking his irritation that someone else now knew about the delivery.

'Right,' announced the driver, carrying in some large cardboard tubes. 'The promotional panels for the cart are in these. They fit on to your standard Cooper's Barrow.'

'Right. We've got a couple out back, 'Tom replied.

'And these,' the driver tapped two boxes that were slightly smaller than the rest,' are your competition entry forms.'

Tom signed for everything and, with George's help, began ferrying them through to the back storage room.

Later that night, once everyone else had left, George went back to the storage room. He had a whole pile of merchandise samples he'd skimmed from previous deliveries hidden in his bedroom. After picking up a box of chewing gum from the top of the pile, he examined it, in two minds whether to steal it or not. Citrus flavour with energy-giving guarana. It sounded a bit weird to him.

But it always gave him a kick to put one over on the company, so through force of habit he put the box under his arm and set off for home.

A few days later one of the directors from London called. Putting aside the delivery schedules for the printer in Dublin and praying he wasn't going to be asked for any status reports, Tom waited for Sarah to put him through. 'Hi, Andrew.' He was careful to sound upbeat. 'How can I help you?'

'Hi there, Tom. Listen, Jim Morrell has finished his search of the computer system. There's some good news and some bad news.'

There was silence as Tom sat back in his chair and shut his eyes. 'OK — perhaps the good news first?'

'Good news is, he's found nothing amiss with the files on the main server. Tracking back through all the activity on Ian's computer, it's apparent he'd been accessing a lot of files and printing them off. But nothing more.'

It was all too little too late — they'd had to struggle along with misfiled documents for the last month. If that was the good news, Tom wondered, what was the bad?

'Now, the other news isn't so welcome. He found quite a few locked files — ones needing a password for access. Apart from the ones in finance, they shouldn't have been there.'

'So who had created them?'

'They were all on the computer of a George Norris.'

'Creepy George?'

'I'm sorry?'

'Creepy George — it's what we call him up here.'

'To his face?'

'No, we're too childish for that.'

'Well, the name isn't too far off the mark. Perhaps add on perverted and sick.'

'What do you mean?'

'It took Jim a while to get into them — he treated it as a bit of a challenge eventually. And he thinks he's only found a fraction of the offending material. He suspects a lot more has been transferred on to a laptop to keep it clear of the main server.'

'What offending material?'

'You've heard of snuff movies?'

'Oh God, you're not serious?'

'Not movies. Photos. Lots of them. They're of women and they don't look asleep. More collapsed. Maybe dead, maybe unconscious. Clothed, semi-clothed, some naked. Indoors, outdoors. He's been downloading a lot from a US site called — you're not going to believe this — comatosex.com. It has information on date-rape drugs too — benefits and disadvantages of each type. Where you can order them from.'

'Jesus Christ, how do these sites get away with it?'

'God knows, but it gets worse. You know the staff photo gallery on our company web site?'

'Yes.'

'Was there a photo taken recently of Julie Bowers? Her one on the Manchester site is different from our one down here.'

'Yes — George insisted on taking it a few weeks ago.'

'Well, he's been using a shot of her face, eyes shut, and mounting it on the corpse of another female.'

'Corpse?'

'Well, you know, a torso. Someone sprawled out on the floor in a dressing gown against the same blue background cloth as the company mugshots. He's used Photoshop to comp the two images together. At first we actually thought it was Julie.'

'Oh, Christ. So he's actually taking these shots himself?'

'He appears to be. Tom, this isn't just a sackable offence. It's highly bloody illegal.'

Tom thought for a few seconds. 'So what are we going to do?'

'Get rid of him, fast as possible. Look at it this way: what if he's planning to attack Julie Bowers? Does he seem the sort?'

'Seem the sort? How do I bloody know?' Tom felt himself getting angry. 'Did the Yorkshire Ripper's bloody wife think that he seemed the sort? Surely that's the point with these people — you can never really tell them apart from the rest of us.'

'All right, Tom. This is how we'll play it. Jim's wiped all the offending material from the computer system. Under no circumstances can we afford for this to get out. You just have a quiet word with this George character, tell him that if he goes without a fuss, we won't create one either.'

'So it's OK for us to sack him, but not for us to tell the police?'

'Tom, we've got a company to look after here. What he gets up to in his own time isn't our concern.'

'And what about Julie Bowers? Just because George no longer works here, doesn't mean he's not a threat to her.'

'We'll move her back down to London; I assume you can do without her?'

Tom wanted to laugh. 'Oh yeah, we've never been quieter. She's just twiddling her thumbs most days. Just like the rest of us.'

'She can carry on helping you from down here. It's the only way to play it.'

Just a few more days of this shit and I'm out, thought Tom. He suppressed the urge to giggle because he knew if he did, he might not be able to stop. He imagined the reaction if waves of hysterical laughter suddenly started flooding out of the director's earpiece. 'OK, but you have the conversation with Julie. I'm not dealing with them both.'

'Done. I'll call her now.' Tom hung up, reached for his powder and headed straight for the toilets again.

He emerged a couple of minutes later, got a cup of water from the cooler and as he slowly sipped it, worked out what to say to George. Feeling slightly better, he rang upstairs to George's desk.

'Hello,' came the reply, sounding faintly hostile, as if no one was meant to know his extension number.

'George, it's Tom. Could you pop down to Ian's old office? I need a word.'

As he waited for George to appear he imagined how the conversation would go, picturing George's abject embarrassment. He guessed hardly any eye contact would be made — certainly not after he revealed what he knew.

There was a knock at the door, the top of George's bushy haircut appearing first as he looked round the door.

'Come in, George. Sit down,' said Tom, now adding a note of formality to his voice.

George did as he was asked, dead eyes staring across the desk dividing them. 'George, I've just had a call from the London office about some material the IT department has found on the system up here.'

'Material?'

'Certain locked files on your system. You know what I'm talking about?'

George leaned back and folded his arms. 'No,' he said warily.

'George, the IT guy has gained access to them. You've got a…' he searched for the right word, '… glut of offensive images stored on your computer. Or you did; the lot has been deleted.'

He waited for George to start squirming, eyes fixed to the floor, but to Tom's astonishment he sat up in his seat, genuine fury in his face.

'Someone's destroyed my personal files? Without my permission?' He glared directly at Tom. 'That's bloody outrageous! An invasion of my human rights.'

Thinking about the human rights of the women in the photos, Tom raised himself up slightly too. 'George, the only outrageous things in all of this are the images on your computer.' He had to bolster his argument, turn the emphasis back on George. He resorted to a lie. 'I've seen them. I've seen the images you've created of Julie upstairs.'

Still George was indignant. 'You … you bloody snipe! You've got no right, no right at all.'

His anger was beginning to antagonize Tom, who pointed a finger across the desk. 'Listen. You've been using company property to access sites of a sadistic nature. If we turned that stuff over to the police, what do you think would happen?'

He paused to let the comment sink in.

Finally George broke eye contact, looking to the side and quietly saying, 'Sadistic, am I?'

Tom didn't know how to answer that comment, so he carried on in a more conciliatory tone. 'Look, George, we're not going to pass it on to the police. But I'm going to have to let you go.'

George stared at him, hatred in his face. 'You've destroyed my personal property and now you're sacking me?' He brooded for a second. 'What if I'm not prepared to go?'

Tom stood up. 'I'm not discussing this. Go upstairs and clear your desk or the police are getting involved.'

George didn't move. Tom knew he couldn't break eye contact, but the intensity of suppressed emotion emanating from the other man was unsettling him.

Suddenly George looked down and pressed a fist to his lips. Registering the anguish in the gesture, Tom knew he had won. 'Come on, I'll help you.'

Still avoiding eye contact, George got up. Silently they climbed the stairs. The solemn way they entered the room caused everyone to look up and watch. Tom stood awkwardly to one side as George unlocked his cabinet and removed his briefcase, jacket and tie. Next he pulled a plastic bag from his bottom drawer and began emptying the contents of his drawers into it.

Finally Ges stood up. 'George, Tom, what's happening?'

George kept his head down and Tom waved a silencing hand at Ges. 'If there's any other stuff we can come in at the weekend and sort it out,' said Tom quietly. He walked George back down the stairs and through to reception. As George went to leave, Tom steeled himself for the last thing he had to do. 'George, I'll need your key to the office.'

George stopped and remained still as if contemplating the comment. Tom could see tears in the corner of the other man's eyes as he slid a keyring from his pocket, extricated a key from the metal loop, then hurled it to the floor.

Tom was trawling through overhead variances on the monthly Purchase and Ledger analysis when he heard multiple footsteps coming down the stairs. Guessing what was going on, he kept the files open on his desk.

Julie knocked on the door a second later. Ges, Ed and Gemma were visible behind her.

'Tom,' Julie began hesitantly. 'We're going for a drink at The Church. A leaving drink actually…'

'Yes, I heard, 'Tom interrupted. 'Sorry I didn't have time to pop upstairs earlier.'

'Oh,' she replied, sounding disappointed. 'Some new account they've won down in London.' She looked at him to confirm the story.

'They didn't give me any details,' said Tom. 'Just said we're going to lose you. When is it that you…'

'Straight away. Well, tomorrow. My last night in that soulless hotel, thank God.'

Tom smiled. 'We'll miss you. Look.' He stood up and went over to her. 'I'll try and make it over, but I've got loads on, so if I don't …'

He gave her a big hug and she used the opportunity to whisper in his ear, 'No job is worth your health, Tom. You take care of yourself.'

The comment left him at a loss for words. Was it that obvious he was under so much strain? Self-conscious now, he searched for an answer but she saved him the trouble. 'You know what? I enjoyed it here — the North isn't quite so grim as everyone makes out.'

Tom laughed. 'You take care.'

There was an awkward silence and Tom knew they were all waiting for him to explain what had happened earlier.

'By the way, George has left the company.'

Everyone stared at him, waiting for more information.

'He had been using work computers for his own business. Head office found some files and that was it, they wanted him out. Immediately.'

Ges let out a low whistle. 'What sort of files?'

'I don't know, to be honest,' Tom answered, making sure his glance missed Julie.

After they had all trooped out Tom waited for five minutes, then checked Sarah in reception had gone, too. Grabbing the keys to the works van from the cabinet behind her desk, he opened up the back door of the office and loaded the boxes of X-treme gum into the rear of the van. He had just opened the gates to the courtyard when he heard a footstep in the alleyway behind him. Turning round he saw George fixing him with a malevolent stare.

'You've got rid of Julie,' he announced flatly, all his plans ruined.

Needing time to think, Tom walked back to the storage room and wheeled a Cooper's Barrow into the back of the van. 'George, it doesn't concern you, but I haven't got rid of her. She's been called back down to London. They need her there.'

'Really?' he sneered. 'That's not just a ploy?'

A ploy. By using that word George was indicating he knew they were removing Julie from the equation before anything happened. Unable to believe the man's audacity, Tom said, 'I hate to think what you're getting at with that comment.' He shut the rear of the van and started walking round to the driver's door. 'Now, if you could step out of the way.'

'Why? Where are you taking that lot?'

'To the promotions company, 'Tom answered impatiently, hoping his tone would deter any further questions.

'At six forty in the evening?' George's eyes narrowed.

'Yes,' said Tom, unlocking the driver's door.

He had started the engine and put it into first gear when George knocked on the van's window. He wound it down halfway and George spoke quickly, barely audible over the chug of the diesel engine. 'Tell your wife she should draw the curtains when she's ironing at night. I can see straight in.'

Tom replayed the sinister implications of the comment in his head. By the time he'd got the van in neutral and jumped out, the man had vanished. 'You sick bastard,' he announced weakly to the empty alleyway.

By the time Tom had stacked all the boxes at the end of his garage and covered them with a large tarpaulin, it was after eight o'clock. Charlotte was out with some friends from her gym, not due back until late. He let himself into the house, opened a bottle of wine and went through to the living room.

Slumped on the sofa, he kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the coffee table, a glass of wine resting on his stomach. He had gone beyond exhausted to a state where he just felt hollowed out and zombie-like. He so desperately wanted to sleep but there was too much going round his head, too much going round his bloodstream.

Draining the glass, he poured another and then remembered that the work van was parked on the driveway and his Porsche was outside the office. Bollocks to it, he thought, deciding that he would return it early the next morning and no one apart from that twisted bastard George would be any the wiser. Creepy George. What was going on in that man's head? He'd seemed genuinely devastated by the news that Julie was going, as if he'd developed a real crush on her. He snorted. A crush was something teenagers or giddy adults experienced. Men like George didn't have crushes: they had obsessions. Dark and frightening ones.

Gulping down the second glass of wine, his thoughts turned to George's last comment. The bastard had been outside his house at some stage. He must have got his address from a computer file at work. Tom climbed the stairs and slid the shoebox out from under the bed. The man who delivered the gun didn't say a lot, other than to ask for his four hundred quid then show him how the safety catch worked. It looked like a small air pistol, almost toy-like in size.

George lurked in the shadows of the car park at The Church. He couldn't stand pubs. The smoke, the music, and worst of all, the women. Obscene in their make-up and short skirts, laughing loudly as they got more drunk. More confident. Looking at men, chatting with them, playing their flirtatious games. But never with him. Never with him.

Hands thrust deep into his anorak pockets, he crossed the car park and peered in through the window, fingers turning the packet of pills round and round. Julie was there, at a table with the rest of them. Red lips smiling, she got to her feet, circled a finger above everyone's glass, then set off for the bar.

He willed himself to go inside, knowing that it was his last chance. Maybe the others would get too drunk and go home. He constructed the scenario in his head; him and Julie the last to leave. Slipping the pill into her final bottle of beer, then — because he didn't drink — offering to drive her to the Ibis hotel. Her speech getting awkward, clever comments no longer on the tip of her tongue. Her losing control as she got out of the car. His car, with the briefcase in the boot. Helping her into the lift and up to her room. Getting her on to the bed and then waiting for her to pass out completely. The hours of fun he'd have with her.

Mere photographic images were leaving him less and less satisfied. And now he had the pills that would allow his fantasies to take place. But he couldn't go inside. A pub wasn't the place to put his plans into action. He would have to find another situation.

He thought about the women who allowed him to photograph them in their houses. In their bedrooms. It would be easy to drug the ones who posed on their own.

But even as the thought occurred to him, the image of Tom's wife teased him. Curtains open as she did the ironing in those tight vest tops. Urgently now, his fingers probed at the pills. She was a far more attractive prospect than the little strumpets who posed for cash.

Shivering with outrage at the ordeal he'd suffered at the hands of her husband, he knew something in his mind had altered for ever.

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