Killing for the Company

It was just past midnight when he turned off Euston Road to drive down Gower Street and into the West End. He parked his car in the NCP on Wardour Street, hid his rucksack underneath the passenger seat and limped through the maze of red neon, pubs and sex shops. A woman, comfortably in her forties and with too much make-up on, called to him from a doorway. ‘Looking for a bit of business, love?’

He put his head down.

‘Beggars can’t be choosers, darling!’ The woman’s voice had turned angry when she realised she was being ignored.

Chet carried on towards Trafalgar Square, and from there to Whitehall. He walked down the opposite side to number 132 and stood for a moment observing the entrance. He didn’t really know what he was looking for — maybe an unmarked van parked suspiciously nearby; individuals carrying out surveillance in the street. He knew the signs to look for and right now he saw none of them, so he crossed the road and made his way into the building.

The big, marble-floored atrium was entirely empty, with the exception of a solitary security guard on reception — different to the guy Chet had spoken to that morning. He had black skin and dreadlocks and was reading a copy of the Sun. He glanced up when Chet was a couple of metres from the reception.

Chet smiled at him. ‘Graveyard shift, mate?’

The guard put down his newspaper and Chet noticed that he’d been examining page 3. ‘You said it, brother,’ he sighed.

Chet looked around, then leaned in a bit closer. ‘I wondered if you could help me out with something.’

‘Ain’t no one here this time of night,’ the guard replied. ‘Except me, of course.’ He prodded the newspaper. ‘And Delightful Debs from Dagenham.’ He laughed, and Chet joined in.

‘Not looking for someone here. I’m looking for someone who was here,’ said Chet. ‘A chick.’

A broad grin crossed the guard’s face.

‘I did a little security job here this morning. The name’s Chet Freeman. Check your computer if you like.’

The guard shrugged and tapped at the keyboard of his terminal. ‘Yeah,’ he said after a moment. ‘I got you.’

‘So I got talking to this girl. Said her name was Suze. Cleaning lady. Redhead. Kind of…’ Chet made a gesture with his hands to indicate a shapely figure. ‘Should have got her number there and then, I guess…’

A troubled look came on to the guard’s face. ‘Ah, I don’t know, man. I’m not supposed to give that kind of information out. You know, home addresses and shit.’

‘Hey, course not. I understand. I was just thinking, you know, maybe a phone number… if you had it…’

He winked at the guard, who gave an amused shake of the head and replied, ‘I don’t know, brother. She must have been pretty cute for you to come chasing after her at this time of night.’

‘Yeah. Or maybe I’m just desperate.’

The guard laughed, then once more tapped on his keyboard. ‘Suze McArthur?’ he asked.

‘That’s my girl.’

‘She’s a temp. Only worked here yesterday.’ The guard scrawled a number on a yellow Post-It note and handed it to Chet. ‘Hope you get yourself some pussy, brother.’

Chet grinned. ‘You and me both, my friend.’

He turned and walked out of the building, the square of paper clasped firmly in his right hand.

It took him half an hour to get back to his car. It would have taken him less, but he went a roundabout way, down quiet side streets where he could look back and check he wasn’t being followed. By the time he’d got back to his vehicle, his leg was killing him — sharp, stabbing pains shooting from the stump up into the thigh, and a nagging soreness where flesh met prosthesis. It was a relief to sit behind the wheel. He drove out of the West End, pulling over on Tottenham Court Road to check he wasn’t being trailed, before heading to Aldenham Street in the maze between Camden and Euston Station. There were modern housing blocks on either side, but the street was deserted at this time of night and he parked in the gloom below a broken street lamp. He recovered his rucksack and removed one of the bulky mobile phones that he’d used to debug the offices earlier.

Seconds later he was dialling Suze’s number.

It rang six times.

Seven.

He was about to hang up when a voice came on the line. It was sleepy.

‘Hello?’

‘Suze McArthur?’

‘What… who is this?’ The girl sounded suspicious. Frightened.

‘Your friend from the roof.’

A pause.

‘How did you get my number?’ Her voice cracked slightly.

‘How did you get your hands on a laser listening device?’

Silence.

‘I let you escape today,’ he said finally. ‘You owe me. I want to know what you thought you were listening…’

‘I’m hanging up.’ Suze’s voice was wavering as she interrupted him.

‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

‘I’m hanging up…’ She sounded like a scared kid standing up to a bully. ‘I’m hanging up now.’

A click on the line, then silence.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Chet muttered. He dialled the number again, but this time it rang out.