Human assets, p.1
Human Assets, page 1
HUMAN ASSETS
ALEX WALTERS
Copyright © 2022 Alex Walters
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The right of Alex Walters to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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First published in 2022 by Bloodhound Books
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Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8015-6
CONTENTS
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Also by Alex Walters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
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ALSO BY ALEX WALTERS
The DI Alec McKay Series
Candles and Roses (Book 1)
Death Parts Us (Book 2)
Their Final Act (Book 3)
Expiry Date (Book 4)
For Their Sins (Book 5)
A Parting Gift (Book 6)
Winterman
CHAPTER ONE
Peter Abrams’s eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. All he could see from here were two figures silhouetted by the morning sun.
The allotment was usually quiet at this time of year, particularly so early in the day. In truth, there wasn’t much to be done. It was far too early to begin any planting, and the ground was still too hard even to prepare the soil for the spring. He focused on clearing the plot of any remaining damaged or rotten winter crops, crouching down to dig them out of the ground.
He came here mainly because he found the place soothing. He was accustomed to being alone – he’d had years of that – but there were still times when he found the silence and emptiness of the house oppressive. The feeling most commonly struck him in the mornings. He always woke earlier than he wanted. That came with age, he supposed.
Sometimes, he’d lie there, waiting for sunrise and the start of the day. More often, he’d rise, make himself coffee and breakfast, watch one of the TV news channels. That was fine. He didn’t feel lonely exactly. But sometimes he simply felt as if he needed to leave the house, find some fresh air and sunshine, potter about on the allotment, doing not very much.
He returned his attention to the plot in front of him, digging away at the solid earth with his trowel, pulling out the tired vegetation, oblivious to anything that might be happening around him.
‘Old man.’
He looked up again, surprised to find himself being addressed in such a peremptory fashion. He’d assumed initially that the figures were two of his fellow gardeners. Several of them were in a similar position to himself; solitary men who saw this place as a haven from their various troubles. It was unusual for anyone else to be here so early, but not unprecedented. Mostly they kept themselves to themselves, perhaps exchange a greeting, a few sentences about the weather. Then they’d return to their separate plots, busying themselves in their isolated activities. That was how they preferred it.
‘Old man,’ the voice said again.
These days, it took Abrams a minute or two to push himself to his feet. When he was finally upright, he turned to face the men. He saw now that they weren’t anyone he knew. They were young – at least in Abrams’s eyes – and heavily built, with something of a military air. ‘Are you addressing me?’ Abrams said.
The man who had spoken looked around. ‘I see no one else.’ He spoke perfect English, accentless.
‘I would prefer not to be addressed in that way. It is discourteous. Disrespectful.’
‘Disrespectful?’ The man repeated the word as if he were weighing it up, considering its meaning or connotations. ‘I simply want to speak with you.’
‘Speak away. I can’t promise to listen.’
The man smiled and took a step toward Abrams. Abrams stood his ground, forcing himself not to be intimidated by the man’s manner. ‘The thing is, we know exactly who you are, old man.’ This time, the final phrase sounded as if it were being used more in the English sense, as a term of address. But not exactly, Abrams thought, a term of affection.
‘What do you mean?’
The man shrugged. ‘What I say. We know who you are. We know your history. Your past. What you’ve done. Everything you’ve been involved in.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Who are you?’
The man glanced back at his companion. ‘We’re the clean-up team. We’re here to tidy things. Tie up loose ends.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t need to.’ The man took another step forward.
Now Abrams felt more inclined to retreat, but he knew it was already too late. He was too old. He had done all the running he could many years before, and now there was nowhere left to go. With no other options, he remained motionless, staring defiantly at the two men.
Abrams barely saw the man move. But then he felt the first sharp blow to the side of his head. He fell backwards, collapsing onto the earth he’d been tending only minutes before. He closed his eyes at the second blow, and after that felt nothing more.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Mrs Raven?’
Emma Raven wasn’t sure how long she’d been left sitting there. Nearly half an hour, she thought. Too long, anyway. Too long just in terms of general courtesy. Far too long in the circumstances. ‘Professor Armstrong?’
The silence was sufficiently extended to confirm that, whoever this man might be, he wasn’t Professor Armstrong. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally. ‘Professor Armstrong’s tied up at present. Something unexpected came up. He asked whether I might take care of you.’ He held out a hand for shaking. ‘Colin Gormley.’
She remained seated, ignoring the proffered hand. ‘I have an appointment with Professor Armstrong, the Master of the College, not with some underling. I made it some weeks ago.’
‘Professor Armstrong sends his profuse apologies–’
‘He doesn’t, though, does he? He’s asked you to come along here to cover for him and fob me off with some flannel.’
‘I don’t–’
‘Is he too scared to see me? Or too embarrassed? He has cause to be both.’
‘As I say, something unexpectedly–’
‘Don’t treat me like an idiot, Mr Gormley.’ She gestured for him to take a seat opposite her. The waiting area was small, with space enough only for three low chairs and a narrow coffee table. That was another thing, she thought. No one had offered her even a glass of water, let alone a coffee. ‘I’m sure none of this is your fault. And I appreciate you have to be loyal. Nonetheless, I suggest you don’t waste your time patronising me.’
‘I really wasn’t–’ With obvious reluctance, Gormley lowered himself onto the seat and perched awkwardly on its front edge. He looked as if he might topple forward at any moment.
She held out her hand. ‘Perhaps we should start again, Mr Gormley. Now we’re both clear where we stand. I’m Emma Raven.’
His expression indicated he’d already been left in little doubt about that. ‘I’m sorry we have to meet in these circumstances, Mrs Raven.’
‘Emma. Please.’
He swallowed. ‘I’m– I was Paul’s Director of Studies.’
‘Ah. Of course. I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised. Paul talked about you.’ She allowed him a brief smile. ‘All good.’
‘That’s something, anyway. Paul was a very promising student.’ He stopped, clearly unsure whether his words were appropriate.
‘You have to say that, don’t you? De mortuis nihil nisi bonum, and all that.’
‘I suppose. But in Paul’s case it was true. He was a pleasure to teach.’
She wasn’t surprised by that. She’d had the same feedback throughout his sch
‘I don’t imagine it helps. I don’t know what would.’ His words sounded unexpectedly heartfelt. ‘Look, can I get you a coffee or a tea? Our hospitality doesn’t seem to have been very satisfactory so far.’
She was about to refuse, but then realised she actually wanted a coffee very much indeed. Partly because she was thirsty, but also because she wanted a prop, something to hide behind while she went through this ordeal. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘I can organise it here. Or there’s the college coffee shop downstairs. The coffee’s better there, and term’s pretty much over so it should be quiet.’
‘Downstairs it is, then.’ She was only too glad to escape these stuffy formal offices. She wondered why the Master should force himself to work in this kind of environment. Presumably he had an attractive lodge somewhere attached to the college. But she’d already formed an impression of the kind of man Professor Norman Armstrong was likely to be.
Gormley was holding the door open for her. As if reading her mind, he said, ‘You were a little unfair on Professor Armstrong, you know.’
‘Was I?’
‘Partly. Yes, he’s a cowardly old duffer and he’s hopeless at dealing with – well, situations like this. He was getting himself all wound up about what to say to you. In the end, I offered to meet you in his place. I thought it might be better, especially as I knew Paul.’
The dark wooden panelling surrounding them was adorned with portraits of previous Masters and other college dignitaries. At the foot of the stairs, he led them through a set of double doors into an unexpectedly modern corridor, more reminiscent of a hospital than a place of learning. Gormley glanced back at her. ‘It’s a funny old place. Everything crammed together wherever they could fit it in. I’m not sure conventional planning laws have ever applied to Cambridge colleges.’
At the end of the corridor, he turned to the right through a second set of double doors into what looked like any high street coffee shop, with a chill cabinet crammed with pre-packaged sandwiches and a hissing espresso machine. Two middle-aged women sat chatting at a table in the corner, but otherwise the place was empty.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Large espresso, please,’ she said. ‘I think I’m going to need the caffeine boost.’
‘Anything else? Pastry? Biscuits? I’ll make sure Professor Armstrong pays, if that’s an incentive.’
Despite her earlier irritation, Emma was relieved now that Gormley had opted to be her guide here, the whole process would have been even more grisly if she’d had to cope with Armstrong too. Gormley, on the other hand, seemed to have a knack for putting her at ease without trivialising her reasons for being there. ‘Coffee’s fine, thanks. Shall I go and grab a table?’
‘You do that. This must be an ordeal for you.’
He was right enough about that, she thought, as she seated herself at a table in the opposite corner from the two women. More than once in the course of the drive down, she’d asked herself why she was doing this. She could have stayed away, kept it at a distance. They’d offered to send Paul’s possessions up to her if she’d preferred.
But that wouldn’t have been enough. She had no illusions that this would provide any kind of closure – not that she had much truck for concepts like that in any case. But it was a necessary step on the journey back to some kind of normality. She needed to come here. She needed to see again the place where he’d lived in those last days. Anything else would have felt like a betrayal.
‘Large espresso.’ Gormley slid the cup across the table to her. ‘Didn’t know whether you took sugar.’
‘I don’t normally, but I will today.’
He took a sip from his own cappuccino. ‘Look, to be honest, I’m a bit in the dark about what’s been said to you and what you’re expecting from today. I don’t want to say or do anything inappropriate, so maybe it’s best if you tell me what you’re looking for and then we can work out how best to handle things.’
‘What am I expecting? That’s the question, isn’t it? I’ve no idea, really. I wanted to see where it happened. See if it would help me understand. But that feels pretty futile now I’m actually here. It’s just a room. I don’t even know what there is to understand. Except how blind I was.’
‘Blind?’
‘I should have realised something was wrong.’
‘It doesn’t work like that. You blame yourself, of course, but there’s almost certainly nothing you could have done.’ He stopped. ‘Sorry. I wanted to avoid saying anything inappropriate, and then I blurt out something like that.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure you’re right. And one day I’ll recognise that. It’s just that at the moment…’
‘Look, let’s focus on the practicalities. How do you want to play things?’
She focused on answering his question. ‘I’d like to see Paul’s room first. If you could take me there and then give me a few minutes?’
‘Take as long as you like. I can give you my mobile number, then you can call or text me when you’re ready. Is there anyone else you’d like to see? There’s Jim Allanby, who was Paul’s college Tutor…’ He paused. ‘But, to be honest, Jim said he’d hardly had any dealings with Paul, other than a couple of scheduled meetings and the usual get-together at the start of the year.’
‘The Tutor responsible for students’ pastoral care,’ she pointed out. ‘I’m sorry. That sounded accusatory. But I was looking at the college website before I came.’
‘I know. And Jim really is one of the best in that regard. He’s very approachable. Always has an open door to students. He makes a point of encouraging them to come to him if they have any problems at all.’ Gormley smiled. ‘Now I’m sounding defensive.’
‘I realise there’s only so much you can do. If Paul chose not to share whatever problems he had, there’s not much anyone can do about it.’
‘That might be letting us off the hook. We’re still a long way from where we ought to be on student well-being. But that’s a bigger issue.’
‘Paul may not have even realised he had a problem. Not until it was too late.’ She swallowed the last of her coffee. ‘Okay, let’s go and do this. If I sit here any longer, I’ll end up chickening out. Then I really wouldn’t forgive myself.’
CHAPTER THREE
