The Hit-and-Run Man Page 9

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tommy Morgan had lost two days of his life. Sitting over a mug of strong coffee, his desperate efforts to recall anything since the needle was plunged into his arm stirred nothing more than vague images of torrential rain and a slow, painful crawl up the stairs in the darkness. He had no idea how he managed to get into his flat even, the most likely answer being that his neighbour, George, had dragged him there. His ageing battery radio, through the crackles, told him it was Sunday evening.

  The mess he found himself lying in appalled him. Despite his comatose state for two days, it would appear his bodily functions had continued as usual. There was also vomit on the floor beside him. The stench from him and the room was overpowering.

  While washing himself down and cleaning the room as best as he could, Morgan had wondered how close he had been to death. He guessed it was probably only that he was young and fit that had enabled him to survive. It was impossible to imagine what these people had hoped to achieve by pumping him full of such a massive overdose of heroin. Perhaps they felt that treating him so roughly would give them a psychological advantage when it came to negotiating a deal. Obviously, they would be out to knock down the price. It could be they considered a display of their ability to inflict suffering and pain on him gave them a position of power from which to do this.

  Now, sipping his hot coffee, a more sinister thought struck Morgan. It may be the Beard hated him and the cause he represented to such an extent he simply derived a sadistic pleasure from causing him suffering to the point of pushing him to the very brink of death.

  Whether it was that thought or the intense cold of the room that made him shiver he wasn't sure. The small, upright paraffin heater fought a losing battle against the accumulated cold of two heatless days and nights.

  Morgan jumped at the knock on the door. What was happening to him? Were his nerves really so shattered? How he longed for it to be all over. How much he wanted to simply go home.

  “Who's there?”

  “Well, you are alive after all.” There was no mistaking the voice. “You know who it is Mr. Morgan. Open up please.”

  The Beard was alone this time. Presumably, it was considered the Irishman would be in no state to constitute a physical threat.

  “You know we have a front door downstairs that is supposed to be our security in here,” Morgan observed. “You people seem to come and go through it as you please.”

  “Please Mr. Morgan, don't insult us,” smiled the Beard. “Remember who you are dealing with. I only knock at this door out of courtesy.”

  “You seem determined I shouldn't forget who I am dealing with.”

  “Ah, you're referring to our little experiment the other night. We had to be sure we weren't going to kill anyone. At least, not until they've had enough to make it worthwhile.” The Beard gave the dirty, untidy apartment a disparaging look. “God, this place really is disgusting. And it stinks too. Open a bloody window for Christ's sake.”

  Morgan's anger boiled over. That this man could treat so lightly the abuse he had inflicted upon his body was more than he could bear. Springing forward, he pinned the Beard against the damp, peeling wallpaper that seemed to be losing its desperate battle to cling to the wall. This time surprise was on the Irishman's side. Before the Beard could react, Morgan's hand darted inside his coat, relieved the shoulder holster of its snub-nosed revolver and pushed the barrel up into the mass of hair covering the underside of his chin.

  “Do you know why this room stinks?” Morgan had never known an emotion so strong as the hate he felt for this man. What a service to humanity he would perform by pulling the trigger here and now. “It stinks because I have been out for two days on this floor thanks to you, crapping and pissing in my clothes where I lay, piling up vomit beside me. When I finally opened my eyes, my head was resting in the vomit, can you imagine that? Can you imagine what it's like to feel your hair matted with sick? You did that to me. God knows how close I came to dying.”

  The Beard remained calm and unruffled in the face of the Irishman's frenzy. “But you haven't died have you, Mr. Morgan, you have survived. And think what a contribution you are making to the cause. You'll go back to Ireland a hero. They'll probably make you a saint.”

  Morgan rammed the gun barrel hard against the underside of the Beard's jaw, clattering his head back against the wall. The rage that consumed him was close to running out of control.

  “You know there is nothing I would like more right now than to blow your head clean off your shoulders.”

  “Do you think I'm scared of jumped-up punks like you?”

  Suddenly there was a spark of defiance about the Beard as he fixed Morgan with a stare from cold, slate-grey eyes full of contempt. “You haven't got the belly for it. Your lot murders by proxy, a bomb left in a street, in a shop or a pub, so that you can be long gone when the blood and guts begin to fly.”

  “We use guns often enough.”

  “Oh, sure. On a soldier with his back to you or some off-duty copper sitting unsuspecting in his car yards away.” Morgan pulled back the hammer with a click that seemed to echo around the room, but there was no sign of fear from the Beard. “Can you look a man in the eye and pull the trigger, that is the question. Have you that sort of guts, Mr. Morgan? I don't think you have.”

  The two men stared hard into each other's eyes, the Beard's look throwing out a challenge, daring the Irishman to prove him wrong by carrying out his threat. All it needed was the slightest squeeze on the trigger, the tiniest movement of the finger.

  The Beard allowed himself the flicker of a smile. “As I thought, Mr. Morgan, no guts. Just not bloody man enough, are you?”

  Easing back the hammer, Morgan turned away, venting his anger and frustration by hurling the gun across the room.

  “Besides,” the Beard went on, “blowing me to Kingdom come wouldn't please your masters, would it? You came here to make a deal.” Crossing the room to retrieve his revolver, he wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. “This place really does stink. How do you live in this doss-hole?”

  He pushed open a window, allowing the freezing wind to rush in, instantly wiping out the feeble efforts of the paraffin heater to penetrate the cold of the room.

  “I hope I won't have to much longer.” Morgan rubbed together his hands as he bent over the heater. “I have a home across the water. I would like to be back there by Christmas.”

  “And so you shall be. I am the bearer of good news. Glad Christmas tidings, if you like. Yet look at the welcome I get.”

  “Oh, do forgive me. Next time you almost kill me with an armful of junk, I'll roll out the red carpet.”

  The Beard was unable to suppress a laugh. “You are excitable this morning. You should be pleased. You're alive and that's clinched your deal. Or, at least, the chance to negotiate.”

  “There's nothing to negotiate. The price wasn't negotiable to start with and, after what I have been through, it certainly isn't negotiable now. You are getting a bargain and you know it.”

  “We shall see.”

  “When shall we see? When do I get to meet your top man?”

  “Friday night. In the Mole with Two Heads, as before. Be there about eight thirty.”

  Morgan looked surprised. “A crowded pub on a Friday night. Isn't that a bit conspicuous?”

  “On the contrary, we're far less likely to be noticed in that situation. I will be there before you. When you arrive, join me at my table. The man you want to see will join us shortly after your arrival.”

  “I'll be there. I just want to get this over with and go home.”

  The Beard hesitated at the door. “Do I detect a weakening in the commitment to the cause?” There was no mistaking the mocking tone. “Surely it is all worth it, Mr. Morgan.”

  “For God's sake get out of here,” bawled Morgan, “I should have blown your head off when I had the chance.”

  “It takes a man to do a man's job.”

  The Beard stepped out
onto the landing. Morgan kicked the door shut behind him.

  He began to shiver. After turning up the paraffin heater to its highest setting, he slammed shut the window.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Did old Henderson really snuff it while he was on the job?”

  Greenfield surveyed the gangling youth, seemingly still battling with the teenage traumas of acne, standing before him and wondered whatever happened to innocence. When he had become the junior member of the firm more than twenty-five years before, a shy, hesitant refugee from a sheltered, cosseted upbringing, he would barely have understood the rumours sweeping the office about the demise of their Managing Director. How did this change come about, whereby modern youth knew and talked openly of facets of life he, at their age, even if he understood, could not have mentioned without an obvious reddening of the face?

  “For Heaven's sake, Graham. Show a little respect.”

  The reprimand proved a wasted gesture.

  “I don't see why I should particularly,” replied the youth. “I didn't like him very much and he certainly didn't have much time for me.”

  “He was a busy man, Graham.”

  It was amazing sometimes how an untruth could roll so quickly and easily, instinctively almost, off the tongue. However, the gasp of derision it drew from the young man indicated he was far from convinced.

  “We're not blind, Mr Greenfield. We all know you have been running the company more than he has in recent times.”

  Greenfield shrugged. “He was not a well man.”

  Exactly why he was sitting there making excuses to the office junior for the behaviour of the Managing Director, he couldn't really fathom. The man had been dead for three days, anyway. Yet the lack of respect and absence of tolerance in the youth's crude manner riled him, but the excuses were falling on deaf ears.

  “Then he should have found quieter pastimes than screwing the deadly Devina,”protested Graham. “What a way to go though, eh? Strange combination, mind you. Wouldn't really have thought she was his type, or vice-versa, would you, Mr. Greenfield?”

  “What I think is that you must have some work to do. I suggest you curtail your lurid thoughts and get on with it.”

  Disappointed at not getting confirmation of the stories flying around on the Managing Director's sudden passing, Graham left Greenfield's office to return to the boredom of his daily mundane tasks. What he didn't know was that Greenfield was in no position to confirm or deny the rumoured circumstances of Jason Henderson's death. It didn't sound much like the man he knew. Yet it was odd that Devina had not returned to work or made any contact since the trip to Brighton. Not even a telephone call. Greenfield had heard nothing more than the speculation everyone else appeared to have heard.

  Despite their relationship being more a business one than a social one, Henderson's death had come as a shock. Greenfield rarely mixed with work colleagues outside the office environment, unless on official company business, yet a bond of friendship can grow quite strongly between people who work closely together over a long period of time. It was difficult to reconcile the fact that this man, who had been part of his everyday life for so many years, was gone. The permanence of it had not yet really sunk in. He still half expected to see Henderson appear in the doorway, bellowing his customary loud “Good morning” to one and all as he swept through to his office.

  The telephone bell interrupted his increasingly morbid train of thought.

  “Sir Kenneth and two other gentlemen have just arrived, Mr. Greenfield, I thought you would like to know.” It was the voice of Sandra in Reception. “They are in Mr. Henderson's office.”

  Mr. Henderson's office, she had said. For how long would they go on calling it Mr. Henderson's office? How long would they go on referring to Jason Henderson as though he was still there?

  No matter how he tried to keep himself busy with the work spread across his desk, Greenfield couldn't help reflecting on why Sir Kenneth Craig and the others were there. The communication which advised of their coming had done so without giving any indication as to the purpose of the visit, though it was fair to assume it was connected with the sudden loss of Jason Henderson. The Chairman of the board of the Ibex Holdings Group of Companies was not known for social visits to the offices of Impact Publicity Services. It was late morning before Greenfield was summoned to the Managing Director's office.

  Sir Kenneth Craig, a short, plump man with grey, thinning hair, complemented by a bushy moustache of the same colour, sucking constantly on a pipe that never seemed to be alight, gestured to him to be seated. Introducing Mr. Follett, the group Personnel Director, and Mr. Carthew, the other board member present, Sir Kenneth, after an obligatory clearing of the throat, began to speak.

  “Mr. Greenfield, you have no doubt deduced we are here in connection with the tragic and sudden death of Mr. Henderson. It must also be true that you have heard the rumours circulating with regard to the circumstances of his death. Please understand that what I am about to tell you is in the strictest confidence and must be treated accordingly.” There was a pause as Sir Kenneth appeared to give some thought as to the exact form of words to use. “Believe it or not, the rumours you have heard are true. Mr Henderson did die from a heart attack brought on by exhaustive sexual activity with another employee of the company.”

  Greenfield was stunned. So that really was how it had happened. Suddenly Graham's crudeness didn't seem so out of place.

  Sir Kenneth continued, “We on the board are most anxious that the truth of this matter should not become public knowledge. We will even issue a denial, if necessary. Devina Hart, of course, will not be returning to our employment. It is neither her wish nor ours that she should do so. What we want more than anything now is to keep it out of the newspapers. It might make juicy reading for devotees of certain sections of the national press, but for us, we feel, even if we publicly deny it, untold damage could be done to our reputation and client-relationships.”

  “We have had no enquiries from the press here so far.”

  “Nevertheless, Mr. Greenfield, I think we must accept the possibility of some of the rumours in circulation filtering through.”

  “Jason, er Mr. Henderson, built up some strong relationships with the press over the years. He has a lot of friends out there, enough possibly to keep the sordid details out of print.”

  “Am I to believe you are talking about honour on Fleet Street?” The Chairman of the board was hugely sceptical.

  “Don't knock it, Sir Kenneth,” advised Greenfield, “it's all you've got. Personally, I think it will be enough.”

  “We can only hope so. Certainly Miss Hart has been well looked after, so we are not anticipating any problems there.”

  Sir Kenneth leaned forward on the desk, twirling the inactive pipe irritatingly in his hands. “Anyway, we must move on to the main reason for our visit here today, namely the question of Mr. Henderson's replacement. As you probably know, he was looking to retire in the next few years and in view of that had already made certain recommendations to the board. The crux of these, Mr. Greenfield, was that by that time you would be the most suitable person to succeed him.”

  Greenfield's heart began to race. Was this finally the moment he had striven so hard for over the years? But what was the implication of the phrase “by that time?” Did that mean he wasn't considered to be ready? If someone else was appointed now, around the same age perhaps or just a little older, it would signal the end of his long-held hopes and aspirations. He would never become head of the firm. His ultimate ambition would never be realised.

  Sir Kenneth continued, “We have given this matter considerable thought and discussed it at great length, reviewing all of Mr. Henderson's comments and recommendations, many of which we have down in writing.” Unable to conceal his eager anticipation, Greenfield moved to the edge of his seat. How he wished he could hurry the man along. “The board feels it is important that this upset causes minimum disturbance. Normality should be resumed as
soon as possible. The agency has a fair number of big-money accounts, which must suffer no fall off in service, however temporary. After due consideration, therefore, we felt there was nothing to be gained from advertising the post and going outside. We have every confidence, Mr. Greenfield, in offering you the position as Managing Director of Impact Publicity Services.”

  Only the certainty that it would be frowned on in present company stopped Howard Greenfield from leaping into the air. Although more in keeping with the rules of decorum, the smile of deep satisfaction he allowed himself hardly reflected the joy he felt. Here it was, the culmination of more than twenty-five years' dedication to the company, the fulfilling of an ambition that had motivated his daily life since the times when he went uncomplainingly about the dogsbody jobs that Graham now constantly bemoaned. Did this youngster have such lofty aspirations? Somehow, Greenfield doubted it.

  “I am flattered by your confidence in me, Sir Kenneth. I shall do my best to ensure it has not been misplaced.”

  It was said only because it was the right thing to say. Greenfield had no doubts he could do the job.

  “We are sure we are doing the right thing. The board's decision was unanimous,” Sir Kenneth went on. “Mr. Follett will fill you in on how this change of status affects your job details, such as pension rights and, most importantly of course, your salary. Furthermore, your new position entitles you to a place on the board of Ibex Holdings, so we look forward to seeing you at future meetings.” Sir Kenneth got to his feet, obviously ready to take his leave from the proceedings. “I have another appointment, which I am not going to make if I don't get a move on. I will have to leave you in the capable hands of Mr. Follett.”

  Offering his hand, which Greenfield shook vigorously, the chairman of Ibex Holdings added, “Good luck, Mr. Greenfield – or rather Howard now you are one of us. I shall be back this afternoon. We will get the staff together around, say three-thirty, and I will make a formal announcement. Get in a drop of champagne, perhaps make a bit of an occasion of it. May help to give everyone a lift after the shock of the suddenness of Mr. Henderson's death.”