Chapter Six
The office was desolate. The only ones here, me and the bodies of someone’s loved one in the freezer at the back of the building. Even with the thin paned windows, the night was quiet, nothing stirred. Not the moan of wind, or the sound of a vehicle, the bark of a dog. And not the scratch of the overgrown bushes just below the window looking out onto an equally overgrown quadrangle which had once been a small garden of remembrance.
My father’s interest in the businesses had declined as his health and age had. My older brothers only interested enough to take a wage every month and do nothing to keep the business running profitably. They hadn’t even noticed the discrepancies in the accounts. I stared at the screen of the computer and the online banking I’d finally got access to. The internet connection was nearly as dead as the bodies in the latter half of the building, and every click or move of the mouse seemed to take forever.
There were sums of money leaving the accounts all over the place. Small enough to be unnoticeable but large enough to cause a dent, especially as their frequency had been increasing. Transfers I could trace through the bank, but the cheques were harder. And so far, I hadn’t found a hint of a cheque book in this office, and I was sure Dave would have been paying everything by cheque or cash, as he seemed to be stuck in the dark ages.
Kicking the heels off my aching feet under the desk, I stood, padding across the thin carpet tiles to where the row of filing cabinets stood, each a sentry, side by side, watching me curse the old plastic cube of a computer. I’d been through these filing cabinets twice. But I couldn’t find much out of place. No sign of a cheque book, or a stash of cash, or anything that showed Dave had his fingers in the proverbial till. But it had to be someone in one of the offices, and this one had been losing the most money. With the number of funerals on the local crematorium’s records, it should have been turning over a tidy profit.
I pulled the first drawer out, wincing as the steel ground against the decaying plastic runner, squawking loudly in the quiet of the office. Thumbing through the alphabetised dividers, I moved straight to ‘K’. I’d already realised they weren’t filed under ‘N’ and seemed to be known in the office as ‘The Kings’, the shortened version of the motorbike club name supposedly giving them a superior feeling. But this here was my kingdom, and I wasn’t being dictated to by some long-haired yob in leather.
“Fuck,” I muttered out loud, the paper catching the back of my hand on something sharp in the cabinet, the injury stinging like I’d just cut myself on a Stanley knife.
I pulled my hand out, inspecting the wound, watching blood oozing to the surface of the skin, heat now mixing with the stinging sensation to create a burn. Fuck the Kings. I yanked the cardboard folder from the ‘K’ divider. The whole thing was rammed full. Thicker than every folder in there.
Wandering back to my desk, I slumped into the old, uncomfortable office chair. The stuffing had worn so thin in parts I could feel the metal frame pressing against the back of my thigh, and what had once been padded armrests were picked away to holes, yellow and green stuffing crumbling away at every touch. No wonder Dave wasn’t making any profits. There’s no way he could sit in this chair all day. It was giving me sciatica and a migraine.
I opened the folder, pulling out the handwritten documents. Notes and invoices. Adrian ‘Ade’ Carter died 1992. Alfie ‘Baratone’ Gray, died 1994. John ‘Boneman’ Gray, died 2005. Eddie ‘Eagleye’ Gray died 2006. Simon ‘Si’ Carter died 2013. Each sheet had another deceased Kings’ member listed, with details about their funeral and the breakdown of the invoice. The deaths went back years, and the funerals were reasonable, except anyone with the name Carter. They all seemed to warrant a bigger event. And every invoice only just covered the costs. The profit margins were minimal. Dave had been undercharging for years and years, despite the huge amount of business the Northern Kings seemed to bring us. And that meant there was something far deeper that I didn’t yet understand.
But I would. I’d understand these Kings, and why my father’s company was being shortchanged. Why I was having to sit here in an office that smelt of must and damp, in an ancient swivel chair instead of my top floor office looking out across central London.
The light flickered above my head, and for a half second it went off completely, engulfing me in darkness. Even the electrics here were old. And probably illegal as far as health and safety laws were concerned.
I moved through the paperwork. More names of dead motorcycle club members. It was amazing they had any left. The lights flickered again, not quite going off but casting shadows around the office. The hair on my arms prickled, a shiver racing down my spine. And now suddenly, despite being alone, I felt like I was being watched.
Turning round, I reached towards the window, pulling the cord at the side, the discoloured vertical blinds swooshing as I pulled them across the dark expanse of space at my back. And as I turned, I was sure I’d seen the tiniest of movements in the blackness of the overgrown courtyard. A shadow caught by the lights inside my office. I tugged at the other cord, snapping the blinds into the closed position and blocking out the night. For a moment, I felt safer now that I couldn’t be seen, and I couldn’t see what might be out there.
But I was still rattled, my heart drumming in my chest, consumed by an irrational fear, and every little creak and groan of the aging building seemed amplified in the silence. I listened for a while, trying to still the march of my heart and breathe slowly, willing my brain to think logically. I was tired. I’d worked for days in this barren place, with only dead bodies for company on a nighttime. It was time to go.
The mobile rang and rang. And rang. I tried another number, waiting for someone to answer. Eventually the line clicked, and a woman’s voice answered.
“Great North Taxis.”
It would take a few minutes, enough time to pack up. I was going to put the folder back in the filing cabinet, but something stopped me, and instead I slotted it into my bag, sliding it on top of the laptop. Then I paused. I held my breath. Strained my ears. Had I just heard footsteps? Or was I imagining things?
The lights went out. Darkness engulfing me. And this time, they didn’t come straight back on. Down the corridor, I could hear them. Footsteps. Thick-soled boots. A long stride. Not trying to hide their approach. But there should be no one here tonight. Unless someone had been on call? That would explain the footsteps. Someone’s poor loved one must have died.
I listened for the squeak of wheels, the whine of the trolley along the corridor. But nothing. Not even footsteps now. They’d stopped. And instead, I stood, staring into the pitch black, listening for something that may or may not be happening.
I’d wait out on the street. Where there would at least be a streetlight. Not here in the dark with the power off. My fingers scrabbled around the desk, feeling for my mobile, feeling something cool and slim, the display springing to life and casting a sickly green glow around the office, shadows suddenly scattering up the walls. I needed to get out of here.
Stepping into the corridor, I shone the torch from my phone left and right before quickly ramming the key into the lock of the office door, sliding the locking mechanism into place. My heart thundered, my chest tightening with each breath, panic creeping into every part of me. The invisible eyes I’d imagined for the last half hour bore into me, and I didn’t dare turn back towards the darkened hallway. One half of me knew that if I shone my torch light in that direction, there’d be someone or something there.
I hurried away, the little light from my torch wobbling in front of me as I scurried towards the doors. Doors that were locked. And the key was sitting on my desk. Shit.
For a moment, I stared at the double glass doors, blocking my freedom. Even outside was gloomy. A dull orange streetlight three metres away barely lighting the gravelled square in front of the building, and beyond the light was heavy darkness. I rattled the doors, as if that might dislodge the lock, but they stuck fast.
And then from somewhere behind me a noise. I held my breath, staring at the floor, listening for the sound again. Footsteps. Heavy, slow footsteps in the corridors behind me. I needed to be out. Now. But the only way was back towards those footsteps.
Slowly, my hands trembling so much that the prick of white light from the mobile bounced and vibrated everywhere, I turned back round. The torchlight illuminated the dark, empty space between the main doors and my office. Just a few quick steps and I’d be at the door.
Gripping the key in one hand, the torch in the other, I jolted forward on shaky steps, crossing the floor as quickly as the stilettos would allow. The key missed the lock, glancing off the side, a noisy clatter of metal on metal filling the space, bringing attention to me. The second attempt was a success. The lock sliding back. Bolting forwards, I shone the light over the desk. Nothing. No keys. Shit.
I yanked open a drawer in the desk, shoving my hand in and patting about. My fingers bumped over metal, paperclips, drawing pins, a sharp edge catching the tip of my middle finger and making me recoil. The second drawer was deeper, a mass of paper, post-it notes, and then a jangle of metal. The keys. I pushed the scraps of paper aside until the coolness of metal touched my skin. The little crop of keys jangled loudly.
Diving from the office, I pulled the door into place, fumbling once again for the lock. The footsteps in the building grew louder, walking towards me from the cooler room at the back of the building. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The lock of the office door stuck, not quite closing. Fuck.
I could leave it. Deal with it in the morning. But there were personal records in that office. Fuck. Dropping my mobile on the floor, I grasped the handle, pulling the door into the frame, turning the lock again, willing the mechanism to work. And this time, it did. The footsteps moved closer.
Scooping the mobile from my feet, I ran the last few steps to the main doors, my stilettos hammering loudly. The ring of keys dangled from my fingers. Four keys. Which one was for the doors? Footsteps. Fuck. The first key did nothing. Neither did the second. Come on. Come on. Fuck. The third key. The lock turned, the doors pulling open. I didn’t look back. I grabbed the bags I left at the door, running out into the darkness, and into the hard shadow in front of me, my ankle bent, pain shooting up my leg.
Hands gripped my shoulders. The scream rang out into the night like an animal caught in a trap.