Robert Young - Gatecrasher

Campbell had begun to dig deeper than the surface that these brochures had allowed him to scratch. He was well versed with using the internet to research people and companies. It was what paid his wages and now he had plenty of motivation and a burning curiosity driving him.

Andrew Griffin had, it seemed, assumed control of the company some years previously and modernised and rebranded it pretty thoroughly such that it was now largely unrecognisable from its original incarnation.

Griffin had focused on the existing company’s two strongest areas. It had begun in trading in rare and expensive goods, art and artefacts, which they would buy and sell or broker as middlemen. This in turn gave rise to an import/export business which had developed into something of a specialised skill through several years of trading in goods that they had found difficulty in moving via more traditional routes and carriers. With a burgeoning reputation of being able to move difficult items over long distances, clients included museums and art dealerships initially but as their expertise and contacts grew this developed into precious stones and even, occasionally, small arms.

Campbell had seen no cause for alarm until this point but was naturally starting to worry about what he may have become embroiled in. Further investigation allayed his initial fears though as he looked up Griffin’s competitors. There seemed little untoward in this specialised and well-regulated industry and less still with regard to Griffin itself.

Next he looked at the company’s early history. It had been founded by two men in the mid-1980s. The elder of the two, Geoffrey Asquith, held a PhD in Art and Art History and had at the time of the company’s founding lectured on a part time basis at a leading English University. The younger man, Michael Horner, held a postgraduate degree in Banking and Finance and had worked for two leading Investment Banks in the City before joining forces with Asquith in a trading venture that utilised both men's skills to the full, not to mention Horner's extensive book of contacts.

Success naturally led to growth and then specialising in different areas as the business developed. Eventually it seemed that the art expert and the banker had grown apart from the company they had created and sold it on at a handsome profit.

By now their contacts were considerable and not just limited to the world of art, arms and shipping. Both men had expanded their interests into other areas, taking directorships in offshore investment companies, consultancy work and eventually for Asquith, politics.

Resting his forehead on the heel of his hand, Campbell squeezed his eyes tight, trying to blink away the discomfort.

What did this all mean? What was the relevance to a break in at Griffin? Did it relate to these two older, more influential men, or was it some attempt at industrial espionage on the part of one of Griffin’s current competitors?

The answer, he knew, would be contained somewhere on the memory stick that nestled in his bag. He had not looked at it yet, had balked at examining its contents. He was, on the one hand, concerned that here was potentially confidential and sensitive company information and that he may in some way leave himself liable to legal action by the company if he accessed it. But that was an excuse really. It was a different fear that stayed his hand. Campbell was afraid of what he might find.

Given the circumstances of the stick's delivery, he figured that was only normal. Peeking at some private company records was one thing, but quite another when you knew that it was stolen and had arrived in the cold dead fingers of a stranger.

Slow down Campbell, he told himself. The guy wasn’t actually dead when he turned up.

The double ring of the doorbell jarred him from his thoughts and he looked up surprised and then checked his watch. It was late. Who was this? His nerves jangled but he sat motionless in the chair, suddenly alert.

It rang again. Two times, three.

Slater was grinding his teeth now, impatient and agitated. The creeping cold and long empty hours were winding him up like a watch spring.

‘Come on for fucks sake,’ he muttered through his teeth and watched the air cloud around him.

He stole a quick glance around but the street was quiet now and many lights in the surrounding windows were going out as people went to bed. The thought of crawling into his warm comfortable bed with his warm comfortable wife turned the tension up a notch and he turned and reached for the doorbell again.

‘Where are you then you bastard?’ he hissed, hitting the button on every other word.

He waited.

‘Ok, ok, buddy. I’m coming.’ His brother, Luke, appeared at the doorway with a smile but the surprise made Campbell start. ‘I rang for Pizza. How long are you going to be sat at that thing for anyway?’ he said pointing at the laptop.

‘Um. Nearly done,’ he replied and pushed the chair back to stand ‘You… you need cash?’ he called after him but Luke waved a wordless dismissal over his shoulder.

‘Christ! No tip for you mate,’ said Luke fishing a twenty from his wallet and opening the door. ‘In a hurry?’

Listening, Campbell cringed at his brother’s confrontational attitude. It had always been his way and not a trait that Daniel shared with him. Sometimes it had its virtues as Luke had always been more confident and assertive. But Campbell often felt that he would get himself into trouble one day.

The door slammed and Campbell stood, his knees popping and he rolled his shoulders and stretched the stiffness from his joints, peering through the doorway at the empty hall beyond. The memory stick would have to wait now. He was too tired to think straight, too hungry to care and more than a little apprehensive about the doorbell. The feeling of apprehension nagged at him. Silly, he thought.

‘Danny!’ Luke’s voiced called out.

‘What?’

‘Get two plates and two beers from the fridge you lazy bastard,’ Luke replied and appeared round the corner with a huge flat pizza box and a plain paper bag resting on top.

‘What’s that lot? We expecting guests?’

‘What sort of terrible fucker orders a massive mighty meaty without sides? Not in this house mate. Not on my watch. Now; beers.'

The two of them moved into the lounge to tuck into their feast, laughing and rubbing their hands at the smell of hot food. Campbell’s tension lifted momentarily and he smiled at the way he had allowed his paranoia to get the better of him.

‘You been on-line the whole time?’ asked Luke through a mouthful of Mighty Meaty.

Campbell nodded sheepishly and shrugged.

‘You owe me for the food.’

‘Alright. I’ll pay for it.’

Slater resisted the urge to stick his foot through the door and walk straight into the flat but he knew he wasn’t there, that he had missed him jumping into the taxi earlier.

Gresham was going to be livid when he told him. Still, no point wasting any more time. He would be back soon enough and Slater would be there waiting. Slater knew he had fucked-up this time but he was beginning to run out of patience with everybody now and there absolutely would not be any more fuck-ups. This little shit had run him around plenty. He took one last look at the front door of Campbell’s empty flat through narrow eyes and stalked back across to his car.

Home to bed now for some much needed sleep and then back in the morning nice and early to give the lad a proper wake up call. Enough was enough.

'You going to tell me what's up then, or are you just a bit menstrual?' Luke's standard approach to any kind of potential awkwardness, as Campbell knows, is to confront it in a belligerent and insensitive manner.

'Nice,' Campbell replies as he slides hot pizza from the box.