Robert Young - Gatecrasher

Computers and furniture and other fixed assets were not the only saleable commodities to be found within the walls of Griffin Holdings Ltd.

Any idiot will tell you, Andrew Griffin thought to himself as he began to chew on a fingernail, that information is power.

Monday. 10am.

Campbell was sitting in an episode of The Bill.

The office was tucked in the corner of a larger open-plan expanse of desks and paper, a meeting of varnished wood and grey-painted steel but the paint had long since become chipped and the pine-effect of the wood was all veneer hiding cheap woodchip beneath. It was fooling nobody. Amid these drab surroundings Campbell could understand why coppers were such miserable bastards.

Sitting on a plastic chair with no armrests and exhausted cushioning Campbell felt tense and uncomfortable. He had not slept well the previous night. The answerphone message kept replaying itself in his head over and over again. Images of the man lying face down on the floor of his kitchen, the thick dark pool of blood, all flashing through his mind.

‘How are you today?’

Campbell looked up and tried to raise the corners of his mouth into a smile but it ended up looking nothing like a smile at all but an expression that said more than he could about how he was today. He shrugged instead of answering as the non-smile dropped from his face.

The policeman on the other side of the desk shot him a sympathetic look and tried to look efficient, to give the impression that this wouldn’t take too long.

‘Right well I’ll take down a few details first of all. I’m Constable Scott by the way. Call me Dave.’

‘Sure.’

‘Drink of something first? Tea, coffee?’ he offered.

Campbell was grateful for the Constable’s patience and soft approach. He felt as if he would bruise easily today. He thought that he could do with two or three coffees but then he noticed the plastic cup on the desk in front of him and looking around him, noted a lack of any ceramics. No mugs. Another coffee machine.

‘Do you have water?’ he said.

‘No problem.’ Constable Scott said and vanished from the desk, shutting the door behind him.

Campbell was here to give his statement about the events of Saturday night, or those at least that he could remember. The fact that he had thought of little else since it had happened was not enough to have jogged anything loose so far. He could remember working his way around the living room, playing the host, the reluctant raconteur. Laughing, talking, joking. Drinking. Making eye contact with the blonde girl whose name he could not recall.

And then that sound. It had made his scalp tingle and hairs rise on his neck as he stood there in that room. Afterward though, knowing what had made the sound — what had muffled and smothered the breaking glass — made it all the worse and he could still hear it as sharp and clear as he had two nights before.

But as well as he could recall that sound, the other memories were vague and fuzzy like a bad recording, the focus and clarity fading out in certain patches, going blank in others. Then coming back into sharp focus.

Campbell could see the brunette woman, could see the man on the floor and blood spreading dark and sticky around his head. He could see the navy blue of the man’s hooded top, the dark brown hair matted and slick with blood. And then it went blank again for a minute and then again that image of the head struggling to lift from the floor, the brunette woman going out of the room again, people leaving quietly.

The door ker-thunked open behind him and Campbell jumped a little. A white plastic cup landed in front of him but he didn’t look up, trying to regain his composure before the policeman looked him in the eye again.

He swallowed. ‘Thanks.’ he said, pleased when his voice came strong and clear.

The constable smiled and sipped from his own cup.

‘Sooner we start, sooner we finish.’ Constable Scott said picking up a pen and straightening the paper in front of him.

Campbell nodded and sipped his water.

For the next hour and thirty minutes Campbell answered questions as the policeman prompted him through the sequence of events of the preceding Saturday evening. He seemed to believe him when he said he couldn’t remember things, perhaps recognising the anxious look on Campbell’s face for the fear and confusion that it was, rather than for guilt.

They went over it twice and Campbell signed his name and told Scott the names of four people whose numbers he could remember who he swore would be able to corroborate the story, to confirm that nobody knew the man, that nobody had even spoken with him.

‘Ask anyone,’ Campbell said imploringly, ‘Honestly. Nobody knew him.’

‘Of course Mr Campbell. As you say. In fact that’s very much the problem at the moment.’ the policeman replied with a frown.

When they had been over everything and the paperwork was put to one side, the Constable looked at his watch and then at Campbell. ‘Sorry to have kept you.’

‘That’s ok,’ Campbell replied. ‘So that’s it then? I mean, you’re happy? With what I told you. It’s all…’

The policeman waited for him to finish the sentence, the note of desperation obvious, the desire for him to say that yes, everything was fine, we believe you. ‘Fine for now. Naturally we need to check a few more things out. Speak to people.’

‘Of course.’

There was a pause as Campbell’s disappointment hung in the air and the Constable refused to do anything about it and then spoke again. ‘Listen, we’ll probably need to look over the place. I mean we will. For definite. I know you said you cleaned everything but even so.’

As he had done earlier, Campbell’s cheeks reddened a little. Cleaning the grisly mess had seemed the most obvious thing to do the day before. Now he fretted that it just made him look more suspicious.

‘We might be able do it now if you like?’ Constable Scott said.

‘Well… OK. Sure.’

‘I’ll have to bring a superior along. Let me just see if anyone’s free.’ he said and trotted out of the room again.

Campbell had already called the office to tell his boss that he would be late this morning, offering only scant information about exactly why he was going to the local police station. That scrap alone would have started a feeding frenzy amongst the gossips and dodging them for another hour was alright with him. Especially if he could get things tied up with the police, he thought. Show them everything was as he said it was. Then when they’d spoken to some of the other guests and his story checked out he’d be in the clear again. Wouldn’t he?

He realised this was as positive as he’d been since it had happened and the awful hangover, the paranoia and the lack of sleep had compounded his dark mood. Once things were cleared up he’d be ok, he told himself. Perhaps he’d even call in sick and get some more sleep. That would make him feel better, a few hours sleep.

He had just started thinking over viable ways of getting the rest of the day off when the door opened again. A tall man in a dark suit with a pale blue shirt and pink tie followed Constable Scott into the room and offered Campbell his hand and a forced smile. Campbell took the hand but no reasuurance.

‘Mr Campbell. DC Samuel. How are you?’

Campbell had long since given up trying to answer that question without either lying or sounding miserable so he shrugged again.

‘Of course. Nasty business. Constable Scott here tells me that you’d like us to come and look around?’ the detective continued.

‘Yeah. I mean he said we could do it now, you know, get things out of the way.’

‘Indeed. Let’s.’ Detective Constable Samuel said and span on his heel leaving Campbell and Constable Scott to conclude that they were expected to follow.