Shred of Evidence

“So, what business are you in?”

I’m sitting in the bar of the Signet Hotel, dressed in my best blue suit, sipping at a scotch on the rocks and wearing a badge that says my name is Rupert Travis. The only things I know about the real Mr Travis are that he’s a delegate from a leading chain of Leeds bakeries and he didn’t show up to get his badge and breakfast buffet this morning. He probably booked as a smokescreen because he’s banging his personal assistant. People do that. That’s why I’m here.

Somewhere The Stones are playing “Gimme Shelter”. A muted buzz, barely heard under the low conversation. I check the place out: a couple of businessmen whose ties have long since pulled from their knots, hanging like rope around their necks. A barman who looks like he’s seen better nights and sat through them with that barely concealed scowl on his face. By the door, a woman with heels too high for her is balanced on a stool, feeding coins into a payphone.

“Baked goods,” I say. “Leeds based.”

Across from me is a smooth-looking gentleman wearing grey. His hair is silvering at the temples, receding a little. If he wasn’t staring at me with shining blue eyes, I’d swear he was made out of cigarette smoke. But he’s the guy that bought me the whisky so I’m bound to chat to him. He also happens to be my client’s husband.

“Been in Leeds long?”

“Nah,” I say. “Not really my town, tell you the truth.”

“You’re a Manchester lad, am I right?”

I smile. “It’s that strong, eh?”

“You get to know people’s accents in my business, Mr Travis.”

“And what business is that?” I ask. But I know all too well. Mrs Duncan gave me the background on her husband when she was fidgeting in my office.

“Personal banking and finance,” he says.

“Sounds posh,” I say. And it is, considering Oliver Duncan’s business is a national call centre specialising in high interest loans to credit risks. The main call centre is in Eccles, a three-storey washed out concrete lump populated with student slave labour and the otherwise unemployable.

“So you’re here for the seminars?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Can’t get enough customer service advice.”

“It’s not a department, it’s an attitude,” says Duncan.

“There’s no I in team,” I say.

He raises his glass in acknowledgement. So far, I think I’ve been playing the part well. One seminar on Customer Satisfaction In The 21^st Century has given me all the jargon I need to fit in. At least, that’s what I think. I get the feeling that Duncan knows exactly who he’s talking to. He’s got that sparkle in his eye that makes me think he’s just playing dumb.

We were in the same seminar together yesterday. I made sure I checked the list to confirm he was booked onto it, and then added my name. It was only the first day so I could afford to take it easy. To be honest, I just wanted to get a look at him. But all the way through, I felt him staring. Every time I turned his way, he caught my eye. Like he knew.

“So why’re you bothering with this?” I ask. “I mean, why not send someone further down the ladder?”

He smiles, showing teeth that are either capped or false. “It’s something to do,” he says. “I’d like to say I need to keep up-to-date, but it’s really boredom.”

“You don’t have any hobbies?”

“I have plenty of hobbies,” he says, his smile turning into a grin. “But it’s good to get out of the house. Besides, my wife doesn’t like me drinking.”

“I see.”

“Speaking of which…” He finishes his whisky and gets up. “Another?”

“Why not?” I say, with the biggest shit-eating grin I can manage.

He strides off to the massive hardwood bar, hooks a foot over the rail and leans in close to the barman. I breathe out slowly, light an Embassy and stare at the coffee table. This is either going really well, or I’m due for a fall. Knowing my luck, I’ll hit the deck. I get the feeling he’s been tipped off or he just plain knows what I’m doing. It’s the way he’s looking at me, talking to me, like it’s a game. Trouble is, I’ve loosened up thanks to the whisky and my brain’s slowed right down. I’ll have to clear my head somehow. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been suckered into a kicking.

I sit back in my chair and glance around the place, try to look as though I fit in. I must admit, the suit makes me look a lot older, but I still reckon people think I’m barely out of nappies. And maybe I am, compared to them.

His wife was a shrew. She clutched her bag throughout our first meeting and her pinched little face didn’t show much in the way of emotion. She was dead set. Her husband was having an affair. That was the be all and end all. His personal assistant, this mouse of a woman called Julie Benjamin. She was the one that was supposed to be blowing Oliver Duncan on these business trips. So far, I haven’t seen her.

Duncan heads back from the bar with two doubles and sits down opposite me again. He pulls his trouser leg up a little, crosses his legs and says, “Chin, chin.”

I nod and smile. Lift the glass to my lips and pretend to drink. I’ll make this one last until I’m sober enough to take it.

Duncan looks at my cigarette. “I don’t suppose I could have one of those, could I?”

I toss the pack onto the table. “Help yourself. I thought you smoked anyway.”

“I used to.” He takes out a cigarette and I hand him my lighter. He lights up, taking a long drag and holding it deep in his lungs. When he exhales he says, “By God, I’ve missed these.”

“Your wife doesn’t like you smoking either, then.”

“My wife doesn’t like me doing anything. You married?”

I shake my head. “I’m not the type,” I say.

Duncan raises his eyebrows and looks into his drink. “Neither was I, Mr Travis. Except I thought I was, and that’s the tragedy of it. Thirty-one years we’ve been married.” He looks up at me. “Thirty-one years. I would’ve served less than that if I’d killed her.”

“I suppose divorce is out of the question?” I say.

“I think she wants it. She’s intimated that she would start proceedings should anything arise. But I don’t think she’s got it in her, to tell you the truth.” He suddenly grins. “Listen to me. I hardly know you and I’m wittering on about my marriage like you’re my therapist.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, flicking ash from the end of my Embassy.

“She really doesn’t understand me,” he says. “She’s too wrapped up in herself.”

Mrs Duncan told me she was still grieving. Her father had died a few months ago and apparently, Mr Duncan did nothing to console her, preferring these trips to giving his wife the sympathy she deserved. That, she said, was what spurred her into hiring me. There was only so much she would up with.

“Women can be like that.”

“Exactly,” he says. “Women can be like that. Men, on the other hand, men aren’t like that at all. Except sometimes with women. It’s a tricky business.”

“It certainly is.” I reach into my jacket pocket, press a button on the tape recorder, then pull out my wallet. “How’s about we get another couple of tots?”

“You haven’t finished yours.”

“But you’ve finished yours.”

“Then I’ll get it.” He stands up, smiles down at me. “You’re a very clever young man, Mr Travis. I see a bright future for you.”

“Thank you,” I say.

* * *

The more I talk to Oliver Duncan, the more I like him. From his wife’s description, he came across as a philandering sleaze, a proper sweaty bastard. She was convinced he was lusting after every bit of skirt in sight. That’s when he wasn’t viciously penetrating his personal assistant. And now? Now she’s beginning to look a little on the bitter side.

It’s coming up to eleven, last orders in any other place, but the Signet bar’s opening hours are dictated to by registered guests. And both myself and Duncan are just that. That’s not to say we’re alone. There’s a guy that looks like a double-glazing salesman, slumped in the corner and staring at the dregs of his pint. Not a usual sight in a high-class hotel, but nobody’s paying him any attention.

I’ve managed to talk to Duncan for a good four hours without mentioning anything too personal about myself. He’s not particularly interested anyway. This is his turn to bitch and whine and I let him do it, want him to do it. Just as long as it’s all on tape. In fact, it’s the easiest job I’ve ever done, and I’m getting drinks for free.

He’s sitting in his chair, a little more slumped than he has been. It’s taken me a wee while, but I managed to get him onto sex. After all, I still need to find out if he’s playing away. My own opinion of the man isn’t solid enough.

“Sex isn’t really a part of my life, Rupert.”

“A man has desires, though.”

He smiles sadly. His fingers lace across his whisky glass. “A man certainly does.”

“There are places,” I say.

“I don’t pay for sex, Rupert. I have some pride.” His eyes darken a little, eyebrows knotting.

“And nobody’s made any… I don’t know…”

“Overtures?”

“I suppose so.”

“I may be a reasonably good-looking man but I’m of a certain age, dear boy. The opportunities don’t often arise. And when they do, it’s more financial than sexual.”

“I see.”

“My wife seems to think I’m having an affair,” he says. “The fact that I’m obviously not hasn’t persuaded her in the slightest.”

“I wondered,” I say.

“You wondered?”

“Well, a man says his marriage is a little shaky, it’s the first thing that pops into my mind.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is it really? It couldn’t just be that those particular people aren’t compatible?”

“After thirty years?” I say. “It’s unlikely to have lasted that long.”

“Ah, but it invariably does, Rupert.” He takes a healthy drink and savours the booze before he swallows. “A man and a woman can live together quite easily as long as there’s plenty of money involved.”

“And you’ve never thought about having an affair?”

“With whom?”

“You have a secretary?” I ask, smiling.

“Julie? Little Julie Mouse?” He snorts out a drunken laugh. “Dear me, the whole reason I gave her a job in the first place was because she was singularly unattractive. If I even looked at her in the wrong way, she’d cry rape. I assumed my wife would see that, but no. She’d see the Jezebel in Mother Theresa. I’m surrounded by women who hate me, Rupert. It’s quite a horrible life.”

I almost feel sorry for him. So I get up painfully and head to the bar, despite his protests. He’s too drunk to do anything about it. Besides, I reckon I owe him a drink. The barman looks at me through the haze of a twelve-hour shift and just pours the same without a word. He’s sick, dog tired, just wants to get to his bed. He took one look at me and knew I wasn’t about to tip, no matter how late it got.

I carry the drinks back to our table and set one down in front of Duncan. He looks like he can hardly focus. His eyes are watery, red-rimmed.

“I’m sorry, Rupert. I didn’t mean to impose on you like this.”

I take a sip. “Don’t worry about it, Oliver. It does you good to vent. Besides, I probably won’t remember this tomorrow morning and neither will you.”

“I’ll remember this.”

* * *

It gets to the point where he’s slurring and he’s having trouble walking, so I offer to help him up to his room. I’m rather merry myself and finding my feet is a real bugger. So we stagger and lurch up the corridor towards the lift. The place is pretty much deserted by now, all the delegates tucked up warm in their uniform beds. Our steps have that muffled quality I’ve only ever heard in hotels as we weave our way up the corridor. Ahead of us is a yawning lift, waiting for us to get our acts together.

Duncan falls into the lift, my hands grabbing at his jacket, trying to keep him upright. He grins like a baby, backs up against the wall and stares at me.

“Thank you for tonight, Rupert. You’re very kind to indulge me.”

“What floor are you on?”

“Third,” he says. He puts one foot in front of the other and starts making his way over to me as the lift doors close. “I appreciate your company. These conferences, they can be quite lonely.”

“I can imagine,” I say.

He manages to stay upright, even though he’s swaying. He looks straight ahead, but I know he’s not seeing anything in focus.

We stand in silence as the lift whirrs into life. I feel pretty good, warm. Relaxed. This has been a pretty good job. I got drunk for free, even though I’ll have a killer hangover in the morning. And I’m positive that the guy standing next to me is straight as a die. It’ll be fun telling my client that their spouse is actually on the level for once.

“I have a lot of money,” he says, his voice cracking a little. “I have a lot of money.”

I look at him from the corner of my eye. “You okay, Oliver?”

“Mm,” he says. His gaze drops to the floor as the lift arrives on the third floor. The doors open smoothly and I look across at him. He seems smaller now, his eyes liquid and sickly. That grey suit hangs on him.

“Rupert, I was wondering…” Duncan looks at the floor, follows the pattern in the carpet with his gaze. “I’m not a happily married man, you know that.”

I nod. “If you need any help, I know a good lawyer.”

He smiles. “That’s not the kind of help I need, Rupert. I’m not happy full stop. I appreciate your company tonight. It was nice of you.”

“That’s okay, Oliver. I’ve enjoyed tonight too. Does me good to cut loose once in a while.”

Even though I’m pretty sure he won’t be cutting loose himself. Mrs Duncan might be disappointed, but she’ll have to find another reason to divorce him.

And that’s when Oliver Duncan makes a move to kiss me.

* * *

“My wife’s father wasn’t a good man, Rupert. He wasn’t a good man at all. He was a bully and a creep, but she adored him, worshipped the ground he walked on. A bloody disgrace.”

Oliver Duncan, sitting on his bed with one shoe off and his jacket on the floor. He stares at the carpet with a concentration that’s difficult to fathom unless you’ve had a few. I’ll admit I freaked out a little when he made a move. I backed off like I’d been burnt, stumbled over my feet to get away from him. And that’s when he looked at me, eyes wide and teary. I couldn’t leave him like that.

So I helped him to his room.

Duncan’s head lolls about on his neck like it’s on a spring. He catches a gust and steadies his gaze on me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry for acting the way I did.”

His hand flaps a few times. “No need. I should have guessed something was awry. I just thought we had a connection.”

“I didn’t mean to lead you on,” I say.

“Not at all. I should know better.” He tugs at his other shoe. It comes flying off and lands against the wall. “I come out here and I’m sure people talk about me. The old fruit. The old letch. I’m no good as a man, Rupert.”

“You’re just drunk.”

“Happens every time. I come out to these things and I get drunk and next thing I know a handsome young man like you is in my hotel room. And I really don’t do anything, Rupert. You have to understand that. I’m not gay. I just… Sometimes I get lonely.”

“Perfectly understandable. A man in your position.”

“I’ll stop it, Rupert. I promise, I’ll stop it. A man like me, I can’t go on like this. I can’t go on.”

“I think you need to go to sleep.”

“You’re right. You’re too kind and you’re right.” He lies back on the bed, stares at the ceiling. I move over to the door, put my palm on the handle.

“I tell you what, how about breakfast tomorrow?” I say.

His lips part in a smile, his eyes closed. He laughs once quietly. “That would be wonderful, Rupert. That would be wonderful.”

I open the door, nod to him, and step out into the corridor. Take a deep breath, closing the door behind me. I think about heading back downstairs to the bar, then decide against it. No point in upsetting the barman any more than I have to. So I wander the corridor, looking for my room. An expense, I know, but it’s all on Mrs Duncan’s tab and it was necessary to keep up the image. A double en suite with a stocked mini bar is waiting for me as I swipe my card key.

Inside, the room smells like lavender. I close the door behind me and settle on the bed, taking off my tie. The thing’s been choking me all night.

And now the mini bar. I lean across, shoulder out of my jacket and leave it on the bed. Pull open the bar and help myself to a single malt. It burns on the way down, but brings back the buzz. I take it on a tour of the room. The mirror above the writing table lets me know how knackered I look; the mirror in the bathroom says the same thing but louder.

I sit the glass down by the sink and splash some water on my face. I’m pale, cheeks hollow. The look of a guilty man.

This tape, what am I going to do with it? Hand it over to his wife so she can get hysterical about her gay husband? But he’s not gay, he’s just lonely. He told me that much himself. He’s lonely and he can’t relate to his wife anymore. Then hand it over to the wife, let her go ahead with a divorce. They’re not meant to be together.

I shouldn’t have to make decisions like this. I should just do what I’m paid to do.

Splash more water on my face, take another drink and walk back into the bedroom. My head’s starting to throb with an early hangover, so I down the rest of the single malt to stave it off. I sit back down on the bed, reach for my jacket.

I might as well find out how incriminating the evidence is.

At least, I would find out if the evidence was there. I check the jacket pocket. No tape recorder. I rifle through the other pockets, including ones I know couldn’t possibly hold it. I check again, looking for holes, feeling the lining. And I realise I’m panicking hard, sweat forming on my forehead and under my arms.

Jesus. Think back. Where did I leave it? The bar? The lift? His room? Please not his room. And I try to think straight, but the booze doesn’t help, just heightens the fear.

Flash on a tiny tape recorder on the floor. Flash on Duncan seeing it, playing it. Then what?

Then there’s an almighty crash from up the corridor and I’m out of the door like my arse is ablaze.

* * *

A couple of people have ventured out from their rooms, gathering around Duncan’s door. A heavyset guy is tapping on the door with one knuckle. I turn the corner and they look at me.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m a friend.”

Thinking, you fucking liar. You dirty fucking liar.

I push my way to the front and knock on the door. “Oliver? It’s Rupert. I think we need to talk.”

There’s a groan from inside.

“I think it’d be best if I handled this by myself,” I say to the small crowd. There are a few shrugs, a couple of moans, and one by one they start to disperse. I rest my head against Duncan’s door.

“I’m coming in, Oliver. Is that okay?”

My hand on the door again. The handle gives. It hasn’t been locked.

I step inside, and as my eyes adjust to the light, I have to swallow.

Oliver Duncan, lying naked on the floor of his room with a tie wrapped tight around his neck, covered in plaster and up above him, the remnants of a light fixture, ripped from the ceiling. In his hand, my tape recorder, the tape run to the end. His eyes open slowly. My heart scrapes against my ribs.

A last-ditch attempt at a cry for help.

I push the door closed and walk towards him.

“Who are you really?” he asks, his throat dry. His hands open, the recorder falling a short way to the floor, and he covers himself up. I walk past him into the bathroom, grab a dressing gown off the back of the door and toss it to him. He pulls himself up, lowers his head as he shrugs into the gown. Plaster dust flies from his pale shoulders as he does so.

“I mean it,” he says. “Who are you?”

“It’s not important,” I say. I bend over, pick up the recorder, rewind the tape. Any doubts I had about the evidence are now well and truly unfounded. This tape is all I need.

“Did my wife hire you?”

I pop the recorder in my trouser pocket, pat it to make sure it’s secure.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am. But I can’t tell you anything.”

“It is her, isn’t it?”

“What were you thinking, Oliver?” I say.

He moves to the edge of the bed. The tie is still wrapped around his neck. He tugs at it absently. “I don’t know. I thought the worst. It’s my wife. She’s looking for an excuse to leave me. She’s been looking for a long time. If this comes out, she’ll wreck me, I swear.”

“I can’t help that, Oliver.”

He looks at me suddenly, his eyes wide. “Who the fuck do you think you are calling me that? I don’t even know you. You’ve been lying to me since the moment I met you.”

“So have you, Mr Duncan.”

He pulls the tie from around his neck in one swift movement. His face shows colour under the white dust. “Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

I shake my head. “I have an obligation to my client, Mr Duncan. That’s all I can say.”

His shoulders slump. The dressing gown looking two sizes too small for him. “Get out,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Get the fuck out.”

* * *

“I don’t believe you.”

I sip at a cup of strong coffee laced with too many sugars. “I’m afraid it’s the truth, Mrs Duncan.”

Her face pinches in the centre, her eyes blinking back invisible tears. This isn’t what she wanted to hear. Not one bit. She works her mouth and her fingers flit over her bag. She paid for one night’s close surveillance, and she ended up with nothing.

“I know what he does, Mr Innes. You know what he does.”

“What does he do?”

“Julie. You checked on Julie,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I checked on Julie. She was in bed by ten. Mr Duncan was in no fit state to bother her.”

“Maybe it was a one-off. Maybe he’ll try tonight.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

“What do you know?”

“I know what I saw, Mrs Duncan. Your husband is not having an affair.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I look at the top of my desk. Take another sip of coffee. “In the end, it doesn’t matter what you believe, Mrs Duncan.”

“In the end, I think you’ll find it does. I’m the one paying you.”

“Then you’ve got the wrong guy. I can point you out to some guys who’d love to dig up some dirt on your husband, true or not.”

“That’s not what I want.”

“Pardon me for asking, but what is it exactly that you do want, Mrs Duncan?”

“I want to know what’s going on,” she says.

“Have you tried asking him?” Another sip from the coffee burns my mouth. I take a moment to huff.

She stands, her hands gripping the bag. “Goodbye, Mr Innes. I trust I won’t be hearing from you in the future.”

“Nope,” I say. Then, when she’s just out the door: “You’ll get my bill within the next few days.”

She marches off across the club. I get out of my seat and close the office door.

I have an obligation to my client. This is true. But I don’t need to kick a guy when he’s down. I’ve been thinking that since I packed up my things early this morning. I didn’t sleep much, an hour here and there, most of it shattered with the kind of sinking dreams I had when I was inside. A man tries to kill himself, you better listen to him. Fuck the professional obligation. Some things are more important.

I walk over to my desk. The tiny tape of last night’s events looks up at me. I thought about it, I admit. I could have handed the recording over, brought last night into sharp focus for Duncan’s wife. I should have done it; if I’d been professional, I would have. But something made me hold back. Whether it was that look of desperation on Mrs Duncan’s face or the way her hands kept grasping at her bag, something was wrong. And gut feelings are a bitch to ignore.

So I pull out an envelope, seal the tape inside and address it to Oliver Duncan, Private And Confidential, at his home address. If she opens it, fine. Let the chips fall where they may. At least it’ll get them talking. If not, he’s safe for the time being. I did my best and it’s out of my hands. Another envelope, and I pop my bill inside. This one goes to Mrs Duncan at home, and I’ll post that tomorrow, give the tape a head start.

The bill won’t get paid, even though I’ve cut my rate in half. And part of me doesn’t want it to be paid. I lost it last night, almost cost someone their life. And it is all my fault. All I want to do now is go to sleep, curl up in a ball and forget this ever happened.

Instead, I tell myself I’ll never drink again, light an Embassy and realise, as I exhale slowly, that it’s an empty promise.