He would, he decided, have to pack a bag and get out. He would have to take the memory stick with him too. Given that he had made his escape from Slater after all that had happened would make it clear enough to them that he knew something — which of course he did — and that he represented a significant threat — which of course, he did.
Sitting on the train as it rattled along toward his station he could not stop his mind from wandering. How did this rough and unsophisticated bunch of thugs fit into this? It made no sense. Though he knew little of them, it was evident that they were pretty straightforward villains. Their violent methods and unsubtle approach made that obvious enough. Theirs was a world where fear and intimidation were blunt and often used tools. They would steal and extort, threaten and occasionally enforce those threats. This was not a gang who were involved in skilful and complicated white-collar crime.
The train stopped and Campbell got off and headed for the bus that would take him the short trip to the end of his road. Would they be there waiting? How long had it been since he last saw Slater?
Pushing the question of who they were and where they fitted in to one side, Campbell turned again to the immediate problem. What to do next? Where to go?
He would call in sick to work for a start. They may not believe him — probably not at all in fact considering how erratically he had been behaving throughout the week. Then again, that might work in his favour.
Then what? Collect a bag of clothes and a toothbrush from the flat and then get out quickly. But to go where? Who would he tell?
He chewed it over on the bus ride back but he could not decide. Every road led back to Gresham because with the address book he had stolen, Gresham knew everyone he knew. Which meant that wherever he went, Gresham and Slater would never be too far away.
Campbell approached his street full of apprehension. But though he was alert and checking every single car he could see, a weariness had settled on him. He was exhausted, cold and in pain. He did not know where to turn, unable to bear the thought of dragging any of the people he loved into this mess with him and knowing that if he did that he would be found anyway. As he neared his front door he felt almost ready to collapse and concede everything. What could he really do now? What cards did he still hold?
Stepping into the silence of his home he listened and heard nothing at all and he knew exactly which card he still held.
Collecting the memory stick from its hiding place, the same place that the gatecrasher had left it, pushed far underneath the oven, he made for his bedroom and filled a bag with clean clothes from his wardrobe. After some short deliberation he gambled another precious few minutes on a hot shower which felt well worth it afterward, leaving him looking and feeling a little more human.
Less than twenty minutes after stepping through the door, Campbell had left and was walking briskly back up the road, no Slater or Gresham in sight.
He had also decided what he was going to do next. There was nobody in his address book that he could call without putting them in danger so he would have to call somebody that was not in it.
‘Griffin Holdings.’
It was a male voice and the noise of a passing bus disturbed him too.
‘Hello? Sorry, is Sarah there?’ he said.
‘Which Sarah?’
Suddenly her surname was gone. He was blank. He hadn’t even thought that there might be more than one Sarah in the office.
‘I thought that this was her direct line.’
‘No, sorry.’
What was it? He couldn’t remember at all no matter how hard he thought.
‘Knowles or Evans sir?’
‘Knowles! Knowles! Sarah Knowles. That’s it. Sorry. Total blank,’ he said trying to temper his initial excitement with a more composed tone of voice.
‘She’s not in yet… oh hang on a sec-,’ the line went muffled for a moment and then the man was back on. ‘She’s not in at all until Monday I’m afraid. Annual leave. Is there anything I can help with?
‘No. Thank you,’ he said flatly as his spirits sagged. Gone until Monday. What would he do until then?
Suddenly he remembered, with a sense of relief that almost made him swoon, that he had swapped mobile phone numbers with her the night before. But he was still apprehensive. How would she react to him calling her on her holiday? As far as she was concerned she was an employee of Griffin Holdings and he a local journalist. That was where his interest began and ended. Would she even be in the country any more?
Campbell shrugged. No time to waste.
‘Hello?’ Yes!
‘Sarah?’ he said trying to hard to sound normal.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Its Daniel.’ Shit.
‘Who?’
‘Hello?’ Campbell tried to play it as if the line were bad and that she’d misheard him but it was a flimsy ploy. He had made a silly mistake in his excitement and relief to hear her voice.
‘Who is this?’
‘Sarah, it’s Owen Michaels.’
Silence.
‘Sarah?’
‘Mr Michaels. What can I do for you?’ Very frosty. Campbell felt a film of sweat on his brow.
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Well I made an effort to come to see you last night Mr Michaels.’
‘Yes, something came up.’
‘So I saw.’
Campbell frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I turned up on time and there you were getting into a car with two other people. Not even a phone call. Evidently whatever it is is not that urgent after all.’
Shit.
‘But it really is.’
‘No Mr Michaels-,’ she began, her tone reproachful.
‘My name is Daniel Campbell,’ he blurted.
‘What?’
He couldn’t stop it.
‘My name is not Owen Michaels. I’m not a local journalist. I think you probably knew that anyway. My name is Daniel, I work for a firm of investment analysts in the City. But I do know about the break-in at your offices, I know what was stolen but it wasn’t me that stole it. It is highly sensitive information which I think is also potentially both very damaging and also very valuable.’
There was a long silence whilst she took this all in. Campbell was surprised to hear all those words come tumbling out of his own mouth so he could only imagine what she was thinking.
‘How do you know?’ she said finally.
‘Because I have it in my pocket.'
34
Thursday. 9am.
The booming, roaring shout was followed by the smash and pop of a breaking glass as Gresham launched his drink against the far wall.
‘FUCK.’ he shouted and Slater continued to stare at the floor. ‘I might expect this from Keane or even Jules, Keith, but not you. What the fuck is going on?!’
With that Gresham stalked back across the room toward Slater and landed a heavy right hand across the big man’s jaw. Slater, other than to raise a hand to the blood that began to run from the side of his mouth, did not react, as if he were accepting what he deserved.
Gresham turned and sank into the armchair in the corner and hung his head into his hands. Slater knew better than to speak now. Just to listen.
Eventually Gresham spoke but the anger was gone. ‘Sorry Keith. Its not your fault. I should have never got us mixed up in this in the first place. I thought it stank from the start.’