contractors.”
“Corporate
cost-cutting? Not that you'd need them with all this stuff. You can just lean
out the window and plug them if somebody turns up at your door unannounced. I
hope he's in; this is his work address as well as his home address,” Richard
said.
They approached
the front gate. Michael stared into the camera and rang the buzzer. The
intercom clicked to life thirty seconds later.
“Yes?”
“John Herrend?
I'm Detective Ward. Perhaps we can have a word?”
“I believe you
have already spoken to Miss Stokes earlier today, and I can't tell you anything
more than what she has discussed with you. I'm afraid you will have to look
elsewhere to continue your investigation.”
Michael frowned.
“We've danced this dance today already. You can either let us in so that we
might have a polite discussion, or we'll come back later with a fire team, and
they'll cut a hole through the fence and blow your door off its hinges. There
really shouldn't be any problem here. We're trying to eliminate your company
from our investigation, so unless you want to continue residing on our list of
suspects, I suggest you let us in.”
They waited a
moment until a green light flashed on the gate. The intercom made a buzzing
sound. They went inside and watched the gate close behind them, and he saw a
row of bicycles chained to the wall beneath a shelter. The rain had let up now,
leaving the ground pockmarked with puddles that rippled when the wind blew and
brought the smell of damp in its wake.
John Herrend
waited for them, hidden partially behind his front door. He looked like he was
in his mid-thirties, with wire-thin glasses and brown hair, and dressed in a
business suit minus the jacket.
Richard gestured
to the door. “May we?”
John moved
aside, shutting the door behind them as they entered. His flat had a minimalist
vibe about it, white walls punctuated with the odd subtle shade of colour.
Michael opted not to wipe his feet, and he left a trail of muddy footprints
across the laminate flooring.
Dimmed
circle-shaped lights in the ceiling lit the lounge. A roll-up television sheet
hung from the wall, wired into a set of speakers nearly as big as the table and
a multimedia player.
“I'm really not
sure what you expect from me, Detective. I work as an off-site contractor for
Eratech, not a proper employee. Any questions you have should be directed to
them,” John said, when they were all seated.
“We've already
spoken to Eratech. We're not interested in them, we're interested in you. How
about you start by explaining your work for us. Something simple, perhaps, like
how you go about lobbying for the company,” Michael said.
John stared at
the muddy footprints. His lips formed a thin, strained line. Wrinkles appeared
on his brow. “Certainly,” he said, in a monotone voice devoid of emotion.
“The job really
isn't as secret or cloak and dagger as you seem to imply. It's quite simple,
really; I make contact with them, arrange to meet at a convenient venue for
discussions and try to persuade them that it is better to buy or contract from
Eratech than one of the company's competitors.”
Richard sniffed
at the air. “And just like that, they change their minds?”
Michael smelt it
too.
“I've really got
to take a leak. Can I use your bathroom?” Richard said.
“Fine, be quick
about it. It's this way,” John said.
Michael let
himself into the study. A paper shredder was resting on the desk, mesh bin half
full. The bin next to it had been scorched by fire and now contained a pile of
ashes. Only a single sheet of paper remained, covered in scribbled phone
numbers and radio frequencies.
Footsteps from
behind. Michael turned around in time to see John lock the door with a key. His
eyes were dead. “What are you doing in here? You can't just search my flat
without a warrant like this.”
Michael reached
for his gun. He saw the clenched fist angling for his throat and scrambled
backwards, tumbling over a
“Corporate
cost-cutting? Not that you'd need them with all this stuff. You can just lean
out the window and plug them if somebody turns up at your door unannounced. I
hope he's in; this is his work address as well as his home address,” Richard
said.
They approached
the front gate. Michael stared into the camera and rang the buzzer. The
intercom clicked to life thirty seconds later.
“Yes?”
“John Herrend?
I'm Detective Ward. Perhaps we can have a word?”
“I believe you
have already spoken to Miss Stokes earlier today, and I can't tell you anything
more than what she has discussed with you. I'm afraid you will have to look
elsewhere to continue your investigation.”
Michael frowned.
“We've danced this dance today already. You can either let us in so that we
might have a polite discussion, or we'll come back later with a fire team, and
they'll cut a hole through the fence and blow your door off its hinges. There
really shouldn't be any problem here. We're trying to eliminate your company
from our investigation, so unless you want to continue residing on our list of
suspects, I suggest you let us in.”
They waited a
moment until a green light flashed on the gate. The intercom made a buzzing
sound. They went inside and watched the gate close behind them, and he saw a
row of bicycles chained to the wall beneath a shelter. The rain had let up now,
leaving the ground pockmarked with puddles that rippled when the wind blew and
brought the smell of damp in its wake.
John Herrend
waited for them, hidden partially behind his front door. He looked like he was
in his mid-thirties, with wire-thin glasses and brown hair, and dressed in a
business suit minus the jacket.
Richard gestured
to the door. “May we?”
John moved
aside, shutting the door behind them as they entered. His flat had a minimalist
vibe about it, white walls punctuated with the odd subtle shade of colour.
Michael opted not to wipe his feet, and he left a trail of muddy footprints
across the laminate flooring.
Dimmed
circle-shaped lights in the ceiling lit the lounge. A roll-up television sheet
hung from the wall, wired into a set of speakers nearly as big as the table and
a multimedia player.
“I'm really not
sure what you expect from me, Detective. I work as an off-site contractor for
Eratech, not a proper employee. Any questions you have should be directed to
them,” John said, when they were all seated.
“We've already
spoken to Eratech. We're not interested in them, we're interested in you. How
about you start by explaining your work for us. Something simple, perhaps, like
how you go about lobbying for the company,” Michael said.
John stared at
the muddy footprints. His lips formed a thin, strained line. Wrinkles appeared
on his brow. “Certainly,” he said, in a monotone voice devoid of emotion.
“The job really
isn't as secret or cloak and dagger as you seem to imply. It's quite simple,
really; I make contact with them, arrange to meet at a convenient venue for
discussions and try to persuade them that it is better to buy or contract from
Eratech than one of the company's competitors.”
Richard sniffed
at the air. “And just like that, they change their minds?”
Michael smelt it
too.
“I've really got
to take a leak. Can I use your bathroom?” Richard said.
“Fine, be quick
about it. It's this way,” John said.
Michael let
himself into the study. A paper shredder was resting on the desk, mesh bin half
full. The bin next to it had been scorched by fire and now contained a pile of
ashes. Only a single sheet of paper remained, covered in scribbled phone
numbers and radio frequencies.
Footsteps from
behind. Michael turned around in time to see John lock the door with a key. His
eyes were dead. “What are you doing in here? You can't just search my flat
without a warrant like this.”
Michael reached
for his gun. He saw the clenched fist angling for his throat and scrambled
backwards, tumbling over a
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