Читать книгу Then You Were Gone - Claire Moss - Страница 10

Chapter Two

Jazzy, Petra and Rory lived round the corner from the post office. Living so close to the main road was the only way they could afford to live in Winchmore Hill, but it did bring certain benefits; such as actually having the post delivered before they set off for work.

‘Letter,’ Petra said, handing Jazzy the plain white envelope without looking at him. She was holding a slice of dry toast between her front teeth as she tried to tie her hair back. Jazzy grabbed the letter from her with one hand as he used the other to try and prevent Rory from wiping his slobbery face all over Jazzy’s good work trousers.

‘Thanks. I’ll open it on my way, I’ve got to go if I want a seat on the bus. Come here, big guy,’ he said to Rory, picking the baby up and kissing him on the top of his head, the only visible part of him that was clean and dry. ‘Love you lots, have a good day at nursery. Bye darling.’ He kissed Petra’s cheek, and she nodded at him in good-natured acknowledgement.

‘Let me know about Mack, won’t you?’ she said through the dry toast.

‘Sure.’

Jazzy forgot about the letter until he was nearly at work, so preoccupied was he with thinking about Mack. When he had texted Simone last thing the previous night: ‘Anything?’ the reply had come simply: ‘Not yet.’ The hope embodied in those three letters ‘yet’ was what made him angry; angry at what Mack might be doing, angrier still at the thought that Mack might be in the process of proving Petra right.

Petra had warned Jazzy all along about allowing things to go so far with Mack and Simone.

‘You know what’s going to happen,’ she had said. ‘He’ll do what he always does, he’ll get bored, he’ll ditch her and where will that leave you? Whose side are you going to take then?’ They both knew whose side he would take – his loyalties lay with Simone and always would – but it was left unsaid.

‘No,’ Jazzy had protested, ‘I really don’t think he will, not this time. I think he really likes her.’

‘Of course he bloody likes her. She’s beautiful, she’s cool, she’s got awesome hair – and then she also goes and has the cheek to be a really nice person. Of course he likes her. But Mack likes a lot of people, if you know what I mean.’

Jazzy had smiled. It made him happy that Petra liked Simone. ‘Yes but you’re forgetting, Simone’s so low maintenance that she barely classes as a girlfriend at all. If anything, Mack’ll be the needy one and Simone’ll get bored and ditch him.’

Petra had rolled her eyes. ‘Have you ever known a woman get bored of Mack before he got bored of her?’ The question did not require an answer. ‘Just…’ Petra had thrown her hands up, ‘if they’re going to get together, then fine. I just don’t think you should encourage it. Because when it all goes wrong, it’s you she’s going to blame for it.’

And now it was looking as though it was going wrong, and Jazzy wondered if Simone would blame him for it. Jazzy would be surprised – shocked, even – if Mack had gone AWOL from everything, from London, from the business, from Jazzy, just to get rid of Simone. But, loath as he was to admit it, it was not entirely unthinkable. He and Mack had met ten years ago when they were teaching English in a high school in rural Japan, the only westerners in a fifty-mile radius, apart from a tall, outdoorsy Canadian girl who worked in the elementary school next door. She had fallen for Mack, swiftly and entirely, and he had seemed pretty smitten with her too, but when Mack went back to England among promises of undying devotion and vows to keep in touch, he had deliberately given the girl an email address and mobile number that bore no relation to his real ones. That Canadian girl had not deserved it any more than Simone would. And Petra was right; if Mack was taking a massive shit all over Simone’s feelings, then it was, at least partly, Jazzy’s fault.

He thought back to the conversation he had had with Simone in his local pub to try and persuade her to give Mack a chance on a second date.

‘He really likes you. He told me. Honestly.’ This was true.

Simone had looked unconvinced. ‘Yes, he likes me so much that he’s waited a month before getting in touch again.’

‘He’s been away a lot with work. He didn’t want to arrange something he might have to cancel at the last minute.’ This was only partly true. Mack had been away for three out of the preceding four weeks, but it was only when he had returned to London a few days ago that he had mentioned Simone.

‘I keep thinking about her,’ he had confided. ‘If I ask her out again, do you think she’ll say yes?’

‘I guarantee it,’ Jazzy had told him with a wink.

And he had been determined to do so. Simone’s misgivings did not seem that serious to him, certainly nothing that could not be talked round.

‘Why are you so keen for me to go out with him again?’ she had asked.

He had shrugged. ‘I think you’d be good together. You’re both quite similar if you ask me, even though it might not look like it at first glance. Free spirits, if you will.’

Simone had raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Right, OK. But I have to say that in my experience “free spirit” is a phrase people use to describe someone they think will probably sleep with them without asking too many questions first.’

‘You know what I mean. Not needy or desperate or looking for someone to spend every minute of every day with. That’s what you’re both like. I just – I can see you two together. Plus,’ he had leaned forward, ‘he assures me he’s hung like a farmyard animal.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ Simone had said, downing the rest of her drink, and he knew then that he had won her round. And neither of them had said what they both knew; that the real reason he was so keen to set her up with Mack was that he just wanted to see her happy, like he was with Petra. That he wanted her to have someone, like he did.

The bus was nearly at his stop before Jazzy remembered the letter. It had barely occurred to him that it could contain anything interesting, let alone anything personal. Letters never did any more.

Even after he opened the envelope, it took him a few moments to recognise the handwriting, so rarely had he seen Mack handwrite anything. But it was unmistakably from him. The words he used, the confident, stylised penmanship, could not have come from anyone else.

Dear J

I know you’ll be wondering where I am by now, and I’m sorry.

This is the most ridiculous letter I’ve ever written. (And I know, a letter? A fucking letter? Hey, Mack, 1993 called, they want their method of communication back! But the point is, you can’t hack into a letter. And I know that sounds mental, but it’s true, and that’s important).

The thing is, and I swear, I swear on Rory’s life I’m not making this up, I’ve had to go away for a very good reason. I really, really wish I could tell you why, but I can’t, even in an unhackable letter. Just believe me when I say that you’ll be safer, and so will Petra and Rory and everyone else around you if you don’t know (again, I know that sounds like the rantings of a paranoid psychiatric patient but please, please bear with me). Believe me, if I could tell you then you know I would. But it’s a good reason.

And the reason I’m writing to you is because I think – really, really, really – that you could be in danger too, and Petra and Rory if anyone comes looking for me. If anything happened to any of you, I couldn’t live with it. Please listen. Please, please take me seriously. If anyone comes looking for me, you have to say that you don’t know where I am. Which will be true, of course. But you have to make it sound true too, you have to make sure they believe you. And if anyone does come looking, then I think you should take Petra and Rory away for a few days, doesn’t matter where, just don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Not even Simone or Keith.

I’ve written to Simone too, saying the same thing. If you see her, tell her I’m sorry. And, fuck it, tell her that I love her. I do.

One last thing. If you don’t pay attention to anything else in this letter, then please, please pay attention to this. DO NOT TRY AND FIND ME. DO NOT TELL ANYONE I’VE GONE. If anyone comes looking for me you need to LIE. You need to say that I’ve gone on holiday, or quit my job to go travelling, or gone back to Japan or something. Don’t say you’ve heard from me, don’t try and guess where I am. DON’T COME LOOKING FOR ME. And I know that the first thing you’re going to do is ask Keith. Please don’t go to Keith. I mean it. It could put you in danger.

I promise, I haven’t gone round the bend. I know this all sounds nuts but part of the trouble is that you can’t delete stuff once you’ve written it in pen. Please take me seriously.

I wish I could say when I’d be back. I wish I could say that I’m coming back. I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I want to come back, and I will if I can. I’m going to try to find a way.

Love you, mate.

Mack.

Jazzy held the letter open in his hand for a few moments, then in a burst of what his rational side told him was absurd paranoia, he folded it over so the text was hidden, casting a surreptitious glance over his shoulder. Everybody else on the bus was looking at a phone or a tablet; nobody was paying him the slightest attention. His first thought was almost certainly the one Mack had been so keen to steer him away from. His friend had surely lost the plot. It happened. It had happened to one of Jazzy’s housemates in his final year of university – too much weed, too much stress over his finals and then one day, boom, he refused to come out of his room and was convinced that the landlord had installed a covert surveillance system inside the airing cupboard.

Jazzy jumped to his feet just in time, realising that the bus was about to pull away from his stop. He hopped down to the pavement and as he walked the few hundred metres to the office, he thought about Mack’s behaviour over the previous few weeks, trying to pinpoint anything that might explain such a sudden descent into extreme paranoia. All he could think, though, was that Mack was just Mack. He was always just Mack. Mack was the kind of guy where someone would say, ‘Well, that’s Mack for you,’ and everybody would know what they meant. And for the last few weeks – for as long as Jazzy could remember in fact – Mack had been behaving entirely as he always did. He had been in and out of the office a lot, but no more than usual, and had seemed quite excited about a number of new leads that he was confident he could turn into regular clients. He had lent Petra a paperback he had just finished reading, raving about it to Jazzy first, and had asked them if they wanted to accompany him and Simone to a gig next month. When Jazzy’s housemate had lost it, although it was a huge and traumatic shock, it had not been a total surprise to Jazzy. The guy had been acting oddly for a long time, perhaps as long as a year – in fact, if he was honest Jazzy would say he had always been a little odd. But the same could not be said of Mack. Mack never acted oddly, he always knew exactly what to say and how to say it, fine-tuning his patter effortlessly depending on the company he was in. It was what made him such a fantastic salesman.

And that stuff about Keith? That was the strangest thing. Jazzy had always thought that Mack may not have exactly liked Keith, but that he at least trusted him. Keith scared Jazzy, he would freely confess it, and he had no idea how to talk to him, knowing as he did nothing about cars, golf or how to objectify women. Keith was like an uncle to Mack; that was what Mack had told him when he first introduced him to Jazzy. What could have gone so wrong that Mack could believe he needed to keep it secret from Keith? A slow, solid feeling of foreboding grew in Jazzy’s stomach, his footsteps slowing as he continued his trudge to the office, as he mulled over that question. He had never thought it was a good idea to let themselves fall into Keith’s orbit as much as they already had. Should he have trusted his instincts? Did Mack mean that the reason he had gone away was somehow Keith’s fault?

They had both been working for Keith for nearly two years now, Mack throwing himself into the enterprise wholeheartedly, Jazzy still insisting to himself, and anyone else, should they ask, that his job there was only a temporary measure until he found something that suited him better.

On New Year’s Eve nearly three years ago, Mack had been drunk and a little maudlin, depressed about his dull but lucrative job as an anti-static flooring salesman, for which, let’s face it, Jazzy could hardly blame him. When Mack had first landed the job, Jazzy had had to laugh. It sounded so much like a parody of the kind of job people settle for when they have given up on life that Jazzy could scarcely believe someone as dynamic, as zestful and trendy as Mack could really have agreed to spend the majority of his waking hours doing such a thing. That New Year Mack was harping on, as he often did, about his ‘plastic business card moment’. Kind of the opposite of a light bulb moment, that was how he described it. The moment when everything went dark.

‘I can’t do it, Jazz,’ Mack was saying for at least the fourth time. ‘I just can’t. I could be looking at thirty-five more years of this shit. Well, I won’t because it’ll kill me long before that. I’ll drink myself into an early grave or deliberately crash my car into the central reservation or something. But I’ve got to get out. And I mean soon.’

‘Hmm, bit melodramatic, maybe? Even for you? Even for 11.47 p.m. on New Year’s Eve?’ Jazzy loved Mack like a brother (actually he preferred him to his actual brothers) but, Jesus, sometimes.

‘Mate, I’m never melodramatic. My life’s just very, very interesting.’

‘Yes, you’re right. You’re the most interesting anti-static flooring salesman I think I’ve ever met.’

‘Ha fucking ha. Do you know what, though?’ Mack took a too-large gulp of champagne and winced as he tried to swallow it in one and the bubbles went up his nose. ‘I go to these godawful “networking” things they make me do, and I eat the rancid food and I act like I give a shit, and I come away thinking, yes, I am the most interesting person in this room, and I don’t care if that makes me sound like a dick, because I am a dick, and anyway it’s true.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

‘No, honestly. Do you know, I was at one the other week in fucking, I don’t know, Kendal or somewhere in the arse end of nowhere, and it was a BREAKFAST one, which are just the WORST because you either have to stay overnight in the sub-Crossroads shithole that’s hosting it or you have to get up at five a.m. and drive there, and either way you feel like Alan Partridge, and the only way not to feel like Alan Partridge is not to talk to anyone, but you’re not allowed to do that because talking to people is the only reason you’re there in the first place.’

‘Plus, you never stop talking, even at seven in the morning.’ Jazzy was only half-listening, looking round the kitchen to make sure Petra wasn’t going to be within kissing distance of any of Mack’s handsome hipster beardos when Big Ben struck midnight.

‘That as well. But anyway, we’d all finished our flabby bacon and rock-hard eggs and we were taking it in turns to do our spiel, and the last guy up was some poor downtrodden bastard from a plastics company in Barrow in Furness, and when he’d finished talking he whipped his business card out and – ta fucking dah – the guy’s business card is made. Of. PLASTIC. Here, I’ve still got it. Check that out.’

It was a small one, the size of a credit card with the same rounded edges. Neil Stannah, it said, Head of Sales and Business Development, Northern Region. ‘Hmm, yeah. Wow. That’s… that’s quite something.’ Jazzy handed Mack the card back and stood up, the better to survey the crowded room.

‘Isn’t it just? But that’s not the worst bit. That’s nowhere NEAR the worst bit. After he whipped it out, everyone else round the table started pissing themselves laughing.’ Mack himself let out a humourless bark of laughter and shook his head. ‘And not at what a loser this guy was. They genuinely thought it was funny, like, “Hey, this guy works for a plastics company and even his business card is made of plastic! Can you believe this shit? Are we having fun here or what?” I genuinely thought I might pass out, or puke up my hash browns. I saw it then, forty years of this, up and down the M6, in and out of Premier Lodges, talking the talk and eating the swill and it was like someone had flicked a switch in my head. I’ve got to get out, Jazz. I’m drowning.’

They had had conversations along these lines many times before, even prior to the plastic business card incident, but this time there was something different. The panic in Mack’s eyes was real, there was genuine desperation in his tone. ‘I’m quitting,’ he said. It was something he had said before, and Jazzy half-ignored him. He was drunk, he was tired, it was three minutes to midnight and he had misplaced his fiancée. Plus Jazzy had his own work problems on his mind. The small, private investment bank he had been a software developer for since he returned from Japan, had put him and the whole of the IT department on notice of redundancy three weeks before Christmas. He did not particularly want to listen to someone threatening to put themselves out of work through choice.

‘No, really,’ Mack went on. ‘I really am this time. I’ve spoken to Keith about it.’

Jazzy had instantly become alert. This was something he had always worried about, that Mack would somehow allow himself to fall into Keith’s hands. Jazzy did not know anything for definite about Keith, did not even know that how he made his money was illegal, but he could not believe that anyone could become as wealthy as Keith purely from selling second hand cars and cheap imported electrical goods. And he knew that becoming part of Keith’s world was emphatically not something that Mack wanted. He had hinted as much several times, had told Jazzy that the reason he had gone into sales was so that he could make enough money to never have to go asking his mum or Keith for anything (Jazzy had known that really Mack was only talking about Keith. Mack’s mother had no money to speak of, and nothing other than a bottle of aftershave at Christmas that Mack might need). It had seemed like a point of pride, but also of self-protection. ‘Keith?’ Jazzy said, unable to keep the shock or disapproval out of his tone.

‘Don’t worry,’ Mack shook his head, his words smooth and fluid after all the champagne. ‘It’s legit. He’s got a new arm to the business, he thinks I’d be ideal to head up the sales section. Well, I say head up, I think to be honest I’d be it.’

‘What is it then? This new “arm”?’ Jazzy hoped he sounded less suspicious than he felt.

Mack smiled. ‘Wedding dresses.’

‘Wedding dresses? Keith?’

Mack laughed. ‘I know. Sounds pretty unlikely, doesn’t it? But he’s got this contact over in Russia or somewhere – some guy he used to play golf with I think, who’s gone back to the motherland. Anyway, he makes these really high-end wedding dresses – they’d retail for a few grand here – and Keith can get them at a good price. He’s been flogging a few on eBay recently and they’ve gone pretty well, but he wants to start bringing them in wholesale, selling them on to retail places. That’s where I come in.’ He flashed a grin. ‘Now, go on, admit it. Am I not the perfect guy to do that job? These shops are all run by nice ladies of a certain age. I don’t think I’m flattering myself to suggest I do have a certain way with nice ladies of a certain age. I think I’ll be able to turn their heads in the direction of Keith’s bridal gown range pretty successfully.’

Jazzy had to laugh. ‘I suppose you’re right. I can’t think of a better person to do that job. Is that going to be the name of the company then? “Keith’s Bridal Gown Range”?’

Mack laughed too. ‘No. It’s not really called anything at the moment, but I think he’s going to call it “Anastasia”. Can’t really call it “Russian Brides”, can he? Might give off the wrong impression.’

Jazzy had tried gently to nudge Mack away from the idea of working for Keith. Although the wedding dress thing did not sound screamingly, actively illegal, it could surely not be entirely above board either. But Mack would not be moved. He gave his notice at the anti-static flooring company and, a few weeks into the new year, he became the regional sales rep, national sales rep, director of sales and deputy director of sales for Anastasia Ltd. ‘I’m desperate,’ he confessed to Jazzy on the only occasion when he had expressed anything approaching doubts. ‘I know it’s a cop out, taking a job from an old family friend.’ (That was how Mack always referred to his and Keith’s relationship if anyone asked.) ‘And I know Keith’s not exactly man of the year at the Inland Revenue or anything. But he’s promised me this is legit, and I believe him. Anyway, I’ve got to get out. And this ought to be a laugh. Come on, women’s clothing? I was born to do it.’ His laugh had been a little too hearty, Jazzy thought, his enthusiasm a little too full, and when Jazzy looked into his friend’s eyes, behind the chilly blue he could see absolutely nothing.

A few weeks after that, Jazzy’s redundancy was confirmed. He had started looking round for something else as soon as the redundancy was mooted as a possibility, but the task seemed overwhelming. His job at the bank had been the only proper, grown-up job he had ever had. He had liked working there and he had been good at his job, but nevertheless that did not leave him with much confidence that he would be equally successful anywhere else. He and Petra could live pretty comfortably on her salary for the foreseeable future, and she was keen that he didn’t rush into anything. ‘Wait,’ she kept telling him, ‘find something that really feels right.’ But after a few months, the novelty of being at home all day, of getting up when he wanted, going to the pub or the shops or the library in the middle of the day, cooking elaborate meals for Petra that they would eat together when she finally got home, usually well after seven in the evening, began to wear off. The longer Jazzy was out of work, the more impossible seemed the task of not only finding another job, but actually doing the job once he had found it. He was beginning to doubt himself, to suspect that the strengths and abilities he had taken for granted in his old job may have deserted him altogether. Petra noticed it, of course, and Simone noticed it too, the pair of them fussing over him, encouraging and cajoling and transparently leaving print-outs of job ads all over the house. But Mack noticed it too, and he was the only one who offered any kind of concrete solution.

‘We could do with someone at Anastasia,’ he had said, ‘to look after the IT side of things. We need a decent website, we might start selling direct online too if we can make it pay. All the files need computerising too. Nothing too taxing, but we’d pay pretty well and you’d be as good as your own boss.’ Jazzy knew a charity hand-out when it was shoved under his nose, but by this time Petra was pregnant with Rory. They were due to get married in the summer. Petra taking anything more than the minimum maternity leave was out of the question, financially speaking, but even so the fact that they would need an extra income was now unarguable.

He had agreed to take on all of Anastasia’s IT-related work on a temporary basis until he found something more suited to his strengths, or at least that was what he told himself. In fact, once he had started working there, he had realised that he might find the light workload, flexible hours and pretty reasonable hourly rate hard to let go of. This was particularly true once Rory was born; the perks of earning a full-time wage, albeit a pretty modest one, for what was very much a part-time job, suited him and Petra very well. The thought of both of them leading the long-hours corporate lifestyle that her job forced her into was enough to keep him from browsing the job ads in too much depth.

Jazzy shivered in the morning chill and pulled his scarf up to his chin as he fumbled with the office building’s keypad, hastily shoving the crumpled letter into his pocket. Could it be that Mack was paying a heavy price for his keenness to take the easy option when Keith proffered it? And could it be that he, Jazzy, may have to do the same?

Jazzy had not expected anybody else to be in the office yet. If the place was fully staffed, there was only ever him, Mack and Keith, and Mack was away on sales calls more than half the time, while Keith tended to leave the office side of things to the other two. Keith took care of the import/export part of the business, wheeling and dealing with Russian tailors and Latvian freight companies, and the unspoken deal was that as long as the goods and the money kept flowing, neither side of the business would ask too many questions of the other. But as Jazzy approached the office from the communal stairwell, he noticed a light in the office Jazzy and Mack shared.

‘Hello?’ he called out as he unlocked the door and turned on the lights in what they called, in a rather grandiose manner, the reception area.

‘In here.’ It was Keith.

Keith was rising from Mack’s desk as Jazzy entered the room. He could tell from the whirring of the computer’s fan that it had only just been switched off.

‘Everything OK?’ Jazzy asked.

‘Yeah, yeah, fine.’ Keith was dressed like an archetypal middle-aged businessman on his day off – perfectly ironed slacks, a V-necked mint green jumper over a checked shirt, and beige loafers. ‘Just called in to catch up on a few emails. Our internet at home’s on the blink.’

‘Right. Bit of a way to come isn’t it?’

Keith held Jazzy’s gaze for quite a lot longer than normal people found comfortable, then drew his neck back in such a way that Jazzy could not help but construe it as a gesture of aggression. ‘Had some other stuff to do up this way, didn’t I? My brother-in-law wants me to look at a car with him over at Palmers Green, thought I may as well pop in here first. Not a problem is it?’

Jazzy shook his head. No matter how many times he swore to himself not to allow Keith to intimidate him, the guy always somehow managed it. ‘No, course not.’ He could hear himself estuarising his accent, blunting the cultured vowels. He hated himself for doing it, but he could not stop himself.

‘Anyway, I’m off now, soon be out of your hair. Young Joe not here today?’ Keith always called Mack by his first name, even though to Jazzy’s knowledge no one else outside his immediate family did so.

‘Er, no. Actually…’ Jazzy thought about what Mack had said in his letter. He was reluctant to disobey his friend’s wishes, but if something was wrong with Mack, then Keith was probably his best hope of getting to the bottom of it. He decided to hedge around the subject as best he could. ‘I was actually expecting him back by now. You’ve not heard from him have you?’

Keith’s face was expressionless, his mouth narrow. ‘No. Not a sausage.’ Keith picked up his phone in its leather case and put it in his trouser pocket. He winked at Jazzy. ‘Probably found himself some young lovely while he was away, taking a little bit of French leave, you know our Joe. Got to go. See you.’

As Keith walked out of the office, Jazzy looked at the bulge in the man’s pocket where his phone was. It was a smart phone, about as smart as phones got. Surely he must be able to check his emails on that?

He was surprised to find himself shaky after seeing Keith, his heart hammering as he switched on the coffee machine. Was Mack’s paranoia contagious? And what exactly had Mack meant when he had asked Jazzy not to talk to Keith? Was it because Mack was afraid of Keith? Or because Mack had done something that he did not want Keith to find out about?

Not knowing where else to start, Jazzy sat at Mack’s computer and booted it up. The chair was still warm from where Keith had been sitting in it, and, knowing he was being ridiculous but doing it anyway, Jazzy got up and swapped it for his own cool and unsullied chair. Once the machine was running, he clicked around until he got to a list of which programs had most recently been accessed. There was, he soon realised, nothing to find. All the recent file history, all the internet browsing history, all the cookies, all the temporary files were all gone. All the basic software the machine had come with was still there, but other than that there was no sign that anyone had ever used this machine. Apart from Keith, just now.

Jazzy looked at his watch. He was in earlier than usual this morning; he had been eager to get to the office and check for any sign of Mack. Could it be that Keith came in to the office every morning and sat at Mack’s computer doing… What exactly had he been doing? Something that he then immediately deleted all trace of.

Jazzy sat back for a moment and rubbed his eyes. He knew that Mack’s PC was full of stuff – every contact with every client, every letter, email, logs of every telephone call. He used the machine for Twitter, Facebook, buying his metrosexual over-priced clothes. And now all that had vanished too. Someone had erased it all – either Mack or Keith. He thought back to the last time Mack had been in the office, at the beginning of the previous week. He had left in a hurry, slightly before his usual clocking-off time, and he had only been at his desk a few minutes before he left. He would barely have had time to log on, never mind delete every last trace of himself. Which left Keith. And Keith was old. Old, and also the type of person who withdrew all his cash at the beginning of the week because he didn’t like spending money via a little plastic card. Keith could send an email or a text and seemed to manage to use his phone to get the football results, but he didn’t seem like he would be confident enough to wipe out Mack’s digital footprint all by himself. But Jazzy had spent his adult life worshipping computers the way others worshipped a deity. And he knew that computers did not lie. Somebody had done it, and it was almost certainly Keith.

‘Shit,’ he said, so loudly he made himself jump. For reasons many and complex, Jazzy really, really did not want this whole thing with Mack to be something to do with Keith. If it was to do with Keith then it was likely to be scary, likely to be wrong, and likely to belong to a world Jazzy did not understand and wanted no part of. He screwed up his face and rubbed his eyes. Rory had been up twice in the night, the second time for over an hour, and he was finding it hard to think straight. ‘Gaaahh.’ He let out a half-yawn, half-groan and tilted his head slowly from side to side, his neck protesting audibly.

‘Erm, excuse me. Are you OK?’

Jazzy jerked his eyes open. A tall, slim black girl wearing a green tabard over skin-tight jeans and a hooded top stood in the doorway. It was the girl Mack liked flirting with, the one who usually cleaned the offices. Jazzy did not recall her having said more than hello to him in the past, but Mack, in his trademark way, had struck up a bantering, easy-going friendship whereby he and this girl would conduct long, light-hearted conversations in a manner that suggested they had known each other for decades.

‘Oh, hi, erm…’ Shit. Jazzy realised he had no idea of her name.

‘Ayanna,’ she said without smiling. ‘Or Anna. Everyone mostly calls me Anna.’

‘Sorry, Anna. I knew that really, I’m just a bit tired.’

‘OK.’ She looked as though she knew he was lying about knowing her name. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt, I just thought you looked really – I don’t know, really stressed.’

‘No, I’m all right.’

‘Well then. Sorry to have bothered you.’ She turned to go, trailing the flex from the vacuum cleaner in one hand. As she was about to pull the door closed behind her, she leaned her head back into the office. ‘So, is Mack still not back then?’ Her voice was studiedly casual, her demeanour a little coy.

Jazzy stifled a world-weary sigh. He longed for the day when he no longer needed to act as Mack’s intermediary between him and the vast number of women he caused to fall in love with him. ‘No, not yet.’ He looked back at the screen, hoping to indicate that the conversation was over, but then a thought struck him. This woman – or girl really, she surely could not be much older than sixteen – was on quite intimate chatting terms with Mack from what he had observed. He had heard Mack asking after members of her family by name and caught snatches of conversation that sounded as though they involved boyfriends or potential boyfriends of hers. She was probably as good a person to ask as any.

‘Sorry, Anna, just before you go,’ he began.

‘Yeah?’

‘Do you… did Mack say anything to you last week about having to go away, or…’ Jazzy hunted for the right way to phrase this in order to maintain his professional discretion and, more importantly, to save Mack’s blushes once his sanity was restored. ‘Or that he was worried about anything?’

The girl’s eyes shot down to her hands, then back to rest on Jazzy’s face. ‘Like what?’

Jazzy paused. She had not asked why he wanted to know, or why he did not seem to have a clue where Mack might have gone. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. ‘Like anything.’

Anna took a breath and swallowed. ‘If I tell you something, right,’ she said, her voice quiet, ‘you can’t tell Mack I told you. And, whatever you do, don’t tell him.’ She gestured behind her to the stairwell.

‘Tell who?’ Jazzy asked, although the lurch in his stomach had told him who she meant.

‘That old guy.’

‘Keith?’

Anna nodded. ‘That’s right. That’s what Mack said. “Don’t tell Keith”.’

Jazzy switched off the computer’s monitor. ‘I think you’d better tell me what’s been going on.’