When Evil Wins Page 10

  At nine o’clock the bar’s DJ started up the venue’s sound system. This was the cue for all those ‘after work on Saturday’ drinkers to leave and go home for the evening.

  Greg loved this part of the night as it meant that all those women left, and ones yet to arrive, were up for a good time, and if he had his chance, he would be a willing guide.

  The evening powered on through a multitude of dance and rhythm tracks and Greg remained at the bar taking his drink slowly, awaiting the opportunity to indulge in some conversation with a pretty girl or another. The idea being that he would offer to pay for a drink when the time came.

  It was now coming up to 10.00 p.m. and he’d finished his second pint. But before attempting to attract the barman's attention for a beer once again, he looked along the bar to see if there was anything going on and noticed he was being observed by a young looking woman with darkish hair. As his gaze remained on her she smiled at him.

  Suddenly Greg was alert, she wasn't bad looking and this was exactly the cue he had been waiting for. “Would you like a drink?” he mouthed at her; it was pointless trying to talk over the music the DJ was pumping out.

  She nodded.

  Greg waved for her to come over and she capitulated without hesitation, not even a second’s thought. Greg felt exulted. Within a few moments the young woman was at his side.

  “I take it you would like a drink,” he said.

  “Only if that's what you were suggesting,” she responded, smiling sweetly; putting on her best ‘come on’ face.

  “Of course,” Greg said. “What else do you think I was meaning?” he teased. “What would you like then?”

  “I've not been here before. Could you recommend a good red wine?” she said relaxing, forgetting the comments she’d overheard her staff saying a few hours before.

  “Moi?” Greg said.

  The young woman stifled a laugh and smiled again. Greg took out his wallet, which was stuffed full of fresh twenty pound notes he’d retrieved from the cash point conveniently situated between his office and the pub. Taking out one of the notes, he waved it at the bar staff. A cleanly shaved barman with gelled spiky black hair sauntered over to where Greg was standing with the young woman.

  “What can I get you?” the barman asked.

  “I would like a glass of your best red wine for the young lady,” Greg said, smiling at the woman by his side.

  “Would a glass of Chateauneuf du Pape do?” the barman said.

  “What do you think?” Greg said to the young woman, but before she could answer he continued anyway; “My personal opinion is that this particular wine is rich and complex, much like you seem to be.” Greg smiled at his new woman friend. “It has, if I recall correctly, aromas of very ripe red fruit,” he finished, hoping his knowledge seemed genuine and not something he’d picked up recently from articles he’d sought on the Internet.

  “I think that would be lovely,” she answered, her come-hither smile surfacing once more.

  “Barman,” Greg addressed the barman, “two large glasses of Chateauneuf du Pape please.”

  The barman handed Greg two glasses of red wine and he passed the barman a crisp twenty pound note saying; “Please get yourself some refreshment, barman, and keep the change.” Greg knew he had to make an impression if the evening was going to pan out as he wanted it to.

  He turned to the new woman in his life and said; “There's a free table over there. Would you like to take a seat?”

  “Yes, I would,” she answered.

  Greg and his new acquaintance made their way through the crowd to a table opposite the bar. The table was end on to the venue's bare brick back wall.

  “What made you feel like coming here then?” Greg asked the young woman.

  “I've not been here before and I wanted to meet you,” she said.

  Greg was stunned, never in all his experience had he ever been approached in this way. It was almost like he wasn't doing the pulling and he was being pulled himself.

  “Oh.” Was all he could say in the first instance, but not wanting to come across as inept he continued. “That's nice of you to say. We don't know each other do we?” Greg was curious, hoping this person wasn't someone he had jilted in the past, someone who had accosted him to exact a revenge of some sort.

  “No we don't. But I would like to get to know you better,” she said smiling her smile again. It was irresistible, offering a lot but giving nothing.

  Greg, initially relieved at the first part of her statement, was now edging towards being out of his depth. He needed to get control of the situation once more. “What do you think of the Chateauneuf?” he asked.

  “I think it’s wonderful. You know your wine don't you.”

  “That I do. It's something of a passion of mine,” Greg said, comfortably slipping into his well-practiced spiel. “Did you know I am responsible for the financing of Richard Jameson Publishing? Have you heard of it? We've published many famous authors you know.”

  “I have heard of it. In fact I’ve bought many books published by your company. Is it interesting working in a publishing company?”

  “Very. I meet a lot of famous authors. Would you like me to get an autograph for you? Anyone in particular?” Greg was certain he was on to a sure thing now. She was obviously interested in what he did and the company he was associated with. “Perhaps,” he continued, “you would like to accompany me to my firm's twenty-fifth anniversary next Saturday? You could meet all the authors then.”

  “That sounds amazing,” the young woman enthused.

  What a stunning woman, Greg thought. I haven't even asked her name yet, and we seem to be getting along very well.

  Before Greg could say anything in response she continued, “I have a little favour to ask.”

  “Anything for you,” Greg replied, feeling that if he went along with anything she cared to ask it wouldn’t be long before she would be interested in a coffee at his place. Then he said, “What's your name by the way? I'm Greg, Greg Smith actually. What’s the favour I can do for you?”

  “If you can wait a few moments I’ll tell you, I just need to powder my nose,” she winked at him, continuing, “and after that I'll check if I'm available for your firm’s do.” The young woman left the table they were sitting at for the venue’s toilets. Once settled in a cubicle the woman wrote out a note and put it in an envelope, licking the adhesive and sealing it.

  While the young woman was gone Greg started to formulate how he would tackle the next steps, the ones that would definitely get her back to his place for coffee.

  Whilst the young woman was in the toilets she got out her mobile phone and set its alarm. A few short moments later she’d made her way back to the table Greg Smith was sitting at and sat down. “Nice to meet you, Greg,” she said taking up the conversation from where it had been left. “Would you do me a little favour then?” she asked smiling coyly at him.

  “Of course. Just name it.”

  “It's a bit awkward,” she said, lowering her eyes slightly.

  “No problem, I deal with awkward every day,” Greg said, thinking that this was the route to his final goal.

  “Well… if you’re sure.”

  “Of course I'm sure. You can always trust an accountant,” Greg winked and she smiled again.

  “I have a half-sister and I've only just found out where she works and I think you can help me.”

  “Go on,” Greg said more than intrigued.

  “I believe you know her and if you could give her this message, when she's outside of work I would appreciate it. I wouldn't like to think that anything I do stops her from concentrating on her job. I know I wouldn't like to be distracted while I'm at work. If you could do this I would be eternally grateful,” the young woman said winking subtly at Greg as she uttered the last two words. The young woman pulled an envelope from her purse and handed it to Greg. “Can you give this to Mandy?” she asked.

  “Of course I can do that,” Greg replied, takin
g the envelope, knowing he had closed the deal. “I have one question though.”

  The woman looked perturbed for just a second before smiling and asking; “What's that then?”

  “Do you know if you can accompany me to my work’s twenty-fifth anniversary?”

  The woman relaxed. “I don't know. I have things on for that day, but everything may change by then.” She pulled a scrap of paper from her purse and scribbled on it. “Here's my mobile number. Ring me on the day and I'll tell you if I can or not.”

  Greg took the piece of paper and placed it in his jacket pocket along with the envelope. No sooner than he’d done so the woman's mobile phone started to buzz. She took her phone from her purse and frowned as she looked at it.

  Standing up she said; “Sorry, Greg, I've got to go, an emergency; so my text message tells me. Ring me later.” With that final comment the brown haired woman put on her coat and left Greg sitting at the table with two almost finished glasses of red wine.

  Greg sighed to himself. He'd almost done it; he'd almost pulled a good looking woman.

  Oh well, he thought, the Internet can be very interesting at this time of night.

  He downed the remainder of his wine, put on his coat and left Bar Room Bar for home, very much disappointed.

  Chapter Twenty

  Today was the day and there had been no last minute cancellations, so he got ready. Fully suited and booted Janus Malik phoned the local cab company; “Can you pick me up at six o'clock, I'll be going to Leigh station to catch a train.” He added the bit about the train to make sure the cab company understood the reasoning behind the specific time he’d mentioned.

  The cab turned up exactly on time and he was taken to Leigh station. After paying the cab driver he bought his train ticket and made his way on to the platform.

  Whilst waiting for the train to appear, he practiced answers to questions he hoped he would be asked by the TV executives and publishers that would undoubtedly be at the R.J. Publishing’s anniversary dinner.

  Why did you decide to go into the history behind this haunting? He imagined being asked, he certainly wasn’t going to say that it was only because he needed to bulk up the account of Royce’s haunting.

  It’s because, in the main, writers that cover the area I work in don’t usually consider that the personal history behind the research they perform is interesting, whereas I do. He answered the imagined question.

  The fifty minute train journey passed quickly as Janus invented and responded to as many questions he thought he could be asked.

  Leaving Fenchurch Street station Janus got into one of the waiting cabs and instructed the driver to take him to 48 Museum Street, the offices of Richard Jameson Publishing.

  As they pulled up outside the R.J. Publishing premises the fact that there was something going on could not be mistaken, the entrance to the six story building was lit up by a multitude of coloured lights, but not too many.

  “Twelve pounds exactly, sir,” the cab driver told Janus. Janus handed him some notes. “Keep the change.”

  “Thank you very much, sir,” the cabby replied more than happy with his fare.

  Janus entered the offices of Jameson's Publishing and Mandy greeted him.

  “How are you, Mr Malik?”

  “Good. How's the party doing?”

  “You're a bit early, but there are a few people here already.”

  “Are you going to enjoy the champagne tonight?”

  Mandy blushed. “Mr Malik, I hope you’re not insinuating that I had too much at the last anniversary.”

  “Me? Would I ever do a thing like that?” Janus smiled at the young receptionist.

  “Being you, Mr Malik… I think you would,” Mandy finished that particular reference quickly. “Good news about your book isn’t it?”

  “I think I've been lucky this time. Will we be expecting any important people tonight?”

  “I think we will, Mr Malik,…,”

  “Janus, please, Mandy.”

  “Okay. Janus. I think we will, the guest list is quite a read.”

  “Well… I hope I don't make a fool of myself. Are you sure you won't be drinking champagne tonight?”

  “Janus, I can assure you that I was fine last year and I will be fine this year. Thank you very much.”

  “Good on you, Mandy. I expect I'll be chatting to you later then.”

  “You will indeed, if Mr Jameson lets me off reception.”

  “I expect to see you in the entertainment suite, I'm sure Richard will let you.” Janus left the foyer and made his way to the third floor offices of the building. Instead of turning right out of the lift to Jameson's office he turned left to the Morecambe suite, where the party was being held.

  He pushed open the double doors of the room and walked in. The left hand side of the room was filled with circular tables each laid to seat six people. On the right was a wooden floored dance area, with a platform for a DJ and next to the platform was the bar. Above the bar was a sign announcing the drinks for the evening were free.

  At the far end of the room was a small group of four people, only one of whom Janus recognised, it was the six foot four, Mr Gregory Smith; Jameson Publishing's financial accountant. Smith looked as suave as ever with his slicked back dark hair, chiselled features, pin stripe suit, and obvious gold cufflinks poking out below the length of his jacket's sleeves. Janus assumed the others were close friends of Gregory or at least worked in the same office.

  Janus walked over to the bar and ordered himself a drink. Taking the glass from the barman he turned around and scanned the room again, there was no sign of either Liz or Richard but he felt sure that they would appear soon.

  He would like to see Liz again as he hadn't seen her since before the accident. Janus wanted to make sure that she was alright and had not suffered much because of the car crash, hoping their close relationship had not been diminished due the extended amount of time they’d been out of contact.

  He supped his pint and watched as more people entered the room. Within an hour the place had taken on the atmosphere of a good party. During this time he’d seen Greg Dyke arrive, Richard Deverell, a controller of children's BBC and Tim Waterstone. After Tim Waterstone's arrival Richard and Liz Jameson entered the suite and instead of making their way to the important party goers they crossed the floor of the function suite making a beeline for Janus.

  ***

  Greg Smith excused himself from the group he had been talking with and made his way to the toilets; he had to check the mirror to make sure he was still looking as good as he thought he should be.

  After he’d freshened up he put his hand into his jacket pocket to check he hadn’t done anything dumb with his wallet and pulled out a small note; it was the one from the previous Saturday, the one he’d been given in Bar Room Bar.

  After that disastrous evening he’d put the whole thing out of his mind and hadn’t worn this particular suit jacket since.

  Leaving the toilets he made his way to the bar’s service hatch and ordered himself another pint, then, after speaking briefly with the barman and handing him a note, he made his way back to his colleagues from the finance department he’d been chatting with earlier.

  Richard took Janus’s hand and shook it. Liz Jameson then leant over, placing a hand on each of Janus’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.

  “How are you Janus?” Liz asked.

  “I'm fine, but how are you? Are you okay?”

  “I'm fine now Janus and that's all that is important,” Liz said.

  As he pulled back from the welcomed embrace Janus noticed a few small scars on Liz's face, even though they were well concealed under her make-up; he guessed it would probably be quite a few more months yet before they were completely healed.

  “I hear your book is doing very well,” Liz continued.

  “It is; all thanks to your husband's many skills,” Janus said.

  “Don't be ridiculous Janus,” Richard interjected, “if you hadn'
t given me something good to work with then you, and I, would be nowhere with it.”

  “I suppose you're right,” Janus conceded, adding, “looks like this is going to be another good shindig.”

  “Of course it is,” Richard said before turning to his wife; “Come on, Liz, we've got to mingle.”

  “Speak to you soon, Janus. Enjoy the party,” Liz said, winking and smiling at him. Richard took his wife to speak to the industry movers and shakers.

  The twenty-fifth anniversary party went on, all the guests sat down to a well-crafted menu and the drinks flowed. Once the meal was finished, and everyone had had the chance to let their dinner digest, the DJ started the music again. Couples got up and began to dance.

  Janus leant himself against the bar, watching the party, his back towards the suite's entrance.

  Mandy walked up to the bar and ordered a large glass of champagne. The barman pointed out a note that had been on the bar for most of the evening, waiting for her to collect it; she picked it up.

  Once she’d got her drink she tapped Janus on the shoulder. He turned around to see Mandy standing next to him.

  “You got let off reception duty then?” Janus said, smiling a little.

  “Yeah, Richard told me to lock the door as everyone on the guest list has arrived.”

  “What did you think of the meal then?” Janus asked the young secretary.

  “Didn't get any of the meal,” Mandy retorted sourly.

  “Don't worry; the buffet is going to be just as good I expect,” Janus said, his last word echoing around the function suite as the music had suddenly died away.

  Janus and Mandy, along with the rest of the party goers, turned towards the DJ's platform to see Richard standing there.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am glad you could all make it tonight,” Richard announced. “I am lucky to be able to say that since I entered into the publishing business, barring one or two slight setbacks, my company has grown and grown. And now I can stand here before you all and say it is one quarter of a century since the day I started out. I have been in business, twenty-five years ladies and gentlemen, each year being as enjoyable as any other with only one exception and that's been in the last two months or so when my poor wife suffered, and survived, a terrible car accident. Suffice to say we're both back on form now and happy that we can take Jameson Publishing further by getting involved in the new media of this twenty-first century whilst still opening our doors to the traditionalists.