I used to believe in the law until I realized that the people behind it — me and that civil litigator — were just as flawed as the people before it.
I used to believe in myself until I gave an innocent man’s name to a woman who wanted to kill him.
And I used to believe in the healing power of flowers until one unseasonably hot May afternoon, when I learned that even the most fragile blossom can be as potent a weapon as a locked and loaded gun.
Fake
by Iain Rowan
“Chambers, Fraud Squad,” I said, and I flapped my ID wallet open in front of him, not caring whether he looked or not. He didn’t. Mark Rogers stood there, in the middle of his office, hand still raised from when he had marched from behind his desk to ask me what the hell I was doing bursting into his office. He looked at me, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish.
“You must be Mr. Rogers. Time we had a word, I think, Mr. Rogers. A private chat. Or if you like, we could do it out there amongst all of your staff? Or back at the station with me, we do reasonable coffee these days, you know, not like it used to be. Of course, you’d not know, would you, Mr. Rogers? Or would you? Been down the station before? Anyway, your choice. We can do it here, but you have to get the coffee.”
I didn’t give him time to get a word in edgeways, bombarding him with questions while he was still panicking. Standard procedure.
“Whuh — uh, what about — I mean—”
I turned and walked for the door, waving my hand to indicate that he should follow me.
“No! No, I mean, here is fine. Here — I’ll get coffee — Marian makes good coffee — here, please take a seat. I don’t know what this is about, Officer, but I am sure that we can sort it out quickly.”
I turned and walked back to the chair in front of his desk, pulled it out so that it was against one wall, walked behind his desk, and grabbed his deluxe executive swivel chair and wheeled it around the room at speed, nearly running him down with it, making him skip out of the way. I put it next to the other chair. Take him out from behind his desk, take him away from his position of power, his little fortress where he sat safe and smug, hurling arrows down at his staff. Leave him in an unusual place, vulnerable, exposed. I took the swivel chair, left the hard low one for him. Let him have some of his own medicine. He came over, all nerves like a startled deer. Some people are like that with the police, whether they have anything to hide or not. Most of them do have something to hide though, most of them do.
I waved him away from the chair. He stood there, looked confused.
“I think you said something about coffee, Mr. Rogers? Sorry, but I have been doing a lot of talking this morning, making a lot of phone calls about — certain inquiries, checking certain facts.”
“Sorry — coffee — yes.” He walked behind his desk, looking flustered, and picked up his phone. “Marian? Yes, two coffees please. Yes.” He went to put the phone down, but then snatched it back up to his ear. “Marian, you still there? Marian? Yes, yes, it’s still me. Hold all calls, will you — important meeting. No calls until I say. Understand?”
Rogers hung up, reached for his chair, and remembered that it wasn’t there. He stood where he was, rubbing his hands together as if he was washing them. “Coffee won’t be a minute, er, Detective.”
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll wait until it’s here before we start. No sense in being interrupted, and besides, you may not want any of your staff to be overhearing this particular conversation.” Might as well crank the tension a little higher. I swiveled round in the chair, stared out of his big glass windows that overlooked the rest of the staff at their desks, gazing over Mr. Rogers’s little empire. I hummed Puccini to myself as well, making it quite clear to him that we would not proceed until I chose to. I could hear him fidgeting behind me.
The door to the office opened, and I swiveled back to look into the room. A middle-aged woman in a bright floral print dress had brought two cups of coffee in on a tray, with a little milk jug and a bowl of sugar. And if I saw right, a small plate of biscuits. Very nice. She smiled nervously at me, but her attention was really on the chairs. Something unusual was obviously taking place in Mr. Rogers’s room. He had noticed that the rearrangement of the furniture had caught her attention.
“On the desk, Marian, on the desk,” Rogers snapped, and she hurried across, looking like a pet that was used to being kicked. Must be fun working for this man, I thought.
“Thank you — Marian, isn’t it?” I said. “Thank you. And are those biscuits that I see?”
“Yes, there’s bourbons, and there’s custard creams.”
“Marian, you’re a treasure. How long have you worked here?”
I could see that Rogers was itching to get her out of there, but I shot him a warning look and he stood there, impotent.
“Eighteen years now.” She knew straightaway without having to count. “Eighteen years for the company, although not in this building; we only moved in here twelve years ago.”
“A loyal servant.” Time to ratchet the tension again. “And how long have you worked for Mr. Rogers?”
Rogers opened his mouth as if he were about to interrupt, then closed it again. He was jiggling one leg as if a wasp had just flown up his trousers.
“Eight years now.” She knew that straightaway as well. Probably chalked every one of them off on the wall, like a prisoner in a gulag.
“You must know all the secrets here then, nothing’ll get past you.”
Marian laughed nervously, darting glances from Mr. Rogers back to me. Who is this man, I could see her thinking, what can I say that will not get me into trouble. I stood up, nodded to her, and got my coffee, wedging a custard cream into the saucer. “Thanks, Marian.”
“Um yes, that will be all, Marian,” Rogers said, attempting to reassert his authority. “Remember, hold all my calls. I’ve got no appointments this morning, have I?”
“There’s Steven’s appraisal, the work evaluation session you wanted—”
“Cancel them. Both of them.”
“Yes, Mr. Rogers.” She left the room, risking one last curious glance back at me. I sipped at my coffee and dipped my biscuit, not looking at Rogers.
“Right, shall we get on?” I said.
He came over, sat on the chair, muttered something and got up again, walking back over to his desk to get his coffee. When he sat back down again I would have bet that he wished he had not bothered, because when he rested his cup and saucer on his knee the crockery tinkled with the shaking of his leg. He took another sip to disguise his next action, and then with a too-studied casual gesture put the cup down on the floor, as if that was where he had always wanted to keep it.
“How can I help you, Detective?” His voice was full of bonhomie, the concern of a good citizen to help the forces of the law, full of earnest interest. The shake betrayed him though, an unconscious informant. I wondered what his secret really was. It wasn’t sex, he didn’t look the type and I think that Marian would rather have forced her head through the office shredder. Money. He was fiddling something, I could tell from the way that he started when I announced that I was Fraud, an involuntary backwards jerk of the head, a licking of the lips, the way his eyes looked like those of a sheep at the slaughterhouse. Expenses maybe. Or overordering, some scam involving bogus invoices that ended up with payments for goods that were never received to a company that never existed. I had done my research, knew that this company had a reputation for slack accounting, had sat patiently in a pub while an obnoxious man drank the drinks that I bought him and sweated and broke wind and told me about all the dodges he had got up while he had worked there. And mentioned Mr. Rogers, a man who was most certainly up to something, even if no one really knew what.