The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2862 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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I mentioned Andy Bond’s visit to everyone at dinner none of them seemed especially concerned assuming that he wouldn’t bother us. I had more or less the same feeling but there was just a little niggle in the back of my mind that wouldn’t let me discount him as a threat just yet.

Danny followed me down to my study. “Have you spoken to him?”

“Uh—sort of.”

“So if I say sort of no, then we’re finished with the matter.”

“No, Mummy, you said I could go.”

“I did no such thing, I said if I had more information, I might let you go. You haven’t provided any. I don’t even know what his name is.”

“Peter.”

“Peter what?”

“Dunno his surname.”

“Where’s the party?”

“He doesn’t know the address, his friend is going to take us in his car.”

“The friend has a car or his parents?”

“He didn’t say.”

“No, you can’t go.”

“Why not—you never let me do nuthin.”

“That’s why I took you to Reading last weekend and your dad came and got you. We never do anything for you.”

“Yeah but they’re more repressed than the bloody nuns, and the whole lot of us are women. I’m not lezzie, so what fun that is, mind you Susan Old from Yorkshire is, she an’ Lesley Barter went off together hand in hand to lots of oohs and ahs. I think one or two of the others are as well.”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really, but it’s not for me, having gone to the bother of getting a fanny I might as well use it, mightn’t I?”

“I’d wait a while if I were you, you may not be able to get pregnant but you can still get some pretty horrible diseases.”

“What you mean any babies I have will have tiny brains?”

“Very funny, not. No, certain types of hepatitis or even HIV.”

“Okay, so I won’t do sex—that good enough?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You are a Cameron.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“It means a lot to me.”

“Well you married into it.”

“You asked to change your name on adoption, so we did. The downside of such an illustrious name, is that you’re actually abduction material.”

“Wassat supposed to mean?”

“It means because Daddy is rather wealthy you could be abducted for money. “

She burst out laughing. “He doesn’t know my surname so what’s he want to abduct me for?”

“That’s all you know, he could be playing you along and for instance he could be older than you think or be the bait to get you to leave the house. In two or three hours you could be out of the country.”

“Yeah sure to be sold to some Arab prince as his concubine—save it, Mum, you’re just paranoid.”

“You’re not going and that’s final.”

“I know, I don’t wanna live in a tent and eat Turkish delight for the rest of my life.” She waltzed off while I was trying to think what she was on about, I think it was some adverts for the sweet that used to be on telly. If I’m too young to have seen them, how would she have?

It’s crazy, I expect her to have a modicum of knowledge about use of English and grammar. It seems she doesn’t, despite the fees I pay, but she knows about an ancient advert on the telly—if she spent as much time on her English as she does on youtube—the reverse might become true.

I heard that Cadbury’s were going to reuse the Milk Tray Man in a series of mini film adverts. The new man in the black polo neck is a fireman and model. Oh well, the adverts will be more interesting than the product by the sound of it. “All because the lady loves Milk Tray,” ha ha, in my case it had better be Lindor or don’t bother swimming the moat or climbing up the castle wall because bloody Milk Tray just won’t cut it.

My mobile rang with James on the end of it. “Yes, slave?”

“Ooh don’t, you made me break out in goosebumps.”

“James, stop messing about, have you got anything or not?” Silly thing to say, if he had nothing he’d hardly be ringing would he?

“He covers his tracks well.”

“Just as well it’s not me who’s tracking him then.” Actually I was quite good at fieldcraft and possibly would be able to track him, but no need to let him know that is there?

“No I meant electronically, I’ve had one hell of a job. I started off with the newspaper archives, as they often give a pile of leads to follow, names and places as well as dates. There are no stories about him until he arrives at your university where he’s described as a successful business man.”

“Did you try the oil business?” I asked throwing him a lifeline.

“Yes, I had some recollection of his name linked to Africa, so I started on some of their newspaper archives. There’s nothing. Either my memory is at fault or he’s somehow managed to delete his stories from the press all over the world. I even searched US papers—nothing. No one appears to have heard of him, so how can he be a successful business man?”

“Is it possible to do that—don’t they have firewalls and things?”

“If you pay someone on the inside, firewalls are irrelevant. Oil usually means Nigeria but their archives didn’t exist before two years ago—some virus destroyed them.”

“That’s useful and convenient, isn’t it?” I wonder if it works on youtube—nah, that’s now a memorial to Spike.

“Very. I rang a few contacts I’ve made in South Africa and they asked around. No one remembered anything at all.”

“That’s bizarre, even I recall something about an explosion that killed dozens of workers and his name was mentioned as being the director responsible for safety. The same happened about five years before in Venezuela or Mexico and he was the director of engineering and safety then. I’m sure that’s what happened.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before? It’s taken me all day to find that out—I found some guy at BP a sort of archivist and he told me that. He only keeps small records of other companies but he promised to fax me over some news reports he had on file.”

“And?”

“They don’t say much as he advised beforehand. The first incident was Venezuela in 2005, a drill rig blew up and killed seven of the crew and injured half a dozen more. He was working for some Chinese company operating out of Hong Kong. He was named as the director of operations but sidestepped the issue and some poor Mexican bloke was found guilty but mysteriously died while in custody. Left a suicide note but his wife said it wasn’t his writing.”

“Fascinating.”

“Then in July 2011 there was an explosion in Nigeria in one of their oilfields which was originally thought to be caused by poor safety but then later changed to say definitely that it was Boko Haram or whatever they’re called—and like good publicity seeking terrorists, they took the credit or blame depending on whose side you’re on.”

“So he conveniently disappeared and turned up here?”

“There were rumours that he either blackmailed his way into a fortune or stole it and went into some sort of investment group or hedgefund and made a reasonable return on his investments.”

“Rumours don’t give us much to work with.”

“There is another.”

“Don’t tell me he’s really Jack the Ripper.”

“Uh no, but there were stories about him having a liking for underage girls.”

“So how in hell’s name did he get this job?”

“I have no idea.”

Oh boy, we have a bigger creep than I first thought, if what James says is true but proving it is an entirely different matter.