Book of Ma'Chi - 09 - Bernard's honey
“Just you wait and see”, said Martin as he pulled on the hand break of the Land Rover in front of the main entrance to the Centre, “the English team is going to be number one by the end of the summer! And your lot will get whitewashed!” Martin grinned broadly as he turned round to his passengers, who were enjoying being teased by this young English lad.
Rajeev sat forward intent on winning the discussion: “No no no no no! Tendulkar will score his hundredth hundred at Lords! You will see! English team is not good enough for beating the number one Indian team in the world!”
Surav put his hand on Rajeev’s shoulder, being the oldest of the four Indians; he often gave himself the role of peacemaker. “Come along, Rajeev! Leave this poor boy alone. Save your enthusiasm for your cricket playing.”
Martin just smiled and got out of the Land Rover to start unloading the luggage, happy at having needled the youngest of the four. He liked nothing better than getting a rise out of Indians on the subject of cricket. He had learned the skill down at the village cricket club with Bishen and Ned, his two Indian teammates.
Jenny, having rushed down the steps, arrived at the Land Rover as the Indians were getting out. “Thank goodness, you’re here! I was getting really worried! What happened?” She put up the umbrellas she was carrying and handed them to the Indians as they huddled together.
Martin didn’t mind the rain. In fact, he enjoyed it. Especially on a football pitch. “The train was late!” he shouted to Jenny through the drenching rain.
The stillness and the calm light in the hallway was shattered as the Indians came up the steps, handing their dripping umbrellas to Jenny, stamping and shaking the moisture off their clothes, chatting to each other at high speed in their local dialect that sounded like an endless string of random notes on a piano.
Jenny tried to get their attention: “Guys, we would like to start at one o’clock…” But her words were lost on them. She was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the noise and energy of the four Indians.
Rajeev was already holding up four room keys like a trophy. The youngest of the four, his bright blue cricket shirt reflected the passion he shared for Indian cricket – a passion close to religion, which surfaced regularly in his daily work as production manager of Curry Inc.
He teased his colleagues that, as they had a room each, he wouldn’t have to put up with their smelly feet and snoring and that he was going off to choose the best room.
Ranjit disagreed strongly and the noise level of their piano-like dialect increased as he started a mock fight to get the keys back. Ranjit was the biggest of the four men. Over his prime in cricket terms, at forty-one, his physical presence was still that of the alpha male. As the leader, he wasn’t about to let Rajeev get the best room.
Jenny just stared helplessly, not understanding the string of vulgarities in the high-speed exchange. She could only stare as the large form of Ranjit performed a basketball like arm waggling defence to prevent Rajeev passing the keys to Surav.
Surav, the smallest and roundest of the four, despite his begin the oldest, was always up for a laugh. His high-pitched laughter was infectious and soon the three of them were giggling like teenage girls.
Suddenly Ranjit stopped. “I’m hungry”, he declared in English, “Anshul, be a good fellow and go find us some food.”
Anshul looked around to locate the source of food. The most anonymous of the four, he passed unseen in most circumstances. Although he was unable to intervene in the jollity of the three others, he disapproved quietly of this unruly behaviour. Happy that they had stopped, and happy that he had a task to do, he saw the dining room sign and asked Jenny: “Is this the way to the kitchen?”
Detective Inspector James Tomlinson clicked on the pictures enclosed in the mail he had read three times in the last ten minutes. It was his habit to read things three times. “It enables my brain to function to its full capacity”, is how he often described the habit to his colleagues. The mail was from Rob Stevens, who signed himself off as a freelance investigative journalist.
“Thanks Jamie”, he said to the young intern across the desk, as he saw her e-mail arrive in his inbox, but his attention was immediately taken by the two photos that had opened on his screen. He looked from the one to the other and back repeatedly, his mind racing to process the implications of what he saw.
Jamie looked up at the now thinning fair haired face across the desk, wondering what had absorbed his attention so totally. She was getting used to his quirkiness. At first, when she had been told she would be working with D.I.T., she had been confused by the nudges and whispering that had gone on whenever his name was mentioned. Over the past four months, her respect for his record of solving crime was turning to a liking of this einselgänger. The man behind the myth turned out to be a dedicated non-conforming warm-hearted bear. She sensed that his logical thinking was a refuge away from the confusion of emotions, not that any of this had been discussed between them. Their conversations were strictly professional.
“Are you feeling okay?” she asked the transfixed figure opposite her, who didn’t move.
Her curiosity got the better of her and she stood up and moved around to this shoulder, to look at the screen. “What’s the significance of that box?”, she asked, “you’ve been looking at it for five minutes…”
“Mmm…”, he murmured, “that’s the point. Is it one and the same box?”
“The black and white picture is a bit fuzzy, but it certainly looks the same. Look at the white bits on the lid here”, she pointed at the screen. “They could easily be those white elephant heads”, she pointed to the other picture of a box in a labelled evidence bag, lying next to a measuring stick.
She went back to her side of the double desks and sat down thoughtfully.
“The guy in the photo is the guy you asked me to dig out the file on, isn’t it?”
D.I.T. didn’t respond. He’d gone back to his thoughts.
“Do you mind if I look at the file I just sent you?” she asked.
She took his grunt to be a “yes” and opened up the file. She noticed the date it had been created wasn’t the same as the date it had been saved into Scotland Yard’s CFR database. More than a year had elapsed since its creation and it being logged into the CFR.
“Why is the date different?” she asked.
D.I.T. looked up quizzically: “Mmm?”
“Fourteen months went by before the folder was logged into the CFR?”, she explained.
“Oh yes, that’s normal”, D.I.T. replied, “the case file was started in Singapore in 2007. It only got here when the Singaporean police requested our help to investigate one of the main suspects, who was British and back in the UK.”
“Bernard Lawler”, she read aloud from the file, “born October the fifth, 1949 in Croydon, South London.”
She went quiet as she scrolled through the file. “Wow, what a story. This guy has some history”, she said, more to herself than to D.I.T. “Law graduate, OTC, Army officer, international law firm, global pharmaceutical lobbyist, high powered consultancy and now… The Centre for New Equilibrium?” her voice questioned as she looked up again at D.I.T.
“I interviewed him three years ago”, D.I.T. offered. “Despite his high powered CV, he struck me as more of a hippie type with his pony tail and loose clothes. That’s what I remember”, he said, looking through Jamie as he reconstructed the interview in his analytical mind. “The paradox of the pony-tail on a big guy with lots of physical presence and energy and a mind like a whip.”
Jamie shook her head, to indicate she didn’t know what he meant. D.I.T. looked back at her and narrowed his eyes, remembering. “You know, the type of guy that is in complete control of what he says, who keeps his thoughts well out of sight and who gives you the impression of always being two steps ahead of you.”
“That’s quite a compliment, coming from you”, Jamie smiled.
“Huh!”
“What is he suspected of?” Jamie asked, working hard to keep the conversation going as D.I.T. lapsed back into his thoughts.
“Oh, murdering a Chinese banker”, he said without looking up, “but the case wasn’t proved. Not enough evidence to get a conviction. So how did this bloody journalist get a picture of Singapore police evidence?”
“But what’s the significance of the photo?” asked Jamie.
“Chief Kshanto presents Bernard Lawler with a ceremonial Zehutian box in thanks for Branching Pharma's help in curing a Phthiriasis epidemic”, D.I.T. read out the caption under the photo. “From the Branching Pharma news magazine, march 1986.”
“What was the name of the box?” Jamie asked, opening up a Google page.
“Zehutian”, he said and then spelled out the letters.
“Only one hundred and eighty pages found…”, Jamie said, picking up speed as she clicked through the different Google references.
“Zehutian boxes and artifacts”, she read out loud, and continued reading to herself.
“Hey listen to this!”, she said, waiving her hand to catch D.I.T.’s attention. He looked up as she continued: “All of the thirty-three known types of Zehutian boxes, or Archae Zehutiae, are said to have magical powers when the specific artifact for which the arc was designed are placed inside it. It is claimed by some that Pandora's box, the Arc of the Covenant and the Holy Grail are three of the thirty-three types. Few of these arcs or boxes are on public display. Most of them are thought to be objects of worship for secret, occult type sects. The last box that was publicly auctioned by Christies in Sydney, was an empty wooden box with intricate Arabic pattern inlay on both the outside and the inside. It was sold for two million Australian Dollars to an unnamed buyer."
Jamie looked up, flushed with her success. "That's worth killing for!"
D.I.T. cut short her jubilation: "If you're thinking that Lawler killed the banker for his box, then why was the box left on the desk of the banker? No. What this photo does, is it puts this box in Lawler's possession back in 1986. How it got to the banker's desk, is worth a visit!"
“How’s your first day been?” Bernard said smiling, “Do you want a cup of English tea?” He emphasised the word “English” with irony.
“I’d love one, thank you, do you have any honey?” Jenny replied, “today’s been rather difficult…”, she paused as she sat down in a visitors chair at his desk.
“Oh?”
Bernard raised his eyebrows. Jenny had become used to his hearing the unsaid. She didn’t know where to start. Part of her just wanted to reconnect with the Bernard she had met on the course. Their friendship had been growing slowly in the past few months and she had been looking forward to coming to the Centre. Part of her knew that Lizzie’s panic about Bernard was dangerous if it got out of hand, and somewhere she knew this issue had to be addressed, but she didn’t know how to approach it. Her professional self wanted to discuss the whole Homefoods situation, but she just didn’t feel like going down that road straight away.
Bernard busied himself making the tea out in the kitchen. Coming back into his office, he couldn’t help noticing Jenny’s unbuttoned cleavage inside the stylishly cut dark blue Italian shirt she was wearing. He felt her see him looking and he looked her quickly in the eye, knowing that she had caught him looking.
Bernard took the cups and saucers off the tray he’d been carrying and gave one to Jenny. He put the open pot of honey on the table. It had a wooden honey stick poking straight up out of the pot.
“We were doing really well, until the latecomers arrived”, she said quickly, covering the moment, “and then things started to slip.” Her hand moved discretely to pull the unbuttoned part of her shirt together.
“What slipped exactly?” Bernard asked, smiling.
Jenny looked thoughtfully into her cup and tried to pull the stick from the honey pot.
“The issue has been around for some time but it’s never really been made explicit”, she mused. The stick came out with a plop.
“Putting honey in tea is a waste of good honey”, Bernard chided, watching her gentle handling of the stick. “So here we have a non-explicit issue, do we?” asked Bernard, his blue eyes full of mischief, penetrating the gloom in the office.
Jenny examined the end of the stick where very little honey had been removed from the pot. “Well, we knew that Curry Inc. had been bought out by Rochdale foods eighteen months ago when we went into the deal with them. It’s difficult to determine if Graham was hiding the issues at Inc or if he simply didn’t see them.”
“Graham is the MD of Rochdale Foods, isn’t he? Wouldn’t you like a spoon for that honey?”
“Yes. It’s a bit solid. Yes he is. Our merger, with Rochdale Foods, has been good, a real meeting of minds. We should move into the new HomeFoods offices in Swinton by the start of the summer.”
“It’s hard because it’s fruit blossom honey.” Bernard’s eyes were still smiling as he enjoyed the conversation.
Jenny held the honey stick in one hand and started gently opening a hole in the honey with the spoon in the other hand.
“Curry Inc. are flatly refusing to move to Swinton. Admittedly they have the furthest to come from Leeds, but the offices, factory and warehouse have been built to take the whole of Rochdale foods, including Curry Inc.”, she paused to lick the honey stick.
“Why is that a problem? Don’t put that stick back in the jar, will you?”
“No, of course not. It’s too solid to use the stick, but it’s rather delicious. Is it yours?” Jenny was surprised to see the brightness of Bernard’s eyes as they met when she looked up from the honey pot. She quickly went back to softening the honey with the spoon.
“Yes, of course! It’s my bees’ last years spring honey. Keep going!”
Without looking up, she continued working on the honey: “Part of the deal is reducing costs and if Curry Inc. stay in Leeds, they will be incurring costs in duplicate which would be saved if they came to Swinton.”
When Jenny had enlarged the hole in the honey, she stirred her tea with the nectar laden spoon, making sure the hot liquid didn’t come over the edge of her cup. Concentrating on her tea, she continued: “And then there’s the whole communication question, life is difficult enough with these guys in Leeds.”
Jenny took the clean spoon out of the tea and this time, with a hot spoon, the hole in the honey melted quicker. She sat up in her chair, stirring the honey a little faster. Her words came faster too: “by coming to Swinton we hoped that the communication lines would have improved. Today they are weak and by staying in Leeds, on their island, things are not going to get better.”
Bernard didn’t take his eyes off her, sipping his tea with two hands on the cup. “It’s okay to drink now. Go a bit deeper into the relationships involved?”
Jenny took her first sip of tea: “Mmm. Wonderful…”
With a short sigh, she continued: “Well, the guys from Leeds talk about us not understanding them. They perceive that all we do is push them around and get them to do things they don’t want to. I hope that by coming here, we will be able to get to know each other better.”
“Well, you’re right there! Good relationships make for good sex!”
Jenny spluttered in her tea, laughing out loud at Bernard’s thrusting joke. It took her a while to stop laughing, not helped by Bernard’s contagious laughter, which just kept the moment going.
Seeing her looking for a handkerchief, Bernard passed her a roll of kitchen paper, to wipe away the tears of enjoyment.
“Oh, Bernard, you’re such an idiot!” she sighed, wiping away the tears.
Bernard grinned, enjoying the moment: “shades of our systemic training course.” He used the paper towel to mop up the sprayed droplets on the table.
Jenny picked up the pot of honey to make space for him to wipe up and said: “You know, it’s really good! Can I have a pot to take home?”
Bernard threw the wet paper in the bin, tucked in his shirt tail and said: “Of course. A big one or a small one?”, going to the cupboard at the far end of the kitchen.
“A big one please?”
Bernard came back to the table, cradling five honey pots, all with different coloured honey.
“What’s the difference between the white one and the golden one?“
“Spring and summer! Have one of each!”, he said, pushing them towards her. “Where were we?”
“Yes… So, this afternoon, due to ‘urgent matters’ the Indians couldn’t arrive until lunchtime today, which ended up being more like one thirty. When they walked in the conference room, they looked like thunder, apparently ready for battle and not taking prisoners.”
Jenny drained what was left in her cup and turned it round and round on the saucer with her finger.
“Do you want a top-up? Who are these Indians?”
“No, thank you. Ranjit and Rajeev are the leaders. Ranjit is the local MD and Rajeev is head of production in Leeds. Ranjit’s uncle, who left to go back to India when he sold up, created the company thirty years ago.”
“Has this relationship ever worked?”, asked Bernard.
“I don’t know”, she replied, thoughtfully, “it’s only recently that we’ve got involved with them. They were always Graham’s concern, it’s only their refusal to move to Swinton that has brought things to our attention.”
“That’s why you brought in Ekantika?”, he asked.
“Exactly, she has all the credentials! She comes from a wealthy Indian family, she went to finishing school in England, she joined McKenzie straight from university, spanning twenty years in various countries. Now she’s self employed. I met her at a conference somewhere, and thought that she might be able to be the catalyst that helps resolve the problem.”
Bernard nodded thoughtfully. “What is Graham’s relationship with the Indians?”
Jenny put down her empty cup thoughtfully, “You’re right”, she said, “it’s the key relationship here. And do you know? I’m not sure Graham has done a very good job with it. He can be a bit of a racist.”
“Well, you’re in the right place. It will all come out in the wash”, he smiled.
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This is the ninth chapter from the Book of Ma'Chi