Page 27 of The Tapes
Before I close down my computer, I hit the home button, where the browser loads the company website. Mark is front and centre, leaning on the back of a van with a slogan saying the work is 100% guaranteed. In all the time I’ve worked for him, I’ve never quite figured out what that means, considering there’s usually at least one customer dispute ongoing, and never been a mention of any work assurance.
I click through to the owner section, which never fails to make me laugh. Mark hired a professional photographer to take a series of pictures with him dressed in his work suit for half the shoot; and landscaping work gear for the rest. There’s a photo with him in his suit, standing in that politician power pose: legs too far apart, like he’s struggling for a poo. He’s standing tall with his arms folded in another; awkwardly holding a rake in a third.
Mark left school with no qualifications and, if a person didn’t already know that, he’d make sure to tell them within three minutes of meeting. There’s a lengthy bio on the website.
Mark Dixon is one of life’s success stories. Self-made and self-effacing, Mark is a dreamer, who started his burgeoning career on a production line at Prince Industries. Having immediately shown his worth, Mark quickly rose to become manager. He soon realised he had the ambition, work ethic, and intelligence to start his own business. For some, this might have been a risk – but that is how Mark came to start the landscaping company entirely by himself. From only one employee, he now has thirty full-time staff, plus contractors, who rely on him for their livelihoods.
Well, someone invested in a thesaurus.
There’s plenty more than that. Mark is one of those who, at his core, probably is impressive. Except, because he can’t stop wanging on about himself, he manages to annoy and upset essentially everyone that ever comes across him.
It doesn’t help that he’ll frequently tell his employees that they only have a job because of him.
Mark blusters into the office and does a double take when he sees me. ‘Didn’t think you were coming back,’ he says.
‘The police kept me a while.’
Mark chews the inside of his mouth, unconvinced. ‘Can you come in fifteen minutes early tomorrow?’ he asks.
‘Is everything all right?’
There’s a leer that reminds me of my brother. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’
‘I’ve got some time now…?’
It gets a shake of the head. ‘Not everything’s about you, Eve. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
He stomps to his office and closes the door – and I know it won’t be a fun morning. Whatever it is could’ve been said now, but this is how Mark manages people. He wants his employees to fall out and fight for his favour. He wants people like me to spend a night stewing.
I finally log out of the system, then wait a minute because Mark is on the phone in his office, arguing with someone that sounds like a customer. No good will come of this, so I head out, waving goodbye to Dina, who’s unloading a van, then head out to the road.
The office is a little out of town, buried on one of those soulless trading estates. I head past a row of cars, trying to remember where I parked, before spotting my car underneath a lamp post on the other side of the road.
Except, as I start to cross, a man gets out of the vehicle parked directly behind. He’s tall and broad; shoulders like a rugby player, neck the same width as his head.
I know him, of course – because he’s a police officer.
FOURTEEN
The one saving grace for the trading estate, perhaps, is the fact that a pub sits just off the roundabout on the way in and out. There’s a large play area to the side and an even larger beer garden at the back. The food is bearable but cheap and it’s packed at the weekends.
I’ve been brought to the pub as a test, of course – not that he’d ever say as much.
Kieron Parris sits across from me in the garden, partially shaded by a parasol, cradling a Guinness as I eye the lemonade he bought for me. There’s too much ice and I never really trust anywhere that dumps so much in a single glass. Might as well just order water.
‘Guinness Zero,’ Kieron says, raising his glass. ‘Tastes just like the real stuff.’
I clink his glass with mine and we each take a sip, even though I don’t want to be here.
‘Nicola talked to you then,’ I say.
Nicola’s father has another sip of the Guinness, leaving a slim line of foam on his top lip that he licks away. This is what I feared when I was in Nicola’s kitchen after the discovery of the gunyesterday. Possibly even from lunch today. Too many gossips in that family, even if one of them is my friend.
No.
Her dad is aretiredpolice officer. A chief inspector at that. I don’t know all the ranks but I know he was high up.
‘She did,’ Kieron says. ‘But before any of that, I should probably apologise on behalf of my wife. I believe she was quite rude to you at lunch.’
