The Concrete Ceiling Read online

  The Concrete Ceiling

  Peter Rowlands

  Topham Publishing

  The Concrete Ceiling

  © Peter Rowlands 2019. All rights reserved.

  Topham Publishing, London

  www.tophampublishing.com

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  Peter Rowlands has asserted his right under the Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. Apart from public figures, who are occasionally mentioned contextually, all characters are imaginary, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Certain real organisations and locations are mentioned, but all characters, events and activities relating to them are entirely fictitious.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, existing or yet to be invented, whether printed, digital or analogue, or be transmitted in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical, wireless, optical or using voice or data recording, save in the form of short extracts for review, without the express written permission of the author.

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  To Fleur as always, with thanks for your undiminished support, and to all the book promotion services that have helped me find readers for my work

  Table of contents

  The Concrete Ceiling

  Table of contents

  Author’s note

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Part 2

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Part 3

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Author’s note and acknowledgements

  About the author

  Author’s note

  The Concrete Ceiling works as a stand-alone novel, but it is the fourth book in the Mike Stanhope Mysteries series, and from the outset it contains spoilers regarding events in the preceding novels – especially those of the third book, Denial of Credit. You might prefer to start reading there, or with the first book in the series, Alternative Outcome. Click here to visit my author page on Amazon, where all the books in the series are listed.

  Part 1

  London

  Chapter 1

  “Mike! You’re there! I tried you an hour ago, but your number was unobtainable. I wondered if you’d changed your phone.”

  It was Samantha. My heart gave a lurch at the sound of her voice. We hadn’t been in touch for well over a year, but in that instant I knew she’d never really left my mind.

  I’d just arrived back at my London flat after a five-hour drive from the West Country. I was ready to collapse over a beer, but hearing Sam had shaken me back to full alert. I kicked the front door shut behind me. Tentatively I said, “Sam.”

  “That’s me.”

  I marvelled at the familiar sound of her voice: mid-pitched, musical, middle class, but with faint Gloucestershire overtones. It was hard to believe it was so long since I’d last heard it.

  I told her, “An hour ago I was doing battle with the M4 motorway. There must have been a glitch in the connection.”

  “So where are you now?”

  “London. Camden Town. I’m renting a flat here.”

  “What happened to Cornwall?”

  “I’ve just come from there. I still have my flat in Truro. I’ve just been down there to check it over. But lately I’ve been spending a lot of time here. I’ve got this flat practically rent-free.”

  “Lucky you.”

  She left a pause, and I sensed a change of mood. She said, “So what do you think of my news?”

  “What news?”

  “Didn’t you get the invite?”

  “I haven’t checked my email since this morning.”

  “No, it was a physical invitation, in an envelope. Remember those?”

  “Ah, I see. Hang on.” I picked up my computer case and took it over to the sofa, where I sat down heavily. “I’m a bit behind with my snail mail. When was it sent?” I pulled a sheaf of half a dozen envelopes out of the case and sifted through them.

  “A few days ago.”

  “It might be here. I grabbed the mail when I came away from Truro. What did it say?”

  “You should read it, then you’ll know.”

  “Can’t you just tell me?”

  She said nothing, and I glanced at the envelopes in my hand. Immediately one of them stood out from the bank statements and bills: square in shape and made from textured, cream-coloured paper.

  “I think I’ve got it here. Bear with me.” I put the phone down, tore open the envelope and pulled out a stiff white card with an irregular gilt border and a formal message in a looping, cursive typeface. I had to read the words about three times before I took them in.

  You are cordially invited to a party to celebrate the engagement of Mr Nicholas Hathaway and Miss Samantha Adams

  I picked up the phone. “You’re getting married?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  It felt like a jab in the gut. I’d nearly become involved with Samantha a year or so before, but my commitment to my girlfriend Ashley had prevented it, and Sam and I had fallen out of touch. I’d been trying to convince myself ever since that she no longer mattered to me.

  Now I was doubting those noble thoughts. How could Sam meet, fall in love with and now plan to marry someone else so soon after we’d nearly got it together? And how could she add insult to injury by invitin
g me to celebrate this unwelcome turn?

  I heard myself saying, “What does this mean?”

  “Oh, you know, we exchange rings and say formal stuff, then we have to sign something. Everybody applauds, and we drive off into the sunset.”

  I was supposed to laugh, but I couldn’t. I said, “You didn’t strike me as someone in a rush to be married.”

  “I wasn’t. I’m not. It just sort of happened.”

  “Sort of happened?”

  “Nick’s like that. Impulsive. One day he said, ‘Why not?’ and I couldn’t think of any good reason.” She paused. “You weren’t available, so I thought, might as well go for it.”

  She almost succeeded in carrying off this piece of studied flippancy, but not quite. Our physical involvement had never progressed beyond a single wild embrace, but I suspected neither of us would ever forget it.

  “So when’s the happy day?”

  “Next spring. When the weather’s getting warmer.”

  “You hope.”

  “You’ll like Nick. He’s a good person.”

  I decided to reserve judgement. I said, “How long have you known him?”

  “A few months. It’s been a whirlwind kind of a thing.”

  “I can see that.”

  “So are you coming? You and Ashley, I mean. I didn’t get to meet her before.”

  “To your wedding? I don’t know.”

  “No! To the party. You must. We’re having a live band, and I’ve ordered sunshine.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Ashley’s in the US at the moment. She’s on secondment, for work. She’s already been there for six months.”

  Quietly Sam said, “I didn’t know that.”

  Her understatement spoke volumes. She was wondering if Ashley and I were drifting apart, and if so, whether she’d misjudged my feelings for her. But if she was getting married, why should that matter?

  Trying to lighten the tone, I said, “How’s business?” Sam designed craft jewellery, which she and her business partner Veronica sold on street markets around the south of England.

  “Not bad – but I might have to rethink my role. Depends how I can fit it round married life.”

  “You should keep doing what’s right for you.”

  Perhaps understandably, Sam said nothing in response to that, then after a moment she asked, “What about you? You told me you were going to have another try as a self-published author.”

  “As it happens, I’m half-way through writing my second book. But I’m also planning on giving a marketing push to the first one. Might as well see if it has some more mileage in it.”

  “I enjoyed it.”

  “I didn’t even know you’d read it.”

  “Ha. There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  I wasn’t sure how to read that comment. I said, “So are you keeping your name?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You once told me you were really proud of your full name. Samantha Adams – five vowels, and all of them the letter A. You said you would keep your surname if you ever got married.”

  “Ah, but here’s the magic – I’m upgrading! Nick’s surname has an extra A. Hathaway. Now I’ll have six As.”

  I smiled to myself in wonder. “So that’s his appeal.”

  She ignored this. “Also, Nick’s a bit old-fashioned. I think he likes the idea of there being a Mrs Hathaway.”

  “Very Shakespearean.”

  Another pause, then she said, “So shall I put you down as a yes? I would really like you to come if you can.” I felt there was an earnestness in her plea.

  “OK, you’ve twisted my arm. I’ll send you a proper reply.”

  “An email will do.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  As we ended the call it occurred to me that I hadn’t learned anything about the unknown Nick Hathaway, other than that he was impulsive, and possibly a little controlling. Or was that just sour grapes on my part? Was I simply looking for reasons to dislike him? I told myself I had to reserve judgement. I would find out the truth soon enough.

  Chapter 2

  “We need more drama.” Guy Dereham stared at me with a challenge in his eyes.

  I looked up from my desk. “Sorry?”

  “You’re supposed to be a shit-hot investigative reporter. Where are the exclusives? Where’s that sensationalist stuff you used to write in the old days?”

  I searched his face for traces of humour, but saw none. After more than a year of working for Guy’s news web site, I still found him an enigma. Fair-haired, smooth-skinned and nearly always tanned, he had a perpetually youthful aura, but there was something indefinably decadent about him, and his deep-set eyes gave him a look of constant suspicion.

  I said, “That was a long time ago, Guy. I’m a generalist now. In any case, I thought my role here was to keep the web site filled with news. You said my priority was to turn the dross into purple prose.”

  “Ah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I’m taking on a new guy, Piers. He’s young but he’s keen. He’ll be based in the office full time.”

  His comment was pointed; he was drawing attention to the fact that I only spent a day a week working there, and even that was on sufferance. The rest of my work for Guy was conducted remotely from Camden Town or Cornwall.

  Guy was saying, “Piers will be handling some of the routine stuff you’ve been doing.” He gave me a curt smile. “It’s trivial work really, isn’t it – processing press releases and all that? A bit below your competence level.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t mind doing it. Someone has to.”

  “I didn’t take you on just to keep things ticking over.”

  I had no answer to that.

  “So I was hoping you could focus more on the in-depth stuff – analysis, exposés, dishing the dirt, that kind of thing. We need differentiation – that’s what our advertisers tell us. So that’s what we have to deliver.”

  This was bad news on several levels. Not only was Guy pushing me back towards a life I thought I’d left behind: difficult, stressful and often unrewarding. By implication he was also suggesting that if I wasn’t up to it, I might not have a job with him at all. Yet I wasn’t sure I had the stomach any more for the combative writing I’d done in the past.

  Lately Guy had become my de facto boss. Smart Headings, his web-based logistics journal and newsletter, was doing surprisingly well, and unlike many of my former customers he still seemed happy to employ me. I should be grateful, but dishing the dirt was not what I’d signed up for.

  “I could give it a try,” I conceded warily, “but the kind of material you’re talking about doesn’t just fly in the window of its own accord. It takes time and long hours of research. And it’s irregular. I can’t promise to deliver a scoop for you every Monday morning.”

  He gave me one of his penetrating stares. “That’s why I might have to take you off the flat fee you’re on now, and start paying you per story.”

  So the gloves were off. He was virtually throwing an ultimatum at me.

  I attempted a placatory smile. “I can give it a go, but I’d rather not drop the routine work. It’s often a good starting point for picking up leads.”

  “Just think about it, will you Mike? Piers is starting in a few weeks’ time, and I’ll need to look at budgets.”

  The warning was clear.

  * * *

  As Guy walked away I turned back to my laptop and called up the screen I’d been looking at when he’d approached: a list of web sites I thought I might use to promote my book.

  This was my Plan B. In terms of earning potential the book hardly ranked alongside Smart Headings. It hadn’t even crept on to the bottom of the scale. Yet at that moment it felt a lot more appealing. I’d written it three years before in a burst of energy and enthusiasm, fired up by the opportunities opened by the self-publishing revolution. A few readers had actually bought and paid for it, and some had even taken the trouble to give it good revi
ews, but orders had soon declined to a trickle, and my mind had turned elsewhere.

  Until this year.

  It was my girlfriend Ashley who had given me the nudge. Last winter she’d said, “If you think your life in Cornwall is lacking purpose, why don’t you get your book back on track? And when are you going to finish the follow-up?”

  “Who says I think my life is lacking purpose?”

  She’d given me a scolding look. “It’s obvious to everyone but you. I know you’re doing your best to make a home here, but if you’re as happy as you make out, why do you always act as if you’re waiting for something else to happen?”

  I wasn’t about to agree with her, but in my heart I knew she was right. I’d moved from London to her home town of Truro in the trail of our whirlwind romance, and for a while our relationship had been enough to sustain us. But the move had knocked a hole in my freelance career. I’d fallen out with the editor of one of the key publications, and even editors who still liked me seemed to think there was less point in using me now because I was three hundred miles away from the action. My options were dwindling.

  Smart Headings was a different proposition – conceived for the internet age, and as easy to work on from Cornwall as from London: at first, anyway. However, even this had changed. Back in January Guy Dereham had announced that he now expected me to spend at least a day a week working from his office at London Bridge. I was being painted into a corner.

  So I’d turned back to my book. Just think of all the readers out there who might buy it if they only knew about it! I was under no illusions about this; hundreds of self-published books were released every week, and only a tiny handful hit the big time. But why shouldn’t mine be one of them?

  I’d said to Ashley, “If my book was any good, surely it would be a best-seller by now?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know how these things work, but if you ask me there’s no point in waiting around for success to find you. You have to go and look for it.”

  Chapter 3

  “Michael! What can I do for you, mate?”