Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

The downside is, he’s disturbingly honest, and has never been known to tell a lie or get in a fight. At school, he was left well alone from an early age, especially when they saw how much he could lift with one hand. And if anyone gave me grief, all I had to do was mention his name and I got swift apologies and a promise of immunity from the scummies who liked to prey on smaller kids for their lunch money. Not great for my self-esteem, but if you went to the sort of school I went to, you used whatever means you had to keep afloat, even if it was your kid brother.

As the Americans say, go figure.

The Chairman’s office is in a smart, glass-fronted block in the West End, rubbing shoulders with a team of showbiz lawyers on one side and a well-known film company on the other. Like many top crims, the Chairman believes respectability comes from who you know, not what you do.

We troop upstairs with me sandwiched in the middle, through a set of armoured-glass doors into a plush foyer with carpets like a grass savanna. An office at one end has the lights on and the door open.

“Ah, there you are, Stephen,” the Chairman says, like we’re old buddies. His English is faultless. He’s studying some spreadsheets under a desk lamp and hitting the keyboard of a Compaq with quick fingers, like the accountant he’s rumoured to have been before he went sly. “Sit down. Coffee?”

The offer and the first-name familiarity are all part of the game of being in charge. Patrick pours me a coffee from a jug in one corner and hands me the cup. It looks like a thimble in his hand.

“I’d prefer to be home in bed,” I say tiredly. “Without the curbstone for company.”

The Chairman looks up from his figures and seeks out Patrick with a look of reproof. “Say what? Have you been using those things again? Patrick, didn’t I tell you there are people you don’t need them for? Mr. Connelly, here, is one of them.” He shakes his head the way you would with a small child. “You’d better get the door repaired.”

“Okay,” Patrick mutters, totally unconcerned. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“No, you’ll do it now. Wake someone.” He says it nice and soft, while tapping away on the keyboard once more, but there’s suddenly a chill in the air.

Patrick lumbers out, leaving Hooper to watch over me.

“How’s that’s nice brother of yours?” The Chairman sits back and smiles. Like he cares. If he ever met Malcolm, it must have been by accident.

“He’s fine,” I say, and wonder where this is leading. Malcolm doesn’t approve of my life, other than agreeing to the occasional meal round my flat when he’s up in London. He thinks all criminals should be locked up, sometimes me included. It’s not that I do anything overtly illegal, but he thinks anyone who doesn’t use Her Majesty’s Post Office to send letters and stuff must be pulling some serious strokes, and by association, I’m tainted by their guilt.

“Good. And your Auntie Ellen. How’s her husband — is he any better?”

Now I’m seriously worried. Nobody knows about Auntie Ellen or Uncle Howard, for the simple reason that they live down in Devon and I don’t talk about them. A nicer pair of old folks you’ll never meet, and I owe them a lot. They were instrumental in our upbringing after our parents died when Malcolm and I were kids.

“Say again?”

“Oh, come now.” The Chairman picks up a photo from his desk and shows it to me. It’s a shot of a familiar white-haired old lady in her garden, innocently pruning her roses. In the background, made fuzzy by the distance but still recognisable, is the gangly figure of Uncle Howard. I can’t see what he’s doing, but it looks like he’s talking to himself. He does a lot of that, bless him. Early Alzheimer’s, according to the doctors. “I know all about your family, Stephen. Your aunt and your loopy uncle. I make it my business, you know that. It gives me leverage. If I need it.”

The last four words are uttered with meaning, and there’s no misunderstanding; he needs leverage now. It’s still in me to try, though.

“And if I don’t want the job?”

He shrugs and drops the photo in the bin. “Then you’re short one aunt and uncle and the county of Devon is a sadder place.” He picks up a large manilla envelope and flicks it across the desk. “I want that to arrive in Brussels first flight this morning. Kill another passenger for their seat if you have to, but get it there.”

“Why not use Hooper or Patrick?”

He winces with impatience and I get a cool chill across my shoulders. “If I could use them, I would,” he says, as if he’s talking to a particularly dumb child. “I’m using you.”

“For a simple delivery? What’s inside — pictures of the prime minister? Funny money?”