Free Needing by Sarah Masters Page B

you’ve only just been told. If they find out about the time lapse, we’re fucked.”
    He made the call, was put through to Shields, who never mentioned whether the kids had got to him or not. He wouldn’t want to lose face, but they’d know soon enough. Shields said he’d head over to the field now and asked that Langham report to him once they’d been to Privo.
    Oliver put the radio back on its clip and asked Langham, “Why did Shields ask that you report to him? He’s not above you in command, is he, so…?”
    “Like I said, he wants people in his pocket. He knows I’ll know exactly what he means by telling me to report to him. It’s a game to him, but for fuck’s sake, it’s our damn lives he’s fucking with. Emotions.”
    “Doubt he’d know what they even were, emotions. Don’t reckon he has any. Not loving ones anyway.”
    “You might be right there. Come on, we’re here. Time to question whoever’s in charge of this fucked-up place.”
    Inside the building, Oliver expected to feel some familiarity, but he didn’t. The plants had gone—some soil was still scattered around the base of the pots—and one sofa was missing. He glanced at Langham, who had noted the change too, and they walked up to the desk.
    The receptionist looked at them with fear in her eyes, and her mouth worked like she wanted to tell them something but struggled to get the words out. “C-can I help you?”
    “We need to speak with the owner, the director. The person in charge here.”
    “Mr Jackson isn’t available at the moment. We had a…” She stared ahead at the space where the sofa had been. “An unhappy visitor an hour ago, so Mr Jackson is…indisposed.”
    “Indisposed in what way?” Langham asked, producing his badge. “Is he ill? Not here?”
    “No, he’s here, but he said—”
    “I don’t care what he said. I need to speak to him.”
    The receptionist widened her eyes at Langham’s tone and maintained eye contact as she reached out for the phone. She dialled without looking at the keypad and jumped when someone answered. “S-sorry. Yes, I know you said… There are detectives here.” She eyed them keenly. “Yes, that’s them… Oh, right. Well, I’ll send them up, then.”
    Oliver’s stomach muscles tautened. He wasn’t stupid. Mr Jackson had described them to her, knew they’d be on their way, that a visit from them was due. This didn’t bode well, and if the push inside his brain was anything to go by, spirits were trying to warn him that something wasn’t right.
    “Mr Jackson will see you now,” she said, pasting on a fake smile. “Use the elevator. Top floor, the only office up there.”
    “Thank you,” Langham said, striding towards the double silver doors of the elevator. He jabbed the button and tapped his foot.
    Oliver smiled at the receptionist before joining the detective, whispering, “He knows.”
    “Yep.” Langham flexed his jaw.
    “How are we going to play this?”
    “Don’t speak.” He stepped inside the elevator and glanced up into the top corner.
    Oliver followed him and his gaze. A camera studied them.
    “Right,” Langham said, clearing his throat. “We’ll alert Mr Jackson about the ridiculous rumours circulating about his company, then we’ll go to that corner shop where we got those microwave curries from before, you know where I mean?”
    Oliver got the gist—the lab tech’s flat—and nodded. “Yep, been a long day. I’m starving. Pick up some beer too.”
    “Sounds good.” Langham sighed. “I hate having to bring this kind of information to someone. The potential those rumours have to ruin a company doesn’t bear thinking about. Malicious, that’s what people are.”
    “Too right.”
    The elevator came to a perfect, gliding stop, and the doors slid open. A huge space met them, an open-plan office that took up the whole floor. Several desks were dotted about, but only one was occupied. It was situated rear centre, shielded from the others