align="center">7. Advance To Mayfair
The meeting was taking place in a building in Mayfair belonging to Her Majesty’s Government of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Those present were Mark Osbourne, Jim Callan, Dr Joseph Skinner, Jack Logan, Graham Wood and Tom Brookes, all of whom had arrived almost simultaneously with great urgency and seated themselves around a tatty government-issue table. Last to arrive was Mark Osbourne, who took his place at the head of the table and began talking immediately.
“OK gentlemen, thanks for coming, sorry about the short notice. I guess you all know why by now. Anyone not heard the news?”
Everyone shook their heads except Tom Brookes, who looked round the table in alarm. What was going on that he wasn’t aware of?
“What news?” Brookes blurted out.
“Mitchell just killed himself.”
“What?”
“So we need to know why and clear up any loose ends he left lying around. He was handling several cases at the time of death, most of which are ticking along smoothly, I believe. The only item that gives me cause for concern is the work he was doing on Winter.”
Osbourne paused for a moment as though expecting someone to contradict him. He looked down at his laptop and continued:
“So, let’s talk about the suicide first. Any ideas?”
There was stony-faced silence.
“He left a note. I doubt if it means anything though. It seems utterly confused, quite frankly.” Osbourne passed photocopies of the note around the table.
Callan read aloud: “I occupy this crevasse – the realm of nothingness which lies coiled in the heart of being – like a worm, but existentialism is a false dichotomy, and therefore metaphysical hope is impossible. I have seen through the illusion. I know what it’s like to be dead. I already know. When I walked into the room to see him I was dead then. He didn’t notice but I knew.
“Anyway, as JFK said, ‘Don’t sing me no la la la tune no more I ain’t gonna listen to that shit again.’ By JFK I mean Jo Fucking King – but, my dear reader, no I ain’t joking.
“Inside my mind I have seen into the soul of the universe and it is filled with A MILLION maggots of death. They breed. They are the EVIL in everything. THE e-vile.
“Now I just want to go there and be inside it. It will be me. I will be it. We will reign forever.
“I’ll stand on the mountain that stands on me and I will see everything.”
Callan had finished reading, but everyone continued to stare at their personal copy of the note as though they still expected to find some meaning in it.
Logan was the first to speak: “Christ! Mitchell wrote that? Are you sure? I mean…” he was lost for words. “I said cheerio to him Friday, going out the office. He said cheerio back. He was the same old Andy Mitchell I’d known for…”
Dr Skinner interrupted: “Some of that might not be complete gibberish; he’s quoting Sartre – I think – and John Lennon. We should trace the quotes and see…”
Callan interrupted Skinner’s interruption: “That’s a fool’s errand – we’ll never get to the bottom of any meaning that might be found in a synthesis of Sartre and Tomorrow Never Knows. Was he on drugs or something?”
Osbourne replied: “Actually, yes. That seems to be it. We found significant traces of ChiroButyline-A in his blood. It’s a tranquilliser that was banned worldwide about six months ago because people who took it for any length of time tended to commit suicide.”
“Why would he be taking it then? How could he even get hold of it?” Callan asked.
“Both questions – we don’t know yet. Second question – maybe he had been prescribed it some time ago but had decided not to take it, then for some reason had started taking it recently.”
“I see. So it could have sat in his bathroom cupboard for years?”
“This is all speculation, but something like that is likely. However, if he had required medical help for any reason, he should have informed us. Needless to say, he didn’t.”
“Should have, yes. But of course it would be like waving goodbye to his career.”
“But such cases are handled delicately to ensure people do volunteer this sort of information. We all know the rules.”
“Of course we do, yes,” Callan agreed.
“Hopefully, none here would hesitate to inform us if they required this sort of help.” Osbourne looked around defiantly and received a murmur of affirmation before continuing. “So we have to be aware that perhaps there is some sort of foul play involved.”
It took several uncomfortable seconds of grim silence for this information to be digested.
“If so, everything he was working on might be in jeopardy,” Callan remarked.
“Yes, it might be,” Osbourne agreed. “Bear that in mind when taking over his ongoing cases.”
This ruffled a few feathers. Jack Logan, in particular, looked agitated or even annoyed. He had apparently guessed what was coming next.
“On that note,” Osbourne continued, “Graham, Tom, I’m dividing the majority of Mitchell’s cases between you – except Winter. Jack, you’ll take over from Mitchell. It has to be you because of the aversion treatment. You’re the only spare resource. Put in an appearance at VirtuBank but keep a low profile.”
Dr Skinner broke in to say: “But Osbourne, Mitchell’s work there was finished. There’s nothing left to do.”
“We just want to keep an eye on things.”
“But how about Callan? Surely he can…”
“Can we just back up a bit?” Callan interrupted. “I have a question. How did he kill himself? Is it possible that someone killed him?”
“He threw himself under a train, Jim,” Osbourne replied.
“Possible then – it’s one of our favoured methods.”
“The platform looks virtually empty at the time, according to the CCTV. Of course CCTV too can be tampered with in various ways, as we know.”
“How many cases was he handling? Was he overworked?”
“No, definitely not. If anything, his workload was lighter than normal.”
“Also, we all get tested for drugs once a month. He couldn’t have been taking this drug for very long,” Callan suggested.
Osbourne contradicted him bluntly: “We don’t get tested for this stuff. It’s banned and it’s never been on the list.”
“So why did they test for it in the autopsy?”
“A jar of the stuff was found amongst the mess that the train left.”
“OK.
