Wolf in Shadow-eARC by John Lambshead Read Free Book Online

winners from the greyhound racing column at the back of a paper.
    “Mind if I join you?” said Gary, when he brought back the change. He sat down without waiting for an answer.
    “Please do,” said Frankie.
    Rhian noticed to her horror that Frankie was flashing her eyes from side to side and patting her hair.

    After lunch, the women tracked down the location of Frankie’s commission using Rhian’s A to Z . The office suite was in a low, rectangular, concrete-and-glass block built in the sixties. It reminded Rhian of her comprehensive school in Wales. The shower of rain had left dark grey streaks on the concrete, making the building look even more depressing than it would normally. Rust marks around cracks in the walls suggested that concrete rot would soon bring the block’s miserable existence to a close.
    “They put people in corporate prisons and then wonder why the sickness rate is so high,” said Frankie, more to herself than Rhian.
    Frankie rang a bell at the entrance, but nothing happened. After a while, she leaned on the button impatiently.
    “All right, keep your hair on. I’ve only got one pair of hands.”
    A blue-black peaked cap unlocked the glass door. Under the peak, a large grey moustache, stained yellow by cigarette smoke, jutted aggressively on the face of a gaunt, elderly man. He looked at them suspiciously through ancient National Health spectacles with round wire-framed lenses.
    “We’re here to carry out some maintenance work on one of the office suites,” said Frankie. “It’s all arranged, look.”
    She thrust a letter on headed notepaper at the caretaker, who peered at it myopically.
    “No one told me,” he said. “You don’t look like plumbers.”
    He gazed at the two women, suspiciously.
    “Why don’t we look like plumbers? Women can do plumbing. Women can do anything men can do,” Frankie said, pugnaciously sticking out her chin.
    “If you’re plumbers, then where’s your tools?” Peaked Cap said suspiciously, with the air of a man who had discovered the killer argument against Special Relativity.
    Frankie opened her mouth, a dangerous glint in her eye.
    “We don’t have tools because we are not plumbers,” Rhian said quickly, in an attempt to forestall further political debate.
    “So why did you say you were plumbers?” he asked.
    “I didn’t, you did,” said Frankie, her voice rising to a near shriek. “We are more in the office furnishings line. The letter instructs you to give us access to Unit Five, Ravion PLC.”
    “Oh, curtains and things,” said Peaked Cap. “I suppose that is proper work for women.”
    Frankie looked as if she was about to explode.
    “You’d better come in,” he said, grudgingly. “It’s normally plumbers in this building. Sometimes, the leaks are so bad that the water runs down the stairs.”
    The thought seemed to cheer him up.
    The women followed him past the empty receptionist’s area. A bottle of scarlet nail varnish strategically placed in the middle of the empty desk conjured up an image to Rhian of a streaky-blonde with breasts that were too large and a workload too small, who was secretly lusted after by all the middle management.
    “The lifts are switched off, so you’ll have to walk,” said Peaked Cap with grim satisfaction.
    Ravion’s offices were on the top floor, but the climb was hardly onerous. There were only a couple of flights. Nevertheless, Peaked Cap made a three-course banquet of it. The company occupied the whole top floor behind a glass door. The caretaker finally unlocked it after trying several wrong keys first.
    “Thank you,” said Frankie, firmly. “We can manage now.”
    “I ought to stay and watch,” said the caretaker. “I’m in charge of security.”
    “You have our letter of authorization,” Frankie said, firmly. “We must be left on our own while working—health and safety, you know.”
    The caretaker allowed himself to be propelled out of the door. Frankie shut it decisively