jacket buttons, he is the very picture of offended dignity. Problems like this we just don’t need. To smooth his ruffled feathers I ask about the PR campaign. Churlishly, he gives us a ten-minute report on how his company is cutting a broad swathe through the media. TV, press and radio, he has them all covered. Parnells have made no response to the increased offer yet; it will be a while before they can muster anything credible, and by then City opinion should be moving our way. Such, at least, is the plan.
‘Good,’ I say, then I turn to Vance. ‘That’s it?’ Vance nods.
Then Leicester says, ‘It wasn’t David Meyer was it? Who fed you that bullshit?’
‘What if it was?’
‘Jesus.' He shakes his head That man is a prick.’
Leicester tells us the story. He and David had an argument last week, a disagreement over the number of interviews David has been giving the press. Leicester asked him to be a little less forthcoming, and David didn’t take the advice kindly. This present false accusation, Leicester suggests, is David Meyer's way of getting even. He repeats his judgement. ‘What a prick.’
The three of us look at one another. Then Leicester rises and goes and shakes Vance’s hand. Solemnly. Next he comes and shakes mine. Not a word is spoken. A strange scene. But when he crosses to the door he glances back. ‘You weren’t to know,’ he says.
This is his exit line. The door closes behind him. and finally I get it. Magnanimity. Gary Leicester our PR man, that model of moral rectitude, forgives us. I squeeze my temples to ease the pressure.
‘What do you think?’
‘He didn’t buy the shares,’ Vance decides. ‘He knows we can check. And to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t put it past David bloody Meyer to use us like that.’
So we’re back where we started: waiting to hear from the Registrar on the 212 we’ve filed to uncover the buyer. We can’t waste more time on this now. I ask how the broker’s going with Parnells, and Vance gives me a brief account. So far, no problems.
‘Stephen, the other day Inspector Ryan was with you quite a while.’
‘Waste of time.’
‘What was he chasing?’
‘Daniel’s murderer supposedly. Who knows?’
His tone is offhand but I see that the interview with Ryan has disturbed him.
‘You weren’t even on the boat that night,’ I say.
‘No, I was here. Working late.’
I offer to speak with Ryan, but Vance waves the suggestion aside. He tells me we have a bid to attend to. ‘Real work,’ he says.
Once Vance has left I try to settle down to the backlog of paperwork: a note from Gordon Shields, our Finance Director, about an Audit Committee meeting later in the month; a summary of our positions in the Dealing Room, this one thoughtfully prepared by Henry; memos and letters, most of them absolutely pointless. I notice that there’s nothing from Sir John. My mind keeps drifting to Annie.
Out on the Thames the barges pass silently by, and the low dark clouds scud east. Raindrops strike the windowpane, tracing broken patterns down the glass.
6
----
W hen I put my head round Karen Haldane’s door she’s studying a printout. She looks up and takes off her glasses. ‘Got a moment then have we?’
‘What did Ryan have to say?’
‘He asked some questions. He wasn't here long.’
‘What was he after?’
She lays a ruler across the printout and scores a red line. ‘He thinks Daniel was involved in something.’
‘Involved?’
‘I’m only telling you what he thinks. I’ll tell you something else too. He’s not going to give up on it.’
‘Involved in what?’
‘I don't know Raef.’ She hesitates. ‘Fraud, I suppose. Ryan asked about our procedures: who has authority for what, all that. He said he’s coming back to you later.’
Fraud? Daniel? And why is Ryan coming back to see me?
‘I can’t block them,’ Karen adds flatly.
I should be angry, but her obstinate honesty is solid ground in this widening mire,
‘Good,’ I say, then I turn to Vance. ‘That’s it?’ Vance nods.
Then Leicester says, ‘It wasn’t David Meyer was it? Who fed you that bullshit?’
‘What if it was?’
‘Jesus.' He shakes his head That man is a prick.’
Leicester tells us the story. He and David had an argument last week, a disagreement over the number of interviews David has been giving the press. Leicester asked him to be a little less forthcoming, and David didn’t take the advice kindly. This present false accusation, Leicester suggests, is David Meyer's way of getting even. He repeats his judgement. ‘What a prick.’
The three of us look at one another. Then Leicester rises and goes and shakes Vance’s hand. Solemnly. Next he comes and shakes mine. Not a word is spoken. A strange scene. But when he crosses to the door he glances back. ‘You weren’t to know,’ he says.
This is his exit line. The door closes behind him. and finally I get it. Magnanimity. Gary Leicester our PR man, that model of moral rectitude, forgives us. I squeeze my temples to ease the pressure.
‘What do you think?’
‘He didn’t buy the shares,’ Vance decides. ‘He knows we can check. And to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t put it past David bloody Meyer to use us like that.’
So we’re back where we started: waiting to hear from the Registrar on the 212 we’ve filed to uncover the buyer. We can’t waste more time on this now. I ask how the broker’s going with Parnells, and Vance gives me a brief account. So far, no problems.
‘Stephen, the other day Inspector Ryan was with you quite a while.’
‘Waste of time.’
‘What was he chasing?’
‘Daniel’s murderer supposedly. Who knows?’
His tone is offhand but I see that the interview with Ryan has disturbed him.
‘You weren’t even on the boat that night,’ I say.
‘No, I was here. Working late.’
I offer to speak with Ryan, but Vance waves the suggestion aside. He tells me we have a bid to attend to. ‘Real work,’ he says.
Once Vance has left I try to settle down to the backlog of paperwork: a note from Gordon Shields, our Finance Director, about an Audit Committee meeting later in the month; a summary of our positions in the Dealing Room, this one thoughtfully prepared by Henry; memos and letters, most of them absolutely pointless. I notice that there’s nothing from Sir John. My mind keeps drifting to Annie.
Out on the Thames the barges pass silently by, and the low dark clouds scud east. Raindrops strike the windowpane, tracing broken patterns down the glass.
6
----
W hen I put my head round Karen Haldane’s door she’s studying a printout. She looks up and takes off her glasses. ‘Got a moment then have we?’
‘What did Ryan have to say?’
‘He asked some questions. He wasn't here long.’
‘What was he after?’
She lays a ruler across the printout and scores a red line. ‘He thinks Daniel was involved in something.’
‘Involved?’
‘I’m only telling you what he thinks. I’ll tell you something else too. He’s not going to give up on it.’
‘Involved in what?’
‘I don't know Raef.’ She hesitates. ‘Fraud, I suppose. Ryan asked about our procedures: who has authority for what, all that. He said he’s coming back to you later.’
Fraud? Daniel? And why is Ryan coming back to see me?
‘I can’t block them,’ Karen adds flatly.
I should be angry, but her obstinate honesty is solid ground in this widening mire,
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