must have been an accident.'
There was silence for a moment.
'I'm not so sure,' I said.
'What do you mean?'
'I saw someone just before she died.'
'Saw someone? Who?'
'I don't know who it was. It's probably someone who works in the City. Thin. Mid-thirties. Very fit. Mean-looking.'
'What was he doing? Did you see him do anything to her?'
'It was just as we were leaving. He just walked up to her, groped her breast, and walked off into the night. A couple of minutes later, she set off as well.'
'What an extraordinary thing to do! Didn't you do anything?'
'Debbie stopped me,' I said. 'And she looked frightened. I don't blame her. There was something very strange about that man.'
'Have you told the police?'
'Yes.'
'What did they think?'
'Well, they took lots of notes. They didn't actually say they thought anything. But it looks to me like he must have pushed Debbie into the river. Don't you think?'
Hamilton sat for a moment, gently touching his chin, in his habitual thinking pose. 'It certainly looks like it, doesn't it. But who is he? And why would he do it?' We sat in silence for a minute, each wrapped in our own thoughts. Hamilton was no doubt trying to figure the problem out; I was missing Debbie. It had been a long day.
I gulped my whisky. 'Let me get you another,' said Hamilton.
With another glass safely in my hand, I changed the subject. 'How long have you lived here?' I asked.
'Oh, about five years,' Hamilton answered. 'Since my divorce. It's very convenient for the office.'
'I didn't know you were divorced.' I said, tentatively. I wasn't sure how personal Hamilton would allow the conversation to become. But I was curious. No one at the office knew anything of Hamilton's life outside it, but it was something about which we all speculated.
'Didn't you? I suppose you wouldn't. I don't talk about it much. But I have a son, Alasdair.' He pointed to a photograph of a smiling seven- or eight-year-old boy kicking a football. I hadn't noticed it before. The boy looked a lot like Hamilton, but without the gloom.
'Do you see him much?' I asked.
'Oh yes, every other weekend,' he said. 'I have a cottage in Perthshire near where his mother lives. It's very useful. And it's much better for him to be up there than in this dreadful city. It's lovely up there. You can get up on to the hills and forget all this.' He gestured out of the window.
I told him about Barthwaite and my own childhood there roving over the moors. Hamilton listened. It was strange to be talking to Hamilton about something like that, but he seemed interested, and as I talked on I began to relax. It was good to talk about a place hundreds of miles and ten years away rather than about today, here.
'I sometimes wish I had stayed in Edinburgh,' Hamilton said. 'I could have had a nice easy job up there, managing a few hundred million for one of those insurance companies.'
'Why didn't you?' I asked.
'Well, I tried it for a bit, but it didn't suit me,' he said. 'Those Scottish funds are good, but they have no sense of adventure. I needed to be down here. At the sharp end.' He looked into his whisky glass. 'Of course Moira didn't like it. She didn't understand the hours I worked. She thought I could do my job properly between nine and five and spend the rest of my time at home. But this job requires a lot more than that and she just didn't believe me. So we split up.'
'I'm sorry,' I said. And I was sorry for him. He was a lonely man, and cut off from his wife and son, he must be lonelier still. Of course it was his own decision; he had put his work squarely before his marriage. None the less I sympathised. I could see myself in the same situation in ten years' time. I shuddered. I remembered my conversation with Debbie. I was beginning to think she was right.
Hamilton looked up from his whisky. 'So how are you finding De Jong, now you have been here six months? Enjoying it?'
'Yes, I am. Very much. I am very pleased I joined the firm.'
'How do you
There was silence for a moment.
'I'm not so sure,' I said.
'What do you mean?'
'I saw someone just before she died.'
'Saw someone? Who?'
'I don't know who it was. It's probably someone who works in the City. Thin. Mid-thirties. Very fit. Mean-looking.'
'What was he doing? Did you see him do anything to her?'
'It was just as we were leaving. He just walked up to her, groped her breast, and walked off into the night. A couple of minutes later, she set off as well.'
'What an extraordinary thing to do! Didn't you do anything?'
'Debbie stopped me,' I said. 'And she looked frightened. I don't blame her. There was something very strange about that man.'
'Have you told the police?'
'Yes.'
'What did they think?'
'Well, they took lots of notes. They didn't actually say they thought anything. But it looks to me like he must have pushed Debbie into the river. Don't you think?'
Hamilton sat for a moment, gently touching his chin, in his habitual thinking pose. 'It certainly looks like it, doesn't it. But who is he? And why would he do it?' We sat in silence for a minute, each wrapped in our own thoughts. Hamilton was no doubt trying to figure the problem out; I was missing Debbie. It had been a long day.
I gulped my whisky. 'Let me get you another,' said Hamilton.
With another glass safely in my hand, I changed the subject. 'How long have you lived here?' I asked.
'Oh, about five years,' Hamilton answered. 'Since my divorce. It's very convenient for the office.'
'I didn't know you were divorced.' I said, tentatively. I wasn't sure how personal Hamilton would allow the conversation to become. But I was curious. No one at the office knew anything of Hamilton's life outside it, but it was something about which we all speculated.
'Didn't you? I suppose you wouldn't. I don't talk about it much. But I have a son, Alasdair.' He pointed to a photograph of a smiling seven- or eight-year-old boy kicking a football. I hadn't noticed it before. The boy looked a lot like Hamilton, but without the gloom.
'Do you see him much?' I asked.
'Oh yes, every other weekend,' he said. 'I have a cottage in Perthshire near where his mother lives. It's very useful. And it's much better for him to be up there than in this dreadful city. It's lovely up there. You can get up on to the hills and forget all this.' He gestured out of the window.
I told him about Barthwaite and my own childhood there roving over the moors. Hamilton listened. It was strange to be talking to Hamilton about something like that, but he seemed interested, and as I talked on I began to relax. It was good to talk about a place hundreds of miles and ten years away rather than about today, here.
'I sometimes wish I had stayed in Edinburgh,' Hamilton said. 'I could have had a nice easy job up there, managing a few hundred million for one of those insurance companies.'
'Why didn't you?' I asked.
'Well, I tried it for a bit, but it didn't suit me,' he said. 'Those Scottish funds are good, but they have no sense of adventure. I needed to be down here. At the sharp end.' He looked into his whisky glass. 'Of course Moira didn't like it. She didn't understand the hours I worked. She thought I could do my job properly between nine and five and spend the rest of my time at home. But this job requires a lot more than that and she just didn't believe me. So we split up.'
'I'm sorry,' I said. And I was sorry for him. He was a lonely man, and cut off from his wife and son, he must be lonelier still. Of course it was his own decision; he had put his work squarely before his marriage. None the less I sympathised. I could see myself in the same situation in ten years' time. I shuddered. I remembered my conversation with Debbie. I was beginning to think she was right.
Hamilton looked up from his whisky. 'So how are you finding De Jong, now you have been here six months? Enjoying it?'
'Yes, I am. Very much. I am very pleased I joined the firm.'
'How do you
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