Two Women

Five

Jane was cried out of tears but dry sobs still shuddered through her and the first time it happened Carver was frightened she wouldn’t catch her breath and would choke. Which wasn’t his only fear. She sat stiffly upright on the very edge of the lounge chair, her eyes blinking but unfocused, seemingly unaware of anything or anyone around her. Charles Jamieson, the Litchfield family doctor, called it deep shock and asked where they would be staying that night and before Carver could reply Jane said, so loudly and unexpectedly that both men jumped: ‘Here, with Dad.’

‘Then we’ll put you to bed,’ announced the doctor, recovering before Carver.

Jane let herself be led upstairs to the room she and Carver always occupied when they stayed over, which they often did. Carver and the doctor undressed her between them and obediently she took the sedatives Jamieson gave her but remained staring up at the ceiling, still occasionally racked by a breath-snatching sob. Carver felt the doctor’s pressure on his arm and followed the man from the bedroom.

In the downstairs lounge Jamieson, a fat, haphazardly dressed man, said: ‘It’s not going to be easy for her. They were very close. It’s most likely she won’t accept it at first: talk as if he’s still alive.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Let it go, for a little while. You going to stay up here?’

Carver hesitated. ‘I can’t. I have to go back to the city.’

There were a lot of calls he had to make, so much he had to do: so much, somehow, somewhere, he had to find or discover. What Northcote had promised to give him had to be here somewhere because the intention had been for the man to come direct from here for their meeting. But what? Where?

‘You got staff in Manhattan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Live in?’

‘No,’ frowned Carver. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘It means you should take her with you but that for a few days I don’t think she should be left by herself.’

‘You mean she might harm herself?’

‘No,’ said Jamieson, impatiently. ‘Just that she shouldn’t be alone.’

‘I’ll get nurses in.’

‘That would be good. Manhattan would be good. It’ll get her away from here. What time are you leaving tomorrow?’

He had to make the formal identification of the body, remembered Carver. ‘Late morning. We’ll fly.’ He should have arranged it before dismissing the helicopter. He was going to have to speak to Hilda shortly. It could be added to the list of all the other things that had to be done.

‘I’ll call by around nine: see how she is.’

‘Jane told me you’d examined George.’

The doctor nodded. ‘He told me he was giving up entirely and I told him it was a damned good idea. His blood pressure was sky high. I put him on immediate medication. It could even have been a stroke that made him fall off the tractor…’ He was slowed by a thought. ‘Maybe I should mention it to Pete Simpson.’

‘Maybe you should,’ agreed Carver. He had to end this conversation and this encounter: get on with all the other things. But at the same time, irrationally, he didn’t want the doctor to go. Although it was a tragedy – a tragic accident in everyone’s opinion except his – there was a normality about talking with the other man. But when Jamieson went it wouldn’t be normal any more. What he had to do – the calls he had to make, the arranging and rearranging that had to be done – would be normal in the circumstances of a tragedy but in this case he would be involved – was involved – in murder. Mob murder; organized crime murder; once-you’re-in-you’re-never-out murder. Or was he? Could, despite everything he knew – or thought he knew – George Northcote have genuinely suffered a stroke because of sky-high blood pressure and toppled backwards into the multiple spinning blades of a mowing machine? Could a stroke be, even, why Northcote went too close to the depression in the ground he would have known all too well to be there, and to be dangerous, because he was unconscious in those last few, badly steered seconds? Only George Northcote had known that he knew the firm’s – Northcote’s – link with organized crime. And George Northcote was dead and that knowledge would have died with him. He knew the names of the companies that had to be divested and that could be – would be – easily achieved by the excuse of Northcote’s death. The words and the phrases began to move through Carver’s mind. Retrenchment, necessary reorganization after the death of such a dominant, leading corporate figure, no one any longer available to provide the personalized service that George W. Northcote provided, with obvious regret… It fitted. Fitted perfectly. They’d all be out. Out, home free: no connection, no association, no danger. If…

‘I’ll just look in now, before I go,’ said Jamieson and so lost was he in thought that Carver was actually startled although he didn’t think it showed.

‘Let’s both look in,’ he said.

Jane was lying as they’d left her, on her back, but was deeply asleep, snuffling soft occasional snores, although once another sob shuddered through her. At Jamieson’s gesture they backed out of the bedroom, without speaking until they got outside in the hallway. Jamieson said: ‘That’s good. I didn’t want to have to give her anything stronger.’

Carver met Jennings as he turned from seeing Jamieson out, anticipating the man before he spoke. ‘I don’t want anything to eat. There’s too much to do. I’ll be in the study.’

‘Everyone’s together in the kitchen, if you want anything.’

‘I’ll let you know,’ said Carver, already walking towards what he considered the most obvious place to find what it was essential he locate.

Carver pressed the door closed behind him but remained against it, confronting his first awareness, which was not within the room at all. The windows looked directly out in the direction of the depression in which the tractor and mower had overturned. It was dark now but beyond the slope there was still a glow from the generator lights illuminating the lifting of the unseen machinery on to an equally unseen removal truck and the word unseen fixed itself in Carver’s mind. Where Northcote had died couldn’t be seen from the house: couldn’t be seen from anywhere. Making it the perfect place for murder.

Carver brought himself back inside the room, as heavily mahogany-panelled as the Manhattan office, unsure where – how – to start. Where? Where would Northcote have kept hidden sufficient secrets to protect the firm? The computer, blank-eyed on its own workstation beside the desk – antique again like its twin in Manhattan – was obvious, but Northcote had a late-starter’s problems with electronic technology. And they dealt in printed, written words and figures: that’s what it had been in Northcote’s safe; written, printed incrimination. So the computer – the computer he’d already accessed and found nothing but titles on the client list, with no cross-referenced file records – was not at all the logical initial search. The desk itself then. But not at once, frustrating though it was to delay. Calls – arrangements – had the priority. Or did they?

Carver saw the neatly stacked paper as he approached and realized as he lowered himself into the padded leather chair that it was Northcote’s intended valedictory speech. For a moment Carver hesitated, as he’d hesitated going into Northcote’s personal safe in the firm’s basement vault, but then, abruptly, he snatched it up. It was comparatively short and easily legible in Northcote’s neat, round handwriting. It really was a genuine farewell address.

He was a proud man, Northcote had written. He was finally, irrevocably, leaving the firm at the peak of its international success and prestige. It was due to the financial business ability and acumen of their overseas divisions as much as to that of the Wall Street head office – ‘command centre’, Northcote had written with a question mark beside it – that they had survived the market upheavals that had affected, in some instances destroyed, other firms of less able people. In entrusting the future ultimate control to John Carver – ‘my worthy and deserving successor’ and the New York partners – ‘an unrivalled team, on any continent’ – he was assuring the continued success of George Northcote International. He wished them well and goodbye.

Carver laid the three sheets directly in front of two silver-framed photographs of Northcote with Muriel, his wife who had died eighteen years earlier, and two others of Northcote with Jane, one in her graduation robes. He’d take the speech back to Manhattan, Carver decided: have it duplicated to be shown to everyone gathering for the conference. Less than a week ago he would have been moved by the words, applauded with the rest of the people for whom they were intended and shaken Northcote’s hand and maybe even needed to clear his throat before he could respond. Now he felt nothing. Not contempt nor sadness and certainly not admiration. It was as if George Northcote had been a total stranger and then, surprised, Carver belatedly acknowledged that was exactly what George Northcote had been, someone with whom he had been in daily contact and whose daughter he’d married but whom he had known not at all, a man playing – performing – a part.

Hilda Bennett answered his call on the second ring and said, ‘Oh my God,’ when Carver told her, hesitating fractionally when he used the word accident. He wanted all the overseas executives advised the moment they arrived – she was to call the Tokyo manager as soon as their conversation ended – and a full meeting convened for the following afternoon. The cocktail party that Jane had been scheduled to host was cancelled, as well as Friday’s gala banquet and the planned reception at Litchfield. The welcoming dinner would, however, still take place. He expected all the incoming delegates to attend the funeral, so hotel reservations had to be extended. She was to advise the funeral directors that Northcote would be buried in the same vault as his wife: there were still legalities to be completed – he had the following morning formally to identify the body – so it was not yet possible to suggest a specific date for the interment. He would speak separately with the firm’s lawyer, with whom she should liaise the following morning about death notices and obituaries. He would also speak separately to his own staff at the East 62nd Street apartment, to move them in permanently, but wanted her additionally to arrange a twenty-four-hour nursing staff there to care for Jane. He’d talk personally with their Manhattan doctor and put the man in contact with Dr Jamieson, up here in Litchfield. He wanted the helicopter to collect them at noon, from the Northcote estate. He couldn’t think of anything else that had immediately to be initiated but if he did he’d call back, providing it wasn’t too late. Hilda said it didn’t matter how late: she probably wouldn’t sleep anyway. Should she tell Janice Snow?

Carver told her to wait fifteen minutes, for him to break the news to Northcote’s personal assistant.

Janice Snow broke down at once and kept asking what she should do and Carver started to suggest she work with Hilda on the arrangements he’d already asked Hilda to make, but suddenly stopped, realizing his oversight. He allowed himself a rehearsing pause before asking if Janice had personally programmed Northcote’s computer, his irritation at himself transferring itself to Janice’s reply that it was one of her daily functions. Mr Northcote hadn’t liked or understood computers: scarcely known properly how to operate one. Just as promptly, without the need for any reference, she gave him what she insisted were all George Northcote’s entry codes and passwords.

Carver remained undecided for a few moments, before saying: ‘This may seem a strange question in the circumstances. But it’s extremely important. Is there a special code or password that George used for extremely sensitive stuff… secret stuff, in fact?’

Now the hesitation came from the woman. ‘You’ve got them all. They all duplicate with Manhattan, of course.’

‘In which file or folder, of those you’ve given me, would George’s personal accounts have been kept?’

The curiosity was discernible in Janice Snow’s voice. ‘I already told you, Mr Carver. He didn’t work like that.’

‘You telling me there isn’t one?’

‘That’s very much what I’m telling you. That there isn’t a specific one.’

Could Janice Snow be part of it, whatever it was? She’d have to be if she was the person who’d entered all Northcote’s computer information. Would Northcote have told Janice what he knew? He’d be exposing himself, disclosing names to her. But only if she were part of it: was complicit. If she wasn’t, it would be an enquiry that only had relevance to him.

He said: ‘I’ve some names I want to put to you. Do you know where the files are on a company named Mulder Inc.?’

Janice gave time for her answer. ‘No.’

‘Have you ever handled accounts on behalf of George for Mulder Inc.?’

‘I’ve typed completion letters to them, in the Caymans, after an audit.’

To go with the returns?’

There was another hesitation. ‘They were sent separately.’

‘So how were the returns made?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know!’

‘Mr Northcote had a special way of working, with some clients. Mulder was one of them. There were a lot of personal meetings.’

‘You know the names of some Mulder executives: their in-house accountants?’

‘No.’

She had to be part of it, thought Carver. ‘Did George ever have you computerize any details of Mulder?’

‘No.’

‘What about anyone else on his personal staff? Other girls?’

‘I did all that.’

‘What about a company named Encomp?’

There was a further pause. ‘I’ve typed some sign-off letters, to Grand Cayman again.’

‘But no returns?’

‘No.’

‘What about Innsflow?’

‘The same.’

There was no purpose in continuing this long-distance conversation. With the passwords he could make a computer check of his own, despite what Janice had told him. ‘I want you to help Hilda, like I said. We’ll talk some more about George’s personal files when I get back.’

‘OK.’

If the woman were involved his asking about them would give her all the time in the world to hide or destroy everything.

‘Is there something wrong?’ demanded Janice, openly.

‘Nothing wrong at all,’ said Carver. ‘With everyone here in New York – with meetings and discussions to be held – I’m trying to bring myself as fully up to date as possible, as quickly as possible.’

‘I’ll have it done by the time you get here tomorrow,’ promised the woman.

Now with increasing impatience Carver endured fifteen minutes going through what the firm’s lawyer thought important to emphasize in the death notices and obituaries, which mostly concerned the assurance that Carver’s already agreed succession would ensure the uninterrupted business continuity of George W. Northcote International. Manuel said he and his wife would return to East 62nd Street that night, to ensure that everything would be ready before anyone arrived. He was very sorry about Mr George. It was terrible.

Alice started lightly: ‘I thought you’d forgotten me…’ But at once became subdued when he talked over her to tell her what had happened. She said: ‘Shit,’ and then: ‘An accident?’

‘That’s what it’s going to be described as.’

‘Do you really think he was killed?’

‘The doctor says he could have suffered a stroke, from high blood pressure: that it could have been the cause of his falling into the blades.’

‘I asked what you thought,’ persisted Alice.

‘I don’t want to, but I think he was killed,’ said Carver, hearing the casual, conversational tone of his own voice. He was talking of murder as if it was a normal topic, like the weather or some commuter gridlock and wasn’t Manhattan a shitty place to try to get around in.

‘This doesn’t seem real: sound real,’ said Alice, matching his thinking, which she often did.

‘No.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I can’t think of anything to do.’

‘He didn’t give you what you asked for?’

‘No. But it should be here somewhere.’ Carver was impatient to get off the line.

‘How’s Jane?’

‘Sedated.’

‘It won’t be easy for us to meet?’

Now it was Alice who sounded remarkably sanguine: unmoved. But then although she’d been impressed by the man – wrongly as it transpired – she’d only met George Northcote two or three times. ‘Not over the next few days,’ he agreed.

‘Call me, when you can.’

‘When I can.’

‘And be careful, darling.’

‘I will,’ said Carver, wishing he knew how to be.

Carver pushed the chair slightly back with the same motion of replacing the telephone, momentarily looking between the desk and the workstation before deciding he couldn’t wait for Janice’s search the following morning: that he had to look – try to look – for himself. The moment he booted up he recognized the duplication with the Manhattan office, curious that Northcote had required the copies here in the country in view of his operating difficulties. Carver scrolled his way through every one of Northcote’s personal files and accessed every password and entry code, each time carefully entering the names of the three hovering, criminal and incriminating companies. None registered.

He turned, hurriedly, to the desk. The top left-hand drawer contained receipted bills, each annotated with the number and date of the cheque that had settled it, the one below that cheque books with the stubs meticulously completed and coordinated with the invoices above. The bottom drawer held only stationery. The diary, a duplicate of the appointments book from which they all worked in Wall Street, was in the top right-hand drawer. Carver momentarily hesitated before picking it up, aware as he did so of the shake in his hand, reminding himself how important it was going to be when he reached the office the following day to retrieve Northcote’s office copy.

Carver initially held it up by its spine, hopefully shaking it, but it concealed nothing loose. After that he turned at once to the day Northcote had been in New York for the supposedly severing encounter with his mob controllers. The entry read: ‘S-B. Dinner. Harvard.’ There was a dash between the two letters and against the name of the club there was an asterisk. There was also an asterisk against today’s entry, which simply read: ‘J. 2.30.’ When, according to Jennings, Northcote was on his tractor, hauling across a field completely hidden from anyone’s view the cutting machine beneath which he’d fallen.

It took Carver more than an hour painstakingly to go through every entry, which Northcote appeared always to do by initials, never recording a name. Those of S-B appeared a total of six times, always marked by asterisks, and by carefully going back through the marked pages Carver calculated the meetings were regularly once a month, nearly always the last Tuesday. They were always for lunch and never at the same restaurant. This week had been the first time the Harvard club was mentioned. Where would Northcote’s diaries for the previous years be? Carver wondered. The man’s personal safe in the vault? Another check, for the following day.

In another right-hand drawer Carver found a cuttings book of newspaper and magazine articles on Northcote. The long, admiring feature by Alice was quite near the top. Even more recent was a Wall Street Journal interview in which Northcote had urged tighter financial supervision by the SEC and all the other authorities governing accountancy, both locally in New York as well as federally.

Neatly arranged in a multi-sectioned tray in the bottom right-hand drawer was a selection of keys, some – the country-club locker and spare sets for the cars, for instance – clearly labelled, others not. The age and model – and insecurity – of the safe surprised Carver when he found it. It was floor-mounted inside one of the cupboards beneath the bookcase and was key, not combination, locked. It took Carver less than fifteen minutes to find the key that fitted from among those unmarked in the bottom drawer.

The safe was only about a quarter full, all of it easily carried in a single trip back to the desk. Carver began to go through the contents in the order in which they had been stored, which was with the money on top of the pile. He didn’t bother to count but guessed there were several thousand dollars in newly issued, uncreased one-hundred-dollar bills. There were three personal insurance policies, in total with a face sum of $3,000,000 but in the one he glanced through there was an endorsement increasing the value in the event of accidental death. There was a stock portfolio of perhaps twenty certificates, which Carver scanned through not even registering their valuations, interested only in any possible mention of the three companies. Once more there was none. George Northcote’s will was unexpectedly brief. Apart from bequests to the staff – $50,000 for Jack Jennings – the bulk of Northcote’s entire estate went to Jane, passing to Carver if she predeceased him in Northcote’s lifetime. The only exception was a single legacy of $100,000 to Carver if she did inherit. In the event of their both predeceasing Northcote, the estate was to be divided equally between any surviving children. The will had been made soon after their marriage, Carver saw from its date, long before the difficulty of Jane conceiving had been realized. There was a codicil, attested just one week after the partners’ meeting at which Carver had been proposed by Northcote and unanimously approved by the partners as Northcote’s successor, appointing Carver the sole and absolute executor of the will.

The only things remaining in front of Carver when he put the portfolio aside were a small selection of photographs, the first easily identifiable as Northcote with Jane, when she was a child, and with his wife – one showing Muriel actually on their wedding day, in her wedding dress – which had to have been taken at least thirty if not more years ago.

Carver didn’t recognize the woman in the last four photographs, although it was very clearly not Muriel Northcote. Each was inscribed on the back with a date – a two-week period in 1983 when Carver knew Northcote to have been married and Muriel to be still alive – and locations, Capri and Madrid. There was also a name, Anna. One showed she and Northcote openly embracing, two more with their arms entwined, the fourth holding hands.

Each was a picture of two very happy people, very much in love.

George Northcote’s bedroom was once again heavily furnished, the bed and dressing-room wardrobes thick, dark wood, although Carver didn’t think it was mahogany. He imagined he could detect the smell of the man, a musky cologne mixed vaguely with cigars, but decided in the pristine surroundings that was what it had to be, imagination. He supposed the neatness was not Northcote’s but one of the staff, maybe even Jennings. There was what was clearly pocket contents in a segregated tray on the nightstand, house keys, a cigar cutter and lighter, a wad of money, hundred-dollar notes on the outside, in a silver clip and a snakeskin wallet. One half of the wallet was a personalized, week-by-week diary. The entries for that week were identical to those in the larger version downstairs, even to the entry for this day simply reading ‘2.30’. There was a selection of credit and business cards in their separate pockets at the top of the opposing side, with a slim jotting pad at its bottom. It was blank.

Carver felt a quick flare of hope when he opened the nightstand door and saw the bundle of fine-lined accountancy sheets, lifting them all out and laying them on the bed to hurry through. His first awareness was that they were old files, all dated five years earlier. His second was that none contained any references to Mulder, Encomp or Innsflow. They were the accounts of two companies – BHYF and NOXT – neither of which Carver could remember discussing personally with Northcote, nor more generally at partners’ meetings. And he was sure they hadn’t shown on the computer search he’d attempted downstairs of Northcote’s personally handled accounts. More mob companies? His unavoidable question. Which prompted another. Why left like this, not in the downstairs safe? Because, incredibly, unbelievably, Northcote had believed he was safe: that there was no need for security. Could they be, even, part – maybe even all – of what Northcote had planned to give him, the insurance against the firm’s destruction? Carver wanted to believe it: wanted to believe it more than anything he’d wanted to believe in his life. Whatever, they were potentially the most important discovery he’d made that night. There was a bedside table on the opposite side from the nightstand, free of anything except a biography of Maynard Keynes, and Carver carefully stacked the sheets there to go downstairs with everything else he’d already set aside to take back to Manhattan.

Carver went painstakingly through all the drawers in Northcote’s dressing room, discovering nothing more in any of them but the expected underwear, linen and shirts. He actually explored every pocket of every one of the twelve suits that hung from the dressing-room rails, as well as the two topcoats. Carver had half hoped for another, better-hidden safe but he didn’t find one, despite looking behind every picture for something wall-mounted, checking every cupboard and recess for an upright model to match that downstairs, and finally scuffing his feet across the carpet, as he had in the study, searching for a security vault sunk into the floor. There was no tell-tale unevenness wherever he looked or felt.

Enough, Carver decided. He ached with tiredness: ached so much he couldn’t think straight, could hardly see straight. It had to be BHYF and NOXT. He didn’t know how or where to take it forward from here, but there had to be some significance. Would Janice Snow know? Or rather, would Janice Snow show him a way forward? At that moment he thought of one himself, feeling another spurt of self-criticism that it hadn’t occurred to him before. Northcote’s bank. That had to be a source, whatever the importance of BHYF and NOXT. It was unimaginable – like so much else was unimaginable – that Northcote didn’t have a safe-deposit facility: several safe-deposit facilities, in Manhattan banks. What better place – what more obvious place – to hide secrets but in a bank safe-deposit box?

Carver was so tired he had literally to force himself to move, simply to walk back into the dressing room, where he found by feel more than sight the valise, in which he packed the five-year-old files from the nightstand and stumbled back downstairs into the study to add the will, diary and the four photographs of the laughing, dark-haired girl named Anna.

Jane still lay on her back but there weren’t any more sobs. He let his clothes lie where they fell and eased as carefully as he could into bed beside her, anxious to avoid movement or contact that might awaken her. There was no instinctive, automatic shift at his presence.

Who, wondered Carver, was Anna?

‘So what the hell happened!’ demanded Burcher, the soft voice unaccustomedly loud.

‘He wasn’t up to it. He croaked,’ said a crinkle-haired, heavily built man.

‘Who are you?’ said Burcher.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘I want to know because the Families want to know. Because they’re not happy.’ Burcher thought again how wise he’d been letting the people he represented know that he was strictly adhering to the pyramid procedure. There were far more people in the restaurant back room than when he’d last been there. The attitudes and atmosphere were bravado.

‘He’s my caporegime, Paulo Brescia,’ wheezed Emilio Delioci.

‘Were you there?’ Burcher asked the man and knew at once from the discomfited shift that he hadn’t been.

‘I sent people.’

Burcher let the silence build and when he spoke he was quiet-voiced again but sounded every word, as if he were tasting it as he wanted them to taste it. ‘Aren’t you aware of how important George Northcote was to the Families?’

‘He was ours,’ said Emilio Delioci.

Burcher shook his head. ‘You were allowed to believe that as a mark of respect. Northcote created a system that benefited not just New York but every other Family in this country and so every other Family in this country is going to be as sore as they are in New York and that’s as sore as hell. You’re close to being put out of business.’

‘You can’t threaten us like that, asshole!’ said Brescia.

‘You want to put that to the test, asshole?’ challenged Burcher. ‘Let’s all of us get something very straight and very clearly understood. What I say is what New York say: you insult me like some bit player in The Godfather, you insult New York and if they feel like it – if they feel you are not doing what you’ve been asked to do, then…’ Burcher extended his hand towards Brescia and snapped his fingers dismissively, ‘… you’re gone. History that no one remembers. Have I made that very straight and very clear to everyone here?’

‘I don’t want any misunderstandings,’ said Delioci.

‘Neither do I,’ said Burcher. ‘So I’ll ask again. What happened?’

‘My people told Northcote they wanted what he’d held back,’ said Brescia, all the truculence gone. ‘He said he’d given you the message: that that was how it was going to be. They tried to persuade him. He suddenly went stiff and died on them. They made it look like an accident: that’s how the local radio and newspapers are reporting it.’

‘So somewhere there’s a load of stuff that could cause us a lot of harm?’

The capo smirked and Burcher realized the man was playing to the rest of the audience in the room. Brescia said: ‘He was being persuaded. There’s a guy taking over the firm, married to Northcote’s daughter. Carver. He knows all about it. And a woman, Janice Snow, did the computer entries.’

It could all be turned into a coup, Burcher decided. And if it could be, it would be his coup, not that of these half-assed small-timers. ‘What about the material Northcote was holding back?’

‘I told you, he passed out before they could get that out of him.’

‘What about in the house?’

‘There’s staff. We couldn’t get near it.’

‘Here’s what you’re going to do,’ said Burcher. ‘You’re going to send people back to Litchfield, to find some way in. You’re going to find out everything I need to know about this Carver guy. Use a legitimate private detective agency in the city. And you’re going to find out how much the woman, Janice Snow, knows. All that very straight and very clear?’

‘I don’t enjoy disrespect, Mr Burcher,’ said Delioci.

‘I mean no disrespect to you,’ said the lawyer. ‘I was told very specifically to pass on the feelings of those to whom we are all answerable and most specifically of all to ensure that everybody understood there are to be no more mistakes.’

‘I think you have done that,’ said the old man.

‘Then it’s been a good meeting,’ said Burcher. How much more, to his personal benefit, could he manipulate it? He wondered.