by Gregson, J M
He had been conducting interviews like this for weeks now. He knew the tactics: always use ‘we’ and not ‘I’; keep using the bank as big brother behind you, as though it wasn’t you personally who had offered the loans, and it wasn’t you personally who was now calling them in. He held all the cards; the succession of small businessmen he had been seeing were ultimately dependent on his decision, and they knew it as well as he did.
He was sorry for Warner, and others like him, who had been encouraged to expand at the wrong time and then forced to pay rates of interest they had never anticipated just as their profits slumped. But it was not his fault; not even the bank’s fault. Everyone knew that the Treasury and the government were responsible, but they were the people who never picked tip the tab.
And his own job was on the line now. Those borrowers who could pay were scrambling to get rid of their debts; those who could not were becoming the focus of bankers’ apprehension. The message was coming down from above: foreclose on the dodgy borrowers, while they still have some assets left. Or watch out for your own job when your assessment came up.
He opened the folder in front of him and took out the sheet of paper his secretary had brought to him on the previous afternoon. ‘Your debt has been accumulating. It is now approaching two hundred thousand.’
‘You have increased interest rates three times since we agreed the overdraft facility. Without those rises, the overdraft would have remained static, or even gone down a little.’
Cummins waved his hands a little, palm upwards and one on each side of his body; it was a gesture he had practised thoroughly over the last month. Pilate, he thought, might have made a good banker. ‘That may be true. But the rises were outside our control, Mr Warner.’
‘Our turnover was still well over a million in the last financial year, despite the recession, and —’
‘And what will your profits be this year, Mr Warner? We must look forwards, not backwards.’
Cummins had spoken sharply, more sharply than was intended or needed. The fact that he didn’t like what he was doing, that even the good banker who still lurked within him did not approve it, made him only the more harsh. He wanted to get this over as quickly as possible.
Mark Warner knew now what was coming. He saw that his arguments were useless, and felt the net being drawn in around him. His palms and his forehead felt damp, yet his spine felt a sudden cold that made him want to shiver. He could not remember feeling thus since he was a schoolboy hauled into the headmaster’s office. He felt now as he had felt then, like a fish that had been netted. Only the last, ritual thrashings were left to him as the meshes tightened. ‘We’ve got a sound business. You said so yourself, when you advanced us the loan. It’s only a matter of time before things pick up.’ Warner’s bright blue eyes challenged the man opposite him to deny it.
Cummins had heard those arguments too often in this room. Yet this time he was pierced by a shaft of sympathy he could not afford to show. Warner was right: his plastics business was a good one, soundly managed and with products which would be much in demand once other businesses around him picked up. Before the latest guidance came through from head office, with its scarcely veiled threats to his own position, he would never have even considered conducting this interview. Now he looked only for the weaknesses in the position of the client who had become an opponent. He said, ‘Would it be correct to assume that Warner Plastics will show a loss rather than a profit in the current year?’
Warner drew both hands involuntarily through his fair hair. It was a gesture which surprised him, because he thought he had eliminated it; he could not remember making it since he was a nervous adolescent. His fellow students had mocked it in a university sketch, and he had taken pains to get rid of it when he went into the more dangerous world outside. He said, ‘Probably there will be a small loss, yes. It depends on outstanding payments due to us. But surely —’
‘And what is the state of your order book?’ Cummins knew that if it was healthy, that would have been displayed to him long before now.
Mark prevented himself just in time from producing the little red book. It wouldn’t do to bring out such a document in this panelled shrine to commercial efficiency. Besides, the contents were not impressive. This bastard wasn’t going to back off, but he must go through the motions: he might yet mitigate the severity of the sentence. ‘Our order book is as healthy as anyone could expect in the present climate. Our regular customers are still with us, but of course, they’re running down stocks before they re-order. We’re at the stage where they’re going to have to place new orders very soon now. New customers aren’t easy to come by, but given a little time —’
He was aware that his words were coming ever more quickly, as he pressed on, fearful of interruption. Now he had produced the word which allowed Cummins to break in. ‘Time, yes. That is a factor which is not elastic, Mr Warner. I have encouraged head office to be patient, but they point out that we must also be discreet. Once lent, twice shy, they say.’ He could see that Warner did not understand that latest bit of banking jargon — indeed, he was not sure that he comprehended it fully himself. ‘We managers are being forced to take a hard look at any debts which are likely to become bad ones. I’m afraid yours has been put in that category.’
‘You mean you’ve put it in that category.’
‘If you like, yes. But you must understand that we have been given certain guidelines, and —’
‘Then let me talk to the people who gave you the guidelines. I’ll show them that my business must be supported, within any reasonable “guidelines” they like to apply.’
‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible.’ Cummins’s anxious, lined face shut as suddenly as a book behind the phrase. ‘And it wouldn’t in any case be productive.’ He knew he was right there: his superiors would support him, even if they thought he was wrong, in the present climate. What was one more small business going to the wall, among so many? More to the point, who was going to stick his neck out for someone like Warner, when so many loans were becoming bad ones?
He clasped his hands on the desk in front of him and said with an attempt at conciliation, ‘I’m not saying we’re trying to close you down. We want to encourage enterprise, not stifle it.’ That rang hollow, even to him. He thought how much easier his job had been a few years ago, when his superiors had been encouraging him to thrust loans at anyone who wanted them. Including Warner: he remembered with a pang of remorse how anxious he had been to offer Warner finance, how worried lest this man might borrow not from him but from some other source.
Mark thought again about that order he was hoping to get from Collinsons. Maybe he should have rung them again before he came here. But he had not known then how vital it would be. He said dully, ‘Exactly what are you saying then, George?’
Cummins took a deep breath, looking down again at the sheet he had taken from the folder, to give himself a little time. ‘We’re looking to you to make a substantial reduction in your overdraft. If you can show us that there is no need for the bank to worry about the debt in the medium term, we’ll be able to discuss —’
‘How quickly?’
It was nearly over now. Cummins, studying the open, defeated face on the other side of his desk, knew that the man had accepted it. ‘We need to see the debt halved within three months. Cut down below a hundred thousand.’
‘That isn’t possible. You know it isn’t possible. Not in a recession like this one.’
Cummins did his little palm-upwards gesture with his hands again, indicating how helpless he was against his draconian masters. ‘I’m sorry. It has to be possible. Perhaps you can make some more economies —’
‘That’s impossible!’ For a moment, the full torrent of Warner’s frustration and resentment seemed about to burst out; like many men with fierce tempers, he had no range between apparent calmness and the full fury of rage. Then he controlled himself and spoke coldly and evenly. ‘We’re down to a skeleton staff of specialist
s already. We’ve cut every corner we can in production without sacrificing the quality of the product. Our margins are far too small, but if we try to increase them we shall lose what business we have.’
It was catch twenty-two, and Cummins went for it. ‘I accept all of that. But it just shows why we’re having to take the action I’ve announced to you. If you can’t make ends meet even with the economies you’ve already made and you can’t increase margins, then the bank must safeguard its investment and prevent you from getting further into debt. If you can show us your capacity to reduce your debt, then in due course —’
‘And what if we can’t?’
This time Cummins allowed himself a little shrug of the shoulders beneath the cloth of his lightweight suit. ‘Then we should have to foreclose, I’m afraid, and safeguard our loan by the sale of your assets.’ He stood up and moved round the desk; now that his message was complete, the sooner the interview was terminated, the better. ‘But I hope it will not come to that, Mark. I’m sure you’ll come up with something. In the meantime, I shall assure head office that you are making every effort…’
The emollient, meaningless phrases poured out for a few more seconds. It was only when Mark Warner was standing dazed on the pavement outside the bank that he realized that Cummins had finally addressed him by his first name.
*
Mark did not go back to the Warner Plastics factory immediately. He could not face the anxious dependent faces there until he had composed himself. He bought himself a pint of bitter in the old pub on the high street; the rejection of the gin and tonic which was now more normal for him was a harking back to those happier days when he had worked so hard and so successfully to build up the business.
It was a good business, with an excellent reputation. Could it really now be in such danger? Gradually, as he sipped his beer and munched his way savagely through the crisps he had allowed himself, a measure of his natural optimism returned. Something would turn up. He had always been able to make things happen, and he would do that now. He still had a few irons in the fire.
But he could think of only one source from which this sort of money might come.
He drove slowly back to the works. At least Cummins had not suggested he sell the BMW, he thought bitterly. He would have had to reveal that it was only on lease. He went quickly through his own office after parking underneath the bold ‘Warner Plastics’ sign, taking care not to catch the eye of any of his employees.
There was a note on his desk from his secretary, telling him that his wife had phoned. Normally she would have told him as he came through her office, or buzzed him with the news on the intercom. Today she obviously preferred the less personal contact: he wondered just how much his workers knew about the firm’s situation. Probably quite a lot: they were not stupid, the people he employed, he thought, with a fierce and pointless pride. One of his projects would bear fruit. There must be a way out of this, for their sake as well as for his.
He took a deep breath before he rang his wife, bracing himself to meet her concern. He would prefer to tell her about the bank interview at home, tonight, but if she asked him he would not be able to hold back the news.
There was no need for him to have worried about that. He said, ‘Joyce, it’s me,’ as soon as she picked up the phone, and knew even from her breathing that something was wrong.
‘Mark, the police are here. It isn’t the children.’ He hadn’t thought it would be, but her mother’s heart had presumed that his thoughts, like hers, would fly to them. ‘It’s — it’s my mother. They’ve found her. At least, they think it’s her.’
A voice at the other end of the line said ‘Mrs Warner,’ and then there were exchanges too muffled for him to hear. He heard a door close and a hand pick up the receiver; he could picture the policeman at the phone in the hall, checking carefully that the door of the lounge was closed and that his wife could no longer hear the conversation.
‘Mr Warner? I’m afraid we have what may be bad news for you, as you’ve probably gathered from your wife. We have no certainty yet about the identity, but a body has been discovered which may well be that of your mother-in-law.’
He felt his heart thumping so loudly that he switched the phone foolishly to his other hand, lest it pick up the note from his chest. ‘Where was this? At home?’ His voice was unsteady, he knew, but that would surely be expected by the policeman.
He was glad this news was coming to him over the phone. That should make it easier to conceal the wild mixture of hope, excitement and guilt which pounded in his head.
The calm, concerned, voice said, ‘No. I’m afraid the body was found in the Severn, sir. It had been there for some time.’
‘Mrs Pritchard had drowned?’ He was forcing himself to say the right things, to suppress the wild optimism which was pouring now through his veins. He wondered if he was conveying the right degree of concern, but he was far too excited to estimate how he sounded.
The voice in his ear said, ‘I couldn’t be sure about the cause of death. The point is, sir, that we need an identification of the body, as soon as possible. I wonder if you could —’
Some impulse, part guilt, part fear, made him say, ‘But doesn’t the next of kin usually do that? I’m sure my wife —’
‘Yes, sir. It is usually the next of kin we prefer to do the identification, for obvious reasons.’ The voice was calm, practised, concerned. Then it was suddenly lowered, and Mark could imagine the man looking round again to check on the door of the lounge. ‘Unfortunately, the body has been in the water for some days, as I said, sir. It is a little — er — disfigured, and we thought in the circumstances that it might be better to shield Mrs Warner from… She’s already quite upset, as you can imagine.’
‘Of course. I’ll do it. As soon as you like.’ He hoped that he did not sound too eager.
But all the policeman said was, ‘That’s very good of you, sir. I think it would be best. Of course, it may not be your mother-in-law at all.’
But as Mark put down the phone and tried to breathe evenly, he knew it was. He felt now that he had been waiting for a week for just this moment: for the body of Laura Pritchard to be discovered.
Something had turned up, as he had known it would.
Chapter Five
Sergeant Bert Hook moved around The Beeches like a burglar rather than a policeman.
Although he had been in the force for over twenty years, and in the CID for thirteen of them, he had never got rid of the feeling that exploring other people’s houses without their permission was an intrusion. Even when their absence had been confirmed as permanent, as Mrs Laura Pritchard’s seemed to have been by the initial comparisons of her dental records with Cyril Burgess’s autopsy findings.
Hook moved his heavy frame silently about the place, treading carefully upon his large feet, as if he were in a chapel of rest rather than an empty house. The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows of the big drawing room, and Lambert had opened a window to let in some air, but Bert still entered each room like an intruder. Perhaps it was a hangover from his days in the Barnardo’s home where he had grown up: the middle classes still disturbed him a little, particularly worthy middle-class ladies like the ones who had interviewed him as an adolescent.
And this residence was eminently a middle-class one. From the thick fitted carpets of the downstairs rooms to the heavy brass light fittings of the bedrooms into which Bert reluctantly followed his chief, the big detached house spoke of comfort, even opulence. Money had not been spared here; that was especially apparent to a policeman who had married late and was finding out how expensive two young boys could be, as they went through shoes as though waging a personal war upon them.
‘I still can’t help feeling we should have someone’s permission to be here,’ Bert said to his superintendent, as he watched him picking up family photographs and opening drawers.
Lambert looked at him with a mixture of amusement and irritation, like a bold schoolboy reject
ing the views of a priggish companion. ‘The daughter knows we’re here, Bert. The husband isn’t here to ask, more’s the pity. Tomorrow, the Coroner’s Court will confirm the cause of death as “Murder by person or persons unknown”. It behoves us to get on with it.’
He would have been sharper with a younger officer. But he had worked with Hook for ten years now, and he knew the talents beneath that rubicund, village-bobby exterior. It was worth being patient with the odd quirk of temperament to have those talents beside him. Hook’s strength was with people, not things, though he could be painstaking enough with searches when it was necessary.
As if determined to thrust aside his reservations, Hook now said, ‘There’s no sign of a break-in, or of violence. It doesn’t look as if she was killed here.’
‘Maybe not. But from what we know of this death, it doesn’t seem that there was a lot of blood involved. And it may be that if the killer was alone in the house with her, he had ample time to clear up at his leisure, knowing that he would not be disturbed.’
‘Or that she would not be.’ Hook entered the detective’s automatic caveat against unwarranted assumptions.
‘Exactly. No great physical strength is needed with a throat ligature. Especially if the victim is taken unawares.’
The bedrooms were as tidy as if Mrs Evans had cleaned them that day, instead of having been prevented from entering the house by the two young policemen. Too tidy, perhaps, for a woman who had been surprised and killed in the house. Perhaps she had left it neat when she left to go off somewhere. Perhaps the murderer had coolly tidied up whilst the corpse awaited removal downstairs. Lambert shook his head; speculation was useless until they knew a lot more about the woman who had been Laura Pritchard.
The sooner they could gather information from her family and friends, the sooner they would begin to get a clear picture about the character and habits of the victim. She had been dead now, it seemed, for over a week. The trail was already colder than any detectives would have liked it. And here was Bert Hook pussyfooting about intruding on people’s privacy.
