The Riverman lab-4

by Alex Gray

  ‘Now what’s all this about, Duncan? Your email came over pretty strong.’ Barr was already flicking papers on his desk as if whatever lay there took precedence over his partner’s request for an immediate meeting. Suddenly Duncan felt an angry warmth suffusing his cheeks and he stared at the man opposite until Barr was forced to look up and meet his eyes.

  ‘It’s bad, Alec,’ Duncan began, his tone deliberately sombre.

  ‘Someone been putting their fingers in the till, eh?’ Alec gave a mirthless smile but his lips tightened when Duncan nodded slowly, his expression inscrutable.

  ‘Who the hell …?’ Barr whipped off his glasses, glaring at Duncan in disbelief. For a moment the managing partner’s discomfiture gave Duncan a fleeting spark of pleasure. Under any other circumstances he would be glad to have unsettled the man who now held such major control of his family’s firm. But not now, he realized as the moment burned down into a sudden cinder. Not now.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Michael Turner came to me last week. With this.’ Duncan fished out a sheet of A4 paper that had been secreted in a pink file. He watched as Alec Barr read its contents, noting the man’s frown deepening. At last Alec looked up. His face seemed to have fallen in on itself, the fleshy jowls slack, the mouth part open in disbelief. For the first time since Duncan had known him, the man appeared exposed and vulnerable. Then the lips closed again and he replaced the half-moon glasses on his nose. Silently he read the contents of the paper once more then looked straight at Duncan, waving the paper between them.

  ‘And what have you done since then? Nothing stupid, I hope.’

  Duncan raised his eyebrows. Whatever Alec expected him to do, surely he could rely on his integrity?

  ‘I told Michael I’d deal with it, not to worry and to keep it to himself for the moment.’

  ‘For the moment! For God’s sake, man! Something like this could blow us all sky high!’ Barr’s voice barely rose nor did he thump the desktop, but his eyes had darkened and twin crescents of red were flushing his cheeks.

  Duncan said nothing. Seven sleepless nights had given him enough time to work out the implications of young Michael’s discovery. It was interesting to have seen these same implications flitting like shadows across Alec Barr’s florid face.

  ‘Have you spoken to anyone else about this? Liz?’

  Duncan shook his head. ‘Not even Liz.’

  ‘But why didn’t you come to me straight away, man?’ Alec seemed genuinely perplexed. ‘Why wait a whole week?’

  Duncan resisted a smile. Alec Barr might be the managing partner of Forbes Macgregor and have the biggest stake in the firm north of the border, but it was Duncan who had invested most of his life in this accountancy practice.

  ‘To think it all through,’ he replied at last.

  ‘And what conclusions have you come to?’ Barr growled.

  ‘There’s only one option as I see it,’ Duncan sighed. ‘We have to find out who’s behind this … discrepancy … and then be as open as we can about it. That way we’ll at least salvage some of our reputation.’

  Alec Barr narrowed his eyes but said nothing, nodding at the man opposite. Duncan sighed again, more in relief than anything else. It was going to be okay. At least Alec appeared to agree with him on this.

  ‘Any idea who …?’ Barr asked at last.

  Duncan shook his head. ‘Hadn’t got as far as that, I’m afraid. It’s obviously one of us. Nobody else but one of the partners has the kind of clout to sanction something like this.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t me!’ Barr growled again.

  ‘D’you think I’d be here now if I thought that, Alec?’ Duncan asked quietly. For a moment both men stared at one another and Duncan Forbes felt a flicker of misgiving. The managing partner had been very quick to leap to his own defence. Too quick, perhaps?

  ‘No. Of course not. Look, Duncan, you’ve obviously been through a hell of a week, keeping this to yourself, but this is what I want you to do. Just go about your affairs as normal. Don’t try to track down this person by yourself.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I’ll put things in motion. It might not be a lost cause. Yet,’ he added grimly, seeing the doubt on Duncan’s face. ‘Give me a few weeks to have an internal investigation set up, maybe under the pretext of a routine review. I’ll think of something. Then I’ll get back to you. All right?’

  ‘I can’t see how we can salvage anything. Once word gets out it’ll be a rerun of the Enron disaster. There are almost three hundred partners in the UK alone. We’re all collectively liable, you know, Alec,’ he added gently.

  ‘I know,’ Barr replied testily. ‘And that’s why I’m not going down without a fight. Just keep your mouth shut, Duncan. This conversation never took place. Right? And maybe you’ll be able to thank me in a couple of months’ time if I succeed.’

  Barr looked keenly at Duncan once more. ‘And you’re sure young Michael hasn’t said a word?’

  ‘I trust him,’ he said simply. But, even as he spoke, Duncan wondered just how often he’d put his trust in his fellow partners over the years. And now one of them had betrayed that trust in the biggest possible way.

  Alec Barr stared into the distance, blind to the view across the river that his office commanded, his fingertips pressed sharply against the flesh of his lips. All thoughts of his client waiting downstairs were now forgotten. Michael Turner was uppermost in his mind. What to do about him? The young accountant’s previous assessment had brought him to Barr’s attention as having partnership potential. Who had made that observation? Barr suddenly recalled. It had been Duncan himself. He’d thought it typical of Forbes that he’d been ready with praise for a youngster who might easily present competition to his own son, Philip, in years to come. Barr’s face grew dark. There would be years to come in this firm, he told himself. There was too bloody much to lose.

  But first he had to deal with Michael Turner.

  That young man was not going to go down in the annals of Forbes Macgregor history as the whistle blower who brought about the demise of the company. Not if he could help it.

  CHAPTER 4

  The bartender smiled to himself as he turned away. A little harmless flirtation was the spice of this job, he reckoned, and the female customers always seemed to respond to his Aussie charm. It was the accent, Eileen had told him when he’d boasted a little. Not his good looks and what remained of his surfer’s tan, then? He’d laughed when she’d given him a playful shove. The women over here weren’t in the habit of paying compliments to their men, he’d found. They were more likely to insult than flatter you. But this woman had smiled at him in a knowing sort of way and he’d responded by turning on his charms full blast. She was a bit older than the usual clientele who patronized the City Cafe. Her clothes looked expensive: black suit, white shirt, the uniform of the office worker, except hers were fine wool and silk. He glanced over his shoulder to see if she was still looking at him but her eyes were on her glass of wine, thoughtful and brooding. She was a good-looking, classy woman, her dark hair expertly cut, make-up discreet except for those vampish red lips that had curved into a smile.

  ‘Michael! Over here.’

  The bartender watched as a young man strode towards his new customer. Now this was someone he did recognize. This fellow was a regular after office hours: someone he’d seen among the younger set that frequented the smart wine bar, with the view across to Pacific Quay. Was he her son, perhaps? He waited a moment, watching their body language: the handshake, the deferential way he moved as he sat down beside her when she patted the seat of the booth. Not her son, then. A toy boy? No. Not from the nervous expression on his face. A colleague, perhaps. The bartender caught the woman’s eye and was by her side in three easy strides.

  ‘What’ll you have, Michael? A G-and-T?’

  ‘Oh,’ the young man seemed suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Em. Just a Coke, thanks.’ The bartender smiled wryly, caught the woman’s eye for an instan
t then sauntered off to fetch the order. Couldn’t handle his lunchtime drinks then? Right enough, he was only a one-pint-and-then-I’m-off customer, now that he remembered. Never came in at lunchtimes.

  The barman laid the glass of Coke carefully beside the woman’s white wine (an Undurraga Sauvignon Blanc that he’d specially recommended), his smile bland enough to encompass them both.

  It was a matter of a few minutes, a tiny episode in an otherwise busy day that he’d probably forget before the afternoon was out. He’d never have guessed that two months from now he would be quizzed repeatedly for information concerning the meeting between this pair. Or that it would have such profound repercussions.

  CHAPTER 5

  The ball ricocheted off the wall with a whack and came back satisfyingly at an angle within the man’s reach. He tipped the edge of the squash racquet and hammered the ball home for the final point.

  ‘My game, I think.’ Graham West smiled, trying not to show the exhilaration he felt at his victory. Three weeks in a row now and Frank hadn’t come near to beating him.

  Their eyes met briefly and West tapped his racquet lightly on the other man’s sweating back. ‘Same time next week?’

  ‘Oh, why not? Though I must be a glutton for punishment,’ his partner protested.

  Under the shower’s warmth West succumbed to the needle-like jets revitalizing his body. After a few minutes his skin took on a pleasant numbness and he let his head and shoulders slump beneath the hissing spray. Life wasn’t at all bad. Maybe this time next year he’d be in a London gym and living in one of the newer properties by the Thames. And maybe have a boat moored near by? Still, he’d want to keep both his penthouse flat on the south side of the river Clyde and his boat out at Inverkip Marina. A foothold in both cities, he mused. If things got too heavy down south he could always come back here for a break.

  There was something about Glasgow that never really let you go, Jennifer had told him, when he’d asked why the pretty redhead had never left the city of her birth. He’d shrugged in compliance with her point of view, but was glad that it didn’t apply to him. Glasgow might have a hold on him but it was business, not personal, he thought, grinning as his mind dredged up the Godfather’s famous cliché. He could be at home anywhere he liked and having a place either side of the border might be fun.

  Graham West turned off the shower and towelled his dark hair into untidy spikes then stepped out, surveying himself in the mirror. The reflection grinned back at him: a lean, tanned body, the epitome of vigorous manhood. He slung the towel across his shoulders and headed towards the sauna. No need to dash off to work just yet; a nice interlude to dry off and relax, then he’d think about it. That was the beauty of being a single man in the city, he often told himself. There was no significant other demanding that he keep to a routine, throwing him out of bed at the sound of an alarm and expecting his return with the advent of rush hour. No, that was for the likes of Malcolm and old Duncan. They could keep their staid little lives.

  As he settled back on to the hot boards, West closed his eyes and thought about the future. Already his hat had been thrown into the ring; it couldn’t be long until they decided on the next UK deputy head of Forbes Macgregor. Peter Hinshelswood was retiring in June and rumour had it the names were being put forward before Easter. Alec had as good as promised him that the post would be his. He couldn’t wait to move to London and the money he’d made already would easily cover a more expensive flat. He grinned. Ach, the job was his for the asking! No other office had results like theirs and no other aspiring partner had the charisma that had taken Graham West on his journey to the top. It would mean new challenges but, even as he contemplated what these might involve, West felt a tingle of excitement. There was nothing like the whiff of a complicated case to arouse his interest. It was as good as sex, he’d told himself more than once. The thrill of the chase, the danger of losing a quarry and the feeling of triumph when it all came right, just as he’d planned: how like the conquest of a woman!

  Graham West gave a smile. There was one particular woman he had in mind right now who would benefit from a long, lingering farewell.

  Catherine Devoy did not meet West’s glance when he came out of Alec’s room, her eyes apparently on a document she seemed to be examining closely. He moved swiftly along the corridor, his shirt sleeves brushing against the wall’s cool surface, before she raised her head from whatever had taken her interest and saw him vanish into his own office.

  West closed the door and leaned against it, aware of a pulse throbbing in his temples. For a time he simply stood as if protecting this, his own designated space that had suddenly become a sanctuary from the world outside. His was a large corner room looking out over the river and beyond towards the suspension bridge. The high walls were painted a pale salmon colour, the ornate cornicing picked out in dazzling white; crystal droplets from a chandelier cast their fragments of light across the dark oak furniture and the blood-red carpet. It was a room West loved to be in. Sometimes his fingers stroked the velvet curtain fabric by the side of his desk or he would simply breathe in the smell of well-polished old wood. All the partners’ rooms had similar furnishings but each of them had personalized their own office. West had purchased several pictures from the Glasgow Art Club’s exhibitions and two of those, one standing figure and one reclining nude, were displayed to the right of his desk. The early morning light often made the skin tones seem to come alive as a rosy glow came from the east of the city.

  But right now the man was blind to the seductive charm of his surroundings. A feeling of lassitude suddenly overwhelmed him and he walked unsteadily towards the chair behind his desk. What he’d heard behind those closed doors meant the end of all his plans. It couldn’t be true. This wouldn’t happen to him, surely? With a rising sense of dismay, Graham West sunk his head into his hands and wished an impossible wish.

  ‘He’ll do what I ask him to,’ Alec Barr growled. ‘And so will you!’

  Catherine sat still, hands folded tightly on her lap, breathing deeply. Would this be the day she took a risk and told him what she really thought? Could she throw over the traces that held her here in this job and this fruitless relationship? She could say a great deal to this man across the desk from her but they would be words wasted. Alec had decided on their fate and she must comply with his decision. As she always did.

  A familiar feeling of self-loathing swept over her and she clenched her hands so hard that the tips of her fingernails left small indentations of crescent moons on her skin when she eventually made herself relax. Breathe in for four, breathe out for eight. Funny how she’d never forgotten the ante-natal exercise and yet the whole process of giving birth to that poor creature had been long erased from her memory.

  ‘It has to be done, Catherine. I don’t like it any more than you do, but it will all work out in the end, you’ll see.’ Alec removed his half-moon spectacles and rubbed his nose. The eyes staring at her from across the desk willed Catherine to trust him just once more. Her heart sank. Trusting Alec Barr had been her undoing all those years ago.

  Catherine watched as his hand came across the desk, searching for her own to respond, and she saw her treacherous fingers reach eagerly across and be enveloped in his grasp. Any thoughts of rebellion died in that moment, the strength of his clutch and the depth of his stare into her own eyes stilling her into submission.

  ‘Same time next week, Mr Adams?’ The woman behind the raised desk smiled at Malcolm and held his gaze. She knew, he thought suddenly. Maybe they all knew. Did the consultant gather them together to brief them on how to treat their terminally ill patients? Possibly. Malcolm had never come into contact with any of those softly-softly people: therapists, counsellors, whatever. Up until now he’d had no need for them and no patience for those who chose that sort of path. But now, as the woman’s eyes gleamed with genuine sympathy and unspoken words, and he nodded his agreement for the next appointment, Malcolm wondered if he’d simply shut himself off
from other possibilities.

  His life consisted of compartments, boxes into which he’d file troublesome things as ‘pending’; but to be truthful they should be marked ‘no intention of going there’. Malcolm bit his lip, uncomfortable with this self-revelation, but the idea had caught hold of him and would not let go. It was the same whenever he read the papers. A trite remark about the latest wave of terrorism sufficed then he could turn to what really mattered: the business section of the morning papers. It was all a matter of perspective, wasn’t it? If you had a relative involved in the armed forces then each and every inch of news about the conflict in the Middle East would be scanned with a growing eagerness to know what was happening and if any danger could touch the person involved. He’d learned to shut off any possibility of acrimonious discussion during his university years. The debating-society types were anathema to Malcolm, his preference had been for the film theatre whenever accounting lectures allowed. There he could indulge the perspective of others for a quiet hour or two before returning to his own much more satisfying existence.

  Malcolm Adams found he had walked all the way past Charing Cross and up Sauchiehall Street before he realized. He’d meant to call a passing taxi to take him downtown and across the river but now he stopped, considering whether he could manage to walk the rest of the way. The very act of thinking about his strength seemed to make it ebb away and Malcolm felt the pain in his head pounding as if there were something actually inside striking against his skull. He swayed slightly then took a deep breath. It would never do to collapse in the middle of the street. Just then a black cab appeared round the corner of Elmbank Street and he raised his hand as the ‘for hire’ light shone out like a beacon.