by Janet Neel
A couple of hours later he walked down to collect the group, who looked up at him as if he were a visitor from outer space. Papers covered the table, all the men had their jackets off, and Francesca’s hair looked as if she had backed into a wind machine. She and Ed greeted him and went straight back to an argument about removal costs. Ed was treating her as a respected equal, which in Ed’s terms meant treating her like a middle-aged man.
‘Do we have a deal on that?’ he was asking, narrow-eyed.
‘I have to ask my Dad,’ she said promptly. ‘But, yes, so far as I am concerned.’
Ed, momentarily disoriented, asked what her father’s part in this negotiation was. ‘Oh Ed. It is a metaphor. I meant Henry has the final say.’ She was laughing at him, looking very pretty if rather blue under the eyes, and Ed regarded her fixedly.
‘OK,’ he said, heavily. ‘All right. You want to clear this with Henry right now?’
‘No,’ said Henry, taking pity on her. ‘You all need lunch. We’ll clear it this afternoon, Ed, and let you have an answer today.’
‘Henry, may I just check my office for phone calls and join you in five minutes?’ Francesca was flattening her hair unavailingly with both hands.
‘I should comb it, honey,’ Hal called after her, all constraint well and truly banished.
Francesca skidded into her office and picked up the expected message that John McLeish had rung. There was also a message from Peter Hampton and a London number. She looked at it, tempted, then rang McLeish who was not there. She called Hampton’s number and got him immediately.
‘Are you allowed to eat lunch with me yet?’ He sounded amused and she blushed. ‘I promise not to talk about Britex. Today? Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow.’ She combed her hair quickly as recommended and walked back to join the others, feeling both guilty and triumphant. She rationalized the guilt by reminding herself that she was seeing dear John that night and on Wednesday, and surely lunch with Peter Hampton did not mean anything, while every instinct told her that John McLeish would mind bitterly, and that he would be entirely justified since she was strongly attracted to Hampton.
She put both of them out of her mind until 6 p.m., when she reported to Henry, who considered her with respect. Somehow in the course of the afternoon, she had reached a provisional deal on assistance with Connecticut Cottons, had put together a full note for the Departmental Committee that would consider it the next afternoon, and had personally organized the committee to meet, which had involved as he knew, persuading most of the members to unscramble prior arrangements.
‘Well done, girl. You’re looking tired.’ They were both disconcerted as she blushed scarlet. ‘Perhaps you need an early night,’ he added, rattled. There was an awkward pause, then they caught each other’s eye and burst out laughing.
‘That was the original problem, was it? Go home, girl.’
16
‘Henry? Hal here. You know where I expressed some reservations about the people at Alutex? Well, I talked with an associate this morning and found that Alutex is being taken over by Smith Brothers. Did you know that? Well, of course I know most of the fellows at Smith, and just between us, the first thing they did on Wednesday was to get rid of one salesman, who happened to have responsibility for servicing Britex. Name of Ketterick.’
‘Because he was on the take at Britex?’
‘Not necessarily. The guy was fired because he couldn’t make his accounts tie up, and there is no particular proof that Britex is involved. He was passing a lot of expenses for which there was no clear business purpose. He was responsible for Britex, though.’
‘Did they call the police?’
Hal pointed out that in business takeovers no one bothered to do that; you got rid of the bad apple and got on with the job. Not your problem. Henry agreed.
He put down the phone and thought, narrowing his eyes against the bright morning light. ‘Martin!’ he shouted, seeing him go by along the corridor. ‘Why does the name Alutex ring a bell?’
‘It’s a Britex supplier. No, hang on Henry, it’s that table that Francesca reconstructed for us on the train. You remember?’
Henry sent him off for a copy. ‘Not to mention to Francesca, please,’ he said, without attempting to explain, confident that the well trained but incurious Martin would do exactly as he was told.
He had fixed to meet McLeish for lunch and was waiting for the lift when Francesca joined him. ‘Where are you going, then?’
‘Lunch with a lover.’
Henry, who had assumed he was having lunch with her lover, waved her ahead of him. She avoided his eye in the lift and he decided she was up to something. Perhaps she had seduced Hal or Ed – although, come to think of it, they were peacefully deployed in Yorkshire. He gave it up and joined McLeish in a quiet pub in a street behind Victoria Street. They ordered drinks and food, and Henry handed McLeish the Alutex table.
‘It’s a bit difficult, but we didn’t acquire this just in the ordinary way of business.’ He watched as the policeman worked his way through it.
‘Whose handwriting is it?’
‘Martin Bailey wrote it down to Fran’s dictation.’ He explained Francesca’s remarkable photographic trick, and McLeish smiled.
‘She told me she could do that. I knew it wasn’t her writing, though; too neat. How did they get it — I mean, who was there?’
‘Just Francesca from our side. I understand she walked in on William Blackett and one of his salesmen — Ketterick, and that Hampton arrived later.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m being indiscreet and telling you all this because I’m beginning to feel you may have something here. The word is that Ketterick just got fired from Alutex who have been taken over, because the new owners thought he might be offering cash to get orders. You could ask Fran exactly what happened. I’d forbidden her to discuss the case with you, but if murder is in issue then I think she has to.’
‘I’ve got a difficulty there,’ McLeish observed, not lifting his eyes from the paper. ‘I think she’s got a bit of a soft spot for Hampton, so I don’t want to ask her unless I have to.’
‘More of a soft spot for you, surely?’ Henry said, remembering the blue shadows under her eyes after the weekend, and McLeish’s eyes flickered. ‘I’m not sure Francesca will know much more than this – she was amused, you know, and showing off a bit. I think she probably told us everything she remembered there and then. You could talk to Hal Guadareschi; I’m sure he’d put you in touch with the people who took over Alutex.’
‘I’ll do that, I’ll go up there myself.’
Henry considered him. ‘There is something there, isn’t there?’
‘Oh, there’s something there, all right.’ He spoke with perfect confidence. ‘I’m worried about this table, — I mean it could just be salesmen’s commission, except that the two people who worked for Alutex, Blackett and Ketterick, didn’t want Fran to see it. Hampton was openly cross with her, and given that he fancies her, that tells me something. And both he and Blackett have a use for cash. William Blackett lives high, and if Alutex is down the tube too he can’t go on doing that.’ He looked at Henry. ‘That’s my indiscretion, but you did tell me to look for people living beyond their visible means. His dad has a chalet in Verbier, and Blackett went there last week. And my Yorkshire mate says Hampton’s never short of cash, and you’d think he’d be a bit strapped with a wife and two kids in a separate home to support, wouldn’t you?’
‘Tell you what,’ Henry observed, ‘it wouldn’t surprise me if Hampton’s prospective partner in the burglar-alarm business was expecting him to put up some cash.’
‘I didn’t interview him myself but I’ll look at Davidson’s notes.’ McLeish fished out a notebook, and methodically made a note. ‘The chap confirmed that Hampton was with him at the time Sheena Byers was attacked, though, and my sergeant is sure he was telling the truth. Hampton wasn’t at all fussed about that night, and I interviewed him myself.’
Both men stopped talki
ng to eat, but McLeish paused with a sausage suspended on his fork, and put it down to make another note. ‘I was just reminding myself to check on Ketterick. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw me at the funeral — I’d like to know what he was doing both nights. Thing is, none of this may have anything to do with Fireman’s death. A lot of police work is like that: you turn up. all sorts of different things, some of them criminal, that have nothing to do with what you’re looking for.’
Henry bought them both another drink and they talked of other things, including Henry’s involvement with the Aquarius Choir. ‘She pressganged you?’ McLeish said, amused. ‘Actually, it may be worth it to hear young Peregrine sing. He is something else. I’ll see you tomorrow, then; I’m picking Francesca up from rehearsal, with two more of her brothers whom she has managed to insert into the ranks.’
‘Do you have to take them all out?’ Henry enquired, seriously.
‘I’ve just managed to exclude them so far.’ McLeish was laughing. ‘Thank you for this.’ He stuffed the paper into an overloaded briefcase and went off, smiling to himself.
Francesca, eating lunch three streets away, was not thinking about either of them, her whole attention being concentrated on Peter Hampton to whom she was finding herself violently and inconveniently attracted. He had put an arm round her and kissed her when she arrived, and for a moment she had relaxed against him, wanting him to go on. He was ordering for both of them and put a hand on hers while he checked which sauce she was having on the steak. She felt a wave of pure lust and momentarily closed her eyes, wondering dizzily whether she really could manage to run two lovers at once. She recovered her hand and her voice, and heard herself ask courteously about progress at Britex.
‘I’ve left the Americans to it.’ He was sitting very close to her, his full attention concentrated on her. ‘They are seeing suppliers today and customers tomorrow. I’m just churning out figures down here as they ask for them. Francesca …’ he stopped.
‘Yes, Peter?’ She looked up and found he was watching her and that she did not want to look away. It was Hampton who looked away, deliberately, and fiddled with a spoon. Their soup arrived and there was a momentary bustle of activity while rolls and butter were produced and wine poured, giving Francesca time to get herself in hand.
‘I’m going to Geneva for the weekend, to see friends. Can you have a drink on Friday just before I go to the airport, or is that difficult?’
Francesca, even disorientated by overwhelming sexual attraction, noted appreciatively the care with which he had picked his words, leaving her free to indicate, if she needed to, the prior demands of a current husband or lover. ‘I am going out later in the evening, but I’d like to see you,’ she said, striking the best balance between various conflicting wishes that she could achieve. ‘Would 6-ish suit?’
‘Beautifully. My plane is at 8.30. I couldn’t wish for a better sendoff.’
They chatted easily through the main course, Francesca recovering her habitual poise.
‘Sweet, Francesca? Do you want the menu?’
‘No, I can remember it. I’d love a raspberry sorbet.’
‘What else do they have, then?’
She closed her eyes, aware she was showing off, and recited the full, rather pretentious, list of twelve. She opened them to find Hampton had commandeered a menu and was following it. ‘That’s quite a party trick,’ he said, amused and admiring as she had intended. ‘Did you learn them off?’
‘No, I don’t have to if I only want it for a short time. It’s called a photographic memory.’
‘I’ve read about that,’ he assured her, and they finished lunch, discussing examinations and methods of passing them, Francesca unnervingly conscious of his every movement. He helped her on with her coat at the end and she had to fight the urge to lean back against him. He bundled them both into a taxi and placed a hand lightly over hers. ‘I’ll drop you off.’ He leant forward, still holding her hand, to tell the taxi where to stop.
‘Thank you for lunch.’
‘A pleasure.’ He kissed her lightly, but deliberately on the lips. ‘See you Friday.’
Henry Blackshaw, returning to the Department after buying some shirts, checked as he recognized Hampton and scowled at Francesca’s back. He couldn’t now really complain about her having lunch with him, but it was indiscreet, and rather hard on the man he had just been lunching with.
No sign of any of these distractions showed in Francesca’s manner at the Departmental Committee meeting that afternoon. Henry, whose natural inclination was to delegate to the lowest sensible level, had wanted Martin and Francesca to present the case, but had been strongly advised by both Rajiv and Francesca that this would be impolitic. ‘It’s £6m of assistance, our biggest case so far, Henry. There will be opposition, and you have to be seen to be in charge,’ Rajiv had urged, while Francesca had pointed out that the only way to get this one through was on the basis that nothing less would be effective to produce a long-term commercial solution.
‘And consequently, Henry, I do not open my mouth and we depend entirely on you to carry the case. You are the only person among the twenty or so there assembled who has ever entered a textile factory in anger, as it were.’
Henry had been impressed by the theory but doubtful about the practice, not least about the idea of Francesca’s getting through a meeting in silence. He presented the case and let Martin deal with the detailed questions, which he did extremely competently. To his amazement, Francesca did not speak at all, leaving Rajiv to make it delicately clear to the Civil Service audience that Henry and Martin had not been allowed, as he put it afterwards, to blunder about making ridiculous offers to all and sundry, but had been accompanied at all points by a respectful but authoritative Civil Service acolyte in the person of Francesca. It hardly gave the flavour of the negotiations, in which Francesca had taken a leading part, but it appeared to be reassuring. After an hour and a half, the committee agreed that assistance, at this level, should be recommended to Ministers and all filed out, Francesca keeping a little distance from Martin and Henry.
‘That went pretty easily,’ Henry observed to Martin. ‘You had all the answers too; well done.’
‘Ah. That was Francesca. She gave me a list this morning and told me all questions were please to be attempted, however lunatic I thought them. Most of them came up.’
Henry nodded, enlightened. She and Rajiv arrived together in his office, grinning.
‘Brilliant, Henry. Lovely job. I’d have bought several dozen myself.’ She beamed at him. ‘And you were great, Martin. Not a hole in the defence. I’ll do the paper for Ministers; it won’t get into the Box tonight, of course, but I’ll give it to the late-night pool and we’ll have it first thing tomorrow.’
‘You were pretty good, too,’ Henry said drily and got a sharp glance of acknowledgement from her.
Rajiv patted her shoulder lazily and said that he also had been impressed. ‘However, we are not out of the wood. We still have to persuade Ministers that Connecticut Cottons are acceptable despite being foreign.’
‘Oh come on, Rajiv. They are American, East Coast, at that. And they wear tweed suits. Almost English,’ Francesca pointed out. ‘It’s not as if they were dressed in terylene and came from some Punjabi hill village.’
‘You are not to be being disrespectful of my Uncle Sanjay or my many distinguished cousins,’ Rajiv said severely, with the Punjabi lilt, crossing one well-tailored leg over the other. ‘All of them are owning at least two suits each.’
Henry and Martin breathed again and Henry remembered that Uncle Sanjay was one of the richest men in modern India.
‘I think the Directors may need to meet the Minister, Henry,’ Rajiv said thoughtfully, reverting to his normal drawl. ‘As Francesca says, they do look all right. They are about his own age.’
‘I was going to suggest that Hal and Ed at some point will insist on meeting the Minister. They will want to be sure they are dealing with the top man,�
� Henry said mildly.
Both civil servants regarded him fixedly.
‘I suppose we do tend to forget we aren’t the top man as far as the outside world is concerned,’ Francesca observed. ‘We feel, you see Henry, that it is us with whom Hal and Ed are doing business, not the Minister.’
Henry wondered aloud whether the Minister necessarily concurred with this view, and his Civil Service colleagues agreed, after careful consideration and with some wonderment, that it was quite possible Ministers, despite their brief tenure, did feel that they were the centre of the world. They left to organize the submission, leaving Henry and Martin struck dumb.
‘They’re right, of course,’ Martin said, rising to go. ‘I can see Francesca running us and the rest of the country as a senior civil servant.’
Yes, well, Henry thought soberly; but her private life may be going to give her trouble. He shook his head in exasperation and answered his telephone.
‘John McLeish. I’m sorry to call you at work. The Yorkshire chap who is working on this has found that Hampton goes to Geneva about once a month. Said to have a girl-friend there. I wondered, you see, because of the banking angle.’
‘That is the textbook pattern,’ Henry confirmed. ‘Lots of banks in Geneva, however. You’ll get nothing out of a Swiss bank by way of evidence.’
‘I know that.’ McLeish sounded momentarily weary. ‘But it’s all a matter of accumulating bits and pieces. People sometimes collapse if they find you know a lot, and let you have the rest.’
Henry nodded in confirmation and in respect for the patient hunter at the other end of the line. Why could Francesca not see her own best interests? Ingrained Yorkshire distaste for minding other people’s business intervened to prevent him telling McLeish that Francesca had lunched with Hampton, but after he had put the phone down he wondered, uneasily, whether he was right.
17
‘Hallelujah. Halle-e-e-lujah.’ Henry was standing next to Charlie Wilson and they were both singing their hearts out. He could hear, for the first time, the Aquarius Choir tenors, specifically Jeremy Wilson who was holding together the motley group. They all came to an end, simultaneously for once, and the conductor beamed.
