Will nods.
I understand, Frances, that you do not believe that the board is acting in your interests, or you may see your interests differently, so the only thing I want to convince you of today is our belief, the board’s unanimous belief, that suspending you is the best way to protect a valuable asset of this company, which is what you are.
Frances knows she is here to be charmed. Angrily she feels it working.
It’s true, honestly, Will says. The last thing any of us wanted was to alienate you. Which means, he ventures laughter, that we obviously didn’t do a brilliant job.
Hapgood laughs with him. Frances gives a wary smile.
Jenny’s not given us a very flattering report, have you, Jenny? Hapgood calls across the room.
So how long do I have to wait? Frances asks.
Hapgood’s seat squeaks as he reclines to ponder this.
I want to give you an answer, he says at last. You deserve one. But the truth is I don’t know. Obviously we’re desperate to get all this behind us as soon as possible, and to get you back in the office. I have stressed this to the people handling the investigation. I’m told we’ll have a clearer view of how long everything will take within a day or two, although obviously it has to be accurate and thorough.
I agree. But that’s what worries me, if I may say so. I have done nothing wrong. I know that. I also know that someone out there is trying to damage my reputation. You say that’s what the board assumes too? That this is a malicious rumour, as you put it?
Absolutely. But we need proof.
In that case how do you know, how do I know, that people won’t lie to your investigators? Or spread more lies for them to find? Will I be consulted? What if it’s my word against theirs?
You’re right. These are important questions, and it is frustrating. All I can say is that you are presumed innocent by everybody here. The purpose of looking into this so thoroughly is to find out the truth and not be swayed by rumours. The board will decide afterwards what to do.
Suspending me looks like a presumption of guilt, don’t you think?
Not at all. We work in areas of intense commercial sensitivity, as you know. This is just best practice.
The reason for your suspension, Will joins in, is so that you can come back with a clean slate. If you were in the office, we’d need to keep you away from possible evidence, which means it would be impractical for you to continue your work as normal, and we’d have to explain that. We’d also run the risk of people one day saying you had influenced the outcome. This way, we can just tell anyone who asks that you’re working on a new pitch at home, or visiting a potential client whose details we can’t reveal. So far no one has asked, fortunately.
I thought you were against it, Will?
I’m against how it must feel for you. I was worried about that. And I certainly didn’t relish telling you. As I’ve said, I probably didn’t do it very well. But I suppose I can now see the wisdom of what Jeremy’s saying.
How about the person who falsely accused me? They haven’t been suspended. Why can’t they influence the outcome of this?
Hapgood takes this one.
We don’t know who they are, of course. And I gather it seems likely that they are not an employee of this company.
Will I be asked what I think?
Of course. Do you have any ideas? William says you told him you were stumped.
She knows it’s not advisable to take big decisions quickly during times of stress.
I do have some ideas, yes. I don’t want to damage anybody’s reputation by speaking without evidence, however.
That does you credit.
There is an interval. An interval or an impasse.
What I want, she says, is to know how long this is going to take, to be guaranteed my chance to see everything that you uncover, and to be able to defend myself – if necessary – to the board.
That all sounds reasonable, Will says. We’ll discuss it and get back to you. The problem is that we can’t make promises on behalf of the company without a board meeting. It’s part of our legal responsibility to the other directors.
And a bloody nuisance, Hapgood adds.
Indeed. Hopefully in a couple of days we’ll be able to offer something more concrete. Until then I know it’s asking a lot, but you need to trust us.
A little scoff escapes from Frances.
Hapgood again,
I really am sorry. None of us wants to be in this situation, and it’s far worse for you than for anybody else. I realise that. But if you are prepared to wait, you will accumulate a lot of gratitude. I don’t know, and this isn’t a promise, but I expect it won’t be more than three weeks before this is all behind us.
Three weeks?
She is round-eyed. She had not considered this.
Perhaps less. Although in the scheme of things that isn’t long. Sorry, I don’t know. Jenny, can you help?
We just don’t know. I’m sorry, Jeremy.
Seriously? Three weeks?
This is why I shouldn’t speculate. I’m sorry, Frances. You’ll be on full pay of course for the duration, however long it is. And we’ll be in touch the moment we have news.
He seems to be tiring of her, or of the day. She wonders whether this meeting was Will’s idea or his.
It’s a really tough one, Will says.
And something breaks.
OK, she says. I’ll tell you my thoughts. I don’t know if he mentioned it, but I found out that Will was in the QTel building at the time the email was sent. Did he mention that?
Hapgood looks at his hand.
I think whoever investigates this needs to ask Will why he was there, and talk to QTel staff to ascertain the exact times that he was with them, when he was logged into the network, and so on. They should also look at his role in bringing this matter to your attention, and his comments to the board. If I’m suspended, he should be suspended too. Couldn’t falsely accusing someone of a crime also result in criminal proceedings? Jenny?
I’m sorry. I don’t know. I will look into it.
Will is calm.
Frances, he says. I told you and the board why I was there. Me and hundreds of others, I should think.
And how many of those others feel threatened by me?
I don’t know how to answer that, except to say that I don’t. You’re a valuable part of the team, an essential part, the very opposite of a threat to anybody. I’ve loved working with you. I know you’ve had a rough time, so this kind of reaction is understandable, but it really is just lashing out.
Let’s not prejudge the investigation, Will.
Hapgood stands up.
Right then. I think we’ve accomplished all we’re going to today.
*
She is drinking alone, having taken herself out into the night-time, into the changed world. It’s not something she can recall doing before, going spontaneously into a pub to drink like this, although to be fair the decision wasn’t really a spontaneous thing, more what she was left with after the hands had been grimly shaken and she was alone in the silence of the lift and the thoughts began to swarm. She could not just sit on a train like this was nothing. She couldn’t take a taxi home. The thoughts would riot. Even on the street they coiled feverishly, looking for purchase in her mouth or ears, slithering up her nose. So she’s come here, to the Rising Sun, to hide in hubbub and to drink, and when Stephanie calls she turns off her phone. She and Will can no longer work together, not now, so without grounds for a termination the company will have to move her to another team or another office. It will be made to look like a promotion. She’ll be given what she’ll be told is an important job to do, but it’ll be thankless and she’ll hate it, and now and then she’ll get a tour of what she’s lost. She’ll be overworked or underworked into a state of abject pliancy. The disgruntled you quarantine and do not give the relief of a quick cull. Seeing this path ahead, the board may even ditch the investigation and bring her back. Let the rumours do
their work. She won’t know what’s been said, or is being said, or if anything is. These thoughts will be ineradicable. It’ll be a comfort at first to be told she’s paranoid, then a diagnosis. Should she get ready to fight? Does she want victory? Maybe better a planned swim to the next boat through flat water. Maybe. Maybe. She needs time. Right now it’s difficult to hear anything above the screeching of Ruin Will! Ruin Will! Ruin Will!
Excuse me. Listen, I know it’s rude and cheesy and everything. You probably just want to be left alone. But I’ve noticed you’ve been sat there for ages like you’re totally lost in thought. And I can’t help myself. I’m dying to know what it’s all about.
A man has stepped from the crowd. This again. Twice in two days.
Dying to? Frances says.
Well … I mean, you look worried. Unless you’re waiting for someone?
He smiles. He has the slovenly hang of a guy who has reluctantly accepted the obviousness of his good looks. He is also tall, and muscular like nobody in offices. He has that beard that’s popular right now, and which Frances isn’t keen on as a rule, but which she admits suits him. The man is gorgeous, as a matter of fact. He’ll be something like a plumber, probably, just paid. She knows such men from hiring them, the self-employed knights errant of the cities who, when young, work twelve-hour days and live in cash and are blushingly heroised by the incapable. They con you a little, just for pride. The whistling nihilists. She likes them.
No, she says.
Does that mean you’ll tell me?
I’ll tell you. It’s dull, but if you’re dying to know I’ll tell you.
I am. I’m Patrick. Can I get you another drink? It’s the least I can do.
He is pointing to her glass. She nods. This is a pick-up, say his eyes. I’m not pretending this is not a pick-up. I’m not pretending you don’t realise this is a pick-up. Nobody’s pretending anything. I’m going to try to pick you up.
She tells him everything, and he listens, nodding speciously. It’s loud and they lean close. Covering what her job involves, who her colleagues are, their competing interests, it all takes time, but Patrick is patient, and must be listening because he neglects his beer. He’s not a plumber. She discovers that. He owns his own delivery company, he says, and she sees him enjoy saying it. When they at last get to her suspension, he is volcanic.
They’ve suspended you? You’re joking?
No.
They can’t do that.
Of course they can. They have. It might not be legal, but they’ve done it. Am I going to force my way into the office every day?
That’s a fucking disgrace. Excuse my language.
Yes. It is.
Outrageous!
I know.
She spots glints of parody in his partisanship. He seems to be overplaying the sympathy in a deliberate yet deniable way, almost mocking her problems, which she almost likes. Better than pretending sympathy is what he’s mainly feeling. He is mocking the whole men and women thing, women and men, all the coy procedures. She likes this a great deal. It isn’t knowing you’re going to fuck that’s sexy. It’s knowing that you both know. It’s ulteriority. It’s being in secret already intertwined.
You need a lawyer.
I have a lawyer.
Is he any good?
We’ll find out.
The idea of Patrick as a connoisseur of lawyers makes her smile.
Another? He is pointing to her glass again.
Is it possible, she wonders, for each of them to believe that they are using the other and for them each to be correct? Or is that just what the used believe? Can whole relationships be built on mutual using? Are any built otherwise?
Sure, she says. But I’ll get these. What are you having?
She is unexpectedly drunk. Enjoying it. Three quick big gins and life’s a colourful inconsequence. Fuck it, they make her brain say. Fuck work, fuck life, fuck all her doubts about this man, all breath and antlers. His hard flanks. Fuck while the thoughts are sleeping.
She sways in for service at the bar. A roar of workmates from other workplaces, hip-deep in an unbuttoning of the day. She and her own colleagues do this sometimes, but never here. Too close to the office. She glances over the road and sees people she knows, actually, lined up behind the door. One of them is Will. He splits from the group and approaches the kerb. When the traffic splits he opens up a jog. A car might come. No lights by some drunk’s oversight. It might crash his leg bones. He crosses safely. He is going to the station. She is pushing through the crowd. Through the tables even. On to the street.
Will! she bellows.
He turns.
Will!
She is advancing.
Two things, really, Will. Firstly, I know what you’re doing, you fucking arsehole. And secondly, fuck you.
He just laughs.
Frances, he manages. Have you had a drink or two?
I know, Will. Just understand that. Keep playing your bullshit games, but remember I am watching. And I am going to sue.
Listen, Frances …
No, no, Will. You listen. I’m watching. Remember that. I’m watching you.
I’ll make a note of it. Watching me. OK.
He walks away.
You do that.
People are looking.
You do that, Will!
Before bed I prepared the van. Stakeouts go wrong if you’re not serious about them. I know from experience. Some neighbour comes knuckling on the window. Can I ask what you’re doing here? God help you if they see a camera. Some years ago therefore, I rigged up a system, which I have since refined. It is easy to assemble if you apply yourself and it is necessary, be assured. I’ve survived enough scrapes to know that you’d not be wise to rely on luck.
You’ll need a large car with foldable back seats or, if you have the means, you’ll buy a van as I did. Get a laptop with a spare battery and the smallest external webcam you can find. Miniature ones are available from surveillance shops, or you may be able to shrink a conventional model by removing the casing. The camera needs attaching somewhere discreet with a view through a window. I dug mine into the padding of the passenger’s and driver’s headrests. Remember you’ll need to tilt the lens as required by where you park, and run the cable to the laptop in the back. No doubt wireless models are now available, but I just tape the cable down the side of the seat. If you’re using a car, you’ll need to load it with a large hollow item such as a wardrobe, in which you and your computer will hide. Be realistic about comfort, though. You may need to stay there for a long time. You’ll see the advantage of a van.
When I arrived it was not quite dawn. Having parked in the best spot I could find, I climbed into the complete black of the van’s interior, my stomach tightening. More than six hours I would sit in just the light of the screen. I recorded everything, but I’d had to park quite far down, and as a result only the top of her door was visible above a hedge. To catch it opening I’d need to be attentive. On the other hand, the camera’s slanted aspect put a good length of pavement into view, so if I did miss Frances leaving I’d have perhaps half a minute to see her walking along the road, if she did not cross it. At nine the commuters had come and gone without sight of her. It crossed my mind that she had slept elsewhere.
Suddenly she ran out in sports clothes and disappeared. It happened so fast that I felt lucky to have seen her, although I didn’t know what to make of it at first. Was she running somewhere? Or just running? I had guessed the latter, given how she was dressed, but it was an anxious wait for her return. When she did return, reddened, after twenty-one minutes, she rested momentarily with her hands on her thighs before letting herself in. Evidently she wasn’t at work today, or at least this morning. A shower would follow, I presumed, so I set upon my sandwiches and coffee. I can never wait until lunchtime for a packed lunch.
At eleven I was irritable. I was mostly angry with myself because in spite of the coffee I’d passed through one of those grim somnolent spells. You know,
when the head droops, rebounds, begins to droop again, and stuck in the van I could do little to prevent it. I found a restful nook above the wheel arch, and there awoke sharply, knowing I might have missed her. I hadn’t been asleep for long, but the recording revealed nothing helpful. Vehicles often stopped or slowed to let each other pass, blocking my view, and there’d been a few of these while I was sleeping. The whole thing left me tetchily irresolute. I did want to know why she was not at work, but for how long should I keep waiting? Increasingly it seemed likely that I would leave with nothing accomplished, and knowing that I might have left a minute too soon.
So I ordered pizza. This is the kind of impatient gesture I have warned you about, I know, but I am not a perfect implementer of my principles. I hope I am at least honest about that. From past experiences, I knew that pizza generally prods some life out of a house, and indeed the door did open. I saw some curly hair, presumably Stephanie’s, bobbing just above the hedge. Soon afterwards, Stephanie left. With a better angle I might have seen her double-lock the door, or call goodbye to somebody inside. I resolved to wait an hour more, and about half had passed when Frances appeared, carrying a hanger of clothes towards the shops.
My back ached, and outside the van the light was nearly blinding, but I limped quickly across the road with my bag, rang the bell and waited. No one appeared, so I took the keys out of my pocket. I’d made perhaps a dozen attempts at home the night before, and brought what I thought were the three best. Blanks and cutting machines are easy to find, but working self-taught from only putty impressions involves an amount of grinding, peering, filing, bleeding, swearing and the like that leaves little feeling of success. By the end I was trying less in the belief that one of the keys would work, more in order to prove to myself that when I failed there would be no need to try again. In some ways I actually hoped to feel all three stick in the tumblers, their intransigence in spite of my coaxing meaning I was honourably spared. However, the mechanism unlatched easily, not quite on the first go but soon after. Success seemed to leave no choice. I had to make my installations.
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