‘I do hope your father’s not ill,’ said Andreé. ‘I found him charming and very knowledgeable.’
‘He is well thank goodness, it’s just this letter that he’s sent me,’ said Angela, pointing at a rather crumpled and soggy couple of pages of writing paper, ‘my parents have split up, I feel bereft.’
‘Oh!’ replied Andreé, rather stumped as to what to say next and deciding that nothing was probably best.
It wasn’t long before Angela was reciting chapter and verse to Andreé who had always been a good listener. They gelled, shared the same empathy and the sad story just flowed out naturally. By the conclusion Angela was much more in control of her emotions with the unburdening and sharing of her problems.
‘Please excuse me,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what came over me. Thank you very much for your kind sympathy. I feel much better now.’
‘Is this a family snap?’ asked Andreé, picking up the framed photograph.
‘Yes, it’s my parents with me and my husband. It was taken one day last year when we went out for lunch. I keep it there because it’s one of those rare photos when everyone looks good. Nobody got caught pulling a silly face.’
‘Unfortunately my eyesight doesn’t permit me to see clearly, I’m visually disabled but I’m sure my husband would love to see it. John, come and look at Angela’s photo of her husband and parents.’
Whilst Andreé had been giving moral support John had taken a closer look at a small display of antique jewellery. One piece, a single string of pale blue cube-shaped stones caught his attention. The necklace was pricy but affordable and he decided to buy it as inconspicuously as possible. After sincere farewells they left the shop with the Ella King painting tucked under John’s arm and the necklace sitting in his jacket pocket.
‘I’ve a little present for you,’ John said as they sat side by side in the car before heading off home. ‘I think you will like it. You deserve to be rewarded for being such a Good Samaritan.’
Andreé removed the hand magnifier from the glove compartment and studied the necklace that John gave her.
‘It’s lovely,’ she exclaimed, feeling the unusual shape of the stones with her sensitive fingertips. ‘Did it cost a lot?’
‘It doesn’t matter how much it cost, it’s a bargain if it makes you happy and I’ve got the painting to enjoy so you deserved to have something too.’
‘Her parents are seeking a divorce,’ stated Andreé. ‘Angela has only just found out. That’s why she was so upset.’
‘The “wife” in that photo,’ John stated, ‘wasn’t the same “wife” we met at the Livery luncheon. Her father seems to have found a replacement very quickly!’
***
Doug had been at a six-star hotel in central London. His client, a plutocrat from Russia, had required him to attend his suite for an appointment to deal with the paperwork on the conveyance of a penthouse apartment of a property with frontage onto the Thames. He had spent the underground journey back to his office checking that he had all the correct signatures on the official forms. Leafing through the sheaf of papers, he stopped momentarily at those dealing with money laundering and shook his head. If he’d been a betting man he would have placed a large bet on his presumption that the source of the plutocrat’s money was totally illegal and very probably involved violence. It’s not my job to moralise, he told himself, just do the job correctly and bill him! But it sat uncomfortably on Doug’s shoulders. Personal integrity was important to him and the law was making an ass of his principles. Alighting at Bank tube station he made his way up several escalators to emerge into the frenzy of traffic criss-crossing the junction of five thoroughfares just in front of Mansion House. He walked briskly up Poultry and Cheapside and turned left into Ironmonger Lane. Head down, deep in thought he crossed the narrow lane at an oblique angle. It was the red and white tape flapping in the breeze that brought him to a sudden halt. It cordoned off the entire lane and made a threatening sound each time it got caught in a gust of wind. Looking ahead he could see other streams of tape blocking off the far end of the lane and dozens of people milling around just beyond it. Doug looked around not knowing what to do.
‘You can’t go up there, Sir,’ half shouted a police constable from a position beyond the red and white tape.
‘What’s going on?’ shouted back Doug.
‘There has been an electrical fire in one of the buildings,’ replied the policeman as he sidled down to where Doug stood. ‘It started in a lift shaft and spread out to encompass some of the office spaces, the fire brigade are still dampening it down.’
‘Which building is affected?’ asked Doug.
‘It’s number twenty-six.’
‘Oh God, that’s my office building. Where’s the fire engine?’
‘There are two of them parked just around the far corner,’ said the policeman pointing up the lane with a sweep of his hand to indicate around the far left corner of the lane. ‘The building was evacuated when the fire alarm sounded and the occupants gathered at their prescribed meeting points in Gresham Street. You had better go there and wait for the all-clear to return to the building although it may be some time as there has been extensive damage to some of the offices.’
Doug lifted the tape as if he were about to duck under it and walk through the cordoned-off area to the far end.
‘You can’t do that, Sir!’ said the police officer very firmly. ‘You can’t cross the police line.’
‘But it’s a long way to walk right round the block when it’s only a hundred yards or so this way,’ retorted Doug.
‘That’s what you’ll have to do, Sir, you can’t cross the line,’ repeated the policeman in uncompromising mood.
Doug retraced his steps down Ironmonger Lane turning right into Cheapside, then right into King Street and right again into Gresham Street. Here he was confronted by the full panoply of the emergency services. Two large fire engines were blocking the northern entrance to Ironmonger Lane, it being too narrow to deploy these monsters adequately from the lane itself. Beyond them were two ambulances awaiting the injured, their drivers and crew standing in a huddle waiting for information from the fire brigade about possible casualties. Police cars were strewn on either side of the road, their drivers busy redirecting the normal city traffic in alternate directions. Office workers in their scores were standing about littering the pavements and making it difficult for Doug to find the correct meeting point for his own firm. Finally, catching sight of a familiar face, he homed in on his colleagues and was told the full story. Just after he’d left the building, heading for the West End hotel, a problem had developed with one of the lifts. Nobody had paid any real regard as the lifts were always breaking down; it was an old building with old infrastructure and its occupants had grown accustomed to what the leaseholder’s managing agent liked to call “quaint” habits. On this occasion, however, the lift’s malfunction was not due to a simple mechanical cause, it was due to aged electrical wiring sparking at a critical moment which resulted in a small explosion of combustible material which had collected over the preceding two decades since the lifts had last been modernised.
‘The lift was on our level when the fire took hold,’ said a glum-looking senior partner. ‘I hope you backed up your computer files before leaving yesterday evening as the fire brigade have put their hoses through your window to douse the flames. They managed to get a hoist vehicle down the lane and cranked it high enough to get to the fourth floor. They smashed your window and fed in their hoses. Apparently the sprinkler system had kicked in but it was, according to the chief fireman, pathetically weak, giving out a dribble rather than a fierce spray. Your office will be a mess.’
‘Was it fire-damaged?’ asked Doug.
‘From what I can gather most of the fire damage is in the office which adjoins yours and the lift shaft but I bet your office is a write-off as
the firemen used it as their entry and exit point until they had the fire under control.’
‘Is everybody safe?’ asked Doug, suddenly realising that he hadn’t yet asked.
‘Yes, we all got out safely, probably thanks to the fire drill we had recently,’ responded the senior partner. ‘We were of course one down when we did a count at the meeting point and in the shock of the moment we had forgotten that you were attending a meeting elsewhere. It was a relief when we realised where you were.’
‘Crikey,’ said Doug, ‘I can understand that! It’s good to know that everyone is safe and unhurt. I was worried when I saw the ambulances. I suppose there was a rush for the stairs when it happened.’
‘An orderly rush,’ said the senior partner. ‘Nobody appreciated at the time how serious it could have been if the smoke had permeated into the stairwell.’
‘Crikey,’ repeated Doug, ‘I didn’t think of that either.’
Once one of the personal assistants had noted down on a scrap of paper everyone’s mobile number they obeyed the chief police officer’s instruction to disperse. ‘Highly unlikely anyone will be permitted back into the building today even on those floors which were unaffected by the fire and water,’ he had told the senior partner. ‘It will be a big job for the firemen to clear up. They will put all the lifts out of use until the wiring has been checked and pronounced fit for purpose. Best for your employees to go home or meet somewhere else to discuss what you are going to do but for today the building will remain out of bounds. Ring this number this evening,’ he said, tearing off a slip of paper from his notebook and handing it to the senior partner, ‘and they’ll let you know if you are permitted to enter the building tomorrow.’ After a plea from the senior partner for the police to retrieve the ladies’ handbags with mobiles, credit cards and household keys the firm’s employees departed for home.
It became clear to Doug that he had to act boldly and move on his relationship with Ruth by several notches as she was the only person he felt he needed to tell about the day’s events. Not only that and far more tellingly, she was the only person he wished to tell. When he telephoned she had reminded him about the gems stored in the lockable drawer of his desk and he had responded that they were at the forefront of his mind and he was holding his breath as to what he would find when allowed back into his office. As soon as the call came from the personal assistant informing him that the partners would be allowed back after midday and the remainder of the staff the day after, Doug’s anxiety levels really shot up as he imagined unlocking his drawer and feeling for the used plastic sandwich carton in which he had put the pouch and sealed with two strips of sticky tape from end to end before pushing it to the back of the drawer. He could easily imagine his relief on touching the ribbed sides of the thin plastic but there was a nagging and persistent image also of his fingers waggling back and forth but coming into contact with nothing more than thin air. However, there was a third possibility that Doug had failed to consider and it slapped him in the face the following afternoon when he entered his own room.
At one o’clock Doug made his way up the marble stairs with their elegant wrought-iron handrails and ornate balusters. Apart from the acrid smell the stairs looked untouched by the previous day’s incident. Pushing through the double doors into the heart of the building the picture was very different. His firm’s reception area, which occupied the central space into which the lifts discharged their passengers, was looking very sad with walls and ceiling darkened by the smoke and sodden carpets still in the process of being ripped up and hauled away by a gang of workmen. Spotting his arrival, the senior partner was soon by his side with an updated report. ‘The insurance company agent and the loss adjusters were here at seven o’clock this morning, the same time that I got in,’ he reported. ‘The managing agent and his cronies arrived soon after. They couldn’t argue about the cause as the fire chief had stated categorically that the origin of the fire was faulty wiring in the lift shaft. They will have to replace the wiring for all three lifts. It will cost them an arm and a leg. They didn’t look happy and if we can find a clause in our tenancy agreement about the lifts we should be able to get a reduction in rent until the work is complete. Not just our firm, all the other tenants in the building too. No, the managing agent was looking distinctly pissed off! Things are moving apace,’ continued the senior partner. ‘The party wall between your office and the one into which the fire spread is presently being ripped down as it partially melted in the heat. Dehumidifiers are being carried up the stairs and will take about forty-eight hours to dry out the floors and walls after which the decorators and carpet fitters will be able to start their trades. A new window will be fitted in your room tomorrow morning and our IT agent has said that the equipment in your room is too badly water-damaged to be saved. I do hope you’ve backed up all your work to the cloud. Unless you can work from home you’ll have to move into that tiny room on the fifth floor next to the photocopiers. Once I’ve put in our order for new furniture for the two rooms affected that will be about it,’ he had said. The senior partner looked tired and anxious despite his attempt at outward control, getting the firm back to productive work sooner rather than later would be no easy task and work in the City waited for no man. ‘Check out your room Doug, it’s looking very sorry for itself, then come and join me so that you can go through the catalogues to pick your new desk.’ A sorry-looking door into Doug’s office hung from its hinges ajar; it was blackened and scraped and still glistening from the spray of the hoses. He pushed it fully open and stopped immediately. There was nothing in the room. It was bare.
No filing cabinets, no chairs, no computer equipment, no shelves with box files, no carpets but most of all, no desk.
‘I hope you didn’t have anything personal in your room,’ said the senior partner from just behind Doug’s left shoulder. ‘All the furniture was damaged one way or another and everything on paper was reduced to papier-mâché. When the firemen pulled down what remained of the shelves they tossed the papier-mâché into black bin bags and carted them downstairs to the skips, likewise with your desk. It had been broken by a heavy piece of their equipment, not surprising really. They emptied the contents of the drawers, salvaged a few bits and pieces and the remainder went into the bin bags too. I hope you haven’t lost anything of sentimental value,’ repeated the senior partner.
Doug stood stationary on the threshold of his office. He didn’t need a mirror to know that he had blanched and for a split second he felt he would faint. He was just able to manage a mumbled reply to the senior partner that there were one or two things of a personal nature in the lockable draw of his desk.
‘Where are the bin bags with the contents of my desk SP?’ demanded Doug, using the sobriquet by which he was known to all the junior partners although neither his first name began with an S nor his surname with a P.
‘In one of the skips downstairs, Sir,’ interjected respectfully a young fireman who was just finishing mopping up the floor. ‘Everything from the drawers was sodden. Unfortunately your wooden desk wasn’t fire-brigade-hose waterproof!’
‘What about the locked drawer?’
‘It opened without a key. The frame of the desk was split and couldn’t hold the drawers in place properly. Everything was trashed apart from a few pencils and some one pound coins in a small plastic cup which I put on the reception desk by the lift,’ restated the fireman. ‘The only other thing was an old packet of sandwiches but I dumped that in a bin bag too.’
‘Where’s the bin bag now, quick, tell me!’ cried an agitated Doug.
‘It’s in the skip on the ground floor.’
A loud and intense grinding noise arose from below. The young fireman looked down onto the lane through the unglazed window frame.
‘If you want something from the bin bag, Sir, you’d better hurry as the skip has just been loaded onto the truck and is about to be driven away!’
In a flash Doug pushed through the swing doors and launched himself down the four flights of stairs arriving in the ground floor lobby breathless from the sudden exertion. The skip transporter pulled away as he opened the swing doors onto the lane. Gasping for air, his feeble shout to the driver to stop could not be heard in the cab over the noisy grating engine. He followed on foot as fast as his wheezing lungs permitted, turning right at the top of the lane into Gresham Street where he was lucky to hail a passing taxi and in a scene reminiscent of the Wild West he was just able to draw sufficient breath to direct the taxi driver to follow the skip ahead. Composing himself in the back of the taxi, he speculated about the destination of the transporter. He prayed fervently that it was not destined for landfill in rural Essex as the amount of cash in his wallet would be woefully inadequate and he could picture the sour face the driver would pull if he asked to pay by card. To his relief the transporter turned left at the fourth set of lights and followed signage to a recycling centre beyond the city’s eastern limits.
The “dump”, as it was known colloquially, was located unobtrusively behind a long factory building with a grand stone façade onto the street, giving the edifice an air of its former stature rather than the current prosaic use as a structure in which infants’ pushchairs were manufactured and assembled. The large, metal, olive green double doors opened automatically as the transporter slowed to a virtual stop in front of them and closed stealthily behind the vehicle as the driver nosed it carefully into an offloading bay, giving Doug just sufficient time to slip in before the gates banged shut.
‘This is private property,’ a gruff voice yelled out, ‘you can’t come in here without a pass. It’s strictly forbidden.’
‘I’ve lost something,’ yelled back Doug, pointing at the transporter. ‘It’s in one of the black bin bags on that skip.’
Unsafe Deposit Page 28
