There had been more callers at a quarter to eight. Stationing himself at the blinds in the front he had seen the marked police car pull out into the main street.
It had occurred to him then, with some force, that he didn’t have a lot of time.
Now with the benefit of full daylight he clambered onto the ladder and climbed cautiously down to the roof. Hitching the bag over his shoulder, he remounted the steps and made his precarious way back into the room.
He went through the contents immediately, there on the bed. As far as he could tell, nothing was missing – or was it? Retrieving the ladder, he took everything downstairs and double-checked each file as he put it through the jaws of the shredding machine, sheet by sheet. Nothing seemed to be missing from any of the files – the girl would hardly have had time to remove individual pages – but were all the files themselves there? Had the cow stuck any in her pockets?
He made himself a coffee and, sitting at Beryl’s desk, made a mental list of the files he had shredded last night, along with the files he had found in the bag, and matched them against his memory. He went next door into his own office and went through the smashed drawers of his desk again.
It was then that he saw something that he had missed during the night, lying on the floor in the desk well: the edge of a file. Pulling it out he saw it was a Workham file. It was empty. He certainly hadn’t shredded the contents. He muttered: ‘Cow, bloody cow,’ and, returning to the main office, he went through the cabinets and the clutter on the desktops. The papers weren’t there. At one point his mobile phone rang, which he chose not to answer. A minute later the desk telephone rang. Turning up the volume on the answering machine, he tilted the blinds open and gazed across the street to the opposite roof. He watched a couple of seagulls shrieking and raging over a scrap of booty while he half listened to Cramm’s voice asking him to call ‘very urgently indeed’. With a sigh he lifted the receiver just before Cramm rang off.
‘The Catch woman, have you got her?’ demanded Cramm. The voice had a nervy ring to it, a note of panic.
Hillyard replied harshly: ‘She was here but she’s gone.’
‘There? What do you mean she was there? What happened?’
‘She was hiding upstairs. I didn’t realize.’
‘Christ – how long was she there?’
‘All night.’
‘Jesus – and she’s gone?’
‘I said. She’s gone.’
‘Christ, but what the hell did she take with her? What did she find out?’
‘Nothing. She took nothing.’
‘That’s not what I bloody heard! They’re on to us, you fucking idiot! They’ve got some of your bloody files!’
‘Not possible. Guesswork. No proof.’
There was a new stream of invective which Hillyard cut off by putting the phone down. He muttered: ‘Stuff you, Cramm.’ As for the girl, she wasn’t going anywhere, not until he’d finished with her, and he hadn’t finished with her yet, oh no.
In the hall Beji was whining softly, agitating to be let out.
‘Shut up.’ He aimed a quick kick which, despite the animal’s wild evasions, managed to meet its rump. As usual the screams were out of all proportion to the pain. ‘Anyone would think I’d killed you, you bitch.’ Shutting the creature on the other side of the flat door, he mounted the stairs on light feet and crossed the landing to the bedroom. On the cassette player a female vocalist was trudging her way through some dirge about true love. Rapidly, he stopped the tape and, flipping it over, restarted it on the other side to ensure a reliable half-hour’s musical accompaniment. As the music started again, so did the knocking, but much fainter now, as if she’d lost enthusiasm.
Taking his time, Hillyard closed the window, fastened the latch and drew the curtains, tugging the edges meticulously across each other to obliterate the daylight.
Then, treading carefully around the one creaking floorboard, he approached the cupboard door and slowly and soundlessly turned the key in the lock.
Chapter 38
‘THE PLANE WAS late, then?’ Schenker’s secretary asked, rising fluidly to her feet and following him to the door of his office.
‘A little.’ In fact it had been on time but Schenker had spent half an hour in the first-class lounge at Terminal 4 talking to his American lawyer at home in Greenwich, Connecticut, hearing the words he had banked on hearing, the words which had finally put him out of the nervous agony he had endured ever since leaving New York.
Everything had gone through, the lawyer reported: the final terms were agreed, the contract was signed. Some ground had had to be given away on profit sharing, termination pay and perks, but no more than Schenker had reckoned for, and this morning, as his car had eased its way through the jams from the airport, he had allowed himself a measure of euphoria, ready to carry him through the considerable challenges of the day, which would mainly consist of ensuring that it was his last at Morton-Kreiger.
‘Orange juice? Coffee?’
‘Coffee.’
His secretary retreated and he entered his office alone. It looked strange to him, as if he’d been away a long time. The river, grey and sluggish, had a decayed air about it, and the city in its wash of rare sunshine wore the unreality of a picture postcard. He realized that in his mind he had already left the place behind.
His secretary reappeared with the coffee. ‘The chairman asked you to call him straight away, before anyone else.’
Schenker pressed the internal number.
‘What’s this additional agenda item?’ said Sir Harry without preamble.
‘I thought it was self-explanatory, Chairman.’
‘It sounds like a no-confidence motion in McNeill to me.’
‘That would be accurate, yes.’
‘Ah.’ A thoughtful silence, then: ‘You’d better spare me five minutes then.’
Rising from behind the desk, Sir Harry gestured Schenker not to the chairs by the floor-length windows which, as a devotee of the informal avuncular approach, he usually chose for his confidential chats, but across the desk to the chair in front of him.
‘This sounds serious,’ he said.
‘It is,’ Schenker confirmed briskly. ‘Bad news from Chicago. We’ve been seriously let down by Research.’
‘Explain, if you will.’
‘It’s very simple. McNeill’s people have been holding out on me – on us. The toxicology trials on Silveron could, apparently, be unreliable after all.’
He sat up at that. ‘On what evidence?’
‘A former MKI toxicologist and – ’
‘But I thought there was no substance in that rumour.’
‘So did I!’ said Schenker with a bitterness that was perfectly genuine. ‘Research consistently denied the possibility, as you know, but now it seems that his little man might have been right all along. Apparently TroChem took shortcuts. Duplicated a bit of data here and there. Adjusted a few results. What can you do, for Christ’s sake?’ He got to his feet and started pacing the room. ‘McNeill’s never allowed anyone near Research. Never allowed anyone to question the controls …’ He paused to ensure that the chairman absorbed the full implications of the last remark.
‘And the controls were at fault?’ said the chairman.
‘You bet your life they were!’ He came up behind his chair and gripped the back. ‘McNeill finally admitted it yesterday at MKI. We were fed a pup by TroChem, data which was – is – highly dubious. If anyone had taken the care to lay down proper protocols, to install proper control mechanisms, none of this could have happened! Any confidence one might have had in Research has been totally destroyed!’ He slapped his hands down on the chair to add resonance.
‘Oh dear,’ said the chairman, who liked to see things running smoothly. ‘That bad?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘But what are you saying – that Silveron is back to square one, that the trials are invalid?’
‘Yup.’
‘My God.�
� The chairman was not much given to expletives, but he repeated this several times. ‘There must be a way to salvage the situation, surely?’
‘Possibly, but I really don’t feel able to take it on. This thing has made my position untenable. All my work has been totally undermined. I’ve put everything behind Silveron – everything – both publicly and privately, and now I find myself stabbed in the back. How can I continue to support the product?’ He made a wide gesture. ‘How can I defend it in public?’
‘But will that be necessary? To defend it publicly?’
He thought: Of course it will be, you stupid old fool. But perhaps this wasn’t the time to tell Sir Harry of the press storm that was about to blow up under Morton-Kreiger’s feet. Instead he said: ‘Yes, I very much suspect it will be.’
‘But surely it will be possible to reassure, to tell the world that we’re looking into it and doing everything in our power …’
Schenker came round the front of his chair, tweaking the knees of his trousers, sat down again. ‘In all conscience I couldn’t do that.’
‘You couldn’t?’ He seemed surprised.
‘No.’
‘But …’ Sir Harry’s shaggy brows shot down, he seemed to swell at the enormity of what he was hearing. ‘You feel that makes your position untenable?’
‘Yes.’
There was only one direction in which this conversation could possibly lead – and indeed only one direction in which Schenker had been leading it – and Sir Harry, who in matters of this kind was sharp as a razor, was not slow in recognizing it. ‘You intend to resign?’
‘I can’t see any alternative,’ Schenker said with as much regret as he could muster.
Sir Harry leaned slowly back in his chair and, making a cage of his hands, puckered his mouth into a tight oval and regarded Schenker over the arch of his fingers. ‘You can’t be persuaded?’
‘No.’
‘I see.’ He gave a brief smile of regret, but it was a mere token. ‘You would not consider a – er – bridging period. Getting us through the crisis. With your expertise – ’ Seeing the expression on Schenker’s face, he broke off and said sombrely: ‘I see.’ He drew a deep and troubled breath as a new thought occurred to him. ‘There could be – er – difficulties,’ he murmured.
Schenker was well aware of the difficulties he had in mind, but it would not be appropriate to say so. ‘Oh?’
Sir Harry assumed his favourite role, that of the senior diplomat feeling his way slowly over treacherous ground. ‘The difficulties would surround – er – the timing. There must be no doubts about Silveron, no perceived link with your departure, no rumours – not until the matter has been properly investigated.’
‘Of course not. I see that.’
‘You do?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘There would have to be assurances …’ He hesitated delicately.
‘Of course!’ Schenker looked marginally offended at the implication that he would have objected to any such suggestion.
‘Good. Good.’ Sir Harry gave a small self-satisfied smile, as if he had brought about this most satisfactory understanding singlehanded. ‘These assurances would have to be a condition of – any arrangement.’
‘Yes.’
‘A sad day for Morton-Kreiger, a sad day indeed.’
Sad enough for the board to decide that his departure could be judged to have occurred by mutual consent? He didn’t ask, although the answers would be worth an extra two hundred and fifty thousand on his golden handshake. He didn’t ask because the extra money hardly rated beside the importance of being free to take up the cola job at short notice.
He had an hour before the board meeting, an hour to prepare for what would be a much tougher version of his interview with Sir Harry, complete with merciless attacks from McNeill. His preparations certainly did not involve Cramm, who was waiting for him in his office, looking grim and, unless he was mistaken, doom-laden.
‘Later,’ he announced sharply before Cramm could speak.
‘It can’t wait.’
He glared: ‘You’d be surprised,’ and sat down, glancing rapidly over the lists and messages that had been arranged neatly over his desk.
‘The Kershaw business,’ Cramm rushed in. ‘It’s about to get out.’
Schenker sighed impatiently: ‘I’m sorry, but really, that has nothing to do with us any more, does it?’
There was a pause and Cramm said painfully: ‘There are other things that might have got out as well.’
‘Like?’
‘Our connection to a security firm in south London, people who undertook some investigations for us – ’
‘Not my problem, Cramm.’ He fixed Cramm with a hard stare. ‘Though if you intend to stay on here, I suggest you make it yours.’
Cramm looked like a man being stoned, with missiles flying at him from all directions and no idea which part of himself to protect next. ‘Won’t there be dangers?’
‘For us? You’ve always told me not, Cramm. You’ve always said there would be no difficulties for us.’
Cramm’s throat moved soundlessly.
‘If you’re worried about it, Cramm, I suggest you make certain the story gets told in the right way.’
Cramm craned his head uncertainly. ‘I don’t understand.’
Schenker raised an eyebrow.
‘You mean – leak it?’
Schenker shrugged gently as if to deny anything quite so extreme. ‘I would just point out that once a story’s got fixed in the public mind in a particular way, then it’s almost impossible to change it again later, isn’t it? Better for people to think it was Driscoll who dealt with the whole unsavoury matter himself – the payments and so on. Better for Driscoll, that is. Looks more gentlemanly.’
Cramm seemed confused.
‘Better for you, too,’ added Schenker with an emphasis which was not lost on Cramm.
Recovering, Cramm managed: ‘I’ll draw up some ideas and come back to you.’
‘No time for that.’ Schenker’s mind was already on the board meeting, his eyes scanning the papers in front of him.
‘You don’t want to check – ’
‘You’ll handle it very well, I’m sure,’ he replied crisply.
Cramm finally moved uncertainly towards the door. ‘Containment,’ he said, making a painful stab at humour.
Schenker looked up for the last time. ‘Very good, Cramm.’
The daylight vanished quite suddenly. Daisy had watched it creep under the door barely half an hour ago, a lozenge of grey which had slowly rimmed the heel of her shoe with a curve of light. Putting her hand to the base of the door, she had watched the smudge of grey harden into a sliver of brightness against her fingers.
When the music suddenly blared out it had sent a tattoo of adrenalin knocking against her ribs, and half in reflex, half in fear, she’d picked up a heavy shoe and started beating on the door again. When she gave up, which was quite soon, she had looked down and seen dark beams flowing across the splinter of light, as someone moved back and forth across the window. After a time the flickerings stopped. When they returned a minute or so later, it was only to cease again almost immediately, and this time the dart of light stayed unbroken for a long time, leaving nothing but the tinny bray of the music and the taunting swoops of the singers’ voices, pounding through a heavy refrain.
Adjusting to the possibility of another wait, Daisy settled back on her makeshift cushion, a coat she had taken from its hanger and folded twice to soften the impact of the floor, and leant back into the corner, which she had also padded with clothing. Not too uncomfortable if one ignored the lack of leg space. At the beginning, the possibility of claustrophobia hadn’t entered her mind, but during the long night, flutterings of something like panic had struck her, and now she was aware of it loitering not far away, like a giant mugger in the shadows. Strangely, it wasn’t the lack of space that seemed threatening, nor even the darkness, but the air, which sometimes seem
ed so viscous that it was an effort to breathe.
During the earlier part of the night she’d had other distractions, first the cold which had necessitated pulling one of Maynard’s jackets over her, later the demands of her bladder, a mild annoyance which rapidly grew into a major crisis. Nothing, she decided, was worth doing damage to herself and when her kidneys began to ache she reached out a hand to examine the selection of receptacles on offer. Tempting though it was to leave Maynard with a lasting memento of her stay in the form of a fluid-filled Chelsea boot, she finally chose a plastic bag which she found bundled up in a corner. Thankfully it proved to be watertight. In films, she reflected bleakly, the leading characters never encountered problems like this.
After that, at what seemed like midnight but which was probably much earlier, she exercised herself by throwing her weight against the door, partly in the genuine hope of breaking out, partly to remind Maynard, if he was still there, that she wasn’t about to give up, and partly to break the sound of the silence, which seemed to stretch out endlessly. But lack of space prevented her from gaining momentum and the door didn’t budge. Pressing her back against the rear wall and punching her heel against the lock was more promising, but the door, seemingly made of steel, continued to stand firm. After a short rest she began a new assault which was interrupted by the yapping and screeching of the dog on the other side. She thought briefly: I should have silenced you more permanently. Then she realized the dog was a message from Maynard, telling her that he was still out there, that it would be futile for her to try to escape.
Requiem Page 74
