A Ghost in the Machine

by Caroline Graham

“Written a novel.”

  “What sort of a novel?”

  “Historical, I believe. Does that sound like the sort of thing the Celandine Press would be looking for?”

  “Anything that has literary merit, Kate said.”

  “As to that…” Dennis seemed uncertain.

  “Don’t worry,” said Benny. “You know what they say, nothing ventured, nothing gained. What’s your friend’s name?”

  Dennis stared at her.

  “So I shall know who to look out for.”

  “Walker.”

  “Get him to send it in,” said Benny, “and I shall give it my personal attention.”

  In the end Polly did not change the money she owed Billy Slaughter into cash to ram down his trousers and up his nose. She recognised this impulse now for what it was – a childish “sucks boo” born of rage at her previous impotence. Also, if she tried it he might hit her.

  There was, too, the question of prudence. Polly remembered sitting at a shared table in the LSE Brunch Bowl a while ago when an anthropology student read out a news item from his paper. Apparently someone was being mugged every three minutes night and day in London. They all laughed when he added: “You’d think the stupid sod would move to Brum.” But it wouldn’t be funny, Polly thought now, if it happened to you. Especially if you had several thousand in cash about your person. So she decided to pay her debt with a banker’s draft.

  Of course she had not been able to wait, as her father had suggested. She had rung the only number she had the very next day, only to be told that Mr. Slaughter was in the country and would return after lunch on Monday. The person speaking sounded just like some crusty old retainer in a crusty English play.

  Polly had been surprised at Billy’s address. She had imagined him hanging out somewhere really flash. At the top of a high tower in Canary Wharf with a Porsche in the garage or over the water in a converted Docklands warehouse. Maybe even at Montevetro, the gorgeous Richard Rogers building, shaped like a gigantic slice of glass cake, sparkling and glittering on the river at Battersea. But he lived at Whitehall Court, Whitehall Place. A few minutes from the Cenotaph. Central, sure, but how dull.

  Polly asked around to see if anyone had heard of the place. She drew a blank with one exception. An old Etonian reading Philosophy and Economics. Apparently his uncle, a retired admiral, had a flat there. Handy for his club in the Mall, and the House of Lords. Always grumbling about the service charge, which he swore was higher than his daughter’s mortgage.

  Polly walked there from Embankment Tube station. The vestibule to the apartments was richly carpeted in pale rose and full of flowers. Polly, about to go straight through, was stopped by a porter who enquired about her business. A telephone call was made to confirm that she was expected and she was directed to the lift.

  Making her way down the long, thickly carpeted corridors past cream and grey marble pillars and panels of beautiful stained glass Polly, in spite of herself, began to feel impressed. And it was so quiet. Minutes from Trafalgar Square and you couldn’t hear a mouse squeak.

  Then, way above her head, Polly heard the lift door clash to and the mechanism start whirring. Waiting, she recalled the novels of John le Carré. Surely this was exactly the sort of discreet, anonymous place that civil servants and their masters, their moles and droppers of notes into hollow trees would gather to trade and betray. Somewhere a stone’s throw from the nation’s seat of power. A place where no one knows your name. And suddenly it didn’t seem so strange that Billy Slaughter should be living here.

  She came out of the lift into another long, dimly lit corridor running into deep shade at the very end. Then a heavy door was opened, flooding the space with light. Into this illuminated area stepped a man in evening dress. He raised a hand and called something that Polly didn’t quite hear.

  She stepped out, walking the walk. He watched her coming on. She wore a soft dress, tiny navy dots on cream with a flirty skirt that swished and swirled above her dimpled knees. She stepped out swinging her hips, her long tanned legs making confident strides. Her pretty, pink-toed feet nonchalantly balanced on four-inch heels tied around her ankles by narrow strips of glittery stuff.

  How do women do it? mused Slaughter, admiring Polly’s swagger. How do they stay up there? As she got nearer he went back into the flat. Polly, who had been afraid there might be some form of physical rapprochement, was relieved. She wouldn’t put it past him to try to kiss her. Or sneak a crafty arm around her waist. He’d got enough cheek.

  The interior of the flat was a further surprise. The room into which she followed Billy was furnished like the sitting room of a country house. The dark green Knole sofa was well worn, as were several armchairs. Diamond-paned bookcases were crammed with what appeared to be much-handled books. There were several small oil paintings, mainly landscapes, but two showed fine, elegant horses standing in formal gardens in front of playing fountains. Some framed pencil sketches of dancers hung on the opposite wall. A clarinet lay on a low table beside a stack of scientific journals and next to a glazed blue dish holding ripe apricots.

  “Well, Polly?”

  Slaughter was standing behind a desk, honeyed mahogany and green leather, which also looked pretty old. There was nothing on it but a computer and a copy of the Evening Standard.

  Polly, impressed and surprised by her surroundings, did not immediately reply. She was also slightly surprised by Slaughter’s appearance. It had been some weeks since they met but, in her constant and angry remembrances, he had been fat. Gross even. Now, though plainly a big man, he was not a fat one. Polly wondered if he had lost weight. Or if she had blown him up (so to speak) in her imagination.

  He wasn’t quite as ugly either. His flat almond-shaped eyes were as cold as she recalled but his lips were full rather than thick. They weren’t smiling. Now she came to think of it she had never seen him smile.

  “Won’t you sit down?”

  “No, thanks.” Polly opened her bag and took out the banker’s draft. It was in an envelope. “I just came to deliver this.”

  “Hang on.” He disappeared into what was presumably the kitchen and came back with two glasses and an ice bucket with a bottle in it. “We must celebrate.”

  About to be very grand and refuse, Polly changed her mind on recognising the dark green bottle held in a metal casing of delicate pale blue leaves. Slaughter filled two glasses to the brim, gracefully without spilling a drop. Polly accepted one with a great show of reluctance, took a sip and wandered over to the window. It looked down on two stone figures, Epstein or very much like, squatting atop an archway.

  About to ask, she was anticipated by Slaughter.

  “Ministry of Defence.”

  Polly remembered her earlier thoughts on John le Carré while drinking deep of the Perrier Jouët, which was quite wonderful.

  “You’re running out.” He added to her glass, standing quite close but not so close she could legitimately take offence. Even so, Polly moved away.

  “I didn’t know you played the clarinet.”

  “I play all sorts of things.”

  “Billy, suppose…that is – if I hadn’t been able to get the money, would you have…?”

  “Yes.”

  “To the bitter end?”

  “Wouldn’t you?” He refilled his own glass.

  “Of course.” But there had been a minimal hesitation.

  “What if it was a friend?”

  “I don’t believe in friends.”

  “What would you have instead?”

  “People who can be of use.” Polly hesitated. “Isn’t that your philosophy?”

  “My philosophy, like that of all successful businessmen, is to see with absolute clarity what is really happening.”

  “And the failed businessmen?”

  “They see what they’d like to think is happening.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “It will serve you well, Polly.”

  He held out his hand. Polly pro
duced the envelope and gave it to him. He slipped it, unread into his pocket and sat down at the desk. He wrote a few lines on a sheet of headed paper, folded it and handed it over. Not to be outdone on the count of cool, Polly slipped the receipt unread, into her bag.

  “Some more fizz?”

  Polly didn’t reply. She was already feeling rather light-headed. Being nervous, she had not been able to swallow a morsel before she came. She took the glass, conscious of standing there like a dummy and blurted out the first thing that came into her head. It could not have been more banal.

  “You’re looking very smart.”

  “I’m going to the opera.”

  “The opera?”

  “Where did you think I’d be going? The dogs?”

  “I’m…” Polly blushed. “I didn’t think anything.”

  “Fidelio. Love, death and betrayal.”

  “Sounds like a day on the market floor.”

  “Apart from the love.” He had moved back behind the desk and sat down to face the computer. “I want to give you something, Polly. A present.” He started tapping the keys. “Have you got any money?”

  “Doesn’t sound much like a present.”

  “If you have or if you can get some I can put you in the way of buying at 1.04 and selling, possibly at as much as 1.50 within hours.”

  “Buying what?” Polly tried to keep her voice even but the shock showed. A swift kick of excitement and fear. She walked slowly across the room to stand behind his chair, to read over his shoulder.

  “Gillans and Hart? For heaven’s sake – they’re rubbish. Worthless.”

  “Not quite.”

  “What are you doing?” She stared at the screen. At the figures; the noughts. “You’re not buying?”

  “As you see.”

  When Polly could speak she said, “What’s going on?”

  “There’s been a takeover by Channing Voight.”

  Polly leaned on the desk edge to keep herself steady. She felt slightly sick. “How do you know?”

  “A banker with Channing. He’s in my debt.”

  “Must be some debt.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So it will break first thing tomorrow?”

  “The rumour’s already out. They’re two points up in the Standard.”

  Polly took up the paper and checked, and it was true. “You’re buying with a market maker?”

  “Smart girl. Do you know of someone you can use?”

  “Of course. But, why me?”

  “Let’s say…” He turned and smiled at her. The smile didn’t reach his eyes but at least this time it just touched his mouth. “I still have hopes that one day you’ll look kindly on me.”

  Polly parted lips as sweetly pink as her toes and smiled back. Where was the harm? It was not as if she would ever have to see him again. She leaned a little closer to Billy Slaughter’s shoulder to watch the transfer of this truly massive amount of money and he smelled her subtle but distinctive scent. One click on Commit and it was done.

  Now Polly wanted to get away. He could feel it – the feverishness of her. He stood up and she stepped quickly backwards, disconcerted. But he merely held out his hand. The grip was dry and firm, the handshake brief. Then he walked her to the door and said, “Goodbye.”

  Polly ran down the corridor, heading for the stairs. Her spirit, elated and freewheeling now, could not have borne enclosure in a lift. She looked wild and beautiful. Billy Slaughter watched her go, his face a mask of bland, steely calm.

  9

  Dennis was preparing to leave the office. He had contacted a security firm earlier that day and someone was coming to change the locks on Wednesday morning. Obviously Andrew Latham, as the only other key holder, had to be informed. Dennis had put this off all day but now he could see Andrew, already wearing his flashy white trench coat, helping Gail Fuller on with her jacket.

  “Oh, I say?” called Dennis, across the deserted outer office. “Could I have a moment?”

  Latham turned round and then straight back to the receptionist. His expression showed amusement and irritation as if Dennis had been some precocious child that was outstaying its welcome. He said something too quiet to be overheard and Gail Fuller left, sniggering.

  “I was just off, actually.” He met Dennis halfway and perched on one of the desks. “Can’t it wait?”

  “I’ve…er,” Dennis cleared his throat. Stupid to be nervous. “I’m having the lock on my door changed, Andrew. And the one to the main office.”

  “Lock?”

  “Wednesday morning.”

  “What the fuck for?”

  Dennis went scarlet. He found coarse language deeply offensive. Latham would never have spoken in such a way when he first joined the firm. The man’s attitude was becoming more and more openly contemptuous.

  “I’m sure you recall the incidents a short while ago when the lights were inexplicably—”

  “God, you’re not harking back to that again. You’re losing it, Brinkers. It’ll be voices in the radiators next.” He gave a fractious whinny, baring his teeth. Dennis, unaware it was supposed to be a laugh, jumped. “Get a grip, man.”

  “Also, as you never seem to surface before ten at the earliest, I intend giving the spare keys to Fortune. He’s the most reliable—”

  “Do what you like. I’m away. I’ve something cooking in a wine bar. Don’t want her going off the boil.”

  Dennis sat down behind his desk. He never drank in the office but kept some sherry, dry and sweet, for certain clients who seemed to expect it. He got out the Lustau Amontillado and poured out a glass, measuring it judiciously.

  His mind was running all over the place and he didn’t like that. Dennis preferred to do one thing at once and give it all his attention before moving on to the next. He drew a notepad towards him, uncapped his fountain pen and wrote, “1: Locks changed.” Then drew a neat tick. On the following line he wrote, “2: Dispatch parcel.” The parcel was The King’s Armourer, which he planned to send in the morning, second-class post. He had already checked that Kate’s advertisement had made today’s Times and sorted out an accommodation address in Slough over the telephone.

  Then Dennis remembered his phone call to Mallory the previous morning, asking if they could meet. An arrangement had been made for tomorrow evening and he wrote down, “3: Dinner at Appleby House/Meeting of the Celandine Press.” He was looking forward to being involved in the new venture enormously and felt quite excited about the possible future reaction to the novel by E.M. Walker (his mother’s initials and maiden name).

  Dennis sucked his pen and tapped the heel of his left foot rapidly on the floor, a habit when he got what Mrs. Crudge had been known to call “all aereated.” To calm himself he drank the rest of the sherry and went to look out of the window.

  This was not at all calming. Mr. Allibone was shutting the shop, rolling up his awning as he had been just four days ago. He saw Dennis watching, tipped his boater backwards with his thumb and waved. Dennis lifted a hand awkwardly and nodded back. At his desk he wrote. “4: Ask Mrs. C about keys.”

  Dennis had checked his garage board on arriving home last Thursday evening and noticed that the spare keys for the office and street door were missing. The thought that they had been deliberately taken occurred to him, of course, especially after his earlier conversation with the fishmonger, but he couldn’t help thinking it was not very likely. The garage was locked at night and, as the house fronted the High Street, whoever was responsible would have to take them in broad daylight with the chance that someone could walk by and catch them at it. What had probably happened, Dennis decided, was that he himself had picked them up for some reason and left them lying about.

  Connecting again with Mr. Allibone reminded Dennis of the aftermath of their conversation last Thursday. Of how he had come back to the office determined to check out his accounts and given up after Harris-Tonkin (Light Aircraft). And how he had had the idea of waiting in the market square just in case he
might see someone, some stranger, letting themselves into the building. Switching on his brass snake lamp. Poking their nose, as Mr. Allibone would no doubt put it, into his affairs.

  Dennis had abandoned the plan simply because of its impracticality, well aware that he could have sat there night after night, maybe for months, without a nibble. But now things were different. Now whoever it was had little more opportunity. Of course they wouldn’t know that so it would still be very much an “on the off chance” sentry-go. But worth a try none the less.

  It was light now until quite late. Assuming the intruder had no legitimate right to enter the building, he or she would presumably wait until dusk at least, and possibly even later. On the other hand, what if they did have a right? What if one of his staff had somehow got hold of the keys, had a wax impression made and was bent on mischief?

  Dennis had a stern word with his imagination. Lately it seemed to be getting both wilder in conception and completely out of control. Once more he blamed writing fiction, wondering this time if locking oneself in alternative worlds for long periods of time could seriously damage a person’s grip on reality.

  He thought a moment longer, then gravely concluded that yes, he would carry out this experiment. He would return to Causton fairly early, just in case. He decided to wait in the first instance in the Magpie, on the other side of the square. This gave a good view of the NatWest bank and, when darkness fell, he could watch from his car.

  Having planned his strategy Dennis felt better. At least he was doing something, even if it was all rather cloak-and-dagger. On reflection the thought was not unpleasant. Though contented with his lot there was no denying his life lacked excitement. An adventure, even one so modest it might never happen, would definitely add a little spice.

  The Lawsons were packing up. Tea chests stood about, half full of wrapped china and pictures and kitchen equipment. Kate was happily stuffing handfuls of wood shavings between bubble-wrapped glasses. Mallory added yet more books to a large stack by the kitchen door. Two boxes full of clothes stood in the hall, awaiting collection.