‘There’s no danger of that,’ Philip said.
‘Really?’ the solicitor asked. ‘I was under the impression you weren’t married.’
‘I’m not,’ Philip said, ‘but I’ve got a real incentive to get hitched now, haven’t I?’
****
The solicitor had gone, and Philip stood at the big picture window, looking out towards the mere. ‘There’ll have to be some changes made,’ he said in the off-hand manner he had so quickly developed.
‘Changes?’
He turned around, but did not look me fully in the eyes.
‘Yes. Changes. In Cormorant Publishing. I’m afraid you’re simply not making full use of its potential as an income generator.’
‘Andy McBride’s book was a number one best-seller,’ I reminded him.
‘Yes, but you can’t live on the strength of that forever,’ my cousin countered. ‘You need to diversify.’
‘Into what?’
Philip waved his hand impatiently. ‘Into the mass market, of course. Look, I shouldn’t need to be telling you any of this. You’re the one with the experience in the business, for God’s sake. You should already know what needs to be done.’
‘Since I seem to be being particularly stupid on this occasion, would you care to spell it out for me?’ I asked my cousin.
‘For a start, you could bring out a series of books which would appeal to dowdy housewives. You know the sort of thing I mean – the ones which have pictures of gooey-eyed woman and dark handsome men on the front cover. Then there’s the men’s market.’
‘The men’s market?’
‘You invent a private eye who gets laid a lot. Call him – I don’t know – Dick Hard. Then you commission a series of desperate hacks to churn out stories about him for practically nothing. Bloody hell, man, it’s almost pure profit.’
So my worst fears over Cormorant were all coming true.
‘You want me to publish sentimental romantic crap and soft-core pornography?’ I said.
‘If that’s what you want to call it. I’d prefer to see it as producing the kinds of books that the public – the real public rather than the few trendy left-wing intellectuals you seem to be interested in – actually want to read.’
‘I won’t do it,’ I said firmly.
Philip smiled. ‘Let’s settle this democratically,’ he suggested. ‘My voting shares in Conroy Enterprises are in favour of dumbing down Cormorant a little. What are your voting shares in favour of?’
‘You know I don’t have any.’
‘That’s right!’ Philip said. ‘So it looks like you’ll have to do exactly what I say – because from now on my opinion is the only one that really counts for anything.’
There was enough tension in the air for us both to start slightly when the phone suddenly rang.
‘You answer it,’ Philip ordered me. ‘And unless it’s urgent, say I’m in a meeting.’
I picked the phone and recited the number.
‘Is that Rob?’ asked a vaguely familiar voice on the other end.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘Bill Harper. Is Philip there?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘And has the will been read?’
I remembered Harper’s visit to my sick room in Bridgend Hospital. How sensitive and considerate he’d been – how gently he’d told me the story of how my family had died. I’d thought at the time how tragedy had changed him, but the change – if there had been one – had certainly not lasted. If anything, he was worse than ever, with the natural arrogance he’d taken trouble to mask in the past now completely unleashed and running free.
‘I said, has the will been read?’ Harper repeated.
‘Yes it has – not that that’s anything to do with you.’
‘Put Philip on,’ Harper said, ignoring the implied rebuke. ‘Tell him it’s very important.’
It would have been childish – something Philip might have done – to make him say “please” before I did as he’d asked, and instead I just handed the phone over to my cousin.
‘Yes?’ Philip said in his best executive voice. ‘The will? … Yes, I do know the terms now. They’re pretty much as I’d been lead to believe … What? … Is that some kind of sick joke? … Yes, yes, I can see what that means.’
He stood up, and walked as far away from the desk as the telephone cord would allow.
‘What?’ he asked in almost a whisper. ‘But that’s outrageous … No, I won’t do it! … I … Yes, yes, I understand.’
When he returned the telephone to the desk, I noticed that his hands were trembling, and his face was as white as a corpse’s.
‘That was Bill Harper,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘There’s … there’s been some trouble at the furniture factory. There’s talk of a strike.’
But it didn’t seem to me as if that was what the conversation had been about at all.
My cousin put his hands up and covered his face.
‘I really don’t need the aggravation at a time like this,’ he mumbled, ‘so I suppose I’ll just have to give in to their demands.’
He took his hands away again and I saw that he appeared, by a tremendous effort of will, to have calmed down a little.
‘We were talking about Cormorant Publishing before Bill’s call, weren’t we?’ he asked.
‘Yes, we were.’
‘That’s all you want? If I leave you alone to run it as you see fit, you’ll be perfectly happy?’
‘Yes.’
Philip took a deep breath. ‘Then it’s yours.’
I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing.
‘I’ll have complete independence?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely. Of course, I’ll expect you to make a profit, just as I’ll expect all our other divisions to, but other than that, you’ll get no interference from me.’
‘What’s the catch?’ I asked.
‘No catch.’
‘Five minutes ago, you were talking about turning the company upside down, now suddenly you’re prepared to leave it just as it is. What’s made you change your mind?’
‘That phone call,’ Philip said. ‘It made me realise that Bill and I have quite enough on our hands without worrying about some tuppenny-ha’penny little company down in Oxford.’
‘You and Bill?’ I repeated incredulously. ‘Are you still talking about Bill Harper?’
‘That’s right. I’m making him joint managing director. Didn’t I mention that earlier?’
‘But he’s not much more than a kid!’ I protested.
‘He’s only a few years younger than we are. And he’s certainly older than you were when you took over Cormorant Publishing.’
‘That was different,’ I protested. ‘Cormorant wasn’t expected to make any money.’
‘But it did,’ Philip pointed out. ‘And what makes you think that Bill has any less business sense than you have?’
‘I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure in all sorts of ways, but don’t rush into anything without thinking it through properly,’ I pleaded. ‘The organisation you’ve inherited is a very complex one. You need help at the top level – but not from Bill Harper. Draw on the experience of the people who’ve already been working for us for years at a high level of decision-taking – who have a proven track record. I’m not saying it’s a bad idea to have a joint managing director, but the person you pick should be one of our existing senior staff.’
‘It’s going to be Bill,’ Philip said stubbornly. ‘And as that old fool Gryce pointed out less than half an hour ago, there’s absolutely nothing that you can do about it.’
Chapter Seventeen
The tall thin figure didn’t move as I made my way slowly – and occasionally, painfully – up the hill, but I was almost certain that he was watching me every step of the way.
What did Owen Flint fear, I wondered?
That the maniac who had already killed three members o
f my family would suddenly leap out of the shadows and attack me with a machete?
That I was already in the sights of a sniper’s rifle?
If that was the case, there was very little that Owen – standing by the stocks outside the church – could do to protect me.
When I had almost reached the church, he stepped forward.
‘Just coming back from the reading of the will, are you?’ he asked.
‘That’s right,’ I agreed.
‘Any surprises?’
‘No,’ I lied, not wanting to go into details of Grandfather’s final, if complicated, testimony. ‘I’m still in charge of Cormorant Publishing and that’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
‘Can you spare me five minutes, Rob?’ Owen asked, popping a bright purple boiled sweet into his mouth.
‘You can walk up to the house with me, if you like,’ I said, ‘but I’m going back to Oxford, and as soon as the taxi I’ve ordered arrives I have to leave.’
Owen looked worried. ‘Do you really have to go back to Oxford, Rob?’ he asked. ‘Couldn’t your business do without you for a few more days?’
Yes, it probably could. But my need to see Marie – to find out what kind of future lay ahead of me – couldn’t wait.
‘There are things I can’t put off,’ I said – avoiding explanations again.
‘Well, if you insist on going, at least let me ring the Oxford police and make them aware of your situation,’ Owen said.
I shook my head. ‘Perhaps later I’ll ask for your protection, but now isn’t the time.’
We turned up Church Lane. The air was mild and the sunlight made the village look particularly delightful, but I couldn’t wait to get back to my cramped office in Oxford.
‘I’ve got my lad Matthews down in the Bristol area at the moment,’ Owen said, ‘and the thought occurred to me that while he’s down there he might as well have a word with this bloke that Conroy Enterprises bought Western Haulage from. His name’s Morgan, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ I agreed. ‘Hugh Morgan.’
‘And you’ve met him, have you?’
‘Oh yes, I’ve met him all right. Twice!’
‘So why don’t you give me a quick run-down on what he’s like?’ Owen suggested.
****
The first time Hugh Morgan and I met, it had been in my office at Cormorant Publishing.
‘He hasn’t got an appointment, but he’s prepared to wait until you’re free,’ Janet said over the intercom. ‘He says he doesn’t mind waiting all day, if that’s what it’ll take.’
‘And what exactly does he want?
‘He won’t say, except to assure me that he’s not a writer or in any way connected with publishing. But he does say it’s a very private and personal matter which can only be communicated to you.’
I walked to the window which looked out on reception, and lifted one of the blind slats. The man standing by Janet’s desk was around 50, was stocky and had large hands. His hair was brown and his suit, though not new, was well, if painstakingly, pressed. He looked everything that a solid, respectable middle-aged man should be – and I was intrigued to know what business he thought he could possibly have with the publisher of a shocking book like Gobshite.
I returned to my desk and consulted my appointments’ book.
‘I’ve got some calls to make, but I can see him briefly in about half an hour,’ I told Janet.
The first thing Morgan did when he entered my office was to cut off mid-stream my apology for keeping him waiting, and say it was very good of me to see him at all.
Up close, he confirmed the impression I’d had of him from a distance, except that what I hadn’t been able to see through the slats was that he had the greenest and most candid eyes that I’d ever encountered.
‘Do please take a seat, Mr Morgan,’ I said, indicating the one in front of my desk.
He sat down gingerly as if he was afraid he would break the chair, and even when it took his weight without protest he seemed far from comfortable.
‘So how can I help you, Mr Morgan?’ I asked.
‘I thought I’d come to you since you was the publisher of the family,’ Hugh Morgan said.
I frowned. ‘My secretary told me that you’d assured her you weren’t an author.’
‘And so I’m not,’ Morgan said hastily. ‘The fact is, I’m just a plain working man.’
‘Then …?’
‘Look at where you work, Mr Conroy,’ he said, gesturing with one of his big hands at the bookshelves behind me. ‘You love books, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘I do.’
‘And you’re not just in this business for the money you can make out of it, are you?’
‘No,’ I agreed.
‘And neither am I in my business just for the money I can make,’ Morgan said. ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, I like some of the things it can buy me, but things aren’t really important at the end of the day – it’s the satisfaction of a job well done that counts.’
‘What’s your point?’ I asked.
‘I’m not an educated man, Mr Conroy,’ Morgan said earnestly. ‘I’m not even a creative man – at least not in the way you are. But I’ve built my business up from nothing, and now they’re trying to take it away from me.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not following you.’
‘You know about Western Haulage …’ he pointed a large thumb at his chest, ‘… that’s me.’
I was beginning to get the picture.
‘I understand your company’s in some kind of trouble and that your shareholders are eager to sell,’ I said.
Morgan twisted awkwardly in his seat. ‘Oh, we’ve had trouble,’ he admitted, ‘but none of it’s been of our making.’
‘You’d better explain,’ I told him.
‘We’ve been losing contracts to people who seem willing to carry goods for less than cost,’ he said. ‘And that’s only the start. Some of my best drivers have been lured away for fabulous wages that I could never even think of paying. We’ve had a fire in one of our depots which the police think was started deliberately. And a score of other things have gone wrong recently which never should have.’
‘And who do you think is behind all this trouble?’ I asked cautiously.
‘It’s not for me to say,’ Morgan replied.
‘Isn’t it?’ I stood up. ‘Then I can’t see much point in continuing this meeting.’
Morgan shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Look, Mr Conroy,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to go around accusing people without proof – that’s not my way – but there’s only one company that’s goin’ to benefit from my misfortunes and that’s Conroy’s Transport.’
Was it possible that Uncle Tony would have used such dirty tricks, I wondered?
Would he actually have gone to the extreme of sanctioning arson?
Under normal circumstances, I would have said no. But these were not normal circumstances. The acquisition of Western Haulage was to be a feather in my uncle’s cap – the springboard that would launch him to the dizzy heights of chairman of the board. And that might – just might – have been enough to push him into taking short cuts.
I sat down again.
‘I can see what you’re thinking, Mr Conroy,’ Morgan said. ‘It’s not nice to have to face the possibility that one of your own family could do anything like that. And I’d never have laid the burden on you – honest I wouldn’t – if I hadn’t been so desperate.’
‘What exactly do you want me to do?’ I asked, the note of caution still in my voice.
‘Talk to your uncle. You’re good with words in a way I never could be. You should be able to persuade him that what he’s done is wrong.’
‘And what if he says he has no idea what I’m talking about?’
Morgan reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, smoothed it on the desk, and handed it to me. I opened it, and saw it was a list of names and telephone numbers.
‘All these people have worked with me at one time or another,’ he said, ‘and they’re all respectable pillars of the community. Ring them up. Ask them if I’ve been telling the truth, or if it’s just a pack of lies I’ve been feeding you. And when you’ve heard enough to see things from my point of view, well then, you can get in touch with your uncle.’
‘I’m not making any promises …’ I said.
‘But you will give a few of them a ring?’ he asked, anxiously.
‘Yes, I’ll certainly do that,’ I agreed.
Morgan stood up and held out his hand. ‘That’s all I ask, Mr Conroy,’ he said. ‘That’s all I ask.’
After he had left me, I sat quietly at my desk for several minutes, deep in thought.
If what Hugh Morgan had said really was true – and after talking to him, I was almost certain it was – confronting Uncle Tony would be a complete waste of time.
But Grandfather was a different matter. He had always been a hard-headed businessman, but he had never been an unscrupulous one. If he learned that Uncle Tony had been using dirty tricks, he wouldn’t allow the take-over to go through.
Thus, at one stroke, I would accomplish two things – I would save a decent, hard-working man from losing his lifetime’s dream, and I would protect Cormorant Publishing, which I loved almost as much – so I imagined – as I would love my own child.
****
‘Did you do as Morgan suggested?’ Owen Flint asked me.
‘I was on the point of picking up the phone when I had an idea,’ I said. ‘I asked myself why I should let my fingers do the walking when I could leave the work to someone who was a specialist in the trade.’
‘That someone would be your “friend” Miss Marie O’Hara, would it?’ Owen asked.
‘That’s right,’ I agreed. ‘I called her to say I was faxing the telephone numbers Morgan had given me, and we agreed we’d meet later so she could tell me what she’d found out.’
The Vital Chain Page 15
