The Company

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Quite so,’ Harper mumbled awkwardly. ‘Quite so. I just wanted to let you know they didn’t suffer.’

  If he was trying to ease my mental anguish, he was far from succeeding.

  ‘How can you know?’ I demanded. ‘How can anybody know?’

  Harper winced. ‘I know your brother died instantly because I was sitting right next to him.’

  And so he had been – cramped between myself and John, trying to fish documents out of his executive case to brief Uncle Tony with.

  I wondered whether the tight squeeze had been what saved his life.

  ‘What about my father?’ I asked.

  Harper’s pained expression intensified. ‘You’ve got to imagine what it was like in there,’ he said. ‘The car had concertinaed and there was a strong smell of petrol. I could tell I wasn’t that badly hurt myself, and my only thought was to get everyone out before the bloody thing caught fire – everyone who was still alive, I mean, because I’d already checked and found that John had no pulse.’

  I didn’t want to hear any more, but I knew that I must.

  ‘Go on,’ I croaked.

  ‘I’m talking about seconds passing here. And you have to remember – please – that I was in shock myself. I may not have done the right thing – but it felt right at the time.’

  At least he’d done something, I thought. At least he hadn’t sunk into unconsciousness while his family was dying around him. And though I knew it was irrational, I was once again flooded with guilt.

  ‘Nobody’s going to blame you for what did or didn’t happen,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you did your best.’

  Harper nodded gratefully. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Tell me the rest,’ I said, seeming to gain some strength of my own from his uncertainty.

  ‘I was going to push you out of the car first’ – he turned his head to the right, as if he could actually see me there, wedged between himself and the car door – ‘then Mr Conroy – your uncle Tony, I mean – groaned, and it suddenly seemed as if he was the most important person to deal with. You see, it was so hard to think …’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I reached forward to unhook his seat belt. My whole body was hurting like hell, but I knew that if I blacked out then, I wouldn’t be able to save anybody – even myself. Anyway, I was still struggling with the buckle when your uncle Tony spoke.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said, “Don’t bother about me. Get Edward out first! For God’s sake, get Edward out!” I twisted round towards your father. His head was at a strange, unnatural angle. I felt for a pulse in his neck, and … and … there wasn’t one.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Your uncle said something like, “Is he going to be alright?” I said, “He’s dead,” but I don’t think he heard me because he looked like he was gone himself. So you see, if your father wasn’t killed instantly, it couldn’t have been more than a second or two.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me,’ I said.

  And I meant it. What he had told me had brought a small measure of comfort. I was glad my father and brother hadn’t suffered. I took some consolation from the fact that however bad the relationship had been between my father and my uncle, Tony’s dying thoughts had been for his brother.

  ‘Then the fire started,’ Harper continued, his voice cracking. ‘I … I can’t tell you what it felt like. The front seats were an inferno. There was smoke everywhere. I was choking. I tried to get your door open, and that’s when I saw the aircraftmen outside. I don’t know how long they’d been there. Like I said, the whole thing must have been over in a few seconds.’

  ‘And it was the aircraftmen who pulled us out?’

  Harper nodded. ‘They were bloody marvellous. If they hadn’t been there, we’d both have been dead.’ He stood up again. ‘I have to go. My train …’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Thank you for coming to see me. I know it can’t have been easy, living through it all again.’

  I watched him walk to the door and listened to his muffled footsteps as they echoed down the hallway. Then, alone once more, I felt my mind drift back to the first time I met him.

  It was at one of those garden parties that my brother’s wife, Lydia, held regularly during the summer months. Fairy lights were strung between the trees, I remembered, and a four-piece band was playing the sort of unchallenging music that four-piece bands always play at parties like this. Groups of guests bunched together in various parts of the garden, and three hired waiters wended their way skilfully in and out of these clusters, offering the guests drinks, or some of the hors-d’oeuvre which Lydia had had specially delivered by an expensive catering firm based in Manchester.

  I didn’t know most of the people who’d been invited to the party – now Cormorant Publishing was taking up so much of my time, I rarely got back to the village – but I could tell from the way they dressed and the way they moved that they considered themselves to be part of the local ‘smart’ set.

  My brother John appeared by my side.

  ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ he asked, with just the tiniest hint of anxiety in his voice.

  ‘In my own quiet way, yes.’

  ‘I expect that, in your line of work, you must go to tons of parties like this.’

  ‘Not if I can possibly avoid them,’ I told him, and the second the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could have bitten out my tongue. ‘I’m not really a party animal,’ I added, apologetically. ‘When I do go to parties, it’s usually for business reasons, so they’re no more fun than being in the office.’ My brother was obviously waiting for more, and I felt obliged to provide it. ‘But I must say that this is one of the best organized parties I’ve been to in a long time,’ I finished.

  John smiled gratefully. ‘Lydia put a lot of work into it,’ he said. ‘Her parties are very important to her. She says that given our position in the village, it’s almost our duty to have parties.’

  If I hadn’t been talking to my own brother, I might have laughed at the notion. As it was, I confined myself to saying, ‘Well, perhaps she has a point.’

  ‘Yes, she’s very strong on duty,’ John said. ‘She’s on all the local committees, you know.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know,’ I admitted.

  ‘Oh yes,’ John said enthusiastically. ‘You name it, she’s on it – and more often than not, she’s the chair. The Church Ladies’ Committee, the Council to Preserve Rural England, the Parochial Council … Frankly, I don’t see where she gets all her energy from.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re happy,’ I said.

  ‘What about you?’ John asked. ‘Is there anyone special in your life?’

  I thought about Marie O’Hara, the Irish gumshoe. We had seen each other two or three times since our meal in the Italian restaurant, and I enjoyed being with her, but so far it didn’t seem to be leading anywhere.

  ‘Well?’ my brother asked. ‘Have you got anyone special?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said, and then, to change the subject, I asked, ‘Is Cousin Philip coming tonight?’

  John frowned. ‘He’s certainly been invited.’

  ‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘I … err … I think he’s in a bit of a huff because we brought the outside caterers in.’

  I began to see what he meant. Grandfather had finally given Philip his own business – a couple of years after he had bought John his vehicle maintenance company, and long, long after he had acquired Cormorant Publishing for me. Philip was now head of a firm of contract caterers – caterers who, naturally enough, immediately signed an agreement to run the canteens at both Conroy Transport and Conroy Furnishings.

  Grandfather’s web again!

  ‘The thing is, Lydia didn’t really think that Philip’s people could handle the job,’ John said apologetically. ‘I mean, they’re fine for providing cheap nourishing lunches – their steak and kidney pie is one of the best I’ve tasted – but really they�
�re not quite …’ He trailed off.

  ‘Sophisticated enough to cater for the kind of guest you have here?’ I supplied.

  ‘Exactly,’ John agreed. ‘I’ll have a quiet word with him in the morning and explain that no insult was intended. I’m sure he’ll see my point of view.’

  How like my brother to assume that everyone else was as reasonable as he was himself, I thought. How like him to believe he could always paper over the cracks.

  A new man entered the garden, and seeing John there, made an obvious direct beeline for him.

  ‘Thank you for inviting me to your party, Mr Conroy,’ he said, pumping John’s hand vigorously. ‘Don’t want to talk business now – neither the time nor the place for it – but if you ring me in the morning, I think we’ve got a bit of extra work we could put your way.’

  He looked at me as if he expected to be introduced, and John obliged.

  ‘This is Rob, my brother. This is Bill Harper, Uncle Tony’s new executive assistant.’

  Ah yes! Grandfather had noticed that my father was looking tired, and had given him an executive assistant, so now Uncle Tony had to have one, whether he needed it or not.

  I stepped back a little to get a better look at my uncle’s latest status symbol. Harper was probably only five feet five or five feet six, but he had the square body of a man who has always taken a lot of hearty exercise. He had a broad brow over a pair of darting eyes and a pointed nose. His mouth, I decided, had a ruthless twist to it. In short, though I rarely go on first appearances, I found myself disliking the man.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Conroy,’ Harper said, vigorously shaking my hand. ‘I’ve heard you’re quite a powerhouse in the publishing world.’

  I found it hard to tolerate such obvious flattery, but it was my brother’s party and I was determined to be pleasant.

  ‘You’re not from round here, are you, Mr Harper?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘You’ve got a good ear for accents, Mr Conroy. No, as a matter of fact I was brought up in Stoke-on-Trent. But I’ve taken to Cheshire like a duck to water.’

  John chuckled. ‘Bill’s a great swimmer,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Harper agreed. ‘I’ve taken to swimming across the mere – there and back – every evening.’

  ‘That’s a fair distance,’ I said.

  And so it was. The mere lay just beyond the base of the hill on which the village perched. It was large enough to host a sailing club, and swimming across it – and then back again – was no mean feat.

  ‘Do you do it even in winter?’ I asked.

  Harper laughed, as though I’d been incredibly witty.

  ‘I haven’t been here long enough to see what the water’s like in winter,’ he admitted, ‘but no, I don’t expect I shall be swimming once the weather turns cold. Still, it’s wonderful while it lasts.’

  Some more guests were arriving through the garden gate. One of them was Uncle Tony with, inevitably, his latest blonde on his arm.

  Bill Harper saw him too. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he said, then turned on his heel and headed towards my uncle.

  ‘Like a trained lap dog,’ I said.

  ‘What was that?’ my brother asked.

  ‘He’s running to Uncle Tony like a trained lap dog.’

  John laughed, slightly uneasily. ‘I do think you’re rather hard on him. I’ve heard he’s very good at his job. He’s supposed to be going places.’

  And perhaps I had been rather hard on him, I thought, lying in my hospital bed. The Bill Harper I had just seen was not the same man I had met at that party. He had displayed neither the famous Harper fawning act, nor his equally obnoxious arrogance.

  It had been a kind, considerate, and perhaps even a courageous act to come and tell me about the crash. Was it possible that it had taken a tragedy to bring out his better nature? I suspected that it was.

  And in that – as in so many other things – I was to turn out to be hopelessly, stupidly wrong.

  FIVE

  Dusk was almost falling when my solitary musings about both the past and the future were shattered by the harsh sound of a phone bell ringing.

  When I picked up the phone, the first thing I heard was a slurping sound which could only have been made by a man sucking a boiled sweet.

  ‘Owen?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ Flint confirmed. ‘I’m just ringing to tell you that I’ll be travelling up to Cheshire in the morning.’

  ‘You almost sound as if you’re asking my permission,’ I replied, though from his tone of voice, I already had my suspicions that this conversation wasn’t going to be about Cheshire at all.

  ‘There’s a few things I’d like to find out about before I get there,’ Flint said, ignoring my implied question, ‘but first, I’ve got some advice I’d like you to listen to.’

  ‘All right,’ I agreed.

  ‘Once you’re discharged from hospital, you need to be very careful. Don’t use your own car – take public transport and taxis. Try to avoid being alone. Never accept any invitations from people you don’t have absolute trust in – and even then, it would be best to be on your guard.’

  Weighed down as I was by feelings of guilt, grief and disappointment, I had barely thought about the motive behind the murders, but suddenly – like that big RAF truck on that narrow country lane – it loomed up in front of me and could no longer be avoided. Yet even now, the idea that I could be the intended victim seemed insane.

  ‘I’m just a boring old publisher, for God’s sake!’ I protested. ‘Apart from my authors and a few other people in the trade, I hardly see anyone. I’ve done nothing at all to merit somebody wanting to kill me.’

  ‘And had your brother done anything to merit it?’ Owen Flint asked quietly. ‘Or your father, for that matter?’

  Of course they hadn’t! It was ludicrous to suggest that anybody would want to kill any of us.

  Yet someone clearly had.

  I realized that, though I would have to confront the issue at some point, I simply wasn’t strong enough at that moment.

  ‘You wanted to ask me some questions,’ I said, seeking a diversion.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Owen Flint agreed. ‘And listen, Rob, this won’t be two old friends talking – it will be a policeman questioning a man who’s somehow got himself involved in a murder case. Do you think you can handle that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, though I’m not sure I convinced either of us.

  ‘I’ll be meeting your family tomorrow, sir, and it would be of great value to me if you could fill me in a little on everybody’s background,’ Flint said.

  ‘I’ll do my best, chief inspector,’ I promised.

  And over the next twenty minutes or so, I told him of Grandfather’s rise from near poverty to a modest fortune, of the theatrical Aunt Jane, of Philip, of John’s marriage, and other bits of family gossip which came into my head. I was quite open on many points, but I kept in mind the distinction Owen himself had made between old friend and policeman, and – especially in John’s case – there were things I held back.

  Later, lying alone in the darkness, I wondered what Owen Flint – a man brought up in a harsh, soulless institution at the head of a Welsh valley – would make of the village in which I’d spent much of my childhood.

  Would he perhaps find it just a little too pretty – just a little too much like the cosy pictures they used to put on the tops of boxes of expensive chocolates?

  I couldn’t really blame him if that was his first impression. The village is almost absurdly picturesque. The High Street, which climbs a moderately steep hill, is lined with neat Georgian cottages, each with its own perfectly kept garden in front of it. Midway between the edge of the village and the church is the post office/general store, which has managed to survive in the face of supermarket competition and is as much a repository for gossip now as it ever was. At the top of the hill stands the church, a proud Norman fortress with a tower which glares imposingly dow
n on all that surrounds it. There are stocks by the lychgate – a reminder of simpler times, when crime was more easily defined, and punishment far less complex. And across the square from the church is the George and Dragon, a fine old pub which was serving good traditional beer long before that became the general fashion.

  Apart from a certain degree of gentrification, the village must have changed very little since the day my grandparents moved there. The house Grandfather bought was down a lane which led off the High Street, and from its windows he had a view of the west side of the church. It was a large building with a heavy slate roof and ivy growing up the walls. There were stables – though he kept no horses. There were servants’ quarters – a reminder of the days when village girls considered themselves lucky if they had a ‘place’ which permitted them to ‘live in’.

  It was then – and still is now – a magnificent house, and easily the largest in the village. But more importantly, it made a statement – it said that, after years of just getting by, my grandfather had finally arrived.

  Neither my father nor my uncle Tony lived in the house with my grandparents for long. They were already in their twenties when they moved in, both involved in the family business, and when they got married it was natural they should want establishments of their own.

  My father settled for an ample – though modest – cottage near the village school. My uncle chose a house at the other end of the village, with a marvellous view over the sloping green fields, down to the mere and the sailing club.

  I sometimes wonder if the two sons ever saw the symbolism in this physical separation. Did they ever really appreciate the fact that they were a pair of satellites, and that the only thing which connected them was Grandfather – that irresistible force in the very centre of the village?

  Perhaps they did. Perhaps their choice of homes was a deliberate declaration of their differences.

  We will never know now.

  SIX

  When Owen Flint arrived in Northwich, he was assigned a local man called Inspector Hawkins to shepherd him around.