How could he talk like this? I wondered. How could he speak about the deaths of three members of our family as if it were no more than a business negotiating tactic?
‘Look, I’m as devastated about what’s happened as you are,’ my cousin said, reading my expression. ‘But someone has to take charge. The company is Grandfather’s legacy, and by maintaining it, I’m honouring his memory. And let’s not forget all our employees. There are several hundred people who depend on Conroy’s to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table – and we have a responsibility to them, too.’
In a way, I supposed, he was right. No, I corrected myself, he was completely right whichever angle I looked at it from. But I just wished he wasn’t taking such obvious pleasure from being the young tycoon.
Philip glanced down at his Rolex. ‘The solicitor should arrive any minute now.’
‘Are we expecting anyone else?’
‘Anyone else? What do you mean?’
‘Are we the only two people who are supposed to be here for the reading of Grandfather’s will?’
‘Yes – it’s just you and me, Cousin – Grandmother isn’t up to it.’
There should have been the whole family there for the reading, I thought – Father, John and Uncle Tony – but now Philip and I were the only men left. It was not a comforting thought.
‘Do you know what’s in the will?’ I asked.
‘In general terms,’ my cousin said airily. ‘But we still have to have the details spelled out.’
There was a knock on the door.
‘That’s probably the solicitor now,’ I said.
‘Yes, that’ll be the old fool, all right,’ my cousin agreed. ‘And for once, he’s on time.’
My cousin went to the door and returned with Mr Gryce, the family solicitor. Gryce was a short man with bandy legs and a bald shiny head. He dressed in durable suits which looked as if they dated from the 1950s, and had been my family’s solicitor for as long as I could remember.
After we’d all shaken hands and Philip had resumed his seat, the solicitor coughed and said, ‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to sit at that side of the table, Mr Conroy.’
‘And what if I do mind?’ Philip asked.
Then, realizing how petulant he must sound – and how inappropriate such behaviour was for a dynamic young tycoon – he walked around the desk and took the seat next to mine.
Mr Gryce opened his briefcase and spread his legal papers over the pristine surface of Philip’s desk.
‘The will is quite a short one,’ the old man said. ‘Most of your grandfather’s personal fortune was placed in family trust funds long before he died. The rest of it had already been signed over to your grandmother for her use during the rest of her natural life.’
‘We know all that,’ Philip interrupted.
The solicitor gave my cousin a disapproving look, but Philip was either so tense – or so excited – that I don’t think he even noticed it.
‘So what the will mainly concerns itself with is the voting shares in Conroy Enterprises, which have absolutely no monetary value, and merely establish who has the right to take the decisions which will affect the entire company,’ the solicitor continued. ‘Until his death, all these shares were held by your grandfather. His will specifies that they can never be sold, nor can they be divided into smaller blocks and distributed amongst other members of the family. Strictly speaking, I suppose, it could be said that your grandfather hasn’t left the shares to anyone. He has merely bestowed stewardship of them on to one person, until, by a mechanism I will outline later, that same stewardship will be passed on to another.’
And that person had to be me, I realized with horror, because, if only by a few months, I was the oldest surviving member of the Conroy family.
I didn’t want it – I really didn’t want it – but neither did I want to commit Grandfather’s legacy to Philip’s hands.
I glanced at my cousin. His thoughts must surely have been running along the same lines as mine, so he must have realized by now that what he wanted most in the world was about to be snatched away from him – and yet he seemed so confident.
He knew what was in the will, I realized – and knew, furthermore, that it was not as straightforward as it first appeared.
‘Had he lived, the shares would have gone to Mr Antony Conroy, as the eldest son,’ Gryce said. ‘In fact, strictly speaking, they already had, because your grandfather died before the crash, so it can be said that for an hour or so – though he didn’t know it himself – the shares were his.’
‘And now they’re mine,’ Philip exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ Gryce admitted, ‘but only because Mr Edward Conroy died, too.’
‘What do you mean?’ Philip demanded.
‘The Conroys are not the Royal Family, though you sometimes act as if you thought they were,’ Gryce said, with a malicious grin, ‘so there is no divine right of succession. If Edward had not been in the car, the shares would have gone to him as the second son, and when he died, they would have gone to his son, Rob. As it is, they will still go to Rob if you die before you have an heir who has attained the age of thirty-five.’
‘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 bestseller,’ 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 women 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 led 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 realize 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 organization 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.’
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 of 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 – testament. ‘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 Street. 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 rundown 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 rec
eption and lifted one of the blind slats. The man standing by Janet’s desk was around fifty, stocky, and had large hands. His hair was brown, and his suit, though not new, was well, if painstaking, 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 Hugh Morgan did when he entered my office was to cut off my apology for keeping him waiting midstream and say that 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.’
The Company Page 15
