A Ghost in the Machine (11 page)

Polly sank instead on to a small settee, adjusted the cushions to her satisfaction and studied the reading matter: today's broadsheets, fairly recent numbers of the
Economist
,
The Spectator
and a couple of
Private Eye
s. She picked up
The Independent
and tried to immerse herself in an article about street theatre in the Gorbals. It failed to hold her attention and, as the minutes passed, she felt herself getting crosser and crosser. When she thought of all the trouble she'd taken to arrive punctually. She picked up
Private Eye
and flicked through the pages. As asinine as ever. Polly only just stopped herself flinging it down with some vigour.

The door to reception opened and Polly looked up eagerly. It was Andrew Latham. He had a stack of letters which he dropped into a wire tray marked “Post” on Ms. Fuller's desk. He grinned and winked at Polly before disappearing again. She didn't like him any more this time than she had at the funeral.

How different all this was from her imaginings. Polly had seen herself arriving and Dennis waiting to greet her in the outer office with a warm, friendly smile. He would usher her inside, fuss a little, making sure she was quite comfortable, then sit down for a long, understanding heart-to-heart. In reality it was another half an hour before she even clapped eyes on him.

“My dear child…”

Child? Don't like the sound of that.

“Gail been keeping you entertained?”

I've had more fun under anaesthetic. “Absolutely, Dennis.”

“Would you like a drink?” asked Dennis when they were settled in his office.

“It's a little early for me,” blushed Polly. She saw Dennis's nostrils twitch and wondered if he could smell the Campari.

“I meant a cup of tea.”

“Oh, yes. Lovely.”

Dennis rang through to the outer office then embarked on a round of courteous questions. How were Polly's parents? Had they got any further forward in their plans for the new business? Was Polly staying long? It must be so nice for Benny to have company.

Polly could not begin to say how kind and welcoming Benny had been. And her parents sent their regards. It was such a load off both their minds that she had someone like Dennis to turn to for advice. An old family friend.

A girl brought in a tray holding cups of red-brown liquid strong enough to dissolve not only any sugar that went into it but the spoon as well. There was also a plate of squashed-fly biscuits. Dennis drank deep and tucked in with every appearance of relish. Polly took a single disbelieving swallow and prayed the residue on her teeth would brush off.

Eventually, pushing his cup, saucer and the few remaining Garibaldis aside, Dennis said, “So, Polly – what exactly can I do for you?”

“Well…” Now that the time had come Polly found herself uncertain how to begin. She had rehearsed various opening gambits. The one she chose would depend on an accurate reading of the situation when the moment to speak arrived. Now it was here and the reading was much harder to take than she had expected.

On the surface Dennis appeared his usual, slightly avuncular self. But his eyes were as sharp as tacks. And he had not apologised for keeping her waiting. What if this had not been a flustered oversight but a deliberate example of the sort of power play she loved to indulge in herself? One thing was plain—this was not going to be a friendly get-together with business arising almost as an afterthought. Polly decided the only sensible approach was to be completely open and straightforward.

“It's about my—” She broke off remembering that the word “money” had not been mentioned once during the reading of the will. This ridiculous delicacy it seemed prudent to uphold. “My legacy.”

“I see,” replied Dennis, who had never thought otherwise. “Well, as you can't collect for another eleven—”

“Ten.”

“—months there's little point in my offering investment advice at the moment. The market's a volatile animal. What promises high returns today can wipe you out tomorrow.”

“I realise that.” He was talking to her as if she was six. “I don't know if Dad told you, but I shall soon be in my final year at the LSE.”

“He did. Well done.”

Polly's cheeks flushed. She swallowed hard. This patronising pat on the head was the final straw. Dennis took up a pad of headed paper and unscrewed his fountain pen.

“If you have any savings to invest I can recommend—”

“Thank you, Dennis. I wasn't looking for free tips.” Savings! If only…She had nothing. Just this monstrous debt waxing fatter every day. “I was simply trying to demonstrate that I'm pretty capable when it comes to handling money. Even…quite large amounts.”

“Polly, I can't help you on this one.”

He had known all along why she had come. Of course he had. And what the outcome would be. In which case, surely even agreeing to see her was no more than a tease. Indignation swelled in Polly. Swelled and burst forth.

“It's pretty ridiculous, don't you think? I can vote, have a child, get myself killed in the armed forces, marry, win the lottery, become a criminal, get tried with the grown-ups and go to prison and still not be thought capable of handling a measly sixty thousand pounds!”

“It must seem very unfair—”

“You wouldn't have to tell my parents.” Oh God! What was she saying? As if he would ever dream of colluding with her against them. This was all going so wrong. “Sorry. I didn't mean that.”

“I do understand your frustration, my dear. And I sympathise. But it's simply not within my power to release the money.”

This statement, though true, was not for the reasons of professional probity that Polly immediately assumed. The fact was that the bequest, as part of Carey Lawson's general estate, was already technically in the Lawsons' hands. Dennis hoped Mallory would be wise enough to keep this to himself.

Polly, angry, disappointed and feeling furious tears about to spring, got up and began awkwardly to make her way to the door.

“Polly?” She stopped but barely turned. Dennis could see a pulse at her throat flutter. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“Trouble?” She gave a thin, incredulous laugh. “Honestly, Dennis…”

“Why not talk to me about it? I might be able to help.” He saw her fingers grip the doorknob, turn it. There was a brief hesitation. He went on: “All meetings with clients are confidential. No one will know you've been here.”

Oh right, thought Polly. That's no one as in only Andrew Latham and Miss Hirsute in reception. Only the entire staff in the outer office. And anyone else in the building who happened to have seen her climbing the stairs. She slammed the door and walked away.

Latham saw her leave. Noticed the tightened lips and flushed cheekbones as she wove a path between the desks, towards the door. He was not the only one. As Polly disappeared Andrew put in an instructive moment watching everyone else watching her go.

Two out of the three females – one was pretending indifference – looked respectively envious and wistful. The men's expressions ranged from uncomplicated lust through simple yearning to light-hearted pleasure that the day could offer up such a treat for sore eyes. But no one cracked a mucky joke or described what they'd like to give Polly to make her life complete. No one clenched a fist and thrust their forearm into the air. The moment passed and they turned back to their machines, looking dazed and somewhat at a loss.

Andrew strode over to his window to see where Polly went. Crossing the market square, she stopped suddenly by the statue of Reuben Cozens, a third-rate sculptor and Causton's only claim to fame. She sat down on some steps by his great bronzed boots, drummed her knuckles fiercely on her knees then suddenly swung her head round, staring hard up at the office of Brinkley and Latham.

Andrew stayed where he was. It would have been foolish to do otherwise. It was too late to pretend he wasn't there and jumping back would have made him look furtive and guilty. As if he was indeed spying on her. The girl's anger was clear even from this distance. The set of her neck, the rigid shoulders. He felt that at any moment she might shake both fists at him.

Andrew shifted his gaze, as if taking in the rest of the busy High Street, then turned slowly from the window. He would give a lot to know what had happened in Dennis's office to put her in such a paddy. Pointless asking – the po-faced old bastard was tight as a drum when it came to discussing clients. Still, no harm in having a word. Just the normal day-to-day exchange.

 

“Ah – Dennis.”

Everything about Andrew Latham irritated Dennis. The habit of always sounding surprised when he opened the door marked “Dennis Brinkley” to find a man called Dennis Brinkley sitting behind it was only the beginning.

Latham had been wished upon him seven years earlier when George Fallon, the original owner of the business, had become convinced that the firm was top heavy and foundering. This was not true, as Dennis repeatedly tried to explain. Yes, it had grown over the years and they had taken on more staff but the work was there for them. The old man, unconvinced, thought they should start sacking people. They had reached an impasse when one evening, at a dinner at his wife's golf club, Fallon had found himself sitting next to Charlie Berryman.

Barely a fortnight later Berryman's daughter and her husband visited Fallon and Brinkley's offices. And just a few weeks after that, following an enormous injection of his father-in-law's cash, Latham took over George's half of the business and Fallon retired.

Dennis, who always thought taking against anyone on sight was extremely unfair, struggled to like the man. When it became plain that that was out of the question he struggled to be civil. Nearly always he succeeded, though Latham's coarsely robust sense of humour and crass insensitivity to the feelings of others made it extremely hard.

Three-quarters of George Fallon's clients had transferred their allegiance to Dennis or Leo Fortune, his most senior subordinate. The rest simply left. Sometimes Dennis wondered what Latham did all day. He turned up on a fairly regular basis and sat around fiddling with papers but his visitors were few. What there were seemed to be pretty much of his own stamp: all loud voices and back-slapping braggadocio. The sort of person that used to be described as “hail fellow well met,” though it seemed to Dennis that anyone with half an ounce of common sense who saw them coming would run a mile.

“Did you want something specific, Andrew?”

“Nope.” He picked up the remaining few biscuits and started cramming them into his mouth. Then he pushed the plate back on to the desk, sneering to himself as Dennis lined it up precisely with the cup and saucer. “Just popped in for a chat.”

Dennis loathed that phrase. They were always using it on the television, which was why he hardly ever switched it on. Chefs would be “popping” things into the oven, characters in plays would be “popping out to post a letter” or “popping round for a drink.” Once, in a crime story, a pathologist had suggested “popping” a cadaver on a slab to “open him up and have a looksee.” This brief recollection combined with concern over Polly's visit made Dennis as near to bad-tempered as he ever came.

“I'm rather snowed under at the moment, I'm afraid.”

“You should take a breather, Den. Come back refreshed.” Andrew smiled as he watched the skin above his companion's collar redden. Dennis hated being called Den. “Did you have a holiday this year?”

“Why ask a question to which you know the answer perfectly well?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Well, you may have the time. I haven't.”

Dennis turned to his screen, tapped a few keys, frowned. Andrew stopped perching on the edge of the desk and flung himself into the chair that Polly had so recently abandoned.

“Mmm,” he said, insinuating his bottom deeper and deeper into the cushions, “this is still warm.”

Dennis went even redder, clenched his teeth and tapped on.

“Beautiful girl. Why don't I ever get clients that look like that?” Pause. “Didn't I see her at old Carey Lawson's funeral?” Pause. “Don't tell me she's come in for some of the swag?”

Dennis clamped his lips together, pressed his buzzer with savage precision and told the girl who responded that he had some correspondence and would she come in straight away.

“Listen…” Drew Latham took his time getting out of the chair. “You must come and eat with us. Gil was saying only the other day, ‘We haven't seen that Denny for ages.' You know how fond she is of you.”

Dennis did not reply. He could count the times he had met Gilda Latham on one hand. Once when she had come into the office with her father at the time of the merger, at Carey Lawson's funeral, and also when he had given a talk on his machines to the Causton Library Users Association. She had gushed all over him afterwards and insisted on helping to put his slides away. It had taken him hours to get them straight.

Now he wondered at which moment during these brief encounters Gilda could possibly have become “very fond” of him. He presumed it was a figure of speech used as carelessly as the word “love” seemed to be these days. This had turned up last year on nearly all his Christmas cards, even from people he hardly knew, only the milkman showing decent restraint.

When home time came and people were packing up to go, Dennis decided to have another look at the Lawsons' account. As financial advisor to the new publishing business he should have up-to-date figures to put on the table at their inaugural meeting. He typed in the password, which was “Parmain.”

Dennis was rather chuffed with his compilation of passwords, which were all medieval French. They had been chosen very carefully to complement the business or personality of the relevant client. So a drunken landowner gambling away his estate had “Soteral.” A dress manufacturer “Asure.” The owner of a prep school “Enfancegnon.” A judge who rode with the local hunt, “Esmochior.” A greedy banker, “Termoint.” Aubain, fauconcel, dringuet, lorain – who would guess to what these words referred?