Читать книгу Persons Unknown: A Richard and Judy Book Club Pick 2018 - Susie Steiner, Susie Steiner - Страница 21

He’s standing in front of a Georgian townhouse with a polished brass plaque saying Dunlop & Finch. The black gloss door is adorned with a wreath of greenery and red berries. Davy thinks it looks like a traditional Christmas card image. His two detective constables flank him and Davy presses the buzzer.

They are buzzed into a hallway with black and white floor tiles. An enormous ornate mirror hangs on one wall. An oversized vase of white lilies fills the air with heavy perfume. The DCs – two lads who have been seconded to him from team two and whom he barely knows, follow him into reception. On the train, Davy was anxious to brief them thoroughly. ‘You’re looking for strains and pressures on the victim, any fallings-out, office politics which might’ve got out of hand. Any backstory which colleagues were aware of – girlfriends, friendships gone awry.’ The DCs were too relaxed to his mind and he didn’t want to join in their banter during the rest of the journey, preferring to read his case file or gaze out of the window; making notes in his hardback notebook when questions occurred to him that he must not forget.

They are met with hushed tones from the receptionist. ‘Ah yes, of course, take a seat.’

Davy remains standing and is annoyed when his DCs take up chairs.

A woman in a pencil skirt and tucked-in shirt comes to fetch them, leading them up a carpeted staircase with a polished banister. ‘It’s so terrible,’ she says as she leads. ‘We’re all in shock.’

After some preamble and apportioning of interviews, Davy takes Giles Carruthers.

He is shown into a bright room with a large desk in front of the window. Around the fireplace is an arrangement of deep armchairs at the centre of which is a square coffee table set with a silver coffee set.

‘I’m in shock,’ Giles says. ‘We all are. Can’t believe it to be honest.’

He wears an impeccable suit of darkest navy and his white shirt shines brightly against it. Cufflinks. A slight tan. After some generalities about his friendship with Ross, their positions in the firm, Davy says, ‘Was there much rivalry between the two of you? I understand you held equal positions as vice presidents, below van der Lupin.’

Giles says, ‘I wouldn’t call it rivalry. Look, we were up against each other but it was all friendly stuff. Coffee?’

Davy demurs. He doesn’t like to take anything from anyone when he’s on the job, not so much as an orange juice. Even coffee, with those sugar crystals that are all different shades of brown, like semi-precious stones. When his dad had taken him out once as a kiddie, Davy had rolled them against his teeth secretly.

‘Markus – van der Lupin, our boss – he likes to foster a bit of competitiveness. Thinks it gets the best out of us. Happens all the time in the City. Jon-Oliver and I were your classic public school boys, you know?’

Davy nods. Smiles. Not a clue, he thinks.

‘We couldn’t play a game of squash without wanting to thrash each other. All good fun. But he was my friend. I’m gutted. Still can’t believe it.’

Having met Ross’s parents, Davy would be very surprised if Ross had been privately educated. Giles Carruthers is working hard to insinuate Davy into a world that couldn’t be more alien to him. Above all, Davy doesn’t like him. Is this political? Is it class? Is he stereotyping? A bit of all three and a gut response.

‘Where were you on the night Mr Ross died?’ Davy asks.

‘At home,’ Giles says quickly. He has one hand on the arm of the chair, which is boxy and leather. The other hand lifts and smooths his tie a noticeable number of times. ‘I got a Chinese takeaway and I ate it in front of the telly by myself. Rock ’n’ roll, eh?’

‘Which takeaway was that?’ Davy asks, pen poised.

‘The Lotus Blossom, Upper Street.’

At the end of the interview, they stand and Davy asks to speak with the office manager, a woman called Linda Kapuschinski.

‘Not sure she’s relevant,’ says Giles. ‘Leaving us this week, sadly.’

‘Think I’ll interview her all the same,’ Davy says.

‘Fine. Why not use my office? The coffee’s there, you can use the comfortable chairs. I’ll just sit over here and get on with some work. You won’t even know I’m here.’

‘Ah,’ says Davy, looking at the proximity of Giles Carruthers’ desk. ‘That’s jolly kind of you, but we’ll need a private space. One of your meeting rooms, perhaps.’

Linda Kapuschinski is giving him nothing. Yes/no answers, pulling at a lip of skin to the edge of her thumbnail. Pulling at it so it’s getting red.

‘You’ll do yourself an injury,’ Davy says, nodding at her hand. He leans back in his chair, taps his pen onto his pad. ‘Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. What would you say to going out and grabbing a sandwich? We could carry on chatting while we eat.’

Two blocks away they find a café with steamed-up windows and, with the churn and spit of the milk warmer filling the air, Linda starts to relax.

‘So,’ he says. ‘Pastures new.’

She nods.

‘Got another job to go to?’

Linda has health problems, she tells him, brought on by stress at work. Insomnia, alopecia, she says, touching the underside of her hair. She lifts a clump of it and he sees a bald patch beneath.

‘Gosh,’ he says.

‘I’ve had some compassionate leave but …’ She pauses. ‘It was never going to work. This place, the City … well, they don’t believe in looking after people, put it that way. I’m surprised they’ve allowed me to work my notice. Probably because I’m only back room. Front-room staff are out without warning. The executions.’

‘Sorry?’ Davy says, alarmed at the word.

‘That’s the term for firings – executions, or the cull. Most people who’ve been culled aren’t even allowed back to their desks. They’re marched out by security.’

Davy blows out through pursed mouth.

‘Last week it happened to my friend Emma. She called my mobile and said, ‘Can you get my coat and bag?’ She was out on the pavement with a blocked security pass. You think you can get hardened to it, but it has an effect on people, that culture. No one feels safe. You feel powerless.’

‘What about Mr Ross and Mr Carruthers, how did they feel about the cull?’

‘Jon-Oliver? Indifferent I’d say. Teflon man. But Giles thrives on it. He’s the master of executions. He’s always saying how it keeps the organisation lean, keeps people sharp. I think the opposite is true. It makes people not themselves, twisted with anxiety. It’s also a massive disruption to the work – people’s projects are halted midway, handed to someone new. Takes a while to hire new people. It’s a macho thing; it doesn’t make us efficient. Giles is wedded to it. He’s always going on about how he came from Goldman Sachs but my guess is he was culled at Goldman Sachs and he’s somehow playing it out, forever.’

‘You don’t like Giles then?’

‘I don’t dislike him. I just think he’s the most damaged person I’ve ever come across.’

‘Damaged how?’

‘He can’t be contradicted, he can’t listen or change position. He’s vengeful. If you cross him, you’re out.’

‘Did Jon-Oliver cross him?’

Linda shrugs. ‘Jon-Oliver was his equal. Giles couldn’t touch him.’

‘How does the cull work?’

‘Every autumn they fire their worst-performing staff. They do it in autumn to avoid paying Christmas bonuses – means there’s more in the pot for everyone else. Happens all over the City. It’s normalised, as if you shouldn’t be a cry baby over losing your job.’

‘How was Jon-Oliver’s relationship with the boss, Markus …?’

‘Van der Lupin. He’s very softly-softly as a person, everything unspoken. He’ll say something vague in a meeting, like “Brazil, rather untapped for us. Any leads?” And he’ll leave it hanging, undelegated, so that everyone falls over themselves to solve the Brazil problem. Giles and Jon-Oliver were at the top and there was an unspoken rivalry – they were both after the top job, as deputy chairman to Markus, but he left them to fight it out. Jon-Oliver had more or less blown Giles out of the water by signing the Chinese billionaire, Xi Ping. Now Giles will get his clients. And his bonuses of course.’ She stops.

Davy turns his cup in its saucer a fraction. Waits.

‘I’ve got some part-time work at my local health food shop.’ She says this to Davy defiantly, as if he might deride her about it.

‘That’ll be good,’ he says. ‘Change of pace.’

‘From success to failure, you mean? I thought I could change myself to fit into the culture here, but now I realise you have to make yourself cut off to do that. Stupid thing is, a part of me still wishes I could’ve made it work.’ The end of her sentence tilts upwards as if it were a question.

‘Natural, I suppose,’ says Davy. He considers offering Linda another coffee – cappuccino for Kapuschinski? – but he has glanced at his watch and it’s getting late. He wants to hug his public sector pension to his chest. In his job, there might not be brass plaques and lilies, but there was none of this culling or execution abomination either. You could put an awful lot of feet wrong before you were sacked from the police.

He escorts Linda back to the black gloss door in the gathering dusk and picks up his DCs for the journey home.

On the walk back to the tube station, his constables chatting away behind him, Davy notices how the Christmas lights of Mayfair are almost exclusively of the white pin variety – understated compared to the winking green, red and yellow cacophony above Huntingdon town centre; love hearts and sleighs.

While walking, he takes out his mobile and calls the Lotus Blossom but is unable to get to anyone with enough English to answer his questions about Carruthers’ takeaway.

‘You wan order?’ a girl keeps shouting, over the hiss of frying.

He should visit the place in person, but not tonight. He is anxious to get back to Huntingdon tonight. Doesn’t want to spend it in a Premier Inn.

On arrival at Huntingdon station, he says goodbye to his constables, who are heading off for a pint together.

‘I’ll see you lads. I’m going in here to get myself a sandwich,’ he says to them, before heading into the station buffet.

After paying, he slides the receipt alongside others in his wallet, thinking how these jobs put a serious dent in his efforts to eat his five a day. It is with relief that he sinks into the seat of his car, throwing his sandwich onto the passenger seat. Cars at night are lovely – warm and easy.

Headlights sweep past him both ways, illuminating the smears on his windscreen, then returning him to darkness on Hinchingbrooke Park Road.

He is within sight of Judith Cole’s house. He can see her front door, but his car is under the shadow of a tree and as good as invisible. If she’s lying – and that’s the consensus in the department – then he wants to know why, even though he has been denied authorisation for any kind of trace or surveillance.