Fault Line - Retail (6 page)

Girton College – girls only and two miles out of Cambridge – promised to be boring too, she insisted. I offered to visit her there. ‘I might take you up on that,’ was her encouraging response. She was funny and light-hearted and captivating through all of this. Her serious, fretful side only emerged when Oliver cropped up
in
the conversation. I suspected he was going to when I returned with a second round of drinks and saw a change in her expression. She’d thought about her brother – and a cloud had crossed the sun.

‘Since you work at Wren’s,’ she said, ‘you’ve obviously heard about what happened to our father.’

‘Yes. It must’ve been … terrible for you.’

‘It was. But it was much worse for Oliver than for me.’

‘Because he was in the car?’

‘He was so mischievous when he was a little boy. Hiding in places you’d never think of was one of his favourite games. He’d been off school with measles for several weeks. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been there when Father came home in the middle of the morning. Father left the boot of the car open while he took something into the house. That’s when Oliver jumped in and hid under the picnic rug, so Father wouldn’t see him when he came back. And he didn’t, of course.’ A distant look came into her eyes. ‘He closed the boot and drove away.’

‘Why did … your father …’

‘No one knows.’ She gazed past me towards the sea-drawn horizon. ‘There was no note. No explanation of any kind. He came home with a book of fabric samples from Broad’s that Mother had asked him to collect. She wanted to choose some new curtains for the dining-room. She thought it was peculiar he hadn’t waited until he finished work. There was no particular hurry. It only made sense later. He obviously … wanted to make sure she had the samples … before he …’

I suddenly noticed there were tears glistening in her eyes. She stopped and fingered them away. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been nine years, but I still miss him so much.’

‘I’m sorry too.’ I patted her forearm gently. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘It’s OK. I’m all right.’ She took a sip of Cinzano and smiled at me. ‘Father was sometimes depressed. Not for any obvious reason. It was just … the way he was. I suppose it was much worse than usual and he … decided he couldn’t bear it any more.’ She sighed.
‘I’m
sure he wouldn’t have done it if he’d known how it was going to affect Oliver.’

‘How has it affected him?’

‘Well, he was a pretty normal seven-year-old. But you wouldn’t say he was a normal sixteen-year-old, would you?’

‘People do change … as they grow up.’

‘He changed overnight, Jonathan. Since that day nine years ago, he’s been … obsessed is the only word … with what happened to Father.
How
it happened.
Why
it happened. He won’t let go of it. I sometimes think it’s all he lives for.’

‘It can’t be as bad as that.’ I certainly hoped it wasn’t, since I might recently have helped him feed his obsession. A queasy realization struck me. If Vivien ever found out what I’d done for Oliver – and why – she’d want to have nothing more to do with me.

‘There are a couple of minor mysteries about what Father did the day he died. Oliver’s spent years trying to solve them. He’s got nowhere as far as I know. But he won’t give up.’

‘What are the mysteries?’

‘Well, I know Oliver thinks they’re basically the same mystery. Father’s briefcase wasn’t in the car with him and he didn’t leave it at home or in the office. So what happened to it? According to Oliver, Father stopped the car somewhere for about ten minutes on the way from St Austell to Goss Moor. He thinks Father got rid of the briefcase then.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Oliver doesn’t know. And he doesn’t know where Father stopped either, so there’s no question of looking for the briefcase. He could have stopped in one of the villages and dumped it in somebody’s dustbin, if he dumped it at all. It might have been overlooked somehow at Wren’s. Of course, we don’t even know the exact route Father took to Goss Moor. Naturally, Oliver’s been over every yard of every possible route. But he’s found nothing. I want him to stop. So does Mother. He isn’t going to, though. He just can’t seem to.’

‘Maybe when he leaves school …’

‘That’s what Greville tells Mother. “He’ll grow out of it eventually.”’

‘How did you and Oliver feel about your mother remarrying?’

‘I was pleased for her. I think Oliver was too. In his way. Greville’s never tried to replace Father. He’s … quite sensitive, actually. And he’s given Mother Adam, of course, who’s adorable.’

‘I’m not sure Oliver agrees with you there.’

‘Oliver tries to ignore him. But you can’t ignore a five-year-old.’

‘Did Greville know your father?’

‘Yes. They served in the RAF together. It was through Father that Greville got a job at Wren’s in the first place. According to Aunt Harriet—’ She broke off. ‘But she tends to exaggerate everything, so …’

‘What has she exaggerated in this case?’

‘Oh, well, according to her, Greville was in a bad way after the war and Father did him a big favour by persuading Grandfather Wren to take him on. Now he’s in charge of the business and look what he’s planning to do with it.’

‘Sell it to CCC, Oliver tells me.’

‘Ah.’ She looked mildly surprised. And something else: impressed, I think. ‘He said that, did he?’

‘He also mentioned the special board meeting on Thursday. It’s what’s brought your great-uncle home, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I was going to tell you myself. You see, Uncle Francis doesn’t like Greville. Never has. He and Mother have fallen out over it. That’s why he and Luisa are staying at the Carlyon Bay rather than Nanstrassoe. I don’t want you to be surprised if he says anything nasty about Greville over dinner.’

‘I’ll try not to be. Families, hey?’

‘Exactly … Actually, Greville’s doing the best he can for the family with this deal. Wren’s has no future as an independent business.’ Says who? I wondered. Everyone except unworldly exaggeration-prone Great-Aunt Harriet, I assumed. ‘Uncle Francis knows it’s finished. But he might still want to let off some steam.’

‘Thanks for warning me. I think I’ll be able to cope.’

‘Yes.’ She studied me for a disarming moment. ‘I think you will, too.’

FIVE

I LAY AWAKE
for an hour or more that night agonizing over the position I’d put myself in. Oliver was up to something. I knew that much for certain. If I told Vivien what I knew, she’d be grateful. It might even draw us closer together. But Oliver would rightly feel betrayed. I couldn’t predict how he’d react. And I didn’t want to betray him, anyway.

By the following morning, I’d decided what to do. I’d say nothing to Vivien until I’d given Oliver fair warning. When we met on Wednesday, I’d put it to him that his sister was worried about him and so was I; that I hadn’t appreciated how difficult it had been for him to recover from the shock of his father’s death; and that unless he told me what he was after in Wren’s records I’d have to let Vivien know he was certainly after something.

That still left me committed to putting the question Oliver had prepared for me to his great-uncle on Tuesday night. But taken at face value it was an innocent enquiry. And I
was
interested to see what effect it had. The more I discovered about the Wren family, the better I understood Vivien. And the better I understood her …

I expected Monday to be quiet and uneventful. But since the close of the previous working week I’d ceased to be just another anonymous temporary employee and become, as I was shortly to understand, someone Greville Lashley had decided he needed to take the measure of.

It was pushing towards noon in the accounts section, the atmosphere composed of equal parts dust, cigarette smoke and lethargy, when Maurice Rowe took an internal call that brought a scowl to his unlovely face. ‘Mr Kellaway,’ he barked across the room at me after banging the phone down, ‘get yourself up to Mr Lashley’s office.’ (He would never normally have addressed me as
Mr Kellaway
. It was a sure sign that he viewed the summoning of menials under his charge to the boss’s domain as deeply suspicious.)

‘Mr Lashley … wants to see me?’ I asked incredulously.

‘Evidently.’

‘But … why?’

‘Ours not to reason, boy. Cut along.’

I cut.

‘Go on in,’ said Joan Winkworth when I arrived. My hesitant knock at the door of the inner office received no answer, but Joan nodded for me to proceed, so on I went.

The managing director’s office doubled as the boardroom, accommodating a long polished conference table overlooked by framed photographs of scenes from Wren’s corporate past: workers filling clay sacks at the Charlestown dry; a clay ship with sails rigged nosing out of the dock; a digging gang posing for the camera, shovels in hand, in a new pit; a Wren’s lorry loaded with children on a Sunday School outing; and old Walter Wren, whiskered, waistcoated and merely middle-aged, shaking hands with the Prince of Wales some time before the First World War.

I had the opportunity to peruse these because Greville Lashley was in the middle of a telephone conversation when I entered. He waved a hand casually at me, signalling for me to stay, and continued with the call, leaning back almost horizontally in a well-sprung swivel-chair. His desk was set across one end of the conference table, forming a T. Behind him was a large crescent window overlooking the yard. His rockings on the chair carried him in and out of a broad shaft of sunlight that gleamed on his collar-length Brylcreemed hair and the gold band of his
wristwatch.
He looked his normal suave self – and younger than his fifty years. It took no great effort of the imagination to picture him in sheepskin-lined jacket and flying helmet, climbing into the cockpit of a Spitfire to do battle with the Luftwaffe. He had manliness and style in bucketloads.

‘Tell them it comes with my personal guarantee,’ were his closing words in the telephone conversation. Then he dropped the receiver into its cradle, causing the bell to tinkle, and treated me to a frowning smile of scrutiny. ‘Jonathan Kellaway?’

‘Yes, sir. I—’

‘Sit down.’ He pointed to a chair. ‘You’re a fast mover, I must say.’

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘Less than a month in our employ and already you’re playing chess with my stepson and dating my stepdaughter.’

‘Well, I …’

‘Not that I object to fast movers. Quite the reverse. I find they’re essential if you’re to get anything done in this world. I’m one myself. Obviously.’

I couldn’t see why it should be obvious, but Lashley’s wolfish grin almost defied me not to draw the conclusion that he was referring to the ultimate reason he’d succeeded George Wren as chairman and managing director of Walter Wren & Co. – marriage to his late friend’s widow, no less: a smart career move, as it had turned out.

‘Now look, Jonathan, the thing is this.’ His ready use of my Christian name was doubtless calculated to put me at my ease, though somehow it didn’t. ‘My wife worries about Oliver. Small wonder, considering what he experienced when his father died. I’m sure you know all about that. It’s common knowledge. So, I’ll say no more about poor old Ken. A sad loss, though, especially for his children. I can certainly never replace him and I’ve never made the mistake of trying. Oliver spends too much time alone and probably too much time thinking. Never think more than you act. That’s my motto. The reverse also applies. Balance, you see. Balance in everything. The point is that if you can … bring
him
out of himself … we’d be grateful. All of us. Me included.’

Whether he’d actually winked at me then I wasn’t sure. I somehow felt he had. The implication was clear: Greville Lashley’s gratitude was a thing worth earning.

‘Vivien’s an attractive girl, Jonathan.
Very
attractive. I wouldn’t blame any red-blooded young fellow setting his cap at her, as I gather you have. Well, happy hunting is all I can say. She’s fussy. I can tell you that much. Now, here’s my concern. These are … delicate times … in Wren and Co.’s affairs. Change is in the air. And change is good. Worrying for some. Exciting for others. But good, overall. Without it, business stagnates. And a stagnant business isn’t a prosperous business. You understand?’

‘Er … yes, sir.’

‘I gather you’re going to study economics at university.’

I was surprised and more than a little disturbed by how much he seemed to have found out about me. ‘Er, yes. I am.’

‘So I don’t need to lecture you about the need to upgrade British industry. The white heat of the technological revolution and all that. In short, the future. It’s what I have to plan and prepare for. It’s what I
am
planning and preparing for. Delicately, as I say. Sensitively, I like to think. The staff are wondering what’s going to become of them if we merge with Cornish China Clays. Actually, they should be wondering what’s going to become of them if we
don’t
merge with Cornish China Clays. There’s a board meeting later this week. Has Oliver mentioned it to you? Or Vivien?’

‘As a matter of fact, they both have, sir.’

Lashley nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see. And have you mentioned it to your … colleagues in Accounts?’

‘No, sir.’ It was true. I hadn’t. But they’d find out about it without me well before Thursday. I had no doubt of that. In all likelihood, neither did Lashley.

‘Good. That shows … restraint on your part. But I’d like to think you might also be capable of something more … active.’ He smiled at my puzzled expression. ‘You’re on good terms with Oliver. With Vivien, as well. And I gather you’ll soon be meeting my wife’s uncle and his
signora
. As a result, it’s possible you may
learn
something over the next few days that has a bearing on the outcome of Thursday’s board meeting. Some … obstacle to progress. You follow?’

‘I … suppose I do. But—’

‘It may even be something you don’t realize has a bearing. Something … apparently insignificant but … strange, odd, inexplicable.’ His smile urged me to see through the opacity of his words. ‘If anything remotely of that nature comes to your attention, Jonathan, I want you to alert me to it. A quiet word, nothing more. In complete confidence.’