Martin Edwards - I Remember You

On arriving at Fenwick Court his first thought was to ring Heather Crusoe for the latest about Jim.

‘Much better,’ she assured him. ‘It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep can do. He’s off the drip and they’re already talking about the chances of him going home soon. Oh, and he wanted me to remind you specially that he expects you to do your duty at the exhibition. No sudden call-outs to some grotty police cell to get yourself off the hook and he said you weren’t to slope off home until you have a diary-full of new clients.’

‘I think I liked him better when he could hardly speak. Okay, just this once.’

An hour later, as bidden, he made his way to Empire Hall, his gloom at the prospect of having to glad-hand the city’s businessmen more than offset by his relief at the news of Jim’s recovery.

The exhibition was being held in The Atrium, a glass-roofed annexe to the recently renovated main building which boasted more foliage than Kew and waterfalls as noisy as the Niagara. Near the entrance a huge magenta poster urged the city’s businessmen to borrow money from The Bank That Cares. Harry knew it also as the bank that spent much of its time suing debtors, repossessing houses and sending in receivers. He smiled nervously at the under-manager responsible for Crusoe and Devlin’s office account and scuttled away before he could be buttonholed for a chat about extending the partners’ personal guarantees. His progress slowed as someone tugged at his arm.

‘Excuse me, sir, but do you know who wrote The Decameron ? Are you familiar with the secret of nuclear fission? Don’t you long for a better understanding of the world in which we live?’

The encyclopaedia salesman who had accosted him was as clean-cut as a Mormon missionary and no less enthusiastic. Harry was tempted to say the answers to the mysteries haunting him could not be found in any of the twenty-four luxuriously bound volumes the man was trying to flog. As he moved away, his eyes fell on the crowded corner bar, where Stanley Rowe was waving at him vigorously. The estate agent’s skeletal features were flushed and at close quarters his breath left Harry in no doubt that he had been sampling the Special Exhibition Tankard.

‘Done any business this afternoon, Stan?’

‘The only joy I’ve had was when an old dear approached me at half four. I supposed she was a widow who wanted to sell the family home, move into sheltered housing perhaps.’ Rowe shook his head mournfully. ‘Turned out she’d wandered in by mistake, expecting to find an all-in-wrestling bout. When I told her that was next week, she swore herself hoarse and stamped off to complain to someone in authority.’

‘Never mind, at least you should be cashing in on the Graham-Brown sale soon. The boundary — ’

‘And that’s another thing. Have you spoken to Geoffrey Willatt yet? There’s a hitch.’

‘About the trees? But it’s — ’

‘Nothing to do with trees, Harry. You need to see the wood, don’t worry about the bloody trees. The whole deal may fall through.’

‘That’s impossible! Contracts have been exchanged.’

Stanley Rowe snorted. ‘Speak to him yourself. He’s on the legal stand.’

On the other side of the aisle, an exhibition floor plan was pinned to a pillar alongside a local government stand mothballed as a result of industrial action on the part of the community’s servants. Looking for the Liverpool Legal Group’s stand, Harry spotted a name he had not expected to see.

Merseycredit. Stuart Graham-Brown’s business.

Unable to contain his curiosity, he hurried over to the Merseycredit stand. There was no sign of Rosemary’s husband, but standing behind the table was a rosy-cheeked brunette in a tracksuit a size too small for her. She greeted him with so much fervour he guessed she was paid by commission only.

‘Care for some literature, sir?’

He thumbed through the glossy clutcher she pressed into his hand. It was full of pictures of happy, beaming people, supposed beneficiaries of Merseycredit’s financial advice. Arriving at the small print on the inside back page, he read that the firm was a partnership. And the only partners named were Stuart Graham-Brown and Rosemary Graham-Brown.

Well, well, well. So Rosemary had a direct share in the profits…

‘Let me arrange an interview for you, sir,’ urged the brunette. ‘Free of charge, no obligation. Discretion assured.’ She made it sound like a dating agency.

‘This would be with Mr Graham-Brown, presumably?’

‘Our senior partner? You’ll understand, sir, he does have very many commitments and it’s normally our assistant executives who see new clients. But if you particularly wanted to see Mr Graham-Brown, I’m sure we could fix something up next month. Unfortunately, I don’t have his diary here. Perhaps I could take your telephone number?’

‘No need,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll give him a ring myself.’

‘Wait a minute!’ She was desperate not to let a prospect slip away. ‘I can see him over there, talking to one of our clients. Do hang on for a moment, I’m sure he won’t be long.’

She pointed to a man with greying hair further down the aisle. Stuart Graham-Brown was tall, with a suave manner and immaculate dress sense. He was, Harry judged, a good twenty years older than his wife. And he was deep in discussion with someone instantly recognisable — Nick Folley, of all people.

Harry made a quick decision. If Merseycredit’s staff were unaware of the Graham-Browns’ imminent flight to the sun, this wasn’t the right time or place to introduce himself to the man responsible for their fate.

‘Sorry, but I can’t wait. But you can tell him my name’s Harry Devlin and I’ll be in touch.’ He walked briskly over to the adjoining aisle, where the Liverpool Legal Group was trying to convince an indifferent public of its urgent need for skilled professional advice. Most of the men passed quickly on to the next pitch, where a blonde wearing a low-cut top and tight leopardskin pants was encouraging the belief that an impulse buy of a Turkish time-share would prove their virility.

‘Harry, my dear fellow. Good of you to come.’ Geoffrey Willatt greeted him from behind a counter which bore a placard saying contact maher and malcolm for professional services in complete confidence.

‘Hello, Geoffrey. Sure you’re not using your legal business as a front for a brothel with a slogan like that?’

Willatt chortled his appreciation. ‘One of the things I always liked about you, Harry — splendid sense of humour.’

‘What’s up?’ Harry asked, suspicious of the excessive bonhomie. ‘Don’t say you need me to do an extra stint?’

‘No, no, no. Glad to see you at all, good heavens. Appreciate your coming along at short notice. Partner sick, busy man, damn good show. Here, take some leaflets. To be frank, we’re a little quiet at present; people don’t seem yet to appreciate how much we can help. So you won’t find your task too arduous.’

‘Fine. Now, about Crow’s Nest House. The tree trouble has been resolved, you’ll be glad to hear, so when can we complete?’

‘Ah,’ said Willatt. He invested the syllable with a wealth of meaning, as if to convey brave hope dashed by life’s vicissitudes.

‘Come on, then. Spit it out.’

Willatt’s pained expression made it clear that he had never spat anything out in all his days. When he spoke his words were emollient.

‘We have a slight problem with the Ambroses, I fear. Namely, the Byzantium Line have announced their half-yearly results today. Rather poor, as you’ll have seen if you keep in touch with the stock market. No? Well, anyway, they have found it necessary to impose cutbacks. The Liverpool office is to be slimmed down and there’s going to be no room in it for Mr Ambrose, poor chap. Apparently they need to rationalise, concentrate on major international business and as a result, they want him out in Nigeria instead.’