Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

“Well, Polly?”

Slaughter was standing behind a desk, honeyed mahogany and green leather, which also looked pretty old. There was nothing on it but a computer and a copy of the Evening Standard.

Polly, impressed and surprised by her surroundings, did not immediately reply. She was also slightly surprised by Slaughter’s appearance. It had been some weeks since they met but, in her constant and angry remembrances, he had been fat. Gross even. Now, though plainly a big man, he was not a fat one. Polly wondered if he had lost weight. Or if she had blown him up (so to speak) in her imagination.

He wasn’t quite as ugly either. His flat almond-shaped eyes were as cold as she recalled but his lips were full rather than thick. They weren’t smiling. Now she came to think of it she had never seen him smile.

“Won’t you sit down?”

“No, thanks.” Polly opened her bag and took out the banker’s draft. It was in an envelope. “I just came to deliver this.”

“Hang on.” He disappeared into what was presumably the kitchen and came back with two glasses and an ice bucket with a bottle in it. “We must celebrate.”

About to be very grand and refuse, Polly changed her mind on recognising the dark green bottle held in a metal casing of delicate pale blue leaves. Slaughter filled two glasses to the brim, gracefully without spilling a drop. Polly accepted one with a great show of reluctance, took a sip and wandered over to the window. It looked down on two stone figures, Epstein or very much like, squatting atop an archway.

About to ask, she was anticipated by Slaughter.

“Ministry of Defence.”

Polly remembered her earlier thoughts on John le Carré while drinking deep of the Perrier Jouët, which was quite wonderful.

“You’re running out.” He added to her glass, standing quite close but not so close she could legitimately take offence. Even so, Polly moved away.

“I didn’t know you played the clarinet.”

“I play all sorts of things.”

“Billy, suppose…that is – if I hadn’t been able to get the money, would you have…?”

“Yes.”

“To the bitter end?”

“Wouldn’t you?” He refilled his own glass.

“Of course.” But there had been a minimal hesitation.

“What if it was a friend?”

“I don’t believe in friends.”

“What would you have instead?”

“People who can be of use.” Polly hesitated. “Isn’t that your philosophy?”

“My philosophy, like that of all successful businessmen, is to see with absolute clarity what is really happening.”

“And the failed businessmen?”

“They see what they’d like to think is happening.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“It will serve you well, Polly.”

He held out his hand. Polly produced the envelope and gave it to him. He slipped it, unread into his pocket and sat down at the desk. He wrote a few lines on a sheet of headed paper, folded it and handed it over. Not to be outdone on the count of cool, Polly slipped the receipt unread, into her bag.

“Some more fizz?”

Polly didn’t reply. She was already feeling rather light-headed. Being nervous, she had not been able to swallow a morsel before she came. She took the glass, conscious of standing there like a dummy and blurted out the first thing that came into her head. It could not have been more banal.

“You’re looking very smart.”

“I’m going to the opera.”

“The opera ?”

“Where did you think I’d be going? The dogs?”

“I’m…” Polly blushed. “I didn’t think anything.”

“ Fidelio. Love, death and betrayal.”

“Sounds like a day on the market floor.”

“Apart from the love.” He had moved back behind the desk and sat down to face the computer. “I want to give you something, Polly. A present.” He started tapping the keys. “Have you got any money?”

“Doesn’t sound much like a present.”

“If you have or if you can get some I can put you in the way of buying at 1.04 and selling, possibly at as much as 1.50 within hours.”

“Buying what?” Polly tried to keep her voice even but the shock showed. A swift kick of excitement and fear. She walked slowly across the room to stand behind his chair, to read over his shoulder.

“Gillans and Hart? For heaven’s sake – they’re rubbish. Worthless.”

“Not quite.”

“What are you doing ?” She stared at the screen. At the figures; the noughts. “You’re not buying?”

“As you see.”

When Polly could speak she said, “What’s going on?”

“There’s been a takeover by Channing Voight.”

Polly leaned on the desk edge to keep herself steady. She felt slightly sick. “How do you know?”

“A banker with Channing. He’s in my debt.”

“Must be some debt.”

“Indeed.”

“So it will break first thing tomorrow?”

“The rumour’s already out. They’re two points up in the Standard. ”

Polly took up the paper and checked, and it was true. “You’re buying with a market maker?”

“Smart girl. Do you know of someone you can use?”

“Of course. But, why me?”

“Let’s say…” He turned and smiled at her. The smile didn’t reach his eyes but at least this time it just touched his mouth. “I still have hopes that one day you’ll look kindly on me.”

Polly parted lips as sweetly pink as her toes and smiled back. Where was the harm? It was not as if she would ever have to see him again. She leaned a little closer to Billy Slaughter’s shoulder to watch the transfer of this truly massive amount of money and he smelled her subtle but distinctive scent. One click on Commit and it was done.

Now Polly wanted to get away. He could feel it – the feverishness of her. He stood up and she stepped quickly backwards, disconcerted. But he merely held out his hand. The grip was dry and firm, the handshake brief. Then he walked her to the door and said, “Goodbye.”

Polly ran down the corridor, heading for the stairs. Her spirit, elated and freewheeling now, could not have borne enclosure in a lift. She looked wild and beautiful. Billy Slaughter watched her go, his face a mask of bland, steely calm.

Dennis was preparing to leave the office. He had contacted a security firm earlier that day and someone was coming to change the locks on Wednesday morning. Obviously Andrew Latham, as the only other key holder, had to be informed. Dennis had put this off all day but now he could see Andrew, already wearing his flashy white trench coat, helping Gail Fuller on with her jacket.

“Oh, I say?” called Dennis, across the deserted outer office. “Could I have a moment?”

Latham turned round and then straight back to the receptionist. His expression showed amusement and irritation as if Dennis had been some precocious child that was outstaying its welcome. He said something too quiet to be overheard and Gail Fuller left, sniggering.

“I was just off, actually.” He met Dennis halfway and perched on one of the desks. “Can’t it wait?”

“I’ve…er,” Dennis cleared his throat. Stupid to be nervous. “I’m having the lock on my door changed, Andrew. And the one to the main office.”

“Lock?”

“Wednesday morning.”

“What the fuck for?”

Dennis went scarlet. He found coarse language deeply offensive. Latham would never have spoken in such a way when he first joined the firm. The man’s attitude was becoming more and more openly contemptuous.

“I’m sure you recall the incidents a short while ago when the lights were inexplicably—”

“God, you’re not harking back to that again. You’re losing it, Brinkers. It’ll be voices in the radiators next.” He gave a fractious whinny, baring his teeth. Dennis, unaware it was supposed to be a laugh, jumped. “Get a grip, man.”