Stephen Leather - The birthday girl

Both Freeman's parents were alive and reasonably well, living in a bungalow in Bishopbriggs, a suburb of Glasgow, and whereas he saw them only once or twice a year, he knew how much he'd miss them when they eventually passed away. And not a day went by when he didn't think of Luke. God only knew how Mersiha had dealt with the loss of her parents and her brother, especially considering the circumstances in which they'd died, circumstances that she had yet to really talk about.

Mersiha was seeing a psychiatrist on a regular basis, but he wasn't making much progress with her. It wasn't that she was uncommunicative or withdrawn, quite the opposite in fact. She was bright, she was outgoing and she was as cute as a button, but she simply refused to tell anyone what had happened to her in the months before Freeman had met her. The psychiatrist, Dr Brown, had said that it was just a matter of time and that eventually she would open up. It would probably happen once she felt totally safe in her new home, Dr Brown had said, and he'd stressed that it was up to Katherine and Tony to demonstrate that she had a loving, supportive family that would always be there for her. That wasn't a problem; they were more than happy to have her. More than happy. She went some way towards filling the void that Luke's death had left, but it was more than that – they couldn't have loved her more if she had been their own child.

Freeman was still thinking about Mersiha when he pulled into the parking lot of CRW Electronics and drove over the painted letters that spelled out his name and title: chairman.

Maury Anderson's white Corvette was already in its space and Freeman found him sitting in his plush office reading a computer printout and drinking a cup of black coffee.

'Hiya, Tony, you ready for the inquisition?' he asked.

'As I'll ever be,' Freeman said. He nodded at the printout in Maury's hands. 'Anything I should know about?'

Anderson held the paper out. 'I was just taking a last-minute look at the figures. It's not a pretty picture.' He sniffed and ran the back of his hand under his nose.

'Tell me something new,' Freeman said, scanning the numbers.

He knew Anderson was right. The company's financial position was precarious at best and he could see no reasons for optimism. They were due to see their bankers at 11.15 and Freeman was expecting the worst. CRW Electronics was covering its interest payments, but cash-flow projections suggested that this state of affairs wouldn't continue for much longer. Even the time and place of the meeting underlined the way the company's fortunes were progressing. In the good old days of the Reagan arms build-up the bank officials would come to CRW's offices for lunch in the boardroom, eager to fund their expansion programmes. Now it was a half-hour at the bank's city headquarters with the minimum of hospitality. The next stage on the slippery slope would be Chapter 11, protection from creditors, unless he and Maury could do something to stop the rot. Freeman passed the printout back to Anderson. 'Your car or mine?'

Anderson smiled. 'I think they'd rather see us in the Lumina, don't you? Under the circumstances.' He sniffed again.

Freeman grinned. 'Maybe we should take the bus. Are you coming down with a cold?'

'Just a sniffle,' Anderson said. 'I think it's the air-conditioning.

Hey, what do you call a blind elk?'

Freeman shrugged.

'No eye-deer,' Anderson said. '

Freeman gave Anderson a half-smile and checked his wristwatch.

'Better we get there early,' he said.

They parked the Lumina in an underground car park close to the headquarters of the First Bank of Baltimore. As they sped up to the top floor, Freeman checked himself in the mirrored wall of the elevator. Anderson chuckled. 'It's like being sent to the principal's office, isn't it?'

'Yeah. I was just thinking that it wasn't that long ago that they were beating a path to our door.'

'They will again, Tony. Once we're back on our feet.'

They were made to sit in the bank's reception area for a full ten minutes, which Freeman took to be yet another sign of the institution's displeasure, but when they were finally ushered into the corporate lending office at least he was able to greet a friendly face, that of Walter Carey, an affable man in his early sixties with whom he'd been doing business since he started at CRW. There was no game-playing with Walter. He walked quickly from behind his desk to shake hands with Freeman and Anderson in the centre of the room and his handshake was firm and dry. He showed them to a highly polished rosewood table, big enough to seat twenty, and waited until they had taken their places before sitting down himself. The office door opened and Walter's secretary, a smiling matron with grey curly hair and surgical stockings, backed in carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and cups and saucers. Walter got to his feet and took the tray from her, thanking her profusely. He was a gentleman of the old school, and Freeman wondered how he'd managed to survive in the cut-throat world of modern banking.

Walter put the tray down on the table as the secretary closed the door behind her. Freeman noticed that there were four cups and saucers on the brass tray – either the secretary had made a mistake or they were expecting another. Without asking, the banker poured coffee for Freeman and Anderson and waved his hand over the milk and sugar, suggesting that they help themselves. He served himself last and waited until they had sipped the hot coffee before speaking, and even then it was to enquire about their respective spouses. Walter stirred his cup slowly, far more than necessary to dissolve the single spoonful of sugar he'd put in. Freeman realised he was waiting for something. Or someone. The door opened and, as it did, Walter's spoon clattered against the side of the cup, spilling some of his coffee into the saucer. Freeman caught his eye and smiled reassuringly. Walter smiled back, but he couldn't hide the apprehension he was obviously feeling. It suddenly hit Freeman that perhaps Walter's position at the bank wasn't as secure as he'd thought. He turned to look at the new arrival.

A tall black man was closing the door, a manila file under his arm. He had broad shoulders, a square jaw and close-cropped hair, and he walked across the office like a male model on a catwalk. He flashed a smile that showed perfect teeth and as he held out his hand Freeman saw a big gold watch on the man's wrist. 'Tony, Maury, I'd like you to meet Lennie Nelson,'

Walter said as he got to his feet. 'Lennie's our new VP in charge of business development.'

Nelson's handshake was as firm as Walter's had been, but there was a slightly damp feeling to it. 'Good to meet you both,' he said, handing out business cards. He pulled out the chair at the far end of the table, the one opposite Walter, and dropped the file in front of him as he sat down. 'So,' he said. 'No need for me to ask how business is, is there?' He patted the manila file as if it were a sick child. 'This is depressing reading, but I guess you guys know that, right?'

Freeman nodded, wondering where the conversation was going and knowing that he wasn't going to enjoy the journey.

'We're suffering from the peace dividend, that's for sure,' he said.

Nelson nodded. 'You and every other defence contractor in this country,' he said. He sat back in his chair and unbuttoned his jacket. His shirt gleamed as brightly as his teeth. 'I tell you, when Gorbachev announced the break-up of the Soviet Union, while everyone was cheering and saying what a great guy he was and how it was peace at last, I was on the phone selling defence stocks like there was no tomorrow. People don't look ahead, most of them. They don't think. If I was in the defence business, I'd have seen the writing on the wall years ago and started diversifying. The margins in the defence business are like nowhere else, but if there's no business, what good does it do you, right?'