D. Compton - The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe

I drank my vodka. I’ve always hated vodka, but I drank it down. ‘A woman is dead,’ I said, ‘and a man is injured, possibly quite badly.’

The inspector smiled sadly. ‘Pour encourager les autres,’ he said. Evidently he knew some history. ‘We’ll bring you to court of course. But not for six months or so, and in a different part of the country. The world moves on — I don’t imagine you’ll have much trouble.’ He smiled again. ‘Frankly, my dear sir, you’ve done us all a great favor.’

And I’d thought I was cynical… ‘I could always insist on standing trial at once,’ I said.

‘Wouldn’t that be just a teeny bit vulgar? A discreet contribution to the inevitable fund would be far more realistic.’

‘Plus, no doubt, a discreet bottle of vodka in the right quarter.’

He refused to be needled. ‘That’s extraordinarily kind of you. But I’m only doing my duty.’

‘Your duty to the fat politicians.’

‘Some of the people’s elected representatives are really quite thin.’

You meet flip little crooks in all sorts of places. But they seldom win unless you want them to. This one was winning. ‘Supposing I was recognized?’ I said, faltering ever so slightly.

‘Deny it. We’ll issue a name at once, to stop speculation. Anybody who thought they recognized you was simply mistaken. Not many people have my sergeant’s way with faces.’

‘And the car? Anyone who checked its ownership from the registration number would—’

‘Would make his inquiry via the police.’ He sat back. ‘It’s a wicked old world,’ he said. ‘But I can’t honestly see what will be gained by your making a martyr of yourself

Nor, honestly, could I.

Just then a first aid orderly arrived to tidy up my face. Apart from a couple of bruises there was really very little damage. My ribs, likewise, were bruised but not broken. And as for the thrilling taped evidence of my eyes, I knew very well that Vincent would (regretfully) agree with the inspector that it could hardly be used.

Later an unmarked police van arrived and I was bundled into it, a jacket over my head. I could hear the inspector speaking to the inevitable group of reporters. ‘…Assisting us with our inquiries. That’s right. No, his name is Barber. Christopher Barber, aged twenty-seven. One of these advertising whiz-kids. I’m sorry, no, I’m not divulging his home address. I know how persistent you gentlemen can be. Contact Area Office in the morning. Maybe they’ll have something for you…’

The police van moved away. Few of the reporters would bother. And I knew from experience that those who did would get little joy. Barber was a common enough name.

And the Advertising Association had no official registry. And the world moves on.

The girl on reception at NTV House recognized her at once and paged her straight up to Vincent Ferriman’s office. On the way from the hospital she’d had one of her little paralyses, and fallen down in the street by an Anti-Surveillance Gadget shop. But she’d kept her face to the wall, and stayed anonymous, and nobody had bothered her. She couldn’t see her watch to time the paralysis, but it had seemed to last about ten minutes. Then she’d got up, and dusted herself, and continued on to NTV House, hobbling slightly because of a bruised knee.

Vincent Ferriman was glad to see her, but didn’t gush. He was solicitous, but didn’t oppress. He sat her down, and sent for soup and sandwiches because her little paralysis had delayed her and she hadn’t had any lunch. Then he settled himself behind his desk and in a fatherly fashion watched her eat. An Aimee Paladine fatherly fashion.

When he got down to business it was on a level that did not insult her intelligence. ‘You’re here because you’ve nowhere else to go,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to hear my rationale. You have already rejected emotionally anything that I could possibly say. You’re here because the commercial world has left you no alternative.’

It was a fair enough statement of the facts, but it didn’t warm her to him. She kept on eating. She had seldom felt so hungry.

‘It’s not an ideal situation,’ he went on, ‘but at least it’s workable. It’s up to me to improve it as we go along. For the moment you’re here, and that’s enough.’

She chewed. ‘I want the money now,’ she said. ‘And I think it should be more.’

‘More than what?’

‘Last night’s excitements have put up my value. Being kidnapped has made me a more valuable property.’

‘The jargon’s right, Katherine, but I don’t see—’

‘I want more, Vincent, and I want it now.’

Tough. Hard-boiled. Using his first name like an insult. But he didn’t seem to notice. He spread his hands. ‘Looked at another way, Katherine, your market value is down, not up. A couple of days ago you had a choice in the matter. Today we’ve agreed you have none.’

He had to go through the motions. ‘There’s always Rocky Mountain Waffles,’ she said.

She’d hoped to baffle him, but he smiled, and even corrected her. ‘Rocky Haven Waffles. And their place is a dump.’

‘I don’t mind. I’m not doing this for myself. I’m doing this for all the little terminals to come. Establishing a higher rate for the job. United we stand, divided we fall.’

At this Vincent laughed aloud, and she knew he was disarmed. She finished the last corner of the last sandwich. The cheap joke, the outrageous demand, the vulgar aggression, had swamped his distrust. She would get what she was asking. She would get it for Harry’s sake: the money in advance, safe in the bank, leaving her free to do as she had planned, to cheat the image machine in every way she could. For Harry’s sake, the money in advance, so that they couldn’t snatch it back whatever she did.

‘Five hundred thousand,’ she said, ‘in advance. That means now.’

Vincent laughed again. It wasn’t, of course, his money. ‘We’ll have to see Contracts. But they’ll never advance you more than half, even on my say-so. Half a million is a lot of money, even for NTV

She’d settle for half, if she had to. ‘I’ll need at least four.’

‘Three.’

‘Three and a half.’

‘Be reasonable. Three’s the whole original offer.’

That was true. It was all Harry’d get, there’d be no second payment on completion, but he could hardly complain. Now she and Vincent were both laughing.

‘I still say three and a half. I’ve only the one death to sell. Don’t you feel bad, trying to knock me down?’

‘And I still say three. I thought we were treating it as a strictly union matter.’

‘Three and a quarter.’

‘Three.’

‘You’re a hard man.’ She stopped laughing. ‘But all right. Three it is.’

It was all Harry’d get, but he could hardly complain. And NTV could sue someone who wasn’t there, a nonperson, a dead person, all they liked. She stared at Vincent, watching his laughter cease as abruptly as hers had.

‘I’ve a feeling I’ve been outwitted,’ he said. ‘But I’m far too nice a person to mind.’

They went down a couple of floors to the Contracts Office. She read her amended contract carefully, not because she was interested, not because it mattered, but because she would be expected to. Then she signed, and the witnesses signed, and Vincent was all smiles, and she went across with him to Accounts where the sum of three hundred thousand pounds was registered into the central banking computer for hers and Harry’s joint account. Five minutes later she rang her branch, just to confirm. The manager went away to check. When he returned his voice was hushed, both by the size of the deposit and by his sudden unworthy contact with the hem of Katherine Mortenhoe’s garment.