William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

Ingram pushed Maria-Rosa’s cooling coffee away. There was no sense in this — it must be blind chance. Why would this young, successful academic kill Philip Wang and ransack his flat? Was it sexual, perhaps? Drug-fuelled? (Ingram was still vaguely impressed at how many drugs young people consumed today, far more and far more effective than those of his youth.) What clues to the dark, vicious side of Adam Kindred’s personality lay buried in this laudatory, blameless curriculum vitae?

He looked up. Maria-Rosa was hovering again.

“Yes, Maria-Rosa?”

“Luigi, he here. With car.”

♦

On the way in to Calenture-Deutz, Ingram called Pippa Deere, head of public relations, and asked for the Adam Kindred profile in the newspaper to be copied and circulated to all board members prior to the extraordinary board meeting. Everyone had to know whom they were dealing with — the whole conspiracy clearly had huge and complex ramifications.

He rode the lift to the Calenture-Deutz floors of the glass tower, feeling — and he was happy to acknowledge the feeling — unusually important and strong. He had summoned all the board members to this extraordinary meeting because he had formulated a plan and wanted to make an important announcement that would have a bearing on the reputation of the company. He bustled around his office for a while making numerous enquiries of his personal assistant, Mrs Prendergast, on the whereabouts and presence of the other board members. Mrs Prendergast was an unsmiling, fifty-something, wholly professional woman. Ingram, after a couple of years, realised he could barely function — in a business sense — without her and consequently she was munificently rewarded with free holidays, stock options, unilateral salary rises. He knew her first name was Edith and thought she had two grown-up male children (photos on desk) but that was about all — and they were ineluctably Mr Fryzer and Mrs Prendergast to each other.

When she finally told him that everyone was present in the boardroom he slipped down the back stairway to the ‘Chairman’s dining set’ as he fancifully called the small dining room off the boardroom (he had furnished it himself: a decent oak table and ten chairs, a long walnut dresser-base, some nice paintings — a Craxton, a Sutherland, a big vibrant Hoyland) where he planned to have a quick, covert brandy before he addressed the board, just to get his juices flowing. He felt a strange attack of nerves, as if there were some evil premonition about what was happening, what was in the air, not like him at all — a little Dutch Courage was called for — though he excused himself, simultaneously, by the knowledge that it was not every day that one of your closest colleagues is viciously murdered.

So he was more than a little annoyed to find his brother-in-law already there in the room, in the ‘set’, casually helping himself to a large whisky from the bottles grouped on a silver tray on the walnut dresser-base (under the vibrant Hoyland).

“Ivo,” Ingram said with a wide false smile. “A little early, no?”

Ivo Redcastle turned. “No, actually — I’ve been up all night, in a recording studio. I got your message at three a.m. Thanks, Ingram.” He took a large gulp of whisky and topped his glass up again. “If you want me to stay awake this will have to do.”

It was impossible now for Ingram to pour himself a proper drink so he helped himself, with bad grace, to an apple juice. He glanced at his brother-in-law — downing his second whisky — and noted for the thousandth time that Ivo, for all his silly debaucheries and pretensions, was still an absurdly handsome man. In fact, Ingram thought, there was something faintly creepy about how handsome he was: the thick, longish black hair swept off his forehead to one side, forever flopping down, the straight nose, the full lips, his height, his leanness — he was almost like a cartoon of a handsome man. Thank god he wasn’t intelligent, Ingram thought, gratefully. And at least he had shaved and was wearing a suit and a tie. Everyone had to have a ‘Lord on the Board’—so he’d been advised when starting out in business — and acquiring a brother-in-law that fitted the category seemed both ideal and simple but, as everything with Ivo, Lord Redcastle, there were endless complications. Ingram looked at his watch as Ivo set his glass down — it was not quite 9.30 a.m.

“I see the dyer’s hand has been at work,” Ingram said.

“I don’t follow.”

“The new lustrous blue-black sheen to your copious hair, Ivo.”

“Are you implying — insinuating — that I dye my hair?”

“I’m not ‘implying’ or ‘insinuating’ anything,” Ingram said evenly, “I’m stating. You might as well hang a sign around your neck saying, ‘I DYE MY HAIR’. Men who dye their hair can be spotted at a hundred yards. You, of all people, should know that.”

Ivo went into what Ingram could only describe as a brief sulk.

“If you weren’t family,” Ivo said, his voice trembling, “I’d actually punch you in the face. This is my natural hair colour.”

“You’re forty-seven years old and you’re going grey, just like me. Own up.”

“Fuck you, Ingram.”

Mrs Prendergast opened the door to the set.

“Everyone is ready, Mr Fry⁄er.”

♦

The meeting went well, initially. The full board was there, executive and non-executive members: Keegan, de Freitas, Vintage, Beastone, Pippa Deere, the three Oxbridge professors, the ex-Tory cabinet minister, the retired senior civil servant, a former director of the Bank of England. They sat soberly and seriously as Ingram made his short speech about the tragedy of Philip Wang’s death and the debt that everyone at Calenture-Deutz owed him. It was only as he moved on to speculate about the future and the new drug that Philip had been working on that the first interruption took place.

“Zembla-4 is unaffected, Ingram,” Burton Keegan said, raising his hand as an afterthought. “I think everyone should know: nothing of Philip’s work will have gone to waste. The programme continues — full force.”

Ingram paused, irritated: Keegan should have sensed he wasn’t finished.

“Well, I’m delighted to hear that, of course. Still, Philip Wang’s contribution to the success—”

“Actually, Philip had pretty much signed off on phase three, isn’t that correct, Paul?”

De Freitas responded to Keegan’s cue.

“Yeah…Effectively. I spoke with Philip two days before the tragedy. We were at the end of the third stage of clinical trials — and he was more than happy with everything. ‘Full steam ahead’, were his precise words, if I recall. He was a happy man.”

“But he hadn’t actually signed off, as far as I’m aware,” Ingram said.

One of the professors chipped in (Ingram couldn’t remember his name). “Philip was more than happy — the data was really superb. He told me himself just last week — superb.”

Now that Ingram had been interrupted so comprehensively a general buzz of conversation grew around the long, glossy table. Ingram leant towards Mrs Prendergast.

“Remind me of that man’s name, Mrs P.”

“Professor Goodforth — Green College, Oxford.” She looked at her list. “Professor Sam M. Goodforth.”

Ingram remembered him now, another new appointee to the board, simultaneous with the arrival of Keegan and de Freitas. Ingram cleared his throat, loudly.

“Good news, excellent news,” he said, aware of how bland he sounded. “At least Philip’s work will survive.”

Keegan had the grace to hold his hand up this time.

“Burton, do go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Keegan said, smiling politely, “I’d like the board to know that we’re flying Professor Costas Zaphonopolous in to take over the day-to-day supervision of the final stage of the trials before we submit our NDA to the PDA. Our New Drug Application,” he added politely for the benefit of any uncomprehending nonexecutive directors, “to the Food and Drug Administration.” He turned to Ingram. “Costas is Emeritus Professor of Immunology at Baker-Field.”