Crawford stood at the window of his office, staring out over the loch. It was almost noon, but the sun still remained low in the southern sky, as if it could barely trouble itself to rise above the horizon. It was a clear bright midwinter day, and the trees around the water threw long shadows. The kind of day when you might almost expect the monster to manifest itself, he thought.
His ex-wife was the reason he’d ended up here. It wouldn’t have been his choice. At the time he’d have preferred somewhere livelier, somewhere in the city. Left to his own devices, he’d have ended up living in Edinburgh or Glasgow. That was where the action was, not to mention most of his business. He’d spent far too much time flogging up and down on the inadequate train service.
And yet his ex-wife was long gone and here he still was. Partly just inertia. He’d spent enough time living a semi-nomadic lifestyle. Moving here had been settling down. Just because she was no longer here to share his more settled life didn’t mean he had to change those plans. She was the one who’d become restless, but that had been predictable and, by the time she went, had seemed no great loss.
The truth was he’d fallen in love with the place. He didn’t know quite how or when it had happened, but at some point he’d realised this was where he wanted to be. All the fuss with the pandemic had only reinforced his views. During those months, he’d been unable to travel and was forced to conduct his business remotely. To his slight surprise, it had worked well. Though he missed some of the face-to-face opportunities to influence, he’d encountered very few problems.
Since then, he’d made some changes to his lifestyle. Even now the restrictions had been lifted, he’d continued to conduct most of his business from home. He still travelled to the central belt or to London once or twice a month. He had more freedom, more spare time, and his productivity was greater than it had ever been.
His major discovery from the weeks of lockdown had been that he’d never felt lonely. However much he’d justified them in business terms, his previous repeated trips south had been partly driven by a search for companionship. He’d been worried that, stuck up here with only his own company, he’d have felt isolated. But when the solitude was forced upon him, he’d found he actually rather enjoyed it. A relaxed dinner by himself, washed down with a few glasses of wine, was a more relaxed and pleasurable experience than eating in some fancy restaurant with a tedious client.
Of course, he still saw people. He had friends locally he’d visit from time to time. He met up with people when he made his trips to the big cities. He had a cleaner and a gardener who came in periodically and whom he’d come to think of as friends. But the majority of the time he was by himself and it turned out that was fine.
He’d just finished the last of the morning’s video conferences. There were one or two clients who still insisted on seeing him face-to-face, but the majority had accepted that the world had changed. He suspected that many of them had discovered they preferred to work remotely, just as he had. The few who preferred a hands-on service were mostly those whose egos needed cosseting. But they weren’t generally the bigger players. Most were more than happy to operate at arm’s length, revealing only what was necessary to get business done. It suited the nature of their business, of course. These were people accustomed to operating beneath the radar, taking care to avoid attracting too much attention from the authorities. Even if most of what they did wasn’t strictly illegal, they were happy not to attract too much scrutiny. Even if they trusted Crawford – and he sincerely hoped they all did – they’d see no harm in keeping him at a distance.
He stood for another few moments enjoying the wintery view across the loch, and then made his way down to the kitchen. He was intending to make himself a coffee and a sandwich and have a quick online skim through the Financial Times and other newspapers. He focused mainly on the financial and business news, but also kept an eye on national and global politics. It was one of the factors that kept him a step or two ahead of the competition.
It didn’t take him long to prepare the sandwich. That was another thing about working from home. In the old days, he’d have been out on the road much of the time, and either lunching at some overpriced restaurant with a client or grabbing some unhealthy takeaway as he rushed for a train or a flight. But Crawford was a man of simple, if refined, tastes. Here at home he was content with some decent bread filled with locally-produced cheese and ham, with a decent cup of coffee.
He was sitting down to eat when his mobile buzzed on the kitchen surface beside him. He glanced at the screen, wondering if it was worth delaying his lunch to take the call. The question was answered by the name on the screen. Gordon Prebble, one of his major local clients and not a man to be kept waiting, even at the end of a phone line.
Crawford thumbed the call button. ‘Gordon. How are you?’
‘I was wondering if you could pay me a visit, Simon, just to discuss one or two issues.’ Prebble never wasted time on pleasantries. ‘In the next day or two.’
If the caller had been anyone other than Gordon Prebble, Crawford would have pointed out that the next day was Christmas Eve, and that there was still supposed to be no mixing of households up here. But he suspected that both the pandemic and the Christmas holiday barely registered on Prebble’s mental radar. ‘I’d be delighted to fit you in tomorrow some time, Gordon.’
‘Eleven o’clock, then.’ It wasn’t a question. Prebble had zero interest in anyone else’s convenience, and never even pretended he had. If he’d been a less substantial client, Crawford would have dropped him years ago. As it was, he was worth the hassle. ‘Eleven’s fine,’ Crawford said. As a mild gesture of resistance, he added, ‘I’ll need to be away by twelve thirty, though.’
Prebble didn’t even acknowledge Crawford’s words. ‘I can spare you an hour.’
Before Crawford could respond, the call was ended. Crawford stared at the phone for a moment, then – having first made sure the call really had been cut – he said, ‘And a merry fucking Christmas to you, Gordon.’