23

DAVID FITHYAN, SON of the founder of Fithyan & Co., was a ruddy-faced sandy-haired man in his mid-forties who devoted what little time he could spare from playing golf and flirting with the office girls to ensuring that none of the company’s more significant clients had cause for dissatisfaction. The moment Derek had been summoned to see him, he had known his error-strewn audit of Radway Ceramics was going to be the subject under discussion and so it had inevitably proved.

‘George Radway cornered me at the club last night and gave me a real earful, I can tell you.’ For which, Derek did not doubt, he would be made to suffer. ‘I had a word with Neil this morning and according to him this isn’t the only example of slipshod work by you recently.’

‘There have been … one or two problems.’

‘That’s putting it mildly. Most of your accounts have fallen behind schedule. Hardly a week goes by without you taking a day or two off. And when you are here you seem too distracted to be of much use.’

‘I’m very sorry if … well … if I haven’t been pulling my weight.’

‘Sorry’s not good enough, Derek. What I want to know is what you propose to do about it.’

‘You have my assurance there’ll be no repetition of the difficulty with Radway’s.’

‘Do I? Do I really?’ Fithyan sighed and smoothed down his hair with an elaborate elbow-cocked movement of his left arm, designed, Derek suspected, to expose his wristwatch beneath his cuff so that he could check if their encounter had yet exceeded its allotted span. ‘Is all this … this inefficiency … because of your brother, may I ask?’

Derek flushed. ‘Ah. You know about that, do you?’

‘Of course I know, man. Everybody knows. You didn’t seriously expect to keep it dark, did you?’

‘Well … No. No, I suppose not.’

‘You have my sympathy. It can’t be pleasant to find your brother’s a criminal.’

‘He … um … hasn’t been convicted yet, actually.’

‘No. But he will be, won’t he? At least, so I’m told.’

‘Told? By whom?’

Fithyan frowned. ‘Not by anybody specifically. It’s just … common knowledge.’

‘Ah. I see.’

‘Now, Derek, what it comes to is this. We can’t afford passengers at Fithyan & Co. We all have to compete and perform.’ He stressed the two words as if by emphasis alone he could do both himself. ‘We realize members of staff are bound to have personal problems from time to time. We’re not heartless or unfeeling. But we can’t allow those problems to affect the company’s reputation. You appreciate that, I’m sure.’

‘Of course.’

‘Very well. So, can I assume you’ll be putting this … preoccupation … this … this embarrassment … behind you?’

‘Yes.’ Derek tried to inject some eagerness into his response. ‘Yes. I honestly think you can.’

Fithyan smiled clammily. ‘Splendid, splendid.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Sorry I’ve had to wield the big stick, Derek. It’s for your own good, really it is.’

‘Yes. I know.’

‘After all, none of us is our brother’s keeper, as the poet said.’

‘It wasn’t a poet, actually. It’s in the Bible. As a question. Am I … my brother’s keeper?’

Fithyan’s grin crumpled into puzzlement, then became a glare. ‘Really? Well, whatever, the point is made.’ And their interview, his expression declared, was at an end.

Derek returned to his office as to a haven. There he could close a door against the world, at least for a while, and ponder the disarray to which his life had lately been reduced. Through no fault of his own, of course. Through no fault of Colin’s either. Yet it had happened. And Fithyan had served notice that it could not remain so for much longer.

Derek subsided into the chair behind his desk and noticed three messages left for him on separate pieces of paper, all in the huge childlike hand of his secretary, Carol. Please ring Mr Hamlyn, VAT Office. Please ring Ann Nicholson, Radway Ceramics. Please ring …

Maurice Abberley, Ladram Avionics. Derek gaped at the words for several seconds before he found it possible to believe that they were what he thought. Maurice Abberley had contacted him. Of his own volition. Of his own choosing. Why – and especially why now – Derek could not imagine. Neither did he try. Obedient to the instinct of the moment, he picked up the telephone and tapped out the number.

A blandly polite receptionist; then a honey-toned secretary; and then, with bewildering suddenness, Derek found himself talking to Maurice Abberley in person.

‘Mr Fairfax. Thanks for calling back.’ He sounded neutral, almost affable, as if he were conversing with a business acquaintance.

‘Mr Abberley, I … I was somewhat …’

‘Surprised to hear from me? I thought you might be. I suppose you wrote to me more in hope than expectation.’

‘Er … Yes …’

‘Some recent developments have made me think you may have a point, however. About your brother being less guilty than he appears, I mean. Perhaps not guilty at all, if it comes to it.’

‘Really? Well, I’m—’

‘Why don’t we meet and talk about it, Mr Fairfax? Compare notes, so to speak.’

‘Yes. Yes, I’d like to.’

‘I have to fly to New York on Thursday. So, how would tomorrow suit you?’

Another absence from Fithyan & Co. so soon after a reprimand would be to invite serious trouble, as Derek well knew. Yet how could he refuse? This was the Abberley family’s first gesture that could not be called implacably hostile. ‘Yes. Tomorrow would be fine. When and where?’

‘Four o’clock. Here at my office.’

‘Fine. I’ll be there.’

Derek put the telephone down and leaned back slowly in his chair, too confused by the turn of events to summon a reaction. Just as he had despaired of being able to pursue the mystery of why Maurice’s former chauffeur should have been in Rye a few days after Colin’s visit to Jackdaw Cottage, a way of doing so had obligingly presented itself. Just as he had virtually agreed to abandon his brother to his fate, it had become impossible not to make one last effort on his behalf. The ironies and contradictions persisted. And he was helpless to resolve them.