Chapter One

Rigby decided to go to the office early that morning. Consequently he was the first person to discover the body. The oversized cadaver was pitched face downwards across the richly-coloured red and amber Axminster carpet that covered the hallway of the fourth floor of the bank close to the main lift. When he first saw him, Rigby moved forward swiftly in the hope of reviving his colleague but his action proved to be futile. The dead man, who had read his horoscope in the train on his way to work that morning and expected good fortune to favour him, had suffered a sudden massive heart attack to collapse in a heap only two minutes earlier. The important summons he had received from the Chief Executive, which had set his adrenalin running, placing his heart under severe pressure, would not be answered because he would never recover consciousness again.

‘Clement!’ cried Rigby, bending down on one knee to enable him to shift the man in an attempt to bring him round. ‘Come on, let’s get you on your feet!’ But there was no response. He tried once more, with the same inevitable result, and then stared at the immobile body for a few seconds with dismay before spurring himself into action. He burst into the nearest office without warning, to snatch the telephone receiver from the hand of a startled secretary who was using the instrument for an aimless personal call. Cancelling the existing connection by ramming his hand down across the main controls, he swiftly tapped out the emergency number on the keys and called for immediate medical assistance. Sadly, his effort was all in vain... Clement Davies was irrevocably dead! His exit in life had been hastened by excessive emotional stress caused through pressure of work, lack of exercise, an overdoes of junk food, the consumption of fifty cigarettes a day, and a surfeit of gin which he appeared to imbibe at all times. At the age of fifty-three, the combination of these factors was too much for his constitution to bear and he fell victim to a fata heart attack.

The demise of Clement Davies made little difference to the running of the bank. He had not reached a particularly high level, having struggled for some years to get his foot on the executive ladder a short way above middle management rank on the line and staff structure, and he had never been considered for one of the senior managerial appointments which were carefully filled by personnel destined for top-level progression. As a result, his disappearance from the scene at Head Office was likely to present on a temporary replacement difficulty in the short term, and no problem at all thereafter. The appointment he left to posterity was another matter entirely. As the Manager of Functional Control, he was the banks’ trouble-shooter, working entirely on his own initiative to counter the daily emergencies which no one else had time to resolve. The job description was quite explicit. He had to be ready at all times to tackle any problems which might interfere with the smooth running of the organisation. There were three areas of operation which came under his control. These comprised taking care of the inordinately large Head Office encompassing a series of giant office blocks in close proximity to the City of London, three thousand branches spread nationwide, and an international networks of branches located in no less than fifteen countries. As most people were very aware, the telephone could ring at any time, either day or night, to highlight a crisis needing urgent assistance somewhere in the world and Clement Davies was the man who always had to be ready to deal with it. The nature of his work was very varied too. Most calls were very minor, while others required top priority in terms of action, and they were often regarded as highly sensitive with regard to confidentiality. Without doubt, it was hardly a task to be handled by a weak or ineffective person or by someone inexperienced in dealing with delicate matters at all levels.

Davies had been the key man in Functional Control for almost thirteen years and he knew that the only way to master the job was to dedicate his life to the task. There was no other means by which to control the operation which demanded his full attention for three hundred-and-sixty-five days a year. It had ruined his marriage, destroyed his home life, reduced practically all of his personal interests to a ridiculous mundane level, and, ultimately, had driven him to an early grave. Yet, surprisingly, there was always of queue of other executives waiting in the wings, willing to give their right arms to be offered the opportunity to step into his shoes. Now that he was gone, speculation on his replacement would start to flow through the grapevine and many self-styled suitors would get their chance to throw their hats into the ring as contenders in the hope of becoming his successor., The mere idea of such folly was a recipe for corporate madness because Davies had been a giant when dealing with difficult banking affairs and high-grade personnel matters. No one else would last a fraction of his term of office unless they could match his wits, his wisdom, his incisive judgement, and maintain good health.

The shock of the death of his colleague stunned Rigby even thought the two men had never been close friends. Far from it, their areas of operation did not coincide and they rarely saw each other or even discussed their work. Occasionally, they passed the time of day in the corridor to talk about the weather, or when attending meetings and their paths crossed briefly. On two isolated days, they actually ate lunch at the same table in the Head Office dining room, but that was all. It was a casual friendship which never flourished, existing only through brief contact of a very fleeting nature. Nonetheless they respected each other from a distance without knowing, caring, or enquiring, about the details or pressures of the other manager’s role. However, with the knowledge of their distant relationship in mind, Rigby felt a deep sense of grievance at the demise of the other man. He admitted to himself that he was unable to understand why he should experience such profound sadness and he was surprised that the loss of a man whom he hardly knew should strike so hard at his emotions. Equally, if was of no consolation to realise that death might have moved promotion nearer to himself or to observe that the weakness of human frailty which could end ones career at a stroke. One thing was certain, he had become far more sober in a very short period of time.

***

After the company doctor had examined the body carefully and pronounced the man officially dead, the mortal remains were taken to Davies’s office, laid gently on the floor, and covered with some old curtains resting at the bottom of a cloak cupboard. Rigby stared at the contours of the corpse after everyone had gone as if to offer a silent prayer. He could not recall how long he stood there in meditation but, eventually, the telephone jangled harshly to bring him back to reality.

‘Yes!’ he snapped sharply into the receiver. The fierceness of his response was so acute that it cause the caller to hesitate at the other end of the line.

‘Boy... you’re in a bad mood today, Clement! What’s the matter? If I had a cushy job like yours... dreaming all day about retirement... I’d be over the moon. Look we’ve got trouble brewing here. There’s a rumour that some of the branch staff are thinking of going on strike because the bank won’t increase its pay offer. They’re aiming to paralyse operations by hitting the computer sections first.’ There was a pause at the end of the line. ‘Hey, Clement! Are you still there?’

‘Clement’s dead,’ conveyed Rigby grimly. ‘And you can tell the staff to go to Hell!’ He slammed the receiver down into its cradle and closed his eyes before drawing in a deep breath. When a man died, it was like the waves of the sea closing in on top of him, burying him in the depths of the ocean, leaving the world above to continue its daily routine capably without his assistance. No one was indispensable but that concept was far too simplistic. Although Davies had gone, the problems of the bank were still there and someone had to be appointed to resolve them. In the meantime, those people whom he had served so well for such a long period of time were expected to show respect at his passing. Rigby knew, however, that after a short while all his good deeds would be forgotten in the helter-skelter of the day’s business. When things went wrong, all that people wanted was a name, a telephone number, and someone to get them out of the jam!

Rigby left the office, carefully locking the door behind him, and he returned to his own room to sit numbly in the big comfortable executive chair behind his desk. He had forgotten the reason for his original journey along the corridor and dwelt solely on some of the memorable past deeds of the dead man. In retrospect, Davies had been a corporate giant in his own right, tackling every problem regardless of its complexity without ever complaining about the pressure of work or the folly of others. It was a sad thought of human nature that the wealth of corporate valour was never recognised until a person passed on... but that was the way of the world. Now there would be a rapid search by Personnel Division to find a suitable successor. The job description, which was far too complicated to be set down on paper and had never actually been written, was a legacy for an executive of remarkable ability. Rigby shook his head at the thought that some poor fool would be lumbered with Functional Control to suffer the same fate as his predecessor. At that moment, the door opened and Sam Elliott entered the room with a file in his hand.

‘I’m returning the Internet Advancement file to you,’ Elliott told him bluntly. ‘All the arrangements have been made with respect to equipment and staffing to turn it into profits in six months’ time.’

‘Just leave it on the desk,’ muttered Rigby glumly.

Elliott dropped the file on the corner of the desk as he stared at the face of the other man. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Clement Davies died of a heart attack in the corridor less than an hour ago.’

‘You’re kidding!’ Elliott managed to say, trying to keep the excitement in his voice at a low level.

‘I’ve just locked his body in his office. The company doctor’s arranged for him to be taken to the morgue. He was always in a hurry to resolve problem. Now the need for speed’s irrelevant.’

Elliott sat down in a chair to face his colleague, his mind filled with thought. ‘They’re going to have to fill that post pretty damned quick. Functional Control’s the hottest phone line in the bank. Have you heard anything yet on the grapevine?’

‘Come on, Sam!’ chided Rigby angrily. ‘The man’s not even cold yet! Have some respect, for God’s sake!’

‘Respect? What for? He split with his wife ten years ago and there were no children. He chose this kind of life for himself. It’s a case of the King is dead... long live the King!’ He paused for a response but none came. ‘Well how about it, Rigby! What do you think?’

Rigby removed a gold cigarette case from his pocket, removed a cigarette, and lit it from a lighter on his desk. After puffing some smoke towards the ceiling, he stared at Elliott sternly. ‘I suppose there’s Dalgety, Forman and Gardiner. They could handle it. There’ even a possibility they might consider you.’

Elliott shifted awkwardly in his seat as he became deeply disturbed. His attitude suddenly became sharp and incisive. ‘Might consider me!’ he echoed loudly, clearly wounded by the other man’s comment. ‘That job is mind! It’s mine, I tell you!’

Rigby looked away as his mind reached back into the past. He was less than interested in the passion sparked off by the ambition of his colleague. ‘Yes, he did have a wife. She was quite attractive if I remember rightly. He brought her to one of the executive Christmas parties many years ago.’ He paused to bring himself back to the present time. ‘You know what they’ll do now. They’ll put all his personal belongings into a carton and put someone else in his office. All that will be left of Clement Davies is a memory and an epitaph on his headstone which reads? “Here lies a man no one really knew... no one cared about... and no one wanted... RIP”’

‘Doesn’t that happen to all of us in the end? Give or take a few minor details. He loved his work. What more could he want? He was one of the lucky ones with job satisfaction, no financial worries, and no unsatisfied ambition. A lot of people would have liked to change places with him.’

‘Not any more they wouldn’t! I suppose I’d better let the Old Man know or complaints will start to flood through on his line and, as the Assistant Chief Executive of this great monolith, he wouldn’t find it amusing.’ He reached for the telephone but as he lifted the receiver Elliott’s arm moved across the desk to grip his wrist firmly.

‘Before you tell him the sad news, may we discuss this matters briefly? I think it’s imperative that we do,’

The stared at each other for a moment eye to eye and then Rigby replaced the receiver into its cradle. ‘What do you want to discuss?’ he asked quietly.

‘Functional Control is due to fall to me,’ declared Elliott aggressively. ‘It was promised to me when they decided to transfer Davies a couple of years ago but the revision of the Corporate Plan cancelled out the transfer. I want that job! I want it badly! When you speak to MacDonald, I want you to put in a good word for me.’ There was a long pause before he pressed home his point. ‘Please, John! Do this one thing for me and you won’t lose out. I promise!’

Rigby stared at him coldly. ‘A man has died, Sam. He died only a short while ago. What you demand was his lifetime’s work at a time when you should be showing respect. It goes against the grain to squabble over a dead man’s shoes!’ He picked up the receiver again, this time with determination, and dialled a single-digit number.

‘What about respect for the living!’ demanded Elliott angrily. ‘They promised me Functional Control two years ago! You could be dead on the promotion line in this organisation and they wouldn’t even notice!’

‘If they promised it to you, you’ll probably get it... so stop griping... ah, Miss Williamson!’ Rigby focussed his mind ignoring the chagrin of his colleague. ‘It’s John Rigby. Would you put me through to Mr. MacDonald please? It’s a matter of utmost priority.’ He paused while the call was put through. ‘Morning, Mr. MacDonald. It’s John Rigby. Bad news I’m afraid. Clement Davies dies of a heart attack this morning.’ He halted to listen to the response and then finalised the conversation. ‘Yes, sir, I’ll come along right away.’ He replaced the receiver and stared at the instrument for a few moments without speaking.

‘’Just do this favour for me, John!’ pleaded Elliott intruding into his thoughts. ‘Put in a good word for me... that’s all I ask.’

Rigby glowered at him. ‘I’d better find out what he wants,’ he returned thoughtfully and left the office under a cloud of sadness and grief. What did MacDonald want to see him for? The man was the third highest ranking officer in the bank in terms of authority. Why should he want to see a junior executive? Surely it couldn’t be anything of importance! After all, he was simply passing on a message about the dead man.

He emerged from the life and trod the rich blue carpet that covered the floor of the Boardroom corridor to arrive shortly at the door of the senior officer. On the only other occasion on which he had been invited here before, the muscles of his stomach had turned into a knot as a result of reaction, and he felt like a schoolboy outside the Headmaster‘s office at school. However it was entirely different this morning. Davies‘s death had affected his whole metabolism. He knocked firmly on the door and entered almost before hearing the invitation to enter. . He sat facing the senior officer in a comfortable chair in a room graced with ornate furniture and objects d’art of exquisite taste. MacDonald moved forward resting his arms on the desk. His sharp blue eyes stared at Rigby under enormous bushy eyebrows from a gaunt face.

‘I won’t beat about the bush, Rigby,’ he began in a perfectly rendered tone. ‘Davies was a good man. Damned good! His performance was exemplary but he’s gone and the work of the bank must continue. I don’t need to explain that to you. In normal circumstances, appointments take time to arrange as they go through the selection process. However, Davies was a ‘trouble-shooter’ and his departure leaves a state of emergency. We can’t wait for Personnel Department to find a suitable successor.

‘I realise that,’ spluttered Rigby, wondering why these comments were being made to him. ‘There are many worthy applicants for the appointment... ’he went on eager to be helpful, but he was not allowed to continue.

‘I’m certain there are,’ interrupted MacDonald rudely with some degree of irritation. ‘As a result of the importance of Functional Control, the Board insisted that a successor should always be waiting in the wings. It’s a unique position.’ He began to laugh as though he had made a joke but drew no response from the other man.

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ commented Rigby heaving a sigh of relief believing it would get Sam Elliott off his shoulders.

MacDonald’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the junior executive like an eagle watching his prey. ‘Why do you say that?’

Rigby shrugged his shoulders. ’It’ll end speculation. Waiting and wondering causes confusion and people can get on with their work.’

‘As I said,’ continued the senior executive firmly, ‘I won’t beat about the bush. The screening process by the Board was very austere. We started off with fifteen candidates, narrowing them down to three people. The Board decided, in its wisdom, to choose you to tackle the job. What do you say to that?’

There was a short period of silence as Rigby digested the news. His mind reeled and went blank before he recovered from the shock. There must be some kind of mistake. I’m only reporting that Clement Davies is dead. I didn’t come here to replace him. I mean why did they select me? I haven’t the qualifications required. Nor have I even shown any aptitude for work of that nature.’

The senior executive smiled at the man. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret,’ he said lowering his voice almost to a whisper. ‘The Executive proposes, the Board disposes. They have faith in your ability. Be happy about it!’

‘But there’s Dalgety, Forman and Gardiner... and Sam Elliott as well. What about him?’

‘All good men, of course... but they must be regarded as also-rans.’

The junior executive shook his head slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. MacDonald. I appreciate the Board’s confidence but I’ve had no experience as a trouble-shooter. It’s out of my league!’

‘Of course you haven’t,’ came the response, ‘but now you’ll have the chance to show off your hidden talents.’

‘I don’t think we’re on the same wavelength, sir,’ countered Rigby, uncomfortable at the way the discussion was being handled. ‘I value my leisure time very highly. Functional Control is too time-consuming. It tends to destroy personal life.’

The Assistant Chief Executive smiled at him easily. ‘I understand your reluctance, Rigby. You’re shocked at the death of your colleague and startled by the revelation that the Board chose you to be his successor. The turn of these events in such close order is stunning. Take a little time to settle them in your mind. Sleep on it and we can talk tomorrow.’

As a subordinate, Rigby realised there would be no mileage gained in pressing home his discontent. He disagreed strongly with the decision made by the Board because it was alien to his wishes and ambition within the bank. He was also angry at no being approached for his consent, blaming MacDonald for not having told him in advance. Now he was faced with a fait accompli. He had become a mere pawn in the game moving by an invisible hand. If he accepted the appointment, life would become impossible as a result of the workload and the urgency of the problems. If he turned it down, the Board would almost certainly relegate him to the bottom of the promotion list, heralding a farewell to all future prospects. He was on a hiding to nothing!

‘I’ll sleep on it,’ he managed to say as the buzzer on the senior executive’s desk commanded an answer.

‘Mr. Brennan has arrived for his appointment,’ ran the sweet voice of his private secretary through the machine.

MacDonald’s eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. ‘Send him in in sixty seconds!’ he ordered sternly before returning his attention to the junior executive. ‘There you have it, Rigby,’ he told him finally. ‘You’ll receive a letter in the morning and I’d like your confirmation as soon as possible. One word of warning. Don’t pass up this opportunity because of fanciful thoughts of greener pastures in the bank. One step at a time!’

Rigby nodded, still shocked by the impact of the news and he left the room without saying another word. The Old Man never wasted a words. Every syllable had a meaning and Rigby knew that he had little choice but to accept the appointment.

As he walked back to his office across the rich blue carpet, he felt miserable as he considered the facts. Poor Clement Davies was laying on the floor of an office, draped with a curtain. Hardly a word had been uttered about him or his demise. The only consideration was that of the bank and its smooth running... let alone a few words of respect. When all was said and done, the staff were merely numbers in the grand design of its business plan. The bank had lived and thrived before any of them had been born and it would survive and prosper long after they had all gone. So what was it all about? ’It’s not just about making money or profit,’ he told himself, ’it’s about people! People who live, love and enjoy their work as they earn their crust of bread to pay the bills... not forced labour to fill dead men’s shoes!’

His frame of mine turned to convince himself that he might be able to resist the Board and refuse to accept the appointment. The Executive proposes, the Board disposes! What arrogant dogma! To Hell with it... he was no puppet! Angrily, he stormed down the fourth floor corridor and entered the lift. When he emerged, he came to a halt quite sharply. They ambulance men had arrived and they were in the process of placing Davies’s body on to a stretcher. Rigby stared solemnly at the great shape hidden under a white sheet.

’Goodbye, Clement, old friend!’ he muttered almost under his breath, as a final tribute. ’I wish you were still alive for more reasons than one!’ He watched in lamentation as the stretcher was carried smartly through the doorway leading to the street. It was Sam Elliott stalking down the corridor who shook his from his reverie.

’What did the Old Man say?’ he asked with a sense of urgency in his voice. ’Did he give you any indication?’

’Yes,’ replied Rigby without enthusiasm. ’He offered Functional Control to me.’

Elliott’s jaw dropped in surprise. ’You’re kidding! He offered it to you? That’s not fair! I mean you don’t even want it!’

‘The Old Man said it had been decided by the Board some time ago. If Clement moved on, for whatever reason, I was t be his successor.’

‘Did you mention my name?’

‘Of course I mentioned your name!’

‘What did he say to that?’

‘Not a word... nothing!’

‘Come on, John! Tell me the truth. What went on in there?’

‘It’s as I told you. The Board selected me for the appointment some time ago. Why they chose me I’ve no idea!’

‘They can’t do that! They can’t ride roughshod over the career patterns of other executives!/ snarled Elliott in disappointment. ‘Dammit, I was promised it!’

‘I haven’t accepted it,’ the other man informed him, trying to rally his morale. Deep down inside, he was very unsettled by the sudden turn of events and Elliott was hardly helping him.

Elliott began to view him with suspicion. ‘If the Board selected you, there’s no way you can turn down that appointment. Not in a million years!’

‘It’s the least of my problems this morning, Sam. I have work to do.’

‘You’ll take the job all right,’ predicted Elliott angrily. ‘There’s no doubt about that! The only thing that disappoints me is that you couldn’t have mentioned my name.’

‘I certainly did!’ reacted Rigby adamantly. ‘You have my word on it! Don’t you dare infer that I’m lying!

His colleague cooled his attitude at the realisation of the other man’s irritation. ‘All right, I’ll take your word for it.’ He turned away and left the office to disappear down the corridor. Rigby sat down in his executive chair deeply in thought, reflecting that the other man was right to be upset. It was extremely disappoint to learn that one’s ambition has fallen flat like an overdone souffle, especially as the appointment had been offered to someone who didn’t want it. That was the problem with very large organisations. They were too impersonal... too dispassionate. His only reason for failing to show remorse was the fact that Elliott was highly disreputable. He always employed the dirtiest political tactics to his own advantage at all times, and most other executives considered him to be a parasite. They had all been wheedled, pressured, and used by him for the purpose of his progression in the bank, and only by guile and subtle means had he managed to get his foot on the upper range of the ladder. Now his success no long depended on the political persecutions of others but on his own merit. However he was not averse to prostituting his corporate principles if he believed that promotion would be the end result. For some inexplicable reason, which Rigby was unable to fathom out, Elliott strongly desired the appointment as Head of Functional Control. There had to be an ulterior motive for this aim although the deviousness eluded the acumen of both junior and senior executives. Elliott alone was privy to the plan.

Rigby rented a small apartment about eight miles from the City of London. He had lived in the area for most of his life and tended to regard the location as the centre of the world. He had lived there with his wife for some years, shocked when the marriage came to a sudden end. No infidelity had taken place, no loss of trust, simply the realisation that they no longer loved each other, exacerbated by the fact that they could not have children. After twelve years had passed by, their relationship began to sour and they decided to divorce each other. However instead of their problems coming to a close, they resurrected themselves in full force. Firstly, after a short period of time, his wife discovered that life without him was intolerable and she asked to return to reconcile the marriage.. Secondly, to cloud the issue, he had met Sandra, a much younger woman, with whom he wanted to continue his life. Naturally, his wife resented his happiness with someone else and so she refused to sign the divorce papers. Rigby was left with no alternative but to live with Sandra as his mistress. Yet despite the fact of his wife’s resentment, everything eventually settled down and he enjoyed his new lease of life with another woman.

It was late that night when he returned home, wearing a scowl on his face.

‘Hello, darling,’ greeted Sandra breezily from the kitchen. ‘Have a good day?’

He pushed his umbrella in the rack and placed his executive briefcase beside it, venting his frustration feebly. ‘Terrible! Terrible!’ he growled. ‘It was like a lunatic asylum! I feel as though I’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards. He entered the kitchen and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘Can you fix me a drink? I feel bushed!’

He proceeded to the bedroom where he changed into some casual clothes before returning to the lounge. He seemed much more refreshed when he held a glass of martini in his hand. He drank deeply and then emitted a long sigh, indicating that he was starting to relax. ‘Like a lunatic asylum!’ he repeated slowly as Sandra sat down beside him on the settee. ‘I went to work today... the same as thousands of others... and what do I find. A colleague of mine laying dead in the corridor. I was then told that the Board had already marked their card for his successor in Functional Control.’

‘Was it you?’ she asked excitedly. ‘Was it you?’

‘You got it in one, sweetheart,’ he responded glumly.

‘Is it a promotion?’

‘It’s a step up the ladder.’

‘Marvellous!’ she commented.

‘Not really. It’s crazy! They’ve asked me to accept but there’s a posse of suitors waiting in the wings. Not least of all Sam Elliott.’

‘Don’t you want the job?’

‘Not at all. I don’t want it. The work would take up to twenty-four hours a day. I don’t want it to spoil what we have here.’

‘Nothing will do that,’ she returned, taking the glass from him. ‘How about a kiss and a hug. You’re not to worry about anything.’

He took her in his arms and kissed her fully on the lips. ‘I don’t want anything to change between us.’

‘And it won’t. I won’t let it! The bank was there before you were born and it’ll still be there in years to come so you’re not to worry about anything.’

‘Sweetheart,’ he told her calmly. ‘In normal circumstances nothing would be nearer the truth but the job is a dog. It demands my attention at all times.’

‘We’ll manage somehow,’ she told him encouragingly.

‘I’m concerned about the danger signals in the future.’

‘What danger signals?’ she asked.

‘The appointment is nemesis itself. The man who ran it lost his wife through neglect and ended up having a heart attack mainly through pressure of work. I don’t want to end up that way.’

She unlocked her arms and released him. ‘You don’t know that his marriage broke up because of the job.’’

‘Well for one thing,’ he riposted, ‘he didn’t die in the corridor of old age.’

She stood up and moved towards the kitchen. ‘I’m positive the Board wouldn’t have chosen you if they felt you couldn’t handle it. Come on! Let’s eat!’

He followed her obediently trying to make sense of her contribution but her simple logic escaped him. ‘How on earth would they know if I was competent or not? The job encompasses all the trouble-shooting in the bank.’

‘Sit down and relax,’ she advised. ‘You’re far too tense!’

‘Why do you think the Head of Functional Control was found dead this morning?’

‘Not necessarily because of the interpretation you put on it.’ she returned. ‘For years you’ve worked at the bank solving everyone else’s problems. The moment they offer you the appointment to do practically the same thing, you complain about it. Are you sure you know what you really want?’

‘I want you to be a very big part of my life. I don’t want to lose you or let it destroy our relationship. That’s the part of it I don’t like!’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ she chided. ‘Take the job and we’ll work out any problems on the way. It can’t possibly be as bad as you make out. You’re predicting disaster which won’t come about.’

Rigby placed his knife noisily on the edge of his plate which could be taken as a sign of temper. ‘The point that concerns me,’ he went on, taking a mouthful of food and devouring it so that she would have to wait for him to continue, ‘is what will happen if I can’t cope with the problems in normal working hours so that it overlaps my private life? How are you going to fare? I don’t want us to jeopardise our lives because of my job at the bank. You’re the most important thing in my life and you always will be.’

She reached across the table to take his hand. ‘That’s very sweet of you, darling,’ she cooed warmly. ‘I appreciate your sentiments but I think you’re only looking at the downside here. We’ll be all right. I know it.’

‘I don’t think you really understand the situation,’ he bleated, ploughing on with his argument. ‘These large institutions can swamp an individual with work and pressure. When it all boils down, I’m just a number in the bank like everyone else. Merely a number.’ He paused for a moment as he saw the glint in her eye. ‘I’m only fifteen years younger than Clement Davies, dammit. The thought of following him to Valhalla doesn’t particularly excite me. It’s just not worth it!’

‘Don’t fight it so hard, darling,’ she told him, trying to temper his despair. ‘I don’t think the conflict is between you and the bank but with your own conscience. Don’t worry about us. We’ll come out of it fine. What did this man Sam Elliott say to all this?’

For the first time he broke into a smile and his shoulders heaved with laughter as he saw the amusing side of the picture. ‘Poor Same!’ he uttered. ‘With all his deviousness and underhand tactics and all his elaborate plans and scheming, he didn’t get a look in.’

Sandra smiled with him but a frown formed on her forehead. ‘Beware the ides of March with Sam Elliott!’ she warned. ’He sounds like a deadly enemy in every sense of the world. He sounds like a strategist who loses many battles but always wins the war.’

‘You’re so right. He’s very mad at me for getting the appointment. He reckoned it was promised to him but I don’t know how he came to that conclusion.’

‘Tell me the advantages and disadvantages of the job,’ she went on.

‘You tell me,’ he retorted leaning forward confidently. ‘As an independent authority, how do you see it?’

‘Advantages,’ she began pensively. ‘Promotion... an increase in salary... higher status in the bank... a progression path to senior management... as far as disadvantages are concerned,... ’

‘Disadvantages,’ he interrupted rudely, spoiling her train of thought, ‘include undue pressure of work, intrusion into personal life, stress, further pressure, a coronary... ’

‘Fear of incompetence,’ she cut in with a swift onslaught, inadequacy, oncoming impotence, the danger of losing me, self-pity, and loneliness.’

He paused and stared at her in astonishment. ‘I wasn’t thinking of things like that. What made you bring them up?’

It became clear that she had struck a sensitive nerve which reduced the force of flood of his argument to a miserable dribble. ‘Do you honestly think that we live together in a vacuum?’ she asked rhetorically. ‘Life’s not simply shelter, sex and food. It’s you and me... the way we feel... the way we are... our passion and our fears. Like most men, John Rigby, you live your life in a bubble. You don’t even know yourself.’

‘What’s all this to do with the job?’ he asked with a puzzled expression on his face.

‘In a nutshell,’ she retorted, ‘everything! It’s not the job that scares you but the consequences if something goes wrong.

Why don’t you admit it?’

He shook his head sadly as if the whole world rested on his shoulders. ‘You’ve got to try to help me, sweetheart,’ he bleated wearily. ‘It’s you I’m worried about. You see, if I take that appointment, I’ll be on call day and night. One single telephone call will take precedence over both of our lives.’

‘Don’t exaggerate, John!’ she reproached. ‘I don’t believe that and neither do you! Banking is a daily business. You Don’t get emergency calls at night like plumbers. For once I agree with your Board. Think about the job and sleep on the decision.’

He picked up his knife with his right hand and plunged it hard into the food on the plate in front of him. ‘You haven’t convinced me to take it,’ he responded stubbornly. Lifting his knife once more, he drove the metal into the thick steak and, twisting it savagely, he gained a certain amount of satisfaction from the action. There was no other way he could vent his spleen!

***

The following morning, Rigby arrived at Head Office at eight-thirty. In his branch banking days he had adopted the practice of beginning the working day at a very early hour and the habit was never allowed to die. He followed the same routine, taking the lift to his office floor and produced a key from his pocket to gain access. As a result of the incidents which had clouded the previous day he had spent a restless night which caused him to be extremely sensitive to noise and very insensitive to change on this particular morning. For that reason, he became aware of of something different in the office although his sleepy mind seemed incapable of determining its nature. A short while after he had settled down to work when there was a gentle knock on the door and a man dressed in brown overalls entered.

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ he began apologetically, ‘which item would you like me to move first?’

Rigby stared at him blankly for a few moments. ‘Items?’ he questioned with perplexity. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I moved the pictures off the wall and a cupboard from the corner after you left last night but I wanted to hang fire in case you had priorities.’

‘What the Devil are you talking about?’ A giant red warning light flashed in his mind’s eye as he tried to allay his fears.

‘Moving all this stuff to your new office.’ The man fished into his overall pocket to produce a carefully folded yellow order form. ‘You are Mr. Rigby?’

‘Who gave you instructions to do this?’ His eyes blazed with anger.

The man scanned the form for a signature. ‘Mr. Cleaver... Premises Department.’

‘Let me see that!’ ordered Rigby filled with concern, almost snatching the document from the man’s hand. He ran his eyes over the yellow form. MacDonald had authorised the move. ‘And where, if you don’t mind telling me, is my new office.’

‘On the fifth floor, sir.’

‘The fifth floor! The Boardroom floor?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s right next to the Boardroom.’

The executive puffed out his cheeks in surprise. The Old Man was taking no chances. He was giving him the kid-glove treatment all the way. The Executive proposes, the Board disposes! MacDonald knew that his subordinate would have to be appeased, especially as he was the one to be sacrificed. ‘You’d better report back to Premises Department,’ he instructed the man adamantly. ‘There’s been a change of plan... at least there will be!’

‘What do you want me to do about all the stuff in here then?’ asked the man with a puzzled expression on his face.

‘Leave it! Just leave everything where it is. Nothing’s going to be moved... not if I can help it!’

As the man left the room, Rigby rang the office of the Assistant Chief Executive. ‘Miss Williamson. John Rigby here. Id he available yet? I must speak with him!’

‘Mr. MacDonald will not be in the office until nine thirty,’ she informed him sweetly, ‘but I’m pleased you rang. He wants to see you at nine forty-five in this office. Will that be convenient?’

‘I’ll say it will!’ he confirmed with frustration. ‘It’s not nearly soon enough!’ He slammed the receiver down into its cradle and sat back in his executive chair. Placing the tips of his finger together in front of him, he became deep in thought, glancing at the wall clock as anger flowed through his veins. They had no right to act in such a cavalier manner with his life or his career. In fact they were contravening every rule in the book which had been legislated to prevent this kind of action against an employee. Clearly MacDonald felt that he was on safe ground believing that his subordinate wouldn’t dare to deny the action taken by the Board and, normally, that concept would be true. But not on this occasion. The Rigby of today could not be taken for granted as would be the Rigby of yesterday. He was quite ready to take the bank to the cleaners through the Industrial Relations Court and anywhere else if necessary. The deterrent, however, was the problem of finding a new job at his age. The prospects were far from bright whichever way he viewed them. At that moment, the door flew open and Betty Brewer, his secretary, burst into the room.

‘I wondered what happened to you,’ she gasped breathlessly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been sitting in your new office for fifteen minutes without any sign of you. I mean you’re always early.’

‘Just sit down a minute, Betty,’ he suggested. ‘Sit down and catch your breath.

‘A man came over from Premises Department after you left yesterday to move some of the furniture upstairs. Is it true you’ve been promoted? That you’ll be taking charge of Functional Control?’

‘Hold your horses!’ he told her, trying to calm her down. ‘Nothing’s happened yet. Nothing!’

‘Mr. Elliott told his Personal Assistant you wouldn’t take the job. That you’d probably tender your resignation.’

‘He did, did he?’ It hadn’t taken Elliott long to start rumours flying where none existed before. ‘I’m seeing Mr. MacDonald at nine forty-five to sort it out. Until that happens, we use this office in the same way doing the same things as we’ve done in the past. Do you understand?’

His secretary fell silent for a few moments and then responded submissively. ‘Yes, Mr. Rigby, I understand.’

He rapped his knuckles on the desk in annoyance. It was typical of the senior management of the bank to cause confusion and dissension while mischievous people like Sam Elliott fed on doubt and despair, spreading wild rumours. There was only one way to resolve the problem. He would recommend Elliott for Functional Control and let MacDonald sort out the details!

At the appointed time, Rigby entered the office of the Assistant Chief Executive and sat opposite him. The senior banker gazed at him sternly below his big bushy eyebrows before speaking.

‘I’ve taken the opportunity of selecting a new office for you next to the Boardroom,’ he informed him crisply. ‘There are very7 few offices on this floor as you’re well away. Yours will be one of them.’

‘With due respect,’ countered Rigby sharply, ‘I’ve thought the matter over and slept on it as you suggested and I;ve come to this conclusion. ‘I don’t want to be considered for Functional Control. I’d rather stay in my present capacity in the office I have now.’

MacDonald continued talking as though he hadn’t heard a word of opposition to his plan. ‘It’s my pleasant duty to inform you that promotion will take you two grades further up the scale with a commensurate salary. The details are not with me yet but I understand you’ll be well satisfied.’

The junior executive raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘But Clement Davies was only just one grade above me.’

The senior executive shrugged his shoulders and placed the palms of his hands together as if in silent prayer. ‘Things change,’ he said quietly ‘Times change. Some facts of life remain constant... others do not. What’s important is that we change with the times.’

‘It still doesn’t attract me,’ grumbled Rigby. ‘I don’t want Functional Control!’

‘Stop beating about the bush, man!’ MacDonald’s tone was tinged with anger. ‘It’s a massive promotion and an enormous rise in salary. If you don’t like the title we can change it to something else.’

‘Agreeing with the decisions of the Board seems to come high on the list of priorities in the bank... ’

‘Use your common sense, man! You were selected long ago. There’s no question of flexibility here. The Board wants you to control that function. No alternative remains!’

‘Then why did you ask for my confirmation?’

‘It was a matter of courtesy. We’re gentlemen in a respected profession. The bank knows best who should undertake its specialist appointments. You’re prejudicing yourself, Rigby, and making a poor job of it. You know the old adage: “A man who’s his own Counsel has a fool for a lawyer.” Take it from me, you’re the chosen one for this appointment. And I’ll tell you something in confidence... if we could have transferred Davies elsewhere, you would have been appointed to that role earlier.’

‘But Davies was superb at the job... ’

‘Only through hard work and experience,’ cut in the senior man. ‘He was short of many qualities when he first started.’

‘Sam Elliott is cut out for a job like this. He would eat the problems for breakfast. That’s how simple it would be for him.’

‘I’d rather you left Mr. Elliott’s career pattern for us to determine. There’ll be no shenanigans with office politics in Functional Control!’

‘I’m still not convinced.’ The junior executive was beginning to push his luck too far for his own good.

MacDonald clenched his teeth, drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ he said coldly, ‘but you’ll have to bite the bullet and remind yourself of the old Chinese proverb: “When rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it!” You have an appointment with Personnel Division in ten minutes time. Don’t keep them waiting! Miss Williamson will give you the details Then I’d like you to return to this office.’

‘I don’t seem to have made myself clear... ’ continued Rigby fiercely before he was interrupted again.

‘I don’t seem to have done either,’ snapped the senior man. ‘It’s pointless fighting the establishment when they decided on an issue. You should know that.’ He leaned forward confidentially, his voice falling almost to a whisper. ‘I’ll say this once only because it’s off the record. When executives contest the Board’s decision, they’re no longer in accord with the policy of the bank. That’s the time they need to review their career pattern which is often received by them joining another company.’

‘In other words,’ translated the junior executive acidly, ‘take the job or resign!’

MacDonald looked at him with an ostensibly pained expression. ‘I never said that, Mr. Rigby... you did! We have an investment with every one of our manager and your interests are close to our heart. Why else would we elevate you two grades higher on the promotion scales and a considerable salary rise. Consider yourself to be a lucky man to be so favoured.’

Rigby stood up slowly. ‘Yes,’ he responded coolly. ‘I have all that in exchange for emasculation by the Board.’ He placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward so that his face was less than two feet away from that of the senior officer. ‘I’ll say this once only because it’s off the record,’ he repeated sarcastically in a quietly controlled voice. ‘It’s not bloody worth it!’ Without saying another word, or giving any indication of his intentions, he turned and left the office.

He made his way to the Personnel Department as though a great weight had been placed on his shoulders, shaking his head as though he could not believe he was being forced to take the appointment. When he returned to his office a short while later, he found that it had been cleared of all the furniture. With the exception of the telephone laying on the carpet, the room was completely bare. He stood stock-still for a few moments experiencing a mixture of anger and nausea until his secretary bounded into the room.

‘I’m sorry , Mr; Rigby,’ she told him apologetically. ‘I couldn’t stop them. They descended like a swarm of bees with trolleys and boxes for all the loose items. It took them five minutes to clear the office.’

He pressed his lips firmly together and shook his head. ‘It was like standing on the edge of a precipice and he was in serious danger of falling. MacDonald was going to fulfil his contract with the Board come what may, or hand the head of his subordinate to them on a plate. The ball was now in his court with regard to his future and he couldn’t delay the issue any longer. A decision has to be made... one way or the other!

‘One month on a trial basis,’ he told MacDonald adamantly after returning to the office of the senior executive. .But let me be quite clear. I still don’t want the appointment of Head of Functional Control!’

‘Let me congratulate you on your promotion, John,’ applauded MacDonald warmly. ‘Secondly, a month is too short and you know it. Give it a year!’

‘Now that’s far too long and you know it. If we’re horse-trading, I’ll conceded and make it three months.‘

‘In my opinion, you’ll not only make a success of it but also find job satisfaction. I’m positive you’ll be back in this office in three months’ time asking for an extension for a further three months. You wait and see!’

Rigby jutted out his jaw defiantly. ‘Perhaps I may enlighten you on that point. There’s a saying which goes: “don’t hold your breath!”’

A small smile appeared on the face of the Assistant Chief Executive as he allowed the comment to pass. ‘Good luck, John!’ he said, sticking out his hand. ‘I know you’ll do your best.’

The junior executive shook the other man’s hand numbly and left the room to search for his new office. The world was suddenly opening up for him and he wasn’t certain that he was ready for it. He recalled that Clement Davies had once commented that the work could be a paradise for job satisfaction or a jungle which suppressed sight, sound, mind and body. Clearly the result depended on the individual in charge... and he was now at the helm! As he stood behind his desk in a strange room, trying to identify himself with the new surroundings, the telephone rang to bring his life into perspective. ‘Rigby!’ he growled testily into the mouthpiece.

‘I want Davies!’ came the terse reply.

‘What’s your problem?’

‘This is Fender at London South District office. We have a problem. Mr. Hepworth and Miss Jones work together in one of our offices. Well she’s pregnant and he’s responsible. As you know, two people who are connected, such as husband and wife, or any other family connections, are not allowed to work at the same branch for a whole variety of reasons and I’m ringing... ’

‘Fender!’ barked Rigby, interrupting the man before he went any further. ‘Can you give me one reason why you’re telling this to me? Surely it’s a matter for your manager to contact Personnel Department. I’m not interested in the private affairs of bank employees!’

‘I’ve already approached Personnel Division. Why do you think I’ve come to you? They’re not interested either. I just felt that you had the authority to do the right thing.’

‘What’s that, Fender? What is the right thing?’

‘To get him to agree to marry him and then Personnel Division can transfer one of them elsewhere.’

‘In case you need to be told, Fender, this is not a marriage guidance council. If Miss Jones can’t get him to marry her, why should this Department get involved?’

‘Let me speak to Mr. Davies!’

‘He’s gone!’

‘When will he be back?’

‘He won’t be coming back.’

‘He didn’t get the Newcastle job he wanted, did he?’

‘I’m afraid he’s gone much further than that. You’ll have to deal with me in future.’

There was a long pause at the other end of the line and then Fender decided to take another tack. ‘Look, Mr. Rigby, I’ve got a year to go before retirement and these kids look on me as their grandfather. If the situation’s not resolved Mr. Hepworth, who’s only twenty-one years old, is likely to resign from the bank or they’ll send him way out to the sticks and let him rot there. I feel that if you touch the rudder in the right direction, it’ll make all the difference.’

Rigby stood still thinking about it for a few moments. It was a minor issue and a good one to start him on his new career. ‘All right, Fender,’ he conceded. ‘Send them over. I’ll see whether I can knock some sense into the pair of them.’ He replaced the receiver and stared bleakly at his secretary. ‘Betty,’ he asked simply. ‘What the hell have I got myself into?’

The telephone rang again at that moment and she answered it. ‘I have a call on line two,’ she informed him, ignoring his rhetoric question. ‘It’s your wife.’

He pulled a face and lifted the instrument to his ear. ‘Yes, Diane! What do you want!’

‘Who’s a cross-patch this morning,’ she riposted. ‘I couldn’t get through to your extension. What’s happening?’

‘What do you want, Diane?’ he repeated rudely. ‘I’m very busy!’

‘Just to tell you that the estate agent has sold the house. I’ve arranged for my solicitor to handle it... on behalf of both of us, of course.’

‘Thank you for letting me know,’ he uttered dryly. ‘Is there anything else you want to discuss?’

‘Like what for example?’

‘Like consenting to a divorce!’

‘I do hope it’s not inconveniencing that little woman of yours. You know whom I’m talking about... the young thing about half your age with only half a mind!’

‘Diane!’ he returned tiredly. ‘Sarcasm and jealousy won’t help. You realise I can go through the channels and get a divorce in time. You can’t stop me.’

‘But it’ll all take time,’ she responded sharply. ‘A long time!’

‘You’re not going to win this one, Diane!’

‘I don’t mind losing the battles as long as I win the war. I’ll be in touch... darling!’

He almost breathed fire as he replaced the receiver and looked at Betty Brewer. ‘The woman’s a vixen!’ he snarled angrily. ‘You wouldn’t believe how different she was when I married her. Was I really responsible for changing her that much?’

The telephone rang again before his secretary could reply. ‘It’s Mr. Grover, the Industrial Relations Manager,’ she told him, still dwelling on the last telephone conversation.

‘Rigby!’ snarled the voice at the other end of the line. ‘Are you the man who told me to go to Hell yesterday when I ran about an impending strike.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well don’t you dare talk to me like that again.’ continued the man.

‘Clement Davies had just collapsed and passed away. Your call was very ill-timed. What can I do for you?’

At eleven o’clock, Betty Brewer placed a cup of tea on the desk in front of him and present him with a single digestive biscuit. He chewed it woodenly and sipped the liquid slowly, still sensing a kind of numbness which had persisted since the removal man had entered his old office earlier in the day. Everything was happening so quickly that it seemed unreal and he found it difficult to adjust to events in such a short space of time.

‘Well we seem to have coped for an hour,’ he ventured. ‘I know we’ve a pair of young nitwits to deal with... the two in a marital pickle... and there’s the possibility of a bank strike over pay, but everything else seems fairly quiet.’

‘You probably read more into the job than it really is,’ she replied with optimism.

‘You’re probably right,’ he reflected, beginning to cheer up a little. The telephone rang and Rigby watched his secretary’s face as she answered the call. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, as her eyes widened like saucers.

‘It’s the Security Office,’ she informed him, her face turning a whiter shade of pale. ‘A man is being interviewed by the Manager at Croydon branch. He’s in there with him now.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘There’s a holdall on the man’s lap. He says there’s a bomb in it and its connected to his body. He wants all the money in the safe or he’ll blow the branch sky-high with everyone in it. They want to know what we can do about it.’

‘Oh boy!’ uttered the Rigby trying to keep a cool head. ‘Oh boy! What have you done to me, Clement? And I’ve got three months ahead of me. I must have been crazy to make that deal with MacDonald! All right, Betty. Put the call through on line one. Make certain the Croydon branch is on line two. Get the police chief of the Metropolitan Police Force or any other police force on line three. And get MacDonald on line four.’

‘But there isn’t a line four,’ she told him casually.

‘Betty!’ he cried, attempting to take full command of the situation. ‘We’re here to solve problems not to make them. Get someone to fix up another line!’ He lifted the receiver, his heart pounding like a steam hammer. ‘Who’s speaking?’ he demanded.

‘Corby, Security Office.’

‘All right, Corby,’ he began. ‘What’s all this about Croydon branch? Let me have it slow and clear.’

After the man had related his story, Rigby replaced the receiver and looked up at the ceiling as if penetrating it to reach to Heaven. ‘Clement!’ he called out, waving his fist at the invisible ghost of his predecessor. Then, as if in agony, he shouted with full stentorian voice that reverberated his frustration throughout the office. ‘Clement!’