Dr Michael Stapleton’s office was large and bright, and comprised a section of the top floor. An entire wall was glass, and the view beyond, a landscape of woodland and lush fields, and in the far distance, the flat grey surface of the sea. On the opposite wall, a six feet by six feet painting – an abstract swirl of bright intense colour. Whirlwind. An original piece. On another wall, glass units containing cups and trophies, gleaming in the sunshine. Stapleton had been a rugby player in his youth, had won two caps for Scotland while at Edinburgh University studying for his medical degree. Also, dotted on the walls like pimples on a pale skin, certificates and awards.
Stapleton was an achiever. Regarded as one of the top surgeons in the country, and he had about every qualification to prove it. He was rich, and he liked being rich. He liked to spend. He liked to acquire things. Cars, paintings, jewellery, objets d’art. He had several properties around the world. His latest, a villa in Tenerife. He was single and had no interest in sex. With either women or men. Buying a French sculpture, or a piece of Italian furniture gave him an orgasm. He lacked empathy, and he knew it. Which, to his mind, was an essential quality in a surgeon – and a prerequisite for the darker path he travelled.
The office was split into two sections. At one end, a large desk cleverly constructed of wood, metal and glass. There were no paper files. Everything was committed to software. On the desktop, two delicate horse sculptures, crafted from a wire armature, followed by numerous applications of resin clay, varnished with soft black acrylic paint. Stapleton paid £5,000 for each one, on a whim. Also, a bronze art deco sculpture of a prowling jaguar, rough-hewn, commissioned by Stapleton at a cost of £3,000. Other items were placed at specific points. Altogether, Stapleton had over £20,000 worth of desktop ornaments.
At the other side of the room, an expansive couch of Italian cream leather, with three contrasting black leather chairs, an ivory-framed coffee table, and on an antique side cabinet, a complicated looking coffee machine. In a corner, a drinks cabinet of heavy dark wood. On the far wall, a large screen.
Stapleton fixed himself a vodka and fresh orange, sat on the couch facing the screen. He tapped a button on a remote control on the armrest. The screen flickered. Suddenly, a face materialised. A Chinese man. Round fleshy face, softly waving black hair, limpid blue eyes. His name was Xing Chen. Known as the “The Broker”. The link between Stapleton and massive wealth. As such, a man to keep happy.
Chen spoke, dispensing with pleasantries. His voice was tinny, and harsh. His English was perfect.
“We can’t have a repeat performance, Michael. If it happens again, we lose face. Our reputation suffers. You understand this?”
“Of course. But your clients have to appreciate, to an extent, this is a lottery. We work with what we are given. There is no way we could have predicted the parents both had cancer.”
Chen’s face remained impassive. To read the man was like trying to read a piece of wood. Stapleton had given up long ago.
“This is not my problem,” Chen said. “That’s your end. Deadlines are strict in this game. And the merchandise has to be quality. The process is, how you would say… time sensitive. Yes? If you can’t deliver, then the consequences are exact. We look elsewhere.”
“We’ve got it sorted,” replied Stapleton, his voice like silk. “Tell your clients there will be no more delays. The last situation was… unfortunate, and unforeseen. But will not be repeated.”
Chen gave the slightest nod. “This is reassuring. I will convey your words. Is there anything else you need to tell me?”
Stapleton raised an eyebrow. “Sorry?”
“There’s no danger of Remus being compromised?”
“The problem’s gone away. As you know, Desmond Gallagher is dead.”
“He has records. Files. Now with the police, I imagine.”
“He has nothing. They have nothing, I promise. His case was built on supposition and rumour. His death was… timely. He’s gone. The problem’s gone with him.”
“Gallagher is dead. But that doesn’t mean the problem’s gone away. You’re making an assumption. I can’t afford assumptions. Neither can you. In China, we deal with things in a certain way. Call it absolutism, if you want.”
Stapleton frowned. “Absolutism?”
“Gallagher worked in a law firm. He had colleagues. He had a family. Absolutism, Michael. Burn everything he touched. No traces. Burn everything to the ground. Scorched earth, yes?”
Chen’s expression remained inscrutable. His image vanished. The screen went black. The meeting was over.
Stapleton sipped his drink, pondered.
He couldn’t blame Chen for feeling anxious. Things had been difficult lately. Desmond Gallagher’s relentless pursuit into the activities of the hospital had been uncomfortable for them. But Gallagher was dead. The subsequent issue was the corrupted merchandise, which had cost them a vast amount of money. That, Stapleton resolved, would never happen again. But the whole thing put together didn’t look good.
Lose face. Chen’s words. Stapleton couldn’t allow that to happen.
Absolutism. Chen had a point. Wise, even. No traces.
He finished his drink, got his mobile, tapped the screen, and spoke to the man who was adept at such things.
Jason Drummond, his head of security, answered immediately. “Yes?”
“Our Chinese broker is nervous. About the Desmond Gallagher affair. What do you know about absolutism?”
A silence, then Drummond responded, “Everything.”