The room was dominated by a long table of solid wood, polished and gleaming in the soft illumination of downlighters. It was big enough to accommodate easily twenty people. When Stark entered, there were only four people seated – three next to each other, on one side, and the fourth at the far end, some distance from the others.
The room was carpeted, a vibrant burgundy colour. Along one wall, arranged on shelves polished and gleaming like the table, were rows of law books. There were no windows. The table was bare, save a silver coffee pot, a silver pouring jug of milk, cups and saucers. At the far wall, a wide hearth beneath a sculptured mantelpiece of black marble, above which, a painting similar to the one in the waiting room, only in miniature. A mass of wild dark colour.
Impressive, thought Stark. If this is designed to intimidate, then it’s working.
He followed Jenny to the opposite side of the table, facing the three seated individuals. Two men and a woman.
Jenny gestured to a chair. Stark sat. She smiled at the three opposite. They smiled back. One of the men spoke.
“Thank you, Jenny.”
Jenny gave a polite nod, left the room.
Stark noted that each of the three had a sheet of paper placed before them. He had never perfected the art of reading upside down, but each sheet looked pretty much like a copy of his CV.
“Good morning, Jonathan,” said the same man who had initially spoken. “Do you mind if I use your first name? We try not to be overly formal.”
“Good morning. And no. I don’t mind at all.” Why would I?
“Coffee? Help yourself.”
“Thank you.” Stark poured himself a cup. It smelled good.
“I hope you didn’t have difficulties finding us. We don’t go out of our way to advertise, as you may have guessed.”
“No problem,” said Stark. The man he was speaking to wore a deep-blue three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt, matching white tie. Slight physique, tanned, hair swept back from a high forehead in an oily silver wave. His posture was one of languid ease.
“I’m Walter Hill,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “I’m one of the managing partners. I’m also head partner in Commercial.” He raised himself from his chair, stretched over, offered a handshake. Stark did likewise. Hill’s handshake was firm and sure. Firmer than Stark would have guessed, given his delicate build.
Hill glanced round. “And this is Winnifred Marshall.”
Same routine again. Winnifred Marshall wore a neat tweed jacket, a white blouse. A woman possibly in her late fifties. A sharp chin, harsh cheekbones, blonde hair chopped short with a somewhat severe side fringe, narrow rimless glasses, behind which, shrewd inquisitive eyes.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m head of Property and Estates.”
“Hello,” replied Stark. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“And this is Paul Hutchison,” said Hill. “Paul heads up our litigation team.”
Hutchison was overweight. His jacket was possibly a size too small. Maybe two. Moist bland features set in a moon face, bald as a stone. Short arms, plump hands resting on the table. He gazed at Stark with limpid blue eyes. He didn’t offer a handshake.
“I don’t do that,” he said. “Germs. You can’t be too careful. I try to avoid contact whenever possible. I suffer from a number of allergies. No disrespect meant.”
“Of course not,” Stark said. “I understand completely.” Arsehole.
Hill laughed, a little too loudly. “Paul has been described as fastidious.”
Stark said nothing. There was nothing he could think of to say.
Walter Hill continued. “We have your CV. Thank you for sending it through.” He made a show of reading it, looked up. “Tell us a little about yourself, Jonathan. Family?”
“I have a sister. She’s a doctor. She works at A and E at Hairmyres Hospital.”
Hill gave an approving nod.
“Parents?”
Stark shook his head. “Both dead.”
Now a sympathetic nod. Hill again made a show of studying Stark’s CV.
“Impressive. One might even say glowing. First-class honours at Aberdeen University. You were the only one that year. Plus you got distinctions in Contract and Delict.”
They’ve done their diligence, Stark thought. Thorough. He expected no less.
“And then you completed a masters at Glasgow. Again, impressive. Why change universities?”
Stark smiled. “Change? To be honest, it was all down to money.”
Winnifred Marshall gave an airy laugh. “It always is, Jonathan.”
“I had to find the money for the post-grad tuition fees. Which meant something had to give. Rental is a lot cheaper in Glasgow. So I moved. Not through choice.”
“Expediency,” said Hill. “Understandable. You’re originally from Eaglesham? That’s a nice part of the world. Quaint. And quiet. I’m sure you have a lot of happy memories.”
“Some.” And some not so happy.
Silence. Then the litigator spoke – Paul Hutchison.
“What then? You got your masters five years ago. Your CV appears to be silent during this period. Please, enlighten us.”
His voice had a tinny undertone. No false bonhomie from this guy, thought Jonathan. Rather, a dry subtle aggression. Stark imagined him a ferocious adversary in the courtroom. But still an arsehole.
Stark hesitated, said, “I was… sidetracked.”
Silence. Hutchison stared at him with his round eyes, expression unreadable. Stark was reminded of a waiting lizard.
“Sidetracked? That’s an interesting phrase. Interesting, but not particularly helpful. Expand, if you will.”
Here it comes, Stark thought. The truth. But they would know anyway, if they’d done their research, which he knew they had. If he lied, he was doomed.
He took a breath.
“After I got my masters, I applied for traineeships with a number of law firms. I got a job, eventually, with AK Willow, in Edinburgh. Five years ago.”
“Yes?” prompted Hutchison.
Stark regarded the three people opposite. He glanced round to the man sitting at the top of the table. The man he had not been introduced to. The man who so far had remained silent.
“I’m sure you know what happened,” said Stark, addressing each of them. “I think everyone knows what happened.”
“Tell us, Jonathan,” said Winnifred gently.
“You understand why we need to have this information,” chimed Hutchison, voice far less gentle. “We need to know as much as possible about candidates who want to work with this firm. Otherwise, we can’t make an informed decision as to whether they’re suitable. You understand this, I’m sure. Five years is a long time.”
Jonathan hesitated. “It was a difficult period. As I said, I got… sidetracked.”
“It’s a five-year gap,” responded Hutchison in a brassy voice. “If you want to have any prospect of working here, then we have a right to know what you’ve been doing.” To accentuate his point, he kept jabbing one plump index finger on the tabletop. “Sidetracked doesn’t cut it.”
Stark felt the familiar tremble in his hands. He kept them on his lap, so they wouldn’t see. Sweat dribbled down the nape of his neck, under the collar of his new crisp white shirt. He held Hutchison’s round-eyed stare.
“It was a difficult time,” he said quietly.
Suddenly, Stark didn’t want to be in this room, in this place, with these people. Suddenly, he wanted to be back lifting crates in a shithole warehouse in a shithole part of Glasgow. He swallowed back a wave of nausea, took a long breath, calmed, focused. He was here. He would cope. He couldn’t continue being a hostage to his past.
Okay – if these ghouls want to listen to the whole goddamned story, then let it play.
“AK Willow was a commercial firm based in Edinburgh City Centre,” he said. “I’m sure you know this already.”
The only response came from Winnifred, who gave a slow nod of her head.
Stark continued, his voice flat and hard. “Alfie Willow was the senior partner. He’d started the business from scratch, and within ten years had built it up to one of the most progressive and innovative law firms in the country. Which was why I had applied there, as did every other law graduate. And which was why, when I got the job, I thought I was the luckiest person on the planet. No one knew that Alfie Willow had been embezzling millions from his clients. Except Alfie Willow.”
Another deep breath. Memories, always scratching just below the surface of his mind, reared up, monstrous and fearful.
“I had been working two months. Alfie rented the entire ground floor of a building in Princes Street. Altogether, there were twenty staff.” He paused, said, “But I’m sure you all know this already.”
No response. They really want to hear this. They want all the details. So be it.
“Alfie had reached the end. Too many questions were being asked. The police were taking an interest. None of us were aware. None of us had any indication. We went to work every day, innocent and oblivious to the fact that our boss was a thief on the grandest scale. But in those last moments, Alfie didn’t run. Alfie was a man who liked to see things finished. Right to the end. It was a Wednesday morning. It was February, and it was cold. Alfie, so I learned, started with his family. Apparently he was a keen gun collector. Kept a whole arsenal in a neat little hidden cellar under his kitchen floor. A wife and three children. Ten, twelve and fifteen. I remember these things.”
Another deep breath. He hadn’t spoken about this for five years. Not even to his sister. And here he was, vomiting it all out to four strangers at a goddamned job interview. But for some reason, he didn’t want to stop.
“He arrived at work at 10am. This was late for him. But I suppose he had been preoccupied with slaughtering his family. We were all there. All twenty staff, plus several clients. The whole place was open-plan cubicles. Modern architecture. Flowing and spacious and all that bullshit. Do you mind if I use that word? Because bullshit sort of sums it up. Everybody could see everybody else. Transparency. I watched him come in the front door. He was carrying a gym bag. Adidas. You know the brand, I’m sure. Strange the inconsequential things you remember. He placed the bag on the reception counter, opened it up. You want to hear this?”
Silence. They’d asked for this. By Christ, he was going to give it to them. Both fucking barrels.
“The receptionist was still smiling when he pulled out a rifle, pointed it at her face, and took the top of her skull off. I saw that. I saw it, and thought I hadn’t really seen it, that it was some monstrous joke. The upper half of her head spun away, like a discus. After that, he was methodical. Alfie was a methodical man. He went from cubicle to cubicle, almost like he was strolling, casually firing his rifle, and casually killing people. You want to hear this?”
He looked from face to face. They didn’t respond. They were getting way more than they had asked for. God, he felt good, getting it all out, like pus from a boil.
“And the screams. I wake up at three in the morning, and I hear these screams. Like nothing you’ve heard before.” He paused again. The next bit was difficult. But this was the bit that counted.
“Then Alfie arrived at my cubicle with his parting gift, and he pointed his rifle, while I sat beside my laptop in a strange dreamlike state, thinking none of it was real, and he aimed, and he fired.”
Another deep breath. He felt hollow and weary. He wanted to go home and sleep for a year.
“I was in a coma for two months. The bullet hit the side of my head. I have the scar to prove it, if you’re interested. Alfie performed a little more killing after me, so I understand. Then he put the rifle in his mouth and blew his brains out. Poor old Alfie. I’ve heard it said that when people revive from a coma, they don’t remember a thing. Well, that’s not true.”
Again he swept his gaze across the three faces opposite.
“I remember everything. A curse, I suppose.”
He fixed his attention on Paul Hutchison. “When I got out of hospital, I was in no state to do anything. It took me two months to walk properly. I needed therapy. Lots of it. I got blinding headaches. I still do. I get nightmares. Real bad ones. They never go away. I lost my nerve. I lost my confidence. So, as for the five-year gap in my CV, I’ve been doing nothing except drift from job to job, until I plucked up the courage to apply to this firm. And now I wish I hadn’t. Now I don’t know why the hell I’m here.”
He stood up, tried to rein in his anger, but couldn’t help himself.
“Now you have some context. Now you understand what got me sidetracked.” He focused on Paul Hutchison. “I’m damaged goods. That’s what you want to hear. Well, there you are. You’ve heard it. So in conclusion – you can take your job, and shove it up your arse. Thank you for your time.”
He gave a curt nod, left the room, and wished, not for the first time, that Alfie Willow had aimed better that cold Wednesday morning, and shot him dead.