Stark spent the afternoon submerged in work. The conversation with Hutchison had irked him, but little more, and he had dismissed it from his mind. Stark had encountered worse. Five years before, he’d been shot in the head and left for dead. In the great scale of things, a few mildly threatening words from an overweight arsehole were of little consequence.
Jenny was gone for the afternoon. He had the office to himself. He had been asked to look up obscure points of law, and check through a bunch of title deeds. Laborious, but part of the job. Typical stuff for a trainee to wade through. Stuff associates and partners loved to delegate. Stark expected no less. He gave a rueful smile. Shit flows down, Jenny had said. And she was bang on target.
At 4.30, someone – he didn’t know who – knocked, popped their head round the door. A guy in his mid-thirties, a florid complexion, rough pockmarked cheeks – a legacy of old acne. A shock of red hair.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Des. I’m Edward Stoddart’s personal assistant.” He paused, perhaps for dramatic effect, as if the information he had imparted should be of great significance to Stark. Stark pretended to be impressed.
“Edward Stoddart. The senior partner. Goodness.”
“The very one.” He gave a mischievous grin. “I come with good news.”
“Really?”
“Not really. Files have to be packed up in the basement. At the far end, on the shelf marked ‘C’. Record the names of the client and subject matter in the book on the table. It’s alphabetical. Then stick the files in the blue boxes. Try and fill two up. Command from above.”
“Roger that,” said Stark, with a sigh. Any thoughts of leaving at five were dashed. Shit flows down.
“Good to meet you,” said Des. He disappeared, then a second later, his head reappeared. “Forgot to say. Mr Stoddart would like you to join him for lunch tomorrow. 1pm.”
Stark blinked. This time, the words really did have dramatic effect. “Of course. Where?”
“Where else?” replied Des, as if the answer to the question was so obvious, the question ought not to have been asked. “At his place.”
“His place?”
“The top floor. Catch up soon.”
The door closed. Stark, somewhat bemused, wondered what it meant. Asked for lunch by the senior partner on my second day of employment. Strange times. His mind prickled with concern. It might mean nothing. On the other hand, it might mean everything.