THE OFFICES OF FINANCIAL LOGISTICS ARE OFF Fenchurch Street. The lane is so narrow that I have to leave the Vespa on the main road, and I don’t get much of an impression of the building as I approach, just my reflection in the glass wall. I enter through revolving doors into a cavernous space and walk up to a shiny desk manned by three receptionists. It’s an old-fashioned concern dressed in sparkly new clothes. They moved to this building a year ago, but Nick preferred the familiar scruffier offices down the road.
I head over to the desk because I’ve been clocked by the security guard, his attention drawn by my shifty behaviour. I place my helmet on the polished glass surface and ask for Angus Moody. I am still fuming. I understood the message behind the standard format. Let’s draw a tidy line and move on. Well, I am not a tidy person.
The receptionist studies her monitor. ‘Do you have a meeting? I don’t have a note of it.’
I feign surprise that she could possibly doubt me. ‘Yes, I do. One thirty.’
‘I’ll call his PA,’ she says. ‘She’ll be able to help you.’
That’s the last thing I want. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I say, maintaining my professional demeanour. ‘I’ll give him a call.’ I turn on my heel, trying for an air of offended aplomb and march to the revolving doors. As I go out a group of men and women come in, so I keep going round, following them back inside and trying to camouflage myself in their midst. The security guard isn’t fooled and eyes me with hostility, moving forward as I hurry to the lifts. As luck would have it, one set of doors sweeps open and I dart in, cramming myself into the corner. The group get in with me, the doors closing before the guard can reach them, and the last thing I see is him glaring at me and lifting his walkie-talkie to his mouth.
I scrutinize the brushed-steel buttons. Someone presses five, someone else presses eleven.
‘Oh damn,’ I say. ‘She told me which floor Angus Moody is on, but it’s gone out of my head.’
‘Fourteen,’ someone says, and presses that button.
I release my breath. After the excitement, reality hits. The security guard will by now have asked the receptionist who I’d wanted to see and will have relayed that message upstairs. Someone will be waiting for me. My stomach rumbles loudly, demanding lunch, and everyone pretends not to have noticed. I watch the numbers rise, then on impulse get out at the eleventh floor.
‘You wanted fourteen,’ the helpful man says. ‘This is eleven.’
‘I need the exercise,’ I say with a smile, as the doors close again.
I find the door to the stairwell and walk up three flights to the top floor, inch open the door and peer out. There are two people conferring outside the lifts. The security guard and Phillipa. I wait until they step forward, the lift door opening, and then I dart out and walk down the carpeted corridor, spot the ladies’ room and go in. I count to ten then open the door a crack. There’s no one there. I hurry down the corridor, noting the portraits hanging on the walls, the dark-grey carpeting, the masculine feel of the place. I knock twice at Angus Moody’s door, a loud, confident rap and turn the handle before anyone inside has a chance to respond.
Moody is on his phone. He watches me walk in and carries on with his conversation. He shows no surprise, so he must have been warned. I stand in front of his desk, feeling like an idiot, revved up and deprived of my moment.
He finishes his call. There’s a knock and Phillipa comes in, looking flustered, but Angus waves her away. He waits until the door is closed, then smiles at me.
‘What can I do for you, Grace?’ His voice is suave, unflustered, reminding me of Douglas.
I have no preamble, no way of working up to what I need to say, so I dive right in.
‘Nick has worked for you for years. What were you thinking?’ To my horror, tears well in my eyes. I swipe them away. ‘Do you have no feelings? He’s missing; he could be hurt, or sick or worse. I’m going out of my mind with worry, and you send this. It’s a standard letter, for God’s sake.’ I fumble clumsily in my bag, pull out my phone, make sure the letter is on the screen and place it on the desk in front of him, push it closer with the tips of my fingers.
He runs his eye over its contents. ‘Take a seat.’
‘I don’t want to sit down. I want an apology and a retraction.’
‘Sit, Grace.’ His voice is kind, but firm. ‘Please,’ he adds.
I feel like a surly schoolgirl, but I do sit, perched on the edge of a leather chair. His manner is soothing, avuncular.
‘You came to our house,’ I say. ‘You came to see him. What was all that about if he means so little to you?’
‘I was genuinely concerned, and I was in the area.’
‘A bit of a coincidence, wasn’t it?’
‘Not really. We visit those friends regularly. Look, Grace, I am very sorry this has happened. And I wholeheartedly agree with you, the email is crass and insensitive. It should never have been sent.’
‘No, it shouldn’t.’
Despite myself, I am calmed. There is so much understanding in his voice that I’m lulled into thinking he’s about to metaphorically rip the letter up and retract.
‘But this isn’t a charity,’ he says. Disconcertingly, he’s still smiling. ‘And I can’t treat Nick differently from anyone else in my employ. It wouldn’t be ethical. He’s failed to let us know that he won’t be in. He’s missed crucial meetings and deadlines and in doing so has caused the firm, and me, embarrassment. I’m being generous in allowing him until the end of the month to give me a satisfactory explanation.’
‘How can he give you that if he’s in trouble?’
‘We don’t know that he is.’
‘You’ve had a visit from the police. That’s a big clue.’
He sighs and picks up his expensive-looking pen, then lays it down again. ‘Nick is probably having a midlife crisis. He’s gone off to find himself, revisit his youth. For all you know he’s sunning himself on a beach in Thailand. He won’t be the first man to do that. Maybe he wanted out of the relationship but was too much of a coward to tell you to your face. Surely you’ve considered that?’
I stare at him, outraged. ‘You couldn’t care less, could you?’
‘Of course I care,’ he says. ‘Please tell me what I can do to help you.’
‘Tell me what you and Nick rowed about that Friday.’
He looks surprised. ‘We might have disagreed. We do from time to time. I consider it part of running a healthy company.’
I shake my head. ‘No. Phillipa says you had a massive row.’ I feel a twinge of guilt, even as I say it. I shouldn’t have named her specifically.
He sighs. ‘We argued about an unhappy client. It happens. Water under the bridge. Obviously, I can’t go into details.’
‘Obviously.’ I cross my arms and hold his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. ‘I’d like you to ask Phillipa to give me access to Nick’s emails and search history.’
He laughs out loud. ‘You can’t seriously believe I’d do that.’
‘I just want to see if there’s anything personal in there, anything that might help find him. Phillipa is welcome to see what I look at. You owe him.’
He raises one eyebrow. ‘That’s a strange logic. The police have already had a look. They didn’t find anything particularly helpful.’
He smooths his silver hair back, lifts his glasses and rubs his eye with his fist. The gesture makes him look younger, more approachable.
‘Nick loves this job and has great respect for you. He would never have done this voluntarily. Something has happened to him.’
He lifts an eyebrow. ‘Clearly.’
‘I know that you’ve known Nick since his teens. Why would you have kept that secret?’
He looks as though he truly pities me. ‘It’s no secret, unless Nick had some reason for not telling you. I’m surprised he hasn’t.’
So am I. I try something else. ‘Can you tell me anything about that holiday, when Nick’s family came to stay? I’ve talked about it with his parents, but they haven’t been able to tell me much. I know you were kind to him.’
He hesitates, then nods. ‘He was having a tough time. Particularly from the older girls. I felt sorry for him – I hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be an adolescent boy. It was three against one, poor kid. So I talked to him and encouraged him. It wasn’t a chore. I liked him.’
I throw down my final card. ‘And yet you still pulled the rug out from his father’s restaurant business.’
To my surprise he laughs. ‘Christ, not that again. Business is business. I would hardly be the CEO of my own hedge-fund company if I allowed sentiment to get in the way of decision-making.’
‘So you don’t care?’
His eyes pierce through me. ‘Not about that, no.’
I nod slowly. ‘And Izzy Wells’ death? You cared about that, I presume?’
His eyes turn to flint. I’ve gone too far. Of course he cares.
‘I apologize,’ I say quickly. ‘That was uncalled for.’
He waits before responding, then shrugs. His voice is curt, and I can feel the emotion reined in. ‘It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. It changed everything; ruined lives.’
He clasps the back of his neck and rubs it. His body language has been so spare until now that the gesture is shocking. He’s been so careful not to give anything away. Maybe he’s human, after all.
‘What made you offer Nick a job?’
‘He got in touch about interning with us a couple of years later. I didn’t think I wanted any reminders, but in the end I agreed to see him, and I was glad I did. None of it was his fault, and he didn’t deserve to have what happened affect his future. After university he worked for HSBC, and after that I took him on.’
‘And now you’ve fired him.’
He sighs. ‘Grace, I’ll see what I can do. Of course, if he comes back before the end of the month, there won’t be a problem. Beyond that, well, let’s take one day at a time.’
‘I’ve got to go.’
He gets up, pulls his jacket off the back of his chair and puts it on. He holds the door open for me and I follow him in silence back along the corridor to the lift. To my surprise he gets in with me and sees me all the way to the ground floor. Maybe he doesn’t trust Phillipa.
‘I very much hope things turn out well,’ he says as he shows me out. ‘I’ve always been fond of him.’