Charles was surprised to receive a phone call from Amy at work, and rather taken aback when she asked if he was busy.
“Fairly,” he said cautiously. “I could meet you after work for an hour if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Amy said, “nor is it practical. I’m in Birmingham.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Ross brought me here for a few days,” Amy said. “We’re having a break at the Malmaison hotel. It’s great for shopping.”
“He does seem a pleasant young man,” Charles said.
“Oh, he is,” his daughter said; tenderly, Charles thought. “He has a bit of an IT problem, though, and I wanted your advice. You’re a computer expert, aren’t you?”
“I like to think so,” Charles said with pride.
“Great. Well, Ross has been accused of misusing his computer access at work to change the price of health insurance. He didn’t do it, Dad, but how can he prove it?”
She had run to him with skinned knees as a child, and now she still turned to Charles when she found a problem insoluble. If only he could kiss it better as he used to. He fell silent as he recalled the meeting in Davey’s office. Of course, Cari had blamed the fraud on Ross Pritchard, who was absent. Why hadn’t Charles realised it was his daughter’s boyfriend who was being accused? Although the investigation was an internal matter for Veritable, he could have offered help to find the culprit. It wasn’t too late for that. He resolved to suggest it to Alex immediately.
“Dad?” Amy asked. “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” Charles said. “I’ll think about it and let you know.” He couldn’t breathe a word to her about Project Termite.
“When?” she asked. The disappointment in her voice was palpable.
“By tomorrow,” he promised.
“Please be as quick as you can,” she pleaded.
“I will.” He said goodbye with a heavy heart. A cigarette had never held greater appeal, despite the blinding summer heat outside.
Equilibrium restored, Charles found Alex about to leave for lunch.
“You want to run further diagnostics on their health products?” Alex said. “No way. That’s boiling the ocean.”
“I don’t think it’s a waste of time at all,” Charles said, deliberately substituting plain English for Alex’s management jargon. “The sooner Veritable know who was responsible for the fraud, the sooner they can fix it.”
“Who cares?” Alex said icily. “Bishopstoke will fire Veritable’s A to C suites anyway. That’s how they’ll deliver synergies to the market. The control weaknesses you found just give Bishopstoke more leverage. I don’t want you to do any more analysis. Bishopstoke already have all the ammunition they need.” He looked at the clock. “I’m late for my lunch appointment. Must go.”
Charles grappled with his dilemma. He generally used his discretion to complete tasks in the least time possible. It was unusual for him to volunteer for extra work, and certainly not to carry out duties he’d been expressly forbidden to perform. Nevertheless, his daughter’s happiness was paramount. Sighing, he decided to go for a stroll at lunchtime. He often resorted to smoking when he needed to reflect. It wasn’t the nicotine that helped him solve problems, he suspected, but the effect of being alone with his thoughts.
He walked down to the river. The suffocating heat of morning was easing, a light breeze ruffling the water’s shimmering surface. Pleasure boat trippers waved to him. Charles ignored them, brushing away the droplets of spray blown in his direction.
He no longer had access to Veritable’s IT system, but Davey Saxton did, or at any rate could arrange it for Charles. Davey, his old schoolmate and Deirdre’s brother, was probably the only FTSE100 chief executive who would readily take a phone call from him. Why shouldn’t Charles pop round after work and run the diagnostics? It was a private matter; almost within the family. Charles retrieved his smartphone from his pocket and began to dial.