I didn’t get much work done that day. Everyone in the office was still shocked by Bennett’s death and the story of his funeral dominated the coffee-machine conversations. People I’d never spoken to before bombarded me with questions about the whole curious business. I was glad to have four solid walls to hide behind. I could escape into my new office, lock the door, pull down the blinds and ask Polly to hold all my calls. If anyone asked, she would tell them I was working on a strategic reorganisation of the division.
Late that afternoon, as I skulked in my office, hiding away from what passed for reality in the outside world, I was wrestled from my torpor by the insistent ringing of my phone.
‘Polly,’ I said, failing to hide my irritation, ‘I thought I said no calls. What is it?’
‘Sorry to disturb you, Joe, but I think you’ll want to take this one,’ she said. ‘I’ve got Buddy Guttenberg’s office for you. They say he needs to speak to you urgently.’
‘They always think everything’s urgent,’ I replied like a sulking child, but took the call. Ten minutes later I replaced the phone in its cradle. ‘Bloody Hell!’ I said.