fixed itself in Carver’s mind. Where Northcote had died couldn’t be seen from the house: couldn’t be seen from anywhere. Making it the perfect place for murder.
Carver brought himself back inside the room, as heavily mahogany-panelled as the Manhattan office, unsure where – how – to start. Where? Where would Northcote have kept hidden sufficient secrets to protect the firm? The computer, blank-eyed on its own workstation beside the desk – antique again like its twin in Manhattan – was obvious, but Northcote had a late-starter’s problems with electronic technology. And they dealt in printed, written words and figures: that’s what it had been in Northcote’s safe; written, printed incrimination. So the computer – the computer he’d already accessed and found nothing but titles on the client list, with no cross-referenced file records – was not at all the logical initial search. The desk itself then. But not at once, frustrating though it was to delay. Calls – arrangements – had the priority. Or did they?
Carver saw the neatly stacked paper as he approached and realized as he lowered himself into the padded leather chair that it was Northcote’s intended valedictory speech. For a moment Carver hesitated, as he’d hesitated going into Northcote’s personal safe in the firm’s basement vault, but then, abruptly, he snatched it up. It was comparatively short and easily legible in Northcote’s neat, round handwriting. It really was a genuine farewell address.
He was a proud man, Northcote had written. He was finally, irrevocably, leaving the firm at the peak of its international success and prestige. It was due to the financial business ability and acumen of their overseas divisions as much as to that of the Wall Street head office – ‘command centre’, Northcote had written with a question mark beside it – that they had survived the market upheavals that had affected, in some instances destroyed, other firms of less able people. In entrusting the future ultimate control to John Carver – ‘my worthy and deserving successor’ and the New York partners – ‘an unrivalled team, on any continent’ – he was assuring the continued success of George Northcote International. He wished them well and goodbye.
Carver laid the three sheets directly in front of two silver-framed photographs of Northcote with Muriel, his wife who had died eighteen years earlier, and two others of Northcote with Jane, one in her graduation robes. He’d take the speech back to Manhattan, Carver decided: have it duplicated to be shown to everyone gathering for the conference. Less than a week ago he would have been moved by the words, applauded with the rest of the people for whom they were intended and shaken Northcote’s hand and maybe even needed to clear his throat before he could respond. Now he felt nothing. Not contempt nor sadness and certainly not admiration. It was as if George Northcote had been a total stranger and then, surprised, Carver belatedly acknowledged that was exactly what George Northcote had been, someone with whom he had been in daily contact and whose daughter he’d married but whom he had known not at all, a man playing – performing – a part.
Hilda Bennett answered his call on the second ring and said, ‘Oh my God,’ when Carver told her, hesitating fractionally when he used the word accident. He wanted all the overseas executives advised the moment they arrived – she was to call the Tokyo manager as soon as their conversation ended – and a full meeting convened for the following afternoon. The cocktail party that Jane had been scheduled to host was cancelled, as well as Friday’s gala banquet and the planned reception at Litchfield. The welcoming dinner would, however, still take place. He expected all the incoming delegates to attend the funeral, so hotel reservations had to be extended. She was to advise the funeral directors that Northcote would be buried in the same vault as his wife: there were still legalities to be completed – he had the following morning formally to identify the body – so it was not yet possible to suggest a specific date for the interment. He would speak separately with the firm’s lawyer, with whom she should liaise the following morning about death notices and obituaries. He would also speak separately to his own staff at the East 62nd Street apartment, to move them in permanently, but wanted her additionally to arrange a twenty-four-hour nursing staff there to care for Jane. He’d talk personally with their Manhattan doctor and put the man in contact with Dr Jamieson, up here in Litchfield. He wanted the helicopter to collect them at noon, from the Northcote estate. He couldn’t think of anything else that had immediately to be initiated but if he did he’d call back, providing it wasn’t too late. Hilda said it didn’t matter how late: she probably wouldn’t sleep anyway. Should she tell Janice Snow?
Carver told her to wait fifteen minutes, for him to break the news to Northcote’s personal assistant.
Janice Snow broke down at once and kept asking what she should do and Carver started to suggest she work with Hilda on the arrangements he’d already asked Hilda to make, but suddenly stopped, realizing his oversight. He allowed himself a rehearsing pause before asking if Janice had personally programmed Northcote’s computer, his irritation at himself transferring itself to Janice’s reply that it was one of her daily functions. Mr Northcote hadn’t liked or understood computers: scarcely known properly how to operate one. Just as promptly, without the need for any reference, she gave him what she insisted were all George Northcote’s entry codes and passwords.
Carver remained undecided for a few moments, before saying: ‘This may seem a strange question in the circumstances. But it’s extremely important. Is there a special code or password that George used for extremely sensitive stuff… secret stuff, in fact?’
Now the hesitation came from the woman. ‘You’ve got them all. They all duplicate with Manhattan, of course.’
‘In which file or folder, of those you’ve given me, would George’s personal accounts have been kept?’
The curiosity was discernible in Janice Snow’s voice. ‘I already told you, Mr Carver. He didn’t work like that.’
‘You telling me there isn’t one?’
‘That’s very much what I’m telling you. That there isn’t a specific one.’
Could Janice Snow be part of it, whatever it was? She’d have to be if she was the person who’d entered all Northcote’s computer information. Would Northcote have told Janice what he knew? He’d be exposing himself, disclosing names to her. But only if she were part of it: was complicit. If she wasn’t, it would be an enquiry that only had relevance to him.
He said: ‘I’ve some names I want to put to you. Do you know where the files are on a company named Mulder Inc.?’
Janice gave time for her answer. ‘No.’
‘Have you ever handled accounts on behalf of George for Mulder Inc.?’
‘I’ve typed completion letters to them, in the Caymans, after an audit.’
To go with the returns?’
There was another hesitation. ‘They were sent separately.’
‘So how were the returns made?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know!’
‘Mr Northcote had a special way of working, with some clients. Mulder was one of them. There were a lot of personal meetings.’
‘You know the names of some Mulder executives: their in-house accountants?’
‘No.’
She had to be part of it, thought Carver. ‘Did George ever have you computerize any details of Mulder?’
‘No.’
‘What about anyone else on his personal staff? Other girls?’
‘I did all that.’
‘What about a company named Encomp?’
There was a further pause. ‘I’ve typed some sign-off letters, to Grand Cayman again.’
‘But no returns?’
‘No.’
‘What about Innsflow?’
‘The same.’
There was no purpose in continuing this long-distance conversation. With the passwords he could make a computer check of his own, despite what Janice had told him. ‘I want you to help Hilda, like I said. We’ll talk some more about George’s personal files when I get back.’
‘OK.’
If the woman were involved his asking about them would give her all the time in the world to hide or destroy everything.
‘Is there something wrong?’ demanded Janice, openly.
