Carver waited, actually imagining the beginning of a renewed confidence.
‘What did George Northcote tell you of his working relationship with my clients?’
He’d be losing control – temporarily at least – by replying to such a direct demand but there was advantage in his doing so, Carver decided. ‘Nothing, apart from confessing that for a very long time he had acted for companies controlled by organized crime. He did not provide any identities. I told him I had no intention of continuing – which I’ve also told you, today – and he said it was a situation that would not arise: that his retirement ended the firm’s association.’
‘George Northcote profited very greatly from his firm’s connection.’
‘A benefit limited absolutely between himself and your clients.’
Burcher nodded, although Carver wasn’t sure with what the man was agreeing. The lawyer said: ‘At the end of his life, George Northcote proved himself a very stupid man. I hope my clients hope – that you are not going to make the mistakes that he did.’
‘Repeating the mistakes of George Northcote is precisely what I do not intend doing.’ Carver was satisfied with the retort but the confidence wasn’t there any more.
For the first time there was what Carver guessed Burcher intended to be a smile, lips drawn back from sculpted teeth like the brief opening and closing of a curtain. ‘That’s good to hear. Northcote’s mistake was breaking a long-established understanding. No records were ever kept here. But towards the end, maybe over as long as five or six years, my clients estimate that Northcote retained what built up to be a substantial dossier of original material. This should have been prevented by our own people, of course. But after such a long and satisfactory association, they’d grown complacent. Which was their mistake.’ Burcher stopped, waiting.
Uncertainty about what to say – what to admit and what not to admit – surged through Carver. Momentarily he had another mental image of a crushed, near-faceless body. He said: ‘George told me they were to guarantee the end of the firm’s links with you.’
‘Aah!’ said Burcher, stretching the exclamation as if a profound mystery had been explained. Then, after another pause, he said: ‘How, exactly, did he intend achieving that guarantee?’
The thin ice was creaking beneath Carver’s feet again. ‘He didn’t make that clear. I remember him saying that there wasn’t going to be a problem.’
‘Wasn’t going to be a problem,’ echoed Burcher, spacing the words to make them into an obvious threat. ‘But there was. And is. A very big and very real problem, Mr Carver. My clients gave George Northcote the guarantee he asked for. And in return he promised to return everything he’d retained. But he didn’t. My clients have gone through everything, back more than ten years. And they know there is still material missing. And have even had it confirmed.’
Janice Snow, thought Carver, immediately. ‘How was it confirmed?’
‘You brought a valise back from Litchfield. My clients believe that valise contained missing documents that belong to them. They will be most distressed if, this time, they do not get them back… all of them back.’
It was not the admission about Janice Snow that Carver had hoped for but this man was too clever for him to try to get it more obviously with another question. Carver decided he’d played enough and achieved enough. He said: ‘I believe there are some things belonging to your clients… not a lot but some…’
The curtain was briefly parted for another grimaced smile. Burcher thought that maybe it wasn’t going to be so difficult after all. ‘I am so glad this is going to be resolved amicably. Sensibly.’
‘You spoke of your clients having given George guarantees?’
Burcher nodded but said nothing, forcing Carver reluctantly on. ‘Which was the return of the documentation on the understanding that all links between this firm and your clients are ended?’
There was another nod, no words. Burcher decided it wasn’t going to be resolved today but then what was the hurry? He and Carver had a long life ahead of them.
Carver stopped speaking, waiting. Tensed, too, against his stomach turmoil becoming audible again. There was still no visible shake in his hands, seemingly easy upon the desk in front of him. He didn’t want to risk lifting them from the support, as he had before.
Burcher again broke the impasse. ‘There is a great deal of annoyance.’
‘Of which – in which – I am in no way involved. Nor is the firm, only by title, which has no relevance any more.’
‘I’ll make the argument,’ promised Burcher.
Could he make his own argument, Carver asked himself. And followed with the other questions. Was he brave enough? Strong enough? Did he have incrimination enough? ‘I need the guarantee.’
‘I need the missing documentation,’ declared Burcher, flatly.
‘I know that.’
‘Everything,’ insisted the lawyer.
‘Everything,’ agreed Carver.
‘Have you told anyone? Your wife, for instance?’
Carver wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on. Minutes. No more than minutes. He moved one hand to cover the other. His skin was tingling, sensitive to the touch: unreal. It was all unreal, so totally disorientating. Forcing the steadiness into his voice, he said: ‘Of course not! Tell his daughter what her father had done!’
‘What about Alice Belling?’
Carver later thought – although never admitting it – that if he had not been sitting he might actually have had difficulty in remaining upright, staggered at least, at the numbing awareness of how completely he was trapped. It would be ridiculous to pretend – to question. ‘Absolutely and most definitely not.’
‘I want you to understand, Mr Carver, my clients’ determination to recover what is rightfully theirs.’
He had to end it soon! Very soon! ‘I hope you understand my equal determination for separation between us.’
‘I’d be better able to discuss that with my clients if I left today with what they want.’
Carver indulged himself – tried to recover – with a hint of derision. ‘Do you honestly imagine that it would be here?’
‘I’d certainly imagine that you have safes here. A security vault.’
Not imagine, thought Carver. He’d know. Know from a bewildered, terrified, tortured Janice Snow. ‘What you want is divided between bank safe-deposit boxes. And the banks are now closed.’
‘I’ve talked about mistakes, Mr Carver. Too many totally unnecessary mistakes.’
‘Which I’ve heard.’
‘I hope you have, Mr Carver. Sincerely hope you have. You already appear to have a complicated personal life: it’s not one to complicate further. This is a situation to be ended.’
‘As is our connection,’ persisted Carver. ‘I’ve given you my guarantee. I look forward to yours.’
‘I want it all by tomorrow,’ demanded the man, letting the artificial politeness slip for the first time.
Carver’s only need – a physically aching need – was to end this confrontation: end it and escape. ‘Where can I reach you?’
‘You can’t. I’ll reach you here, tomorrow. Noon.’
‘You’re coming here at noon?’
‘I didn’t say that. I said I’d reach you here, at noon.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘We both will.’
It was three hours before Carver got to Princes Street, almost one of them spent practically unmoving – initially slumped – in his chair in the darkened office, recovering. He was exhausted by the encounter and further drained, more so mentally than physically, by analysing it all and what he had to do as a result of it.
He’d telephoned, warning her, and when he entered her apartment Alice said: ‘Jesus!’
‘I know,’ he stopped her. ‘Shit on a stick.’
‘Not even close.’ She poured her prepared drinks, spilling some in her own nervousness, and said: ‘So it was bad?’
Carver stared into the Martini. ‘That’s the funny thing. It didn’t seem so, when it was happening. It was only afterwards, thinking about it all. Listening.’
‘Tell me.’
He did, rehearsed, word-perfect, and Alice put her drink aside, head bowed. She didn’t immediately speak
