looking.'
'What was he doing? Did you see him do anything to her?'
'It was just as we were leaving. He just walked up to her, groped her breast, and walked off into the night. A couple of minutes later, she set off as well.'
'What an extraordinary thing to do! Didn't you do anything?'
'Debbie stopped me,' I said. 'And she looked frightened. I don't blame her. There was something very strange about that man.'
'Have you told the police?'
'Yes.'
'What did they think?'
'Well, they took lots of notes. They didn't actually say they thought anything. But it looks to me like he must have pushed Debbie into the river. Don't you think?'
Hamilton sat for a moment, gently touching his chin, in his habitual thinking pose. 'It certainly looks like it, doesn't it. But who is he? And why would he do it?' We sat in silence for a minute, each wrapped in our own thoughts. Hamilton was no doubt trying to figure the problem out; I was missing Debbie. It had been a long day.
I gulped my whisky. 'Let me get you another,' said Hamilton.
With another glass safely in my hand, I changed the subject. 'How long have you lived here?' I asked.
'Oh, about five years,' Hamilton answered. 'Since my divorce. It's very convenient for the office.'
'I didn't know you were divorced.' I said, tentatively. I wasn't sure how personal Hamilton would allow the conversation to become. But I was curious. No one at the office knew anything of Hamilton's life outside it, but it was something about which we all speculated.
'Didn't you? I suppose you wouldn't. I don't talk about it much. But I have a son, Alasdair.' He pointed to a photograph of a smiling seven- or eight-year-old boy kicking a football. I hadn't noticed it before. The boy looked a lot like Hamilton, but without the gloom.
'Do you see him much?' I asked.
'Oh yes, every other weekend,' he said. 'I have a cottage in Perthshire near where his mother lives. It's very useful. And it's much better for him to be up there than in this dreadful city. It's lovely up there. You can get up on to the hills and forget all this.' He gestured out of the window.
I told him about Barthwaite and my own childhood there roving over the moors. Hamilton listened. It was strange to be talking to Hamilton about something like that, but he seemed interested, and as I talked on I began to relax. It was good to talk about a place hundreds of miles and ten years away rather than about today, here.
'I sometimes wish I had stayed in Edinburgh,' Hamilton said. 'I could have had a nice easy job up there, managing a few hundred million for one of those insurance companies.'
'Why didn't you?' I asked.
'Well, I tried it for a bit, but it didn't suit me,' he said. 'Those Scottish funds are good, but they have no sense of adventure. I needed to be down here. At the sharp end.' He looked into his whisky glass. 'Of course Moira didn't like it. She didn't understand the hours I worked. She thought I could do my job properly between nine and five and spend the rest of my time at home. But this job requires a lot more than that and she just didn't believe me. So we split up.'
'I'm sorry,' I said. And I was sorry for him. He was a lonely man, and cut off from his wife and son, he must be lonelier still. Of course it was his own decision; he had put his work squarely before his marriage. None the less I sympathised. I could see myself in the same situation in ten years' time. I shuddered. I remembered my conversation with Debbie. I was beginning to think she was right.
Hamilton looked up from his whisky. 'So how are you finding De Jong, now you have been here six months? Enjoying it?'
'Yes, I am. Very much. I am very pleased I joined the firm.'
'How do you find trading?'
'I love it. I just wish I was better at it. Sometimes I think that I am getting the hang of it, and then it all goes wrong. I wonder if it isn't just all about luck.'
Hamilton laughed. 'You shouldn't ever think that, laddie. Of course it's all about luck, or at least each individual trade is. But if you discipline yourself to trade only when the odds are in your favour, in the long run you will certainly come out ahead. It's basic statistics.'
Hamilton saw my expression and laughed again. 'No, you are right, it's not quite that easy. The trick is to work out when the odds are in your favour, and that can take years of experience. But don't worry. You are on the right track. Just persevere, keep thinking about what you are doing and why, learn from your mistakes, and you will turn out very well. We will make a good team.'
I hoped so. I felt a surge of excitement. Hamilton wouldn't say something like that unless he meant it. I was determined to keep trying, and to do all he said.
'I remember seeing you run,' Hamilton said.
'Oh, I didn't know you watched athletics.'
'Well, everyone watches the Olympics, even me. And I do like athletics. Something about the sport appeals. I watched you a number of times, but what I really remember is the final, when you pushed yourself into the lead. The television had a close-up on your face. Total determination, and pain. I thought you were going to win, and then that Kenyan and Spaniard drifted past you.'
'Irishman,' I mumbled.
'What?'
'Irishman. It was an Irishman, not a Spaniard.' I said. 'A very fast Irishman.'
Hamilton laughed. 'Well, I'm very glad you are working for me now. I think together we can really make something of De Jong.'
'I would like that very much,' I said. Very much indeed.
Debbie's funeral was in a quiet churchyard in a small village in Kent. I was there, representing the office. It was a gorgeous day, the sun beating down on the mourners. I was hot in my suit, and I could feel the sweat trickling down my back. A group of rooks cawed half-heartedly in a small copse by the gate to the churchyard. The noise complemented the silence rather than disrupting it. The perfect accompaniment to a small country funeral.
The vicar did his best to relieve the sadness of the occasion by saying that Debbie would have wanted her mourners to smile, and that we should give thanks for the time she spent with us. Or something like that. I didn't quite follow his logic, and anyway it didn't work. There is something heart-rendingly sad about the death of any young person; nothing you can say can change that. That it was Debbie who had been taken so early from a life she had enjoyed so much, did not make it any better.
Her parents were there. There was something of Debbie in the face of each of them. Two small round figures, drawn together in their grief.
As we all made our way slowly back towards the road, I found myself walking next to a tall thin red-haired girl. She was wearing heels and got one of them caught in the paving-stones of the path. I bent down to help her free her shoe.
'Thank you,' she said. 'I hate these bloody shoes.' Then, looking around, 'Do you know all these people?'
'Very few,' I said. 'And you?'
'One or two. I shared a flat with Debbie, so I got to know a number of her boyfriends.'
'A number?' I said surprised. 'How many are here?'
She looked around. 'Just one or two that I knew. You weren't one of them, were you?' she said, her eyes teasing me.
'No,' I said sharply, a little shocked. 'I worked with her.'
'No offence meant. She usually had good taste,' said the girl. 'Are you going past the station?'
'Yes, I am. Can I give you a lift?'
'That would be very kind. My name is Felicity, by the way.'
'Mine's Paul.' We walked on out of the churchyard and into the road. 'This is it,' I said as we came to my little Peugeot.
We got in the car and headed for the nearest station, which was three miles away.
