you? You didn't look too happy yourself in the lift. Have you had a bad day too?'
I told her about the disappearing-salesman act I had witnessed, and about my lunch with the obnoxious Waigel.
'Oh, him. He's known as 'the poisonous frog'.'
I laughed. That did seem an apt description.
'There are a lot of people like Dick Waigel and Lloyd Harbin at Bloomfield Weiss,' she said. 'In fact they are actively encouraged. It's the same with most of the Wall Street firms. Competitiveness and aggression are extolled as virtues. Only the toughest will survive. It makes me sick.'
This seemed a bit rich. 'You don't always give that impression.'
She looked at me enquiringly. Then she sighed. 'Yes, you are right, I know I can be aggressive. I think that's why they gave me a job. And I play up to it. They like it, even if my customers don't. The problem is, I hate it.'
'Why do you do it, then?'
'I want to succeed, I suppose. I want to make a lot of money at Bloomfield Weiss.'
'Why?'
'Why? Isn't it obvious?'
'Not really.'
'Mm. No, I suppose you are right. It isn't obvious.' She paused to think. 'Both my parents are university lecturers, and they have always had great ambitions for me. My brother is the youngest director of one of the merchant banks in London. He got a scholarship to Oxford, so I had to get a scholarship to Oxford. Now I have to do well in the City. Silly, really, isn't it?'
I nodded. It was silly. But I had to admit it was a motivation that applied to lots of people toiling in banks and brokerage firms. And the frankness of her reply impressed me.
'Do you enjoy it?' I asked, trying to make my voice more friendly.
'Yes, in many ways I do,' she said. 'I like the excitement of the markets. I like dealing with people. And I think I am genuinely quite good at it. What I don't like is the lying, the posturing, the politics, the need to show that you are tougher than the next man.'
'Well, why don't you just give up the tough-guy image?' I asked.
'No,' she said. 'Bloomfield Weiss would eat me alive. You are just going to have to put up with it.' She laughed, not looking at all like the all-conquering corporate woman.
In fact, shorn of her cool self-assurance, she seemed like a normal, intelligent girl, with lovely eyes and an attractive smile. A few moments of silence passed, both of us trying out each other's company.
'Tell me about Rob,' I said.
She smiled. 'You tell me about Rob,' she said.
'No. I asked you first.'
'OK,' she said. 'He's a nice enough guy. Quite sweet really. We went out together a couple of times and had some fun. Then he suddenly got serious. Very serious. It was scary. He wanted to marry me and we hardly even knew each other. I felt bad because I thought I must have led him on without realising it, although thinking back, I can't see how I can have done.
'So, I thought the best thing to do was to try and avoid him. I didn't want him to persist with the wrong idea. But then he lured me to a restaurant, pretending to be a client of mine. I felt such a fool. I was furious. I haven't heard from him since then, thank God.' She paused. 'Is he always like this?'
'Quite often, I'm afraid,' I said. 'In your case he seems to have got it pretty bad. I don't think you have heard the last of him.'
'Oh dear,' she said. 'If there is anything you can say to him to put him off, please do. I have tried everything I can think of. He's a nice guy, but enough is enough.'
I thought about what Felicity had told me about Rob's phone calls to Debbie, about Claire feeling that there was something weird about him, and about what I had seen of him myself that night in the Gloucester Arms. 'Be careful,' I said.
Cathy raised her eyebrows at this, but I refused to explain further. We carried on talking for an hour or so, lingering over another beer. Cathy coaxed me to talk about my family, something I am usually reluctant to discuss with strangers. I told her about my father's death, about my mother's illness, and about how I had dashed my mother's hopes of my becoming a farmer. She was sympathetic. Much to my surprise, I didn't find her sympathy embarrassing, nor did it make me bitter as it sometimes did when given insincerely. It was comforting.
'Is Hamilton McKenzie the cold fish he seems?' she asked. 'He must be difficult to work for.'
'He isn't a very easy person to read,' I admitted. 'And he can be a bit of a taskmaster. He is very sparing with praise.'
'But you like him?'
'I wouldn't say exactly that. But I do admire him. He is so good at what he does, one of the best in the market. He is an excellent teacher. And he has this way of making me work hard for him, of bringing the best out of me. To tell you the truth, I would do anything for him.'
'It must be good to work for someone like that.'
'Yes, it is.'
'A bit like having a father?'
I squirmed in my chair. 'I hadn't thought about it that way. But I suppose you are right.'
Cathy reached across the table to touch my hand. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that,' she said.
'No, no, that's OK. It's a relief to be able to talk to someone like this. Someone who understands. One of the worst things about losing a parent is that it imposes a sort of loneliness upon you. It is one of the most important things in your life, but you can't share it with anyone.'
Cathy smiled. We sat in silence for a few moments. Then she looked at her watch. 'Is that the time? I must be off. Thanks for the drink. I feel much better now.' She got up to leave.
I found myself reluctant to let her go. 'So do I,' I said. Much better.
We parted, each of us heading towards our separate subway stops.
CHAPTER 12
First thing the next morning, I cancelled my meetings for the day. Something had come up I said. I wanted to spend my day in New York following up on what I had heard the day before.
Two questions intrigued me. First, what had happened to Shoffman, and second, could I find out anything more about how Waigel had put the Tremont Capital deal together?
I tried to deal with the first one first. I rang information to find out the number of the nearest police station to Bloomfield Weiss. I suspected that would be where his disappearance would have been reported by the firm. I dialled the number from my hotel room.
I was transferred a couple of times until I ended up with a friendly woman who told me that the disappearance had been reported to that station, but that the inquiry had been taken up by another precinct, on West 110th Street, which was near where Shoffman had lived. I thanked her, left my hotel room, and took a taxi up to the Upper West Side.
Fortunately, the police station was fairly quiet. Even more fortunately, the desk sergeant turned out to be one of that rare breed of ardent anglophiles that are scattered throughout America.
'Hey, are you English?' he asked in response to my greeting.
'Yes, I am,' I said.
'Welcome to New York. How do you like it here?'
'Oh, I think it's a fine city. I always enjoy coming here.'
'So you're from England, huh? My mother was from England. A GI bride, she was. Where are you from in England?'
'London.'
'Oh yeah? So was my mother. Maybe you know her family. Name of Robinson.'
'I'm afraid there are quite a few Robinsons in London,' I said.
