“It’s Christmas Eve, Geraldine. I’m too weary for another declaration of independence. Don’t tell me you want to study with the Maharishi or travel to Tibet in a camper van. Let’s just try to enjoy one another’s company tonight. Perhaps this nice waiter could get you something to drink. I’ll have another dry martini.”
Jerry picked up a fork and pretended to study it. For a while they sat in silence. “I’m tired of working in the hotel,” she said finally. “I want a job with some responsibility. I’ve proved to myself that I can do it, and I think I have some ability.” She decided not to mention that she hadn’t turned up for work in days. “I want to join Dad’s company.”
Gwen was in mid martini and looked as if she’d swallowed the olive. This wasn’t at all what she had been anticipating.
“I don’t expect to be paid much at first. I’ll have a lot to learn, but I’m willing to try.”
“Well – I don’t know what to say,” said her mother, non-plussed. “You’ve always been so set against the idea. All those lectures you gave Jack about capitalist pigs. This is the last thing I expected to hear from you.”
“If you don’t think it’s a good idea – ”
“No, it’s not that,” Gwen said hastily. “If this is a genuine change of heart then I don’t see why we can’t organize something. Are you sure about this? You know what it would involve.”
They had told her often enough. It would mean being apprenticed in one of her father’s boring businesses, courses in bookkeeping, accountancy, or brokerage if she preferred. It would mean being controlled.
She had to allay any remaining suspicions her mother harboured. During the course of the meal Jerry attempted to explain her change of heart, describing her hopes for the future. By the time she had finished, Gwen was finding it so difficult to contain her delight that she looked as if she might spontaneously combust at the table.
“Well, I think this is something to celebrate,” she said, ordering a very decent bottle of Bollinger. “Would you like to tell your father, or do you want to leave it to me?”
“Why don’t we both tell him?” said Jerry, raising her glass with a smile.
¦
“This really is excellent news,” said Jack, making a miraculous recovery from his headache. “You don’t know how much this means to us, Geraldine; to see you taking your future into your own hands. You’ll grow up overnight. I think you’ll soon discover that you’ve made the right choice. I never had a son…” Her father broke off to blow his nose, then fumbled about with another bottle of champagne.
“We always wanted the best for you,” Gwen insisted, filling the glasses. “This will bring us closer together as a family.” Her mother’s eagerness to employ her as a re-entry point into decent social circles was palpable. She was like some horrible stage mother, using her offspring to wedge herself into the life she never had. Jerry felt no malice toward her father, only sadness. Jack had always done as he was told. She tasted a raw bitterness, and felt her hatred for Gwen deepening.
Most of all, though, she felt the thrill of control. “So, what’s the next move?” she asked, looking from one pleased parent to the other.
“I think I can arrange some kind of apprenticeship for you,” said her father. “You’ll get a chance to see what opportunities are available, and which company you’re best suited for. Did you have anything particular in mind?”
“I thought perhaps there might be an opening with Charles Whitstable. I don’t suppose he’d remember me. After all, it was a long time ago.”
Jack was silent for a moment. “Of course he’ll remember you,” he said at last. “He used to bounce you on his knee. He treated you like a daughter. One of my best clients.”
Jerry vaguely remembered an overstuffed Chelsea apartment, but little else. She had been accessorized to so many of her father’s colleagues. What was important was the link…
“Of course, that was before he went to India. But I believe he’s back now.”
“Then could you talk to him?”
Jack looked over at Gwen as if requesting permission. “We could catch him while he’s here.”
Jack left the room to make a phone call, despite the fact that there was a telephone beside his armchair in the lounge. Gwen sat there patting Jerry’s hands and smiling at her, stumped for further conversation.
No one had thought to probe the reason for her change of heart. She hoped they would not decide to do so.
After a few minutes, Jack returned to the room. “Couldn’t have been easier,” he said cheerfully. “There’s no point in wasting any time. You’ve some catching up to do. I’ve arranged drinks for you tomorrow morning.”
“On Christmas Day?”
“Just a seasonal snifter before lunch. I happen to know Charles is on the lookout for new blood. He’s terribly influential, and he’s still the chairman of the Worshipful Company of Watchmakers. Sounded jolly pleased to hear from me.”
¦
John May’s Muswell Hill apartment could not have been less like his partner’s. There was nothing in his surroundings to remind him of his past. The walls of the flat were bare and bright. Various pieces of gadgetry sat in nests of wiring: a fax machine, a state-of-the-art hi-fi with huge speakers, unkempt stacks of books and LPs, magazines, and an alarming pile of washing up, despite the presence of a dishwasher.
He had returned home late that evening, depressed by Land’s attitude but thankful that they had managed to buy themselves a little more time. He was coming down with a cold. He’d probably caught it from Bryant, who managed to pass on the usual winter diseases without undue suffering himself, like Typhoid Mary. As the day went on his throat had grown sore and his head had begun to throb – he could tell that he had contracted this year’s mutant flu germ, and Longbright had finally sent him home, assuring him that she could easily finish handling the Whitstables’ security demands.
It annoyed him that, far from feeling tired, he was nervy, irritable, and wide awake. He had specifically blocked the Whitstables’ more petulant requests in order to reduce distractions during the investigation, but now that they had been assembled en masse he knew that they would be far harder to ignore. Several of them were still ringing to protest vigorously, complain, and demand items from the PCU unit, despite the fact that they had been specifically requested not to tie up the division’s phone lines.
The fact that they were under voluntary containment seemed to have escaped them; one of the Whitstable children had demanded that her pet rabbits be brought to the house, otherwise she would tell Daddy to have a word with the Home Office. It had been that kind of day.
May stirred himself a hot lemon drink and poured a shot of brandy into it, looking out from the kitchen window across the misty panorama of London. The fourth-floor apartment was situated at the top of a hill, and commanded spectacular views of the city by day.
Now the streets below were silent and deserted. Cars were garaged. Home lights blazed. It was the one night of the year when families could be relied upon to spend time together. The city death toll would be up tomorrow. It always rose on Christmas Day. Surprising how many heart attacks occurred after lunch and the queen’s speech, when rows between husbands and wives came to a head.
May thought of Jane, his own wife, and wondered how long she would be away this time. He thought of his daughter’s disastrous marriage, and what he could possibly do to help her. And he wondered if it was selfishness that kept him working when he should have been with them.
He had not heard from Bryant for several hours. The case was taking its toll on them both. An astonishing amount of paperwork had built up in the office and had yet to be cleared. The PCU differed from other experimental units previously tested by the Met, insofar as routine procedural elements could be farmed out to auxiliary teams, leaving the senior investigating officers free to concentrate on other aspects of the investigation. Hundreds of hours of interviews, forensic tests, fibre separations, evidence collections, blood and tissue typing, witness documentation, and many other daily activities were handled by groups attached to West End Central. This kind of specialization upset the Metropolitan force members who got stuck with door-to-doors and foot patrols. Something would have to give…
The sudden buzz of the telephone made May wonder if his colleague was calling to check on his health. Instead, he found himself speaking to Alison Hatfield at the Goldsmiths’ Hall.
