‘Gwen’s upset, and if she is, so am I,’ Happold said.
‘She’s pregnant, emotional.’
‘That’s as maybe, but you’ve not been staying on the line. Some of your decisions in this bank have been less than satisfactory.’
‘I’ve not heard any complaints.’
‘You are now.’
‘Is this because of Gwen? Are you aiming to sideline me?’
‘Quentin, you’re a Happold now. We look after our own. I will not sideline you, nor will I remove you from your position as the chairman-presumptive of this bank. But just remember, if it’s a decision between you and Gwen, it will always be her. She’s blood, you’re not.’
Waverley could see what the old man was saying: he was serving notice. Quentin Waverley, an astute man, had seen the benefit of transferring his affections to Gwen from Amelia, even though he had preferred Brice’s daughter. And Jeremy, her father, was an educated man with a biting tongue but retained the willingness to enjoy himself, to have a drink, even a joke. With George Happold, there was no biting tongue, no enjoyment, and no humour.
To Waverley, Happold was a killjoy, and the man’s only pleasure was in seeing the bank’s financial statements. He couldn’t see him staying retired for too long. Away from the bank, the man would sit in his library at home, a seventeenth-century mansion, reading books on finance, nothing else. He certainly didn’t go fishing or play golf, regarding both of those as pursuits of the idle mind. And now the man was giving him a lecture.
As Waverley stood there listening to the father, he could see no way out, and he knew that in the future, once he was the chairman and his wife had the controlling stake, it would be her giving him the third degree. Waverley knew he could not tolerate the situation. Back in his office, he considered the possibilities.
Chapter 23
Larry Hill sensed it at a café in Portobello Road. It was the day after his encounter with Negril Bob. Before everyone had been civil, whether they were honest or not, but now there was a tension in the air. It was still early, and he had managed to avoid the wrath of his wife the night before, the few hours in the office with Isaac had dealt with that problem.
‘The usual?’ the waitress asked although it was not necessary. There was always just the one reason for him entering the café and taking a seat close to the window; it was the full English breakfast, the tomatoes, the bacon, the two eggs, the toast, and then a pot of tea.
‘Why not?’ Larry said to the woman. ‘It’s quiet in here,’ even though eight people were sitting at the other tables.
The woman bent low, low enough for Larry to smell her perfume. ‘The word’s out.’
‘What word?’
‘You’re closing in on Negril Bob. Nobody wants to be too close, just in case.’
‘Just in case of what?’
‘You know.’
‘I’m sorry. Maybe it’s because it’s early or I’m slow on the uptake. What is it with me?’
‘Negril Bob’s put out the word that anyone who assists the police will be on the wrong side of him.’
‘And people are frightened of him?’
‘Around here they are.’
‘And you?’
‘The man kills for pleasure, what do you think?’
‘But you’re talking to me.’
‘I’m serving you breakfast,’ the waitress said. Larry looked at her as she walked away. He picked up his phone and called Isaac.
‘We’ll not get much out of anyone around here, at least, not for a few days,’ Larry said.
‘Why’s that?’ Isaac replied.
‘The people are frightened of Negril Bob.’
‘What kind of leverage does he have over these people?’
‘’Fear is a powerful lever. We know that he killed Rasta Joe because he talked to me; these people must know this, as well.’
‘If they do, maybe there’s further proof.’’
‘We only had the one witness.’
‘There may be others, but they’ll not talk either. How do we move forward?’
‘We can’t. If this is the mood where I am, then those who might have spoken to me are going to be tight-lipped.’
***
Charisa Devon could not agree with her brother. He was convinced that their only protection was for him to acquiesce to the threats and to give Negril Bob what he wanted. He had been angry when Isaac Cook had phoned him up in the shop, angrier when he heard that his sister had refused to leave the area.
‘You’ll not understand,’ Charisa said. ‘No qualifications and I can’t go to America with Troy.’
‘And what will you be over there – the black wife of a white man? They’re racist, you know.’
It was the first time that Charisa had heard her brother talk that way. It was if he was starting to believe the gangs’ distorted view of life.
Charisa knew that she had never felt that. Sure, there was the occasional abuse, but she was educated, she could handle herself, whereas Billy was not. She worried about him, so much so that she considered not going with Troy to America. But she knew that she was not a nursemaid.
‘Billy, you can’t stay here. You must leave the area,’ Charisa said.
‘These are my people.’
‘No, they’re not; they’re criminals.’
‘It is only a result of the system, the prejudice in society.’
‘Why this change?’
‘I’ve been speaking to my friends. They’re doing well, got a good set of wheels.’
‘And no doubt a few women dangling after them.’
‘And why not? Why should I work in a shop for minimum wage when I can make a bundle out there?’
‘They killed Samuel, don’t you remember? Your friends may be fine now, but they could be dead tomorrow.’
‘I don’t forget, but Samuel, he was a child.’
‘And what are
