department. No, it wouldn’t be done straight away. And yes, it would be done discreetly. Of course.
And so, following the anti-feminist convention that still rules in most offices, Graham’s inconvenience would be removed.
Robert Benham’s funeral was scheduled for the following Monday. This delighted Graham; he knew it meant there had been no awkwardnesses at the inquest.
The ceremony was in Rugby and a contingent of half a dozen from Crasoco attended. Tara Liston was there, attracting a couple of local newspaper photographers, and Robert Benham also proved to have had a mother, father and two sisters.
Like Merrily’s, the ceremony was a cremation and, as the velvet curtains did their dramatic close, Graham couldn’t help wondering how much of the body was left to cremate. He felt better than at any other time in his life.
On the train back to London, most of the time was spent in the buffet. At one point, Graham found himself alone over a drink with David Birdham.
‘Know I shouldn’t really talk business at a time like this. .’
‘Business doesn’t stop, Graham. It goes on, whatever happens.’
‘Yes. Well, just to say there’ll be a report on your desk tomorrow morning. A model, a sort of blueprint for the future of Personnel Department over the next decade. Some of it’s quite strong. There’ll be people who don’t like it.’
‘Who’s done it?’
‘Well, obviously, the computer boys have helped out on the figures, but. . the thinking’s mine.’
The Managing Director smiled. ‘I will read it with interest, Graham.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
The next day Graham didn’t wear a tie to the office. At lunchtime he went out and bought a dark brown leather jacket, cut on casual lines. After work he had fixed to join George Brewer for a drink, but he stood his boss up. Instead, he had an estate-agent-guided tour round a new block of service flats just off Sloane Street. A one- bedroom studio cost almost exactly what he had been offered on the Boileau Avenue house. The flats appealed to him. Without furniture, with bare polished floors and newly white walls, they appealed to him a lot. Hotel-like, uncluttered, anonymous.
When he got back that evening there was a message on the Ansaphone from Charmian. She sounded extremely angry. It was ten days since he had last seen Henry and Emma and since then he hadn’t even phoned to check that they were still alive. What kind of father was he? Had he no interest at all in his children?
The final question was easily answered, but there seemed little point in ringing Charmian to tell her. Instead, he wrote to his bank manager, arranging the agreed monthly standing order into his sister-in-law’s account. After that, he felt he had fulfilled his paternal duty.
It was on the Thursday that the summons to David Birdham’s office came through. Terry Sworder’s report lay on the Managing Director’s desk.
‘It’s good, Graham, bloody good. Pulls no punches. Lot of redundancies, though. Many people won’t like that.’
Graham shrugged. ‘You can’t make an omelette without cracking a few eggs.’
‘Oh, sure, sure. And I could nominate a few eggs in Personnel Department who are ripe for cracking. What I’m saying is, it’s one thing to produce a report like this, it’s another to put it into practice. Whoever does it is going to have to work very hard and be prepared to make himself unpopular.’
‘I’m sure it could be done.’
‘By the right person, yes.’ David Birdham toyed with a paperknife. ‘Management has known for some time that this sort of shake-up was needed. We’re not daft, you know, we do notice things. But, though he’s been a brake on progress for years, we wanted to hang on till George went. Not just sentimental, we could easily have put him out to grass even earlier, but we didn’t want any half-measures. Which was why Benham was appointed. He seemed to have the right thick-skinned qualities for the job. It needed a blunt instrument and he fitted the bill. We all felt that you. . were too much of a traditionalist, too tarred with George’s brush. .’
Graham was silent, waiting.
‘And then you send me a report like this.’ David Birdham tapped the papers on his desk. ‘It is exactly what is needed, and I won’t say I’m not surprised that it came from you. You always seemed to follow George’s line.’
‘I suppose that was out of. . what? Loyalty?’ Graham poised the word diffidently.
‘Loyalty can be dangerous in business. Lost you the job the last time around.’
‘Yes.’
David Birdham rose from his chair and walked across to the window. He spoke with his back to his junior. ‘Listen, Graham, I want you to take over from George next week. I’ve spoken to most of the board and most of them’ll accept any recommendation of mine. May have a bit of a problem with the Staff Association over the job not being properly advertised, but we can ride that. Thing is, these are exceptional circumstances, with the Heir Apparent dying before the old King goes, and in my view a quick decision is needed. Nothing like an interregnum to get a department out of hand. And since there’s no doubt you were runner-up last time round, I think you should definitely have the job. What do you say, Graham?’
He had done it. The failures of the last two and a half months had been wiped away and he stood where he had hoped to stand. But his position was so much stronger; three murders had elevated him way beyond his prosaic former hopes.
‘It’s a big challenge, David,’ he said grittily, ‘but it’s one that I’d welcome, and one that I feel confident I can cope with.’
‘Good man.’ The Managing Director turned, came towards him and shook his hand. ‘I’m relying on your discretion. All got to be hush-hush at the moment. Certain amount of bumf has to be passed around before we can make any official announcements. So keep it under your hat, eh? Don’t tell anyone, even at home. .’
David Birdham realised what he had said and coloured. For the first time in Graham’s memory, the man looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. Insensitive. I mean. . Well, all I hope is that your taking over the job will be some — of course inadequate — compensation to you after your wife’s death.’
Graham made his smile of response properly reflective, the smile of a man who has just been reminded of his greatest sadness rather than one of his greatest triumphs.
George Brewer’s previous farewell celebrations had been local, carving up little sectors of different departments, but the one which started at six o’clock in the eighth-floor conference room on his final Friday of employment included everyone.
Its guest of honour seemed subdued, if not downright depressed. Whereas the previous crowds had lifted him to a feverish jollity, on this occasion the reality of his departure seemed to crush his spirit. He no longer had merry quips of golf and gardening to answer the enquiries about how he would spend his retirement; he replied, ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know how I’m going to fill the time.’ He no longer even pretended to crow at the prospect of increased leisure and his index-linked pension, but listened wistfully as his colleagues inadvertently excluded him by their talk of future plans. He looked like a man on the edge of a dark precipice, afraid and ignorant of how far he had to fall.
His assistant, by contrast, was in ebulliently cheerful mood. He chatted lightly with his older colleagues and his new friends from Operational Research. He had whispered, complicit conversations with members of senior management. He flirted harmlessly with secretaries under the benign eye of Miss Pridmore. And every now and then, when someone mentioned his late wife, he looked appropriately grave.
He saw Stella from time to time. She tried to pierce his bonhomie with meaningful looks, but achieved no deeper conversational engagement than the other girls. At one point she actually took his arm and hissed, ‘When are we going to see each other again, Graham?’
‘Soon, soon,’ he replied airily, and whisked away to share a joke with Terry Sworder.
Eventually, after a great deal of drinking, a glass was tapped for silence and David Birdham gave a brief, professional encomium on George Brewer. He started with an ancient, mildly risque anecdote of George and a
