Two Women
Page 5
Carver hesitated. ‘I can’t. I have to go back to the city.’
There were a lot of calls he had to make, so much he had to do: so much, somehow, somewhere, he had to find or discover. What Northcote had promised to give him had to be here somewhere because the intention had been for the man to come direct from here for their meeting. But what? Where?
‘You got staff in Manhattan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Live in?’
‘No,’ frowned Carver. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It means you should take her with you but that for a few days I don’t think she should be left by herself.’
‘You mean she might harm herself?’
‘No,’ said Jamieson, impatiently. ‘Just that she shouldn’t be alone.’
‘I’ll get nurses in.’
‘That would be good. Manhattan would be good. It’ll get her away from here. What time are you leaving tomorrow?’
He had to make the formal identification of the body, remembered Carver. ‘Late morning. We’ll fly.’ He should have arranged it before dismissing the helicopter. He was going to have to speak to Hilda shortly. It could be added to the list of all the other things that had to be done.
‘I’ll call by around nine: see how she is.’
‘Jane told me you’d examined George.’
The doctor nodded. ‘He told me he was giving up entirely and I told him it was a damned good idea. His blood pressure was sky high. I put him on immediate medication. It could even have been a stroke that made him fall off the tractor …’ He was slowed by a thought. ‘Maybe I should mention it to Pete Simpson.’
‘Maybe you should,’ agreed Carver. He had to end this conversation and this encounter: get on with all the other things. But at the same time, irrationally, he didn’t want the doctor to go. Although it was a tragedy – a tragic accident in everyone’s opinion except his – there was a normality about talking with the other man. But when Jamieson went it wouldn’t be normal any more. What he had to do – the calls he had to make, the arranging and rearranging that had to be done – would be normal in the circumstances of a tragedy but in this case he would be involved – was involved – in murder. Mob murder; organized crime murder; once-you’re-in-you’re-never-out murder. Or was he? Could, despite everything he knew – or thought he knew – George Northcote have genuinely suffered a stroke because of sky-high blood pressure and toppled backwards into the multiple spinning blades of a mowing machine? Could a stroke be, even, why Northcote went too close to the depression in the ground he would have known all too well to be there, and to be dangerous, because he was unconscious in those last few, badly steered seconds? Only George Northcote had known that he knew the firm’s – Northcote’s – link with organized crime. And George Northcote was dead and that knowledge would have died with him. He knew the names of the companies that had to be divested and that could be – would be – easily achieved by the excuse of Northcote’s death. The words and the phrases began to move through Carver’s mind. Retrenchment, necessary reorganization after the death of such a dominant, leading corporate figure, no one any longer available to provide the personalized service that George W. Northcote provided, with obvious regret … It fitted. Fitted perfectly. They’d all be out. Out, home free: no connection, no association, no danger. If …
‘I’ll just look in now, before I go,’ said Jamieson and so lost was he in thought that Carver was actually startled although he didn’t think it showed.
‘Let’s both look in,’ he said.
Jane was lying as they’d left her, on her back, but was deeply asleep, snuffling soft occasional snores, although once another sob shuddered through her. At Jamieson’s gesture they backed out of the bedroom, without speaking until they got outside in the hallway. Jamieson said: ‘That’s good. I didn’t want to have to give her anything stronger.’
Carver met Jennings as he turned from seeing Jamieson out, anticipating the man before he spoke. ‘I don’t want anything to eat. There’s too much to do. I’ll be in the study.’
‘Everyone’s together in the kitchen, if you want anything.’
‘I’ll let you know,’ said Carver, already walking towards what he considered the most obvious place to find what it was essential he locate.
Carver pressed the door closed behind him but remained against it, confronting his first awareness, which was not within the room at all. The windows looked directly out in the direction of the depression in which the tractor and mower had overturned. It was dark now but beyond the slope there was still a glow from the generator lights illuminating the lifting of the unseen machinery on to an equally unseen removal truck and the word unseen fixed itself in Carver’s mind. Where Northcote had died couldn’t be seen from the house: couldn’t be seen from anywhere. Making it the perfect place for murder.
Carver brought himself back inside the room, as heavily mahogany-panelled as the Manhattan office, unsure where – how – to start. Where? Where would Northcote have kept hidden sufficient secrets to protect the firm? The computer, blank-eyed on its own workstation beside the desk – antique again like its twin in Manhattan – was obvious, but Northcote had a late-starter’s problems with electronic technology. And they dealt in printed, written words and figures: that’s what it had been in Northcote’s safe; written, printed incrimination. So the computer – the computer he’d already accessed and found nothing but titles on the client list, with no cross-referenced file records – was not at all the logical initial search. The desk itself then. But not at once, frustrating though it was to delay. Calls – arrangements – had the priority. Or did they?
Carver saw the neatly stacked paper as he approached and realized as he lowered himself into the padded leather chair that it was Northcote’s intended valedictory speech. For a moment Carver hesitated, as he’d hesitated going into Northcote’s personal safe in the firm’s basement vault, but then, abruptly, he snatched it up. It was comparatively short and easily legible in Northcote’s neat, round handwriting. It really was a genuine farewell address.
He was a proud man, Northcote had written. He was finally, irrevocably, leaving the firm at the peak of its international success and prestige. It was due to the financial business ability and acumen of their overseas divisions as much as to that of the Wall Street head office – ‘command centre’, Northcote had written with a question mark beside it – that they had survived the market upheavals that had affected, in some instances destroyed, other firms of less able people. In entrusting the future ultimate control to John Carver – ‘my worthy and deserving successor’ and the New York partners – ‘an unrivalled team, on any continent’ – he was assuring the continued success of George Northcote International. He wished them well and goodbye.
Carver laid the three sheets directly in front of two silver-framed photographs of Northcote with Muriel, his wife who had died eighteen years earlier, and two others of Northcote with Jane, one in her graduation robes. He’d take the speech back to Manhattan, Carver decided: have it duplicated to be shown to everyone gathering for the conference. Less than a week ago he would have been moved by the words, applauded with the rest of the people for whom they were intended and shaken Northcote’s hand and maybe even needed to clear his throat before he could respond. Now he felt nothing. Not contempt nor sadness and certainly not admiration. It was as if George Northcote had been a total stranger and then, surprised, Carver belatedly acknowledged that was exactly what George Northcote had been, someone with whom he had been in daily contact and whose daughter he’d married but whom he had known not at all, a man playing – performing – a part.
Hilda Bennett answered his call on the second ring and said, ‘Oh my God,’ when Carver told her, hesitating fractionally when he used the word accident. He wanted all the overseas executives advised the moment they arrived – she was to call the Tokyo manager as soon as their conversation ended – and a full meeting convened for the following afternoon. The cocktail party that Jane had
been scheduled to host was cancelled, as well as Friday’s gala banquet and the planned reception at Litchfield. The welcoming dinner would, however, still take place. He expected all the incoming delegates to attend the funeral, so hotel reservations had to be extended. She was to advise the funeral directors that Northcote would be buried in the same vault as his wife: there were still legalities to be completed – he had the following morning formally to identify the body – so it was not yet possible to suggest a specific date for the interment. He would speak separately with the firm’s lawyer, with whom she should liaise the following morning about death notices and obituaries. He would also speak separately to his own staff at the East 62nd Street apartment, to move them in permanently, but wanted her additionally to arrange a twenty-four-hour nursing staff there to care for Jane. He’d talk personally with their Manhattan doctor and put the man in contact with Dr Jamieson, up here in Litchfield. He wanted the helicopter to collect them at noon, from the Northcote estate. He couldn’t think of anything else that had immediately to be initiated but if he did he’d call back, providing it wasn’t too late. Hilda said it didn’t matter how late: she probably wouldn’t sleep anyway. Should she tell Janice Snow?
Carver told her to wait fifteen minutes, for him to break the news to Northcote’s personal assistant.
Janice Snow broke down at once and kept asking what she should do and Carver started to suggest she work with Hilda on the arrangements he’d already asked Hilda to make, but suddenly stopped, realizing his oversight. He allowed himself a rehearsing pause before asking if Janice had personally programmed Northcote’s computer, his irritation at himself transferring itself to Janice’s reply that it was one of her daily functions. Mr Northcote hadn’t liked or understood computers: scarcely known properly how to operate one. Just as promptly, without the need for any reference, she gave him what she insisted were all George Northcote’s entry codes and passwords.
Carver remained undecided for a few moments, before saying: ‘This may seem a strange question in the circumstances. But it’s extremely important. Is there a special code or password that George used for extremely sensitive stuff … secret stuff, in fact?’
Now the hesitation came from the woman. ‘You’ve got them all. They all duplicate with Manhattan, of course.’
‘In which file or folder, of those you’ve given me, would George’s personal accounts have been kept?’
The curiosity was discernible in Janice Snow’s voice. ‘I already told you, Mr Carver. He didn’t work like that.’
‘You telling me there isn’t one?’
‘That’s very much what I’m telling you. That there isn’t a specific one.’
Could Janice Snow be part of it, whatever it was? She’d have to be if she was the person who’d entered all Northcote’s computer information. Would Northcote have told Janice what he knew? He’d be exposing himself, disclosing names to her. But only if she were part of it: was complicit. If she wasn’t, it would be an enquiry that only had relevance to him.
He said: ‘I’ve some names I want to put to you. Do you know where the files are on a company named Mulder Inc.?’
Janice gave time for her answer. ‘No.’
‘Have you ever handled accounts on behalf of George for Mulder Inc.?’
‘I’ve typed completion letters to them, in the Caymans, after an audit.’
To go with the returns?’
There was another hesitation. ‘They were sent separately.’
‘So how were the returns made?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know!’
‘Mr Northcote had a special way of working, with some clients. Mulder was one of them. There were a lot of personal meetings.’
‘You know the names of some Mulder executives: their in-house accountants?’
‘No.’
She had to be part of it, thought Carver. ‘Did George ever have you computerize any details of Mulder?’
‘No.’
‘What about anyone else on his personal staff? Other girls?’
‘I did all that.’
‘What about a company named Encomp?’
There was a further pause. ‘I’ve typed some sign-off letters, to Grand Cayman again.’
‘But no returns?’
‘No.’
‘What about Innsflow?’
‘The same.’
There was no purpose in continuing this long-distance conversation. With the passwords he could make a computer check of his own, despite what Janice had told him. ‘I want you to help Hilda, like I said. We’ll talk some more about George’s personal files when I get back.’
‘OK.’
If the woman were involved his asking about them would give her all the time in the world to hide or destroy everything.
‘Is there something wrong?’ demanded Janice, openly.
‘Nothing wrong at all,’ said Carver. ‘With everyone here in New York – with meetings and discussions to be held – I’m trying to bring myself as fully up to date as possible, as quickly as possible.’
‘I’ll have it done by the time you get here tomorrow,’ promised the woman.
Now with increasing impatience Carver endured fifteen minutes going through what the firm’s lawyer thought important to emphasize in the death notices and obituaries, which mostly concerned the assurance that Carver’s already agreed succession would ensure the uninterrupted business continuity of George W. Northcote International. Manuel said he and his wife would return to East 62nd Street that night, to ensure that everything would be ready before anyone arrived. He was very sorry about Mr George. It was terrible.
Alice started lightly: ‘I thought you’d forgotten me …’ But at once became subdued when he talked over her to tell her what had happened. She said: ‘Shit,’ and then: ‘An accident?’
‘That’s what it’s going to be described as.’
‘Do you really think he was killed?’
‘The doctor says he could have suffered a stroke, from high blood pressure: that it could have been the cause of his falling into the blades.’
‘I asked what you thought,’ persisted Alice.
‘I don’t want to, but I think he was killed,’ said Carver, hearing the casual, conversational tone of his own voice. He was talking of murder as if it was a normal topic, like the weather or some commuter gridlock and wasn’t Manhattan a shitty place to try to get around in.
‘This doesn’t seem real: sound real,’ said Alice, matching his thinking, which she often did.
‘No.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I can’t think of anything to do.’
‘He didn’t give you what you asked for?’
‘No. But it should be here somewhere.’ Carver was impatient to get off the line.
‘How’s Jane?’
‘Sedated.’
‘It won’t be easy for us to meet?’
Now it was Alice who sounded remarkably sanguine: unmoved. But then although she’d been impressed by the man – wrongly as it transpired – she’d only met George Northcote two or three times. ‘Not over the next few days,’ he agreed.
‘Call me, when you can.’
‘When I can.’
‘And be careful, darling.’
‘I will,’ said Carver, wishing he knew how to be.
Carver pushed the chair slightly back with the same motion of replacing the telephone, momentarily looking between the desk and the workstation before deciding he couldn’t wait for Janice’s search the following morning: that he had to look – try to look – for himself. The moment he booted up he recognized the duplication with the Manhattan office, curious that Northcote had required the copies here in the country in view of his operating difficulties. Carver scrolled his way through every one of Northcote’s personal files and accessed every password and entry code, each time carefully entering the names of the three hovering, criminal and incriminating companies. None registered.
Carver initially held it up by its spine, hopefully shaking it, but it concealed nothing loose. After that he turned at once to the day Northcote had been in New York for the supposedly severing encounter with his mob controllers. The entry read: ‘S–B. Dinner. Harvard.’ There was a dash between the two letters and against the name of the club there was an asterisk. There was also an asterisk against today’s entry, which simply read: ‘J. 2.30.’ When, according to Jennings, Northcote was on his tractor, hauling across a field completely hidden from anyone’s view the cutting machine beneath which he’d fallen.
It took Carver more than an hour painstakingly to go through every entry, which Northcote appeared always to do by initials, never recording a name. Those of S–B appeared a total of six times, always marked by asterisks, and by carefully going back through the marked pages Carver calculated the meetings were regularly once a month, nearly always the last Tuesday. They were always for lunch and never at the same restaurant. This week had been the first time the Harvard club was mentioned. Where would Northcote’s diaries for the previous years be? Carver wondered. The man’s personal safe in the vault? Another check, for the following day.
In another right-hand drawer Carver found a cuttings book of newspaper and magazine articles on Northcote. The long, admiring feature by Alice was quite near the top. Even more recent was a Wall Street Journal interview in which Northcote had urged tighter financial supervision by the SEC and all the other authorities governing accountancy, both locally in New York as well as federally.