The Red Oak (The Searight Saga Book 3)

by Rupert Colley

  A few months later, she left him.

  She lit another cigarette. She stared down the barrel of the lighter and she knew. It wasn’t over with Tom yet. He reacted badly when he found out about her visit to Julie’s, but he was still in shock about Julie’s affair. And he hadn’t had time to realise that she still wanted him, was still waiting for him. He would have had time to think, time to remember the party in Lewisham, the Italian restaurant, their lovemaking, the laughs they had, the affinity that drew them together. He’d know now where his destiny lay and it wasn’t with Julie. She didn’t understand him; what with her neatly ordered house and her compartmentalised life. Tom was just another accessory. Rachel ran her finger up and down the length of the shiny barrel. Julie had her teacher; she could keep him. But it was time that she knew the truth, the whole truth, that it wasn’t just a drunken kiss at a party, it wasn’t just a shirt that smelt of ‘cheap’ perfume. It was time to try again. She pointed the lighter at the window and pulled the trigger. On and off, on and off.

  Chapter 14: The Suspension

  The plan had seen so simple; he’d half expected an emotional reunion, tearful apologies, a romantic night out. But he hadn’t reckoned on Moyes lurking around, and he hadn’t expected to be upstaged by the dog in the emotional stakes. After his ignominious exit, Tom found himself phoning Maria, asking if he could visit again – the following Friday. Her initial lack of enthusiasm immediately made him regret his haste and his face flushed with the embarrassment of his impetuousness. But perhaps there was something in his tone that made her relent. Tom thanked her, promised only to stay the one night and felt it necessary to explain that the traumas of separation had prompted him to seek refuge. Have you no other friends? He could almost hear it in the tone of her voice. Well no, he thought, not friends who didn’t know him as part of a couple. He switched off the phone but still found himself shuddering with embarrassment. He’d made a fool of himself; he wanted to phone back, say he’d made a mistake, but of course, that seemed worse. So having committed himself to it, he bought another Eurostar ticket to Calais.

  *

  Tuesday morning. Tom was dreading the prospect of going into work and having to face the inevitable discussion and analysis of Friday’s presentation. As he walked through the open-plan office, he kept his eyes firmly on the floor. The surreal, tense atmosphere of Friday had given way to the usual chaotic ambience of an ordinary working day. He plonked himself down and smiled weakly at Gabrielle sitting at her desk next to his. Gabrielle asked politely after his weekend and passed on a couple of telephone messages. Tom logged onto his computer and read his emails, which included one from Claudette requesting a meeting with all her project managers at two o’clock to discuss Friday’s presentation. Tom groaned inwardly, but it was only to be expected. There were numerous other messages which he settled down to deal with. He worked steadily and had managed to kill half an hour before he was noticed by Clive, who suddenly appeared behind his chair.

  ‘Ah, Tom, pleased you could make it.’

  Suppressing the urge to tell him to piss off, Tom merely grinned lopsidedly.

  Clive continued, ‘Did you see the England game?’

  ‘No,’ he lied.

  ‘Good game. We were unlucky – losing like that.’

  ‘Not that interested, to be honest.’

  ‘Your loss. The council rang Claudette. Reckon they could let us know within the week. Pity about the DDA stuff; would’ve thought you’d know all about that.’

  Tom swivelled around in his chair to face his boss looming above him. ‘You may recall, Clive, that you said not to worry about it, Claudette would be dealing with it.’

  ‘Did I say that? I don’t think so.’

  ‘You know damn well you did.’

  Clive puffed his chest out. ‘What are you trying to say, Tom?’

  Tom ignored him and pointedly returned his attention to the screen in front of him.

  ‘So is that what you went running to Claudette about?’ Clive grinned.

  ‘No.’ He wasn’t prepared to talk about it.

  ‘It must’ve been some meeting. You could’ve cut the atmosphere with a knife; what were you two talking about?’

  ‘Incompetent managers,’ snapped Tom.

  ‘Heated conversation, was it? You both looked somewhat dishevelled when I walked in.’

  Tom remained focused on the screen, hoping Clive would take the hint and give up. It seemed to work. ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ said Clive as he strode off. Tom sighed and wondered how much Clive was bluffing.

  Within seconds, Clive reappeared. ‘Oh, I forgot to say, Lewis wants to see you at ten.’

  Heck, thought Tom, it was a rare “honour” to be hauled in by Mr Lewis. Mr Lewis, Claudette’s boss, was a company director and had a large office on the top floor. ‘What for?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ replied Clive, barely able to suppress his glee, ‘but I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.’

  ‘Ah, it’s probably about my bonus,’ said Tom.

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  It was still only twenty to ten, so Tom worked through a few more emails. A few minutes later, Gabrielle went off to get them both a cup of coffee. It was time to make a quick phone call. He didn’t know Adrian’s surname but by describing his blue beard the receptionist at Dunstone, Cutler and Maine soon tracked him down. As he waited to be put through, he started doodling.

  Adrian was apologetic. ‘Look, I’m sorry, mate, that stuff about you and Rach, it happened years back, didn’t it? She made it sound as if the two of you still had a thing going.’

  Typical Rachel, thought Tom. ‘No, she finished with me years ago.’

  ‘Yeah well, she’s dumped me too now.’

  ‘Oh...’

  ‘Nah, don’t worry about it; she was too neurotic for me anyway. So, mate, how can I help?’

  Tom glanced around the office and spoke closely into the mouthpiece. ‘Listen, is it true that my boss, Claudette, Claudette Tyler, has had talks with your people?’

  Adrian lowered his voice. ‘Ah, can’t really comment on that right now.’

  ‘Your lot are filching her, aren’t you?’ There was a silence at the other end. Tom drew a doodle of a wheelchair. ‘In fact, she’s probably already working for you, that’s why she was flippant about our tender.’ Tom heard the sharp intake of breath at the other end. ‘Come on, Adrian, just one word – yes or no.’

  ‘Put in a good word for me with Rach?’

  ‘Course, mate.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Yes, she is. You didn’t hear it from me, right?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Your coffee, Tom.’ Tom jumped. It was Gabrielle.

  The phone went dead. ‘See you later, sweetheart,’ he said replacing the handset. He smiled weakly at Gabrielle. ‘My daughter.’ He looked at his watch, gulped a few mouthfuls of coffee, and decided it was time to go, time to face his maker in the rarefied air of the top floor.

  A minute to ten, Tom knocked gently on Mr Lewis’s door. On being told to enter, Tom stepped into the large, spacious office, its walls a pale green colour, a large solid wooden desk dominating the room. Behind it sat Mr Lewis, besuited in a dark double-breasted suit and bespectacled with thin, silver-framed glasses slipping down his long thin nose. Various silver-framed photos adorned his desk, a packet of cigars lay unopened to one side.

  ‘Tom, come in, take a seat,’ said Mr Lewis, gesturing to the red leather chair in front of his desk. ‘Give me a moment, just let me send this email off.’ Tom sat down. Mr Lewis clicked his mouse and smiled at Tom. ‘Life seemed so much easier before the advent of emails. People email me with the most mundane of matters, things that before, they would’ve just got on with. Ah well, that’s progress for you, I suppose.’ His whole demeanour reminded Tom of a kindly but authoritative doctor, who, as a well-respected pillar of the community, was nearing his retirement. Mr Lewis took a file from hi
s in-tray and opened it. His eyes quickly scanned the page while Tom straightened his tie. Finally, Mr Lewis looked up at him.

  ‘Tom,’ he sighed. ‘I won’t pretend this is going to be easy, so I’ll get straight to the point.’

  Tom’s stomach lurched. The “point”; what “point”?

  Mr Lewis’s face had suddenly lost the look of the friendly doctor and took on a look of someone with an unpleasant duty to deal with. ‘Ms Tyler came to see me yesterday morning and told me about this unfortunate business on Friday.’

  Tom sat bolt upright, his face flushed. ‘Unfortunate business, sir?’

  Mr Lewis sighed again and fixed Tom a solemn stare. ‘There’s no point in denying it; I’ve also spoken to Clive Doherty.’

  Tom stuttered. ‘I’m s-sorry, sir, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Mr Doherty has backed up Ms Tyler’s claim.’

  This was beginning to sound like a stitch-up. ‘Claim?’

  ‘Oh, come now, has your memory faded already? Do I need to spell it out for you? Mr Doherty says that when he entered Claudette’s office on Friday evening, he knew immediately that something was not quite right. He said you both seemed awkward and flustered. After your hurried departure, he asked Ms Tyler if everything was OK. Ms Tyler told him, as indeed she has subsequently told me, that you made an inappropriate pass at her. I think Clive’s exact words that you tried to “jump her”. Is that the correct terminology?’

  They really had got their story straight, thought Tom. ‘No, sir, that’s not right at all.’

  ‘No? In that case, I’d be interested in your version of events.’ He leant back in his chair and peered at Tom over his spectacles.

  Tom blushed. ‘It’s not as you say, sir, she was trying to... to intimidate me.’ He paused wondering how to describe the scene.

  Mr Lewis rested his elbows on the chair rest and placed his fingertips together in an arch. ‘Intimidate you? Ms Tyler?’

  Perhaps, thought Tom, he’d said too much already. He tried to think. Yes, he had the ammunition but he hadn’t had chance to work out how best to use it. Would Lewis believe him if he told him about Claudette’s treachery? He had no real proof yet, only Adrian’s say-so and that wouldn’t cut much ice while Claudette had Mr Lewis neatly wrapped around her finger. ‘Claudette tried to blame me for Friday’s fiasco.’

  Mr Lewis snorted. ‘Oh, the infamous cock-up over the DDA. Yes, I must say I was disappointed to hear about that. Could be costly. So, how do you account for it?’

  ‘Account for it? I think you should ask Claudette.’

  ‘Oh but I have, and frankly I have no reason to doubt the validity of her version of events. After all, Ms Tyler is a well-respected and a loyal employee of this company–’

  ‘Is she? And I’m not?’

  ‘Be that as it may, but all this takes us away from the point, which is this very serious allegation. Now Ms Tyler is an undeniably attractive young woman. I mean, hell man, it was unprofessional and bloody stupid, but I can’t in all honesty say I blame you.’

  Tom slumped back in the leather chair. Mr Lewis’s mind was already made up and there was nothing he could do, at least not for now.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know, at least,’ continued Mr Lewis, ‘that Ms Tyler has, after careful consideration, decided not to take this matter out of the department...’ That’s big of her, thought Tom. ‘But naturally there will have to be an internal investigation.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Therefore, until we have time to convene such an investigation, I have no option but to suspend you on full pay–’

  ‘You’ve got this so wrong, Mr Lewis–’

  Mr Lewis ignored him. ‘...to take effect immediately.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I’m sorry, really I am. You’re a good man but you’ve blotted your copybook, whatever way this goes. When an allegation like this has been made, I have no option but to follow it through. You will be escorted out of the building. If you need to collect anything from your desk, you may do so, but strictly personal items only. Your coat, briefcase, photographs, that sort of thing, but you are not permitted to touch anything belonging to or concerning the company and your work. You will not be allowed to touch your computer, not even to turn it off, nor the telephone, your paperwork or files. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Very well.’ Mr Lewis pushed a button on his intercom and requested a security guard to escort Tom out of the building. He looked at Tom and with a wry smile said, ‘Next time, at least wait until you’re out of work.’ There was a knock on the door. ‘Enter.’ The security guard stepped in and stood, expressionless, next to the door.

  ‘Well, Tom, wait until you hear from us.’ He nodded at the guard. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me...’

  Tom rose wearily from the leather chair. He looked at the security guard and thought how painfully white the man’s shirt was. Tom decided to walk down the three flights of stairs rather than face the prospect of standing silently in the lift with his escort. The guard followed three paces behind. Tom paused before entering his floor and took a deep breath. ‘Here goes,’ he said to himself.

  As Tom approached his desk, Gabrielle looked up from her computer. ‘Oh, Tom, you got a couple of messages while you were out...’ She saw the security man standing directly behind Tom, his arms folded, his head disappearing into his neck. ‘Oh, nothing that can’t wait...’ she said, her voice trailing off. She glanced nervously at Tom, who shot her an apologetic smile. He looked briefly at the two photographs on his desk and decided to leave them. The whole office had come to a standstill. Voices fell silent, telephone conversations were cut short, the perpetual sound of fingers tapping on keyboards evaporated. Tom was fully aware that his every move was being carefully watched by the dozens of incredulous staff. He picked up his briefcase and was ready to go. He nodded at the guard and began the slow, humiliating walk down the long, silent passageway through the centre of the office. He kept his eyes fixed on the exit door ahead of him but, in the corner of his eye, he could see someone standing with her arms folded in her glass-fronted office. It was, of course, Claudette. The blinds were up.

  Tom caught a tube and a train back to Enfield and surprised his mother by his unexpectedly early appearance. He told her he’d taken the rest of the day off to enjoy the sun and, indeed, the rest of the week, and did she mind if he stayed on for a few days more. No, of course she didn’t. Much to his relief, his father was out – playing his weekly game of bowls. He offered to make his mother a cup of tea and listened while she complained about next door’s cat. As he passed her her tea, he asked, ‘Any messages while I was away?’

  ‘Oh yes, I almost forgot, Julie rang.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She’s concerned about Charlotte and thinks the two of you should meet up and discuss it. But you’ll have to phone later; she’s going out to meet a friend for a pub lunch.’

  Tom groaned inwardly. ‘She wasn’t meeting up with a man called Mark by any chance, was she?’

  Alice sensed her son’s antagonism at the thought. ‘No, don’t worry, it was a girlfriend.’

  Tom sipped his tea. ‘Good.’

  ‘I think she said her name was Rachel.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Tom, spluttering on his tea.

  ‘Thomas!’

  ‘Mum, I’ve got to go. Can I borrow your car?’

  ‘My car?’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. She didn’t say which pub, did she?’

  ‘No. Why? You’re not going to find her, are you?’

  But Tom had gone.

  *

  Julie was delighted to meet up with Rachel again – although she could have chosen a better time than in the middle of the school day, but Rachel seemed insistent. First she was coming round for coffee and now she was inviting her to the pub for a lunchtime drink. It all seemed slightly odd and yet, intrigued, she’d accepted. Julie was sitting alone at a window table in the Ro
se and Crown nursing a bitter lemon, waiting for Rachel. The pub, only five minutes away from school, was big, depressing and largely empty but already a fug of smoke hung in the air. A jukebox played quietly in the background and Julie found herself humming along to a song by The Walker Brothers. The red flock wallpaper was bedecked with numerous black and white local history photographs. Julie stared at one entitled Holloway High Street, circa 1917. She looked at her watch, Rachel was late. She had less than 40 minutes before she had to head back to school.

  Julie was casually casting her eye down the lunchtime menu of bar snacks when Rachel appeared, looking flustered and muttering several apologies. The two women offered to get each other drinks and deliberated on what to eat, deciding in the end not to have anything. Neither was hungry.

  While Julie and Rachel argued over who was buying what, Tom was haring down the A10 in his mother’s ancient Vauxhall estate. The car had trapped the heat of the day and with no air conditioning, Tom soon broke out in a sweat. The thought of the two women having a cosy chat over lunch appalled him. He had to get there. The speed limit was forty. Tom was doing fifty-five. What exactly he would do once he found them, he had no idea, but somehow he had to stop Rachel from opening her mouth. He cursed the day he met Rachel under the red oak in the park. Why had he told her; why hadn’t he realised it would only lead to trouble? She’d always been a liability, threatening to spill the beans, to ruin it all for him. But after three years, he would have thought it was well and truly forgotten, but no, obviously not. He didn’t know what he wanted any more but he enjoyed the illusion of occupying the moral high ground over his wife. But it was more than that; he didn’t want Julie to know because he still loved her. Was that enough now? Probably not.

  A speed camera flashed at him. He tried to think of the repercussions of his suspension. The first one, he concluded, was obvious – he’d be sacked. With his word against that of Clive’s and Claudette’s, two against one – what chance did he have? They were both his senior and, in the spirit of positive discrimination, Claudette would benefit as a woman. But worse, the directors all thought the sun shone out of her backside, they’d want to hang onto her, whatever the cost. The job market beckoned. He’d been tempted to look elsewhere anyway, but now it was going to be difficult, bloody difficult. ‘So, Mr Searight, why did you leave your last post?’ ‘Change of direction, greater challenge, blah, blah, blah.’ ‘But it says here on your reference, you were dismissed for “jumping” – is that the right terminology? – your power-crazed, attractive female boss. Is that not correct?’ ‘No, she was clinging onto my tie.’ ‘Hmm, likely story. Thank you, that’ll be all.’ No one was ever going to believe him – ‘no smoke without fire’ and all that. Did former employers disclose that sort of information? Probably not. Perhaps he could strike out on his own and start up a new company. But with what? Half of a £6,000 savings account he shared with Julie? £3,000 would hardly have Tooley & Hill quaking in their boots. No, whatever way he looked at it, he was up the creek without a paddle. So, what was he to do with no job and potentially no home? Abject poverty stared him in the face. The middle and fast lanes were congested and Tom was overtaking in the slow lane. He turned left into Green Lanes and headed south swearing at the slightest impediment to his progress. Any moment now, Rachel would open her mouth and the quicksand beckoned. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe it was fate, or destiny as Rachel called it.