The Code

by Nick Thripp

  ‘Are you sure you don’t fancy him? You spent enough time in the kitchen together.’

  ‘Of course not. Nice eyes, and very easy to talk to, but he’s not really my type. He’s a bit too opinionated, too sure of himself, too certain he’s right.’

  ‘And what is your type?’ I said fishing for a compliment. Rachel didn’t answer. From the faraway expression in her eyes, I could see her mind was elsewhere.

  Chapter 16

  The Beart Enterprises Account, 1983

  Very little goes unrecorded in offices. Senior people delude themselves that their movements go unnoticed. In fact, every action is noted, every mood interpreted and reinterpreted, and the subsequent assessment relayed to others in the organisation by a process akin to osmosis. I was told by various confidential sources, not unrelated to some of the senior partners’ secretaries, that Harry Burrows, one of the most senior partners at AP for longer than he cared to remember, had been sitting with his feet up on his desk, smoking a Havana cigar and gazing out of the window, when the summons came from his brother-in-law, Brian Braithwaite to join him for a chat. My sources told me they heard him express considerable surprise when told that the young fellow, that new partner whose promotion he’d questioned, had brought in the biggest piece of auditing business AP had ever handled, and Harry was invited to act as an overseeing partner to make sure nothing went wrong. Braithwaite was the prime mover in the growth strategy and saw the acquisition of Beart Enterprises as a client as a major step in achieving his ambition. Burrows was, apparently, not keen to take on this role. Only a year from retirement, he was renowned for his predilection for the good life and his aversion to shouldering more responsibility. However, when Braithwaite insisted, he consoled himself that with another partner heavily involved and a full team on the account, he probably wouldn’t have to do much more than eat a few lunches and ask some probing questions, both of which activities he’d transformed into an art. In the firm for over forty years, he’d come to be regarded as an institution. Few criticised his lifestyle or his lack of work ethic. For many, he represented, in a romanticised form, what the profession had been years ago, before the seismic changes it was currently undergoing. He was a ‘gentleman’, in cricketing terms, while now the ‘professionals’ had taken over.

  I didn’t relish the prospect of working with him. In my limited experience, he could be extremely acerbic and, even if he eschewed hard work, his formidable intellect was never in doubt.

  I awaited his call with trepidation. When it finally came, I rubbed a tissue over my shoes, straightened my tie and set off, heart fluttering, down the long corridor which separated us.

  ‘Come in, sit down my boy.’ A smile winged its way across his face. ‘Congratulations on landing the Beart Enterprises business. I hear from Brian that you’d been working on it for some time before he decided to come across. Quite an achievement, my boy, quite an achievement; tell me, how did you manage it?’ His eyes were fixed on me and the evanescent smile had been replaced by a twist of the lips which might equally have been a facial quirk or a sneer.

  I shifted uncomfortably in my hard, leather-backed chair and cleared my throat, acutely conscious I didn’t know what John had said to Braithwaite, and what he, in turn, had passed onto Burrows. Modesty seemed the safest policy.

  ‘It was nothing really, just persistence.’

  To avoid eye contact, I stared at the large crystal paperweight on his desk.

  ‘You’re too self-effacing, my boy. There must be more to it than that. I hear you were at school together. You must have been good friends.’

  I wondered what the best response would be. If I agreed, it might diminish my achievement. If I said we weren’t, it might make me seem less well-connected. I opted for honesty.

  ‘Not really. We only coincided at prep school for a couple of years and he was two years below me. We didn’t have much to do with each other, though I did get him into trouble for starting an insurance business. Now, of course, I realise he was only developing his entrepreneurial skills and what I should’ve done was invest all my pocket money in him there and then.’

  Burrows chuckled, the rolls of fat around his neck wobbling.

  ‘You’re lucky he didn’t bear a grudge. Wasn’t there anything else?’

  ‘I did a brief piece of consultancy for him once, in one of his early acquisitions. Since then we’ve only met socially.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly made an impression on him. He speaks very highly of you. Says you’re the reason he’s come to us.’

  I decided the most prudent approach would be to ingratiate myself.

  ‘I’m really looking forward to working with you, Harry. I’m sure I’ll learn a lot.’

  His twisted lips softened into their normal thin slivers and I had the uncomfortable feeling he was still summing me up. Then the corners of his mouth flicked up into what I took to be another fleeting smile.

  ‘We need to establish a few principles. First, I’m about a year from retirement, I’ve been the firm’s golden boy for longer than I care to remember and I have no intention of letting anything or anyone stuff that up. This piece of business must go well, and if it doesn’t, it’s your neck that’s on the block. Understood?’

  I nodded.

  ‘That means,’ he continued, ‘you keep close to it, and tell me early on if there is anything, absolutely anything, to be concerned about. We don’t want to piss Beart off. This isn’t one of those jobs where you can lounge about on Mount Olympus and let the audit team to do all the work.’

  ‘You can rely on me, Harry,’ I said, although I’d no intention of adopting the role he’d outlined. ‘I’ll make sure you hear of any potential issues very early.’

  His brow furrowed.

  ‘Not that anything will go wrong, Harry. I’ll see to that, I promise.’

  He looked out of the window at two pigeons, one fluffed up and striding back and forth cooing, the other sitting impassively.

  ‘You have the reputation of being somewhat, how shall I put it, laid back.’

  I would have liked to say that he, as the master of that style, should know. Instead I leaned forward.

  ‘I think it’s important to delegate to allow staff to develop, always within clear boundaries, of course, and subject to close scrutiny, particularly in the higher-risk areas. Perhaps this approach has led to some people misinterpreting my working style.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The two pigeons now sat rubbing against each other on the window ledge, while the silence we sat in for twenty or thirty seconds seemed like an eternity. ‘Misinterpretation or not, so long as you’re clear what’s needed, and are committed to delivering, then we’ll say no more about it.’

  ‘I absolutely am. I’ll stay as close to this job as those two pigeons are to each other.’

  Burrows’ eyes narrowed.

  ‘Those are just the preliminaries. One of those two pigeons is about to fuck the other one.’

  He stared at me intently and I looked out of the window to avoid his penetrating grey eyes. One pigeon mounted the other amidst a frantic fluttering of wings.

  ‘Just make sure you don’t fuck this up, or my parting act with AP will be to fuck you up good and proper.’

  I glanced at what was taking place on the roof opposite. The two pigeons were sitting side by side as though nothing had happened. While I didn’t feel that I could ignore Burrows’ warnings entirely, I had no intention of managing the audit closely myself. The technical aspects of auditing had never been my strong point, and I’d no wish to expose my professional weaknesses to my very able subordinates. In a well-oiled bureaucracy, there was only one possible course of action. I returned to my office and summoned Martha, the manager assigned to the audit.

  ‘Martha,’ I said as soon as she was seated. ‘I’ve been to a great deal of trouble to bring Beart Enterprises to this firm, and I’
ve no intention of letting it go wrong. This must go well. I want you to give me daily reports on any potential issues. This is a very important audit, and your career will depend on its success.’

  Martha, obviously shaken by such a blunt message, gazed at me nervously. Only recently promoted, her own rise from qualified to supervisor to manager had been almost as swift as mine to partner. She lacked experience, although she made up for it in diligence.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly.’

  She closed the door behind her and I allowed myself the luxury of leaning back in my swivel chair and putting my feet on the desk. No doubt Martha would shortly be summoning the audit supervisor to her office and relaying my message to him. I could now relax, secure in the effectiveness of delegation.

  Chapter 17

  Surrey, 1985

  At about the time I was promoted to partner, Rachel finally succumbed to the entreaties of Showell Deeley, a FTSE100 global distribution organisation, and accepted the role of finance director at a significantly enhanced salary. John had tried twice to lure her to Beart Enterprises, taking her first to Paris for dinner at Maxim’s and then to the newly opened Union Square Café in New York and offering her an initial salary package which would have gratified at least half the CEOs in the FTSE 100. Both times she’d refused.

  ‘There’s something a little sinister about John,’ she’d said to me as we sat drinking Campari and tonic on the terrace of The London Apprentice shortly after her return from New York. ‘Something vaguely menacing. It’s not that he isn’t perfectly pleasant. When he turns it on, he can be charm personified, still—’

  ‘What do you mean, menacing?’ The ice in my glass chinked as I placed it on the wooden table. What was left of the river at low tide crawled sluggishly through the dark mud flats, and the stagnant smell clung to my nostrils. We’d chosen the wrong evening to visit a riverside pub.

  She thought for a moment. ‘Like a great white shark, circling through the water till it picks up the smell of blood.’

  I was relieved she shared my discomfort. I’d no wish to have any more to do with him than necessary, and always felt on edge in his presence. It wasn’t something I could describe, but it was deep-seated in me.

  A few seagulls had clustered around something grey and shapeless deposited by the retreating water, their screams piercing the air until one of them fought off the others, grasped whatever it was and, with a strenuous beating of its wings, took off, pursued by its rivals.

  ‘So, you don’t think him charismatic?’ I was reluctant to let the matter drop until she said something unequivocally critical.

  ‘Oh God, he’s charismatic all right. The way he looks at you, with those enormous eyes probing your mind and digging into your soul. And that smile of his, it’s almost as though you’re the only person he’s ever been interested in.’ She took a sip from her glass. ‘Yes, I could certainly imagine people following him slavishly.’

  ‘But not you?’ Far from being reassured by Rachel’s answer, I was now trying to conceal an increasing disquiet.

  ‘No. I’m too hard-bitten to fall for his charms.’

  Rachel shivered as a sudden breeze made the small golden hairs on her slender arms stand up.

  ‘Would you like to borrow my jacket?’ I started to ease myself out of it.

  ‘No thanks. Let’s go and have dinner. I fancy an Indian, How about The Rawalpindi?

  We stood up, and I put my arm around her. She nuzzled under my jacket and I murmured softly in her ear.

  ‘Even that trip over on Concorde didn’t win you over?’

  ‘Far from it. Much too flash.’

  I swallowed the comment welling up in me so as not to puncture the mood on one of the rare evenings Rachel and I had spent together recently. If anyone liked the good things in life, if was Rachel.

  ‘Just as well for me, Mr Down-to-Earth,’ I said, kissing her sun-warmed hair.

  ‘That’s how I like ’em,’ she said, turning her face up to mine for a kiss. ‘Now let’s go and eat. I could murder a Chicken Jalfrezi.’

  *

  Rachel’s new job meant she was away on business for about half the year, and working long hours in central London for the remainder. If she did manage to take time off on a Saturday, she spent it shopping for clothes and shoes and handbags, many of which she would use only a few times before donating them to the charity shop. It was her shoes which caused me the greatest frustration. The height of the heels made her resort to taxis for even the shortest journeys.

  ‘They’re not fit for purpose,’ I would moan.

  ‘It’s essential to wear fashionable clothes,’ she would reply. ‘Especially shoes. You just don’t understand.’

  I spent my time pottering about on the golf course and, through complete boredom, was even reduced to doing work at home, so much so that Richard, who’d been made a partner shortly after me, accused me of being a workaholic.

  Then, one day, I saw the house – and I mean the house – and fell in love with it. Even though our place in Richmond was pleasant, the streets around it were narrow and parking was difficult. In the summer, when the windows were open, the sound of the neighbours’ televisions, arguments, and lovemaking would drift in.

  I’d noticed the ‘For Sale’ sign on my way to West Hurtle golf course. Double-fronted, red-brick and of the Arts and Crafts era, Thorpe Barton was tucked away in a quiet road in East Tattingfold, not far from Dorking. It looked noble but forlorn and neglected, an impoverished aristocrat in frayed finery. It begged me to stop and implored me to step inside its lush, overgrown garden. Secluded within a grand porch was a bottle-green door, its brass knocker and letter box tarnished and its paint peeling badly. I stopped the car, relishing the semi-circular gravel drive with an old wooden gate at either end. For some inexplicable reason, ever since I was a boy I’d coveted a house with a drive like that.

  Thorpe Barton would require serious renovation and any sensible person would have walked away, but I stood enraptured. I yearned to rescue it and give it the love it deserved. In any case, I reasoned, the poor condition would probably be reflected in the price, and even if it weren’t, I could negotiate. With the way that house prices in the South East were increasing, any money we spent would be an investment.

  Such was my infatuation with this building I forgot that Richard was waiting for me at the golf club and drove straight to the estate agent’s office, where I found a stocky young man lolling back in his chair to expose an expanse of flabby stomach. He leaped to his feet and greeted me effusively.

  ‘I’m Alan Daniels.’ He extended a damp hand. I mentioned the property I’d seen.

  ‘Lovely place, in great demand, lots of interest, fantastic scope for refurbishment, and priced very competitively too.’

  ‘How much?’

  When he told me, I staggered back a step.

  ‘How long has it been on the market?’

  He paused.

  ‘Not that long.’

  ‘How long?’

  Sighing heavily, he pulled a file from the cabinet.

  ‘Four months.’

  In such a hot housing market, it was inconceivable anything other than a complete dump would still be for sale after four weeks, let alone four months.

  ‘Sounds like they’ve overpriced it. Could we go and see it?’

  ‘Sure.’ He drew on his cigar. ‘When would you like me to make an appointment?’

  ‘How about now?’

  He looked around the room, as though seeking a means of escape.

  ‘I’ll have to phone the owner to check it’s convenient.’

  The telephone conversation was brief. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘We can go now.’

  Getting out of his car, he leaned towards me conspiratorially and I smelt stale cigar smoke and yesterday’s curry on his b
reath.

  ‘Funny woman, Mrs Martell. Doesn’t really want to sell; divorce settlement, you see. She has to move when the youngest reaches eighteen, and that’s happened. She lives here with her three daughters, when they’re not at university, and her mother, who’s, how can I put it, not the easiest person.’

  The front door creaked open slowly revealing an old lady in black with a face the colour and consistency of a roasted sweet chestnut.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Simpson. How are we today?’

  Mrs Simpson treated his question with disdain.

  ‘My daughter’s in the garden. Come in and I’ll call her.’

  The beautifully proportioned hall, its original black and white tiles still intact, smelled of mushrooms. The paintwork was flaking and the skirting boards cracked. I shivered; the house felt damp.

  When Mrs Martell finally arrived, she ignored our attempts to shake her hand, giving only a cursory nod.

  ‘Do you mind if I show this gentleman around? Could we start—’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Mrs Martell interposed.

  We trailed after her into the sitting-room.

  ‘It needs a lot of work. Already reflected in the price, of course,’ she said. ‘And there’s the aircraft noise. That can be a nuisance.’

  ‘Doubt it compares with Richmond,’ I responded. ‘We’re right under the flight path.’

  She gestured at a hole in the skirting board.

  ‘Problems with mice, quite a lot of rats too.’

  We wandered around the rest of the house looking at rotten window frames, flaking plaster and plumbing which should have been in a museum. We ended up in the hall, where, compared with the rest of the house, the air now smelled relatively pure. While it was clear the property was in a terrible state of repair, it was nothing that couldn’t be put right. It needed love, and I was going to give it love by the spadeful.

  ‘When was it built?’ I asked Mrs Martell.

  ‘1905,’ she replied, gazing up at a yellow stain on the ceiling and refusing to meet my eye.