The Company

by Sally Spencer

  ‘I came home.’

  ‘Was your housekeeper still here?’

  ‘No, she always leaves at seven o’clock. If I’m planning to eat at home – as I did that night – she leaves me something to heat up in the oven.’

  It occurred to Flint that the way he was talking – ‘if I’m planning to eat at home, she leaves me something to heat up’ – it was almost as if he’d already written Uncle Tony out of his autobiography.

  ‘So from the time you arrived home, you were alone?’ Flint asked.

  The smile that came to my cousin’s lips was little less than a smirk, Flint told me later.

  ‘No,’ Philip said, ‘I wasn’t alone – I had a woman with me.’

  ‘And what time did she leave?’

  Philip’s smile broadened. ‘The same time most of the women I entertain leave – the next morning.’

  Flint took his notebook out of his pocket.

  ‘Might I have her name, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Philip replied firmly. ‘You may not.’

  ‘So you’re asking me to take your unsubstantiated word that you weren’t alone?’ Flint asked.

  Philip looked uncertain as to whether he should become angry again or play the reasonable man.

  ‘Look, if it becomes absolutely necessary, at some point in your investigation, to give you her name, then I will. But the fact is, she’s married,’ he said, settling for the latter approach.

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with your cousins?’ Owen Flint asked.

  ‘Why should you want to know that?’

  ‘Possibly because I’m trying to find out who killed one of them – and may have wanted to kill the other – and I have to start somewhere.’

  Philip nodded. ‘My relationship with my cousins isn’t – or, in John’s case, wasn’t – what you’d call close.’

  ‘Would you care to be a little more specific?’

  ‘More specific?’ Philip repeated. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘“Not close” covers a multitude of sins,’ Flint explained. ‘I’ve talked to your cousin Rob, and I got the impression that, in your case, “not close” meant actively hostile.’

  Philip reddened again. ‘If there is hostility, it’s entirely on my cousin’s part,’ he said.

  ‘And is there any reason for his hostility?’

  ‘No – at least, not any reasonable reason. The truth is, my cousin Rob hated the idea that my father and I were about to take over the company. He feared, quite correctly, that we’d make him run Cormorant Publishing more like a business and less like a hobby.’

  ‘I thought he’d made a great success of it,’ Flint said.

  Philip looked at him suspiciously. ‘It hasn’t been a complete failure,’ he conceded, ‘but we’re getting a far lower return on our capital out of it than we receive from any other branch of Conroy Enterprises.’

  ‘What about your cousin John? Did he resent you, as well?’

  Philip laughed. ‘John was never any trouble. He didn’t care who controlled the company.’

  ‘Do you care?’ Flint wondered.

  ‘Oh yes, I care,’ Philip said, with a sudden fire in his voice. ‘I want to run this company as it should be run. I want to double our turnover in the next few years.’

  ‘So you’ll be in charge, will you? What about your cousin, Rob? Won’t he have a say?’

  ‘He had his own company years before I had mine, you know,’ Philip said bitterly. ‘Years! Grandfather bought him that publishing house the moment he came out of the loony bin. That was insane in itself.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve answered my question,’ Flint pointed out. ‘Will Rob have a say in how the company is run, or won’t he?’

  The expression on Philip’s face told him that my cousin had decided he’d already given away too much.

  ‘Until my grandfather’s will is read, we won’t know what the actual situation will be,’ Philip said.

  And Flint was almost sure that he was lying.

  Philip had been right about at least one of the things he told Flint – buying the publishing house had seemed almost insane at the time and, but for Andy McBride, might still seem insane today.

  I remember the visit during which Grandfather had first floated the idea. It came at the end of my two-year nightmare journey which had started with drugs and electric shocks and gradually evolved into group therapy sessions and weekly meetings with my counsellor.

  We were sitting in the institution’s garden. The sun was shining with an autumn glow, and the leaves on the beech trees – which only partly hid the high walls – were just turning a soft golden brown.

  ‘I’d have come to see you long before now,’ Grandfather said, ‘but it seemed to me you were getting plenty of visitors without being bothered by a tiresome old man like me.’

  Plenty of visitors! Yes, I supposed that was true.

  My parents came to see me once a fortnight. They always tried to put on a cheerful air, but could never quite manage to mask the haunted looks which expressed their real feelings.

  The conversation would always follow the same lines, until it became almost a ritual. My father would ask me how I was getting on, and I would tell him I was doing quite well. Then my mother would ask when I was likely to be released.

  ‘I really don’t know, Mother,’ I’d explain over and over again. ‘They don’t believe in setting deadlines in this place. They think it puts us under too much pressure.’

  ‘We should never have let you go back to Oxford,’ my mother would invariably reply, sniffing slightly. ‘It’s our fault as much as anybody’s that you’re in here now.’

  And then my father would offer one of his mild rebukes.

  ‘Hush, Elizabeth! There’s no point in dwelling on the past, now is there? And it’s not such a bad place, is it, son?

  I had to agree with him there. In fact, for much of the time, staying within those walls for the rest of my life held a powerful appeal. After all, I argued to myself, I was safe, and I was nurtured. Why run the risk of going out into the cold hard world again?

  My brother John came to see me often, but though the institution was as cheery as any such institution could possibly be, his sensitive soul found it hard to take, and our conversations were always so strained that I think it was a relief to both of us when each visit was finally over.

  Even Uncle Tony called in once, though he did not stay for long.

  ‘Got to meet a chap in Chepstow in an hour and a half,’ he’d explained, leaving me with the distinct impression that the ‘chap’ in question would have long blonde hair and a spectacular bosom.

  ‘Yes, I’ve had a lot of visitors,’ I told Grandfather, on the fine autumn day.

  ‘It’s a terrible thing, an old man’s pride,’ Grandfather said, unexpectedly. ‘It can even turn a man who’s been a straight talker all his life into a complete bullshitter.’

  I was shocked to hear him swear, because it was something he had never done.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s not because of all your visitors that I’ve put off visiting you,’ Grandfather said. ‘The reason I haven’t been was because I wasn’t up to it.’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter with you?’ I asked, alarmed at the sudden thought that Grandfather wouldn’t always be there to lean on whenever I needed to.

  ‘Age is the matter,’ he told me. ‘There are bits of me that just don’t work as well as they used to.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I hear they’re going to be letting you out soon.’

  ‘That’s what they tell me,’ I said glibly. I laughed. ‘It appears that I’ve come to terms with all my sorrows.’

  Grandfather did not join in with my laughter. ‘She was a lovely girl, your Jill,’ he said seriously, ‘and I’d be lying to you if I said I thought you were ever going to get over her completely. But you have to do something with your life, don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said, though without much
conviction.

  Grandfather’s watery eyes suddenly assumed the sharpness of a young man’s. ‘Have you ever thought about committing suicide?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ I admitted – because I could never lie to Grandfather.

  ‘And how would you go about it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If you’ve thought about it, you’ll have thought about how you’d do it,’ Grandfather said fiercely.

  He was right, of course. ‘I’d hang myself,’ I said.

  Grandfather nodded as though he’d been expecting that answer – though I had no idea why he should have done so.

  ‘It’s a man’s right to choose to die,’ he said. ‘But what if you choose to live, instead? What will you do with the rest of your life?’

  ‘I could always do what I planned to do three years ago,’ I said. ‘Go back and finish my degree, then get a teaching post somewhere.’

  ‘Or you could join the business,’ Grandfather suggested.

  I shook my head so violently that my teeth chattered. ‘If I’m ever going to pull myself back together, it won’t be in a furniture factory or as part of a long-distance haulage operation.’

  ‘I never said it would,’ Grandfather pointed out mildly.

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘I’ve been looking at a small publishing house in Oxford which is up for sale.’

  ‘What does it publish?’

  ‘New poetry. Anthologies of short stories by up-and-coming authors. The occasional novel by an unknown who can’t get accepted by one of the big houses. You know the sort of thing.’

  Yes, I did.

  ‘It’ll never make a profit,’ I told the old man.

  ‘It doesn’t have to,’ Grandfather responded. ‘If it gives you a purpose in life, then it’ll more than pay its way.’

  ‘How do the others feel about it?’

  Grandfather smiled. ‘They feel much as you’d expect them to feel. Your father thinks it’s a good idea. Your brother’s worried it might be too much of a strain on you.’

  But that wasn’t what I’d meant, and we both knew it. ‘What about the other half of the family?’ I asked.

  Grandfather hesitated for a second. ‘Your uncle Tony thinks it’s a waste of money – and by his own lights, I have to say he’s right. Philip probably shares his view, but he’s wise enough to know he hasn’t got sufficient clout in the company to really stick his oar in.’

  ‘Well, then … if they’re against it …’ I began

  ‘What they think doesn’t matter one way or the other,’ Grandfather interrupted me. ‘That’s the advantage of having a company you’ve got overall control of – you can do what the hell you like. And I’d like to buy this publishing company for you – if you want it.’

  Suddenly, I realized that I did want it – wanted it desperately. Publishing would satisfy whatever creative instincts I still had left, and since Grandfather wasn’t expecting the company to do well, I would have plenty of scope for helping people with genuine talent who weren’t getting recognition elsewhere.

  And there was one other important factor to be taken into consideration. The publishing house was in Oxford – and Oxford was the demon I would have to confront if I were ever to become whole again. Perhaps I would fail, as I had done so spectacularly the last time, but at least I would be better prepared – more able to spot the signs of an imminent collapse.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ I said.

  My Grandfather grinned. ‘I thought you would.’

  And, not for the first time, I realized he had been several steps ahead of me throughout the whole conversation.

  NINE

  The church clock was just striking six as Flint made his way down the narrow lane by the side of the church which led to Grandfather’s house. It was an impressive building, he thought – a house which should belong to the kind of family patriarch which Charlie Conroy had obviously been.

  At the gate, he came to a halt, partly to admire the house from closer to – the wide frontage, the dormer windows in the deep blue slate roof, the archway which offered just a tantalizing glimpse of immaculate gardens beyond – and partly to consider whether calling on the widow so soon after the funeral was an appropriate thing to do.

  He had just decided to leave it for another day when the front door opened, and a young woman in a white nurse’s uniform appeared.

  The nurse walked over to the gate.

  ‘You’re the policeman who’s come up from darkest Wales, aren’t you?’ she said, with a smile.

  ‘That’s right,’ Flint agreed. ‘And you’d be …?’

  ‘I’d be Jo Torlopp.’ She grinned. ‘I’m a nurse.’

  ‘I’d guessed that,’ Flint said, grinning back.

  ‘I’m also a messenger,’ Jo told him. ‘Mrs Conroy noticed you standing out here and wondered if the reason was that you wanted to talk to her.’

  ‘That was my intention—’ Flint began.

  ‘Because she wants to talk to you,’ Jo interrupted, ‘or rather, I think she feels the need to talk to someone who’s not directly involved in the tragedy.’

  ‘You don’t think it would be too much of a strain on her?’ Flint asked.

  ‘Well, it’s certainly not something I would recommend as a medical practitioner,’ Jo Torlopp said frankly. ‘But Mrs Conroy has suddenly become very independent since her husband died. So if you’d like to follow me …’

  Grandmother was in her favourite parlour – a room which was small enough to be intimate, yet was crammed with memories of her life with Grandfather. She was sitting in a large armchair which made her look even tinier than she was, and on the coffee table in front of the chair, Flint noticed, was a leather-bound album.

  ‘It’s good of you to see me,’ he said.

  Grandmother indicated the armchair opposite hers. ‘Sit down,’ she said in a voice which he found was cracked but firm. ‘I’ve asked Josephine to bring us some tea.’

  ‘That’s not necessary,’ Flint told her.

  ‘Perhaps not for you,’ Grandmother told him, ‘but it is for me. When you have nothing big to look forward to in the future, it’s the anticipation of little things which keep you going – and I’ve been promising myself a cup of tea for the last half hour.’

  Flint nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘Who do you think could have done this terrible thing, chief inspector?’ Grandmother asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Flint admitted. ‘But I promise you that I’ll work day and night until I find out.’

  ‘I miss them all, you know,’ Grandmother said. ‘It was such a waste. I can almost accept Charlie’s death – he’d had his time and was ready to go. But the others were so young.’ She paused. ‘I suppose you find it almost comical that I can describe my sons as young, don’t you?’

  ‘I never find death comical,’ Flint said gravely.

  ‘Yes, I miss them all,’ Grandmother said, ‘but it’s my grandson, John, that I feel the worst about.’

  ‘Why him, especially?’

  Grandmother sighed. ‘Because he finally seemed to be seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Flint asked.

  ‘For most of his life, John never really seemed happy, but lately I’ve noticed a change in him. He was more … more at peace with himself.’ She opened the leather-bound album. ‘Would you like to see some pictures of my family?’

  ‘Very much so,’ Flint replied – and meant it.

  Grandmother opened the album at the first page and held it out for her visitor. Flint took it and found himself staring at a tall man with intelligent eyes and very short hair, who was dressed in a suit which belonged in the 1940s.

  ‘That was Charlie when he’d just been demobbed from the army,’ Grandmother said. ‘He didn’t have to join up at the start of the war, you know. He was thirty-one when Hitler invaded Poland – old enough to have missed it. But he said that he felt it was his duty to go and do
his bit.’

  ‘He was a sergeant major, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was a sergeant major at the end of the war, but he started out as a private. He could have joined the army as an officer – he was an assistant manager in his father’s furniture store by then, and that made him officer class – but he wasn’t having any of that.’ She turned the page to show him a photograph of Grandfather in uniform. ‘Do you see that medal? He earned it in North Africa. His unit came under attack and he was wounded – but that still didn’t stop him carrying his captain through the desert for two days.’

  ‘He must have been a remarkable man,’ Flint said.

  ‘He was,’ Grandmother agreed. ‘It’s a funny thing, war, isn’t it? You think it’s over once the peace is signed, but it never is. It changes people.’

  ‘How did it change your husband?’

  ‘He said it had taught him the value of the chain of command. There could only be one boss, and you had to make sure everyone knew who that was. He’d been so easy-going before the war. He’d have been quite happy working for his father and Mr Carson …’

  ‘Mr Carson?’

  ‘That was the name of his father’s partner.’

  Jo Torlopp arrived with the tea tray and poured two cups. Flint took his with three sugars.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Mrs Conroy?’ the nurse asked.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Grandmother replied, but when Jo Torlopp had almost reached the door, she changed her mind, and said, ‘You could bring me the box.’

  The nurse turned around, a troubled look starting to form on her face.

  ‘Which box?’ she asked.

  ‘You know very well which one I mean – the polished wooden one that Charlie always kept in his study.’

  The nurse’s troubled expression deepened. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’

  ‘Well, I am,’ Grandmother said firmly.

  ‘It might upset you.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, girl, he was Charlie’s father, not mine,’ Grandmother said exasperatedly. ‘Go and fetch the box.’

  For a moment it looked as if the nurse might continue to argue, then she turned and left the room in a manner which indicated that whilst she was going to do as she’d been told, she very much disapproved.