Dead in the Water

Book 5: The DCI Frank Merlin Series

by Mark Ellis

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

** PREORDER BOOK 5 IN THE GRIPPING DCI FRANK MERLIN SERIES **

Release date: May 19, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 256

Sample

Monday August 3rd 1942

London

Detective Chief Inspector Frank Merlin and Detective Sergeant Sam Bridges sat silently and patiently in their car. It was parked on the south side of Soho Square, facing east. The time was just after three in the afternoon. Forty yards or so distant, Detective Constable Tommy Cole was in position under a shop awning on the corner of Greek Street. Detective Inspector Peter Johnson was standing a similar distance behind them, on the square’s junction with Frith Street. Ahead of Cole, on the south-eastern corner of the square, was Chez François, the French restaurant they’d been told to watch.

The tip-off had come in a phone call to Bridges two hours earlier. A gravelly voice had told him the names of the two men responsible for a string of recent armed robberies – Sinclair and Duvalier, both Canadian army deserters. The informant had said the men were currently staying in an upstairs room of the restaurant, whose owner was an old friend of Duvalier’s. They had gone out in the morning to case another robbery target but ought to be returning to the restaurant soon. They’d most likely be coming from a pub they favoured just off Piccadilly Circus. Merlin and his team had been in position since 1.30.

Bridges broke the silence. ‘Good job they’re Canadians, not Yanks, eh, sir? Otherwise we’d be bound to hand them over.’

Merlin nodded. Under new legislation, the American forces administration were being ceded jurisdiction over all crimes involving members of their own military. He remembered with mild irritation that he had a meeting fixed the following week at the American embassy to discuss the new arrangement.

‘You’re convinced they’ll be armed, sir?’

‘Bound to be, Sam. They’ve used guns on all their jobs so far. We should probably have brought a couple more men with us. I’m sure they won’t come quietly.’

‘We’ll just have to time our approach well, that’s all. Catch them unawares.’

Merlin noticed movement ahead. Cole had raised a hand. The two men got out of the car and hurried across to him. The shop awning was not large enough to shade them all, and Merlin felt the full force of the August sun beating down on his head.

‘Two likely customers down at the far end of Greek Street,’ said the constable. ‘It’s safe to have a peek around the corner. They’re still some way off.’

Merlin saw the men straight away. They were weaving their way slowly down the street. He pulled back. ‘They look half-cut to me. One tall, burly fellow; one thinner, bald and a few inches shorter.’

Cole nodded.

‘According to our informant, Sinclair would be the larger one,’ added Bridges. ‘If they’re drunk, perhaps it’ll be easier to reel them in.’

‘Or harder if they panic and start letting off their guns.’ Merlin stroked his chin. ‘I think it’s too risky to try and take them in the street. There’s a chance of civilians getting hurt.’ He turned to wave Johnson over.

‘On their way, are they, sir?’ Johnson’s Geordie accent had softened a little during his years in London, but was still unmistakable.

‘Looks like it, Peter. I suggest the sergeant and I position ourselves a couple of doors down from the restaurant. You two stay here. As and when the suspects enter the restaurant, we’ll give it a few seconds, then pile in.’

As he crossed the road, Merlin noticed that the men had stopped halfway down the street to talk to a couple of girls. He paused on the pavement and watched. One of the girls suddenly slapped the bigger of the pair. Another man intervened. Merlin hoped they weren’t going to get involved in a street brawl, and was relieved when the shorter man pulled his friend away.

It took the Canadians another six or seven minutes to reach the restaurant. After hovering outside for a moment, they went in.

Merlin waved Johnson and Cole over. ‘The state they’re in, chances are they’ll want more to drink before going to their room.’ He patted Cole’s arm. ‘Take a little stroll past the front window and try and see what’s what.’

Cole did as he was told, then reported back. ‘The restaurant’s almost empty. I could only see one table occupied: two men – not ours – drinking coffee. There were some shadowy figures at the back of the room. I’d guess the bar area.’

‘Having a couple of brandies, perhaps? If the customers are on their coffee, they should be gone soon. Let’s wait.’

Sure enough, a few minutes later two foreign-looking young men emerged into the sunlight and went their separate ways.

‘Take one more stroll, Constable,’ said Merlin.

Cole returned to say he’d seen a man in an apron clearing the table of the recently departed customers, and as far as he could see, the shadows were still at the bar.

‘Presumably the man in the apron is François. Any other waiters around?’

‘Not that I saw, sir.’

Merlin nodded. ‘Come on then. Let’s do it.’

He led his team through the front door and towards the back of the room, flourishing his warrant card and shouting, ‘Nobody move!’ Notwithstanding, from the corner of his eye he saw the man in the apron melt out of sight. The drunken Canadians were slow to react but eventually started flailing fists in all directions. Merlin avoided a couple of punches from the smaller man, Duvalier, then grabbed him in a bear hug before throwing him to the floor, where Johnson contained him. Bridges and Cole took on the other man, Sinclair. As they tried to get hold of him, the Canadian pulled a gun, but Bridges was able to slap it out of his hand. Then a punch from Cole caught Sinclair full on the nose. There was a nasty cracking noise.

Meanwhile, Duvalier somehow managed to wriggle out from under Johnson and drew a knife. Merlin had turned his back momentarily to check on Bridges and Cole.

Johnson shouted, ‘Watch out, sir.’

Merlin turned and raised his arms defensively. Johnson launched himself at Duvalier but wasn’t quick enough to stop him slashing one of the chief inspector’s hands. As Merlin pulled away, blood spurting, Johnson kneed the Canadian in the groin. The knife clattered to the ground, but Duvalier again managed to squirm free and started for the door. Merlin, however, barred the way and struck out with his good hand, sending a winded Duvalier once more to the floor. As he fell, he hit his head on the base of a bar stool, and this time he stayed down.

Sinclair was still groggy from Cole’s blow but roused himself to lunge at the constable. As the two men grappled, Bridges grabbed a whisky bottle from behind the bar and brought it down on the Canadian’s head. Sinclair crumpled to join his partner in crime at the policemen’s feet, and both men were cuffed in short order.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Bridges asked his boss.

‘I’ll live. I just need a few stitches.’

‘The big fellow’s coming round,’ said Johnson. ‘Thought for a moment you’d done him in, Sergeant.’

Bridges grinned sheepishly as he helped Merlin to tighten the handkerchief he’d applied to his wound. ‘I think you’d better go and see the nurse back at the Yard, sir, and quickly at that. We can tidy up here.’

‘You’re right, Sam. I’ll grab a taxi. Tell everyone well done.’

Tuesday August 4th 1942

‘Frank, there you are. Another success to note down in your little book then?’ Assistant Commissioner Gatehouse smiled up from behind his desk.

‘I don’t have a little book, sir.’

‘Don’t be a pedant, Chief Inspector. Take a seat, please.’ The two men were in the AC’s Scotland Yard office, which was directly above Merlin’s and had an equally fine view of the Thames and Westminster Bridge. In appearance, the only thing the two men had in common was height. Both were over six feet, though Merlin shaded it by a whisker. The chief inspector was a fine-featured, good-looking, green-eyed man in his forties, with the sleek black hair and dark complexion of his Spanish father. The AC was lankier in build, older and greyer. With small eyes and an excess of teeth, he was not good-looking and never had been. He was dressed soberly as always, in a plain dark suit, wing-collared shirt and neutral tie.

He nodded sympathetically at Merlin’s bandaged hand. ‘Painful?’

‘A little sore. I’ve had a couple of stitches. Be tickety-boo in a day or two.’

‘Good. So let’s hear all about it.’

Merlin ran over the details of the Soho stakeout. When he’d finished, the AC nodded sagely. ‘A difficult job well done. Where are the two men now?’

‘Downstairs spilling their guts to my men, with luck. They wouldn’t say a dicky bird last night, but I understand they’re in a different frame of mind this morning.’

‘The usual game?’

‘Yes, each man’s been told the other has peached on him.’

‘Quite a run of success they had. Any sign of the robbery proceeds?’

‘Only a hundred and sixty quid found in their room.’

‘A small portion. Could they have spent the rest?’

‘They could have drunk a lot of it, given the state they were in yesterday.’

‘What about the man who was harbouring them? The restaurant owner?’

‘Monsieur François did a runner but was nabbed by a vigilant copper at Waterloo station this morning. He’s downstairs too.’

The AC fiddled with his tie. ‘What firearms did they have?’

‘Smith & Wesson revolvers. Standard Canadian issue filched from army stores.’

‘Any match with that Hackney cinema usherette who got shot?’

‘Waiting on forensics, but I’m sure there will be.’

‘So the noose for them, then.’

Merlin nodded.

‘At least we can deal with them in our own courts. If they were Americans, now . . .’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘You haven’t forgotten the embassy meeting next week?’

‘No, sir. Has the final legislation been signed off yet?’

‘I think Parliament will formalise everything on Thursday.’

Merlin sighed. ‘Will there be anything else?’

‘Going back to the robbers, d’you think the tip-off came from Billy Hill?’

‘He’s the most likely source. Bound to have been upset at independent operators working his patch.’

‘Yes.’ The AC leaned closer. ‘I had an interesting lunch with the head of our military police yesterday.’

‘The provost marshal?’

‘The same. I was shocked by what he told me about the astonishing amount of crime being perpetrated by military personnel.’

‘I’m already aware, sir. We’ve come across some of it ourselves.’

‘But the scale, Frank. I didn’t realise. I knew that pilfering from army stores had become widespread, but what some people are getting up to is quite frightening. Everything appears to be fair game. Food, cigarettes, alcohol and petrol, naturally. But the other stuff. Soap, light bulbs, timber, heavy construction equipment. An amazingly long list.’

‘There was a story the other day about Hill’s gang stealing a huge cargo of army blankets and bed linen.’

‘There you go! But you’d expect someone like Hill to have his fingers in many pies. What particularly surprised me was the number of supposedly honest citizens involved. And in the military, it’s not just the other ranks. A number of senior officers have been caught red-handed.’

Merlin brushed a bead of sweat from his brow. The AC was notoriously averse to draughts, and usually kept his windows closed. ‘Mind if we have a bit of air, sir? It’s getting pretty steamy in here.’

‘Oh, all right,’ the AC allowed grudgingly.

At the window, Merlin looked down and watched a couple of attractive girls saunter along the Embankment. One, who had flowing auburn locks, reminded him of his pretty new wife. He suddenly jumped as he realised the AC had slid up quietly to join him.

‘River’s looking lovely today, eh, Frank?’

‘It is, sir, yes.’

‘Sparkling and glistening in the sun. You must know some apposite quotation?’

Merlin was known to his friends and colleagues as a great poetry-lover. A vast compendium of verse rattled around inside his head. ‘How about this, sir?

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock;

Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will.’

‘Wonderful, Frank, though I’m sure the poet had a more countrified river than Old Father Thames in mind when he wrote those words.’

‘Not at all, sir. Those lines come from Wordsworth’s “Composed Upon Westminster Bridge”.’

The AC chuckled. ‘I stand corrected. I wish I had half your poetic knowledge. Never had much of a memory for verses and lines. I was hopeless in the last school play I did at Eton.’

‘Who did you play?’

‘The Player King in Hamlet. There were other things I did well, though. I was a wet bob, which means I rowed. Got in the first boat in my final year. Right build for it. You’d probably have been quite good at it yourself.’ He flashed a gummy smile before heading back to the desk.

‘I’d better get on, sir.’

‘I know you’re busy, Frank, but humour me for a couple more minutes. It’s good to have a general chat once in a while.’

Merlin resumed his seat reluctantly. He decided he might as well use the opportunity to get something off his chest. ‘Regarding the Americans, sir. Obviously it’s great that they’re over here, on our side, but these new jurisdictional regulations don’t seem right to me. American police, American courts, American judges and American lawyers operating free of any British involvement. It’s almost as if they’re setting up a state within a state.’

‘I tend to agree with you, Frank, but if that’s what they want, we’re not in any position to deny them, are we? We need them to help save our country.’

Merlin sighed. ‘I presume they’ll set up their own prisons?’

‘I should think so.’

‘What about executions? Who’ll do the hanging?’

‘I understand capital punishment abounds in the United States. They’ll have plenty of qualified practitioners.’

‘Albert Pierrepoint won’t be happy with people invading his turf.’

‘Mr Pierrepoint appears to have plenty to keep him busy at present.’

Merlin had attended a Pierrepoint hanging once. It was a dreadful experience, although the prisoner, who’d murdered several young women, had fully deserved his punishment.

‘Where will the Americans have their courts?’

‘All over the country, no doubt. In London, I believe they’re renovating an old office building near Grosvenor Square. They’ll probably use the embassy or local barracks until that’s ready. I suppose it might be interesting to pop along one day and see how they handle things.’

‘If we’re allowed.’

‘Of course.’ The AC paused to blow his nose rather noisily, then asked, ‘And the family, Frank. How’s Sonia getting on? Happy to be back at work?’

‘She is, and thank you again for your help.’

Almost a year earlier, Merlin had married a pretty Polish refugee called Sonia Sieczko. They now had a baby son named Harry. After a few months at home looking after Harry, Sonia had begun to yearn for something more challenging to do. In April, her brother, a pilot with one of the RAF Polish squadrons, had informed her that the Polish legation in London was in desperate need of translators. Sonia was keen, but it wasn’t immediately clear how they’d manage. By happy coincidence, Sergeant Bridges’ wife, Iris, who had a young child of her own, had just become involved with a group of young mothers who ran a day nursery in Battersea, just across the river from Merlin’s Chelsea flat. The nursery agreed to take Harry, and Sonia was able to take the translating job. The AC had been good enough to help her obtain all the necessary security clearances.

‘Young Harry is happy enough with the new arrangements?’

‘He is, sir. Iris helps cover Sonia out of nursery hours as well, and he loves her.’

‘Good, good.’ The AC suddenly jerked forward in his seat. ‘Heavens, I’ve forgotten to tell you the news.’

‘What news, sir?’

‘Your American friend, Goldberg, is returning to London.’

Detective Bernard Goldberg was a New York policeman who had been seconded to Scotland Yard the summer before. He’d worked closely with Merlin on a major case and the two men had developed a close friendship.

‘That’s good. In the forces now, is he?’

‘I don’t believe so. His name was in a hush-hush list I was copied in on.’

‘Hush-hush? You mean he’s a spy?’

‘His proposed role was not spelled out.’

‘Hmm. That’s intriguing. When does he get here?’

‘Some time in the next two weeks.’

The AC’s eyes wandered off to the right. Merlin followed his boss’s gaze to the golf putter Gatehouse liked to practise with on the office carpet. He guessed the little chat had run its course.

A couple of miles upriver, Leon Van Buren stared gloomily out of the window of his rented Chelsea house. The sight of the sun-dappled Thames did not arouse poetic thoughts in him. He was contemplating his finances, the subject that occupied most of his time these days. While not exactly on his uppers, he had big problems that needed to be resolved.

Van Buren was fifty-nine years of age, a tall, burly man who still possessed some of the rugged good looks of his youth. He had a square dimpled jaw and a full head of fine silvery fair hair. He was an Afrikaner by birth, born to a notable Dutch family who had been among the first to colonise the Cape in the seventeenth century. As early backers of the Dutch East India Company, the Van Burens had become very wealthy. Leon had wanted for nothing as a child, and had been provided with a fine education in South Africa, then England. He had avoided involvement in the Boer War, and on return to his homeland in 1904 had joined the family enterprise. Unfortunately, eleven years later, he’d had a major falling-out with the head of the family and decided to strike out on his own, moving to Holland in 1915 and starting his own business. The Great War had passed him by, as Holland had remained neutral. His business, an electrical manufacturing operation, grew and grew over the years, and by 1939 was second only to the Philips company in Holland.

The war had brought about a huge change in his circumstances. In 1941, the Germans had swept into Holland. Despite taking pains to cultivate a pro-Nazi reputation, and notwithstanding the many assurances given by German officials, his business empire was taken over lock, stock and barrel as an enterprise essential to the war effort. Leon had managed to escape to England to join his English wife and their children, but brought with him only a relatively small amount of his money. He was no longer a rich man. His difficulties were further compounded by expensive doctor’s fees as his wife gradually succumbed to cancer.

He turned away from the window. If only he’d listened to his wife, he thought yet again, and transferred some of his wealth abroad on the outbreak of war. Now, available funds were running precariously low and he had been forced to borrow. His wife had had money of her own, but maddeningly, he had no access to it, while his spoiled children had increasingly unrealistic financial demands that he found difficult to resist.

He settled behind his desk and pondered. Fortunately, things were not completely bleak. Among the few possessions he’d brought from Holland were two of particular value. If he could liquidate them for anything like a realistic price, his situation would be transformed.

He reached into his pocket and took out the letter. He’d already read it several times today. It was from a Mr Augustus Ramsey, confirming the meeting at the gallery the following morning. It was wartime and market circumstances were difficult, but Leon had been advised that Ramsey was the likeliest man to get the job done. Expensive though the dealer’s commission would be, this had to be his best route.

Estoril, Portugal

The casino was busy for a Tuesday night. The restaurant was humming and the gaming tables were almost at capacity. A group of regulars had settled at Antonio’s roulette table. The Portuguese croupier with the thick moustache was the quickest and slickest of the operators.

‘Faites vos jeux, cavalheiros, s’il vous plaît.’

The players reached out to place their bets, or communicated their wishes to Antonio with a nod. Then the croupier spun the wheel with a practised flourish and the dozen gamblers, all male save for one bejewelled Italian contessa, held their breath.

The young man had a good view of the table from his vantage point at the bar. Three of the players were of interest to him. One was the elegantly dressed middle-aged businessman, dark hair flecked with grey, who was facing him. Another, to the businessman’s right, was the burly bald man he knew to be a senior Abwehr officer. The third, with his back to him, was a young curly-haired man who was one of MI6’s Lisbon team. Neutral Portugal was one of the few places in wartime Europe where enemies could mix like this at close quarters. Lisbon teemed with scheming spies, agents and chancers of every hue. Many of them homed in on the casino for their nightly pleasure.

The observer was a Spaniard who went by the Portuguese alias of Tomas Barboza. He’d arrived in Lisbon only five months before and had been quick to find his feet. Within a month, he’d acquired full-time employment and a small, comfortable place to live. There were dangers attached to his new job, but these were as nothing compared to those he’d just escaped. As a soldier on the losing side in the Spanish Civil War, he’d been lucky to survive. His brave efforts in the Republican cause had caught the eye of some powerful people and helped him to his new position.

The roulette wheel stopped spinning. Most of the players remained poker-faced. The businessman, however, allowed himself a brief smile as Antonio pushed a large pile of chips towards him. Then he rose, tossed a couple of chips to the croupier, nodded to his fellow gamblers and withdrew. The German and the Englishman proceeded to quit the table as well.

Barboza looked across the room, where he saw his boss waving at him discreetly. It was time to get moving. He finished his beer, deposited a few notes on the counter, then set off in pursuit.

Wednesday August 5th 1942

London

‘Welcome, Mr Van Buren.’ Augustus Ramsey rose from his French rosewood desk and shook hands with his guest before ushering him to a seating area with a white marble coffee table and two large leather armchairs.

Ramsey was a short, plump, white-bearded man whose congeniality was legendary in the London art world. He had a keen eye, a comprehensive knowledge of the art market, and an excellent reputation.

At a knock at the door, he waved a studious-looking young man into the room. ‘This is Martin, my grandson. He’s learning the ropes before the military get hold of him. Do you mind if he joins us?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Sit over there at the desk, Martin. If anything in our conversation needs to be noted, do it. Now, sir, how can I be of assistance?’

Van Buren cleared his throat. ‘You may be aware of me as a collector of art?’

‘I am. Before the war, I dealt with a man in Amsterdam called Janssen. Your name came up in conversation a few times. As I recall, he said you were a collector of taste and resource, with a particular interest in the Renaissance.’

‘I dealt with Mr Janssen from time to time.’

‘Have you heard how he coped with the invasion?’

‘No, but I should think he’ll be all right. There are plenty of Nazis with an interest in fine art.’

‘So I understand. I heard that Goering, for example, is an eager accumulator of quality works.’

‘One of many. I know that . . .’ Van Buren looked down and left the sentence unfinished.

There was an awkward silence before Ramsey picked up the conversation.

‘So. You are a keen collector. Are you perhaps looking to add to your collection? I must tell you things are very slow at present. Most people are determined to see out the war before they contemplate entering the market.’

‘I’m here as a prospective seller, not a buyer, Mr Ramsey.’

‘I see. What do you have to sell?’

‘I possess two remarkable companion pieces. Renaissance masterpieces. I do not have them with me, but I have photographs.’ Van Buren removed an envelope from his briefcase and passed it to Ramsey.

The dealer found his spectacles and began examining the photographs. As he did so, his eyes widened and he gasped. After several minutes, he set them down on the coffee table. ‘I can’t say I recognise the particular works, but the style looks very familiar. If you don’t mind, I’d like to see if Martin can tell who the artist is.’

‘Be my guest.’

Ramsey waved his grandson over and handed him the photographs. His response was quick.

‘They look rather like da Vinci cartoons.’

‘He’s right, isn’t he, Mr Van Buren?’

‘He is.’

‘And they are the real thing?’

‘They are. I have them at my house.’

‘Personally, I would be inclined to keep them in a bank vault.’

Van Buren shrugged. ‘I am. . . rather attached to them.’

‘And you really wish to sell them?’

‘For the right price, yes.’

‘As I said earlier, the market is not in good shape. However, I would be happy to try and assist. I have already thought of a few candidates. Some are abroad, which inevitably poses problems, but we shall see.’

‘Very well.’

‘You are aware of my terms?’

‘I am. I understand that they are standard in the London market.’

‘And you are happy for me to work exclusively?’

‘I shall not use any other dealer. However, you should know that I have already been in touch with some interested parties. Those men aside, you will have a free hand.’

Ramsey frowned. ‘Well, it’s irregular, but all right, let’s proceed on that basis. When can I see the drawings? I am available at your convenience.’

Van Buren leaned forward to retrieve the photographs. ‘I have some other appointments this morning. I’ll call you later to arrange a time.’ He rose from his chair.

‘Before you go, sir, could I trouble you to tell me a little about their provenance?’

‘I shall be happy to do so when next we meet. I can assure you everything is above board.’

‘I’m sure. However, I shall need to call in an expert for purposes of authentication. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Do you have someone in mind?’

‘A fellow called Clark. You may have heard of him. A very precocious young man. Hardly out of short trousers and already a knight of the realm. Runs the National Gallery. A world expert in da Vinci and the Renaissance.’

‘I’ve heard of him. Fine. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .’

‘Of course. I shall eagerly await your call.’

The offices of the Fenchurch Street Discount Bank were not, despite the name, located in Fenchurch Street. They were in fact half a mile away, in a small lane off Bunhill Row, on the northern edge of the City of London. The chairman and managing director of the firm, Benjamin Katz, had arrived in England from Austria in 1933. Within only a few years, and against the odds, he had managed to establish a thriving and respected financial institution. As a Jew, of course, he had faced significant prejudice, but had always risen above it. Other Jews had acquired vast wealth, knighthoods and peerages, and he was intent on doing the same. It might be a while yet before he donned ermine, but anything was possible with hard work and dedication. For now, people knew that his word was as good as his bond, and more than enough financial institutions of substance were happy to deal with him.

Katz was a neat little man who wore his hair unfashionably long. He was more than comfortable financially, but avoided all shows of excess. His office was modest, and it was here he was to be found this lunchtime, re-reading his nephew’s latest report. It was, as he’d expected, an impressive piece of work. Thirty pages of astute, detailed analysis of a company Katz was thinking of acquiring. He came again to the elegantly drafted final paragraph. Nathan Katz recommended the acquisition be proceeded with, but on completion the company be completely reorganised and refocused. This was exactly the conclusion Benjamin had reached himself. He sat back contentedly, smoothed his waistcoat then called out to his secretary. ‘Get Nathan here, please, Sylvia.’

His nephew appeared promptly. Nathan was short like his uncle, but wirier, with intense dark eyes and curly raven-black hair. He looked nervously at Benjamin.

‘Excellent work, Nathan, and I’m not just saying that because you’ve reached the same conclusion as me. And I marvel at your command of the English language. Considering you’ve only been here a couple of years, it’s amazing.’

A flicker of a smile crossed the young man’s lips. ‘I’ve always had an aptitude for languages, sir. You agreed with my comments regarding cash flow and income management, then?’

‘I did, my boy. Most perspicacious.’

‘And in point six, I hope I made it clear that—’

Benjamin raised a hand. ‘You made everything clear, Nathan. We can talk about implementation later. Meanwhile, I have something of a more personal nature to discuss.’

‘Personal, sir? Have I done something wrong?’

‘Not at all, my boy. It’s just that Ruth and I have not forgotten that today would have been your mother’s birthday.’

Nathan looked down at his feet. ‘